DUANE WAS FAST ASLEEP WHEN SOME-thing suddenly slammed into his chest. He opened his eyes and was horrified to see a painted Apache sitting atop him! Phyllis screamed as warriors held her arms, while other warriors snatched their guns away. Duane was pinned to the earth, and the Apache held a knife to his throat.
Duane gasped as the point of the knife was inserted into the first layer of skin. It had happened so fast, he wasn't certain if it was a nightmare, but he didn't dare move, otherwise the point would pierce his throat easily. His heart thrashed in his breast as he gazed into the face of the Apache warrior leering above him.
The Apache had a red stripe painted horizontally across his nose and cheeks, and wore a buckskin shirt. Around his head was wrapped a red bandanna. Duane heard Apaches speaking their strange guttural language. They rustled around the bedroll, making sounds of concern over the wounded boy.
Duane looked into the eyes of the Apache above him. “We didn't do it,” he said. “We just tried to help him.”
The Apache warrior spat in Duane's face, and it felt like acid against Duane's skin. He wanted to smash the Apache in the teeth but couldn't move. “Are you all right?” he asked Phyllis.
“That's a knife stuck in your throat, Duane. Just keep your mouth shut, and I'll handle this.” She smiled at the array of warriors swarming over the campsite. “Do any of you speak English? I'm the daughter of Big Al Thornton.”
A middle-aged Apache with a nose like an eagle stood in front of her. “Who is he?”
“My father, and many times Victorio stopped at his well.” She was dropping the name of a famous Apache chief, hoping it would save her and Duane. “My father is a good friend of the Apaches.”
The Apache spat at the ground. “No White Eyes is ever a friend of ours. What have you done to this child?”
“We found him, or I should say that our dog found him. We've tried to nurse him back to health.”
“I think you steal little boy.”
“Little boy belongs with his mother,” Phyllis explained. “But his mother is dead. The law is after us, and we don't need a boy to slow us down, but we couldn't leave him behind.”
The Apache thought that one over. Meanwhile, other Apaches were examining the boy and could perceive that he'd been given a bath, his wounds were dressed, and he was cared for. The Apaches conversed among themselves while Duane tried to remain calm. The point of the knife stuck into his throat, and a dribble of blood rolled down his neck. Somehow the Apaches had snuck up on them, but why hadn't Sparky warned them? He looked at the face of the Apache warrior pinning him to the ground, and he seemed a creature from another epoch. Duane felt certain that his minutes were numbered and closed his eyes. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.
There was a stir as a new group of Apache warriors appeared in Duane's peripheral vision. Another discussion ensued, with much loud talking and hand waving. “What's going on?” Duane asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“Looks like somebody important has arrived,” Phyllis replied.
It was a warrior in his mid-twenties, not quite as tall as Duane but with more meat on his bones. He wore a bear's tooth in a thong around his neck, and everyone deferred to him. The young Apache chieftain knelt beside the boy, and tears welled in his eyes. His lips trembled, and for a few moments he had difficulty holding himself under control, but it passed, and his face became expressionless again. He stood, turned toward the Apaches who held Duane and Phyllis, and barked an order. Duane felt the knife recede from his throat. The Apache climbed off him, and Duane could see the full campsite.
Apache warriors were everywhere, wearing war paint, carrying rifles, knives, guns, bows and arrows, lances, and clubs. They had a wild expression in their eyes and appeared more beast than human. Phyllis looked on the verge of apoplexy, while Duane's neck stung from the puncture wound.
The chieftain examined Duane and Phyllis coldly, and Duane couldn't find a trace of humanity on that placid visage. “What are you doing here?” the chieftain asked.
Duane tried to smile. “We're on our way to Mexico. The law is after us.”
“What have you done?”
“I shot two men.”
The chieftain pointed to the boy on the blanket, attended by Apache warriors. “That is the grandson of our chief. It appears that you have been kind to him. That is why you are not dead right now.”
