by John Wilson
I’m not sure why I’ve done this, but the ritual calms me. As my confusion recedes, it is replaced by sorrow at losing Alita, my only friend in this land. Fighting back tears, I haul myself back to my feet and stagger over to a large rock about ten feet off the path. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and sit with my back to the rock, feeling the day’s warmth slowly seep into my shoulders.
I sit and wonder why I’m still alive. Of course, without a rifle, horse or any money, my chances of remaining alive long have taken a dramatic downturn. However, as the kid in the pork pie hat said, the easy and sensible thing for them to do, and the thing that he suggested they had done numerous times before, was to kill me. Why had Ed prevented him? It hardly seems likely that he has developed a fondness for me over the course of our few hours’ traveling.
I shake my head and instantly regret it as my vision blurs and waves of nausea overwhelm me. When I recover, I begin to think about my more immediate concerns. What am I going to do?
For the moment, I have few choices. It’s almost dark and the last thing I want to do in my present condition is stumble around blind in the desert. I’ll wait here and hope I feel better in the morning. Then what?
I promised Ed I would head back to the coast, but how can I do that without a horse or supplies? Tucson isn’t far, just over the pass in the next valley. It’s the obvious place to go. I could report the robbery, assuming they have anything like police in this place, but what good would that do? How much effort is a sheriff going to put into searching for a gang who robbed a stupid kid from up north who has no good reason for even being here?
There’s food in Tucson and replacements for all the things I’ve lost, but I have nothing to buy them with or trade for them. I still have my revolver. I could turn to robbery like Ed, but I probably wouldn’t be very good at it, and anyway, why should some other poor traveler suffer just because I was unfortunate?
I could get a job, but what could I do? Work in a store and be stuck for the rest of my life behind a counter working for a few cents a day? I clench my fists in frustration and anger.
“Damn you, Ed,” I shout into the gathering darkness. “You can’t stop me. I’m not going back. I came down here with a purpose, and I’m not about to give up and run home with my tail between my legs at the first sign of trouble. I came down here to find my father and that’s what I’m going to do.”
I have no idea how I’m going to do this, but I feel better letting my anger out and with a decision made. I pull the blanket tighter against the growing cold.
It’s a long night, and I do little more than doze for short periods only to awaken stiff and shivering. Several times I throw rocks at the squabbling vultures, but, as more arrive and coyotes show up to share in the pickings, they pay less and less attention to my weak efforts. Eventually, I leave them to it.
Sometimes I spend waking spells weeping for Alita, at other times I feel sorry for myself and regret ever leaving Yale. Although I wish I was back home, I hold on to my determination to go on. At other times I am almost overwhelmed by rage. I want revenge. I want Red to suffer for what he did to Alita, my friend who never hurt anyone. I want the Kid to feel the terror I felt with his gun cocked and pointed in my face. And I want Ed to know that I can’t be fooled and betrayed so easily.
Oddly, as daylight arrives, I feel encouraged. My arm still hurts when I move it, but my head feels much better. I find a pool of ice-cold water in a rock hollow and carefully wash off the dried blood. I drink, fill my canteen and walk up the trail to the pass.
Below me, a wide valley is bathed in the morning sun. I stand for a minute and let the sun’s rays warm me. On the far side of the valley a much larger range of mountains than the ones I have just crossed lie in shadow. They look daunting, but to my right I can see a trail or wagon road running toward what appears to be a wide pass.
Tucson’s not large, a collection of dirt streets in the middle of the valley, but I can see square fields beside many of the houses and am ridiculously thrilled by this meager sign of civilization. Swamped by unjustifiable optimism, I set off downhill.
5
Judging by the height of the sun, it’s near noon by the time I am walking along one of Tucson’s dusty streets. It has been a slow progress dragging my pained body down from the hills. I am exhausted and hungry, but my headache has subsided to a dull throbbing.
