Written in Blood

by John Wilson

  After the first day or two inland from the coast, the land becomes rough and harsh. It is almost as if the earth is wrinkled like old skin into mountains and valleys that run north and south so that the trail is an endless repetition of crossing wide, dry plains and winding through rugged mountain passes. Rain comes in violent evening storms that can turn a dry arroyo into a raging river in minutes. All this is so different from the wet lushness of home. I miss seeing decent-sized trees.

  As the jackrabbit sizzles before me, I squint at the campfire only two or three miles away. If the man were stalking me with the intent to rob or murder me, surely he would not let me see his campfire every evening. I find myself almost eager for him to catch up. Alita is a fine companion, but it has been a lonely journey, and, even with my determination and the pride I feel at my good progress, I do miss my mother and my previous life.

  Six days ago I crossed the Colorado River on the new bridge at Yuma and headed into Arizona Territory. This time tomorrow I should be in Tucson, and from there I shall confirm my best route to Casas Grandes.

  I reach forward and lift the jackrabbit from above the fire. It cools quickly in the evening air, and soon I am pulling the flesh off with my teeth. It’s a scrawny beast and it has a bitter taste that I don’t recognize from the similar creatures fed on the exuberant vegetation of British Columbia.

  I suck the last of the rabbit bones clean, build up the fire, wrap myself in my blanket and settle down. Is the follower settling down as well? In the distance I hear a coyote bark. Lightning flashes harshly and thunder rumbles to the west. I wonder if I’m going to have a wet night, but I’m asleep before I can think too much about it.

  3

  Someone or something is watching me. I can’t see them, but I can feel their eyes boring into my back. It’s almost fully light and I am lying staring over the dead ashes of the fire. What if it’s a wolf? I’ll never be able to rise, cross the fire and retrieve and load my revolver before the beast is on me, ripping out my throat. With my heart racing, I roll over.

  The man is squatting with his back to a tree, looking at me. For a gut-wrenching moment, I think it’s my father. The man is middle-aged and has a drooping mustache, but his skin is too swarthy and he doesn’t have my father’s smile.

  The stranger is dressed in worn traveling clothes and wears a battered wide-brimmed hat. His hair is long and straggles over his ears. His eyes, peering out from under bushy eyebrows, appear almost black. His skin has the weather-beaten look of someone who spends his life in the open. He carries a large Colt Navy revolver tucked into his belt.

  “Howdy,” the man says. It’s an American expression, but the accent has a hint of Spanish.

  “Good morning,” I reply.

  “Didn’t want to startle you awake,” he says with a slight smile. “You never know who’s carrying a pistol beneath their blanket and who ain’t afraid to use it afore they think.”

  “Have you been following me?” I ask, sitting up.

  “Following you? Naw. Reckon we’re just headed in the same direction and I’m moving a touch faster than you.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Tucson,” the man replies. “After that, who knows?

  I hear there’s work over in Lincoln County in New Mexico Territory, and a fella can always find something to fill his belly down around Casas Grandes.”

  “Casas Grandes?” I try to hide my surprise. “You know Casas Grandes?”

  The man stares hard at me for a long moment.

  “Sure,” he says eventually, “everyone hereabouts does. Some big ranching spreads down that way. It’s harsh country, so they’re always looking for good hands. Trouble is the pay’s no good. Probably better off in Lincoln County.”

  The man stands up, steps forward and holds out his hand.

  “Name’s Eduardo, but most folks just call me Ed.”

  “I’m James. Most people call me Jim. Are you Mexican?”

  A shadow passes over Ed’s face, but then he smiles and goes on.

  “I am but I don’t make much of it. Ain’t no percentage in being Mexican these days. I spent a lot of years up in New Mexico Territory, learned the lingo and the cattle business. If I talk ’merican, folks assume I ain’t no Mexican.” Ed exaggerates his accent to sound like a rough cowboy. “But when I dine with the grandees in Mexico”—almost magically, Ed’s voice becomes soft and cultured with a stronger Spanish accent—“I throw off the coarse smell of cattle and become one of them.”

