Stryker chose the spot. At VMI, Professor Smith had always said, “He who chooses the venue, the spot, and the conditions has the upper hand in any negotiation.” Stryker wanted all the advantage he could muster. He sat cross-legged on the grass, his Winchester and Remington Army laid to one side but within reach. “Stay back four or five steps,” he told Many Ponies and Bly. Hold onto your weapons, but don’t be threatening with them.
“Threaten?” Bly said.
“Don’t make it look like you want to shoot someone right away.”
“Yo.” Bly was learning soldier lingo. He and Ponies dropped back and separated, putting about ten paces between them and standing five paces or so behind him.
Yuyutsu came at a run on his black. He pulled the horse to a stiff-legged hopping stop a respectful distance from Stryker. He came alone. Throwing a leg over the black’s withers, he slid to the ground. He carried no visible weapons.
“Sit, if you will,” Stryker said, waving a hand at a spot across from himself. He watched the renegade chieftain closely as he sat. Yuyutsu’s thick black hair was braided tightly and stuck under a sash around his waist. A thick headband of dark blue cloth hid most of his forehead. His broad face showed prominent cheekbones and a strong, square jaw and chin. A slash of a mouth above the chin had lips so thin as to be nearly invisible. His muslin shirt matched Stryker’s own, but Yuyutsu wore no trousers. His breechclout hung to mid thigh and his Nedni moccasins folded just below his knees. His eyes were black as coal, surrounded by whites the color of creamed coffee.
Yuyutsu beckoned to Bly and spoke in Apache.
“He wants me to interpret, Cap.”
“Do it.”
Bly answered Yuyutsu, who nodded. Bly took a seat to Stryker’s right, at a point where he and Stryker and Yuyutsu were the same distance apart.
“You called this powwow,” Stryker said. “Have your say.”
Yuyutsu spoke.
Bly said, “He say Yuyutsu’s men kill no White Eyes.”
“They massacred a whole town in Sonora. Women and little children, too.”
Bly translated and waited for Yuyutsu to reply.
Yuyutsu stared at the grass, then spoke very slowly and deliberately.
Bly followed his narrative in English. “Long ago, Gopan Nantan, Nakaye soldiers came to our land wearing hats and shirts of iron. They said they were looking for seven cities made of gold. This metal is sacred and no Indeh would every dig into the breast of Mother Earth to get it. Mother Earth must not be injured in such a way. But the soldiers with iron hats found places where gold hid beneath the ground. Soon they bring Pimas and Sumas and Jumanos—all slaves—to spend their lives digging in Mother Earth for this metal.”
Yuyutsu stopped talking. Bly stopped translating. Stryker waited, saying nothing.
“Nakaye soldiers with iron hats built a stockade at Santa Ricca, seeking to protect the way into the mountains where Indio slaves worked all day and all night. Digging, digging, digging.
“The Nakaye with no hair who wore long black cloaks used adobe—clay and straw made into bricks—to make a church. A man named Don Aziz brought Nakaye cows to eat the grass where before elk and deer and bighorn sheep ate their fill. With their food gone, is it not natural that Apaches should take a cow or two to eat?
“Apaches like Nakaye mescal. Apaches like to trade with friendly people. Apaches like Nakaye festivals with much to eat, much mescal to drink. One day an old Nakaye man came to my father’s camp. He told the Indeh of a big festival to be celebrated at the village of Santa Ricca de Oros. He told of much food and much mescal. He told of how people in Santa Ricca were happy to be friends with father’s band of Indeh. The village would wait for Apaches in three days’ time, the old man said.”
Stryker watched Yuyutsu’s dark face grow darker and the lines from his nose to the corners of his downturned mouth deepened into cruel slashes. The story he told did not come easy.
“On the third day, my father’s people went to the village at Santa Ricca. Yes. There a feast was laid out in the plaza. Yes. Mescal was there in plenty. Yes. Every Apache man became witless with Nakaye firewater. They did not notice the Nakaye disappearing into the church. They wanted only more mescal.
“More mescal ...
“More mescal ... ”
Silence, except for the sound of Yuyutsu’s breathing.
“The soldiers from the stockade hid a twisting cannon in the village, in a place facing the plaza where Indeh men staggered, drunk with mescal, where women and children ate of Nakaye meat and melons and sweet squash, where children ran about, playing their childish games.
