September 2, 1880
The night sky sparkled brilliantly with a panorama of stars. Guy Dawkins crouched on a silvery-gray mountain overlooking Camp McDowell and chuckled softly to himself. His brass pistol and his saber hung at his side, ready for use at a moment’s notice. The night air was hot and heavy and he was drenched with sweat, but he didn’t dare show his Apache guide his discomfort. This Indian was willing to help him attack the camp, and Guy had promised him a victory.
He’d chuckled because they had increased their numbers in the days during Melissa Revere’s exodus from Phoenix. Even though Marshal Luther stood alone against the throng of Mutations who terrorized and departed from the town, even though the United States had not sent troops to assist him, clearly the military was concerned. The law prevented them from simply stepping in and quelling the chaos in Phoenix, but they were prepared to fight; perhaps they even secretly itched for an engagement. Well, Guy and his new friends would give them one.
The Regular folks feared Mutations for what some of them could do. Some said they were made different as a punishment from God, or a message—a message that mankind was not living a pious life on the frontier. They longed for the eradication of Mutations, Apache, anyone who could not conform. Even though the Apache and the White Man had a newfound respect and perceived need for one another in the face of the increased Mutation population, in some ways the Apache blamed the White Man. Like the White Man’s belief that Mutations were manifestations of God’s will, or else manifestations of Satan’s interference, the Apache took the same stance of a number of other Indian nations. Many of them believed Mutations were a curse brought by the White Man, who did not respect the land.
Guy whispered a silent prayer of thanks that not all Apache believed the same thing, and he turned to his companion, who crouched beside him on the mountainside.
“They sleep outside. Even if we kill the garrison, it won’t take long for the rest to wake up and turn their guns on us.”
His companion nodded his understanding. The camp consisted of many scattered adobes, as well as several straight rows of the same which served as the soldiers’ quarters. Sentries patrolled the grounds on horseback, armed with rifles and sabers. The heat was so unbearable to those stationed below that they would take their beds outside, or else sleep on the ground. Army discipline seemed to have slackened some since Guy had been an officer. Still, that could only serve to work to his benefit. Damn Revere and her rebellion. Damn the idea of a peaceful resolution. If Marshal Luther couldn’t be convinced to back down, if the Army hated Mutations enough to fortify their camp to this extent, then what hope was there?
Battle. Battle was their only hope. Beat them into submission, and their hearts and minds will follow.
“We strike hard, attack from both sides,” Chief Bimisi explained to his comrade. His name meant “slippery” in Apache, and he’d lived up to it. His raids had been untrackable and he was able to kill anyone he wanted to while masking his approach. This, however, would be a trifle different. Taking on an army base head-on would try his skills in a way nothing else thus far had. His eyes betrayed no worry; he was ready for a fight. Bimisi had a bow on his back and a tomahawk at his side. Both made for excellent ambush weapons in his capable hands.
“Three men to each side and the two of us kill the guards,” Bimisi went on. “Arrows will kill many of their men while they sleep, then we set fire to their homes. They already don’t like the heat; this will make it worse.”
Guy smiled at his friend’s ruthless attitude. “Are you sure I can’t make you carry a gun?”
“The gun is no friend to a true Apache,” Bimisi smiled back ruefully. “We never learned to use the White Man’s weapons and we do not need to learn now.”
“Fine. Just be caref—be quick.” Guy knew that it was useless to tell an Apache like Bimisi to be careful. He was too skilled, and it would only be an insult. Instead, he put his hand on Bimisi’s shoulder to signal assent and got to his feet, ready to climb down and begin the assault. He would wait at the bottom while Bimisi addressed his men, including the Yavapais who had agreed to take part in this joint attack. In an hour, the fighting would begin in earnest.
Night neared its invisible zenith. The moon was high in the sky, and it illuminated the enemy. Guy was tempted to draw his saber and put it through one man’s chest, then slit another man’s throat, to yell himself hoarse as he went on a bloody rampage. But honor demanded decorum, and anyway, it would get him killed. So he took out his pistol and aimed it at the flank of a horse one of the guards rode. His hiding place was barely adequate, a copse of tiny bushes which, if scrutinized for more than a half-second, would not serve to conceal him. He would have to act fast.
Boom!
