Two

The two spying Apache warriors, hidden from the view of those they observed, did not have to worry about making noise. Any sounds that resulted from them moving around or rustling vegetation were covered by the waters of the small stream rushing past their position. From their viewing spot the water arched out into empty air to fall a hundred feet down to the pool below where the white men they spied upon were situated. The Indians called the small body of water the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.

The name of the Indian leaning the farthest out over the edge was Quintero. He was short, very muscular, and so dark his skin color could be described as mahogany. Quintero was very much admired in his age group of males within his clan. Smart, aggressive, and fearless, he had evolved into a natural leader since his entrance into warriorhood. As was his habit, Quintero carried a flintlock rifle he had taken from a Mexican vaquero killed in a cattle-stealing raid less than a year previously.

Looking down from his concealed observation post, the Apache fighter did not like what he saw. Quintero spat at those he considered interlopers into his people’s land.

His best friend, a warrior called Chaparro, glanced across the stream, and studied the scowl on his companion’s face.

He was pleased at the hatred he could see. Quintero’s anger always meant excitement. Chaparro glanced down, but his eyesight at distances was poor, and he was unable to make out much of what went on below. He turned back from the view and walked to the spot where their horses were tied to some scrub pine trees. Chaparro squatted down on his haunches to wait for Quintero to finish watching the men below.

The sun moved an eighth of a way across the sky before Quintero pulled back from the edge and joined Chaparro. He was so furious he could not speak. He stood there slapping the stock of his rifle with loud smacks of his hand as he considered what he had seen.

Are they Mexicanos, Quintero?” Chaparro asked.

They are White-Eyes,” Quintero said. “One of them is the old man Erudito.” That Spanish word was the closest the Apaches could come to pronouncing Eruditus’ name.

The friend of old Aguila?” Chaparro mused. “What is he doing? Bringing White-Eyes into El Vano to live with him?” The Apaches called the Vano Basin “El Vano,” the same as the Mexicans.

I do not know,” Quintero said. “I have always fought to keep the Mexicanos out of El Vano.” It was typical of the young man to refer to himself alone and no others when speaking of past events. “Now it looks like I must fight White-Eyes as well.”

Maybe they are not going to stay long,” Chaparro suggested. “I cannot see well at that distance, but it seems the wickiups they erect are of cloth, not of adobe or wood.”

It makes no difference. White-Eyes and Mexicanos are the same,” Quintero told him. “They like to call land their own and live on it without ever going away. It does not matter what sort of lodges they put up. They will build stronger ones later.”

Perhaps these new people have cattle with them,” Chaparro remarked hopefully. “We can use the meat.”

They are not building a rancho down there,” Quintero said. “Those men are soldiers. White-Eye soldiers are like Mexicano soldiers. They are paid to fight. We will have to make war against them.”

But if Erudito brought them in, then Aguila will not want us to fight them,” Chaparro pointed out. “He will speak against making war at the council.”

Aguila is an old man like Erudito!” Quintero spat. “Instead of meddling in matters concerning younger people, those two should be sitting somewhere getting drunk together on mescal or tequila and stay out of the way.”

True,” Chaparro agreed. “It would be a natural thing for them to do. They are good friends, no?”

Did you not know they were boys together in days even before our own fathers were born?” Quintero said.

That makes a strong friendship,” Chaparro said. “We spent our boyhood as friends. Now we are grown warriors and are like brothers.”

Our friendship is strong,” Quintero said. “But I tell you this, Chaparro. If you ever brought in White-Eyes or Mexicanos into El Vano, I would kill you even if I do love you as a brother.”

Then I will not do that,” Chaparro said seriously. “You are a stronger warrior than I.”

I am also a stronger warrior than Aguila,” Quintero said.

You would fight him?” Chaparro chided him. “He is not young and does not go to hunt or fight, yet he is listened to on the council.”

The day is coming when they will listen to me!” Quintero said. “Come! Let us return to the village and talk to our friends.”

Chaparro, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before Quintero stirred up some excitement and bloodletting, happily swung up on the back of his horse.

The two warriors were members of a mountain and desert Apache tribe called the Chirinatos. Fierce warriors and relentless hunters, that particular clan was both respected and feared by other Indians and Mexicans in the area. Although they principally inhabited the Culebra Mountains, the tribe’s beginnings were on the great desert of the Vano Basin that stretched out from that forested, craggy range. Because of those early days, they sometimes felt drawn back to the hard-packed sandy terrain of the arid, harsh land their ancestors had roamed. To them, the area held many sacred and deeply spiritual qualities. Because of this, bands of Chirinatos would spend months wandering and living in one of the most merciless lands on earth.

