Bound for Glory Page 14

  The leader of the Apache band—at least Deathrider assumed he was the leader, as he had the most gravitas—unleashed a torrent of words at the English-speaking warrior. Deathrider wished he spoke even a smattering of Chiricahua. The leader was frowning, but the English speaker seemed kind of amused.

  “I reckon he’s telling them to get ready for a torture party,” Micah said glumly.

  “No,” the English-speaking warrior said, a slight smile on his broad face, “he’s telling me you look too intelligent to be white men, but too dumb to be Apache.”

  “You can tell him he’s right about that.”

  “I told him you might be dumb, but you’re very lucky. So, you might be white after all.”

  “He’s part white,” Micah admitted, nodding in Deathrider’s direction. “But neither of us is very lucky.”

  Deathrider squinted up the English-speaking warrior. The Chiricahua were standing between him and the sun, so it was hard to see their faces clearly, but they didn’t seem overly aggressive.

  “I think you’ve got your words confused,” Micah continued helpfully. “Lucky means of good fortune. You know, blessed. The only thing we’re blessed with is a bunch of cactus pins in our cushions.”

  “That horse sent you through the air—you could have broken your necks, and you didn’t,” the warrior pointed out.

  “That’s true,” Deathrider conceded, finally managing to get to his feet. “We didn’t break our necks.”

  “That prickly pear has many prickles,” the Chiricahua continued.

  “You’re telling me.” Micah groaned as he slid an extra-long cactus spike from the webbing between his thumb and his finger. “I think I’ve got most of them in me.” He hadn’t bothered to get up but stayed sprawled in the cactus juices.

  “But for all those prickles,” the Chiricahua observed, “you didn’t get a single one in your eye. A cactus prickle could have blinded you, but didn’t.”

  Deathrider blinked. A talkative, philosophical Chiricahua was the last thing he had been expecting. The Chiricahua were the most fearsome of all the Apache—legendary throughout the territories and into Mexico. Their plunder trails extended further every year. He’d expected violence and torture. At the least. But not this kind of lazy conversation.

  Maybe they started by lulling you into a false sense of security?

  “And now look,” the Chiricahua said brightly. “Here you meet the great Loco and his warriors.”

  Loco. Deathrider and Micah exchanged a look. Of all the Apache warriors to stumble into out here, they’d bumbled into Loco? It was hard to believe they could be so unlucky. Sure, they hadn’t broken their necks or had their eyes spiked out by a cactus but . . . damn. Loco.

  Deathrider examined the severe, dignified warrior who sat silently beside the talkative Chiricahua. He must have been Loco. He wore his hair in two loose braids, his bandanna bisecting his broad forehead. He was staring at Deathrider, his eyebrows drawn together. He didn’t look pleased.

  “This plunder trail is Loco’s,” the chatty warrior said cheerfully. “You have blundered where you don’t belong. If you were smart, you would have known better.”

  “We would, wouldn’t we?” Micah agreed. “But as you said, my friend here is as dumb as they come. If he was any dumber, he’d be a block of wood.”

  The Chiricahua grinned. “But here again, you are lucky.”

  “Why? Are you going to skip the torture and kill us quickly?” Micah asked hopefully.

  “Micah, shut up.” Deathrider kicked dirt at his friend. Micah was still on the ground and the puff of dust hit him square in the face. Not in the mood to take it, he reached up and sharply yanked a cactus spine from Deathrider’s thigh. Deathrider swore at the pain.

  “You are lucky for many reasons.” The Chiricahua warrior went on blithely, as though they weren’t bickering right in front of him. “Firstly, because we have been raiding for many days and have won many prizes.”

  “Congratulations,” Micah said sourly.

  “You have no prizes,” the Chiricahua observed, taking in their sorry state.

  “No,” Deathrider agreed. “We don’t even have our own belongings. Not so much as a saddle.”

  “And we have no time,” the Chiricahua said regretfully. “We were on our way home to the mountains when we saw you.”

  “Lucky us.” Micah grimaced.

  “Yes, lucky you. Loco has decided not to bother with you.”

