Paso del Dado, the Pass of Chance. Cochise had made the name more fitting than ever in its long history.
Caesar rose and beckoned. Rafe followed him to where canvas shrouded two humped shapes. They had a familiar profile, but Rafe hadn’t seen any like them since he left the army in 1848.
“Morning, Private Teal,” Caesar said to the soldier on guard.
Private Teal touched the brim of his hat. He had the face of a boy. He reminded Rafe of a thousand others.
“May I show Mr. Collins the twins?” Caesar asked.
“Be my guest.”
Caesar pulled back one of the canvas covers.
“Howitzers,” Rafe said.
“I reckon these will give the hostiles something to chew on,” Private Teal said.
Rafe nodded toward the plaza and the long adobe building that still had The American House’s sign over the doorway.
“I would bet my liver that The Great Western has saved out a bottle or two,” Rafe said to Caesar. “I’m buying.”
Caesar hesitated. “I don’t want to cause no trouble for you, Marse Rafe, sir. They’s a lot of Southerners in this town.”
Rafe winked. “Not as many as there used to be.”
As the two of them walked toward The American House, Caesar said in a low voice, “Marse Rafe, Absalom was my brother.”
“I know,” said Rafe.
Chapter 33
UNDER FIRE
Agaudy parade of lightning and thunder marched through the pass. Lozen, Victorio, and the Warm Springs men stacked their weapons at the back of the sandstone overhang and waited out the storm there. While the rain cascaded off the ledge above, the men pretended they didn’t fear the sickness that lightning and thunder could cause.
He Makes Them Laugh sat on his heels apart from the others. He rested his elbows on his thighs and watched the river of mud thrashing by on its way downslope. Lozen crouched next to him and shouted over the racket of the water and the thunder.
“Have you decided to become a warrior at last, Cousin?”
“No.” His eyes were sad, and Lozen realized she had never seen him that way. “Courage is the fear of being thought a coward,” he said. “But I don’t have even that much courage. I’m too much of a coward to care what people think of me.”
Lozen knew that wasn’t true. He didn’t lack courage. She waited. He would tell her what was on his mind, or he wouldn’t. The rain stopped, and water dripped from the ledge overhead. The thunder growled off like a mountain lion leaving a carcass after it had eaten its fill.
“I’m here because of the child that my woman carries.”
He held his hand out, as though he could touch the tawny undulations of the plain far below. It seemed to go on forever, but they both knew that beyond it rose tree-covered mountains laced with clear streams. Birds sang there in cool glens.
Lozen knew what He Makes Them Laugh was thinking. The Bluecoats wanted to take all this from them. They had hounded Red Sleeves and his people to abandon the land and live on the tiny portion of it that the Pale Eyes left them. What had begun as a contest over horses, mules, and cattle had become a battle for their country, and for survival.
He Makes Them Laugh was right. A father couldn’t let the land be taken from his child.
THE AIR HERE ON THE RIDGE WAS HEAVY WITH DUST AND held no trace of the storm that had roared through the day before. The parched ground had soaked up most of the rainwater that didn’t run off into the washes. The summer sun had evaporated what little stood in puddles. It had heated the rocks until they burned Lozen’s palms.
She dug the toes of her moccasins into the gravelly soil and heaved the boulder up the slope. Perspiration soaked the back of the blue shirt. It darkened a band at her waist where her cartridge belt cinched the cloth against her body. Another stain spread outward from the strap of her arrow quiver.
The shirt had been part of a supply train’s captured load. Chato had given it and a Mexican saddle to her in exchange for a war amulet she had made and prayed over for him. The shirt was a fine one, but Lozen envied the men. They wore only moccasins, headbands, breechclouts, war cords, amulets, and bandoliers with their war caps tucked in them.
Lozen had tied her hair at her nape, but it lay wet and heavy on her neck. She wiped her face with her forearm and continued pushing the rock toward the ridgeline above her.
“Put it here.” Victorio pointed to an opening in the low walls his men were building along the crest of the ridge. He poked his arm through the loopholes to make sure they would accomodate a gun barrel. On the other side of the narrow canyon Cheis’s warriors were doing the same. Red Sleeves’ men were making redoubts on the adjacent hilltop.
