Apache Moon (22 page)

She was defeating him yet again, and he wondered how he'd gotten into the argument in the first place. The only way to get along with her was to agree
with everything she said. He was about to start packing when the alarm resounded at the edge of the camp.

Duane reached for his rifle and was out of the wickiup in a split second. The warriors carried weapons and were running toward the path that led to the lowlands. Someone was coming, and it looked like trouble. Duane checked the loads in his Colt as Phyllis emerged with her rifle. She and Duane followed the other Apaches and peered down the long rocky incline at two men dressed as cowboys leading their horses upward. One was tall and the other very short.

“It's the midget,” Phyllis explained to Duane. “He was here while you were gone with Cucharo. He trades whiskey and guns, and the People seem to respect him quite a lot. Maybe we can go back with him.”

“Oh-oh.” Duane's Apache vision discerned the tin badge on the vest of the tall White Eyes climbing the ravine. “Here comes John Law.”

The marshal was long and lanky, with trailing mustaches and steely eyes, while the midget was a strange mountain elf. The warriors muttered among themselves, unhappy about the newcomer approaching the top of the mountain. Delgado stood in front of the midget and demanded, “Why have you brought the White Eyes here?”

“He is a friend,” Miguelito replied. “He has many presents.”

Marshal Dan Stowe opened one of his saddlebags,
spread a blanket on the ground, and dropped handfuls of cheap trinkets atop it.

“This is for you,” Miguelito said. “You do not have to pay. And we have mescal juice to drink.”

“What does the tin badge want?”

“Two Americanos,” Miguelito replied. “The man is wanted for murder and the woman should be returned to her family.”

The Apaches became uneasy, and some glanced nervously at Duane and Phyllis. “Just be calm,” Duane whispered softly into her ear. “Maybe he won't recognize us.”

The Apaches turned their attention to the trinkets, while Marshal Dan Stowe examined the Apaches. Suddenly Delgado rushed forward, drew his knife, and grabbed the front of Miguelito's shirt. “You should not have brought this White Eyes here—ugly little toad!” He pressed the point of the knife into Miguelito's throat. “You showed him the way to our camp, but you will never betray us again.”

Delgado made a sudden motion with his knife and the midget jerked spasmodically. Then the warrior let Miguelito's lifeless body drop to the ground, his throat cut from ear to ear. Marshal Stowe almost drew his gun but knew they'd get him eventually. It was difficult for him to believe that his carefully wrought plans had gone awry so suddenly. Delgado turned toward him, the bloody knife in his hand. “You should not have come here, White Eyes.”

“Don't I know you?” Marshal Stowe asked. “I sat at the peace powwow in 1868 . . .”

“I have never seen you before, White Eyes, and I will never see you again.” Delgado raised his knife for the death blow, but the former troop commander decided the time had come to take a step backward, yank the Remington, and aim at the middle of Delgado's chest. “Your injun friends will get me in the end,” he declared loudly, “but I'll blow a hole through you first!”

Delgado trembled with rage as he gazed down the barrel of the gun. “You will not leave this place alive, White Eyes.”

“Maybe not, but if your people kill me, it's not like killing an ordinary farmer or miner. I'm a United States marshal on official government business, and you'll have the United States Army down here in full force. They'll comb every cactus plant in Texas, and if they can't find you in Texas, they'll go to Mexico. You don't think Americans are afraid of Mexico, do you? There'll be soldiers in this country as far as the eye can see, and you will not escape their vengeance.”

There was silence as everyone stared at the badge on his black leather vest. The old chief saw danger in the future for his people and knew that Americans had defeated Mexicans in many battles over the years. “The White Eyes is right,” he declared. “There will be bluecoats all over these mountains if we kill him. He can stay overnight without harm, but he
must leave in the morning. This is my decision.”

“No!” replied Delgado. “If we let him go, he will bring bluecoats to our wickiups!”

“We will move to another mountain, but if we kill this White Eyes, the bluecoats will not rest until we are all dead. I have spoken.
Enjuh.
”

A drop of ruby blood fell from Delgado's knife to the ground as he turned to the White Eyes and translated the decision: “This chief says that you can stay here tonight, but you must leave tomorrow.”

