Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 12: Plague Shadows
The firelight carved hollows beneath Thomas’ eyes as he studied the crude map Winona had scratched into the dirt – Comanchero trails branching like infected veins across the territory.
“We can’t burn every infected camp,” Wind Rider muttered. “But we can choke the trade routes. Send Yellow Hair out with our pox remedies. He’s immune. That means he can’t get the pox. Take any goods they offer in trade. If it’s metal, okay. But if it might be carrying the pox, just burn it after the trade. If they have nothing to trade, just give ‘em the pox med.”
So when Yellow Hair and Baya had a goodly supply of medicine, they headed for Santa Fe again — with a small party of warriors as an escort. It seems that Tall Pine had been the one to give Yellow Hair a moccasin kick in the behind about claiming Baya, officially unofficial. It seems that Yellow Hair’s Apache skills had progressed significantly since he’d moved in with Baya. And she didn’t mind at all. After all, she learned to practice making babies in a Green Beret style that was — not new exactly — but different than the Kiowa method that her mother had taught her when she was growing up.
Three days out from the Apache village — and two days from Santa Fe — they came across a Comanchero group. Two were healthy and one near death from pox. The Comanchero leader left the dying man at the side of the trail and rode on.
The next day, Yellow Hair stopped at the body of the now-dead man and called to Baya. He looked at her, and said, “Baya, my love. Do you trust me?”
She looked at him and the dead body. “Of course. But why ask now?”
“Because THIS is the most important thing I can do. I will make you not able to get the pox ever. But you must trust that I know what I am doing.” He held her left arm and got out his multi-tool. He flipped it to the knife and scratched her shoulder, ‘til it drew blood.
“Do you wish to mark me as yours...?”
Dawson bent down to the dead man and scraped some of the pus from an active wound. Then he turned to Baya. She looked at him, tears in her eyes; she turned her face away. She didn’t flinch when he wiped the pus-covered blade on the scratch on her arm, and covered it with a strip of cloth from his med kit and tied a knot around her arm. “Now drink this.” He poured some of the pox med from a water skin, and pushed a button on his wristwatch.
Baya took the waterskin and drank. She made a face. “It tastes terrible.”
“I am glad. That means you got the medicine,” Dawson said with a grin. “You will be fine.”
The accompanying Apache warriors watched, concerned. But a man could do anything to his woman. He had made a public claim on Baya, and she’d accepted him. He could do anything, even kill her. But not this way. He made her sick with the pox, and Wind Rider had drummed it into their minds that anyone who had pox could not be let into the village.
They nocked arrows in their bows. The leader of the party, Bent Bow, one of the Kiowa who came with Baya to the new Apache village, said, “We go back, now, to the Apache encampment. Baya must stay outside.”
Yellow Hair acknowledged the situation. “I will stay with her. You will see that she is NOT infected with the pox. I understand your concern. Tell Wind Rider.”
The group turned the wagon and their horses back to the Apache village. In one hour, Dawson’s watch beeped. He unwrapped Baya’s arm and wiped off the remaining pus and applied a paste of the pox medicine over her arm. Then he wrapped it again with a new bandage. He turned her face to his and gave her a long kiss on the lips.
Two and a half days later, they approached the village. Wind Rider rode out to greet the party, with Tall Pine close at hand. “How goes it, Yellow Hair?” he asked in Apache.
“Going well, in general. She had a fever on the first night. We treated that with willow bark and the pitcher plant paste, directly on the inoculation site,” Yellow Hair replied.
Baya lifted her arm, peeling back the bandage with deliberate calm. The scratch had scabbed over cleanly—no blisters, no angry red streaks. Tall Pine leaned close, sniffing suspiciously, then grunted approval. “No rotting flesh smell.”
Wind Rider exhaled through his nose. Behind him, warriors lowered their bows incrementally. “Four days,” he muttered. “No pox?”
“None,” Baya confirmed, flexing her fingers. “Just itchiness where he cut me.” She shot Dawson a look that mixed exasperation and reluctant awe. “Your magic works slowly.”
Dawson thumbed the watch face – still counting. “Another three days to be certain.” The scent of juniper smoke curled from the village fires, masking the lingering medicinal bitterness clinging to Baya’s bandages.
Helmut emerged from Thomas’ wickiup, wiping blackened hands on his breeches. “The rotor alloy – “ He stopped mid-sentence, staring at Baya’s exposed forearm. “You tested the inoculation?”
Thomas shouldered past him, his gaze locking onto Dawson’s. Neither man spoke – just a fractional nod exchanged between soldiers who’d gambled lives before.