Authors: Lindsay McKenna
Lark gasped.
Matt held up his hand. “The name’s Matt Kincaid. The woman with me, Lark Gallagher, is tracking for me. We’re hunting those two down. They stole the horse they’ve got with them.”
The leader eyed them angrily, his green gaze settling on Lark. “That’s a white name yore puttin’ on that squaw.”
Squaw
. The word hit Lark squarely, it had been spoken like a vile insult.
“My blood’s just as red as yours, mister! You have no right to call me anything except by my given name.”
The leader’s thick brows rose in surprise at her clear, flawless English. He raised the rifle a little higher, keeping it trained on them.
“Lark,” Matt warned darkly.
She glared at the red-haired leader and then over at Matt.
“Kincaid, you and that squaw better move on. We’re in deep enough trouble now without having you two around. When that drover and Injun rode in asking for supplies, we were generous with them. Then that Injun turned around and killed Mr. Gerard. Nothing says you two ain’t up to no good, either.”
Hostility was evident in every face. Keeping, his voice low and calm, Matt said to the leader, “We come in peace and we’ll leave in peace. If you can tell us which direction they went, we’d be obliged.”
“I overheard the drover, Shanks, say that they were headin’ for Tucson.”
“How long ago did they ride through?”
“Six hours ago.”
Lark couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Please, can you tell me about the sorrel stallion? Was he all right?”
“I’ve answered all the questions I’m gonna. Now, both o’ ya, git! We’re without a wagon master now and need help ourselves.”
Matt held out his hand, cautioning Lark to say nothing further. “Maybe we can help. Which way were you headed?”
“We’re goin’ to California. The wagon master was takin’ us as far as Fort Yuma.”
Matt pointed west. “Turn your wagons around and follow this river until it intersects with another one. You’ll be on the Gila River. Follow it west. Fort Yuma sits right on it. The only thing you’ll have to watch for are Yavapai raiding parties. They make their home along the Gila.”
Eyeing him warily, the leader gradually lowered his rifle. “How do we know you ain’t lyin’ to us, Kincaid?”
Matt held on to his temper. “You don’t. But if you keep following this river, you’re going to end up in the middle of a desert and you’ll never survive.” He glanced over at Lark. “Let’s go.”
They steered a wide circle around the group. Lark smarted beneath the glares of the women. When one child, a boy of seven, came racing over, throwing stones in her direction, Lark ignored the attack. Matt gave her an apologetic look. They were a mile from the wagon train before he spoke.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
She set her lips, staring straight ahead. “I don’t blame them for their anger, Matt. Ga’n killed their leader.” She rubbed her brow. “How could he? Why? Those people were generous to them and he repaid them with murder.”
He gripped Lark’s hand. “He’s a renegade, honey. Don’t take on Ga’n’s guilt because you share the same blood.”
“How can I not? Did you see their hate? With Ga’n murdering whites, it’s no wonder they hate all Indians!”
There was no way Matt could assuage Lark’s pain. He released her hand and tried to get her to focus on more important matters. “We repaid those people by giving them good directions.”
Miserably, Lark nodded.
“Now that we know they’re heading for Tucson, we can skirt Phoenix and cut across the desert. If we’re lucky, we might arrive there ahead of Shanks.”
“You aren’t going to try and catch them on the desert?”
“No, not now.” He didn’t want to tell Lark that she’d be safer in Tucson. Already a plan was forming in his head. He forced a smile he didn’t feel and was glad to see Lark rally. “Feel like riding hard for the next couple of days?”
She nodded. “What are you going to do?”
Urging the gelding into a fast trot, Matt said, “Set a trap for two foxes.”
For three days, they pushed their mounts to the limit, riding at night and sleeping during the heat of the day. It was in the rocky Sacton Mountains, south of Phoenix, that a group of Apaches swooped down upon them.
Lark saw the four warriors, mounted on sturdy, thin mustangs, appear out of a canyon. She gave Matt a quick look.
“Don’t go for your gun,” she told him, pulling her mare to a halt. “Let me talk to them.”
Matt watched as the warriors galloped toward them in a cloud of dust. They were dressed in colorful, long-sleeved cotton shirts and dark trousers with bandoliers of ammunition slung across their chests. One wore a turquoise-and-silver necklace. They were darkly browned by the sun and kept their long black hair out of their eyes with cotton headbands wrapped about their foreheads. Lark’s eyes widened. Could it be? She glanced over at Matt.
