Читать книгу Sun Woman - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 5

Kuchana jerked Wind to a halt when the pindah woman in the pink dress shrieked. Her eyes went wide as a yellow-headed officer rushed forward brandishing his revolver at her. She froze, her gaze seeking out the other man, the one with black hair and startling blue eyes. Her instincts told her this was a man of honor.

Gib cursed as he reached out and jerked Carter’s arm down. “She’s unarmed,” he said at the officer, pulling him to a halt.

“Let go of me,” Carter snarled.

“Not until you promise to put that gun away—sir.”

Carter gestured at the woman. “She’s Apache.”

“And unarmed.” Gib’s fingers increased their pressure around Carter’s wrist. “Put the gun away before you shoot yourself in the foot.”

A dull red flush crawled across the lieutenant’s taut features. Yanking out of McCoy’s hold, he belligerently aimed the revolver at the woman.

“Who are you?” Carter demanded, his voice, high, off pitch.

Kuchana sucked in a breath of air, staring at the ugly muzzle of the revolver no more than fifty feet from where she sat astride her mare. Was Yellow Hair crazy?

“Come on. Tell me who you are and what you want,” Carter repeated.

The English words all tumbled together, and although Kuchana had an excellent grasp of pindah language from her time spent on the reservation, she hesitated. The revolver was threatening. She raised her hands above her head, looking desperately to the other soldier, pleading silently with him to intervene on her behalf.

“I come as friend…” she stumbled in their language.

“Dammit, Lieutenant, put that gun away,” McCoy roared. If Carter didn’t holster that weapon, he was going to do it for him. Melissa giggled behind him, and Gib wanted to turn around and put the spoiled brat of a woman over his knee.

Kuchana watched the angry words between the two men. Her heart was pounding without respite. Light-headed with hunger, she forced herself to keep her hands held high.

With a glare at McCoy, Carter holstered the revolver and turned back to the Indian. “Just who the hell are you?”

“I come as friend…” Kuchana repeated, directing her attention at the dark-haired man.

Gib held up his hand in a show of peace and walked toward her. He switched easily from English to her language. “I’m Sergeant Gib McCoy. Tell me who you are and what you want before that fool over there shoots all of us.”

A wry smile split Kuchana’s features and she lowered her hands. He spoke her people’s language. The fear she’d felt melted away beneath his husky tone. “I am Kuchana, of Geronimo’s party. I have come to offer myself as a scout for the army.” She couldn’t tear her gaze from his probing eyes, and a trickle of heat stirred in her, reminding her that she was a woman.

“What are you saying?” Carter snapped, striding up to McCoy. “Dammit, you speak English so that I can understand.”

McCoy struggled to compose his features. Carter was making a total ass of himself, but that was nothing new. He told the officer what Kuchana had said.

“She wants to be a scout?” Carter uttered in amazement, studying the Apache.

Gib kept his eyes on Kuchana. She was weak from hunger, if he was any judge of the situation. “She’s a warrior, Lieutenant.” But still a woman. An incredibly beautiful one with haunting brown eyes, which were warm and inviting.

“I didn’t know the Apaches had women who were warriors,” said Carter.

“There’re a few.” McCoy switched back to her language. “Kuchana, how many other women warriors ride with Geronimo?” Her name flowed from his lips like sweet honey. There was nothing masculine about her, not even her name. Again, he saw the wariness melt from her gaze as he held it. Something was happening between them.

“Three others.”

“Why did you leave?”

Lowering her lashes, Kuchana whispered, “I left because I want to save what is left of our people.” Despite the danger surrounding her, she couldn’t help the response McCoy pulled from her each time he held her gaze. Each look was charged with a heat and excitement she had never experienced before.

