by Gary Paulsen
Brennan picked up the number three box and sat on the couch, opened it.
“Eighteen sixty-four,” he read from the first folder.
He pulled out some papers that proved to be copies of old newspapers. Even as copies it was easy to tell that the original paper had been old. The newsprint was uneven and the headlines almost screamed.
“ ‘More raids by Apaches,’ ” Brennan read aloud. “ ‘Livestock stolen, settlers frightened, army increases patrols.’ ”
“Got into their headlines, didn’t they?” Homesley said. “They didn’t need to write the story after that.”
Brennan read the story. It said that there had been several raids in the area south and west of El Paso. That “… great damage has been caused.” He finished the article. “It’s so weird to read this—it’s like it just happened. Yesterday or something.”
Homesley set the boxes on the coffee table in front of the couch. “It’s going to take days to go through all this—and we really don’t even know what we’re looking for, do we?”
Brennan shook his head. “Not really. But I’ll know when I find it—I think.”
He sat back on the couch with the box in his lap and started with the first folder. In moments he was lost in the papers.
He did not see Homesley leave, did not see Homesley come back with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and glass of milk, did not see Homesley put them on the table next to the boxes, did not see Homesley leave.
Brennan knew nothing but the papers, the papers and the world they showed.
18
Dust and heat. The newspapers spoke of patrols and raids and heat and dust. Long patrols the army made when the soldiers had to cut the veins on their horses and drink the blood; dust and sand so thick, they had to cover their mouths with bandannas just to breathe.
Brennan read the newspaper articles and stories first. They were all poorly written, redundant—they would often say the same thing several times.
“Twenty soldiers attacked a marauding band of Apaches in a running battle,” a story said. “No soldiers were injured though several Apaches were seen to have been hit.” And later in the same story: “A roaming patrol of twenty soldiers attacked a band of wild Apaches. After a brisk exchange of fire several Indians were hit though no soldiers received wounds.”
He put the article aside without looking up, without seeing the cookies or milk, took another story.
This one spoke of the ranchers who had to take their families into El Paso because they feared an Indian attack.
Ranchers, Brennan thought—how could they ranch? The area around El Paso was hot, dead desert; sand dunes and mesquite and a few coyotes. How many ranchers could there be?
Again, nobody was hurt.
There was much writing of fear:
Indian Fright!
Ranchers Flee!
Citizens Terrorized!
But when he got into the articles he found that while livestock had been driven off, there had been no injuries caused.
Or very rarely.
Some prospectors had been attacked at their mine and one had died of wounds received in the battle—while four Indians were killed in the same fight.
So violent, Brennan thought, leaning back. He saw the cookies and milk and took some. Everything was so violent—white, red, color didn’t seem to matter. Violence was the way of it—the engine that seemed to drive the West was violence.
All the articles were about Indian uprisings but on one copy, part of another article had been copied as well. It told of two soldiers who had hacked each other to death with knives in a cantina in Juarez. The author didn’t seem shocked so much as amazed that they would kill each other at the same time.
Brennan finished the cookies and drank some milk.
Then he started to read again.
He read some of the articles in the box and opened the other boxes and scanned the articles in those as well.
But he could not forget the comment about box number three and how it might have something for him. They had told Homesley’s friend—he was named Ted Rainger—only that they desired information about the canyon area north of Fort Bliss and any actions that took place there between 1860 and 1890 or so.
The third box concerned El Paso and Fort Bliss and the canyons but it took some time to go through the other boxes to make sure.
He looked up one more time, saw that the wall clock said one in the morning, and knew he should try to sleep.
But he could not stop reading. He started into the general papers in the third box. They were mostly action reports with a fair number of letters.
The action reports were paperclipped to the order to which they applied.
“You will take your patrol to the vicinity of Hueco Flats where you will sweep north and south of the road from Carlsbad, engaging any hostiles encountered unless the enemy force is too large for engagement to be prudent. You will carry twenty rounds of ammunition per man and such rations for man and horse as deemed suitable for an eight-day patrol. [Signed] Captain John Bemis.”
And clipped to the patrol order was the report of the patrol leader.
“We patrolled as per instructions the area of Hueco Flats with a fifteen-man unit all in standing good health, man and horses, and the patrol was without incident until noon of the fourth day when the patrol came under fire from small arms. No men were hit though one mount sustained a mortal wound. Fire was returned and a group of approximately twelve hostiles was seen to leave an arroyo a hundred yards distant and ride south at a good pace. No hits were registered and no pursuit was given. The rest of the patrol was without event, arriving back at Fort Bliss on 12 September 1864.”
Brennan put down the folder holding the orders and visualized what he had just read.
