The Darkest Heart (32 page)

The war would be one of survival … freedom … life and death.

Jack knew in his heart that the war was lost before it had begun. Cochise knew it too. It was why he had wanted peace with the white man, why he had hung on to it so tenaciously in the face of contempt from the Mescalero, the other Apache chiefs—Mangas Coloradas, Geronimo—and dissent even from his own warriors, who ached to fight for their way of life, their land, and their freedom.

How would it end? For how many years could the Apaches hold off the whites? Already, as Cochise had pointed out, many Tonto and Coyoteros had been herded like animals and confined to reservations. Not a bodily death, but a death just the same. A death of a way of life. Of a people.

Jack knew as he rode back to town that there was only one decision to make. He had no choice. He untacked the black, then rubbed him down, giving him grain and lingering
—to put off the inevitable. Finally he turned and went into the house. Candice was throwing another stick of wood on the fire. He looked at her in the pink lace nightgown with the thin silk wrapper and felt an overwhelming need for her—a need that went beyond mere desire. He wished, in that instant, that he could take back all the walls of silence between them, redo and relive every moment he had ever spent with her.

“Come on,” he said softly.

“What is it?” she asked with worry, as he led her across the room.

He didn’t answer. Standing so close to her that his thighs touched hers, he stared at her face, flushed from the fire, and thought: I don’t want to leave her, I love her. How come I’ve never told her that? His hands went to the belt of the robe and loosened it. He slid the wrapper from her shoulders.

“Jack?”

He couldn’t smile, not when this was good-bye.

“Jack?” she asked again, this time with panic as his arms drew her against him.

He was thickly erect already, the aching need coming from desperation. He kissed her softly, tenderly, his mouth slanting over hers, ignoring her stiff, unyielding form and her hands on his chest. Again, in a more panicked voice, she said, “Jack?”

And then she melted. Her arms went around his neck, fingers threading through his hair. Her response, wild and instinctively urgent, displaced the soft tenderness of his kisses, turning them hard and insistent and demanding.

He turned savage. The urgency in his heart overtook his body, and he grabbed her hips, pulling them against his long, hard arousal, rubbing against her. He invaded her mouth with his tongue, seeking, frantically seeking. He needed her, now.

It might be the last time.

They fell on the bed together, and she was caught up in his urgency and passion, tearing at his clothes. Within a moment they were naked, and he thrust into her, hard, and she cried out in surprise, but was wet and ready and eager. Jack stroked her rapidly, his mouth on hers, harder and faster,
holding her, lost in this one moment, making this one memory …

“What is it?” she whispered afterward, looking up at his glazed face.

“Sshh,” he said as he kissed her.

He rolled to his side and held her, but did not relax, did not close his eyes. Instead he studied her face, drinking in her flushed beauty, the dark fans of her long lashes, the smoothly sculpted planes of her face, the swollen, red lips, now slightly parted. He leaned forward to kiss her lightly.

Her gaze became focused and worried. Jack, what is it?”

“Sshh,
shijii
, not now,” he hushed, his mouth covering hers again. Tonight was theirs, and nothing could change that.

The next morning Candice awoke to the unfamiliar sounds of Jack moving back and forth across the room. She sighed, stretched, and instantly remembered last night-Jack’s urgency and insatiability. She was immediately awake, sitting, the fear rushing back.

Jack was standing in the center of the room, fully dressed -and fully armed, right down to the crossed ammunition belts. On the table were his saddlebags and an extra change of buckskin clothes. Completely frozen inside, she watched him toss a cloth headband and lus warrior’s necklace onto the pile.

“You’re leaving,” she stated flatly.

He looked at her, and his gray eyes were luminous with something akin to pain. “I’m riding up to Apache Pass,” he told her.

She stared. Her heart began to thud wildly and hurtfully. “Please don’t go.”

He had flint, his loincloth, some jerky, and an extra blanket in his saddlebags. He rolled up the clothes, then donned the necklace, tucking it beneath his shirt. “You don’t understand,” he said levelly.

“Why are you going? she said. “What are you planning on doing? How long will you be gone?” Her voice cracked.

He tied on the headband. “I’m going to see Cochise.”

