Chapter Seventy-Six
The past three days had been a nightmare, filled with nothing but anxiety.
She couldn’t help it. The war was there, filling up her life with the possibility that Jack would be hurt or killed.
Three days. What had taken them so long?
A day and a half of restrained riding to reach the Santa Cruz Valley (Datiye had told her their destination), several hours of battle, a day of pell-mell galloping back.
Where were they? Had they encountered troops? And was Jack all right?
She didn’t want to live this way.
Worse, what about after the baby was born?
She had been thinking about that a lot lately.
Almost overnight, the physical signs were becoming pronounced.
She didn’t think she was due until August, but if she had conceived the first few times they had lain together, she could be due in mid-July.
And what if she gave birth early? She realized, then, that she could go into labor as early as the end of June. Less than two months away.
Having a baby became as real as the war and the danger Jack faced when he rode out to go into battle.
And her resolve to leave Jack and take the baby East and make a new life for them was stronger than ever.
She fully realized her predicament now; that she would need help from her family.
There was a dark, bitter sadness at the eventuality of leaving Jack.
But she had no choice. She was determined to avoid thinking about never seeing him again.
In the late afternoon of the third day that they had been gone, a cry went up from the sentries left behind to guard the entrance to the stronghold. They had returned.
For days the camp had been preparing for the return of the war party.
A huge feast had been in the making. Now the women hurried to don their best, most elaborately decorated buckskins to greet their men.
Children ran screaming with delight up the canyon to greet their fathers.
Candice stood by the gohwah in tense anticipation, waiting.
Datiye came out clad in a white deerskin dress that, despite her bulky form, was beautiful, beaded and fringed.
Her moccasins matched. She wore a necklace of colored beads, and a silver and leather bracelet, beaded earrings.
Candice was dismayed. The woman had decked herself out in finery to greet Jack, while she stood clad in her single woolen skirt, which was brown and ugly, and a plain white blouse, which was ragged from being washed so many times.
She felt dowdy and unattractive as Datiye hurried off.
She refused to be outdone. She changed her clothes furiously.
Her petticoats were clean and white, lace-trimmed and ruffled.
She slipped on two with a lacy camisole that buttoned down the front and was trimmed with pink ribbons.
She felt a smug satisfaction. The Apaches would not even know the difference, would probably think she was wearing a fine dress.
And Datiye would be green with envy. Candice unbraided her hair and brushed it with a wood comb until it gleamed.
She removed a white ribbon from her underpetticoat carefully and tied it around her throat.
She wished she had a mirror. She placed a hand on her belly for a moment.
She was obviously pregnant, but she no longer felt like a cow.
She felt beautiful. She smiled, thinking about how she had felt like a cow when her belly had barely protruded, months ago.
She pulled oft her boots, refusing to spoil the effect, then washed her feet, her hands and face. She stepped outside.
The ranchería was alive with excitement and welcomings.
A heavy, frightened anxiety was strangely interwoven, though, with the excitement, which Candice understood as she made her way across the camp.
Not toward the entrance to the stronghold, which was already jammed with the throngs, but toward a knoll from which she could overlook their arrival.
She sat down on an outcropping of boulders, watching the riders walking in single and double file down the canyon.
She saw the black first, then Jack, sitting easily, tall and magnificent, and her heart tightened with relief.
A parade of five hundred warriors took some time, but once in the stronghold the men dispersed, rushing to greet their waiting families, lifting shrieking children in the air, kissing beaming wives.
And then there were those who did not see the men they were looking for, and turned away, crying and tearing at their hair.
Candice moved down the knoll toward the gohwah after Jack had ridden ahead in that direction.
She moved easily through a section of woods, then paused when their gohwah was in sight.
Datiye was handing Jack a gourd filled with tiswin, which he drained.
Her hand lingered on his shoulder. He still wore the warpaint, now smudged, and his body gleamed with grease.
Candice did not like the familiar intimacy between them.
