Dorothy Garlock (26 page)

“You just try it, you bastard, and I’ll blow you to hell and back.”

Johanna hurried Bucko into the attic room and closed the door, shutting out the sound of angry voices downstairs. She led him to the chair beside the window and pulled him onto her lap. He snuggled his face into the curve of her neck and she held him tenderly, stroking the hair back from his forehead, wet with sweat, and she realized the effort he had made to climb the steep steps so quickly.

“You don’t have to be afraid of old Mack, darling,” she said. “It’s best to face the fact that he’s old and sometimes says cruel things.” Johanna spoke softly in Spanish. “Old Mack is a sad old man. He has no one to love him, so he says mean things, trying to act as if he doesn’t care. But he must care, and for that reason we should feel sorry for him. You have many people who love you, Bucko. I love you and Jacy and Luis love you. You know that Burr loves you.”

“Burr give ponies for me.” His voice was muffled and drowsy in the soft folds of her dress.

“He must have wanted you very much to give ponies.”

“He give five.”

“That many?”

“I wish old Mack die!”

“No, we don’t wish that. We wish he would be nicer, but if he isn’t, we’ll have to try harder to close our ears when he says bad things.”

The room darkened and Bucko fell asleep. Johanna gently rested his sagging head against her. Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and she studied the child’s face. It was delicately formed, and she couldn’t see a feature she could attribute to the Macklins except for the blue eyes. They were exactly the color of Burr’s and slightly slanted. Now dark lashes lay on the child’s cheeks. The boy’s slight frame had none of the big-boned, rugged construction of Burr’s body.
Such a little boy,
she thought,
carrying the burden of living in this house of dissension and with a misshapen foot.
She looked at it now in the loose-fitting moccasin; it turned awkwardly at the ankle, and she wondered how he managed to walk on the side of it. He should have a special boot. She thought of the harness maker and decided he would be the one to make the boot if she made the pattern.

It was much later when she heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. She had been holding the boy for so long that her arms were numb, but the child and the comforting quiet had a soothing effect on her. She had come to realize that her life would have more meaning with this small human being to love and to teach. He would help to fill the spot in her life that Jacy had held all these months.

There was a rap on the door. Johanna rested her head against the back of the chair and ignored it. If it was her sister, she would come in; anyone else could go away. Ben would understand. The rap came again, insistent this time. After a long pause the door opened.

“Ben?” Johanna turned her head and saw the outline of a large frame. “What do
you
want?”

Burr came quietly into the room, his footsteps muffled by the moccasins he wore. He carried a lighted candle and set it down on the table beside the chair.

Without looking at him, she said, “Why haven’t you had a boot made for this child’s foot?”

There was silence, then the creak of the rope springs as Burr lowered himself onto the side of the bed.

“I didn’t know it would help,” he said simply.

“It needs support from soft leather that can be laced tightly. In time it may force the bones to straighten somewhat. It seems to me his ankle was broken and never set,” she said accusingly.

“Have you seen such a boot? Can you show me how to make one?”

“I’ll make a pattern.” Her words were short and abrupt.

They sat in silence until Burr asked quietly, “Do you like Bucko?”

The question was so ridiculous that she glared at him. He was sitting on the bed, his arms resting on his thighs, his big hands clenched between his knees. He was staring at the floor.

“You must certainly have a great opinion of me,” she said sarcastically. “Why wouldn’t I like a child whose parents were not of his choosing and who is forced to live in this vile house with a fiend in human form? His mental anguish must be great each time that old man sneers at his limp. This child and Ben are the only things in this house I do like.”

Burr lifted his head, and Johanna saw a forlorn expression on his face, but her heart was so hardened against him that she refused to acknowledge her feelings for him.

“Bucko has as much right here as I do,” he said slowly.

“Which only confirms what I thought. It’s his due, you said. But you don’t think it’s his due—you just want to flaunt him before the old man. It’s your pride that keeps him here, not what’s best for the child.”

Burr drew in a ragged breath. “Your tongue’s got a sting like a scorpion!”

“I’ll need it if I’m going to survive in this house.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Johanna didn’t answer. The child in her arms stirred, and Burr got to his feet and lifted him from Johanna’s lap. He held Bucko upright in his arms and eased his sleeping, dark head to his shoulder. On his way to the door he paused, turned slowly, and looked down at Johanna standing behind him holding the candle.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said again. When she silently looked away from him he said angrily, “What do you want, for God’s sake?”

