APACHEE!

By T. W'ski

Traumatized and ridiculed as a youth, an Indian lad grows up resenting his treatment, hating everyone involved while, deep in his heart, harboring the seeds of revenge. As a grown man, his hatred exemplified itself in his battles with his people's enemies. Not understanding the reasons behind his feats of bravado, the tribe's elders recognize him by sending him out as the leader of all the other young village hotheads on a mission to destroy the white-eyes that have come to settle in their lands. His natural abilities for cunning and resourcefulness make him a leader that creates in all white-eyes the screamed word, "Apachee!" A word that was feared throughout the west.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887638041

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue

Apachēē!

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Epilogue

About the Author

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Apachēē!

T. W'ski

Copyright © 2023 T. W’ski

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88763-803-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-804-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Tommy Templeton mystery series:

The Coven

The Bloody Muddy

Other novels by T. W'ski:

Stone Blind

BlackHeart's Treasure

West of Kansas

The Laver and the Purple Sand Pirates

U-601

CROSSings

The Golden Buddha

Poetry books by T. W'ski:

MACHO

á la Mode

Book of short stories by T. W'ski:

T. W'ski's Shorts

Jamie, my Apache blood brother, the scar of our blood mingling, here on my wrist, still endures.

Prologue

East of the Canadian River, New Mexico

Hot, dry air saturated a land spotted with pine trees and yellow, lifeless straw grass that had been dried in the heat of the summer sun. In the surrounding landscape, a lizard with his tongue flicking tested the sun-heated air from the cool darkness of a niche under a protruding shelf of rock to see if an approaching enemy was still present. On the ground beneath the shelf, a sidewinder silently slithered stealthily, searching for the unsuspecting, unperturbed by the hot death surrounding him. This was an arid land in which nothing moved, its residents waiting for the coolness that came with the darkness of night under a sky filled with stars to be out and about, searching for the sustenance that they needed to keep them alive.

Invisible against the glaring sky above him, a lone horseman sat astride his mount near the top of one of the many majestic mesas dotting the landscape. The horseman's sinewy muscles, dark skin, and black, shoulder-length hair aided in his invisibility as he sat motionless astride his mount, surveying the surrounding area that sprawled in its vastness below him. Hidden in the shadows that the overhang above him provided, Red Thistle a young Kiowa scouting for the US Cavalry, sat bare-legged, wore moccasins, only a loincloth, and a dark blue cavalry blouse that had its sleeves and shiny brass buttons removed. He sat silently, motionless, letting his eyes glaze over, scrutinizing the vastness of the area that expanded to the horizon below him. His scrutiny stopped when his eyes, having just washed over an area beyond the base of a neighboring mesa, thought that they had noticed something that wasn't what it appeared.

The floor of the land out there in the area surrounding that mesa was seemingly flat, but from his vantage point, Red Thistle saw it differently. The heat from the blazing summer sun bearing down on the region shimmered across the floor of this arid land, hiding—from those who looked out upon it—the outlines and edges of its many contours. Looking through those shimmers, Red Thistle's eyes thought that they had seen a slight change in color amidst the red expanse out there, just beyond the neighboring mesa, and that is what had attracted his attention.

Fluidly, Red Thistle slid from his pony and crawled out into the heat of the sun, out to the edge of the ledge near the top of the mesa he had been occupying. Seemingly unbothered by the heat, he intently scrutinized the ever-changing images in the area, just beyond and around that neighboring mesa. For a moment, Red Thistle doubted the accuracy of his eyes, seeing nothing of note, but he had learned to be patient, as did most inhabitants born to this land of heat, for those that lived and hunted here knew that the hunted moved in quick bursts from shade to shade.

Below him, between himself and the mesa, whipped a whorl of dust and another change of color. This time, that change was the red sand of the area caught in a swirling updraft that was created by heat rising from this arid land. Red Thistle watched the mini-tornado scurry across the landscape, dazzling bright red as it rose into the sunlight until losing its momentum and disintegrating to once again become part of the floor of this wasteland.

Shadows formed and disappeared around these swirling sands that rose and fell constantly, changing their environment in an ever-changing landscape. His gaze, having been diverted again, returned to the area beyond the base of the neighboring mesa where something out there had bothered his eyes. This time, his scrutiny revealed the edge of a ravine that nature had cut deep in the wasteland's floor through its many coursings of winter rains. His eyes followed along the almost invisible dark line at the top edge of the ravine, the only indication that it even existed, until finally coming to rest at its leading edge. Concentrating on that spot, he patiently watched and waited.

Another whirl of airborne dust with another change in color confirmed that his youthful eyes had not deceived him. One, two, three human silhouettes—seven in all—mounted, and all but one of them, leading a string of horses, emerged from the ravine. Red Thistle watched as the figures crossed the short expanse of sun-bleached wasteland and disappeared into the shadows on the far side of another distant rock outcropping.

