“There’s too many of them!” Vasquez explained. “They’ve got more mechanicals than we’ve ever seen. It’s hopeless!”
“And how many had to die to learn what we’ve been trying to tell them all along!” yelled Lazarus. He was livid.
They fell back to the river, with the forest behind them going up in shattered splinters and flames as the war machines of the C.S.A. advanced. They had made it to the rocks in the center of the river before the Confederates emerged from the tree line and began firing once more. Hok’ee turned and fired back, prompting more of his warriors to make another stand.
“No!” cried Lazarus. “We must keep retreating!”
Nobody was listening. Hok’ee continued to pump bullets into the faces of the advancing enemy. When one band of ammunition was used up, he slotted in another he had looted from the downed mechanical and continued firing.
Confederate soldiers in their uniforms waded into the river, firing with rifles and revolvers. The Cibolans ran to meet them, hacking and chopping with their war clubs but there were too many of them. Soon the river ran red with Cibolan blood. All along the river it was the same story; natives fleeing from the trees and trying to cross the river, with the invaders firing at their backs, felling them by the score.
Lazarus’s head swam as he felt a civilization and a people die around him. This couldn’t be happening again! It just couldn’t! He was aware of Kokoharu running past him, and he called to her. She didn’t heed him so he called again and only then did he realize that he was calling the wrong name; the name of a different girl from another time and another continent.
He fired again and again at the enemy until his gun clicked empty, and wished for more cartridges. There were almost no Cibolans left now, and the river was choked with their bodies. Only Hok’ee stood, like an oak in the storm, the bloody waters lapping around his knees as he kept on firing, the barrels of his gun glowing red hot. The Confederates were holding back and calling for more mechanicals to be brought forward. Lazarus seized his chance.
“It’s over, Hok’ee! You’ve done all you can! There’s nobody left but the women and children. Come back with us now. Come back with Kokoharu and help protect her people!”
The big warrior turned and stared at him with livid eyes that pulsed through the mask of sweat and hair and blood. He seemed to breathe his first lungful in a long time. Then he nodded.
Chapter Eleven
An unexpected homecoming
They hurried back through the forest, following Kokoharu’s lead. She claimed to know a shortcut through the basin that would put them on the trail of the refugees without having to return to the western city.
The forests grew thicker and Lazarus was thankful for this, imagining the Confederates struggling to find their way and having to cut a path for their war machines. Cotton grew like snow in summer, and the air danced in the heat.
They passed close to the edge of the lake that sat in the bottom of the basin, formed by the runoff from the rain. The enormity of made Lazarus reluctantly think of Lake Guatavita. There were islands out in its centre; rocky pinnacles with trees on them. He wondered if these held the cities named after the directions ‘up’, ‘down’ and ‘center’ that supposedly lay in the valley, and thought to put the question to Hok’ee but they were short of time and breath.
They caught up with the train of refugees, who were alarmed by the sight of Hok’ee, plastered in blood and swinging a huge metal attachment to his arm. They sought out Tohotavo. The priest did not ask them of the battle or what had become of their chief, Eototu. He did not need to. The look of pain in Kokoharu’s eyes told the whole story. They continued onwards in silence.
The northern city was much like the western one. Lazarus imagined the eastern and southern ones also sat high up on the cliffs that ringed the lake like points on a compass, peering down onto their sister cities in the basin. A party of warriors was waiting for them at the top of the winding stairs. Tohotavo talked with them, and they were admitted into the village. Lazarus, Vasquez and Hok’ee caused astonishment similar to that of their arrival in the western city, but on a lesser scale due to the gravity of the situation.
While the refugees were given food and water in the nearest homes, Tohotavo, Kokoharu and the outlanders were ushered into the chief’s audience. It was a room much like Eototu’s, hung with woven patterns and smoky from the burning mesquite logs.
