His mouth tightened. He refused to be drawn into this topic He mounted gracefully, gave her a hard look, and wheeled the black, cantering down the canyon to catch up with the war party. He could feel her eyes on him. Accusing and dismayed, even repelled. Her emotions seemed to be an echo of his own.
They rode steadily throughout the day, only two hundred strong this time, and Jack rode beside Nahilzay, who was in charge. They rode north up the Aravaipa Valley, toward Fort Breckenridge. They wouldn’t go that far. A supply convoy had passed ahead of them, marked by Cochise’s scouts yesterday. They would ambush the convoy. They needed guns and ammunition.
Jack kept thinking about Lieutenant Morris, the man who had ordered the hangings in February, the man responsible for Shozkay’s murder. Almost a lifetime ago. He was still at Breckenridge. Thinking about him filled Jack with a blood-lust, a murdering rage. His need for vengeance was completely primitive and completely Apache.
They ambushed the convoy at dawn the following day. The convoy was foolishly camped in an arroyo, but the whites liked traveling in dry arroyos. They had yet to learn the Apache way of traveling across the ridgetops—which was safer, although slower. Arroyos were perfect for ambushes, meandering between hillocks and buttes. Two hundred warriors descended screaming at once upon the fifty infantrymen mounted on mules.
The troops quickly turned over the wagons and made a barricade, returning their fire. In the initial onslaught, three of them had been killed, a few others wounded but dragged to safety. Jack pulled up the black as the Apaches circled the barricade at a racing gallop, firing bullets and arrows at the soldiers, coming from all directions at once. For a moment he just watched. It would have been a slaughter if the troops hadn’t overturned the wagons so efficiently. Now the skirmish could go on for hours, until the Apaches grew tired or ran too low on ammunition, in which case, if they didn’t fulfill the goal of the attack, they were worse off than when they had started.…
He urged the black into a lope and into the melee. He quickly became absorbed into the battle. When a rifle was pointed at him he had to fire to defend himself. The cycle was swift, comprehensive, and vicious. He wounded a soldier, seeing his head disappear from over the edge of the wagon. A bullet missed his horse’s flank narrowly. Still cantering, he circled, fired at a soldier, missing. He hated wasting ammunition in this kind of fray.
Something made him turn.
Nahilzay’s horse was hit and floundering. The tall warrior leapt off and escaped being crushed with the reflexes of a cat. Jack moved the black toward him to provide protection to the man on foot. Nahilzay saw him, smiling fiercely, running toward him. Jack and Nahilzay saw the crouching figure in blue at the same time. Nahilzay had no gun; it had been crushed by his horse, as had the bow. The soldier was drawing his weapon, Nahilzay reaching for his knife. Jack saw the soldier’s face. He was a baby-faced boy. His eyes were blue, his skin badly sunburned. He was terrified. Nahilzay threw the knife before the boy drew, but missed, losing his footing as he released it, jostled in the melee. The boy raised the gun. Jack was frozen.
“Niño Salvaje,” Nahilzay shouted, looking at him with an unmistakably urgent message.
Jack drew. He was as fast as lightning, and both guns went off simultaneously. The boy fell, killed instantly. Jack rode the black hard to the warrior, who leapt astride behind him.
They galloped up the hill, where Nahilzay slid off, unhurt. He stared, every muscle in his body corded with fury. He didn’t have to speak—what was on his mind was self-evident. But he did. “Go home, White Eyes. There is no place here for a man who cannot kill his enemy.”
Nahilzay strode off, furious.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Nothing could shake her mood, which was terribly sad.
She walked slowly through the woods from the creek, where she had bathed, rubbing the small of her back. The baby had been very active today, and it fascinated and awed her. Even now, she could feel him kicking. As a woman pregnant with the child of the man she loved, she should be ecstatic—not heartbrokenly sad.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts as she came out of the woods that for a brief moment she thought Datiye was merely standing against a tree. Then she realized with horror that her arms were tied to branches way above her head, and her legs were spread wide and tied that way, too. It took Candice a second to realize that she was in labor. She was wearing only a cloth shirt, and her awkward body strained against it. An ancient squaw was encouraging her as Datiye, silently, pushed. Her face was contorted with pain and concentrated effort. Sweat dripped from her chin, and there were huge wet patches under her arms. She was wearing something funny around her waist—a loose belt of many different colored hides. Candice screamed and ran forward.
“Stop it,” she shrieked, grabbing the old woman. “Stop this torture, let her down. This is inhuman!”
The old woman babbled angrily at her in Apache and gave her a gentle but firm push that meant go away.
“I’ll get a knife,” Candice said to Datiye, who was grunting, sweat pouring down her cheeks. It was the first time she had spoken directly to her since her arrival at the rancheria months ago.
“No,” Datiye panted. “Just … go.”
She’s crazy, Candice thought, watching for a moment as she strained against the ropes. Damn Jack! He should be there! Candice turned and ran a few steps towardthe gohwah. She found a knife and hurried back as fast as she could.
Datiye’s eyes were closed and she was straining with all the effort she had, making Candice pause, suddenly uncertain. The old woman was on her knees, reaching between Datiye’s legs. Candice thought of the strange singing and chanting she’d heard last night. She hadn’t asked Datiye what was happening, but had known it had to do with her baby, especially when the woman had been blessed with pollen and the belt of hides that was now tied around her waist. She had recognized two of the men as shamans, and had guessed the other two were also medicine men. Gripping the knife, she strode resolutely forward.
Datiye gasped, and the old woman gave a triumphant cry.
Candice stared at the slippery red bundle that the woman was pulling out from between Datiye’s thighs. She was amazed. The squaw reached up and slit the umbilical cord. The red-faced infant let loose a howl. Datiye sagged against the tree. Her shoulders slumped in what appeared to be exhaustion.
The old woman put the baby down in the grass and stood, scowling.
“What’s wrong?” Candice cried. “Is he deformed?” She stepped closer, to look. The baby was wailing now. The old woman glared and spoke sharply to Candice, then picked up the infant and marched into the woods. Candice had only gotten a glimpse of the child, but it had seemed like a normal baby. He certainly was a lusty thing, she thought, for she could still hear him howling. “Datiye? Are you all right?”
Datiye opened her eyes, and Candice saw to her shock that tears were streaming down her face. She cut her down, and the woman slumped on the ground. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Datiye said.
“Is the boy deformed?”
“He is a crier,” Datiye said simply.
