Kitabı oxu: «Sun Woman»
Sun Woman
Lindsay McKenna
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
September 1, 1885, Sonora Desert, Mexico
It is a good day to die, Kuchana thought, standing at one end of the Apache encampment at Rio Aros. She listened to the women wailing out their grief. Hot, blinding tears filled her eyes, and she shut them, hanging her head so that no one would see her weep. Her sister’s last child had died minutes ago from starvation. The Mexican soldiers, soldatos, had been hunting Geronimo’s group relentlessly for the past two weeks. There had been no time to hunt. Although the warriors, twenty in all, had given their families what little food they could find along the trail, it hadn’t been enough. Ealae’s four-year-old daughter had now gone to the Big Sleep.
Sniffing, Kuchana wiped away the tears with the back of her thin cotton sleeve. She was a warrior. Warriors showed only bravery and fearlessness in the face of their enemies. Opening her eyes, she raised her head again. Holos, the sun, was about to brim the craggy mountains that stood in silent testimony to the scene before them. For his people, Holos was the symbol of life. Just as he greeted them, without fail, each morning, so would the Apache continue to survive. Kuchana’s heart felt torn, and she placed her hand against her breast.
So many of her people had died as the soldatos and U.S. Army had mercilessly hunted them down after they’d escaped the reservation near Fort Apache. As she knelt on the dry, arid ground, Kuchana’s black hair fell across her shoulders, acting as a curtain to hide the haunted expression on her face. If Geronimo caught her shedding tears, he would be disgusted with her. After all, she was his best tracker, and one of four women riding with him who wore the third braid of a warrior.
What could she do to stop the slaughter of her people? There were few Chiricahua left. Why couldn’t Geronimo see the wisdom of going back to the reservation? The screeching wail of her sister, Ealae, made Kuchana flinch. In her eighteen years of life, all she could recall was the continued death and murder of her people.
It is a good day to die. The words cartwheeled through her grief-stricken mind. Her people were being slowly starved to death. They were being pursued and cold-bloodedly murdered. Lifting her chin, Kuchana stared out across the sparse encampment. Groups of families huddled here and there, the horses weary, their heads hanging. She saw Geronimo walking to each family, giving encouragement to those who had chosen to flee into the desert with him.
Something must be done. Kuchana raised her face to the sun, watching the first brilliant rays top the rocky, desolate crags to the east. Just as the rays struck her, she heard the shrill cry of a golden eagle. Looking up, she saw the huge bird circling high above them. A cold shiver wound up her spine. Painted Woman had answered her prayers. Slowly, she got to her feet, singling out Geronimo. Her hand clutching the butt of the knife she carried at her waist, Kuchana moved grimly toward the Apache leader. It didn’t matter if Geronimo killed her or not, she must speak her heart regarding the plight of her people.
“Geronimo?”
“Eh?” He turned, his flinty black eyes settling on the woman warrior. “Kuchana? What is it?”
She came to a halt, realizing they stood in the center of the encampment. Did it matter? Within minutes her people would know of her decision. “I’ve prayed long and hard on what I should do,” Kuchana croaked, her mouth dry.
Geronimo scowled. “What do you say?”
Her hand tightening on the knife, Kuchana knew she must be strong. “I have lost another cousin. My sister lost her husband and now, she has no more children left.”
“We have all lost family,” Geronimo said hoarsely. “My own wife and children were murdered by the culo-gordos. Those Mexican bandits would kill us all if they were given the chance.”
Kuchana nodded. “I’ve made a decision. I cannot watch our people being slowly starved to death or murdered any longer. Please, stop this fight.”
“Surrender?” Geronimo exploded. “And let them send us to Florida where we will sicken and die like the others? Has Owl Man rattled your brain? You are a warrior! You have taken an oath to protect the people. Surrender for us means to give over to a power stronger than ourselves. The white eyes and culo-gordos are not stronger than we are! I will not surrender to them!”
Her heart was pounding like a water drum in her breast. Kuchana wondered if Geronimo could hear it. She feared this medicine man, for he had the power to turn her into a donkey if he chose. But the plight of her people drove her beyond regard for her own safety. Moistening her chapped lips, Kuchana said slowly, “Then I must leave.”
Geronimo hissed a curse. “If you leave, we lose our best animal tracker. I need you here to help supply food for us.”
Tears stung her eyes but Kuchana stood her ground. “I will go to my enemy and help him track you down and bring you back to the reservation. At least, what few of our people are left will then be protected. I have lost all of my family. Only my sister remains. If nothing is done, she will also die. At least on the reservation, there was food.”
Geronimo stood thunderstruck. He stared up at the tall, thin warrior. Her brown eyes watered with tears, but her voice was low and strong with feeling. “Surely you remember the food we received from our so-called pindah friends. The white men promised us beef, and we got none. They promised us blankets to warm our people, and we received none. All we were given were beans and hard, dry biscuits.” He punched his finger into Kuchana’s chest. “You,” he rattled, “of all people, know what happened. You were there. That was why we stole off the reservation and came to hide in Mexico.”
Kuchana was vaguely aware that people were gathering around them, standing blank-faced, watching. She refused to back down from his tirade. “I would rather eat biscuits than starve to death,” she answered, gesturing at the inhospitable mountains. “I would rather my sister survive than be murdered by culo-gordos!”
“Your memory is short,” Geronimo snarled, his lips lifting away from his teeth. “You think the pindah army is going to keep us alive? They were the ones slowly starving us to death. Don’t make the mistake of thinking the pindah soldiers are your friends. They are not. They have lied to us. They have stolen what was rightfully ours and broken the treaty.” He looked around. “I would rather die out here, like a warrior, than sit on a reservation accepting my fate like a stupid donkey. Think this through, Kuchana. Stay here with us. We need you.”
Kuchana’s breath came in heaving gulps, all her carefully closeted emotions unraveling. “I will not change my mind. I am leaving, Geronimo. If you want to kill me, then do so. I will join the army as a scout and hunt you down. Our only hope is the pindah reservation.”
The flinty anger in Geronimo’s eyes grew. “Get out of my sight, Kuchana. You are a coward. I would not stain my knife with your traitorous blood.” He raised his arm, jabbing a finger toward the northwest. “Go. From this moment on, you are no longer one of the people.”