“Somebody killed his mother,” Duane explained. “But it wasn't us. We heard shooting earlier in the day.”
The chieftain spat at the ground. “It was Jamata's band of renegades, and they will pay one day. You will come to our camp, and then we will escort you to Mexico, as payment for your kindness to the chief's son.”
“You speak English very well.”
“I went to one of your schools, and learned how to be stupid.”
The rancher's daughter decided that the time had come to observe social proprieties. “My name is Phyllis, and this is Duane,” she said to the chieftain. “What is your name?”
“Delgado.”
Duane found it increasingly difficult to smile. Apaches were fiendish, diabolical, and maybe, at the camp, he'd be burned at the stake, and Phyllis would be raped to death. Then a new thought occurred to him. “What happened to my dog?”
“He is dead.”
Duane was thunderstruck. “How come?”
“He would have warned you that we were coming.”
Duane felt a rise of anger but didn't dare let it show. His funny little mutt had become extinct, just like that. He wanted to pulverize the warrior who'd killed Sparky, but the law of the desert was the law of tooth and claw. Duane wished he could bury Sparky and say a little prayer, but the coyotes probably had him now, and he'd spend eternity in dog heaven. A tear came to Duane's eye, and a few of the Apaches chuckled.
Phyllis placed her hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry, you'll get another dog someday.”
The warriors burst into laughter, and even Delgado couldn't suppress a smile. “You cry over a dead carrier of fleas, White Eyes? How touching, no?”
Duane heard the sarcasm in his voice and felt like kicking him in the teeth. But Duane wasn't in a small-town saloon and knew that his life hung on a thread. “That dog was my friend,” he said simply.
Delgado thought for a few moments, then said something in his language. An Apache warrior carried the little boy toward a horse, and it appeared that they were about to leave the area. Phyllis rolled the blankets, while Duane prepared the horses for the trip. His guns and knife had been taken, and he felt naked. Phyllis tied the bedroll to the back of her saddle and glanced at Duane. “For a moment, I thought you were going to jump Delgado. Keep your hands to yourself, and maybe we'll get out of this alive.”
“I'm not looking for trouble,” Duane said. “But the sons of bitches killed my dog.”
“They don't like white people, as I'm sure you've gathered by now. Please don't provoke them.”
“They haven't given our guns back, and that's a bad sign.” He touched his fingers to his throat, where blood had coagulated.
“I thought you were a goner,” she admitted.
The Apaches climbed onto their horses as Delgado looked back impatiently at Duane and Phyllis. The two White Eyes mounted up and urged their horses forward. The little boy sat on a horse with an older warrior, his eyes closed, still unconscious, wet leaves plastered to the wound on his head.
Delgado shouted an order and the Apache warriors jabbed their heels into their horses’ withers. They turned in a westerly direction as warriors coalesced around Duane and Phyllis, placing them in the midst of the formation. Hoofbeats echoed across the desert as they headed for the Apache hideout in the distant hills.
The soldiers returned to Shelby before noon, and Marshal Dan Stowe waited for them to unload their wagons. Then he swallowed the remaining drops of whiskey in his glass, departed Gibson's General Store, and strolled to the camp on the outskirts of town.
The time had come to interview the arresting officer, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes. Stowe had learned that Dawes was a West Pointer, his father a retired general living in Washington, D.C., and evidently there was money in the family. Dawes was estranged from his wife, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, whom he'd married approximately a month ago. Dawes also was drinking heavily, according to the scuttlebutt. His signature on a piece of paper had summoned Marshal Dan Stowe from San Antone, with a warrant for the arrest of Duane Braddock, dead or alive.
The lawman approached the canvas tents in neat rows, with soldiers rubbing down horses, cleaning equipment, and recuperating from a scout on the open range. Sometimes Stowe wished that he'd stayed in the army, but it had changed drastically since the war. Then, the men had been average citizens fighting for the Union, but the current crop of soldiers were criminals and failures from all over the world, with the officers frequently worse than the men. Their mission was to subdue Indians, and Stowe could find no honor in that. So he'd resigned his commission, become a common cowboy and then a lawman.
