The Wild Girl

by Jim Fergus

  Now the girl huddled under the blanket in the corner of the cell, but her eyes seemed to be losing their focus again.

  “Crank the generator up,” I said to Jesus. And then I made another negative of the girl, the one I think the newspaper will run under my headline:

  WILD APACHE GIRL CAPTURED!

  BAVISPE SONORA, May 13—Conclusive proof of the existence of the bronco Apaches in Mexico’s remote Sierra Madre was produced yesterday when a wild Apache girl was captured in the mountains near Bavispe, Sonora.

  The Apache girl, age approximately 14 years, was taken prisoner by an American contract predator hunter named Billy Flowers. Flowers said that he was tracking a mountain lion when his hound dogs treed the girl. The American brought her into the town of Bavispe on Saturday morning. However, before she could be turned over to the custody of Sheriff Enrique Cardenas, she attacked and wounded a local boy, 12-year-old Jorge Ibarra. The Ibarra boy suffered severe bite wounds to his neck and shoulders. He is being treated for his injuries by the town physician, Dr. Hector Ramirez.

  In a separate incident, the Apache girl bit the village priest, Father Raul Aguilar, whose wounds also required medical care.

  Dr. Ramirez examined the Apache girl, whose name remains unknown, and found her to be suffering from dehydration and starvation. For her own protection and for the protection of town residents, she is presently being cared for in the Bavispe town jail. “She is very wild,” said Sheriff Cardenas. “She is like a dangerous wild animal. However, we are doing everything possible to make her comfortable.”

  And now it is well past midnight. I have stayed up late to print several of my negatives, and to record this long, disturbing day. The prints are fine; one of the girl, in particular, is excellent. (Not the cleansed and blanketed version, either, the negative of which has already been flown to Douglas, along with the piece I wrote, which will both satisfy the readers of the Daily Dispatch as well as ingratiate me with the sheriff, who will be pleased to see his name so respectfully in print; I may need his goodwill again.) But here in this one perfect print is the naked truth only the camera is capable of telling. As I look at it, I see the girl as vividly as I did earlier in the flesh, perhaps, oddly, even more vividly, as if the depth and focus and definition provided by the camera lens and the lights are somehow more real, more specific than real life. La niña bronca, this slight starving creature curled in a fetal position on the stone floor of the Mexican jail cell, the shadows of the iron bars falling like a convict’s striped uniform across her naked body. I cannot get the girl out of my mind; when I close my eyes the image of her continues to haunt me. I understand that this is how she will die, that my camera cannot save her, that all it can do is to record this awful truth. The doctor gives her five days to live if she does not eat or drink. What good then is a photograph if it cannot save a girl’s life? And what good then is the truth?

  14 MAY, 1932

  In the foothills of the Sierra Madre

  It wasn’t exactly a jailbreak, but we have “sprung” la niña bronca, as they say in Chicago gangster parlance, and I make this entry from our first night’s camp at a spring in the foothills of the Sierra Madre.

  Early the next morning after my session with the girl, I went to Margaret’s tent to show her my prints. Her reaction to the images and to my story about the girl’s imprisonment was equal parts horror and anger, some of which she took out on me.

  “Goddammit, Ned,” she said. “This is monstrous. This child needs help. Why didn’t you tell me about her? Why didn’t you take me with you?”

  “I tried to, Mag,” I said. “I sent Jesus for you, but you’d already gone up with Spider.”

  “So why didn’t you come see me when I got back?” she asked. “Where were you during dinner?”

  “I was busy writing my piece,” I said, “and then I was up late printing.”

  “What do you think this is, Neddy,” she said, flicking the print with the back of her fingers, “a fucking journalistic exercise? This is a human being. She needs help.”

  “Calm down, will you, Mag?” I said. “Do you think I don’t know that? I saw her, remember? I did what I could.”

  “I want to see her myself,” she said. “And I want to talk to the sheriff. We need to get this girl to a hospital.”

  “Before we go back there, let me make a suggestion,” I offered. “Why don’t we take Joseph Valor with us? He could communicate with the girl.”