The town is stretched north to south along the valley floor, so it is no more than four blocks wide in the direction I walk. Nevertheless, it has a prosperous appearance. I pass several well-maintained, whitewashed adobe houses, a number of false-fronted stores and a respectable town hall.
Only a few people note my passing. Some children briefly stop playing with their clay marbles to watch me go by, and an old Mexican nods and murmurs, “Buenos días.” Across the street from the hotel there’s a horse trough, and I go over to it, splash water on my face and fill my canteen. It’s only when I straighten up that I notice the horses tethered to the rail in front of the hotel. One of them looks wild and, as I stare, turns its head to look at me. It has a white star on its forehead.
My heart skips a beat. I had assumed that Ed and the others would be miles away by now. The anger I felt in the night returns, but what am I going to do, face down a gang of killers in broad daylight? I examine the other horses. There’s no sign of Ed’s black gelding or the red-haired one’s mount. Is the Kid alone?
Pulling my hat low over my face and tucking the revolver box under my left arm, I grip the handle of my gun and slowly cross the street. I ease up to the large window beside the front entrance and peer in. I’m looking into a long room with a bar down one side and scattered tables and chairs. One of the tables is occupied by four men playing cards. Three others stand along the bar. Two are strangers, the one in the middle is the kid in the pork pie hat. I pull back and lean against the wall of the hotel. What can I do?
I can barge into the hotel, waving my gun, and accuse the Kid of robbing me. In all likelihood, without Ed to restrain him, he will kill me and claim self-defense. I can look for the sheriff and have him arrested, but he will deny it and I have no proof. All that will do is alert the Kid and allow him to come after me as soon as the sheriff releases him. I could steal his horse and ride off, but that would be running away and would turn me into a horse thief, liable to be hanged if someone catches me.
An idea begins to take shape in my mind. I don’t want to turn to a life of robbery to get what I need, but the Kid robbed me. He probably still has some of my money in his pocket, if he hasn’t spent it all in the saloon. If I can head out of town, find a suitable spot and ambush him, then I can get back at least some of my things. Maybe enough money to keep going.
Pleased with my decision, I hurry down the street.
I’m in a good spot, crouched among some large rocks as the trail turns and begins to climb into the hills east of Tucson. I can see almost all the way back to the town and will have plenty of warning of the Kid’s approach, but I’m beginning to have doubts. What if he’s planning on staying in Tucson for a couple of days? What if he’s not alone? Ed and Red might have simply been somewhere else in town. What if he takes a different trail?
A part of me wouldn’t mind it if he takes a different route out of town. I wouldn’t have to face him and it wouldn’t be my fault. I decide I’ll give it until dark, and then I’ll try and think of something else.
My stomach growls noisily. I sip some water and stare along the trail. Two men have passed since I sat here. Neither was the Kid and neither even noticed me. A third is coming along now, but he is no more than a shimmering dot in the lowering sun.
I remember what my mother said about knowing when to stay and fight and knowing when to run. Here I am, destitute, sitting in the middle of the desert waiting to ambush a brutal outlaw who would kill me as soon as spit. I should run, but I don’t. Instead I tighten my grip on my revolver and stare along the trail.
Eventually the rider is close enou
gh for me to make out his pork pie hat and the white star on his horse’s head. I try to calm my breathing and remember my father saying that a revolver is only good at closer than a hundred feet. I want the Kid to get a lot closer than that, but the waiting is hell.
I’m relieved that the Kid is alone, but as he approaches, I realize a flaw in my ambush plan. The sun is setting behind him and in my eyes. He will be able to see me much better than I can see him. But there’s not much I can do about that now.
I wait in an agony of anticipation until he is no more than twenty feet away, and then I stand up.
The horse shies at my sudden appearance, and the Kid has trouble controlling him. Eventually he calms his mount and stares hard at me.
“Wha’d’you wan’?” he slurs. With a shock, I realize that he’s drunk. This gives me confidence.