“I see—”

“No,” she said swiftly, her voice cracking with emotion, “you do not see. I once had ten members in my family. Now, only my sister is left. I watched her daughter die of starvation four days ago. Then I came here to help the army find Geronimo and take him back to San Carlos Reservation.” Tears marred her vision as she saw the soldier’s face melt with tenderness. He understood. “I—I must work for you. I must save what is left of my people. Please…help me…”

McCoy approached her horse, placing his hand on its mane. “Easy now. I’ll do what I can. The army isn’t used to having women as scouts. All we have are men.”

“You must take me,” she cried in desperation. “I am Geronimo’s best tracker. You must believe me. I will find them for you. I must save my sister.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he repeated, reaching out to touch her hand where it clenched the mustang’s mane.

Kuchana felt his hand momentarily on hers. His flesh was roughened and weather-worn. Drowning in the look she saw in his blue eyes, she nodded her head. “I will trust you.” It was more than that, but so much was happening, she didn’t have time to dwell on her awakening feelings.

“Good. Now, come on, get off the horse.” Gib forced a slight smile and stood back, watching her slip off the mustang. There was an effortless grace to her that underscored her femininity. Kuchana was weak, but she forced herself to stand straight and tall. There was pride in her carriage and in the golden blaze of her eyes as she fearlessly surveyed the group who stood openmouthed before her.

Gib gestured toward the tall, two-story adobe building that housed headquarters. “This way.”

Kuchana hesitated, placing a hand on her weary mare. “My horse…”

“Private Ladler,” Gib ordered, “take her horse over to the stable. Get one of the men to curry it down and give it a little hay and a bit of water, nothing more. Understand?”

Ladler picked up the jaw cord. “Yes, suh, sergeant.”

Kuchana looked closely at the dark-skinned soldier, then turned to McCoy. “This man’s skin is the color of the night. I have never seen such as him before.”

Nodding, Gib offered, “His people come from across a great sea.” He pointed toward the east.

Ladler hesitated, realizing Gib was speaking about him. His mouth split into a smile. “She’s wondering about my color, suh?”

McCoy smiled over at Ladler. “I told her you came from across the ocean.”

“That’s right, suh. My grandparents came from Africa.” He shouldered his rifle and tipped his hat respectfully toward Kuchana.

Unsure of what was being said, Kuchana made a slight bow toward Ladler. He appeared friendly enough, and that was all she cared about.

“You’re letting her come into the post?” Melissa demanded, stamping her foot haughtily. How dared they treat her like a white woman. After all, she was an Apache, and therefore, their enemy.

McCoy shot Melissa a hooded look. “She’s surrendering to us, Mrs. Polk. What would you have us do? Shoot her on the spot?”

Heat nettled Melissa’s cheeks. In that moment, she hated McCoy. He was laughing at her again. “Well, she’s wearing men’s pants, of all things.” She turned to the lieutenant, who had more authority than McCoy. “Surely, Dodd, you aren’t going to let this filthy woman on the post?”

Kuchana stood apart from the group, carefully listening to the conversation. She noticed McCoy watching her from beneath the brim of his hat. Looking down at herself, she realized her clothes were dusty from the four-day ride. But every morning she had brushed her hair and kept it neatly tied with the scarf around her head. Nightly, she had cut open cactus and used the juice to wash her face, neck, arms and hands, so that she was free of dirt and odor.

Gib watched the play of emotions cross Kuchana’s features. She had more dignity than all of them put together, standing there with her feet slightly apart for balance, shoulders back and chin lifted. Her lips were badly chapped and split. She weaved, but caught herself. Anger stirred in him as Dodd continued speaking at length with Melissa.

“Lieutenant, while you discuss army regulations with the ladies, I’ll get this woman some water.”

Gib reached out, wrapping his fingers around Kuchana’s arm and gently pulling her forward. “Come on,” he coaxed, “you look thirsty.” Her flesh was firm beneath the shirt, but still soft and inviting.

Kuchana stared up at him. She saw the hard line of his mouth soften, and she surrendered to the tumult of feelings he had loosened by simply touching her. Grateful, she went with him. The pindah women gawked at her, disbelief and disgust clearly written in their eyes.

