I didn’t understand all of what Rufus meant, but I nodded to show I’d heard what he said. Rufus opened the small canvas bag he’d brought with him and pulled out a small double-headed hammer with a piece of rawhide laced over one head. He stared at the rear sight for a few moments, then gently tapped the right side, looked again, tapped once more, looked again, nodded, and tossed the hammer back in the bag. “Now let’s see how she shoots.”
I nodded, uncertain of what I had just witnessed.
Rufus levered another round into the firing chamber and, again resting his elbows on his knees, sighted and fired. The piece of glass exploded into a sparkling shower that rained glass bits out of the accompanying dust cloud. Almost faster than my eyes could follow, Rufus smoothly levered round after round, the full cartridge barrel load, into the same spot, creating a large puff of dust around the mound as the cacophony of shots filled the air with a continuous rumble of thunder and echoes back and forth between the canyon walls. It sounded like the hail of gunfire poured into the wagon train where Caballo Negro had found the rifle. I could hardly believe it.
Rufus grinned and nodded as he handed the rifle back to me. “That there is a powerful weapon. When you git good with it, you’ll be a deadly man. Wouldn’t want to shoot more than a barrel load with it at one time, though; that piece o’ iron gits hot. It’ll burn your hand if you ain’t careful. Load her up again and let’s see how you do sittin’ down like I was.”
Ignoring the hot steel in my hands, I carefully filled the loading barrel again. Rufus pulled a whiskey bottle from a sack under the juniper and stood it in the place where the bits of glass from the last target were scattered.
When Rufus returned, he showed me how to sit and rest my elbows on my knees while I sighted the rifle on the bottle. He squatted to one side and told me to shoot when I was ready.
The Henry roared and a small dust plume jumped about six inches high and to the right of the middle of the bottle. Rufus, nodding, said, “Again.” This time the shot landed a little lower but further to the right.
Rufus rested his hand on my shoulder and held up one finger on the other hand to signal me to wait.
“Couple thangs I see right away you need to learn. First, take a deep breath, and then let it about half out just before ya fire. That’ll make yore sights steady on the target.” To demonstrate what he meant, Rufus took the rifle, sighted the target, took a deep breath, puffed away part of it, and sighting down the rifle said, “Pow!”
He handed the rifle back to me and nodded for me to try it. I imitated Rufus perfectly even to the point of saying, “Pow!” I grinned because I had seen how steady the sight picture became just before I said “Pow.”
“Another thang I noticed, you’re jerkin’ the trigger instead of squeezin’. Try pushin’ the trigger straight back and try to hold steady a bit after she fires. Try ’em and let’s see how you do.”
I sighted once more, controlled my breathing, and thought of pulling back a bow string with my trigger finger. The shot barely missed the bottle.
Rufus said, “Again. Keep shooting at the same spot, doin’ what you’re doin’ now.”
The next shot shattered the bottle and those that followed were within two or three inches of the shot that broke the bottle. When the cartridge barrel was empty, I turned to Rufus and nodded.
Rufus grinned. “You still got a lot a practicin’ to do, but you got the idee.”
CHAPTER 15
RUFUS’ STORY
* * *
When I consistently hit my targets on a berm, Rufus increased the range to the next berm. As the range increased, I saw my bullets consistently fall lower than my aim point. Rufus taught me to aim a little above the target to compensate for the increased range until, at about two hundred yards, the rifle’s aim point was well above the target. At that point, Rufus showed me how to flip the adjustable rear sight up and raise the sight notch to compensate for the longer ranges and still have a sight picture on the target. Since I didn’t understand the meaning of the tracks of the numerals on the adjustable sight, Rufus demonstrated the setting for three hundred yards and showed me that the aim point through the sights was now back on target and how adding four more berms of distance required raising the sight notch to the next big mark.
My respect for my rifle increased as I learned to shoot and hit targets at distances even Caballo Negro did not attempt. As Rufus had told me I would on our first day of shooting, I began to think of the rifle as part of myself and the bullet hitting the target where I looked. It was like shooting a bow without consciously sighting the arrow, a skill I’d learned as a boy, only using the rifle was easier.
