Rubio: The Legend (Ben Blue)

by Lou Bradshaw

  “What about food?” He asked. “What of blankets and…?”

  “I stopped him with a raised palm. “We will carry only what we can carry on our person. We are going against Apaches. They will be traveling lighter than we are. They carry no food, and they live off the land. An Apache will ride his pony to death, and then he will eat it. If he has no horse, he will run…. You have been safe here in this well defended village, but they have found you. We must kill every man in the party, or you will never be safe here again.

  The men from the hunting party had told me that there were six Apaches in the war party. I would like to take at least twenty of the inexperienced warriors, but in those narrow canyons and trails, they would wind up killing each other. We would have to get by with no more than ten, including me.

  We were well away from village before the sun started turning the eastern sky grey. Half way down the mountain trail, I stopped our little war party. I told the young warriors that I would scout ahead to see if they are following the trail of the hunting party. I positioned them in the brush and rocks on either side of the trail.

  “If they are on this trail, I will find them and bring them to you. When I come back at a gallop, be ready to loose your arrows. I will be riding ahead, so try not to put any arrows in me.” They were so nervous they did not laugh. “As soon as you shoot your arrow, take your war club and lance, and charge into them. Let none ride away… ride them down if you have to…. let none live.”

  They knew what was expected. It all depended on their courage and their strength. I could tell them nothing more. So I took the extra pony I had brought along and led it down the trail. I carried only my lance and the holy man’s ax and knife. The ax was snug in my waist sash, and the knife was in a sheath. I was ready.

  After I had gone a short distance, I dismounted and led the ponies. We walked a good long way. The sun had moved but was not directly overhead when I heard them coming up the trail. I mounted one of the ponies and led the other. I went on toward the Apache. There were six of them and they were leading a pony.

  I moved on until they could see me, and then I turned and drove my heels into the sides of my mount. He took off with a bound. Going up the hill was much much harder than coming down and I knew my horse would be near finished when we reached our destination.

  The Apaches were yelling and sending a few arrows my way. The distance was still too great to hope to hit a fleeing man on a horse, but it made the bowman feel better to have done it. They had been climbing all morning, and their ponies were not fresh. Mine were.

  I held back, so I would be just out of bow range and gave them the impression that I was a rabbit being chased by coyotes. I would look back like a frightened creature and pretend to kick my pony madly. Two braves on better horses, pulled away from the others. They intended to be the ones to count coupe on me. I had other plans.

  It was a mad scramble up the steep and narrow trail. The lead rider pulled away from the second man. I was close enough to the trap, to make my move. I slowed my pony down even more, so that the lead rider could gain ground and let the others catch up. When he was the length of two ponies behind me, I leaned and sprang to my other pony letting go of the first one’s reins.

  Then I kicked the new one in earnest, and we pulled away. My pursuer had expected that move from a desperate man. His horse was a good one and he had confidence that it could easily run down a sheep herders mount.

  His horse was laboring as we hit the clearing, where the trap was to be sprung. I was yipping and yelling my war cry as I went on past my braves. The brave behind me had fallen back some, but they sent no arrows after him, they were waiting for the main body. The second man’s pony took arrows in its side. It faltered, but came on through.

  Reaching a high place, where the trail took a turn, I wheeled my pony and lowered my lance. I held it in my left hand so I could handle the horse with my right and charged straight at the first man. He held his lance in his right hand and had to swing it over his horses head when he saw I was coming at him from the other side. He couldn’t maneuver to the outside of me without sending himself and his mount over the edge.

  He was a fighter, and a man who knew how to handle a horse and a lance, but his horse was unresponsive and slow from the race up the mountain. He was trying to use his horse’s size and strength to force my pony over the edge. His horse never got in position, and his lance was too slow to parry mine away and keep it from going into his belly and out his back.

  The force of the blow sent him over his horse’s rump and pulled my lance from my hand. My pony was fighting to keep from going over the edge. I jumped to the ground to face the second man, who despite a badly wounded animal, was coming toward me with his lance ready to plunge into me. I wondered if it was my time to die. I wasn’t of a mind to leave the earth this day, so I pulled the holy man’s ax and prepared to live another day.

  As the lance came rushing at my chest, it seemed that the sun had stopped and everything had slowed to a tortoise pace. Just as the lance was about to pierce my body, I stepped to the inside the thrust. The lance took flesh from my shoulder, but I was too busy dragging him from his horse and to the ground. He hit the ground with an awful thump and I was on him, bringing the ax down in a high ark.

  I could see the fear in his black painted eyes, as the iron tool sunk deep in his chest. The bones crunched and felt the blood splashed over me. Pulling the ax from his chest, I sprang to my feet and looked to the fight going on down the trail.

  The sun was moving again and things were happening fast. My Diné heart swelled with pride as I saw the young braves pulling the raiders from their horses and battering them to death with their war clubs. They were making sure that these Apaches would not cause them problems in the afterlife. Once the first arrows were sent, even if poorly aimed, my young men became warriors… we had used an Apache trap to trap six Apaches.