Marshal Stowe pointed at Miguelito's corpse. “This man said that the White Eyes man and woman that I'm looking for are in this camp. Where have you hidden them?”

“He lied,” Delgado replied. “You should not have paid him, White Eyes.”

“I think you're the one who's lying.” Marshal Stowe continued to aim his gun at Delgado. “Why are you hiding these outlaws?”

Delgado was becoming furious at the presumption of the White Eyes. “I have told you what this chief has said. But if you make trouble, I will kill you myself.”

“I've come in peace,” Marshal Dan Stowe replied. Slowly, deliberately, he dropped his gun into its holster. “That's my proof.”

Delgado was about to jump when the chief hollered, “No!” Then the chief stepped in front of Delgado. “I am an old man, but I am not afraid of you.”

The old man appeared deadly despite his
advanced years, and Delgado wouldn't fight his father under any circumstances. Delgado muttered something incomprehensible as he took a step backward. The old chief smiled at Marshal Stowe. “Come with me.”

He placed his hand upon the marshal's back and guided him toward his wickiup. The Apaches opened a path while the lawman searched their ranks for Texans. Phyllis lowered her eyes as he passed, and the lawman didn't recognize her as his eyes lingered on hostile warriors carrying death-dealing implements. If they came at him, he'd send a few to the Happy Hunting Ground and then he'd follow.

Marshal Stowe still was trying to recover from the sudden murder of the midget. He'd come to like Miguelito and felt guilty for causing his demise. Miguelito had been butchered like a pig, but death was no stranger to a battle-hardened veteran of the great Civil War.

He'd been in Apache camps before, and this one was relatively small. He glanced at the chief, who examined him thoughtfully. Marshal Stowe attempted a friendly grin, while the chief tried to smile back. They'll probably kill me, Marshal Stowe figured, but nobody lives forever.

Duane and Phyllis returned to their wickiup, sat opposite each other, and looked into each other's eyes. It wasn't necessary to speak the obvious. A federal
marshal was on their trail, and a decision had to be made. Duane wished he had something to smoke and a shot of whiskey to help him think.

No longer could he hope that the law had forgotten him. His return to the Bar T was out of the question. He felt sick because he knew that he and Phyllis were coming to a parting of the ways. She'd given him much solace, but he wasn't ready to face a crooked judge. He lowered his eyes and said in a low voice, “I can't ask you to come to Mexico with me, and I'm sure as hell not going back to Texas now.”

“We can go to Mexico together,” she said in a small voice. “When the charges are dropped, we can come back.”

He touched his palm to the side of her cheek and tried to smile. “I appreciate the offer, but we both know that you don't like life on the dodge. You'd always be unhappy, and you'll take it out on me.”

“I want a normal life. Is that so bad?”

“Maybe it's time to make a sensible decision for a change.” He deepened his voice so that he'd sound authoritative and mature. “The best thing might be for you to go home to your family, and when your father's lawyers clear my name, send me a letter at the post office in Morellos. Then I'll return to the Bar T, we'll get married and spend the rest of our lives together. But I don't trust judges and jailers, and I'll never let them get me in their clutches if I can help it.”

She sighed wearily. “I'm afraid that if we separate, I'll never see you again.”

“Of course we'll see each other again. We're practically married already.”

“You'll find a pretty senorita, or you'll get into more trouble. How can I trust you to come back?”

“I could never forget you, and I'll follow wherever you go.”

“I'll bet you said the same thing to Vanessa Fontaine.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but his tongue hung in midair as he realized that he
had
made similar statements to Vanessa. It was silent in the wickiup as they stared at each other in the dimness.

“It's decided,” he said. “Tomorrow morning you'll go north and I'll go south. This'll be our last night together for a while, so we might as well make the most of it.”

Huera sat with Delgado's other wives, weaving wicker jugs out of twined sumac strands. The Apache wife appeared calm as her fingers darted back and forth, but tornadoes agitated her heart. Although she pretended indifference to Phyllis, she was actually extremely jealous of the younger woman. Huera could see that Delgado was infatuated with her pale sickly skin, while Phyllis appeared fascinated with her husband. Huera had seen them gaze at each other
across the campfire, but each was afraid to make the first move. Huera knew that one day curiosity would become strong and circumstances congenial. Delgado belongs to me and his other wives. We're not sharing him with the White Eyes bitch.

