Kid Calhoun (25 page)

Claire closed her eyes in acceptance of the awful truth. Jeff’s life among the Indians—who taught their children the arts of thievery and merciless killing—might have changed him forever. She doubted that her son’s life among the Indians could ever have been erased from his memory.

But if that were true, wasn’t it equally true that Jeff must retain some memory of his life with her and Sam? Claire had confronted her son that first day in a way that had made it impossible for him to acknowledge her without having to deal with the reactions of
all those other Indians. Maybe if she had approached him alone he would have run into her arms.

Well, perhaps that was hoping for too much. But surely in only three years Jeff had not forgotten all the English he had learned as a child. Surely she would at least be able to talk to him, to find out if he was happy, if he had ever thought of her and Sam, if he had ever hoped for rescue and despaired when it did not come. Surely there was some hope that she could find a way to reach her son.

Hope
. What a powerful word it was! It gave Claire the courage to survive her primitive surroundings, to face the challenges that were constantly thrown in her path. And to have a reason to conquer them.

The woman Wolf had called Night Crawling tugged on the sleeve of the fringed buckskin clothing she had been given to wear. Night Crawling pointed at the stream, at the basket Claire stilled hugged against her, and then back at the water again. Even without words, her meaning wasn’t difficult to understand.

“All right,” Claire said. “I’m filling the pitcher.” When she had it full of water and stood again, the old woman started pulling her toward Wolf’s lodging. Claire followed, noticing for the first time since she had arrived in the village the sharp rocks and dew-damp grass beneath her moccasined feet.

Suddenly everything around her was vivid, as though someone had enhanced all the colors, all the smells, all the textures. Her eyes sought out the Apache children laughing and playing with a hoop nearby. It startled her, somehow, to discover that such a savage people also began life as children playing games.

Claire breathed deeply, catching the tangy scent of venison cooking and a breeze redolent with manure from the herd of horses she knew must be picketed
somewhere among the pungent juniper and pines. All were familiar smells, and yet slightly foreign.

She cocked her head for the soft, guttural sounds of a group of Apache women talking as they pounded seeds in stone bowls. Gossiping, she supposed, as women everywhere spoke of home and family and hopes and dreams.

Claire looked up at the fluffy clouds drifting by in a sky so blue and bright it hurt her eyes. Was the sky so big, so brilliant at home? She thought it must be, only she had not seen it for so long it seemed brand new.

The stones pressed into the arches of her feet, making her more careful where she stepped. The small hurts surprised Claire because she had not felt—anything—in so long that she actually welcomed the pain as a sign that she was once again among the living. In fact, Claire had not felt so alive in the three years since she had first learned that her son had been killed by Apaches.

She followed Night Crawling back to Wolf’s lodging. There the old woman showed her where to put the water.

Claire had never considered what the life of an Apache woman was like, but over the past week she had been getting a rugged introduction. Every day she learned something new. Night Crawling handed Claire a large burden basket and gestured for her to come along.

Claire recognized the narrow-leafed yucca plant when the old woman pointed it out, but had no idea what she was supposed to do. The old woman broke off the slender green central stem, which was still without blossoms, and put it in the large basket they had brought along.

Once they had a number of stems in the basket they headed back to camp, where the woman instructed Claire how to peel the pieces of stalk and cut them up.
They carried the yucca to a wide, deep hole that contained heated stones that made it into an oven. The prepared yucca was placed on the heated stones and covered with dampened grass. Then the hole was covered with earth to bake the plants inside.

That was only the beginning of the workday. Claire went with the old woman to gather wild onions and helped her strip bark from the yellow pine and scrape off the sweet insides. When that was done, they gathered wood.

Night Crawling tied the short pieces of brush and sticks together in a bundle at either end with a hide rope, leaving a loop in the middle. Then she showed Claire how to put the loop over her head and across her chest to support the load of wood on her back.

Claire was indignant at the thought of becoming a beast of burden, until she saw the old woman do the same thing herself with another load of firewood.