  I turned to the business of collecting scalps.

  Chapter 9

  I spent two days at the village, while they celebrated, sang their songs, and told their stories. My wound was deeper than I thought, but expert hands closed the wound and tended the wrappings. The scar would give me opportunity to tell stories in my old age. I was asked to stay and take a wife, but I’d had me a fine wife and beautiful babies. I had work to do before I would think of another family. I had the feeling that it would be a long time before I took a new squaw.

  Other hunting parties returned with game, and life in the village returned to normal. There were still a few hunters out in the mountains. Before I left I talked with the head man and told him, “You have a new batch of warriors, and they have proven themselves to be men. But it is a bad idea to send all your hunters out at one time. Your young men have courage and have proved themselves, but they are still boys. Boys need leaders to guide them.”

  While I was in the village, one of the women made me a new pair of tall moccasins using the hide of the ewe I had killed. Of all the gifts I was offered, I took only the moccasins, a well made warm blanket, and the fine Apache horse that had chased me up the trail. It was my right.

  I rode out of the village on the fourth morning. I had food and water for a while, but like the Apaches, I could live off the land. More important than the supplies I carried, was a guide to the next village. He had come in with one of the hunting parties. His pony had been killed by a bear, and the hunters brought him to the village. He was of the next village and was anxious to return home. He also seemed to like having the company.

  The village was three days northwest in the foot hills of a small mountain range. I was hoping to pick up some information about Scar Face. Someone must know where he is and where he is heading. Unless his slaughter is only inflicted on those alone like Soft Breeze, the lone shepherd and his boy, and the holy man, then someone would know.

  This land is wide and there are few people, but people talk, and I was ready to listen. Just as the people of the last village knew my name, so will
many know the name of Scar Face the Red Hand.

  This village was smaller than the last, but just as green and pleasant. I talked to the chief and he told me that Scar Face and another brave had raided a shepherd’s camp and killed the shepherd. They took the shepherd’s woman and sold her to the Utes. Or that’s what he believed.

  I asked for directions to the shepherd’s camp. He told me that he’d never been there, but he sent for one who had. The brave who came was the brother of the woman who was taken. He had gone to the camp and found his brother in law dead and butchered. His sister was gone, and tracks went off to the north… the direction of the Utes. He rounded up the sheep and drove them back to the village. I didn’t bother to ask why he didn’t follow to rescue his sister.

  He did give me detailed directions to the camp. I went to the camp without much hope of finding any kind of a trail, but to my surprise, there had been no rain and the hard ground held the tracks of two horses leaving the area. The tracks were older than ten days, but the wind had not blown them away like it does with sand.

  The brother had told the truth about them going north. That was the direction they had headed, but if he had followed even a short distance, he would have seen that they soon turned to the west.

  When they turned west they were in a hurry. The tracks showed great haste and long strides. For some reason, they wanted to be away from this place, or they were in a hurry to get to another place. I increased the pace, but it wouldn’t match the speed they were traveling. I was many days behind, and I wouldn’t catch them by running my horses to death.

  I found their destination as the sun was beginning to touch the western mountains. They had made their camp in a wash, where water had come down the mesa wall and gouged the earth. I found the woman, or what was left of her, there. They had spent at least three days there with her, and when they were finished with her, she was butchered and left.

  The big black birds had not found her stashed in among some boulders, but the ants had. Finding her garment, where they had ripped it from her and discarded it. I covered her out of respect, and then I piled stones on the top of her. I was collecting much evil from coming in contact with the dead… I would need the Healing or Returning Home ceremony when this journey was over.

  When I had done all I could for the shepherd’s woman, I moved to another camp site. I did not want or need to disturb the spirits which might be lingering.

  Moving on farther along the base of the mesa, I found a suitable place to spend the night. There was ample shelter for a fire and grass for the horses. The animals had been watered earlier where the woman had died, so they would be all right.

  When the sun had fully completed its journey across the sky, I found the evening to be notably colder than it had been. The weather had been getting colder but I hadn’t paid much attention to it. The days were getting shorter and the sun was falling farther to the south each day. There were no aspens here only bristle cone pine and cedar, so there were no leaves to turn gold and fall.

  I would need to prepare for the coming winter. I would need skins and fat meat. For the time being, I might have to delay my hunt. Scar Face would be turning south to his people for the winter. The best I could hope for was to go as far as I could, and find a friendly village where I might spend the winter. I could always find a place to build a hogan and winter alone, but a man alone thinks too much.

  The trail, when I could find it, led me south and west for five days. I was riding on the north face of a long trailing mountain range. The trail turned northwest toward another long mountain range. It was another three days across brush studded open country to the mountains.

  The wind was blowing out of the north and it was carrying the feel of winter with it. As I came closer to the mountains, the wind was blocked, and the horses seemed to be a little less troubled. It was the first touch of what winter might bring. I had a nice heavy Diné blanket, but I would need to make leggings and get furs to cover the rest of me.

