He rode on for another half hour, feeling the hair standing up on the back of his neck. The Indians trailing him were good, they knew how to use the lay of the land to keep themselves hidden, and if they had been trailing ninety-nine out of a hundred men, their presence would be unknown.
Finally, either because the Indians sensed that Falcon was aware of them, or because they no longer felt it necessary to keep their presence a secret, they grew bolder. Falcon saw them then, six or seven Indians on horseback, riding parallel but managing, always, to keep a ridge or an outcropping of rocks or a small hill between them, no longer to stay out of sight, but just to be able to control the situation.
The sheriff in Oro Blanco told Falcon that the village was on the banks of a small stream, a tributary from the Santa Cruz River, so when he reached the tributary, or what was left of it, he followed it until he saw the village itself. It was easy to see the source of some of the trouble between the Indians and the whites, because the stream banks showed that it was once a rather substantial flow of water several feet wide. Now it was a trickle, so narrow in places that a man could stand with a foot planted on either side of the water flow.
The village consisted of several wickiups, not scattered loosely alongside the bank of the stream, but carefully aligned with every structure in the same relative place it was at their last location, and would be at their next location. In this way, individual members of the village had an address, as certain as the address of residents in any town or city.
The wickiups were circular and dome-shaped, with conical tops. These dwellings, which Falcon knew were erected by the women, consisted of a framework of poles and limbs tied together, over which was placed a thatch of bear grass, brush, yucca leaves, and rushes. For those who had it, a canvas was stretched over the windward side, and the structure was open at the top to allow smoke to escape from a fire built in a pit near the center of the house. The doorway was a low opening on one side, over which a blanket was hung.
In addition to the houses, there were also several “coolers,” which consisted of posts in the ground that were covered by a roof of brush, thus providing shade from the hot sun. The squaws did their work under these covers. Falcon knew from his previous exposure to the Apache that they also suspended clay water pots from the edge of the coolers and, as the water evaporated, it had the effect of cooling the surrounding air.
As Falcon entered the village, the warriors who had been riding parallel suddenly galloped by him with whoops and shouts as they raced ahead of him.
Those who were in the village drifted forward to meet him, for a single white man, riding in as boldly as Falcon had just done, was a strange enough experience to create interest. The men and boys came from the outskirts of the village, where they had been tending to the animals; the women and girls came from the coolers; and the old men awoke from their naps and stepped out of their wickiups to see what was causing the excitement.
One of the old men recognized Falcon, for he had seen him in the days of the Geronimo and Naiche wars.
“Dlo Binanta,” he said, and the word spread so that, as Falcon rode deeper into the village, he heard his name spoken many times.
“Dlo Binanta.”
“Dlo Binanta.”
“Dlo Binanta.”
Men, women, and children repeated his name and drew close to him. When he reached the inner circle, he saw an impressive-looking Indian standing in front of him. The Indian, who was being deferred to by the others, held his arms folded across his chest. His dark eyes were questioning.
“Are you Dlo Binanta?” the Indian asked.
Falcon started to reply with his own name, but he recalled what Sheriff Corbin told him about Indians only giving names to those they respect.
“I am Dlo Binanta,” Falcon replied.
A ripple of exclamations passed through the gathering of Indians; some sounded angry, some sounded awestruck. Some were even frightened, and Falcon saw many of the children step behind their mothers in fear. He felt bad about that. He didn’t want his name used to frighten children.
“I am Keytano,” Keytano said.
Falcon nodded. “I have heard of the great Keytano.”
“What have you heard?”
“I have heard that the great chief Keytano is a brave and wise man,” Falcon said.
Keytano nodded. “This is true.”
Falcon fought the urge to smile at Keytano’s response, but under the circumstances, a smile would not be good at all.
“Why is he here?” Chetopa shouted.
“Yes. This man is the killer of our people!”
“Ask this man why he has come to our village now!” another shouted.
“We should kill him!” Chetopa said.
The shouting was in Apache, so Falcon didn’t understand it, though he could tell by the tone of the voices that it was challenging and unfriendly.
Keytano held up his hand to those who were gathered around him. He glared at Chetopa. “We will not kill this brave man,” he said. Then, he turned to one of the others. “I will ask the questions of this man,” he said authoritatively. Keytano turned his gaze back to Falcon, staring at him intently.
“You are the killer of many of our warriors.”
“Yes,” Falcon said. “I fought fiercely against brave men, and killed many of your warriors.”
“You made many women and children cry because you killed their husbands and fathers,” Keytano challenged.
“This is true,” Falcon answered without equivocating.
“Because of you, many wickiups were made empty.”
Falcon wondered for a moment as to how best to respond to Keytano. He couldn’t deny it, because everything Keytano said was true. He thought about saying he was sorry, but that wouldn’t be true. Everyone he killed needed killing. Besides, saying he was sorry might be misconstrued as a sign of weakness.
“We were at war,” Falcon said. “The Apache are brave and fierce warriors. I would not be showing my respect if I did not fight against my enemies with all my strength.”
Keytano took in Falcon’s response, not only this one, but his earlier responses. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “This is true. A good enemy is a valued and sacred thing.”
“We will not harm this man. He has shown courage by riding into our village to speak with us. And he knows the Apache way of speaking truthfully to a respected enemy,” Keytano said to the others in Apache.
It had the desired effect, for many of the warriors nodded and made positive-sounding grunts.
“Why have you come to our village?” Keytano asked.
This was the moment Falcon had been waiting for. It was also the moment he was dreading. But this was why he was here, and he couldn’t turn around now.
“Keytano, I come with very bad news for you.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes.”
“What is this bad news?”
“It is about Yaakos Gan.”
“Yaakos Gan? My daughter? What news do you have of my daughter?”
Falcon started to speak, but decided instead to just point to the canvas shroud that lay on the travois. “You will find the bad news there,” he said.
Keytano looked questioningly at Falcon. Then he said something to one of the warriors, pointing to the shroud. The warrior cut the shroud and spread it open, then jumped back in alarm.
“Uhnn!” the warrior gasped.
Noting the expression on the warrior’s face, Keytano hurried back to look at what was in the shroud. As soon as he saw it, his confusion gave way to shock ... then to grief.
“Aiyee!” he called, spinning away from Cloud Dancer’s body. He started hitting his fist to his forehead. An Indian woman, seeing his strange reaction, ran from the crowd and looked down at Cloud Dancer. Without having to be told, Falcon knew this must be Cloud Dancer’s mother, and she began weeping out loud. Within moments, everyone was gathering around to look at Cloud Dancer’s body and react to it.