And as the rancheria grew stronger in terms of the number of braves gathered there, so the distrust hardened and extended into fear. Out of this fear emerged hate and with men like White Dog and Lieutenant Pinner exerting their influence on each side, the hate was never allowed to recede under the gentle leverage of continued peace.

  Now the chance had been lost, and Cuchillo’s heart was heavy as he viewed the tangible evidence arrayed before him.

  The fires were out and the tepees had been dismantled. A great many ponies were heavily laden with bulging parfleches, saddlebags, and tepee packs. Many braves and elders stood beside the ponies. Squaws sat astride other ponies which waited patiently between the shafts of loaded travoises. Cuchillo eyed this group without resentment, even though he knew it represented perhaps three-quarters of the rancheria—the majority unwilling to follow him. He reviewed the smaller group with the same lack of emotion. It was comprised of fifteen braves, mounted on the fleetest ponies from the corral and encumbered only with the weapons of war.

  White Horse was positioned a few feet in front of the small group; Black Horse waited in a similar manner before the other. Cuchillo rode to within twenty paces of where the spokesmen for the two factions sat astride their ponies. He noted the arrogant self-satisfaction inscribed upon the face of the young brave, and the deep sadness clouding the usually bright eyes of the old chief.

  Cuchillo maintained an impassive silence after he had halted his pony, allowing Black Horse his privilege of opening the council. White Dog, having succeeded in attracting such a strong band of warriors to his cause and forging an alliance with Cuchillo, could afford to be generous in the matter of Apache etiquette.

  Black Horse forced himself erect in the decorated pad saddle, hiding the pain that knifed through his stiffened muscles. “You must know that the Borderline Mimbreños attach no blame to you for this, Cuchillo,” he opened. “The soldiers came and accused you of a cowardly murder. We do not ask if you committed such a crime. They took your wife, Chipeta, as a hostage. Chipeta chose to take the child with her. Such a thing is a cowardly crime. We who know you consider you incapable of doing what the white-eyes accuse you of. And even if the harsh treatment of you by the soldiers had moved you to vengeance, we know you would willingly exchange your life for that of your wife. That you have chosen to take the warpath is evidence of your innocence and the white-eyes’ evil.”

  He paused, waiting for a response. Cuchillo noted that White Dog had begun to show signs of impatience. He ignored the brave.

  “Cuchillo is grateful for the faith of his brothers,” he said. “And his heart is heavy that the elders consider it necessary to move the rancheria.”

  “You understand the reason for this?” Black Horse asked.

  Cuchillo nodded. “Those who wait behind you have acquired the habit of peace. It is a good habit and I have no quarrel with it. When Fort Davidson is attacked there will be no peace here. The soldiers will seek bloody revenge against all Apaches.”

  “It is the way of the white-eyes,” Black Horse agreed.

  “Where will you take the people?”

  “To the north, then to the east,” the old chief replied, raising a scrawny arm and pointing with an age-shaken finger. “I fear there are few parts of Apacheria where we will be able to enjoy the degree of peace we were able to achieve here. And if we fail, it will be better to fight under the leadership of such a skilled warrior as Mangas Coloradas. He and our brother Mimbreños are to the north and east of this place.”

  White Dog found it impossible to contain himself any longer. His voice was loud against the cold, still air of the plateau. “The people should stay here!” he bellowed. “It is here that Cuchillo and White Dog with their warriors will plant the seed from which will grow the reality of Black Horse’s dream. When Fort Davidson is burned to the ground and the buzzards are feeding on the flesh of the dead soldiers, the chiefs of all the Apaches will see it as a sign. From here will the word spread to rise up in concert against the white-eyes on our land.”

  The braves grouped behind White Dog nodded in agreement and muttered their affirmation.

  “I ask the great spirit to make your words come true,” Black Horse replied, his tone lacking conviction. “If you succeed with such a thing, the faith the people have had in me will be justified. But I am doubtful, White Dog. The soldiers are strong with weapons. And if every warrior of the rancheria chose to follow you, the soldiers would still be stronger in number.”

