“Sure was, Valerie, and that’s the truth. They took his scalp, you know.”

  “I heard. My dear friend June told me so. That poor, poor man.”

  “And now young Green and the Granger girl.”

  “And someone took a shot at Sheriff Mann, Frank.”

  “That’s so. Winged him in the shoulder. He don’t hurt too bad, but he’s madder than a boiled rattler at all this.”

  “Three Ute warriors, I’m told.”

  “They said there were four or five Apaches with them, all painted for war.”

  “Land sakes, but I don’t want to think about it. Was the Grange girl—? Had those demons—?”

  “I believe so, Valerie.”

  “They sure better catch them mean devils and string them up good and quick.”

  “They better,” echoed Frank Bennett, sanctimoniously. “I spent the whole day walking my ass … pardon me, Ma’am … walking in the sun, lookin’ for them Indians. Me and the boys don’t take kindly to what they’ve done, and when we find them, we’ll surely … well, we’ll just make certain sure they pay what’s owed.”

  The rest of the conversation faded away as Cuchillo reached the sloping roof. He paused only for a moment to scan the town, conscious that he must make a fine target against the white of the house. Then he catfooted to the window. It was locked.

  “Cuchillo says that a sharp knife is better than most keys,” he muttered to himself while concentrating on edging the point of the blade in between the top and bottom frames. He was soon able to slide the catch silently across but had to snatch at the upper half of the window as it suddenly started to fall. The sash cords had snapped, and there was nothing to support it. Grimacing with the effort, the big Indian succeeded in lowering it slowly. He then climbed in over the top and hoisted it shut behind him. After resheathing the golden knife, he took his time to steady his breathing and look around at his hiding place.

  It was cluttered and smelled of old dust and locked-away clothes. There was a child’s rocking horse with half its mane missing, its studded saddle faded and torn. The moon had shrugged off the clouds and was throwing its clear light through the window, making it easy for Cuchillo to pick his way among the trunks and boxes and stacked pictures.

  There were windows on both sides, and he walked carefully across to look out over the street. Mrs. Hart’s house was nearly opposite the jail, and he peered through the dusty glass, careful that his face wasn’t visible to the men patrolling the town. The posses were still bustling around, enlivened by the discovery of the two corpses in the church. There was Sheriff Thaddeus Mann, a white bandage around his upper arm, sitting in a chair, giving orders to the others. Albie Chesterman ran by, preceded by his elongated, questing shadow.

  There was a pile of old chenille curtains near the window, and Cuchillo sat down on them to rest for the next day. But something sharp stuck in his back, and he moved a small wooden sled out of the way, its pointed runners red with rust. It had flowers painted on it and a name.

  The painting was badly chipped; the last three letters were completely invisible. Cuchillo could only read the first four.

  “Rose—” he said.

  It didn’t matter, and he pushed the sled to one side and lay down in the quiet attic.

  And so sleep came, as it does to all men, to Cuchillo Oro of the Mimbreños tribe of Apaches.

  He was disturbed by Frank Bennett leaving the house, a little after 11 o’clock. He and Mrs. Hart stayed chattering for several minutes on the back porch, and Cuchillo listened in, hoping he might hear something about the plans of the lawman. But all he learned was that Valerie Hart was a wealthy widow; her husband having succumbed to a fever eight years ago. And Frank Bennett had been courting her manfully ever since. He was a retired banker who had come to Pine’s Peak on the promise of the railroad and stayed ever since, getting by on an inheritance left to him by his father back in Indiana.

  He tried to kiss her, and she refused him. The eavesdropping Apache learned that he had been trying and she had been refusing him for the last eight years, and it had almost become a game that they both played.

  But eventually the elderly man left, and Cuchillo heard the widow Hart readying herself for bed, still singing to herself. “We will gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river—”

  The light was turned out, and Cuchillo’s sensitive nostrils caught the scent of the smoking wick. Outside there was still activity, with men galloping up and down, carrying flaming torches and shouting to each other. Sheriff Mann had vanished, probably to get himself some sleep the Apache decided. A wound, even if it wasn’t a grave one, took it out of you.

