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  Cochise nodded. "Then come," he said, gesturing toward his jacal. "We will talk."

  Chapter 17

  Though he felt a little guilty about it, Barlow could not overcome a profound indifference to the conversation that General Howard had with Cochise, a conversation that went on for hours. He was, of course, glad to see that the two men hit it off; it was soon clear that each man saw in the other someone of integrity, someone whose words they could trust. That was all well and good—but Barlow had to wonder if, in the long run, that would make any difference. After all, honest and trustworthy men on both sides had attempted to forge a peace between the United States and the Apaches—and all their efforts had availed them nothing. The mistrust and hatred remained. The blood continued to spill. There was no question that these two old warriors, Cochise and Howard, desired peace above all else. Yet there were many other men, red and white, who, for various reasons, wanted and worked for war. Being a realist, Barlow had to assume that the latter would have their way in the future, just as they had in the past.

  Howard told Cochise of the troubles north of the border, holding nothing back. He blamed not the Coyoteros but rather the scalphunters—and the Mexican government, which had offered the scalp bounty. Nonetheless, the Coyoteros were attacking white ranches, white travelers, and the white stagecoach line that ran through the territory. And it was the duty of the United States Army to protect the people and their interests. As much as Howard hated to think of it, much blood would be shed. And inevitably, the Coyoteros would be defeated. What Howard hoped to do, as he explained to the attentive Chiricahua leader, was to prevent more violence and bloodshed. This was why he had come to the Cima Silkq, to speak to Cochise, to be the one to explain the events now occurring in the United States—and to urge Cochise to do everything in his power to keep the Chiricahuas from entering the fray. To do so, argued Howard, would only bring more hardship to Cochise's people.

  Cochise complimented Howard for his bravery, and acknowledged that he believed that Howard was speaking truly, from his heart. It took a man who had the courage of his convictions to risk everything in coming to the Cima Silkq, as Howard had done. And Cochise also acknowledged that the general's prediction with respect to the outcome of the hostilities between the United States and the Coyoteros was no doubt accurate. It would avail the Chiricahua people nothing to become involved in that struggle.

  And yet, continued Cochise, his people had suffered much hardship in past years—so much that some of them wanted only to strike back at their enemies. In the eyes of these people, the enemy was not only the Nakai-Ye—the Mexican—but also the Pinda Lickoyi, the White Eyes. When they learned that their brothers, the Coyoteros, were on the warpath against those enemies, they would want to join the fight. He went on to explain to Howard at some length about his standing as jefe. Just because he was the leader of the Chiricahua did not mean that he could issue orders and expect the bronchos to obey them, in the way that Howard would issue orders to his bluecoat soldiers. The Apache broncho was always his own man, and was always allowed to follow his own heart. If he followed the leadership of Cochise, it was because he chose to do so. Cochise could speak to his people, and urge them not to go to war. But he could make no guarantees to Howard.

  The general said he understood; all he hoped for was that Cochise would make his best effort. If the Chiricahua did not go to war, then many of the other Apache bands would think twice before siding with the Coyoteros. And then fewer people would have to die before peace was restored to the territory.

  Stressing again that he was making no guarantees, Cochise surmised that most of the Chiricahuas would listen to his advice and keep the peace. But he had no influence whatsoever over the other bands, and modestly doubted that the course of action he and his people followed would determine the course followed by the Bedonkohe, the Mescalero, the Mimbreno. And then he told Howard that there was another group of Apaches who would jump at any chance to fight. These were the Netdahe, the Avowed Killers. They were led by a man called Geronimo. They were not many in number, but they could do great damage. They were hiding out in the Cima Silkq, and occasionally they would venture down into the desert, to strike at the Nakai-Ye. Cochise hated them. Not only because their actions ran counter to his efforts to keep the peace. And not just because their raiding made life more difficult for the Chiricahua, since their victims did not distinguish between a Netdahe renegade and any other Apache. But also because one of them, the one called Kiannatah, had killed in cold blood an old friend, Nachita.

  Hearing the name of Kiannatah made Barlow sit up and take notice. He asked Cochise when and how this had come to be.