  “Enough of this!” Cuchillo said firmly, addressing White Dog. Then he swept his eyes over the faces of the warriors clustered behind the spokesman. “The words of your leader are brave. But those of our chief are wise. My quarrel with the soldiers is mine alone. I am ready to settle it on my own. You feel you have scores to settle and I welcome you to my side. But know this. Might is more powerful than right. Death is likely to be the reward for your courage. Your courage is foolish and your death will serve no purpose. Think of this and if you decide to rejoin Black Horse, I will not view your act as a dishonorable one. Nor will any other brave, squaw, or elder.”

  His expression became challenging as he swept his eyes from the warriors, to White Dog, to Black Horse, and to those Apaches who had already realized the suicidal nature of the proposed raid. The silence pressed down over the plateau, disturbed only by the restless scratching at the ground by unshod hooves and the nervous snorting of the ponies. Squaws whose menfolk had elected to join the war party looked with imploring eyes toward the smaller groups. White Dog wanted to turn a smoldering gaze upon his warriors, but felt himself trapped by Cuchillo’s level stare. A full half-minute slid into history.

  “Go now, Chief Black Horse,” the young brave announced suddenly. “And if we should die in failure, ensure that all our people throughout Apacheria know the reason for this thing.”

  Black Horse seemed about to say something, perhaps to renew his efforts to dissuade the braves from gathering to Cuchillo’s cause. But he confined himself to a hand signal of farewell, then wheeled his horse and veered away. The people fell in behind him, forming a slow-moving, well-ordered column. Some braves hung their heads, as if in shame. Others eyed Cuchillo with contrition. The squaws of the braves who stayed attempted to transmit final, imploring messages with their dark eyes, first directing the plea to their husbands, then to Cuchillo.

  Finally the two groups were completely divided, the larger moving inexorably toward the ridge at the northern extreme of the plateau while the smaller remained in stoic immobility, waiting the orders of Cuchillo. They were back-to-back and nobody turned. Only Cuchillo watched the departure, seeing the scouts gallop their ponies ahead and to the sides before the individual people and animals became merged into a single blurred shadow almost obscured by the dust cloud which they themselves raised.

  “We ride for fort now!” White Dog said suddenly, his tone making it almost a demand.

  Cuchillo fixed the brave with a penetrating stare. “Soldiers have your squaw?” he asked softly.

  “You know not.” White Dog moderated his tone.

  “Then my need is greater than yours,” Cuchillo told him. “I make plan and I lead raid. Afterwards, if we are alive to make it matter, we decide which one of us becomes leader.”

  White Dog hesitated for a few moments, then nodded. Cuchillo raked his eyes across the faces of the warriors and they made their agreement known in unison. Cuchillo realized they were prepared to follow anybody, providing the attack was against the soldiers of Fort Davidson.

  “How long we wait?” White Dog wanted to know.

  Cuchillo looked toward the diminishing dust-billow which marked the progress of the departing Indians. “Until Black Horse and his people are safe from retaliation,” he replied, then glanced around at the moonlit desolation of the plateau.

  Now that the rancheria had been uprooted, the surrounding flatland seemed larger, and the small group of braves clustered at its center were diminished in size and strength by the vast emptiness. The moon shone down brightly upon them and in its cold light they were vulnerable; the deep shadows lurking among the craggy mountains surrounding them were ominous. Cuchillo knew that the threat of danger existed only in his mind. The Borderline Apaches had lived in servile compliance for too long and it was many years since surveillance of the rancheria had been extended beyond visits from routine patrols. Even after such an act as had been committed tonight, the soldiers would be confident enough to consider it unnecessary to post observers.

  Nevertheless, the braves were formed into a war party which, although not yet daubed with the paint of the vengeance-seekers, was armed with the weapons to bring death to the white-eyes. And the braves’ minds were filled with the prospect of the attack to come. It was in the nature of Apaches resolved to take the warpath that they assumed danger to be ready to pounce at any moment.

