Apache Moon (5 page)

The warriors burst into laughter, and even Delgado couldn't suppress a smile. “You cry over a dead carrier of fleas, White Eyes? How touching, no?”

Duane heard the sarcasm in his voice and felt like kicking him in the teeth. But Duane wasn't in a small-town saloon and knew that his life hung on a thread. “That dog was my friend,” he said simply.

Delgado thought for a few moments, then said something in his language. An Apache warrior carried the little boy toward a horse, and it appeared that they were about to leave the area. Phyllis rolled the blankets, while Duane prepared the horses for the trip. His guns and knife had been taken, and he felt naked. Phyllis tied the bedroll to the back of her saddle and glanced at Duane. “For a moment, I thought you were going to jump Delgado. Keep your hands to yourself, and maybe we'll get out of this alive.”

“I'm not looking for trouble,” Duane said. “But the sons of bitches killed my dog.”

“They don't like white people, as I'm sure you've gathered by now. Please don't provoke them.”

“They haven't given our guns back, and that's a bad sign.” He touched his fingers to his throat, where blood had coagulated.

“I thought you were a goner,” she admitted.

The Apaches climbed onto their horses as Delgado looked back impatiently at Duane and Phyllis. The two
White Eyes mounted up and urged their horses forward. The little boy sat on a horse with an older warrior, his eyes closed, still unconscious, wet leaves plastered to the wound on his head.

Delgado shouted an order and the Apache warriors jabbed their heels into their horses' withers. They turned in a westerly direction as warriors coalesced around Duane and Phyllis, placing them in the midst of the formation. Hoofbeats echoed across the desert as they headed for the Apache hideout in the distant hills.

The soldiers returned to Shelby before noon, and Marshal Dan Stowe waited for them to unload their wagons. Then he swallowed the remaining drops of whiskey in his glass, departed Gibson's General Store, and strolled to the camp on the outskirts of town.

The time had come to interview the arresting officer, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes. Stowe had learned that Dawes was a West Pointer, his father a retired general living in Washington, D.C., and evidently there was money in the family. Dawes was estranged from his wife, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, whom he'd married approximately a month ago. Dawes also was drinking heavily, according to the scuttlebutt. His signature on a piece of paper had summoned Marshal Dan Stowe from San Antone, with a warrant for the arrest of Duane Braddock, dead or alive.

The lawman approached the canvas tents in neat rows, with soldiers rubbing down horses, cleaning equipment, and recuperating from a scout on the open range. Sometimes Stowe wished that he'd stayed in the army, but it had changed drastically since the war. Then, the men had been average citizens fighting for the Union, but the current crop of soldiers were criminals and failures from all over the world, with the officers frequently worse than the men. Their mission was to subdue Indians, and Stowe could find no honor in that. So he'd resigned his commission, become a common cowboy and then a lawman.

“Halt—who goes there!” The sentry stood before him, carbine at port arms.

“I'm Marshal Dan Stowe, and I want to speak with Lieutenant Dawes.”

Stowe was led to the largest tent in the area, whose front and rear flaps were open. He dimly made out the outline of an officer sitting at a desk, presumably writing the report of his scout while it was fresh in his mind. Stowe waited outside the tent while the sentry entered. He heard a muffled conversation, then the sentry returned.

“You can go in now, sir.”

Stowe ducked his head as the officer arose behind his desk. Lieutenant Clayton Dawes was in his late twenties, with long dark blond hair and several days' growth of beard. He held out his hand. “I bet I know why you're here.”

“I'd like to talk with you about Duane Braddock,” the lawman replied.

“Have a seat. I'd offer you something to drink, but unfortunately all I have is water.”

Stowe reached into his back pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and tossed it to the lieutenant, who took a swig. “It's not bad,” the West Pointer said, “considering it was made in Fred Gibson's washtub. Have you spoken with that gentleman yet? I'm sure he believes, like all the other fools around here, that Duane Braddock is the victim of my jealousy, right?”

“That's what they all say,” the lawman replied laconically, taking out his notebook and pencil. “What's your side of it?”