The young cavalry scout low-crawled back from the edge of the mesa's ledge and into the shadow of the rock. Safely concealed by the shadow of the outcropping, Red Thistle stood up and, with a sweep of his hands, brushed to dislodge the sand from his stomach and legs. Walking over to his horse, he mounted it and rode away.

Apachēē!

Winter had come early, and with it brought its bitter cold, all along the Llano Estacado in Western Texas. The Jicarilla Apache village wintering along the banks of the Colorado River in the upper region of the Llano found itself strangely unprepared for the weather's severity. Food stores had quickly dwindled and became nonexistent. The only dogs that remained in the village were those that were considered too scrawny to eat or understood the look they received from the village's residents. The village's horse herd had dwindled significantly. The carcasses of the fallen had not lain frozen for long, and along with the fallen ones, several dozens had been culled before their natural calling.

When the weather warmed and signs of spring were starting to show, the village began thinking of moving to its summer site in the San Juan Mountains of New Mexico. Realizing that the move would be an arduous one without restocking their horse herd that the severe winter had reduced in numbers, Chief Black Knife called for a council fire at which to consider their options.

The elders of the village gathered in the council tent. Taking their time, enjoying each other's company, and smoking the pipe of wisdom, they discussed the dilemma they found themselves in and ways to negate it among themselves. They recalled that when their food stores had started getting thin, the raiding parties that had been sent out to acquire some from other tribes camping nearby had scoured the surrounding area and found that there was no one out there to raid. The elders recalling this knowledge made the thought of a similar horse raiding party to strengthen the size of their herd from these non-present tribes out of the question.

By the time Chief Black Knife asked the council for their recommendation, everyone knew what needed to be done, and that was to rebuild their herd of horses the hard way. They would have to capture and break horses from the wild herds that roamed the plains.

Apachēē!

Screeches Like an Owl had been born during a thunder and lightning storm. He had been born crying, and it seemed to the entire village that he had never stopped. After several nights without sleep, his father had given him his name, and he had carried it throughout his seven years of childhood.

Half the able-bodied men from Chief Black Knife's village, including Chief Black Knife himself, had left the village to locate and capture enough wild horses with which to rebuild their herd. Screeches Like an Owl's father had been one of the able-bodied to go with the band and realizing it was time for his son to leave his childhood behind had taken him along. This trip would be his passage into manhood, and at its conclusion, he would receive a new name the one that he would carry for the rest of his life.

The band of braves rode south, scouring the plains for signs of a wild horse herd's passing. After days of searching without the sign of even so much as one fresh hoofprint having been found, Chief Black Knife turned his band toward the North Fork of the Red River in Oklahoma. Along the river, they found fresh sign of what they had been seeking: wild horses.

Chief Black Knife separated his band into two groups. The first and the larger of the two bands was to search for a natural corral in which to contain the horses. If a natural corral wasn't found, then they were to pick an area in which to build one and start gathering the materials they'd need to build it. The second band, a much smaller group, was sent to locate the herd and turn it back in the direction of the corral if they could without losing too many from the herd.

Chief Black Knife led the second group in which Screeches Like an Owl and his father were members. Midmorning of their second day trailing the wild horse herd, a thin wisp of smoke was seen coming from a wooded side creek of the river that they were staying in contact with. Chief Black Knife decided to delay the tracking of the herd and investigate the source of the smoke.

Quietly, the Apaches rode through the alders that surrounded this side creek until they became too thick. The demand for a quiet approach of the unknown ahead made it necessary to dismount and continue on foot. Leaving Screeches Like an Owl and another young brave, Slower than a Turtle, to watch and keep the horses quiet, the rest of the Apaches made their way through the trees along the creek.

It wasn't long before Screeches Like an Owl and his companion heard the war cries of their band's warriors, followed by several shots fired from the White man's smoking sticks. Within moments of the distant war cries and gunfire, Screeches Like an Owl and Slower than a Turtle heard a rushing, crashing sound coming from the thick trees directly in front of where they sat, holding the horses. Whatever or whoever it was, they were coming their way and were not being too quiet about their journey. Quickly, the two young Apaches tied reins to tails and mounted their horses for a quick escape if it became necessary.

As the two young Indians sat waiting out from the thicket, right before them came a white woman. She looked scared and was trying to escape the Apaches who had just killed her husband and son outside their mud hut home that they had built along the creek. As she broke from the thick trees into the area of the sparsely growing alders, she didn't see the two young braves weaving their way through them in an effort to cut her off and contain her. When she realized she had been trapped and had nowhere else to run, she stood with her back to a young sapling and faced what she knew was certain death.