In the evenings when the sun was falling below the Florida Mountains far to the west, the light in the valley slowly fading, Rufus and I sat on the shack porch. Rufus helped me speak more of the strange tongue of the Indah I had heard at Bosque Redondo. I cleaned and oiled my weapon as I listened and attempted to make my tongue form the awkward, clipped Indah sounds Rufus made me repeat over and over until they sounded like the ones the Indah spoke, including Rufus’ name. Before long, Rufus was insisting I try to speak to him in English.
One evening as my first moon with Rufus approached, I lay my cleaned and oiled rifle across my knees and said, as well as I could in English, “Why Rufus Pike and Caballo Negro amigos? I think after we go from Bosque Redondo, Caballo Negro and me, we kill every Indah, every Blue Coat we see. Why he no kill you, Rufus Pike? Why he want us amigos?”
Rufus grimaced and stared down the valley at the twinkling lights and the low glow of El Paso lights behind the black outline of distant mountains to the south.
“Well, son, we ain’t exactly friends, but we ain’t enemies, either. I owe Caballo Negro a debt. He saved my life one time.”
I was surprised, as I had not heard this story before.
“How? Why?”
“ ’Bout twenty-five year ago, I’s scoutin’ fer Cap’n Ewell tryin’ to keep the Apaches off the San Antonio road, the road your People call the Indah Road from the Rising Sun. We’s in winter camp in the great river bosque one night when they stole ’bout half our mounts. Cap’n Ewell, he’s real mad and tells me to try and find ’em so’s he’n come take ’em back an’ make them Apaches pay fer disturbin’ his winter camp. I saluted and took off jes like he ordered.
“I’s like a ol’ dog a chasin’ his tail roun’ and roun’ follerin’ them Apaches. They led me all over the country an’ I never would’ve found ’em ’cept I made a mistake and went to sleep when I should’ve stayed awake. When I woke up, they’s this sharp blade across my throat. The biggest, ugliest Apache I ever seen before or since held it. He had this young man, this kid, Caballo Negro, with him. Reckon he’s about your age, and the feller with the knife was tryin’ to show the kid how to cut me and make me suffer a long time ’fore I died.
“I give my soul to God that very minute and was a prayin’ I didn’t scream too loud when they started cuttin’. But the kid says, naw, he ain’t gonna cut no Indah so weak he gets caught sleepin’. Ain’t no Power in that, ain’t what his medicine told him, he says. Kid says if I git strong, he’ll come around again so’s we’n have us a fight worthy of his time. The warrior stared at the kid a long time before he nodded and said he respected the kid’s medicine.
“I told the kid I was gonna ranch in the Organs, and any time he’s ready, we’d have a go at ’er. He nodded and said if I’n survive in the desert without clothes and weapons I might be worth killin’. So they took ’em and run me off in the desert but didn’t kill me. Brother, let me tell you, it was cold. I had to run just to keep from freezin’ to death. I run fer ’bout half a day ’fore some peons on a little spread north o’ El Paso took me in. My feet was tore all to hell, but I made it just the same.
“After I got this here ol’ ranch started, a few years went by, and Caballo Negro and a few warriors from Cha’s band stopped by for water. I’s glad to give it to ’em and never made no fuss ’bout it.
We knowed each other, but he ain’t never said nothin’ about increasin’ his Power by killin’ me.”
I pursed my lips and frowned. “You show me how to shoot so Caballo Negro and Rufus Pike no fight?”
“Yes, sir, I reckon that’s about the size of it—at least that’s the reason it started that way—but you learn pronto, and I’m glad to show you my shootin’ tricks.”
I thought for a while over what Rufus told me. Despite the idea that Caballo Negro was just calling my training the payment of a debt Rufus owed, I believed they were friends, and so I, too, was Rufus’ friend. Here was an Indah who could tell me the truth about the Indahs. Now I understood why my father had brought me to Rufus.
“Rufus Pike, another question?”
“Shore. Ask it.”
“This reservation the Indahs make for Mescaleros, why must we go there?”
Rufus spat off the side of the porch and frowned with clenched teeth.