  It was early for cold weather. My horses had just started showing their winter coat. They would have their thick warm coats soon though. I would still be covered with only the coat supplied by the beaver, the badger, or maybe the bear. Man was the hairless animal.

  The wind had blown so hard, it had almost hidden what little trail there was. Soon there would be none. And then there was none. The only thing I could do was to keep going in the same direction I had been going.

  Turning my ponies to the east I rode for a small part of the sun’s journey. I found no sign of horses or people, so I turned and went the other way. I did not look any less hard on my way back to where I started. There were no signs.

  Passing the point where I had begun, I started finding signs within a very small time. Soon there were many signs. I followed. The mountains were greener and more inviting than the desert, but not as green as the mountains where I collected the two Apache scalps. Some of the mountains in this place start with a talus slope with all the fallen rock piled against a rock wall. But these mountains grew out of the desert with much gentler slopes and more gradual climbs.

  I found a trail leading up into the mountains. It was well traveled by ponies, by sheep, and by foot. By the time the sun had moved enough to notice, I was well above the desert floor and approaching a low pass. As I rode through it I was struck by the beauty of what lay before me.

  I sat looking at a green fertile valley surrounded by mountains clad with pine and fir. When I saw the village, I knew I was in a Hopi valley. Their homes were made of mud and clay and were more or less connected to each other in blocks. They weren’t stacked one on another like the Pueblo people’s homes, but there was much that was similar.

  The fields were brown but well defined and looked to be well cared for. I could see many sheep in low pastures. It looked to be a perfect place for a village. I rode on toward it.

  The houses were on a rock shelf slightly above the common ground… the gathering place and ceremonial place. As I rode in men started to appear on the shelf, and others were coming down to the common area. The Hopi like their cousins the Pueblo people were known as friendly people, but these people did not look friendly.

  They were all looking at the horse I was riding; he was a tall blue gray roan with black legs and nose. I was soon surrounded by men. None made any threat; they just stood looking at my horse. The crowd separated in front of me and a man, who walked with the confidence of a great warrior or a proud chief, came through the crowd.

  His first move was to place his hand on the nose of the animal. The horse didn’t shy; instead he pressed his nose into the man’s hand. Next the chief walked around the horse and touched him here and there.

  “Who are you and where are you from?” he asked in the same language as the Pueblo People.

  It took me a little time to translate in my head, what he had said. I had spent enough time in the Pueblo villages trading that I could understand many words.

  “I am Rubio from the Diné…. Navajo village in the Valley of Rocks. I have been following the Apache raider, Scar Face the Red Hand.” I made sign as I spoke, and he knew my words.

  “How do you come by this pony? This gray horse belongs to Long Badger, who is on a trading mission and has been five moons gone.”

  “I took this pony from an Apache warrior,” I pointed to the southeast, “many days ago.” I took my lance and held it across my pony’s shoulders and lift the middle of the three Apache scalps and said, “I also took this from him.”

  They hadn’t asked me to get down yet, so I stayed seated on my horse’s back, while they discussed what to do about me. Their choices were invite me to accept their hospitality, send me away, or kill me. The headman and two others pulled back and were in a heated discussion. The two other men were at odds, but the chief stood and listened to their arguments.

  They returned to the circle and the chief said, “Rubio is known to us by another name as well. What would that name be?”

  “I am al
so called Walking Wolf.” They seemed to like my answer.

  The chief continued with his questioning. “Rubio is also known to wear a particular color headband, but you wear a leather strip as a head band.”

  He made it sound like a question, so I used my own method of answering. Reaching into my pouch, I pulled out the roll of red fabric and showed it to them. Then I pulled out the tiny head band that had been Morning Sky’s and showed the blood stains.

  The headman invited me to step down, and I did. We walked up to his house and with the other two men we smoked the pipe. They told me about a young hunter’s pony came in without his rider five days ago. When they backtracked the pony, they found the mutilated body of the young man. They found the tracks of two men, and they found Apache arrows in the body. They had suspected it was Scar Face, but I was sure of it.

  They offered to let me stay for the winter. There was game that would be coming down from the mountains, but the skills of their hunters made them good farmers. They were hoping that I would be able to add to their food supply. I felt sure that I could.

  Chapter 10

  They were right, about the deer coming down from the higher mountains, and the more I was able to kill, the fewer sheep they would have to slaughter to get through the winter. They had corn and squash, they had fine woven blankets and rugs, but their hunters had been farmers too long.

  Their story teller tells the story that the first Hopi came into the world through a hole in the ground… called a kiva. And their ancestors lived in rock houses built high on canyon walls. They would have to climb up tall ladders to reach their homes. I had heard such stories told by the Pueblo people. They were here long before the Apache and the Diné came to these southern lands.

  The weather grew steadily colder and I hunted. Sometimes I would be gone several days at a time, but I brought meat to the pots of the village. I shared quarters with an old man who was stiff and sore, but he could keep the fire going, scrape hides, and stitch buckskin. I soon had suitable clothing for the winter. The old man, Gray Raven, told many stories that winter around our fire. I did not know how much truth was in his tales, but they were interesting to hear.