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Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson

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BOOK: Ghost Warrior
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He fell back onto his cot and started snoring as soon as his head hit the saddlebag he used for a pillow. The captain dutifully returned to his office, filed the telegram away, and forgot about it.
 
 
THE MERCURY HIT 125 DEGREES AND CRACKED THE GLASS of Britt Davis's thermometer. With a sideways flick of his wrist, he tossed it away. It traveled two feet up, two feet out, and three thousand feet down. He did not watch its fall. The trail was less than three feet wide here, and the view from the edge of it made him dizzy. Making himself dizzy was not a good plan.
The packers raised a shout at the rear of the column. Another mule must have fallen over the side. Chato and the forty scouts had already scampered up the mountain and disappeared over the ridge. With awe and envy, Davis had watched them go. He was still impressed by their strength, agility, and reckless courage. General Crook was right. They were the tigers of the human species.
Al Sieber shouted, “Look out below.”
Britt Davis pulled his horse up against the rock wall. The loaf-size rock that Sieber had dislodged came bounding at him as though launched from a catapult. It hit the ground a rat's length, not counting the tail, from Britt's feet, ricocheted to one side, and went over the edge. Britt continued toiling up the trail.
All summer Geronimo's band had led the soldiers and scouts down one side of the Sierra Madres and up the other. Davis thanked God every day for Chato and the other scouts, because maps were only useful as tinder here. The men's sweat-soaked clothes hung in shreds. Davis's wardrobe had been reduced to overalls, undershirt, and the brim of his felt hat. A third of their animals had perished. The remaining mules' and horses' heads drooped until the sharp rocks abraded their lips.
Worst of all, Davis was dogged by the thought that this was all his fault. When General Crook sent no reply to his telegram four months ago, he should have sent another. Or he should have gone to see the general. Instead he had sat tight and hoped the Geronimo's Chiricahuas would settle down and start farming the way Loco and his people had.
With no word from Tan Wolf, Geronimo became convinced that the Bluecoats planned to arrest and hang him. So off he went again with forty-two warriors and a hundred women and children. They cut the telegraph wires, splicing them with thongs so the breaks were almost impossible to find. Then they scattered into the mountains. Chief Chihuahua's crowd headed east, and Geronimo's went south.
Geronimo's bunch knew that the Mexican ammunition wouldn't fit their Springfields and Winchesters, so they attacked the camp at the border. They killed seven soldiers and made off with a plentiful supply of cartridges. Chihuahua's trail through New Mexico had been bloodier. Britt had heard about the ranch family massacred near Central City. The soldiers had found the three-year-old daughter alive but hanging from a meat hook forced through the back of her head. She died soon after they took her down.
All in all, Davis's conscience was the heaviest piece of equipment he carried. He clambered up the last quarter mile and reached what would have seemed like the roof of the world if he hadn't already stood on hundreds of ridges like it. Stretching to the horizon were the same desolate ranks of mountains—barren, abrupt, and brooding—that he had seen for the past two months. The same array of bony ridges and yawning abysses filled the spaces between them.
The scouts were smoking cigarillos in the shade of their horses. Al Sieber had pulled his hat over his eyes. Compared to Sieber, Davis looked natty in his overalls and undershirt. Sieber wore cotton flannel drawers, an old blue blouse, and the torn brim of a felt hat. He looked asleep, but he spoke when he heard Davis approach.
“The boys have lost them. Old Gerry must have sent a few of his men ahead with spare horses to throw us off while the rest doubled back and dodged across that rocky piece of ground a few miles behind us.”
Davis wished the scouts had discovered that before the column had followed them up here, but he didn't blame them. Chato and his men were the best in the tracking business, but chasing Geronimo's crowd was like trying to catch
smoke in a net. The renegades were the best of the best at evasion, or the worst of the worst depending on one's point of view. They were the most tigerish of the tribe.
“They seem to know where we are all the time,” he said.
“The scouts say they have a
di-yin,
a medicine woman. She keeps them posted on our whereabouts.”