The horse bucked and tossed its rider to the ground. The second guard galloped in Guy’s direction, and Guy fired once, twice, three times, with the final shot a success. The horse’s eye socket exploded and a spray of blood and bone fell to the ground behind it. The rider was pitched off of its back and he landed on the ground in a heap. He was down, but not out.
Guy heard guards cry out all around the perimeter, and knew his friends enjoyed the same success as him. The camp was in disarray, and as Guy finished off the fallen guard from close range before he could regain his senses, he heard men inside the camp scramble and shout as they were besieged by a rain of arrows.
This is what it’s come to, he thought bitterly, as he remembered his days with both the Army and the Navy. Killing my own former comrades-in-arms. Still, they signed up for this, they knew what they were getting themselves into...so why do I grieve over my decision? They’ve forced my hand, forged me into this...my brothers-in-arms now are my fellow Mutations. I dare not forget it.
Before
Days after his run-in with the Marshal, that infernal pretender to the throne of righteousness, Guy Dawkins had staggered to the edge of an Apache camp and collapsed from his wounds and dehydration combined. They gathered him up and dragged him to a tent to heal him as best they could, and their leader came to speak with him. Bimisi was the first thing Guy saw when he opened his eyes, and he was just staring at him like he had all the time in the world, though it was not unnerving in the least.
He was a hard man, Bimisi. His eyes spoke of wisdom-infused steel, the kind that came with age. Bimisi was, perhaps, a decade younger than Guy, who was himself a veteran of the Civil War. His people had left them alone to speak, a sign of respect on two levels, and the first thing Bimisi did was to hold out his hand to Guy—his own show of respect. Guy, still on his back, forced himself to sit up and take Bimisi’s hand without wincing at the pain.
“This is how the White Man says hello,” he spoke as if he were announcing it, his low voice tinged with amusement. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly with good humor.
“Hello,” Guy replied simply.
“I see them at their army camp, not far away,” Bimisi continued. “They come to shed our blood, but they love each other very much. Many times I see them stand still together, and touch hands.” Guy stared at him, wondering at his strange assesment of army behavior. “They try to hide their feelings with hard faces and with yelling, but I can see it still.” Bimisi turned to take a wet cloth from a basin next to the bed, and his smirk betrayed him. Guy couldn’t help but chuckle. Bimisi continued. “You have the weapons like some of them, but not the same clothes. You are a leader?”
Guy accepted the wet cloth and began to dab at his fresh burns, which stung like a sudden burst of steam. He shook his head. “I was a soldier, a long time ago. My people cast me aside after I did my duty—betrayed me—and I’ve left them.”
Bimisi nodded sagely. “You are...Mutation?”
Guy narrowed his eyes. “How did you...?” He tried to glance past Bimisi, see if anyone was waiting for confirmation, but Bimisi held up his hand to calm his guest. It even surprised Guy, but the simple gesture was all he needed. Bimisi had an air about him. He was to be trusted.
“Yes,” Guy confirmed.
“Yesterday I would have killed you,” Bimisi told him, not with spite or arrogance or menace, just as an observation. “You were the curse the White Man brought to this land. You do not come as other men, but with what looks like sickness. We do not want the White Man’s sickness. But today is different.” This time he smiled. “It is good that you have come today. Today you will not die.”
Guy leaned forward. “What’s so special about today?”
“Today I have learned that you and I are not as different as I believed.”
Now
Bimisi charged into the army camp without a second thought. His voice was a high-pitched war cry. Arrows whipped through the air above his head and speared men as they rose to face him. One directly ahead leveled his gun, but it was too late. Bimisi hacked him down with an effortless swing. His tomahawk dropped like a broken branch and sliced the soldier from stem to stern like it had cut through water. Then he danced to the side and pivoted to get out of the way of another man’s saber swing, and he caught the saber with his own blade, pulled down and hooked it, then twisted to make the wielder drop it. Before he could kill him, though, he heard the tread of another man behind, ducked and twisted again to take the newcomer at the ankle, and he watched the man fall even as he spun back around to chop the first man down before he could press the advantage.