“Halt—who goes there!” The sentry stood before him, carbine at port arms.
“I'm Marshal Dan Stowe, and I want to speak with Lieutenant Dawes.”
Stowe was led to the largest tent in the area, whose front and rear flaps were open. He dimly made out the outline of an officer sitting at a desk, presumably writing the report of his scout while it was fresh in his mind. Stowe waited outside the tent while the sentry entered. He heard a muffled conversation, then the sentry returned.
“You can go in now, sir.”
Stowe ducked his head as the officer arose behind his desk. Lieutenant Clayton Dawes was in his late twenties, with long dark blond hair and several days’ growth of beard. He held out his hand. “I bet I know why you're here.”
“I'd like to talk with you about Duane Braddock,” the lawman replied.
“Have a seat. I'd offer you something to drink, but unfortunately all I have is water.”
Stowe reached into his back pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and tossed it to the lieutenant, who took a swig. “It's not bad,” the West Pointer said, “considering it was made in Fred Gibson's washtub. Have you spoken with that gentleman yet? I'm sure he believes, like all the other fools around here, that Duane Braddock is the victim of my jealousy, right?”
“That's what they all say,” the lawman replied laconically, taking out his notebook and pencil. “What's your side of it?”
Lieutenant Dawes's brow wrinkled. “You've probably heard that my wife was once . . . with Braddock, and that's why I arrested him. That's the most vicious insult of my career, because it implies that I'd be petty enough to deprive another man of his liberty, due to my own pathetic jealousy. It has the ring of cheap sentiment, and makes a rather touching story, but it's horseshit. Duane Braddock is a killer, and you can see it in his eyes. But he's got that lost-little-puppy-dog charm and attracts the mother in every woman. I'm sure you've heard his supposedly tragic story by now. He was raised in an orphanage, but he turned out to be a rotten little urchin, and they threw him out. Then he hopped on a stagecoach, rode a few days, and landed in Titusville, where he shot approximately six men. His next stop was this settlement, where he shot two more. And I'm not even mentioning fistfights, barroom brawls, and wrestling matches. He's extremely violent and probably loco, but as I said, he's got a certain charm, and he smiles oh so sweetly. The people around here are rather unsophisticated, and they've been taken in by him. Duane Braddock could shoot a grandmother in the back in broad daylight on the main street of Shelby, and the good citizens would probably say that he was justified, or it was an accident, or the grandmother had evil intentions. Duane Braddock has this town bamboozled, but I'm the local authority and couldn't let him get away with shooting two people.”
Marshal Stowe smiled faintly. “I've got thirty witnesses who'll say that Braddock fired in self-defense.”
“I don't care what they say. Two men were dead, and I considered it my duty to take him into custody, which I did at great personal risk, by the way. I suppose you've heard that he beat Otis Puckett to the draw? He would've shot me, too, but fortunately I was able to outmaneuver him. Mind if I have another sip of that whiskey?”
The marshal threw the flask, and Dawes plucked it out of the air. He took a few swallows, sucked wind through his teeth, and said, “If you don't believe me, that's your privilege. All I can do is my duty as I see it, but if you ever run into the so-called Pecos Kid, keep your hand near your gun and watch for a back shot. I wouldn't put anything past him, and he likes to use women to get what he wants. Have you heard that he was about to marry into the richest ranch in the territory?”
“I spoke with Mister Thornton yesterday. He thinks Duane Braddock is innocent, and is anxious to exonerate him.”
“Killing is killing no matter how you cut it. If you came here hoping that I'd withdraw my report—forget it.”
The sounds of the army camp came to their ears as they stared at each other. Then the marshal placed his left ankle on his right knee and lit a cheroot. “I've spoken with your wife,” he said.
