Apache Fire (3 page)

Angie's gaze passed unseeingly over the piñon and stunted oak trees, the boulders that rose nearly as high, the grasses lush from the constant summer rains. Her body swayed with each bump the buckboard made over the rocky ground. Flies and mosquitoes swarmed, and she brushed them away without thought. The image of Niko with the little boy would not leave her.

She even understood why. Her mind refused to conjure up the sight of him beaten.

It wasn't until Mary spoke of the coming rain that Angie suddenly became aware of her surroundings. In the far distance were low-lying mountains. The land easily could look the same, but she was sure this was not the way they had twice taken to come to the reservation.

She said as much, then added, “Mary, is this a shorter way to the fort?”

“This is the way we go now.”

“Then it is different. For a few minutes I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.”

“No ask questions. Always the Anglo must question. This way safe for you.”

Despite Angie's prodding, Mary would say no more.

And Angie began to worry about where Mary was taking her.

Niko turned inward, finding strength and inner quiet. He judged by the length of time it took until the pain receded from his body how far they had taken him. His body was curved like a hoop over the back of the horse, but he did not open his eyes to the sky. He willed himself to work at the knots that tied his hands to his feet beneath the mare's belly.

Not easy was the need to shut out the voices of the soldiers who rode ahead. He knew what his fate would be at their hands. Breathing was a difficult task, not only because of the dust rising with the striking hooves of ten horses, but also because he had to contend with the piercing pain that lanced his side.

He thought of the place they would have to ride through, a narrow defile that would force them to go one by one.
Child of the Water, hear me. Send to the Thunder People for the
Intchi-dijin,
the blackest of winds, so that the Controller of Water will hear their cry and send the rains to aid me
.

Hear me. I am
Netdahee.
To leave me helpless is to leave your people helpless
.

He worked at fraying the end of the rope. His silent calls to the spirits of his people repeated over and over as blood swelled his fingers and made them clumsy. Never once did Niko show any sign that he was awake, and aware.

High above the soldiers, the slurred whistled warning of a male meadowlark was heard. Niko listened as it was repeated. He waited for the soldiers to be alert to the danger that was coming to them. In his mind he smiled when no whisper was passed from man to man. He should know that the Anglos would not realize that a meadowlark was a ground hunter and could not be above them.

The place was close, then, and he had to be ready.

With his lips he tasted the first fat drops of rain. A woman's rain, for had it been male, the lightning and thunder would have shaken the earth.

Niko had to block the thought of Woman of Sorrow from his mind. She had no place in his life. In the deepest corners he heard the whispers that her life was now entwined with his. And he fought its telling, just as he fought the pain that once more surfaced.

His head bumped against rock. Now he opened his eyes to see that most of the soldiers had disappeared up ahead, through the deep cut in the rocks. He did not listen for cries. He knew there would be none. The
Netdahee
made no noises unless they wished to. Like the shadow cast by the drifting cloud, so would they move over their land.

The roaring blood in his ears made it impossible for Niko to hear. He strained anyway, listening for the thuds of falling bodies. Not a whisper of sound reached him.

Was he mistaken? Had they forsaken him? Would not his brethren come to free him?

At the head of the column, Eric lifted his arm to halt the soldiers. He half turned in his saddle and looked at the grizzled-bearded private behind him. Ben Holloward was a veteran of Indian wars. His drinking prevented him from rising in rank, but when he repeated his warning, Eric had to listen.

“I'm a-tellin' you it's too damn quiet. They're out an' around. You give the order to draw weapons, Corporal. Ain't a man jack of us gettin' back to Bowie otherwise.”

Eric scanned the rocks on either side, his gaze climbing high as the stone rose. He saw nothing amiss, but he could not dismiss Ben's warning, either. “Draw your weapons,” he ordered softly, waiting until the order was repeated, man by man. He couldn't see what lay before them, for the trail curved beyond the rocks.

