Candice didn’t understand. “What? All children cry!”
“Apache children do not cry,” Datiye said.
Candice had a sense of imminent danger. “What is that witch doing with your child?”
“Putting him to death,” Datiye said.
Candice stared, then was running, as fast as she could. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t believe it. But that child was Jack’s. Were the Apaches so cruel as to kill a child because it cried?
She found the woman at the creek placing the wailing baby in a small hole that had been freshly dug. “No!” Candice screamed, panting.
The woman looked up, glared, and began throwing dirt on the crying baby. Candice picked up a rock and threw it at the woman. It hit her shoulder, stopping her efforts. Candice fell to her knees and picked up the boy, still wet and covered with a whitish afterbirth, still wailing lustily. She cradled him against her breast, feeling a twinge in her side. “Get away,” she hissed at the woman. “Get away, you sick old witch!” She clutched the baby closer still.
The woman said something, rose, and stomped away. Candice started to cry. She couldn’t believe it. The woman had been about to kill this baby, a sweet, innocent, helpless baby—and Datiye was going to let her do it.
The baby’s mouth was working against her breast. “Damn,” Candice whispered. “You’re just hungry. How could they kill a baby for being hungry?
She stood unsteadily. Her heart was still pumping. Her side ached, but it most definitely wasn’t a labor cramp—or at least she didn’t think it was. She walked down to the creek and quickly bathed the crying baby, singing to him to try to make him stop, drying him with her petticoat, which she then wrapped around him. His eyes were an unusually pale gray-blue. “So you really are Jack’s son,” she crooned. She felt overwhelmingly protective toward this tiny creature.
She strode back tothe gohwah, the baby suddenly quiet. Candice said a quick prayer of thanks and paused at the edge of the woods, looking around. What if someone forcibly took the child from her and killed him before Jack returned? And how would she get milk for the baby? Could she talk Datiye into nursing the child? The baby had to eat!
Cochise.
Resolutely she walked through the camp to hisgohwah. Miraculously, the baby had fallen asleep. Cochise was not in sight, but his first wire, whom Candice knew only by sight, was stirring the contents of a large iron pot. She stared at her with interest.
“I must see Cochise,” Candice said. “Cochise.”
Without a word, the woman stood and shouted something. Candice saw a boy of about nine, listening, then he turned and ran off. The woman smiled and said something to her. Candice realized she had offered her a seat. Gratefully she sank down, wondering if she would ever be able to stand up again. Her back was starting to ache terribly.
She took a moment to study the baby’s wrinkled, red face. Did all babies look so funny? Even so, there was something incredibly beautiful about him. She stroked his downy head.
She saw Cochise coming a few minutes later, tall, broad-shouldered, his face expressionless, his black eyes dancing with interest. “You seek me?” he asked, staring at the baby.
“Cochise, I need your help,” she said, knowing full well she was asking him a favor in such a way he could not refuse.
He regarded her. “This is the second wife’s son.”
“Yes. They tried to kill it. I think because he cried.”
He did not seem surprised. “A crying baby can jeopardize the safety of an entire tribe, not just his own family.”
“So babies who cry at birth are killed?” She was appalled.
“Usually.”
“I need milk. This boy will not be killed. I will not allow it.”
A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. He turned to his wife and spoke in Apache. She nodded, looking interested, and turned to do his bidding. The baby woke up and started to cry. Candice frowned, realizing he wasn’t a crier but a howler. She rocked him, afraid to look at Cochise. But she did.
“He is very loud,” Cochise noted.
She didn’t answer. She made soothing sounds, a little awkwardly, but out of instinct. Please stop crying, she begged silently. Please!
“There is no danger here,” Cochise told her, his voice so stern and laden with authority that Candice looked up. “But if the day ever comes that we must leave this place and run from the soldiers, should the baby cry like that—his throat will be slit instantly.”
Candice bit off a gasp.
“One death is preferable to many,” Cochise said.
