THE WOMEN CHANTED AND FASTED INTO the morning, while Phyllis passed from hunger to numbed stupefaction. There were moments when she caught herself mumbling incoherently. Children watched their mothers solemnly, while old men hovered in the background, recalling lost battles and fallen comrades.
Apache superstition seemed absurd to Phyllis. She could see no linkage between female behavior and warriors on a raid. Yet they believed in the power of prayer, like Christians. If I ever get out of this, I'll write about my life with them so that people will know the truth.
She realized that she was talking to herself again, while the others glared at her reproachfully. She stiffened her spine and returned to the steady rhythm. The Apache women felt connected to their men across vast distances, without the walls that the White Eyes constructed. They're a spiritual people, and everything they do has religious significance, Phyllis realized. But women work too hard. She looked at her hands, dark and callused. Her body had hardened, the sun had baked her face, and she had a permanent ache in her back from working animal skins.
They heard the cries of little boys in the direction of the secret path, and the women arose, smiles spreading over their faces. A chill came over Phyllis because she feared that Duane had been killed in the raid. She drifted with the other women toward the edge of the encampment and saw warriors climbing the trail, leading their horses. Phyllis couldn't discern Duane among them, and her heart sank.
The women made a weird ululating sound as the warriors drew closer. It appeared that the raid had been successful as children danced and clapped their hands gleefully. Phyllis spotted Delgado leading the warriors and relief spread over the mountaintop. It appeared that there were no casualties so far, but the warriors looked as if they'd seen the face of hell.
Then, toward the end of the long file, Phyllis spotted Duane. He appeared unharmed, but gravity could be seen in his every move. Phyllis's vision returned to Delgado, and she wondered how one woman could desire two men. If these people knew what was in my mind, they'd burn me at the stake.
The warriors herded their horses into the corral as Phyllis compared Duane and Delgado. When she and Duane first arrived in the Apache camp, a huge gulf had existed between Duane and Delgado, but now they blurred together in her estimation. Somehow Duane had become a warrior, as formidable as any of them. There was something exceptional about him, and she considered him fascinating, but she had to admit that she'd prefer a man with practical habits, not one who thought he was an Apache warrior, the Pecos Kid, and God only knew what else.
Phyllis had liked the novelty of Apache life at first, but now the only thing that made it bearable was Duane. He finished with his horse and walked toward her like a warrior lord. When he drew close, she noticed dark flecks of dried blood on his white breechcloth. The expression in his eyes bore mute testimony to a tremendous ordeal. “Are you all right, Duane?”
He didn't reply and appeared deeply troubled. She placed her arm around his waist and urged him toward their wickiup. Dried blood also showed on the handle of his knife, while his war club carried suspicious stains. Duane had undergone another transformation, she realized, and he reminded her of Confederate soldiers who'd returned home from the war, with the same blank expression in their eyes. Duane and Phyllis crawled inside the wickiup, he wrapped his arms around her and they lay side by side, holding each other tightly.
Duane tried to make sense of what had happened to him. The former acolyte and scholar had busted heads with his war club and emptied his Colt into Jamata. Thou Shalt Not Kill.
“Are you sure you're all right?” she asked.
Duane held her closely, feeding off her warmth and strength. The renegades were degraded and degenerate, but what am I? he wondered. Their cave was the Apache Sodom and Gomorrah. “I've killed some people, and I'm not sure what it means.”
“If you didn't stop them, they might've killed more women, including me. I prayed for you with the other women, and I've been thinking that it's time we left here. We're not Apaches, and this isn't our life-way.”
“We'll talk about it tomorrow,” he replied. Their lips touched, because no matter how confused he was, or how irrational the world became, she was his anchor to reality. Together they sank into animal skills, removing each other's clothes.
In the middle of the night, Duane awoke with a start. Phyllis lay with her cheek against his shoulder as coyotes howled in the distance. He'd been dreaming about Jamata, the evil sorcerer of the renegades. What kind of people could become so depraved? he wondered. Why'd they turn their backs on their holy lifeway?
The question burned into the mind of the former seminary student, for it went to the core of evil, original sin, and the devil. It seemed incomprehensible that people wouldn't fear divine retribution. He saw the power of God as a palpable force everywhere and couldn't understand why others didn't recognize what was so obvious to him. The renegades evidently believed that nothing was greater than their own dark appetites. Woe to you, generation of vipers. But it's dangerous to think that you're an instrument of God's judgment. The more Duane probed alleys of his mind, the more confused he became. He wanted something to base his life upon but found thin ice instead.