“I want my money back,” I demand as firmly as I can.
The Kid laughs. “Money back! Knew should’ve kilt you back there. Shtill time now.” He sways sideways in his saddle and scrabbles with his right hand at the Colt in his belt.
“No,” I say, raising my revolver and cocking the hammer. The cylinder rotates until a loaded chamber is aligned. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to shoot you.” I notice that the barrel of my gun is shaking back and forth. The Kid is only a dark silhouette against the evening sky.
“Shoot me? Can’t shoot me.” He has his Colt out now, but he’s waving it around wildly.
“Stop,” I say in desperation, but the Kid only laughs again. The long barrel waves toward me and there is a loud click. Either he has fired on an empty chamber or gone off at half cock.
“Damn,” the Kid says and almost falls off backward. He drags on the reins and his horse dances around in a full circle. “Tha’s be’er,” he says, hauling back on the Colt’s hammer.
I watch the cylinder rotate. The Kid is concentrating hard, and the gun is pointing straight at me, just like it was last night. Anger at the memory of my fear overwhelms me.
“No,” I yell and pull the trigger.
We both fire at the same time, and the noise is deafening. The Kid’s bullet explodes against the rock beside my head, and I feel needles of pain as fragments of lead and rock embed themselves in my cheek. The Kid’s horse rears violently, throwing its rider to the ground. With a loud whinny, it bolts past me.
The Kid is lying on his back beside the trail, his eyes open. His hat has come off and rolled a short way down the hill, but he still clutches the Colt in his hand. There’s a red stain on his shirt front. I kneel beside him and put my hand beneath his head to help him sit up. I feel wetness. It’s only then that I notice the Kid’s eyes aren’t moving.
For a long time, as dusk turns to dark, I sit by the body. I’ve killed a man. I don’t know if my bullet in his chest would have been fatal, but the rock that caved in the back of his skull certainly was, and both are my doing. I rationalize that it was self-defense, but then if I hadn’t decided to lay up here and ambush him, none of this would have happened. I have ended a human life and revenge turns out to be not as sweet as I thought it would be.
Eventually, as the moon rises above the hills, I go through the Kid’s pockets. There are only a few coins in them. I drag his body into a nearby hollow and pile as many rocks as I can find on top of him. It’s not much of a grave, but I hope it will keep most animals off. I bury his Colt and his hat with him. Then I start walking.
6
I walk around in the hills most of the night, thinking about what I have done and how my life has changed so dramatically in just a few weeks. Back home I was the son of the lady who runs the stopping house in Yale. Here I’m nobody, a penniless vagabond killer whose life is worth nothing.
I used to feel in control. If I made a decision, things happened more or less as I expected. Here it’s different; I’m like a leaf buffeted by the wind or swept along on a river current. When I decide something, I have no idea what the consequences will be. I feel almost helpless. If only I could go back and change things.
I try to follow trails in the dark, some of which must only be animal tracks, but I am hopelessly lost. After falling painfully several times and almost stumbling off the edge of a deep arroyo, I huddle behind a rock, wrap my blanket around me and try to sleep.
I guess I must have dozed because I wake up with the first rays of the sun on my face, cold, stiff and hungry. My arm, side and head still hurt from the original ambush, and an assortment of cuts and bruises have been added from my nocturnal adventures. In addition, my left cheek feels like it is on fire, and I feel dried blood crack when I move my jaw. I feel my cheek and wince as my palm rubs sharp pieces of rock. I pull a few out, but without a mirror it’s too awkward and the pain soon makes me stop.
I drag myself to my feet, wrap my revolver box in my blanket and scramble down into an arroyo to look for water. I have no real aim, I simply want to feel better, emotionally and physically. I don’t notice the old man until he speaks.
“Buenos días, joven.”
I try to grab my revolver box from my blanket, forgetting that the gun is in my belt, and I drop everything and fall painfully into a small barrel cactus. I hear laughter, and embarrassment takes over from fear.
