White Apache 7 Page 8

  So the other warriors showed the captives how to trim the slender poles which were used as frames, and how to entwine grass and brush over the poles to form a sturdy structure which could withstand rain and high winds.

  Only four had to be built. A fifth already stood near the stream which watered the valley. It had been erected before the band left for Mexico as a dwelling for White Apache and the woman and boy who had befriended him a short time ago.

  Marista and Colletto were Pimas. She was an outcast, unjustly banished from her tribe by her husband, the chief. When the pair first came on White Apache in the wilderness, he had been close to death’s door. They had tended him. If not for the care they had shown, he would have died.

  Much to Clay Taggart’s surprise, he had found himself growing fond of the woman. Her beauty, her inner calm, her courage, they all struck a chord deep within him. Much to his surprise, she felt the same way, and her boy had taken a shine to him, as well. For the first time in his life, he had a family of his own to look after.

  It was all the more surprising because Clay had once vowed never to care for another woman as long as he lived. His first love, Lilly, had betrayed him, had cast him aside for his bitter enemy, Miles Gillett. It had tom him apart, losing her. He had all but worshipped the ground she walked on, and she had repaid him with the vilest treachery. Small wonder he had made up his mind to have nothing to do with females ever again.

  Yet, it happened.

  Clay thought of all this while watching the crackling flames lick at the roasting horse meat. He was famished. The tantalizing odor made his mouth water, his stomach growl. To his right sat Marista, to his left the boy.

  The Chiricahuas were on the north side of the fiber while the captives were on the south side. An awkward silence hung in the air. The women were nervous and it showed.

  White Apache knew why. On the long trek up from Mexico only Cuchillo Negro and Florencio had grown close. The other warriors had left the captives alone at night. That was about to change. The new wickiups awaited them. After the feast, Delgadito, Ponce and Fiero would sleep with their women for the first time.

  Their anxious faces almost made Clay feel sorry for them. He could well imagine what they were going through. But the band needed to rebuild and could not do so without women. Since the Chiricahua women on the reservation believed Delgadito to be bad medicine and wanted nothing to do with those who rode with him, the warriors had been forced to look elsewhere.

  It was not a new practice. Apaches had been stealing women from south of the border for as long as any warrior could remember. Not that there was a shortage of Apache women. Many warriors had more than one wife. No, there were other reasons for the practice.

  Foremost among them was the added prestige of the warrior who stole a Mexican woman. It was a credit to their ability to steal and lent them more respect in the eyes of others.

  It was also true that sometimes Apache wives put their husbands up to the task. The life of a wife was hard. From dawn until dusk she toiled endlessly, day in and day out. Having another woman around to share the grueling work was to her benefit.

  As for the Mexican women themselves, it was a fact that none ever wanted to go back to Mexico. Apache men liked to think it was because of their prowess under the blankets, but Clay knew better.

  Mexican women feared that if they went back they would be rudely treated. Although they could hardly be blamed for being taken against their will, they would be tainted for life. People would whisper behind their backs and shun them for having been with the demons.

  Also, once a Mexican woman bore a child, she naturally wanted to raise that child where it would be most at home. Half-breeds were looked down on by most Mexicans. Apache men rated themselves superior to breeds, too, but they were not so obvious about it, and gave their offspring the same care and attention they did to the children of their Apache wives.

  Finally there was another factor, not often talked about, which Clay felt had a bearing. Even though the two cultures were very unlike one another, there was little difference between the life of a peasant woman of northern Mexico and the life of a typical Apache wife. Both did all the cooking and cleaning and mending. Both worked themselves to the bone for men who would not stoop to share their burdens.

  Now, staring at the women across the fire, Clay wondered what was going through their minds. Juanita, as always, appeared terrified. Maria was sullen. Alexandra had her eyes closed, as if she were praying. Delores kept staring at Fiero, who was doing his best to ignore her. Only Florencio was at ease, and she sat off to one side, next to Cuchillo Negro.