Phyllis made a cooing sound and moved closer to him. Her bare breast jutted against his bare chest, and the troublesome dilemma weakened before the onslaught of her generous warmth. The skin on her back was impossibly smooth. He cupped her breast in his hand.
“What're you doing?” she asked sleepily.
He touched his tongue to her nipple, she placed her hand on the back of his head, a nighthawk squawked as it flew overhead, and insects sang madrigals in the moonlight.
Duane woke up several hours later and heard the ruckus of the Apache camp around him. A column of bright sunlight shone through the smoke hole, utensils clanged, children shouted, and dogs barked. Duane lay on his side, with Phyllis's back snuggled against him. He realized that all was well with the world.
“There's something I want to talk with you about,” she said.
She had that nagging tone in her voice, and Duane realized that the tender moment was coming to an end. He was amazed at how she could be warm one moment, cold the next, distracted, concentrated, a creature of many moods, not all pretty. It felt as if their cozy wickiup had become a lawyer's office. “What is it?” he inquired.
“I'd really like to get out of here.”
He wanted to explain that there was much the Apaches could teach them, and the lifeway had a beautiful simplicity, but she hadn't responded to those arguments in the past. “Just a few more days,” he muttered. “What's your hurry?”
“I've got a pain in my back that won't go away, and we've already been here a month. Look at the lines in my face. Another few years of this, I'll be an old lady! I love you, but I want to go back to Texas.”
“I thought we were on our way to Mexico.”
“If I know my father, he's hired the best lawyer available. You're probably cleared by now, and I'll bet that the law has forgotten about us. Nobody'll ever convict you for shooting Otis Puckett in self-defense.”
“Innocent men have been hung before,” he advised her, “and my father was probably one of them. I'm not going back until somebody shows me a piece of paper that says the charges against me have been dropped.” He pulled away from her and reached for his breechcloth.
“Where are you going now?”
“To a special ceremony, otherwise the spirits of the dead will haunt us. It's called the Washing of the Weapons.”
He believes that primitive nonsense, she thought, watching him beneath hooded eyes as he pulled on his moccasin boots, tied his gun belt, and adjusted his headband. Then he picked up his bloodied war club and knife. “I should be back in time for dinner.” He kissed her cheek and crawled out of the wickiup.
Alone, she lay in the darkness, listening to the retreat of his footsteps. It's like being married to a tumbleweed.
The warriors rode to a stream in a nearby canyon and lined up at the bank. All remained mounted except Cucharo, who waded into the whirling waters until he was knee deep. He spread out his arms, looked at the horizon, and chanted a litany of prayers to the mountain spirits. Then he proceeded to wash himself and his weapons, while continuing incantations.
It was a clear day, the sky cloudless. Birds darted from flower to flower, the desert blooming with the promise of summer. Duane sat on his horse near the end of the line, and it reminded him of mass at the monastery in the clouds.
Cucharo sloshed toward Delgado, the first Apache at the beginning of the line. Delgado held out his lance and knife and Cucharo accepted them. The diyin bent, washed the weapons in the stream, and blew upon them, while Delgado intoned his prayer of contrition.
Cucharo passed down the row of warriors, repeating the ceremony with each man, and Duane couldn't help seeing parallels to confession, holy communion, and baptism. The di-yin then splashed toward Duane, who held out his knife and war club. Cucharo lowered them into the cloudy, meandering waters, like Easter mass when the abbot washed the feet of the acolytes. Duane felt deeply moved by Cucharo's devotion as he joined chants for divine forgiveness and understanding. He felt a glow pass from Cucharo's hand to his as he accepted his cleansed weapons. Forgive me, Father, for I know not what I do.
Cucharo worked his way to the end of the line. It was a hard job for an old man, but he never faltered, his voice maintaining its steady drone. After absolving the last warrior, Cucharo returned to his horse. He opened a saddlebag, removed the scalp of Jamata, scratched a match on a nearby rock, and brought the flame to the blood-caked black hair. Smoke rose into the air as the hair caught fire. Cucharo watched it burn, his mouth set in a grim line. Then, when the flame licked his fingers, he tossed the scalp into the water, and the eddies carried it away.
It appeared that the ceremony was over. The Apaches pulled away from the stream and headed back to their camp. Duane remembered White Painted Woman, the lion, and his grandfather atop Gold Mountain. Surely the universe is sanctified, he thought, whether you call him God, Yusn, or Allah.
The warriors returned their horses to the corral, and Duane found Phyllis in front of their wickiup, cooking a stew of antelope meat, roots, and cornmeal. She glowered at him as he approached and began at the identical spot where she'd left off. “Do you think we can leave tomorrow morning?”
