The Quantro Story (12 page)

Under her watchful gaze, the two men finished eating, and she took their bowls outside to clean them. Crawling-Snake was there on his rock, watching her as intently as ever. She paid no attention to him. He was arrogant and brash, always showing off, and she thought little of him.

As she bent to scour the wooden bowls Crawling-Snake ambled over from his rock and began to make small talk. She answered only when necessary, and let him ramble on, avoiding his searching eyes. When at last he asked her to walk with him, she replied tersely she had far too much work to do to idle away her time looking at flowers and clouds in the sky.

Crawling-Snake ignored the derision in her voice, the hard words were enough to bear without the way they were said. He looked at her, hard and long, then snorted and stalked away back to his rock. He knew what her trouble was. The
Americano
. Well he, Crawling-Snake, the rightful chief of their tribe, would see about that.

White-Wing looked after the retreating Crawling-Snake with a rueful grin. She had certainly put him in his place. She had seen the hungry way he stared at her, his eyes roaming over her body. Somehow, his crazy gaze seemed to strip her entirely, as though his eyes probed into her very body itself. He was mad. She was quite certain of it. She repressed a shudder.

She cast him away from her mind, glad he had gone, and returned to more pleasant thoughts. Immediately, the blonde
Americano
with the strange name sprang back into her mind. Quantro. She said it to herself over and over, rolling the word around her tongue and accustoming herself to its strangeness. The more she said it, the more she liked the sound of it.

***

The aroma from the cooking pots drifted on the breeze.

Dogs wandered through the camp among the wickiups, snuffling and picking at scraps, and the children pulled at the earth and tossed clods at the scavenging dogs. The women bent over their fires, stirring and adding herbs. Some were grinding corn into flour on little round stones, talking to their neighbors, occasionally shooting out an arm to drag back a child that had strayed too far. Now and again, one of the women would slip a glance over her shoulder, or from under her hair at the
Americano
who sat outside in the sunshine, smoking and watching the mountains.

His back against the woven wall of the wickiup and his injured arm supported by a sling, Quantro sat and watched the Apache go about their lives. The hodge podge of dwellings was strung out over the plateau of the mountain top, and he calculated there must be about fifty or sixty in the renegade band, plus a few children. The contrast between the stories he had heard of the cruel Apache and the actual people themselves was great. They seemed as much alike to their legends as horses were to cattle. They appeared to be ordinary people, eager only to pursue their way of life, going about their work peacefully, with almost a gentleness.

Only once had he noticed any animosity in the inquisitive glances. The offender had been a sullen, tough looking buck of about thirty summers, standing disdainfully apart from the others. When Quantro had mentioned this to Pete, the prospector had merely shrugged and explained about Crawling-Snake. The Apache's opinion was general knowledge. Quantro listened and determined to keep his eye on the Indian.

From his resting place, Quantro could see the buckskin horse roaming with the small herd of Indian ponies on the fringe of the camp. Pete was right, the stallion was feeding well. The shadow of his ribs had vanished and his coat was lustrous again. He was frisky too, walking among the mares and nosing one or two here and there as the fancy took. As he watched, the stallion singled out a paint pony and nudged it tentatively. The agile pony wheeled quickly and aimed a kick at the buckskin's shoulder. The stallion threw back his head and snorted, then moved in again for another playful nudge. The mare twisted, her flowing mane dancing in the sunlight, and snapped at his neck. But the buckskin skipped away, turning his head aside, and the mare's yellow teeth snapped shut on fresh air.

Quantro laughed. White-Wing raised her head from her pot and looked at him. In back of him, Pete's voice reached out into the clear air.

“Like you, that horse.” He sniffed. “Hit and run.”

***

The next day Quantro and White-Wing were sitting outside the wickiup, watching the buckskin stallion teasing the mares again. Quantro's rich, full-throated laugh was a sharp contrast to the wind chime tinkling effect of the girl's, and Pete's chuckle was ample background.

Pete rolled a smoke and sniffed. “That horse wants some exercise. Get the bedsprings out of him.”

“Yeah,” Quantro agreed, “but I ain't fit enough yet. He takes a bit of handling.”

“Time I took me a ride anyway,” Pete sniffed. “I'll ride him for you, if you've a mind.”

