by Lou Cameron
Ernestine looked up at the impassive brown woman staring down at her and Willy, and stammered, “Oh, of course. I suppose she might have helped with those Indian herbs at that. I suppose it’s only proper to saysomething about it to her, don’t you think?”
Jezebel said, “Yes’m, I ’spose it is.”
It was nearly noon by the time Rabbit-Boss cut the trail of the northbound Nadene. He’d led the patrol on a northeast course, rather than directly toward the place the young Digger couple had crossed it the day before. The short cut saved them miles of travel, even as it added to Matt Caldwell’s confusion. He’d heard these primitives had strange powers, but he’d never put much faith in the stories before meeting this uncanny Indian tracker.
The desert seemed to be opening out and getting flatter as they let Rabbit-Boss lead them into its dead heart. According to Digger Greenberg, it got worse ahead. It was hard to see how. The clumps of dead or dying vegetation were widely spaced, and the exposed white gravel between the clumps was dry as blackboard chalk. Caldwell swung in his Tuareg saddle for a look back the way they’d come. Here and there a camel had left a faint heart-shaped depression in a soft spot, but most of the surface was firmer than a well-paved gravel roadway back east. Greenberg had called the stuff “caliche” and explained that wind had blown the fine grains from the soil, while mineral salts from below had cemented the remaining larger particles together until it took a good solid blow to break through the crust.
When they found the Apaches’ trail, of course, the caliche had been broken and scuffed much more by the harder, smaller hooves of the Indian ponies. Even Caldwell saw the trail when Rabbit-Boss pointed it out to him. How their tracker read the direction of the Indian column, or was able to tell the mark of a burro from that of a horse, was anybody’s guess. To everyone but Greenberg and his Indian, they were simply dents in the otherwise featureless surface of skeleton gray. The trail took them due north, as Greenberg had suggested it would. Caldwell pointed to a distant ridge of purple mountains to his right and asked the scout if they had a name.
Greenberg squinted and opined, “Too low to be the Providence Ranges. Most likely they ain’t on the map yet.,,
“Where’s the Colorado River from here?”
“Other side of them fer hills. We’uns is in another basin now. Ain’t no river worth mention this fur south-cast of the Mojave, and that ain’t sayin’ the Mojave’s all that much this late in the summer.”
“How far would this Mojave be? I don’t remember seeing it on Fremont’s map.”
“I’d say it’s a good hundred miles to water fit fer pigs, and it ain’t on Fremont’s map ’cause Fremont never mapped the real desert. Him and Kit Carson follered the ridges like sensible folk. Here and there a ridge of high ground cuts across the grain fer some damn reason. Fremont calt them the Transverse Ranges. They start with the Santa Monicas and San Bernardinos over near the ocean, them dwindle out into the Chocolates, Chuckawallas, and sech, till you met up with the Colorado Delta. The delta’s flat but well watered, and you kin cross to Yuma and the Gila down thataway.”
“Are there no easy routes across it this far north?”
“Nope. You kin mebbe foller the Mojave east from the San Bernardinos till it starts to run salty. Then if you fill your canteens and scoot due northeast to the Eagle Crags, you just might make it without you kill your ponies.” He spit and added, “’Course, iffen you miss the Eagles and ride betwixt them and the Providence Ranges, you wind up in Death Valley and that kin be a bother. Death Valley ain’t as bad as where them fool Apache is leadin’ us. You got Furnace Creek and a few scattered water holes in Death Valley, but it’s one hell of a place to be in summer.”
“Jesus, I thought Death Valley was what they called the worst part of this desert!”
“Shoot, them pioneers as named Death Valley never seed the real desert! I’ll allow some of ’em died up thataway, crossin’ in summer durin’ the gold rush back in forty-nine, but like I said, there’s a little water in Death Valley. Why, shoot, there’s even Injuns living there!”
Caldwell rode silently for a time, working on his mental arithmetic. He asked the scout how wide the central basin they were riding into was, and Greenberg answered, “Hard to say. You kin see fer your ownself it don’t have a fence about it. I’d allow the really bad part might be fifty, sixty miles across, by a hundred and fifty north and south.”
