WHAT WENT WRONG in a blood soaked ravine down in Mexico was unavoidable—a
misunderstanding. He had no choice. He did what he did and now he is on the
run. Not that an Apache scout shooting another Apache scout is unforgivable, but
he rides off on a white-eye cavalry officer’s prized horse.
A
sorry-looking skeleton of a young man, his olive-drab breeches sag in the hind
end. Long and slim, his features sharp. A persistent toothsome uplift of his
mouth lacks warmth. He carries a weary expression all the time like he’s slinking
around. Like he’s always hungry giving the impression that he’s miserably
forsaken. None of it true, for the most part.
Shoodii
Bill’s job is simple; bring back Lieutenant Ely’s horse stolen by the Mexicans.
However, hidden in the shadows his whole life, and nearly forgotten, a voice,
barely a whisper, floats on the heated air—“Shik’isn
Ba’ ts’ose,” Could it be the
sound of the wind or is it coming from his Sargent who openly holds him in
disdain? Tremors shake his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he claps his hands
over his ears shaking his head to dislodge the whispering voice.
And
for reasons unknown to the other Apache scouts, Shoodii Bill raises his rifle
and shoots Sergeant Big Chow, an Apache scout. The sergeant drops from sight. Shoodii
Bill knows he cannot explain his peculiar reason for shooting the sergeant. No
one moves a muscle to stop him as he swings aboard the big bay and lights out.
The
Calvary calls it murder and desertion. Shoodii Bill sees it differently.
No one will believe his story. He knows this to be true from living among the
white-eyes. They consider him an Indian and never trust him. To the Apache he is
said to be a Ch’iin—an evil spirit—a
ghost. How Shoodii Bill came to live with the white-eyes and ride with the
Apache scouts down into Mexico, chasing Mexican horse thieves, and his flight
into the great unknown, is a long story . . .
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