Apache Runaway Read online

  The Apache was at home in the desert, able to carry what little food and water he needed. He could travel on foot over the roughest terrain, covering up to seventy miles a day. He was a power to be reckoned with when he had a bow in his hand, and could launch a fatal arrow up to five hundred yards.

  The Apache was an enemy to be treated with fear and respect, but Terry rode blithely forward, confident that his West Point education made him superior to a people who had been born and bred under the harsh desert sun.

  Now and again, Fallon scanned the column’s back trail, his keen eyes searching for any sign of dust or movement that would indicate they were being followed.

  Nothing moved on the face of the land, and yet he knew they were out there, waiting. He could feel their eyes on his back, sense them as they watched the blue-coats ride ever deeper into Apacheria.

  Abruptly, Terry signaled for a halt. “How far to the nearest water, Mr. Fallon?” he asked curtly.

  “Rock Springs is just beyond that shallow draw,” Fallon replied, “but I think we’d best bypass the Springs and ride for Foxtail Creek.”

  Terry rubbed a thoughtful hand across his jaw. He was hot and tired, his throat was as dry as the dust at his feet. Only the thought of a promotion in the field made this campaign bearable.

  “How far to the Springs, would you say?” he asked.

  “Three, maybe four miles.”

  “And Foxtail Creek?”

  Fallon sighed. “Closer to ten.”

  “Out of the question,” Terry decided. “We could not possibly arrive at the Creek before dark. I do not wish to make camp after sunset. We shall ride for Rock Springs.”

  “You’ll be riding into a trap,” Fallon stated flatly.

  “A trap?” Terry scoffed. “Set by whom? We’ve seen no sight of the hostiles in five days.”

  “And you won’t see them!” Fallon snapped, irritated by the lieutenant’s condescending tone. “Not until it’s too late.”

  A pained expression flitted across Terry’s face. “Please, spare me your tales of Apache cunning,” he groaned. “And kindly remember that I am in command here. We will ride for Rock Springs and make our camp there for the night.”

  Fallon felt his temper rise. “Don’t be a damn fool,” he said in a tight voice. “Kayitah knows we’re here. By now he knows how many men you’ve got, and what you wear to bed. But more important, he knows we’re out of water. He’ll be expecting us to ride for the nearest water and he’ll be there, waiting.”

  Terry shot the half-breed a look of ill-disguised contempt. “You may be reluctant to meet these phantom savages, Mr. Fallon, but I am not. My men need rest and water, and I intend to see they have both before nightfall.”

  “They’ll all be dead before nightfall!” Fallon growled.

  “You need not be afraid to engage the hostiles,” the lieutenant assured Fallon sarcastically. “I have a plan that will not fail. My men and I will execute it at the proper time. If that time ever comes.”

  Ryder Fallon muttered a vile oath as he urged his horse ahead, afraid if he stayed near Terry a minute longer, he would wring the man’s insufferable neck. A plan! Hell, every man in the Army from the lowest recruit on up to General George Armstrong Custer had a plan, and they all boiled down to the same thing, exterminate the red man or pen him up on some worthless piece of ground no one else wanted.

  General George Crook had once called the Apache the tigers of the human species, and Fallon could not argue with that description. They were a fierce people, wild and brave. They rarely took male prisoners alive. Boys were adopted into the tribe, women and children were usually allowed to go free. But there were always exceptions. Sometimes, when their blood was up and the need for vengeance burned bright, all captives, male and female, were killed; sometimes a few prisoners were taken and tortured. But such occasions were rare.

  There was a surprising change in the scenery as they neared Rock Springs, so named because of the massive boulders that surrounded the water hole on every side. A narrow passageway, wide enough for a single horse, was the only way in. And the only way out, at least on horseback.

  It was a perfect place for an ambush, and Fallon felt a shiver of apprehension as he led the column toward the shimmering blue-green pool. Cottonwoods and lacy willows grew close together near the water’s edge, providing welcome shade, and horses and soldiers alike perked up as they looked forward to rest and water at the end of a long day’s travel.