  So, as he watched the braves, Cuchillo was not surprised to see them casting furtive glances to left and right, ahead, and behind. Perhaps deep down they, too, realized that the danger was imagined rather than real. But they were in no mood to accept this and would have little respect for a leader who kept them in such an exposed position for longer than necessary.

  “We will wait at Hole-in-the-Rocks,” he announced. “There we will consider our strength and make our preparations.”

  He wheeled his pony to face the start of the trail which curled over the hill crest towards the fort.

  “You will tell us no more, Cuchillo?” White Dog asked.

  Cuchillo eyed him quizzically.

  “The waiting is easier when one knows how long it is to be,” White Dog elaborated.

  “Dawn is a bad time to die,” Cuchillo replied.

  “And a good time to kill,” White Dog said pointedly. “The soldiers have set such an hour to hang your squaw.”

  “Then the soldiers must die before they see another sunrise,” Cuchillo responded without emotion.

  He thudded his heels into the flanks of his pony and the braves urged their mounts in pursuit of him. The dust cloud of their progress was smaller than that which had been raised behind Black Horse and his people. The war party crested the rise and went from sight behind the outcrop of rock. The dust settled and the plateau was left in utter silence, the moonlight falling upon a desolate landscape robbed of all movement, all life. Soon, the weather would erode every sign left by the rancheria and all traces of the departure of the Indians who had lived there. Nothing would be left to show that here a group of ‘savages’ had endeavored to live peace with the white-eyes invaders.

  History would recall only the bloody results of the failure of this experiment in co-existence.

  Chapter Seven

  THE THUD OF hoofbeats drew John Hedges’ attention away from the two troopers digging a grave for Armstrong Ford at the side of the store. He moved slowly from the doorway of his tiny house and peered through the light of the post along the street and out on to the trail. The anxiety lining his unhandsome face was fleetingly diminished when he saw that Captain Crane, Lieutenant Pinner, and Nathan Ford rode at the head of the same number of troopers who had left the fort earlier. So there had been no fight at the rancheria. But what of Cuchillo?

  He waited, holding his breath, for the riders to draw nearer, straining his eyes to look past the leading riders and into the center of the uniformed figures jogging along at a steady trot. But it was not until the riders entered the area of light from the windows that he saw it was a woman, holding her baby, who had been taken by the soldiers. And only when Crane had called a halt, with the head of the column between the saloon’s bat-wing doors and Hedges’ house did the schoolteacher recognize the woman as Chipeta.

  “Jess Grainger?” Crane yelled.

  Pinner glowered at Hedges, who held his ground despite his nervousness. He tried to capture the attention of Chipeta—to offer her the small comfort of a smile in her misery—but the squaw stared unseeingly ahead. Then the Indian Bureau agent slouched into the doorway of the saloon and swallowed a great gulp of beer before speaking.

  “You want me, Mr. Crane?”

  The Captain sent a stream of tobacco juice into the dust. “The Injun we want wasn’t around. So we got his woman and brat. We’re holding her hostage to make sure he turns himself in. That all right with you?”

  Grainger swallowed some more beer.

  Crane licked his lips, dry with trail dust.

  “Sounds like a mighty good arrangement, Mr. Crane,” the agent allowed, and belched. “Only thing is, it seems to me this is a civil matter; seeing as how it was a civilian got killed, and not on Army property. Reckon, that being so, I ought to keep the squaw prisoner. Me being the Bureau agent.”

  “Well, I don’t know about—”

  Grainger winked as he cut in: “With the permission of Nathan here, we plan to hold a wake after the funeral.”

  The schoolteacher’s concern deepened, as Grainger and the two officers looked at Nathan Ford and received a curt nod of approval. The saloon owner, one Edward O’Regan, had started the Fort Davidson tradition of holding wakes for the dead – after the interment – when a fellow Irishman, a Dragoon corporal, had accidently shot himself while cleaning his carbine. The wake had progressed into a wild orgy, with Annie Colbert dispensing her favors freely in return for a share of O’Regan’s vastly enlarged profits. Since that occasion, every death at the fort or post had been accompanied by a wake, irrespective of the deceased’s religion.

