The Wild Girl: The Notebooks of Ned Giles, 1932

by Jim Fergus

  The white Apache looked for a long time at Joseph. “‘I remember the warrior Goso. But in my memory he was a large man, a man with big Power, and I feared him.’”

  “‘That is because you were only a small boy. And because I am an old man now. As we grow old we become smaller and smaller, and our Power seeps back into the earth whence it arose until there is nothing left and then the wind blows us away.’”

  “‘Now perhaps the warrior fears the boy,’” said Charley, looming over the old man.

  Joseph smiled. “‘No, no more than he fears the wind. But perhaps the boy still fears the warrior.’”

  The white Apache laughed with disdain. “‘I do not see a warrior standing before me. I see an old man who has lived so long among the White Eyes that he is nearly a White Eyes himself.’”

  The old man nodded. “‘Yes, that is so. And I see a White Eyes who has lived so long among the Apaches that he is nearly an Apache himself.’”

  “‘He is more Apache than the old man. Why have you come back to us now? Why do you travel with White Eyes?’”

  “‘I return this girl to you. Did she not tell you that we rescued her from a Mexican jail?’”

  “‘Yes, and it is only for this reason that you are still alive.’”

  “‘We bring you your granddaughter and we ask that you give us the Mexican boy in return.’”

  “‘Have you not sufficiently betrayed the People? Now you lead the White Eyes and the Mexicans to us again?’”

  “‘They only want the boy back.’”

  “‘Do you understand that no one who comes here is ever allowed to leave again? Why should we give up the Huerta boy? He belongs to us now. The Mexican ranchers are our enemies. They kill us on sight. And except for this woman and the Mexican boy, who may be useful to us, these White Eyes you bring among us will all die in the morning.’” Charley looked now at Albert, who had continued to translate this conversation for us. “‘Including this one, who speaks our language but looks and dresses like a White Eyes himself. As for you, old man, I remember the warrior Goso. I remember him as a large, strong, brave man. Then we heard that he had surrendered to the nantan lupan and became a scout for the White Eyes. I will let the old woman Siki decide if you are really the warrior Goso and what is to be done with you.’”

  “‘She is still alive?’”

  “‘You will come with me, old man.’”

  Charley gave an order, then abruptly took hold of Margaret’s arm and began to lead her away. Margaret tried to shake loose from him. “Hey, you don’t have to rough up the girls to prove that you’re a big man,” she said. She turned and smiled at us bravely. “I’ll be all right. Take care of Mr. Browning.”

  Tolley gave a wave. “We’ll see you later at the dinner dance, darling,” he said with bravado.

  Joseph and the girl followed them. Indio Juan watched them go with an expression of loathing on his face.

  Albert, Tolley, Mr. Browning, and I have been lodged in one of the caves at the base of the canyon. A boy with a rifle has been posted in front to guard us. All of our possessions have been taken from us, along with our mules and burros. I have only the notebook that I carry in the pocket of my jacket, and a pencil. Mr. Browning sleeps.

  “I must say, I’m terribly disappointed in the big white man,” said Tolley. “I felt certain he would feel some racial loyalty to us.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Tolley,” Albert said. “He is as Apache now as if he had been born among them. The others don’t even think of him as being a White Eyes any longer.”

  “Oh, they don’t notice the fair hair and beard, the pale skin and the fact that he’s a foot taller than anyone else?” Tolley asked.

  “He doesn’t even speak English anymore,” I said. “But don’t you think there must be some buried part of him that remembers his old life, his white parents, his first language?”

  “That’s the part I’d like to get in touch with,” said Tolley. “The part that doesn’t believe all white men need to be murdered. “‘Hello in there,’” Tolley mimed, his hand cupped to his mouth. “‘Come out, little Charley, wherever you are.’”

  Exhausted from the day’s travel, we dozed off, to be woken just as darkness fell by the monotonous beating of a single drum, then a second and third. We peered out from our cave to see flames rising from several fires in the center of the ranchería. As if ignited by the flames themselves, an enormous orange moon blistered up behind the high savage peaks of the sierras. The scent of roasting meat carried to us on a faint breeze, reminding us that we had not eaten since morning. Mr. Browning still slept fitfully. We tried to make him as comfortable as possible.

