Joanna recognized the design. Larry Yarnell Homes, an early edition of modular housing, had been marketed in the late sixties and early seventies as a relatively inexpensive form of pre-fab housing—one step up from mobile homes and one step down from permanent frame construction. Because they were less costly to build, Larry Yarnell Homes had sprouted like weeds in rural southern Arizona. Now, almost forty years later, most of those houses had outlived their useful lives. Made of generally shoddy materials, some were little more than moldering, burned-out hulks. This one, however, had clearly been well cared for and kept in good repair.
While Catherine Yates disappeared into the back of the house, Joanna stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. The carpeting on the floor was threadbare but clean. The same could be said for the collection of old-fashioned but still serviceable leather furniture. On the wall, over a long sofa, two gold-framed pictures broke the monotony of cheap oak paneling. One was the photo of a smiling Korean War–era GI standing with one foot resting on the bumper of a 1952 Mercury convertible.
The other photo—in faded sepia tones—depicted a man who appeared to be a full-blooded Indian standing proudly at attention and staring, solemn-eyed, into the lens of the camera. He wore some kind of uniform—one that was unfamiliar to Joanna.
“The one on the right is Carter, my husband. The one on the left is my great-grandfather,” Catherine Yates said, returning silently to the living room. “His name is Eskiminzin. Ever heard of him?”
Joanna shook her head.
“You should have. He was an Arivaipa Apache. He was also a chief, just like Cochise or Geronimo. Except he wasn’t a warrior. He was a man who wanted to get along with the whites. Even after most of his first family was murdered in the Camp Grant Massacre, he still tried to make peace. My great-grandmother, my mother’s grandmother, was his second wife.”
Joanna knew enough about Arizona history to have a nodding acquaintance with the Camp Grant Massacre. What history books called the “Apache Wars” would, in the modern vernacular, have been termed “ethnic cleansing.” Operating under the philosophy of “Manifest Destiny,” the United States Government had engaged the Apaches in a war of eradication designed to remove them from their ancient lands and make way for Anglo settlers.
Worn down by years of fighting, in 1871 several separate Apache bands had surrendered to the commanding officer at Old Camp Grant and sued for peace. Having been told that they could camp outside the fort under the protection of the United States Cavalry, the Apaches stayed there for the next two months while peace negotiations took place. Meanwhile, several Tucson-area merchants—Anglos every one—rounded up an expeditionary force made up of Mexicans and Tohono O’othham who had their own long-held grudges against marauding Apaches.
This band of mercenaries attacked the sleeping Apaches under the dark of night. Many of the younger men managed to escape into the hills, but women and children, along with the old and sick and helpless, were slaughtered where they slept.
“It was about this time of year,” Catherine said softly. “April thirtieth.”
Obviously, for Catherine Yates and her family, the Camp Grant Massacre wasn’t some distant, dusty footnote to history. It was still a hauntingly vivid and painful part of her family’s past.
“But the uniform . . .” Joanna began.
“After his family was killed, Eskiminzin still wanted peace. He became one of the first members of the tribal police on San Carlos. That’s him in his policeman’s uniform. Later on, he took his second family, left the reservation, and started his own ranch. Then there was another Apache uprising. Since he was a chief, he was suspected of being involved. His ranch was taken from him, and he was shipped off to Oklahoma.”
“How do you know all this?” Joanna asked.
“A friend of his wrote it down,” Catherine Yates explained. “John Clum was an Anglo who was superintendent of the San Carlos early on. Eskiminzin worked for him. Clum wrote a paper for the Arizona Historical Review. My mother, Christina Bagwell, was ten years old when he sent her mother, Eskiminzin’s daughter, a copy of what he’d written, along with that picture—the one you see there on the wall. Otherwise it all would have been forgotten long ago.”
Joanna had become so caught up in the story that she had almost forgotten her own purpose for being inside Catherine Yates’ house until Catherine handed her two photos—two eight-by-ten school pictures in matching gold frames. Joanna took them and spent several long seconds examining them. From the hairstyles, it was easy to recognize that the two photographs came from different eras. Nonetheless, even the most casual observer would have noticed the striking family resemblance between Sandra Ridder and her daughter, Lucy.
Just as Joanna handed the two pictures back and was about to speak, Frank Montoya tapped lightly on the front door and let himself into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “This just came in.”
Frank made his way across the room without meeting Catherine Yates’ anxiously inquiring gaze. As he handed Joanna the piece of paper he carried, he gave the slightest shake of his head. “It looks like she’s the one,” he said softly.
“Who?” Catherine asked.