“Sure,” Quantro smiled lazily, then let his face fall straight. “I'd be much obliged.”

Pete nodded then rose in search of Quantro's saddle and bridle. He hefted them to his shoulder and set off towards the small herd of ponies. Quantro smiled again, well aware of what was about to happen.

The Indian ponies scattered from the white man but the stallion merely gave him a sideways glance, twitching its ears and snorting gently. He remained quiet as Pete swung the saddle up and over on to its broad back and allowed the man to insert the metal bit of the bridle into his mouth, chewing at the bit while the leathers slipped over his head. Pete fastened the tarnished buckle of the chin strap by the horse's ears, then elbowed the stallion in the ribs and pulled the saddle cinch a notch tighter.

White-Wing watched inquisitively, and Quantro touched her arm and jerked his head at the scene on the fringe of the camp with a chuckle. She looked at him and frowned, but Quantro smiled and pointed.

The buckskin stood quietly champing on the bit in his mouth, growing accustomed to the feel of it after the fortnight of rest, while Pete finished tightening buckles. He gathered the reins in his left hand and put his foot into the stirrup. The instant his weight pulled on the leathers, the stallion craned his neck around in a fast arc and his teeth closed on Pete's hip. It was a swift, unexpected bite and Pete jumped back, rubbing himself.

Quantro could see Pete's mouth working, but could not hear what he was saying to the horse. But he could imagine. Beside him, White-Wing's laughter tinkled in the mountain air.

Pete stopped rubbing his sore hip, and gathered the reins. This time, before he put his foot into the stirrup, he pulled the right rein tight over the horse's neck, so the stallion was forced to turn his head away. He slipped his boot into the stirrup again. The stallion began to side-step from the strange tactic and Pete swung up into the high-cantled, fine saddle.

His right foot was barely in the other stirrup when the stallion erupted. He leapt into the air to come crashing back to earth, landing jarringly on four straight legs, his head down. Pete lurched in the saddle, his Stetson twirling away to land in the dust, but he caught hold of the saddle horn. He hauled back on the reins to bring the stallion's head up, but as he pulled, the horse corkscrewed into the air. Another jarring straight-legged landing.

Quantro could see Pete clenching his teeth. He laughed as the buckskin wheeled into the air, performing short, twisting leaps, bucking and kicking. The snorting animal never repeated the same pattern twice.

Pete lasted all of five seconds.

As the buckskin hit the earth, blowing angrily, Pete parted company with the saddle and crumpled into the dusty earth. Before he had time to roll over and stand up, the stallion had walked away and was quite calm again, as though nothing had happened.

By now, all the camp was watching the white man's attempt to ride the big horse. The Apache people laughed heartily, the women chattering and pointing, the children giggling and scampering around. Pete stood up and brushed at the dust on his trousers, glowering. As soon as the horse took off he had realized he had been set up. The Apache were excellent horsemen and now the only way he could keep his self-respect was to get back up there in the saddle and ride it out, man against beast. He stopped to pick up his Stetson and jammed it back on his head, directing a knowing glance at the laughing Quantro. His hat back on, he approached the apparently unconcerned stallion with a purpose.

Once again he mounted, then endured the rapid spell of volcanic eruptions from the powerful horse. Once again the horse won.

He tried again.

And again. But the obsession faded as the number of bruises he acquired rapidly beat the determination out of him. The horse was still winning.

Finally, he stood up awkwardly and put his hat back on, his head hanging, eyes pointed towards the ground. The Apache had stopped laughing now, respecting the might and deviousness of the buckskin stallion. They had seen Pete ride before, and knew he could ride well. Not as well as an Apache, but pretty fair for a white man. The braves were shaking their heads in admiration for the horse, and they thought none the less of Pete for failing to ride him.

After a moment of standing, allowing the wind that had been pounded out of him a chance to enter his lungs, he walked slowly back to where Quantro sat with White-Wing.

“No wonder that goddamn horse ran away from you on the Devil's Plateau. He ain't even broke properly,” he grumbled.

“He's okay,” Quantro grinned. “Just he takes exception to people he don't know getting up on his back. He just don't trust 'em. I'm the only one's ever rode him.”

“He's wild.” Pete was disgusted, but smiled wryly as he added, “But he's one hell of a horse.”

