The wagons struggled forward. The dust in the road was deep, making the going slow, and the mules strained against their harnesses to move the heavy wagons. I was so close I could smell the nasty, sweating bodies of the drivers and the good clean sweat of the mules. There were ten wagons in all, big freight wagons, their sides high, their front wheels tall as a man’s shoulders, the back wheels even higher. Six mules pulled each wagon, and six heavily armed outriders, three to each side of the wagon train, served as guards.
I remember my mouth was very dry, and as the breeze changed, the smell of gourd flowers was strong in my nose. I studied the Indah I intended to kill, a heavyset man broad across the shoulders, a big black flat-brimmed hat shading his eyes. His boots were the kind the Blue Coat who had taken Kah had worn, jet black, their shafts reaching above his knee. A lever rifle lay across the pommel of his saddle, and he carried two holstered revolvers, a heavy hunting knife pushed under a belt around his waist, and a bandolier of bullets across his left shoulder. Surveying the area around the road slowly, he stared directly at the bush where I stood unmoving, bow ready, frozen in place, willing myself invisible. He looked directly at other warriors and did not see them either. He waved the wagons on and began turning his horse around to cross the second arroyo. A man of experience, but not enough, he made the fatal mistake of not seeing us hidden in front of his eyes.
Waiting for Cha’s signal, I thought, Indahs abused me, abused all Mescaleros at Bosque Redondo when I was a little child. Now in less than a season, I’ve killed three, and you’re next. Many more Indahs will die before I’m finished. Now Cha, let’s spill blood.
A flash of bright light from Cha’s signaling mirror hit the outrider in the face. He reflexively looked toward it, turning his attention away from the direction of the road, and raised his rifle to his shoulder. Light also hit the other outriders’ faces, and they, too, turned toward the sources.
I bent my bow to my arm’s full length, the sinew bindings around the arrowhead rough, rubbing the top of my forefinger. I made a small step to the right for a clear shot, paused to steady my body, and released the arrow, the whispering bowstring slapping my wrist protector with a solid snapping sound. The arrow streaked forward straight and true striking the outrider with a solid thump a little below his armpit, slicing through his chest and punching through to his other side, the arrowhead pinning his arm to his side. Making no sound, limp and empty like a drained water bladder, the rider slumped off his horse, dead before he hit the sand.
Time slowed, flowing like wild honey from a clay jar. I saw arrows hit the other two outriders, their faces filled with a look of startled surprise as they, too, making no sound, fell from their horses. Instantly, the quiet day changed to the roar and noise of attack as the forward drivers were popping their whips and whistling for their mules to charge forward. Men on the seats beside the drivers raised their rifles and fired wildly into the brush on the south side of the road. I felt the air next to my head swirl my hair as one of the wild shots from the wagons nearly ended my warrior’s life before it began.
Warriors sprang out of the pits next to the road firing rifles and bows. They killed the lead mules starting to race forward, and then turned their fire on the wagon drivers who were frantically trying to make the mules run forward. But the mules were balking, smelling the blood of their brothers, confused by the roar and smoke of rifles and screams of the Apaches running for them. I sent arrows into two of the drivers. Bullets fired from the north and south hills were like sharp knives slicing through new green grass as they cut down outriders and drivers.
Deadly fire poured into the wagons, leaving big, splinter-filled holes from bullets passing through wagon boxes where a few surviving drivers and their passengers took shelter before they died hiding behind the wood. Only one man left the wagons. He desperately tried to run back down the road until he collapsed on the arroyo bank against its light brown sand, bloody wounds scattered across his back.
The firing stopped. Warriors under Caballo Negro, waiting across the second arroyo, ran forward to cut the dead mules loose from their harnesses and unchain the surviving teams to bring them forward to the dry camp behind the north hill. Dead men hung over the sides of the wagons, all shot several times, a few carrying multicolored arrows buried in their throats, chests, or backs.