She gasped. “It’s too dangerous! Are you crazy? Please—
Jack!”

He faced her squarely. “You don’t understand, Candice. Cochise has been betrayed. I am riding with him.”

She stared, thoroughly stunned.

He came to her and sat on the bed, touching her arm-she pulled away violently. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish there was another way.”

“You can’t do this!” she cried. “What do you mean? You’re going on the warpath with Cochise?” Her voice was shrill.

He nodded.

“You can’t—you’d leave me here, pregnant, to go ride with those damn Apaches?”

He almost flinched. “I have no choice.”

“No choice?” she shouted. “Every man has a choice!”

“God!”
he cried. “Candice, I have no choice—it’s my duty—there’s honor and loyalty involved.”

“Honor and loyalty?” She gasped. “Duty? Your duty is here—with me!”

His expression hardened. “I’m taking you back to your family.”

It took a full second for the import of his statement to sink in. “No. No, I won’t go. Jack, don’t leave, please, there’s nothing you can do up there.”

“I have to go, Candice, don’t you understand?” He pleaded.

“No! I don’t understand! You’re my husband and I’m having your baby! We need you here!”

“That’s why I’m taking you to the High C”

“No!” she cried. “No, Jack, I won’t go!”

He took her cold hands in his, his eyes searching her face. He couldn’t help the bitterness in his tone. “Afraid to face them while you’re carrying my child?”

“Yes!” She flung back the truth furiously, hoping to devastate him. “Yes, I’m afraid to face them, afraid of what they’ll say, what they’ll think—damn you!”

He stood up, his expression as hard as granite, and moved to the table where he began packing his things in his saddlebags. He heard her muffle a sob. He hefted the bags onto his shoulder. “I’ll have the Santana boy see to your heavier needs. Here’s forty dollars. It will hold you for a few months if I can’t get back sooner.”

She said nothing, staring at the sheets, twisting them in
white hand, tears falling. He waited for her to look at him, and when he realized she wouldn’t, he walked to the door.

She reached him at the door, grabbing his arm and hanging on desperately. “Don’t go—I need you here!”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, and as often.” He tried for a reassuring smile and failed miserably.

“No,” she cried, but it was half a wail. Her eyes were filled with horror.

He paused and kissed her, but she was frozen into immobility, her lips like stone. He didn’t look at her again as he walked out the door, leaving her standing there naked and shocked.

Candice closed her eyes. What if he was killed? God, I love him, and he’s leaving me—what if he’s killed? What if I never see him again?

She shrugged on her wrapper, not even bothering with the nightgown, sick and hysterical because her world was falling apart and the man she loved was riding off to war—against her own people. And then she was flying as fast as she could outside, barefoot. He was leading the black out from the corral, and she cried out his name, running across the yard. He hesitated as she came, then swung into the saddle.

“No!” she cried, grabbing his ankle. “Jack, don’t go! You can’t!”

“I have to.” He looked down at her, but his face was masked. “Get back inside, Candice, before the neighbors see you.”

She stood, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t go, Jack, damn you, don’t go!”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I love you,” he said softly, then urged the black into a trot, breaking free of her.

She clung to the fence, weeping, watching his shadowy figure until the night swallowed him up.

Three days later Jack reached Apache Pass. He had pushed as hard as he could, and the black was exhausted and lathered. After using a smoke sign to announce his arrival—for he had no intention of being killed by his own people—he rode up to the summit and was greeted by six warriors who led him to Cochise.

Cochise’s camp was in Goodwin Canyon, about a mile and a half from the way station. Jack saw that Cochise did, indeed, have the station under siege—heavily armed warriors were atop all the surrounding ridges. He dismounted with the other warriors and promptly saw Nahilzay striding forward. The tall warrior’s eyes were black, intense, and wary. He stood watching Jack without speaking for a long moment.

“I come as one of the people, a brother, and a friend,” Jack said slowly.

Nahilzay was inscrutable. Jack knew he was not pleased to see him there, and that he was suspicious of his intentions. That irked him. He turned and Jack followed, leaving the black drop-reined. His horse needed water and feed, but no one moved to care for him. Jack was keenly aware of the difference between this greeting and the one he had received a couple of months before.

