THE LOST DETACHMENT WANDERED ACROSS the desert as the sun blasted them unmercifully. They were covered with perspiration, throats parched, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken. A garland of buzzards circled the sky, and purple mountains lined the plain. A mesa stood in the distance like a grotesque monument to a forgotten god.
The detachment was headed in a northerly direction, hoping to find their last water hole, but each man knew it was far away, and they might never reach it. Dazed by the sun, tongues swollen, they fought their way through cactus needles that ripped their clothes and flesh. Every step was agony as they watched for Apaches and prayed for miracles.
Lieutenant Dawes no longer could lie to himself as death lurked straight ahead. They'd become imperiled due to his own heedless folly, false pride, and low jealousy. Weakened by lack of food and water, guilt assailed him as his pants were shredded by thorns, his knees lost their bounce, and his broad shoulders drooped. He placed one foot in front of the other, although he knew that every movement was futile. But a soldier keeps advancing despite illness, wounds, doubts, confusion, and enemy fire.
He looked over his shoulder at cavalry troopers straggling behind him in a column of twos. Bearded, ragged, and demoralized, they wanted to shoot him in the back, and he couldn't blame them. His fancy West Point education hadn't amounted to much in Apache territory, and now he knew how Napoleon felt at Waterloo after Wellington's cavalry split his lines in the victory charge. Not only was he dying of thirst, but he felt like a failure.
He wanted to collapse onto the ground, never to move again, but a West Point officer can't disintegrate in front of his men. He hallucinated the castellated walls and emerald lawns at the renowned military academy on the Hudson. It was a grand charade, with form-fitting uniforms and blaring bands, but it hadn't prepared him for fighting the Apache in the desert of south Texas.
Whatever made me think that I could lead men in battle? he asked himself dreamily. The desert shimmered before him as Vanessa Fontaine advanced spectrally across the shifting sands. She wore the identical green dress as on the day he'd first seen her outside Gibson's General Store in Shelby. He'd fallen madly in love with her, never suspecting that the golden goddess would lead him to doom in southwest Texas.
“Gawd dammit!” shouted Private Cruikshank behind him. “Maybe I'm a-gonna die—but the son of a bitch who brought me here is a-gonna die first!”
Lieutenant Dawes turned and saw the soldiers arrayed against him. Cruikshank had drawn his service revolver and was pointing it at the middle of Dawes's chest.
Dawes was delirious as he staggered from side to side. He recalled Napoleon stopped by the king's soldiers on the Paris road after returning from his first exile. Lieutenant Dawes raised his trembling sunburnt hands and tore open his shirt, baring his chest. “If you want to shoot your commanding officer in cold blood, here I stand.”
A shot rang out, and for an instant Lieutenant Dawes thought he'd been killed. But he was still standing, and no ugly red hole appeared in the middle of his chest. Smoke rose from the barrel of Sergeant Mahoney's gun, who aimed it at the sky. “There'll be no more of that,” he said in a deadly tone. “The next shot'll be ‘twixt yer goddamned eyes, young private!”
The desert fell silent as the men looked at each other in dismay. All their marching, training, target practice, and spit and polish didn't amount to anything in the Texas desert. Cruikshank mumbled darkly as he holstered his gun. “If it wasn't fer that son of a bitch, we wouldn't be hyar.”
All eyes turned to Lieutenant Dawes, who replied in a dry, cracked voice, “We've got to hold together and try to help each other reach safety. It's the only way.”
Corporal Hazelwood spat at the ground. “We're finished, and everybody knows it. That fancy-pants bastard brought us, and we oughtta shoot ‘im!”
“You're right,” Dawes replied. “But if you kill me, you're stuck here anyway. And if the guards had been more vigilant, we'd be fine. I think we should die as comrades in arms, instead of shooting each other in the back like hooligans. We may not be good men, but at least we can be good soldiers.”
Weasellike Private Witherspoon said snidely, “I should've deserted while I had the chance.”
Lieutenant Dawes thought he'd appeal to their finer sensibilities. “I think we should bow our heads and ask for God's guidance.”
“If there's a God,” replied Private Cunningham, a redheaded ex-farmer from Missouri, “He would never've let us in this mess in the first place. We're stove up, and there's no way out.”
“I think,” Lieutenant Dawes said, “there are some here who still believe with me in the power of prayer. Gather around, men, and let's ask our creator for divine assistance.”