  This seemed to calm Margaret a bit. “Yeah, okay, that’s a good idea. At least Joseph can speak her language. I’m sorry to holler at you, Neddy, but good God …” She looked at the photograph again, tears welling up in her eyes. “How were you even able to take this picture?”

  “It’s my job, Mag,” I said.

  A low fog, not yet burned off by the sun, clung to the river as Margaret and I walked down to the Apaches’ camp. Other than to lead Colonel Carrillo and his men on their daily forays into the mountains, Joseph and Albert had kept very much to themselves since the arrival of the expedition in Bavispe. Because of the Mexicans’ instinctive fear and hatred of the Apaches, the scouts had been forbidden even from going into the village alone. I’d hardly seen them myself, and Margaret had probably spent more time with them than anyone else. She had been down to their camp several times to interview the old man about traditional Apache culture for her doctoral thesis, and this time when we arrived, Joseph greeted her warmly. I couldn’t help but notice that even Albert’s aversion to the White Eyes seemed to be somewhat pacified in Margaret’s presence. It was obvious to me that like all the other men, they had both fallen in love with her.

  “Being locked up in a jail is not a thing understood by the People,” Joseph said when we showed him the photograph. “If the girl chooses to die, there is nothing that can be done for her.”

  “We can get her to a hospital,” Margaret said. “We could fly her to Douglas.”

  “You say she is afraid now,” said the old man. “Think how she would feel about flying in your airplane. Nor will your hospital save her life. She wishes only to go home.”

  “At least come down to the jail with us, Joseph,” Margaret said. “Just to hear someone speaking her own language might give her hope.”

  “Hope of what?” asked Albert.

  “Hope of living,” Margaret answered.

  It was Sunday and churchgoers were coming in from the outlying villages and ranches for mass. But word of the capture of la niña bronca had clearly already spread through the Bavispe River valley, and traffic on the main road to town was particularly heavy that morning; a steady stream of people, most on foot, others on horses, mules, and burros, some in buggies and wagons, hacendados and peons alike, entire families, as if on a pilgrimage. Margaret says that the Apaches have been the bogeymen of northern Sonoran culture for generations, that in the old days the villagers here believed Geronimo to be the devil, come to punish them for their sins. More recently he has been replaced in their legends by the bronco Apache known as Indio Juan. It was Indio Juan, the Mexicans say, who was responsible for the Huerta boy’s kidnapping, and who continues to terrorize the region. And now that they had a real live Apache in their possession, everyone wished to see her.

  The plaza was already crowded and an even longer line had formed again in front of the jugzado. Nervous glances were cast at Joseph and Albert as we walked by; the locals knew about the Apache scouts camped on the river outside town, and now there was finger-pointing and whispering and some of the older people crossed themselves.

  “Look at that,” I said, astonished that anyone could fear this elfin little old man. “They’re afraid of you.”

  “In the old days we used to joke that Yusen put the Mexicans on earth for the convenience of the People,” Joseph said. “To raise horses, mules, and cattle for us, to provide wives for our warriors and slaves for our wives. It is true that I killed many Mexicans when I was young.” The old man turned his palms up. “They can still see the blood of the
ir ancestors on my hands.”

  This time when we went to the door of the jugzado, the sheriff refused us entry. “You must wait in line like everyone else,” he said curtly.

  “I demand to see that girl right now,” Margaret said.

  “Mag, I don’t really think that’s the right approach here,” I warned.

  The sheriff looked hard at Margaret. “You Americans always think that you can come into Mexico and make demands,” said the sheriff. “But I am not your servant, señorita. You are a guest in my country, in my village, and in my jail. You will wait your turn in line.”

  “Sheriff, let’s say we offered you a larger contribution to the town jail fund,” I said. “Could you possibly let us in now to see the girl?”

  The sheriff smiled benevolently. “Ah, you are a very polite young man,” he said, nodding. “For you I will make such a special arrangement.”

  “Thank you.”

  “However as you can see for yourself,” the sheriff continued, “we have many people who have come here today to view la niña bronca, and some have come from very far away. Thus you will not be allowed to go inside the cell today. And you may only stay to view her for the same period of time allotted everyone else.”