“I like it here,” he replied. “I wish we didn't have to go.”
“I miss my family, and I'm tired of the work. I never realized that you were so selfish.”
“You're upset because you've got too much work. Maybe I should marry another woman, to help you.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “So that's it! You just want another woman. Well, I'm not sharing you with anybody!”
“It wouldn't be a real marriage where I'd sleep with her,” he explained. “She'd just help you with the work, that's all. Maybe you and she could become friends.”
“I'm a Texan, and my father owns a ranch. I don't want to live like an Apache any longer. If you don't come back with me, I'll go myself.”
Duane believed that God had ordained her to be his mate for life, but he loved the holy lifeway, too. The decision required a Solomon, but he was only the Pecos Kid. He looked at the swell of her breasts, the curve of her leg, and saw the scale tip slightly in her favor. “All right,” he said sullenly. “I'll escort you back to the Bar T, if that's what you want. The federal marshals will probably hang me, but that's the way it goes.”
“I don't want you doing anything out of obligation. If you don't love me, have the courage to say so. I'm sure that Delgado would escort me back to safety.”
Duane glanced at her sharply. “I said that I'll do it, so forget about Delgado. It's true that I'll miss this place, but you're more important to me than anything else. We can start packing right now.”
“If only I could believe that.”
“We'll leave first thing in the morning. I was a cowboy once and I can be a cowboy again. If the judge hangs me, I'm sure you'll provide a decent funeral.”
“Nobody's going to hang you. You're worried about nothing. I'm certain that my father's lawyer has shot holes through the charges against you.”
She was defeating him yet again, and he wondered how he'd gotten into the argument in the first place. The only way to get along with her was to agree with everything she said. He was about to start packing when the alarm resounded at the edge of the camp.
Duane reached for his rifle and was out of the wickiup in a split second. The warriors carried weapons and were running toward the path that led to the lowlands. Someone was coming, and it looked like trouble. Duane checked the loads in his Colt as Phyllis emerged with her rifle. She and Duane followed the other Apaches and peered down the long rocky incline at two men dressed as cowboys leading their horses upward. One was tall and the other very short.
“It's the midget,” Phyllis explained to Duane. “He was here while you were gone with Cucharo. He trades whiskey and guns, and the People seem to respect him quite a lot. Maybe we can go back with him.”
“Oh-oh.” Duane's Apache vision discerned the tin badge on the vest of the tall White Eyes climbing the ravine. “Here comes John Law.”
The marshal was long and lanky, with trailing mustaches and steely eyes, while the midget was a strange mountain elf. The warriors muttered among themselves, unhappy about the newcomer approaching the top of the mountain. Delgado stood in front of the midget and demanded, “Why have you brought the White Eyes here?”
“He is a friend,” Miguelito replied. “He has many presents.”
Marshal Dan Stowe opened one of his saddlebags, spread a blanket on the ground, and dropped handfuls of cheap trinkets atop it.
“This is for you,” Miguelito said. “You do not have to pay. And we have mescal juice to drink.”
“What does the tin badge want?”
“Two Americanos,” Miguelito replied. “The man is wanted for murder and the woman should be returned to her family.”
The Apaches became uneasy, and some glanced nervously at Duane and Phyllis. “Just be calm,” Duane whispered softly into her ear. “Maybe he won't recognize us.”
The Apaches turned their attention to the trinkets, while Marshal Dan Stowe examined the Apaches. Suddenly Delgado rushed forward, drew his knife, and grabbed the front of Miguelito's shirt. “You should not have brought this White Eyes here—ugly little toad!” He pressed the point of the knife into Miguelito's throat. “You showed him the way to our camp, but you will never betray us again.”
Delgado made a sudden motion with his knife and the midget jerked spasmodically. Then the warrior let Miguelito's lifeless body drop to the ground, his throat cut from ear to ear. Marshal Stowe almost drew his gun but knew they'd get him eventually. It was difficult for him to believe that his carefully wrought plans had gone awry so suddenly. Delgado turned toward him, the bloody knife in his hand. “You should not have come here, White Eyes.”
“Don't I know you?” Marshal Stowe asked. “I sat at the peace powwow in 1868 . . .”
“I have never seen you before, White Eyes, and I will never see you again.” Delgado raised his knife for the death blow, but the former troop commander decided the time had come to take a step backward, yank the Remington, and aim at the middle of Delgado's chest. “Your injun friends will get me in the end,” he declared loudly, “but I'll blow a hole through you first!”