The chieftain was a large man, even for Cibolan standards. His face was wide and framed by black hair that spilled down over massive shoulders nearly to his navel. At his side sat his wife; a stunningly beautiful woman with cold, hard eyes and hair bound in some intricate style that Lazarus did not even try to guess the meaning of. The eyes of the royal couple swept the newcomers and then, when they saw Hok’ee, both nearly leaped upright.
The chief said something in a loud, commanding voice, to which Hok’ee answered. The woman also spoke, but Hok’ee kept his eyes fixed on the chief, refusing to look at her. Lazarus couldn’t work out if everybody else in the room found this severely disrespectful.
“Any idea what’s going on?” he asked Vasquez. It was probably a silly question, for Vasquez spoke as much Cibolan as he did, but the bandit appeared to be following the exchange between Hok’ee and the royal couple with somber understanding.
“The chieftain’s name is Mankanang,” Vasquez replied. “His wife is Xuthala. I think Tohotavo has told them of the invasion from the west, but they seem more interested in Hok’ee.”
“How do you know enough Cibolan to pick out their names?” Lazarus asked him.
“I don’t. This was the village we came to when we arrived here before. Mankanang was the chief who ordered us to leave and to never come back. And here we are again.”
Mankanang gave an order to some of his warriors who loitered in the shadows. They came forward, hands gripping war clubs, as if to take Hok’ee into custody. Tohotavo stepped forward and spoke fast and passionately. Lazarus believed he was telling Mankanang of the Navajo’s courageous efforts to defend the western city. Kokoharu also gave her own testimony, no doubt using her status as daughter of a fellow chief who had fallen in battle alongside this brave outlander. Mankanang scowled. He had heard them out and ordered the warriors to fall back, but remained skeptical.
“Well I’ll be damned,” said Vasquez. “The old bastard has a sympathetic bone in his body after all. I thought old Hok’ee’s days were up, and ours too into the bargain. But I guess Mankanang just couldn’t go through with it, no matter how much they hate each other.”
“What are you talking about?” Lazarus asked. “You speak as if they know each other intimately.”
“Hok’ee is Mankanang’s brother.”
“His brother? You mean Hok’ee is a Cibolan?” Lazarus was flabbergasted and desperately needed this explained, but there was no time for Mankanang was giving a speech. Apparently, there was to be food all round as painted bowls of squash, beans, corn and venison were brought in and set down on woven mats. They all sat down in a circle around the walls of the chamber and tucked in. Lazarus was ravenous, and hurriedly pushed down the first few mouthfuls of food before he pressed Vasquez for more information.
“It’s a long story, pal, and not one that Hok’ee likes to tell often. He told it to me not long after we busted out of Fort Sumner and has never spoken of it since. I picked up more of the tale when we came here the first time. His real name is Pahanatuuwa, and he’s not of the Navajo but of this valley. He and Mankanang grew up in one of the other pueblos. Hok’ee—Pahanatuuwa I should say—was the lady-killer of the pair. He was in love with a chief’s daughter from another tribe. These Cibolans, I guess you could call them, are matrilineal. That means the royal line passes through the women and they never marry a man from the same clan.”
“Much like the Hopi,” said Lazarus.
“Yeah. Well, the chiefs in this valley are not born royal. They marry into the royal families. They still do the ordering about, bu
t it’s their wives who are the real sovereigns. You might have noticed that the homes here are the property of the women. They are in charge of their upkeep and their husbands are more like guests in them. So, Pahanatuuwa was all set to marry this girl and become a chief. Only then, the hussy goes and takes up with somebody else and the marriage is off. You know our friend has a nasty temper, so he kicks up a ruckus and gets himself exiled.”
“Poor Hok’ee—I mean Pahanatuuwa,” said Lazarus, eyeing their companion, who was letting Kokoharu serve him some more food. “It hardly seems fair.”