The words were so dry, concise, but they meant so much. Horses running, men shooting at other men—men trying to kill other men. A horse hit going down, everybody yelling, the Indians riding out of the arroyo and the soldiers firing at them.
What was that like? To aim at another person with a gun to try to kill him. How could that be?
He saw the clock again.
Two in the morning now. I have to work tomorrow, he thought—no, today. I have to work today with Stoney. I should lie down and sleep. Right now. I should lie back and sleep and rest, but he could not.
Instead his hands took another folder out of the box and he began to read. And then another, and another, and he read until it was past four, until his eyes burned and his brain was so full of words, of reports and more reports, that he fairly reeled with them, read until he was on the edge of something like sleep.…
And then he found it.
19
It started with a patrol order much like the others.
“You will patrol the area north of Fort Bliss along the line of bluffs leading to Alamogordo, over to the base of the Organ Mountains and back to the originating point. The purpose of said patrol to maintain the public order and engage hostiles if engagement seems prudent.”
Brennan’s mind perked. The “bluffs leading to Alamogordo” was the canyon area. This was the first patrol order in that area. But it was the after-action report that held him.
“Reporting on patrol 21 Oct. 1864. We worked due north of Fort Bliss without incident. On the second night, approximately thirty miles north of the originating point, our pickets reported hearing horses in the night but no contact was made with the suspected hostiles.
“We rode north two more days with no contact. While making the sweep across to the Organ Mountains the patrol intersected a group of hostiles driving a herd of approximately 100 horses.
“Chase was given with the troop in skirmish formation. The main body of hostiles abandoned the horse herd and escaped in the direction of White Sands.
“Two hostiles bringing up the drag on the herd were seen to break away and ride toward the canyons in the line of bluffs to the east.
“Four troopers—O’Bannion, Rourke, Danel
ey, and Doolan—were dispatched and gave chase. One of the hostiles was killed in a running fight and the second was cornered in a canyon south of Dog Canyon. The troopers reported that after a brisk exchange of fire the second hostile was killed. Due to the remaining length of the patrol the bodies were not returned.”
“Chaaach!” Brennan’s breath exploded. He had been holding it without realizing it. A canyon south of Dog Canyon.
A coldness was in him now, a deep feeling of certainty. There was no real reason for it, for the sureness, but he was absolutely positive the skull belonged to the “hostile” the soldiers had chased into the canyon.
The canyon.
He had run then, run from them up into the canyon. One boy, his age, his own age, one boy running and four men after him.
Names. He knew the names of the men. All Irish. Probably big men, soldiers, blue uniforms, hot, stinking of sweat, chasing him, chasing me into the canyon up beneath the rock.…
He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. Not me, him—not me. The two kept mixing in his thinking. The soldiers chased him, not me. I am sitting here reading about it—not running into the canyon away from them, trying to hide.…
The clock again. Five-thirty now. There were no windows in the basement but outside the sun would be up. It was morning.
He took out another packet of papers from the same folder.
Letters. The copies were all the same size but it was easy to see that they had all been written on different sizes of paper, at different times and by different people.
He riffled through them, wondering if he had time to read them. He almost put them aside but remembered Homesley’s friend Rainger had worked hard to organize everything. The letters must mean something or they wouldn’t be there.
He rubbed his eyes again. Two hours before he had to go to work.
He read the first letter.
20
“To the commanding officers of Fort Bliss.
“Hoping to find you in good health I take up my pen in a matter most urgent.
“Here at the Quaker school and home we meet often with both young and old Apaches. As you know we are in God’s work to help these people and bring them to grace.
“These are violent times and require more open methods than in more civilized eras and so I shall come to the point.
“Thursday last I was approached by an older Indian woman from the Horse Mesa band of Apaches. I had not seen any member of that band in some time and could only hope that they were off hunting.
“But she informed me that such was not the case and her band had made a raid to steal horses in Mexico.
“On the raid two young boys were killed. One boy was named Magpie and your soldiers apparently shot him while riding and his body was recovered.
“The second boy was seen to enter a canyon with some troopers chasing him.
“This second boy was named Coyote Runs and the old woman was either his mother or his maternal grandmother. These relationships are sometimes hard to understand but I think she was the boy’s mother.
“She said since they cannot find a body would I use my good offices to ask the army if they truly killed her son and if so, would they tell her (me) where the body is so she may retrieve it and give it a proper burial.
“I remain your respected servant,
“(Mrs.) Amelia Gebhart.”
Coyote Runs, Brennan thought—his name, the skull’s name, was, is, Coyote Runs.
“Coyote Runs.” He said it aloud. A boy my age named Coyote Runs ran into the canyons with four soldiers after him. Firing at him.
I fear.
I fear for you now, Coyote Runs, I fear for you.
He put the letter down, picked up the next, which proved to be an answer.
“Dear Mrs. Gebhart.
