Waltzing With Tumbleweeds (13 page)

Eagle feathers in their braids twisted in the wind. The white, yellow, and red greasy war paint on their hard-set faces and earth-red chests glistened in the sun. Small copper bells on their knee high boots faintly jingled as they rode single file though the scrub juniper trees; their small bare-foot horses softly crunched their way down the mountain side. Bows and rifles bristled in the warriors’ rock-hard arms—their dark eyes seemed to scan everything in the canyon.

Rip quietly lowered himself behind the boulders. Relieved the Apaches had not seen him, he sprawled belly down and waited on their passing. The pitted barrel of the Colt .44 so close to his nose, he could smell the spend black powder’s sharpness. He glanced at his weather beaten felt wide-brimmed hat on the ground beside him. His mouth formed a wry scowl of disgust over his tenuous situation. He had never expected to run into an Apache war party. The short cut he had chosen across the broken Verde River country might very well prove his undoing.

He dared take another peek. In disbelief, he blinked, taken aback at the sight of her golden hair and blue calico dress. A white woman captive rode a bald faced horse led by one of the bucks. A cry of protest rose in his throat as he watched her grip the horse’s mane to stay seated. Then he thought of his own safety and silently dropped back down.

Damn, he wanted to look at her again but he hardly dared the risk. She was beautiful. His stomach rolled at the notion. Had he seen a mirage? Some sort of hallucination? While he crouched and listened to the soft drum of hooves, he became convinced he had actually seen a white female captive. What were those thieving no good redskins doing with her? He drew a deep breath for control for he could hardly contain himself at the prospect of her fate.

How could he save her? Someone’s wife or daughter, surely there were folks out looking for her. But one man against ten Apache bucks—no-no, the odds were too great. Besides he was not an Injun fighter or scout—he was just an unemployed cowboy heading for work, he hoped. The new job near Prescott wouldn’t be open for long—if he didn’t get his gear and horse there shortly, some other cowpoke would have his place at the Quarter Circle T’s bunkhouse.

The Apaches gone by, he rose to his feet studying where they had
ridden down into the canyon. What would they do with the woman? The thought of her captivity only troubled him more as he headed for his picketed horse behind a screen of juniper. The bay gelding snatched a mouthful of sun-cured grass and twisted the blades into his mouth before raising his head at Rip’s approach. At least Buck had not nickered at the Apache ponies.

“Buck,” he said absently to the horse as he coiled up the lead rope. “We’ve got ourselves in a pickle barrel. Them Injuns have taken a white woman and we just can’t let that go on. I saw her too. She’s pretty as any—well, I thought she was.” He tied the lariat on the saddle horn and gave a quick check in the direction the Apaches had disappeared. Nothing. He mounted, uncertain about his next move, he reined up the horse to stop for a minute and meditated on what he should do. The roiling in his intestines increased.

Only a damn fool would try to rescue that woman—but Rip Fisher had done stupider things in his lifetime. His mind set, he knew was going after her. The Winchester rifle under his stirrup fender was loaded to the gate with fresh ammo and he had an extra thirty rounds in his saddlebags for it and the Colt. More ammunition than he normally packed, but he’d bought the box of ammo to shoot game for his supper en route to his new job.

If he spent much time playing Injun fighter, he’d probably lose the position at the Quarter Circle T. Still, he knew as he booted Buck after them, that someone had to save her. Looked like he was elected. His impression of the blonde captive reminded him of a fine woman under a parasol he had once stepped aside for in Fort Worth. Her skin snow white, her eyes blue as the mountain skies and the dress’s hoop seemed to flow as she held the skirt to save the rim bumping against him or Shorty Carr. Maybe it was her, the woman from Fort Worth who those Apache devils had kidnapped. Rip shook his head in dread.

Hours later, the sign of smoke in the cottonwood tops gave him his first clue he was nearing their camp. Apaches never made much fire, but he saw the faint traces and being forewarned he halted to hide Buck in a thicket under the rim rock. He wasn’t certain of his actual location but the Apaches were camped along the Verde River. In the distance he could hear water’s rush and children screaming as they played in the river. Dread filled, he swallowed around a great lump in his throat and drew a deep breath for strength. Before he found this woman and they were either killed or escaped, he would need to become a lot tougher. His weak legs barely supported him as he cautiously advanced on the Apaches. Sneaking up on a band of Apaches could be a tall order—these savages
were experienced at warfare, and he was not.

He listened carefully as he worked his way slowly around the bushy junipers. The pungent-smelling evergreens offered him cover. His hands wet with sweat from grasping the rifle, he dried them one at a time on his jean legs and then resumed stalking forward.

Finally he viewed the camp. A few brush wickiups, some covered with yellow canvas, the squaws busy grinding corn or packing in bundles of firewood sticks. The children were splashing in the river and shouting in shrill voices. Their naked copper bodies gleamed under the mid day sun. The pony herd grazed across the river beyond the kids.

Where was the white woman? he studied the camp for a sign of her. Did some rutting buck have her inside? He felt nauseated standing behind the branches, the Winchester ready and she was nowhere in view.

Any moment they would probably discover him. Where was she? Then he saw the top of her golden hair as she came up the bank from the river bearing two canvas pails of water. Her shoulders slumped; he could not see her downcast face.

There was not a sign of a single warrior. Perhaps they were all sleeping. He wanted an extra horse for her to ride. Carrying double, Buck would never outrun them for long and they surely would pursue him if Rip
took her away. But the Apaches horses were too far away for him to steal. His head pounded at the temples; there was too much for one man to think about. He wanted her out of that camp and he wanted the two of them to be gone.