Cochise was sitting outside his
gohwah
in grim silence. He rose slowly as Jack and Nahilzay approached. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were angry and determined. He waited.

“The thorns are too prickly,” Jack said, referring to Cochise’s opinion that he would not be able to straddle the fence between the white world and the red one indefinitely.

Cochise smiled then. “Welcome,” he said, with complete understanding.

They embraced, but Nahilzay did not relax. “Forgive me,” he said to Cochise. “But he is a White Eyes.”

Cochise was no longer smiling. “Do not insult my brother,” he said. “Tend his horse.” It was a dismissal, and his lieutenant left, his face hard and angry.

“Tension runs high,” Jack said.

“Sit,” Cochise said. “Eat. Drink. I need only to see you here and look at you to know you are Apache in your heart and soul. We know blood is of little importance.” He gestured at his camp. “I could count on four hands Apaches with no Apache blood, but they are Men of the Woods.”

Jack drank from a gourd of
tiswin
, draining it, and it was promptly refilled by Cochise’s first wife. Then he ate hungrily, arid Cochise did not speak, but sat staring at the distant ridges as twilight deepened the sky to a starless purple. It had snowed some days ago, and the ground was crisp and white underfoot, making the sky seem violet in contrast.

“What happened?” Jack asked, when he had finished.

“My word has been doubted. I have been called a liar. I have been betrayed—my people have been betrayed.”

Jack listened intently, and Cochise told him the story. His voice was emotionless, but his eyes were furious.

Four days ago troops under the command of lieutenant Bascom had ridden into the pass and made camp not far from Goodwin Canyon. Cochise had gone down to the station to ask his friends, the men who were the Stationkeepers, what was the meaning of the troops. Culver had told him they were on their way to the Rio Grande, but that Bascom wanted to meet him and would like him to visit; he would be flying a white flag. Cochise knew now that he should have been suspicious—the white flag was not necessary because Cochise was not at war with the white man. But the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.

Cochise had gone down to the camp with his second wife; his eight-year-old son, Nachise; his brother, Naretana; and his other brother’s two grown sons. Bascom was flying a white flag atop his Sibley tent. They had been invited inside the tent. It was a trap.

Bascom had asked Cochise for the return of Warden’s son and the oxen that had been stolen during the kidnapping—which was the same thing as an accusation of the crime. Cochise had ignored that insult, denying calmly that he had taken the boy, but offering to help find him and buy back his return. Bascom became angry and called Cochise a “damn liar” twice, and then informed him that he and his-family were prisoners, to be held as hostages for the release of the
boy. Immediately Cochise had whipped a knife out from beneath his loincloth, slit the tent, yelled for his family to follow, and had broken past the soldiers, making a wild dash up the hill. Gunfire followed, and he was hit in the back of the leg, but not seriously. No one else had escaped.

“I was still not inclined to war with the white men, understanding Bascom to be an arrogant, unwise young fool,” Cochise said. “I came down to the station with several warriors to take the station men hostage for an exchange. I called them by name. Because they are my friends, they came out. Culver and Welch and Wallace.” He frowned. “One betrayal begets another. We talked, we tried to take them. Culver was shot in the back escaping, but only wounded. Welch was killed by the soldiers accidentally as he tried to flee over the corral wall. We took Wallace, then retreated.”

Jack listened grimly. Cochise was not finished.

Since then they had tried to negotiate twice for the release of the Indians in a prisoner exchange, but Bascom was adamant in his refusal unless the Warden boy was included—even though the Apaches had attacked nine wagons camped in the pass and taken two more Americans prisoner.

More skirmishes had occurred when an eastbound stage from Tucson had been attacked as it tried to get through the pass. Two of the mules were hit, the driver and conductor wounded, but the stage made it to the sanctuary of the station. The westbound stage arrived unmolested a few hours later. All the stage passengers were well armed.

The next day it snowed, providing the besieged Americans water. The springs were six hundred yards from the station and controlled by the Apaches. On the following day, out of desperation, an armed military escort took half the stock down to the springs. They were attacked, one soldier killed, two wounded, and all the stock stampeded west.