“He got the shaft, no doubt about it,” Vasquez went on. “Anyway, that’s when he left the valley and took up with the Navajo. They gave him a new name and a new life, and pretty soon they got caught up in the war and that’s where I met up with him. The poor fella had lost everything for a second time, with all his Navajo friends dead from the Long Walk or from their internment at Bosque Redondo. I figured he’d be happy enough living the life of an outlaw bandit with me for a while. I ain’t got no family either so we were a deuce, or so I thought. I never much cared where I came from and I guessed he never did either. But deep down, all he could think about was the woman he had loved and the home he had lost. That’s when he got the bright idea of treasure hunting.
“You see, the Cibolans were aware that somebody had made a map to their valley of Eden and weren’t too keen on anybody else finding it. Whoever had made the map—Estevanico is my guess—took it with them when they left, all those years ago. The Cibolans wanted it returned. So, Hok’ee was dead-set on finding this map and taking it back here as a peace offering. I figure he hoped to win his way back into the tribe and win over the gal he had lost or something. As for me, as soon as I heard that there was a map to Cibola, I thought the Lord had sent me an all-paid fare to riches and glory. I didn’t need any convincing.
“So we found the map after many adventures which I won’t go into right now, and flew into this valley expecting to be hailed as heroes. Brother, were we wrong. Hok’ee had already explained to me by that point that there was no gold here, so I wasn’t so disappointed when we landed, but the Cibolans were mighty disappointed to see us, especially as we had that damned map with us. We were told to hand it over so that it could be destroyed. They were worried that we had shown it to every white man alive. Hok’ee had another of his stomping fits, and told them that as he had found the map it was his, and he wasn’t going to leave it here with a bunch of ingrates who wouldn’t accept him. If I had known any better, I would have convinced him to toss the useless thing into the lake down there and let that be an end to it.
“But we flew on out of here with our map and found another safe place to bury it. We should have destroyed it ourselves, but we were so high and mighty that we thought we knew best and weren’t about to throw away our only link to the Land of the Seven Cities, however lacking in wealth they were. Not that we really considered selling it, for to do that would mean the death of everybody here, as we’re witnessing right now. I don’t know what we planned to do with it, really. All we knew was that it was ours and we were going to keep it hidden.”
“Just a minute,” said Lazarus. “So when you agreed to hand the map over to either Katarina or myself, did you have any intention of keeping up your end of the bargain?”
Vasquez grinned around a mouthful of venison. “Nope. I planned to string you both along for a while and see if I couldn’t milk a few dollars from you both, before ditching you somewhere in the desert. But things didn’t quite go to plan.”
Lazarus seethed. “Vasquez, you are the biggest cheat and scoundrel I have ever had the displeasure to know.”
Mankanang stood up and all were silent as the chief began his address to his clan. He had been listening to Tohotavo all through the meal, and the pair of them had been in deep discussion as to what was to be done. His speech was a short one, but spoken with the passion Lazarus had seen once before in a culture on the brink of ruin, determined to overcome the odds or go out in a blaze of glory trying. Hok’ee translated for Lazarus and Vasquez.
“Mankanang says that he will send word to the other cities. They will unite against the invaders. If the white men wish a war then the people of the Seven Cities will provide one.”
Lazarus groaned.
Chapter Twelve
In which an alliance is struck
The morning mist dissipated slowly, revealing the Confederate supply depot as if it were a ghost from another era, emerging spectrally in the secluded forest valley. Tents had been pitched over ammo dumps and machines were undergoing repair. Men in grey uniforms milled about, some on guard while others played cards and polished their weapons. They were relaxed but not so relaxed as they might have been several days ago. Even from his position behind a fallen log, Lazarus could see their twitchy hands and their casual glances to the shadows under the trees.
This was the second supply depot they had hit in three days. Reynolds had several of them set up in the southern half of the basin to reinforce his advance through the valley. Both the western and southern cities had fallen to his troops, and one of the cities in the centre of the valley would undoubtedly fall next.