Although prone to break up into small groups, this Indian clan could gather together in a very short time in cases of emergencies. Most of the time the men hunted, fought other Indians, and stole what they could from Mexicans during forays south. The women were homebound with their own duties and pastimes. They gathered food such as cactus fruit and yucca stems on the desert, or nuts and berries when up in the high country. Although the Chirinato females planted small crops of corn and squash from time to time, wandering from mountain to desert and back again did not give much opportunity for any serious agricultural undertaking.

The band to which Quintero and Chaparro belonged were presently residing in a camp in the Culebra Mountains. The pair urged their mounts upward into the higher reaches of the range. In only a half hour of travel, the weather cooled and the vegetation went from scrawny chaparral to stubby trees. In another thirty minutes, the trees had thickened until the Apaches’ horses threaded through a veritable forest of pine and evergreen.

They found the village’s wickiups strung along a shallow mountain valley with a stream running through it. It was that same ribbon of water that ran down through the mountains to pour off the cliff into the pool on the desert floor. They went directly to a far corner of the area where four of the lodges were pitched close together. Quintero and Chaparro liked to stay near their other two friends, who were a couple of warriors as fond of fighting as they. Their names were Bistozo and Zalea.

Bistozo, noting his comrades’ arrival, looked up from his chore of cleaning the bore of his musket with a brass ramrod. He raised his hand in greeting, then noted Quintero’s furious expression. Quickly getting to his feet, he approached them. “What has happened?”

Chaparro answered. “We have seen White-Eyes at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff. They were with Erudito.”

Bistozo was interested. “What were they doing?”

The White-Eyes had set up cloth wickiups,” Chaparro answered.

Are you sure they were not Mexicanos?” Bistozo inquired. Quintero finally spoke. “I saw yellow hair among them and very light skin. These are men of Erudito’s race. Of this there is no doubt.”

Bistozo was curious. He knew that Quintero could not tolerate outsiders in El Vano. “What do you want to do, Quintero?”

Chaparro laughed. “He wants to kill them.”

Bistozo now grinned. “Then let us go do this thing.” Chaparro shook his head. “No! The council has already warned us about making war after we killed the White-Eye family last year.”

Bistozo nodded. “Aguila said.

I don’t care what that old grizzly bear says!” Quintero interrupted. “I will pay him no mind.”

But he speaks wisely,” Bistozo argued. “He said the White-Eyes were lost and confused, so nobody knew they were here. If they did, then the family would have been missed. In that case the soldiers would have come to punish us. He said our people were lucky for all that.”

If you think Aguila gives wise counsel, why don’t you stay by him?” Quintero asked.

Bistozo grinned. “What fun is that?”

The group’s fourth member, a bandy-legged fellow named Zalea, who had been out doing some informal hunting, came walking into camp from the slopes above. When he spotted his friends, he hurried over to join them. Chaparro wasted no time in appraising him of what he and Quintero had seen at the desert pool.

How many are there?” Zalea asked. “Can we kill them?”

We can kill them if we are brave and cunning,” Quintero assured him.

But we must inform the council of what we saw,” Chaparro said. “That is what the customs demand.”

I grow weary of the customs,” Quintero said. “They tie a warrior down tighter than rawhide ropes drying in the sun.” But he knew they had to follow tradition and law. “We will speak at the council tonight.”

Are you going to call for a fight?” Zalea asked.

I will see what I will do,” Quintero said. He had too much respect for the Chirinato council to boast of wanting to defy its authority and advice. “But I will speak my mind.”

Bistozo’s woman joined them with clay mugs and a jar filled with tiswin, a corn beer of which the Chirinatos were particularly fond. After serving the warriors, she properly made her exit without having said a word.

Tiswin is good after being busy all day,” Quintero said. “Yes,” Chaparro agreed. “But for real drinking, I prefer mescal.”

Or tequila!” Zalea added with a laugh. “I have two bottles. Shall we drink them?”

No!” Quintero exclaimed angrily. “You know my feelings about this! I will not go to the council or war with anybody who is drunk.”

The other three, although thinking how much fun it would be to get drunk and maybe quarrel and scuffle, showed their desire to stick close to Quintero by not defying him. He was their leader through long years of evolvement that had begun in their boyhood.

We will stay sober, don’t worry,” Chaparro said.

Quintero glanced at the sun above them, then swung his gaze to the large wickiup at the center of the camp. “We will have time to eat a little. Then we go to the council and I will talk to them about the White-Eyes at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.”

The entire encampment moved into its late afternoon and early evening routine. Any hunters who had gone out looking for game returned with fresh kills. At that time of year in the Culebras, only a blind-and-deaf man could not find game. Smoke from cooking fires drifted across the small valley and all activity eased down to soft talking as the women tended their cooking chores while hungry men and children waited for the meals to be served.

