Blood of the Devil

by W. Michael Farmer

  I remembered burying my father’s body after Sangre del Diablo killed and mutilated him. I remembered the witch tying me to a cross like those the brown robes keep around their meeting places and wear on little pesh-lickoyee (silver) chains around their necks. I remembered He Watches hanging on a cross opposite me while the witch’s owl tore out his eyes and killed him. He Watches suffered without a sound. He never gave the witch any pleasure in his suffering. He was a man of great courage, and I was proud to be his grandson. I remembered hanging on a cross, being tied there with green, wet rawhide that grew tight as it dried, pulling at my joints from my wrists to my shoulders, and thinking that I didn’t have the courage to die as bravely as He Watches. But Beela-chezzi and Klo-sen had freed me. Ussen meant for me to live, and he’d given me another chance to kill Sangre del Diablo.

  The moon reached the top of its arc and began to fall toward the mountains to the south and west. The arroyo in which Sangre del Diablo rode split around a cluster of hills in the middle of the star-filled notch between the two mountains; one arroyo branch went northeast, the other, southeast. Sangre del Diablo rode up between the hills and disappeared on the other side, following a wide grassy climb up through a low pass.

  A voice in my mind spoke straight and clear. It said beware of an ambush, but the burning rage growing in me from thinking of the deaths of Caballo Negro and He Watches and Klosen made me deaf to its warning. I waited as long as I dared to ride through the low pass and not lose the witch on the other side. I knew the danger in going over the pass in the moonlight. With the moon still up, I would be outlined on the horizon.

  I stopped to think. I won’t have a long exposure crossing the pass. I can’t waste time looking for the witch’s trail if I lose sight of him. Besides, wandering into his rifle’s sights out on the llano could kill me, too. I have to go now.

  I urged my pony forward and let him pick his way around the rocks scattered on the faint trail up through the dry, brown grama grass to the top. We topped the pass. I instantly knew I had made a mistake. We were in black outline against the face of setting moon. I heard a sound like a fist hitting a belly. My pony shuddered, neighed in surprise, and staggered to its knees. I leaped off his back as he fell and I heard the thunder from the big rifle bullet that killed him echoing off the canyon walls below. The air stirred my hair as a second bullet whistled past my ear, followed by a second echoing roll of thunder.

  I managed to keep my rifle as I hit ground and rolled to one side. I crabbed over to my pony, dead before it hit the ground, sliding a little way down the trail from the top of the pass and stopping a few paces beyond me. Even though I hid in deep shadow and knew the witch couldn’t see me, I stayed low to find protection behind my pony’s back. I strained to see through the darkness, but the same blackness that had probably saved me, blocked me from seeing anything.

  I heard a wolf’s howl and then two more before a deep, roaring laugh echoed off the wide canyon walls below. A loud voice I knew well said, “Apache fool! You think I didn’t see you following me? I have much to do and must ride now, but I’ll come back for you. Then I’ll fill your mouth with your privates and cut your throat while you choke on them. I’ll take your hair just as I took your father’s hair!” Then he made his wolf howls and they faded in the distance until I heard them no more.

  I thought, witch, I’ll come now. Even if you don’t wait for me, I’ll find you.

  My canteen survived the fall of my pony. I still had water. I checked my rifle. It was not broken, not even scarred by my fall. I saw light in the eastern sky. The sun was coming. I gathered myself and ran, ducking from shadow to shadow down the pass to the canyon, found the witch’s trail, and followed it.

  I knew that with the rising sun’s light spreading long shadows, the witch would be well out of the hills and would stop to rest near water, hiding his pony and finding a hiding place where he could sleep.

  I saw the green brush around water in the distance and knew that must be the place where he would stop. From a nearby ridge, a little above the tank, I used the Shináá Cho to study the country looking for where his trail might wind toward the east before I decided what to do.