Delgado trembled with rage as he gazed down the barrel of the gun. “You will not leave this place alive, White Eyes.”
“Maybe not, but if your people kill me, it's not like killing an ordinary farmer or miner. I'm a United States marshal on official government business, and you'll have the United States Army down here in full force. They'll comb every cactus plant in Texas, and if they can't find you in Texas, they'll go to Mexico. You don't think Americans are afraid of Mexico, do you? There'll be soldiers in this country as far as the eye can see, and you will not escape their vengeance.”
There was silence as everyone stared at the badge on his black leather vest. The old chief saw danger in the future for his people and knew that Americans had defeated Mexicans in many battles over the years. “The White Eyes is right,” he declared. “There will be bluecoats all over these mountains if we kill him. He can stay overnight without harm, but he must leave in the morning. This is my decision.”
“No!” replied Delgado. “If we let him go, he will bring bluecoats to our wickiups!”
“We will move to another mountain, but if we kill this White Eyes, the bluecoats will not rest until we are all dead. I have spoken. Enjuh.”
A drop of ruby blood fell from Delgado's knife to the ground as he turned to the White Eyes and translated the decision: “This chief says that you can stay here tonight, but you must leave tomorrow.”
Marshal Stowe pointed at Miguelito's corpse. “This man said that the White Eyes man and woman that I'm looking for are in this camp. Where have you hidden them?”
“He lied,” Delgado replied. “You should not have paid him, White Eyes.”
“I think you're the one who's lying.” Marshal Stowe continued to aim his gun at Delgado. “Why are you hiding these outlaws?”
Delgado was becoming furious at the presumption of the White Eyes. “I have told you what this chief has said. But if you make trouble, I will kill you myself.”
“I've come in peace,” Marshal Dan Stowe replied. Slowly, deliberately, he dropped his gun into its holster. “That's my proof.”
Delgado was about to jump when the chief hollered, “No!” Then the chief stepped in front of Delgado. “I am an old man, but I am not afraid of you.”
The old man appeared deadly despite his advanced years, and Delgado wouldn't fight his father under any circumstances. Delgado muttered something incomprehensible as he took a step backward. The old chief smiled at Marshal Stowe. “Come with me.”
He placed his hand upon the marshal's back and guided him toward his wickiup. The Apaches opened a path while the lawman searched their ranks for Texans. Phyllis lowered her eyes as he passed, and the lawman didn't recognize her as his eyes lingered on hostile warriors carrying death-dealing implements. If they came at him, he'd send a few to the Happy Hunting Ground and then he'd follow.
Marshal Stowe still was trying to recover from the sudden murder of the midget. He'd come to like Miguelito and felt guilty for causing his demise. Miguelito had been butchered like a pig, but death was no stranger to a battle-hardened veteran of the great Civil War.
He'd been in Apache camps before, and this one was relatively small. He glanced at the chief, who examined him thoughtfully. Marshal Stowe attempted a friendly grin, while the chief tried to smile back. They'll probably kill me, Marshal Stowe figured, but nobody lives forever.
Duane and Phyllis returned to their wickiup, sat opposite each other, and looked into each other's eyes. It wasn't necessary to speak the obvious. A federal marshal was on their trail, and a decision had to be made. Duane wished he had something to smoke and a shot of whiskey to help him think.
No longer could he hope that the law had forgotten him. His return to the Bar T was out of the question. He felt sick because he knew that he and Phyllis were coming to a parting of the ways. She'd given him much solace, but he wasn't ready to face a crooked judge. He lowered his eyes and said in a low voice, “I can't ask you to come to Mexico with me, and I'm sure as hell not going back to Texas now.”
“We can go to Mexico together,” she said in a small voice. “When the charges are dropped, we can come back.”
He touched his palm to the side of her cheek and tried to smile. “I appreciate the offer, but we both know that you don't like life on the dodge. You'd always be unhappy, and you'll take it out on me.”
“I want a normal life. Is that so bad?”
“Maybe it's time to make a sensible decision for a change.” He deepened his voice so that he'd sound authoritative and mature. “The best thing might be for you to go home to your family, and when your father's lawyers clear my name, send me a letter at the post office in Morellos. Then I'll return to the Bar T, we'll get married and spend the rest of our lives together. But I don't trust judges and jailers, and I'll never let them get me in their clutches if I can help it.”
She sighed wearily. “I'm afraid that if we separate, I'll never see you again.”
“Of course we'll see each other again. We're practically married already.”
“You'll find a pretty senorita, or you'll get into more trouble. How can I trust you to come back?”
