Lord Apache

He muttered a few remembered words over the still form, then piled rocks over the body. Tearing off branches of juniper, he fashioned a rude cross, laced together with vines, and propped it at the head of the grave.

'Requiescat' he muttered, 'in pace, amicus meus.'

Cold, weary, and apprehensive, he took Tom's reins and started again up the rocky slope, slipping and falling in the rubble, bruising his knees and his hand. He had hardly started, however, when strong arms pinioned him from behind. He was thrown violently to the ground. The roan whinnied in fear as shadowy forms surrounded them, pulling at the bridle. Dazed by the fall, Jack lay flat, staring at the lean form bending over him.

There was not much light but there could be no mistaking the savage visage. His captor was the sobrino, Agustin's nephew. His captor was the youth who had been captured at the Second Battle of the Agua Fria, and whom Jack Drumm had freed to carry a defiant message to his uncle.

Chapter Twelve

For days they kept him in a brush hut. It was dark and cold, though winter sun filtered through. Twice a day a guard brought a tin plate filled with stew—from the faintly sweetish taste Jack guessed the meat was horseflesh. At night he slept under captured cavalry blankets, and was warm enough. Though they did not bind his hands, always there were guards lounging about the hut, bandy-legged silent little men with repeating rifles and sullen stares.

When one brought in his food, Jack tried to speak to him.

'I came here to talk to Agustin,' he said, speaking slowly and carefully. 'Will you take me to him?'

The man sat cross-legged near the low door of the hut, watching him eat. A Springfield rifle, probably captured also from the cavalry, lay across his knees.

'Do you speak English?'

Only the sullen stare; the eyes were flat and opaque, like those of a snake.

'Do you speak Spanish, then?' Jack tried hard to remember. 'Let me see! ?Que va usted a hacer con—well, conmigo?'

Still no response, only the heavy-lidded stare.

'Is there a white woman here? A woman with red hair—cabello rojo, como cobre— like copper?'

Seeing the plate empty, the man rose and snatched it away. When Jack shouted at him, he paused for a moment, silhouetted in the light through the doorway.

'Damn it all, I'm tired of sitting here in this hut like a rabbit in a hutch!' Frustrated, he rubbed his limbs. 'Can't you let me out of here for a bit? I won't try to get away! I just want to walk a little—stretch my arms and legs!'

The man did not appear to understand. But that afternoon one of the other guards stuck his head in and motioned.

'Thank you,' Jack said. 'Gracias! That's very thoughtful of you.'

A watchful captor on each side, he was allowed to stroll through Gu Nakya, Agustin's stronghold. First reports had indicated that only about fifty Apaches had run away from the Verde River reservation. Yet there were many more here, including women and children. Other bands had joined the rebellious chieftain.

Though the sun shone brightly in the thin atmosphere, the air was cold and biting. A chill wind tossed the branches of junipers and stunted pines, and drifts of snow lay about. In a sun-warmed depression among the rocks women ground something between flat rocks—probably mesquite beans or sunflower seeds—to make Apache bread. A small boy left his mother and followed Jack about, eating a fruit of the nopal, the 'Indian fig.' The fruit was spiny with thorns; not for a moment taking his black eyes from the prisoner, the child picked off the needles and continued to eat.

In the middle of Gu Nakya was a brush hut larger than the others, with a pennon of some sort floating over it. Apparently it was a ceremonial structure, perhaps Agustin's headquarters. Warriors gathered about it, playing cards with a greasy deck. As Jack watched, a band of horsemen, riding awkwardly as Dunaway said the Apaches did, cantered toward the flag and dismounted as if reporting. It was then that he saw the pennon was his own Union Jack, the glorious old red flag, hanging over an Apache jacal.

Furious, he started toward the hut. One of his captors struck him on the shoulder with the barrel of his rifle and motioned him back.

'That's my flag!' Jack protested. He scowled at the man. 'Bandera! Mine! Do you understand?'

Roughly they pushed him back into his hut. The next day he was not allowed out. Sullen, he sat cross-legged all day, marking the passage of time by the tracery of sunlight crawling across the dirt floor. When they let him out again, he was more circumspect. As he walked, feeling the juices flow in his cramped limbs, he stared hungrily about, trying to find some sign, some bit of evidence, that Phoebe Larkin was in the hostile camp. Men came and went, parleys were held in the big hut, his flag snapped in the breeze as if not knowing its disgrace. People watched him shamble about with little interest, though the small boy eating figs still dogged his heels.

'A woman,' he said to his guards. 'A pretty woman—' Was Phoebe pretty by Apache standards? Probably not. 'A tall lady, taller than you—' He gestured. 'With red hair.' Searching, he found in his pocket a few bits of horehound candy he kept for the Sloat children. He handed some to the guards. 'Have you seen her?'

They held the candy in leathery palms, sniffed. One touched his tongue to it, nodded with satisfaction. The others sucked on theirs, and appeared more favorably disposed toward him. But still they would not speak, though by now he was sure some of them understood English.

It was frustrating, as well as nerve-racking, to be kept like a prize capon in a pen, fed, exercised, maintained in prime condition for—what? He did not know. If they wanted his death, surely the sobrino would have slain him when the scouting party first stumbled on him. Perhaps the only thing that now maintained a semblance of his sanity was the possibility of Phoebe Larkin still existing somewhere in the rabbit warren of brush huts dotting the rocky bowl of Gu Nakya. As time went on, even that small possibility dwindled.

One night he awoke trembling and perspiring from a bad dream. Usually, in spite of captivity, he slept well enough. This night, however, he tossed and rolled and muttered strange words. The camp was silent; over the hut floated a shadowy thing with a soft feathery flutter. An owl, undoubtedly—a great owl. That, he remembered from Uncle Roscoe's reminiscences, meant death; at least, to an Apache it meant death. Suddenly, bitterly, he knew Phoebe Larkin had perished. No doubt about it—the consciousness fastened an iron hand over his heart. They had killed her, of course. A white woman had been seized; that was enough to show Agustin's defiance of the Army. Phoebe Larkin would be an inconvenience in this rude camp. He hoped she had died quickly, mercifully. But why was he still alive? He fell into a troubled sleep, waking late and then only when a stolid-faced guard shook him by the shoulder.

'You—come.'

Stumbling into the winter sunshine, rubbing his eyes, he saw the youth who had captured him—Agustin's nephew—waiting. In spite of the chill, the sobrino wore only a thin cotton shirt and a breechcloth. He carried a ceremonial lance, and regarded Jack Drumm with an obsidian stare.

'I am Nacho,' he murmured.

Jack pulled the remnants of his best woolen suit about him. 'Nacho, eh?'

'I am Nacho. You come with me.'

'As I remember it, you didn't speak any English when you were tied to that chair down at my ranch along the Agua Fria. As a matter of fact you didn't say anything—just sat there like a carved Buddha!'

Nacho shook his head. 'I not know Buddha.' He pointed toward the great hut. 'You go there. He— mi tio—wait.'

Inside, the hut was dark and smoky. A fire burned low. In the corners of the structure lay earthenware ollas, scattered furs and blankets, boxes of Springfield ammunition from a looted wagon train. As Jack's eyes became accustomed to the smoky darkness, he saw warriors with painted faces sitting in a ring. A man dropped wood on the fire, kicked it into flame. Fiery tongues leaped up. Sitting on a dais was Agustin himself, Agustin the renegade,