Quantro whistled and the buckskin immediately raised its head and trotted through the camp. The Apache moved out of the big horse's way. He stood trembling above his master, then dipped his head and gently nuzzled Quantro's neck with a snicker.

“See what I mean,” Quantro said, hands spread wide, palms face up as though he didn't understand it himself.

White-Wing looked on in amazement, admiration for the white warrior evident on her face. Underneath, she knew the horse was aware of its master's internal power, just the same as she was. It showed in the timbre of his soft voice, yet it was strong with the underlying current of absolute certainty.

From his place a few yards away, Crawling-Snake saw White-Wing's expression and his heart darkened.

CHAPTER 7

Whenever Pete was around, he would translate between Quantro and White-Wing. Slowly as his shoulder healed, Quantro began to pick up odd words of the mixture the Apaches spoke, partly pure Apache and partly bastardised Spanish. He would repeat the strange words slowly, contorting his tongue around the alien inflections, while White-Wing smiled and nodded encouragingly. Whenever he was hesitant, she would repeat the word and listen while he struggled to get it right. Each time he learnt a new one, they would talk and she would manipulate the conversation so he would have to insert the new word. As each was learned, she would introduce another and so on. Quantro returned the compliment by teaching her the English words. So their conversation became a peculiar hybrid of English, Spanish, and Apache.

As the sun moved through its cycle of days, working towards a new moon, Quantro's Apache vocabulary expanded to include almost everything in sight. Sometimes, when the other women and children were watching, he would feel foolish, like a child, when she pointed and pronounced difficult words very slowly, lingering over each consonant and syllable, so he could imitate them. Soon, they had to venture farther afield.

He had regained his strength rapidly and after the first dizzy spell when he stood up, he was able to walk about. He removed the sling from his arm and flexed the limb with a grimace. The shoulder was stiff and delicate, but he began a series of limbering exercises to loosen it up. He would spend half an hour working on the shoulder, then buckle on his Colt and spend another half hour practicing with his gun hand. That was the one talent he could not afford to let go rusty. The boy had come looking for him, so he never knew, there could be others.

White-Wing would sit, her face open, like a little girl, her white teeth shining in her bronzed face. Her small hands would be clasped together in her lap, and when the pistol appeared like lightning in his hand, she would cover her mouth in girlish surprise. When the bullet split the stick he had placed in a nearby crevice, she would clap her hands in glee at his artistry.

When he had spent his half hour on the Colt, he would fetch the beloved Winchester, knowing exercise with the rifle would help strengthen his bad shoulder. He would stand with his back to the target, the Winchester hanging loosely from his right hand. As he turned, the rifle would come up smoothly and he would lever a shell into the breech, squeezing the trigger almost before his body finished moving.

Each time he hit the target dead centre.

When his practicing was finished, he would saddle up the buckskin and an Indian pony for White-Wing then they would ride out along the mountain trails. Often they would just ride, allowing the horses to pick their own way among the rocks, while White-Wing would point out things, giving them their Apache name, and Quantro would respond with the name in English. If they saw game, he would put his gun skill to use. Sometimes he would shoot a brace of jack-rabbits, or a wild turkey, even a deer. On a bad day, perhaps it would just be an ornery old rattlesnake whose lair they had disturbed, but whatever he shot went into the pot. That was the Apache way, she taught him.
Usen
, The Great Spirit had furnished the earth with all manner of things to help the Apache live, but the Apache should never take more than he needed, and never kill for the sake of killing.

She showed him the fields her people had painstakingly planted by hand. The crops were growing well, and their labor was being rewarded. They had acquired a small herd of cattle too, and a passable
remuda
of horses and ponies, enough to satisfy their needs. When the cattle started to breed, they would have beef enough to eat and more to trade. The herds were looked after by the young bucks. She explained this was to teach them patience for when they were old enough to take their turns as lookouts, guarding the passes and the narrow trails that led up to the hideout.

She took him to the Shining Water too. He already knew where the creek lay for he visited it every morning to wash and shave. Above that place was where the women collected the water for their daily needs, but below the washing area, screened by pine trees, was a small waterfall that fed a rock basin. The cold water from the creek gathered, making a natural swimming hole roughly twenty feet across and four or five feet deep at the centre, shallower towards the edges. White-Wing explained that during the last two hours of the morning before the sun reached its zenith, the women went to bathe there, while the older women would take turns guarding the hole from inquisitive male eyes. Sorry was the brave who was caught spying when the women lashed into him with their tongues and sticks.