  “Understood.”

  The deputy led us back to the cell area. He raised his lantern up to the bars to cast a faint yellow light on the girl. As when I had left her the day before, she lay still in the corner of the cell, curled again in a fetal position.

  “Oh my God,” Margaret whispered. “Talk to her Joseph. Please.”

  Joseph began speaking to the girl in his low, chanting voice, and as he did so, he squatted on his haunches and from the pouch he wore at his waist, he extracted a pinch of fine yellow powder, which he held through the bars and sprinkled over her.

  “Es prohibido acercarse a la celda,” the deputy said sharply.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Hoddentin,” Albert answered. “The powder of the tule plant. It’s a sacred substance to Apaches.”

  Now from his pouch the old man removed a small object that I could not make out, and he reached again through the bars and pressed it into the girl’s closed fist.

  “Sal de aquí, viejo,” ordered the deputy, and he grabbed Joseph by the collar and yanked him roughly away from the cell.

  Albert stepped up threateningly to the deputy. “Leave my grandfather alone,” he said. “He’s an old man.”

  “It’s all right, Albert,” I said, taking his arm. “We don’t need any trouble.”

  “El tiempo ya paso,” said the deputy. “Ustedes deben salir ahora.”

  “But we just got here,” Margaret protested.

  “Ustedes deben salir ahora,” the man repeated, herding us back out.

  “That girl is dying,” Margaret said angrily, “and they’re selling admission tickets to see her.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Mag,” I said. “You’re not going to help her by pissing off the sheriff.”

  Outside again, the morning sun had burned off the last of the night fog over the river and seemed harshly unforgiving after the dank light of the jugzado. A strangely discordant atmosphere of festivity prevailed in the plaza. Vendors had set up stands and were doing a brisk business in food and refreshments. The church bells rang, announcing the second morning mass.

  “Do you think she heard you, Joseph?” Margaret asked the old man.

  “She will be dead in four days and four nights,” said the old man. “There is nothing I can do for her.”

  “What was that you put into her hand?” I asked.

  “Something to take with her to the Happy Place,” he said.

  “What’s the Happy Place?” I asked.

  “What you White Eyes call heaven,” Joseph said.

  That same afternoon, Mayor Cargill, with several of his committee members, was flown into Bavispe from Douglas in order to check on the progress of the expedition. The airplanes carrying this contingent brought with them copies of the Sunday Daily Dispatch with my photograph and piece about the girl on the front page. Evidently her capture had caused quite a sensation in town, and the mayor wished to see her for himself. By then, many members of the expedition had themselves been down to the village to see la niña bronca.

  Hoping that she could convince Mayor Cargill to take the girl back to the hospital in Douglas when he returned the next morning, Margaret arranged a meeting in Colonel Carrillo’s quarters before dinner. Big Wade and I came along to offer moral support; it was early enough in the evening that he wasn’t too drunk yet. Chief Gatlin was also present.

  As befits his own personal stylishness, Carrillo’s spacious wall tent is elegantly appointed with Persian rugs on the floor, an ornately carved Spanish colonial writing desk and leather campaign chairs. As the guard ushered us in and greetings were being made, the colonel kissed Margaret’s hand, and Big Wade whispered to me: “This is why they fought the Mexican revolution, kid. A lot of good it did, huh?”

  “I’ve always considered it bad luck to have a woman along on a military campaign,” Carrillo was saying to Margaret. “Especially a beautiful woman. But for you, Miss Hawkins, I make an exception.”

  “I would be flattered, Colonel,” said Margaret, “had I not noticed that the exception had also been extended to half a dozen prostitutes.”

  The colonel swept this notion away with a precise little backhanded motion of his arm. “Who are certainly not attached to the Mexican army, I can assure you,” he said, deftly deflecting the subject. “May I offer you an aperitif, señorita?”

  “We didn’t really come here to socialize, Colonel,” Margaret said. “We came to ask Mayor Cargill to take the Apache girl back to Douglas. She needs to be in a hospital.”