“I want peace in this valley without having to marry you. That’s what I want.”

“No!” His voice bellowed above hers.

“I’ll not live in a house where my husband’s whore comes and goes as she pleases,” she said shrilly.

“You mean Isabella?”

“Who else would I mean for heaven’s sake!”

“If Isabella bothers you so much I’ll tell her to stay away.” He glared down. “But don’t you mistreat her. She’s not had the easy life you’ve had. Do you understand?” She backed away from his fury. “Don’t cringe from me, damn you!” he ordered.

She stood immobile, and he went on in a voice more menacing because his tone suddenly became quiet. “The
padre
is here. Paco brought him in tonight. I’m going to wed you, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

He turned on his heel and strode out the door, then turned back. “There’s something more that you have the right to know. The Apaches are pouring into the lower valley. From the looks of things, it will be the largest encampment that’s ever been here. I’m going with Luis to bring in his breeding stock, and we’ll drive the
remuda
up in the morning. I want you women and Bucko to stay in the house. I’ll have a man here to stay with you while I’m away.” That said, he turned to leave, then once again changed his mind. He turned and searched her face intently. “I expect my orders to be obeyed.” He flung the words at her and left.

Johanna kicked the door shut behind him.

*  *  *

Later that night Johanna awoke from an uneasy sleep. At first she didn’t know what had awakened her; her muscles were tense and her skin prickled with fear. The wind tearing at the tin roof, so close to the bed tucked beneath the sloped ceiling, moaned like a woman in pain. The phrase
death wind
slipped into her mind.

Far away she heard the sound of horses’ hooves on packed earth. She raised her head to listen. Soon the familiar squeaking of the gate and the soft, calm voices of the men reached her. She got out of bed and went to the window. A dozen horsemen were returning from the corral at the base of the mountain. A rider took off his hat to wipe his face and the moonlight shone on his white-blond hair. A feeling of relief washed over her, and she returned to her bed, sank down into its softness, and dropped into a deep sleep.

F
ifteen

T
he sturdy squaw reached out and viciously pinched the scrawny arm of her husband’s third wife. Sha-we-ne showed no sign of the pain that traveled up her arm, but inwardly she cringed and prepared herself to accept the blows from the willow switch held by the shorter, round-faced woman. Her cruel eyes offered no mercy. Sha-we-ne was to be punished for taking so long to bring firewood to their husband’s fire. It did not matter that she had had to range far to find the sticks. It mattered only that she had caused the delay and Black Buffalo’s meat would not be the first to be cooking over the fire. It was a matter of pride with Moon Rising that the smell of her cookfire should fill the air before that of the other squaws.

Sha-we-ne was to be punished, and no appeal would move Moon Rising. Her name should have been Snake Rising, Sha-we-ne thought. If she should run, Moon Rising would only pursue her, and then her punishment would be greater. She might even call the younger and stronger second wife, Bright Morning, to administer the lash. Sha-we-ne shivered, for it seemed to her that since coming to this valley, the place of her disgrace, her spirit had left her and only the shell of Sha-we-ne remained.

The spicy smell from one of the cookpots hanging over a small fire to the left of their lodge spurred Moon Rising to action. She seized Sha-we-ne’s hair, twisting it so that she was forced downward. She laughed when Sha-we-ne’s tears came.

“Bitch dog,” Moon Rising shouted, making sure the other squaws would hear and come out of their wickiups to watch her punish her slave. “You cannot even gather wood for my husband’s fire. Take a stick in your mouth and crawl on your belly.” The slashing switch punctuated her words.

She-we-ne let a scream escape her lips, more for Moon Rising’s sake than for her own. If the squaw thought she was inflicting enough pain to cause her to cry out, she would soon stop. She cringed before her tormentor, allowing her dark, gray-streaked, straggling hair to fall on the ground so that the other woman could tread upon it. She placed a stick between her broken teeth and dropped flat on her belly to crawl painfully forward. Vaguely she heard the yipping of the other squaws, who had gathered to enjoy Moon Rising’s mastery with the willow switch, but she did not care. After so many years of being prey to the viciousness of Black Buffalo and his other two wives she had become numb to humiliation. But she did dread the physical pain.

