She didn't find it difficult to keep silent, not knowing what surrounded her outside the sheltered spot she'd found. Sweat trickled down her back beneath her deerskin shirt as she squatted in the short grass, straining hard to bring her baby. It was her first and large and she was so very small. A single guttural groan escaped her as she bore down. Unbeknownst to her, that deep primal sound alerted someone to her hidden presence.
The infant was born, a boy child, and his mother muffled his first cries against her body. Almost instinctively, the baby grew silent, watching his mother with large dark eyes as she deftly swaddled him in the softest, most supple of deerskins brought for just that purpose.
The sudden noise of crackling brush and the sound of a scuffle caused the young woman to flatten herself over the infant. She heard the sound of yelling – a stranger speaking in Apache but with an unnatural accent – the words difficult to understand as the speaker was obviously in a fight for his life. The fight seemed to go on forever and the girl grew more frightened by the moment, but then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. For some time she remained absolutely still, hardly breathing, until she could stand it no longer. Slowly, she raised her head. The sight which met her eyes was the embodiment of her worst nightmares – it was the face of a white man.
"Come on! We gotta get outta here! Come on!" he urged even as he lunged forward and grabbed the terrified girl by the arm. She fought like a wild cat, hampered by the baby in her arms, yet still managing to scratch the apparition's already bloodied face. He seemed not to feel the gouge across his cheek; seemed not to feel her blows as they rained down against his arms and shoulders as he swung the tiny girl up into his arms.
The sight of her brother's lifeless body stretched out upon the trampled ground sapped her strength instantly and she faded into the arms of her captor. Silently, she thanked her sibling for his selfless defense of her and her child even as she was borne away by the man who had murdered him.
He lifted her onto his pony and swung up behind, one arm going around her waist, holding her firmly against his chest, the other taking the reins. It gave her great pleasure when she heard his grunt of pain as he settled his body into the saddle. Obviously, her brother had not died without making his own mark upon the white.
Turning the horse south, the white man kicked the animal into a lope. "No! Not this way," the girl cried, pointing north. "My people are this way – this way!" Although she figured it wouldn't matter to him in the least, she knew she had to try.
The white man shook his head. "Apache might well be north, but so are the Comanche and they're between your people and us. We're headed south. My people are there – a trail herd, 25 men; protection. I'll get you back to your folks, just not now. It ain't safe – not for you; not for me."
Almost as if to prove his point, a large party of Comanche, painted for war, cut the trail just below the ridge upon which they traveled. Instinctively, both the Apache girl and the white man bent low in the saddle. The cowboy turned his mount due south and the unlikely traveling companions disappeared into the mesquite-covered valley.
Against her will, but helpless to prevent the action, the exhausted girl fell into a stupor against her captor's chest; the infant in no danger of falling in a sling she'd rigged from a wide strip cut from the cowboy's oil-cloth slicker which held the baby close against her side. She woke when the horse came to a stop, the white man slipping down from the saddle, holding his arms up to her. She recoiled in horror, terrified of what his intent might be. Yet when she looked into his face, into his eyes, not unlike her own and unusual for a Lipan Apache, pale golden brown, almost amber, she saw no evil there, just sadness and exhaustion and pain. As he reached up to help her from the saddle, she noticed the rent in the right sleeve of his shirt which ran from wrist to elbow. Blood dripped from the wound beneath. It was not a wound of attack, but of defense. The white must've put his arm up in front of his face to block her brother's knife thrust. Her heart softened towards the cowboy ever so slightly.
"I won't hurt you," he said as he lifted her down and she believed him.
Sitting on a fallen log she nursed her baby, guiding the nipple into his mouth. He sucked greedily until tired out by his exertions, feel asleep within moments. The cowboy tethered his mount out of sight among a cluster of mesquite trees, taking the rifle from the scabbard and the canteen. Satisfied that they were momentarily safe, he walked toward the girl, crouched down and offered her the opened container. Hesitantly she reached out and although she couldn't remember ever being as thirsty as she was now, she took only three small sips, handing the canteen back to the cowboy. He shook his head.
"You need it. Drink all you want. We should run into my people within the next hour or so. I can drink then."
She took several deep swallows and no more. "Drink some now. You need it," she said and was satisfied when he tipped the canteen up and drank.