They bowed their heads, lips cracked, noses peeling, eyes bloodshot. “Dear God,” said Lieutenant Dawes, “have mercy on your poor Christian soldiers.”
They stood in silence, thinking of lost loves, squandered dreams, and crushing failures. They knew they were the dregs of the earth, for why else had they joined the frontier army, to fight Apaches instead of becoming carpenters, farmers, mechanics, scriveners, businessmen, or even priests. Each reflected upon the path that had brought them to southwest Texas, where coyotes and buzzards followed at a safe distance, waiting for them to drop.
They heard a cry from Private Duckworth: “Water!” He was their point man, roving far ahead of the main unit, searching for whatever he could find. Their ears perked up, and they heard his parched voice again. “Water!”
They couldn't believe their ears. Was it a false echo from a far-off cave? They looked at each other in alarm, and then, as if driven by a single will, they headed toward Private Duckworth, images of cool trickling liquid on their tongues. They rampaged through clumps of cactus and scatterings of grama grass. “Water!” The voice came closer, and they could see green cottonwood trees in the distance.
“We're saved!” shouted Private Cruikshank.
Lieutenant Dawes believed that God had answered his prayer. It was a sign from heaven, just as God parted the Red Sea for the wandering Israelites. The men began to run, tongues hanging like dogs’. They stumbled over rocks, roots, and gopher holes as they made their way to the oasis in the middle of the desert. Suddenly they'd been given the gift of life!
Lieutenant Dawes tried to contain himself, but his throat was like sand, and his legs moved of their own volition. All he wanted was to bury his face in the water and drink deeply. Then they could hunt meat and become soldiers again. “I told you, boys—we'll get through this if we just hold together!”
They came to cottonwood trees, and the temperature dropped as the water came into view. Grass and shrubs surrounded the hole, interspersed with bare desert sand. Private Duckworth was already on his belly, his face in the water, drinking deeply. The bluecoat soldiers stumbled down the incline, dropped to their knees, lowered their faces into the water, and slaked their leathery throats with ambrosia.
Lieutenant Dawes gulped thirstily. Thank you, God, for your wonderful blessing. You've shown mercy to a sinner, and if we ever make it back to civilization, I'll become a minister of your Holy Word.
He saw himself as a bumbling lecherous fool who'd finally found the truth. I'll preach sermons of piety and redemption, based on my own personal experiences, and deter people from the hellish paths that I myself have trod.
It was the last coherent thought that Lieutenant Dawes had as a rushing sound came to him from the far side of the well. He raised his head and was stunned by the sight of Apaches in war paint bursting out of the ground, with knives, lances, and war clubs in their hands. Sergeant Mahoney shouted the alarm, and Lieutenant Dawes was reaching for his service revolver when an Apache slammed him in the middle of the forehead with a war club. Lieutenant Dawes's skull cracked down the middle, blood seeped out the edges, and he collapsed onto the ground.
The bluecoat soldiers were slaughtered in seconds, their blood flowing in rivulets into the deep dark waters of the well. The Apache renegades stripped away weapons, clothing, Lieutenant Dawes's gold tooth, and everything else of value. They plundered and mutilated like fiends, and their leader was Jamata, the evil sorcerer.
Jamata cut off the officer's penis and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he disemboweled him, guts spilling onto the ground like angry, bloodsoaked snakes. Finally he cut off a patch of the officer's hair as a trophy.
The other renegades did the same. They were the dregs of the Apache nation, and they'd denounced their holy lifeway for rape, murder, and pillage. They'd plotted the route of the soldiers for days, knew the bluecoats would find the water hole, and dug themselves into the ground, to wait patiently for their arrival.
They worked methodically at their gruesome task, until all the soldiers were butchered. Then they gathered up the booty and carried it to the gully where their horses were tethered. They mounted up and retreated into the desert as silently as they'd come. Soon they were gone, and circling buzzards swooped leisurely from the sky for the fabulous fresh meat spread before them. Like gentlemen in black formal suits and orange boots, they settled amid the corpses and dug their beaks into tender body parts.
Gootch had seen it all from a cave cut into a nearby mountain. He was one of a group of scouts spread out across the desert, watching, studying, and waiting for the renegades to show their faces. He knew that good Apaches would be blamed for the bloody deed, more bluecoat soldiers would come to the land, there would be war, and Gootch could see no end to it.
