The White Painted Woman

The White Painted Woman

by Terrell Brown

Copyright 2015 Terrell Brown

Smashwords Edition

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Cover Artwork Copyright 2015 Dan Brown

azumaji@gmail.com

In Mescalero Apache mythology, the White-Painted Woman was a divine maiden who bore a son, Child of the Water. Child of the Water then delivered the people from ancient monsters threatening to destroy them.

Chapter 1

Private Othello Goode didn’t like this part. He didn’t like the country ahead where the trail of the Apaches was leading them. Rugged, steep terrain folded up into what looked like a narrowing, high-walled canyon of the Guadalupes. Ambush and death awaited them. The midday sun burned down intensely. You could almost hear the heat above an ominous and foreboding, yet mystical, silence. Somebody was bound to die on a day like this, in this terrible desert and mountains. The hair on the back of Othello’s neck tingled momentarily with his fears as he pondered what he must do. A slight breeze suddenly came up from the southwest around the nearby sheer cliffs of the mountain the Mexicans called El Capitan. The fitful currents of sweet air toyed with the soft brim of the grey felt hat he wore in lieu of a regulation campaign hat. He’d lost the other hat long ago. The string he’d rigged up through knife-punched holes in the brim to keep the hat on his head rested at the back of his curly, jet-black hair.

Othello pensively took another wrap of his horse’s reins around the fingers of his bronzed right hand. He chanced a glance into the face of Honey Williams standing at the bottom of the hill and gazing attentively up through the country above them. Williams’ sharp eyes seemed to caress every rock and tree and clump of cactus in the cautious searching. Othello, a veteran of the Black 9th Cavalry Regiment, had been in a place like this before. He knew the dangers that awaited them.

Othello peered back over the rump of their sweat-soaked mounts where they tried to keep their footing, half on a hill and half off. His old grey had just minutes before come up lame. Bad omen that, he figured simply. The dust of the column, the blue of the soldiers, the horses being walked in the heat, could be made out two or three miles away on the desert. He dropped his gaze down to his dusty boots, one sole so unstitched that his sock was coming out.

Honey, Othello said finally to the cavalryman below, I’ll get up to the top of this rise where I can actually see something. If it’s clear, you ride back to the sergeant and tell them to hurry on. I don’t want to be here by myself too long.

Don’t you worry, Mr. Goode, Williams smiled through his bright handsome features. I’ll be back with the boys before the hair lies back down on your neck, shore as I’m the best cook in this here army! We’ll start walking, and you scoot on up that hill, he sang out. I’ll keep a good eye out for you. Ain’t no Mescalero going to get us today!

Othello didn’t share his companion’s joy for the moment, a recent replacement, but good on horseback. He would be completely on his own for a while. He pulled his carbine from its scabbard and began to work his way up the meandering trail where the Apaches had gone, leaving the injured horse at the bottom of the hill. The old grey cavalry mount, once a proud member of the Seventh Cavalry stable, wasn’t going far today. Maybe, with good fortune, he’d be okay tomorrow.

Private Williams freed his carbine and began to lead his mount towards the approaching column of soldiers out on the desert. Every few steps as he led the horse carefully through the cactus plants, he’d look back over the high country above Goode. The sign left by the Apaches were at least half a day old. Chances were the Indians wanted to get into the safety of the dreadful country up above, into their favorite mountain retreat, and that Goode would be okay until the others came up. Othello Goode wasn’t afraid of any man, not out here, wearing the uniform of the United States Cavalry. There wasn’t a braver soldier on the continent, Honey figured, unless it was Sergeant Ralls.

Private Goode attained the height of the hillock. He gathered his breath and studied all about ahead of him as far as he could see. He signaled with a wave of his carbine that he was okay. Williams slipped his carbine into its scabbard under the saddle leather, checked his cinch. Deftly, he pulled the reins about his horse’s neck and mounted. The horse had had enough rest for now. He rode hard, not looking back anymore, towards the advancing column. Goode was the best of soldiers, but the Apaches were the worst of enemies. There was no time to spare.

Chapter 2

Sergeant Jack Ralls led his mount through the sand and limestone shelves twenty or thirty paces ahead of the column of weary men and horses behind him. The legs of his horse were bleeding just at the hooves from the day’s journey amid the sharp rocks and cactus. All of the soldiers in his detachment led their tired mounts behind them, strung out in a loose column for thirty or forty yards, except for Privates Abe Kettle and Tinker Roberts, two of his most dependable men. Those two, inseparable and always ready for what a day in the frontier army might bring, were some distance off on his right flank. Their carbines were slung over their backs hooked to shoulder straps by the saddle rings. The carbines rested in the crook of their right arms. Their eyes searched the landscape vigilantly as it benched to an abrupt meeting with the towering peaks of the Guadalupes not two miles distant. The foremost of the mountains, El Capitan, plunged upwards and outwards from the lapping desert beneath like the prow of a mighty ship at sea.

