With an effort, he got to his knees, shaking his head to try to clear the sickness of the wound. He opened his eyes, blinking toward the setting sun, and saw men, white men, nearly on top of him. With a snarl, Cuchillo reached for his knife with his good left hand, but it was too late. The man coming at him, Robbie Reagan, leading his own charge after the fleeing Apaches, simply took off in a great running leap and hit him in the face with both feet.

  It was a dreadful blow that would have killed most men, snapping their necks like dry twigs. But Cuchillo Oro was not ‘most men’. He rolled back with the kick, absorbing much of the impact with his neck and shoulder muscles. Even so, there was enough power to lay him out cold, flat on his back.

  There was a long period of darkness, haunted by demons from his past. Visions of his dead wife and child, the gentle Chipeta and the tiny Troubled Night, slaughtered by the white pony-soldier, Cyrus Pinner, many months ago, holding out their hands to him, as they were consumed by fire, while the figure of the blue-clad cavalry officer, tall, handsome, and sneering, watched them.

  When he at last opened his eyes, Cuchillo found that it was full dark. At first he could see nothing, and thought that he had perished and walked alone in the cold spaces between the stars, with the soulless dead. Then he saw the flicker of firelight to his right and heard the low sound of voices. He was alive, and by the tightness of the bonds around his arms and legs, he was a prisoner of the white-eyes.

  It was an experience that Cuchillo had endured before. He had escaped in the past, and he would wait until the moment came when he could escape again. One of his favorite sayings was that while the heart could beat, the hand could still strike. His only white friend, the schoolteacher John Hedges, had heard him say that and had said that the white men had a similar saying: while there was life, there was hope.

  The wound in his arm throbbed, but it felt as though it had been treated. Someone had certainly tied a rag around it. That meant someone wanted him kept alive. Torture? Not usually with the white men, though the times were changing. Information? Much more likely.

  ‘He’s awake, Reagan!’

  The voice was from behind him. Cuchillo felt the barrel of a gun pressed coldly into the back of his neck, tugging at his long hair. They weren’t about to take any chances.

  Feet crunching through sand toward him, stopping near him. He looked up and saw the giant figure of a white man. Elongated by the angle, Reagan looked well over six feet tall, and broad with it. Dark jacket and blue trousers. Twin guns in a black leather belt. Neatly cropped black hair. He squatted down by Cuchillo, and the Apache saw that he wasn’t as tall as he’d first thought. Close to six feet though, and broad as the side of a barn.

  ‘Back to the fire, Pete. Get yourself warmed up a mite. I want to have a talk to Mr. Indian here.’

  The other man got up, groaning as his knees creaked, and walked toward the fire. Cuchillo realized that it was cold and that he was very stiff. He must have been unconscious for hours. Gingerly he moved his jaw, testing to see what damage that kick had done. It was sore, and he could feel a crust of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. But the jaw worked, and all of his teeth still seemed to be there.

  ‘Now. I know you bastards mostly savvy a bit of our talk. If you can talk, then you’d better. It’ll keep you alive a mite longer. If you can’t, then I’m giving you over to my boys to dispose of. That wouldn’t be enjoyable. I ain’t one to mess with time-wasting. Right. Let’s see if we understand each other. You savvy me talk?’

  Cuchillo nodded slowly. He reckoned this man for someone to believe.

  ‘Good. That’s fine.’ There was an oddly jarring note in the man’s voice. It really mattered to him that Cuchillo could speak and understand English. Why?

  ‘I am named Fallen Spear, and I am of the Chiricahua tribe of the Apaches.’ No point in giving away who he really was. Already Cuchillo had met reasons not to talk too freely. He knew that the name of Cuchillo Oro was on wanted lists issued by the military authorities, though the civil forces weren’t after him yet. The man who was hunting him, pursuing him with all the time the army left him, was Cyrus Pinner.

  ‘Right. Fallen Spear. I am called Reagan. Robert Reagan. I’m leading this train, what’s left of it, to find a settlement somewhere to the west of here.’ He pointed over to where the sun had set.

