All characters in this story are over 18. I have researched Apache names and lifestyle but apologise for any cultural faux pas. The characters and storyline are fictitious.
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Rebecca didn't know how long they'd been sitting among the rocks. Maybe two or three hours. She shifted her weight slightly to reposition the rock that was sticking in her back. Two hours ago, it had seemed quite comfortable but was now beginning to seriously irritate her. That, together with the blistering dry heat cracking her lips and a blinding headache with a raging thirst, made for one disgruntled girl.
Noon in the Sonoran Desert, in northern Mexico, in June, was not a place for pale English girls to sit in the sun, even if the events of the last few months had toughened them up both physically and mentally. She glanced to her left and wished she could sleep like her identical twin sister, Charlotte, who was curled up on a small patch of dusty sand. The thin sunshade, erected by their mother from an old bed sheet, offered little relief from the scorching sun.
Raising her head, she could see their parents through the shimmering, super-heated air working to try and fix the axle on the big old wagon on the dusty track, maybe one hundred feet below and a quarter of a mile away.
The year is 1848. Arizona doesn't yet exist. The Gadsden Purchase has not yet been made. In future years, this would become Southern Arizona, but for now, it was Mexico and the border with New Mexico Territory was around 30 miles to the North.
Rebecca lowered her head and closed her eyes, concentrating on breathing through her nose to stop her mouth drying out. They had a water bottle but it was three-quarters gone and their father would not be best pleased if she went down to the wagon to re-fill it. Her mind wandered back two weeks, to the day they left Santa Fe with twelve other wagons. She and Charlie, the name she always used for Charlotte, had shared a hot bath in a hotel the night before they left. God, that seemed so long ago. After the bath, they'd brushed each other's long blonde hair. Hair which was now tangled and caked in dust.
The journey had been uneventful until this morning when the wagon's rear axle had begun to creak ominously. Although they were only twenty miles from the San Pedro river crossing, the traders on their laden wagons refused to help or wait. Money and trade was their priority. Their father was unconcerned; the axle just needed some grease. But it needed more than grease.
Their father had discovered a long crack in the axle, so had stopped where the track weaved through this rocky outcrop, where they could work on the wagon largely hidden from view.
It had all seemed so easy when they left Independence, Missouri three months earlier. Two months on the Santa Fe trail had been trouble free, even boring for the girls. Just day after day of relentless vibration, dust and heat. Their father's original plan had been to stay in Missouri until August to reach Santa Fe in November enabling them to cross the deserts of the south-west during the mild winter. But things rarely go as planned. It quickly became obvious to their parents that their meagre savings would not last long in Missouri. They had to press on westwards. Arriving in Santa Fe in late May, there would be no immigrant wagon trains heading west until September or October, only traders carrying goods overland to California.
This was Apache land. Rebecca could sense that her father was worried. He'd unhitched the two horses and saddled them, then sent the girls into the rocks. "If the Apaches attack, stay in the rocks, don't come down, you'll be safe. Your mother and I will escape on the horses and return for you when the Apache have gone. Stay still in the rocks, pull down the sheet and you'll be safe".
The sweatband on Rebecca's hat helped a little, but still, sweat ran into her eyes. Each breath she drew sent searing, drying hot air down her parched throat.
A movement to her left caught her attention, but she relaxed when she saw it was only an eighteen-inch Gila Monster, plodding about its business, probably looking for Quail eggs or chicks. She'd seen one two days earlier and had enquired of one of the traders. Now she knew that it was a venomous lizard, but it was slow and ponderous; you had to be pretty dumb to get bitten by one. She loved the animals and birds, becoming quite a pest, bombarding the traders with questions. One of them, Bo from Norway, had enjoyed teaching her.
Behind, in the rocks, she could hear Cactus Wrens squabbling and calling, whilst others were busying themselves among the towering Saguaro, feeding on the tasty fruit near the top. Again, movement caught her eye, this time a dazzling, iridescent hummingbird, flitting from plant to plant looking for nectar or insects. How could something so beautiful live in such a godforsaken place? She thought.
Rebecca let out a long sigh, cleared some of the gravel and rocks from around Charlie and managed to squeeze onto the small patch of sand behind her sister, spooning her.