Kuchana gulped, a sharp breath issuing from between her lips. Geronimo had just delivered a sentence worse than death. Even if she was able to save the last of her band, they would all consider her dead. No one would ever speak to her again, not even Ealae, her sister. Her stomach knotted, and she longed to sob out her grief.
“Go!” Geronimo roared. “In your next life, you will turn into a donkey. You have deserted us. Take your horse and leave.”
Kuchana whirled on the heel of her boot, blindly moving toward the hobbled horses just outside the camp. The crowd parted, their faces long and saddened. None of them understood her actions. It didn’t matter.
“Kuchana!” Ealae reached out, gripping her sister’s arm. “Do not do this…”
Halting, Kuchana looked down at her older sister. Ealae had cut off her hair and painted her face black over the death of her daughter. There were tears streaking down her features. Choking back a sob, Kuchana whispered, “Let me go, sister. You will be punished for speaking to me. I no longer exist to the people.”
Her hand tightening on Kuchana’s arm, Ealae sobbed. “You cannot do this. If you go, I have no one. No one.”
Kuchana groaned as her sister flung herself into her arms. She must not show her feelings. No matter what, she was a warrior, and a warrior must face life with courage. “Hush, Ealae, hush. You will be all right.” Gripping her sister, she gave Ealae a long, hard embrace.
“I will lose you, too. Oh, think, Kuchana. Think of what you have chosen to do. The army will kill us if we are recaptured.”
“No.” Fiercely, Kuchana gripped her sister, giving her a small shake. “Listen to me, Ealae. Geronimo will watch our people dwindle away until we are only a memory on the wind. This is our only chance to survive.”
Her cheeks glistening with spent tears, Ealae stared at her sister. “But to go to our enemy for help? You will be a traitor.”
She must go—now. Kuchana reluctantly released Ealae. “I must do what I feel is right. My heart is broken over the loss of your daughter. I will not see you go to the Big Sleep because of Geronimo.”
Ealae sniffed and took a step back, her dark chocolate-colored eyes mirroring her misery and confusion. “Kuchana, you shame me. You shame us just like the other Apache warriors who have gone to the army to become scouts to track us down. My own sister…”
Kuchana swallowed against the lump that was forming in her chest. “Ealae, I love you. Always know that. May Usen protect you.”
Kuchana turned away. She spotted her black mustang, Wind, among the herd. Moving between the horses, she knelt down by the mare and released her hobbles.
Patting the hardy pony, Kuchana slipped the leather jaw cord into her mouth. Looking back toward the camp, she saw that everyone had returned to their duties. Even now, she was a ghost. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Kuchana swung up onto the horse’s back.
Kuchana walked the mare into the camp and dismounted. The only item she owned beside her weapons was a ragged wool blanket. Picking it up, she laid it near Ealae, who was quietly sobbing. Then she placed her quiver of arrows on her back and picked up her bow. It was done. She was now an outcast. Mounting, Kuchana walked the mare through the camp and down a narrow, rocky path that would take her out into the flat, arid Sonora Desert.
Holos burned hot and bright against her back. Though it was early morning, the heat was beginning to build. Her mind was clogged with grief, but Kuchana knew she had to think clearly. There were few watering holes, and in order to make the long trek across the Mexican desert, she would have to remember their location, or die of thirst. Her mind turned northward.
Geronimo had raided many ranches along the Arizona border, and a number of military forts had been built there. Praying to Painted Woman, she asked to be guided to a fort that would give her protection and allow her to become a scout.
There was much danger between Rio Aros and the nearest army outpost. The culo-gordos could capture her. If they did, they would murder her and take her scalp. The possibility of running into an army patrol could also claim her life. Many of the pindah would shoot her on sight. She would have to find the right man to help her. A man who would not raise his revolver in hatred. Painted Woman was the spirit of all women among the Apache. Kuchana’s faith in her power helped allay some of her fears. Within four days she would reach a U.S. Army fort. What waited for her at the end of her journey?
* * *
“Look,” Claudia Carter whispered behind her fan, “there’s that rogue officer, Sergeant Gib McCoy!”
“I declare,” Melissa Polk, wife of the commander of Fort Huachuca, “I can see why that colonel’s wife at Fort Apache ran off with him.”
Both women giggled beneath their gloved hands. They stood on the wooden walkway of the headquarters building. Though it was barely ten in the morning, they carried parasols to protect their skin from the blazing Arizona sun. Melissa’s green eyes narrowed as she watched Sergeant Gib McCoy walk across the flat and dusty parade ground in front of them.
Barely twenty-one, Claudia was the wife of Lieutenant Dodd Carter. She leaned over to question her friend. “Melissa, do you really think he lost his commission?”
“Of course he did!” Melissa’s blond curls moved with her bobbing head. She delicately touched the bow and ribbon at the side of her neck, making sure her straw bonnet was in place. “Why, I overheard my husband talking about Sergeant McCoy.”
“What did he say? What did he say?”
Melissa smiled, fanning herself rapidly, hating the heat. Having to wear a corset, all those petticoats, plus a long-sleeved cotton dress, was simply too much. “According to my husband, Sergeant McCoy was a lieutenant up at Fort Apache. He ran off with Juliet Harper, wife of the commandant.”
“Did he love her?” Claudia asked, batting her eyelashes.
“It was something,” Melissa agreed coyly. And judging from McCoy’s lean, powerful build, she could see why Juliet Harper had wanted to run off with him. So would she. Yes, McCoy was definitely a stallion. She kept her thoughts to herself, realizing Claudia, who had been gently reared in Boston, would faint if she voiced them out loud. She was like any other brass-button bride: naive. And having come to the West only three months before, she was still adjusting to post life.
“He’s positively handsome, don’t you think?”
“He’ll do in a pinch,” Melissa said with a shrug. Beneath the surface, she seethed with anger. A week after arriving at the fort, she had purposely caught McCoy alone in the stable. When she’d approached him and ran her hand along his sweaty bronzed arm, his eyes had turned a glacial blue. And when she’d pressed herself to his hard, tense body, McCoy had stepped back. Murmuring something about enlisted men not fraternizing with officers or their wives, he’d turned on his heel, leaving her humiliated.