“When all the Nakaye villagers were safe inside the adobe church, the soldiers lowered the barrier between the cannon and the plaza and fired it. My father died then, cut nearly in half by the chopped chain that came out of the cannon’s mouth. The soldiers knelt by the cannon with long rifles. They fired and fired again, time after time, until Apache warriors and women and children lay unmoving in the plaza. Some of us escaped. Forever will we take vengeance on Nakaye men. Women. Children. As they did to us.”
“Your men and your horses lie dead in this place,” Stryker said. “Am I and the soldiers who follow me now your enemies forever?”
Yuyutsu would not meet Stryker’s eyes. His thin lips parted, and the words that issued forth sounded like the growling of a wild dog that found itself cornered.
“Gopan Nantan is young, Yuyutsu says. Perhaps too young to understand. Perhaps.”
“In your lifetime, Yuyutsu, how many people—men and women—have died in your war with Mexico? One hundred? Two? Surely not three hundred.”
Yuyutsu snorted, as if numbers made no difference.
“Three years ago, when I was just seventeen, my general called everyone to battle, even boys such as I. We wore gray. We marched against soldiers who wore blue. In one day, almost fourteen hundred men died. But men fought men, so no women or children died. Our war is finished. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers—blue and gray—died of wounds and sicknesses. Now I, the one you call Gopan Nantan, wear blue, the color of those who were once my enemy. Yes, Yuyutsu, I am young. But I have seen enough death for a dozen lifetimes.” Stryker sat with his back straight as a steel rod, even though his legs were crossed.
Yuyutsu forced his words out between clenched teeth. “I, Yuyutsu of the Chihenne people, would make peace with you, Gopan Nantan.”
“I am not commander of the army. I am the youngest and the least experienced of all officers in the Southwest Army. Here, in this place and this time, we can have peace. But next time we meet, it may be war again. That is all I can offer.”
Yuyutsu stared at Stryker, searching his eyes for a sign of deceit. He spoke.
“Yuyutsu asks how long your promise will last.”
“As I said, this place and this time.”
“Then we will bury our dead brothers where they lie. Then we will take the canyon trail to our wickiups.” Yuyutsu stood.
Stryker waited.
“Tell your long shooter and your misfit men that none of Yuyutsu’s people will kill them. Today, there is no more fighting.”
“So be it.” Stryker stood. “I hope we do not fight again,” he said, “but the day may come. Until then, we are at peace.”
Yuyutsu nodded his agreement, even before Bly interpreted. “Until then,” he said in English. He remounted his big black and gigged the horse into a run back to his gaggle of waiting men.
“Get that youngster back to his people,” Stryker said.
“Yo,” Bly said, and made his way back to the circle where Samson and the youth had fought. Stryker picked up his weapons and followed.
The Misfits, except for Lion Watie, Sharpy Bailor, and Samson Kearns, stood just west of the fighting circle.
“Misfits,” Stryker said. “No more fighting here and now. We let Yuyutsu and his people bury their dead and take the canyon trail home. We’ve killed enough Apache warriors this time.”
“Yo,” the Misfits said.
“Set up over by the rocks. Let the Apaches do for their dead and leave. We’ll go back to Fort Bliss after that. And Bly, get that boy back to his people,” Stryker said, waving a hand in the direction of the young Apache who’d fought Samson.
“Yo.” The men retired to the natural breastwork of rocks where the walls began to rise on the eastern side of the canyon.
Stryker raised his voice. “Dahtegte?”
“I am here.” Her voice came from higher in the rocks.
“Where is Top?”
“He is here, too.”
“I’m going to check on Top,” Stryker said. “Charlie Greer, you’re in charge ’til I get back. Use Bly if you need to talk to the Apaches any.”
“Yo.”
Stryker shifted his Winchester to his right hand, carrying it with his fingers through the lever, ready to bring it into action instantly.
Dahtegte waited for him at the base of the rock citadel.
“Where’s Top?”
She indicated a place further into the rocky lair. “He rests.”
“I will see him.”
“Yes.” She led Stryker back into the rocks, where they found Samson Kearns sitting with his back straight against a boulder and his legs spraddled. He held a Remington Army .44, cocked and ready for anyone hostile that might step into view.
Stryker raised his hands shoulder high, palms out. “It’s me, Top. Matt Stryker.” He looked Samson up and down. No arrow protruded from his chest, though blood stained a pad of cloth held in place by what looked like an extra Apache breechclout. “Seems Dahtegte fixed you up good.”