  Cuchillo stayed silent. He had been stalking the train for three days, waiting for the moment to strike. The night before, he had snaked in on his belly to listen by the fires and find out their strengths and where they were going. He had learned much.

  That they were a strange religious sect, more than that he couldn’t understand about their religion. The Mormons were unknown to him. That they were from the East. And that they looked for land to build a town of their own. The other side of the Sierra Mogollon. A dozen wagons. Now only ten. Thirty men. Now only twenty, that included the four or five of the leader, Reagan. Cuchillo had marveled at the size of Gabriel, and had been aware of the delicate balance of power that had existed in the train between Reagan and the Exalted One and his Elders. Now the balance had shifted to the man Reagan.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Indian?’ The question was reinforced by a blow to the face by a heavy fist. Cuchillo spat out fresh blood. That was another item in a score between himself and the white man.

  ‘I hear you, Robert Reagan. You let me live. Why? What can I do for you?’

  The question was interrupted by shouting, and a woman’s voice raised near the fire. ‘I say kill him. Cut out his eyes and hang him. If you men won’t do it, then we will!’

  A chorus of agreement from other women. Reagan sucked in breath between his teeth.

  ‘See the way the wind lies, Indian. Most of the honest folks on this train would see you dead for what you did to the Duquesnes and the others. Me, I’m not so sure. Killing off the skeleton’s gunmen has made things a hell of a lot easier with these Bible-punching settlers.’

  The shouting got louder, and Reagan drew his gun and went over to the fire, out of sight of Cuchillo. Left alone, he probed at his bonds, but they had been well tied, and there was no possibility of escape. Satisfied of that, he again lay back, still, saving himself from useless effort. The argument among the whites was growing.

  There were the shrill voices of women, making horrible suggestions of what they thought should be done to their helpless captive. Despite the danger of his position, Cuchillo smiled grimly. Despite all of their beliefs in their God, in their Jesus, women were all the same. When it came to torture, it was the squaws of his people who derived most enjoyment from carrying it out. And it affected them and made them more wanton and lustful. There was even a saying that when the torture needles had been out, then the fields would welcome the plough.

  Reagan’s bull-bellow towered over the babble. ‘Shut up! Beggin’ your pardons, ladies, but hold your damned tongues!’ Even that didn’t stop them. ‘Shut your fucking mouths!’

  There was a shocked silence. A man’s voice, quietly raised, objecting to Reagan’s language. The sound of a fist on bone. Then silence.

  ‘There. Now we cannot kill him, yet.’ That word ‘yet’ dug its claws into Cuchillo’s mind. ‘He’s a local Apache, and he must know this part like his own … well, I figure he knows it damned well. I’ve scouted here in the past, but I only know the main waterholes and trails. You all know that these Indians done burned the water wagon, and that we were pretty near out anyway. That means we need water, and we need it real bad. I’ve checked up on it, and I figure we need water in the next two days, or some of us aren’t going to make it. And that’s only if we cut right down on the little we’ve still got left.’

  The only voice this time came from the Exalted Ezekiel Revelation Gabriel. A fluting, melodious voice. ‘It is said that the Blessed Lord Jesus, from whom all things flow, will not let his chosen elect to suffer in the wilderness. Yea, he shall surely provide a quiet abode beside the waters of comfort.’

  ‘Very fine, Reverend. Your Jesus tells us where the nearest water is, and I’ll get down and pray alongside you. Until then, our best bet is that damned Indian back there. Any objections from anybody?’

  Cuchillo waited. If Reagan lost out on the argument, he was as good as dead. If he won, Cuchillo had a guarantee of two or three more days of life. From what he’d seen and heard of the wagon master, Cuchillo felt reasonably confident that he’d get to see a few more sunrises.

  There weren’t any objections, and Reagan quickly rejoined his prisoner. ‘I guess you heard all that, Indian. You know the hole you’ve left us in. And you know how to get us out of it and save your own stinking skin at the same time.’

  ‘If I take you to water. Then what?’

  ‘Then you live. I give you my word on that, Indian, and you can count on Robbie Reagan always keeping his word.’