Melissa snorted. Any time she approached Claudia’s husband, Dodd, he was more than willing to meet her in the hay mow. And so was any other man at the post she wanted. She hated the fact that McCoy had snubbed her advance. No man ever had before. One way or another, Melissa promised herself that he would come begging to bed her.
Giggling, Claudia added, “Pinch, my foot! My husband tells me that McCoy has been out in the Southwest for seven years. He’s rough-looking.”
“Probably every laundress on the post is ogling him,” Melissa stated, pretending not to be watching McCoy. He had been busted because he’d tried to help Juliet Harper escape and return to her home in the East. Melissa had heard about McCoy from time to time, because he’d been an officer at Fort Apache and responsible for the Apache reservation nearby.
Studying McCoy, Melissa decided he was ten times the man that her flabby, fifty-five-year-old husband was. She smiled to herself. Harvey was such a dolt. He never realized she hadn’t been a virgin when she’d married him. Of course, she’d made him think otherwise. After having young men who were truly studs in comparison to Harvey, she ached to find a man to match her hungry desire. Harvey certainly couldn’t. Dodd wasn’t bad, but was unexciting in comparison to McCoy. She fumed, fanning herself more rapidly. She was utterly frustrated by the fact her husband made love to her once a month and treated her like delicate porcelain, afraid she’d break beneath his weight.
McCoy had been at the post for three months now. Most of the cavalry soldiers were unmarried. The only way these men relieved their urges was with some of the single laundresses or white women who posed as such, but were on their backs day and night. According to the colored laundress, Poppy, McCoy stayed to himself.
“Outcast,” she muttered.
“What?” Claudia asked.
“Oh…nothing.”
Claudia, who had red hair and dancing gray eyes, pouted. She stood restlessly on the squeaky wooden expanse, tapping her fingers against her lavender gingham gown. “Oh, pshaw. I wish there was something to do. Post life is so boring, Mellie. The men are always gone, hunting those dreadful Apaches. We’ve nothing but sand and heat to keep us company. I can’t keep our quarters clean for the sand. How I long for some green trees and hills.”
Melissa shrugged her shapely shoulders. “There’s no use complaining about it, Claudia. You know they only stick men out West that the army has no use for. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“Ohhh,” Claudia whined, “don’t say that. Why, Dodd dreams of getting orders to go back East.”
With a grimace, Melissa flicked a fly away from her face. “You’re new here, Claudia. Believe me, the only men the army sends West are those they consider misfits, and of no potential use to the military system.”
Moaning, Claudia rolled her eyes upward. “You’ve only been married for five years and already you know so much about the army.”
Too bad I didn’t learn it sooner, Melissa thought. Harvey Polk had presented a bold and swaggering picture in uniform at a ball in Washington, D.C. He had been a hero coming out of the Civil War, and was an attaché to the Secretary of War. How could she have known he was such a loser about to be sent West and forgotten? Her marriage was one scheme that had fallen through.
She had married Harvey thinking that he was in line for a much more prestigious job in Washington. Instead, four days after the ceremony, he’d received orders to Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Melissa knitted her fine, thin eyebrows in vexation. There was nothing but sand, scorpions, heat and loneliness at the post. At first, she’d been one of three wives. Over the years, colored laundresses had moved West to escape the South and married the Negro cavalrymen of the Fourth stationed here. What few white laundresses there were, were nothing but soiled doves, as far as she was concerned. No self-respecting white woman would wash laundry like a colored. Of course, laundresses, and their families were considered little more than just necessities to post life, but they were certainly not included in it. They were animals of toil, in Melissa’s opinion.
Still, she held out hope that Harvey would leave the army and run for governor or senator. There was power in either of those positions. Melissa’s wandering gaze moved back to McCoy, who was now checking with the guards at the main gate of the post.
Since that day she had flaunted herself in front of him, Melissa’s further plans to meet him again had failed miserably. He was always polite when he had to confront her on occasion, but she’d seen the amusement in his icy blue eyes. It was as if he could read her mind. With an unladylike snort, Melissa decided that was impossible. A man’s brains hung between his legs. She stepped off the porch, her feet sinking into an inch of dust. She intended to intercept the sergeant and force him to take notice of her.
“Come, Claudia. Let’s walk around the parade ground. I need my morning exercise.”
Picking up her skirt, Claudia scrambled to catch up with the older woman as she glided across the parade ground. “Dear me, Mellie! Why are you in such a hurry?”
* * *
“Sergeant McCoy?”
Gib turned to the sentry standing by the opened gates, Private Lemuel Ladler, a Negro boy of eighteen. “What is it, Ladler?”
“I see something out there, suh. Take a look.” He pointed to beyond the wavering curtains of heat across the desert.
Squinting, Gib turned and directed his attention to the cactus-strewn desert. Sure enough, he saw a lone rider. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it was an Indian.
“Looks like an Apache,” he muttered.
Ladler’s eyes rounded, and he quickly pulled the rifle off his shoulder, holding it ready to fire.
Gib pushed the rifle barrel down toward the sand. “Take it easy, son. That’s one Indian, not a party of them.”
“B-but, sergeant—”
“At ease, Ladler. We don’t shoot Indians. For all we know, it could be a scout from one of the other forts. Relax.” Gib rested his hands on his hips, watching the progress of the rider. The Fourth Cavalry resided here, the only all-Negro outfit in the West. Ladler had recently come from the East after signing up and had never seen action. The few Indians he had met were scouts. Deciding to stay because Ladler was nervous and might shoot first and ask questions later, Gib waited with the sentry.
“What’s going on here?” Lieutenant Carter demanded, coming up to them.
McCoy kept his face neutral. The young shavetail lieutenant had recently graduated from West Point and was pushing his weight around the post. “Not much, sir. Just an Indian. Apache.” Gib could see the lean, black horse, its head hanging low with exhaustion, and its rider, who didn’t appear to be in much better shape.
Carter stared at the Indian who was still a good distance away. “A scout?”
“Dunno, sir.” McCoy disliked having to address Carter as “sir.” The young blond-haired officer hated the Negroes who served under him. The only thing Carter liked was white men of rank—and any white woman. Gib found himself wishing he had his commission back. The Fourth deserved better leadership than this tall, gangling officer from Georgia who went around with a lace handkerchief stuck under his aristocratic nose because he couldn’t stand the dust.
