“Git him and wait for me on the road.”
“What will you do, Rufus Pike?”
“I’m gonna run these here mules and horse off in different directions and hope them that comes along next ain’t smart enough to figure out what happened. Maybe they’ll think it was some kind of fight between two old enemies and not an Apache raid. Did th’ driver see you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll take cartridges from the wagon and then git pony.”
Rufus shook his head. “No. Go now. We gotta git back down the road so we don’t leave a easy trail for the law to foller to my door.”
I raised my jaw and narrowed my eyes. “I take cartridges from the wagon and then git pony.”
“Oh, hell! Be quick about it. Don’t tear up that wagin any more’n you have to. If they’s just cartridges missin’ they’ll start thinkin’ maybe Apaches done it ’cause they’re always after cartridges. They’s liable to be trouble over on the reservation if they think that. Can’t help it though.”
Rufus unharnessed the mules and drove them out into the desert. I had watched the case of ammunition slide under the wagon seat, and was able to pull the heavy box out without disturbing the rest of the load. Ignoring the pain in my creased leg, I ran to my pony with the case of cartridges, struggled to mount with the awkward, heavy box and rifle, and rode to the windmill to let my pony drink before riding back down the road to join Rufus.
Rufus led me in the jumble of tracks down the road away from the mountains, and then in a stretch of rust red and volcanic black-colored gravel, we turned south toward the road that ran along in front of the Organs and eventually to his ranch. We stopped in the shade of a mesquite thicket to rest the horses, and Rufus used his old cavalry binoculars to scan our back trail but saw nothing.
The first stars were appearing when we rode up to the cabin porch. We had said nothing since starting back for the ranch. Rufus dismounted and said, “Leave them cartridges here, and go take care of my horse and yore pony. I’ll make us some supper and start a poultice a cookin’ for that crease in your leg, and then we’re gonna talk.”
I nodded, handed the cartridge box into Rufus’ waiting hands, and slid off my pony. I took his mule’s reins and those for my pony and limped away toward the corral.
CHAPTER 17
THE Indah WAY
* * *
Rufus and I sat on the edge of the shack porch wiping the last of the beans and meat out of our pie pan plates with tortillas. We had not spoken since our supper began, and with the moon slow to rise, deep darkness filled the canyon. Our only light came from a kerosene lantern sitting on the rough-cut table near the stove, its flame pouring a yellow glow through the open window and door.
Rufus set his pie pan down, patted his swollen belly, and said, “That there ain’t half bad, even if I do say so myself.”
I finished my pie pan plate, and, setting it aside, nodded. “Uhmmph, good, Rufus Pike.”
Rufus leaned over in the light’s glow to look at the poultice he had fixed for me. Made of a mixture of boiled herbs known for their healing powers and a medicinal mud, it stank and made Rufus grimace as he pushed his round wireframe glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“Yore scratch don’t seem to be doin’ too bad. Th’ poultice making it feel any better?”
I nodded. “Better. Good battle scar. Good story for winter fire.”
I pulled a thin, black cigarro from a vest pocket and popped a red head match with my thumbnail to light it. Rufus, wrinkling his nose like it stank, watched me put fire to the tobacco. When the end of the cigar was a nice orange coal, I puffed and blew smoke in the four cardinal directions before handing the smoke to Rufus to do the same. Rufus puffed and blew smoke in the four directions as I had done and handed the cigarro back to me before cutting himself a chew of tobacco off a twist he kept in his scratched and worn vest pocket.
I smoked most of the cigarro, dropped it in the sand by the porch, and crushed it out with my heel. Then I looked directly into Rufus’ eyes and asked, “Why you angry with me, Rufus Pike? I raided a wagon to get cartridges. I no burn wagon or kill driver. The outrider died well fighting for wagon. Now I have plenty cartridges. When Caballo Negro comes, maybe you have more cartridges, or maybe you have less, but I’m ready. Why you angry?”
