Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson
Ghost Warrior (14 page)
Talks A Lot and the three others reached the base of the peak rising abruptly from the desert floor and started up it. Lozen veered to the west. The narrow path started behind
the bison-shaped boulder where Victorio had said it would. This was not so easy an ascent as the other one. When it became almost perpendicular, she grabbed the spiny bushes and hauled herself along.
the bison-shaped boulder where Victorio had said it would. This was not so easy an ascent as the other one. When it became almost perpendicular, she grabbed the spiny bushes and hauled herself along.
The massive outcrop of limestone towered at the top where Victorio had said it would. A narrow defile ran between it and the side of the mountain. Victorio had studied her when he told her about it. “The boys are too big, but you're small enough to fit through it,” he had said.
She put a hand on one of her small breasts, firm as cactus fruit under the shirt. She hoped they wouldn't grow any bigger. They were a nuisance already, getting in the way and attracting attention she'd rather not have.
She took off the pack, the shirt, and the breechlout. In the pack she found the yucca leaf tied with agave fiber. She opened it, dipped her fingers into the grease inside, and rubbed it over her body. Holding the pack and her clothes over her head, she turned sideways, sucked in her chest, and started inching through. In the middle of the opening she became so tightly wedged she feared she could go no farther.
She wondered how long Victorio would take to find her here and what he would have to do to pry her out. The prospect of his friends and the boys witnessing that served the purpose. She held the pack higher and shoved. She rubbed a patch of skin off her back, but she made it through. She put her clothes back on.
As she started along the ridge on the other side, she noticed a ranch in the small canyon below. The house was built around a courtyard in the usual manner, but the house didn't interest her. The corral behind it did. She could see that the corral's adobe wall stood high and thick. She watched the men of the hacienda drive at least twenty horses into it Four men were required to swing the door closed behind the remuda as it milled inside. The door was made of huge oak planks, strapped with iron. Lozen watched one of the men pass an iron chain through rings sunk into the wood and fasten the ends with a padlock.
She gave a ghost of a smile, careful not to let any water
escape from her mouth. So this was why Victorio told her to take this route. She turned right and followed the path away from the canyon. When she reached the crest of the ridge, she took a roll of rawhide from her pack. She laid it out at the brink, sat on it, and slid down the talus slope. She hit the valley floor in a shower of gravel, picked up the tattered piece of rawhide, and started running.
escape from her mouth. So this was why Victorio told her to take this route. She turned right and followed the path away from the canyon. When she reached the crest of the ridge, she took a roll of rawhide from her pack. She laid it out at the brink, sat on it, and slid down the talus slope. She hit the valley floor in a shower of gravel, picked up the tattered piece of rawhide, and started running.
She could see no one ahead of her. The boys would be gloating about now, thinking that she had quit. She would beat them all back to camp, and when she arrived, she would tell her brother how many horses were locked up in the corral and how many men guarded them. As for the corral's massive adobe walls, she already knew what to do about those.
TO WITCH THE WORLD
T
he light of the rising moon didn't reach the rear of the hacienda's adobe-brick corral where Lozen crouched. She had rubbed sage into her hair and cotton shirt. When stealing horses, it helped to smell like a pasture.
he light of the rising moon didn't reach the rear of the hacienda's adobe-brick corral where Lozen crouched. She had rubbed sage into her hair and cotton shirt. When stealing horses, it helped to smell like a pasture.
Pastures had smells other than sage. She smeared horse manure on her cheeks and arms and legs. Victorio, Loco, and He Makes Them Laugh did the same.
She was amused by the image of He Steals Love doing this. He had asked Victorio if he could come on this expedition, but he had changed his mind when he heard that Lozen would be along. Victorio had reported the struggle in the young man's face when he approached Victorio at the hoop-and-pole field, and in a low voice took back his request to go. Victorio knew what he was thinking. On the one hand, he could spend days in Lozen's company. On the other hand, he would have to spend days in Lozen's company.
Since Lozen's feast last fall, he had been trying the usual ploys to get her attention. He had laid double rows of stones along the paths she took to the pasture, the river, and the cornfields, He hid nearby to see if she walked between them, but she walked around them instead. He had left a haunch of venison outside her lodge at night but had found it back at his door in the morning. He had hovered near her at all the dances, but she would not ask him to step with her.
As much as he desired her, the thought of going after horses with her dismayed him. Young men did not associate with young women, and He Steals Love could not break that most basic rule. That Lozen broke it all the time bewildered,
bothered, and intrigued him. Also, the possibility that he might do something stupid terrified him.
bothered, and intrigued him. Also, the possibility that he might do something stupid terrified him.