But the war was a long way off. Now his task was to follow the renegades back to their camp, so he could report its location to Chief Pinotay. Extreme caution was required, because the renegades were Apaches, too, with the same knowledge and skills as he. Gootch watched them ride across the rolling desert and waited patiently. He didn't want to get too close, for they might detect his presence.
The flames of vengeance burned hotly within him, for one of his sisters had been killed in the previous massacre. He yearned for the opportunity to slice off Jamata's head. Meanwhile his cave was silent, dank, and smelled of old coyote manure. Gootch's father had brought him here as a boy, for it was a good observation post. The People knew every water hole, cave, and hiding spot in Arizona, New Mexico, southwest Texas, and Mexico, while the White Eyes wandered around like fools. Gootch couldn't help feeling contempt for the bluecoat soldiers who'd let themselves be slaughtered so easily. The Apache warrior believed that they lacked inner strength, because of the way they raised their children. When a White Eyes baby cried, the grown-ups tried to soothe him, but when an Apache baby was out of sorts, they hung his cradleboard on a tree and let him cry himself out. Gootch thought that the White Eyes spoiled their children, and that's why they grew fragile.
Gootch peeked outside. The renegades were gone, but not their tracks. He crawled out of the cave, heading for a stand of trees where his horse was tethered. “I will track you down, Jamata,” he swore beneath his breath. “You will not escape the wrath of the People.”
Phyllis ground corn between heavy circular stones. It was hard work, and her arms were getting tired. She wore the standard Apache woman's deerskin blouse, skirt, and boots because her cowboy clothes had been demolished in her tumultuous recent encounter with Duane. Something had happened to him during his time with Cucharo, but he wouldn't tell her the particulars.
Phyllis glanced at nearby women grinding corn. Like them, she was sweaty, tired, in need of a bath, and possessed no underwear. The routine of Apache life was becoming dull grim routine. Sometimes she had the urge to sit on a chair and read a book.
Her bedroom shelves had been full of Lord Byron, Washington Irving, and Keats, among others. Her mother was a former schoolmarm and ordained that Phyllis spend many hours penetrating the minds of great thinkers. Now, as the novelty of Apache life wore off, she missed the intellectual pastime. But Duane had convinced himself that he was an Apache and Yusn had sent him special messages from the great beyond.
Phyllis adored Duane, but there was much in his character that she deplored. He seemed to lack basic common sense, perhaps because he'd been raised in a monastery far from the harsh realities of life. She couldn't understand how the happy-go-lucky cowboy had become an Apache so quickly. He's like a chameleon, but what's his true identity?
Children burst onto the scene, jabbering wildly. Phyllis had lived in the camp long enough to understand what they were saying. The warriors were returning after a successful antelope hunt. The women moved toward the path that led to the camp, to greet their men.
The warriors were already halfway up the ravine, dead antelope lashed head down over their horses’ backs. Phyllis spotted Duane, taller than most Apaches, with his six-gun slung low over his breechcloth. The warriors arrived at the top of the mountain, dismounted, and Duane kissed his wife. “I shot a fat one,” he said happily. Then he untied the antelope and dumped it at her feet. She stared at it as he led his horse to the corral.
The dead antelope's eyes were open and staring, and a ribbon of blood dribbled from its mouth. Duane had cut his arrow out of the animal's lungs because an Apache warrior doesn't throw good arrows away.
“Duane!” she called out.
He ignored her as he headed toward the corral. She shouted his name again and ran after him. “I want to talk with you!”
He turned around, his features stern as an Apache's. There was something about him that frightened her.
“You may not realize it,” she said, “but skinning and cooking an antelope is an enormous job. I didn't mind it when we were in Delgado's household because there wasn't so much to do. But now that you're a warrior yourself, it's getting too much for me.”
He didn't smile or say something kind. “I will return you to the White Eyes and find another woman who is not lazy.” He stared calmly at her, betraying no emotion.
She looked at him in disbelief as his words struck her like daggers. But she was the daughter of Big Al Thornton and couldn't let herself cry. “I think you've finally gone loco,” she said. “You're even speaking English like an Apache.”
“I need a woman who can do a woman's work. Maybe it's best if you went home.”
“But this is just a game you're playing, Duane. Like the Pecos Kid. If you ever make one of these real Apaches mad, they'll skin you alive.”
“I will talk to Delgado and find out how to return you to your people.”
Phyllis maintained her outward calm. “Is that all I am to you? Somebody to skin the antelope?” Phyllis's vanity was wounded because it appeared that he was dumping her. “What if I don't want to go back?”