Brash and bold sometimes worked. If he could manage to get the girl’s attention before she ran off—he checked the rifle chamber. In the confusion, he needed to send the Apaches running in fear to the river and their horses. But Apaches weren’t like Comanches back in Texas. Horses weren’t their gods. Apaches ran on foot as fast as they did on horseback. But they had women and children here—even that was not a real concern like the plains tribes. He understood from newspaper reports that Apache women even smothered their newborns to save detection while retreating from the Army.

The white woman looked dejected with her head bowed standing among several squaws squatted and busy cooking. The time came for him to take action. He cocked the Winchester and took aim across the river at the pony herd. He wanted them to bolt at his shot and cause confusion with the Apaches for a moment on how many were attacking their camp.

The rifle’s sharp roar drew plenty of black eyes. The bullet plowed up dust, the ponies broke and ran despite several youthful herders with switches trying to hold them. Squaws snatched up their babies and without looking ran screaming for the river.

“Wait! Stay there!” Rip shouted as he ran to get her. The enemy seemed routed for the moment.

A warrior exploded from a wickiup loading his single shot rifle. Rip drew a bead and fired. The hard hit Indian fell on the lodge and slumped to the ground. The black smoke cleared as he reached out to capture the woman’s arm.

“Come with me,” he shouted at her. He fired more rounds at the heels of the retreating squaws.

The woman looked at him without expression. Her long slender face was sunburned raw and pealing. He felt a pang of concern and sadness for her condition. Up close the dress was not nearly as fresh as he had envisioned it. Dirty and torn, the material looked very thin, only her yellow hair appeared well groomed.

“Come on,” he repeated. “We haven’t got time for much talk. I’m Rip Fisher and we need to vamoose.”

“Vamoose?” she asked dully as if the word was foreign to her.

“Get out of here before they figure that I’m not the army.”

“Oh.”

Impatiently he pulled on her sleeve and watching their back trail, he lead her from the camp.

“We must tell Poco too” she muttered, stumbling as he tried to hurry her.

He wondered if there was another captive by that name she called out, but there was no time to check. They might not make another hundred yards before all hell broke loose.

“Lady, don’t worry,” he pleaded, anxious for her to keep up. “I am here to take you back home.”

She never answered him. Still no sign of any threat. Where were the warriors who brought her in? Only one Indian with a gun? Would the Apaches close off their route of escape? He wished she would simply hurry. The trials of her captivity must have stopped her thinking clearly.

“Mount up, I’ll ride behind you,” he ordered when they reached his horse. he was beside himself over her dullness and lack of concern. He looked all around expecting any moment the blood thirsty faces of a dozen armed renegades to appear on the rim above them.

He swung up behind her, reached around her for the reins and booted Buck out of the brush and on the trail. The powerful Texas horse cat-hopped up the steep path with Rip unable to look back toward the camp, but fully expecting to hear the war cries closing in.

Late afternoon and sundown closed the curtain on their day with no sign of pursuit. He finally reined Buck to a halt on top of the high range, where he could survey much of the country they’d crossed since their escape.

“I want to see if they’re after us,” he said. He dismounted and scanned the mountainside beneath them. Nothing, but that was no sign the Apaches weren’t on their back trail. She had never answered him.

He looked back at her. She sat woodenly on the horse. Her hands clutched the saddle horn. Her blue eyes just stared at some point in the darkening eastern sky.

“What’s your name?” he asked, helping her down.

She looked around as if she was more concerned with her body functions than answering him.

“I’ll turn my back,” he said and took Buck’s reins to lead him away a few yards.

“Don’t go,” she said.

Rip nodded he understood she did not want him to leave her. He halted with his back to her feeling like an intruder in her life as he waited.

“The Apaches won’t bother us before sunup,” he said to fill in the silence between them. “They’re superstitious about night. Something about being taken to Hell if they get killed in the darkness.”

No answer. He wondered if she was still back there. Had the Apaches destroyed her mind? He remembered a white girl of fourteen who the Army brought into Fort Concho. She had a doll she held like a baby and rocked it all the time. Never talked to anyone but the doll. Soldiers said her part Injun baby had died and the doll was its substitute. The Comanche captivity had vexed her mind.

“Are you hungry?” he asked and waited.

No answer.

Then he felt her slender fingers close on his arm and she stood beside him. He glanced at her for a second. She was trembling even the hand hold on his arm was shaky. Her eyes stared past him at the layers of mountain ranges.

“Clyde, we must go home,” she said and then drew her shoulders back in resolve.

“I’m not—” Then he cut off his denial to her. Clyde must have been her husband. “Do you know the way?” he asked hoping she could tell him something.”

“Bloody Basin, of course.”

“Sure,” Rip said and tried to hid his disappointment. She wasn’t in her right mind.

The sliver of a moon made enough light for them to travel by. Rip headed southwest toward the Bloody Basin country. Perhaps she would lead herself home. He hoped so.

Several times during the night he caught her by the waist when she dropped asleep and nearly pitched face first off the horse. Each time after he had set her up in the saddle, he felt a twinge of guilt being so familiar with a woman he did not even know by name. Each time she passed out, he offered to stop and let her rest, but she shook her head, no.

Dawn came with her pointing a limp arm in a vague direction; they followed a wagon track road most of the day. She seemed to be familiar with the country and he hoped they would soon find her people. Someone would be very glad to have their wife-mother what-ever back, he felt certain. As the day wore on, Buck began stumbling a lot and showing his tiredness.

“Home,” she said and pointed toward a grove of cottonwoods in the draw.

Rip drew a deep breath in relief. He slipped off Buck and took the reins to lead the horse the rest of the way. He didn’t want her people to think he’d taken any liberties with a woman in her mind set. It hurt him to even look at her. Would she ever be normal again? But her condition wasn’t his problem, he’d done enough shooting up that Apache camp and taking her away from them—he still felt good about her rescue.