“Do you believe that?”
Sieber shrugged. “I've seen them work some strange hocus-pocus, but it don't keep them from losing at cards.”
SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE …
K
aywaykla's friend, Henry, was half a hand taller and at least seventy years older than he was, but the two went everywhere together. The Henry was the ancient flintlock musket that Lozen had given him. Kaywaykla polished the brass eagle on the Henry until he could use it to reflect the sun's rays as a signal when he stood sentry duty.
Almost every boy over the age of nine had a rifle. They wore two cartridge belts on their hips. They made hundreds of arrow points from the hoops of the Bluecoats' discarded water barrels. They rolled the tops of their high moccasins low on thin legs shiny with grease rubbed in to make them run faster. They stalked through the village, scowling like wolf cubs from under their shaggy bangs.
After his old Henry musket, Kaywaykla's next-best friend was Santiago McKinn. McKinn's mother was Mexican, and his father was a Pale Eyes. Six months ago Geronimo had killed his older brother, but he had stolen Santiago and the horses the two boys were herding.
The freckle-faced, pale-haired captive boy had taken to the Chiricahua life as though he had been with them from birth. Lozen thought of him as misplaced in a Pale Eyes family, like a catbird fledgling in a kingbird's nest. Whenever she looked at Santiago's sun-yellow hair, brown eyes, and deeply tanned face, she thought maybe this was what her son would have looked like, if she had said yes to Hairy Foot's proposal and gone with him.
Lozen dreamed of Hairy Foot often. Sometimes she dreamed he was chasing her, trying to kill her. Sometimes she dreamed that he was holding her in his arms as he once
had. She felt his hand on her neck then, and his heart beating in time with hers. She woke with tears stinging her eyes.
The longing for his touch evaporated with the urgencies of each new day, and the struggle to survive until sunset. She didn't like the longing, anyway. So many loved ones had been killed. Why should she mourn one man who still lived, and who was
nzaadge goliini
, an outsider at that?
Lozen had made her Enemies-Against medicine for this raid, and now she was packing the things she would need. She and the warriors would be traveling north in search of cartridges and revenge, and they had a long way to go. This was the beginning of Ghost Face. The weather would be cold before they returned to Mexico. Kaywaykla and Santiago tried once more to persuade her to let them serve as her apprentices and take care of her horses on the war trail.
“Your duty is to protect the women and children,” she said. “You must do whatever you have to to stay alive. We old ones will die one day, and you will carry on the fight.”
Lozen finished tying her blanket roll to the back of the saddle. The boys stood one on each side of her horse's head so they could lead him to where the men were gathering.
“Remember this,” Lozen said. “People who have easy lives are weak. Hardship is our friend. It makes us strong.”
Lozen, Broken Foot, Geronimo, and eight others raided all the way to Fort Apache. They attacked at night and killed twelve White Mountain people within sight of the fort. They rode twelve hundred miles, lost one man, killed thirty-eight, and stole 250 horses arid mules. Newspapers clamored for Gen. George Crook's head. His superior, Gen. Philip Sheridan, decided the time had come to transfer Crook and assign another soldier the job of taming the tigers.
Gen. Nelson Miles arrived tall, lean, erect, starched, pressed, and barking orders. Like General Crook, he also made one of his first acts a tour of San Carlos and Fort Apache. Unlike General Crook, he didn't talk to the leaders except to lecture them. He returned disgusted with what he saw as their drunken, squalid ways.
He dismissed most of the Apache scouts from service. He
said the cavalry could work more effectively alone, which proved to Rafe that the man was an idiot as well as an ingrate. Al Sieber knew Miles, and he didn't think as highly of him as Rafe did.
“Miles breaks into a powerful rash whenever he brushes up against a whiff of danger.” Sieber pulled a silver coin from the pocket of his denim trousers, flipped it into the air, and caught it. “I'll bet you a dollar he gets no closer to the border than Tucson.”
Rafe knew better than to take the bet. The Apache scouts had already dubbed Miles Always Too Late To Fight. They were never wrong.