Her mind drifted back to their idyllic life in England. To the water mill on the banks of the River Dudwell in deepest Sussex where their father was a fifth-generation miller. To the sound of the water wheel, the smell of the honeysuckle, the flash of a kingfisher over the mill pond. The pond where she and Vicky would often swim, sometimes naked. To the soft lips of Tyler Harding, the blacksmith's son, who she kissed last September. Her first ever kiss.
But the idyll was shallow. All was not well. She would hear her parents arguing at night, her mother crying. Sometimes she would listen at the top of the creaky cottage stairs. She didn't understand everything she heard, but it was obvious that the mill was in trouble. Due to industrialisation, people were leaving the countryside for the cities in their thousands. Men working ten hours a day in a factory could earn double the wages of a man working twelve hours on a farm. In the big city ports; Liverpool, Bristol, Southampton, London, ships were arriving almost daily from America and Canada, their holds bursting with wheat. And at those ports, new steam-powered roller mills could produce vast quantities of flour almost on the quayside.
Every mill along the river was struggling. One or two mills could still make a profit but not five. However, they were lucky, they had thirty acres of good quality farmland. A neighbouring farmer, a good friend, had offered a fair price for the mill and land. In fact, a generous price. Mother wanted to stay and work the farm but Father said they would always be poor. He wanted to go to California where the sale of the thirty acres would buy hundreds of acres of fertile land. Father won. That money was sewn into mother's undergarments in the form of gold sovereigns. Three months later, Rebecca and Charlie had sat on the dockside in Southampton, staring wide-eyed at the vast ships and fevered activity. She recalled the movement of the ship as they crossed the vast ocean..., and a kiss.
Charlie woke with a start, "What was that?"
"Huh?", responded Rebecca, rubbing the dust from her eyes, irritated that her dream of Seamus, the wild Irish boy she'd befriended on the ship had been disturbed.
"I heard a shout."
Rebecca sat up and looked towards the wagon. Their parents had stopped work on the wagon and were looking back along the trail. Suddenly their father dropped his tools. Both of them ran for the horses, mounted and rode frantically westwards along the trail, their mother glancing up into the rocks. "Quick, get down!", said Rebecca.
She pressed Charlie down into the dust, pulling the shade-giving sheet down with them. "Keep quiet," she whispered.
"What is it?", asked Charlie, fear in her voice.
"Apaches I think, riding in from the east, maybe a dozen from what I could see, we'll be safe if we stay here and stay quiet."
For the next hour or so, the girls huddled together out of sight, not daring to look up. They listened to the strange voices, the shouts, the sound of pots banging, wood breaking and men laughing. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they heard the horses galloping away eastwards again.
They waited ten minutes before peering over the rocks. "Oh Becky!", cried Charlie, her hand over her mouth. Everything from the wagon was spread over the ground, clothes scattered, cases broken, cans of food, glass shards. "Why did they do that?"
"Probably looking for guns, whisky, gold, anything they could carry that was of use or of value," said Becky, "Come on."
"Father said to stay in the rocks until they come back."
"That might be days," said Becky, "They've probably gone to Tucson Presidio for help, that's at least a days ride each way. We need water, Charlie, the Apache might have left some. We'll go down, refill the water bottle, then go back up into the rocks to wait. There might be food and blankets as well."
"Perhaps we should wait for sundown."
Becky shook her head, "That's nine hours, we've got about two mouthfuls of water left."
"Okay," said Charlie, "But if we move down through the rocks on the left, over there, we'll be in cover for longer, just watch for rattlers."
Carefully, keeping out of sight, the girls edged their way down. At the remains of the wagon, they stood and stared. The dusty ground was strewn with their smashed-up lives -- clothes, books, photographs, flour, beans, everything. "Well, so much for food, where are the water barrels?" asked Becky.
"Over there," said Charlie pointing, "Both on their sides." She walked over to them and looked. "Bring the water bottle over Becky, there's a little bit left in each barrel, maybe a bottle full."
Using a spoon they found in the dirt, they managed to salvage a bottle of water plus a few extra spoonfuls that they drank. Just as they were about to head back into the rocks, Charlie screamed. Becky spun around. Staring at them, no more than 20 feet away, were two Apache, one carrying a rifle, the other holding a cavalry sword. The girls turned to run for the rocks, but saw their route blocked by four more Apache, feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. Becky grabbed Charlie and held her tight. "W..., what do you want?" stammered Becky, her voice cracking.
The man with the sword said something they didn't understand, then the one with the rifle stepped forwards, "You."