“Goyathlay,” she whispered.
Matt scowled. The Apache name for Geronimo.
Matt had never met the savage leader, who had refused to live on a reservation, but he’d heard stories of his many raids between the border of Arizona and Mexico. What would Geronimo do with Lark? Would he respect her? As the group drew nearer, he saw that one of the warriors was a tall, proud woman. Matt had heard of Apache women riding with their men to make war, but he’d never seen one. She was a striking woman with hair as long as Lark’s and golden eyes.
Matt tensed as Geronimo drew to a halt in front of Lark.
“Shis-inday
”—hail to the chief—Lark greeted.
Geronimo’s piercing black eyes stared out of his square face at Lark for a long moment. “You speak the People’s tongue, yet you are not like us,” he finally said, gesturing at Lark’s eyes.
“I greet you through my mother, Mourning Dove, of the Chiricahua. I am Lark Gallagher.”
Geronimo’s eyes glinted with an unreadable emotion. Twisting in his cottonwood saddle, he gestured for the woman to come forward. “Shanaei, is this the message the eagle brought to us earlier this morning?”
Lark watched as the Apache woman drew alongside Geronimo. She was young, perhaps Lark’s age, but her youth didn’t detract from her dignity. Lark had heard of the famous medicine woman who possessed eyes the color of the cougar.
“Great chief, the eagle we saw wheeled from the north, flying south. It was a message from Us’an telling us of an important passage.” She gestured toward the two people. “An eagle is fitting. I remember Mourning Dove. Her wisdom and bravery as a leader beneath Cochise’s command are well known.” Shanaei focused on Lark. “I greet you, daughter of the great woman chief.”
Drawing a sigh of relief, Lark knew that Geronimo’s medicine woman may have saved their lives by openly acknowledging her birthright and place in the world of the Apache. One of the warriors gave Shanaei a disgruntled look, but he didn’t challenge her greeting.
“I greet you, Shanaei,” Lark returned. “I’ve heard of your power as a medicine woman.”
“She is more than that,” Geronimo informed Lark testily. “She is my chief. Five days ago, she battled four enemy Comancheros, killing their chief, who had been abducting our women and children for slaves.” He looked upon Shanaei with obvious admiration.
Lark saw the medicine woman grow uncomfortable at such praise and wondered why. Surely she was a fine example of an Apache woman in every sense. “Goyathlay, we come in peace to your land and ask permission to cross it,” Lark said. “Matt Kincaid and I are tracking down two men who stole a horse from my father’s ranch up north.”
Geronimo relaxed, eyeing Kincaid. “What does this horse look like?”
“He is a red stallion, great chief. Without him, our ranch will perish. Perhaps you have seen the two men who have stolen him? One is a gunslinger, a
pindah
. The other is…” She hesitated, glancing at Shanaei for support. “Ga’n.”
“Ga’n!” the Apache chief exploded. “That miserable bastard of a renegade is no longer a member of my rancheria! He has disgraced me! He has dishonored the People!”
“My chief,” Shanaei interceded in her husky voice, “the daughter of Mourning Dove does not blame you. Rather, she acknowledges your shame of this warrior and tries not to upset you.”
Lark closed her eyes for a second. Thank Us’an the medicine woman understood. She reminded Lark of Ny-Oden, for both possessed wisdom far beyond their years. Shanaei’s understanding would help bridge any misunderstandings between Lark and the volatile Apache leader.
Yawning, Geronimo shrugged. “Ga’n is a ghost. He no longer exists.”
“I understand that,” Lark murmured, “but he lives to murder innocent people. Apache or
pindah
, it does not matter to him.”
“This I know,” he muttered with a wave of his hand. “So what do you want of me?”
“The honor of finally meeting you is enough,” Lark answered diplomatically, watching Geronimo preen beneath the compliment. Such power emanated from the chief that she felt frightened. But she mustn’t show her fear, because no Apache honored weakness. “We know Ga’n is heading to Tucson and we wonder if you’ve seen him or this red horse.”