Once back at camp, Claire was given the disgusting job of skinning several wood rats and a couple of prairie dogs. Not that she found the skinning difficult. It was the thought of eating the animals later on that made her stomach queasy. She was relieved to see there was also venison cooking.

Later in the afternoon, Claire was shown how to replace the soles of a pair of buckskin moccasins which she felt sure belonged to Wolf. While she removed the worn-out soles from the decorated upper part of the moccasin she wondered for the first time where Wolf had spent the day. Over the past week, she hadn’t had a spare moment to think about him. She had rarely even seen him.

Claire might not have seen Wolf, but the same was not true of the reverse. In fact, Wolf had checked often to see how his captive was faring. But he did not interfere with the woman’s work his mother had
set her to do. Once again, the white woman had amazed him with her strength and fortitude.

They met again for the first time in a week face to face over the campfire at the evening meal. They were sitting cross-legged outside on the ground. As Wolf chewed on a piece of venison he asked, “How was your day?”

“Hard.”

“It is good that you learn to do a woman’s work.”

“Why?”

Wolf was stymied for a moment. It was easier to answer the question with a question. “Why should you not?”

“Since you plan to trade me for Anabeth, I won’t be here long enough for it to matter.”

Wolf’s lips flattened. “Perhaps.” Before any trade could be made, he had to find Stalking Deer. That was not proving an easy task.

“While I’m here there is something I want,” Claire said.

“What is that?”

“To learn your language. Will you teach me?”

Now it was Wolf’s turn to ask, “Why?”

“I want to be able to speak to my son.”
And perhaps persuade him to escape this place with me
.

Wolf put down his venison and wiped the grease from his fingers onto his thighs. It was a custom every Apache followed, to thus feed his legs, to keep them strong for running. “I have spoken to Broken Foot. He says there was no woman near the canyon where he found White Eagle.”

“I was at home. My son was with my husband.”

“You have no man to share your blankets.”

Claire’s head turned sharply. “How do you know that?”

“I looked into each window of the house by the big rock to find Stalking Deer. You slept alone.”

“My husband was recently killed by outlaws.”

“So you have no man to hunt for you, to protect you from your enemies?”

Claire took a deep breath. “No. I have no man. All I have left is the land where I lived with my husband. And now my son.”

“You have no son,” Wolf said in a hard voice. “White Eagle has a new mother and father now.”

“But he’s my son!” Claire cried.

“Enough! He is Apache. He cannot go back to live among the white man.”

“Then I must learn Apache! You will teach me.”

Wolf’s eyes narrowed. Even Stalking Deer did not dare so much. An Apache brave took orders from no man—or woman.

“If I have to stay here, it will be easier if I can speak the language,” Claire reasoned. “Please.”

Wolf hesitated. To grant her request would make it necessary for him to spend time with her. The thought of sitting next to her, of looking into her golden cat’s eyes as he taught her the Apache words that described his world, caused a tautness in his body. The temptation was there to deny her, to avoid the situation entirely because he was not comfortable with it. But to deny her, he would have to acknowledge to himself the strange power she had over him. And that he refused to do.

“It shall be as you ask, Little One,” he said at last. “I will teach you the words.”

Claire clasped her hands together between her knees to keep from clapping them. There was a chance now that she could reach Jeffrey. Once she knew the words …

“When can we start?” she asked.

“Let me eat in peace, woman.”

Claire dropped her eyes, unwilling to allow him to see her triumph. She forced herself to eat some venison
and even some of the baked yucca she had helped to make, which wasn’t the best-tasting vegetable she had ever eaten, but not the worst either.

They had almost finished eating when they heard shrieks and shouting, followed by more shrieks. It sounded like the commotion was headed in their direction. Claire searched the gathering darkness for some sign of what had caused the excitement. She got her answer in the form of a black-and-white-striped animal that scurried practically across her toes.

“Don’t—”

Whatever warning Wolf was about to give was lost in Claire’s startled cry. “Skunk!” She jumped up, frightening the animal, who turned tail and let go. In the shadows someone stopped short, not bothering to chase the skunk any farther, because the animal had left the best part of himself behind. As a gift for Claire.