Satisfied that she had proved her dominance, Moon Rising placed a well-aimed kick to Sha-we-ne’s ribs and basked in the admiring glances of the other squaws.

“Get up, slut,” she commanded. “The hour grows late and my husband is hungry.”

Sha-we-ne’s drooping head rose and she laboriously got to her feet and swayed slightly. Her lids lowered to hide the hatred burning there.

“I will do what you command, Moon Rising,” she said in a subdued voice.

Whatever she commanded! Moon Rising haughtily looked at her circle of admirers, now breaking up to return to their own fires. It was a good feeling to have a slave. She would tell Black Buffalo how the mother of the lame one crawled on her belly with a stick in her mouth. He would be glad he had never lain between her legs. When she was younger and before the lame one had been traded she had caught him looking at the firm body of Sha-we-ne with lust. Always she reminded him of the disgrace of having his strong seed returned in the form of a weak, malformed son, so he used his third wife in various perverted ways, but never so that she could be called Mother.

*  *  *

The range of the Apache was from the middle of Arizona through the New Mexico territory and south into Sonora and the Sierra Madre Mountains of New Mexico. This land was theirs, and within this area they lived and raided. Among their warriors were names that brought dread to the hearts of many. Mangas Colorado, Cochise, Nana, Victorio, Chato, and a dozen others; some were alive and some dead. The name Geronimo was fast becoming the most respected of all among the warriors and their chieftains. Not a Chiricahua by birth, he had married into the tribe, and his leadership had been recognized immediately. A short, thick-set man with a perpetual scowl, he had the unlikely name of Gokhlayeh, “one who yawns,” but was generally called Geronimo.

In the Apache culture the men were all-powerful, the women subservient and responsible for all the work. A warrior went hunting and raiding and saw to his weapons. He took as many women as he could afford and his women saw to everything else and looked after his comforts. There were taboos in the Apache society that prevented a man from looking at the face of his mother-in-law or conversing with her. Geronimo took one of Sha-we-ne’s sisters for a wife and had come often to the wickiup and talked with Sha-we-ne. She was sure he would have taken her for a wife, too, if not for her . . . disgrace.

When she was younger she had dreamed of him often, and her mind was still susceptible to pleasant dreams. She saw herself young and beautiful, her flesh firm, her hair long and shining, lying on the soft skins of his bedding. Her legs would be wide open to accommodate him. He would enter the wickiup, gaze down at her, and tear away his breechcloth. Naked, his loins would be hot and throbbing, and he would stand over her, letting her admire his huge, swollen tool. She could cry out to him to come to her and enter her, and her hands would reach out for the object of her desire. He would kneel and plunge into her, and she would fling her legs wide so that he could thrust himself deep within her. She would be like a mare and he a fierce stallion riding her. He would bite her face and breasts and suck at her nipples. He would scream loud with joy when he emptied his seed within her, and then he would not leave her but would stay inside her to become hard again, and she would buck and rear beneath him.

The dreams were very real to Sha-we-ne. Now that Geronimo was becoming so great and respected a warrior, she dreamed that she was one of his wives and Moon Rising was her slave. She would carry a sharp stick, and when Moon Rising lagged behind or displeased her she would jab at the fat flesh on her face. Moon Rising would grovel and plead, but she would show her no mercy. Little by little, so that the punishment would last, she would cut her until her head looked like a hunk of raw meat, and then she would parade her around the encampment with a thong tied about her neck.

There was one dream Sha-we-ne had that gave her more pleasure than any other; a dream that even now caused her heart to race and her eyes to blaze with emotion. She would have the pale-skinned man, the one with hair like the clouds and eyes like the sky over a red-ant hill. He would be naked and spread out. His huge arms and legs would be tied to stout stakes. He would bellow with rage and she would laugh as the ants crawled up on his hairy chest, walked across his belly, and got into the thick hair around his man-thing. He would scream as the ants ate at him and pass water to try to wash them off. She would poke her stick into the ant hole to make then angry and they would boil up and cover him. She would stay and watch until not even a muscle of his big body jerked or twitched. She would be sad that he had died so soon, that his punishment couldn’t have lasted longer, as hers had.