When he had escorted her through the gate, McCoy’s hand dropped from her arm. A part of her lamented the loss of contact. Wearily, she looked around. The post was huge, with rows of two-story barracks and nearly two hundred sun-bleached canvas tents. Kuchana was astounded by the number of blue-coated soldiers, as McCoy led her to a watering trough in front of headquarters.

Gib reached for a tin cup that was always kept on the trough. He filled it with water, then handed it to Kuchana. Her hands shook as she took the cup. Frowning, he studied her as she drank. Thin trickles of water escaped from the corners of her mouth, winding their way down her long, slender neck and soaking into the fabric of her shirt. An ache seized him, and he wondered how she would respond if he stroked her lovely neck, trailing his fingers down its length and tracing her collarbones hidden beneath the shirt she wore. The thought was jolting, completely unexpected. Gib placed a tight clamp on his fevered imaginings. What the hell was happening to him?

“Take it easy,” he cautioned. “A little goes a long way.” When he saw her frown, he added, “You’ll throw it up if you drink too much too fast.”

“I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.” For the first time, Kuchana had a chance to study the soldier. His raven hair was short and neatly cut. The dark blue hat he wore emphasized the intensity of his azure eyes. They were wide, intelligent eyes filled with wisdom. That was good. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and a thin, almost invisible white scar cut across one of his high-boned cheeks. His mouth was strong. When McCoy glanced up at her, one corner of his mouth curved upward, easing the rugged planes of his face.

“Call me Gib.” He took the cup from her fingers, placing it back on the trough.

“You speak our language.”

“I’ve been out here for seven years. Most of my duties have been with the Apache scouts. They taught me.”

“I’m glad,” Kuchana admitted in a lowered tone. She turned, steeling herself against the dizziness.

“How long have you been riding?”

“Four days.”

“Have you had any food?”

Kuchana shook her head. “No, I left what little I had.”

“How about sleep?” He knew most Apaches feared the night and would never ride, thinking that Owl Man would grab them.

“I slept each night.”

She was just this side of starvation, Gib realized. His protective side was working overtime. He tried to figure out why. At the reservation near Fort Apache, he had many dealings with Apache women. But this woman was different. He was curious about what kind of woman rode to war alongside the men.

He noticed a number of small scars on her fingers and a faint scar that ran the length of her neck. He wondered how she’d gotten it. He liked the idea of a woman being able to take care of herself. He always had. His French-and-Indian mother had owned her own millinery shop in New Orleans before marrying his father.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Kuchana said. “Yellow Hair would have killed me if you hadn’t been there.”

Gib said in English, “Yellow Hair is Lieutenant Carter. And he can’t hit the broad side of a barn, much less you.” He saw Carter and the two women hurrying toward them. “Whatever happens, just stay at my side and don’t say anything. Understand?”

She gave him a confused look. “You are more Apache than pindah.”

McCoy’s smile broadened. “Don’t let our lieutenant hear you say that. I’m already a pariah here at the post.”

Not knowing what “pariah” meant, Kuchana stood patiently. Carter strode up, his face flushed.

“Sergeant, strip her of her weapons. I want her taken in to see Colonel Polk for interrogation. Pronto.”

“Don’t you think,” Gib said, trying his best to sound reasonable, “that we ought to get her something to eat and some rest first? She’s half-starved.”

Melissa picked up her pale pink silk skirt and gingerly climbed the wooden steps, sweeping past them and into the building. She spotted Corporal Ryan McClusky sitting at his desk outside her husband’s office. Lifting her chin at a saucy angle, she sailed by him and went directly into Harvey’s office. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to, but when necessary, army etiquette was something to be bent to her will.

“Harvey, darling,” Melissa cooed, closing the door to the inner office. She smiled beguilingly over at her white-haired husband who sat behind the ponderous oak desk scattered with papers.

“Mellie. What a surprise.” Harvey beamed and put the papers aside. “What brings you here, pet?”