The old man is standing on the rim of the arroyo above me. He’s wearing deerskin leggings, a colorful embroidered shirt and a faded blue army jacket. His hair is pure white and hangs long over his shoulders from beneath a strange helmet. The helmet has a high crown that runs fore and aft and a narrow brim that is peaked at the front and back. It’s obviously very old and is rusted almost through in places. However, the rest of it is polished to a gleaming shine.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Qué quiero?” he repeats my question and then switches effortlessly to English, which he speaks with a suggestion of an English accent. “I want nothing. It seems it is you who wants something.” His face is the color of leather and there’s not a square inch of it that’s not as wrinkled and dry as this landscape. He has broad, high cheekbones and dark eyes that flash in the low sun.
“Are you an Apache?” I ask.
“Questions. Questions. Always questions with you white people. You cannot let the world be. You wish to know everything, even that which cannot be known. The answer is yes and no.”
I look puzzled. The strange old man laughs. He lifts his right hand, turns the thumb toward himself and runs it down the length of his body.
“I am everything. This side”—he indicates his right side—“is Spanish, proud, strong. But my heart, mi corazón”—he pounds the left side of his chest— “is Apache. But I have lived with white men so long that my head is white.” He slaps his forehead and laughs again. “And I too have learned how to ask a question. Would you like some tortillas and beans and coffee?”
“I would,” I say, feeling myself smile despite everything. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I have given you nothing yet, nada. Now, young man, joven, get out of that cactus, pick up your things and follow me.” The old man turns and strides off.
I grab my blanket and box and scramble out of the gully just in time to see the old man vanish around the hillside. Ignoring my aches, I hurry behind him.
After a considerable time struggling along a goat path that leads up the hillside—amazed at how fast the old man can move—I begin to wonder if I am being lured into a trap. But I’ve come too far to turn back now. Eventually we arrive at a spot where the path widens onto a ledge in front of the low entrance to a cave. The old man is already squatting by a pile of wood, striking a flint. He has taken his helmet off and placed it on the ground beside him.
“Go into the cave and meet my compadre, Perdido,” he says. “He gave me my helmet, mi casco.”
I put down my blanket but hesitate. What if it’s a trap? I place my hand on the handle of my revolver.
The old man chuckles.
“You will not need your pistola. Perdido is harmless, I assure you.”
F
lames are already licking at the smaller branches by the time I pluck up the courage to bend down at the cave entrance. The entrance is small, but inside the cave opens out to the size of a small room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The first thing I see is the old man’s bed, a long pile of brushwood with a blanket on top. There’s an unstrung bow, a quiver of arrows, an ax and a collection of various-sized clay pots around it.
I look to my left where I can just make out a lance and an ancient musket leaning against the wall. Unexpectedly, there is also a thick book, which I assume to be a bible until my eyes adjust enough to read the title, Moby Dick. It’s not a volume I have read, but I know the name very well. My father used to tell me a story of a white whale of that name and the obsession of a man called Ahab who searched the oceans for it. It’s strangely unsettling to see the whale’s name on a book here in this primitive setting.
Preoccupied, I let my gaze wander back around the cave. From my right, a grinning skull stares back at me.
I almost scream in fear but control it to a loud gasp. I hear the old man outside chuckle. The skeleton is sitting on the floor, leaning against the cave wall. One arm has fallen off and lies beside it, but the rest is held together by dark brown stringy tendons. Perdido is wearing sandals woven from grass, the remnants of a pair of leather pants and a rusted, short-sleeved chain-mail shirt. There’s a narrow sword lying on his lap and a plain cross hanging from a chain around his neck. Perdido has obviously been a soldier, but for whom and from when, I have no idea. I make my way back out into the sunshine.
“Who is he?” I ask the old man, who is now squatting by the fire, placing a flat iron sheet between two rocks over the flames.