“You need to go fer yore own pertection. They’s too many Indahs for you to fight. Fer ever hundert Indahs you kill, they’s ten thousand to take their place. Fer ever’ Apache the Indahs kill, there might be one to take his place—if yore lucky. I know it ain’t right fer us Americanos to come here and just claim the land, but we did, and before that, the Spaniards did, too. By rights, the Indahs and Nakai-yes oughter be on a reservation rather than your people, but it ain’t never gonna happen. You want your people to live through more’n one or two generations without yore tribe disappearin’ fer ever, that’s the life you gotta accept, life on the reservation and the end of war and raidin’. That there is what I think.”
I knew Rufus spoke the truth, but his words were like sour mare’s milk to me.
“All warriors get shoot-many-times guns like this one. Make each Apache like ten. Drive Indahs and Blue Coats away?”
Rufus shook his head.
“Still ain’t enough to fight off the great flood of Indahs a comin’ to this here land, and you need to understand they’ll have big guns that can kill many Indeh with one shot from far away.”
I stared off in the darkness and said nothing for a long time before turning to Rufus. “What Mescaleros do on reservation, Rufus Pike? When I small boy, Indah told Shis-Indeh they must dig in ground and grow plants to eat. Woman’s work! Caballo Negro says Shis-Indeh try to grow plants four seasons of Many Leaves. Navajo come. Frost come. Grasshoppers come. Sickness come. Plants turn black and die, worms everywhere. No food to save for Ghost Face time. Many babies cry hungry. What Mescaleros do?”
Rufus spat off the porch again, wiped his moustache, leaned against the side of the shack, and sighed a long, weary sigh.
“It ain’t gonna be easy. Them idjits in Washin’ton, they’s sendin’ Indian agents either crooked as snakes or dumber’n rocks. If’n you can git past ’em, I’d figure maybe you might raise cattle and cut a few trees fer ol’ Doc Blazer to run through the sawmill, and cut you some planks and beams fer buildin’ and sellin’. Wood fer buildings is hard to come by in this here country an’ it costs a lot of money. Your women, they’s experts at makin’ baskets and such. Trade ’em at the tradin’ post fer food. The Indah women can’t make such things. You understandin’ my words? Comprende?”
“Sí, comprendo. But, Rufus Pike, what is this thing, money?”
Rufus explained how the Indah used money to capture the value of things without trading one thing for another. When Rufus finished explaining money, I nodded that I understood, but I wasn’t really sure I did.
When I finished cleaning the Yellow Boy, I saw Rufus deep in thought, his jaw moving slow over his chew as he stared at the lights down the valley.
Rufus said, “We’re gittin’ low on cartridges for the Yellow Boy. You’re a purty fair shot now at two hundert yards. Caballo Negro said he’d bring some more cartridges. He probably didn’t think you’d use ’em up as fast as you have a shootin’ with me. If he ain’t come with some more ’fore we run out, I’ll just go buy some more and swap out with you when yours gits here. What cha think about that?”
I nodded and asked, “Where this place with cartridges?”
“Aw, it’s over to Las Cruces. Ol’ Marty Amador took over his mama’s store and runs it along with his freight business. He’s got stuff comin’ in there all the time. I ain’t never been there when there weren’t a wagon or two out back a waitin’ to be unloaded. Don’t worry. Ol’ Marty tol’ me last time I’s in town he’s expectin’ cartridges in a shipment in a couple o’ weeks, and that’d be ’bout now. We’ll git ’em if Caballo Negro ain’t brought ’em by the time they’s needed.”
I stared off into the night and smiled like Coyote.
CHAPTER 16
THE APACHE WAY
* * *
When Rufus Pike told me of the Indah place where cartridges were traded for this thing he called money, I thought, Why not raid this place or the wagons bringing supplies and take what I need? I’m as powerful as any man with a rifle. If I’m quiet enough, I won’t have to use the rifle when I take the cartridges. I’ll find this place and take what I want. This is the way of the Apache.
The moon floated high when I left the canyon ranch and rode down the trail toward the village Rufus Pike called Las Cruces. I came to its lodges near dawn and rode my pony in a big circle around them until I saw five freight wagons and mules in a corral behind an Indah big house that looked like a trading post. I hid my pony in an arroyo north of the trading post and worked my way back to the wagons, thinking, Maybe what I need is still in a wagon, but nothing was there. Dawn came. A door to the big house opened and a man walked plenty fast for the little house like the one Rufus Pike goes to behind his house. I hid, watched, and waited to see what these Indah would do.