Bimisi’s men descended from the hills after their last volley, all of them screaming and drowning out the orders of the ranking White Men. They set fire to the buildings. It was chaos, glorious chaos. Bimisi continued to lead his men deeper into the fray, and he was set upon by three soldiers at once. It was time. He folded the world in front of him, then expanded it so there was a hole, and he slipped into that hole so that he was behind them. If it was like it always was, people saw him move with uncanny speed and agility. None outside his band would know his secret. Once behind the soldiers, he whipped around and cut through two of their necks at once, and they both dropped to the ground, their heads crooked and half-removed. The third, a buffalo soldier, stared at him as if he did not want to fight, but his eyes were glazed with iron, and he attacked. Bimisi cut him down faster than the poor man could think.
Then came a sound from the foothills which surrounded the camp. Shots fired and arrows soared out of the night like descending claws, and he heard two of his men cry out. They fell, each of them with arrows in their limbs. The army had men on patrol—a distance guard! An ambush for those who would ambush them. They were not as foolish as they had appeared at first, and no doubt their Apache collaborators had helped them to arrange this. Nonetheless, they would not be deterred. Bimisi hollered a ululating cry of attack, and threw himself deeper. Blood sprayed away from him in torrents as he cut his way past soliders who came at him like ants attacking a spider, as he drove the points of their weapons away from him and put the point of his into their bodies. One after another they fell, as he gave himself over to the chaos, and his acute, sensitive ears could hear arrows before they reached him, which allowed him to dive out of their path before they struck. He dashed deeper still, to seek the army commander and kill him, and perhaps take his scalp home with him. And then...
Before
“This is the one who made loud fire at the White Man’s jail,” Delshay observed flatly. Bimisi looked expectantly at him, but Delshay did not seem impressed. Smoke puffed from the middle of his frown, and he stared at Guy, but neither Guy nor Bimisi knew exactly what he was looking for.
“I do not trust one such as him,” Delshay said at length. “He is Mutation.” The word carried extra weight when spoken by any Indian; it translated as “cursed” when they used it, quite literally, unlike the implied meaning when it was spoken by others. “His kind bring death.”
Delshay was remarkably still and stone-faced as he talked. He didn’t glare at Guy like people from cities and towns were wont to do. He didn’t curl his lip with disgust or even shift where he sat cross-legged within the confines of Bimisi’s tent. He didn’t move anything but his mouth, and sometimes his hands when he wanted to puff from his pipe. It gave him an air of superiority, whether he wanted one or not.
“He did not ask for this curse,” Bimisi told him. “I have treated him as a guest and he has not brought us harm. He was one of their army, and now he wishes to fight against them with us. He knows their ways. With him at our side, we can make them leave this land.”
“Perhaps,” Delshay intoned, “but we are not friends.”
Now
A lone figure stood in Bimisi’s path now. The sounds of combat carried on all around them as the army patrol closed the circle on his men. They were too clever to fall quickly, but the danger was obvious. As the base burned and drowned in blood, Delshay stared at him, impassive as ever.
“I saw you.”
It was vague, but it was enough. Bimisi’s mouth hung open, but at first he could not speak. He could tell by Delshay’s stance that the Yavapai chief intended to bar his path, but had not yet decided what to do.
“I did not know until the day before I met with the other one,” Bimisi explained at last. “It was a sign.”
Delshay did not move, but his frown deepened.
“There is no time. Our men will die!”
“I will not fight with you,” Delshay told him in a grave tone.
“Then what will you do?”
Delshay made a whooping call, summoning his men to leave the battlefield.
“You must not do this!” Bimisi shouted, but it was too late. Delshay would not listen. As hs men finished off their immediate targets and turned to retreat, the soldiers in the base pressed their sudden advantage on the attackers who remained. Some of Delshay’s men were felled by shots from the perimeter guards, who were not going to let them leave alive. It appeared that, like it or not, they would continue to fight together for a time.
Guy was busy. He ran from one building to the next, then rushed through the doorway and slaughtered whoever he found inside, unless they were civilians. There were not many who remained indoors, but occasionally he would find someone attempting to snipe through a window and he would kill them as quietly as possible with his saber. Then he found a young man cowering in a corner, and he could smell urine. He advanced into the poorly-lit room and stared down with contempt. The kid could barely look back at him. He held a piece of paper in his hands, but he had to squint to see it. Whatever it was, it was important to him, so important that it gave him solace in the midst of this awful battle. Guy approached him and tensed to use his saber, and he saw that the boy was completely unarmed.
An army boy. A U.S. Army boy. No more than eighteen. He would die alone in his barracks, holding...
