Elizabeth Lane - Apache Fire

The baby whimpered, then relaxed, gurgling contentedly as Latigo settled the tiny body awkwardly against his chest. In all of his adult life, he could not remember having held an infant.

An alien sweetness, frighteningly close to tears, stole through him as he cradled Rose Colby’s son in his arms. Most men his age had sons of their own. Daughters, too, and wives and homes. But a family had no place in the life of a man caught between two worlds. He was alone and destined to remain so, a fugitive spirit, tied to no place, bound to no other human soul.

Light flickered in the kitchen as Rose struck a match and touched it to the lamp wick. The glow moved with her as she crossed the tiles to stand in the doorway.

“Mason seems to have taken to you,” she said as she placed the lamp on the dresser. “He’s settled right down. You should be flattered, he doesn’t do that with everyone.”

“Well, let’s hope the boy acquires better sense as he gets older,” Latigo remarked dryly.

A wan smile flickered across her face. “I can hold him now.”

“He’s fine where he is.”

She settled back onto the chair, making no move to take the baby from him. Latigo watched her, savoring her gentle beauty and the fragile warmth of her child against his heart.

This was foolhardy, his instincts shrieked in the stillness. John Colby’s widow had lost her family to the Apaches and he could not afford to trust her. True, she had not given away his presence this morning. But under different conditions, she could easily betray him. Lovely, brave and gentle she might be, but he could not allow himself to fall under her spell.

“What are you doing in here, Rose?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly rough. “You could be taking an awful chance, you know. I could overpower you, force you to get me the gun, take you and your baby hostage to use against that posse.”

“You don’t hide behind children, or women, either, I take it. At least that’s what you said.”

“But what if you’re wrong about me?” he persisted. “What do you want so much that you’d take this kind of chance?”

“The truth.” Her eyes, reflecting the lamplight, held tiny gold flames. “I want to know exactly how you came to be on this ranch, and I want to hear everything you know about my husband.”

“Even if you don’t like my answers?”

Her pale throat moved as she swallowed, then nodded. “I need to know for my own sake, and for Mason’s one day, when he’s old enough to understand.”

Latigo shifted his body higher on the pillows. The baby stirred in his arms, turning to gaze up at him with wide indigo eyes, and he knew that whatever he said, it would be for both of them. And whatever he said, it would be true.

But would it be the whole truth? Could he trust her with everything he knew?

Gazing at her through the amber haze of lamplight, he cleared his throat and began with a question.

“Rose, how much do you know about the so-called Indian Ring?”

The Indian Ring?

Rose stared at the man in the shadows. She had never heard of the Indian Ring, but something about the name, or perhaps the way Latigo had said it, sounded so sinister that it triggered cold prickles along the flesh of her forearms.

“Your husband never mentioned the Ring to you?” he pressed her. “You never overheard him talking about it with his friends?”

“My husband believed women should keep still and tend to their knitting. His friends did come to the ranch sometimes, but I was never invited to join them.” Rose twisted the hem of her apron, her eyes on her son lying contentedly in the cradle of Latigo’s bare brown arms. In the dancing lamplight, Latigo’s lean Apache face had softened to tenderness, which tore at her defenses. She forced herself to meet his calm gaze. “If you want to talk about the Indian Ring, you’ll have to start by explaining what it is,” she said.

Latigo’s eyes narrowed. Cool evening air drifted in through the barred window, smelling of dust and rain. Thunder rumbled faintly from beyond the horizon.

“Most people would say the Ring never existed,” he said. “But I know better.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not following you!” Rose broke in impatiently. “Are you implying the Indian Ring had something to do with John?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.”

“I know.” Pain rippled across Latigo’s face as he shifted his weight against the pillow. Seeing his discomfort, Rose leaned forward and lifted Mason out of his arms. His eyes watched her guardedly, their black depths whispering unspoken secrets, and suddenly she was afraid.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, taking an emotional step backward.

He shook his head.

“This is taxing your strength,” she persisted.

“I’m all right.”

Rose held her son close, seeking comfort in his small, warm nearness. “Tell me about the Indian Ring,” she said softly.

“The Ring is secret, and powerful.” Latigo bit back pain as he spoke. “It’s made up of white men who’ve profited from the Apache wars, legally by selling beef and supplies to the army, illegally by smuggling guns and whiskey to the Apaches.”

“And you think John was involved?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s certainly no secret that this ranch has furnished beef to the army for years.”

“Let me finish.” His eyes warned her to listen. “The men in the Ring got rich off the Apache wars during the sixties. It suits them to keep things stirred up, especially with all the talk of the railroad coming in. That’s the last thing the Ring wants to see because most of them would be ruined. They’re banking on the hope that nobody will want to lay track through hostile Indian territory.”

Rose stared at him in disbelief. “You’re saying that the Ring deliberately causes trouble with the Apaches? That sounds awfully farfetched to me.”

“Not as farfetched as you might think. You remember the Camp Grant massacre in ‘71?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Rose’s flesh went cold as she spoke. No one in the territory could have missed hearing about the slaughter of 125 peaceful Arivaipa Apaches by an armed mob of Tucson citizens.

“But John wasn’t there!” she protested, springing once more to her husband’s defense. “He was out on the range with the herd! And you know as well as I do there were only five white men involved in the massacre—the rest were Mexicans and Papago Indians.”

“All true.” Latigo’s eyes glittered like sharp black flints. “But I worked as translator for the army commission that investigated the massacre. The five whites all had connections to the Ring—as hirelings, most likely. The Ring’s leaders are prominent men. They call the shots and pay the money, but they don’t get their hands dirty.”

Thunder rolled dimly, echoing along the fringe of Rose’s awareness as she stared at him, horrified. “You’re saying John could have been involved in the Ring and in the massacre?”

“Rose, there’s no proof either way.”

“And Bayard?”

“Again, there’s no proof. When you get right down to it, there’s no proof the Ring even exists. Any such proof could be a very dangerous thing to possess.”

Rose sank back into the chair, feeling strangely light, as if the marrow had been drained from her bones. “Your wound,” she said, forcing the words out of her right throat. “The murder of the two government agents—you’re saying that was the work of the Ring, too?”

“Again, there’s no proof. But I know what I saw. And I know that the two federal men were looking into smuggling activities on the San Carlos, which could also have been the work of the Ring. If I hadn’t escaped the ambush, it would have been natural for the authorities to blame the murders on the Apaches and call in more troops. As it was—”