“I could never forget you, and I'll follow wherever you go.”
“I'll bet you said the same thing to Vanessa Fontaine.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but his tongue hung in midair as he realized that he had made similar statements to Vanessa. It was silent in the wickiup as they stared at each other in the dimness.
“It's decided,” he said. “Tomorrow morning you'll go north and I'll go south. This'll be our last night together for a while, so we might as well make the most of it.”
Huera sat with Delgado's other wives, weaving wicker jugs out of twined sumac strands. The Apache wife appeared calm as her fingers darted back and forth, but tornadoes agitated her heart. Although she pretended indifference to Phyllis, she was actually extremely jealous of the younger woman. Huera could see that Delgado was infatuated with her pale sickly skin, while Phyllis appeared fascinated with her husband. Huera had seen them gaze at each other across the campfire, but each was afraid to make the first move. Huera knew that one day curiosity would become strong and circumstances congenial. Delgado belongs to me and his other wives. We're not sharing him with the White Eyes bitch.
Huera had resigned herself to losing the battle ultimately, but a new element had just been introduced. The Apache wife gazed across the camp at the White Eyes with the star on his vest. Hmmmm.
Marshal Stowe and the chief smoked the peace pipe together as other warriors drew closer. The lawman offered them tobacco, and soon a large number were blowing smoke at each other. Stowe tried to behave politely but didn't trust Apaches. His right hand never roved far from his Remington, and he was poised to draw and fire. He knew that Apaches preferred sneak attacks to full frontal battle.
Women scuttled among them, throwing chopped roots and chunks of meat into a big cast-iron pot suspended over the fire. On the other side of the circle, Delgado accepted the pipe, filled his mouth with pungent smoke, and scrutinized the lawman. If he makes one hostile motion, Marshal Stowe thought, I'll drill him.
If it weren't for that two-thousand-dollar bribe, I wouldn't even be here, he reflected wryly. He remembered when Big Al Thornton had stuffed the first payment into his shirt pocket. I should've given it back because now he thinks I'm just another crooked lawman, and maybe I am.
He wondered what had happened to Phyllis Thornton and Duane Braddock. Maybe the Apaches killed them, or they're in Morellos, looking for a job. Perhaps I've missed them, but if I get out of this hellhole alive, I'll track them down yet.
The sun sank toward the mountains in the distance as more warriors joined the group, while others departed to their wickiups. Marshal Stowe felt the need to relieve himself but had no idea where to go. “Where's the latrine?” he asked Delgado.
Delgado pointed behind him with his thumb. Marshal Stowe rose, hitched up his gun belt, and headed in the direction indicated. Something told him that a few warriors might slit his throat in the darkness, so he held his right hand near the walnut grip of his Remington. Darkness descended on the mountaintop as his eyes scanned for scorpions, rattlesnakes, and gopher holes. The camp was surrounded by higher mountains, rendering it invisible to the outside world. He hoped it didn't become his burial ground.
He found the latrine, a big smelly hole. On his way back to the camp, he paused to roll a cigarette. A twig crackled behind him and he dropped the match, drew his Remington, and spun around. It was an Apache woman standing behind a chokecherry bush. “I want to speak with you,” she said softly.
He looked both ways, certain the ambush had come. Aiming his gun at her, he drew closer. “What's on your mind?”
“I will tell you where the White Eyes are, if you give me some tobacco.”
Duane and Phyllis lay naked in each other's arms, as the fragrance of cooking drifted into their wickiup. “I've changed my mind,” she said. “I think I'll go to Mexico with you because I can't give you up so easily.”
“We don't have any money,” he reminded her. “You'll be miserable, and you'll make me miserable. It's better for you to go home and let me know when the charges are dropped. As soon as I receive your letter, I'll be on my way to the Bar T. We'll have a big wedding and invite everybody in Texas. During the war, some husbands and wives didn't see each other for five years. If we can't tolerate a few months apart, we shouldn't be together at all.”
Footsteps approached, and Duane heard the clank of spurs. He reached for his Colt as he heard the voice of Marshal Stowe above them. “I know you're in there, Braddock! Come out with your hands up, or I'll start shooting!”
Duane and Phyllis stared at each other as their worst fear came true. “A woman's in here,” he replied.
“You'd better come out, too, Miss Phyllis. I was talking with your father a few weeks ago, and he's damn worried about you.”
Duane wondered whether to open fire in the direction of the voice, but he might hit one of the People by mistake. Meanwhile Phyllis hastily donned her buckskin clothes as she tried to figure out who had betrayed them. “I'll take care of this,” she said.
