In the face of her love he hated himself for his lack of equal frankness. The words of the song came to him: All that's good and all that's fair. He made the plunge.
"Yes, God damn it! Yes, indeed—I do love you, Phoebe! I loved you from that first instant, only I was too damned cold—what was it you said? Cold as Mose's toe? I was too damned glacial and British to admit my own feelings! So I was very polite and reserved, though inside I felt something churning, but I made myself believe it was the damned wild corn I ate that day! I did love you, and I do love you, and I will never stop loving you!" He paused. "Ah—by the way, who was Mose?"
"Mose who?"
"The one who had the cold toe."
In spite of the danger, she giggled. "I don't know! It was just something Uncle Buell used to say!" She was thoughtful for a moment, then asked hesitatingly, "Am I as pretty as Cornelia, Jack?"
Somehow or other, he could not remember exactly how Cornelia Newton-Barrett looked. Blond, certainly—stately, with brown eyes. He did, however, remember exactly how Cornelia's ogress mother looked, and winced. But Cousin Lionel had always gotten along well with Cornelia's mother. In fact, Lionel had been one of Cornelia's unsuccessful suitors. Yes, that was right! He felt relieved. Probably when he heard the news, Lionel would take up where he had left off when Jack Drumm entered Cornelia's picture. Probably Lionel would even become Lord Fifield; the thought did not distress him.
Phoebe gave his arm a hard pinch. "What were you dreaming about? I was talking to you!"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, indeed. You are much prettier than Cornelia! She cannot hold a candle to you, Phoebe Larkin, and I am the luckiest man in the world to have discovered you, here in the Arizona Territory, and being captured by Apaches is a small price to pay for being here with you, in this brush hut, no matter what happens tomorrow—or ever!"
Not caring about tomorrow, they lay again in each other's arms until it was tomorrow. Sometime during the night the firelit meeting came to a conclusion. The voices departed, the drums stilled, finally there was only moonlit silence. Jack went to the doorway and looked out. There were no guards, no restraints. In the lime-white rays of the moon the camp at Gu Nakya slumbered. The fire the Tinneh had built was now a bed of coals. A scrawny dog, bone in its mouth, hurried past him and was lost in the shadows. From far down the mountain came the frantic yips and yaps of coyotes on the hunt. Though Jack could not see the Tinneh sentinels, he knew that on the parapets of rock overlooking the valley they were scanning the night, watchful for attack. He went back into the hut and lay again beside her.
"What is it, Jack?"
"Nothing."
"What time can it be?"
"Near dawn, I think." He kissed her ear. "Now go to sleep. Whatever is to happen, you will need your rest."
"I am not afraid," she said, and slept with her head in the crook of his arm. He lay silent, thinking of Eggleston and Beulah Glore, safe on the cars of the Atlantic and Pacific. By this time they were certainly in New York City, perhaps even on the high seas. He would not, however, exchange his situation for theirs. He was happy, almost irresponsibly happy, in a way he did not know Englishmen were supposed to be happy. It seemed very improper, yet there it was. The whole thing was so right, so utterly right; even, perhaps, preordained. After a while he slept, also, and did not wake till there sounded a scratching at the hide-covered doorway. Instantly roused, he sat up.
"Who is it?"
The deerskin flap was pulled aside. Early morning sun bathed the rude interior of the hut. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.
"Who's there?"
It was Nacho—the sobrino—Agustín's nephew. Blanket thrown over his lean shoulders against the morning chill, he squatted inside the doorway. Around his neck was the precious sack of hoddentin, the sacred meal, that his uncle had previously worn.
He pointed to Phoebe Larkin. "You send her away."
"But—"
"Send her away! We talk. A man does not talk important things before his women!" Nacho gestured; one of the old women of the camp entered the hut and took Phoebe by the arm.
"Where are you taking her?" Jack demanded.
"The Red Hair Woman will not be hurt," Nacho promised. "They give her food—" He looked at Phoebe's scanty attire. "They give her food, and clothes to wear."
"I think it's all right," he said. "Go with the woman, Phoebe."
"I will," she said. "I'm not afraid, Jack."
Though giving him a last uneasy look, she obeyed. Nacho watched her go.
"We talk now."
"As you wish."
The young man took out the scratching stick the Tinneh men carried and poked at his head, apparently at a loss as to how to begin. After a while, not looking at Jack Drumm, he muttered, "Words! English words! I don't have many to say what I want. But I try."
"I will understand," Jack promised.
"My uncle," Nacho began, "raise me from a little boy. He was a warrior. But when white men cheated him he took his men and went away from the Verde River place—the—the—"
"The reservation," Jack prompted.
"Yes. That is what they call it. But it was a thing to keep animals in, that reservation. So he lead the Tinneh away, and started to fight again, as we did in the old days. But things did not go right. My uncle had bad medicine. Too many soldiers came along the river. We fought them—we fought you too, Ostin—"
Jack remembered Uncle Roscoe's words. Ostin is Apache talk for "Lord." Anything they respect or fear they call Ostin—the bear, snakes, lightning.
"We fought you too. My uncle said you were a brave man, stay along the river when it was his sacred place, his medicine place, and he wanted you to go away. He thought you a good man, too, let me go back to Gu Nakya—no kill."
Tentatively, respectfully, Nacho's slender fingers fumbled at the hoddentin sack around his neck.
"We went down and stole a lot of horses. Always, the Tinneh walked before, but we thought maybe horses, riding horses, would make a difference. We ride horses, the way the soldiers do, and ride back to the mountain before the soldiers could catch us." He shrugged. "But now they have mirror-talk, same as us. Always there were soldiers ready when we came. So that did not work either."
He got up to pace the dirt floor of the hut, strong brown legs knotting in muscles as he walked.
"My uncle knew it was no good. He led the Tinneh up on the mountain just to die. It was no good to fight anymore. But he had the Red Hair Woman. He told me, he said that Englishman along the river, that white man I cut in the face with my knife, he come after the Red Hair Woman. My uncle said that. My uncle believed that. And he said, my uncle said—when he comes, I want to talk to him and see if he is brave and good like I think."
"But—why? Why did he not just kill me when he had the chance?"
Annoyed to be interrupted with a difficult task, Nacho made an impatient gesture.
"You came! My uncle looked at you, talked to you. He fought you with knives, and you not afraid to die. So he was satisfied. He took his lucky hat, his chief's hat, and burned it. He walked away, to the big rock in the east, and—"
Jack Drumm had never seen an Indian weep. Certainly Nacho did not weep. But there was a glint in his somber eye. For a moment, it seemed his voice caught, broke.
"So he died. Because he had bad luck, he did not want to live anymore."