Free Ghost Warrior by Lucia St. Clair Robson Page A

Red knew it was a post of honor, and he always behaved accordingly.
    He had a skinful of courage, a skullful of savvy, and a sense of humor. Rafe hoped no one ever played the bugle call for an artillery charge, though. Red would take off like cannon shot.
    The Apache girl diverted her attention from Red long enough to stare up at Rafe. He saw sagacity in her wide, dark eyes, as though someone much older were using her as a disguise. He half expected her to say something in a voice that would sound nothing like a child’s. She held his gaze long enough to let him know that he didn’t intimidate her. Then she strode off to join the women at the cook fire.
    â€œThere’s a hoyden if ever I saw one,” said Absalom. “Brown as pan gravy, sassy as a jaybird, and full of the dickens.”
    â€œWe’ll take turns guarding the horses tonight.” Rafe knew the gleam of the horse-acquiring itch when he saw it.

    Absalom nodded toward the Apache men. “I wonder if the two scoundrels who lifted our horses are among that mob.”
    â€œWouldn’t you recognize them?”
    â€œI was preoccupied at the time, Rafe. And picking one Indian out of a crowd is like trying to identify a particular crow in the flock.”
    â€œMaybe if they turned around,” suggested Caesar. “We would recognize their bottom halves.”
    Rafe and Absalom laughed as they rode away.
    â€œWhat’s in that poke Red Sleeves gave you?” Absalom asked.
    â€œBuffalo hair.”
    â€œAre there buffalo in these parts?” Absalom looked eager to hunt them.
    â€œNaw. They must have traded with the Lipan Apaches farther east.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do with the fur?”
    Rafe wanted to tell Absalom that he asked too many questions for someone who desired to reach California alive. To say that would be too much like giving advice, and Rafe considered advice just another sort of meddling.
    â€œI’m going to knit some stockings.”
    Rafe, Absalom, and Caesar rounded a bend in the trail. They did not see the girl throw her arms around Pandora and hold her close for a long time. They didn’t hear the two of them crying from happiness.

Chapter 6
    COYOTE KEEPS IT UNDER HIS HAT
    N ight had fallen by the time Rafe settled up with the blacksmith. Rafe gave Absalom and Caesar their share of the silver pesos as they sat near the fire, scooping up eggs and beans with leathery tortillas. When he finished eating, Rafe rooted to the bottom of his pack and took out a pair of carding combs. Then he sorted through the sack of bison fur. He was pleased to see that someone had picked most of the burs, twigs, and larger specimens of life from it.
    He teased out a clump of fur, laid it onto one of the combs, and pulled the other one across it. He stroked the carding combs back and forth until the fibers lined up among the iron teeth. He peeled the hair off in a fluffy cylinder and laid it on his bandana. He pulled out another handful and repeated the process.
    Absalom began cleaning his rifle with vinegar and sacking. Caesar took out a stack of calico squares with a needle and black thread stuck through it. He took off his shirt that was already a patchwork in the same calico print. The calico patches might have come from any old castoff, but Rafe noted the reverence with which Caesar handled them. Maybe the cloth had been a frock, the only good one a slave woman might own. Maybe it was the only thing she could leave her son when she died.
    Caesar laid the torn tail of the shirt across his thigh and positioned one of the calico patches under it. When he picked up the needle, it disappeared in his big hand. He turned under the raw edges of the tear as he worked and laid down a neat bird-track of stitches.
    When the pile of carded fur glowed like a golden cloud
in the fire’s light, Rafe took out a peeled willow stick sharpened at both ends, with a four-inch disk set a quarter of the way up the shaft.