EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER TWO
Over the main administration building the weathered sign said it all: SAN CARLOS INDIAN AGENCY - ARIZONA TERRITORY. A ragtag collection of adobe buildings, a few tents, and the usual scattering of litter that denoted the presence of the human animal. The place looked no different than it had the last time Jason Brand had been there, and that had been a few years back. Some of the brown, impassive faces that stared up at him as they rode by looked the same; a little older and wiser in their knowledge of the Pinda Lickoyi and his promises. As always those lined, stoic faces gave nothing away.
It was breathlessly hot. Dust hung in the still air. Somewhere a dog barked; a thin, agitated sound that quickly faded in the vastness of the wide land. Brand didn't like San Carlos. There was a feeling of being closed in. There were no fences. No barbed-wire, but the place still had the atmosphere of a prison. The Apaches could move about with relative freedom, yet every one of the Indians considered themselves prisoners — if not in body then surely of the soul
'You still not like this place?' Sieber asked as they rode in.
They had debated the San Carlos policy many times, and had never agreed.
'Damn right there,' Brand grumbled sourly.
They dismounted outside the main building. Tied their horses to a rail that was cracked and warped from the heat. Brand straightened his aching back, rubbing at his spine. It had been a long ride up from Mexico. Sieber had been sparing in his rest periods. It had proved one thing to Brand. He had been getting lazy. His life with Sarita had been good, but the lazy days had been softening him up. The San Carlos trip had certainly worked out the excesses of food and drink. Not that he regretted any of it.
Sieber's young Apache vanished silently leaving Brand and Sieber to go about their own business.
'Nante's hut is over there,' Sieber said, leading the way.
Brand followed. He glanced around the agency, finally coming out with the question that had been on his lips since they had sited the place.
'Tom Horn still riding for you?'
Sieber glanced across at him, a smile edging his lips.
'What the hell is it between you two? Always sparring I recall. Never tell me what troubled you.'
'Never took to him, Al. Something about him. Can't put my finger on it. I just know he's a mean son of a bitch and one day it'll show.'
'I remember same kind of things said about you, Jason. You figure they right?'
It was Brand's turn to smile
'Hell, Al, we're both just a pair of mean boneheads.'
'Now you talk some kind of sense. Good to meet a man who can look in a mirror and see himself as he is.'
They reached the hut Sieber had indicated. It was small and shabby. The thin door hung open on sagging rawhide hinges. A clay water olla sat just outside the door. As Sieber and Brand reached the hut a dark-haired Apache girl stepped through door and bent to pick up the olla. As she straightened she saw them, nodding briefly in Sieber's direction. Then she glanced at Brand, assessing him quickly. She was young he saw. Nineteen — maybe twenty — at most. Pretty too, with large oval eyes in a strong boned face. Her mouth was a little wide maybe, but it did nothing to detract from her natural beauty. She wore a simple buckskin dress that molded itself to her supple, full-breasted body. She had a flat belly and rounded hips that flowed into strong thighs. Her black hair, held from her face by a soft band, hung in a gleaming fall that went below her shoulders.
'Nante still lives,' the girl said. She was still looking at Brand. 'Is this the one he asks for?'
'Jason Brand,' Sieber said.
'Nante's faith in you has kept him alive,' the girl said. 'But you are only a man. Are you different from the other Pinda Lickoyi?'
'If Nante believes it is good enough for me,' Sieber said.
The girl stared at Brand a moment longer, then rested the olla on her hip and walked away.
'Nante's grand daughter. Her mother died in childbirth. Father killed at Geronimo's side. She is called Niana.' They went inside the hut, bending as they stepped through the low doorway. Dust motes floated in the bright shafts of sunlight filtering in through gaps in the roof. The interior was bare, save for a small charcoal fire that glowed from a cut-down oil drum. Perched on top of the fire was a battered, blackened coffee pot that Brand recognized. It raised a brief smile.
'I offer coffee to you, Brand.'
The voice came from the far side of the hut. A thin figure lay beneath a blanket, a wrinkled brown face watching intently. Brand crouched beside the withered form, shocked at what he saw. Nante had aged beyond his years. He was old, Brand knew. When they had met before the Apache warrior had carried his years with pride. As Nante raised himself to a sitting position and the blanket slipped away, he exposed a broken and ravaged body. His flesh was torn and seared by terrible wounds.
'You should have been here the day he came in,' Sieber said. 'On foot he was. Trailing blood with every step. Someone treat him bad.'
Brand caught the Apache's gaze. 'Who did this, Nante?'
The old Apache looked beyond Brand to where Sieber stood. His dark eyes glittered with undiminished pride. After a moment Sieber raised a big hand in surrender.
'I go.'
When they were alone Nante touched Brand's arm and indicated the coffee pot. Brand found a couple of tin mugs next to the fire. He poured hot, black coffee and returned to where Nante had propped himself against the wall of the hut, the blanket draped across his thin body. He took the mug Brand offered with a thin hand covered in near-transparent skin.
'Anything you need to say you could have told Sieber,' Brand said. 'He's a good man, Nante. You know that. So why me?'
The old warrior watched as Brand squatted on the dirt floor beside him.
'You kept your promise and killed the crazy one called Lobo,' Nante said. There was a distant look in his eyes. 'I wish I had seen it.'
'He damn near killed me,' Brand replied. He took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and burnt — the way Nante liked it. 'Still doesn't answer my question. Why send Sieber to find me?'