  The mayor raised his hands in a politic gesture of helplessness, pursed his lips into his ingratiating little smile. “Miss Hawkins,” he said. “Surely you must understand that I have no jurisdiction here. The girl is a matter for the local authorities. And she has become such a valuable tourist attraction, I think it highly unlikely that they would let her go. Even if they did, there are numerous legal impediments to taking her across the border. For one thing she has no documents.”

  Margaret nodded. “Yes, so I thought you would answer, Mayor,” she said. “Therefore I have an alternate proposal. Colonel Carrillo, you do have the authority to have the girl released into your custody, don’t you?”

  Carrillo answered carefully. “Possibly, yes,” he said. “But why would I wish to do so, señorita?”

  “Because you could use her to trade for the Huerta boy,” Margaret said. “Of course, if you let her die, she’ll be useless to you.”

  “I am listening, señorita,” said the colonel.

  “I propose that you let the Apache scouts take the girl back up into the Sierra Madre,” Margaret said. “The expedition would follow at a reasonable distance behind. When contact with her people is made, a trade could be effected, the girl for the Huerta boy.”

  “We’ve all seen the girl, Margaret,” Gatlin said. “She hardly appears to be in any condition to travel.”

  “If she’s left in that jail cell, she’s going to die anyway,” Margaret answered. “But if we get her out of there right now, and back up into her own country, maybe she still has a chance.”

  “The girl’s survival is hardly our concern,” Gatlin said.

  It was all I could do to be in the same room with Chief Gatlin, and I bit my tongue. Even Margaret looked at him now with genuine loathing in her eyes. “If you can use her to get the Huerta boy back, what do you have to lose, Leslie?”

  Big Wade spoke up then. “Margaret, hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe the Douglas area Chamber of Commerce doesn’t really care about rescuing the Huerta boy? That maybe they’re just taking a bunch of rich guys hunting and fishing in Mexico?”

  “What would you know about that, rummy?” Gatlin said. “You haven’t covered a chamber meeting sober in five years.”

  “
Who could bear to, Chief?” said Big Wade. “And you know, the thing about being a rummy is that you can wake up one morning and decide not to be one anymore. You, on the other hand, you’re pretty much stuck with being an asshole every day for the rest of your life.”

  “That is enough, gentlemen,” Colonel Carrillo commanded. “Let me assure you, Mr. Jackson, that President Ortiz did not attach his troops to this venture in order to serve the interests of your Chamber of Commerce. Recovering the Huerta boy is of the utmost importance to the Mexican government.”

  “That’s where your interests are mutual,” Margaret said. “Think about it, Mayor, if you actually did rescue the Huerta boy, you’d put Douglas on the map. Every newspaper in the country would cover the story.”

  “How do we know we can trust the scouts?” said Gatlin. “They’re Indians, after all. What’s to prevent them from letting the girl go? Or joining the bronco Apaches themselves?”

  “Simple,” Margaret said. “You send someone with them to report back to the expedition. Ned and I can go along. I’m sure the newspaper would love to cover it.”

  “And how do we know you wouldn’t let her go?” Gatlin asked.

  “Because we want to get the boy back as much as you do, Leslie,” Margaret said. “Probably more.”

  This was the first I’d heard of Margaret’s plan myself, but she’d clearly given it some thought. And it made sense—a way to save the girl and recover the Huerta boy.

  “Well, of course, it goes without saying,” said Mayor Cargill, never one to miss a political opportunity, “that the matter is entirely up to the discretion of Colonel Carrillo. However, I myself can’t think of a single objection.”

  Carrillo stood erect with his hands behind his back. Now he inclined his head in a slight bow to Margaret. “I will speak to the sheriff tonight myself,” he said, “and arrange for the girl’s release. By all accounts she does not have long to live. If this plan has any hope of succeeding, you must be prepared to depart first thing in the morning.”

  “Good God, Margaret!” Tolley said, over dinner that evening in the mess tent. “Have you completely lost your mind? It’s one thing to use the girl as bait, but why do you have to go?”