  Grainger’s blatant wink and the ill-concealed glee with which Crane and Pinner greeted the suggestion of handing Chipeta into the custody of the Indian agent was obvious in its meaning.

  “Captain Crane!” the schoolteacher shouted.

  The fat, blotched face was turned toward Hedges. “You want something?”

  “Maybe an invitation,” Grainger chortled.

  “The woman is innocent of any crime,” the schoolteacher said, having to struggle against a threatened tremor which hovered behind each word. “I ask that you place her into protective custody and make her as comfortable as possible.”

  Crane moved the quid of tobacco from one side of his month to the other and hung a thoughtful frown on his face, as if giving Hedges’ suggestion careful consideration. He even fooled Pinner, who looked at the senior officer in awed expectancy. The enlisted men and non-coms waited disinterestedly. Only officers attended wakes.

  The captain nodded, as if in agreement with what Hedges had said. But then his obese features formed into a scowl. “I ask that you mind your own fucking business, Injun-lover!” he snarled.

  “Give the squaw-bitch to the agent, Sergeant!” Pinner ordered.

  Grainger swung open the bat-wings and swaggered out of the saloon, holding his arms wide. “Come on, sweetheart,” he crooned. “The Great White Chief set up the Indian Bureau to take care of folk like you.”

  “Her baby!” Hedges implored. “Let me take care of her baby?”

  Pinner showed him an evil grin, his lips curling back and his eyes narrowing to glittering green slits. “That’s woman’s work, schoolteacher,” he rasped.

  “Reckon Annie Colbert can handle it. She won’t be needed to handle anything else tonight.”

  A laugh ripped from his lips.

  Chipeta was not so well-schooled in the Indian art of inducing a trance to offset suffering as were the braves, but she had retreated part-way into a detached state during the ride from the rancheria. But she was thrust back into reality by a violent shove from the sergeant. She cried in alarm and clutched her baby tighter to her as she slid from the horse and stumbled into Grainger’s arms.

  “You will represent the Army at the burial, Lieutenant,” Crane instructed, as Nathan Ford urged his horse out of the group and moved to examine the grave which had been dug to receive his son’s body. “I’ll join you later.”

  Pinner saluted. Crane responded, then raised an arm to signal the troopers to follow him down the street, over the plank bridge, and into the compound of the fort. Many of the men glanced with lustful envy as they rode past the saloon entranceway, where the grinning Indian agent held the helpless squaw hard against him. His clawed hand thrust long fingers into the swell of her breast.

  Hedges tore his eyes away and gazed out along the trail which snaked up toward the pass on the far side of which lay the rancheria.

  “You’ve got no horse, schoolteacher!” Pinner taunted, capturing his helpless attention. “And ever if you could get one, you’d never make it. I’ll be watching you. If you so much as set foot on the trail, I’ll consider it as intent to assist an Apache murderer. And I’ll kill you, you Injun-loving bastard. Okay?”

  The scowling Pinner waited for a nod of acknowledgement. The bat-wings squeaked as they closed. Hedges looked past the hind-quarters of the lieutenant’s mount and saw Grainger urging Chipeta into the depths of the saloon.

  “I said okay!” Pinner rasped.

  Hedges’ throat was constricted by fear, but it seemed terribly important for him to establish himself beyond Pinner’s authority. “Okay …” he growled, and quickly added as he moved forward. “… if I buy myself a drink?”

  He didn’t wait for a response and before Pinner had time to phrase a new command, Hedges’ stubby legs had carried his paunchy frame across the narrow street and into the saloon.

  “Bastard!” the lieutenant muttered to himself, then heeled his horse viciously forward to clatter over the bridge. On the edge of the compound he brought the animal to a rearing halt and slid from the saddle. “You!” he yelled, pointing to an enlisted man slouching across from the arsenal. “Feed and water him.”

  The man was armed with a rifle and wore a belt with a buttoned-down holster. Several other men were leaving the arsenal with similar weapons, heading toward various points on the perimeter ditch.

  “I’m posted for extra guard duty, sir,” the man replied. “Orders from the captain.”

 

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