Caballo Negro and his warriors cleared the top of the arroyo bank and charged the wagons. A few survivors hidden in the wagons managed an occasional shot. I saw an Indah rise from the third wagon, sight his rifle, and fire at Caballo Negro. A bright red streak appeared as if by magic on the upper arm of Caballo Negro. Continuing to sight the rifle in place, the shooter, in the space of half of a breath, levered another round, but before he pulled the trigger, my arrow struck him in the side of his head. His eyes bulged as life left him like a startled bird taking wing. His hands froze around his rifle, and he fell backwards across the wagon seat. Caballo Negro shook his rifle toward me in thanks. The warriors walked among the Indahs, ready to cut throats of those still alive.
It was a great victory—all the Indah dead, and no Mescalero with more than minor flesh wounds. The air smelled of death, smelled of men killed violently, the pungent smell of blood mixed with the stench of loose bowels. I looked up into the deep, blue, afternoon sky and saw the great black buzzards already sailing high, growing in number, and waiting for their turn at the dead Indah bodies.
The wagon train had been hauling supplies such as I had seen in trading posts and stores in the land of the Nakai-yes. There were bolts of cloth, canned goods, sweet candy, tobacco, grain, and many heavy pieces of iron tools used to scratch in gardens made in this hard, dusty land. Two of the wagons were nearly empty, holding only a few tools. I thought, Probably for digging a load of salt in the great salt flats another sun west. The warriors loaded the mules with all the supplies they could carry.
Cha and Caballo Negro looked over weapons carried by the Indah, picking out guns they wanted for themselves, and leaving the rest for the other warriors to choose. Caballo Negro took a holster holding a revolver with a long barrel and a lever rifle, old, but well cared for. The rifle’s barrel was long and black with no fore stock, and its lever fit into yellow metal like the Shináá Cho used. I remembered that a Comanche visiting Cha’s camp had carried such a rifle and, in English he had learned from a trader, had fondly called it “Yellow Boy.”
Caballo Negro levered a round into the rifle’s chamber and sighted at a distant target before lowering it and easing the hammer down to a safe position. I felt a strong affection for the rifle, though I had not even touched it, and I wished I had found and kept it. Still, I knew that, after a few more raids, it would be my turn to choose before the less experienced warriors. As it was, I got canned goods, blankets, cloth, and knives for my mother and a box of long, skinny, rolled tobacco sticks for myself.
Caballo Negro searched among the wagons until he found a small, very heavy wooden box. He gave it to me and said, “Keep this with your other trophies. I’ll show you what is in it when the time comes.”
The sun was racing for the night when we finished loading the mules and set fire to the wagons, sending tall columns of greasy, black smoke high into the still, late afternoon air.
We left the dead Indah naked and smeared with blood where they fell. After taunts by Cha and a few other warriors that they didn’t have stomachs to be warriors, Kah and Ko-do mutilated several bodies. Caballo Negro watched, shook his head, and said to me, “Never do that unless there is a useful purpose. Men enter the land of the grandfathers carrying only the marks of their death, not the way their bodies are butchered after their ghosts leave. Only weak men do such things to please themselves. They are afraid of the living and taunt the dead. Ghosts of the dead repay disrespect. It is an evil thing to suffer the dead’s revenge. Cha makes a mistake teaching Kah and Ko-do to do this. Remember what I tell you.”
The warriors divided the pack mules between them and rode away fanning out in all d
irections, leaving too many trails to follow. We met later in the night at the trail to the canyon camp. Cha sent a rider to tell the camp of our great victory and to have the women prepare for a feast. The next night, there would be many gifts for everyone and much dancing. I hoped the eligible girls would show their interest and choose to dance with me for a small gift.
CHAPTER 11
JUANITA
* * *
As moonlight began spilling over the mountains, we came near our camp, where women holding torches formed lines on each side of the trail. When the first warrior, leading a pair of mules loaded with booty, appeared, they broke into songs and calls welcoming the “mighty warriors returning, the men bringing us gifts.” When the singing began, He Watches lighted a big fire in the wood and brush the women and children had gathered for the victory dance, and old men on its west side began a slow drumming thump on a big, stiff buffalo hide and sang victory songs.