Talks A Lot and Chato helped Lozen lift the rock into place. All of them were filthy and bruised. Their hands bled. Talks A Lot spit on the rock, and the drops sizzled and vanished. He grinned at her.
“We could bake mescal cakes on these.”
It was like him to waste the moisture he should have conserved. The boys and young men admired him for his bravado. If a bear had confronted him, Talks A Lot would have spit in his eye.
“I’m glad we don’t live in stone houses like the Pale Eyes do,” grunted Chato. “This would be a lot of work for the women.”
“Why do we need a wall?” Talks A Lot grumbled. “We’ll kill all the soldiers before they get this far.”
Lozen didn’t say anything. He knew the answer; wise warriors always planned for contingencies. The Bluecoats must not be allowed to reach the spring cascading into a green cleft below them.
Lozen ran her tongue over her dry lips. She remembered the times she and her friends had scooped up handfuls of the cold water after a long day of traveling. When they reached it, they were halfway between their country and that of Cheis’s Tall Cliffs People. After today she could drink from it whenever she wanted. When the buzzards circled overhead, and the crows and coyotes gathered to feast on the dead soldiers, this country would belong to the Chiricahua again.
When the men finished the barricades, Lozen headed for the highest point of the pass. Many of the warriors followed her in case her spirits had something important to say. Below her, among the ribs and crevasses of the two converging ranges, threaded the trail that crossed the stony beds of washes, ran through steep-sided canyons, along the edges of ravines, and around rockfalls. It traversed narrow valleys and climbed talus slopes. This was the trail the soldiers would take.
Lozen could feel the rocks like live embers through the soles of her moccasins. The Pale Eyes walking soldiers must be suffering inside all those clothes. Blood must be filling their stiff shoes.
She circled slowly, and when she faced west, the rumbling started. She felt the familiar tingle in her fingers; but now she experienced a new sensation. In the darkness behind her closed eyelids she saw fire falling from the sky. She heard men shouting in terror, but which men were they?
“I saw a rain of fire.” The image shook her.
“You saw the bullets from our guns falling on the Bluecoats,” said Victorio. “We have three men for every one of theirs. We cannot lose this battle.”
Of course he was right. The scouts had counted only sixtytwo walking soldiers and six horse soldiers approaching. Half a day behind them ambled 240 cows and forty-five men with the wagons.
Victorio looked out over the land below. “The Bluecoats were born of women just as we were. They can be killed. When they enter the pass tomorrow, we’ll kill them all.” He held his musket over his head and shook it. Lozen felt confidence surge through the men like flood water down a wash.
Red Sleeves and his fifty warriors angled over to join them. His men had trouble keeping up with his long-legged strides. Now and then he turned to run backward and joke with them. As he loped along, the turkey feathers sticking out all over his war cap quivered. Red Sleeves had made his medicine and given his warriors a rousing speech. He had drunk the tiswin that his third wife had sent with him. He was going to kill Pale E
yes. He was a happy man.
“My brother,” he shouted to Victorio, “My men and I are going to ride ahead and scout for those Bluecoats.”
If Victorio didn’t approve of Red Sleeves leaving his position, he could not say so. Red Sleeves wasn’t asking for his approval or permission.
ABOUT MIDNIGHT THE SPECTRAL CLANK OF A CHAIN AND A heavy tread caused Patch to growl and bristle. Rafe laid a hand on her back as he and Caesar watched the ghost walk into the fire’s light. The ghost’s left arm supported the blanket, bridle, and Ringgold saddle he carried on his shoulder. In his right hand he held a cavalry saber and scabbard near the middle so that it swung forward and back in counterpoint to his stride. The iron rings hitting the scabbard created the sound of a chain rattling. He looked tired for reasons other than the fact that it was the middle of the night.
“Lordy,” Caesar breathed.
Rafe knew what he meant. John Teal was supposed to be dead. The sergeant said he had seen Teal’s horse go down. The sergeant’s other men, riding double, had barely made it back to the wagon train’s camp. The Apaches had shot three horses out from under them.