“In other words, at thirty miles or more a day … ”
“Hold on, it ain’t that simple. We’uns ain’t jawin’ about no billiard table, Lieutenant. Them headin’s I jest gave you would be as the crow flies. Only we ain’t ridin’ no damn crows. Them Injuns and ussen is mounted on critters with laigs!”
“I don’t see what’s so complicated, Digger. These camels can go a week or more without food and water, and we’ve three or four days’ water ration in our canteens. It seems to me we could move into any part of this basin at will.”
“Your seemin’ has a lot of larnin’ to do, then. I tolt you it ain’t no billiard game. This low country is nigh dead flat, but nigh ain’t exact. Some parts is lower’n others. This heartland of the desert is where all the water runs to, when and if it runs at all.”
“All right, so there may be a few shallow lakes or marshes out in the middle.”
“A few, my ass! There’s hundreds of part-time lakes and brine swamps out ahead of ussen! The big ones ain’t so bad. You kin see ’em to go around. Shoot, you come up the Colorado on a steamboat, Lieutenant, you mind how twisty and turny and all mixed up the sand and water was?”
“Certainly, the Lower Colorado is a braided steam bed.”
“Well, the country we’uns is headed into like a pack of fools is a braided swamp. A salty, pi’zen, underground swamp. You follow me?”
“I’m not sure I do. I don’t see how a salt marsh or any other can be buried under the earth. I mean, if it’s full of earth, it’s hardly a swamp, is it?”
“Well, wait til you break through the caliche and drown your fool self in salty quicksand, then. You see, that sun-ball up there bakes the surface dry as bones, but under the salt flats and sand dunes up ahead, a hell of a mess of winter rainwater jest sits and waits fer some damn fool to come along and pickle his fool self in spite of good advice.”
“In other words, we’ll have to watch our step from here on out.”
“The best way to watch it would be to turn around afore it’s too late.”
Two hundred yards ahead, a flock of buzzards suddenly rose against the northern sky, as Rabbit-Boss, on point, disturbed them to approach a cluster of dark forms stretched out among the greasewood clumps. The others rode forward, but the Indian waved them off, shouting, “Your Spirit Horses will buck you off if you try to bring them closer!”
Caldwell raised his right hand to halt the patrol, then knelt his camel as Trooper Dorfler did the same for his and Greenberg’s. The lieutenant slid out of the saddle and walked stiffly over to join the Indian. Rabbit-Boss pointed at one of the cadavers near his feet and said quietly, “This one was alive when they opened him up to build the fire in his belly. I think he was a white man. Some of the others were.”
Matt Caldwell gagged in horror as he realized the mangled mess of charred and bloody flesh had once been a human being. Digger Greenberg joined him, spit, and said, “Them buzzards done some of the damage, I’ll allow, but them old boys was purely worked on by the squaws a mite. I’d say these hombres musta kilt themselves an Injun or two afore they went under.”
Caldwell knew he was going to throw up in front of his men, but he couldn’t help it. He staggered off to one side, bent over, and let it come up. Behind him, another man retched, and managed to gag, “My God! Them Injuns peeled this one’s head like an orange!”
The ground beneath him seemed to sway as Caldwell heard Greenberg opine, “He musta been a Mexican. Apache don’t scalp much, ‘lessen they catch a Mexican. Them jaspers has long memories, and they like to pay the governor of Sono
ra back when they gits the chance.”
“I’m going to fall down,” Caldwell marveled dully. Then someone steadied him, and the voice of High Jolly soothed, “It is hard the first few times, Effendi. The trick is not to look too closely, and not to picture them as they might have looked in life.”
Caldwell straightened up, shook off the helping hand of the Muslim, and growled, “When did you ever fight Indians before?”
“In another desert, Effendi, and they were called Bedouin. The habits of the desert dweller are everywhere the same, though Allah be more merciful.”
Recovering himself, Caldwell smiled weakly at High Jolly and said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. You must think I acted like a fool.”