The warriors rode to their wickiups where their women, sons, daughters, and slaves unloaded their booty and cared for their horses and mules. The women greeted the men modestly and let them wash and eat while they looked through the loot, picked out what they needed or wanted to keep, and left the rest to be given away. The big fire grew as the old ones and young children heaped more brush on it, driving the aging night’s chill away, making the circle of light larger. As flames leapt toward the stars, the drumming grew more intense and the songs louder.
The Fierce Dance began. First four men, one for north, south, east, and west, circled the fire, then together formed a line, a wheel spoke, that circled the fire. Then four more men joined them in a repetition of the first pattern, and then four more. Soon all the men who had been on the raid were in the spokes of the wheel turning about the fire.
Someone called a man’s name, one especially brave in the raid, then another was called, and with each new name, the men gave a great shout of “Enjuh!” as the women ululated in high warbles while the warrior’s deeds were sung. When a man’s name was called, he left the group of dancers, moved into the open space closer to the fire, and danced alone, reenacting his bravery in the raid. Then, before returning to the warriors in the dance, he left the circle of light, and returned with what he would give away. He put the gifts on the east side of the fire opposite the drummers and singers and told the People to help themselves.
To my surprise, I heard my name, a deep rumbling voice singing:
“Nah-kah-yen I know what you did.
“You did a great thing.
“With a bow, you faced a man with a many shoots rifle.
“With a bow, you killed him.
“With a bow, you killed another man.
“With a bow, you stopped his shot at Caballo Negro.
“Nah-kah-yen, you did a great thing.
“Nah-kah-yen, I know what you did.”
I left the men in the outer circle of warriors to dance next to the fire in its brightest orange and yellow light, my feet pounding the dust, and pulling an imaginary bow and making my worst war face as I released my arrows. Each time I shot an arrow, the men and surrounding crowd shouted, “Ho!” After four times around the fire, I slipped out of the ring of dancers to bring back an ax, a shovel, and some blankets for the People.
When all the warriors whose names were sung had danced, the women formed a circle, rotating east to west outside the circle of the men, who stayed close to the fire circling east to west also and facing them. They sang songs of war and loss and of sharing wealth taken from enemies.
As a new shift of drummers took up the beat, the men left the circle and sat down, and a new dance began, the Wheel Dance. Single women formed in pairs and made a spoke wheel rotating east to west around the fire. Once the wheel was turning, each pair of women took turns leaving the fire to tap the men they wanted for dancing partners. Then the women and their partners returned to the wheel, faced each other about a yard apart, and danced an easy timed step a few forward and less back so the wheel turned slowly around the fire.
Although I was weary to the point of exhaustion, I sat on the west side of the fire with other young men who wanted to dance. This was my first opportunity to dance in a partner dance and learn if Sons-nah’s daughter had any interest in me. I saw her pair with Juanita, a girl I knew from the Bosque Redondo days who was a year younger than I was. She and Sons-nah’s daughter, who was now called Deer Woman because of her speed afoot and her large doe-like eyes, had shared the same Haheh ceremony two years earlier. Before the Bosque Redondo days, Juanita’s mother, who was a tall, beautiful Nakai-yi woman named Maria Valesquez, had been taken by Juanita’s father, Porico (White Horse), during a raid across the great river in Chihuahua. It took over a year for the Nakai-yes to find her, and they had offered to ransom her back, but she wouldn’t go. She had chosen to live with Porico as his wife.
Juanita was born after the first Ghost Face Season at Bosque Redondo. She had been too young to play with me much back then. I liked Juanita, though. She had matured into a good-looking woman with a ripe body made for having and nourishing children, but she didn’t stir me like Deer Woman.
The turn came for Deer Woman and Juanita to choose partners, and they left the wheel of women and men and moved in my direction. I felt weary no more, and my heart fluttered in anticipation as I saw Deer Woman smile at me. My muscles tensed, ready to stand when she tapped my shoulder, but she slipped past me and tapped an older boy, tall and slender, one with many horses, one who had even taken a scalp, one who already had a Nakai-yi name, Delgadito.
I bowed my head, stared at the ground, and swallowed back the bile of disappointment filling my throat. Deer Woman had no interest in me after all. Then I felt a solid tap on my shoulder, and raising my eyes, I looked into the dancing eyes and bright, white smile of Juanita. I smiled back, genuinely glad she had chosen me, and sprang up to join her. Who knows women’s thoughts about men?
