Apache Caress (16 page)

Aw, she didn’t care about the French maid; she didn’t care about anything as long as she had her medicine and her Cameos–and a chance to get out of this cold, go where it was warm and then on to ’Frisco.

Trixie heard footsteps coming down the hall, went to the door, listened for the rapping. “Yes?”

“Love, you know who it is.” The voice was low, breathy.

“Just slip the money under the door and go back to your damned French maid,” Trixie said.

“She’s been sick, too sick to pleasure anyone. I thought, just for old times’ sake, we could ... well, you know. . . .”

The rich, rotten Griswolds, Trixie thought in disgust. Like Otto, the son-in-law, the whole family thought money could buy anything. “I’ll expect a little extra,” she whispered against the door.

“Anything you want, love. Just let me in.”

I’m really a talented artist, a great singer, Trixie told herself as she unbolted the lock, but sometimes a girl has to make a few sacrifices to arrive at stardom. “Come in, but you can’t stay long.” She opened the door.

“Wouldn’t it have been a joke on Otto if he had known?” Julia Griswold Toombs smiled as she threw back the hood of her ebony velvet cloak, and swept into the room.

Tom Mooney couldn’t sleep. He stared at the adobe walls of his quarters, listening to the wind rattle the windows. Bad winter coming fast, the sergeant thought, and wondered about Cholla, where his friend was at this moment and if he were even alive? Nothing had been heard since Lieutenant Gatewood had last called him in to tell him Cholla had escaped from the train and had kidnapped Mrs. Robert Forester.

Tom speculated on whether Mrs. Forester was still with him. Cholla might have killed her. He wasn’t the type to hurt a woman, but knowing the lieutenant had raped and killed Delzhinne, he might have made an exception of Forester’s woman. At the very least, on this long journey, the virile Apache would use her.

Tom twisted restlessly in bed, trying not to think of the woman in the photo, the girl with the beautiful dark eyes, spread out on a blanket under the Apache’s hard, brown body. She might even be carrying Cholla’s son by now.

The dog raised its head and regarded him solemnly.

“Ke’jaa, I wonder where he is at this moment, if he’s still alive?” When Tom realized he was almost waiting for the dog to answer, he flushed with embarrassment, glad there was no one around to hear him conversing with a beast. “You’ve been alone too long,” he whispered, “and your friend has the woman you want.”

He listened to the wind moaning around the buildings of the fort, like an Indian spirit wailing to get inside. Did he want Cholla to make it back to Arizona? Holy Saint Patrick, that wasn’t possible, was it? And if Cholla did, the Army would only kill him for his trouble or gather him up again and ship him back to Florida. Word had come that the Apaches were beginning to die in the humid, steamy coastal swamp. The children were being separated from their parents and sent to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, to an old Army camp that was being converted into a school to “civilize” them.

Suppose they found Mrs. Forester and she had no place to go and her belly was big with an Apache bastard? No one would want her. But Mooney would. He liked babies, any kind or color. Maybe if she had no one else to turn to and was expecting a child, she might, she just might, consider a middle-aged trooper who hadn’t much to offer but a small farm that needed a lot of work and improvements. He didn’t have the money for that. He could stay in the Army, but an officer’s widow wouldn’t be interested in a sergeant. He could offer her his love.

Tom blushed, trying to imagine saying sweet words to a woman. She would probably laugh at his clumsy attempts to say anything romantic. He would read her some poetry, and maybe she would be impressed. One thing was certain, he could offer a woman steadfast love and a devotion she wouldn’t find in most men. And maybe, somewhere down the line, after they had lived together awhile, she might finally learn to love him, too.

He reached out for the photo in the pocket of his jacket, which hung over the chair next to his bed, held it, listening to the wind and the dog’s soft breathing.

When he closed his eyes, the girl in the photo came into his arms and smiled.

“You’re just the kind of man I’ve always wanted, Tom, a shy, but sincere one who would take care of me. I don’t care that you’re not young and good-looking.”

“All my life, I’ve looked for a woman, a soft, kind woman who understood me and didn’t laugh when I read poetry aloud. If you’ve got a child, I don’t mind at all, bless the saints, no. We’ll raise it along with our own. I just wish I had a little money to fix up the farm.”