“Does Allah create a man a fool because he gives him a compassionate heart? Truly, Effendi, the first time I found a man the Bedouin had been toying with, I did more than vomit. By my very God, I screamed and wept like a woman. Since then, I have learned to steel myself, but I feel no shame for my tears that first time. Inshallah, if more men wept at the sight of blood, there would be much less spilled in this imperfect world!”
Caldwell wiped a hand across his mouth. “I’m not supposed to break down like that. I’m a soldier.”
“I know, Effendi. The rules are the same in every army. The next time you will not retch, and if you are anything like the officers in the Turkish army, there will come a time, though Allah must have His own good reasons, when you will be able to do the same thing to an enemy. In my old country, when the Turks caught a Bedouin raider, they started by castrating him and ended it with his head on a pole.”
Caldwell grimaced and said, “Thanks for your words of cheer. I’ll be all right, I think.”
He walked back to where Rabbit-Boss was probing in a bush with his stick. The Indian straightened up as he approached, and said, “There were twelve of your people killed, if you count two Mexicans as your people. The Snakes took fifteen horses and at least twelve guns along with such food and water as these people had.”
“What were you looking at in that clump of brush?”
“Glass. Brown glass. Some whiskey bottles were broken here. Some of them had never been opened. I am trying to read what this might mean.”
Caldwell shrugged. “What does it matter? Some supplies probably caught a few bullets in the fighting. Did the Apache scatter as usual after they finished here?”
“Yes, but not far. They only left a few false trails, and bodies are still here. I think Diablito does not know we trail him. Or he knows and does not care. There were as many here as you have riding with you. They killed one Snake before they were beaten.”
“They got one Apache? How can you tell?”
Rabbit-Boss pointed to the west with his chin, “A body is buried over that way. They thought to hide the signs of digging, but my people are skilled at digging and I found the secret grave as soon as I looked for it. The Snakes you call Apache always bury their dead to the west. The dead man is sitting there now, gazing westward under the gravel.”
“My God, did you dig him up? We’ve only been here a few minutes!”
Rabbit-Boss frowned. The Blue Sleeves made so many jokes, and it was hard to tell when they were serious or simply stupid. He said, “I did not open the grave,” and turned away.
Caldwell turned and shouted, “Corporal Muller, two-man detail to see what this Indian’s talking about. He says there’s a dead Apache buried over there. Dig the bastard up and see if he’s right.”
Rabbit-Boss knew the Blue Sleeves would never find the spot. So he sauntered over to stand by until they’d satisfied themselves. What was the matter with them? Didn’t they know Snakes always buried their dead in a sitting position facing west? Did they think the Snakes had taken time to bury anyone else? Truly, these Blue Sleeves wasted much talk and motion on the obvious. It was no wonder they needed so much food and water.
Muller had two troopers break out entrenching tools and sent them over to the Indian. Then he asked Caldwell, “What about these others, sir? Do you want a burial detail?”
Caldwell nodded, and when Greenberg started to mutter under his breath about wasted effort, he said, “One mass grave, Corporal Muller. Make sure you bury all the pieces.”
“What about their clothes and boots and such, sir? Them Injuns sorta scattered things all about before they rode off.”
“Put it all in the same hole and I’ll read a few words over the remains. Let’s get cracking, Corporal. We haven’t got all day.”
“Yes, sir, I guess you aim to catch them rascals and pay ’em back good, don’t you, sir?”
Matt Caldwell’s eyes were dry and hard as he nodded. “That’s about the size of it. Be ready to move out in half an hour. I don’t care if the bastards know we’re here or pot!”
The first pony died that afternoon. Eskinya cut the throat of Hummingbird-Dancer when he saw his lame animal could go no farther. The women gathered round when he announced his decision, and every precious drop of blood was caught in tightly woven baskets. Some was drunk at once, for the people were thirsty and there was no cactus on the playa to quench their thirst. The rest would dry to blood sausage, along with the meat they stripped from the choice parts of the dead pony. Most of the meat was left, for there was no time to butcher properly, and they knew the other ponies would start dying unless they came to sweet water in the next few days. The Nadene people could last four days without fresh water, if there was any moisture at all in the food they carried with them, but while a burro may last nearly as long as a man without a drink, ponies could not. The White Eyes watered their big mounts every day. Indian ponies could manage if they drank their fill every other day. After that, they began to die. It was strange how such a large, strong animal could be weaker than a Nadene child when it came to its stomach. With ponies half as tough as their riders, there would be no place the Nadene could not go. Horseflesh was the weak link in Kaya-Tenay’s chain of conquests. With the right ponies, he was sure he’d be able to go anywhere he wanted, take anything he wanted, and kill as many enemies as lay in wait around the moving domain of his people.