The wheel turned slowly. Three steps forward, two steps back, three steps forward, two steps back. I kept my eyes on Juanita’s, and she locked her eyes on mine. I tried to remember all I knew about her and wondered why she had picked me. However, it was impolite to ask a woman that question, and besides, one dance meant nothing.
Juanita and I danced until the sun’s coming light set fire to the edges of the high, dark ridges of the canyon walls. I studied her brown, smooth skin, square jaw, long crow’s wing hair that rippled and flashed in the firelight, and most of all, her brown eyes that never left me. The longer we danced, the more I felt a strong attraction for her and wondered how I had missed noticing her sooner.
When the Wheel Dance ended, we stood awkwardly for a moment as I frantically thought of something meaningful I might say to her.
“Juanita, you are a good dancer. It is good that you tapped me. I hope you do it again. I see Porico and Maria by the drummers. Will you wait with them while I bring you a present?”
She shyly looked down and murmured, “Yes, I’ll wait. I’ll wait a long time for a good dancer and a brave man for whom there are songs.”
I smiled and felt my chest grow large with her words, then nodded and said, “Soon I come.”
I turned from her and strode toward Sons-ee-ah-ray’s wickiup. In my loot, I found one of the hunting knives I had kept for myself and started to leave when I thought, All the women have knives. What can I give her that is special? I looked back and saw a heavy, wool blanket, blue with fancy geometric designs in red and green. The nights were cold, and it would keep her warm. I left the knife and took the blanket, folding it over my arm.
I found Juanita with Maria and Porico, standing near the drummers who had stopped for a while, and lifted the blanket to offer Juanita. I nodded at Maria and Porico, who stood with crossed arms watching me, as I placed the blanket in Juanita’s hands.
“I’m proud to give you this blanket. It will keep you warm in the cold Ghost Face nights and cool nights of New Green Leaves.”
She smiled and, glancing at Porico and Maria,
said, “You are generous and thoughtful with your gift, Nah-kah-yen. I accept it with a happy heart.”
I held her brown eyes for a moment, then nodded, and turning away, walked toward my mother’s wickiup, more weary, but more exhilarated than I could ever remember.
I slept all day and into the night without even getting up to visit the bushes. My eyes finally opened, and, staring at the stars through the wickiup smoke hole, I realized the night approached dawn. I listened to the sleeping sounds of my family for a moment, and then my near-to-overflowing bladder demanded relief, so I walked out into the cold air.
When I returned, I tied my hair back, drank deeply from the water jar gourd, slipped on my high shaft moccasins, tied my knife around my waist, and slipped outside for my prayer to Ussen and then to run. Five days had passed since my last run, and I felt a need, a compulsion, to feel the rhythm of my body in motion on the winding canyon trails.
The sun cast long shadows down the canyon walls, calling the birds to sing and my mind to thought. I reveled in the feel and pull of my youth and the strength in my lungs and legs as I ran. I thought of the dance with Juanita and what it might mean and smiled. I thought of the destruction of the wagon train and the men I had killed with my arrows and strong bow. As Caballo Negro had instructed me, I had disfigured no corpse as Kah and Ko-do had done. Kah had made a bad start on the trail to becoming a man, and Cha had shown himself a poor chief teaching him to do it.
The memory of Deer Woman smiling and walking past me to choose Delgadito made me feel angry at first, but then I relaxed and shook my head. Delgadito was a successful warrior ready to take a wife, and that made him someone she ought to consider. Still, Delgadito was not reluctant to tell stories about the Nakai-yi women he took, often brutally, after raids across the great river. I thought, Deer Woman had better take care in her choices of suitors. Delgadito has no honor when it comes to women. A man of honor doesn’t force women who are taken in raids. Still, what do I care? I had danced with Juanita, and she had said we would dance again. She was a fine woman who signaled her interest in me in a good and proper way. Perhaps . . . but then, who knew of the future of such things?
Killer of Witches: The Life and Times of Yellow Boy Mescalero Apache Page 8
