Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs Page 16

  Shoz-Dijiji knew Chita had accepted that she truly loved this Indian warrior. So he had decided to tell her finally and had been trying for the last few days to find a way of revealing his white parentage. Geronimo had given him the perfect way to tell her. He touched the sack holding the family Bible and locket tied to his saddle horn. Now he had proof of being white. Could this make the difference, for him most of all? Or was he lost between these two worlds—that of the Apache and of the whites—and must still find his way to her?

  Beans For Supper Again

  The headquarters of the Billings ranch had little enough to recommend it. Under three bedraggled cottonwood trees was a small ranch house that had not seen paint in many long years of being abraded by sandstorms rolling in off the high desert. A ramshackle barn and attached corral with a few weary-with-life horses, and a seriously Spartan bunkhouse concluded the facilities, other than an outhouse behind the bunkhouse. Smoke was coming from the bunkhouse’s tin stovepipe as Shoz-Dijiji—carrying the sack of treasured items given to him by Geronimo—walked over from unsaddling his horse at the barn. He had finished checking the fences, his chore for the day, and it was coming on to evening.

  The bunkhouse had only two rooms. The larger had frames for several bunks—only three of which were now used—in an area where additional men had slept in more prosperous times, when Wichita’s father had been alive. Shoz-Dijiji slept in one of these, the other two cowboys still at the ranch in the other two.

  It was into the second room that he entered—the combination kitchen and dining room, where the rest of the ranch’s inhabitants were sitting down to supper. The room had few furnishings. A stove was near one wall, the tin stovepipe disappearing up into the ceiling. Shelves near it held their few supplies—a little salt, some flour, and a few empty bottles and cans from better days. There was not much else except several large bags of beans leaning against the wall beneath the shelves. Beans were the staple of their diet during these times of hardship. Chung’s narrow cot stood in one corner—a shelf of his treasured cookbooks above it—and most of the remaining floor space was occupied by the large, rough-built table where they ate. Like the bunkroom built for a larger crew than now worked the Billings ranch, there was lots of extra room.

  He solemnly greeted each person in turn—still not sure of how white-eyes interacted, usually being cautiously overly formal. There was his beautiful Wichita Billings, owner of the ranch but who ate with the hands because there was little enough food as it was. She was as strikingly wonderful to look at as when he first saved her life. He gave one of his rare smiles to her, recalling the look on her face when she had first seen a painted, all-but-naked warrior leaping down the steep canyon side toward her.

  “Sit down, Shoz-Dijiji,” she said, returning his smile. “We are having Italian food tonight. Spaghetti!” She gestured to the remaining empty chair, next to her and saved for him.

  Shoz-Dijiji had no idea what she was talking about. All he saw on the stove was the usual pot of beans. Beans were cheap, filling, and a survival food. It was all they had anymore except for a bit of bread now and then, but he knew they were running out of flour, and coffee, and just about anything else you could think of.

  Before sitting, he greeted Luke Jensen, a short, young cowpuncher whose life he had saved also. For a bloodthirsty savage, he had certainly saved a lot of people, Shoz-Dijiji reflected. Now he was glad. Luke wore their uniform of faded denim and checked shirt, as did also Luis Mariel, once of Mexico and yet another saved by the savage Apache who was now their fellow cowboy or vaquero as Luis insisted they all were. Luis was also short, dark, and sported hair on his upper lip that hung down on each side of his mouth—he called it a bandito mustache. Everyone here was shorter than Shoz-Dijiji, he towered over them all. He sat down and looked to the remaining member of the ranch’s crew; Chung, the Chinese cook.

  Chung was the oldest and smallest of them all, shorter even than Chita. Chung’s wrinkled face was always smiling, and the old cook loved jokes. His English was good, and he could actually read, devouring the cookbooks that old Mr. Billings’ wife, Chita’s mother, had brought to the ranch from the east many years ago. Chung placed a tin plate in front of Shoz-Dijiji, heaped with beans from the pot on the stove. He added a tin cup of black coffee.

  Shoz-Dijiji looked at the beans. “You have to help Shoz-Dijiji,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “What is this amazing foreign food you serve?”