The Apaches could have escaped into the refuge of the mountains much more quickly through the many canyons that fled out of the escarpment, many with springs of cold, fresh water that bled down through the limestone shelves of the high country. But this bunch whose trail they’d cut was burdened with women and children. The warriors would never leave them, so they seemed to be headed for a bad place, a place where a few men could make this a tough day for soldiers. At least, that is how Ralls surmised the situation from the direction Goode and Williams had gone.

He should have sent Roberts and Kettle. Goode in his boldness had gone further than he should. Counting himself, there were just ten of them left in the column now. He’d sent Trumpeter Brown to hunt down the tracker, Alex Mobley, and the Mescaleros Gian-nah-tah and the boy, Percy. He was certain this band they’d stumbled onto was part of the Mescaleros who’d slipped away from the agency up on the Pecos in the ‘60s. He wanted some help with this. He didn’t like the orders, but they were the commands of his superiors – Kill the men and take women and children to the agency at Fort Stanton on the Rio Bonito.

He studied the terrain, inspecting every shrub and shadow, subtle changes in the rise and flow of the land, every clump of yucca or prickly pear, his veteran heart spreading out over the infinity of desert and mountains as the desert and mountains washed over him as well, filling and saturating his war-scarred soul with longing. There would be water and grass at the old Butterfield stage station nearby at the base of the mountains, a comforting thought.

He gently caressed the small, heavily worn leathern book he held with the reins in his hands. The hands were sensitive hands, toughened by the work of his life as a cavalryman, but strong hands, quick hands. He carefully took the time as he walked to wrap a short length of red silk about the book to secure the pages and further protect it from the elements. His hands were quiet and full of care as he did so. He looked into the face of his horse, which abruptly stopped as he stepped back to wedge the book into its place in a saddlebag. Two Years Before The Mast, he sighed in his thoughts. Sweat beaded on his forehead beneath the brim of his campaign hat and ran in rivulets over his cheeks, hotly into his eyes. California! Abruptly, he concluded the visions of peace and sunshine conjured up by his readings of Richard Henry Dana’s book. California! Surely, it was a wonderful place.

He peered over the polished seat of his saddle at a blue-clad rider just appearing at a gallop around a bulge of ground by Capitan. By the look of it, the charging rider would be Honey Williams. He always rode like he was charging. But what disturbed him was the desperate haste of the rider and that Othello wasn’t with him.

Sergeant Ralls peered over at Kettle and Tinker Roberts. Kettle watched the rider, and then returned his sergeant’s gaze. He and Tinker tightened their cinches. Sergeant Ralls nodded to Kettle. Kettle pulled the reins over his horse’s neck and mounted. Roberts swung aboard.

What’s up, Sarge, Trooper Johnson called up to the sergeant.

Go with them, Henry, Ralls said.

Abe Kettle unsnapped his carbine and steadied it on the horn of his saddle. Roberts followed suit. They hesitated in the saddle, waiting for Johnson to get mounted. Johnson mounted and pulled his carbine from its scabbard. The three men rode off at a trot to intercept the now familiar horseman galloping towards them. Sergeant Ralls continued on with the others, leading their mounts on foot, giving the horses a little more rest.

Pass the word, Ralls said shortly to the nearest soldier, Corporal Windrow Dranc from the state of Maine, the sole Civil War veteran among them. Let’s tighten up our cinches, Windy, and mount up. There’s water and grass at the old Butterfield station.

Tighten up your cinches, men, Windy’s stentorian voice boomed over the desert to the men behind him.

Ralls, still standing beside his resting horse and watching over the seat of his McClelland, slowly eased up his own cinch. The Apaches were like the deer at their best, scattering by ones and twos into the wilderness to mysteriously come together again out of reach in the silent cover of the mountains. But these were slowed down now by women and children, making them potentially ever more dangerous, yet vulnerable. Ralls didn’t want to lose a man. He didn’t want to see anybody lose his life today. Freedom on a frontier sometimes came at terrible costs.

He let his eyes leave the four mounted comrades coming together on the desert where the yucca yielded to the bunch grasses and shrubs prospering around the mountain-fed water table. He searched the irregular country northeast, inspecting horizons. He needed Gian-nah-tah and Percy in this situation. He needed the confident assurances of Mobley. He needed this day and whatever attended it to work out in the best possible way. He didn’t want casualties, Indian or soldier. Mobley struck him as a man who was going to make it through, who was going to survive and have stories to tell in his old age. But it was hard to know about the rest, even about himself anymore. He would do what he had to do in this situation for all concerned. That included the Indians and their families. This day was a very tough day for a man like himself. He didn’t like the orders. He didn’t like the orders at all. There was no room left in them for a man to do the right thing, no choice, no freedom. What good was a command without the liberty for a man to do the right thing if there was a right thing that could be done? There had to be a right way to handle this. These Apache men were fighting for the survival of their families, their own freedom, their own ways of life. Those were precious things in any man’s sight. There had to be a right way to handle this, something he could do? But what?