  "It happened," said Cochise gravely, "after you took Oulay away to safety. We were on our way here, nearly to the border, when Kiannatah showed up among us. He killed two of our men. He asked about Oulay. I told him only that she was no longer with us. In order to escape with his life, he took Nachita as a hostage, promising to let him go unharmed. Instead, he murdered Nachita."

  Barlow nodded, deciding on the spot that it wouldn't do anyone any good if he told Cochise that Kiannatah had found Oulay after all. That the Netdahe had kidnapped his daughter and, but for the courage of Short Britches, a handful of White Mountain Apaches, and a cavalry sergeant named Farrow, might have succeeded in making off with her.

  "So as far as you know, Kiannatah remains here, in these mountains?" asked Barlow.

  Cochise nodded. "I have not seen him with my own eyes. He knows that because of what he did to my friend I would kill him if I do see him."

  Barlow let the matter drop. As long as Kiannatah lived, Oulay was in danger. But he knew he didn't stand a chance of finding the Netdahe broncho in the Sierra Madre. Besides, at the moment Oulay was in far graver danger from other sources—especially if Kiannatah remained in hiding in the Cima Silkq. His best course of action was to return to her side as quickly as possible.

  For that reason, Barlow hoped that the meeting between Howard and Cochise would soon come to an end. The general had gotten what he'd come from—assurances from the Chiricahua chief that he would do everything in his power to keep his people out of the Indian war brewing north of the border. He should have known better, though. Cochise insisted that they remain the night as his guests, and it would have been rude to decline that invitation.

  They left the Chiricahua che-wa-ki at first light the following day. Cochise gave Barlow some gifts to carry to Oulay. He also provided them with an escort of a half dozen bronchos. They would, said Cochise, see Barlow and Howard safely out of the Cima Silkq. Of course, the two men would have to be blindfolded, added the jefe apologetically. This was not because he did not trust Barlow and Howard. But if it was discovered that they'd visited the Chiricahua stronghold, they might be made prisoner by the Nakai-Ye soldiers, who could, conceivably, torture them into divulging the route they'd taken.

  This was highly unlikely, thought Barlow. Still, he was glad that neither he nor Howard had mentioned the fact that the Mexican government knew of their mission into the Sierra Madre Mountains. This was knowledge that would only cause Cochise needless anxiety. He assured Cochise that both he and the general appreciated the wisdom of using the blindfolds.

  "My great hope," said Cochise, in parting, "is that one day before I die I may see my daughter again."

  "She shares that hope, as do I," said Barlow, moved by the powerful emotion hidden within the jefe's wistfully spoken words.

  As they rode away from the stronghold, Barlow's spirits were high for the first time in weeks. Finally he could allow himself to entertain the notion that he and Howard were going to pull off the impossible. That they were actually going to survive a journey into the Cima Silkq. And that he was going to see Oulay again. Wouldn't she be surprised when he showed up, alive and well!

  The evening of the day that saw the departure of Barlow and Howard from the Chiricahua stronghold, Cochise was in his jacal when a man entered to inform him of Geronimo's arrival.


  "Bring him to me," said Cochise, with a grimace.

  A moment later the leader of the Avowed Killers entered the jacal. Geronimo was tall and lanky. His broad, deeply lined face had a cruel cast, made more so by the wide knife slit of a mouth. His features were those of a man who did not show himself, or anyone else, any mercy whatsoever. Cochise feared no man, not even Geronimo. But he feared what this man represented—the total destruction of the Apache people. Even so, he understood the attraction that Geronimo held for many Apaches. Many young warriors—even among the Chiricahua band—held him in reverence, seeing him as something more than a rebel and an outlaw. They knew Geronimo could not lead them to victory. The odds against the Chi-hinne were too great, and only a fool believed that The People would eventually triumph over their enemies. So Geronimo could never be the savior of his kind. Rather, he was viewed as the savior of Apache honor. Under his leadership, at least the Apaches would go down fighting, never to be forgotten—and feared—by the Pinda Lickoyi and the Nakai-Ye. Other leaders were willing to buy time at the cost of Apache honor. Cochise knew that there were rumblings in the ranks of the Chiricahua bronchos about him in this regard.