In the late afternoon was the turn of the males, but during the remainder of the day, anyone who wished to visit the pool was able to. Where the lip of the basin faced out from the mountain was a fissure in the rock that allowed the water to run off from the pool and cascade to the rocks below where the creek resumed its course.

Here, fish abounded, lurking under rocks like sinister shadows. One would dart out to gulp a fly and then with a silvery flash of its tail would streak back into the shadow. The Apache who fished here were none. To the Apache, the flesh of both fish and dogs was repugnant.

Quantro liked to fish. He had never had the time since he had become old enough to help the ranch hands with their work. And after those first hard days of riding, he had listened to the men talking in the bunkhouse round the stove and he had begun to be interested in the ways of the cards and the taste of liquor, and of course women. So the fish on the Bar-Q-Bar ranch had stayed in the creek to breed unmolested.

He resolved to get his hand in again. Where better than here, where the fish were plentiful? Even if White-Wing would not eat his catch with him, then he was sure Pete would find a couple of fat mountain trout a welcome change.

White-Wing, however, accompanied him on his fishing trips, at first mystified when he had cut a pole, but then content to sit and watch as he baited the hook he had fashioned from a small curved bone. Up at the cabin, Tom had taught him that too. He had told Quantro of the North Dakota Indians, the Sioux, who made their fish hooks from the ribs of field mice. White-Wing had found him thread to use for a line, and thus he was equipped.

He would prop the Winchester against a pine tree and stretch out on the grass, the line laying on the surface of the rippling water. There was no contest with the fish. They were not used to the ways of man and did not avoid the bait he cast for them. In no time at all he would string together five or six plump mountain trout and tote them back to the camp, White-Wing following happily behind.

***

Crawling-Snake's eyes had not been closed to Quantro's wanderings. While working on his pony's harness or cutting arrows for his hunting bow, he watched the
Americano
time after time disappear into the trees accompanied by White-Wing. He seethed with rage. Oh, how he wanted her ! To watch her with the blonde
blanco
was like thorns tearing at the soft flesh of his heart. Each time, his anger smoldered until at last the fire inside him was so painful he knew he could only quench its flames by killing. So be it, he would kill the white man, and then White-Wing would be undeniably his. She would praise him for his courage at challenging the tall man who was so fast with his gun. When he, Crawling-Snake, lifted the blonde scalp, she would fall down on her knees and beg him to take her as his wife. Who else of the Apache would challenge the blonde man who showed such a talent, with his untamable horse and such prowess with his pistol and beautiful repeating rifle? There would be no squaw as proud as she to have such a fearless Indian warrior as her husband.

Everyone would revere his valor.

***

Crawling-Snake was tending to his pony when Quantro rode into the camp with White-Wing one afternoon. The white man dismounted and began to unsaddle the buckskin stallion. The Indian girl handed him the reins of her pony, then asked in Apache what he had a mind to do for the rest of the afternoon. Quantro replied in his strange combination of Spanish and Apache he would be going to the fishing hole to catch some supper. She laughed and danced away to fetch a bag for collecting berries.

As Quantro turned loose the buckskin and the pony, then hefted his saddle on to his good shoulder, Crawling-Snake slipped away to collect his bow and his scalping knife.

***

The sunshine streaked through the canopy of branches that the tall pines wove high above the ground. Its rays slashed through the aromatic air in bright shafts, dust dancing, before it splashed across the bed of green needles that liberally coated the rich earth. Quantro's
kabuns
made no sound as the soft leather left a trail of shallow depressions along the path. As was his custom, he stalked rather than walked, the fishing pole hanging loosely from his left hand and the trusty Winchester canted nonchalantly over his right shoulder. Without effort, his ears grew attuned to the sounds of the forest and he was aware of the birds calling warnings to each other as they moved from branch to branch, away from the trail. He smiled as he walked, the odor of the pines pleasant in his nostrils.

Behind him, White-Wing was playing her own games. She skipped from each of his footprints to the next, marveling how small her moccasin prints were compared to his. Hers tended to toe-in slightly, whereas his pointed straight ahead, a little splay-footed, but he was as silent as an Apache. Her shining hair swung about her slender shoulders, tangling somewhat in her beads, and the soft doeskin of her dress rubbed pleasantly on the sleek calves of her legs.