The sudden snap of a twig and the cowboy grabbed the girl, pulling her down behind the log, mindful of the infant she held. His body pressed down over hers and she could hardly breath what with his weight against her and the white man's stink of him filling her nostrils. At her side the baby wriggled, but did not cry out.
Voices made her hold what breath she had and she recognized the ugly sound of Comanche being spoken. The cowboy tensed and she heard the faint, almost imperceptible click as he thumbed back the hammer of his rifle. But the voices faded and the weight of the white man lifted as he rolled off of her and onto his back and she breathed clean clear air into her lungs. Checking the baby and finding him unharmed, she peeked over the log. The going was indeed clear. She turned around, surprised to see the white man still lying upon the ground, breathing heavily, his face gray beneath the sun-browned skin. The wound upon his arm bled heavily, the shirt sleeve soaked. Several other cuts were evident upon his chest and when he pushed himself up into a sitting position, he arched his back, grimacing as he did so and reached around, feeling a spot just above his gun belt. His fingers came away blood-smeared and sticky.
"We'd best get moving. There's no time to waste." He struggled to his feet and held his hand out to her. When she did not take it, he realized his mistake and wiped the blood off against his chaps. This time she took the hand and rose to her feet, settling the infant back into the sling.
"Let me bind your wound first," she insisted. "It will take little time." She was surprised when he nodded and began fumbling at the knot of his bandanna with his left hand. Though the fabric was filthy with dirt and sweat, it was all they had to work with and would have to do. It might be enough to keep him from passing out from loss of blood, leaving her alone with a new baby and few logical options.
Tearing his shirt open from wrist to elbow, the sight of the cowboy's skin where the sun never reached made her stomach lurch in disgust. The skin was pale as milk and lightly freckled. To make the sight even worse, dark hair grew on the top of his forearm. She swallowed back nausea.
As she worked trying to draw together the edges of the deep knife wound and secure them with the makeshift bandage, the white man talked which helped keep her thoughts focused on the task at hand and not on the revolting white skin and hairy body. His Apache was broken, but he managed to get the meaning of his words across to her.
"I didn't mean to kill that boy...your husband?"
"My husband is dead. He was my brother," she corrected.
"I had no choice. I didn't know why he fought so hard until it was over and I saw you...and the baby. I had no choice." He swallowed hard as she drew the ends of the bandage tight, but said nothing. Looking into his face she realized he spoke the truth. Though that didn't make the death of her brother any easier to accept, she found herself hating this man less and less. The wound in his back told her Running Elk had come at the white from behind which did indeed leave him little choice but to defend himself.
"Running Elk was a boy...two years younger than me. He acted recklessly, as a boy would...but died as a warrior," she said.
The cowboy nodded. "That he did."
"My name is Yellow Sky," the girl said as she finished tying off the bandage. "My baby has no name yet." The cowboy watched her as she spoke and inwardly she cringed at the livid scratches she'd made across his cheek.
"I'm Pete Nolan," he replied.
They rode into the white man's camp just as the last bit of sun faded from the western sky. So far the young mother was not impressed. All she saw were two wagons and one man, a far cry from the 25 men and thousands of cattle Pete Nolan said would be here.
"Mr. Nolan! Boy will the boss ever be glad you're back!"
"Mushy, this here is Yellow Sky. Lift her down gentle-like. Her baby's brand new this mornin'."
Yellow Sky looked down at the tall young man who ambled over to their horse and who held his arms up to her. His open friendly face held no guile. Whatever this man felt was there for all to see. He was not false. Somehow she knew this to be absolutely true. He held her as if she might break into a hundred pieces and when he spoke to her, she looked at Pete Nolan, a question on her face.
"Mushy says you don't weight more than a feather. Says you're a tiny thing. He's right."
Pete Nolan swung his right leg over the saddle horn and slipped to the ground. He led the animal over to the water's edge, awkwardly draping the reins over a tree branch. As he turned his back to Yellow Sky she noticed the bloodstain on the back of his shirt had spread and was spreading still. Crouching at the stream, he brought the water to his mouth with his left hand. He drank until she nearly called out to him to stop, but when Mushy settled her down onto a blanket near the fire, she lost sight of Pete Nolan. The nearness of the warm fire, the excitement, terror and fear of the day made her thoughts hazy and when Mushy covered her and the baby with a blanket, she laid down, pillowed her head on her arm, her new baby snuggled against her chest and fell into a deep sleep, one from which not even the return of the cook nor of the rest of the drovers nor being lifted and moved into a protected spot beneath the supply wagon roused her.