  Clay leaned close to Marista and said softly so no one could overhear, “I expect there will be some screaming tonight. Maybe we should tote our blankets off into the trees and sleep under the stars.”

  Marista’s luxurious short hair bobbed as she glanced up at the captives. “Maybe that one,” she said, pointing at Juanita Mendez. “Not others.” A missionary from San Francisco had taught her English several years ago, and while she had a thick accent, she was growing better with practice.

  “Why not them?” Clay was curious to know.

  “Women know no choice. Not want make warriors mad: Not want die.” Marista bent to adjust the haunch so it wouldn’t bum. “Delores maybe like to.”

  “You reckon?” Clay said. He had noticed her fawning over Fiero, much to Fiero’s displeasure. The warrior had wanted little to do with her since they arrived. It was almost as if Fiero were mad at her for being there, which made no sense.

  “Florencio did,” Marista reminded him.

  “Right soon after we took them, too,” Clay said quietly. “He didn’t have to beat her or anything.”

  Marista’s lovely lips curled in an enigmatic smile. “Men be men. Some good, some bad. Woman want good one. Not care anything else.”

  “Some women, maybe,” Clay said, thinking of Lilly. To her, it hadn’t mattered that Miles Gillett had a heart as black as an anvil. He was rich, and more than anything else she had craved the finer things life had to offer, the luxuries Clay could never provide.

  Soon the meat was done. The warriors pulled their long knives and cut off large chunks, leaving the women to fend for themselves.

  White Apache sliced portions for the Pimas. They ate with their fingers, tearing into the tasty meat with their white teeth.

  Fiero finished his piece first and started to rise to get another. Unexpectedly, Delores moved to his side and held out her hand for his knife. He hesitated, scowling, then slapped the hilt into her palm. In moments she had cut off another section and offered it to him.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked in Spanish.

  “No.”

  Smiling coyly, Delores moved back around the fire to take her seat. Her eyes never left the warrior. Everyone noticed but no one dared comment.

  Most Chiricahuas would have been happy to have a woman who waited on them hand and foot. But not Fiero. He bit into the meat without relish, upset that he was still burdened with her. It had not been his intention to keep her. All along, he had counted on her not being able to endure the torturous journey to the Dragoons. She should be in the belly of a coyote, he told himself, not sitting there making doe eyes at him. It was enough to make him gnash his teeth in frustration. He had half a mind to use the knife again, only this time to slit her throat. He would drag her off and leave her for the scavengers to find.

  There was only one problem with doing that. He already had a reputation as being dangerously temperamental. Many Chiricahuas shunned him, afraid he would turn on them over the least little slight.

  Should he kill Delores after going to so much trouble to steal her, word would spread, and the Chiricahuas on the reservation would want absolutely nothing to do with him. As much as he hated the idea, it was

  better if he let her live.

  Besides which, Fiero knew Delgadito would not like it, and he wanted to avoid upsetting the one man who had always acc
epted him as he was.

  Many of the warriors in Delgadito’s band had grumbled openly when Fiero let it be known he wanted to join. Delgadito had refused to listen to them. Chiricahuas must stick together, he had said, and not turn their backs on others of their kind. Their enemies were the white-eyes and the Nakai-yes, not one another. Thanks to Delgadito, the warriors had relented.

  Fiero often wished the scalphunters had not caught up with the band. By this time he would have been Delgadito’s second in command. And when Delgadito fell, he would be able to take the leader’s place. With his own band to command, he could drive the hated whites from Chiricahua soil. His people would no longer be forced to live where they did not want to live, and to till the soil against their will. Everything would be as it had been. They would do as their fathers had done, and their fathers before them. Their days would be devoted to raids and hunting, their nights to their women. They would be true Apaches again, not dirt diggers, like the Maricopas.

  Fiero shook his head to dispel his thoughts. It was useless to dream about things as they might have been. He had to deal with the here and now.