Carter glared at McCoy. Impudent bastard! He almost uttered the words, but hesitated. McCoy was a veteran of the West. His skin was deeply bronzed by years in the sun, his flesh tough and his body hard. The set of McCoy’s square jaw did nothing but annoy Carter. An ex-officer who still thought and acted like an officer. Even the enlisted coloreds worshiped the ground McCoy walked on, preferring to go to the sergeant instead of him.
“I think you do know, Sergeant,” Carter ground out, casting a furious look in McCoy’s direction.
Gib’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“You’ve got eyes like an eagle. Surely you can tell who it is by now.”
Clenching his teeth, McCoy watched the approaching horse and rider. “It isn’t a scout. He’s wearing Apache clothing, not our blue uniform.”
Excited, Carter withdrew his revolver from its holster. “Maybe it’s one of Geronimo’s people.”
Wanting to shake his head but deciding it wasn’t a wise idea, Gib muttered, “Don’t get trigger-happy, Lieutenant. That’s one Indian. I don’t see any weapons on him except a bow and arrow.” Gib looked significantly at Carter’s weapon. “I’d put it away, sir.”
“When I want your two cents’ worth, Sergeant, I’ll ask for it.”
Ladler glanced at McCoy, nervously fingering the rifle. “Sergeant?”
“Keep the rifle down,” Gib intoned coldly, glaring at Carter. The officer was such a dandy. His features were delicate, his skin white as an Englishman’s and easily sunburned. The white lace handkerchief his wife, Claudia, had made for him made him look effeminate, and three months in Arizona had baked him red as a beet.
“What’s going on?” Melissa cooed, stepping up to McCoy, giving him a flirting smile.
“Nothing, ma’am. Just an Indian coming in,” he drawled. Now the worst busybody on the post was here along with Carter, who was acting as if he wanted to shoot the Indian.
Claudia rushed to her husband’s side. “Oh, my, Dodd! Look out there! Why, it’s our enemy.”
Gib clenched his teeth again. “Not all Indians are our enemies, Mrs. Carter.”
“If that buck’s off a reservation,” Carter said emphatically, “he’s our enemy.” He lifted his revolver and cocked it.
“Why, I do declare,” Melissa said, remaining next to McCoy, “we’re finally getting some excitement.” She looked up at the sergeant through her lashes. The unforgiving line of his mouth excited her. What made this man’s blood run hot? His face was glistening with sweat and there were deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His blue eyes were frigid and off-limits. Whatever the sergeant’s true thoughts, he kept them to himself.
McCoy calculated all the possible scenarios that could happen. Ladler was nervous because he knew so little about the Indians. Carter wanted to kill one just to brag about it to his fellow officers. Claudia was a romantic wanting to see her husband kill one of the dreaded Apaches. And Melissa stood there looking like a bloodthirsty wolf ready to pounce on the Indian herself for the sheer excitement of seeing one killed.
As the rider drew close, Gib was the first to realize it was a woman on the mustang. In his seven years in the Southwest, he had met a number of Apache women, but never one who wore the third braid of a warrior. Swallowing hard, Gib wondered how in the hell he was going to handle the situation. He was the only one who knew that Apache women could be warriors right alongside their men.
Tensing, McCoy took a few steps forward, separating himself from the group as the rider approached. Private Ladler would obey him, but Carter wouldn’t. He prayed that the officer, once he realized it was a woman, would put his weapon away.
Gib focused on the Apache woman. Her face was square, her features delicate, almost beautiful. She was Chiricahua, judging from her dress. She wore a faded red cotton headband that kept her long, waist-length black hair out of her face. A quiver of arrows was slung across her back. She wore a pale blue shirt and a leather belt around her small waist. A knife hung next to her long, curved thigh. Her dark green corduroy pants were faded and threadbare, and the distinctively tipped kabun boots fitted snugly to just below her knees.
As she came nearer, Gib recognized the shaft on the arrows as that belonging to Geronimo’s people. His heartbeat quickened as he met and held her weary brown eyes. The woman was near starvation, her flesh sunken against the bone. She held her chin high and rode with her shoulders proudly thrown back, although he knew she must be light-headed and hungry. There was a magnificent dignity about her, and Gib took a few more steps away from the group, toward her. Whoever she was, she was courageous, riding alone out in this terrifying heat and waterless country in the midst of many who would murder her on sight.
Maybe it was the slenderness of her hands and fingers that made Gib relax. He sensed somehow that she wasn’t going to try foolishly to kill him. His gaze moved to her lips, and he felt an immediate hardening within his body. There was a lushness to her mouth, coupled with a gentle upward curve at the corners. Despite the harshness that life had demanded of her, Gib knew there was a softer side to this woman.
He shook his head. What was she doing here? Was she an emissary from Geronimo? He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, not wanting to broadcast any movement that might make her think he was an enemy. In his seven years of working closely with the Apache people and scouts, he knew they read the silent body language of another with the sense of a wild animal.
“Oh, Lord!” shrieked Melissa hysterically. “It’s a woman!”
Chapter Two
Kuchana jerked Wind to a halt when the pindah woman in the pink dress shrieked. Her eyes went wide as a yellow-headed officer rushed forward brandishing his revolver at her. She froze, her gaze seeking out the other man, the one with black hair and startling blue eyes. Her instincts told her this was a man of honor.
Gib cursed as he reached out and jerked Carter’s arm down. “She’s unarmed,” he said at the officer, pulling him to a halt.
“Let go of me,” Carter snarled.
“Not until you promise to put that gun away—sir.”
Carter gestured at the woman. “She’s Apache.”
“And unarmed.” Gib’s fingers increased their pressure around Carter’s wrist. “Put the gun away before you shoot yourself in the foot.”
A dull red flush crawled across the lieutenant’s taut features. Yanking out of McCoy’s hold, he belligerently aimed the revolver at the woman.
“Who are you?” Carter demanded, his voice, high, off pitch.
Kuchana sucked in a breath of air, staring at the ugly muzzle of the revolver no more than fifty feet from where she sat astride her mare. Was Yellow Hair crazy?
“Come on. Tell me who you are and what you want,” Carter repeated.
The English words all tumbled together, and although Kuchana had an excellent grasp of pindah language from her time spent on the reservation, she hesitated. The revolver was threatening. She raised her hands above her head, looking desperately to the other soldier, pleading silently with him to intervene on her behalf.
