The large black and white pinto halted behind a cluster of willows near the edge
of a small pond on a late summer afternoon. A young warrior eased off his horse’s back and started toward the sound of splashing water.
Named for Geromino’s grandfather, he felt the pride of his name, Maco. He was Chiricahua Apache. He was enemy. Taller than most, Maco stood over six feet tall, with broad shoulders covered by a blue soldier coat tightly fitted on his hard frame.
The splashing grew louder. Maco crept closer to the water and adjusted his war lance in his rough hands. He felt the wet earth through his leather moccasins and remembered when the earth was not so soft beneath his feet. To become a man, he had been forced to survive in the desert and mountains for two full moons with nothing but his own brute strength and cunning. Using the knowledge and instructions given him as a child by his parents, he mastered the first test required of him.
Maco, not yet a chief, knew his time was soon. The other braves admired him when he won wrestling matches or finished first in the water and foot races. He could run more than five miles holding a mouthful of water without spilling or swallowing any. In his wickiup, Maco hoisted the most scalps from the hated Comanches and Mexicans. It was pleasure and custom for the Apache to steal horses and Maco enjoyed more pleasure than any other warrior.
At the water’s edge now, Maco crouched and parted the tall reeds with his thick fingers. His wide, deep-set black eyes, with a constant determined look, relaxed when he
saw the slender young Indian woman. She stood under a gentle waterfall, across the shallow pond, spraying cool water on her small breasts. Her dark-brown nipples stood
straight out and for a long time Maco watched her play in the water. His nostrils, flaring like a giant stallion whenever danger threatened, breathed in a different manner now. He had never felt such a sensation before and wondered about the dark beauty glistening in the water.
The girl turned. Maco raised his head. Seeing him, she dropped her arms, covered herself. Maco made no move and she stood quiet staring at the Apache brave with long, straight, black hair hanging loose on his shoulders. A wide strip of white paint spread across his broad nose and hard cheekbones made him look even more ferocious. She knew his tight lips, above his full square jaw, would never open to pain.
Maco adjusted the buckskin war band on his weathered forehead and started toward her. The maiden never moved, but followed his penetrating eyes as he toured her every part. She let out a short breath when he stopped after a few steps, realizing his inspection of her seemed to please him. Then she walked through the water and gathered her clothes on the bank. Maco thought she looked Cheyenne but saw it was a Comanche dress she put on. He looked around the pond. Would a young Comanche warrior come looking for his woman?
He motioned with his lance and she obeyed his silent command to go with him. Maco mounted the big pinto first and the girl climbed on behind him. As they trotted away from the pool, he felt her warm body against his back. Her hands tugged at his
waist and her feet held tight against his leather leggings. Eyes straight ahead, ears alert, new sensations flashed through his mind. This woman would be Apache.
Renowned Arizona lawman Jacob Golden is having terrible nightmares. He dreams he’s locked in a battle to the death with a demon from hell that consumes human flesh.
Golden’s a man who fears little, yet this haunting vision terrifies him to
In this collection of Western fiction, I’ve endeavored to bring the reader a little laughter at the expense of my characters, even though they are at times engaged in life threatening adventures. Learn to say something nice to all of your enemies l
In this collection of Western fiction, I’ve endeavored to bring the reader a little laughter at the expense of my characters, even though they are at times engaged in life threatening adventures. Learn to say something nice to all of your enemies l
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