Miles fired off a series of memos critical of General Crook. He hatched a plan that would eliminate the scouts loyal to Crook and would solve the entire Apache problem, too. Machiavelli would have admired it.
 
 
CHATO SAT BACK IN THE RED-PLUSH SEAT AND WATCHED the Kansas wheat fields unroll as the train, snorting and belching smoke and cinders, rushed toward the setting sun. Chato was a happy man. He and Mickey Free and a eight fellow scouts had traveled all the way to Washington. The president had shaken their hands. He had thanked them for their service to the United States. In a solemn ceremony, he had hung large silver medals around their necks on shiny red ribbons.
Chato knew that his people would call him a liar when he told them what he had seen, but he didn't care. The Pale Eyes had raised him far above the rest of his people living in their crude huts on the reservations or roaming Mexico like wild animals.
The train lurched to a halt at the Fort Leavenworth station. Soldiers came aboard and commanded the scouts off, by order of the new Bluecoat
nantan,
General Miles. They escorted them to a cell and locked them in. Confused, Chato and the others waited for an explanation. They received it on the way to prison at the fort in Saint Augustine, Florida.
Behind its six-foot-thick stone walls they would have twenty-seven years to think about the gratitude of the government.
 
 
BROKEN FOOT LIFTED THE LOOP OF HIS WAR CORD FROM across his chest and laid it over a leather satchel worn thin with handling. The cap of goose feathers inside looked like it had a serious case of the molt. He had performed a long ceremony over them, apologizing to them for letting them leave his possession. He had begged them not to be angry with him, and not to harm his family. He had shrieked five times; then both he and Her Eyes Open had hissed like snakes.
Now, Her Eyes Open cried softly while he waved his hands, asking the sky to swallow him up. He patted one shoulder and then the other with the palm of his right hand. He placed both hands over his heart and sang a song asking the spirits to bless the cord and the hat's new owner. He held them up and blew a breath in each of the four directions. Finally, he said, “
Yalan,
good-bye,” five times. With tears glittering in his eyes, he handed the sacred items to Lozen.
“I have taught you the songs and ceremonies for these, Daughter. May they protect you.”
Kaywaykla and Santiago McKinn helped Broken Foot onto his horse. Once settled in the saddle, he grinned at Lozen, but the smile resembled his former one as much as he resembled his young self.
“I have no use for war medicine anymore.” He picked up the reins in gnarled hands that trembled constantly.
Her Eyes Open sat on her little paint and watched while the rest of Broken Foot's small band mounted. Kaywaykla and Santiago McKinn ran to Lozen and threw their arms around her. “May we live to see each other again, Grandmother.”
“My sons, take care of Grandfather and Grandmother.” Lozen was sorry to see both of the boys go. There had been so few children in the band even before Broken Foot decided to leave.
Broken Foot rode down the twisting trail leading from the high plateau to the desert floor. Her Eyes Open, six other women, and a few young ones rode with him. Almost a month ago Chihuahua and seventy-six of his people had headed north to surrender at Fort Bowie. The departures left behind Lozen, Geronimo, fifteen other warriors, twelve women, and six children, including two infants.
Lozen could only guess how many men were pursuing them. She and the others had discussed it, more to entertain themselves than for any strategic reasons. They estimated that their enemies numbered about five thousand Bluecoats, three thousand Mexican troops, and at least a thousand American ranchers, miners, farmers, and townsmen. They could assume that everyone they met would be against them.
Nine thousand men chasing seventeen Ndee warriors. The odds made Lozen proud. Beating the Pale Eyes was out of the question. All they could do was survive as long as possible and then take as many of their enemies with them as they could when the time came to die.
Lozen watched Broken Foot's small procession round a bend in the trail; then she climbed to the top of an outcrop and looked around at the mountains marching to meet the rim of the sky. From here the land looked empty of life. Lozen wondered if she and her little band were the last Ndee free of the Pale Eyes' yokes and nooses and fences.