“Darling,” she began in a conspiratorial tone, rushing to his desk, “you won’t believe what just happened. There’s an Apache woman warrior from Geronimo’s party outside. She says she wants to be a scout.” Melissa wrinkled her nose. “She’s wearing men’s clothing. Why, she even has boots on. And stink. Lord save us all, but she smells to high heaven. I think it’s a trap. I think she’s lying.” Besides, Melissa didn’t like the way McCoy had treated the savage. She wanted McCoy to show interest in her, not in some heathen.

Scowling, Polk rose ponderously from behind his desk. “Mellie, what on earth did you just say? A woman warrior from Geronimo’s party?” His hopes rose. If he could capture Geronimo, he was sure that General Crook would give him an assignment back East, thereby salvaging what was left of his thirty-year military career.

“Oh, fluff,” Melissa muttered, fanning herself. The heat in the room was nearly intolerable. The wooden-frame building had one small window, and Harvey had it closed, probably to keep out the sand and the dust. “You didn’t hear what I just said. This…this woman, if you can call her that, is wearing men’s clothing. She’s carrying a knife, and a bow and arrow. Really, Harvey, she’s disgusting. I really don’t believe she’s a woman warrior. This may be a ruse. If it is, Sergeant McCoy has stupidly fallen for it. He’s outside with her right now.”

Moving as quickly as his bulk would allow, Harvey came around the desk. “Pet, there are women warriors among the Apaches. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that to you from time to time.” He headed toward the door.

“But,” Melissa wailed plaintively, “aren’t you going to make her stay down at the scout camp?”

Harvey turned, his hand on the brass doorknob. “My dear, you really ought not be here. This is army business. And I understand your disgust for this woman. They’re all savages in my opinion, too. Come, come.” He held out his hand toward her.

Pouting, Melissa moved slowly toward her husband. “What are you going to do, Harvey?”

“Well,” he said, raising his thick, white eyebrows, “if she was indeed with Geronimo, we’ll interrogate her on his whereabouts.”

“And then?”

Shrugging, he opened the door. “If she wants to be a scout and help hunt Geronimo down, I don’t care.”

“But, a woman in an all-male camp of scouts?”

“Tut, tut, pet. I know all this is a shock to your gentle sensibilities. These savages live differently than we do. If this redskin can lead us to Geronimo, I don’t care if she’s a woman dressed in men’s clothing or not.” He smiled and led her into the outer office. McClusky leaped to attention, straight and tall.

Melissa rested her gloved hand on her husband’s arm and he led her out onto the porch.

“Lieutenant Carter, what’s going on?” Polk demanded, sizing up the Apache woman as he spoke.

Sputtering, Carter told his commanding officer the series of events.

Kuchana stared up at the large, overweight man in the dark blue uniform trimmed with gold and rows of brass buttons. His hair was thick and white. A mustache partially hid his thin lips. His silver sideburns drooped, following the line of his jaw, making his face look fat and round. When the colonel came forward, she tensed.

Harvey peered into the woman’s face. Typical of all savages, she displayed no emotion except wariness. Looking her up and down, he muttered, “How can you be sure she’s from Geronimo’s party?” His question was directed to McCoy who had the most experience with the Apaches.

“The shaft on the arrows she carries, sir.” Gib brought one out for the officer to examine. Polk was a lazy bastard at best, he knew, shunning his duties as commanding officer except when necessary. Most of his work fell to the majors and captains below him. McCoy doubted if Polk knew one tribe’s shaft from another, but he said nothing.

“Hmph. Interesting.” Polk handed back the arrow to McCoy, his gaze settling again on Kuchana.

Bristling at his inspection, her lips tightened. She vividly recalled similar inspections by soldiers at the San Carlos Reservation.

Straightening, Polk turned and headed for his office. “Get her in here, Lieutenant Carter. I want to question her at length.”

“Sir,” McCoy said, “I think she needs to eat and rest first. She hasn’t had food for four days.”

