Apache Shadow Read online

  Barlow was turning to go back inside when Rodrigo, posted on the roof of the adobe bunkhouse, stood up and let out a whistle. Ever since the Netdahe named Kiannatah had attacked, killing three vaqueros and abducting Oulay, a lookout was posted around the clock. Rodrigo was pointing to the west. Barlow peered in that direction. For a moment he didn't see anything. Then the horsemen appeared, coming up out of a depression in the ground, about a quarter mile away and heading straight for the ranch buildings.

  With a grimace, Barlow stepped inside the adobe. His rifle was leaning against the wall right by the door. Oulay was busy cooking breakfast, but she wasn't so preoccupied that she didn't notice when he picked up the long gun.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  "No," he said, speaking in her tongue. With the help of Short Britches, he'd learned enough Apache in the past year to communicate with her, and that, in turn, had facilitated her learning a little English. But she'd had more difficulty with his lingo than he'd had with hers, so they spoke, for the most part, in Apache.

  She looked at him with those dark eyes, so filled with wisdom for one so young, and he realized that he was going to have to provide her with more information. He didn't want to worry her, but on the other hand he understood her desire to stay informed—after all, she was the one who'd been kidnapped by an Avowed Killer, and it was really nothing short of a miracle that she had survived the experience.

  "A few riders coming," he said. "Just being careful." In other words, it was probably nothing to worry about. He could never tell, by her expression alone, whether she was worried or not. She was Apache, after all, and a certain degree of stoicism had been inculcated in her from an early age.

  Giving her a reassuring smile, he stepped outside. By now, the vaqueros at the bunkhouse had armed themselves too. The riders were close enough for him to determine that they weren't Indians. Not that this meant Barlow would lower his guard.

  The vaqueros stood by, watching him. There was nothing he needed to tell them. They knew, as he did, that in this country any stranger was a potential enemy, and they would follow his lead without question.

  As the horsemen drew near, Barlow sized them up. Two Anglos and a Mexican, they looked like a rough lot. The big, bearded man in the lead wore buckskins and an old Confederate tunic. Barlow knew that after the war many men had come west, turning their backs on shattered lives, hoping to make a new beginning. Some had met with success, and some were trouble. This one looked like he fell into the latter category. He gazed at the armed vaqueros arrayed, in deceptively casual poses, across the front of the bunkhouse, then angled his horse toward Barlow.

  "Howdy," he said, fixing his sun-faded blue eyes on Barlow. "You the big augur around here?"

  "This is my place."

  Coughlin nodded in the direction of Skaggs, astride the pack mule. "We need a horse. Got one?"

  "I've got horses, but none to spare."

  "We've got rifles to trade, a few other things."

  Skaggs held up one of the rifles they had taken from the dead Apaches.

  "Got plenty of rifles too," said Barlow.

  "Yeah. I noticed." Coughlin glanced across the hardpack at the vaqueros.

  "What do you have there?" Barlow nodded at the bloodstained, fly-specked pouch slung over Coughlin's saddle horn.

  Coughlin's eyes narrowed even more. "Now is that any of your business?"

  "Maybe not," said Barlow. "You can water your animals. Then I suggest you ride on."

  Oulay picked that moment to emerge from the adobe. She stood in the doorway, behind Barlow. Coughlin and his two associates stared at her, and Barlow didn't like the look in their eyes. He raised the rifle just a little. It was enough to get Coughlin's attention.

  "So you won't trade us a horse, then," said Coughlin.

  "No."

  Coughlin gave him a long, appraising look. Then, with a curt nod, he spurred his horse into motion, and led his two associates away from the ranch buildings. Barlow watched them until they were several hundred yards away. Only then did he lower the rifle and turn to look at Oulay. She was watching him, not the departing strangers.

  "Don't worry," he said.

  "I don't. I'm not afraid."

  He knew that she wasn't. He was afraid, though. Always afraid that he might lose her again—and that the next time he wouldn't get her back.