  Terry led his men boldly forward, blatantly ignoring Fallon’s warning to advance with care. Once inside the high rock walls, the troopers threw caution to the wind. Like carefree children on holiday, they slid from their mounts and flung themselves down on their bellies around the water hole, splashing, shoving, cavorting like puppies as they greedily gulped great swallows of the cool clear water.

  For many, it was their final act in life. As the last trooper vaulted from the saddle and hurried toward the water hole, a shrill war cry echoed off the high rock walls.

  Before the first ululating cry had died away, it was answered by fifty voices, and then picked up by fifty more as a horde of paint-daubed Indians swarmed out of the rocky crevices and descended on the startled troopers. More Indians poured through the passageway, their voices raised in the same hideous wail as they rode toward the soldiers, until it seemed as though the whole world vibrated with the sound of their hatred.

  Too late, the troopers began to move. They sprang to their feet, water still dripping from their mouths and chins, as they sprinted for their horses, grabbing with frantic hands for carbines foolishly left in saddle scabbards. But their horses reared and scattered, spooked by the inhuman shrieks of over a hundred blood-hungry Apache warriors.

  “Head for cover!” Fallon shouted. “Stay together!”

  The troopers nearest the half-breed sprinted for the cover of the timber, firing blindly with their sidearms as they ran, wasting precious ammunition. There were Indians everywhere. Most of the warriors were on foot; others, still mounted, blocked the entrance or rode down the milling troopers, counting coup. The sound within the rock walls was deafening as men and animals alike screamed with pain and fear. A heavy layer of gritty yellow dust and black powder smoke covered the waterhole like a shroud.

  Fallon was one of the few white men armed with a rifle, and he fired the Winchester as fast as humanly possible, providing covering fire for a handful of whey-faced soldiers as they made a frantic dash for a copse of timber.

  Two-thirds of the column was wiped out in the first ten minutes.

  Standing in his stirrups, Fallon searched for Lt. Terry, but it was impossible to locate one man in that churning mass of humanity.

  And then Fallon forgot about Terry and everyone else as a bullet caught him high in the right thigh. With a grunt of pain, he wheeled his horse around and fired the Winchester point blank into the face of a screaming warrior.

  The heavy .44/40 slug ripped through the Apache’s skull. For an eerie moment, the dead Indian remained upright in the crude Apache saddle, his dark eyes blank and staring. Then his pony bolted and the corpse toppled to the ground.

  Minutes later, Fallon’s horse folded beneath him, its life’s blood gushing from a gaping hole in its throat. Instinctively, Fallon jumped free of the saddle, but his wounded leg refused to support his weight and he fell heavily on his right side, striking the back of his head on a flat rock.

  Lights exploded behind Fallon’s eyes and the sounds of the battle receded into the distance as a hazy gray mist settled around him.

  “I hope I come face-to-face with that jackass lieutenant in hell,” he mumbled thickly, and then a deep black void opened beneath him, separating him from the rest of the world.

  Chapter Three

  “They come! They come!”

  The village crier lifted his voice in a mighty shout as he walked through the village announcing the return of the war party.

  Immediately, women and children and warriors who were too ol
d for battle hurried out of their lodges, moving in a great wave toward the narrow mouth of Rainbow Canyon. Anxious eyes peered into the gathering dusk, striving to find a glimpse of that one particular face, to know for a surety that husbands, fathers, sons and brothers had come home safely.

  Jenny Braedon put her sewing aside and went to join the others. Standing on tiptoe, she gazed into the growing darkness and breathed a sigh of relief. Kayitah, mighty war chief of the Mescalero Apache, rode tall and straight at the head of the returning warriors.

  There were two women in the war party. Jenny watched as they dismounted and handed the reins of their war ponies to a couple of young boys. These women had no children at home and had gone with their husbands to prepare food, dress their wounds and fight, if necessary.

