Carol Finch - Call Of The White Wolf

“I do not doubt it. The legends you have inspired since you turned white have not been exaggerated, I suppose.”

“No.” It wasn’t a boast; it was the simple truth. But there wasn’t a white man alive who knew the truth about John Wolfe’s background. No one knew how or where he’d honed his impressive skills as a tracker, gunfighter, territorial marshal and oftentimes bounty hunter. The criminals he brought to justice claimed he was some sort of avenging phantom who could disappear into thin air—then reappear. His Apache training contributed to his uncanny ability, constantly tested and perfected as he dealt with the worst vermin preying on society.

Chasing down white criminals and sending them to hell where they belonged didn’t weigh as heavily on John’s conscience as tracking his Apache brother. Raven had foolishly joined up with two army deserters who’d stolen reservation supplies and sold them to settlers and miners in the territory. A worthless white cutthroat and a blood-thirsty Mexican who were wanted for murder and robbery rode with the gang. In order to achieve his freedom, Raven had aligned himself with those ruthless outlaws, all of whom had high prices on their scalps.

John wondered if Raven perceived his own abandonment of the Apache on the reservation as detestable as John’s. Probably not. To Raven’s way of thinking, no crime was quite as unforgivable as an Apache who purposely turned white.

The instant Raven glanced speculatively at his horse—obviously trying to decide if he could use the animal as a shield before a fatal shot was fired—John tossed a pebble off the cliff. The distraction served him well. When Raven reflexively shifted left, John launched himself off the stone ledge, dropped a quick ten feet and landed in a crouch. His Colt was still aimed directly at Raven’s heart.

Raven smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about his expression. “You do not miss a trick, do you, John Wolfe? I remember the day my father taught us that deceptive technique of diverting attention. Do you remember? Or have you purposefully forgotten that you owe everything you are to the Apache who raised you?”

Not one minute of one day went by that John Wolfe didn’t remember who and what he was—a contradiction, a man in torment who walked a path that must surely entail the white man’s concept of a living hell.

“I prefer to take you back alive, Raven,” he murmured as he rose from his haunches. “Gray Eagle also prefers to have his son returned to him in one piece.”

John couldn’t interpret the expression that momentarily settled on Raven’s bronzed features. It vanished as quickly as it came. “Then I have no choice but to return to that hellish place, do I, John Wolfe?”

John told himself not to let his guard down when Raven seemingly accepted his fate. But this, after all, was the adopted brother who had shared his life for almost two decades. They’d grown up in the same wickiup and struggled side by side to become accomplished warriors. They’d survived famine, sickness, war and captivity.

The only difference was that John had been born white and Raven was full-blood Apache. Until this pivotal moment, the differences between them hadn’t mattered to John.

Now it was all that mattered.

“I will go willingly to the reservation if you will use your authority and influence with the white-eyes to reduce my punishment,” Raven offered. “The army deserters and thieves forced me to scout for them. They swore they would kill me if I didn’t join their gang. My craving for freedom was too great, my hatred for reservation life too strong, so I agreed to help them.”

John wasn’t sure if he believed Raven. The circumstances surrounding his escape from the reservation were unclear in the report John had received from his commander at headquarters in Prescott. In his line of work John had heard every excuse imaginable from cornered criminals. He’d learned long ago that a man would lie through his teeth to save his skin.

But this was not just any man. This was Raven.

“You know I’ll do everything I can,” John promised solemnly.

“No chains or cuffs. The soldiers kept me in chains when we were herded to San Carlos.” His lips curled in disdain. “I bear the scars and the memories of their cruel treatment. Do you remember? I was the example to our people.” His voice transformed into a growl. “No chains, John Wolfe. I would prefer to die here and now rather than to be chained up like a dog!”

Hands held high, Raven approached his paint pony, then bounded onto the saddle blanket with the grace and ease of a warrior who had executed the maneuver hundreds of times.

John realized a split second too late that he’d allowed his sentiment for Raven to override his hard and fast rules about dealing with crafty criminals. He saw the glint of steel reflecting sunlight when Raven’s concealed pistol suddenly came into view. Without hesitation the Apache fired straight at John’s chest, then at his left leg. The double impact sent John staggering backward, to collapse in the grass. He didn’t return fire because Gray Eagle’s request to bring Raven back alive still echoed in his mind.

Raven walked his pinto toward his downed enemy. Gloating triumph glittered in his onyx eyes. While John lay there gasping for breath, battling the burning sensations that spread through his thigh and chest, Raven’s goading laughter billowed in the aftermath of violence.

“May you die a slow death for betraying the Apache,” he jeered as he watched the bloody stains spread across John’s shirt. “It seems your white heritage has failed you, John Wolfe, for no white man can outsmart a true Apache.”

Raven walked his pinto over the top of his onetime blood brother. “My father has only one son now,” he sneered down at him. “May you burn in your white man’s hell for your treachery!”

The clatter of hooves hammered in John’s ears as the world tilted sideways, then darkened like the coming of night. John closed his eyes and fought against the wave of nausea that crested over him.

Maybe this was a good day for him to die, he thought. And what better place to find his way to the hereafter than on this sacred ground that had once been part of the Apacheria. The People called this panoramic valley the Canyon of the Sun. Reverent chants were sung to the great spirits who communicated with them on this hallowed ground. In days gone by, sacrifices were laid at the base of the triple stone spires called the Altar of the Gods. The towering pillars of sandstone that rose like gigantic sentinels from the canyon floor were the Earth Mother’s eternal monuments to the omnipotent Apache gods.

With great effort, John opened his eyes once more to stare at the conical stone peaks that rose majestically toward the sun. This valley, three-quarters of a mile wide and more than a mile long, was the most spectacular and awe-inspiring place he’d ever seen in all his treks across the territory. If he had to breathe his last breath here, he figured he could do a lot worse.

Vaguely, John sensed a presence in the near distance and wondered which spirits—white man’s or Apache’s—had been sent to witness his death.

He didn’t know which deity would preside over his personal judgment day. Didn’t really matter, he reckoned. Evil spirits would attend him, because of his betrayal to the tribe that had raised and trained him. Indian or white, evil spirits were probably pretty much the same, he figured. He existed in a realm a few miles this side of hell. He supposed he was destined to spend eternity doing penance for being a white man by birth and an Apache at heart.

John closed his eyes for what he expected to be the final time. To his dying day—and he was positively certain this was it—he wasn’t sure if he was considered white or Apache. He didn’t know which god to pray to, so he didn’t pray at all. He just lay there, struggling to breathe, and wondering how many breaths he had left.