“The money doesn’t matter, Tom. We care about each other and we need each other. That’s all that counts, you know.” She would reach for the book. “Ah, you like poetry, I see. So do I. Read me that poem about: ‘I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more.’ ”

She settled herself in his lap in front of the fire and he read to her while her dark hair spilled across his shoulder. Together, they were one against the world. When the wind rattled the shutters, he wasn’t alone anymore.

The sound of the bugle blowing reveille brought him up out of bed with a start. For the first time in many years, Tom had overslept.

He dressed quickly and went about his duties, the dog trotting ahead of him as he crossed the parade ground. Schultz came around the corner, saluted. “Lieutenant Gatewood wants to see you, Sergeant.”

“There’s news?”

“They don’t tell me things like that. When you find out, me and Taylor and Allen would like to know. Cholla’s our friend, too.” The corporal put a cigar between his stained teeth.

Tom nodded and took off at a brisk pace for the officers’ quarters, the dog running ahead of him. He was almost afraid of what the news might be; probably that the Army had finally cornered and killed the Apache scout.

He knocked and entered, snapped the slender officer a salute. Gatewood returned it, wrinkling his nose thoughtfully as he stared at the message before him. “Someone has finally spotted them.”

Them
. The woman whose picture he carried in his jacket and the best friend he had. He must wait for Gatewood to continue, but the officer was staring out the window. He, too, has been in Arizona a long time, Tom thought. Half a dozen years ago, Gatewood had been one of those involved in tracking down Victorio when that Apache was raiding.

Gatewood looked up suddenly as if he had forgotten the sergeant was present. “Some fellow in Missouri named Hankins spotted the pair of them. Says he and two friends were out hunting somewhere in the hills and this Apache just jumped them, killed his friends and wounded him. Supposedly, he was lucky to escape with his life.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, attacking peaceful citizens for no reason doesn’t sound like Cholla.”

“Neither does stabbing the vice president of a bank with a letter opener,” Gatewood said.

Tom shook his head, tight-lipped. “Cholla? Never! He’s being blamed for things he wouldn’t do. Is this Hankins sure it was Cholla?” Tom argued, “maybe he’s mistaken–”

“And just how many big Indian braves do you suppose there are running about in Missouri?”

Tom grudgingly conceded the point. “And the woman?”

“She’s with him, but it seems she was trying to escape. According to this Tiny Hankins, he and his friends were trying to assist the lady in her escape when the Apache turned up, killed the other two, damn near killed him. Hankins got away and walked several days to reach a telegraph station. He says the Indian carried the woman off again.”

Tom didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. His friend was still alive, but the Army was closer to catching him now. And the woman was with him.

“Sit down, Tom,” the lieutenant said softly.

Tom sank down into a chair.

“The colonel has asked me to talk to you.” There was reluctance in Gatewood’s eyes.

“Sir?”

“Gillen’s not doing all that well tracking him.”

“He isn’t the brightest officer in the Army. I always thought he couldn’t find his way to the latrine and back, and his candy chomping gets on everyone’s nerves.” Tom grinned and ran stubby, freckled fingers through his thinning hair. A suspicion began to build in his mind. When he looked up, something about Gatewood’s manner told him he was probably right. Charles Gatewood was an honorable man, a gentleman. That was why he was still a lieutenant and probably would be when he died.

“Sergeant, I have been ordered to tell you that since you know Cholla, know him well enough to understand how he thinks, you could be valuable in this hunt.”

Tom just stared at him, unblinking.

Gatewood looked away and rubbed the bridge of his prominent nose, turning the pen over and over in his hands. “Besides they think you could talk him into surrendering if they get him cornered. No one else could.”

Tom swore softly under his breath. “The sonovabitches want me to help them capture or kill my friend?”

Gatewood turned the pen over and over in nervous fingers. “There’s a promotion for you–and the reward if they get him.”

Tom stared at the wide pine planks of the floor. It was worn white from cavalry boots. The dog lay looking at him almost gravely as if it wondered what his answer would be.