Bright sunlight caused her to blink in surprise. She hadn't remembered the fall of night and yet here it was already well past dawn. Hearing a loud voice, she flattened herself into her blankets, the baby safe against her, rooting for the breast. Opening her shirt, she nursed him, but her attention remained focused on the noisy goings-on in the camp. A large man issued what had to be orders to the cowboys around him who, in their haste to obey, reminded Yellow Sky of nothing if not a covey of quail scurrying off in search of a place to hide. Had her predicament not been so uncertain, she might have laughed at the sight. When the big man turned in her general direction, a scowl on his face, Yellow Sky burrowed even deeper into her blankets.
Where was Pete Nolan? Although a white and the man who had killed her brother, he had been kind to her; had not hurt her or her baby in any way, spoke her language and was the least of the evils surrounding her. When at first she couldn't see him in the maze of legs, panic rose within her, but willing her breathing slower, willing herself to stay calm, she painstakingly scanned the camp area, finally locating him lying next to the other wagon, the wagon from which the young man, Mushy, and another, older man worked dishing out food.
The smell of roasting beef got her mouth watering. If she believed the tales her people told around the campfire she would have thought white men ate Apache babies, belched smoke and were cruel to their animals and each other. But she remembered other stories as well – where the Lipan and the white Texians fought together against their common enemy, the Comanche. Time would tell which story rang the truest.
Mushy bent over the spit, sliced off several pieces of the beef, took what appeared to be some type of bread from a covered pot and arranged the items neatly onto a tin plate which he set aside. Taking a cup from the back of the wagon, he poured steaming coffee from the pot hanging over the fire. Carrying both, Mushy walked over to where Yellow Sky cowered. Crouching down he peered beneath the wagon. Yellow Sky inched as far back as she could. Mushy smiled, said something she did not understand and held the plate and cup out to her. When she did not take either, he said something again and placed plate and cup within her arm's reach. In a moment he was gone.
Waiting as long as her empty stomach allowed, Yellow Sky reached out and took a piece of beef from the plate, biting off a small chunk. Chewing thoughtfully, she swallowed. When nothing of consequence happened, she took another bite and another until the plate was empty. Even the strange bread vanished; used to sop up the meat juice made it at least palatable. The coffee she did not like, making a face as she sipped the bitter brew. Within moments Mushy returned, replacing the cooling coffee with a cup of cold fresh water. This time, when he crouched down and peeked in at her, she offered him what she hoped was a pleasant expression of gratitude. It must have been because his smile in return was wide, his blue eyes lined with laugh wrinkles.
Hearing Pete Nolan's voice, she gathered up her infant and inched her way out from beneath the security of the wagon. She had to find out when they would leave to search out her people. He would know.
Skirting the few cowboys still in camp, mindful of their impolite stares, Yellow Sky held her head high and kept her destination in sight.
Pete Nolan looked worse in the morning light than he had the evening before and her concerned expression must have communicated her feelings to the cowboy.
"Wishbone...he's our cook and sorta medicine man...he stitched me up. Said I ain't in any shape to be moved for a couple days at least. I think I look worse than I feel." He rubbed his left hand back across dark-smudged eyes, that small effort nearly more than he could manage and she thought how what he said was a stretch of the truth at best.
"Don't worry, Yellow Sky, I'll get you home. Might be a week or so before we get there, but I gave my word and any one of the men hereabouts will tell you that Pete Nolan keeps his promises."
Yellow Sky nodded, but kept the tears she felt inside to herself; 'a week with these strange white men...a whole week!' She wondered how she would stand it.
"Can I see the baby? Didn't get much of a look at him yesterday." Pete Nolan reached out a shaky left hand, the heavily bandaged right resting across his chest, his obvious thought to lift the blanket from the infant's face.
Yellow Sky pulled back without thinking; the disappointment on the cowboy's face a hurtful thing to see. She felt instant remorse. Settling herself cross-legged next to the injured man, she leaned toward him, just enough, and lifted the blanket for him to see her child. Pete Nolan's pale face was transformed through his smile as he reached out, tentatively stroking the baby's cheek with his index finger. Instinctively the infant turned toward the touch.