  Ed smiles and reverts to, what I assume, is his normal voice. “Anyways, I reckon it’s no more’n twenty miles to Tucson, and that’s but an easy day’s ride, even with your late sleep and on that pony you have.” Ed nods to where Alita stands placidly. “What say we keep company? A journey shared is a journey lessened, I always say.”

  The man tilts his head and gazes at me. He’s friendly enough, but there’s something about his look that I instinctively don’t trust. I’ll keep a close watch on him.

  “I’d be happy to ride to Tucson with you,” I say.

  “You ain’t from these parts?” Ed asks as we ride, side by side, across a dry plain studded with tall, slender cactus. The sun is up and the air is warming. The thunderclouds of last night have vanished. No rain fell on me, but I can smell dampness in the air and Alita’s delicate footsteps kick up no dust.

  Ed rides a black gelding considerably larger than Alita, and I have to look up slightly as we talk.

  “No. I’m from up north, the colony of British Columbia.”

  “So you’re a Brit then.”

  “Half,” I reply. “My father was an American who came up for the Gold Rush.”

  “Did he come from these parts?”

  “He came up on a ship from California, but he told stories about Mexico, so he knew this area well.”

  Ed nods. “He still up there in British Columbia?”

  “He left my mother and me ten years ago. I haven’t seen him since. That’s why I came down here, to look for him.”

  Ed stares over at me thoughtfully as we ride and talk.

  “Down here’s a big place. How do you aim to find him?”

  “His name’s Bob Doolen, and he had some connection with the town you mentioned, Casas Grandes. That’s where I’ll begin.”

  “Not much to go on,” Ed muses, looking ahead to the rough hills on the horizon. “Doolen’s an Irish name.”

  “I guess so. My father never said whether his father was Irish or not.”

  We lapse into silence and ride on through the morning and I have a chance to examine my companion out of the corner of my eye. He rides comfortably on a worn saddle that shows the remnants of some ornate silver work on the horn. It must once have been worth a lot of money. His bedroll is tied behind the saddle, and two stained and worn saddlebags hang down. A multicolored Indian blanket sits beneath the saddle and the stock of a large rifle sticks out of a scabbard strapped along the horse’s flank. There’s something black and stringy hanging from the saddle horn.

  In the early afternoon we stop to rest the horses in a small stand of mesquite trees. A heavy thundershower passed over here in the night, and there are pools of water standing in hollows in the red rock. The horses drink and we fill our water bottles. I eat the last of some tortillas and beans I bought two days back, and Ed chews on a long strip of tough-looking jerked meat. I notice that he has the black object from his saddle beside him. He sees me looking at it.

  “This is my good luck charm,” he says, tossing the thing over to me. “What d’you reckon it is?”

  It’s an old, irregular piece of dark brown leather from some animal, and there is long black hair hanging from it.

  “Piece of bearskin?” I guess.

  Ed laughs loudly.

  “Reckon you led a sheltered life up yonder in British Columbia. What you’re holding there is a genuine human scalp.”

  I almost drop the grisly relic and hurriedly toss it back up to my companion.

&nb
sp; Ed catches it deftly and strokes the hair.

  “This here scalp was fresh in 1850, the year I turned sixteen. Scalps were worth good money in them days, a hundred silver dollars for an Apache warrior, fifty for a woman and twenty-five for a child. In some places rate went as high as two hundred and fifty dollars for a warrior scalp.”

  “That’s horrible. Who would offer money for a scalp?”

  “Mexican state governments. They put a bounty on Apache scalps, Ley Quinto it were called. Still a law down there in many places but not the trade there used to be. Not enough Apaches left and those that are left are hard to catch. Course, it’s difficult to tell from a piece of skin and hair if it come from an Apache or a Mexican, so I do hear tell that there’s some money to be made still, especially when an Apache band breaks out of the reservation, like Victorio did this past summer up at San Carlos. That scares a lot of good folks, and everyone gets kind of skittish then and is prepared to believe that every old piece of hair is the scalp of one more vicious Apache brave they don’t have to worry about.”

  I sit in shocked silence, listening to Ed’s brutal tale. I wonder vaguely why, if scalps were worth so much money, he hadn’t sold this one, but I’m not about to ask. Ed goes on talking. He seems to take pleasure in the grim details of the business.

