“Sure, why not?” he said. “I’ve been looking for a reason to go back down there anyway.”
“Thank you, Falcon,” Doc said in genuine appreciation. “Thank you more than I can say.”
“I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and cash a draft, then bring you the money.”
“No hurry, I’m not dying tonight. Oh, by the way, speaking of dying ... you do remember your run-in with the Apaches last time you were down there, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Falcon said. “I remember.”
“Good, because you damn well better believe that the Apaches remember. So, look out for yourself while you are down there, okay?”
“I will,” Falcon promised.
In his room that night, Falcon recalled his encounter with Naiche, the last chief of the free Chiricahuas. Falcon and Mickey Free had fought the Apache in the Apache way, scalping those they killed, poking out their eyes, and carving out their hearts. Falcon had sent fear into the hearts of the Indians. They had never encountered such savagery from white men before. They were accustomed to being the ones who struck terror into the hearts of their enemies; now that terror was being returned, many times over.
At first, even the whites were put off by the ferocity of Falcon’s campaign. But when he tracked down the Indian butchers and killed them, one by one, the raids on white ranches, farms, and travelers stopped, and Falcon brought peace back to southern Arizona.
As he drifted off to sleep that night, he wondered if anyone in Arizona would remember him.
CHAPTER 2
The dancers were making their own music to accompany their dances. Bells were attached to a strap of leather at their ankles and as they danced about, the bells jingled. They also had bells strapped to their knees and elbows. The dancers moved to and fro around the sitting council, accompanied in their dancing by the singing of children.
Far on the desert ridges stands the cactus
lo the blossoms swaying
to and fro the blossoms swaying, swaying.
When the dancers, and the young Apache children, were finished, Keytano stood from his position at the head of the council and smiled at them.
“You dance and sing well,” he said to them. “And you have brought joy to the hearts of all who heard you.”
After the surrender of Geronimo most of the Chiricahua, who were deemed the most aggressive and warlike of all the Apache, were removed from Arizona. What remained were the Western Apache, Mescalero, Jicarilla, and Lipan. The Apache occupied some two million acres of reservation and designated land.
They were not required to stay with their particular band, but could move around freely within the area designated for them. As a result, many of the subgroups began to blend, and the Cababi Mountain settlement was, in fact, a mixture of Western Apache, Jicarilla, and what few remained of the Chiricahua.
Keytano was the leader of the Cababi Mountain settlement. He was a nephew of the great Indian leader Cochise and first cousin to both Geronimo and Nachie.
Since the capture of Geronimo, a condition of relative peace had existed. But now that peace was being strained by the steady encroachment of the white man. More and more white men were wandering into land that had been promised to the Apache by treaty. And most damaging of all, a tributary from the Santa Cruz River had been dammed up by some of the white settlers, thus depriving the Cababi settlement of its water. The lack of water was having disastrous effects.
Then, recently, three white prospectors who were trespassing on Indian land had been killed, and that had raised the tension between the whites and the Apache. The situation had reached the point where it was necessary for Keytano to call a council to discuss what should be done.
“They put their cattle on our land, and they roam our mountains looking for the white and yellow metal,” Chetopa said. Chetopa was several years younger than Keytano and, lately, had been challenging the older chief for leadership.
“Chetopa, I know that it was you and some of your followers who killed the white men,” Keytano said. “By your foolishness, you have brought danger to all of our people.”
“You say it is foolishness, I say it is courage,” Chetopa said defiantly. He struck his breast with his fist. “I do not fear the white man. I do not tremble before his army.”
“It is not only his army we must fight. Do you not remember Dlo Binanta, the tall white man with hair the color of wheat? The man who brought fear and sorrow to so many of our wickiups?”
“I do not fear Dlo Binanta.”
“You do not fear him because he has gone to the mountains far to the north,” Ketano said. “But if there is one white man like Dlo Binanta, then there may be more.”
“You have become an old woman,” Chetopa said, scoffing in derision. “It is clear to all who have eyes to see what should be done. We must take up the fight and run the whites off our land.”
Several of the young warriors grunted and nodded in agreement with Chetopa.
“And how would we do this, Chetopa?” another asked. This was Nincha, brother to Keytano. “We are very few now.”
“Do you lose your courage when you grow old?” Chetopa asked. “Those with Geronimo were very few, but he fought the white man for many years, killing many, and bringing terror into their hearts.”
“And I ask you, Chetopa, where is Geronimo now?” Nincha said.
There were others who spoke like Chetopa, saying that the path of war was the only way, but there were more