Nante's shoulders stiffened under the blanket.
'We are dying, Brand. The Apache is dying. Our time is short and we cannot fight the Army any longer. If there is not an end to the war the Apache will be no more. Sieber has talked to Mangas and Geronimo. Soon there will be talk of peace. Maybe this time it will come.' Nante paused. The effort of talking was taking its toll. 'Brand, I wanted my people to surrender. I saw the young men dying but we were not winning the fight. It saddened me. I wished a better life for them but they did not heed my words. I told them it was foolish to carry on. But the warriors had found a new leader. A younger man with the fire of war in his blood. He is called Benito. His words were listened to and the warriors believed.' Nante reached out to grip Brand's arm. 'Then Benito brought the Pinda Lickoyi. A white who showed my people new guns and ammunition. A wagon filled with these things. There was whisky and food for the little ones. My people believed Benito had brought a new spirit. But I saw evil in the eye of the Pinda Lickoyi. He brought them because he wanted the whites dead as much as the Apache. He hates his own kind, Brand. I saw this and tried to show my people, but Benito turned them against me. For two days they put me to the torture. They would have killed me if had not escaped. When my pony died I walked to San Carlos to find Sieber. I knew he would find you and bring you to me before died.'
Nante slumped back against the wall, the mug of coffee drooping in his fingers. A thin trickle of blood slid from the corner of his mouth The old warrior had been hurt more than Brand realized, and it angered him to see it.
'What can I do, Nante?'
'Go to Mexico. Find my people and bring them home. Away from Benito and his warpath. My heart saddens to think of them here at San Carlos. But even here is better than the life they would have under Benito and his Pinda Lickoyi. Sieber talks of peace, and I believe him. Yet how can there be a true peace if Benito stays on the blood trail? Who will believe the Apache promises while there is still killing? Is this not true, Brand?'
Brand nodded. He saw the logic in Nante's argument. It wasn't going to make any peace talks plausible while there were still Apaches on the rampage.
'Nante, I don't even know where your people are. Mexico is one hell of a piece of territory .'
'There is a place in Sonora. High in the Sierra Madre. It is a place I have used many times. No one has ever found it. Not even the Rurales or the Yaqui trackers.'
'Doesn't make it easy for me then.'
'There is one more who knows the trail,' Nante whispered, his voice starting to fade.
'Who?' Brand asked.
'I know the trail.'
Brand had not heard anyone enter the hut. He turned to see the young Apache girl, Niana, standing behind him. Over his shoulder she looked at Nante, concern clouding her eyes. She moved to him, speaking in rapid Apache. Brand's limited knowledge of the language would not allow him to pick up her words. Whatever she was saying agitated Nante. The old man shook his head violently.
'I speak only American in the presence of my friend,' Nante said sternly. 'Do the same, Niana. While I still have life you will heed my words.'
The girl's shoulders stiffened, cheeks darkening with anger, yet she remained silent. Niana had spirit enough for two but she was a true Apache and did Nante's bidding.
'She does not believe you worthy,' Nante explained. 'Then she does not know you as I do.'
'She could be right, Nante. I'm no better than a hundred others. Even if reach this secret place I might not pull it off. Maybe they won't listen to me.'
Nante reached out and clutched Brand's big fist, his own hand dwarfed by the American's.
'You have a way about you, Brand. You walk with violence. It is your life and it is the only thing Benito understands. It is the same with the white. Both are mad dogs who must be stopped. Is it not how it has always been, Brand? How we have lived our lives?'
Brand made no reply. There was no need. Nante understood him almost as well as McCord. They were both aware of his affinity to violence and his association with death. Even Brand had accepted that finality though there were times it repulsed him. He was a killer. His inborn skill, his one talent, was to destroy. Some epitaph. He shook himself out of the somber mood as he realized Niana was watching him closely. It was as if she could read his thoughts. There was an odd expression in her eyes.
'Will you do this thing?' she asked.
'Yes.'
As Brand accepted the challenge he caught the ghost of a smile on Nante's withered face.
'I will get ready,' Niana said and left the hut.
'I have no need to thank you,' Nante said. 'Nor can I give you help. But take heed, Brand. Do not trust Benito. he is evil. He has used much Peyote. It has poisoned his mind and many times a great madness comes over him. His rage is truly terrible. Never turn your back on him, Brand. Do what needs to be done and bring my people to San Carlos.'
'If it's possible I'll do that,' Brand promised.
Nante emptied his mug and held it out.
'Let us share one more drink, my friend.'
Brand took the mugs and crossed to the pot. He filled the mugs. As he replaced the pot he saw the fire had gone out. Crossing the hut he felt a chill touch his face and something made him kneel quickly beside Nante. The old Apache had sunk against the wall, eyes closed, and Brand knew the second mug of coffee would not be needed. Sadness gripped him for a moment. Nante had fulfilled his need to stay alive until Brand answered his summons. Now that had been done Nante, warrior of The People, had opened his arms to Yussen and had embarked on his final trek to the Spirit World.
Al Sieber, German-born scout, really existed, and was involved in much of the peace dealings with the Apaches.
The young Apache who accompanied him to find Brand became known as The Apache Kid. This renegade waged his own war with the Army for years until finally vanishing. No one ever really knew what became of him.
Tom Horn moved on to become a Stock Detective after many other adventures. This led to his downfall after the fatal shooting of a young boy. Horn protested his innocence but was eventually hanged in November 1903.