...Guy reached out gently and took the edge of the paper between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t try to tug it out of the boy’s hand. Instead, he bent it back without creasing it and got a good look...
...holding a photograph of his parents.
“Make it quick,” the boy whispered, his teeth clenched, his eyes filled with tears.
Guy thrust the saber forward, then stopped. The point of the weapon touched the boy’s shirt, but didn’t penetrate.
“Get out of here,” Guy commanded him. The boy did as he was told. He scrambled out the door and didn’t look back, but whether he made it out of the base or not was anyone’s guess. Guy breathed a heavy sigh of relief, leaned on the window to apprise the situation and then reentered the fight.
“We must retreat!” Bimisi insisted. He and Guy were back-to-back after what felt like hours of further combat. They were surrounded, and the men who surrounded them were close. Most of Delshay’s men were dead, and Bimisi didn’t have many left either. Delshay and those who remained to him had broken the perimeter and had been pursued into the mountains, but they would be long gone by the end of night.
“How?” was all Guy could think to ask.
Bimisi took off. “This way.”
Guy followed him, and the remaining Apache joined the two of them in their retreat. They would go through the section of the base which was on fire and disappear into the smoke. Guy had to give Bimisi credit—he was a brilliant leader. It took them only a couple of minutes to escape into the mountains in the direction opposide Delshay, although who knew where Delshay went once they had gotten far enough ahead of their pursuers?
Bimisi put his hand on Guy’s arm. “I am honored to have fought with you, my friend.”
“The honor was mine,” Guy replied, and he meant it. “What do we do now?”
“We do nothing.”
“But...”
“We are weak now, and they are still strong. We have lost the Yavapai, and I do not know when they will come back, but when they do, they will be our enemies. And you...you do not like to kill those who used to be your friends. I could see that the battle was not easy for you. You will need time. You may come with us to live, to decide where to go next, but the fight is over for now.”
Guy shook his head, exhaled sharply in disbelief. “I cannot accept that. There’s too much at stake. My people need me to fight, even if they—if you--don’t know it yet. Rest assured, the world will be made to remember this second of September.”
“Perhaps you are right, Atsila...unlike your name.” Guy was reminded of Bimisi’s fit of laughter when he had been asked what his name meant. He chose not to respond to Bimisi’s offhand comment.Bimisi continued. “But until the oppressed can agree, the fight will not work. May the spirits take you to where you must go.”
“And you, my friend.”
He’d chuckled because they had increased their numbers in the days during Melissa Revere’s exodus from Phoenix. Even though Marshal Luther stood alone against the throng of Mutations who terrorized and departed from the town, even though the United States had not sent troops to assist him, clearly the military was concerned. The law prevented them from simply stepping in and quelling the chaos in Phoenix, but they were prepared to fight; perhaps they even secretly itched for an engagement. Well, Guy and his new friends would give them one.
The Regular folks feared Mutations for what some of them could do. Some said they were made different as a punishment from God, or a message—a message that mankind was not living a pious life on the frontier. They longed for the eradication of Mutations, Apache, anyone who could not conform. Even though the Apache and the White Man had a newfound respect and perceived need for one another in the face of the increased Mutation population, in some ways the Apache blamed the White Man. Like the White Man’s belief that Mutations were manifestations of God’s will, or else manifestations of Satan’s interference, the Apache took the same stance of a number of other Indian nations. Many of them believed Mutations were a curse brought by the White Man, who did not respect the land.
Guy whispered a silent prayer of thanks that not all Apache believed the same thing, and he turned to his companion, who crouched beside him on the mountainside.
“They sleep outside. Even if we kill the garrison, it won’t take long for the rest to wake up and turn their guns on us.”
His companion nodded his understanding. The camp consisted of many scattered adobes, as well as several straight rows of the same which served as the soldiers’ quarters. Sentries patrolled the grounds on horseback, armed with rifles and sabers. The heat was so unbearable to those stationed below that they would take their beds outside, or else sleep on the ground. Army discipline seemed to have slackened some since Guy had been an officer. Still, that could only serve to work to his benefit. Damn Revere and her rebellion. Damn the idea of a peaceful resolution. If Marshal Luther couldn’t be convinced to back down, if the Army hated Mutations enough to fortify their camp to this extent, then what hope was there?
Battle. Battle was their only hope. Beat them into submission, and their hearts and minds will follow.