  Cochise beckoned for Geronimo to sit at the jacal's fire. The outlaw broncho did so. He threw a furtive look around the jacal, and Cochise surmised that he was wary of a trap. A man without honor, mused the Chiricahua jefe, expected other men to be without honor, as well.

  "There were white men here," said Geronimo flatly. "I have come to find out if Cochise has signed another treaty paper."

  There was more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Cochise bit down on his anger, realizing that the implication here was that he was a coward, kowtowing to the wishes of the Pinda Lickoyi.

  "I have not signed another treaty paper," replied Cochise coldly. "When I signed one years ago I gave my word to live in peace with the white man. I keep my word, so there is no need for another treaty paper."

  "The white man has not kept his word. He has broken that treaty paper you signed."

  "Yes," conceded Cochise. "But then, I am not a white man."

  Geronimo nodded. He looked around again, and Cochise thought that perhaps the Netdahe leader was hoping for some tiswin, or some food. But Cochise was in no mood to play the good host. In his opinion, it was enough that he even allowed Geronimo in his jacal.

  "Who were these white men who dared come into the Cima Silkq?" asked Geronimo. "What did they want?"

  "Who they are and why they came is my concern. But I will tell you this. They are brave men who came here knowing they might be killed. And yet they came in hopes of saving lives."

  "Pinda Lickoyi lives."

  "And Chiricahua lives. The Coyoteros have gone to war against them north of the border."

  Geronimo gazed at Cochise for a moment with hooded eyes. "You tell me only what you wish me to know. Perhaps Cochise hopes the Netdahe will now leave the Cima Silkq and go north to join the Coyoteros in their fight against the Pinda Lickoyi. Perhaps he hopes that we all be killed."

  "You will be killed," replied Cochise, "because of the path you have chosen. But contrary to what you may believe, I don't care what happens to the Netdahe. Except for one of you. The one called Kiannatah. I owe it to an old friend to kill that one myself."

  Geronimo smiled—a faintly derisive smile. "Cochise has courage. But I fear he would be no match for Kiannatah."

  "Send him to me, and we will see about that."

  "The suggestion is an interesting one."

  "I am sure you thought of it before," said Cochise dryly. "You must have thought that if Kiannatah killed me, you would then be able to recruit many more Chiricahua men to your cause. I stand in your way. As long as I live, you cannot rally all the Chi-hinne to battle against our enemies."

  "At least Cochise still recognizes them as the enemy."

  "I know who my enemies are. I have Pinda Lickoyi enemies. I have Nakai-Ye enemies. And I have Apache enemies. But I will tell you this. The Coyoteros have gone to war because of the actions of scalphunters who killed many Aravaipa who wanted only to live in peace. The scalphunters were Pinda Lickoyi, it is true. But the ones to blame are the Nakai-Ye, who have placed a bounty on our heads. The Nakai-Ye are our worst enemies."

  Geronimo shrugged. "Perhaps." Abruptly, he stood. "I go now."

  Cochise stood as well. He refused to look up to the likes of the Netdahe leader. He wanted to know what Geronimo intended to do; he hoped that the Avowed Killers would be unable to resist the temptation to go north and join the Coyoteros in their fight. But he didn't ask Geronimo, well aware that he could not rely on the Netdahe leader to tell him the truth.

  Geronimo started out of the jacal—at the threshold he paused and turned back to Cochise. Once again there was an unpleasant smile on his cruel face.

  "You do not believe this is so, but sometimes I have visions. I have seen the future. One day all the Chi-hinne will rise up against their enemies. We will die, yes. But we will die with honor, and in such a way that the Nakai-Ye and the Pinda Lickoyi will never forget us. In that way, at least, we will go on forever. And when the children of our enemies speak of the Chi-hinne they will do so with dread in their voices. And when they say a name, it will be my name, not yours. All of these things, I admit, give me satisfaction."

  With a curt nod, he slipped out into the night.

  Chapter 18

  Kiannatah was bored.

  Sitting cross-legged on a sandy hillock above the jacal that had been his home these past few years, he gazed out across the rugged countenance of the Sierra Madre—and brooded. Though it was the middle of the day, and the summer sun hammered his broad shoulders, he was impervious to discomfort. Long ago he had learned to embrace hunger, thirst, and pain. These things reminded him of his purpose in life: to suffer and to make others suffer, in turn.

