Apache Shadow Page 8

  "Fear and ignorance breed loathing," murmured Howard. "This is a brutal land. It shouldn't come as a surprise that the Apache can be brutal in his turn."

  "I've seen brutality on both sides."

  "I'm sure that's true. So what is it that you want, Mr. Barlow?"

  "What do I want?" The question caught him by surprise. "I just want to be left alone. By the Apaches—and by you. If you'll pardon me for saying so." Howard's thick beard moved so that Barlow thought he might be smiling.

  "What you're saying is, you want peace."

  "Of course."

  "Good. So do I. That's why I need your help."

  "My help," echoed Barlow, suspiciously.

  "Let me see if I can explain. There are a number of separate bands of Apaches—isn't that so? There is no one leader or chief."

  "No, there isn't."

  "So who would you say is the most widely respected of the Apache leaders?"

  Barlow didn't even have to think about it. "Cochise."

  "Who is in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico at present, with the rest of his people, the Chiricahuas."

  "Right. But not because they want to be there."

  Howard nodded. "I want you to accompany me to the Sierra Madre, Mr. Barlow. I want to talk, face-to-face—man to man—with Cochise. If I can persuade him to stay off the warpath, then I think this current situation that we find ourselves in will be . . . manageable."

  Barlow stared at him. "You've got to be kidding."

  "On the contrary. I've never been more serious."

  "You can't just ride into the Sierra Madre, General. You try that, with or without an army behind you, you won't live long enough to see Cochise."

  "I'm willing to take the risk—for peace."

  Barlow scoffed. "Well, I'm sure as hell not."

  "You're married to his daughter?"

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Then he must trust you."

  "Maybe once. I doubt he trusts any white man, anymore."

  "Is Cochise a man of integrity?"

  "I've never met a man with more."

  "Then he will at least listen to what you have to say. And if I'm with you, then there's a chance he might listen to me as well."

  "So I'm supposed to vouch for you—a man I only met five minutes ago."

  "You're a good judge of character. You would have to be, to have survived for so long in this country. What do your instincts tell you about me?"

  "That you're sincere." Barlow shook his head. "But that doesn't matter. It's suicide to go into the Sierra Madre."

  Howard gazed across the desk at him a moment—and changed tack. "What would happen if Cochise and the Chiricahuas go on the warpath?"

  "I know where you're going with this," said Barlow, realizing that the general was trying to outflank him. "All the other bands would go to war, for certain. But I don't think you're seeing the situation clearly, General. It's too late. There's going to be a war."

  "It's never too late," said Howard stubbornly. "I'm going to find Cochise and talk to him. The question is, will you help me?"

  Barlow thought it over. Like Howard had suggested, he was listening to his instincts, and those instincts were telling him that the general was also a man of integrity. He was honest, straightforward, determined—the kind of man Cochise would respect. If there was anyone who could persuade Cochise to keep the peace, it was this man.

  "I have responsibilities, General," he said at last.

  Howard nodded. "Of course. Your ranch. Your men. And most of all, your wife."

  "Exactly."

  "I give you my word that, for as long as you are away, assisting me, a full company of soldiers will remain at your ranch. Would that serve to ease your mind?"

  "Considerably," admitted Barlow.

  "Then you will ride with me."

  "I will," sighed Barlow. He couldn't help thinking that it was the craziest thing he'd ever agreed to do. And also that it would be the last.

  "Then we will leave in one week's time. I must send a wire to the War Department, and the War Department, in turn, will have to communicate with the Mexican government."

  "Which government is that? The government of Maximilian, or of Juárez?"

  "Yes, well—that's a complication we may have to deal with. To be frank, I would just as soon cross over into Mexico without informing anyone."

  "That makes two of us."

  "But the War Department insists that Mexico be fully informed about my mission. So we will depart in one week, arrive at the border approximately one week later. Does that suit you?"

  "Sure." Barlow stood up to go.

