As they walked, a green mesquite branch swayed uncertainly above them in odd cadence to their promenade. Tied to the end of the stick was a ragged strip of once-white muslin, a testament now to their mission of peace.

Curiously, of the seven, the oldest not only led the procession but also walked the most proudly, her head held high, her gray eyes riveted to some unseen object on the horizon, seemingly oblivious to her shabby state or to the fact that her stomach had not held food for four days.

Lieutenant Royal Whitman studied the scorpion as he shook the clear bottle of liquid, moving the creature around the vial as he examined it. It reminded him of nothing her had ever seen before, for the strange brittle arachnids with the dangerous segmented tails did not live in his native Maine, or, if they did, they had the grace to remain hidden out of sight of more genteel eyes. Whitman shook his head sadly, thinking of the Territory and of the many miles he was away from home. His life in the Third Cavalry had taken him like a sea-tossed bottle and thrown him into an unfamiliar environment, one fraught with primitive entities. It seemed as though he was a lifetime away from his home, his family, from all things intimate. Thinking of his home, he glanced around his spartan quarters. He was thankful that his position had warranted one of the adobes, for many of the men were housed in drafty tents across the parade ground. The adobe, although humble, at least offered some resistance to the array of desert creatures that insisted upon intruding on a man’s privacy.

His room even had a window, concealed behind a dirty chintz curtain that covered the grease spots and flyspecks on the cracked pane.

Whitman shifted in the straight-backed chair as he put the specimen back on the shelf, nesting it comfortably between a twisted sidewinder missing a fang and a misshapen centipede. He reached for another bottle, this of a tarantula hawk, a gross velvetlike bug resembling a spider. How this one got into the collection Whitman never knew, for he had inherited it just as surely as he had inherited the fort, the troopers, and the rural settlers who relied on him for protection.

The scorpion could never be a favorite; he had stepped on one once with his bare foot, and it had been painful. Before that he had merely thought them useless and a bit of an inconvenience, for it seemed as though every rock harbored one of the creatures on its underside.

The tarantula hawk, on the other hand, fascinated him. It somehow seemed more intelligent, more deliberate in its quest for the tarantula. Finding one, it would give a paralyzing bite to the hairy brown spider, and then deposit its eggs on the spider’s back. Once hatched, they would use the host as nourishment. Whitman played with his moustache, musing on the wonder of it all. Things were strange here, so very different from New England. He worried that he would never learn about it all.

A knock at his door startled him and he rose from the chair too quickly, grabbing for his bad hip as he did so. The lead ball, a souvenir from the War Between the States, never bothered him unless he moved too quickly on that side. Even then it seemed to pinch him just a little, a gentle vestige of his life before Camp Grant. He did not mind it. On days that passed into weeks at the fort with little to do other than the day-to-day routine, he welcomed the hint of his bygone courage. It was not that he was no longer brave but that he had waited a long time to test anew that characteristic.

His striker stood at the door.

"Them Apaches are back, sir." The man touched his cap, more in a gesture of dusting the brim than of an actual salute.

"The women?"

The soldier nodded.

"Merejildo says the old one wants to talk to you again."

Whitman rubbed his chin.

"Is he ready?"

"He’s waiting for you at the parade ground. Hutton’s there too."

Five of the Aravaipa Apache women had come ten days earlier, looking for the son of one of the women. Then, like now, they had carried a battered white flag as they approached Camp Grant. That time it had taken thirty minutes to locate Merejildo Grijalva, the half-breed interpreter. He was an accurate translator, owing his fluency to having been taken an Apache prisoner as a child.

Whitman had talked to the women at that time for well over an hour. They had come looking for the son of one of them. A boy not over twelve years of age, who had disappeared. The mother had come to determine if the boy had been killed by the soldiers. If he had, she wanted to burn his possessions so that they might accompany him in the spirit world. She would also cut her waist-length hair in a gesture of her mourning. Whitman had assured the woman that the boy had not been killed but was helping at the trader’s store. He sent for him. When the lieutenant asked the youth if he would return home with his people, the boy replied that he preferred to stay at the fort. The soldier was surprised at the answer for it was a turnabout for one who had been taken captive. The boy said that he was fed and warm at the fort, and he did not have to spend his sleeping hours waking in fear of being apprehended by the soldiers. Having explained his position, he left the women, and no amount of coaxing could convince him to rejoin them. Out of compassion, as well as embarrassment at the boy’s rejection of his own kind, Whitman ordered the women fed, gave them a bolt of manta, and granted them permission to return to Camp Grant. They slept two nights on the parade ground and, on the third morning, before dawn, quietly slipped away. He was surprised to hear that they had returned so soon.

Merejildo took long drags on his cigarette as he stood talking to the old woman. Whitman remembered her from the time before as she had stood them for over two hours without showing any sign of strain or fatigue. She had presence, even now, as she stood talking to the half-breed, her tattered skirt whipping across her strong brown legs. She was a remarkable woman, whose sixty years appeared in sharp contrast to her youthful body.

"What do they want?" Whitman’s question was like the man himself, direct and to the point.

"This one, Daya," Merejildo pointed to the old woman, "wants words with you. She brings a message, she says."

The lieutenant paused for a time before speaking. He was curious, but he knew that it would make no sense to rush the conversation, that it would take the direction the woman wanted it to before he could direct it.

"What kind of message?’