  Chung straightened himself proudly. “It is spaghetti. Italian noodles in a special sauce. My people, of course, invented noodles long before the Italians learned to cook.”

  Shoz-Dijiji took a bite, savored it, and nodded. Chung could certainly make good beans. “I have not had this type of food before. Thank you.”

  Wichita cleared her throat, her face serious. “Now that we are all here together, I must again discuss our situation. I had another letter from the bank today. Banker Adams says we must soon pay the loans my father took out. We are almost out of money. No one’s buying cows right now.” She suddenly looked about ready to cry.

  Shoz-Dijiji put his hand on her shoulder in concern. She sniffed and patted his hand, then continued bravely.

  “Well, I just wanted to say that I’ll do everything possible to keep us going.”

  The others nodded. Shoz-Dijiji, too, but his face was impassive. Yet, inside, he was sad and a little scared. He vowed to himself that Chita would not lose her ranch nor his friends their home. No matter what he had to do to save them.

  Wichita did not finish her supper but went back to the ranch house. Shoz-Dijiji helped Chung and the others clean the dishes. Then he left, picking up the sack he had left by the door.

  My Name Is Andrew

  Walking across the ranch house’s small porch, Shoz-Dijiji knocked softly on its front door. Wichita opened the door and stood aside for him to enter. He could see that she had been crying. He embraced her and she laid her head on his chest, taking what little comfort she could get.

  “Chita,” he said quietly. She hugged him tighter.

  Theirs was indeed a complicated relationship. They had agreed to wait and see how things worked out. To test how their very different backgrounds meshed. To find if she could love an Apache warrior. He did not worry about that now. While he ached in every bone of his body for her, that did not matter. He would protect her no matter what the cost to him.

  Shoz-Dijiji reluctantly released her and held up the small sack. “Shoz-Dijiji needs your help on a very important thing.”

  She dried her eyes. “Yes, of course,” and she led him into the parlor where a lamp—trimmed to preserve precious kerosene—cast a dim light. They sat together on the horsehide settee. Shoz-Dijiji placed the sack on the floor between his feet and looked at her. He could not help smiling at how beautiful she looked in the flickering light.

  “Chita,” he began, “You know Shoz-Dijiji loves you more than Klego-na-ay, the moon. More than the sun. More than . . .” He struggled for more English words.

  Wichita smiled softly, placing one hand on his well-muscled arm and patting his sun-bronzed face with the other. “This I know, Shoz-Dijiji. But thank you for mentioning it again. That message is always welcome, for I love you just as much.”

  Shoz-Dijiji was almost overcome with emotion but forced himself to continue, now nervous.

  “Shoz-Dijiji know we have waited to see if Chita could love Apache warrior.”

  Chita patted his face again. “You have waited. I already am sure.”

  Shoz-Dijiji swallowed. “Yes . . . Moons ago I promised Chita, when I accepted the offer to become her foreman, that I had a surprise for her.”

  “Gifts are not necessary,” she answered.

  “This one is, Chita. For me to give.”

  Shoz-Dijiji placed the sack on the settee between them and first withdrew the locket.

  “Geronimo come to Shoz-Dijiji today. Bring him these things.”

  Wichita gasped.

  Shoz-Dijiji gri
nned. “Not worry. Old man go back to reservation. He done with war. Geronimo say so.”

  He carefully opened the locket and gave it to her. “My real father.”

  Wichita turned it in the sparse light to see the face there better. “A white man? What’s his name?”

  “Not know,” he said and took the family Bible out of the sack. “Maybeso in here? Reading you teach me not good enough for this yet.” He showed her the page with writing.

  Wichita positioned the Bible and read the list of family births and deaths laboriously scrawled with a shaky hand in black ink.

  “Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly from the impact. “Your father’s name was Jerry MacDuff. Your mother’s, Annie. And . . .” She paused and looked him in the eyes. “You are Andrew Seamus MacDuff.”

  Shoz-Dijiji breathed deep and savored the name, committing it to memory. “Andrew Seamus MacDuff,” he repeated.

  “Your mother added a note. They called you Andy,” she said.

