Cochise’s camp was in Goodwin Canyon, about a mile and a half from the way station. Jack saw that Cochise did, indeed, have the station under siege—heavily armed warriors were atop all the surrounding ridges. He dismounted with the other warriors and promptly saw Nahilzay striding forward. The tall warrior’s eyes were black, intense, and wary. He stood watching Jack without speaking for a long moment.
“I come as one of the people, a brother, and a friend,” Jack said slowly.
Nahilzay was inscrutable. Jack knew he was not pleased to see him there, and that he was suspicious of his intentions. That irked him. He turned and Jack followed, leaving the black drop-reined. His horse needed water and feed, but no one moved to care for him. Jack was keenly aware of the difference between this greeting and the one he had received a couple of months before.
Cochise was sitting outside hisgohwahin grim silence. He rose slowly as Jack and Nahilzay approached. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were angry and determined. He waited.
“The thorns are too prickly,” Jack said, referring to Cochise’s opinion that he would not be able to straddle the fence between the white world and the red one indefinitely.
Cochise smiled then. “Welcome,” he said, with complete understanding.
They embraced, but Nahilzay did not relax. “Forgive me,” he said to Cochise. “But he is a White Eyes.”
Cochise was no longer smiling. “Do not insult my brother,” he said. “Tend his horse.” It was a dismissal, and his lieutenant left, his face hard and angry.
“Tension runs high,” Jack said.
“Sit,” Cochise said. “Eat. Drink. I need only to see you here and look at you to know you are Apache in your heart and soul. We know blood is of little importance.” He gestured at his camp. “I could count on four hands Apaches with no Apache blood, but they are Men of the Woods.”
Jack drank from a gourd oftiswin, draining it, and it was promptly refilled by Cochise’s first wife. Then he ate hungrily, arid Cochise did not speak, but sat staring at the distant ridges as twilight deepened the sky to a starless purple. It had snowed some days ago, and the ground was crisp and white underfoot, making the sky seem violet in contrast.
“What happened?” Jack asked, when he had finished.
“My word has been doubted. I have been called a liar. I have been betrayed—my people have been betrayed.”
Jack listened intently, and Cochise told him the story. His voice was emotionless, but his eyes were furious.
Four days ago troops under the command of lieutenant Bascom had ridden into the pass and made camp not far from Goodwin Canyon. Cochise had gone down to the station to ask his friends, the men who were the Stationkeepers, what was the meaning of the troops. Culver had told him they were on their way to the Rio Grande, but that Bascom wanted to meet him and would like him to visit; he would be flying a white flag. Cochise knew now that he should have been suspicious—the white flag was not necessary because Cochise was not at war with the white man. But the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.
Cochise had gone down to the camp with his second wife; his eight-year-old son, Nachise; his brother, Naretana; and his other brother’s two grown sons. Bascom was flying a white flag atop his Sibley tent. They had been invited inside the tent. It was a trap.
Bascom had asked Cochise for the return of Warden’s son and the oxen that had been stolen during the kidnapping—which was the same thing as an accusation of the crime. Cochise had ignored that insult, denying calmly that he had taken the boy, but offering to help find him and buy back his return. Bascom became angry and called Cochise a “damn liar” twice, and then informed him that he and his-family were prisoners, to be held as hostages for the release of the boy. Immediately Cochise had whipped a knife out from beneath his loincloth, slit the tent, yelled for his family to follow, and had broken past the soldiers, making a wild dash up the hill. Gunfire followed, and he was hit in the back of the leg, but not seriously. No one else had escaped.
“I was still not inclined to war with the white men, understanding Bascom to be an arrogant, unwise young fool,” Cochise said. “I came down to the station with several warriors to take the station men hostage for an exchange. I called them by name. Because they are my friends, they came out. Culver and Welch and Wallace.” He frowned. “One betrayal begets another. We talked, we tried to take them. Culver was shot in the back escaping, but only wounded. Welch was killed by the soldiers accidentally as he tried to flee over the corral wall. We took Wallace, then retreated.”
Jack listened grimly. Cochise was not finished.
Since then they had tried to negotiate twice for the release of the Indians in a prisoner exchange, but Bascom was adamant in his refusal unless the Warden boy was included—even though the Apaches had attacked nine wagons camped in the pass and taken two more Americans prisoner.
More skirmishes had occurred when an eastbound stage from Tucson had been attacked as it tried to get through the pass. Two of the mules were hit, the driver and conductor wounded, but the stage made it to the sanctuary of the station. The westbound stage arrived unmolested a few hours later. All the stage passengers were well armed.
The next day it snowed, providing the besieged Americans water. The springs were six hundred yards from the station and controlled by the Apaches. On the following day, out of desperation, an armed military escort took half the stock down to the springs. They were attacked, one soldier killed, two wounded, and all the stock stampeded west.
Cochise stared into the fire.
Jack sat silent, his lips in a thin line. Cochise’s wife and son, brother and nephews were the prisoners—and there was no way to get them out of the station, which was a small stone fortress. For a moment he imagined what he would do if it were Candice and their child being held hostage. Bascom was a fool. And asking for trouble—lots of it. “And now?”
“Tell me. Niño Salvaie, what you would do.”
Jack knew Cochise wasn’t looking for advice, that he had already decided. “You have more patience than I,” he said angrily. “Bascom is a fool. He seduced you into his tent under the white flag. He has insulted your honor many times over. Now he holds your family. If I were you? It is a hard choice. All Apaches are your family. Still, they have your wife, your son.” Jack smiled coldly. One more try,” he said fiercely. “Then show them the wrath of the Apache.”
“You are very white,” Cochise said, “to suggest one more attempt at trade. My warriors long to spill white blood in vengeance already. But it is more important to think of not just the Apache prisoners, but what will follow if we kill more Americans.”
“Yes.”
“War.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