Rufus leaned against the wall and spat into the darkness. “Son, by your people’s code, you done a good thang. But I’m here to tell you, it was mighty dangerous. That little wound on yore laig proves it. And, maybe we ain’t seen the last of that raid. If the Indah ever figure out I’m hidin’ the Apache who killed that outrider—and make no mistake, that teamster is gonna say it was an Apache done it whether he seen one or not—they’ll probably stretch my neck ’fore they stretch yore’s. I know raidin’ is the way you been raised. Take what you need when you need it and share with the People, but it ain’t the Indah way.”
“What is Indah way, Rufus Pike?”
Rufus blinked, his chew unmoving in his jaw. I could tell this was a question he’d not thought about much.
“When the Indah take the land from the Shis-Indeh, their chiefs gives folks a piece of that land and makes tracks on a paper sayin’ it belongs to them. They make their livin’ from the land growing crops or cattle or doin’ anything else comes to mind. They trade for what they need usin’ money they earned off o’ their land. They don’t go out an’ take what they want or need from some other feller less’n they pay or trade for it. Them that take what they want without payin’, and they’s Indah like that, is called outlaws. Outlaws is run down and captured by the sheriff an’ made to work as a punishment for a time, dependin’ on how much they took. If an outlaw kills somebody an’ the sheriff catches him, then that outlaw’s likely to be hung by the neck till he quits kickin’. That there keeps the family of the man the outlaw killed from comin’ after the outlaw’s family. I guess you’n say in the Indah way, everbody keeps score an’ it’s all supposed to come out even, ’cept some Indahs play better an’ wins more’n others.”
I listened to Rufus’ words fill the cool night air and smiled. “You say Indah first take land from Indeh. That no raid? Indah think I am outlaw when I no take land, only take supplies, take cartridges? Indah foolish men. I no outlaw. I warrior.”
Rufus spat a long stream into the yard in front of the porch and grinned. “Yes, sir. I ain’t gonna argue with you on that one. But, whiles we finish up yore trainin’ you gotta stay outta sight o’ the Indah that might come around, or they’s gonna be trouble. Can you do that?”
I looked him in the eye and said, “I do that, Rufus Pike.”
“Good. An’ don’t say nuthin’ to nobody ’bout what happened today, either. Now, let’s git some sleep. I’m tarred; it’s been a long day. I’ll change yore poultice first light ’fore breakfast, and we’ll start shootin’ tomorrow when the light is good enough back in the canyon. That there suit you?”
I pumped my arm holding the Yellow Boy and grinned. “Enjuh!”
Rufus opened the shack door and breathed deep in the cool morning air. I was at my usual place by the corner porch post, and he gave me a nod as he stepped out on the porch headed for his usual morning visit to his little house. I was grinning. Next to my knee was the new box of ammunition with “1000 Cartridges US Army .44 Caliber Ball” inked on the sides.
Stopping in mid-stride, Rufus said, “I’ll be danged, where in the devil did you find that?”
“Caballo Negro came when moon was high. Left cartridge box. Disappeared in night. He thought I slept, but I saw him. He comes again in two moons. You’ll see, Rufus Pike.”
“They ain’t a doubt in my mind that’s gonna happen, boy. We better git you shootin’ real good by then, or he ain’t gonna be happy.”
The sun’s glare was unmercifully bright. The shadows in the canyon crack Rufus used for a shooting range had disappeared to reveal high, rock walls narrowing to a final mound of earth supporting an ancient, five-gallon galvanized water bucke
t. I sat five hundred yards away holding the Yellow Boy rifle and supporting my elbows against my knees in the shade of a juniper tree against the north wall of Rufus’ box canyon. The rifle’s rear sight was flipped up, and the notched crosspiece was raised to the five hundred yard mark. I sighted the bucket, looking not much more than a gray dot in the light scattered off the canyon’s smooth, high walls. The rifle was fully loaded, its hammer back, and my finger curled around the trigger.
Nearby, Rufus sat with sweat streaming down his face in the hot, still air and spoke in a low, calm voice. “Just relax now, son. Remember to breathe deep and let half of it go. Think about pullin’ the trigger straight back. Don’t jerk it. Nice and easy. Think that bullet all the way to the bucket. Easy does it.”
I focused on keeping the gray dot aligned with his sights. The hammer fell, and the Yellow Boy jumped, breathing flame, roaring thunder and a light puff of smoke. Rufus and I remained frozen in place as the cloud of gun smoke drifted out of our field of vision and the echoes of the shot died away. The gray dot had disappeared.