Claire was gasping at the pungent perfume that covered her from head to toe.

“He Makes Trouble!”

“A
lot
of trouble,” Claire rasped. She couldn’t seem to catch a breath of air that didn’t choke her.

“He Makes Trouble!” Wolf said again.

Suddenly a boy of about six appeared before Wolf, his face split by a wide grin. “Did you call for me?”

“This is nothing to smile about!” Wolf chastised. “Did you set that animal loose in camp?”

The grin disappeared, replaced by a rebellious look. “It was only a little skunk.”

Wolf’s nose pinched as he caught a whiff of the reek coming from the white woman. “It was big enough,” he muttered.

“Am I hearing you right?” Claire held her clothes away from her body—as though that would help keep the awful smell from sinking into her skin. “Did that child purposely chase that skunk in my direction?”

Wolf sighed. He Makes Trouble had earned his name. For a child so young he had provided more than his share of chaos in the camp. “Go away, He Makes Trouble. You are not wanted here.”

Furious as she was at the child for what had happened, Claire couldn’t help noticing how the boy stiffened when Wolf ordered him to go away. But there was no remorse in the uptilted chin, the pugnacious jut of the boy’s jaw as he faced Wolf, then turned and ran off into the darkness.

“Come, I will take you down to the river so you can wash yourself. The smell will not completely disappear, but at least we will be able to breathe again.”

Claire followed him gratefully to the stream. She couldn’t help asking, “Where are that boy’s parents? Can’t they keep him from doing things like this?”

“His mother is dead. His father … He is like me. He has no father.”

“His father is dead?”

Wolf shook his head. “His mother slept with many men. He Makes Trouble has many fathers.”

Claire was confused. “I don’t understand. How can a boy without a father have many fathers?”

“Each man who shared the blankets with He Makes Trouble’s mother helped to create him. Some part of each man can be found in the boy. He has my eyes,” Wolf said.

“Your eyes?
You
slept with his mother, too?”

Wolf nodded. “I am but one of his fathers. There are many who claim a part of making him.”

Claire recollected what she had seen of the boy’s dark brown eyes. They were not quite as black as Wolf’s, nor as widely spaced. But certainly the look in them had been the same as Wolf’s—fierce and defiant.

“Who does He Makes Trouble live with? Who takes care of him?” Claire demanded.

Wolf shrugged. “He eats where there is extra food. He sleeps in a wickiup at the edge of the village.”

“You mean no one wants anything to do with the boy himself—only his parts,” Claire accused. Then she realized Wolf had said the boy was like him. “Was it like that for you? Did you grow up all alone like that?”

“I had a mother.”

Claire tried to imagine whether that would make a difference, and if so, how much of a difference. She looked at Wolf with new eyes. Had he been an outcast like this child, forced to pull pranks to be noticed at all? Proud and disdainful when the only attention he got was a cry to “Go away and leave us alone!”

Her heart went out to He Makes Trouble. And to Wolf. Even though they were Apache. Even though these people had stolen her son. It was hard to keep hating all Apaches when they had become individuals. Like Night Crawling. And He Makes Trouble. And Wolf. And her own son, White Eagle.

“You can undress over there,” Wolf said. “Your clothes will have to be buried later.”

Claire slipped behind the bushes Wolf had indicated and gratefully pulled off the buckskin clothing. This was no time for false modesty. Claire couldn’t wait to get out of the stinking clothes. The night was dark. It was cloak enough for her.

Besides, Wolf had said he did not desire her.

Those were his words, but Claire remembered his body had said otherwise. Still, she did not think the threat was great. He could have had her naked at any time this past week simply by demanding it. He hadn’t. He had left her alone to do the work of a woman. Nor had she been beaten or tortured or even mistreated.

Claire smiled ruefully. With the way she smelled
now, it was unlikely any man would want to be near her—for a few days, at least.

When she had stripped down she stepped from behind the bushes, slipped into the frigid stream, and ducked her head underwater. When she came up, she could breathe easily again.