“No, we’ve not seen them.” Geronimo’s eyes glittered with animosity. “But hear me, Mourning Dove’s daughter. Ga’n is dead. Shortly, I will send Shanaei and a band of warriors with her to hunt down and kill Ga’n. I will not tolerate his killing of the People. He has no heart. I don’t care if he lifts the scalps
of pindah
or greaser, but not those of his own blood. If you find and kill him, I ask that you bring me the amulet he wears around his neck. Shanaei’s mother, the great medicine woman Nadina, made it for him many seasons ago. It is a powerful amulet that protects him from our arrows. So if you stalk him, do so with your rifle or knife. To those, he is vulnerable.”
“I will remember that, great chief.”
Yawning again, Geronimo looked over at his medicine woman. “And what of this
pindah
who rides with you? Should I spare him from a deserving death by my hand?”
Lark stiffened. “Great chief, this man shares my heart.”” She waited, realizing that the Apache disapproved of the People marrying outside their own kind.
Shanaei leaned forward. “The eagle we saw this morning was followed by a hawk, my chief. Us’an tells me that we should allow both of them to go in peace. After all, they seek your enemy and mine.”
Since they were speaking in Apache, Matt had no idea what was being said, but when he saw Lark go rigid, he slowly moved his hand to the butt of his Colt, slipping off the loop that held it in the holster.
Geronimo glared at Lark. “You give your heart to this
pindah?
” he snapped.
“My mother married a white man,” Lark retorted just as sharply, “and I am the result of their heart’s mating. If you disdain this man at my side, you also dishonor me, and my great mother’s name.”
“You’ll be lucky not to be turned into a braying donkey in your next lifetime,” he warned ominously.
“I’ll let Us’an judge me at the end of this life and decide whether I deserve such a curse.”
Geronimo’s face crinkled with the bare hint of a smile as he looked at Shanaei. “I remember Mourning Dove. She had a sharp tongue. Obviously her daughter is no different.” He trained his glittering eyes on Lark. “You will need that courage if you stay with this
pindah
. His people will no more respect you than the dirt they walk upon.”
“I’m getting equal respect from you, right now,” Lark parried tightly. “I thought the People were less judgmental, but I can see I was wrong.”
“The People see the wisdom of marrying with their own kind.” He shrugged. “You must follow your path, whatever it is.” He dug in a pouch he carried on his belt and tossed Lark a small leather bag. “Here,” he said. “Other Apaches may not be as lenient and understanding as I. The contents of that pouch will give you safe passage through our land.” He kicked his black gelding and moved past them.
The other two warriors followed, but Shanaei reined alongside Lark and motioned to the pouch. “Our chief is generous with you. There is a sacred arrowhead made of red pipestone in that bag. It is great protection.” She regarded Lark somberly. “He honors your courage. I honor you.
Ya Ian
. Goodbye.”
“Ya Ian
,’” Lark answered softly, nodding in deference to Shanaei.
Matt watched the foursome disappear down the cactus-strewn hill before turning to Lark. “What did he give you?”
“Safe passage among the Apache.” She tucked the worn pouch into the sash at her waist. “No one except Ga’n, of course, would dare stop us now. Everyone honors Geronimo. We’ll be safe.”
Matt nudged his horse and they continued their trek over the series of rugged mountains that rose like sharp, jagged points out of the desert floor. “Sounds like the conversation got a little heated there for a while. What happened?”
Lark launched into the story, leaving out no details. Despite Geronimo’s seeming disapproval, she knew he would never have given her a gift such as the sacred arrowhead if he didn’t respect her. Lark’s heart lifted. Despite her half-breed status, the People had accepted her. More important, they’d also accepted Matt.
Coming out of the mountains, they followed the Santa Cruz River that would take them into Tucson. By sunrise the next morning the town stood before them, a cluster of buildings, shacks and tents that bustled with human activity. Matt guided Lark to a grove of mesquite on the bank of the river just outside of town and told her, “I want you to stay here until I get back.”
Tired from riding all night, Lark frowned. “Where are you going?”
He smiled. “Into Tucson to buy you a dress.” He pointed to her attire. “Honey, you can’t ride in looking like an Apache or, believe me, word would get around in a hurry. We don’t need that kind of attention. I’ll get us a hotel room, then come back out and get you. In the meantime, rest.”
Would Matt try to tackle Ga’n and Shanks by himself? Lark wondered. She tried to read his expression but to no avail. Reluctantly she dismounted. “How long will it take you?”
“Probably three hours. It’ll take an hour to ride in.”
“Matt, you’re not going in by yourself to find them, are you?”