“You will become a bi-zahn, and no one will bring you antelope meat.”
“What if I marry Delgado?” she asked tauntingly.
“What makes you think he wants you?”
“Get him out here, and we'll ask him.”
She ran toward the wickiup where Delgado had last entered, and now it was Duane's turn for shock. He didn't want her to marry Delgado because he still loved her madly. But she didn't like the Apache lifeway, and he'd been trying to bluff her into a few more weeks. He felt baffled as she came to a stop in front of the warrior's wickiup. “Delgado!”
A crowd gathered, and children drew closer, their eyes dancing with delight. Old people crawled out of their wickiups, for the day's entertainment was about to begin. The White Eyes were squabbling again, and Delgado was about to be drawn in.
The son of the chief poked his head out of his wickiup and looked at Phyllis. “What do you want, woman?”
“Duane and I aren't going to live together anymore, and I was wondering if I could become one of your wives.”
Delgado nearly fell on his face, so astounded was he by the sudden proposal. Apaches muttered among themselves as Phyllis's words were translated for those who spoke no English. Delgado crawled out of his wickiup and drew himself to his full height. He turned toward Duane and said, “Is this true?”
“She won't butcher the antelope I brought home, and I offered to return her to her father. But she said she'd rather marry you.”
Delgado regarded the White Eyes woman through slitted eyes, and he had to admit, in his heart of hearts, that he'd lusted for her since the day they'd met. He tried to smile affably, but it came out awry. “I am sorry, but I do not think it would be right if I married my friend's wife.”
“But Duane doesn't want me anymore,” Phyllis replied. She turned to her former man. “Tell him the truth.”
Duane couldn't admit that he was jealous, but sweet little Phyllis had defeated him yet again. All he could say was “She is lazy, and she is still a White Eyes in her heart. She should go back to her people.”
“I don't want to go back,” Phyllis insisted. “I want to be Delgado's latest wife.”
Delgado shrugged and pretended to be unconcerned. “If she does not want to leave, how can we force her? And if she does not want to live with you, we cannot make her. Maybe I should ask the chief what to do.”
Phyllis was insulted by Delgado's disinterest. “What do you want to ask the chief for?” she asked. “I don't want to marry him. The decision is yours to make.”
Delgado sighed as he turned to Duane. “If she becomes a bi-zahn, there will be no end of the trouble she makes. All right, I will marry her. I am sure that soon she will want to return to her people and then she will go. I will give you two horses for her.”
Duane couldn't admit that he didn't want her to marry Delgado because it would give her the upper hand yet again. I'm supposed to be a mean son of a bitch, but that little cowgirl beats me every time. The mere thought made him angry, and he announced, “She's not worth two horses. I'll take one horse, and it doesn't have to be very good.”
Phyllis's calm exterior shattered, and she let out an angry screech. Baring her teeth, extending her fingernails, she ran across the clearing, headed for Duane. He stood slackly, a bored expression on his face, and waited until she came close. Then he plucked her out of the air, turned her over his knee, and proceeded to spank her.
The Apaches exploded with laughter, hugging their sides, jumping up and down. They'd never seen anybody get spanked before and considered it hilarious. Duane slapped her bottom heartily, while she writhed in his lap. Delgado howled until tears came to his eyes, and then his knees became jelly and he had to sit down.
Suddenly a guard appeared, running toward the campsite. He hollered something, and Duane unceremoniously dumped Phyllis off his lap. He drew his six-gun as the Apaches grabbed knives, guns, lances, bows and arrows. The joyful atmosphere transformed suddenly into danger as Gootch rode into the camp at a gallop. He pulled back his reins and shouted in the Apache language. Phyllis had learned enough words to catch the gist of what he was saying. He'd found the hideout of the renegades!
Phyllis was forgotten as Delgado and the other warriors gathered in front of the chief's tent. Duane joined them, along with Cucharo, and they discussed plans for the revenge raid as the women looked on warily from the distance. Phyllis sat beside Huera and asked, “Am I Duane's wife or Delgado's?”
“You are an idiot. Don't you know that the warriors are going on a raid and their success depends upon us? If we are bad, evil will come to the warriors. If we are good, the warriors will win the fight. You will pray with us while the warriors are gone, but first you must skin your antelope.”
Huera's order left no room for argument, discussion, or vanity. The warrior queen walked away as Phyllis gazed with distaste at the dead antelope. She pulled out her knife, dropped to her knees, sliced into the animal's flesh around its ankles, and pulled the skin loose. How did I ever get mixed up with these people? she asked herself. What the hell am I doing here?