  It was obvious that they had failed to track down Wounded Bear and Crooked Eye, even though they’d had the hounds out again. Cuchillo shook his head as he watched through the attic window, knowing that tracking dogs were rarely of much use in the darkness. The night seemed to confuse their sense of smell and direction.

  Despite having abandoned the Utes, Cuchillo was still vaguely pleased that they had managed to keep out of trouble. And it was with that consoling thought that he slipped into sleep again.

  As the false dawn lightened the sky, Cuchillo was awakened by whooping and yells … and screams. Even before he rose to look down on the main street, the Apache knew that the hunt was over for the two old warriors. They had reached the end of their trail.

  Chapter Ten

  CUCHILLO ORO HAD never understood the casual enjoyment of the whites in gross violence. The ways of the Indians enveloped torture for captured enemies, with the squaws using their inherited cunning to keep the wretched men alive for three or four days. Using needles and probes and hooks, they would cut and slice at the most delicate parts of a man’s body until he was a blind, mewing creature, bereft of any sense beyond the capability to suffer still more pain. But that was understood. It was part of their heritage. The greater the pain for a warrior on the lonely road to death, the greater the honor for him. It was understood.

  But the whites had no such tradition. For them it was simply enough to hurt in the crudest and most brutal manner imaginable, with no sense to it.

  Cuchillo had observed it before, and it angered him. But in Pine’s Peak he was to become angrier than he had been for many years. And his anger would only be cooled in much blood.

  There was enough light for him to see clearly what was happening down in the street. There was also enough light for anyone looking up at the attic of the widow Hart’s house to spot the shadowed face. But there were some strands of delicate lace curtain yellowed by the Colorado suns, and he carefully tugged them across so that he was veiled from any casual eyes.

  Not that anyone was likely to look up from the drama that was being played out to the last scenes, with Wounded Bear and Crooked Eye as the principal, if unwilling, actors. Both of them were still alive, as far as the watching Apache could make out, though both had clearly been badly beaten.

  Pete Green’s twin brother, Sheldon, was on a horse, with Wounded Bear trussed behind the animal. A cord was tied around his wrists and fastened to the pommel of the saddle. Every time the fat old Ute tried to get to his feet, the boy would whoop and kick the horse forward, dragging the Indian along the street, kicking up a furrow in the dust. Though Wounded Bear was covered in dirt, Cuchillo could see that he was speckled with blood where his clothes had been torn off and the skin rubbed raw.

  Being dragged like that wouldn’t kill him for some time.

  Crooked Eye was walking, hobbling on his weak ankle. His hands were tied behind him and he was being prodded along by Albie Chesterman, who was followed by Larry Feathers. The Ute’s face was barely recognizable. It was splotched with crimson, one eye closed, blood running freely from his mouth and nose where he had been either beaten with fists or pistol-whipped.

  Thaddeus Mann walked out of the sheriff’s office as the Apache looked down. He still carried the scattergun, holding it in his arms as if it were a newborn babe. The crowd had grown until it looked as though all of the citizens of Pine’s Peak had come running. Cuchillo heard the front door slam of the house where he was hiding, and he craned his neck to see Valerie Hart. A gown was wrapped about her shoulders like a cloak; she was scurrying barefooted to try and get a good view of the scene.

  Mann was holding up his hands, trying to get quiet. Both Indians had been pushed and pulled to the hitching post in front of the small jail. Crooked Eye was leaning against it, being sick, while his friend lay at his feet, rolling about in agony, crying out for … Cuchillo couldn’t hear what he was crying out for. Mercy? There wouldn’t be much of that.

  “Quiet!” shouted the lawman. He finally achieved something close to silence by firing off one barrel of the gun, the boom making the window of the attic rattle. Smoke billowed around the gathering at the hitching post.

  “That’s better. Now, these men are my prisoners, and they’ll get a trial.”

  The howling and shrieking was deafening. During it Crooked Eye managed to help the other Ute to his feet so that they stood together, facing the mob.

