“As a coward?” Jack said bitterly.
“You are no coward,” Shozkay said.
“I cannot ride against my own blood.”
“The Apache have many, many enemies. Papago. Pima. Ute. Comanche. Mexican. Spanish. Not just the White Eyes.”
“Shall I stay here, then, and ride only when we war on the Pima? And when we cross the path of the blue soldiers—shall I turn to hide in the bush and wait for the battle to finish? And then will you still call me Salvaje—after I have watched Apaches die?”
“Go, then,” Shozkay said passionately. “Go back to thepindahand stay with them.” He strode angrily away.
“Shoz!” Jack started after him, but stopped when his brother disappeared into the forest. His grip on the black’s reins was tight. For a long moment he stood beside his mount, looking at nothing but the flat expanse of leather saddle. Finally he swung up.
Would it always be like this? he wondered, new pain fighting the old.
And then he turned and rode away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He knew he shouldn’t stay. But there was no urge to ride on.
Tucson lay before him, a dry, hot town that was nothing more than a collection of flat, square adobe homes, broken-down corrals, and sore-backed mules—all surrounding the thick, crumbling Presidio walls. An American flag floated atop a sentry tower. It had been hoisted there in March of ’56, when the last of the Mexican Federales had left.
Jack rode into town clad from head to toe in buckskin, a rawhide, flat-brimmed hat on his head. He was aware of the looks he was getting. He sat straight and tall and did not miss a single thing. As usual, Tucson had more than its share of drifters—miners, vacqueros, Indians, half-breeds, bandits—as well as the gamblers and settlers that passed through, and the occasional soldiers from Fort Buchanan. He kept his eye out for the latter. Interfering with the troops the other day had not been the smartest thing he could have done—but he hadn’t been able to resist.
He wondered if she might come into town.
Instantly, he was angry with himself for thinking about her, and he headed into one of the saloons, a single-room adobe shack with straw and dirt littering the floor, the tables rickety, the chairs broken down. The owner was white and sported two heavy revolvers. He stared briefly, then turned away—in his establishment he saw everything. A thin, dark-skinned, half-breed girl served. The patrons were all armed and varied from swarthy types who had obviously drifted north from the border and were up to no good—to sunburned, teenage soldiers and a couple of cowboys from an outlying spread. Jack took a chair, set it with its back to the wall, and settled down. The thin girl came over.
She looked all of fifteen. She did not register a single emotion when she looked at his Apache leggings. He ordered a whiskey, watched her walk away stiffly—as if she were in pain. One of the cowboys near his chair at a table said the word “Apache,” and Jack’s ears instantly became attuned.
“You think so?”
“Don’t know. Warden said it was Cochise.”
“Ah, shit,” said the first, a boy of about twenty. “If Cochise stole Warden’s boy there’s gonna be trouble. But why would he steal the boy?”
“Don’t know. It was a raid. They also made off with some oxen. The boy ain’t even his—belongs to that Mexican woman he’s living with. But Warden says it was Cochise, says he trailed him all the way to the San Pedro River. Last I heard he was up at the fort, begging for troops. But there’s none available—least that’s what the major told him.”
“Damn,” said the first. Then: “Well, guess there’s no point in worryin’ now.” He stood. “Got to get the supplies or the boss man will lay into me. You gonna be at the Bastas’ barbecue tomorrow?”
The second man grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it. The whole of Tucson will be there. Maybe I’ll even get me a dance with Candice Carter.”
The other man’s face darkened.
“Hey, take it easy, McGraw, I was only kidding! After all—she run off with that Kincaid and now she’s in mourning. I don’t think she’ll be dancing, even with you.” He laughed.
McGraw swore and left abruptly, knocking over his chair.
Jack looked after him. Who was that?The whole of Tucson will be there.
She’ll be there.
He drank and fought with himself. He pictured her vividly, and it both aroused and angered him. He imagined her at the barbecue, in the arms of the dark-haired boy named McGraw. Laughing, dancing the white man’s dance. Shozkay’s words suddenly echoed.Then change her mind.
Change her mind.
It would be a foolish thing to do. It was one thing to sit in a saloon in Tucson, another to go to a barbecue at a ranch. But he wanted to see her again.
