Chapter One

      September 1, 1885, Sonora Desert, Mexico

      It is a good day to die, Kuchana thought, standing at one end of the Apache encampment at Rio Aros. She listened to the women wailing out their grief. Hot, blinding tears filled her eyes, and she shut them, hanging her head so that no one would see her weep. Her sister’s last child had died minutes ago from starvation. The Mexican soldiers, soldatos, had been hunting Geronimo’s group relentlessly for the past two weeks. There had been no time to hunt. Although the warriors, twenty in all, had given their families what little food they could find along the trail, it hadn’t been enough. Ealae’s four-year-old daughter had now gone to the Big Sleep.

      Sniffing, Kuchana wiped away the tears with the back of her thin cotton sleeve. She was a warrior. Warriors showed only bravery and fearlessness in the face of their enemies. Opening her eyes, she raised her head again. Holos, the sun, was about to brim the craggy mountains that stood in silent testimony to the scene before them. For his people, Holos was the symbol of life. Just as he greeted them, without fail, each morning, so would the Apache continue to survive. Kuchana’s heart felt torn, and she placed her hand against her breast.

      So many of her people had died as the soldatos and U.S. Army had mercilessly hunted them down after they’d escaped the reservation near Fort Apache. As she knelt on the dry, arid ground, Kuchana’s black hair fell across her shoulders, acting as a curtain to hide the haunted expression on her face. If Geronimo caught her shedding tears, he would be disgusted with her. After all, she was his best tracker, and one of four women riding with him who wore the third braid of a warrior.

      What could she do to stop the slaughter of her people? There were few Chiricahua left. Why couldn’t Geronimo see the wisdom of going back to the reservation? The screeching wail of her sister, Ealae, made Kuchana flinch. In her eighteen years of life, all she could recall was the continued death and murder of her people.

      It is a good day to die. The words cartwheeled through her grief-stricken mind. Her people were being slowly starved to death. They were being pursued and cold-bloodedly murdered. Lifting her chin, Kuchana stared out across the sparse encampment. Groups of families huddled here and there, the horses weary, their heads hanging. She saw Geronimo walking to each family, giving encouragement to those who had chosen to flee into the desert with him.

      Something must be done. Kuchana raised her face to the sun, watching the first brilliant rays top the rocky, desolate crags to the east. Just as the rays struck her, she heard the shrill cry of a golden eagle. Looking up, she saw the huge bird circling high above them. A cold shiver wound up her spine. Painted Woman had answered her prayers. Slowly, she got to her feet, singling out Geronimo. Her hand clutching the butt of the knife she carried at her waist, Kuchana moved grimly toward the Apache leader. It didn’t matter if Geronimo killed her or not, she must speak her heart regarding the plight of her people.

      “Geronimo?”

      “Eh?” He turned, his flinty black eyes settling on the woman warrior. “Kuchana? What is it?”

      She came to a halt, realizing they stood in the center of the encampment. Did it matter? Within minutes her people would know of her decision. “I’ve prayed long and hard on what I should do,” Kuchana croaked, her mouth dry.

      Geronimo scowled. “What do you say?”

      Her hand tightening on the knife, Kuchana knew she must be strong. “I have lost another cousin. My sister lost her husband and now, she has no more children left.”

      “We have all lost family,” Geronimo said hoarsely. “My own wife and children were murdered by the culo-gordos. Those Mexican bandits would kill us all if they were given the chance.”

      Kuchana nodded. “I’ve made a decision. I cannot watch our people being slowly starved to death or murdered any longer. Please, stop this fight.”

      “Surrender?” Geronimo exploded. “And let them send us to Florida where we will sicken and die like the others? Has Owl Man rattled your brain? You are a warrior! You have taken an oath to protect the people. Surrender for us means to give over to a power stronger than ourselves. The white eyes and culo-gordos are not stronger than we are! I will not surrender to them!”

      Her heart was pounding like a water drum in her breast. Kuchana wondered if Geronimo could hear it. She feared this medicine man, for he had the power to turn her into a donkey if he chose. But the plight of her people drove her beyond regard for her own safety. Moistening her chapped lips, Kuchana said slowly, “Then I must leave.”

      Geronimo hissed a curse. “If you leave, we lose our best animal tracker. I need you here to help supply food for us.”

      Tears stung her eyes but Kuchana stood her ground. “I will go to my enemy and help him track you down and bring you back to the reservation. At least, what few of our people are left will then be protected. I have lost all of my family. Only my sister remains. If nothing is done, she will also die. At least on the reservation, there was food.”

      Geronimo stood thunderstruck. He stared up at the tall, thin warrior. Her brown eyes watered with tears, but her voice was low and strong with feeling. “Surely you remember the food we received from our so-called pindah friends. The white men promised us beef, and we got none. They promised us blankets to warm our people,