The captives refused to drink the blood of Hummingbird-Dancer when it was offered to them. Eskinya tried to understand Jezebel’s reluctance as she joined the Unger family in expressions of disgust. He asked her, “Do your people not eat meat?” and when she tried to explain the difference between horseflesh, venison, and pork, he found her words confusing. From what she told him, the White Eyes ate fish, which no Nadene in his hungriest moment would dream of doing. Yet she refused even to taste the blood of a fine pony like Hummingbird-Dancer. Eskinya was about to tell her the jerked meat she and the others had been eating was an assortment of venison, bighorn, burro, and pony. Then he considered his pretty captive’s apparent lack of humor and decided to wait. A wise man tames a skittish pony with a gentle hand and soothing words.
The butchering took little time, but everyone not directly involved took advantage of the short break to rest their mounts and ease their cramped legs. Ernestine Unger and Alfrieda walked some distance out across the sun-baked lake bottom unguarded and, apparently, ignored. This was only apparently, however. Digoon and Naiche were too considerate to follow a woman closely when she had to relieve herself, but Eskinya had told them he did not think either of his friends would be careless enough to let one of his prisoners escape, and though they appeared to ignore the two distant dots squatting on the lake bed, they never lost track of them for an instant.
Willy Unger, still weak from his close brush with death, had managed to strike up an inarticulate understanding with the Indian children around him. When one of the Nadene boys slapped Willy lightly as an experiment, Willy punched him on the cheek. Neither was hurt, but since Indian children didn’t hit with fists, the new boy’s blow had made them decide it might be better to teach Willy to play Kah. This was a Nadene game similar to “Button, button, who’s got the button?” and one could win or lose without tears or bruises. Willy wasn’t as
good at Kah as he might have been at schoolboy fisticuffs, so none of his new acquaintances felt any need to even the odds with a weapon. There wasn’t a boy in the band who could have beaten Willy in a fist-fight—or would have been unable to kill him easily. Eight-year-old Nadene boys had been receiving instructions in knife fighting, lance-thrusting, riding, roping, and the bow and arrow since they were old enough to talk. If Willy felt a certain superiority in rough-housing about the camp with the other boys, it was because Nadene were unfamiliar with how one handles himself in a friendly tussle.
Cho-Ko-Ley watched from a distance in silent approval. The child she’d saved was strong for his age, despite his recent illness. His bones were big, and she knew he would grow to be a giant of a man. The yellow-haired one seemed attached to him, too, but if she were offered her freedom and many ponies, she would doubtless give him up. The husky, long-limbed boy would make a fine Nadene, once they taught him the Way of the People.
She would have to speak of this with Kaya-Tenay, but not now. Her husband had been sipping at the American tiswin in the thick brown glass bottles, and when Kaya-Tenay was drinking tiswin, it was not a good idea to approach him.
Eskinya knew it was a bad time to talk to his father, too. Kaya-Tenay sat his pony a little distance from the others, as he waited for them to finish with the butchering, or perhaps just waited for some sign as to what he should do next. He should have been resting the pony during the short break in their weary march across the playa, but there are times a man had difficulty getting back upon his pony, and the brown tequila of the White Eyes was stronger than the tiswin he was used to.
As the people finished with their chores and started getting ready to move out again, Eskinya walked over to where his father sat his pony and said, “I think this playa is bad for our animals. The salts are making their hoofs sore.”
Kaya-Tenay stared bleary-eyed at his son and mumbled, “What are you doing down there? Why are you not mounted like a Husband? Some of my people are mounted and others are on toot. It is all very confusing.”