  The Apache had the cunning of a wild animal, and the ability to sense when he was being told a lie. Despite the big man’s bluff heartiness, Cuchillo knew that he was not one to be trusted. But for the time being, he would have to go along with what they wanted.

  ‘The nearest water is in the hills.’

  ‘Like the Reverend would say, “From whence cometh our help?” Eh?’

  Cuchillo nodded. ‘It is two days from here on a fast horse. At least four with the wagons. Perhaps five, as your animals are not fit.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Reagan was doing some sums. The journey hadn’t been easy, hindered by the insistence of the Children of Jesus on holding long prayer meetings two or three times each day. The food and water had begun to shrink dangerously fast, and the Apache attack had pushed things beyond the possibility of survival.

  ‘You cannot find water yourself. I can take you to it, but there will be no food. It is a choice.’

  ‘God damn!’ exploded Reagan. Water was bad enough, but if there was to be no game high in the hills! ‘You find water, and then we starve. Is that what you’re saying? If it is, then you better come up with something, or you’re going to be the only sort of Indian that’s any good.’

  ‘What sort is that?’ asked Cuchillo.

  Reagan couldn’t resist a snigger at his own cleverness and originality. ‘A dead one. Now let’s have it.’

  ‘What it?’

  ‘The it about where we find water and food.’

  ‘I tell you, Robert Reagan. There is a place in the hills, many miles from here, where you can make a camp while you send fast riders to the nearest waterhole. That way, you can have water in three days. No less. But the Sierra Mogollon, as you call these hills, is barren at this time of year. Your food will run out if you camp, and your people will die of thirst if you do not.’

  ‘Shit! That’s the kind of dumb numbering I can do without. The way I know it, you can make it longer without food than without water. So, we go on, and we camp where you show us. Then you tell us how to get to the water.’

  ‘Cannot tell. Only show.’

  It was a lie. Reagan suspected it was, but he couldn’t do a lot about it. Tied and wounded as he was, the Apache still held too many cards. Reagan hadn’t as much chance as an icicle in Hell of finding water. He knew where the next hole was beyond the mountains, but the sight of the Apaches had forced him into the foothills. Now he didn’t dare come down again.

  ‘All right. You got a deal, Fallen Spear. You ride along with us, and I’ll keep you alive. No more than that, mind. You ain’t going to get no easy treatment. We camp, and then you ride out with three, four of my ramrods, and bring back the water. I tell ‘em to let you go once they got water.

  Reagan’s face was safe in shadow, but someone threw wood on the sinking fire, and it flared up brightly for a moment. In that moment, Cuchillo saw the bitter truth etched on the man’s heavy features. His reward would be a bullet in the back of the head and no burial.

  That wasn’t surprising, and maybe Cuchillo would have done the same thing if their positions had been reversed. But he would have avoided actually giving his word. To break an oath was one of the worst crimes to the Apache, despite the lies of the white man.

  ‘Untie me?’

  Reagan laughed. A booming, unexpected sound that silenced the fireside conversation that had sprung up again. ‘Sure! And I give you my pony and three hours’ start. Plus all the food you can carry and all the water you can drink.’ Still laughing, he stood up and rested the heel of his boot on Cuchillo’s neck, the spur digging into his cheek. Very slowly, the white man increased the pressure, grinding the head of the Apache into the dirt. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched very low.

  ‘You double-cross me, Indian, and your name’s gonna change from Fallen Spear to Broken Neck. You better believe that.’

  Keeping his voice steady, despite the pain, Cuchillo answered him, ‘I hear your words, and I will carry them in my heart until the end of your life.’

  They left early the next morning, the horses and oxen harnessed before the sun burst out of the eastern sky to roast the skin and crack the lips. Cuchillo was tied astride a horse, a rope around his ankles under the belly of the animal. After some discussion with his men, Reagan agreed that the Apache should be allowed to ride with his hands free, but there was always to be a man behind with a loaded shotgun barreling in on him.