Carter turned angrily on McCoy. “That’s enough, Sergeant. She looks perfectly fine to me. Now, get her in here.”

Polk smiled at his wife. “I’ll take care of this, Mellie. Why don’t you and Claudia visit Ellen? I understand she’s faint from this heat again. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”

Dismissed, Melissa stood there, glaring at Kuchana. She hated the woman. And McCoy’s protectiveness toward her nettled her even more. How dared he. “Come, Claudia,” she demanded, “I can’t stand the stench around here. My poor nose is about ready to fall off.”

McCoy gave the two white women a look that spoke volumes. In the army, the men were required to take a bath every third day. Clothes were washed once a week by the many laundresses. Everyone smelled at the post. Except for the officer’s wives, who went daily to Draper’s Pool, a secluded pond with a stream located two miles from the post at the end of a box canyon. They were the only ones with time for such a luxury.

Kuchana hesitantly followed McCoy into the large adobe building. Her eyes rounded as she studied the interior. Thirty rifles hung on one wall. Geronimo stood no chance against so many guns. Once in Polk’s office, she was forced to stand in front of the desk while the colonel sat down.

Polk looked at McCoy. “Sergeant, I understand she knows some English, but for the sake of speed, I want you to interpret.”

Gib stood next to the Indian woman, refusing to sit down. “Yes, sir.”

Kuchana noted the tightening of McCoy’s face. She wished mightily that the pindahs wouldn’t speak so quickly. If they slowed their speech, she’d be able to understand what they said. Dizziness assailed her. She planted her booted feet apart so as not to appear weak in front of them and waited for her inquisitors to begin their questioning.

* * *

Gib’s patience thinned. For the past two hours Polk and Carter had relentlessly questioned Kuchana. Polk seemed oblivious to the fact she was weak with hunger. If the fat bastard had gone one day without food, he’d be baying like a coyote. Their treatment of Kuchana was unconscionable.

Risking another blistering tirade from Carter, Gib came to attention. “Colonel Polk, I request this session end. The woman is obviously tired and in a weakened condition. I’d like permission to take her to the cook’s tent, feed her, and then find her quarters over at the scout area.”

Carter glared at the sergeant. “We’re not done interrogating her. After all, these Apaches are tough as nails.”

Polk chuckled in agreement. “I’ve never seen such endurance.”

Kuchana closed her eyes as another wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed her. She was dying of thirst and wanted to sit down. McCoy’s hand settled on her arm. She quickly opened her eyes and realized she was swaying. Heat flooded her face and she looked away from the concern in the sergeant’s eyes.

Gib glared at Polk. “You’ll get more out of her on a full stomach than an empty one, sir.” He hated putting it in that context, but Polk’s regard of Apaches as little more than animals was well-known.

“Very well,” Polk muttered. “Get her out of here, Sergeant.”

Carter leaped to his feet. “You’re in charge of her, McCoy. If she escapes, you’re responsible.”

Gib nodded. “Yes, sir.” Carter would like to see him drummed out of the army for allowing one of Geronimo’s warriors to escape. Turning his attention to Kuchana, Carter released her, telling her to follow McCoy.

Relief fled through Kuchana once they were away from the building and walking across the arid parade ground. The sun was hot overhead, but it felt good. She noticed a number of tents to the left with women inside them scrubbing clothes on corrugated tin washboards.

“What’s that?”

“Our laundry facilities,” he explained.

“The dark ones are there, too.”

He smiled. “They’re called Negroes, Kuchana.”

“And these women come from across the great sea, too?”

“Yes.” And then Gib amended his statement. “They were brought here as slaves. Twenty years ago, they were set free and allowed to pursue whatever they wanted, just like white people.”

Kuchana noticed a large black woman in a yellow calico dress and a thinner, younger one in a dark green dress who were openly staring at her. Their stares weren’t like those of the pindah women, however. There was only curiosity in their eyes.