She gritted her teeth and moved forward.
He saw her, but gave no sign that he was glad to see her. She realized he was exhausted. He didn’t even speak, but took the clothing Datiye handed him and went toward the creek. Relief warred with anger at his failure to greet her.
Datiye stared at her clothes, and Candice flashed her a warning glance.
Damn Jack, she was thinking. Tired or not, he could at least say hello.
Or didn’t he care that she was there anymore?
Or had he expected her to be waiting, like every other squaw in the rancheria?
His presumptions were too much. She strode back into the woods, back up to the knoll.
This was the last time she would go out of her way to greet him, or even show him that she was worried. He didn’t deserve her concern.
Already the celebrations had started. Warriors were drinking and bragging about their exploits, flirting with their women, being waited on by their wives.
There was much laughter and shouting. Children ran playing, dodging adults.
Drums beat, and rattles shook. Men and women were dancing.
Candice watched it all with a brooding interest.
Cochise came, resplendent in full dress, with two eagle feathers in his headband, his face repainted, carrying his weapons.
He sat in a spot clearly reserved for him, elevated by hides, and his best warriors surrounded him.
Candice straightened when she saw Jack join the central group on the dais, sitting cross-legged on a single blanket at the edge of the group.
Someone spoke to him, slapping his back and handing him a gourd, and even from this distance Candice could see his white teeth flash.
She was angry. She was up here, alone, on this damn knoll, and he was down there, surrounded by men, enjoying himself thoroughly.
It was getting dark, but huge bonfires made it easy to see everything and everyone.
From where she sat she had a better view than if she was down on the flat with the huge crowd-she could even make out the expressions of Cochise, Jack, and their cohorts if she concentrated.
Jack hadn’t even seen her, or looked her way, not once.
She didn’t know how he could miss her, not when she was sitting up there alone and clad in white like some virginal, golden-haired bride.
The revelry ceased abruptly, and a man Candice recognized as one of the shamans came into the center of the crowd, walking first to the east, then to the west, then north and south.
He said something, a prayer of thanks, Candice supposed.
He sprinkled pollen in the four directions, then Cochise rose, and was blessed by the shaman with more pollen.
The shaman left and Cochise remained standing.
The crowd started to roar. Candice didn’t know what they said, but they were shouting Cochise’s name in a chant, over and over. They grew silent. Cochise moved.
He was dancing.
As she watched his lithe, graceful movements, Candice realized he was enacting a story.
The dance was a pantomime of the battle.
It was hard for her to follow, but the crowd was going wild, apparently having no trouble interpreting his movements.
And then, with a twisting movement and a downward plunge of his hand, which Candice understood as an act of stabbing a man, he returned to his elevated seat.
The men around him followed in an apparent order, first Nahilzay, who, though graceful, looked clumsy after Cochise, then five others.
Some of the men were very inventive and got carried away, leaping wildly around the clearing, chasing foes, throwing imaginary lances, wrestling in hand-to-hand combat.
Others were clearly reluctant to dance their tales.
One of the men’s dances was so brief the crowd roared with laughter.
He grinned foolishly, and Candice realized he was drunk—as drunk as the entire tribe was getting.
She was about to leave when Jack stood. She gasped.
The crowd grew very quiet, waiting. He was wearing only a loincloth and moccasins, and his torso gleamed in the firelight.
He put his hand to his head, looking, searching.
He ran … gracefully, corded muscles standing out on his thighs and arms. Galloping into the fray.
Someone shouted for help. He jumped from his stallion, searching.
All around him was the confusion of bloody battle.
He warded off an attack. He leapt over chaos and carnage.
He was attacked from behind. He fell, twisting, and brought his opponent down.
They wrestled, back and forth. Jack got the man beneath him and, with a savage motion, slit his throat.
He returned to his place with the others.
He was magnificent, she thought, awed. Graceful, powerful, as fine a dancer as any of the others. She was stunned.