Lieutenant Dawes's brow wrinkled. “You've probably heard that my wife was once . . . with Braddock, and that's why I arrested him. That's the most vicious insult of my career, because it implies that I'd be petty enough to deprive another man of his liberty, due to my own pathetic jealousy. It has the ring of cheap sentiment, and makes a rather touching story, but it's horseshit. Duane Braddock is a killer, and you can see it in his eyes. But he's got that lost-little-puppy-dog charm and attracts the mother in every woman. I'm sure you've heard his supposedly tragic story by now. He was raised in an orphanage, but he turned out to be a rotten little urchin, and they threw him out. Then he hopped on a stagecoach, rode a few days, and landed in Titusville, where he shot approximately six men.
His next stop was this settlement, where he shot two more. And I'm not even mentioning fistfights, barroom brawls, and wrestling matches. He's extremely violent and probably loco, but as I said, he's got a certain charm, and he smiles oh so sweetly. The people around here are rather unsophisticated, and they've been taken in by him. Duane Braddock could shoot a grandmother in the back in broad daylight on the main street of Shelby, and the good citizens would probably say that he was justified, or it was an accident, or the grandmother had evil intentions. Duane Braddock has this town bamboozled, but I'm the local authority and couldn't let him get away with shooting two people.”

Marshal Stowe smiled faintly. “I've got thirty witnesses who'll say that Braddock fired in self-defense.”

“I don't care what they say. Two men were dead, and I considered it my duty to take him into custody, which I did at great personal risk, by the way. I suppose you've heard that he beat Otis Puckett to the draw? He would've shot me, too, but fortunately I was able to outmaneuver him. Mind if I have another sip of that whiskey?”

The marshal threw the flask, and Dawes plucked it out of the air. He took a few swallows, sucked wind through his teeth, and said, “If you don't believe me, that's your privilege. All I can do is my duty as I see it, but if you ever run into the so-called Pecos Kid, keep your hand near your gun and watch for a back shot. I wouldn't put anything past him, and he likes to use
women to get what he wants. Have you heard that he was about to marry into the richest ranch in the territory?”

“I spoke with Mister Thornton yesterday. He thinks Duane Braddock is innocent, and is anxious to exonerate him.”

“Killing is killing no matter how you cut it. If you came here hoping that I'd withdraw my report—forget it.”

The sounds of the army camp came to their ears as they stared at each other. Then the marshal placed his left ankle on his right knee and lit a cheroot. “I've spoken with your wife,” he said.

Lieutenant Dawes's cheek betrayed a flicker of emotion. “What did the bitch have to say?”

“The same as the others: that you arrested Braddock out of jealousy.”

“I don't care what my birdbrained wife says. Braddock is personable and even somewhat charismatic, just like Jesse James, John Wesley Harding, and all the other killers, robbers, and rapists on the loose in the West these days. My best professional judgment is that he's a murderer, and I'm afraid that you'll have to bring him in—if those bloodthirsty Apaches haven't caught him yet.”

The column of Apaches came to a stream at the end of a narrow winding canyon. They dismounted,
sentries were posted, and they watered their horses. Duane knelt beside his animal, filled his hat full of water, and drank deeply as he regarded the Apaches warily. They moved quickly, brightly, and were extremely athletic, with sinewy arms and legs, deep bronze coloring, and rugged confidence. They continually glanced around, searching for possible danger. Delgado ambled toward Duane, accompanied by three of his warriors. He looked Duane up and down skeptically. “I am afraid that we will have to blindfold the both of you now.”

Duane didn't resist as they wrapped the cloth over his eyes. A few feet away Phyllis submitted to the same fate. The world went dark around them, and they were led to their horses. They climbed into their saddles, and the column moved out again, heading in a direction that Duane couldn't discern. He tried to be optimistic, but he knew that Apaches hated white men. Something told him that he probably wouldn't be alive when the sun went down that night.

Marshal Dan Stowe sat at a table in Gibson's General Store, his map spread before him, a glass of whiskey holding down one edge. His guess was the fugitives had gone straight south, in an effort to reach Mexico as soon as possible. The first border town on the route was Morellos, and that was where Stowe hoped to intercept them. Braddock and Phyllis
Thornton had a head start, but he knew the territory better than they. In addition, he'd met Apache leaders at treaty signings and powwows over the years and felt that they'd respect his tin badge. They knew damn well that if they killed him, the Fourth Cavalry would chase them to the ends of the earth.