  “He couldn’t have done that before you chased us into a prickly pear?”

  “Shut up, Micah. I think he’s telling us they’re going to let us live.” Deathrider couldn’t quite believe it was true, but there it was.

  Micah blinked, surprised.

  “Live, yes. For now,” the Chiricahua warrior agreed.

  “What do you mean, for now?” Micah turned a black look on Deathrider. “What does he mean, for now? You got my hopes up.”

  The Chiricahua shrugged. “Who knows how long you’ll last on foot, without food or water?”

  “Without . . . ?” Micah groaned and flopped back on the squashed cactus. “Of course. Of course this is what happens next.”

  “We’ll take your horse.” The wild horse had come to rest not far away. It was giving them all evil looks. Deathrider figured they were welcome to it.

  “We’ll also take your weapons and your clothes. Your shoes too. And your hats. Everything.” The Chiricahua’s gaze drifted to Dog. “Including him.”

  “No.” Deathrider drew the line at Dog. He loved that animal.

  The Chiricahua trained his weapon on Dog. “You’d rather I shot him?”

  Deathrider struggled to contain himself. He wanted to throw things and curse and tear this Apache from his horse. “No,” he said tightly. “Don’t shoot.”

  Deathrider took a deep breath. This month could just go to hell.

  “Take your clothes off,” the Chiricahua instructed cheerfully.

  Micah was smart enough to stay silent as they were stripped of their belongings, and smarter still to continue his silence when the Chiricahua rode off with Dog. Deathrider couldn’t quite keep his emotions hidden as he watched his dog go, roped and dragged until he fell in line. The confused look in Dog’s eyes was his undoing. Deathrider stood frozen to the spot until the Chiricahua and his dog were specks on the horizon and then gone. The memory of Dog’s whines lingered in his ears long after he had disappeared. Losing the dog opened an old well of sadness, one Deathrider always kept tightly capped. Inside was all the grief he never let himself feel. Enough for a man to drown in.

  Micah didn’t say a word as Deathrider got himself in check and they began trudging away from the broken prickly pear, silently pulling prickles from their tender skin. Step by step, Deathrider’s mood blackened.

  That goddamn Archer woman and her goddamn books. If it weren’t for her, he’d be relaxing in the shade back in Mariposa, waiting out the worst of the summer’s heat before moving along. If it weren’t for her, he’d have his horse and his saddlebags; he wouldn’t be stuck full of prickles and black-and-blue from a horse fall. If it weren’t for her, he’d have his dog.

  That goddamn woman. He was going to make her pay. Even if he died out here in the desert, he’d come back to haunt her. One way or another, he was going to make her pay for this.

  11

  IT’S GOOD THAT we’re lucky, isn’t it?” Micah sniped at him as they huddled naked in the pitiable shade of a cactus, waiting out the worst of the day’s heat. It was impossible to walk barefoot on the scorching ground; they’d given up hours before. They were both already sunburned in places so tender they usually didn’t see the sun. With burned feet and blistering skin, they’d admitted defeat and hunkered down to wait until nightfall, both in filthy moods.

  “Just imagine what would happen if we weren’t so lucky.” Micah wasn�
�t going to drop it.

  Deathrider clenched his teeth. Micah’s complaining was getting under his skin. It was bad enough being stranded naked in the desert, without being stuck with a fishwife to boot. “Shut up, Micah.”

  “Oh look, it talks. The statue has a tongue.”

  “Hold yours,” Deathrider snapped. “It’s running away from you.”

  That did it. What little restraint Micah had been exercising (and Deathrider hadn’t really thought he had been exercising any) snapped. With a growl, Micah launched himself at Deathrider. It was like having an adolescent bear land on him. Deathrider went sprawling under his weight.

  “Damn you and your stupid plans.” Micah went to punch him, but Deathrider dodged his fist. That only made him madder. “Damn you and that pink dress.” Punch. “Damn you and that idiotic attempt to talk your way out of being arrested by the army.” Punch.