  The Shináá Cho showed the llano very dry, the creosote bushes not much more than bare sticks poking out of the ground, and prickly pear pads, dry and shriveled, made me glad I carried water. Sangre del Diablo knew the hidden desert water tanks and springs. I didn’t know the country, which meant I couldn’t get ahead of him and wait to ambush him at the next water. I had to follow and wait for him to make a mistake. It would take three, maybe four, days of running to reach the great river. Somewhere along the way, I knew I would have a chance to take him. I just needed to make us even, maybe even give myself an advantage. On foot I could probably outlast his pony in a long-distance run, and I believed if we were both on foot, I could run faster and longer than the witch. I might have more of an advantage in a foot race with him than if we were both on ponies. I had to decide how to keep him moving and not rest. A tired, sleepy man always made mistakes.

  I used the Shináá Cho to study every hiding place around the water tank but did not see Sangre del Diablo or the black stallion anywhere. I decided to go down the back of the ridge, and circle the water tank out of sight, until I found his hiding place.

  Crawling and slithering across the llano, I moved in a great circle around the sparkling pool of dark water as I looked for Sangre del Diablo’s resting place. Almost reaching the ridge east of the water, and past the time when shadows are shortest, I finally saw his big, black pony, hobbled and grazing in a low place screened by a thicket of mesquite. I didn’t move. I knew if I made any sound, the witch would be quick to find me, and, shooting from cover, he wouldn’t miss as he had in the dim moonlight. I would wait until the late afternoon shadows favored me or the witch made a mistake.

  The sun was falling into darkness, and the shadows grew long. The stallion raised his head from the grass and stared toward the ridge, his ears up, listening. At last, the witch stirred. I thought, Now witch, I’ll take you.

  I twisted slightly to look toward the west to judge how long the light would last, and then looked back toward the stallion. It had disappeared. I remembered it hadn’t had water all day. Raising my eyes just above the brush, I saw the glint of the tank water reflecting the last golden light from the sun and the dark outline of the witch leading the pony toward it. The witch stayed on the stallion’s far side away from me, making it impossible for me to see him, much less take a shot. The one chance I had to take the witch was to kill the pony and hope for a shot when it fell.

  In the dimming light, I pulled back the rifle hammer to full cock, and rising to one knee, sighted on the stallion’s head. The Henry roared in fire and smoke, its crack of thunder rolling to the ridge behind the water tanks and coming back to me. The top of the stallion’s head exploded, and the pony collapsed, its life gone in an instant. I levered another round and, with my eye fixed on the sights, swung my rifle back and forth looking for a shot.

  Sangre del Diablo had disappeared. Even in the low light, I could tell he didn’t lie behind the black pony for cover. He had to be somewhere in the mesquite waiting for me to show myself so he could take a shot. Neither of us moved as we waited for the cover of cold blackness before the moon lighted up the night. I crawled to the dead pony before moonrise, took water, and waited for the moon to find his trail. He wouldn’t wait to ambush me here. Running ahead to another place of water where he might see me on his trail, rather than guessing how I might move to catch him, was to his advantage.

  For three nights and days, I followed Sangre del Diablo, drawing closer to him, looking for my chance to take him, but he carefully avoided places where I could ambush him and kept to well-hidden places, impossible to reach without him seeing and killing me first. I had guessed right. I could outrun him, but I needed my speed to follow him on the long trails while he took the shorter ones. I waited for my chance. My grandfather, He Watches, had
taught me patience long ago, which was sometimes the only way to fight against a strong enemy.

  After trailing the witch throughout the fourth night, I caught whiffs of the moldy smell of mud and felt water in the air from the great river. I knew he might try to cross the river in the early light, which meant I had to risk running in the land of the Tejanos if I chose to follow him. With the Shináá Cho in the early gray light, I caught a glimpse of him crossing a stretch of white sand and disappearing behind a line of mesquites. I had to get closer and take him or follow him across the river.

