Both Sister Bonney and Melena did what they could to stanch the bleeding and ease the pain. The red man could not be left behind, but the caravan could not stay in the desert and wait for him to heal . . . or die.
Not long after first light and the morning meal, the wagons were on the move again, moving toward the searchlight of sun that rose above the eastern horizon.
Colorados was only one wounded Apache. But Ike knew that the escaped prisoner from a white man’s cell was desperately making his way into the Apache homeland—and so was the caravan. And the Apache chief was only one of hundreds of Apache warriors. Ike had heard tales about these Apaches; maybe those tales were exaggerated, maybe not.
The caravan could only cover fifteen or twenty miles a day with their loaded wagons. But it was said that Apache warriors could make forty-five miles a day on foot, seventy-five on horseback, and when his horse fell dead, the Apache would eat it and steal another.
Often the Apache preferred to move and fight on foot. Over much of the terrain the horse was a handicap rather than an asset. The Apache was swift and noiseless and better off without some stupid animal who might snort or whinny at an inappropriate time—or leave tracks. The Apache warrior needed less food and water than the cumbersome mount he rode. He was a smaller, less vulnerable target on foot with cat-like speed and silence. But when he did use the animal in fighting or fleeing, the Apache was almost as good as his Comanche cousin, whose cavalry proficiency was peerless.
Afoot or mounted, in alkali-dry desert or on sun-blanched promontory, the Apache weighed in as the most dreaded, defiant enemy ever encountered by the United States Army.
And the United States Army was nowhere near.
How near the Apaches were was uncertain.
The cargo of Ben’s wagon had been shifted to make room for Colorados, who had been ministered to, but still lay unconscious. Sister Bonney was next to him, placing a damp cloth on the Indian’s brow.
Melena and Ben looked back, then toward Big Ike, who rode up next to the wagon.
“Has he come to, Sister?”
“Not yet. He lost an awful lot of blood.”
“He sure did.” Ike looked toward Ben. “Ride him easy, Mister Brown.” Ike smiled and rode toward the other wagons.
“That Indian tried to kill him,” Ben said to Melena, “and he says ‘ride him easy.’ He’s a peculiar one.”
“Maybe not so peculiar.”
Sister Bonney turned to get another cloth from a water bucket.
In that instant Colorados’s eyes opened. He had heard. His eyes darted toward the nun, then closed just before she moved back to him.
Ike caught up to the wagon with Jake, Jed and Obie, and rode alongside. Jake pointed back toward Ben’s wagon.
“How’s your friend, the Indian?”
“Can’t tell yet.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“You’re a little nuts. More than a little, Mister Silver.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so . . . and so are the rest of us. If I thought this caravan was cockeyed before, now I know it!”
“What would you have me do? Let him die?”
“It’s not just that.”
“What else?”
“We shoulda gone to San Francisco like I wanted—where they got pastrami, pickles and people instead of rocks and reptiles. Do you know what today is?”
“I do.”
“In San Francisco we could go to temple. You see any temples around here? I don’t, brother.”
Big Ike looked toward the cathedral-like boulders flanking one side of the caravan, then back at Jake.
“Don’t you, brother?” Ike smiled and rode ahead.
“Obie,”—Jed pushed at his brother—“will you quit leaning on me?”
“I’m not.” Obie pushed back.
“Yes, you are.”
“Obie . . .”
“Jedediah,” Jake said, “don’t argue with your brother.”
“You argue with your brother.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because I’m older and wiser.”
Jedediah started to answer.
“Don’t say anything.”
He didn’t.