  “Stop hitting me, Micah, or you’ll regret it.” Deathrider rolled away, but Micah came after him.

  “I can’t regret it as much as I regret ever meeting you.” Punch.

  “Last warning, Micah.” Deathrider’s temper was strained to breaking point.

  “Last warning?” Micah hooted with barely concealed hysteria. “Or what? Or you’ll strip me naked and steal my horse and leave me in the middle of nowhere? Screw you.” Punch.

  “Enough!” Deathrider held him off, but it took every last ounce of strength that he had.

  “Not enough!” Micah jackknifed, and they went rolling together into a chaparral bush. Deathrider felt his sunburned skin getting shredded by the twigs. He clenched his teeth against the pain and managed to keep tight hold of Micah’s wrists so his friend couldn’t punch him again. But Micah simply started kicking instead. And his knee was dangerously close to Deathrider’s tender parts.

  “Stop!” Deathrider growled. “I’ve got a solution!”

  Micah froze. “You’ve got a solution? To what? To my nakedness? What are you going to do? Clothe me in cactus? Have you got a solution to our lack of horse too? Why don’t we weave a horse out of chaparral sticks!”

  Deathrider grunted as Micah landed another well-aimed kick. “No,” he hissed, “I meant I’ve got a solution to your anger.”

  “So do I!” Punch.

  “Stop that!”

  “No!” Punch.

  Deathrider wrenched away and managed to get to his feet. His bruises were going to have bruises, he’d taken such a beating. If it had been anyone else, he would have fought back, but this was Micah. And Micah had a point. He wouldn’t have been here without Deathrider. He’d have been lazing around the yard of the whorehouse, reading dime novels and taking long afternoon naps. He’d be drinking a beer as evening fell and maybe flirting with a girl or two. He was a fine old flirt.

  What he wouldn’t be doing was dying slowly of thirst in the desert, his skin blistering in the fierce sun.

  Deathrider had brought ill luck to his friend.

  That was his way. Rides with Death, his father had called him. Your mother brought death with her, and you ride beside her in the memory of the people. When they look at you, they will remember the days of death. His father had always known the legacy of loving Deathrider would be grief, but he had loved him just the same. Even though Deathrider carried the seeds of sadness in him.

  Now Micah suffered because of him too. He brought nothing but destruction to those who loved him. He should have known better than to let Micah travel with him. Or Dog.

  Don’t think about Dog. He was too low in spirit to think about his dog; the wound was too fresh.

  “I’ll let you hit me,” Deathrider suggested to Micah. Once they’d settled their differences, he would find a way to get Micah out of here alive—after that, they would have to part ways. Otherwise, he would bring further misery to his friend.

  He was no good for people. He should have known that by now.

  Micah was crouched on the ground, looking disgusted. “You don’t have to let me hit you. I just hit you half a dozen times, and I’ll hit you half a dozen more if I want to.”

  “I won’t fight back,” Deathrider reassured him. “You can hit me once for the pink dress, once for the army, and once for the Chiricahua. And then we’re even,” he said firmly. He figured he could bear three hits, but his body couldn’t take more. He was looking like a patchwork quilt, and everything hurt.

  Micah was still looking disgusted.

  “It’s fair,” Deathrider coaxed. “You’re right. I got you into this. You have cause to be angry.”

  “You’re such an idiot!” Micah exploded, throwing a handful of dust at him.

  “Do it.”

  “No! It’s not the same!” Micah slumped back, sitting in the dirt with a childish pout. “You ruin everything. I can’t even be mad at you now.”

  Deathrider rolled his eyes. “You’re never happy.”

  “I’ll hit you when we get out of this mess. But you’re not allowed to ask for it.” He scowled. “And you have to fight back.”

  “And you call me an idiot,” Deathrider grumbled. He held out a hand to help Micah to his feet. His friend took it. They stared at each other.

  “You think we’ll get out alive this time?” Micah asked soberly. His gaze showed more than a flicker of fear.

  “Yes.” Deathrider was certain. He wouldn’t let Micah die. He’d walk through hell first. Besides, he wasn’t dying until he’d settled his score with that Archer woman.