  CHAPTER 6

  DUEL

  I waited, scanning the mesquite where Sangre del Diablo disappeared. Nothing moved, not even leaves in the lightly stirring air. The dawn light was growing brighter. I ran for the mesquite, desperate to take him before he crossed the great river. A brilliant flash of orange and white light thundered from the dark mesquite and hammered me backwards into a shallow dip in the sand. He fired fast, emptying his rifle, his bullets raising little fountains of sand where they hit. I don’t think he could see me. All his other shots were wide or sailed high over my head.

  Lying in the hollow, I stared up at the soft light filling the sky and felt a fool. Ambushed twice in the clear. I had not made such a childish error since my friends and I tried to ambush each other when we learned to fight using slings and rocks. My wound felt far worse than the sting from a rock hit, more like a red-hot blade cutting into my left side just below my ribs. The firing stopped. I cocked my rifle and waited, listening for the sound of bullets being loaded and moccasins crunching across the sand coming me to finish me. None came.

  Blood, warm, somehow comforting in the cold air, slowly leaked down my side and covered the sand. I felt it on my back, making the sand warm and smooth, and I wondered if the witch had killed me. I moved my hand covering the leaking wound in the front to feel if the bullet had come out my back. I felt the hole in my back. It was a little larger than the one in front. The bullet had passed through. I thanked the spirits protecting me. A voice roared in my head, You won’t die! Get up and catch him!

  I raised my head and saw nothing between the mesquite and me. I might live and still kill the witch. Only Ussen knew. I crawled to a clump of prickly pear a few yards away. I skinned a few of its pads, squeezed the juice from some on the bullet hole, made a bandage from my bandanna, and slid a couple under the bandage over each bullet hole. I rested awhile and didn’t feel as weak as I had lying in the sand hollow. The bleeding stopped, and, using my rifle as a staff, I managed to stand. I wobbled toward the mesquite, my rifle ready, but certain Sangre del Diablo had already gone.

  On the eastern side of the mesquite thicket, I found where he had sat waiting for me. Cartridges shining like pesh-klitso lay scattered and gleaming on the white sand. There was enough light to see the great river’s dark, green bosque four, maybe five, long bowshots away, and to see the path he made toward it. I wobbled down the path after him as fast as I could but grew weaker with every step.

  By the time I entered the bosque, I was bleeding again and staggering to stand as my strength drained away. Even though the sun was coming, the light seemed to dim. I came to the great river’s bank sweating so hard that it ran off my forehead and into my eyes, nearly blinding me. Using my shirtsleeve, I wiped the sweat from my eyes and, looking through the cottonwood trees, saw Sangre del Diablo wading across the river. He was nearly to the far bank. I sank to my knees and rested my rifle on a driftwood log. Through the sweat filling my eyes and the strangely fading light, I tried to see enough of the Yellow Boy’s sights to shoot. He looked back, saw me, and threw up his rifle. I didn’t hesitate. The Henry boomed and a black dot suddenly appeared on his upper chest that streamed blood down his chest and belly as he staggered backwards. Time stood still as wide eyes and a dropped jaw of surprise filled his face. He fell with a big splash and slowly rolled over facedown in the brown water that turned the color of a blood-red cloudy sunset around him.

  The light was almost gone. I began sinking into a powerful, black sleep, watching the current carry his body downstream. My eyes stayed open as I sagged back off my knees to sit down and watch the witch float away. I thought, You won’t be blind in the Happy Land, witch, but at least you aren’t here in the land of the living. I watched him drift facedown in the great river, its current carrying him toward the far bank, but in the space of a few long breaths, he suddenly stood, the water rolling off his body and making him glisten even in the low light. Still holding his rifle, looking like a boy’s toy in his big hands, he staggered into the brush on the far side. Darkness filled my eyes, and I left the day with the bitter thought that I had not killed him after all. Maybe he had killed me.