  "One more thing," said Howard. "A couple of the men who conducted the raid against the Aravaipa are in custody. I want to assure you that they will be punished to the fullest extent of the law."

  "That's fine," said Barlow, "though it won't make a damn bit of difference to most Apaches."

  "The guilty must pay for their crimes."

  "Some of the guilty. I think some of the men who are responsible for the massacre got away. I know at least one did."

  "Do you know this man's identity?"

  "Yes," said Barlow harshly. And then, with Major Cronin's name on his lips, he changed his mind. "Me. Because I had a couple of scalphunters in my hands, General, and I could have turned them over to the Coyoteros. I should have. Maybe if I had, none of this would've happened."

  "What did you do with them?"

  "Maybe someday I'll tell you," said Barlow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go home." I have to tell my wife that I'm leaving again—and that this time I can't guarantee I'll be coming back.

  As he left the headquarters building, Barlow expected to be confronted by Cronin. But the major was nowhere to be seen. It was just as well. He had decided, on the spur of the moment, that he would deal with Cronin himself. He wasn't sure how or when. That way, maybe he could wash away some of the blood that was on his own hands. Or maybe not. Either way, at least one more guilty party would pay.

  Chapter 13

  The border town had a name—Santo Domingo—but there was nothing to distinguish it from the other border towns Barlow had seen. It was a dingy collection of adobe huts with a single rutted street and a zocalo, or square, that had a well in the center, and a few scrawny trees around the well providing scant shade from the punishing sun. The street was populated with pigs and stray dogs and half-naked children, and the people of the town stood in the doorways or the windows of their huts and watched with an impassive attentiveness as Barlow and General Howard rode in on weary horses. They made their way to the well, and dismounted. Barlow dropped the bucket and cranked it back up again, resting it on the lip of the well to let their mounts and the single packhorse drink. Two women who had been on their way to the well for water, clay ollas balanced on their shoulders, stopped in their tracks a stone's throw away and just stood there, watching the two gringos warily.

  "Not much of a welcome," remarked Howard.

  "They don't trust strangers," said Barlow. "They've been given good reason not to."

  "It appears we're early for our rendezvous."

  Barlow nodded, dipping his hand into the half-empty bucket and splashing a little water on his dust-caked face. They were supposed to be met here at Santo Domingo by a military detail, which was to provide them with safe passage. Barlow didn't think much of the idea, figuring it would be safer for them to travel alone than with soldiers, since the latter might draw the attention of rebel forces. But according to Howard, Washington still recognized the government of Emperor Maximilian, and Mexico had to be notified of the general's mission to avoid the possibility of an "incident," and the Mexican government had insisted on the escort.

  There was a small church on the north side of the square, and opposite that was a cantina. Once the horses had slaked their thirst, Barlow and Howard headed in that direction. The interior of the cantina was dark, but Barlow didn't mind; there wouldn't be much to see
, save the dirt on the floor and the flies on the walls. A small, balding man with a buccaneer's mustache was behind the bar, which consisted of warped planks laid across several barrels. The only other occupant was either passed out or asleep at a table in the corner. The bartender asked them what they wanted.

  "What will you have?" Barlow asked Howard.

  "I don't touch strong spirits," said the general.

  Barlow put some hard money on the bar and ordered pulque. The bartender produced a bowl filled to overflowing with the milky beverage, made from fermenting fresh sap from the agave. Barlow carried it to a table and sat down with his back to the wall so that he could face the doorway. Howard sat in a chair facing him. Although saddle-weary, the general still sat ramrod-straight, not permitting his spine to touch the back of the chair. Though he'd only been traveling with Howard for a few days, Barlow thought he had a pretty good read on the man. The general was no spring chicken, and the trail they had traveled had been a hard one for him, but he was no complainer, and he wasn't about to reveal, even to Barlow, that he was bone-tired. He didn't cut himself any slack, and Barlow surmised that as a commander he would drive his men hard. Barlow had wondered if the trek to the Sierra Madre would turn out to be one during which he'd have to spend much of his time looking out for the general. But Howard was tough as old leather. And even with one arm he was clearly the kind of man you'd want backing you in the event of trouble. In fact, in trail-grimed civilian clothes, his beard no longer meticulously groomed, he looked like a tough customer. And that, mused Barlow, was what you wanted to look like on the border. In this country, if you showed any sort of weakness, there were plenty of two-legged predators who would tear you to pieces.