“I’ll fetch the sergeant.” Caesar hurried off into the darkness.
John Teal let the saddle and bridle slide down his arm to the ground. Rafe held out his canteen, but Teal gave him a quizzical look. Water was more precious now than gold or silver.
“Drink your fill,” Rafe said. “We’ll reach the spring tomorrow.”
“Mebbe.” Still holding the saber, he tilted the canteen up. “First drink I’ve had in over twenty-four hours,” Teal said. “Did the others make it through?”
“They did,” said Rafe.
“Did they tell you what happened?”
“They said the Apaches let them march into the pass, then opened fire on the rear guard.”
“They poured lead and arrows down on us for hours, and we couldn’t even find a target. The captain, he sent out skirmishers, and we fought our way to the old stone stage station. We had shelter but no water. Marching forty miles and then fighting six hours with but one cup of coffee each, we was about used up, I can tell you. Had to keep fighting, though. If we couldn’t reach the spring, we was dead anyway.”
“What about the howitzers?”
“By the time we got ‘em unpacked from the mules and assembled, dark was nippin’ at our heels. Then one of the pieces overturned, and the hostiles’ fire drove the other crew to shelter.”
The sergeant strode up, tucking his uniform blouse into his trousers and buttoning his jacket. “Good God, man. What happened?”
Teal lowered himself onto a log. “The ’Pache put a bullet through my horse’s hindquarters.”
“We thought you was a goner.”
“They was armed with single-shot muskets and my breechloader kept ’em from making a run at me. About sunset my ammunition give out. I decided that if they was going to kill me anyways I’d make the second-to-last bullet count. I picked out the biggest one, a giant of a fellow with an exploded chicken on his head.”
“An exploded chicken?” Maynard asked.
“Feathers sticking out all over. Put me in mind of the time my oldest brother got ahold of a sizable firecracker. He tied it to one of the hens and lit it. Our ma gave him such a whuppin’.”
“Did you hit him?” Rafe thought he knew who that big Apache was. He thought of Red Sleeves cadging tobacco and lucifers whenever he ran across him. He thought of the mistreatment Red Sleeves had had at the hands of the miners at Pinos Altos. Even so, he couldn’t work up any sorry that the man might be dead.
“My ball hit him in the chest, and his friends dragged him off. I heard them riding away, so I unbuckled my spurs, collected my gear, and hightailed it.”
“We know the lay of the land now,” the sergeant said. “Tomorrow we’ll get those howitzers working. Henry Shrapnel’s exploding case shot will make Cochise regret that his mother introduced him to the light of day.”
HE STEALS LOVE SNORED SOFTLY AT THE OTHER END OF the stone breastwork from Lozen. Talks A Lot and Flies In His Stew moved at a crouch to where she lay in her blanket. She couldn’t see their faces or hands in the moon’s pale light, but she knew that powder burns blackened them, just as they did her own. Firing the musket all afternoon had created a thirst that the few sips left in her water pouch could not satisfy. It wrapped her tongue like a blanket. It lodged in her throat like a thistle.
During the battle she had used her water to cool the carbine’s lock and barrel, but the water sizzled and evaporated as soon as it hit the metal. As she primed, loaded, and fired, warfare became as methodical as stacking stones, and much hotter than that. Even in the night’s chill, she could remember the gun’s heat. Firing it had been like handling live coals.
She sat up with her blanket around her, and she and Talks A Lot and Flies In His Stew leaned their backs against the wall.
“A Bluecoat shot the Old Man in the chest,” Talks A Lot murmured.
Lozen felt a chill in her bones. Red Sleeves had led his people since before she was born. Her brother, Skinny, Cheis, Loco, even Long Neck down in Mexico, they all depended on his wisdom and advice.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“His men are taking him to the Pale Eyes medicine man in Janos.”
“All his men?”
“Yes. They left already.” Talks A Lot paused. “The Bluecoats’ wagons arrived at the stone house a while ago. The scouts say they were easy to track. They only had to follow the trail of dead horses and mules, but the wagons made it here, anyway.”