  Delores still stared at him. Annoyed, Fiero rose, slid the knife into its brown leather sheath, and stalked into the night. He would rather be alone. But hardly had he gone ten steps when footfalls sounded behind him. He turned so quickly that the Nakai-yes drew up short, startled.

  “What do you want, woman?”

  Delores lowered her chin and licked her thin lips. “To be with you,” she answered meekly.

  “Why?”

  “I am yours now.”

  The warrior should have been flattered but he wasn’t. “Maybe I do not want you.”

  “You must. You took me from the wagon train.”

  Fiero did not like being reminded of his mistake. “Why are you not like the other women?” he growled. “Why are you not afraid? Why do you not hate me for bringing you here?”

  “I am grateful.”

  “What?” Fiero said, not sure if his ears were working as they should. The Nakai-yes hated Apaches. They would rather slit their wrists than become a wife to one.

  “I am grateful,” Delores repeated. “You have given me reason to live again. My sadness is gone.”

  “Explain.” Fiero folded his arms. He could not see her face but there was no doubting her sincerity, which was all the more puzzling. Was it possible, he asked himself, that her mind was not quite right? It would be nice if that were so for then he would have an excuse to get rid of her which the others would accept.

  Delores clasped her thin hands at her skinny waist. “I have no husband,” she began in a subdued tone. “He died five years ago when he fell from a wagon he was driving and broke his neck.” She cleared her throat. “He was drunk at the time. He always drank too much. And when he was not drinking he liked to beat me. Morning, noon, and night he would beat me. I lost track of the number of times he bloodied my mouth and nose.”

  Fiero did not see what this had to do with him. Few warriors beat their women. They could if they wanted but the practice was frowned on. Any man who had to hit his wife to keep her in line was weak. And, too, Apache women were not timid like the Nakai-yes. Any man who struck one might wind up with a blade sticking from his gut.

  Delores continued. “He was a bad man, José. But there was nothing I could do. We were man and wife, and the church does not permit divorce. So I suffered for many years, trapped in a life I did not care to live.” She wrung her hands. “I will be honest with you, Fiero. I was glad when he died. At the funeral I covered my face with a long black veil not to hide my tears, but to hide my smiles.”

  Her story filled Fiero with contempt. She had been weak and paid the price for her weakness.

  “After José died, no man wanted me. I am in my middle years, and much too lean. I am not a pretty young maiden. So I lived alone in a hut on the outskirts of Chihuahua, growing what crops I could and doing what odd jobs I could get in order to live.”

  “Why do you tell me all this?” Fiero said irritably. She was wasting his time and he wanted her to leave.

  “Because you have the right to know. Because you told me to explain.” Delores locked her dark eyes on his. “My sister is married to a captain in the army. They move around a lot. Now he is assigned to the post at Janos, and I was on my way to visit them when you and your friends attacked the train.”

  Fiero gestured impatiently. “None of this tells me why you are grateful.”

  “I am getting to that,” Delores said. “You see, I have missed having a man. As bad as José could be, he gave me companionship. I had someone to talk to, someone to listen to, someone to share my life with. Do you have any idea how terrible it is to be alone?”

  “No,” Fiero replied honestly. From infancy Apache men were bred to be self-reliant, to hold their own counsel, to be alone, as it were, when in the midst of many others.

  “Well, I do. And I hated it.” Delores stepped nearer and rested her warm hand on his barrel chest. “I am thankful because out of all the women there, you picked me. You could have taken a younger one, a prettier one, but you chose me. I do not know why, but I am grateful.” She touched his chin. “My old life was empty. Now I have a man again. And I will prove myself to be worthy of your interest. I will be the best wife I can be, the best wife you have ever had.”

  Fiero saw no reason to mention that he had never had a wife, that Chiricahua women feared him too greatly to live in his lodge.

  “Please do not be mad at me,” Delores said. “I know I am being brazen but I want you to know how I feel. I want you to know that you can trust me. I will never try to stick a knife in your back or poison you. I will be yours for as long as you want me.”