  Two other Apaches came then to join the boy who guarded us, and they led Tolley, Albert, and me down from the cave, poking us along with the barrels of their rifles, laughing and mocking us as we went.

  Now to the music were added the plucked notes of a string instrument that sounded like something between a banjo and a guitar, then the rattling of shaken gourds, the tones of a high haunting flute, the ringing of bells, a harmonica—all creating a strangely discordant but somehow hypnotic music.

  Some of the women tended to the fires, stirring cooking pots and turning the meats which were impaled on long sticks supported over the fire by rocks. Two whole deer carcasses were suspended from a cross pole over another fire. Everyone was beginning to congregate now for the feast, and some of the children had already begun to dance.

  Margaret was standing with the girl in front of the central fire. She was dressed in a billowing brightly colored skirt and loosely fitting blouse, with several strings of beads around her neck, and a large silver medallion on a chain. She was flushed and seemed strangely excited by all the activity.

  “Well, it didn’t take you long to go native, did it, darling?” Tolley said.

  “They gave me these clothes to wear for the dance,” Margaret said. “I learned in the Amazon that the sooner you adopt the native customs and attire, the quicker they accept you.”

  “Are you all right, Margaret?” Albert asked her. “Have they hurt you?”

  “I’m okay, Albert,” she answered. “No one has hurt me. How is Mr. Browning?”

  “He’s sleeping, Mag,” I said. “But he doesn’t look so good.”

  “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” she asked, looking out again at the assemblage, her cheeks glowing in the firelight. “How this isolated population has become a cultural island, a specific, one-of-a-kind mélange of cultures. Can you hear the Mexican influence in the music? Look at their clothes and the fabrics. Almost everything they own has been stolen over the years in raids on Mexican villages and ranches, and probably from time to time over the border as well. At least three or four of the women here are Mexicans, and there are several women from the Tarahumure tribe as well, a tribe that lives farther south with whom the Apaches trade. But you know what’s most interesting to me from an anthropological point of view? How uniformly Apache all the children look. It’s as if their genetic structure is so strong that it completely overpowers the other races. Look at this girl, for instance,” she said, tenderly cupping la niña bronca’s cheek in her hand. “She’s a little taller than most of the others, but other than that, would you ever guess that her grandfather was a redheaded white man?”

  “Darling, aren’t you having rather too much fun?” Tolley asked. “Have you forgotten that your friends are scheduled to be executed in the morning?”

  “I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “It’s something else my father taught me about fieldwork. When you feel threatened or afraid, take refuge in your work. Be professional, because it’s all you have, your last illusion of control. I guess I’m trying to pretend that this is all an anthropological exercise.”

  “I know what you mean, Mag,” I said. “I’d do exactly the same thing if I could get my hands on my damn camera bag. God, I hope they didn’t destroy it. All my film … my notebooks …”

  “Good Christ,” said T
olley. “What is wrong with you two? Our lives are in jeopardy and you’re talking about your jobs. As if any of that matters now.”

  Just at that moment one of the Apache men strutted proudly by dressed in Tolley’s white leather riding breeches and silk smoking jacket. “Scoundrel!” Tolley cried after him. “Thief! Those are my clothes!”

  “I have your knapsack with your camera in it, Neddy,” Margaret said, “and your notebooks. They’re still going through our possessions, discarding anything that has no practical value to them. They’re dividing up our clothes, food, tools, utensils. They fought like dogs over Tolley’s wardrobe, but no one was in the least bit interested in your camera. This is not exactly a machinery-oriented culture.”

  “Will you take care of it for me, Mag?”

  “Who cares about your fucking camera?” Tolley hollered. He suddenly seemed near tears. “Are you all insane? They’re going to kill us in the morning.”

  “Calm down, Tolley,” Albert cautioned. “If you fall apart now, they’ll kill you before morning.”

  “Maybe we should make a run for it,” Tolley said in a panicked voice. “Look, no one’s paying any attention to us. We could just slip away.”