Pete's grin widened. "I think maybe he's hungry."
Yellow Sky smiled shyly and nodded. "I think maybe he's always hungry."
The booming voice she'd heard earlier that morning broke the pleasant moment and Yellow Sky instantly clutched the baby to her chest, covering his small face. His whimpers of disappointment when food was not forthcoming fell on deaf ears. She looked to Pete Nolan for a translation. Although the big man's voice was loud, his expression was not at all frightening.
"Mr. Favor, he's the trail boss, he says you've got a fine big boy there."
Looking up, way up and into Mr. Favor's face, she attempted a smile, although she felt it came across as sort of sickly at best. Loud voices tended to scare her since shouting usually preceded a confrontation, at least that had been her experience. Here it just seemed loud was commonplace. Mr. Favor spoke again and this time the voice was much softer, much easier on the ears. Again she looked to Pete Nolan.
"Mr. Favor says you and the baby are welcome here. If you need anything at all, tell me and I'll see the right person tends to it."
Her smile this time was sincere. Perhaps this place would not be so bad after all.
Two days gave Yellow Sky plenty of time to rest up after the baby's birth, rest and wash, eat and get to know the cowboys. Nearly all seemed decent and hard-working although a few made her uncomfortable with their sidewise furtive glances when they thought no one else saw. Once Mr. Favor saw and the booming voice echoed about the small camp. That cowboy disappeared and she did not see him again. For that she was glad.
Among her favorite people were Pete Nolan, who, though he remained nearly tied to his bed by the crotchety Wishbone, mended very slowly yet never complained of the pain, her own hours spent at his side allowing her the opportunity to know the scout better – smart, savvy and good natured, his company was treasured; Mushy, who, she discovered, was Wishbone's helper and the rarest among men Indian or white, honest, thoughtful and utterly without guile - a spirit whose value went beyond price; and oddly enough, Mr. Favor, whose gruff ways with the men were not those he showed to her. Kind, strong-willed and generous, he was a man she considered both protector and friend.
The other cowboys, too, were generous to a fault, never failing in their offers to tote and carry, giving her gifts for the baby – clean bandannas, their own blankets and towels and even a rattle one of the men, Joe Scarlet, had painstakingly carved using up many hours of his own valuable free time. Four small circles dangled from within a single larger one and how he had managed to carve it all from a single piece of wood remained a mystery to her.
Also, their gentleness toward their wounded companion remained a source of amazement to the Apache girl. Not one failed to ask Pete Nolan if there was anything he might need or like – a smoke, a cup of coffee, a drink of water or an extra blanket and when he was at his worst, shaking with fever and chills, the men's expressions, sober and worried to a man, were there for all to see. She thought such openness among men a strictly Apache trait.
Once on the trail and headed north her spirits soared. Sharing the wide seat of the supply wagon with Mushy was delightful. His non-stop conversation, punctuated with arm waving, smiles and enthusiasm for life in general, kept her amused, though she understood only one word in ten. Pete Nolan, lying in the back on a thick pallet of blankets, translated those words he deemed most important, laughter often following. With the baby in the sling, tiny face covered against the sun, the country moving by at a leisurely pace, Yellow Sky forgot the dread she'd originally felt at spending seven whole days in the company of strangers. Now it seemed she dreaded the end of those days.
As the sixth day closed in upon the seventh, she caught herself staring at Mushy's profile as he drove the team, imaging that he was not a white man at all, but Apache. He would fit in well with her people. His love of life, his respect for all living things would make him a valuable asset to her tribe; and when he lifted her down so that she could stretch her legs, the look in his eyes made her believe that perhaps he wished her a white girl, one who would fit in among his people. For just an instant she hated the color of her skin, the raven-black hair, the beaded deerskin clothing she wore. But the hate faded quickly and when Mushy returned to lift her back onto the wagon seat, a bunch of wild prairie flowers held out, her heart ached, for just the briefest moment, for what she knew could never be. Taking the flowers, she held them close and as she rode along, each revolution of the wheels bringing her closer to home, to family and to all that was familiar, she allowed the petals to flutter from her grasp, one by one. Caught by the wind they were carried away and lost, left to fade along the trail, unlike memories which stay bright and vivid always.
The End...part 1?