“They are different from the pindahs.”

“They’re good people,” said Gib. “The older one’s husband is a lance-corporal here at the post. I’m sure you’ll be meeting all of them sooner or later.”

“Then, I am to be a scout?”

He nodded, watching her eyes widen with happiness. “That’s what Colonel Polk said. I’m in charge of the scouts, so you’ll be working directly with me, not Carter.” Thank God. Gib saw her flush, and he realized that whatever he felt toward Kuchana, it was mutual.

Kuchana wanted to give a cry of triumph, but resisted the urge. Instead, she sent prayers of thanks to Painted Woman. “I will be a good scout. I will not shame you.”

“I’m not worried,” Gib said. He pointed to a large tent that had been bleached white by the burning sun. Its flaps were open at both ends to catch what little air moved sluggishly across the post. Inside were two big black kettles bubbling with beans, and a table filled with hardtack. “This is the enlisted men’s chow tent. Why don’t you go and sit down under that cottonwood and let me get you something to eat?” Gib pointed to one of the few trees that managed to survive on the post.

Not needing another invitation, Kuchana gladly headed toward the shade of the tree. She noticed the two men in the tent watching her. One, a big man with a black mustache and brown eyes, sent a shiver of warning up her spine.

“Who’s that, Sergeant?” Private Odie Faulkner asked, with a leer at Kuchana.

Scowling, Gib took a tin plate from the stack on the table. “Our newest scout,” he growled. Gib took the ladle and dished up the food from the kettle. Beans, moldy bacon and weevil-infested hardtack was the usual fare for a soldier or scout.

“That there’s a woman, ain’t it?” Odie asked, licking his full lower lip.

“That’s right. One of Geronimo’s warriors.”

“I’ll be go to hell,” Odie murmured. “I heard about them women warriors, but never saw one. She looks starvin’. That why she crawled into our post?”

Adding three hardtack biscuits, McCoy kept his anger at Faulkner in check. “She didn’t come here because she was starving. She came to offer her services as a scout.”

“Right purty,” Odie noted, craning his thick neck out the side of the tent, watching her.

“Mind your own business, Private.”

Faulkner’s bushy black brows drew up in surprise over his heavy German features. “Yes, sir.”

Kuchana watched McCoy saunter in her direction. He was dressed like most of the other soldiers: a pair of yellow suspenders holding up his dark blue trousers, and a dark blue shirt that was damp with sweat, clinging to his upper body. There was much to admire about McCoy. Everything about his demeanor claimed him to be a warrior. There was an economy to his movements, and he carried himself proudly. There was no doubt that he was a leader of men.

Her attention shifted to the food he handed her. Eagerly, Kuchana took the plate, amazed at how much was on it. In seconds, she was using her fingers, eating ravenously.

Gib crouched in front of her. “Take it easy,” he cautioned. Kuchana was wolfing down the food. Dammit, he shouldn’t have filled the plate so full. “Why don’t you eat the biscuits first,” he suggested, trying to get her to slow down. “Your stomach isn’t used to this kind of food….”

His husky warning came too late. Kuchana had eaten half the food when her stomach violently rebelled. With a cry, she leapt to her feet and turned away. Within seconds, everything she had eaten had been thrown up. Sweat covered her features as she knelt on the ground, her arms pressed against her stomach. Kuchana stayed that way, her head bowed with embarrassment and shame.

“Dammit,” Gib whispered, moving quickly to her side, “I should’ve known better.” Instinctively, he reached down, placing his hands on Kuchana’s shoulders. She was trembling badly. “Come on, let’s get you over to the tree.” He pulled Kuchana to her feet. Her face was flushed and she could barely walk. Anger at Polk’s and Carter’s insensitivity to her physical condition raged through him.

Gently, he settled her back against the trunk of the tree. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly, his hand remaining on her slumped shoulder.

Feeling dizzy and weak, Kuchana nodded. Just the touch of his hand on her shoulder stabilized her whirling world. She shut her eyes, feeling as if she would die.