The woman’s cold gray eyes met his own, and, although she was speaking to the interpreter, her gaze never left the soldier’s face.

"A message from her son."

It lay there between them, the unasked question. Whitman studied his left hand for a time as he wondered how to ask that which he did not know. He thought for a minute of asking the half-breed, but he knew that if he did, the question would surely be just as obvious and certainly more insulting. Instead of turning to the man, he continued looking at her.

"Who is her son?"

"Are you sure you want me to ask that?"

Whitman stared at him.

"Do you know who he is?"

The interpreter stroked his beard a few times before shaking his head.

Whitman nodded slightly.

"I don’t know who he is, and I’d venture to guess there isn’t a man on this post who knows who this woman’s son is. Based on that, I think it might be prudent to find out, don’t you?"

Merejildo grinned a crooked grin as he turned back to the woman.

The old woman straightened ever so perceptibly; it was as though she were a marionette whose puppeteer had slumped on the job and had now corrected it. She stared first toward the spot where the creek, the Aravaipa, met the river, the San Pedro. Then she stared at a white wisp of a cloud, the only one in the sky, until it disappeared. Finally, she drew a deep breath before answering.

"Eskiminzin, chief of the Aravaipa."

Oscar Hutton, the post guide, had said nothing up to this point. Now, he gasped audibly before regaining control. Whitman stared at him but turned back to Merejildo.

"Skimzin?" The Apache word was difficult to pronounce.

"Eskiminzin."

"What does that mean?" The lieutenant knew that Apache names were sometimes clues to the people who had them. He had heard tales of Apaches named Red Sleeves and Cartridges All Gone and Long Ears. He hoped the Indian’s name would give him a suggestion of the chief’s character.

"Literally, Angry Men Stand in Line for Him."

"That’s it?" Somehow he felt disappointed.

"It means that he controls his warriors. That he may get them to do even things they do not wish to do."

"I wonder what that means, ‘Angry’."

The interpreter remained silent. He had been with Royal Whitman long enough now to know when he expected an answer and when he was just musing to himself.

"What is the message?"

There was no hesitation this time.

"He wishes a meeting with you. In three days."

Whitman withdrew his gold pocket watch. It was an empty gesture for it could tell him nothing he needed to know that was pertinent to the discussion.

"Why?"

"You do not wish for me to ask that." Merejildo was firm.

"Why not?"

"She will not answer you."

"Ask it."

The woman remained silent. The other women, standing a few feet behind Daya, remained stone-faced, disallowing any emotion to impose itself across their strong features. Minutes passed in silence.

"Tell her I will meet her son in three days. Here."

The half-breed translated rapidly.

"Enju," the elderly woman nodded. "Enju." With that, she spun softly and without looking back walked across the parade ground toward the mountains.

"Meri." Whitman stared at her back. "What does ‘enju’ mean?"

"It is well."

"God, I hope she’s right, that old woman." His tone was not without a trace of respect for the Apache female. "What of Eskiminzin. What of him?"

Hutton spat on the ground. He had been waiting for this minute.

"Bad business, Lieutenant. The farmers, Irwin and Israel, they used to farm near here. Irwin was killed by the Apaches on the way to his place. Not long after, Israel got it at the Canon del Oro. Maybe you heard about that man Kennedy. He fell off his mule and lived for a day or so before he died here." Hutton stamped the dirt with his boot. "They found poor Israel tied to one of the wheels of his wagon," he paused for effect, "burned alive! Between here and Florence they hit that ambulance. They’re bad business if you ask me."

Merejildo said nothing. Whitman looked at him. He shrugged.

"Rumors, Lieutenant, only rumors I have heard."

"Such as?"

"They are meaningless. I do not have knowledge of them." It was Merejildo’s way of saying he had not witnessed anything he was about to tell. The soldier had heard the disclaimer before.

"There was a woman, Page, who was taken by them a long time ago."

"Them?"

"Eskiminzin when he was with Toodlekiay. They took her for a captive. Also a young Mexican girl who was with her."

Whitman was aware of the Apache propensity toward captives. Unlike the eastern Indians, the Apaches would take prisoners and barter them or have them perform menial tasks. While treated better than a dog, the captives rarely became family members unless they were taken at a very young age. That, too, was a gray area for the Apache would not take children who were too young, preferring the kindness of bashing their heads in with a rock. The prisoners would frequently be gambled among the Apaches; ownership could change several times during the course of a year.

"The Indians were followed by the Americans, including the husband of Mrs. Page. As they got closer, the Apaches decided she was slowing them down so they lanced her. Sixteen times. They threw her from a cliff and stoned her head."

"She died?" It was not really a question at all.

The half-breed shook his head.

"She crawled on her hands and knees through the desert. She drank snow for water and nibbled on berries. She was very weak but she crawled like this for two weeks until she found her camp. She lived."

"To tell the story."

"Yes. But it’s just a rumor that Eskiminzin was involved."

"Who told you?"

"I heard it at Camp Crittenden. She was there a few years ago."

Whitman looked at Hutton. He had said his piece. He was not going to add anything to Merejildo's story. They began walking back to the adjutant’s office.

"You know, they never did thank us."

"For what?" Merejildo was surprised at the statement.

"The food. The cotton. From before." The lieutenant’s New England ethic was coming out.

"To do so would be an insult."

"An insult? I don’t understand."