Free Apache Moon by Len Levinson

Duane had never seen such a vital-looking old man.
    â€œYou do not know how to fight,” Cucharo said sadly, shaking his head slowly in disapproval. “Youmake big noise and run straight at your enemy. He has plenty time to get ready and then you jump on him. It is a miracle Gootch did not kill you.” Cucharo stretched his bony fingers forward and pinched Duane's arm. “You are not healthy, but I will help you. The mountain spirits have sent you to me—I do not know why. They say that I must teach you to be a warrior.”
    Duane was astonished by the declaration. “Who are the mountain spirits?”
    â€œThey are everywhere, but we cannot see them. You have come to me in a dream. Tomorrow at dawn, you be at my wickiup. I will tell you everything.”
    The old man limped away, and Duane pondered his words. Am I part Apache? he wondered.
    He had vague recollections of his mother, who'd had blond curls and liked to cuddle him. His father had worn a black mustache and smelled of whiskey and tobacco. Duane recalled playing with his father's gun, but he'd arrived at the monastery when he was approximately one year old, so how much had he imagined?
    Duane knew little about his background but now had something new to contemplate. Maybe my father was part Apache, and that's why I feel an affinity for these people. The medicine man saw me in a dream? A shiver ran up his spine at the mere thought of the old man with the scarred face. He's probably killed a hundred White Eyes, and maybe I'm next on his list.

    Duane heard another step behind him. It was Phyllis, approaching with her cup of tizwin. “I think they've put something in my drink.”
    â€œIt's their whiskey. Have a seat.”
    She dropped to the ground beside him, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “I'll bet you never realized, when you first met me, that we'd end up at an Apache camp.”
    â€œI feel strange, Duane. There's something about these people.”
    â€œThe old man with the scar said he's been dreaming about me, and he's going to teach me to be a warrior. He thinks I'm part Apache.”
    She looked at him in the moonlight, and he had the same straight jet-black hair as they, with high cheekbones and almond eyes. “Come to think of it, you do look kind of Apache. I hope you don't intend to spend a lot of time here.”
    â€œOnly be a few days, like the chief said. There's nothing to worry about, I hope.”
    â€œHave you ever thought that they're playing with us, like cats and mice?”
    â€œDon't let your imagination run away with you. I think they've been good hosts so far.”
    She imagined Duane wearing a breechcloth, with a red line painted across his nose and a red bandanna on his head. “That Delgado scares me half to death. I never saw a more shifty-eyed injun in my life.”
    â€œHe seems friendly enough to me.”

    â€œI think they're all acting and they're getting ready to massacre us.”
    â€œMaybe you drank too much of that tizwin. I know that I did. Jesus, it's a beautiful night. I can't help envying these people, Phyllis. They're not worried about owning houses, herding cattle, or buying beans. They run free, like a herd of mustangs, without a worry in the world.”
    â€œApaches have been killing Mexicans, Americans, and other Indians for hundreds of years. Have you forgotten what happened to your throat?”
    Duane touched his finger to the wound. “If I knew how to fight like an Apache, he wouldn't've defeated me so easily.”
    â€œThey look down on us,” Phyllis complained. “When the time comes, they'll kill us without a qualm.”
    Delgado materialized behind them. “I've brought your guns.”
    They wondered how long he'd been standing behind them and how much he'd overheard. He sat opposite them and laid the pistols, rifles, and saddlebags on the ground.
    Duane and Phyllis strapped on their Colts, and Delgado watched