  “Around 1850 it were so profitable they had to tighten up the laws. You see, when a scalp’s still fresh, it’s possible to stretch it. Then you can cut it up into seven or eight pieces, dry them and collect the bounty on each piece. Law said a scalp had to include at least one ear and the crown of the hair.

  “Gangs of men made a good living harvesting scalps and didn’t pay too much attention to where they came from. One of the best was led by a fella called Roberto Ramirez.”

  I started at the name from my father’s letter, but it was probably a common Mexican surname.

  “He weren’t no more’n a kid back then, not much older than you are now, I would guess, but he was brutal.” Ed looks down at me with an odd, almost conspiratorial smile. “It’s said that in one raid in the spring of 1851 Ramirez and his boys took two hundred and fifty scalps in a single day.

  “The Ramirez gang had their own way of doing things. Once the shooting was over, each man would take out his scalping knife. He’d sit by the head, run the knife around the scalp, put his feet on the shoulders and pull. Scalp came off as clean as anything—made kind of a popping sound I hear tell. Then all you had to do was sprinkle some salt on it and hang it to dry.”

  “How do you know all of this?” I ask.

  “I been around,” Ed says noncommittally, “and those days ain’t completely over. I heard it said that Victorio and his band is raiding around the Black Mountain in New Mexico. Nana and Geronimo are still out there raiding in Mexico and Texas. I daresay you could find someone to pay a penny or two for any one of their scalps.”

  Ed’s smile is almost a leer now.

  “But enough storytelling. The next range of hills”— he waves a hand at the low rocky ridge that lies about two hour’s ride to the east—“is the last one afore Tucson.”

  We mount up and ride on in silence. I don’t feel inclined to encourage Ed to tell me any more stories about scalps or raiding Apaches, and I find myself looking around nervously as we enter the narrow rocky pass through the hills.

  Toward the top of the pass, the trail narrows so much that we have to ride in single file, and Ed drops behind me. As we near the top, two riders crest the ridge and descend toward us. They make no attempt to quit the trail and let us past. In fact, they stand their horses abreast at a slightly wider spot in the path and await our arrival.

  I rein in a few feet in front of them. Both are filthy from long days on the trail. One is bareheaded and has striking red hair. He is riding a pale pony with a darker mane and tail. The other is no older than I am and wears a battered pork pie hat. His horse is skinny and wild-looking and has a star-shaped white mark on its forehead. Both stare sullenly at me.

  “Good day,” I say. “May we pass?” Alita shifts restlessly beneath me.

  The man with the red hair laughs coarsely, exposing a mouthful of rotting teeth. I swivel in the saddle to see if Ed has any suggestions on how to resolve this. He is sitting, casually holding his Colt Navy above his horse’s head. At first I think he is threatening the men, but the revolver is pointing directly at me.

  “What?” I ask in confusion.

  “Git down,” one of the men on the trail orders.

  I turn back. Alita is moving backward, away from the strangers, but Ed is crowding us from behind.

  “Git down,” the redhead repeats. He’s pointing an old flintlock rifle with a hexagonal barrel. “I ain’t aimin’ to ask again.”

  “Best do as Red asks,” Ed says from behind me. “We don’t want no unpleasantness.”

  I hesitate. What’s going on? Ed is obviously in on the ambush. Was it planned long ago? Was that why he followed me and joined me on the trail?

  As I try to come to terms with what is happening, the kid in the hat swings off his horse and comes forward. He clears his throat noisily and spits before reaching up, grabbing my belt and hauling me unceremoniously out of the saddle.

  I fall heavily and a sharp rock sends arrows of pain through my right shoulder. The kid kicks me savagely in the side, and I cry out. I scrabble to one side and look up. In almost unbelievable slow motion the kid pulls a worn revolver from his belt, leans forward and points it between my eyes. The black hole of the barrel seems like a vast bottomless cave, and the sound of the hammer being cocked is deafening.

  I’m going to die. I should plead for my life, grab at the revolver, roll to one side, run away. All these things fly through my mind but they are no use; I’m paralyzed and struck dumb by the image of the bullet exploding its way through my skull.