“The colonel could order you to do it,” Gatewood said.

“Sir, you’ve been in the Army long enough to know this ain’t the kind of duty you can order a man to do. There’s too many ways he can mess up if he doesn’t want to do it.”

The officer grunted agreement, turning the pen over and over in his hands, while Tom stared at the worn floor boards, thinking.

Would the woman be so grateful if he helped rescue her that she would consider him? Would any man besides himself want her after she’d been used by the Apache scout? Could he have her if he betrayed his friend?
“I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more.”

Tom chewed his lip. “The promotion doesn’t mean much, Lieutenant. I’m thinking of retiring at the end of this hitch, however, there’s one question about the reward.”

Gatewood looked as if he did not quite believe the sergeant was asking about the reward. He seemed disappointed, sad. “What about it?”

Tom looked him in the eye and grinned. “First, find out if it’s thirty pieces of silver. Then tell the colonel the Irish sergeant said the Army could stick its reward up its–”

“I don’t believe I’d better tell him that.” Gatewood threw back his head and laughed. He looked relieved. “I’ll just tell him you are needed here and too damned old to do much more than putter around the post anyhow.”

“There you have it. Is that all, sir?”

Gatewood nodded. As Tom stood, the dog got up off the floor. When Tom turned to go, Gatewood came around his desk, held out his hand. “Thank you, Mooney, you have renewed my faith in my fellow man. There aren’t many who’d turn down a chance at a promotion and a reward.”

Tom thought of the woman as he shook hands with the officer. Maybe by not helping in the capture he was throwing away his chance to meet her. “I wish the reward and promotion were all that was at stake here, sir.”

“Oh?” Gatewood waited, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to say any more. He figured the lieutenant would probably tell him he’d been alone too long and ought to go down to the
cantina
and get himself a woman. But that wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted.

Tom paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You’ll let me know if there’s any news?”

Gatewood nodded. They exchanged looks without saying anything. Neither of them really expected the Apache to make it all the way back. It was just impossible, even for a rugged individualist like Cholla. The next news we’ll hear, Tom thought, is that troops have surrounded Cholla and he has died in a blaze of gunfire rather than be captured.

He thought about the woman again and of long, cold nights spent before the fireplace on the old farm back in Michigan. “Sir, I ... I know this is a strange question, but has anyone heard if Mrs. Forester reads poetry?”

Gatewood looked absolutely blank. “What?”

“Never mind. It was a foolish question.” Tom turned quickly and went out, afraid of looking foolish. The lieutenant might read between the lines and understand too much. Besides being a lonely man, Tom Mooney was a very private one.

Outside, the chill wind blew against his face as he and the dog stared off toward the northeast. The Apache had managed to cross several hundred miles, if this Tiny Hankins was to be believed. By now, if he were alive, Cholla might be somewhere in Indian Territory on this crisp autumn morning.

Tom took out the photograph and stared at it, wondering if he had done the right thing. Would Cholla hurt Sierra Forester because her husband had murdered and raped the Apache girl? How, by all the saints, had Cholla found her? Could it be coincidence? The odds were against it. Had the Holy Mother herself stepped in on this one? What kind of miracle was a kidnapping, maybe even a rape and murder?

He stared off into the distance, wondered where the pair was and if they knew Gillen was closing in on them? At least this time Tom Mooney had no blood on his hands....

Sierra sat by the fire Cholla had started by rubbing two dry sticks together in a small bit of moss. It had been a long night and a cold one, with both of them huddled up together, trying to stay warm without blankets, trying to forget their hunger. In the morning Cholla had finally gotten a fire going, and he had cut another branch of Osage orange to make a new bow. But first he had made a snare from the dried grape vines that grew wild in the area, had caught a rabbit and cooked it.

Sierra ate all he gave her of the roasted meat and licked her fingers. As she finished, she realized he had taken only a very small piece for himself. “You didn’t get enough.”

He shrugged and worked on the bow. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He raised one eyebrow, then returned to his work. “A few weeks ago, you were a timid mouse, now you argue with me and speak your mind continually. I think I like you better the other way.”