The renegade cave was cut into the side of a mountain ten miles from the Apache camp. It could be approached only through a maze of narrow canyons, and enemies had to attack the final fifty yards across a bare rock incline with no cover. Guards were posted night and day, watching for surprise attacks.
The guards peered into the night as the renegade Property Dance was under way, tizwin flowing freely and a wild pig roasting over the fire. The renegades had painted their bodies in green, ochre, and vermillion stripes and writhed naked in the light of the fire. Jamata hopped among them, shrieking and giggling happily. In a corner, a couple copulated like dogs. Across the floor, another couple performed a mating act with the man on the bottom and the woman on the top. Everyone was naked, in the open, dancing and committing acts unthinkable in ordinary Apache society. Everything was permitted by Jamata, the more lewd and bloody, the better.
The evil di-yin had gathered them from across Apacheria, and their business was theft, murder, and mutilation. Some were sorcerers like Jamata, expelled by their people for nefarious activities. Others had stolen from the People or murdered kinsmen. A few felt cheated by the People, as though their true worth had never been truly appreciated. A few had lost at love and sought revenge among the renegades.
They believed that the old chiefs and di-yins were frauds, and the solution was to break all the rules. But the old chiefs and di-yins weren't on their minds that night as they barked like foxes and chirped like birds. They all despised the restrictions of the holy lifeway and wanted freedom from Yusn's onerous laws.
The women were as vicious as the men, and the children imps with flashing eyes who liked to torture small creatures for pleasure. Jamata had told them that if you feel something strongly, you must do it no matter what. The renegades squealed with glee as they twisted obscenely in the firelight, brandishing ill-gotten gains and fornicating everywhere.
War ponies galloped through the night as the People's best warriors rode bareback toward the renegades’ hideout. The warriors were seminaked, carrying lances, bows, arrows, rifles, and clubs. Everyone except Duane had known and revered the women who'd been killed, and many of the warriors had been relatives. Their hearts were filled with the lust for the renegades’ blood.
The war ponies exploded out of a gully and thundered mightily across a vast basin covered with cactus plants. The renegades had been killing, stealing, and bedeviling the People for too long. The time had come to even the score.
Duane rode in their midst, wearing his breechcloth and moccasin boots, covered with war paint, feeling exhilarated. Nothing he'd ever known could compare with the hellbent-for-leather Apache charge. It was as if their sacred lifeway had entered his blood and bones, and the pious seminary student was gone, along with the lonesome cowboy.
Now he was a warrior, too, his body rippling and strong, finally on the warpath. In addition to weapons, he carried a small bag of sacred pollen for its good influence, but his greatest power was in his Killer of Enemies bandolier, a loosely braided cord sash of two hide strings twisted about each other and draped across his body from the right shoulder to the left side. Only a di-yin could make a Killer of Enemies bandolier, and Duane had received his from Cucharo before the raid.
The horses raced across the desert, and Duane felt attuned to every other warrior. He opened his mouth wide and let out his war cry, his voice mingling with the others, as the riders sped onward, headed toward the destruction of the renegades.
Marshal Dan Stowe drowsed in his saddle, drifting in and out of war dreams. Surrounded by desert foliage, with insects buzzing around his hat, he envisioned himself in August of 1864, during a little-remembered battle of the great Civil War.
The Michigan Wolverine Brigade was bivouacking in Chester Gap, taking a well-deserved rest from the war and trying to enjoy a lunch of hardtack and tepid tea, when sentries burst onto the scene with alarming news. Confederate cavalry in substantial numbers were advancing down Front Royal Pike!
It had been an electric moment as all eyes turned to General Custer. The horses were already unsaddled, tents pitched, the food on the fire, but the Boy General never batted an eyelash. He turned calmly to his executive officer and said, “Call the men to horse.”
Sergeant Joseph Fought raised the bugle to his lips, and the battle-hardened Wolverines saddled and bridled their horses in only ten minutes. Skirmishes broke out among forward elements of infantry as General Custer rode to the top of a hill in the vicinity. He leaned on his pommel and studied the advance carefully. It was formed in a column of fours, consisting of a brigade of Rebel horsemen leading huge masses of infantry. Custer galloped back to his men, the battle plan forming in his mind. He ordered his artillery to rain death upon the advancing Confederates and then formed his cavalry in attack formation.