Unmarried women were not supposed to spend time in the company of their brothers, either. She Moves Like Water had started to protest this latest breach of decorum but stopped. Dancing together at the ceremny of White Painted Woman had made her and Lozen so close they now called each other Sister, but even so, her pleadings with Lozen to stop going to the horse pasture every day had changed nothing. Protesting to Victorio about her training with the boys had been futile. So She Moves Like Water had given Lozen a bag of mescal meal cakes mixed with sumac berries and honey, and said, “May we live to see each other again.”
Lozen had to put her head back to see the moonlight lying like a tarnished tinsel ribbon along the top of the wall. When she did, the eagle feather from the ceremony of White Painted Woman dangled from her hair, along with an amulet that Broken Foot had given her to protect her from snakes. Loco laced his fingers together and held his palms up so she could put a foot on them. She stepped from there onto Victorio's shoulders, then to his head. She grasped the top of the wall and hauled herself up, with the men pushing on the soles of her feet.
Even though the wall tapered from its base upward, the top was wide enough to accommodate her. She lay on her stomach and stretched her hand out to help He Makes Them Laugh. Then the two of them hauled up Loco, with Victorio pushing from below. When Loco reached the top, he held one end of Lozen's rope while she lowered herself into the corral. When her toes touched the ground, Loco, still on his stomach, pulled the rope up and dropped it down the outside of the wall for Victorio.
Inside the corral, Lozen paused to let the horses adjust to her presence. They whickered and crowded together at the other side of the enclosure, their ears pricked forward, eyes wide in the moonlight. Murmuring, Lozen walked toward them. She couldn't see their conformation or their color in the darkness, but she could almost sense their thoughts, their
collective individualities that made up the personality of the herd.
collective individualities that made up the personality of the herd.
Still talking softly she ran her hands over them as she moved among them. She checked the arch of their necks and line of their backs. She ran her hands over their withers, haunches, legs, and their hoofs. She pushed back their lips and felt their teeth.
As soon as she stroked the big mare's muscular withers, short back, and well-set hindquarters, she knew she was the one. She caressed her velvety muzzle and blew into her wide nostrils to mingle her breath with the horse's. She put a loop of her rope around the mare's lower jaw. She put her mouth near the mare's ear and whispered.
“You're mine now. We'll ride everywhere together. You'll run faster than the wind.” She knew that what she said didn't matter. “You're the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, the bravest. No one will catch us.”
The mare shoved her cheek against Lozen's chest and cocked her ear so that it lay cupped against her lips. She stood without moving while Lozen whispered to her. The two stayed that way while Loco and He Makes Them Laugh chose which horses they would ride. Victorio picked the remuda's leader, a big, long-necked stallion. Lozen remembered him from that day she had watched the horses driven into the corral. He was what the Mexicans called
de cria ligera,
of racing stock.
de cria ligera,
of racing stock.
The three men sat with their backs against the wall where the shadows were deepest, draped their blankets over themselves, and fell asleep. Lozen joined them. Even if one of the hacienda's workers looked inside, the blankets would help them blend with the wall.
She looped the knotted end of the mare's rope over her wrist and settled in to wait. He Makes Them Laugh slid over to sit next to her, and Lozen put her fingers against his lips to keep him from doing something foolish, like speaking. The two of them had acted as apprentices on this scout. They had run errands, tended the fire, cooked, listened a lot, talked little, and ate whatever was left over. For the entire scout He
Makes Them Laugh had shadowed her, pleading with her to put in a good word for him with Stands Alone.
Makes Them Laugh had shadowed her, pleading with her to put in a good word for him with Stands Alone.
“Has a witch given her a charm to put a spell on me?” he would ask while he helped her haul wood. As she stirred the stew of dried venison and pinole, parched cornmeal, he would hold out an arm that was sinewy and strong. “Look at this.” He would put on a doleful face. “I'm wasting away from love. You have to help your poor cousin, or else you must bury me.” He looked so comical that she laughed and said she would do her best.
Lozen fell asleep almost under the mare's belly. She awoke when Victorio nudged her before the sun rose. The four of them draped their blankets across their shoulders and waited. In the milky predawn light Lozen could see that her mare was a blood bay with dark stockings, tail, and mane. She took off her moccasins and tied them together so she could sling them across the mare's neck. She wanted to make this first ride barefoot because she had someone to greet in her own way, and moccasins would hamper her.
At the sound of sleepy Spanish voices outside, Lozen took a small run and leaped onto the mare. The other three mounted and took up positions at the perimeter of the herd. Lozen put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. The key grated in the iron lock. The chain rattled outside the big oaken door. As it swung open, Victorio galloped his midnight-blue stallion through it. Loco and He Makes Them Laugh flapped their blankets and yelled. Lozen trilled the women's call. The loose horses headed out after Victorio and the big black. Lozen felt the mare's muscles bunch under her, and she was ready when she reared. As the mare sprinted through the gate, Lozen caught a glimpse of the vaqueros' sleepy, astonished faces. She let the laugh loose then. The joy was too intense to contain.
