The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 48

Deacon Santee heard the screech of a hawk above the tree canopy, but did not lift his head to look. Nor could he.

He was sick, sicker than he’d ever been in his life.

Right now he should be in bed, tended by his women, not lying across the neck of a horse, trusting that the animal was less lost than he was.

He was traveling toward the setting sun, in the right direction.

Once out of these infernal trees, he’d know where he was headed.

Camp couldn’t be too far away now.

He sniffed, sniffed again.

Wood smoke. Praise the Lord, it was wood smoke!

Not far, then. A mile. Maybe less.

The horse stopped dead in its tracks, so suddenly that the deacon had to grab on to its neck to avoid a tumble.

He tried to kick the animal into a walk, but it stood stock-still, refusing to budge.

Then he smelled it, a stench different to his own rotten-fish stink. Sweeter. And close.

It took a tremendous effort of will, but Santee managed to raise himself into a sitting position in the saddle.

Then he saw what his horse had seen.

His sons Gideon and Zedock.

Or what was left of them.

There was not a shred of human decency in Deacon Santee, nor any depth of paternal feeling. His sons had been sired on whores and he’d always believed he had the ability to hammer out more should the need arise.

But something stirred in him as he watched his boys twist in the wind, their hands rawhide-tied to a tree limb.

Love, pity, empathy, all were alien emotions to the deacon, yet, in small measure certainly, he felt them now, fragile and faint, like a butterfly fluttering its wings in his belly.

He kneed his horse closer to the tree. Nearby, a wisp of smoke rose from an ashy fire. The burning sticks that had been rammed into his sons’ eyes had been lit there.

Their bellies had been cut open and curling blue entrails tangled down their legs and spilled onto the ground.

Was it then, or before, that they screamed? Their mouths were still open now, but the screams were silent.

Gideon and Zedock had been given a death worse than cholera. Worse than anything.

His breath wheezing in his chest, Santee pulled his knife, leaned out of the saddle, and cut his sons down. The bodies thudded to the grass, one on top of the other, sprawled and untidy, and lay still.

The smoldering fire told the deacon that the Apaches were close.

He knew that their sense of smell was keener than a white man’s and that they followed the scent the way a wild animal does.

The stench of rotting fish that clung to his body would leave an easy trail.

He had to get back to the wagons. Surely some of the hands had made it through with the herd.

Once again, Santee gave his horse its head, vaguely aware that it followed an old game trail through the wild oaks.

The grass and trees were greener than he ever remembered them. Above the leaf canopy the sky had shaded into a lemon color, and the final flare of the dying sun tinted the few clouds burnished gold.

After . . . the deacon didn’t know how long . . . the trees gave way to brush, and then to grass.

Ahead of him spread the valley with its S-shaped creek. Harcourt’s tent still stood and he saw a few grazing cattle.

It was a peaceful scene, and the deacon raised his voice in a joyful shout of hallelujah. The good Lord had shown him the way.

He was home.

The Apaches knew the smell of cholera and stayed well away from the white man who tainted the earth with his fish stink.

But they watched him, their black eyes glittering, as they let him pass through their ranks to the valley.