  “Hold there, Kid!” Ed’s voice is authoritative, but the revolver doesn’t move. I can feel the tickle of warm blood running down my arm from where I landed on the rock.

  “What d’you mean?” The Kid asks without taking his eyes off me. They are blue and cold. “We allays kill ’em.”

  “I mean, hold. We ain’t gonna kill this one.”

  I almost cry with relief, but the gun’s still pointing at me.

  “Ain’t gonna kill him? You bin out in the sun too long. That’s crazy talk. If ’n we don’t kill him, he’ll have the law on us afore we’re half a day’s ride away.”

  “We’ve outrun the law before, and I say we ain’t gonna kill him. Besides, this boy ain’t gonna cause trouble. Soon as we’re done, he’ll be heading back west to California to find a ship home. Ain’t that right?”

  With an extraordinary effort of will, I look away from the gun muzzle and back over my shoulder at Ed. He’s still sitting, relaxed on his horse, but now his Colt is pointed at the kid in the pork pie hat. For an age all possibilities hang in the balance; then Ed repeats, “Ain’t that right?”

  “Yes. Yes. Sure. I won’t cause any trouble.”

  The kid spits again and lowers his gun.

  “You’re crazy,” he says under his breath.

  “Maybe so,” Ed replies, “but I still give the orders round here. Now, empty those saddlebags and let’s see what he’s got.”

  The kid pulls his hat down over his eyes and turns away. I suck in my first large breath in what feels like a lifetime.

  “What ’bout ’is ’orse?” the one called Red asks.

  “Leave it,” Ed says. “Ain’t worth much anyways.”

  In one fluid motion, Red raises his heavy rifle, cocks it and shoots Alita between the eyes. The explosion is deafening. Alita’s head jerks up as if she is startled. She tries to move her feet and fails before she falls heavily on her side.

  It happens so quickly I have no time to react other than to gasp, “Alita,” in horror.

  “What the hell d’you do that for?” Ed asks.

  Red shrugs. “You didn’t say to leave the horse alive, an’ this way, the kid ain�
�t gonna catch us up.”

  “You know that leaving a man in the desert without a horse is the same as killing him. How’s he supposed to get back to the coast without a horse?”

  Red shrugs again. “That’d be his problem.”

  I’m still staring stupidly at Alita’s body when the Kid’s heavy revolver catches me a solid blow to my left temple. Pain erupts behind my eyes and the world goes black.

  4

  When I come to, the sun is low in the western sky, and the blood on my arm and down the side of my face has caked to a stiff crust. Every movement sends bolts of pain through my head and explodes bright white lights behind my eyes. Slowly I manage to struggle into a sitting position.

  Alita’s body lies where it fell, her back to me and her head twisted back. Her eyes are open and seem to be staring at me. Her bridle, reins and saddle are gone. A black swarm of flies hover above her and are thick on the congealing pool of blood by her head. Two vultures are working at her stomach. Weakly I throw a rock at them, and they raise their bloody heads and waddle away a few feet.

  Moving slowly and stopping frequently to ease the pain and allow my vision to clear, I stand up and look around. In addition to Alita’s tack, my bedroll and saddlebags are gone. I still have my boots and clothes, but the pockets have been gone through and all my money stolen. I’m relieved to find the letter from my father still in my shirt. My blanket and hat lie on the ground nearby. At least they’ve left me something.

  The sun has dropped behind the hills where I camped last night. It’s still light, but there is a chill in the air. Gingerly I sit back down, put my hat on and lift my blanket. My empty canteen and the black tin revolver box lie beneath it. I open the box and take out my revolver, powder and bullets. Odd that they’ve left these things. I wonder if it was Ed who slipped them under the blanket. He was the only one who seemed reluctant to shoot me out of hand.

  I move the chamber guard of the revolver aside and slowly begin loading it. It hurts to move my arm, but I need something to concentrate on. I pour a measured amount of powder into each chamber, followed by a wad of cotton and a bullet. I place a percussion cap in the opposite end of each chamber and close it. I load only five chambers, leaving the sixth beneath the hammer empty to avoid an accidental discharge. I tuck the revolver into my belt and close the box.