She crawled out the door, and the marshal sat cross-legged in front of her, six-gun in hand. A crowd of Apaches had formed in the distance, watching curiously. “Are you Phyllis Thornton?”
“Am I wanted for anything?”
“Not as far as I know, but he is.” The lawman pointed his Remington at the wickiup. “Come on out, Braddock.”
Phyllis tugged on the lawman's sleeve. “Why don't you let him go? He hasn't done anything wrong.”
“Got to arrest him, ma'am. Sorry.” Marshal Dan Stowe returned his attention to the wickiup. “I'll bring you in dead or alive, Braddock. It doesn't make a damn to me either way.”
“Don't shoot,” Duane replied. “I'm coming out.”
“Throw your gun in front of you.”
A Colt flew out of the wickiup, followed by Duane's Bowie knife. A deeply tanned hand appeared, followed by a red bandanna. The lawman's eyes widened at the sight of a bronzed Apache kneeling in front of him.
“Are you Braddock?”
“I don't suppose it concerns you that I'm innocent.”
Marshal Stowe held his gun steady. “Not in the least.”
He didn't see anything coming. One moment he was aiming his Remington at Duane's nose and the next moment he was thrown to the ground, one of Duane's hands clamped around his throat and the blade of Duane's knife probed his jugular vein.
“Don't move,” Duane said, “or I'll kill you.”
Marshal Stowe struggled to breathe. “You kill me, you'll have every federal marshal west of the Missouri after your ass.”
“If I kill you,” Duane replied, “your body will never be found. For all the law knows, a rattlesnake got you. Phyllis, take his weapons and boots.”
“Not my boots!” the marshal protested.
Phyllis collected a derringer, a large knife, and a smaller one hidden in his fine San Antone boots. The Apaches laughed as she removed them from his feet.
“Let's talk sense, Braddock,” the lawman pleaded. “From what folks say, you're an innocent man. The judge'll turn you loose eventually, but if you kill me, you'll hang.”
“I'm not going to kill you, although it's what you deserve.” Duane removed his knife from the lawman's throat and rose to his feet. Marshal Stowe pushed himself up, brushed off his pants, and said, “What now?”
“Take Miss Phyllis back to her father and mother first thing in the morning, but I'm going in another direction because I don't trust your judges.”
Marshal Stowe couldn't believe his good fortune. I'm going to London! He saw himself strolling along Bond Street, dressed in a frock coat, twirling an ebony cane. “I can't bring you in against your will,” Marshal Stowe conceded. “I just tried it, and you could've killed me.”
“Try it again, and next time I will.”
After dinner, Marshal Stowe sat at a big fire with the other Apaches. He'd given the chief the keg of mescal, and it was making steady rounds as women and children watched fearfully from the distance. When the barrel came back to the lawman, he took a few more gulps. He had no weapons, was barefoot, but good luck had invigorated him. I'm on my way to Piccadilly Circus, if I can just get out of this place alive.
His eyes searched among the warriors, but he couldn't find Duane among them. The marshal didn't know what to make of the young outlaw's superhuman speed and strength. He's probably alone with the girl, and they're saying good-bye.
The lawman touched the warrant in his shirt pocket. He'd sworn to uphold the law, and there could be no shilly-shallying. As long as this warrant is in effect, I've got to do my duty. He'd expected to find a stoved-up cowboy on the dodge, but Duane Braddock had become an Apache! And sweet Miss Phyllis Thornton must be one hot little pistol, the lawman mused.
He noticed the Apaches becoming uncoordinated, and an argument broke out on the other side of the fire. He questioned the sense of bringing mescal to an Apache hideout, but it had seemed a good idea at the time. No telling what might happen if they went loco. He'd heard stories of Indians committing massacres and orgies while under the influence of demon liquor.
Something struck his back. They were his boots, and the Pecos Kid stood a few yards behind him.
“I want to talk with you,” Duane said.
Marshal Stowe pulled boots over socks filled with holes. “What's on your mind?”
“Come with me.”
Duane headed toward the edge of the encampment as the jittery marshal followed at his heels. “What about my gun?”
“You'll get it back when you leave.”
“If those Apaches keep drinking, maybe they won't let me leave.”
“Have a seat.”
They dropped to cross-legged positions opposite each other as insects sang in thickets around them. Duane peered into the marshal's eyes. “Somebody told you that Phyllis and I were here. Who was he?”
