The Story of Geronimo
Copyright© 2025 by Jim Kjelgaard
Chapter 5: Flight
Light from a thin slice of moon glanced from the Bavispe River, stole through thinly leaved trees, and painted a lichen-crusted boulder with moonbeams.
But the moonlight made not the faintest impression in the grove of thick-limbed, heavy-trunked trees on the river’s bank. Beneath the trees it was black enough for devils to dance. But any devils who might have been there would have been frightened away by the Apaches who had come to Mexico in peace but who knew now that there must be war. This grove was their appointed rendezvous should anything go amiss while they were trading.
Geronimo sat as though he had lost everything that made him alive but was still not dead. He knew dimly that Mangus Coloradus was talking in low tones with men whom Geronimo was too dazed to recognize.
The Mimbreno chief said, “We must go to our village.”
“And leave our dead?” The question was laden with heartbreak.
Mangus Coloradus said, “We are deep in enemy country, with few arms, no food, and no horses. Is there another way?”
“I will not go,” Nadeze said firmly.
“Then you will not return to meet again those who massacred our people,” said the chief.
“Return?” Nadeze was puzzled.
“We will come again,” Mangus Coloradus promised, “but with warriors only.”
“Ha!” Nadeze snarled like an angry puma. “If my dead know that, they will forgive me for leaving! I must go and tell them!”
Others announced their intention to return to the encampment for one last visit with their dead.
“Go we may, but we must go cautiously and we must not linger,” Mangus Coloradus said. “The rurales may still await us there. If they do not, the night is our friend. And we must ask our friend to shield us while we travel far.”
A clear thought penetrated Geronimo’s numbed brain. At the time when the massacre must have occurred, the people of Kas-Kai-Ya had set up a deafening racket. Why, if not to make it impossible for the warriors in town to hear rifle shots?
The thought faded and Geronimo was again a live body with a numbed brain and sick soul. He understood dully that they must return to their village, but that first they would have one last visit at the encampment. He rose only because the others did, and started out of the grove.
They found and traveled the trail to the Apache encampment. It was a bold move and, under a lesser chief than Mangus Coloradus, might have been disastrous. But the Mimbreno chief had rightly decided that Mexicans gauged Apache hearts by their own. If such a disaster had stricken Mexicans, the survivors would never have dared show themselves on the trail. Neither would they have visited the scene of the massacre.
When the angry and grief-stricken Apaches reached the encampment, they found that the rurales had left. The moon was merciful. The crumpled figures that lay all about seemed like so many sleeping persons.
Geronimo sought the wickiup where he had left his family.
He stopped suddenly. Alope lay full length before him, head turned and cheek resting on her right hand. Her long black hair tumbled at her side. Many times had Geronimo watched her sleep in just such a fashion, and now she seemed asleep. But she did not wake.
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