The Stranger from Abilene

Damn, how do I explain doctors, vivisection, and medical research to an Indian?

“What do they do with the bodies of Apaches in these great cities? Do the white men eat them?”

“No, they cut them up.”

That caused a stir among the Apaches, and the youngest, a teenager wearing a collarless shirt with a red-and-white-striped tie, turned his face to the sky and wailed like a wounded wolf.

“You lie to us,” the old Apache said. “You tell us tall tales.”

“I do not lie,” Clayton said. “Doctors . . . medicine men . . . cut up the bodies to look inside them.”

The old man was shaken to the core. His voice caught in his throat and his hands trembled. “If a Mescalero is treated thus, his soul cannot fly to the Land of Ever Summer. He will wander forever in a misty place between heaven and hell.”

The Apaches looked into Clayton’s eyes. “Can what you tell us be so?”

“It is so,” Clayton said. He was aware that he was walking a ragged edge between life and death, and right then he wouldn’t have given a plug nickel for his chances.

“Why does the Hunter kill us and send our bodies away?” the Apache said.

“For money.”

The old man rose. His face was like stone, but there was an unsteadiness to his chin. The others gathered around him and they talked briefly before he returned to Clayton’s side.

Apaches had an inborn contempt and hatred of liars, and the old man showed it now as black lightning flashed in his eyes.

“You are either telling the truth or you are the greatest of all liars,” he said. “If you have lied to us, we will tear out your tongue so you can never tell an untruth again.”

He grabbed Clayton’s hand and, showing surprising strength, pulled him to his feet.

“Have I made our feelings clear to you?” he said.

“I do not lie to the Apaches,” Clayton said.

“Then we shall see. You will take us to the car of”—he used zas, the Jicarilla word for snow, then corrected himself—“ice. You will show us where the bodies of our children lie.”

Clayton’s heart sank. “The car is gone. I don’t know when there will be another.”

“Then I think you are a liar,” the old man said.

“I can take you to the railroad tracks where the ice car sits when it comes.”

“You will show us.”

Clayton nodded.

Suddenly he felt a chill and he knew why . . . .

Death stood at his elbow and was growing mighty impatient.

Chapter 25

“The saber, sharpened to a razor’s edge, is the solution to our Indian problem,” Parker Southwell said.

“As you say, dear,” his wife said.

“Do you think Lo would dare set foot off the reservations assigned to him if he knew ten thousand sabers awaited him?”

“I think not,” Lee Southwell said, picking at her food. She had heard all this many times before.

She and her husband sat at opposite ends of the long table that occupied almost the entire dining room. Two black servants stood by to serve them, heads bowed as had been the custom of the old South.

“It is well known that the gallant Custer, on the bloody field of the Bighorn, cried out in extremis, ‘Oh, for an ’undred sabers!’”

“I’m sure he did,” Lee Southwell said.

Her husband spoke around a mouthful of roast beef. “I wrote to President Harrison and told him—I said, ‘There’s only one way to gain the respect and obedience of the Indian. Apply the edge of the saber and apply it often. Apply it till it’s bloody from tip to hilt.’”

“I know you did, dear,” Lee said.

“The man’s a bleeding heart, a damned Injun lover. He didn’t even answer me.”

“His loss, dear.”

“Yes, and this great nation’s loss.”

The evening was hot, the candlelit room was stifling, and there was no breeze to offer relief. Sweat trickled between Lee’s breasts and down her thighs, and the heavy silk dress she wore stuck to her back.

She worried about Shad out there somewhere in the darkness. Clayton was a desperate, ruthless man and she hoped Shad had not ridden into danger.

Southwell motioned with his fork. “The roast beef is not to your liking?”

“I’m just not hungry tonight and I have a slight headache,” Lee said. She laid her knife and fork on the plate.

“Hester, remove Mrs. Southwell’s plate.”

Southwell looked at his wife, his thin face distorted by candle flames. “Would you care for something else, my dear?”

“Yes, a glass of bourbon.”

“A glass of bourbon, Hester,” Southwell said to the black woman.

“Do we have any ice left?” Lee said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hester said.

“Then bourbon with plenty of ice.”

Lee had just been served her drink when a servant stepped into the room.

“Mr. Vestal just rode in, Mr. Southwell,” the man said.

“Tell him to report to me right away,” Southwell said.

“Yes, sir.”

Lee’s heart sang. Shad was back. He was alive.

Vestal, tall, handsome, with a sweeping mustache and yellow hair falling over his shoulders, stepped into the room a couple of minutes later and Southwell waved him into a chair.

“Well, is he dead?”

“I’m sure of it,” Vestal said.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“The Apaches have him.”

“Apaches! What the hell are you talking about, man?”