“We strike hard, attack from both sides,” Chief Bimisi explained to his comrade. His name meant “slippery” in Apache, and he’d lived up to it. His raids had been untrackable and he was able to kill anyone he wanted to while masking his approach. This, however, would be a trifle different. Taking on an army base head-on would try his skills in a way nothing else thus far had. His eyes betrayed no worry; he was ready for a fight. Bimisi had a bow on his back and a tomahawk at his side. Both made for excellent ambush weapons in his capable hands.
“Three men to each side and the two of us kill the guards,” Bimisi went on. “Arrows will kill many of their men while they sleep, then we set fire to their homes. They already don’t like the heat; this will make it worse.”
Guy smiled at his friend’s ruthless attitude. “Are you sure I can’t make you carry a gun?”
“The gun is no friend to a true Apache,” Bimisi smiled back ruefully. “We never learned to use the White Man’s weapons and we do not need to learn now.”
“Fine. Just be caref—be quick.” Guy knew that it was useless to tell an Apache like Bimisi to be careful. He was too skilled, and it would only be an insult. Instead, he put his hand on Bimisi’s shoulder to signal assent and got to his feet, ready to climb down and begin the assault. He would wait at the bottom while Bimisi addressed his men, including the Yavapais who had agreed to take part in this joint attack. In an hour, the fighting would begin in earnest.
Night neared its invisible zenith. The moon was high in the sky, and it illuminated the enemy. Guy was tempted to draw his saber and put it through one man’s chest, then slit another man’s throat, to yell himself hoarse as he went on a bloody rampage. But honor demanded decorum, and anyway, it would get him killed. So he took out his pistol and aimed it at the flank of a horse one of the guards rode. His hiding place was barely adequate, a copse of tiny bushes which, if scrutinized for more than a half-second, would not serve to conceal him. He would have to act fast.
Boom!
The horse bucked and tossed its rider to the ground. The second guard galloped in Guy’s direction, and Guy fired once, twice, three times, with the final shot a success. The horse’s eye socket exploded and a spray of blood and bone fell to the ground behind it. The rider was pitched off of its back and he landed on the ground in a heap. He was down, but not out.
Guy heard guards cry out all around the perimeter, and knew his friends enjoyed the same success as him. The camp was in disarray, and as Guy finished off the fallen guard from close range before he could regain his senses, he heard men inside the camp scramble and shout as they were besieged by a rain of arrows.
This is what it’s come to, he thought bitterly, as he remembered his days with both the Army and the Navy. Killing my own former comrades-in-arms. Still, they signed up for this, they knew what they were getting themselves into...so why do I grieve over my decision? They’ve forced my hand, forged me into this...my brothers-in-arms now are my fellow Mutations. I dare not forget it.
Before
Days after his run-in with the Marshal, that infernal pretender to the throne of righteousness, Guy Dawkins had staggered to the edge of an Apache camp and collapsed from his wounds and dehydration combined. They gathered him up and dragged him to a tent to heal him as best they could, and their leader came to speak with him. Bimisi was the first thing Guy saw when he opened his eyes, and he was just staring at him like he had all the time in the world, though it was not unnerving in the least.
He was a hard man, Bimisi. His eyes spoke of wisdom-infused steel, the kind that came with age. Bimisi was, perhaps, a decade younger than Guy, who was himself a veteran of the Civil War. His people had left them alone to speak, a sign of respect on two levels, and the first thing Bimisi did was to hold out his hand to Guy—his own show of respect. Guy, still on his back, forced himself to sit up and take Bimisi’s hand without wincing at the pain.
“This is how the White Man says hello,” he spoke as if he were announcing it, his low voice tinged with amusement. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly with good humor.
“Hello,” Guy replied simply.
“I see them at their army camp, not far away,” Bimisi continued. “They come to shed our blood, but they love each other very much. Many times I see them stand still together, and touch hands.” Guy stared at him, wondering at his strange assesment of army behavior. “They try to hide their feelings with hard faces and with yelling, but I can see it still.” Bimisi turned to take a wet cloth from a basin next to the bed, and his smirk betrayed him. Guy couldn’t help but chuckle. Bimisi continued. “You have the weapons like some of them, but not the same clothes. You are a leader?”
