Chapter Three
The Santa Rita Mountains of southern Arizona
Almost eight hundred miles south of Crocker’s ranch, a band of Chiricahua Apache warriors—the same band Matt had scouted against—were still eluding General Crook’s army. The leader of this particular band, Delshay, whose name meant Walking Bear, dismounted and held up his hand. This was a signal to the other warriors who were with him that they should stay down in the ravine. Getting down on all fours, Delshay crawled up the hill, then lay down and looked just over the crest.
Two weeks earlier, Delshay had led this same group of warriors in a bold attack on an army supply wagon. The attack had been successful, and without losing even one man in the raid, Delshay and his men had killed the six soldiers who were guarding the wagon. In addition to defeating the soldiers, Delshay’s little band of Apache Indians had come away from the skirmish with a veritable treasure of powder and ball, as well as bacon, beans, and flour.
Delshay took his prize back to the main Apache camp, and that night the Indians had danced and sung songs in his honor. But some had complained that Delshay’s raid had just increased the danger because, as a result of that operation, the army, under General Crook, had sent a fresh platoon after them. Delshay made a solemn promise that he would find and kill all the soldiers who came after them.
Now, from his position at the top of the hill, Delshay could see the thirty soldiers who had been tracking him for the last two days. Evidently, the soldiers were planning to make camp here, for already they had unsaddled their mounts, constructed a hasty enclosure for them, and stacked their carbines. The soldiers, who had no concept of light or sound discipline, had lit a couple of campfires, and they were blazing brightly as the soldiers busied themselves in the preparation of their supper.
“Hey, Sarge, is it really true that you can get two dollars for an Apache scalp at any saloon in Arizona or New Mexico?” one of the soldiers yelled.
“Not all the saloons will give you two dollars, but some of ’em will,” the sergeant replied. “And some places, you can even get three dollars for a scalp. But purt’ near any of ’em will at least give you a free drink.”
“Well, then, I reckon by the time we finish this here little excursion, I’ll have me a whole string of ’em to cash in,” the soldier said.
The other soldiers, now in various stages of making camp, laughed.
“Dooley, you’re full of shit,” one of them said. “The truth is, you’d better look out that you don’t wind up with your own scalp hangin’ from some Apache’s belt.”
“His scalp, hell! More than likely some buck will cut off his pecker and hang it on his belt,” another called, and again, the soldiers laughed.
Turning toward the warriors who were with him, Delshay signaled for them to come up the hill. One by one, and moving as quietly as if they were walking on air, the seven men of Delshay’s small war party moved up the side of the hill, then got down on their stomachs and eased up to look over the crest.
Delshay took the first shot. He saw dust rise from the tunic of the man he shot, and he saw the man’s eye’s open wide in shock before he fell. This was the same soldier who had been bragging about carrying a string of Apache scalps, and Delshay took particular pleasure in killing him.
Delshay’s opening shot was a signal to the others, and almost immediately, the warriors with him began shooting. The valley rang with the echoes of gunfire as the soldiers hurried to retrieve the weapons they had so carefully stacked a short while earlier. A few managed to get to their rifles and they began returning fire, though as Delshay and his men were both concealed and covered, the return fire was ineffective. As a result, the firefight was brutal, fast, and one-sided. In less than two minutes, all the soldiers of the little detail either were dead or had run away.
Shouting in victory, the Apache warriors swarmed down the hill, going to the bodies of all the soldiers to make sure they were dead. Then they went through the packs of the slain soldiers, taking whatever they found, including several bottles of whiskey.
One week later, Delshay was back in Goyathlay’s mobile camp. Goyathlay was the head of the small band of warriors to which Delshay belonged. For over ten years, Goyathlay, better known as Geronimo, had raided Mexican and American settlements at will, easily avoiding the vast army that had been sent after him. And while Delshay had not been with him for all that time, he had quickly become one of Geronimo’s most effective warriors and leaders.
The smoke of a half-dozen campfires lifted into the sky, perfuming the air with the aroma of cooking meat as Delshay walked out to the edge of the mesa. He stood there for a long moment, looking north. Goyathlay came up to stand beside him.
“You wish to go back to your woman,” he said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
“Yes, Goyathlay,” Delshay admitted.
“I think you should return.”
“I cannot return.”
“Why not?”
“Because to return would be to abandon you and my brothers. That I will not do.”
“While you were with us, you fought well, ciye,” Goyathlay said, calling him his “son.” “You will not leave us, you can never leave us for no matter where you are, your warrior spirit will remain with us to fight with us against the whites.”
“That is not enough. My warrior spirit cannot shoot a rifle,” Delshay said. “My warrior spirit cannot shoot a bow. Only my body can kill our enemies.”
“And only your body can look after your woman and your children. Go now. Be with them. It is the thing you must do.”
“I have learned much from you, Goyathlay,” Delshay said.
“Do not let the lessons you have learned here die with you,” Geronimo said. “Our children, and our children’s children, as well as the children of their children, must forever keep alive the spirit of the Chiricahua. I have had dreams, Delshay, and I have read the signs. I know that the time will come when there will be no Chiricahua. Then, the memories we pass on to our children will be all that is left of our people.”
“This I will do,” Delshay said. “You have my promise.”
Geronimo reached out to put his hand on Delshay’s shoulder. “My brother, the dreams and the signs I have seen are also about you. They tell me that there will be much sadness in the life that awaits you,” he said. “But there will also be much honor, for you will become a leader whose name will be spoken with wonder for many seasons to come, even after you have died.”
“Ka dish day, Goyathlay. Good-bye.”
“Egogahan, Delshay. Until we meet again.”
Chapter Four
New York City
Ken Hendel, a rather small, fastidious man, cleaned his wire-rim glasses, then carefully put them back on before stepping up to the window. He was in the third story of a brownstone mansion, and as he stood at the window, he looked down on Union Square and the statue of a mounted George Washington.
A street orator was giving a speech just outside the iron picket fence that surrounded the statue, and several were gathered around to listen. At the moment, the speaker was railing against the use of bicycles by women.
“The bicycle is a tool of Satan! To women of impure desires, this insidious device provides a ready means for facilitating the execution of depraved activity! Why, a young woman can be riding the wheel engrossed in the illicit pleasures of immoral behavior, all the while passing children who are totally innocent of the sin being perpetrated in their very midst!”