Lindsay McKenna - Sun Woman

Gib came back with a cup of tepid water. He knelt and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Here, take a swallow and then spit it out,” he ordered.

Kuchana opened her eyes, sipping the water from the cup he pressed to her lower lip. Following his instructions, she rinsed her mouth.

“Good,” Gib praised, setting the water aside. He picked up a biscuit from the plate and broke off a small portion of it. “Now, chew on this, and do it slowly.”

Her eyes never left his harsh features. McCoy had a face like the rugged mountains in Sonora, yet he was treating her as a mother would a sick child. Gratefully, she took the proffered piece of biscuit.

Despite her condition, Kuchana was a proud and independent warrior. Gib knew that to coddle her too much would make her look weak in the eyes of others. He removed his arm and sat back on his boot heels.

“Good,” he rasped unsteadily, watching her chew the biscuit thoroughly before swallowing it. He offered her the cup. “Now a little swallow of water.”

Kuchana managed a grimace, then sipped the water and put it aside. McCoy handed her another bit of biscuit.

“How’s your stomach feeling now?” he asked.

Placing her hand on it, she said, “Better.”

“Any rolling feeling?”

She shook her head.

“Just take your time,” Gib soothed. “A bite of biscuit and a sip of water. You’ve been without food a lot longer than four days, haven’t you?”

Kuchana avoided his piercing look. “Warriors must give their food to their families,” she said.

Relaxing, Gib placed his arms on his knees. “Looks like you’ve had more giveaways than most,” he teased gently. Indians believed in giving away all that they owned, especially food, to those who were poor or incapable of hunting for themselves. He saw the corners of her mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. Kuchana had a magical effect on him.

“The Old Ones and the children will not starve,” Kuchana said stubbornly. Her stomach was settling down, and the biscuit tasted good. “How do you know so much about my people?” she asked McCoy.

“I made a point of learning about them when I was assigned to Fort Apache,” Gib answered.

“Many pindahs know nothing of us.”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t have any prejudice against your people, Kuchana.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like a reverent prayer. Kuchana could feel the power of the emotions behind his words. She searched his face. “What is ‘prejudice’?”

“It’s when one person hates another because he might believe or look differently than himself.”

“Pindahs have prejudice against us because we are different?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head, watching a group of Negro soldiers marching off in the distance. She held up her hand, gesturing toward the soldiers. “The dark ones are also different. Do pindahs have prejudice against them, too?”

Pushing the hat back on his head, Gib mulled over his answer. “There are many pindahs who don’t like any other color except their own.”

“You are not like them.”

Gib shook his head. “Color means nothing to me. How a man or woman treats others is what’s important.”

“You are like an Apache!” she said excitedly. Touching her breast, Kuchana regarded him somberly. “You are a man who talks from his heart. That is good.”

“I try to, Kuchana.” Gib grimaced, his gaze restless. As a sergeant, his duties and responsibilities were many. There was a decided prejudice against the Negro enlisted soldiers. In the month he’d been at the fort, he’d realized that he was the only buffer between them and the white officers. The Civil War might be over, but the Negro was far from free. He felt it wise to keep his eyes and ears open, be alert at all times.

Aware that the sergeant surveyed the post, Kuchana remained silent, continuing to eat the biscuit. The strain of the past few hours was catching up with her. Her eyelids were becoming heavy, and she sighed, placing the rest of the biscuit back on the plate.

McCoy noticed the weariness in her eyes. “Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Feel like standing?”

Kuchana tested her legs carefully, finding new strength in them. Gib remained at a distance, allowing her to stand on her own. “Where do we go now?”

“The scout area,” Gib said. “I’ll show you where you’re going to live.” Silently, he wondered how she was going to fit in with the other Indians who worked for the army. Many tribes didn’t get along with one another. Even among the various Apache segments, some tribes were friendlier than others. The Chiricahua, Kuchana’s tribe, had few friends.

The scout section sat behind the rows of laundry tents where the women washed the clothes and bedding for the entire post. Kuchana surveyed the bone-colored canvas tents that stood, with flaps open, in neat, orderly lines. Huge tin tubs filled with hot, soapy water sat on wooden tables. The dark-skinned women who toiled laboriously over their duties had sweaty faces and their dresses clung to them from the heat. These women reminded her of the diligent Apache women, who worked nonstop for their families.

Turning her gaze in another direction, Kuchana saw several Indian men crouched in a circle, speaking in low guttural tones. The hackles on the back of her neck raised as Chee, a huge Apache of Tonto ancestry, stood up at her approach.

Chee was dressed in a blue army jacket and dark brown twill pants along with his kabun boots. He was the chief scout, and judging from his deepening scowl, McCoy knew there were going to be fireworks. The other four scouts, wearing cotton shirts, army trousers and black leather boots, stood also. Their faces were wary, inspecting Kuchana behind a wall of formidable silence as she and Gib came to a halt. Chee stared down at the woman for a long moment. “You are Geronimo’s warrior,” he spat.

Girding herself, Kuchana stared at him defiantly. “I am Chiricahua. My name is Kuchana.”

Chee stuck out his chest and thumped it with his fist. “I am in charge. You Chiricahua think you are superior. Well, you are not. I am Tonto.”

Gib grimaced inwardly. There was little that could be done to settle the friction between the Tonto tribe and the Chiricahua. That was one reason the Apache hadn’t been able to push the whites out of Arizona; they’d fought too much among themselves and not presented a united front. Even here Gib was seeing evidence of the same hostility. And if he had any doubts about Kuchana’s bravery, now that she stood in front of the huge, huffing Indian, they disappeared.

Kuchana thumped her breast, thrusting out her chin in Chee’s direction. “You may be chief scout, but I’m Chiricahua, and we are better trackers.”

McCoy watched as Two Toes moved forward. The Yavapai’s face was lean in comparison to the fuller Apache face. He saw Kuchana’s anger turn to hatred as she noticed the scout’s approach.

“Yavapai,” she hissed. Glaring at Chee, she demanded, “How can you work with our enemy? This tribe sneaks onto our reservation and into our wickiups at night, killing our women and children with clubs.”

Chee’s massive features, lined with forty years of life, worked into a sneer. “We all work for the army against Geronimo. Yavapai are now our friends.”

Kuchana was the only Chiricahua present. The other scouts were also of Tonto heritage. With a sinking feeling, Kuchana realized that even as a scout, she was going to be an outcast. Although members of Chiricahua and Tonto were brothers, they did not get along. Often, there were blood feuds between the tribes.

Gib cleared his throat. “Chee, it’s up to you to make sure she is trained properly to take over scouting duties when called upon.”