“I come as friend…” she stumbled in their language.
“Dammit, Lieutenant, put that gun away,” McCoy roared. If Carter didn’t holster that weapon, he was going to do it for him. Melissa giggled behind him, and Gib wanted to turn around and put the spoiled brat of a woman over his knee.
Kuchana watched the angry words between the two men. Her heart was pounding without respite. Light-headed with hunger, she forced herself to keep her hands held high.
With a glare at McCoy, Carter holstered the revolver and turned back to the Indian. “Just who the hell are you?”
“I come as friend…” Kuchana repeated, directing her attention at the dark-haired man.
Gib held up his hand in a show of peace and walked toward her. He switched easily from English to her language. “I’m Sergeant Gib McCoy. Tell me who you are and what you want before that fool over there shoots all of us.”
A wry smile split Kuchana’s features and she lowered her hands. He spoke her people’s language. The fear she’d felt melted away beneath his husky tone. “I am Kuchana, of Geronimo’s party. I have come to offer myself as a scout for the army.” She couldn’t tear her gaze from his probing eyes, and a trickle of heat stirred in her, reminding her that she was a woman.
“What are you saying?” Carter snapped, striding up to McCoy. “Dammit, you speak English so that I can understand.”
McCoy struggled to compose his features. Carter was making a total ass of himself, but that was nothing new. He told the officer what Kuchana had said.
“She wants to be a scout?” Carter uttered in amazement, studying the Apache.
Gib kept his eyes on Kuchana. She was weak from hunger, if he was any judge of the situation. “She’s a warrior, Lieutenant.” But still a woman. An incredibly beautiful one with haunting brown eyes, which were warm and inviting.
“I didn’t know the Apaches had women who were warriors,” said Carter.
“There’re a few.” McCoy switched back to her language. “Kuchana, how many other women warriors ride with Geronimo?” Her name flowed from his lips like sweet honey. There was nothing masculine about her, not even her name. Again, he saw the wariness melt from her gaze as he held it. Something was happening between them.
“Three others.”
“Why did you leave?”
Lowering her lashes, Kuchana whispered, “I left because I want to save what is left of our people.” Despite the danger surrounding her, she couldn’t help the response McCoy pulled from her each time he held her gaze. Each look was charged with a heat and excitement she had never experienced before.
“I see—”
“No,” she said swiftly, her voice cracking with emotion, “you do not see. I once had ten members in my family. Now, only my sister is left. I watched her daughter die of starvation four days ago. Then I came here to help the army find Geronimo and take him back to San Carlos Reservation.” Tears marred her vision as she saw the soldier’s face melt with tenderness. He understood. “I—I must work for you. I must save what is left of my people. Please…help me…”
McCoy approached her horse, placing his hand on its mane. “Easy now. I’ll do what I can. The army isn’t used to having women as scouts. All we have are men.”
“You must take me,” she cried in desperation. “I am Geronimo’s best tracker. You must believe me. I will find them for you. I must save my sister.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he repeated, reaching out to touch her hand where it clenched the mustang’s mane.
Kuchana felt his hand momentarily on hers. His flesh was roughened and weather-worn. Drowning in the look she saw in his blue eyes, she nodded her head. “I will trust you.” It was more than that, but so much was happening, she didn’t have time to dwell on her awakening feelings.
“Good. Now, come on, get off the horse.” Gib forced a slight smile and stood back, watching her slip off the mustang. There was an effortless grace to her that underscored her femininity. Kuchana was weak, but she forced herself to stand straight and tall. There was pride in her carriage and in the golden blaze of her eyes as she fearlessly surveyed the group who stood openmouthed before her.
Gib gestured toward the tall, two-story adobe building that housed headquarters. “This way.”
Kuchana hesitated, placing a hand on her weary mare. “My horse…”
“Private Ladler,” Gib ordered, “take her horse over to the stable. Get one of the men to curry it down and give it a little hay and a bit of water, nothing more. Understand?”
Ladler picked up the jaw cord. “Yes, suh, sergeant.”
Kuchana looked closely at the dark-skinned soldier, then turned to McCoy. “This man’s skin is the color of the night. I have never seen such as him before.”
Nodding, Gib offered, “His people come from across a great sea.” He pointed toward the east.
Ladler hesitated, realizing Gib was speaking about him. His mouth split into a smile. “She’s wondering about my color, suh?”
McCoy smiled over at Ladler. “I told her you came from across the ocean.”
“That’s right, suh. My grandparents came from Africa.” He shouldered his rifle and tipped his hat respectfully toward Kuchana.
Unsure of what was being said, Kuchana made a slight bow toward Ladler. He appeared friendly enough, and that was all she cared about.
“You’re letting her come into the post?” Melissa demanded, stamping her foot haughtily. How dared they treat her like a white woman. After all, she was an Apache, and therefore, their enemy.
McCoy shot Melissa a hooded look. “She’s surrendering to us, Mrs. Polk. What would you have us do? Shoot her on the spot?”
Heat nettled Melissa’s cheeks. In that moment, she hated McCoy. He was laughing at her again. “Well, she’s wearing men’s pants, of all things.” She turned to the lieutenant, who had more authority than McCoy. “Surely, Dodd, you aren’t going to let this filthy woman on the post?”
Kuchana stood apart from the group, carefully listening to the conversation. She noticed McCoy watching her from beneath the brim of his hat. Looking down at herself, she realized her clothes were dusty from the four-day ride. But every morning she had brushed her hair and kept it neatly tied with the scarf around her head. Nightly, she had cut open cactus and used the juice to wash her face, neck, arms and hands, so that she was free of dirt and odor.
Gib watched the play of emotions cross Kuchana’s features. She had more dignity than all of them put together, standing there with her feet slightly apart for balance, shoulders back and chin lifted. Her lips were badly chapped and split. She weaved, but caught herself. Anger stirred in him as Dodd continued speaking at length with Melissa.
“Lieutenant, while you discuss army regulations with the ladies, I’ll get this woman some water.”
Gib reached out, wrapping his fingers around Kuchana’s arm and gently pulling her forward. “Come on,” he coaxed, “you look thirsty.” Her flesh was firm beneath the shirt, but still soft and inviting.
Kuchana stared up at him. She saw the hard line of his mouth soften, and she surrendered to the tumult of feelings he had loosened by simply touching her. Grateful, she went with him. The pindah women gawked at her, disbelief and disgust clearly written in their eyes.