The barrage continued for some time, ripping holes in the Confederate lines, but Fitzhugh Lee's men were brave soldiers and kept moving through cannonballs and canister. When it became clear that artillery alone wouldn't stop the soldiers in gray, Custer ordered the barrage to stop. He took his position at the head of his cavalry squadrons, raised his sword in the air, and ordered the bugler to sound the charge.
The Michigan Wolverines moved toward the valley, and it took a few minutes to reach top speed. Marshal Stowe twitched involuntarily in the saddle as he recalled the enthralling all-out cavalry charge. General Custer galloped far in front, his saber high in the air, his emblematic red scarf trailing in the breeze, as sunlight gleamed off the gold buttons and piping of his fantastical uniform. His voice could be heard to the rear ranks as he shouted hoarsely: “Come on, you Wolverines!”
Flags and guidons fluttered in the air, and men bellowed encouragement to each other as bugle notes sang over the battlefield. The Wolverines galloped over the grass and rock-strewn valley as massed Confederate rifle balls ripped into them. Michigan horses fell, and Michigan men screamed horribly as their arms and legs were blown away, but the bold young commander never swerved in his headlong charge.
Cavalrymen on both sides drew closer, and everyone knew that they might die within the next seconds. Captain Stowe rode ahead of old Troop B, his mustache dark, eyes clear, gut slim, as he braced himself for the ultimate clash. He raised his sword, took a deep breath, and felt a hand on his knee.
He opened his eyes, and it was night on the southwest Texas desert. Miguelito was dismounted beside him. “Riders,” said the hunchback midget. “We'd best get off the trail.”
Marshal Stowe perked up his ears, couldn't hear anything, but wouldn't question the ears of an Apache. His head reeled with memories of the long-ago battle as he dismounted. He followed the half-breed into the thick brush beside the trail and knelt in the shadows. Miguelito pressed his ear to the ground. “Many horses,” he said. “The People go on a raid.”
“I wonder how many white folks will be killed,” Marshal Stowe replied sardonically. He wanted to smoke, but the light could draw unwelcome attention. The Battle of Crooked Run dissipated into the mists of time, and no longer was he Captain Dan Stowe making history with General Custer and the Michigan Wolverines.
Now he was just a man with a badge and a warrant that he tried to convince himself was worthwhile. Issues were clear-cut during the war, but ambivalence was everywhere now that peace had arrived. Texas had an unpopular scalawag governor put into office by the Union Army. Former slaves had become sheriffs and judges, while former Confederate soldiers worked at menial jobs. Eight hundred thousand men had died on the battlefields of the Civil War to free slaves who would've been turned loose eventually anyway if they'd let history take its course. Marshal Stowe shook his head in chagrin. It was all horseshit, but so interesting while it lasted.
“You are a strange one,” said Miguelito, looking up at him. “You want me to take you to the Apache camp, where they may kill you. And why? To arrest a man? To capture a woman? What are these people to you?”
“It's my job, but you're half Apache and half white. What're you doing here?”
The midget grinned and rubbed his fingers together. “Dinero.”
It was night in the Apache camp. The women sat around a small fire, chanting prayers in unison as they implored Yusn, White Painted Woman, and the mountain spirits to make their men victorious. Their primordial rhythms rose and fell lugubriously as firelight flickered on their earnest faces.
Phyllis sat among them, joining the simple repetitions, while studying their strange culture. Every Apache woman believed that her behavior would affect the outcome of the battle, an irrational and preposterous notion to Phyllis's mind, yet she could almost feel the power of their devotion.
It affected her deeply, for she wasn't always the cold observer that she tried to be. She heard an outpouring of love and concern for the warriors, and it wasn't pure superstition. If a warrior died, who'd hunt for his wife and children? Apache love was based on necessity, not songs and poetry.
She didn't want Duane to be killed on the raid, although she could always return to her family. She believed that she loved Duane deeply, but sometimes she wished for a more mature and stable man, like Delgado. One day Duane wants to be a rancher, next day he's an Apache, and if we ever get to Mexico, maybe he'll become a bullfighter. She wanted to have children, but what kind of father would the Pecos Kid be? Trouble was his middle name, and he didn't have a practical bone in his body. You don't necessarily buy the first horse you ride, Phyllis told herself. I pray to Yusn that Duane doesn't die on the raid, but when he comes back, we'll have a little talk about leaving this place.