  Many years ago, in the Nakai-Ye village called Dolorosa, which, located at the base of the Cima Silkq, was less than a day's ride away from his jacal, Kiannatah had watched his entire family massacred by the Mexicans. The Nakai-Ye had invited his band to come to Dolorosa, pretending to offer friendship. Kiannatah had been but a boy then. Somehow he had escaped with his life. And ever since that terrible day he had lived for vengeance.

  He had lost count of the Nakai-Ye and Pinda Lickoyi he had slain since then. No matter how many he killed, the thirst for revenge never left him. It seemed clear to him that killing the enemy was the only course left to all Apaches, and he had nothing but contempt for most of his kind, since they were inclined to live in "peace" with the Mexican and the white man. Even the other Netdahe chose not to wage a vigorous war against the enemies of The People, preferring instead to occasionally raid Mexican villages like Dolorosa—and usually when they wanted whiskey or mule meat or women. They killed, yes, but usually only when a Nakai-Ye stood between them and the loot they sought. Geronimo himself—the one man Kiannatah looked up to, a man whom he had believed was a kindred spirit, since Geronimo too had seen his entire family butchered before his very eyes—now appeared content to waste his life away in these remote and barren heights.

  At that moment, the Mexican girl emerged from the jacal below. Shading her eyes with one hand, holding an earthen jug in the other, she paused just outside the jacal and looked all around. Looking for him. Not because she missed him, or was concerned for his welfare. But rather because she feared him. Kiannatah watched her, unmoving. She did not see him, even though he sat in plain sight, perhaps a hundred yards from the jacal. He was expert in the Apache technique called enthlay-sit-daou; he had learned how to blend into his surroundings so completely that people could look right at him and not see him. Finally, the Mexican girl gave up and ventured down to the spring located near the jacal. Kiannatah watched as she knelt down and filled the earthen jug with water. Then she balanced the jug on one shoulder and hurried back to the jacal. At the entrance she paused, looked over her shoulder, and once more scanned the countryside, before vanishing inside like a mous
e into its hole.

  Seeing her, Kiannatah had to deal with a measure of self-contempt. He did not love her. In fact, he did not care for her at all. How could he care for her? She was Nakai-Ye. Over a year ago, during a raid on a Mexican village, he had been about to kill her when a sudden urge to take her captive had gripped him. He couldn't explain that change of heart to himself, except to lay the blame for it on Oulay, daughter of Cochise.

  Growing up, Kiannatah had vowed that he would never take a wife. Never have children. A family was a liability for an Avowed Killer. Concern for loved ones weakened a warrior, sometimes fatally. And then he had seen Oulay, and desired her. But Cochise had done the unthinkable. The Chiricahua leader had allowed Oulay to live with a white man—and even worse, a yellow-leg soldier. Kiannatah had abducted Oulay, intending to bring her to the Cima Silkq, to force her to love him, and to stay with him always. But some of the soldier's friends had foiled that plan. Not long after that, Kiannatah had spared the life of the Mexican girl. He had brought her back to the Cima Silkq. He hadn't tried to force her to love him; he didn't want her love. But he had forced her to stay with him. She wasn't Oulay, of course, but she sufficed as the object of his sexual desires, and as someone to take care of the jacal that was his home. But even though he told himself that he could do without the Mexican girl, he still felt contempt for what he perceived to be a personal weakness, and he'd concluded that dreams of being with Oulay had made him, somehow, less inclined to live out his days alone—the way, in his mind, a true Netdahe should.

  The Mexican girl was perhaps sixteen years of age now. In the first days of her captivity she had tried to escape a couple of times. He had always caught her, and beat her severely, and when he left on subsequent raids, he would always tie her up so that she couldn't flee even if she was still of a mind to do so. Although he spoke only a little of her tongue, he knew enough Spanish to understand from her that she would no longer, now, be welcomed home, since she had spent so much time with an Apache broncho, and her people would naturally assume that he'd had his way with her. In the eyes of her family and friends, this made her fatally damaged goods. Kiannatah was unmoved; it really didn't matter how her family would treat her, since she would never see them again.