A trail that leads up the ridge to a broad, flat mesa. Our stronghold is there.
But there ain’t no stronghold here. Maybe there once was and they moved on. Maybe Lil’s already come here and left.
“Lil?” I shout. My voice echoes off the surrounding mountains. “Lil, where are you? I need you!”
I spot movement ’cross the mesa. Two men step into view, silent like deer. They got Lil’s dark hair and stern features. Bows slung over their shoulders. Skin darkened by the sun.
One draws an arrow from his quiver.
I go bone still.
He sets the arrow ’gainst his bow, takes hold of the string.
“Please,” I says, showing my palms. “I’m looking for Lil. Liluye.” I wish I’d listened to her way back when, tried to learn her name proper. I ain’t even sure I’m saying it right. “I rode with her earlier and I need her help. My friend—he’s hurt.”
The Apache pause. Both sets of eyes drift to the burros, Jesse’s slouched form. Then back to me.
Slow, steady, I unhook my pistol belt and let it fall to the earth. “Please. He’ll die otherwise.”
“Liluye?” the one Apache says, releasing the tension on the bowstring. He pronounces it different from me, the e drawn out and long.
“Liluye,” I says back, proper this time.
They look at each other, at me, at Jesse again.
“Come,” one says finally. They sling their bows over their shoulders. I grab my pistol belt and follow.
“You ask us to help him?” Lil says. She looks different from when I last saw her. An animal-hide overshirt ’stead of her dress smock. Stone earrings hang from her ears, and a rope of beads lies round her neck. “Him, who has shown me nothing but hate?”
We stand on the outskirts of their camp. I followed the two Apache men another half hour before arriving, curving up the steep mountain till coming upon its broad peak. It’s rougher than the mesa—uneven, rocky ground—but where it levels out a little, brush-built huts sit scattered, their entrances all facing east. Wikiups, I think I’s heard ’em called. Another wall of red earth rises behind ’em to provide some shelter. Curious Apache wait there—women and young children—eyeing me as I speak with Lil.
“I know, Lil. I know he ain’t been fair. But he’ll die without aid, and I can’t do nothing. Yer people are good with injuries and healing, ain’t they?”
She gives me a look that burns. She knows I’m just going on rumors and what I’s read in Yankee papers.
“I saved you in Phoenix,” I add. “You owe me a life.”
“And you want it to be his?”
“You ain’t my scout no more. Yer not gonna be round to save me if I need it later. But he needs it right now. Jesse needs this.”
Lil frowns a long moment. “I cannot make this decision, but I will ask those who can.”
She steps away to talk with the others. The women chatter in a language I can’t follow. The children look between their parents and me, eyes wide. There ain’t many men present, which makes me think they may be off on some trip, maybe even with their chief. The only males are a few younger ones—sentries, prolly, like the two who escorted me to camp—and a middle-aged Apache with his hair pulled into a long plait.
Finally, Lil comes back.
“Apache healing is physical and religious,” she says. “The injured and his friends and family must believe in Ussen and the Power he bestowed on our medicine man or the herbs will be less potent, maybe entirely useless. I know Jesse does not believe in these things. I know he does not value our culture or God. You may be no different. But Bodaway will see to him if this is how you wish me to fulfill my debt.”
“I do. Thank you, Lil. Thank you.”
“Do not thank me yet. His life is in Ussen’s hands.”
“I can pay, too,” I says. “Whatever the cost, I’ll find the means.”
“There is no charge for Bodaway’s Power, but a gift of gratitude is often given.” She motions for Jesse and I grab the burro’s reins, leading him after her and ’cross their camp.
The medicine man’s hut is draped with animal skins, while the others bear nothing on their woven branches. Soon as we’re standing in the entrance, I know why. It’s hot inside Bodaway’s place, an internal heat trapped by the hides. The air smells wrong too, full of smoke and incense.
Bodaway’s weathered face appears. He says something in Apache.
“This is a place for the sick only,” Lil says. “You must wait elsewhere.”
I watch two younger men carry Jesse inside. His head lolls limp. His shirt clings to his chest, heavy with blood. He already looks dead.
Lil touches my arm. “Come,” she says. “There is much to celebrate.”
Turns out Lil’s arrived home on the eve of a ceremonial rite for one of the younger Apache maidens. She’s come of age. There’s to be feasting and song and high spirits, only I ain’t invited.
As dusk falls, I stand on the outskirts of camp, watching as the Apache gather to witness the maiden step from the ceremonial hut. She looks barely thirteen. A smudge of white marks her forehead, and as she walks forward people toss something powdery into the sky. It flutters down like flour.
“Hoddentin,” Lil says, joining my side silent like a cat. “Pollen of cattails. It is used in all sacred ceremonies.”
I watch the young girl accept a drink from a shallow bowl. Polished stone beads hang from her neck and glint in the setting sun.
“She has fasted all day,” Lil tells me, “but now she eats. We all do.” She hands me a dinner of roasted mule deer and acorn-meal cakes, then disappears again to join the celebrations.
I sit on a rugged bit of rock and try not to devour my food so fast, it’ll make me sick. The meat is warm and delicious—better than anything I’s tasted in days—and the cakes surprisingly sweet. Filling, too. Mescal’s poured and distributed among the Apaches. I don’t got nothing but water, but it’s no bother. I ain’t dumb enough to indulge in mescal, even if it’d been offered to me. Suspicious gazes continue to flick my way from the camp, Apaches glaring and glowering and not at all pleased ’bout my presence. I’m still an outsider here, the enemy. I know my place.
After dinner, women shuffle off, cleaning up and readying for the night. The children bounce round the fire, playing a game with a stick that seems to involve balancing it on yer toe and kicking it into the air so that it lands on a marked bit of earth. One of the younger guards who greeted me on the mesa sits near the fire and begins speaking. The children abandon their game to come listen.
I watch all this from my perch on the rocks, but I watch Bodaway’s wickiup more. My eyes keep drifting there ’gainst my will. Smoke’s still snaking from the smoke hole, but no one’s gone in or come out. If I strain real hard, I swear I can hear Bodaway chanting.