When he had escorted her through the gate, McCoy’s hand dropped from her arm. A part of her lamented the loss of contact. Wearily, she looked around. The post was huge, with rows of two-story barracks and nearly two hundred sun-bleached canvas tents. Kuchana was astounded by the number of blue-coated soldiers, as McCoy led her to a watering trough in front of headquarters.
Gib reached for a tin cup that was always kept on the trough. He filled it with water, then handed it to Kuchana. Her hands shook as she took the cup. Frowning, he studied her as she drank. Thin trickles of water escaped from the corners of her mouth, winding their way down her long, slender neck and soaking into the fabric of her shirt. An ache seized him, and he wondered how she would respond if he stroked her lovely neck, trailing his fingers down its length and tracing her collarbones hidden beneath the shirt she wore. The thought was jolting, completely unexpected. Gib placed a tight clamp on his fevered imaginings. What the hell was happening to him?
“Take it easy,” he cautioned. “A little goes a long way.” When he saw her frown, he added, “You’ll throw it up if you drink too much too fast.”
“I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.” For the first time, Kuchana had a chance to study the soldier. His raven hair was short and neatly cut. The dark blue hat he wore emphasized the intensity of his azure eyes. They were wide, intelligent eyes filled with wisdom. That was good. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and a thin, almost invisible white scar cut across one of his high-boned cheeks. His mouth was strong. When McCoy glanced up at her, one corner of his mouth curved upward, easing the rugged planes of his face.
“Call me Gib.” He took the cup from her fingers, placing it back on the trough.
“You speak our language.”
“I’ve been out here for seven years. Most of my duties have been with the Apache scouts. They taught me.”
“I’m glad,” Kuchana admitted in a lowered tone. She turned, steeling herself against the dizziness.
“How long have you been riding?”
“Four days.”
“Have you had any food?”
Kuchana shook her head. “No, I left what little I had.”
“How about sleep?” He knew most Apaches feared the night and would never ride, thinking that Owl Man would grab them.
“I slept each night.”
She was just this side of starvation, Gib realized. His protective side was working overtime. He tried to figure out why. At the reservation near Fort Apache, he had many dealings with Apache women. But this woman was different. He was curious about what kind of woman rode to war alongside the men.
He noticed a number of small scars on her fingers and a faint scar that ran the length of her neck. He wondered how she’d gotten it. He liked the idea of a woman being able to take care of herself. He always had. His French-and-Indian mother had owned her own millinery shop in New Orleans before marrying his father.
“Thank you for saving my life,” Kuchana said. “Yellow Hair would have killed me if you hadn’t been there.”
Gib said in English, “Yellow Hair is Lieutenant Carter. And he can’t hit the broad side of a barn, much less you.” He saw Carter and the two women hurrying toward them. “Whatever happens, just stay at my side and don’t say anything. Understand?”
She gave him a confused look. “You are more Apache than pindah.”
McCoy’s smile broadened. “Don’t let our lieutenant hear you say that. I’m already a pariah here at the post.”
Not knowing what “pariah” meant, Kuchana stood patiently. Carter strode up, his face flushed.
“Sergeant, strip her of her weapons. I want her taken in to see Colonel Polk for interrogation. Pronto.”
“Don’t you think,” Gib said, trying his best to sound reasonable, “that we ought to get her something to eat and some rest first? She’s half-starved.”
Melissa picked up her pale pink silk skirt and gingerly climbed the wooden steps, sweeping past them and into the building. She spotted Corporal Ryan McClusky sitting at his desk outside her husband’s office. Lifting her chin at a saucy angle, she sailed by him and went directly into Harvey’s office. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to, but when necessary, army etiquette was something to be bent to her will.
“Harvey, darling,” Melissa cooed, closing the door to the inner office. She smiled beguilingly over at her white-haired husband who sat behind the ponderous oak desk scattered with papers.
“Mellie. What a surprise.” Harvey beamed and put the papers aside. “What brings you here, pet?”
“Darling,” she began in a conspiratorial tone, rushing to his desk, “you won’t believe what just happened. There’s an Apache woman warrior from Geronimo’s party outside. She says she wants to be a scout.” Melissa wrinkled her nose. “She’s wearing men’s clothing. Why, she even has boots on. And stink. Lord save us all, but she smells to high heaven. I think it’s a trap. I think she’s lying.” Besides, Melissa didn’t like the way McCoy had treated the savage. She wanted McCoy to show interest in her, not in some heathen.
Scowling, Polk rose ponderously from behind his desk. “Mellie, what on earth did you just say? A woman warrior from Geronimo’s party?” His hopes rose. If he could capture Geronimo, he was sure that General Crook would give him an assignment back East, thereby salvaging what was left of his thirty-year military career.
“Oh, fluff,” Melissa muttered, fanning herself. The heat in the room was nearly intolerable. The wooden-frame building had one small window, and Harvey had it closed, probably to keep out the sand and the dust. “You didn’t hear what I just said. This…this woman, if you can call her that, is wearing men’s clothing. She’s carrying a knife, and a bow and arrow. Really, Harvey, she’s disgusting. I really don’t believe she’s a woman warrior. This may be a ruse. If it is, Sergeant McCoy has stupidly fallen for it. He’s outside with her right now.”
Moving as quickly as his bulk would allow, Harvey came around the desk. “Pet, there are women warriors among the Apaches. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that to you from time to time.” He headed toward the door.
“But,” Melissa wailed plaintively, “aren’t you going to make her stay down at the scout camp?”
Harvey turned, his hand on the brass doorknob. “My dear, you really ought not be here. This is army business. And I understand your disgust for this woman. They’re all savages in my opinion, too. Come, come.” He held out his hand toward her.
Pouting, Melissa moved slowly toward her husband. “What are you going to do, Harvey?”
“Well,” he said, raising his thick, white eyebrows, “if she was indeed with Geronimo, we’ll interrogate her on his whereabouts.”
“And then?”
Shrugging, he opened the door. “If she wants to be a scout and help hunt Geronimo down, I don’t care.”
“But, a woman in an all-male camp of scouts?”