  His certainty steadied Micah, who took a shaky breath and nodded. “You know we’re liable to run into those Hunters now, right? Because we’re cursed.” He went back to crouching in the thin shade of the cactus.

  “Since when are we cursed?”

  “Since you wanted to meddle with those people’s graves. I told you they’d curse us.”

  Deathrider didn’t know about curses, but they’d certainly had a terrible streak of bad luck. And it continued the next morning, when they stumbled upon a cold campsite. It was only an hour past dawn, when the ground was still cool enough for them to walk. They’d jogged for miles through the starlit darkness and were both weary.

  “It’s them,” Micah had said grimly when they found the campsite. “It’s those Hunters.”

  “Only one of them.” Deathrider studied the traces of the camp. “They’re all competing against one another; they would have split up by now. There was only one man here.”

  Micah was looking nervy again. “We need to lift this curse. It just keeps going from bad to worse, and I don’t fancy running into one of those Hunters while I’m buck naked.”

  “How do you lift a curse?” Deathrider asked, figuring it was easier to humor him. It kept his mind off their raging thirst.

  “Human sacrifice?” Micah turned a speculative look on Deathrider.

  “Me? You might as well wait for the Hunters to do it for you.” Whoever had camped here was a seasoned traveler, Deathrider noted as he examined the site. And they might not be too far away. “His tracks lead this way.” Deathrider gestured and then started walking.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Micah asked, exasperated. “If he’s that way, surely we want to go in the opposite direction?”

  “He’ll have water.” Deathrider kept walking. “And clothes. And we need both.”

  “You can’t be serious . . .”

  Deathrider didn’t wait to see if Micah was following.

  “What in hell are you going to do? We’ve got no weapons! Are you just walk up to him and say ‘Howdy, pard. Got some water?’ He’ll take one look at those eyes of yours and know exactly who you are!”

  Deathrider stopped in his tracks. Hell. That was true. Not for the first time, he wished he’d been born with his father’s brown eyes, instead of his mother’s distinctive pale blue. Too pale to even really be called blue. Eyes that marked him wherever he went.
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  “You’re right,” he admitted, frustrated. “You’ll have to do it.”

  Micah laughed. “No way in hell. He’ll just shoot me.”

  “The alternative is dying of thirst out here.”

  Micah swore. He glared at the ground for a moment and then brightened. “No. You know what? There’s another alternative.”

  Deathrider doubted it.

  Micah went stalking off into the nearby chaparral.

  “What are you doing?”

  Micah ducked out of sight.

  Deathrider sighed. He wanted to go home. The feeling hit so suddenly that it knocked the breath out of him. More than anything he wanted to see his father. To go riding into the summer camp to see Two Bears lighting up with joy at the sight of him; to settle into the summer rhythm of his people; to watch the long days cast dusty shadows; to eat with family and to see the stars wink to life above the glowing teepees. To follow the buffalo through the hazy summer, wandering until the chill bit the air, when they would set up their winter village and prepare to wait out the snows.

  “Here!” Micah reemerged from the brush, shattering Deathrider’s idyllic vision. He was carrying a handful of some kind of plant. Deathrider didn’t like the look on his face.

  “What’s that?”

  “A solution!”

  * * *

  • • •

  BY THE TIME they caught up to the Hunter, who turned out to be Pete Hamble, Deathrider’s eyes had swollen closed, and he felt like he had a severe head cold. His throat was swelling, and the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet were itching madly. Micah hadn’t asked for permission to “solve” the problem of Deathrider’s pale eyes—he’d just grabbed Deathrider by the hair and rubbed the stinging nettle into his face.

  That was when Deathrider had punched Micah. But the damage had already been done.

  The stinging nettle got in his eyes and mouth and nose. His nostrils got so swollen, they closed over and he had to breathe through his mouth; his lips puffed up to three times their normal size, and his skin was itching like mad. It was like he’d been stung by a swarm of wasps. But it was his eyes that worried him the most. Within minutes he couldn’t see.