  Kayitah’s women had elected to stay home. Alope had prayed for him every morning for the last four days; every time she pulled a pot of meat from the fire, she had prayed that Kayitah would get what he wanted—victory over the white-eyes.

  Jenny had prayed too, though her prayers were ambivalent. A part of her had hoped that Kayitah would not return, that she would at last be free of the warrior who owned her body and soul, even as she prayed for his safe return because she knew that, without his protection, she would be at the mercy of every man and woman in the rancheria.

  Shouts of welcome rent the quiet of the evening as women, children and aged warriors gathered around the war party.

  When the first jubilant shouts of greeting had passed and the cries of victory had subsided, Kayitah raised his hand. A hush fell over the crowd as he spoke the names of the warriors who had been killed in battle—Sanza, Codahooyah, Desalin…

  Jenny shivered as the keening wail of bereaved women rose on the wings of the wind. From this night forward, the names of the dead would not be mentioned again lest their spirits be called back to earth.

  Within minutes, the crowd dispersed. Jenny was turning to follow Kayitah to their lodge when she saw the prisoners. They were the first white men she had seen in four years, and she gazed at them intently, tears welling in her eyes. They were her people, her blood, and she knew they were all fated to die, and to die horribly.

  With a shake of her head, she put such distressing thoughts from her mind. There was nothing she could do to help them, no way she could change their fate.

  Trailing behind Kayitah, she watched as the warriors pulled the prisoners from the backs of their horses. One man, taller and broader than the others, caught her eye. There was no fear in this man’s expression, only a kind of sadness as he glanced around the village. His right pant leg was stiff with dried blood, and she felt a swift surge of pity for him as he limped into the squat wickiup that served as a holding place whenever the men brought captives back to the village.

  With a sigh, Jenny hurried to Kayitah’s lodge. His first wife, Alope, was already inside, preparing her husband something to eat.

  Jenny moved to the rear of the lodge. Alope was in her mid-forties, as round and plump as a ripe tomato. Her long black braids were tinged with gray, her face wore a habitual frown. She was Kayitah’s first wife and as such, ruled over the lodge. Her hatred for Jenny was as strong as the love she had for Kayitah, and as powerful as her jealousy.

  Alope offered him a bowl of fragrant venison stew, brought him his favorite pipe, then sat at his feet, her black eyes openly adoring her husband.

  But Kayitah had eyes only for his white captive, and Jenny felt herself grow suddenly apprehensive. He did not make love to her often, partly because he was well past the age when such things were of prime importance, and partly because of the trouble it caused with Alope, but Jenny feared he intended to share her bed on this, his first night home. The thought filled her with dread and revulsion.

  Alope did not miss the look of tender affection that Kayitah bestowed upon the white woman, and she hated her all the more. Always, it was the white woman whose company he sought after a long absence. Always, she had the best robes, the first choice of hides, the place of honor at his right side.

  Jenny cringed inwardly as the tension inside the lodge grew steadily worse. She had learned much about the Apache in the last four years, and she knew that Kayitah was a just and honorable man. She had learned that he had attacked the stagecoach in retaliation for a raid made upon a peaceful band of Apaches, and that the other woman in the coach had been killed because an Apache woman had been brutally raped and murdered. But that did not make her captivity any easier to bear.

  Alope ordered her around as if Jenny were no more than a slave, never satisfied with anything she did, always criticizing, always complaining. More than once, Jenny had cowered beneath the Indian woman’s sharp tongue; more than once, Alope had struck her. Jenny endured the older woman’s abuse, afraid to complain for fear it would only make matters worse, afraid if she caused too much trouble in the lodge, Kayitah would cast her out.

  “Golden Dove, come sit beside me.”

  Kayitah’s voice, softly commanding, called to her, and she went to his side, obediently sitting beside him while he smoked the pipe Alope had brought him.

  Jenny kept her expression impassive as he laid his hand on her thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I will share your bed tonight, when the feasting is over.”

