Jory Sherman: Blood Sky at Morning

He looked at the ground, which had suddenly produced a maze of tracks. Besides the wagon ruts and horse tracks, the horses and ponies he had chased out of the mesquite pole corral had crossed his path. The tracks headed toward a point between the places where he had seen the flashing mirrors.

He had a decision to make.

He could follow his present course, toward Tucson, or shift to the new tracks.

Curiosity killed the cat, he thought.

He stayed to his tracking but could feel the watchers tracking him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if someone’s eyes were boring into him, right between his shoulder blades. He saw no more flashes, but didn’t expect any. The watchers knew where he was, and probably had a pretty good idea where he was going.

The land was gently rolling, swells of earth that rose up and fell away like an ocean frozen in motion. As long as the rises were shallow, he could still see ahead of him when he rode into a dip, but it was at the bottom of one of the depressions that he was brought up short.

They came in from two sides and made a line on the ridge above him. A dozen braves, Chiricahuas, he figured, all carrying rifles and wearing pistols. None were painted for war, but he knew that meant nothing. Apaches could go to war with or without decorating their bodies.

Zak’s knowledge of Apache was limited. He had a smattering of Athabascan, knew a few words that amounted to very little if his life depended on much conversation. He could speak Spanish, though, and most of the Apaches had some familiarity with that language. Right now, he wondered if he would even have a chance to talk. The Indians surrounding him all had bandoleros slung over their shoulders, and the gun belts shone with brass cartridges.

He reined up, folded his hands atop one another on the saddle horn.

The Apaches looked at him for several moments.

If there was one trait that stood out among the Apaches, it was their patience. Zak figured he could match them on that score.

As he sat there, he heard the rumble of hoofbeats. More Apaches rode up, and they were driving the horses and ponies he had released from Felipe’s corral. He turned and looked back at the smoke still rising in the sky.

One of the Apaches from the first bunch moved his pinto a few yards closer to where Zak sat his horse. His face was impassive, a bronze mask under straight black hair. He wore a red bandanna around his forehead, a faded blue chambray shirt, beaded white man’s trousers, moccasins. He carried an old Sharps carbine that had lost most of its bluing. The stock was worn, devoid of its original finish. The pistol tucked into his sash was a cap and ball, a Remington, Zak figured, one of the New Model Army kind with a top strap.

The Apache spoke.

“ Quien eres ?” he said in Spanish.

“ Yo soy Cody.”

“ Soldado ?”

“No, I’m not a soldier,” Cody said, also in Spanish. Then he said, “ Nodeeh ,” an Apache word, and touched his chest with his hand.

“ Nodeh ligai ,” the Apache said. White man.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“ Anillo ,” he said, and held up his left hand. Zak saw the ring on his finger, turquoise and silver. It sparkled in the sun.

“Ring,” Zak said in English.

“Yes. I am called Ring. What do you do here?”

“I follow the tracks of bad white men. They made themselves to look like Apaches. They killed two soldiers.”

“You gave us these horses?” Anillo said.

“Yes. I let them run from the corral.”

“You burned the jacal and the adobe.”

It was a statement, not a question. Zak nodded without speaking.

“Cody.”

“Yes.”

“The black horse is like a shadow.”

“Yes. I call him Noche .” He didn’t figure Anillo would understand the Latin word for night.

“That is a good name. Cochise has spoken of you.”

“I do not know Cochise. But I have heard he is a strong man. A brave man.”

“He calls you Jinete de Sombra . Are you the Shadow Rider?”

“That is what some call me.”

“Then we will not kill you, Cody.”

“And I will not kill you. I make no fight with the Apache. I chase bad white men.”

“Why do you do this?”

“General Crook does not like white men who cause trouble with the Apache. He wants the Apache and the white men to live in peace.”

Anillo spat upon the ground. His eyes narrowed and his face turned rigid with anger.

“Do you have tobacco?” Anillo asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let us smoke and talk.”

Zak reached in his pocket and pulled out the makings. Anillo spoke to one of the men in the group, gestured for him to come down. He dismounted. Zak slid from his saddle.

They sat down and the Apache who Anillo had called slid from his pony’s back and walked over. He was older than Anillo. There were streaks of gray in his hair, lines in his face, wrinkles in the wattles under his chin. He had a fierce face, with close-set black eyes, a pug nose, high cheekbones burnished with the vermillion of his bloodlines.

“This is Tesoro,” Anillo said. Then he spoke to Tesoro in Apache and the old warrior squatted down as Anillo took out a paper and poured tobacco into it. He handed the pouch and papers to Tesoro, who made himself a cigarette. He handed the makings to Zak, who rolled one for himself. The three sat together. The two Apaches leaned forward as Zak struck a match. He touched their cigarettes and they sucked smoke into their mouths. Zak lit his own quirly, settled in a sitting position on the warm ground.

Zak looked at Tesoro, wondering how he had acquired his name. Tesoro meant “treasure” in Spanish. It was an odd sobriquet for a seasoned Apache warrior. Tesoro looked at him with cold ebony eyes.

“Raise your shirt, Tesoro,” Anillo said.

Tesoro, his cigarette dangling from his lips, lifted his worn cotton shirt, almost proudly, Zak thought.

Zak stared at Tesoro’s bare chest in disbelief.

The wounds were fresh. He had seen similar scars before, on warriors who had participated in the Sun Dance on the plains of the Dakotas, rips in their skin where they had impaled hooks that tore loose as they danced around a pole, connected to it with long leather thongs.

But these wounds were different. They were not scars made from hooks or knives. They were burns, and he had seen the likes of these before, as well. On his father’s body after Ben Trask had tortured him by jabbing a red hot poker into his flesh.

The burn marks were the same, and some were scabbed over. Others were pocks with new flesh growing in the depressions. Tesoro had been tortured over a period of time. These burns were not made in a single day or night, but over a period of days, or perhaps even weeks.

“What do you see?” Anillo asked, plumes of smoke jetting from his nostrils and out the corners of his mouth.

“Burns,” Zak said. “Iron burns.”

Tesoro nodded and let his shirt fall back into place.

Somehow, Zak knew the burns were not connected to some Apache ritual or religious ceremony. Tesoro, he was sure, had been tortured.

“A man burned him with hot iron,” Zak said. “A man who wanted Tesoro to tell him something.”

“ Verdad ,” Anillo said. “This is true.”

“A white man burned Tesoro,” Zak said. “Does Tesoro know the name of this man?”

“He knows the name of the man,” Anillo said. “Do you know the name of this man?”

“Is the name difficult for the Apache to say?”

“Yes. It is hard to say this name,” Anillo said.

“Trask,” Zak said. “Ben Trask.”

A light came into Tesoro’s eyes when he heard the name. That was the only sign that he recognized it. His features remained stoic.