The voices of the women droned into the night as they held hands, rocked from side to side, and evoked Apache deities. They knew that their warriors would be approaching the renegade cave soon and then the blood would flow. O mighty Yusn, please send my man back to me whole, otherwise my children will go hungry and the People will die. O Yusn, we call upon you ardently. Please do not turn your heart from the People.
It was silent in the cave, for the Property Dance had ended. The renegade men, women, children, and dogs lay in each other's arms on animal skins strewn on the floor, as faint wisps of smoke arose from ashes in the pit. They were naked, besotted, their bellies full, and sleepy grins spread upon their faces. They'd had a grand time and would tell the story for as long as they lived, passing it down from generation to generation of renegades, as it weaved itself into their warped traditions.
The Property Dance had been a pleasurable experience for everyone except the guards in the desert below. Throughout the night they'd listened to shrieks of delight, drunken ravings, and grunts of passion as they watched for the advent of enemies. But no enemies came, because the cave was far from the main trails that the White Eyes used, while the People didn't visit the canyon often.
Red Claw was one of the guards, twenty years old, the son of Jamata. He felt bitter that he'd been selected to stand guard because he preferred dancing with naked women in the cave. The desert was silent, cold, and dark in the hour before dawn. He sat with his back to a juniper tree, knees in the air, rifle lying beside him. He should be hiding, but he was confident that he'd see or hear an intruder before the intruder caught wind of him.
There would be other Property Dances, and he could play with the women then. Not even his father could ask him to guard two Property Dances in a row. Red Claw was in awe of the mad sorcerer who'd led them across the desert to their new life. Jamata held them together and brought them much booty. The People and the White Eyes were crops that the renegades harvested regularly. Someday Jamata will die, Red Claw reflected as he closed his eyes. And then perhaps I will become chief.
He decided to sleep, for no one would know, and what would it matter? Then he heard a moccasin gently touch the earth behind him. Red Claw opened his eyes as dark shadows swirled above him. He opened his mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over his mouth, while something sharp and terrible pierced his throat. Red Claw coughed as blood spurted from his jugular vein.
The guard fell at Delgado's feet, then more of the People's warriors appeared behind bushes, trees, and clumps of cactus. Ahead was the open incline that led to the cave. The warriors deployed silently, aware that more guards were posted in the cave. Every warrior was prepared to die as they focused on vengeance, glory, and the expression on the faces of their women and children when they returned.
They came to the edge of the vegetation line, and before them lay the steep rocky slope to the renegades’ cave. No orders had to be given, with no pause for rest. One group of warriors with rifles formed to the right, while another group similarly armed positioned themselves to the left. A third group, situated between the other two, would lead the initial charge.
This was the most dangerous task of all, and therefore the most coveted. Duane had convinced Delgado to let him join the vanguard unit, which Delgado would lead. They'd rush the cave, and when guards sounded the alarm, the other warriors would pin down the renegades with arrows and rifle fire. Delgado's warriors would jump over the outside wall and then it would be hand to hand and man to man until one side or the other was vanquished.
The moment had arrived for the blood of the People to be avenged. Delgado raised his hand, pointed to the cave, and leapt forward. Duane and the others followed him, their moccasins making soft brushing sounds against naked rock. They covered twenty yards rapidly, when a head appeared over the top of the hideout. There was a cry, a shot, and the head disappeared. Duane set his lips in a grim line, for the next yards would be the most difficult of all.
The warriors sped up the incline as more renegade heads appeared above the boulders. Shots rang out from the two covering forces, Jamata screamed, and there was bedlam inside the cave. Duane held his war club in his right hand and his knife in the other as he ran swiftly up the side of the mountain. Delgado was the first warrior to reach the boulder barricades, but he didn't slow down and wait for the others to catch up. He hollered his war cry, vaulted over the barrier, and landed inside the cave. Shots reverberated, screams of terror filled the air, and then the other warriors followed him over.
Duane dropped inside the cave amid other warriors, and a scene of unspeakable madness met his eyes. Renegade sorcerers, witches, and imps scrambled for weapons, shrieking eerily. Weakened by excessive food, drink, and forbidden acts, they appeared confused, but they were warriors, too, trained from birth to fight suddenly and without mercy. They grabbed knives, clubs, lances, and anything else they could lay their hands on as they rose to meet their attackers.
A big, burly, completely naked renegade with a scar on his chin ran toward Duane, a knife in his hand. Duane dodged to the side and then swung his war club down. It landed atop the renegade's head, which cracked apart like a rotten egg. The renegade's eyes rolled up and he dropped limply at Duane's feet.