His plan was to travel at night and sleep during the day. The only way to catch your man was just keep on a-comin'. Stowe was relentless in pursuit, and never stopped until he captured his quarry. He thought of the hundred dollars in his jeans, and guilt fell over him yet again, tormenting him endlessly. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't doing something wrong, although he'd accepted a semibribe.

Is Duane Braddock a killer or the victim of jealousy? he wondered. But I'm not the judge, and it's just my job to bring him in—no matter what it takes. And if I can return that girl to her father, so much the better. There's nothing wrong with that, right?

Commands were shouted back and forth as the Apache column came to a stop. “Get down,” said the voice of an Apache warrior.

Duane lowered himself to the ground. The Apache came up behind him and untied the blindfold. The bright sunlight knifed into Duane's head. A narrow craggy incline lay straight ahead. Duane turned to
Phyllis, whose blindfold was also being removed. They moved toward each other and embraced.

“Come,” said the Apache warrior. “No time for that now.”

Other Apaches laughed as they tugged their horses up the impossible path. Duane couldn't understand how they could traverse those jagged teeth. If he were riding by, he'd never dream that men could use it for an avenue of escape.

“What is the delay?”

It was Delgado striding toward them, a scowl on his face. “White Eyes, we know that you are weak, but please do not slow us down too much. We are anxious to return to our camp, see our wives, and mourn for our dead.”

“We'll keep up,” Duane vowed. “We're not as weak as we look.”

Delgado placed his hands on his hips and said arrogantly, “White Eyes are pathetic, but you are stealing all our land. It is—how you say—a cont . . . cont . . .”

“Contradiction?” Phyllis asked.

Delgado turned to her and looked her over. “Thank you,” he said coolly. Then he moved off with the sure movements of a mountain cat, and Phyllis wondered how many people he'd killed in order to become a leader of Apache warriors. She shuddered as he issued the command for the warriors to proceed.

Duane held the reins of his horse as he prepared for the task that lay ahead. He was determined to
demonstrate that a white man could climb as fast as they, even though they'd probably kill him later. I can't slow down no matter how tired and thirsty I get.

The column advanced up the mountain, and Duane looked for the next spot to put his foot. He had to pick and feel his way around sharp boulders that were hell on boots. He looked at the moccasins that the Apaches wore, and they appeared little more than deerskin stockings, not much protection from sharp edges. They must have feet like iron, he mused as he searched for the next toehold. They were amid steep cliffs, rock escarpments, and vast plateaus. Duane turned to look at his horse, which he'd met on the night that Phyllis had sprung him out of the army camp. She'd said it was one of her father's best, and his name was Steve, while Phyllis's horse was Suzie. Duane glanced at his woman and saw that she was climbing steadily, her hat covering her face as she examined the trail before her.

He figured that he'd be tortured to death while the warriors turned Phyllis into a slave. Apaches liked to stake white people to anthills and pour honey over their faces. Or wrap rawhide thongs around a white man's head, and when the thongs dried, they crushed his skull.

If any of them lays a hand on Phyllis, I'll go for his throat, and I don't care what they do to me. He swallowed hard, because death would be nothing compared to what could happen to Phyllis. He flashed on the monastery
in the clouds, where every day was like the last, full of prayers, books, and bread baked in the monastery ovens.

I'm here because of animal lust, he confessed to himself. Then he recalled Proverbs 6:27:
Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?

He glanced ahead at the convoluted passageway, and the climb had only just begun. Just keep going, he told himself. You can't be delicate in front of these damned injuns.

Marshal Dan Stowe examined his equipment one last time, as potbellied Mr. Gibson puffed a Pittsburgh stogie. They were standing at the hitching rail in front of Gibson's General Store, and the lawman made certain the cinches weren't too tight on his riding horse or the load unevenly distributed on his packhorse, a sad-faced creature with long ears always in motion, listening for news.