Rufus shouted, “Yes, sir! That’s the way to do ’er! Six times out of six at five hundred yards! Ain’t nobody gonna do better, includin’ me with the Sharps or Caballo Negro with his Winchester. You done good, son; you done real good. Yore daddy’s gonna be mighty proud of you.”
I smiled. “I shoot good, Rufus.”
“You shore do. Come on. Let’s git some beans. This afternoon, after it cools off some, I’ll start you on movin’ targets. They ain’t too hard once you git the hang of it.”
We retrieved the bucket, which looked like a sieve, filled with dents and bullet holes, and strolled back to the shack.
CHAPTER 18
NAH-KAH-YEN’S DREAM
* * *
It was dark. I was running, running hard, running for a long time. My lungs strained to pull in more air, and I heard the breath of the Giant behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw only two great eyes glowing in the darkness chasing me. I made my legs pound the sand harder, my strength failing, the eyes coming closer. From a long way off appeared a point of brilliant, golden light. Thunder spoke, and lightning flashed, and the point of light stretched into a slowly tumbling bar with a golden center until it formed the Yellow Boy. Wind moaned in a roaring rush, and a voice said, “In two days, go to the top of the first mountain above Rufus Pike’s canyon. Take no food. Take no water. Take only the Yellow Boy. Go, and you will save yourself and protect your people.”
I jerked awake in my blanket and sat up, sweating and panting as if I had run a long way. I raised my eyes to the heavens and saw only the many stars in the night sky. I looked around the canyon walls and saw only the smooth darkness of the night, heard my pinto snort, the shift and snuffing of cattle picking grass among the cactus and creosote bushes, the trembling flow of water into the little catch basin nearby. Above these sounds, the voice in the roaring wind burned in my mind. I lay back down and slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.
We sat with full bellies and watched dust devils play touch and go on the desert floor and the shadows of clouds sail down the valley toward El Paso. The air was hot and still under the shack porch roof. Rufus, ready for an afternoon siesta, closed his eyes. I leaned against the wall by the window, the Yellow Boy rifle barrel leaning against my chest, and said, “Rufus Pike, I have dream. I see giant eyes. They chase me. I hear voices of Thunder People and Wind.”
“Hmmm, I’m glad to hear that. Have dreams all the time my own self. Just don’t remember ’em.”
“They told me to go to mountain. I think Ussen calls me. I go.”
Rufus turned his head and, with one eye open, squinted at me. “When did you have this dream?”
“Night before this day.”
“Well, you come to the right place fer mountains. Did the dream say where you were supposed to go?”
“Wind say go to the top of first mountain above Rufus Pike’s canyon. Say no take water. No take food. Take Yellow Boy. Wait. They come. They speak to me.”
Rufus blinked and opened his eyes wide. “When did they tell you to go?”
“They say two days. I go day after next with rising sun.”
“You ain’t gonna be up there in no storm are ya? Lightnin’ll come right for ya when you’re up high like that.”
“Dream say go in two days. I go. Thunder People and Wind, they come.”
“That there is a mighty long climb without no water and somethin’ to eat and packin’ ten pound o’ rifle and expectin’ to hear thunder and wind, mighty dangerous. You ain’t likely to come back. Sure that’s what you heard?”
“No water. No food. Bring rifle. Listen to Wind. I hear. I go.”
Rufus closed his eyes. “I’d shore hate to tell yore daddy that a dream killed ya up on that mountain.”
“Power takes me. Power brings me back. No worry. I come back. You see.”
Rufus mumbled, “Yes, sir, I reckon I will.”
Rufus walked with me to the back canyon wall to begin my climb. He had tied a strip of rawhide to the rifle so I could strap it across my back and have my hands free for climbing. Before I put my moccasin on the first foothold on the canyon wall, I paused to look in Rufus’ eyes. I saw much worry there. I turned to go. Rufus said, “Come back when you’ve had your talk with the Thunder People and Wind. I’ll be waitin’.”
I nodded. “I come.”