  I felt the fire’s warmth before I opened my eyes to see its wavy orange and yellow light flickering against the darkness. I heard the burble of the river nearby and the frogs and insects making their songs, saw white, twinkling points of pure white light in the blackness covering the leaves above me, and felt my throat burning for water. I had not yet passed to the Happy Land of the grandfathers. I lowered my eyes and looked across the fire. Surprise and a glad heart filled me to see the face of Kah (Arrow), a friend from since before we went on our trials to earn invitations from the warriors to serve them as novices on their raids. Grown to a strong warrior, Kah had been on a raid in Chihuahua with Cha when the witch with his Comanches and banditos destroyed our camp. He found what was left of us on the reservation, but after a few moons rode away to make war against the Indah and Nakai-yes with Victorio before the Blue Coats came to steal our rifles and horses. I had not seen him since he left us.

  Kah saw that I had awakened and nodded. “So Yellow Boy lives. It will take more than a Blue Coat or Mexican bullet to kill you.” He stood and brought a Blue Coat canteen to give me water. It was from the great river and should have tasted a little sour, but it was the sweetest water I had tasted in a long time. In long gulping swallows, I drank it dry, and nodding, handed it back to him as he squatted near me, watching every move I made.

  I wanted to sit up and face him but was too weak and spoke to the stars. “Never was water better. Kah, you saved my life, but the hole in me is not from a Blue Coat or Mexican bullet. It is from Sangre del Diablo, the witch who killed and scalped our people.”

  Kah frowned and cocked his head to one side as if mystified. “How did you come to find the witch in this place, and how did you miss killing him? Your Power would shoot out his eyes and send him to the grandfathers. Is your Power gone? Where is the witch now? I will kill him.”

  I put my hand down where the bullet hit me and found a poultice covered it. “I will answer all you ask, but first tell me how you found me and what you’ve done to my wound.”

  Kah’s face, hardened by months of raiding and killing Indahs, Nakai-yes, and Blue Coats, cracked with a smile, and his eyes shone as I remembered from the old days. “Ussen makes the great wheel of life turn. I was scouting this country for Victorio, so he’d know where the Mexicans and Blue Coats were and could attack them to his advantage. A Blue Coat fort, the Indah call it Quitman, is a little south, down the river from here, and I was riding in the bosque to find a place where I can watch it. Victorio says he’ll come soon for a raid and plans to make raids in the land of the Indah and Tejanos. I heard guns. One rifle shot many times, and then it was quiet. I thought that maybe a Blue Coat patrol was wasting bullets. I decided to kill them and take their supplies. I came near here, and two more shots sounded very close together, but there were no Blue Coats.

  “I found you soon after the shots. I thought that maybe you were dead. I saw no others. You had bled much. I had to stop bleeding quickly or you’d die, so I built a little fire and made the end of my knife blade red, very hot, and used it to stop the bleeding in front and back. Then I used the prickly pear to heal the burns around your wound. I worried that you’d come awake and try to kill me because I burnt you, but you didn’t wake up. We’re both lucky. If the bullet had stayed in yo
u, the wound would turn green and stink, and you would have died. I’ve seen this many times riding with Victorio. Now, will you answer my questions?”

  I nodded and felt the prickly pear pads over the bullet holes, and sliding my finger under them, felt the crusted skin, sore and tender, where Kah had burned me to stop the bleeding. Yes, I was very lucky.

  I groaned. “I’ll answer you. In the Season of Little Eagles, the Blue Coats came one day at the time of shortest shadows from many directions to the reservation. They took our guns and horses. They thought the Mescaleros had supplied Victorio with bullets and horses, even warriors.”

  Kah muttered, “The fools.”

  “Yes, they were fools. Our little camp slipped away across the great river and went to Juh’s stronghold on the flat-top mountain. He let us stay and showed us the witch’s hacienda. Beela-chezzi, two others, and I tried to kill him and his band of Comanches and Mexicans. He nearly killed me, and he and two Comanches got away, but we killed all the others. Two of our warriors went to the Happy Land.”