Apache Caress by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress Page A

middle twenties. Not a great beauty by Gill’s standards; not flashy enough, still there was something almost haunting about those big, dark eyes. He knew suddenly what it was; her eyes reminded him of that Apache girl’s.
    Gill crossed the street, staring after the little covered wagon as it approached the bridge patrol. At noon there was a jam, for Corporal Finney stopped each and every wagon and carriage for inspection just as he’d been ordered. Gill snorted. That damned Cholla wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to cross the Mississippi here; that would be foolhardy even for the Army’s best Apache scout. When the tracker dogs arrived tomorrow and picked up his trail along the railroad tracks, they’d run him down soon enough.
    Blast it all, what had he done with the address? Gill fumbled in his pocket for the scrap of paper, remembering his late friend’s words: If you’re ever in the area, go see Trixie. She’ll give you a time you won’t forget. Just remember to bring plenty of that patent medicine.
    He had that, all right. Gill clutched the big sack full of bottles and went up the creaking stairs of the rundown hotel. Since Trixie lived so close to the bridge, it wouldn’t hurt if he took just a few minutes off and left young Finney in charge. They’d catch that Apache bastard, all right, but it wouldn’t be here. More than likely, Cholla was dozens of miles downriver by now, still trying to find a narrow place to cross. Like any wild beast, he would try to head back to familiar haunts; too naive to realize how hopeless it was for a man alone to go that far. Dead or alive. That was what the brass had said. Gill hoped it was dead. And he wanted to be the one who fired that shot. After all, it was his Army career that was in jeopardy because of the Apache’s escape.
    Checking the scrap of paper again, he paused before a numbered door, rapped sharply. A frowsy woman with unusually large breasts, wearing a soiled green satin robe, opened it, still pushing her dyed black hair out of her eyes. “Yeah?”
    Was it dyed to hide the gray? She was pretty in a flashy way, but she wasn’t all that young, or maybe she had just lived hard and fast.
    “Miss La Femme, you don’t know me, but I’m Lieutenant Gillen. We share a mutual friend; he told me to look you up if I was ever in this area.”
    “Yeah? Who’s the friend?” Her heavily painted mouth smiled suspiciously as she looked him up and down.
    He wondered if she was as good in bed as his buddy had bragged? “I should have said late friend, I guess.” Gill gave her his friendliest, warmest smile. “Lieutenant Forester. Lieutenant Robert Forester.”
     
     
    Sierra drove the mule toward the bridge. “What should I do?” she whispered. “There’re soldiers on the bridge!”
    “Keep your eyes straight ahead.” The Indian put his hand on her back again. She felt the heat of his fingers through the black fabric. “Let me think a minute.”
    A cavalry lieutenant about her own age, with a mouthful of something and a sack held in one arm, stared at her from the curb. His head was bandaged, and he wore a scowl.
    “By Usen,” she heard the Indian behind her mutter, “Gillen! I thought the sonovabitch was dead. I ought to–”
    The lieutenant crossed the street and headed for a seedy-looking hotel.
    “Nothing I can do about it now,” Cholla said. His tone matched Sierra’s murderous anger at the savage who had invaded her life, added to her problems.
    She looked at the bridge ahead. “Why don’t you just surrender? Aren’t you tired of taking chances when you know you can’t win?” She hated him, but she couldn’t help but admire his nerve and determination. People must conform to survive; hadn’t Grandfather drilled that into her head?
    “Surrender?” The Indian sneered. “I’d rather die trying to escape.”
    “Maybe I should turn around and go back,” Sierra said, staring straight ahead, “We haven’t a chance of getting across