  “You aim to stop us from hangin’ them, Sheriff?” asked a voice from the back of the crowd.

  “Guess so.”

  “They killed Dave Tardy!”

  “And the girl.”

  “Raped her first!”

  “Scalped my brother!”

  “Killed three of our folks, Sheriff Mann. You can’t just let ’em go.”

  Mann shook his head. “I’m not about to do that, am I? All I say is a legal trial.”

  “Circuit judge won’t be here for months,” called Chesterman, who was standing just behind the elderly lawman.

  “And those bastards’ll be eatin’ and gettin’ fat on the county. I say hang ’em both!” Cuchillo was able to make out the speaker. It was Frank Bennett. He was waving the Tranter pistol in his pudgy pink fist.

  “I have to uphold the law. Take that away, and you got nothing.”

  Over the years Cuchillo Oro had become skilled in reading between the lines of the white man’s speech. He could see what was hidden by the sparkling on the surface. And he knew in his heart the lawman wanted to see Crooked Eye and Wounded Bear dead. Despite his claimed respect for the power of legality, Thaddeus Mann was like everyone else. Having seen his old friend butchered and scalped, then the boy and the girl, he just wished for bloody revenge.

  Cuchillo watched silently.

  From his brief experience with Mann, the Apache had already come to realize that the lean, grizzled veteran was an exceptional person. There was a quiet self-awareness to him that was rare in white men—a confidence that came from knowing to a hair’s breadth just how good he was. Cuchillo admired that in any man.

  “I can’t stand here and let you take them. I hold to the law.”

  Behind him, Chesterman suddenly made his move. He pressed the barrel of his Colt to the back of Mann’s skull and yelped out his triumph to the mob.

  “We know what the old man here wants, and that’s what he calls justice. We know a better kind of justice, huh?”

  The skinny boy thought that he had manipulated the situation and won control of it. Cuchillo shook his head, breathing quietly in the dusty air. He knew that the lawman had set it up. He’d deliberately stood with his back to the excitable young deputy, sure that he would be goaded into doing something like that. This took the responsibility off Mann’s shoulders.

  It was cleverly done.

  The two Utes were oblivious to what was going on. They simply hung on to each other like a couple of felled trees. Only their own support kept them both from toppling to the dirt. They didn’t yet realize that they were quite doomed.

  With Albie crowing at his heels, Sheriff Mann turned and walked into the jail. Cuchillo guessed that he would now allow himself to be safely locked away so that he wouldn’t have to witness the lynchings.

  It was cleverly done.

  In the end it didn’t take all that long. The collecting of the kindling took a few minutes, and there was an argument over picking the right tree, which led to a brief flurry of fist fighting. By flattening his face against the cool glass, the Apache was able to see the finish. He strained to make out which men were specially responsible for the brutality.

  Revenge was something that had motivated Cuchillo Oro for long years against Pinner, but he had tried to avoid involvement in the problems of others. At that moment he had no strong intention of seeking revenge for the two foolish old men—despite the horrific manner of their passing.

  The mob hurried them along, pushing and kicking them. Cuchillo saw a young woman with a baby in her arms reach the front of the crowd and spit in the bloodied face of Wounded Bear. She got a roar of approval from the crowd. Crooked Eye was tripped from behind by a stick held in the hand of a girl no older than 12. Encouraged by some of the men, she climbed on the back of the old warrior and rode him on hands and knees, lashing him with the switch.

  At the tree, a huge stump of a sycamore that had been blasted by lightning, both Utes were tied standing with their hands behind them. They were bound around the ankles and thighs and chest and arms, with a final loop tugged brutally tight around their necks. Brush was piled about their legs, reaching nearly to their thighs.

  Then there was a silence—an ugly, gloating silence broken only by the crying of the little baby. Everyone stood there, taking pleasure in what they were about to do to the helpless men.