Damn Angie Wallace and her brother for getting him into this mess!
He shot a quick look over his shoulder at Grant Cowan. The man hadn't uttered a single word. But Eric saw that he, too, had drawn his gun.

“Private, pass word along to Hennisee to secure the prisoner's horse to his. The mare should be tied tightly. I don't want to lose that buck if we are engaged in an attack.”

Eric waited, batting off the flies and mosquitoes that came swarming from the swampy area of the reservation's lowland. He had five months left of his enlistment, and he fully intended to have a promotion at the end of that time. Bringing in the Apache for attacking a white man without encountering problems would look good on his record.

Uneasy, he kept looking around, but saw nothing but the dreary rise of stone. Water began collecting on the brim of his cap, and he felt the rain slide down his neck, soaking both neckerchief and shirt. Thankful it was a gentle rain and not one of the wild, violent storms that came up suddenly, he welcomed the cooling of his heated skin beneath his uniform.

Word came back finally of a delay. The horsehair bridle's reins were too short to be tied to Private Hennisee's saddle.

“Then pass word back that I shall hold him personally responsible for the safety of our prisoner.” Once more Eric looked around, and then he gave the order to move out.

Once around the boulders, the trail widened enough for two to ride abreast. Eric rode with Ben at his side, keeping the horses to a walk. The corporal sensed the unease that had the men behind him—men he was responsible for—fretting and sweating. His own nerves were on edge as he recalled all the black eyes of the Apache women and the children staring at him back at the camp.

The reassuring sound of harness jingling as his men formed up two by two behind him made him relax his vigilance. He gave the order to holster their weapons, and kicked his horse into a trot.

They were nearly at the border of reservation lands when a call went up from the end of the column. “Hennisee's missing!”

Already being taken southward across the reservation, Niko neither heard nor cared. Four of the
Netdahee
rode with him. The others drove a small herd of horses behind them so that no tracks would remain when the mud dried but those of many horses moving with the wind.

They had cut him free of his bonds, but Niko laid his body against that of his black, his fingers woven tightly into the horse's thick mane. Pain rode with him, great waves of it, so that he couldn't sit up and ride. He did not call out, or ask for help. It was not the way.

“It's not the right way, Mary,” Angie found herself repeating again. The woman refused to answer her, just kept her mules to their plodding walk, heading, it appeared, for a small grove of piñon.

Angie sensed that something was not right, but the unease that settled around her did not make her fear it. She wasn't at all surprised when Mary brought the buckboard to a stop beneath the trees.

“Here we will wait.”

“Wait? What are we waiting for, Mary?”

“You see.”

And with that Angie had to be content. She pushed her wet hair back from her face, realizing for the first time that she had lost several hairpins. For some reason, it didn't matter to her what she looked like.

She heard the horses before she saw them coming across the rocky field. With the lessening rain, she was able to make out the riders leading the herd of horses.

She rounded on the seat and gripped Mary's arm. “It's Niko, isn't it? They managed to set him free.”

“The Apache will never be free.”

“Oh, Mary, that's not true. There are many white people who are sympathetic to the Indian's plight. There are men and women, too, who speak of the injustice. But please, tell me how they got him away. No one did anything back in the camp.”

“The
Inde'
speak many ways. Niko is one among the
Netdahee
, but their numbers are few now.”

“What is this word
in-de?
” Angie needed to keep her talking. She was desperate for a distraction to help her fight the rising excitement she felt as the horses drew nearer.

“
Inde'
is the name of the people,” Mary answered, her eyes directed straight ahead.

“And the other, the name you said Niko was?”

“
Netdahee
. As white-eyes have their soldiers, the Apache have their own.”

A soldier? Niko was a soldier for his people. Angie twisted in her seat, both hands gripping the low wooden side of the buckboard seat.