  “We wouldn’t get a hundred yards,” Albert said. “They’d send the boys after us with sticks and rocks to kill us like rabbits.”

  “Oh, God,” Tolley whimpered. “Why does everybody want to kill us? What have we done?”

  “Look, Tolley.” I said, “I’m going to worry about my camera, Margaret’s going to worry about cultural anthropology, and you can worry about getting your clothes back. That’ll give us all something to live for.”

  “Okay, okay, you’re quite right, old sport,” Tolley said, collecting himself. “I’m sorry. I had a brief moment of weakness there. I’m a little on edge.”

  “Who isn’t, sweetheart?” said Margaret.

  “What do you have to worry about, darling?” Tolley asked. “You’re going to be the bride of the big white chief. I’d trade your fate for ours in a heartbeat. In fact, though he’s a bit old for me, I find him rather attractive in a brutish sort of way.”

  “I’m not going to be anyone’s bride,” Margaret said.

  “You do understand, don’t you, Margaret,” said Albert, “why the Apaches always kill the men they capture and keep the women and children?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Because like most seminomadic indigenous people, they don’t have a structured penal system. And no practical way to imprison male captives for any length of time. Thus as long as they’re alive, men from other tribes pose a threat. So it’s more practical just to kill them. Whereas women and children are more docile and more easily assimilated.”

  “And also useful for breeding purposes,” Albert added. “To broaden the genetic pool.”

  “Oh God, I think he’s jealous,” Tolley said. He waved his hand in front of us, as if to get our attention. “Can we please concentrate on our most immediate problem? Which, as Giles points out, is the fact that my wardrobe has been plundered.”

  We had to laugh; as desperate as was our situation, we were relieved to see that Tolley had at least recovered his sense of humor.

  “Look, there’s one of them right there in my Abercrombie & Fitch safari jacket,” he said, pointing. “And there’s another in my pith helmet. The brutes!” he added. “They don’t even know any better than not to break up the outfit.”

  It was true that the Apaches wore bizarre combinations of clothing. The men sported all manner of headgear, everything from narrow-brimmed straw hats, to Mexican sombreros, to their most recent additions of pith helmet and Mr. Browning’s bowler hat. Others wore brightly colored cloths wrapped around their heads like Indian turbans. Some were dressed in variously styled vests and jackets, others had blankets tied around their waists almost like Scottish kilts. The women were equally colorful in their bright calico dresses and skirts and as much jewelry as they could fit on their persons.

  More of the Apaches had begun dancing. It was unlike anything we’d ever seen before, a kind of stuttered prancing, a nearly spastic, out-of-sync movement that seemed nevertheless in perfect keeping with the strange, dissonant music, the blazing bonfires, the full orange moon … I knew then that when we had first crested that final tortuous pass in the rocks and dropped down into this valley, we had crossed a threshold into another world, a world with its own sun and moon, and its own separate race of man.

  We were seated on blankets and hides spread on the ground in the place of honor in front of the central fire. The white Apache Charley had arrived with Joseph and they had taken their seats beside us. With them was a woman whom we took to be Charley’s wife, and another very old woman, who appeared to be blind. We were fed two different kinds of roasted meat, perhaps beef pilfered from the Mexican ranchers, or maybe horse, as well as venison. With this they served sweet mescal, the succulent crown of the agave plant, which had been steamed all day beneath the coals, and according to Albert is both an Apache staple as well as a delicacy. The women had also baked a flat unleavened bread for the feast that must have had its origins in Mexican tortillas. The food was delicious and we were ravenous; we ate with a strange abandon, the notion unspoken but palpable between us that this might, after all, be our last meal and we might as well enjoy it. Never has anything tasted better. Before she would eat herself, Margaret wrapped some food up in a cloth and sent the girl with it to Mr. Browning. But when she returned she said that he was still sleeping and so she had left the food in the cave beside him.

  Now the dancers were each singing in turn as they danced, a kind of chanting. One of them suddenly made a chilling screaming sound that faded away like an echo and that raised gooseflesh on our arms … it was the exact sound of Tolley’s horse falling into the abyss.