  Santa Domingo looked peaceful and harmless enough, yet Barlow didn't let his guard down. He knew that appearances could be deceiving.

  "How long are we going to wait?" he asked Howard, after sipping the potent pulque. "There's no telling when—or even if—that escort will get here."

  "I know," said Howard. "Considering the distances involved, I'd be very surprised if a message wasn't delayed, or lost altogether. I would say a couple of days, at the most." He threw a look around the cantina. "I'm guessing there is a shortage of suitable accommodations in this town."

  "We don't want to stay here anyway," said Barlow. "If we have to hang around, it'll be better to camp a little ways out."

  Howard noticed that, like the other citizens of Santo Domingo, the bartender was staring at them. "Perhaps we should let it be known why we're here, just to put these people at ease, if nothing else."

  "Not a good idea," said Barlow.

  Howard looked at him. "You don't trust anyone, do you?"

  Barlow thought about it. "Not really."

  Of course, that wasn't entirely true. He trusted Oulay. And missed her. She had insisted on coming with him, using as the principal foundation of her argument that it might be her one chance to see her father, Cochise, again. That wasn't altogether untrue, but the real reason was that, after listening to him explain the mission upon which he was about to embark, she'd decided that the odds were stacked against his coming back alive. And since life would have no meaning for her once he was dead, she wanted to go with him—wanted to die with him. While he understood her motives, and sympathized, he couldn't let her come along, and used as the principal foundation of his argument that it was going to be enough of a challenge to keep himself alive without his having to worry about her safety.

  He'd had second thoughts about going. Plenty of them. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he'd become that this was the only way to prevent an all-out Apache war. The Aravaipa massacre had a few of the bands, like the Coyoteros, on the warpath. That was bad enough. But if Cochise went to war all the Apaches would follow him. Not just the Chiricahuas, either. Cochise was the one leader around whom all the bands, which usually did not get along, could unite. And Barlow shuddered to think what would happen if the entire Apache nation rose up against the Pinda Lickoyi. The outcome of such a war was not in doubt; the United States was too powerful. The Chi-hinne could not prevail. But they would inflict so much death and cause such widespread destruction that the United States would prosecute the war until every last Apache was dead or in chains. And along the way, many people would die. This was exactly what General Howard was risking his life to prevent, and Barlow had decided he had to lend assistance.

  When Barlow had finished the pulque, they left the cantina, mounted their horses, and rode west out of town. Barlow found a good campsite a mile and a half later—a hollow surrounded by barren hillocks, with a stream nearby, and also a rock outcropping, which would provide them with a defensible position if attacked.

  "This will do," he said.

  "Yes, yes, this is fine," said Howard dubiously. "But if the escort arrives in Santo Domingo, how will they know to find us here?"

  "They'll be told where we are."

  "By whom?"

  "The people of the village. Somebody will track us, just to see if we're gone for good. They won't bother us here. We probably won't even see 'em. But they'll know, and they'll tell the soldiers, if asked."

  "Well," said Howard, his tone of voice indicating that he wasn't entirely convinced, "I'll trust you know what you're doing. You know this country, and these people, better than I do."

  Barlow dug a hole and built a small, smokeless fire in the middle of it, with which he cooked a supper of beans and biscuits and brewed some coffee. Then he covered the fire with dirt. They didn't picket the horses, but rather kept the saddles, cinches loosened, on their mounts, and the reins tied around their left wrists. Barlow kept the packhorse ground hitched. They ate supper as the sun went down. By its dying light Howard read a little Scripture. After a while he closed the Bible and looked across at Barlow, who was stretched out on his blankets, gazing up at the stars.