“I'm not telling you, and I don't care if you pull out my fingernails. I'm not one of those lawmen who takes the easy way out. Now see here, Braddock, we don't know each other, but let me give you some advice. If you run away now, it'll be considered an admission of guilt. But if you come back to Shelby with me, it'll be looked upon favorably by the judge. I promise to testify on your behalf, and I'm sure the judge'll let you go.”
“I don't trust you, I'm an innocent man, and nobody's locking me up.”
“All the witnesses said you were innocent, but Lieutenant Dawes doesn't like you and wouldn't withdraw his charge when I suggested that he should.”
Duane spat into the dirt. “All you damned government officials are alike. The fancy-pants lieutenant wouldn't withdraw his humbug charge, and you won't look the other way.”
“Wouldn't be much of a lawman if I broke the law myself.”
Marshal Stowe opened his cigar case, and one cheroot lay inside. He'd been saving it for a special occasion, but he held out the case to Duane. Duane removed the cheroot, scraped a match to life, and puffed fine Virginia burly.
“I spoke with Big Al Thornton,” the lawman began, “and he's hired a lawyer to work on your case. If they challenge the warrant, it'll probably be quashed. The most respected folks in Shelby say you're innocent, and the lieutenant's wife was one of your strongest supporters. She begged me not to shoot you, by the way. It's none of my business, but I'd say that she's still in love with you.”
Duane's eyes narrowed with anger at the mere reference to the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, while Marshal Stowe took a few moments to study the man who'd inspired such love and hate. “I'll be honest with you, Kid. Until this warrant is voided, I'll keep coming after you. You got the drop on me today, but maybe next time I'll get the drop on you. I know where you're headed, and I'll find you sooner or later. Why don't you surrender and make it easy on the both of us?”
“I've got my reasons, and my mind is made up. By the way, you ever hear of an outlaw named Joe Braddock?”
The marshal smiled triumphantly. “I was waiting for you to ask that. You're damned right I heard of him. After I was issued your warrant back in San Antone, I thought the name was familiar. I looked it up in our files and found some old wanted posters for an outlaw named Joe Braddock. He got hung in this territory back in ‘54, and they say he was boss of the Polka Dot Gang.”
This was the first official information that Duane had ever received about his father's past, but he recovered his composure quickly. “What's the Polka Dot Gang?”
“They stole a little here, rustled a little there, shot a few people, burned down a few places—you know what I'm saying, Kid. Outlaws.”
“Somebody told me once that my father was killed in a range war.”
“The Polka Dots claimed they were Mexican War veterans running a ranch, but they hit up against a big combine from the east.”
“What if the combine bought the sheriff?”
“What if the Polka Dots were stone-cold killers? You ever heard of Quantrill's Raiders? They claimed to be Confederate soldiers but were the worst band of outlaws this country has ever seen. They used to burn down entire towns.”
“Some say I'm an outlaw, too, but I never killed except in self-defense. Then I ran into a lying son-of-a-bitch newspaper reporter, and he named me the Pecos Kid. Next thing I knew, a fancy-pants cavalry officer arrested me for a crime I didn't commit, and now I'm an owlhoot.”
“Come back to Shelby with me and stand trial like a man. If that lieutenant isn't careful, he's liable to end up washing pots and pans at some lonely outpost in northern Montana.”
Duane shook his head defiantly. “They'll believe the lieutenant before they believe me, and maybe the judge is a friend of his. They hung my father, but by Christ, they're not going to hang me. After Big Al Thornton's lawyer gets me off the hook, then I'll come back. Miss Phyllis and I'll get married, and we'll send you an invitation.”
“There's something you don't understand, my friend. Once I drop off Miss Phyllis, I'm coining after you. It's nothing personal, but I've got this warrant in my pocket—and it's my job.”
“Why can't you wait for the lawyer to clear me? What's your hurry?”
“Somebody has to stand up for the law, otherwise the whole world'll go to hell. I'm a lawman, not a priest, and I've got a warrant for your arrest. I'm bringing you in—it's as simple as that.”
Duane looked him in the eye. “Let me give you some advice, Marshal. If you crowd me, I'll have to kill you. I'm not saying that as a threat, but it'll happen.”
The lawman winked. “Not if I kill you first.”
Phyllis sat in front of her wickiup, becoming more furious with every passing minute. An Apache had betrayed them, and she thought she knew who it was: Huera. Delgado's wife was jealous of her because of her flirtation with Delgado. Huera was the only Apache with a motive for betrayal, and Phyllis had suffered no disagreements with anyone else.
I should ride away and forget these people, Phyllis counseled herself. Nothing good can come from a fight between Huera and me. But I can't run away with my tail between my legs.
