Devil’s Claw

“After we have the fax with the mug shot in hand,” Joa

Frank nodded. “Want me to go back to the car and wait for it? That way I can bring it inside as soon as it comes through.”

“Right,” Joa

Joa

While Catherine Yates disappeared into the back of the house, Joa

The other photo-in faded sepia tones-depicted a man who appeared to be a full-blooded Indian standing proudly at attention and staring, solemn-eyed, into the lens of the camera. He wore some kind of uniform-one that was unfamiliar to Joa

“The one on the right is Carter, my husband. The one on the left is my great-grandfather,” Catherine Yates said, returning silently to the living room. “His name is Eskiminzin. Ever heard of him?”

Joa

“You should have. He was an Arivaipa Apache. He was also a chief, just like Cochise or Geronimo. Except he wasn’t a warrior. He was a man who wanted to get along with the whites. Even after most of his first family was murdered in the Camp Grant Massacre, he still tried to make peace. My great-grandmother, my mother’s grandmother, was his second wife.”

Joa

Worn down by years of fighting, in 1871 several separate Apache bands had surrendered to the commanding officer at Old Camp Grant and sued for peace. Having been told that they could camp outside the fort under the protection of the United States Cavalry, the Apaches stayed there for the next two months while peace negotiations took place. Meanwhile, several Tucson-area merchants-Anglos every one-rounded up an expeditionary force made up of Mexicans and Tohono O’othham who had their own long-held grudges against marauding Apaches.

This band of mercenaries attacked the sleeping Apaches under the dark of night. Many of the younger men managed to escape into the hills, but women and children, along with the old and sick and helpless, were slaughtered where they slept.

“It was about this time of year,” Catherine said softly. “April thirtieth.”

Obviously, for Catherine Yates and her family, the Camp Grant Massacre wasn’t some distant, dusty footnote to history. It was still a hauntingly vivid and painful part of her family’s past.

“But the uniform…” Joa

“After his family was killed, Eskiminzin still wanted peace. He became one of the first members of the tribal police on San Carlos. That’s him in his policeman’s uniform. Later on, he took his second family, left the reservation, and started his own ranch. Then there was another Apache uprising. Since he was a chief, he was suspected of being involved. His ranch was taken from him, and he was shipped off to Oklahoma.”

“How do you know all this?” Joa

“A friend of his wrote it down,” Catherine Yates explained. “John Clum was an Anglo who was superintendent of the San Carlos early on. Eskiminzin worked for him. Clum wrote a paper for the Arizona Historical Review. My mother, Christina Bagwell, was ten years old when he sent her mother, Eskiminzin’s daughter, a copy of what he’d written, along with that picture-the one you see there on the wall. Otherwise it all would have been forgotten long ago.”

Joa

Just as Joa

Frank made his way across the room without meeting Catherine Yates’ anxiously inquiring gaze. As he handed Joa

“Who?” Catherine asked.

Joa

Frank nodded. “I’m sure,” he said. “It’s Sandra, all right.”

Joa

Nodding and moving in slow motion, Catherine sank down on the couch and wrapped her arms around her body. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew when you kept asking me about Sandy instead of Lucy that it had to be something to do with her. What is it? What’s happened?”

“This afternoon a woman was found in a culvert along the road between Cochise Stronghold and Pearce. She’d been shot. Unfortunately, she died while being airlifted to a hospital in Tucson. I didn’t want to say anything to you about it until after we had more information.”

“No,” Catherine whispered. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t.”

“I’m so sorry-” Joa

“How could she?”

“As I said, the victim, she was shot. We didn’t find a weapon, so we’re currently treating this as a homicide. The vehicle she was thought to be driving is missing, and it’s possible one or more UDAs-illegal immigrants-were involved in what happened.”

“You’re just saying that,” Catherine said. “You’re telling me that because you don’t want to tell me the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“If Sandy is dead, I know who killed her, and so do you-Lucy! It has to be her. She’s missing, isn’t she, and so is my gun. I should have known. She as good as told me, but I never thought… Couldn’t even imagine that she’d do such a thing!” Moaning softly, Catherine doubled over on the couch, rocking back and forth.

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions,” Joa