  "Are you a religious man, Mr. Barlow?"

  Coming out of the blue that way, the question caught Barlow by surprise. "Well, I . . . I don't know. I guess not. I don't go to church."

  "Do you pray often?"

  "Not really, no." Barlow sat up. "My mother and father took me to a church a few times when I was a child. But then they stopped."

  "Why did they stop?"

  "My father was Timothy Barlow. He was an army officer, and a Unionist. He was instrumental in putting down the nullifiers in South Carolina. And he was a friend to the Cherokees in Georgia."

  Howard nodded. "Yes, I've heard of him. I regret that I was never afforded an opportunity to meet him in person."

  "My mother was Southern, and they lived in Georgia, even though they weren't made to feel welcome there. They concluded that our presence in the congregation was too disruptive. From that time on, every Sunday, my mother would read to me from the Good Book."

  "Nothing wrong with that," said Howard. "You don't have to be a member of a church to become close to God."

  "My father wasn't religious. Not in the conventional sense of the word. And I don't think I am, either."

  "Well," said Howard, "you're young. Young people often stray from the path. But as they get older, and the travails of life beset them at every turn, they often seek solace in God's word. It can work wonders."

  "So can a fast horse and a loaded gun."

  Howard chuckled. "That's true. But when all else fails . . . You must forgive me. From an early age I wanted to be a minister. And yet I made soldiering a career. And every time I find myself on the verge of giving up my commission, and devoting the rest of my days to the Lord's service, I'm called upon by my country."

  "My father had the same problem. Though it wasn't serving the Lord that he wanted, of course."

  "The plans we make usually go awry, don't they? I think it's because God has His own plan for our lives. Sometimes His plan is quite different from the one we choose. All we can do is take comfort in knowing that everything that happens to us is for a reason. But—excuse an old man's ramblings. Why don't you get
some rest? I'll take the first watch."

  Barlow nodded. He wasn't buying Howard's "old man" routine; in the time they'd spent on the trail together, he'd learned that the general was someone he could depend on. So he rolled up in his blankets, turned on his side, and went to sleep, secure in the knowledge that the old warhorse would be an alert lookout.

  They spent the next two days waiting for the escort. It didn't come. With each passing hour, Barlow became more impatient. They weren't accomplishing anything sitting here. He wanted to press on for the Sierra Madre. Wanted to find Cochise, introduce him to Howard, let them have their talk, and then get home to Oulay, where he belonged. He knew that, logically, she was quite safe; Howard had promised a company of troopers to watch over her, and the general had delivered. Best of all, that detachment was under the command of Charles Summerhayes. And Short Britches had promised to stick close to the ranch, as well. Oulay was probably the best protected person in the territory. But logic could not combat Barlow's feeling that, in this time of danger and uncertainty, his place was by her side.

  He didn't give voice to his impatience. He wasn't going to badger Howard. There was no need to, anyway; he was certain that the general knew where he stood. Besides, Howard had said he would wait a couple of days for the escort to arrive—and he was obviously a man who did what he said he'd do. And at the end of the second day, he told Barlow that he was through with waiting There were any number of possible explanations for the failure of the escort to show up. Time was of the essence. They would depart for the Sierra Madre at first light.

  It had become routine for Howard to take the first watch and Barlow the second, so it was Barlow who sat just below the rim of the hollow as the first light of dawn streaked the eastern sky. He was about to stir himself, and go down into the camp to awaken the sleeping general, when he noticed a splotch of darkness against the lightening sky. It took him only a few seconds to recognize it as smoke. A lot of smoke, rising up from the general vicinity of Santo Domingo.

  He watched the smoke for a moment, sensing that it meant trouble and pondering what to do about that. Then he went down to the camp. He was tightening the cinch of his saddle when Howard stirred in his blankets, and sat up. One glance at Barlow and he knew something was amiss. He was on his feet in an instance.