Lieutenant Dawes's cheek betrayed a flicker of emotion. “What did the bitch have to say?”
“The same as the others: that you arrested Braddock out of jealousy.”
“I don't care what my birdbrained wife says. Braddock is personable and even somewhat charismatic, just like Jesse James, John Wesley Harding, and all the other killers, robbers, and rapists on the loose in the West these days. My best professional judgment is that he's a murderer, and I'm afraid that you'll have to bring him in—if those bloodthirsty Apaches haven't caught him yet.”
The column of Apaches came to a stream at the end of a narrow winding canyon. They dismounted, sentries were posted, and they watered their horses. Duane knelt beside his animal, filled his hat full of water, and drank deeply as he regarded the Apaches warily. They moved quickly, brightly, and were extremely athletic, with sinewy arms and legs, deep bronze coloring, and rugged confidence. They continually glanced around, searching for possible danger. Delgado ambled toward Duane, accompanied by three of his warriors. He looked Duane up and down skeptically. “I am afraid that we will have to blindfold the both of you now.”
Duane didn't resist as they wrapped the cloth over his eyes. A few feet away Phyllis submitted to the same fate. The world went dark around them, and they were led to their horses. They climbed into their saddles, and the column moved out again, heading in a direction that Duane couldn't discern. He tried to be optimistic, but he knew that Apaches hated white men. Something told him that he probably wouldn't be alive when the sun went down that night.
Marshal Dan Stowe sat at a table in Gibson's General Store, his map spread before him, a glass of whiskey holding down one edge. His guess was the fugitives had gone straight south, in an effort to reach Mexico as soon as possible. The first border town on the route was Morellos, and that was where Stowe hoped to intercept them. Braddock and Phyllis Thornton had a head start, but he knew the territory better than they. In addition, he'd met Apache leaders at treaty signings and powwows over the years and felt that they'd respect his tin badge. They knew damn well that if they killed him, the Fourth Cavalry would chase them to the ends of the earth.
His plan was to travel at night and sleep during the day. The only way to catch your man was just keep on a-comin’. Stowe was relentless in pursuit, and never stopped until he captured his quarry. He thought of the hundred dollars in his jeans, and guilt fell over him yet again, tormenting him endlessly. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't doing something wrong, although he'd accepted a semibribe.
Is Duane Braddock a killer or the victim of jealousy? he wondered. But I'm not the judge, and it's just my job to bring him in—no matter what it takes. And if I can return that girl to her father, so much the better. There's nothing wrong with that, right?
Commands were shouted back and forth as the Apache column came to a stop. “Get down,” said the voice of an Apache warrior.
Duane lowered himself to the ground. The Apache came up behind him and untied the blindfold. The bright sunlight knifed into Duane's head. A narrow craggy incline lay straight ahead. Duane turned to Phyllis, whose blindfold was also being removed. They moved toward each other and embraced.
“Come,” said the Apache warrior. “No time for that now.”
Other Apaches laughed as they tugged their horses up the impossible path. Duane couldn't understand how they could traverse those jagged teeth. If he were riding by, he'd never dream that men could use it for an avenue of escape.
“What is the delay?”
It was Delgado striding toward them, a scowl on his face. “White Eyes, we know that you are weak, but please do not slow us down too much. We are anxious to return to our camp, see our wives, and mourn for our dead.”
“We'll keep up,” Duane vowed. “We're not as weak as we look.”
Delgado placed his hands on his hips and said arrogantly, “White Eyes are pathetic, but you are stealing all our land. It is—how you say—a cont . . . cont . . .”
“Contradiction?” Phyllis asked.
Delgado turned to her and looked her over. “Thank you,” he said coolly. Then he moved off with the sure movements of a mountain cat, and Phyllis wondered how many people he'd killed in order to become a leader of Apache warriors. She shuddered as he issued the command for the warriors to proceed.