Huera had resigned herself to losing the battle ultimately, but a new element had just been introduced. The Apache wife gazed across the camp at the White Eyes with the star on his vest. Hmmmm.

Marshal Stowe and the chief smoked the peace pipe together as other warriors drew closer. The lawman offered them tobacco, and soon a large number were blowing smoke at each other. Stowe tried to behave politely but didn't trust Apaches. His right hand never roved far from his Remington, and he was poised to draw and fire. He knew that Apaches preferred sneak attacks to full frontal battle.

Women scuttled among them, throwing chopped roots and chunks of meat into a big cast-iron pot suspended over the fire. On the other side of the circle, Delgado accepted the pipe, filled his mouth with pungent smoke, and scrutinized the lawman. If he makes one hostile motion, Marshal Stowe thought, I'll drill him.

If it weren't for that two-thousand-dollar bribe, I wouldn't even be here, he reflected wryly. He remembered when Big Al Thornton had stuffed the
first payment into his shirt pocket. I should've given it back because now he thinks I'm just another crooked lawman, and maybe I am.

He wondered what had happened to Phyllis Thornton and Duane Braddock. Maybe the Apaches killed them, or they're in Morellos, looking for a job. Perhaps I've missed them, but if I get out of this hellhole alive, I'll track them down yet.

The sun sank toward the mountains in the distance as more warriors joined the group, while others departed to their wickiups. Marshal Stowe felt the need to relieve himself but had no idea where to go. “Where's the latrine?” he asked Delgado.

Delgado pointed behind him with his thumb. Marshal Stowe rose, hitched up his gun belt, and headed in the direction indicated. Something told him that a few warriors might slit his throat in the darkness, so he held his right hand near the walnut grip of his Remington. Darkness descended on the mountaintop as his eyes scanned for scorpions, rattlesnakes, and gopher holes. The camp was surrounded by higher mountains, rendering it invisible to the outside world. He hoped it didn't become his burial ground.

He found the latrine, a big smelly hole. On his way back to the camp, he paused to roll a cigarette. A twig crackled behind him and he dropped the match, drew his Remington, and spun around. It was an Apache woman standing behind a chokecherry bush. “I want to speak with you,” she said softly.

He looked both ways, certain the ambush had come. Aiming his gun at her, he drew closer. “What's on your mind?”

“I will tell you where the White Eyes are, if you give me some tobacco.”

Duane and Phyllis lay naked in each other's arms, as the fragrance of cooking drifted into their wickiup. “I've changed my mind,” she said. “I think I'll go to Mexico with you because I can't give you up so easily.”

“We don't have any money,” he reminded her. “You'll be miserable, and you'll make me miserable. It's better for you to go home and let me know when the charges are dropped. As soon as I receive your letter, I'll be on my way to the Bar T. We'll have a big wedding and invite everybody in Texas. During the war, some husbands and wives didn't see each other for five years. If we can't tolerate a few months apart, we shouldn't be together at all.”

Footsteps approached, and Duane heard the clank of spurs. He reached for his Colt as he heard the voice of Marshal Stowe above them. “I know you're in there, Braddock! Come out with your hands up, or I'll start shooting!”

Duane and Phyllis stared at each other as their worst fear came true. “A woman's in here,” he replied.

“You'd better come out, too, Miss Phyllis. I was
talking with your father a few weeks ago, and he's damn worried about you.”

Duane wondered whether to open fire in the direction of the voice, but he might hit one of the People by mistake. Meanwhile Phyllis hastily donned her buckskin clothes as she tried to figure out who had betrayed them. “I'll take care of this,” she said.

She crawled out the door, and the marshal sat cross-legged in front of her, six-gun in hand. A crowd of Apaches had formed in the distance, watching curiously. “Are you Phyllis Thornton?”

“Am I wanted for anything?”

“Not as far as I know, but
he
is.” The lawman pointed his Remington at the wickiup. “Come on out, Braddock.”