Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian Read Free Book Online Page B

opportunity to do so. She would never even
discuss the matter. “Everybody hits white water some time or
other,” was all she would say, and again, he instinctively knew as
she said it she was talking more about herself than him. “You just
have to get past it.”
    He went softly up the stair to the bedroom
where he found Jessye sprawled across her bed, the duvet kicked
off, both her arms thrown over her head, her long, light brown hair
slightly damp with perspiration. Because she wouldn’t wear pajamas,
he had some T-shirts done with silly names on them for her to wear
to bed. The one she was wearing tonight said ‘Mrs. Ticklespot.’
There was a place just above her third rib you only had to touch
and she’d explode with giggles. That was where the name had come
from.
    She looked angelic and Easton smiled as he
remembered an old saying: ‘The devil was an angel, too’. He kissed
his daughter very gently on the forehead so as not to wake her. She
smelled of No More Tears.
    “I love you, Mrs. Ticklespot,” he
whispered.
    As he came down the stairs he heard the ping
of the microwave. Grita had heated up the burritos and some refried
beans and set a place for him at the pine table in the kitchen.
Coffee was gurgling through the machine.
    “Sit,” she told him. “Eat.”
    “You still mad at me?”
    She h’mphed. “Jessye got a gold star at
school today.”
    “I could use one of those myself,” he said
ruefully.
    “She wanted to tell you herself.”
    He sighed and got up to get a Rolling Rock
out of the fridge, took a chug as he stood there, then sat down.
The burritos were good and hot. There were a lot of Mexican
restaurants in Riverside that made good burritos, but nobody made
them the way Grita did.
    “We made an arrest in the Casey murder,” he
told her. “That’s why I was late.”
    It was his way of explaining why he hadn’t
been home in time to say goodnight to Jessye and hear how she got a
gold star. Grita knew it, too. It was kind of a code they had
devised. She nodded, which meant it was okay now.
    “It was on the news. They said an Apache.
That surprise me.”
    “Why?”
    “Apache like the Mafia, usually only kill
each other,” she said. “Must be nearly ninety years since a
Mescalero killed a white man.”
    “This guy’s not a Mescalero, he’s a
Chiricahua,” he said.
    She gave a tiny shrug. “Same difference.”
    Easton was intrigued. “How come you know
about Apache?”
    She tried to look inscrutable and he hid a
grin. Margarita Gutierrez, woman of mystery. “Plenty of us
Chihuahuans got a little bit Apache in them,” she said.
    One thing Grita hated above all was political
correctness. She would not use the word ‘Hispanic.’ With her, it
was a straight call: people of Spanish descent who lived in the US
were Mexican-American. Or Chihuahuan. Or Venezuelan or Caribbean or
Puerto Rican or Chilean. But never Hispanic. She said only those
sinverguenzas the politicians would make ‘Mexican’ a dirty
word.
    “You want to tell me some more about Apache?”
he asked her.
    She frowned. “Like what?”
    “How they tick. Why they act like they
do.”
    “They Apache,” she said with a shrug, like
explanation was unnecessary. Or impossible.
    “Come on, Grita.”
    She sighed and settled not ungratefully into
a chair opposite him at the table.
    “Listen, patrón. Apache not like you, not
even like me. They live different. Think different.”
    “How, for instance?”
    “Just … different. Different way of looking
at life. Different beliefs, different needs. You know what Apache
call white men?”
    “Biliga’ana?” Easton guessed.
    She shook her head. “That’s Navajo. To their
face, Apache call white men indaa, sort of means Anglo. But when
there’s no white men around, the diehards use the old Apache name,
pinda’ lick’ oye.”
    He repeated the word. “What does it
mean?”
    “Something like ‘white eyes.’ It’s not a
compliment.”
    “What about Mexican