Duane didn't have time to sing a victory song because another renegade appeared before him, wielding a battle lance. He thrust it toward Duane, who batted it to the side with his left forearm and slammed the war club into the renegade's ear. The force of the blow flung the renegade to the ground, where he didn't move.
The cave filled with shots, howls, and the sound of clubs landing upon heads. Duane advanced more deeply into the shadows as dust, gunsmoke, and clouds of ashes billowed all about him. One of the imps ran toward him, a knife in his hand, but Duane stepped backward because he couldn't kill a child. The imp slashed at Duane's legs, hoping to bring him down, but Duane was too fast, dancing from side to side, frustrating the child. The boy lunged desperately, and Duane plucked him out of the air, grabbed him by the neck, and pinned him to the floor. The boy wiggled and struggled like a wildcat, while Duane wondered what to do with him. He couldn't turn him loose, couldn't kill him, and didn't care to spend the rest of the day with him.
A horrible bloodcurdling cry came to his ears. He looked up and saw a stout Apache woman running toward him, a hatchet in her hand and an expression of fury on her face. Duane turned the boy loose, and the boy jumped to his feet, picked up his knife, and resumed his efforts to hamstring Duane, while his mother sought to bury her hatchet in Duane's brain.
Duane hadn't planned to fight women and children, and all he could do was retreat, trying to avoid slashes and chops. The little boy dived for Duane's calves, but Duane darted easily out of the way. The hatchet zoomed toward his eyebrows, but Duane sprang mightily and landed in the darkness at the rear of the cave. The mother and son murder team came after him but were cut down first by the People's warriors.
It appeared that the struggle was coming to an end. The renegades had been taken by surprise, only a few were still fighting, and it was only a matter of time before they were subdued. Leather bags hung from pegs hammered into the cracks of the stone walls, animal skins covered the floor, and the stench of sweat, garbage, and urine rose to Duane's nostrils. The renegades had renounced their holy lifeway for a filthy existence in a dank, smelly cave.
The sounds of fighting stopped, and Duane was about to return to fresh air when he saw movement in one of the corners. Under other circumstances, he would've thought his eyes were playing tricks, but his eyes had become more acute since his time on Gold Mountain, and he made out dim outlines of a figure lying on the floor amid piles of animal skins.
“I see you back there,” said Duane. “Come out, or I'll go after you.”
The figure didn't move, and Duane wondered if it was just animal skins configured like a man. But his sharp eyes perceived something animate beneath leather and fur. He held the knife tightly in his left hand and the war club in his right as he advanced cautiously toward the skins at the rear of the cave. Gingerly, he probed the knife into the rump of the devious individual.
Suddenly the animal skins blew apart, and Duane jumped backward. A naked renegade, the paint on his face blurred weirdly, rose before Duane, a six-gun in his hand. “It is Jamata!” shouted a nearby warrior.
Jamata fired the six-gun, but Duane dived to the side, rolled on the ground, and heard the bullet whiz over his head. He came to his feet and leapt before Jamata could thumb back the hammer for the next shot. Duane crashed into Jamata, driving him backward into the cave. They struggled for possession of the gun, Jamata tried to knee Duane in the groin, and Duane whacked Jamata across the nose with his elbow.
Jamata lost consciousness momentarily, and Duane yanked the six-gun out of the sorcerer's hand. Jamata then pulled a knife from his belt, leapt toward his attacker, and Duane timed him coming in. He smacked Jamata in the face with the heavy hunk of metal, and the sorcerer went reeling backward. Duane aimed the six-gun and thumbed back the hammer as Jamata prepared for another charge. The first cartridge caught Jamata in the center of his chest and burrowed deep into his aorta. The evil one unraveled like a puppet with his strings suddenly removed and flopped onto the ground at Duane's feet. But Duane didn't trust the sorcerer and pumped the remaining five rounds into Jamata's torso as Jamata jerked with the impact of each bullet. The warriors gathered around and looked at the dead renegade chief bleeding on the floor.
There was no time to waste, for no one knew what enemies the shots might attract. The warriors roved through the cave, slitting throats to make certain that the renegades were truly wiped out. Then they heaped everything flammable in the middle of the floor and set it afire. The rags, firewood, and baskets blazed as the warriors ran back to their horses. They mounted up and rode hard toward the first red sliver of dawn as a trail of smoke arose from the mouth of the cave.