Dezyo, riding with Niko behind the others, signaled the ones behind to veer off with the horses. He leaned over to nudge his friend to sit as they appreached the wagon. He knew the cost to Niko to move at all. But what man wished to have a woman see him weak?

Angie ignored the others. Her eyes were for Niko. She searched his face, seeing the bruise that darkened one broad cheekbone, the blood still running from a cut over his eye, his mouth and jaw swollen from fists. Rain had plastered his hair to his head, and his headband was gone. A jagged rip revealed the skin of his shoulder. Everywhere she looked, there were livid marks showing. But she had seen the kicks from army boots, and she knew these surface wounds didn't matter.

One of his arms was wrapped around his waist, and she saw his struggle to sit upright on his horse.

“Niko?”

“No. You will wait for him to speak,” Mary warned. “Get down. It is not good for a woman to sit in the presence of the
Netdahee
.”

“But you and your sister sat. You allowed me to sit in his presence in the wickiup.”

“We are of the people, and you were our guest. Now you are Anglo, and there are his warriors with him. Show him your respect. He will honor you for it.”

Niko saw her climb down, and stand proud beside the wagon, waiting for him. If he could have moved his lips to do his bidding, he would have smiled to see her obey Mary Ten Horses.

His vision was clouded, but he saw that the woman's rain had darkened her hair so that the sun's long rays did not shine within the tangled curls that fell to her shoulders. His gaze touched the livid mark on her cheek, and his pain dissolved into rage that he had not moved fast enough to prevent its happening.

“Come,
iszáń
. I would talk.” He wished to hold out his hand to her, to show her that she had nothing to fear from him, but the effort of speaking took too much from him. Dezyo and the others were distanced, and Mary turned to watch the rain dripping from the leaves. None would hear him but her.

“How did you get away from them? They didn't let you go. They'll hunt you now, won't they?”

“Our women only speak after—”

“And Mary has taken great pains to remind me that I am Anglo.”

“To my regret.” The words slipped out from the buried place within his thoughts. He knew it was the pain that forced the words free. The pain, and the need he had to leave this place.

Angie couldn't stop herself from touching the arm that held his waist. “I'm sorry. So sorry this happened to you because of me. I never meant to bring you trouble. I only wanted to find a way to help.”

“Your eyes are dark with the sorrow in your heart.” He leaned down to speak to her ears alone, unable to hold himself upright. “I wanted to see you before I leave.”

She looked away then, toward the south. “Mexico. That's where you'll go. And your people will have one less to protect them.”

“Mary tells you many things. She cannot speak for me. Go from us. Do not come back. Your child—”

She looked at him with stricken eyes, silencing him. He reached out to touch her hair. “Woman of Sorrow, I have brought you pain. There is no child now.”

Angie felt herself drawn into his dark eyes, and for the first time, she shared with another the loss of her daughter.

“My little girl, Amy was her name, died after I lost our farm. My brother wasn't all wrong. She died from hunger.”

“Your people?”

“Did they help me? No.”
Tell him all of it
, a little voice urged. “They wanted nothing to do with me after my husband died. You see,” she said in a voice laden with bitterness, “I was ill after I buried Tim. My kind neighbors came to take care of me and my baby. Kind, nosy neighbors who went through his papers and discovered that the man I had married and borne a child for was an octoroon.”

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the disgust she would see in his.

“What is this word—
octoroon?
”

“They found out Tim's blood wasn't pure white. His family tree revealed a woman who had been a slave.” She opened her eyes then. “Now do you understand? He was as blond as I was, as fair of skin, and they called him—”

“Not say the ugly words of the Anglo tongue. I have been called much.”

“Niko!”

He glanced over to see that Dezyo had called the warning of time growing short. He would have been discovered missing by now. The soldiers would ride back to the camp with their demand for him. Already the other warriors would have gone back to the camp, ready to fight against any who would harm the old women and children.

“I would have a thing from you,” he whispered.

She saw that he was struggling to draw his leg up. “What? Let me help you.”