With Victorio in the lead, the herd thundered toward the cottonwoods by the river and the wagon parked there. Absalom was washing his face in a basin of muddy water. Rafe had just set a soot-lacquered pot of water on the fire to boil. He was roasting coffee beans when he heard them coming.
He saw Don Angel's black stallion in the lead with a tall Apache on his back. He grabbed his rifle and leveled it, but there were too many other horses in the way for a clear shot. Then one of the thieves broke away and headed for him.
He saw Don Angel's black stallion in the lead with a tall Apache on his back. He grabbed his rifle and leveled it, but there were too many other horses in the way for a clear shot. Then one of the thieves broke away and headed for him.
Rafe swiveled the rifle toward him. The horse veered suddenly, galloping parallel to the campsite, and so close Rafe could have tossed a stone underhand and hit her. The rider pulled his feet up under him, crouched, then stood on the mare's back, his bare soles comforming to the horse's lines; his long, brown legs flexing in rhythm with her stride. Rafe had seen Comanches and rambunctious Texans do the same thing, but it still impressed him.
As the mare pulled alongside, Rafe realized that the rider wasn't male. Lozen held the lead rope lightly in her left hand, and with her right she gave Rafe a military salute as sharp as any West Point second lieutenant. He had never seen such a look of joy and mischief.
“Capitán Pata Peluda,”
she shouted.
“¿Cómo estas?”
she shouted.
“¿Cómo estas?”
Captain Hairy Foot. She remembered him. She must have known all along that he was camped here. She and those other red rogues had been watching him, just as they had been watching Don Angel, his vaqueros, his horses, and his Apache-proof corral.
When she had passed him, she dropped back into a sitting position; then she and the others splashed across the stream in the sandy arroyo. Rafe stared at her until she and Don Angel's remudaâevery horse he owned, by the look of itâdisappeared around the end of the canyon wall. He wanted, suddenly and with an astonishing intensity, to ride away with her. He wanted to feel at ease on every crag and in every cranny of this wild country. To live in the cool, shady canyons and cedar-fragrant mountain slopes while the white men struggled across the deserts. To take what one wanted with no fear of consequences. To disdain money and commerce and social constraints. To eat no one's drag dust.
“âTo turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,'” he recited aloud. “âAnd witch the world with noble horsemanship.'”
“Henry the Fourth?”
Absalom lowered his rifle.
Absalom lowered his rifle.
“Henry the Fourth,
Part One.”
Part One.”
“Do you know that Apache?”
“Yep. She's the minx we saw that day we returned Pandora, Armijo's Apache slave.” Rafe paused. “Armijo's dead, by the way.”
“Do tell. What got him? Apoplexy? An irate husband? A cheated peon?”
“Apache steel. While he was shitting. I'd wager that Pandora did it.”
“I reckon he's where he belongs to be,” Absalom said.
The pungent odor of burning coffee beans sent Rafe back to the fire to rescue them. As he crushed them with the blade of his knife, he thought about that Apache child. What was her name? Lozen? Sprightly? She did keep appearing in his life; but then, for all its vastness, this territory didn't boast that many permanent residents, and only a few trails crossed it, not that Apaches stuck to the trails except to plunder them.
Rafe had discovered that some people had a way of crossing his path. Like Absalom here. They had some connection to him that reached beyond understanding. He wondered if he would see her again. And if so, under what circumstances.
“They got Don Angel's prize stud,” Rafe said. “The Don has always bragged on his Apache-proof corral.” He chuckled. “He'll be miffed.” He shook his head. “The Apaches will not stop their thieving ways. In spite of all the powwows, palavers, and promises, they seem hell-bent to keep Mexico and the United States, and every other tribe out for their scalps.”
“This horse trader I know,” drawled Absalom, “was trying to pass off a skin-poor, spavined, hidebound gummer of a jade, with at least one other serious problem besides. The buyer watches the horse for a while, and then he turns to the trader and he says, âMister, this horse is blind. Look at how he keeps running into trees and fences.' The trader shifts his
chaw from one side of his jaw to the other, and he says, âNaw, he ain't. He just don't care.'”
chaw from one side of his jaw to the other, and he says, âNaw, he ain't. He just don't care.'”
Absalom squatted near the pan and with a beatific smile inhaled the coffee beans' aroma. “I reckon the Apaches are like that horse. They just don't care.”
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