When the sun came, the Indah and Nakai-yes loaded wagons and harnessed mules. The feet of many men stirred dust in the corral. They made much noise, bringing plenty of water to their faces and shirts. I saw a cartridge box like one Caballo Negro took for the Yellow Boy. It had the symbol of two broken twigs side-by-side. The driver came, a young man like me, but tall, with yellow hair and a big hat that made shade on his face. He hitched six mules to the wagon. Then the outrider came, his face covered with hair. He had a bad eye and many lines on his forehead. He was much ugly and carried a rifle across his saddle. When the driver called to the mules and slapped the reins down their backs, they strained in the harness, pulled the wagon out of the corral, and turned east toward mountains where Rufus Pike had his canyon ranch. I slipped back to the arroyo, mounted my pony, and followed the wagon, making sure the driver and outrider didn’t see me. The wagon road pointed to the place in mountains where Rufus Pike said the Indah dig holes in ground for pesh-klitso (gold). The dust and sand were deep where wheels followed the road, so the mules worked hard pulling the load. I thought, Ambush this wagon. Shoot straight. Shoot like Rufus Pike teaches you. Be a mighty warrior. Take the box with cartridges and maybe more loot. No need for more cartridges from Caballo Negro.
I followed the wagon while the sun climbed high and waited for a place to make an ambush.
When the sun had risen to the time of shortest shadows, the wagon stopped at a place of water next to a high wheel that turned, creaking in the wind and sitting on four long legs. I had heard Rufus Pike talk about this thing. He called it a windmill and the Indah used it to pull water from the earth where there was none. The driver unhitched the mules and took them to drink while the outrider stayed on his pony, rifle cocked, ready, watching the wagon.
I left my pony in the arroyo so the outrider wouldn’t see it and crawled through bushes toward the wagon and outrider. Soon, the mules finished drinking. When the driver led them back to the wagon, birds flew out of a bush when I passed. The outrider saw the birds and pointed his rifle toward me. I stayed still, did not move or breathe, willing myself to disappear, and he didn’t see me. He yelled to the driver, “Hurry up! We gotta git outta here.”
I waited until the outrider looked away, then I stepped t
o one side of a mesquite bush, and aimed at his chest, but he saw me and swung his rifle toward me, too late. My Yellow Boy rifle thundered, and the outrider’s rifle answered. A red place came in the middle of the outrider’s chest, and he fell off his horse backwards, and the horse ran. The driver, his eyes big, dropped the mule harness and ran up the wagon road after the outrider’s horse.
I worked the rifle’s lever to load a new cartridge, then started toward the wagon. My leg felt on fire. Glancing down, I saw blood from a cut a hand span above my left knee. The outrider bullet could have killed me. I thanked Ussen that I’d lived to fight again. I knew I must ask Ussen for my Power if I was to be a mighty warrior.
I went to the water and washed the blood off my leg, thinking, Ussen protected me. The cut is not deep, not much blood.
“Yore damned lucky that ol’ boy you killed didn’t drill you between the eyes. What in hell did you kill him for?”
I turned, surprised to hear the old man’s voice. Rufus’ face was a thundercloud of anger, teeth clenched, eyes wide. The butt of his big buffalo gun stood against his thigh, its barrel pointed up, his thumb on the hammer ready for action.
“A boy waits on his father for cartridges,” I said. “A warrior doesn’t wait. A warrior takes what he needs.” I pointed with my nose toward the outrider lying face up, the dark hole in his chest leaking blood into a big, dark patch on the front of his shirt. “The outrider rode like a warrior, died like a warrior. I killed him like a warrior. How’d you find me, Rufus Pike?”
“Never mind how I found you. We got to git outta here ’fore anybody finds this and we’re both hung. Where’s yore pony?”
I pointed toward the arroyo a few hundred yards away.
Killer of Witches: The Life and Times of Yellow Boy Mescalero Apache Page 11