  This time of year there was plenty of work to be done on the range, but Barlow let the vaqueros handle it and stayed close to home. He knew what was contained in the pouch that the big bearded man was carrying. Scalps. Apache scalps, undoubtedly. And he didn't like the way the strangers had looked at Oulay.

  That afternoon Short Britches rode in. The old scout dismounted at the water trough and let his horse, a shaggy mountain mustang, drink its fill. Barlow crossed the hardpack to join him.

  "Trouble's coming," said Short Britches, with no more emotion than he would show in remarking on the weather.

  "It's already been here. Three men. Scalphunters."

  "That explains it," said Short Britches, looking out across the desert plain in the direction from whence he'd come.

  "Explains what?"

  "Coyotero bronchos. About a dozen of them. Coming this way, in a hurry."

  Barlow took a closer look at the old scout's horse—and noticed that it had been run hard. The animal didn't look like much, but Barlow had never known of a horse with more stamina or spirit. In the mustang's case—as with its owner—looks could be deceiving. Short Britches was a scrawny, grizzled man of indeterminate age, his body bent by age. His clothing looked like castoffs, including the battered stovepipe hat atop his head, incongruous headgear for this country. The old scout looked like a man who deserved one's pity, and certainly not a person who could inspire fear or respect. But Short Britches was the most dangerous man Barlow had ever met.

  "How long before they get here?" he asked.

  "Couple hours. They're trailing three riders. I don't know why."

  "I do," said Barlow, grimly. "Those three are scalphunters."

  Short Britches gravely pondered this news for a moment. "What did you do?"

  "They needed a horse. I told them no and sent them on their way."

  The old scout just looked at him.

  "You think I shouldn't have let them go."

  The other shrugged. "I know why you did. But the Coyoteros probably won't."

  And he did know—knew that Barlow wanted nothing more than to stay out of the trouble that always seemed to be brewing between Apache and Pinda Lickoyi. Barlow had sensed that Short Britches thought it wasn't a very practical goal. And though he would never have admitted it to anyone, Barlow was afraid the scout was right. Now it seemed that events were conspiring to prove that this was so. Barlow had a certain reputation among the Apaches as one of the few white men who could be trusted to keep his word and to treat the Indian fairly. But not all Apaches trusted him. He could not guarantee that the Coyotero war party would believe that he had not aided and abetted the trio of scalphunters they were tracking. They might not even bother asking. Barlow felt trapped by circumstances beyond his control into a course of action he didn't want to pursue.

  "Okay," he said gruffly. "Maybe I should have done something more. But I can't go after them now."

  "No, we can't," allowed Short Britches. "We must wait for the Coyoteros."

  Barlow nodded. The last thing he wanted was a fight with the Apaches. But he would fight them if it was necessary—if it was the only way he could protect what was his.

  "Better go round up as many of the men as you can," he told the old scout. "And get back here as quick as you can."

  Short Britches stripped his saddle from the mountain mustang. The animal was not only worn-out but waterlogged now. He turned the mustang loose in the corral. Shaking out a lariat, he tossed a loop over the head of one of the other horses in the enclosure. In minutes he had the fresh mount saddled and was riding out. Barlow returned to the adobe. He had to tel
l Oulay that they were faced with the prospect of even more trouble today. And a war party of Apache bronchos with their blood up was just about the worst kind of trouble you could find.

  Chapter 3

  When the Coyotero war party arrived, Barlow was ready for them.

  Short Britches had brought most of the vaqueros in off the range. Some were stationed in and around the ranch buildings, on the rooftops or behind shuttered windows, all of them heavily armed. The rest were mounted and waiting behind a low rise just east of the ranch buildings, out of sight of the approaching Apaches. If shooting started, their job was to ride in and whisk Oulay away, while Barlow and the others held the Coyoteros at bay as long as possible.

  Barlow had not had many dealings with the Coyoteros, but Short Britches recognized the man who led the bronchos.

  "It is Valerio," he told Barlow, as they rode stirrup to stirrup out to meet the Apaches, who had paused, in a line, some distance from the ranch buildings. "He is like Cochise among the Chiricahua. The big jefe."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  Short Britches shrugged. "He is a reasonable man. But he is still an Apache, and if he is here, then this is no small matter."