Lazarus turned to the twelve Cibolans at his back. They awaited his signal, and he felt the ludicrousness of the situation; he, an Englishman who hadn’t believed these people had even existed mere days ago, leading them into battle without speaking a word of their language. But he had mastered the hand signals from Hok’ee—Pahanatuuwa, he corrected himself—and hoped that his signal to attack would be clear enough to them. He should really be following one of them, but they claimed that due to the industrial superiority of their enemy, somebody who knew their workings was called for to lead the attack. And after, they had seen him fell a Confederate with his Colt Starblazer, and they were convinced that he was a demi-god of only slightly less status than Pahanatuuwa.
Vasquez and Pahanatuuwa had taken a secondary force around to the south of the depot, and would form the diversion to draw the enemy’s fire so that Lazarus and his squad could storm the camp and make off with its munitions. Pahanatuuwa’s Jericho should provide distraction enough, thought Lazarus. The Cibolans were convinced that it was the tool to bring them victory.
The Jericho tore out three bursts of fire and the Confederates leaped up in alarm, seizing their weapons. Lazarus could feel the excitement in the Cibolans behind him, and turned to make sure that none of them got carried away and charged prematurely. They held, tense and ready, as the enemy soldiers scattered in the direction of the attack. When it looked like no more would be leaving the camp, Lazarus finally gave the signal and they rushed the depot.
The remaining Confederates looked up in terrified surprise as Lazarus and his twelve Cibolans came whooping down the slope, and barely had a chance to get a shot off before they were upon them. Lazarus drew first blood, aiming his revolver at the chest of the nearest guard and hurling him backwards with a shattered ribcage. The Cibolans swung their terrible war clubs and tore through flesh with the chunks of razor-edged obsidian, splintering bone and hacking men down.
It was over in moments. Not a single Cibolan had fallen. With more battles like this, thought Lazarus with elation, the Cibolans might actually stand a chance against Reynolds. They began rooting through the supplies. The Cibolans were fascinated by the guns of the white men and seized them in great armfuls, oblivious that they required ammunition. Lazarus had considered speaking with Mankanang and Tohotavo on the matter of teaching their people how to use modern weapons. It would undoubtedly be an aid in their war, but whether or not they had time to outfit and train an army in a wholly new kind of warfare before the next battle was another matter.
They were in the process of dividing up the loot between the warriors to bear it back to their city when Vasquez and Pahanatuuwa emerged from the trees, their men at their back. “You sure let them have it,” said Vasquez, looking around at the dismembered corpses.
“Well, there weren’t
too many of them left after your diversion,” said Lazarus.
“Diversion, hell! We didn’t get a shot off! They headed off in a different direction leaving us to rejoin you here!”
“What? But we heard…”
“A Jericho? So did we, but it wasn’t Hok’ee’s.”
“Then who?”
“Search me. It came from the west and that’s where the Confeds hurried off to. They went right past us. Listen! I can hear them fighting!”
Lazarus could hear it too, gunshots and cries coming from nearby. “Either they have a splinter faction in their ranks or something is sorely amiss.”
“I would put it down to another clan attacking them, but that was definitely a Jericho I heard.”
They hurried through the trees cautiously, not wanting to blunder into whatever was happening further west. The gunfire drew nearer and they slowed to a halt. The Cibolans, even as bemused as they were as to this new turn of events, drew up in close formation, weapons ready. The ground sloped down from them into a rocky dip before rising up into the red mountains that formed the western wall of Cibola. It was in this dip that the fight was taking place.
“Well I’ll be goddamned!” exclaimed Vasquez.
Lazarus might have said something similar had he not been lost for words. Down, in the bottom of the dip, surrounded by gun-toting figures, was the Worm. Its front portion emerged from the mountain like the head of an eel peeping out from its cave. Men and women wearing the blue of the Union stood on and around it, firing on the Confederates. At the head of the mechanical behemoth stood a woman with long blonde hair twisted into cables, holding a Springfield rifle aloft like a battle standard as she screamed for her troops to retreat.
“Townsend,” said Vasquez. “And look, over there.”
Lazarus saw a black man firing round after round at the advancing men in .
Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles) Page 10