Duane held the reins of his horse as he prepared for the task that lay ahead. He was determined to demonstrate that a white man could climb as fast as they, even though they'd probably kill him later. I can't slow down no matter how tired and thirsty I get.
The column advanced up the mountain, and Duane looked for the next spot to put his foot. He had to pick and feel his way around sharp boulders that were hell on boots. He looked at the moccasins that the Apaches wore, and they appeared little more than deerskin stockings, not much protection from sharp edges. They must have feet like iron, he mused as he searched for the next toehold. They were amid steep cliffs, rock escarpments, and vast plateaus. Duane turned to look at his horse, which he'd met on the night that Phyllis had sprung him out of the army camp. She'd said it was one of her father's best, and his name was Steve, while Phyllis's horse was Suzie. Duane glanced at his woman and saw that she was climbing steadily, her hat covering her face as she examined the trail before her.
He figured that he'd be tortured to death while the warriors turned Phyllis into a slave. Apaches liked to stake white people to anthills and pour honey over their faces. Or wrap rawhide thongs around a white man's head, and when the thongs dried, they crushed his skull.
If any of them lays a hand on Phyllis, I'll go for his throat, and I don't care what they do to me. He swallowed hard, because death would be nothing compared to what could happen to Phyllis. He flashed on the monastery in the clouds, where every day was like the last, full of prayers, books, and bread baked in the monastery ovens.
I'm here because of animal lust, he confessed to himself. Then he recalled Proverbs 6:27: Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?
He glanced ahead at the convoluted passageway, and the climb had only just begun. Just keep going, he told himself. You can't be delicate in front of these damned injuns.
Marshal Dan Stowe examined his equipment one last time, as potbellied Mr. Gibson puffed a Pittsburgh stogie. They were standing at the hitching rail in front of Gibson's General Store, and the lawman made certain the cinches weren't too tight on his riding horse or the load unevenly distributed on his packhorse, a sad-faced creature with long ears always in motion, listening for news.
“What'll you do if you run into Apaches?” Mr. Gibson asked, flicking an ash off his stogie.
“The trick is not to run into them in the first place.”
“They say they got eyes in the backs of their heads.”
“So do I.” Marshal Stowe placed his boot toe into the stirrup and raised himself into the saddle. “If any letters come for me, hold them till I get back. And if I don't get back, forward them to the U.S. Marshal's office, San Antone.” The lawman touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat as the horses pulled into the street. He settled into the saddle, adjusted his hat low over his eyes, and rode toward the edge of town, rocking in the saddle with the motion of his horse's hooves.
He'd gone on many man-hunting expeditions, and it was a matter of simple persistence, unless the Apaches had found Braddock and Miss Thornton first. At the edge of town, a door opened in front of a familiar house and a tall blonde wearing a purple ankle-length dress appeared. Marshal Stowe pulled back his reins and the horses came to a halt beside Mrs. Vanessa Dawes. She looked at him solemnly and said, “I understand that you've spoken to my husband.”
“He refused to withdraw his charges, ma'am. I'm sorry.”
“That bastard!” she said bitterly. Then she tried to smile. “Just promise me one thing. Please don't shoot first and ask questions afterward. And please be gentle with him. I know that you have no reason to trust me, but Duane really is a decent boy. I can look you straight in the eye and tell you that he isn't a murderer.”
Marshal Stowe couldn't help grinning at the fervor of her plea. “What about all the people he shot, and the ones he punched in the mouth?”
“There's always some bully who wants to pick a fight with him. Is he supposed to lie down and let them do it?”
He placed his arm on the pommel and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Dawes—if it will help your beautiful head to rest more easily at night, I promise that I'll be extremely reasonable with Duane Braddock, and I won't rattle him in any way.”
“God bless you,” she replied with a sigh of relief.
He touched his spurs to the belly of his horse, tipped his hat, and the animals plodded on to the darkening sage.