  As they approached the line of Apaches, Barlow was struck by their appearance. Even though he had seen more than his share of Apache warriors, they never failed to impress him. It was as though they had been chiseled out of the desert, out of the rock and the heat and the sand and the wind. They were dark, grim, lean, indomitable. Most wore white himpers and the n-deh b'ken—knee-high desert moccasins. Some wore bandoleros filled with shells for rifle and pistol across their chests. Man for man, they were more than a match for the best-trained, best-equipped soldiers. Barlow had no illusions about his chances of survival if the Apaches attacked.

  He and Short Britches checked their horses no more than twenty feet from the Apache line. In the center of that line, one of the bronchos urged his pony forward. Upon closer scrutiny, Barlow saw that this man was older than his companions, though clearly no less strong and vigorous. He assumed this was Valerio; he glanced at Short Britches for confirmation, and the old scout nodded.

  "Valerio, you are welcome in my home," said Barlow, praying that his knowledge of the Apache tongue would be sufficient, considering the importance of the moment.

  "Four of my people are dead," said Valerio gravely, "murdered by white men who have passed this way. Were they too welcomed in your home?"

  "No," replied Barlow. "They passed through, heading south."

  "They asked for fresh horses," said Short Britches. "But the padrone did not give them what they wanted."

  Valerio spared the old scout the merest of glances; he didn't seem too impressed. "Who were these men?" he asked.

  "I had never seen them before," replied Barlow. "I do not know their names. But I'm pretty sure they were scalphunters."

  "And you let them pass," said Valerio, his gaze piercing, accusatory.

  "Yes. I shouldn't have. But at the time I just . . . I didn't want any trouble."

  "But now we are here, and you have changed your mind," said the Coyotero jefe dryly.

  Barlow grimaced. He was not without pride, and he bristled at being chastised by Valerio, but tried not to let it show. "Yes, something like that."

  "If you do not want trouble, you are in the wrong place," said Valerio. "You live between The People and the White Eyes. You live on what was once Apache land. Trouble is bound to come your way, and if you seek to escape it, you should leave this place."

  "This is my home. I will stay here."

  "You are lucky to be a white man. You can say that. The Apache cannot. We have agreed to live in peace on land that the White Father chose for us. It is not the land we would have chosen for ourselves. But we accepted our fate. All we asked was to be left alone. Still, our people are murdered."

  "I will go after the scalphunters," said Barlow. "I will bring them to justice. You have my word on it. I was wrong to let them go. I'll make it right."

  "No," snapped Valerio, gesturing at the bronchos. "We will make it right."

  Barlow felt a sense of urgency rising up within him, because he suddenly saw where all of this could lead. He'd seen it happen before—a war that could engulf the entire territory arising from a single small incident. The first Apache war—the one in which he had been a reluctant participant—had started with the killing of a few of John Ward's cattle, an act Ward had blamed on Cochise and the Chiricahua Apaches. Ward's animosity had led him to declare his own personal war against the Apaches, blinding him to reason and, ultimately, leading to his death and the deaths of many of the vaqueros who'd worked for him. Those deaths, in turn, had led to a full-fledged military campaign against Cochise, which, in turn, had brought the Bedonkohe Apaches into the fray. Many more men had perished, including some Barlow had called friend.

  "You must listen to me," he told Valerio. "You have every right to seek revenge for what's happened. Those scalphunters should be punished, but if you kill them, then many whites will demand that the army take action against you. They'll say that the Apaches are on a rampage and that their lives are at risk, and the government will have to do something."

  "What would you have us do?" asked Valerio.

  "I'll go after the scalphunters. I'll catch them and take them to the army at Fort Union. They'll be punished."

  "How do we know that the yellow-legs will punish them?"

  "The army doesn't want another war with the Apaches, and men like those scalphunters are a danger to the peace. The army will want to make an example of them, to discourage others who might be thinking about trying to collect the Mexican bounty."