  Shoz-Dijiji scowled, then smiled. “That secret name. You call me Andy when we alone. Other people must call me Andrew. It more dignified.”

  Wichita smiled in pleasure. “Glad to meet you, Andrew.”

  He grabbed her hand and shook. “The pleasure mine.”

  Andrew shook his head in wonderment. “Now Andrew must learn to think of himself as Andrew.”

  “And maybe say ‘I’ instead of talking in the third person,” she said, playfully punching his shoulder. “Andy.”

  He smiled. “You keep Bible and locket here for me, please Chita.” He paused, then asked, “You love Andy as much as Shoz-Dijiji?”

  “Hard to say,” Wichita answered. “I’ve only just met him, but he seems very nice. Reminds me of a certain Apache warrior.”

  They grinned at each other.

  She put the items on a side table, they kissed good night, and he returned to the bunkhouse.

  The next evening, all chores completed, they sat eating beans once more. Just like for breakfast and lunch.

  “This French food tonight,” Chung said. “Wee, wee.”

  Luis pointed out the back window to the outhouse. “Go there, if you must, amigo.”

  Wichita laughed. “No, I believe Chung is speaking French. And what is the name of this delicious dish, Chung?”

  Chung screwed up his wrinkled face even more, trying to recall. “Soufflé,” he said. “It is bean soufflé. Served in all the best restaurants all over France. I season mine with secret spices. Salt and pepper.”

  “Might I have some more please?” Luke asked, holding up his plate.

  As more beans were ladled out, Wichita pulled a handwritten list and a small amount of money from her pocket. “Luke, take the wagon tomorrow and go into Sunrise. Get salt, sugar, a big bag of beans. That’s the last of my money, but we have to have the supplies.”

  Luke nodded around a mouthful of beans and reached over the table to accept the list and money.

  Andrew tapped his spoon on the table. “I have announcement.” He waited for them to look at him expectantly. “I now have white name. Call me Andrew.”

  They smiled at him while Chita explained about him being stolen as a baby and raised by the Apaches.

  Luke offered his hand. “Welcome back, Andy.”

  Shoz-Dijiji, now Andrew, pulled out his knife with one hand and shook Luke’s with the other. “No call Andrew Andy.” But he smiled. Luke eyed the knife and nodded.

  “Hola, Señor Andrew,” Luis said.

  “More soufflé, Andrew?” Chung asked, indicating the pot of beans.

  Andrew shrugged with a smile and pushed his tin plate over for more. Now that he was white, he supposed he could learn to enjoy French food.

  The Fast Arm of the Law

  The next day Andrew returned from checking the cattle. When he walked into the kitchen, he found Luke helping Chung stow the supplies from town. Andrew patted a large bag of beans and smiled. “More French food, hah?”

  Chung nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, but tonight I make Hungarian goulash. I have recipe. First add beans. Next, more beans.”

  Luke rubbed his face, looking worried. “Andrew, there was a U.S. Marshal in town, asking if anyone knowed about an Apache cowboy hereabouts. I didn’t tell him nothing.”

  Andrew grunted, thinking. “A man of the law?”

  Luke nodded. “A lawman, yeah. But there’s others in town who knows you’re here. Hard keeping a secret like that, an Apache who’s now a ranch foreman.”

  Chung said, “Not as unusual as a Chinese cook who makes Hungarian goulash.”

  They heard a horse entering the ranch yard. A deep voice called “Hello the house?”

  Luke groaned. “Guess that’ll be him. Be careful, he’s known as the gunfighter marshal. No outlaw’s ever won against him. That’s one dangerous old lawdog. They call him Fast Sam.”

  Andrew shrugged and left the bunkhouse, followed by Chung and Luke. Chita came out from the ranch house. U.S. Marshal Samuel Dawson was a grizzled but tough-looking man in his sixties. He wore a dark suit and a big white hat. Two pistols hung from his gunbelt, the loops of which were full of cartridges, and a marshal’s badge reflected sunlight from his chest. A rifle was in the boot of his saddle.

  “I have come to see the son of Geronimo,” he said, looking straight at Andrew.