Guy accepted the wet cloth and began to dab at his fresh burns, which stung like a sudden burst of steam. He shook his head. “I was a soldier, a long time ago. My people cast me aside after I did my duty—betrayed me—and I’ve left them.”
Bimisi nodded sagely. “You are...Mutation?”
Guy narrowed his eyes. “How did you...?” He tried to glance past Bimisi, see if anyone was waiting for confirmation, but Bimisi held up his hand to calm his guest. It even surprised Guy, but the simple gesture was all he needed. Bimisi had an air about him. He was to be trusted.
“Yes,” Guy confirmed.
“Yesterday I would have killed you,” Bimisi told him, not with spite or arrogance or menace, just as an observation. “You were the curse the White Man brought to this land. You do not come as other men, but with what looks like sickness. We do not want the White Man’s sickness. But today is different.” This time he smiled. “It is good that you have come today. Today you will not die.”
Guy leaned forward. “What’s so special about today?”
“Today I have learned that you and I are not as different as I believed.”
Now
Bimisi charged into the army camp without a second thought. His voice was a high-pitched war cry. Arrows whipped through the air above his head and speared men as they rose to face him. One directly ahead leveled his gun, but it was too late. Bimisi hacked him down with an effortless swing. His tomahawk dropped like a broken branch and sliced the soldier from stem to stern like it had cut through water. Then he danced to the side and pivoted to get out of the way of another man’s saber swing, and he caught the saber with his own blade, pulled down and hooked it, then twisted to make the wielder drop it. Before he could kill him, though, he heard the tread of another man behind, ducked and twisted again to take the newcomer at the ankle, and he watched the man fall even as he spun back around to chop the first man down before he could press the advantage.
Bimisi’s men descended from the hills after their last volley, all of them screaming and drowning out the orders of the ranking White Men. They set fire to the buildings. It was chaos, glorious chaos. Bimisi continued to lead his men deeper into the fray, and he was set upon by three soldiers at once. It was time. He folded the world in front of him, then expanded it so there was a hole, and he slipped into that hole so that he was behind them. If it was like it always was, people saw him move with uncanny speed and agility. None outside his band would know his secret. Once behind the soldiers, he whipped around and cut through two of their necks at once, and they both dropped to the ground, their heads crooked and half-removed. The third, a buffalo soldier, stared at him as if he did not want to fight, but his eyes were glazed with iron, and he attacked. Bimisi cut him down faster than the poor man could think.
Then came a sound from the foothills which surrounded the camp. Shots fired and arrows soared out of the night like descending claws, and he heard two of his men cry out. They fell, each of them with arrows in their limbs. The army had men on patrol—a distance guard! An ambush for those who would ambush them. They were not as foolish as they had appeared at first, and no doubt their Apache collaborators had helped them to arrange this. Nonetheless, they would not be deterred. Bimisi hollered a ululating cry of attack, and threw himself deeper. Blood sprayed away from him in torrents as he cut his way past soliders who came at him like ants attacking a spider, as he drove the points of their weapons away from him and put the point of his into their bodies. One after another they fell, as he gave himself over to the chaos, and his acute, sensitive ears could hear arrows before they reached him, which allowed him to dive out of their path before they struck. He dashed deeper still, to seek the army commander and kill him, and perhaps take his scalp home with him. And then...
Before
“This is the one who made loud fire at the White Man’s jail,” Delshay observed flatly. Bimisi looked expectantly at him, but Delshay did not seem impressed. Smoke puffed from the middle of his frown, and he stared at Guy, but neither Guy nor Bimisi knew exactly what he was looking for.
“I do not trust one such as him,” Delshay said at length. “He is Mutation.” The word carried extra weight when spoken by any Indian; it translated as “cursed” when they used it, quite literally, unlike the implied meaning when it was spoken by others. “His kind bring death.”
Delshay was remarkably still and stone-faced as he talked. He didn’t glare at Guy like people from cities and towns were wont to do. He didn’t curl his lip with disgust or even shift where he sat cross-legged within the confines of Bimisi’s tent. He didn’t move anything but his mouth, and sometimes his hands when he wanted to puff from his pipe. It gave him an air of superiority, whether he wanted one or not.
“He did not ask for this curse,” Bimisi told him. “I have treated him as a guest and he has not brought us harm. He was one of their army, and now he wishes to fight against them with us. He knows their ways. With him at our side, we can make them leave this land.”