When the footholds ran out at the top of the canyon, I came to a rough, boulder-strewn plateau. After crossing it, I climbed vertically another fifty feet up a drainage tube before I reached a canyon lined with junipers along its bottom that climbed gently and steadily toward the south, making swings between two ridges before it was split by a third ridge from the east.
The most direct path to the first mountaintop above Rufus’ canyon was to my left on the north side of the ridge. It led directly toward the ridgeline near the top of the mountain, but the path crawled over five giant steps made by cliffs, perhaps fifty yards high, that climbed to the next plateau before finally reaching the ridgeline leading to the mountaintop.
The path to my right on the south side of the dividing ridge was steep, but had only one shallow, gently sloping cliff to climb, and after that, a relatively easy climb before reaching a ridgeline that could be followed up to the top of the mountain.
Sweat ran in little arroyo floods down my chest and belly, and I breathed harder than normal in the high, thin air. I studied both paths and took the easier south side one to save my strength. The trail up the south side of the ridge was steeper than any of the others I had climbed that day, but I easily scrambled up and stopped briefly to rest when it crested in the ridgeline saddle. Far below to the south, I saw the trail I had just climbed and the shadows in the little notch made by Rufus’ box canyon. To the north, mountains dropped way toward the browns and scattered greens of the desert, and in the distant west, more mountains shimmered gray in the midday haze.
The ridgeline was narrow, but easy to walk, and from the notch where I rested, I was about six hundred feet below the mountaintop in my dream. I found a small, smooth pebble and popped it in my mouth to ease my thirst, and then I began the climb along the ridgeline toward the top of the mountain. The climb was steep, but not hard, the path relatively wide, but with heart-pounding drop-offs on either side. I moved slowly, taking care where I placed my feet and watching for snakes, especially around the windswept junipers that tended to grow in the middle of the ridgeline, making me edge closer to the precipice than I wanted, where loose rocks, with a small shift, might send me headlong down the steep cliffs into the forever land of the grandfathers.
The climb up the ridgeline ended on a bald knob in the middle of a ridgeline that ran northeast to southwest, almost perpendicular to the ridge I had been climbing. The highest mountaintop on the ridgeline was to the east. The one to the west was slightly lower, but it was the first mountain overlooking Rufus’ canyon, and it was the one to which I turned. To reach it, I had to climb a
round the knob, which meant climbing down a short, boulder-strewn draw to another draw filled with junipers and then climbing back up to the ridgeline that led to the western peak.
The last climb was no more than a hundred yards high, but it was steep and required much stretching between boulders and ledges to get to the top. Halfway up, my hand slipped, and I nearly rolled off the edge, but I managed to stop in time when my hand caught a crack in the smooth rock and held on.
The late afternoon shadows on the eastern side of the mountains merged into the coming dusk, but the light was still brilliant on the mountaintop when I finally reached it, panting for air, my upper body covered in sweat, thirst burning in my throat. Wearily, I stood and looked out across the world and was stunned by the many days of pony riding distances and areas below my feet, as I slowly turned toward the four directions and felt a cool breeze sweep over my body.
Far to the west were the mountains Rufus called the Floridas. From this height, no longer able to hide behind the horizon, they appeared much higher than they looked from Rufus’ porch. The great river in the near distance made a bold, green slash running north and south across the yellows and browns and scattered greens of the desert, and scattered in clusters along the green slash were smeared points of light around white adobe buildings on the ranches and in the villages.
A large boulder, smooth and long, lay like a giant egg tilted in a nest of much smaller boulders. After looking for snakes and other poisonous demons, I pulled the Yellow Boy off my back and sat down against the boulder’s warmth to watch the sun in a distant glory of red and orange clouds fall below the horizon just behind the midsection of the Floridas. Tired and thirsty, I relaxed and lit a cigarro. I blew smoke in the four directions, thanked the Mountain Spirits for a safe journey, and prayed that Wind might come soon.
Then I leaned back and watched the sun slip away in a golden glow as the clouds slowly disappeared. The stars came out, shining bright and steady. Their light was steady in the high places, not blinking as it did when I watched it from the villages far below.
Killer of Witches: The Life and Times of Yellow Boy Mescalero Apache Page 12
