Ralph Compton: Down on Gila River

The old man sat straighter on his pony and he said, “My name is Tsisnah, and I say it does. Goso sits his pony under a broad tree because he is lost and knows not whether he lives or is dead. I know these things because I saw them in a terrible dream.”

The young warrior’s face changed, showed surprise. “You are Tsisnah, the brave Mescalero war chief grown old?”

“Not old enough to run from a fight.”

Now the two warriors behind the one with the yellow headband whispered one to the other and told of the fierce battles Tsisnah had won and of the many scalps he had taken.

They were very much in fear of him because it was said he could command the lightning and halt the course of the sun so that the day for the battle grew longer.

Speech fled from the man with the yellow headband’s mouth, but Tsisnah said, “Will you let us pass? We mean no harm to the Chiricahua or to anyone else. We are travelers.”

The young warrior bowed his head, then looked up again and said, “I am a poor man, but I do not envy the things Tsisnah possesses.”

“Then you do me great honor.”

The warrior reached into the pocket of the white man’s black vest he wore and took out a brass compass, the kind the horse soldiers used to find their way because they are poor scouts. But it was a gift worthy of Tsisnah. He extended the compass to the old man.

“This will help you in your search for Goso,” he said. “Night or day, the needle always points to that place in the sky where the North Star dwells. It is a great wonder.”

The old man took the compass, stared at it long, then smiled and said, “And again you do me honor.” He reached down, unbuckled his cartridge belt, and passed it and the holstered Colt to the warrior.

“This is a small thing, not to be compared with the fine gift you gave me, but take it and remember Tsisnah,” he said. “At night when you sit by the fire, tell the people, ‘Once I met Tsisnah when he was grown old and he gave me this revolver.’”

The young warrior was very affected by this talk and he showed the blue Colt to his companions and their eyes grew large because Tsisnah had so freely parted with such a valuable weapon.

“May you find the soul of Goso and help him find his way to the shadow lands,” the warrior with the yellow headband said. “I will think of you often and pray to Great Spirit for your success.”

Then, since the Apache have no word for good-bye, he and his companions rode away until they faded into the shimmering heat and were lost in the distance.

Chapter 4

“That was a right elegant meal, ma’am,” Sam Sawyer said, laying his fork on the plate.

“I rather fancy that fried salt pork and beans is far from elegant,” the woman said. “But thank you for a most singular compliment.”

“Ma,” Lori said, openly speaking her thoughts as children do, “why does the man smell so bad?”

Sam saw Hannah flush and he smiled. “I guess I do, little girl,” he said. “Three weeks on the trail will do that to a man.”

“Why doesn’t he take a bath?” Lori said, as loud as before.

She looked at her mother, careful to avoid Sam’s amused eyes.

Hannah was flustered, at a loss for words, but Sam supplied them.

“I reckon I’ll take a bath and a shave real soon,” he said. “How does that set with you, Lori?”

The girl buried her face in her mother’s side and said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “Children do speak out of turn.”

“No need to apologize,” Sam said. “I’ve been smelling my own sweat for the past week.”

He took the makings from his shirt pocket and held them where the woman could see them. “May I beg your indulgence, ma’am?”

“Of course,” Hannah said. “My husband was a smoking man, though he favored a pipe.”

As he built his cigarette, Sam said, “I learned this from Mexican vaqueros down Texas way. They’re much addicted to the habit, as I am.” He smiled. “Now I don’t know whether to thank them or shoot them on sight.”

“I heard a doctor say that tobacco smoke is good for the lungs,” Hannah said.

“Heard that my own self,” Sam said. “I guess them doctors know what they’re talking about.”

He studied Hannah through a haze of blue smoke. Miz Stewart was a fine-looking woman, in her late-thirties, Sam reckoned, and the sun had not yet browned and wrinkled her. She was tall, slim-boned with corn-silk hair, and large, expressive brown eyes. She seemed more suited to be a drawing room ornament in an eastern city than a pioneer woman in the high desert country of the New Mexico Territory.

Yet, despite her seeming delicacy, Sam sensed there was iron in Hannah Stewart, tempered to flexible steel by a harsh land and the daily struggle to survive.

Following up on his drawing room notion, he said, “Are you planning to stay on here, ma’am, now your man is gone?”

Hannah hesitated. “I don’t know that Tom is gone forever. Maybe he . . . maybe . . .” Her voice trailed off into a near whisper. “Well, maybe a lot of things.”

Sam said nothing, watching the woman, the sudden lost look in her eyes.

After a few moments, Hannah said, “To answer your question, we, Lori and me, will be out of here before winter.”

“You have a place to go?”

“No.”

“Money? You’ll need money.”

“Tom left fifty dollars on the kitchen table the morning he left. It’s mostly gone now, but we’ll manage.”

“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, ma’am, but I’m a questioning man by nature,” Sam said. “It’s a fault of old age, I guess.”

Hannah smiled. “You’re not old, Mr. Sawyer.”

“I’m fifty.”

“Oh, I thought you were—” Hannah stopped herself, horrified.

“Older?” Sam said. “I take no offense, ma’am. Cowboyin’ can surely put years on a man.”

“I . . . I meant . . .” Hannah began. She realized she was digging a deeper hole and gave up. “I’d better take the dishes to the sink,” she said. The woman stood and picked up Sam’s plate. She glanced out the cabin window and froze in place, her eyes searching outside.

“He’s there again,” she said.

Sam rose. “Who’s there, ma’am?”

“The Apache.”

Alarmed, Sam drew his Colt.

“Where is he?” he said.

“Look,” Hannah said. “Out there, by the cottonwoods.”

Sam stepped to the window. The day was shading into evening, and the red-streaked sky tinted the dusty air with amber light.

He made out the cottonwoods but failed to spot the Indian.

“I don’t see him,” he said. “My eyes ain’t what they once was.”

“Between the two cottonwoods to the left of the rock pile,” Hannah said. “He sits a gray pony and just . . . waits.”

“You’ve seen him before?” Sam said.

“Many times, and always by the cottonwoods.”

“If you see one Injun, that means a passel of them are nearby. Does he ever come closer to the cabin?”

“No, never. He doesn’t even look this way, as though the cabin doesn’t exist.”

“I don’t see him,” Sam said again. He again felt the need to apologize. “I never was a farsighted man, ma’am.” He gave Hannah a wan smile. “Come to that, I’m not a close-sighted man either.”

“He won’t do us any harm,” Hannah said. “He never has.”

Lori tugged on her mother’s skirt. “Is it the Indian, Mommy?”

“Yes,” Hannah said. “It’s the Indian.” She turned and bent over the child. “Go get Dolly. It’s time she was in bed.”

“Dolly doesn’t want to go to bed.”

“Then take her on your knee and tell her a story.”

“No. Pick me up. I want to see the Indian.”

The Apache had Sam on edge. “You mind your ma, girl,” he said.