The three troopers sent to intercept Williams turned and rode on afterwards towards Capitan and Othello Goode. Williams galloped towards Ralls and the waiting detachment. Sergeant Ralls raised his hand to stop the men as Williams trotted up to them around clumps of prickly pear, through stretches of invading soil. The midday heat of the sun boiled down on them in the open desert.

Othello’s horse came up lame, Honey said in explanation, reining to a halt beside Ralls. That poor horse might make it on the prairie with the Seventh, but it ain’t fit for this country.

Ralls didn’t say anything, watching after Kettle and the others as they pushed their horses to Othello’s rescue.

Williams, you know that talk about us getting 7th Cavalry rejects is a tall tale somebody come up with, Windy remarked. The Army wouldn’t do that.

Says Windy Dranc, anyway! Williams retorted. Dranc had been the first to call Williams ‘Honey’ because, he’d argued, ‘Cate’ sounded like a woman’s name to him. In spite of Williams’ flawless record thus far, the moniker had stuck. Relations between the two cavalrymen had since metered between sarcasm and a cool acceptance.

Let’s go, Ralls ordered, ignoring them and climbing into his saddle. The soldiers mounted up. Ralls lifted a hand and gestured for the column to keep moving, to follow him. He led out towards Capitan at a trot.

Williams and Windy considered one another, as each pulled his mount about to fall in line. Jordan, Washington and Woods brought up the rear.

Chapter 3

As the detachment approached, they found Johnson waiting for them, holding the reins of his comrades’ horses where the rugged country rose above a dry creek bed between Capitan and the nearest peak.

They’ve got Goode, Henry Johnson said as Ralls dismounted beside him. Abe and Tink are up there checking for sign, he nodded towards the crest of the steep hillock.

Got him? Ralls frowned. You mean captured?

Johnson nodded solemnly. Captured. Abe said there’s sign of a fight, some blood where somebody fell into some cactus. Othello’s carbine with the stock broken clean off. Must have swung it like a club and hit a rock or something. Didn’t even have time to fire. Stone cold chamber.

The soldiers in the column dismounted, bunching forward to overhear, concern for Othello on their faces, their glances searching the high country above them. Sergeant Ralls pulled his carbine from its scabbard and handed his bridle reins to Windy Dranc. Silently, he left his men standing and began working his way up the deer trail towards the rise of ground where Johnson had gestured. He topped out and searched a steady rise of juniper shrub, tangles of stunted oaks, mesquite and maple that crowded along steep banks above the rocky, dry creek bed. To his left rose the pine and juniper sprinkled precipices of Capitan, its fissured, craggy, chalklike pentacles wedged with pine and juniper-clogged ravines. To the right soared the walls of the Guadalupe wilderness.

The steep, dry creek bed strewn with boulders and its tangle of growth plummeted out of a dangerously narrowing canyon. This was prime ambush country. Ralls studied the rugged terrain adjacent the dry creek bed, searching for a sign of Kettle and Roberts. He didn’t want to lose two more men to the hostiles. He peered down towards where the others waited with the horses at the bottom of the hill. The boulder-strewn streambed, the steep, brushy slopes that meandered inexorably towards a narrow, dark-walled hall between sheer cliffs was no place for men and horses. Although the Apaches had just hours before led their horses through, surely with difficulty, an initial pursuit would best be attempted on foot.

The blue of Privates Kettle and Roberts tunics suddenly came into view some distance above him. Sergeant Ralls waited, sweating from the heat and his climb.

They got him all right, Kettle said, carbine in hand, as he and Roberts approached, sliding down a shaley bulge in the trail nearby. Four or five of them from the looks of it, on foot. He’s walking on his own. They’re headed for that break in the wall up there. Kettle gestured with his carbine.

Alive, Ralls breathed with relief. Good! he exclaimed, a sense of hope for Othello Goode’s safety.

Good? Kettle exclaimed, glancing at Roberts beside him on the narrow trail. What’s good, Sarge? There was frustration in his voice. These are wild Apaches. Their leader is probably the one the Mexicans in this country call Diablo.

Well, if it is Diablo, then the medicine man, Listens Well, may be with him. Mobley says they’re related. If that’s the case, Othello has a chance. Ralls peered long, longingly, up towards the narrowed, dark canyon, a treacherous hike distant. Listens Well was legendary, popular in Ninth Cavalry lore for his insistence that harming black soldiers was bad medicine. How the old Mescalero had come to that conclusion was unknown, but it was a fairly recent revelation and he was adamant about it. Therefore, it would be a problem for Diablo, who didn’t share the old man’s concerns for black troopers – if Listens Well was with the band. Gian-nah-tah had said Listens Well had gone in search of his people somewhere down in Texas. Most likely, he’d found them. Ralls had divined through Gian-nah-tah’s campfire talk with Mobley that Listens Well was