  There were obviously enormous and bitter feelings against Cuchillo from the men and women of the Children of Jesus. They gathered around his horse, staring at him. Only the presence of Reagan and his armed men kept them from dragging him off and lynching him. There were threats, and the mood seemed to be sweeping toward hysterical hatred when the staggeringly tall figure of the Exalted One heeled up on his black stallion, waving his hands at the mob.

  ‘Leave the heathen, Brothers and Sisters. As the Good Book sayeth, surely shall the Lord God smite down the unbeliever in the hour of his pride. As he waxeth, so shall he wane. See him, my children, brought low and made a servant at the tabernacle of the Lord Jesus. Brother Reagan has told us how he had no knowledge of the way of redemption. So shall this man, the instrument of our despair, also become the instrument that shall lead us from the Valley of the Shadow to the golden citadel of salvation.’

  The silence was broken by the ironic noise of Reagan clapping his hands. ‘Mighty pretty speech, Reverend. Glad to hear you see the way things sit. Like I told you all this morning, I don’t mind what happens to our friend, Fallen Spear here, just so long as he gets us out of this mess. With him alive, we’ve got a chance of making it. If he dies, then we’re all deader than a beaver hat.’

  Through the exchange, Cuchillo Oro sat quietly on his horse, watching for the moment when they would relax and he could make his move. But it wasn’t yet. His mount was a spavined wreck, its ribs sticking through its flanks. It was all that it could do to walk slowly, let alone raise a trot or a gallop. If he tried to escape now, they’d have him in less than a minute.

  But the days to come would be hard. Harder than most of the soft Easterners could conceive. Then things would change, and a time would come. The Apache blinked as the rising sun flashed in his face, reflected off the golden hilt of his knife, now tucked in the gunbelt of Robert Reagan.

  ‘Get ‘em up! Move ‘em out!’ The scout’s shout disturbed a group of vultures, waiting like a leathery collection of grave robbers on the hillside, sending them flagging heavily into the clear blue sky.

  Slowly the train inched forward, like a disconnected snake, its several parts moving in jerks toward the high peaks of the Sierra Mogollon. Cuchillo found himself near the head of the party, riding in Reagan’s dust. His guard, a skinny little fellow called Bart Harvey, rode silently at his heels, the shotgun cradled in his arms like a newborn babe.

  A mile or so along the narrow trail, the beanpole figure of Gabriel rode forward to join them, reining up alongside the Apache, gazing curiously at him.

  ‘Why do you not repent and join us? I can keep you safe from the others in my flock. My word is all they will hear, and there will be no retribution on a sinner come to repentance.’

  Cuchillo turned his head to look at the long, thin death’s head of the Exalted One. Before he could speak, Reagan let his own pony ease back to join them. ‘Reverend, I suggest you go back to your sheep and tell them to get their asses in gear, lest they get left behind.’

  Without a word, the tall thin man tugged his stallion’s head and pulled it back toward the line of wagons. Reagan let out a harsh laugh as he watched him go.

  ‘One trouble with that bastard Gabriel. Too fond of blowing his own trumpet.’

  Chapter Three

  A WARRIOR OF the Apache tribe is one of the toughest men in creation. He has to be to survive in the appallingly inhospitable lands of the Southwest. There is a joke among the softer Indians of the Plains that you never see a fat Apache, It is a true saying. From the cradle to his often early grave, the life of the Apache is one of hardship. He fights Nature and he fights other tribes. As the push of ‘civilization’ forced its way across the continent, he finally had to fight the organized forces of the white men.

  Cuchillo Oro had already lived through experiences that would have killed most men. Even have killed most Apaches. And he had survived. But that July day was bad. The rope that was never untied chafed his ankles raw, so that blood dripped steadily to the dust. Used to riding long distances, it was still usual for men to have short breaks from the stiffness of the saddle. Even when he asked to be allowed to relieve himself, Reagan refused.

  ‘Fallen Spear. Get it straight. There ain’t no way on this earth that you are getting off that horse till we camp for the night. With rocks right on top of us, you could be away in two shakes of a buzzard’s ass. I got me a responsibility to these folks.’

 

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