The sun glowed with heat as intense as the charcoal fires of the Pale Eyes
pesh-chidin
, the spirits of the iron. She had scorch marks on her hands from the hot barrel of her rifle. Hunger caused her stomach to cramp. Her muscles ached.
A fierce elation swept through her, anyway. No matter how hungry or cold or hot she was, no matter how exhausted or sore or despairing, she was free. She could roam the wide world with no one to tell her where to camp or how to act. When her band wanted to see their families, they could sneak back onto the reservation for a visit. Maybe they could convince some of their people to come away with them again.
Lozen took pinches of pollen from her pouch and let it blow to the four directions. When she reached inside for
more to rub on her forehead, she found the copper penny in the bottom of the sack. It was bright from the many times she had rubbed its surface while she wondered where Hairy Foot was and what he was doing.
She knew that Hairy Foot's intentions had been good when he gave the coin to her, but it had proved worthless as an amulet. The marks that said LIBERTY were another Pale Eyes lie. She threw the coin out into the hot summer air. It glinted in the sun, spinning as it fell toward the valley far below.
The elation left as suddenly as it had arrived. With a stoneheavy heart, she walked back down to the brush shelters of their camp, most of which were empty now. The cook fires would be lonely tonight.
 
 
FUR BRISTLED IN RIDGES ALONG GAUNT BACKS OF THE MEXICANS' dogs when Lozen and Stands Alone rode into the dustcoated collection of thatched huts and crumbling adobe houses called Fronteras. The women stopped grinding corn and patting out tortillas and stared. The children scattered into the houses. The men watched through narrowed eyes.
Lozen could sense the Mexicans' hatred and fear as easily as she could smell the corn, beans, and chiles cooking. Lozen's stomach growled. In the past three days, she had eaten a few handfuls of berries, some wild potatoes, and tornillo beans.
All summer they had done what Geronimo enjoyed most, they had killed Mexicans and stolen their possessions. In the process, they had used up their ammunition, and they headed north toward Arizona again where they could steal more. Before they reached the border, the children's gaunt faces had convinced Lozen to ride to Fronteras in search of supplies. Stands Alone had volunteered to come with her.
Both of them knew they hadn't much chance of leaving the village alive, but Lozen remembered what her brother said. “When one does not fear death, courage is easy.” Lozen
could have added to that wisdom. “When one is dealing with Mexican, lying is easy.”
She and Stands Alone were not surprised when soldiers ocked them in a storage room hazy with dried grain chaff. When the mayor came, Lozen convinced him that Geronimo was willing to talk peace. She intimated that negotiating the surrender of Geronimo would enhance his esteem. As a show of his good faith, she said, he should send Geronimo presents of corn, beans, and dried beef, blankets, cloth, and knives.
Now Lozen and Stands Alone were leading three ponies oaded with supplies, including ten bottles of mescal. Lozen planned to throw most of those away, but she had to calculate the number of bottles she kept. If she didn't bring any whiskey, the men would become even surlier. than they had been after their supply ran out. With too much of it, they would become dangerous to themselves and others in the band.
When Lozen and Stands Alone passed the last raving dog, the let out a sigh that was as much contentment as relief. The children would eat.
She couldn't see the
capitán
of Fronteras' small garrison requesting two hundred reinforcements wait for the Apache peace delegation. She couldn't see the mayor telegraphing Arizona to tell the new General Gringo that Geronimo was tot two hundred miles south as everyone had assumed. Lozen did know that the Mexicans intended to throw a party when Geronimo's men came to Fronteras, and then to make a game attempt to murder them. The Mexicans' intentions didn't matter, because Geronimo had intentions of his own. His intentions did not include talking peace with Mexicans.
 
 
GERONIMO'S FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW, KANSEAH, Look sentry duty seriously. He did not sleep. He did not play cards with the one friend he had left. He peered through the army field glasses at the two men approaching across the valley floor. He gave a hawk's whistle to signal Geronimo and the others.
BOOK: Ghost Warrior
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