Blood Sky at Morning

Sombra, the Shadow Rider?”

Zak did not answer.

Carmen looked at Zak, shaken by Chama’s question. As if she knew. As if she had heard the appellation before, somewhere. She ate the last of her tamale and washed it down with water, her throat suddenly dry and clogged with meat and masa flour.

Zak looked up at the sky and the puffs of clouds. The sun had coursed lower on the horizon and would soon set, drawing the long shadows of afternoon into a solid mass, like a burial shroud.

Then the night would come, and he would find out if words would work better than bullets.

Chapter 16

Colleen fanned herself as she faced the class of Chiricahua children and their mothers. She had a large chalkboard to work with, and some children were forced to share their slates with those who had none. It was cooler in the adobe room than outside but still unbearably hot, and she felt the uncomfortable seep of perspiration under her armpits, on the inside of her legs, and beneath her breasts.

She used pictographs to illustrate the English words while she voiced the equivalent in their language, Apache.

“Ndeen,’” she said. Man. The children laughed at her stick figures, and sometimes the women did, too.

She taught them to count to five in English, using her fingers.

“Dalaa, naki, taagi,’” she would say. One, two, three.

Some of the words were difficult to say, and the children would correct her. Or if they were not sure, one of the mothers would speak up in a loud, gravelly voice and correct her pronunciation.

Colleen had an interpreter, a small, moon-faced woman named Tu Litsog, or Yellow Water. She relied on Yellow Water to convey her teachings.

“The key to language,” she said, “is writing. If you make the marks on paper, others can read it. You can send this paper, or carry it, over long distances so that others will know your words.”

The children and the women all had pieces of paper and pencils. They all seemed fascinated with the process, and though some made drawings or just meaningless scrawls, by the second day Colleen had them writing down the letters of simple words, like dog, cat, and bird. She was delighted at the response.

“I may be going away, Yellow Water, so do you think you can teach your people to read and write with the materials I will leave with you?”

“I do not know,” Yellow Water said.

“They all want to learn.”

“I know. They respect the white lady. To them, I am a…a turn cloth.”

“A turncoat? A traitor?”

“Yes, that is the word. A turncoat, a turn face, I think.”

“You must not let that matter. You must teach these children and their mothers. I will return.”

“Where do you go?”

“I must find my brother,” Colleen said.

There was always a soldier guarding the door, usually a private or a corporal, but a grizzled old sergeant often stopped by to check on the trooper and Colleen. She noticed him and liked him. He seemed to like her as well.

His name was Francis Xavier Toole, and he had been in the army for almost thirty years.

“Francis,” she said to him after they had become friends, “why is it necessary to put a guard on these children and women?”

“Oh, ma’am, the guard is not here to watch over the squaws and kiddies, oh no. Major Willoughby has the lads keepin’ an eye on yourself.”

“On me? Why?”

Toole shrugged, but she knew it was not because he didn’t know.

“Be honest with me, Francis,” she said. “Why does Major Willoughby think that I need an armed soldier watching me teach children to read and write English?”

“Well, mum, it’s not for me to say.” He shifted his feet and looked down at them, much like a truant boy might behave when speaking to an inquisitive teacher.

Something was wrong at Fort Bowie—she had known it from the very first day—and when news of her brother’s abduction became known to her, and Willoughby or anyone else would not tell her anything, she began to feel shut out. Now, after four days of talking with Toole and asking questions of him, she knew he was struggling with his obligation to the military and his friendship with her. But she was determined to persist.

“Francis, I know you’re bound by duty, but I must find out what’s happened to my brother. And, somehow, I think Major Willoughby knows more than he’s telling. This fort seems to be divided and without a real leader.”

“Yes’m,” Toole said, shuffling his feet and staring down at them, feeling awkward, and perhaps, she thought, a little ashamed.

“Are you agreeing with me, Francis? Or just being polite?”