White-Wing watched Quantro pause and cock his head, listening. She inspected the angle his head made with his neck, the long blonde hair brushing across his shoulders, a wisp curling unnoticed across his cheek. She took pleasure in the broad sweep of his shoulders, the muscles rippling beneath the faded check shirt. Her eyes twinkled with thoughts an Indian maiden of her age should not indulge in as she appraised his tight-jeaned thighs, strong and sure, marred only by the slight limp he said had been caused two years ago when his leg had been broken. He had never told her how, and she had been too timid to ask. If he wanted her to know, then one day he would tell her.

She sensed his ease, and the grace of him as he moved through the trees. He had, she was sure, the same kind of affection and appreciation for the unravaged land as she herself possessed. No mines had been dug here, nor corn planted, no timber hewn to build those square houses the
Americanos
liked, with the sloping roofs of shingles that kept off the rain.

And all the time she was aware of the strength within him, almost an invisible protection, a motivation to be alive and live. It was like a fire burning inside of him, but one whose flames were colored turquoise blue, shot with flashes of green, the way wood with minerals in it burns. Her brother-in-law had noticed it too. Once he had said to her alone that if Quantro had been an Indian they would have named him Strange-Fire.

Crawling-Snake, too, was silent as he trod warily in the wake of Quantro and White-Wing. He had gathered his hunting bow and a quiver of arrows, then cleaned his scalping knife by plunging in into the soft earth. He had entered his wickiup to mix paint and apply it to his face. He drew a Vee on his forehead to signify he lived in the mountains, then red lines from his eyes to his ear lobes, and three short lines on his chin that read War. He then crept stealthily from the settlement and into the trees. It took only a glance to read the trail. White-Wing's tiny
kabun
prints laid over the larger ones of the
blanco
. He moved from shadow to shadow, criss-crossing the trail, slowly nearing the man and the girl ahead of him.

His face was grim, painted for war, and all the time the hate he carried inside of him for the white man increased. His hands were eager to close on the throat of the
gringo
, to throttle the very air from his lungs, the air Quantro had stolen from the Apache.

They emerged from the belt of ancient pines at the base of Shining Water, and the sunlight struck Quantro's face as he gazed out over the rippling water that shimmered like quicksilver. There was nobody there, only the silence broken by the chirping of the birds and the musical sound of the cascading water as it drained from the lip of the pool to fall onto the rocks below. Quantro turned to smile at White-Wing, then followed the path that wound around the perimeter of the water and through the break in the rocks and down the steep incline.

Near the foot of the natural rock wall, the ground leveled off and they walked across the grass to the stream that White-Wing had named Eating Creek in deference to Quantro's liking for fish. Along the far bank ran a stretch of bushes, and it was to these that White-Wing wandered to collect berries, while Quantro baited his hook and cast his line into the water.

When he was satisfied with his cast, he allowed the hook to drift, propping the fishing pole between two convenient rocks he had positioned on an earlier visit. He sat back and took out his tobacco sack, busying his fingers with the familiar routine.

He liked this place, the peace and the wildness of it. The fishing hole was his favorite of the places within the immediate area of the camp. But he knew he was living there on borrowed time. Pete had told him of Red-Fox's condition when they had brought him to the camp. Nothing had been mentioned about it since, but he was aware he could not stay there for ever. True, he brought in game for the cooking pots, but apart from that he was worthless to the community, unless, he thought with rancor, any of the braves had aspirations to be gun-fighters.

He had to begin thinking about the future. He knew he must find a place to settle. He wanted to start another ranch and name it the Bar-Q-Bar, as his father's had been named. He realized now that in building the ranch in Colorado, as well as feeding the Quantro family, his father had been investing in the land for his son's future. Shag Quantro wanted now to return that favor and reinvest that trust for his own children, if and whenever they should be born. He would have to find the money too. There was some left from the bounties on Cole and Dale, but nowhere near enough to buy land and breeding stock. He did not want to have to hire out his gun to earn the money, for he considered his time of killing was over. He would just have to find honest, decent work and then save hard to eventually get whatever he wanted.