A gasp of shock went around the fire, and a shadow of sadness passed over Sun Hawk’s face before it hardened into stone. “You go too far, cousin,” he said, his quiet tone edged with steel.
“He is right, Dull Knife,” Klo’sen said, deliberately insulting the young brave by using his name. “We do not speak of the dead, nor do we remind the living of the pain they have suffered. Leave the council. We no longer wish to hear your words.”
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“I will not leave!” Dull Knife shouted in outrage, but when he looked to the other men in the council for support, he found no one willing to meet his eyes. Even his friends who believed as he did would not look at him.
Only Naka’yen, the oldest and most revered of the Mescalero chiefs, met his intense gaze, but support was not on the old chief’s mind. “Go, Dull Knife.
Return when your blood is not so hot that it clouds your mind, and hope that your cousin will forgive you.”
Shame and anger warred within the young brave, and after a moment he whirled away from the fire and disappeared into the night. With the most outspoken dissenter gone, the war council ended soon after. Though many still believed they should join Geronimo, all agreed to abide by the decision of the elders.
As the others dispersed into the night, Naka’yen stood and looked with pride at Sun Hawk, his youngest child, who was a child no more. He was a great medicine chief who would in all likelihood lead their band when Naka’yen no longer walked the earth. “You spoke well tonight, my son. I am proud of you.”
“I spoke what was in my heart, Father,” Sun Hawk replied. “I have no more reason than Dull Knife to trust the white man’s promises, but following Geronimo will not help our people.” The shadow of sadness passed over his face again. “Or feed our hungry children,” he added quietly.
Naka’yen ached for him—and for himself. The wife and two sons Sun Hawk had lost had been a part of Naka’yen, too. “You have the right to challenge Dull Knife for the thing he said to you,” the old man said softly. “Some might even say it is your duty.”
Sun Hawk’s eyes were as black as the night as he looked at the old chieftain. “Father, when it becomes my duty to kill one of my Apache brothers, I will no longer be an Apache.”
He turned away from the fire and became one with the darkness.
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3
Meade had almost forgotten what civilization looked like—and felt like. Santa Fe wasn’t as cosmopolitan as Washington or the other eastern cities where he’d lived in his younger years, but compared to Fort Apache, it was sheer heaven. It was a charm-ing old city with the Military Department of New Mexico sitting squarely in the middle. Fort Marcy itself stood on a hill overlooking the town, but Meade’s assignment placed him in the Military Headquarters. His quarters were on Grant Street less than a block away from the finest hospital in the southwestern territories, and there were excellent restaurants, gaming halls, and a new opera house within walking distance of the post.
In the three months he’d been in Santa Fe he had put each of those amenities to the best possible use. He’d been out on brief details with two cavalry companies, but both assignments had consisted of nothing more than escort-ing visiting dignitaries to the elegant Montezuma Hot Springs Hotel near Las Vegas. Since there had been no Indian trouble in that area since the Pueblo uprising several decades ago, the details had been less than hazardous.
Meade was far from bored by the lack of official duties. He had made good use of his time by persuading General Whitlock, commander of the 35
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Department of New Mexico, to allow him to teach a class on new surgical techniques to the hospital staff.
Having just completed one such lecture, he left the hospital and paused a moment to consider his options. He had been considering walking down to the Palace Hotel for supper, but the late afternoon heat made the very thought intolerable. Captain Manlove and his wife were hosting a card party later in the evening . . . That was a possibility. The Manloves were pleasant enough, and there was always a last-minute need for a fourth at whist.
Then again, he could always—
“Major Ashford! There you are, sir.” Colonel Collingswood’s young aide-de-camp hurried out the hospital door and offered him a brisk salute. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, sir,” he said pleasantly as soon as Meade had returned the salute. He seemed slightly out of breath. “It’s a big hospital.”
“That it is, Lieutenant . . . Bascomb, isn’t it?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Well, now that I’ve led you on a merry chase, what can I do for you, Bascomb?”
The fresh-faced officer pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his coat and handed it to Meade. “The colonel requested that I deliver this to you.
New orders, I believe, sir.”
So much for my daily lectures, Meade thought as he opened the directive, which was nothing more than a request for him to attend the colonel immediately. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Any idea what those new orders might be?” he asked, though he thought it unlikely that the officer would tell him, even if he knew.
“None, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have other duties to attend to.”
“Of course, Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”
Bascomb hurried off, most likely to deliver another message like the one he’d given to Meade.
Knowing it was pointless to speculate on the new detail to which he was about to be assigned, Meade turned down Grant Street past his own quarters and then moved along the edge of the parade grounds to post headquarters.
Several minutes later he was ushered into Colonel Collingswood’s office.
The colonel was a brisk, no-nonsense fellow with graying muttonchops that added to the already considerable width of his face. Privately Meade considered him a pompous ass, and though he kept the opinion to himself, he knew others who were less discreet in voicing similar opinions.
They went through the ritual amenities; then the colonel got right down to business. “Major, I want you to make ready to depart tomorrow at dawn. We have finally received authorization to move against the Mescalero. You’ll be attached to Company B and will take your orders from Captain Greenleigh.”
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It was everything Meade could do to keep from groaning. If Collingswood was an old pompous ass, Greenleigh was a young one. In Meade’s mind, that was much worse. At least Collingswood was a seasoned soldier whose experience could sometimes be counted upon to keep him from making foolish decisions. But only sometimes. Greenleigh was just plain arrogant.
“Yes, sir,” Meade said, trying not to grit his teeth. “May I ask a question, though?”
“Of course.”
“I was under the impression that the Mescalero were living peacefully on their reservation. Has there been an outbreak of violence?”
“No, no, no,” the colonel said irritably, plucking at his muttonchops.
“There are a few agitators on the reservation, but so far old Naka’yen and his son have kept their people in line.”
“Then why are we moving against them? Sir,” he added quickly.
“It’s not the reservation Mescalero we’re concerned with, Major. For a number of years now we’ve been receiving citizen complaints about a large group of Apaches who have been working on a ranch south of Albuquerque.