“Tut, tut, pet. I know all this is a shock to your gentle sensibilities. These savages live differently than we do. If this redskin can lead us to Geronimo, I don’t care if she’s a woman dressed in men’s clothing or not.” He smiled and led her into the outer office. McClusky leaped to attention, straight and tall.
Melissa rested her gloved hand on her husband’s arm and he led her out onto the porch.
“Lieutenant Carter, what’s going on?” Polk demanded, sizing up the Apache woman as he spoke.
Sputtering, Carter told his commanding officer the series of events.
Kuchana stared up at the large, overweight man in the dark blue uniform trimmed with gold and rows of brass buttons. His hair was thick and white. A mustache partially hid his thin lips. His silver sideburns drooped, following the line of his jaw, making his face look fat and round. When the colonel came forward, she tensed.
Harvey peered into the woman’s face. Typical of all savages, she displayed no emotion except wariness. Looking her up and down, he muttered, “How can you be sure she’s from Geronimo’s party?” His question was directed to McCoy who had the most experience with the Apaches.
“The shaft on the arrows she carries, sir.” Gib brought one out for the officer to examine. Polk was a lazy bastard at best, he knew, shunning his duties as commanding officer except when necessary. Most of his work fell to the majors and captains below him. McCoy doubted if Polk knew one tribe’s shaft from another, but he said nothing.
“Hmph. Interesting.” Polk handed back the arrow to McCoy, his gaze settling again on Kuchana.
Bristling at his inspection, her lips tightened. She vividly recalled similar inspections by soldiers at the San Carlos Reservation.
Straightening, Polk turned and headed for his office. “Get her in here, Lieutenant Carter. I want to question her at length.”
“Sir,” McCoy said, “I think she needs to eat and rest first. She hasn’t had food for four days.”
Carter turned angrily on McCoy. “That’s enough, Sergeant. She looks perfectly fine to me. Now, get her in here.”
Polk smiled at his wife. “I’ll take care of this, Mellie. Why don’t you and Claudia visit Ellen? I understand she’s faint from this heat again. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
Dismissed, Melissa stood there, glaring at Kuchana. She hated the woman. And McCoy’s protectiveness toward her nettled her even more. How dared he. “Come, Claudia,” she demanded, “I can’t stand the stench around here. My poor nose is about ready to fall off.”
McCoy gave the two white women a look that spoke volumes. In the army, the men were required to take a bath every third day. Clothes were washed once a week by the many laundresses. Everyone smelled at the post. Except for the officer’s wives, who went daily to Draper’s Pool, a secluded pond with a stream located two miles from the post at the end of a box canyon. They were the only ones with time for such a luxury.
Kuchana hesitantly followed McCoy into the large adobe building. Her eyes rounded as she studied the interior. Thirty rifles hung on one wall. Geronimo stood no chance against so many guns. Once in Polk’s office, she was forced to stand in front of the desk while the colonel sat down.
Polk looked at McCoy. “Sergeant, I understand she knows some English, but for the sake of speed, I want you to interpret.”
Gib stood next to the Indian woman, refusing to sit down. “Yes, sir.”
Kuchana noted the tightening of McCoy’s face. She wished mightily that the pindahs wouldn’t speak so quickly. If they slowed their speech, she’d be able to understand what they said. Dizziness assailed her. She planted her booted feet apart so as not to appear weak in front of them and waited for her inquisitors to begin their questioning.
* * *
Gib’s patience thinned. For the past two hours Polk and Carter had relentlessly questioned Kuchana. Polk seemed oblivious to the fact she was weak with hunger. If the fat bastard had gone one day without food, he’d be baying like a coyote. Their treatment of Kuchana was unconscionable.
Risking another blistering tirade from Carter, Gib came to attention. “Colonel Polk, I request this session end. The woman is obviously tired and in a weakened condition. I’d like permission to take her to the cook’s tent, feed her, and then find her quarters over at the scout area.”
Carter glared at the sergeant. “We’re not done interrogating her. After all, these Apaches are tough as nails.”
Polk chuckled in agreement. “I’ve never seen such endurance.”
Kuchana closed her eyes as another wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed her. She was dying of thirst and wanted to sit down. McCoy’s hand settled on her arm. She quickly opened her eyes and realized she was swaying. Heat flooded her face and she looked away from the concern in the sergeant’s eyes.
Gib glared at Polk. “You’ll get more out of her on a full stomach than an empty one, sir.” He hated putting it in that context, but Polk’s regard of Apaches as little more than animals was well-known.
“Very well,” Polk muttered. “Get her out of here, Sergeant.”
Carter leaped to his feet. “You’re in charge of her, McCoy. If she escapes, you’re responsible.”
Gib nodded. “Yes, sir.” Carter would like to see him drummed out of the army for allowing one of Geronimo’s warriors to escape. Turning his attention to Kuchana, Carter released her, telling her to follow McCoy.
Relief fled through Kuchana once they were away from the building and walking across the arid parade ground. The sun was hot overhead, but it felt good. She noticed a number of tents to the left with women inside them scrubbing clothes on corrugated tin washboards.
“What’s that?”
“Our laundry facilities,” he explained.
“The dark ones are there, too.”
He smiled. “They’re called Negroes, Kuchana.”
“And these women come from across the great sea, too?”
“Yes.” And then Gib amended his statement. “They were brought here as slaves. Twenty years ago, they were set free and allowed to pursue whatever they wanted, just like white people.”
Kuchana noticed a large black woman in a yellow calico dress and a thinner, younger one in a dark green dress who were openly staring at her. Their stares weren’t like those of the pindah women, however. There was only curiosity in their eyes.
“They are different from the pindahs.”
“They’re good people,” said Gib. “The older one’s husband is a lance-corporal here at the post. I’m sure you’ll be meeting all of them sooner or later.”
“Then, I am to be a scout?”
He nodded, watching her eyes widen with happiness. “That’s what Colonel Polk said. I’m in charge of the scouts, so you’ll be working directly with me, not Carter.” Thank God. Gib saw her flush, and he realized that whatever he felt toward Kuchana, it was mutual.
Kuchana wanted to give a cry of triumph, but resisted the urge. Instead, she sent prayers of thanks to Painted Woman. “I will be a good scout. I will not shame you.”