  Inside the seldom-used parlor of the ranch house, Dawson smiled at Andrew while Chita ran over to the bunkhouse kitchen to get some coffee for them.

  “Lieutenant King told me about you. Claims you saved his life,” the marshal said. “Also told me you are not only a brave Apache warrior but also a very moral one.”

  Andrew agreed. “But I no longer Apache.”

  Chita had come back in during that exchange with three cups of coffee on a small tray. “That’s right, Marshal. He was captured as a baby and raised by the Apaches. His real name is Andrew Seamus MacDuff.”

  Dawson smiled. “That’s mighty fine, a good Scotch-Irish name, but it’s his Apache talents I need.”

  Andrew carefully sipped his coffee. The last thing he wanted to do was to spill something on the furniture in Chita’s parlor. In his Apache days of living in dirt-floored hogans, one did not have to worry about such.

  “Yes, I will listen,” he told the marshal.

  “There is,” Marshal Dawson said, “an Apache called Death Bringer. He’s now war chief of the Chi-e-a-hen Apaches—but he was captured years ago as a young teenager by the army and sent back east to school. Educated, he returned to the Chi-e-a-hen and engaged in ruthless but very cunning slaughter of every white he could find.”

  Andrew grunted, leaning forward in interest.

  “Do you know him?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes. Met once before he was captured. Older than me. Killed his father.” He looked at Chita. “You were there in your friend’s ranch house.”

  She smiled. “He’s saved me several times.”

  The marshal continued. “Death Bringer is using his education to infiltrate and subvert the territorial government. The cavalry is very good at chasing Geronimo over an area the size of Europe but useless when a band of Apaches hides in the general population.”

  “Cavalry learn lot from Apache, get much experience in being sneaky,” Andrew said proudly. “My friend Lieutenant King is very smart, much experienced. But how Death Bringer and warriors hide among white-eyes? Apaches dark savages.”

  “They masquerade as Mexicans, Italian immigrants, or just well-tanned white men,” the marshal answered. “No one expects Indians in their midst. They are invisible.”

  Andrew nodded. “So you want me to be scout, seek out and find these Indians hiding in plain sight?”

  Dawson set down his cup. “Mighty fine coffee, ma’am.” He looked at Andrew. “No, son. I want to offer you a career as a Deputy U.S. Marshal. I need someone like you for a long time to come.”

  Andrew glanced at Chita. “What it pay?” he asked.

  “Hundred a month, and you get an allow
ance for travel, lodging, and ammunition.”

  Andrew looked at Chita again. “That enough to save ranch?”

  She sadly shook her head. “But you do it, Andrew. It’s a lot more than a cowboy makes. I don’t think we’ll be able to stay here much longer. The bank is getting really insistent.”

  Andrew frowned, worried about the threat of foreclosure.

  Dawson quickly interceded. “Did I mention President Cleveland has personally authorized a $20,000 reward?”

  Andrew turned to Chita. This time she nodded.

  “Andrew think about it,” he said.

  Dawson nodded, pleased, and stood up.

  “Okay if I come back about this time tomorrow?”

  Andrew and Wichita indicated agreement.

  After Dawson rode out, Chita and Andrew discussed the offer.

  “Being a marshal,” Wichita said, “is too dangerous.”

  “I was Apache warrior. Compared to that, not so dangerous. But no want to leave you unprotected.”

  They called in Luke, Luis, and Chung.

  Wichita explained. “The marshal wants Andrew to become a deputy. There is regular pay plus the chance of reward money that would save the ranch. I don’t want him to do it. Way too much chance he’ll get hurt.”

  Luke spoke up first. “Well, maybe it’s a good idea so far as the money goes. But it is mighty risky, and Andrew would be gone from here a lot.”

  “I think we could make up for the work,” Luis said. “For my amigos, I am willing to do more. We can sleep when we are dead, sí? But not at the cost of losing our Andrew.”

  Chung nodded. “We need Andrew here. He likes my cooking. He would not eat well on the trail of outlaws.”

  Andrew stood up and raised his hand to quiet them. “I have decided. It is the only way to save ranch. I will take chance.”