Gib came back with a cup of tepid water. He knelt and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Here, take a swallow and then spit it out,” he ordered.

Kuchana opened her eyes, sipping the water from the cup he pressed to her lower lip. Following his instructions, she rinsed her mouth.

“Good,” Gib praised, setting the water aside. He picked up a biscuit from the plate and broke off a small portion of it. “Now, chew on this, and do it slowly.”

Her eyes never left his harsh features. McCoy had a face like the rugged mountains in Sonora, yet he was treating her as a mother would a sick child. Gratefully, she took the proffered piece of biscuit.

Despite her condition, Kuchana was a proud and independent warrior. Gib knew that to coddle her too much would make her look weak in the eyes of others. He removed his arm and sat back on his boot heels.

“Good,” he rasped unsteadily, watching her chew the biscuit thoroughly before swallowing it. He offered her the cup. “Now a little swallow of water.”

Kuchana managed a grimace, then sipped the water and put it aside. McCoy handed her another bit of biscuit.

“How’s your stomach feeling now?” he asked.

Placing her hand on it, she said, “Better.”

“Any rolling feeling?”

She shook her head.

“Just take your time,” Gib soothed. “A bite of biscuit and a sip of water. You’ve been without food a lot longer than four days, haven’t you?”

Kuchana avoided his piercing look. “Warriors must give their food to their families,” she said.

Relaxing, Gib placed his arms on his knees. “Looks like you’ve had more giveaways than most,” he teased gently. Indians believed in giving away all that they owned, especially food, to those who were poor or incapable of hunting for themselves. He saw the corners of her mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. Kuchana had a magical effect on him.

“The Old Ones and the children will not starve,” Kuchana said stubbornly. Her stomach was settling down, and the biscuit tasted good. “How do you know so much about my people?” she asked McCoy.

“I made a point of learning about them when I was assigned to Fort Apache,” Gib answered.

“Many pindahs know nothing of us.”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t have any prejudice against your people, Kuchana.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like a reverent prayer. Kuchana could feel the power of the emotions behind his words. She searched his face. “What is ‘prejudice’?”

“It’s when one person hates another because he might believe or look differently than himself.”

“Pindahs have prejudice against us because we are different?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head, watching a group of Negro soldiers marching off in the distance. She held up her hand, gesturing toward the soldiers. “The dark ones are also different. Do pindahs have prejudice against them, too?”

Pushing the hat back on his head, Gib mulled over his answer. “There are many pindahs who don’t like any other color except their own.”

“You are not like them.”

Gib shook his head. “Color means nothing to me. How a man or woman treats others is what’s important.”

“You are like an Apache!” she said excitedly. Touching her breast, Kuchana regarded him somberly. “You are a man who talks from his heart. That is good.”

“I try to, Kuchana.” Gib grimaced, his gaze restless. As a sergeant, his duties and responsibilities were many. There was a decided prejudice against the Negro enlisted soldiers. In the month he’d been at the fort, he’d realized that he was the only buffer between them and the white officers. The Civil War might be over, but the Negro was far from free. He felt it wise to keep his eyes and ears open, be alert at all times.

Aware that the sergeant surveyed the post, Kuchana remained silent, continuing to eat the biscuit. The strain of the past few hours was catching up with her. Her eyelids were becoming heavy, and she sighed, placing the rest of the biscuit back on the plate.

McCoy noticed the weariness in her eyes. “Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Feel like standing?”

Kuchana tested her legs carefully, finding new strength in them. Gib remained at a distance, allowing her to stand on her own. “Where do we go now?”

“The scout area,” Gib said. “I’ll show you where you’re going to live.” Silently, he wondered how she was going to fit in with the other Indians who worked for the army. Many tribes didn’t get along with one another. Even among the various Apache segments, some tribes were friendlier than others. The Chiricahua, Kuchana’s tribe, had few friends.