  All Fiero could do was grunt. He was too bewildered to comment. All along he had been hoping she would perish, but maybe he was being too hasty. It might be nice to have a woman waiting on his every need. She would build wickiups, cook his food, make breech-cloths and shirts. When they traveled, she could carry their possessions. The horses he stole, she could look after. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.

  “We will see how you do,” Fiero stated. “If you please me, you can stay. If you do not, you must go.”

  “That is fair.”

  Fiero pointed at their lodge. “Go in and spread out my blankets. I would sleep now.”

  “As you wish.”

  The warrior watched her scurry inside to do his bidding. Shaking his head in disbelief at his change of heart, he strode to the entrance, bent, and went in to put her to another test.

  Over by the fire, Clay Taggart smiled to himself. Even the hardest men, it seemed, were clay in the hands of a persistent filly. He cut off another sizeable portion of meat, divided it in half, and gave the spare section to Marista, who in turn shared it with the boy.

  Presently Cuchillo Negro and Florencia drifted to their lodge. Delgadito was content to go on eating, but Ponce, who did not have much of an appetite, took it as his cue to do likewise. Rising, he wiped his greasy hands on his thighs and walked over to the sisters.

  “Come.”

  Juanita Mendez whined and hugged her knees. Maria looked up but did not respond or move.

  “Did you hear?” the young warrior said. “Come to wickiup. Now.”

  “I’m not tired,” Maria said. She draped her arm across her sibling’s shoulders. “Neither is my sister. We want to stay up a while yet. You go on without us.”

  Ponce was not to be denied. The women had shamed him too many times already. He would not stand for another refusal. So, clamping a hand on the older one’s arm, he roughly yanked her erect. Maria resisted, holding fast to Juanita, but she was no match for his finely honed muscles. “Now,” Ponce stressed, giving her a shove.

  Maria stumbled a few feet, regained her balance, and glared. Her fists cocked, she warned, “If you think we are going to let you have your way with us, you are mistaken. We would rather die, savage!”

  Juanita no
dded vigorously, her eyes the size of saucers, her teeth chattering as if she were cold. “I would rather die than soil my soul,” she declared.

  “You will come,” Ponce insisted. He grabbed at her shoulder but she suddenly leaped to her feet and bounded into the darkness like a terror stricken fawn. “Stop!” he shouted, in vain. In a twinkling the night enveloped her.

  White Apache rose. Since stealing the women had been his idea, he felt obligated to help out. Darting around the fire, he said, “We must catch her before she hurts herself.”

  More inclined to let the woman go, Ponce ran along anyway. He was tired of having to put up with her antics. Her crying, her whimpering, her curling up into a ball if he looked at her the wrong way, were all the acts of a pampered girl in a woman’s body. She was the single most immature woman he had ever come across, and it amazed him that she had lived as long as she had. He should never have agreed to take her along.

  The younger Mendez was running in blind panic. She made no attempt to hide, no attempt to even move quietly.

  A quarter moon hung in the firmament. Its pale light permitted White Apache to keep the captive in sight. She bore due west. At the stream she stopped, but just for a second or two. Dashing down the shallow bank, she forded the shallow water and sped up the other side.

  “Stop!” Clay bellowed. “We will not harm you.” He wasted his breath. She glanced at them, her features as pallid as the moon, and fled faster, uttering a bleat like a frightened lamb.

  Abruptly, Clay became aware of footsteps pounding behind them. It was Maria Mendez, hard put to keep up. “Go back to the fire,’ he said.

  “No. Juanita is my sister. I want to be there when you catch her. I will not let her be beaten.”

  ‘“We do not plan to lay a hand on her.”

  White Apache spoke for himself. For Ponce’s part, he was beginning to think that Fiero was right, that women should be treated like horses. But then he remembered his own mother, and how tenderly his father had treated her. Neither ever raised a voice or a hand against the other. That was how he would like his own lodge to be, not filled with constant bickering. He peered ahead, recalling the layout of the valley.