“Perhaps,” Delshay intoned, “but we are not friends.”
Now
A lone figure stood in Bimisi’s path now. The sounds of combat carried on all around them as the army patrol closed the circle on his men. They were too clever to fall quickly, but the danger was obvious. As the base burned and drowned in blood, Delshay stared at him, impassive as ever.
“I saw you.”
It was vague, but it was enough. Bimisi’s mouth hung open, but at first he could not speak. He could tell by Delshay’s stance that the Yavapai chief intended to bar his path, but had not yet decided what to do.
“I did not know until the day before I met with the other one,” Bimisi explained at last. “It was a sign.”
Delshay did not move, but his frown deepened.
“There is no time. Our men will die!”
“I will not fight with you,” Delshay told him in a grave tone.
“Then what will you do?”
Delshay made a whooping call, summoning his men to leave the battlefield.
“You must not do this!” Bimisi shouted, but it was too late. Delshay would not listen. As hs men finished off their immediate targets and turned to retreat, the soldiers in the base pressed their sudden advantage on the attackers who remained. Some of Delshay’s men were felled by shots from the perimeter guards, who were not going to let them leave alive. It appeared that, like it or not, they would continue to fight together for a time.
Guy was busy. He ran from one building to the next, then rushed through the doorway and slaughtered whoever he found inside, unless they were civilians. There were not many who remained indoors, but occasionally he would find someone attempting to snipe through a window and he would kill them as quietly as possible with his saber. Then he found a young man cowering in a corner, and he could smell urine. He advanced into the poorly-lit room and stared down with contempt. The kid could barely look back at him. He held a piece of paper in his hands, but he had to squint to see it. Whatever it was, it was important to him, so important that it gave him solace in the midst of this awful battle. Guy approached him and tensed to use his saber, and he saw that the boy was completely unarmed.
An army boy. A U.S. Army boy. No more than eighteen. He would die alone in his barracks, holding...
...Guy reached out gently and took the edge of the paper between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t try to tug it out of the boy’s hand. Instead, he bent it back without creasing it and got a good look...
...holding a photograph of his parents.
“Make it quick,” the boy whispered, his teeth clenched, his eyes filled with tears.
Guy thrust the saber forward, then stopped. The point of the weapon touched the boy’s shirt, but didn’t penetrate.
“Get out of here,” Guy commanded him. The boy did as he was told. He scrambled out the door and didn’t look back, but whether he made it out of the base or not was anyone’s guess. Guy breathed a heavy sigh of relief, leaned on the window to apprise the situation and then reentered the fight.
“We must retreat!” Bimisi insisted. He and Guy were back-to-back after what felt like hours of further combat. They were surrounded, and the men who surrounded them were close. Most of Delshay’s men were dead, and Bimisi didn’t have many left either. Delshay and those who remained to him had broken the perimeter and had been pursued into the mountains, but they would be long gone by the end of night.
“How?” was all Guy could think to ask.
Bimisi took off. “This way.”
Guy followed him, and the remaining Apache joined the two of them in their retreat. They would go through the section of the base which was on fire and disappear into the smoke. Guy had to give Bimisi credit—he was a brilliant leader. It took them only a couple of minutes to escape into the mountains in the direction opposide Delshay, although who knew where Delshay went once they had gotten far enough ahead of their pursuers?
Bimisi put his hand on Guy’s arm. “I am honored to have fought with you, my friend.”
“The honor was mine,” Guy replied, and he meant it. “What do we do now?”
“We do nothing.”
“But...”
“We are weak now, and they are still strong. We have lost the Yavapai, and I do not know when they will come back, but when they do, they will be our enemies. And you...you do not like to kill those who used to be your friends. I could see that the battle was not easy for you. You will need time. You may come with us to live, to decide where to go next, but the fight is over for now.”
Guy shook his head, exhaled sharply in disbelief. “I cannot accept that. There’s too much at stake. My people need me to fight, even if they—if you--don’t know it yet. Rest assured, the world will be made to remember this second of September.”
“Perhaps you are right, Atsila...unlike your name.” Guy was reminded of Bimisi’s fit of laughter when he had been asked what his name meant. He chose not to respond to Bimisi’s offhand comment.Bimisi continued. “But until the oppressed can agree, the fight will not work. May the spirits take you to where you must go.”
“And you, my friend.”