“I’m not worried,” Gib said. He pointed to a large tent that had been bleached white by the burning sun. Its flaps were open at both ends to catch what little air moved sluggishly across the post. Inside were two big black kettles bubbling with beans, and a table filled with hardtack. “This is the enlisted men’s chow tent. Why don’t you go and sit down under that cottonwood and let me get you something to eat?” Gib pointed to one of the few trees that managed to survive on the post.
Not needing another invitation, Kuchana gladly headed toward the shade of the tree. She noticed the two men in the tent watching her. One, a big man with a black mustache and brown eyes, sent a shiver of warning up her spine.
“Who’s that, Sergeant?” Private Odie Faulkner asked, with a leer at Kuchana.
Scowling, Gib took a tin plate from the stack on the table. “Our newest scout,” he growled. Gib took the ladle and dished up the food from the kettle. Beans, moldy bacon and weevil-infested hardtack was the usual fare for a soldier or scout.
“That there’s a woman, ain’t it?” Odie asked, licking his full lower lip.
“That’s right. One of Geronimo’s warriors.”
“I’ll be go to hell,” Odie murmured. “I heard about them women warriors, but never saw one. She looks starvin’. That why she crawled into our post?”
Adding three hardtack biscuits, McCoy kept his anger at Faulkner in check. “She didn’t come here because she was starving. She came to offer her services as a scout.”
“Right purty,” Odie noted, craning his thick neck out the side of the tent, watching her.
“Mind your own business, Private.”
Faulkner’s bushy black brows drew up in surprise over his heavy German features. “Yes, sir.”
Kuchana watched McCoy saunter in her direction. He was dressed like most of the other soldiers: a pair of yellow suspenders holding up his dark blue trousers, and a dark blue shirt that was damp with sweat, clinging to his upper body. There was much to admire about McCoy. Everything about his demeanor claimed him to be a warrior. There was an economy to his movements, and he carried himself proudly. There was no doubt that he was a leader of men.
Her attention shifted to the food he handed her. Eagerly, Kuchana took the plate, amazed at how much was on it. In seconds, she was using her fingers, eating ravenously.
Gib crouched in front of her. “Take it easy,” he cautioned. Kuchana was wolfing down the food. Dammit, he shouldn’t have filled the plate so full. “Why don’t you eat the biscuits first,” he suggested, trying to get her to slow down. “Your stomach isn’t used to this kind of food….”
His husky warning came too late. Kuchana had eaten half the food when her stomach violently rebelled. With a cry, she leapt to her feet and turned away. Within seconds, everything she had eaten had been thrown up. Sweat covered her features as she knelt on the ground, her arms pressed against her stomach. Kuchana stayed that way, her head bowed with embarrassment and shame.
“Dammit,” Gib whispered, moving quickly to her side, “I should’ve known better.” Instinctively, he reached down, placing his hands on Kuchana’s shoulders. She was trembling badly. “Come on, let’s get you over to the tree.” He pulled Kuchana to her feet. Her face was flushed and she could barely walk. Anger at Polk’s and Carter’s insensitivity to her physical condition raged through him.
Gently, he settled her back against the trunk of the tree. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly, his hand remaining on her slumped shoulder.
Feeling dizzy and weak, Kuchana nodded. Just the touch of his hand on her shoulder stabilized her whirling world. She shut her eyes, feeling as if she would die.
Gib came back with a cup of tepid water. He knelt and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Here, take a swallow and then spit it out,” he ordered.
Kuchana opened her eyes, sipping the water from the cup he pressed to her lower lip. Following his instructions, she rinsed her mouth.
“Good,” Gib praised, setting the water aside. He picked up a biscuit from the plate and broke off a small portion of it. “Now, chew on this, and do it slowly.”
Her eyes never left his harsh features. McCoy had a face like the rugged mountains in Sonora, yet he was treating her as a mother would a sick child. Gratefully, she took the proffered piece of biscuit.
Despite her condition, Kuchana was a proud and independent warrior. Gib knew that to coddle her too much would make her look weak in the eyes of others. He removed his arm and sat back on his boot heels.
“Good,” he rasped unsteadily, watching her chew the biscuit thoroughly before swallowing it. He offered her the cup. “Now a little swallow of water.”
Kuchana managed a grimace, then sipped the water and put it aside. McCoy handed her another bit of biscuit.
“How’s your stomach feeling now?” he asked.
Placing her hand on it, she said, “Better.”
“Any rolling feeling?”
She shook her head.
“Just take your time,” Gib soothed. “A bite of biscuit and a sip of water. You’ve been without food a lot longer than four days, haven’t you?”
Kuchana avoided his piercing look. “Warriors must give their food to their families,” she said.
Relaxing, Gib placed his arms on his knees. “Looks like you’ve had more giveaways than most,” he teased gently. Indians believed in giving away all that they owned, especially food, to those who were poor or incapable of hunting for themselves. He saw the corners of her mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. Kuchana had a magical effect on him.
“The Old Ones and the children will not starve,” Kuchana said stubbornly. Her stomach was settling down, and the biscuit tasted good. “How do you know so much about my people?” she asked McCoy.
“I made a point of learning about them when I was assigned to Fort Apache,” Gib answered.
“Many pindahs know nothing of us.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t have any prejudice against your people, Kuchana.”
Her name rolled off his tongue like a reverent prayer. Kuchana could feel the power of the emotions behind his words. She searched his face. “What is ‘prejudice’?”
“It’s when one person hates another because he might believe or look differently than himself.”
“Pindahs have prejudice against us because we are different?”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head, watching a group of Negro soldiers marching off in the distance. She held up her hand, gesturing toward the soldiers. “The dark ones are also different. Do pindahs have prejudice against them, too?”
Pushing the hat back on his head, Gib mulled over his answer. “There are many pindahs who don’t like any other color except their own.”
“You are not like them.”
Gib shook his head. “Color means nothing to me. How a man or woman treats others is what’s important.”
“You are like an Apache!” she said excitedly. Touching her breast, Kuchana regarded him somberly. “You are a man who talks from his heart. That is good.”
“I try to, Kuchana.” Gib grimaced, his gaze restless. As a sergeant, his duties and responsibilities were many. There was a decided prejudice against the Negro enlisted soldiers. In the month he’d been at the fort, he’d realized that he was the only buffer between them and the white officers. The Civil War might be over, but the Negro was far from free. He felt it wise to keep his eyes and ears open, be alert at all times.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
