The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 24

“I do not kill Apaches,” Clayton said, finding his voice at last.

“You were with one who does. The one we call the Hunter.”

“I was his prisoner. That’s why I have no weapons. He took them from me.” He showed the star on his shirt. “I am a lawman.”

Another Indian grunted. Whether it was a good or bad sign, Clayton didn’t know.

“Why did the Hunter take you captive?” the old Apache said.

“I saw . . . I know what he does with the dead Apaches.”

“What does he do?”

“He sells them and they are taken away in a railroad car.” Clayton racked his brain, trying to find an alternative to refrigerator car, a term these Indians wouldn’t know. “It is a car of ice,” he said. “Colder than the coldest winter.”

That last started talk among the men and their faces were puzzled.

“Why a car of ice?” the old Apache said.

“To take them far to the east, to the great cities.”

Damn, how do I explain doctors, vivisection, and medical research to an Indian?

“What do they do with the bodies of Apaches in these great cities? Do the white men eat them?”

“No, they cut them up.”

That caused a stir among the Apaches, and the youngest, a teenager wearing a collarless shirt with a red-and-white-striped tie, turned his face to the sky and wailed like a wounded wolf.

“You lie to us,” the old Apache said. “You tell us tall tales.”

“I do not lie,” Clayton said. “Doctors . . . medicine men . . . cut up the bodies to look inside them.”

The old man was shaken to the core. His voice caught in his throat and his hands trembled. “If a Mescalero is treated thus, his soul cannot fly to the Land of Ever Summer. He will wander forever in a misty place between heaven and hell.”

The Apaches looked into Clayton’s eyes. “Can what you tell us be so?”

“It is so,” Clayton said. He was aware that he was walking a ragged edge between life and death, and right then he wouldn’t have given a plug nickel for his chances.

“Why does the Hunter kill us and send our bodies away?” the Apache said.

“For money.”

The old man rose. His face was like stone, but there was an unsteadiness to his chin. The others gathered around him and they talked briefly before he returned to Clayton’s side.

Apaches had an inborn contempt and hatred of liars, and the old man showed it now as black lightning flashed in his eyes.

“You are either telling the truth or you are the greatest of all liars,” he said. “If you have lied to us, we will tear out your tongue so you can never tell an untruth again.”

He grabbed Clayton’s hand and, showing surprising strength, pulled him to his feet.

“Have I made our feelings clear to you?” he said.

“I do not lie to the Apaches,” Clayton said.

“Then we shall see. You will take us to the car of”—he used zas, the Jicarilla word for snow, then corrected himself—“ice. You will show us where the bodies of our children lie.”

Clayton’s heart sank. “The car is gone. I don’t know when there will be another.”

“Then I think you are a liar,” the old man said.

“I can take you to the railroad tracks where the ice car sits when it comes.”

“You will show us.”

Clayton nodded.

Suddenly he felt a chill and he knew why . . . .

Death stood at his elbow and was growing mighty impatient.