  “Good God,” Margaret whispered.

  “They’re telling the story of our capture,” Albert explained, “… with some … elaboration.”

  Each Apache who had participated in the event took their turn singing and dancing their exploits. When it came Indio Juan’s turn, his dancing was even wilder and more exaggerated than the others, his singing edged with a distinct madness. “This one is not right in the head,” Albert said. “Look at the others. You can see that even they fear him … Listen, now he is telling of claiming Margaret as his slave, and the fact that she is his rightful property, not Charley’s. It is a great breach of etiquette to make such a claim at a dance in front of the rest of the tribe.” I sneaked a look at Charley, who sat stone-faced and expressionless.

  When Indio Juan was finished, it was la niña bronca’s turn, and she stood gracefully and walked to the center, and began to dance. I recognized in her stylized movements the act of falling onto my back, swooping down like a bird of prey, holding the knife to my throat, all performed with a strange, evocative grace. As much as she had blossomed when she was with us, now that she was back among her own people, she seemed restored to the full bloom of her young womanhood, full of confidence and joy. Gone is any trace of the terrified wild creature I first saw those weeks ago, squatting naked on the stone floor of the jail cell. Here is a dark, supple, lovely young woman, dancing in the flames, dancing under the moonlight; I could not take my eyes off her.

  Several small groups of women sat by the fire, gossiping and watching the dancers, periodically looking over at us and giggling.

  “Oh God, here they come,” Tolley said as several of the women stood and made their way toward us. “Our executioners. Never have I wanted to be a wallflower more than I do at this moment.”

  “The ceremonial dancing is over,” Albert said. “This is the beginning of the social dancing.”

  “Just don’t let anyone know that you’re a poufter, Tolley,” I said. “It might go even worse for you. Remember what Albert said.”

  “Oh, thank you, Giles,” Tolley said sarcastically. “I’ll try to avoid asking the boys to dance.”

  Now the women urged us to our feet and led us
out among the dancers. We felt enormous and ungainly beside them. The Apaches are a small, compact people, the men with broad shoulders, deep chests and lithe, athletic limbs, the women, equally well formed, hardy and strong, with fine features, clear dark eyes and skin and small hands and feet. We felt like pale clumsy giants among them.

  Everyone made great fun of Tolley and my first tentative steps, a general hilarity that had some of the spectators and dancers alike literally rolling on the ground in laughter. However, they were all suitably impressed with Albert’s dancing skills. Although the ceremonial dances had been outlawed for many years on the reservation and in the white-run boarding school which he had attended as a boy, Albert, like many Apache youths, had surreptitiously learned the forbidden steps.

  Margaret, too, was led into the dance circle now. She was tall, slender, and far more graceful than we, and her own efforts less slavishly imitative. Perhaps as a child among the South American tribes, she had learned something about native dances, for she seemed not to care particularly whether she performed the steps with exact correctness, imposing instead her own sense of rhythm on the music, so smooth and sinewy, that it was hard for all not to watch and admire her.

  Now a curious thing began to happen. As exhausted as we were by the ordeals of the day, the strangeness of this new land, the terrifying uncertainty of our predicament, we all became caught up in the hypnotic music, the arrhythmic dancing, the otherworldly atmosphere of the place. And we gave ourselves up to it, letting the beat of the drums reach into that primal part of our beings that knows instinctively how to dance, that remembers the steps. Margaret says that dance was the first form of human communication, the first art form, the first entertainment, that from the beginning of the species, Homo sapiens danced to celebrate love and war, and everything in between; it is the one activity universal to every culture on earth. And now caught up in the music and the dance, we forgot all else; we even managed to forget in this brief respite of mad pulsing gaiety that our lives were in jeopardy. It seemed impossible to believe that these same smiling, laughing people with whom we whirled and pranced and cavorted by the flickering light of the fires intended to murder us in the morning, to chase us about the camp and beat us to death with rocks and sticks, to run us through with knives and lances. This was the Apache way, Joseph said; the killing of male captives was business left to the women and children, for it was not fitting occupation for a warrior.