  It was impossible for Barlow to tell if he was making any headway with Valerio; the Coyotero leader's face might have been carved from stone for all the emotion it betrayed.

  "I know who you are," said Valerio, after a moment reflecting on Barlow's words. "Cochise trusted you. You have taken his daughter as your woman, with his blessing. They say you were a friend to the Chiricahuas. But now the Chiricahuas have been driven from their villages and live like outcasts in the Cima Silkq. It does not seem as though it did Cochise any good to trust you."

  "Then ride with me. I ask only that, when we find the men you're after, you will let me try to do things my way. If I fail, then you can do it your way."

  Valerio gazed at Barlow a moment, and Barlow sensed that the Coyotero jefe was sizing him up, weighing his words. Finally, Valerio nodded. "We will ride with you."

  Relieved, Barlow asked for one hour to prepare for the journey and invited the Coyotero bronchos to draw water from his well for their horses. But Valerio declined the offer to approach the ranch buildings. He doesn't trust me, mused Barlow, as he turned his horse to ride back to the adobes, Short Britches beside him, but then, why should he? I am Pinda Lickoyi.

  Short Britches waited until they were halfway to the ranch buildings before speaking. "You're taking a big chance," he observed.

  "I'm between pillar and post," sighed Barlow. "If I let them go, and they kill those scalphunters, we could find ourselves in the middle of another war. And they won't go home until they know justice has been done."

  "Some of those bronchos aren't as reasonable as Valerio," said the old scout. "They're angry at all white men. They'd just as soon kill you. And Valerio might let them. There's no way to be sure about him."

  "I'll be okay," said Barlow, hoping he sounded more confident on that score than he actually felt. "I need you and the rest of the men to stay close to home until this business is resolved."

  "The others will watch out for Oulay. I will ride with you."

  Barlow smiled. "Think you can protect me from a dozen bronchos?"

  "Of course."

  Barlow wasn't sure if the old scout was joking or not. "I'd feel better if you were with Oulay."

  Short Britches looked at him—and knew that Barlow was thinking back to the time when the renegade named Kiannatah had killed three vaqueros be
fore abducting Oulay. It was something, mused the scout, that would probably haunt the padrone for the rest of his days. And the fear that it might happen again was one that Barlow seemed powerless to put to rest. To tell him that the vaqueros would protect Oulay with their lives wouldn't do any good, or that she would be no safer if he stayed behind. He had been the one—with the help of an army sergeant and a few White Mountain Apaches—who'd rescued Oulay from the Netdahe broncho. Ever since then, without actually coming out and admitting it, Barlow seemed to think he was the only one who could be counted on to keep Oulay from harm.

  "She will be safe only if you are successful," said Short Britches. "If I ride with you, you will have a better chance of succeeding. So, to protect her, I must go with you."

  Barlow shook his head. "Well, I guess there's not much point in arguing with you. Even if I insisted that you stay, you'd just mount up and ride after me as soon as I was over the first hill."

  Short Britches thought it over, and nodded gravely. "That's true," he said.

  Barlow suppressed a smile and urged the horse beneath him into a quicker gait. He had a big task ahead—explaining to Oulay why he was loading his guns and riding off with a band of Coyotero bronchos in pursuit of the scalphunters. He knew what her response would be. She wouldn't want him to go, but would say nothing along those lines. And she would worry about him every waking moment during his absence. All he could do to fix that was to get the job done—and return home—as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 4

  When the scalphunter named Coughlin awoke the next morning, the sun had not yet risen. The sky in the east was lightening, but overhead some of the brighter stars were still visible. For a moment Coughlin wondered what had awakened him—usually it was the sun that roused him from his slumbers. Skaggs was supposed to be on watch, but he was asleep; all Coughlin could see of him was a mound on the rim on the draw. The Mexican was rolled up in his blankets, sleeping. The horses were quiet on the picket line yonder. The fire was crackling warmly. Coughlin, still groggy from a heavy sleep, frowned as he rose on one elbow. The fire? How could that be if . . . ?