“She went and punched that arrah right on through me, Cap. Hurt like a sumbitch … ’scuse the language … but it ain’t in me no more, and the bleedin’s stopped. Dunno if I’m leaking inside, but nothings dripping off my outside.”
“We’ll be heading back to Fort Bliss soon,” Stryker said.
“I’ll be ready.”
Stryker nodded. “Figured so.”
“Cap!” The shout came from Charlie Greer.
“What is it?”
“Induns coming this way, Cap.”
“You and Dahtegte get ready for the trail, Top. I’ll go see about the Apaches.”
“Yo.”
“Yuyutsu will honor his promise,” Dahtegte said. “Apaches place great value in keeping promises.”
“I’ll go just the same.”
“Go, then. I will help Samson Top Soldier get ready.”
“Please do. Top. You do what Dahtegte says. Hear?”
“Yo. I can do that, Cap.”
Stryker grimaced a grin at his top soldier and left the shelter to watch Yuyutsu’s bunch for any squirrely actions.”
“He will keep his promise,” Dahtegte said.
“Hmmm. Maybe.”
She puffed up like an angry horned toad. “Humph. So you do not believe me then?”
“Dahtegte. This man is my enemy. And while we have a short truce, he could return to be my enemy at any time. It would be foolhardy not to watch.” Stryker trotted from the rocky lair to the little knoll Charlie Greer had chosen as best place to defend. The Misfits all sat, some distance apart, with their knees raised to act as rests for their elbows as they aimed their Winchesters.
“Good job, Charlie,” he said, but his attention was on the line of Apaches coming toward the little knoll. When Stryker stepped out in front of his men, Yuyutsu also rode ahead, his right hand raised.
“Gopan Nantan,” he called. “We go home.”
“Very well, Yuyutsu. May we never meet again in battle.”
Yuyutsu kept his hand up as he rode by, followed by a ragged line of warriors, some horseback, some on mules, and some walking. Some mules also carried packs, probably plunder from the Mexican town. All Apaches kept their eyes on the ground, but Stryker got the feeling they saw everything.
The dead horses lay naked now, stripped of all useful gear. Mounds of fresh earth marked where Apache warriors had fallen to Misfits’ rifle fire. And to Stryker’s eyes, the line of Apaches didn’t have the pride and fire they’d shown before. But then, that could be just a show, too.
When the Apaches were nearly out of sight, Stryker spoke. “Many Ponies, you trot along after that bunch. But run back and tell us if they go to doing tricky stuff like trying to intercept us on the way back to Bliss.”
“Yo.” The black Seminole scout slipped away.
“What happened to the ’Pache kid?” Stryker’s question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, so no one answered. “Nobody kept a eye on him?”
Silence.
“Jay Soos. He coulda gone to ground, waiting for a chance to get back at us White Eyes.”
“Norroso is here,” Dahtegte said from the rocks. “He says he cannot return to Yuyutsu’s band.”
“Why not?”
“He lost.”
“A man loses more than once in his life.”
“Still ... ”
“I’ll be over in a minute.
Dahtegte disappeared into the rocks.
“Charlie?”
“Yo.”
“We’ll be wanting to get to Fort Bliss as quick as we can. I’m going to see about the Apache boy. You take charge of getting the Misfits together and ready for a march.”
“Yo.”
Stryker watched his Texan Misfit gather up the men and line them out. He’d be a good sergeant if he stayed on. He turned and went to the racks. Just to be careful, he called from the outside. “Dahtegte?”
“Nothing to fear, Gopan.”
Stryker stepped into the lair. Norroso sat next to Samson. His eyes watched Stryker carefully. His face was wrapped with strips of cloth that held his broken lower jaw up against his upper teeth, and another strip went around his face laterally, to hold the jaw back. Norroso held his right hand up, palm out.
“Glad you’re OK,” Stryker said.
“The boy wants to stay with us,” Samson said. “I vote to take him along.”
Stryker grinned. “Since when’s the Army a vote-taking place?”
“Dahtegte tells me that, not like a bunch a white men I know, Apaches keep their word. Norroso’s promised to do things our way. Our way, or no way.”
Stryker cleared his throat. “Get ready to move out. We’ll leave when the sun hits the backside of these mountains.
“Yo,” Samson said, and Stryker knew he’d be ready when the time came, top soldier that he was.