“Having received yours of last month I take leave to reply.
“Regarding your request concerning the action of a patrol in the area of the canyons adjacent to Dog Canyon, I fear I have not much help for you.
“I have spoken personally with the officer in charge of the patrol and subsequently the four troopers who were personally involved in the aforementioned action.
“Their report assures me that while they did dispatch two hostiles in a running fight the second Indian was also killed in the running fight. Due to the heat and the remaining time of the patrol there was no attempt to recover the bodies of either man.
“It is to be expected that in the heat and with the number of coyotes this year nature may have taken its course, not to put too delicate a turn to it.
“I am sorry to have been of so little help.
“Your respectful servant,
“Col. John McIntire (Comd.)”
He’s lying, Brennan thought. Whether he knows it or not, he’s not telling her the truth. I found the skull up in the canyon, way at the back. With a hole in the forehead. There is no way he could have moved after being hit that way.
What was it Tibbets had said?
Oh yeah, instantaneous death.
Coyote Runs had come into the canyon. They had chased him.
He must have been hurt. Maybe his horse fell or something. Maybe they wounded him.
He had run from them but they had cornered him under the rock and shot him in the head.
Wait.
More—there was something more. There, yes, there it was—Tibbets had said the muzzle of the weapon had been held right against the boy’s head.
They hadn’t killed him.
They had executed him.
Run to earth like an animal, run to a hole like some frightened animal and they had found him and leaned down and put the barrel of the rifle to his forehead, put it right there and pulled the trigger.
“Oh.”
Brennan blinked, put a finger to his forehead. There.
There.
And Coyote Runs and all the things he would ever be ended then, in that instant.
Brennan put the papers on the table and leaned back. Tears moved slowly down his cheeks.
To know him—to know his name and how he must have died and lived.
No. That was wrong.
He knew his name now and how he died but he knew nothing of how Coyote Runs must have lived.
The door opened slowly and Homesley was standing there. He was holding a steaming cup.
“It’s time to get up,” he said. “I brought you some herbal tea …” His voice trailed off. “You’ve been up all night.”
Brennan wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and took the tea. He held it with both hands and smelled the strong herb steam. “Thank you.”
“You found out something.” Homesley said it not as a question but as a statement of fact. “Something about the skull.”
Brennan sipped the tea. “His name was Coyote Runs and four soldiers executed him.”
Homesley sighed. “Things never change.”
“I want to know more,” Brennan said. “I want to know all about him, how he lived, how it was for him to be.”
Homesley nodded. “I understand.”
“There is a thing I must do—I know what it is now.”
Homesley said nothing, waited.
“A thing I am supposed to do.”
Still Homesley waited.
“I have to take him back.”
“Back where?”
“Back to where he is supposed to be.”
“Where is that?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. Somewhere up in the canyons. He’ll … tell me when it’s right.”
“He’ll tell you?”
“I know how that sounds—crazy. And maybe I am. But it has to be—this has to be done.”
“I understand.”
And Brennan could see that he meant it. “I’ll go get the skull—go get Coyote Runs. Do you suppose you could take me up to the canyons and drop me for a couple of days? I’ll tell Mother I’m going camping.…”
“Sure. No sweat. I’ll take a sleeping bag and go with you.”
“We’ll take our time and see the country up there.…”
And Brennan was only half right. He would certainly see the country—but it wouldn’t be leisurely, and it wouldn’t be with anybody.
21
Bill’s car was parked out front and Brennan could sense something as soon as he entered the house—in the air. A tightening tension.
“Is that you, Brennan?” His mother heard the door open and close. “Come into the kitchen, please.”
Her voice was flat, but not angry.
Brennan went into the kitchen.
The scene seemed frozen.
Bill sat on one side of the table and his mother sat on the other. Bill’s eyes were wide, curious; his mother had some of the same look to her face mixed with concern.
Between them, on the table, sitting on a towel was the skull.
The skull.
Ahh, he thought. Ahh—there it is.
“Do you have an explanation for this—this hunk of bone?”
Yes, Mother, I do, he thought. His name is Coyote Runs and he died when an American soldier put the muzzle of a rifle to his forehead and blew his brains out. But his mouth didn’t say the words. Instead his lips opened and he said, “I found it when we were camping.”
“And brought it home without telling me?”
Brennan shrugged. “There were all those kids with us and I didn’t want to make a mess.…” It sounded lame and he knew it, let it trail off.
“That was National Forest land,” Bill said, his voice prim. “You’re not supposed to remove things from National Forest land.…”
“Coyote Runs.”
“What?” Bill asked.
“Not ‘things,’ not ‘hunk of bone.’ His name was Coyote Runs. He was a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old Apache boy killed by the army.”
“How could you know all that?” Bill asked.
