Apache Moon by Len Levinson Read Free Book Online

swallowed hard, because death would be nothing compared to what could happen to Phyllis. He flashed on the monasteryin the clouds, where every day was like the last, full of prayers, books, and bread baked in the monastery ovens.
    I'm here because of animal lust, he confessed to himself. Then he recalled Proverbs 6:27: Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?
    He glanced ahead at the convoluted passageway, and the climb had only just begun. Just keep going, he told himself. You can't be delicate in front of these damned injuns.
    Marshal Dan Stowe examined his equipment one last time, as potbellied Mr. Gibson puffed a Pittsburgh stogie. They were standing at the hitching rail in front of Gibson's General Store, and the lawman made certain the cinches weren't too tight on his riding horse or the load unevenly distributed on his packhorse, a sad-faced creature with long ears always in motion, listening for news.
    â€œWhat'll you do if you run into Apaches?” Mr. Gibson asked, flicking an ash off his stogie.
    â€œThe trick is not to run into them in the first place.”
    â€œThey say they got eyes in the backs of their heads.”
    â€œSo do I.” Marshal Stowe placed his boot toe into the stirrup and raised himself into the saddle. “If any letters come for me, hold them till I get back. And if Idon't get back, forward them to the U.S. Marshal's office, San Antone.” The lawman touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat as the horses pulled into the street. He settled into the saddle, adjusted his hat low over his eyes, and rode toward the edge of town, rocking in the saddle with the motion of his horse's hooves.
    He'd gone on many man-hunting expeditions, and it was a matter of simple persistence, unless the Apaches had found Braddock and Miss Thornton first. At the edge of town, a door opened in front of a familiar house and a tall blonde wearing a purple ankle-length dress appeared. Marshal Stowe pulled back his reins and the horses came to a halt beside Mrs. Vanessa Dawes. She looked at him solemnly and said, “I understand that you've spoken to my husband.”
    â€œHe refused to withdraw his charges, ma'am. I'm sorry.”
    â€œThat bastard!” she said bitterly. Then she tried to smile. “Just promise me one thing. Please don't shoot first and ask questions afterward. And please be gentle with him. I know that you have no reason to trust me, but Duane really is a decent boy. I can look you straight in the eye and tell you that he isn't a murderer.”
    Marshal Stowe couldn't help grinning at the fervor of her plea. “What about all the people he shot, and the ones he punched in the mouth?”
    â€œThere's always some bully who wants to pick a fight with him. Is he supposed to lie down and let them do it?”

    He placed his arm on the pommel and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Dawes—if it will help your beautiful head to rest more easily at night, I promise that I'll be extremely reasonable with Duane Braddock, and I won't rattle him in any way.”
    â€œGod bless you,” she replied with a sigh of relief.
    He touched his spurs to the belly of his horse, tipped his hat, and the animals plodded on to the darkening sage.

CHAPTER 3

    S MALL, DARK HUTS WERE SCATTERED over a hilltop in the midst of ravines and steep gorges. A waterfall in the distance made a constant dull roaring, and sentries were posted high on the ridges, watching for the approach of enemies. If Duane hadn't come here himself, he wouldn't have believed that people could live in such a remote godforsaken spot.
    The huts were as tall as an Apache, constructed of branches and animal skins. The entrances all faced east, and they were small hovels with no windows, quite different from tepees of the Plains Indians or hogans of the Navaho. Duane, Phyllis, and the warriors advanced toward the camp, while Apaches of bothsexes and all ages emerged from the huts. The women wore