Later, with full bellies and the first evening fires being lit, the people who desired to hear the council and chat with their friends, moved toward the meeting area in front of their chief’s wickiup. The leader of that particular band of Chirinatos was a husky, prematurely gray warrior called Lobo Cano. Craggy-faced and with heavy lids, he seemed like a wolf lying in wait to all who observed him.

Lobo Cano was already seated cross-legged, waiting for the others to make their appearances. The first to arrive was a slim old man who greeted him silently with an upraised hand. This was Aguila, an old warrior who was a close and valued friend of the white man Eruditus Fletcher.

Two other men, all veteran fighters and hunters, showed up and took their places, forming a semi-circle with Lobo Cano and Aguila occupying the center. Interested onlookers murmured among themselves. Then Aguila’s brother Nitcho, the tribal medicine man, following Chirinato custom, shook the sacred rattles and called on Spirit-Worn an-of-the-Desert and Coyote-Ghost-of-the-Mountain to bless them with wisdom and visions.

At that point, before the chief could bestow proper greetings to the rest of the council, Quintero pushed his way through the crowd and presented himself in front of the group. He stood scowling, arms crossed, as his three friends joined him.

Lobo Cano made no remarks regarding this discourtesy. He waited to see where the breach of etiquette might lead. Aguila smiled wryly and said, “Buenos noches.”

Speak to me in the White-Eyes’ language, old one,” Quintero said.

Then I say to you, good evening,” Aguila said. “Why do you wish a greeting in that tongue, Quintero?”

Because your friend Erudito is at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff with many White-Eyes,” Quintero announced.

Excited talk broke out among the people at the news. Lobo Cano spoke sharply, “How do you know of this?”

Earlier today, Chaparro and I hunted on the southern rim and spotted them.” He glared at Aguila. “These were not men with women and children. They were soldiers.”

Lobo Cano looked at Aguila. “What do you know of this, elder friend?”

Nothing,” Aguila said. “I have not spoken with Erudito since the season of the moon of the cold winds.”

Quintero was not a man to waste time. He shouted, “This is bad for our people! We must kill them!”

A shout of approval rose from the young men in the crowd. Lobo Cano sprang to his feet. “Wait!” He realized the possible serious consequences if the young warriors roared out of camp looking for White-Eye blood. The chief sighed. “The crying of women and children make me sad.”

Aguila, also appreciating the seriousness of the situation, looked straight into Quintero’s face. “If they are soldiers they will not be easy to kill like the man and his family you attacked last year.”

I do not care if it is one White-Eye or many,” Quintero boasted. “I will kill all I see. They are as bad as the Mexicanos.”

Aguila knew that serious and logical conversation would not be possible with the younger man. “Since there is no danger, we can be patient. It is important to find out what the White-Eyes are doing at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff. Perhaps they are only camping for the night or a few days while journeying someplace else.”

Do they number more than our fighting men?” a member of the council asked. His name was Zorro, and he was a man known for his cunning.

Our band is enough to kill them all,” Quintero said.

Then they are no threat to us,” Aguila said. “We must find out what they are doing there—”

And how long they plan to stay,” Terron, the other member of the council, interjected.

Their bones will stay forever if I have my way,” Quintero said.

You are quick to strike,” Aguila said. “Many times that is not an act of wisdom.”

Chaparro stepped forward. “My friend Quintero strikes quickly against the Mexicanos! He has killed many. I listen to him when he says to kill the White-Eyes.”

You do not care for wisdom, Chaparro?” Aguila asked.

Not if wisdom is the prattling of an old man,” Chaparro sneered.

Silence!” Lobo Cano roared at the mouthy young warrior. “Aguila has proven his manhood in battles and his own wisdom at councils before you were born. I followed him as a young warrior and learned much while we killed many of our enemy.”

Show respect!” Zorro added.

I will show respect, but eventually I will lead warriors to kill the White-Eyes,” Quintero boasted.

You will lead nobody,” Lobo Cano threatened. He was a better warrior than Quintero. Though advanced in years, he was still strong, and could make up for any lack of quickness through experience and guile. “Do not issue commands here.”

I respect the council,” Quintero said. He turned and left with the same abruptness he had demonstrated at his entrance. His friends followed.

There is trouble here unless wiser heads take over,” Lobo Cano said. He turned to Aguila. “Go find Erudito. Tell him we would speak with him and the White-Eye chief.”

I will waste no time,” Aguila said seriously. “If we are not careful, the sands of El Vano will soak up blood like it does the spillover from the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.”