Mack Gallerito watched impassively as they got back into their truck and drove off. He probably would have had the same expression on his face if they’d driven off a cliff, Easton thought. He was beginning to get used to what appeared to be the standard Apache hostility toward the pinda’lick’oye, but there was no law said he had to like it.
“Muchas gracias, you hard-assed old bastard,” he muttered as the old man went back into his rundown cabin. Ironheel heard him and said something to his sister in Apache. She nodded and smiled a tight little smile.
“What was that?” Easton asked.
“Said it’s going to take a long time to make you understand what it’s like to be Apache,” Ironheel replied.
“If your friend Gallerito’s a role model I’d say you’re probably right,” Easton replied.
This time his words touched a nerve because he saw rancor kindle in the dark eyes. Joanna Ironheel saw it too, and put her hand on her brother’s arm. He drew in a long breath and let it out, shaking his head impatiently.
“Baa nagólni’,” he said to his sister. “Tell him.”
“No matter how it may have looked, Mr. Easton, Mack Gallerito wasn’t being a hard-assed old bastard,” she said. “Apache don’t do chitchat. Something’s worth saying, we say it. If not, we say nothing.”
“You afraid us white-eyes will confuse polite with gutless?”
“We learned never to give you the chance,” Ironheel gritted, biting down on the words. “Long time back.”
It got very quiet, a maybe-nobody-better-say-anything kind of quiet. It stayed that way as they bumped down the trail into the canyon. Joanna Ironheel’s back was as straight as a ramrod, and the smolder of disapproval coming off her brother was practically toxic. Humble pie time, Easton thought..
“Doo baa shi’l gozhóó da. I apologize,” he said abruptly into the silence. “What I just said was stupid.”
Surprise lit Ironheel’s eyes, but it was quickly masked. His sister allowed herself the thinnest of smiles.
“Apology acknowledged,” she said.
The clipped tone told Easton ‘acknowledged’ was not in this instance a synonym for ‘accepted.’ Apache and their goddamned pride. Did they think they were the only ones who had any? He took a deep breath and started over.
“You’re probably wondering who I called back there,” he said.
They waited, saying nothing. Was that more of the Apache way, he mused, or their way of telling him they were wondering no such thing? Whatever it was, their lack of interest was disconcerting. Maybe they were confident Yusn would take care of them, he thought. Maybe so, but since Yusn was the Apache god, he wasn’t about to take a chance on the care extending to him.
He told them about his call to Tom Cochrane, and his friend’s promise to make a drop outside McCullom’s later that evening.
“That’s a lot of trust,” Ironheel said. “How do we work this?”
“It would probably be best if I go down to Hondo alone.”
Ironheel made an impatient sound.
“Get real, Easton. Last couple of days your face has been all over TV. You walk into a store, someone will drop a dime and every cop in New Mexico will be on your case.”
“So what are you saying, you should go?”
“Damn right.”
“Just mingle with all the other Apache doing a little late night shopping down there, right?” Easton said, piling on the scorn.
As Ironheel glared back at him, he glanced at Joanna Ironheel. She had tight hold of the wheel and was staring straight ahead, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Was she staying out of it because when there is a difference between men, Apache women do not intervene, or for reasons best known to herself? One thing he did know: something was making her good and mad.
“So,” Ironheel said, leaning as heavily on the sarcasm as Easton had. “You go down there in them bloodstained uniform pants, start rummaging about in the trash can, and hope nobody will notice, that it?”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Joanna Ironheel snapped, pulling to a stop in front of the cabin. “Will you two quit butting heads like a couple of rutting elk?”
Rutting elk? Well, well, Easton thought, struggling not to grin, she sure as hell hadn’t keeping silent out of respect.
“Did someone ask you for an opinion?” Ironheel snapped.
“Nizé!” she snapped back, the dark eyes flashing. “Just save that warrior-code routine for the na’ilins, big brother. It doesn’t impress me.”
“What does?” he retorted.
They glowered angrily at each other. Siblings always fight dirtier than strangers, Easton thought. They get more practice.
“You Neanderthals listen to me,” Joanna Ironheel said, staring straight ahead. “Neither of you can go down there. And you both know it.”
Ironheel turned to Easton as if to say, You tell her. But Easton shook his head.
“She’s right,” he said.
Joanna Ironheel clapped her hands together and laughed out loud, giving him a sudden glimpse of a younger, beautiful woman.
“Yéé, now you’re being smart, Mr. Easton,” she said. “At least you’re man enough to admit you’re wrong.”
Her brother made an impatient, dismissive sound that is the same in any language: women!
“Not wrong,” Easton protested. “A tad slow on the uptake, maybe.”
“Both,” she said, and not without satisfaction.