  Larry Feathers was holding a smoking torch, waving it backward and forward so that the wind made the flame roar and sing. Locked in the attic, Cuchillo couldn’t make out any words from the lynching mob, but he could hear the sullen animal roaring and screeching. Wounded Bear was hanging in his bonds, barely conscious, but Crooked Eye was alert to what was happening. Cuchillo could see that the old man was trying to shout back at the crowd. And he wasn’t begging for life or mercy. At the very last he recovered the pride that the years of white domination had eroded in him.

  The pyre was lit.

  The flames flared brightly with a pale fire in the early-morning light, and the people of Pine’s Peak danced and cheered. They laughed at the way the Utes wriggled and fought against their ropes as they felt the heat scorching their cotton breeches.

  Widow Hart bent down, fumbling to pick up a pointed stick from the edge of the fire, its tip scorched and glowing. She stepped in close and held it toward the face of Wounded Bear, delicately lifting the hem of her gown to avoid its becoming blackened by the ashes. She took out the Ute’s left eye as neatly as if she were spearing fish on a kitchen spit. Cuchillo could hear the burst of cheering that was her reward. And he could imagine the hissing as the eyeball was burned, and the high cry of pain. Valerie Hart skillfully finished the blinding with a thrust of the pointed stick that would have done credit to a duelist.

  Frank Bennett came and put his arm around her and kissed her flushed cheek. The woman with the baby had found a larger piece of burning wood, and she and some of the younger girls took turns poking at the genitals of both old men. They clapped their hands as they burned off the Utes’ trousers, gouging at the soft flesh beneath.

  Cuchillo turned from the sight, realizing that it was as good a time as any to make his escape from Pine’s Peak while the whole town was enjoying its holiday. A burst of shooting stopped him. He looked out once more and saw the banker leading the men in riddling the smoking bodies of the Utes with lead. Bennett was firing the double-action Tranter, the bullets making the Indians buck and twist against the ropes. The flames had reached so high that it was difficult to see properly. The stinking smoke had reached the Apache in the room where he hid and was making him wrinkle his nose in disgust.

  Wounded Bear and Crooked Eye hung dead. They bore little resemblance to human beings, standing in the fire like two, large, blackened logs.

  “May the spirits receive them into their keeping,” muttered Cuchillo Oro. And as he stared down at the bleak street, his eyes suddenly caught something at the far end of the township, away from the lynching.

  “No,” he said. “No.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THOUGH HE WANTED to move from the curtained window, something held Cuchillo Oro there as if he had been nailed into place, unable to remove his eyes from the dreadful scene.

  What Pine’s Peak had done to Wounded Bear and Crooked Eye was appalling enough, but at least the Apache could see that they thought they had some kind of justification for it. Three people had been killed and scalped. That was a good enough excuse for the burnings.

  But it didn’t excuse what they did next. Which was why Cuchillo decided that a lesson must be taught to the good citizens of the settlement.

  The Ute woman who had walked into town from the east, following her shadow along the rutted trail, looked to be about 35 years old. She was well into middle age by the standards of the Indians. She had two young children with her. They were boys, one about four and the other a little younger, and they were stepping out manfully in the morning sun. Nobody knew whether she was the mother of one or both of the children, or a grandmother, or an aunt or just a friend. Nobody ever found out.

  It was not unusual for Indians to rape their white captives. It was their right to take them, as they were simply spoils of war. It was rare that a white woman would be butchered. Normally they would be taken into the tribe, and if they worked, they were accepted. If they chose to try and escape or refused to do their share, then the chances were that they would be killed.

  The taking of the Ute squaw wasn’t like that. It was an act of brutal revenge for the whole town. She was grabbed and stripped. One of the women cut her simple clothes off of her with some dressmaking shears. Several times she drew blood from the naked flesh. It was as though a blind madness had gripped everyone. Even respectable women like Mrs. Hart stood and watched and whooped the men on. The children all gathered round, spitting and throwing pebbles at the screaming squaw. The Ute had no idea at all what was going on. She had no clue as to why she was being treated in this way. The word of the killings wouldn’t have reached her reservation, and there was no reason for her not to come in to buy some essential provisions.

 

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