Slower than a Turtle dropped the lead line of the horses in his charge and rode forward. The woman didn't move, and when Slower than a Turtle reached out with his bow and touched her, counting coup, she saw that he was just a boy about the same age as her now-dead son. Slower than a Turtle retreated, and Screeches Like an Owl in turn dropped his lead line and rode forward to take his turn at counting coup on the woman. His eyes had been watching Slower than a Turtle's retreat, and he hadn't seen the woman bend down and pick up a stick that had fallen from one of the trees.

Screeches like an Owl rode toward the woman, and as he reached out to touch her with his bow, she reached up, grabbed the bow, and pulled Screeches like an Owl from off his horse. Hitting the ground hard with the wind in his lungs leaving him, he lay there, gasping for air. Slightly confused over what had just happened, he looked up and saw the woman standing over him, thrusting a sharp stick toward his face. Instinctively, his head moved to the side in an attempt to avoid the stick, while at the same time, Screeches Like an Owl twisted his body around and wrapped his feet around the woman's legs, and with a twist of his body, he toppled her to the ground. His quick thinking and movements saved his life but not before the sharp stick had torn its way through his left eye and the skin on that side of his face.

Screeches Like an Owl, screaming in pain, searched for his bow, using his one good eye. Finding it, he notched an arrow onto the bowstring, intending to put an arrow into the woman who had torn out his eye. By this time, the woman had gotten up and had started running away, weaving in and out through the trees, making her an almost impossible target to hit. Screaming to help alleviate the pain and steady his hand, he led the woman, with his one good eye, as he would have a deer as she fled through the trees. In the instance before his fingers let fly the arrow, a hand-thrown tomahawk crashed into his bow, deflecting the arrow from its mark and into the ground at his feet.

Filled with even more rage at being diverted from killing the white woman, a rage which now included this unseen intruder, Screeches Like an Owl, screaming even louder in pain and frustration, drew his knife and turned to face his unknown enemy. Screeches Like an Owl expected to see another white enemy in front of him, but to his surprise, he found himself standing face-to-face with Chief Black Knife who grabbed the wrist of Screeches Like an Owl and said, We will take this white-eyes woman back with us. She has shown much courage. She is young and looks strong. She will make a needed addition to my tepee. Go see the medicine man to have your eye looked at. It was all he said before taking the reins of his horse offered to him by Slower than a Turtle mounting and riding away.

Apachēē!

An innocent's heart that day with the chief's actions along with the accompanying action that followed it later that night changed the course of that innocent's heart and started it on its journey into darkness. In the passing of time because of these two actions that an innocent's heart built within its bearer an intense hatred, so intense it twisted his mind and turned the body that housed it into a feared, wild, misunderstood monster.

Ten years, Screeches Like an Owl's hatred for the man who had prevented him from taking his revenge on the White woman for the injury she had given him grew and grew stronger each time he encountered him or her or heard talk of either of them. Ten years, his hatred for the white-eyed object that had started it all, the White woman who Chief Black Knife had taken prisoner and made a village slave, intensified. Given the name Stick Takes an Eye, she was a constant reminder of the humiliation he had suffered on the day Chief Black Knife had spared her life. Ten years, he hated her very presence in the Jicarilla Apache village, and his hatred intensified ten times ten when Stick Takes an Eye became the second wife of Chief Black Knife. Ten years of hating the pair of them, plus ten times those same years hating the mention of his new name, the one that had been given to him the night following the incident in the alders, brought him to the point of swearing that in the end a fitting vengeance would be his.

That night, following the attack on the White settlers, the members of the roundup party that had been out to locate the wild horse herd had set up camp. Gathered around their campfire, they laughed and joked about Screeches Like an Owl's encounter with the stick-wielding White woman. One of the braves suggested that this encounter could be used to give Screeches Like an Owl his adult name. His father had conceded that it was time for it to be so, and while Screeches Like an Owl unknowingly lay on his blanket with a poultice over his empty eye socket, writhing in pain that was only somewhat reduced in its severity by the herbs in the form of a poultice the medicine man had given him, the members of the roundup party had agreed upon and given him his new name: Bloody One-Eye.

Now every time he heard his new name spoken, it brought back the memory of that incident. Ten years later, he could still feel the pain throbbing in his eye as if the stick had just torn through it. Ten years later, he could still hear the men of the party laughing at the incident as they pondered his new name. Ten years later, he could still hear and remember his father's approval of his new name and Chief Black Knife's declaration of the village's acceptance.

After the poultice was removed, Bloody One-Eye created a buckskin eye patch to wear over the empty socket, but it did nothing to hide the deep scar on the side of his face that ran all the way back to his ear. The eye patch hid the ugliness of the empty and damaged eye socket's wound from those on the outside, but it only added to the ugliness growing in the darkness of Bloody One-Eye's heart.

Every time the young Indian's one good eye gazed upon Chief Black Knife, he