She gazed at Huera gathered with Delgado's other wives around the fire, while Delgado sat with the warriors before the chief's wickiup. Huera thinks she's defeated me, but she's wrong, Phyllis thought as she dusted off her voluminous buckskin skirt and prepared for the encounter. She knew that she should stay where she was, keep her mouth shut, and be a good girl, but she was the daughter of one of the toughest men in southwest Texas.
Delgado's wives were dining on roast turkey, their lips and fingers greasy, as Phyllis approached. Huera heard Phyllis coming and turned, a drumstick in her hand. Phyllis grabbed Huera's hair, punched her in the mouth, and Huera went sprawling backward toward the fire. She singed her backside, let out a screech, reached for her knife, and leapt to her feet. “White Eyes girl, I am going to kill you.”
The quarrel had taken a twist that Phyllis hadn't foreseen, and she knew from dressing animals that it didn't take much to spill guts. Before Phyllis could draw her Colt, Huera darted forward, slashing at Phyllis's pretty face. Phyllis's first impulse was to run for her life, but she gritted her teeth, grabbed Huera's wrist in midair, twisted, and pushed Huera off balance. Huera fell to the ground, Phyllis landed on top of her and sank her fingernails into Huera's right wrist, but Huera's left fist was free and she rammed it into Phyllis's mouth.
Phyllis had never taken a punch before and tasted blood on her lip. When her vision cleared, Huera stood in front of her, waving her knife from side to side. “I have always hated you, and now I am going to cut your head off.”
Huera charged, raising her arm for the knife blow that would disfigure the White Eyes girl. All Phyllis could do was try to grab Huera's wrist again, and if she missed, it would be steel in her guts. Then, suddenly, a darkness came upon Huera as her hand was stopped in midair. Delgado held her firmly in his grasp and pried the knife from her hand. “What is the matter with you, woman?”
“Leave me alone!”
Phyllis declared, “She told the lawman that Duane and I were here.”
Delgado looked at Marshal Stowe standing at the edge of the crowd. “That is so, tin badge?”
“No,” Marshal Stowe lied.
Delgado grabbed his wife's blouse. He was half-drunk, his eyes bloodshot, tongue thick. “Tell me the truth, woman! Did you talk to the lawman?”
Huera couldn't look her husband in the eyes and neither could she respond. Delgado swore beneath his breath. “Go to your wickiup.”
Huera walked away, holding her head high. She'd been publicly humiliated and tried to hide it with Apache bravado. Then Delgado turned toward Phyllis and placed his fists on his hips. “You will leave here in the morning.”
“I'd leave right now if I could,” she replied. “I know that you hate me because I'm a White Eyes.” She was about to return to her wickiup when she bumped into Duane.
He saw the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. “What happened to you?”
She pushed him away and headed for the shelter. Delgado staggered toward Duane and placed his arm around Duane's shoulders. “The women were fighting like bitches in heat, but it is over now. Come, let us drink firewater together.”
Duane joined the warriors at the fire, and the keg was thrust into his hands. He raised the spigot to his lips, and the mescal tasted dusky and devilish as it rolled over his tongue. It was smoother than the usual white lightning and sweeter than tizwin. Duane gazed into writhing flames and saw mountain spirits dancing merrily. A length of wood popped while orange sparks shot into the sky.
“My woman and I must leave here,” Duane said to Delgado. “My woman will go with the tin badge to her father's house, and I'll head for Mexico. I wish I could stay, but I love my woman more.”
“I understand,” Delgado said. “Everything I do, I do for my women—but they never appreciate nothing, and they make me loco. I will miss you.”
“I'd never leave here if it weren't for my woman.”
“Miguelito betrayed us.” Delgado rubbed his fingers together. “White Eyes do anything for money.”
“There's something that I want to tell you before I leave, Delgado. You must make peace with the White Eyes, otherwise the White Eyes will wipe you out. They are much more numerous that the People, and their weapons are better than yours.”
Delgado scowled. “If we go to the reservation, you will starve us. The blankets you give will be full of holes, and the soldiers will insult our chiefs. It is better to die a warrior than live as a rat. There can be no peace between the People and the White Eyes.” Then Delgado's features softened, and he smiled. “But you are a strange White Eyes, and your woman is very beautiful. Maybe one day our paths will cross again.”
Stars splattered the sky overhead and the full moon smiled. Duane glanced at the other warriors and felt one of them . . . almost. Then he gazed at the fire and saw his Apache grandfather smiling at him. “Enjuh,” the old warrior said. “It is good.”