  Jenny nodded. She could feel the hatred radiating from Alope, could feel the older woman’s eyes drilling into her back, as sharp as daggers, as deadly as the bite of a rattlesnake.

  Head lowered, she picked at the fringe on her skirt. If only she could have persuaded Hank to stay back East where they belonged. If only she could escape. If, if, if…

  Chapter Four

  The prisoners exchanged apprehensive glances as they gazed around the lodge. The interior of the brush-covered wickiup was cold and dark, heavy with alien smells that somehow served to emphasize the seriousness of their predicament. Unconsciously, the eight soldiers moved closer together, leaving a clearly defined space between themselves and Fallon, who was, after all, a half-breed and an outsider.

  “Hey, scout,” Trooper Horn called. “Those are your brothers, aren’t they? How about palaverin’ with them for our freedom?”

  “Sure,” Fallon replied sardonically. “Maybe I can get them to throw in a horse and a rifle too.”

  Trooper Horn smiled ruefully. “Hell, I’d settle for a cigarette and a blindfold.”

  “Seriously, Fallon, what happens now?” The question came from a young trooper with a mild Texas accent.

  As one, eight pairs of eyes swung in Ryder Fallon’s direction.

  “Well?” Trooper Horn asked impatiently, annoyed by the half-breed’s seeming indifference. “Speak up, scout. You’re the expert here.”

  “Reckon so,” Fallon agreed. Leaning against the center lodge pole, he eased himself into a sitting position on the hard-packed dirt floor, swearing softly as his cool blue eyes flicked over the soldiers one by one.

  Corporal Hunter stood nearest the doorway, his round face ashen, his pale green eyes void of expression. Dried blood from a nasty head wound made a dark splotch down his left cheek.

  Sergeant Dryden met Fallon’s gaze squarely. There was no mistaking the hostility or distrust in the sergeant’s hard brown eyes, no doubt that he despised half-breeds as much as full-bloods.

  Trooper Nephi Johnson was a grizzled veteran of indeterminate age somewhere between forty and sixty. He stood straight and tall, disdainful of the bullet wound in his left side. Like Fallon, he knew there were far worse things ahead than the minor discomfort of a .44 slug.

  Trooper McNeil was staring blankly at the ground. His right arm had been broken in two places, and a piece of bone gleamed whitely in the lodge’s dusky interior. He was humming a monotonous tune under his breath.

  Trooper Horn was his usual cocky self, his head high, his mouth turned down in a sneer. He seemed to be unhurt except for a shallow cut over his left eye.

  Fallon didn’t know the other three troopers. But they were all young. So darn young. And sc
ared.

  “Well, scout?” Horn growled. “We asked you a question and we’re all waiting for the answer. What are they gonna do to us?”

  “Knowing what’s coming won’t make the waiting any easier,” Fallon warned.

  “Dammit, man, I asked you a question and I want an answer! We’ve got a right to know what to expect.”

  “Then chew on this awhile,” Fallon snapped, angered by Horn’s surly tone. “My guess is they’ll cover a few of you with honey and toss you over an anthill. And the rest of you will probably die pukin’ your guts out over a slow fire. Now, does that answer your question, or do you want to hear more?”

  “No! That’s enough!” The strangled cry came from a freckle-faced youth with curly red hair and frightened brown eyes. Beside him, his equally young companion vomited quietly into the dirt. Even Horn looked a little green around the gills.

  “Sorry, kid,” Fallon said sympathetically. “But maybe Horn is right for once. Maybe you should know what’s coming.”

  The wickiup grew uncomfortably quiet as each man digested Fallon’s words and tried to accept the fact that he was going to die, that Death was waiting for them just outside the door.

  One by one, the troopers sank to the ground, as if the weight of Fallon’s words had drained the strength from their limbs.

  Nephi Johnson sat cross-legged beside Dryden, his grizzled head bowed in an attitude of prayer, his voice soft and reverent as he began to pray.

  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

  The quiet power of the Twenty-third Psalm brought a measure of peace to the anxious troopers as they silently mouthed the rest of the words.