They all knew that those wagons must surely carry bullets and powder to resupply the Bluecoats. Lozen also knew that Talks A Lot had no ammunition or arrows left. He had thrown rocks at the Bluecoats, and when that failed to stop one of them, he had attacked him with his knife. The men were calling him Kaytennay, He Fights Without Arrows.
Almost everyone was out of ammunition, and most of them had few arrows left. No one had thought that killing the Bluecoats would require so many bullets.
Victorio returned from conferring with Cheis. He sat next to Lozen with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. Lozen fell asleep leaning against the wall, with Victorio softly chanting his war song. Before dawn, she awoke to the echoing call of the Bluecoats’ metal horns and drums and their small metal flutes.
This song had no words, but the Bluecoats greeted each day as faithfully with it as she and Victorio, Broken Foot, and Grandmother did with their morning songs. She had heard it often after a night spent watching the fort’s corral and sentries. With all their rituals of bugle song and formations and walking in step in strange patterns on their dance ground, Lozen assumed the Bluecoats must be religious, but what a strange religion it was.
Leaning on the top of the rock breastwork, Lozen and Victorio watched the morning brighten along the mountain peaks. Rocks and bushes materialized from the gloom. Broken Foot limped downslope to join them. He looked up at the cloudless sky, wet a finger in his mouth, and held it up into the wind. “A good day to fight,” he said.
The bugles sounded again, and the soldiers flowed in their neat ranks from the gates in the stage station’s wall. In the center of the column soldiers pushed a pair of small, two-wheeled wagons, each with an iron tube mounted on it.
Chato, Ears So Big, Flies In His Stew, He Makes Them Laugh, and Talks A Lot, the one they now called Fights Without Arrows, ran at a crouch to where Lozen knelt at the wall.
“These boys want to be near your Power.” He Makes Them Laugh grinned at her.
Chato scowled. “We can see better from here.”
“Make sure every shot hits the man you aim at,” Broken Foot said.
Today they would finish what they had started. When they ran out of arrows, they would fight with their knives, with their lances, with rocks, with their hands.
The soldiers stopped long before they came into musket range, though. They unloaded the wooden chests from the horses. They bustled
around the two small wagons like ants around a dead catepillar. Heads appeared above the breastworks as the warriors watched them.
“They’re getting balls as big as loaves of Mexican bread from those boxes.” Victorio handed the telescope to Broken Foot. “The tubes on the wagons must be a new sort of firestick.”
“Two guns with big bullets.” Fights Without Arrows gave a scornful snort. “What use are two guns, even big ones, against so many of us?”
The Bluecoats stepped away from the left wagon. Flames shot from the mouth of the tube. The rumble that followed it was loud even at this distance. Lozen and the others watched the ball make a whistling arc against the blue sky. The warriors in its path moved away from it. A second one followed from the other wagon.
“Those balls will be easy to dodge,” Fights Without Arrows said.
Then the shot exploded with a roar. Glowing fragments of lead and iron streaked outward, shattering rocks and sending them on their own deadly trajectories. The second one did the same. The Bluecoats pushed the wagons closer and fired two more shells. They advanced again and fired to the left, to the right, and down the center. Shells burst one after the other over the breastworks, raining fire down on them. The din drowned out the warriors’ cries.
Men sprinted up the mountains, zigzagging as they ran. Lozen climbed onto the wall and stood silhouetted against the sky, transfixed by the power of the Pale Eyes’ magic. This was what her vision had shown her.
She was more curious than afraid. How did the Pale Eyes do this? What spirits gave them thunder and lightning encased in balls of metal? How did the spirits teach them to deliver death so well?
She scanned the rocky slope above her and saw Victorio coming back. Why was he returning? He had told her time and again that in battle she would be on her own. Everyone must scatter to make pursuit more difficult.
He shouted as he slid down the slope, but his words were lost in the explosions, the pop of gunfire, and the clatter of rocks pelting past her. He pointed upward, and she saw the ball shrieking toward her.