Walk Till You Disappear

by Jacqueline Dembar Greene

  The captain listened attentively, and Miguel stopped talking just long enough to gulp down another swallow of coffee. Even with sugar, its bitterness was powerful. “After that, I think I passed out for a while, and when I woke up, a boy about my age was leaning over me. He had pulled out most of the cactus spines and bandaged my head and foot. He had even cooked a rabbit and found some water.” Miguel took a breath. “He seemed to know the way back to Tucson, and once I could move, we traveled together.” Miguel mopped up the runny egg yolk with the last piece of biscuit. “If he hadn’t helped me, I would have died out there.”

  A clean-shaven young soldier with ruddy cheeks pulled back the tent flap and stepped in. “Medic, sir!” he said, saluting. He held a pail of water in one hand and had a leather haversack slung over his shoulder.

  “Corporal Pinter,” the captain greeted him, “this here’s the young chap who took a little sojourn with the Apaches. Here he is back from the dead to haunt us.” The two men shared a short laugh. The captain looked at Miguel’s empty plate. “You had enough?”

  Miguel nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Then the captain noticed the half-filled coffee mug. “I know you’ve had enough of that. In fact, I think I see hair sprouting on your chest already.”

  The medic grinned. “That Rio coffee’ll grow hair on a bald man,” he said. Then he looked flustered. “No offense, sir,” he stammered.

  “Check over this desert rat, will you, Corporal?” the captain said. “He’s been clubbed by Apaches, fallen over a cliff, and been bit by a scorpion, but here he sits.”

  The medic took a clean cloth and a sliver of brown soap from the bucket and washed the dirt from around the wound on Miguel’s forehead.

  “This seems to be healing nicely,” the corporal said. “Now let’s see what’s under that bandage on your foot. If you can call it a bandage!” He peeled off the soiled strip of fabric. “Stung by a scorpion, eh? Nasty little devils.”

  Miguel looked at the angry red skin that swelled around the cut. He spoke softly to the medic. “My friend Rushing Cloud said the scorpion was giving me a message to be more like him—to drink very little water, to travel at night, and to navigate by the stars.”

  The captain interrupted. “Miguel was telling me that after he was stung by the scorpion a boy found him and led him across the desert.” He looked at Miguel. “An Indian boy, I presume?”

  “He’s a Tohono O’odham,” Miguel corrected him as the medic prodded the tender flesh around the cut. “He’s nothing like the Apache.”

  “Tono . . . what?” the corporal asked. “I’ve never heard of any tribe called that. Only friendly Indians I’ve ever seen were Papagos.”

  Miguel spoke up again, eager to share his new knowledge. “Papago is what some people call the Tohono O’odham, but they don’t like it one bit. Their real name means People of the Desert.”

  “Mighty interesting,” said the medic.

  Miguel winced as the medic cleaned the wound. “I never knew what the word Papago meant, and I sure didn’t know it was kind of an insult. You know what else? The Apache don’t like the name Apache, either. It means ‘enemy,’ so it makes them angry. They call themselves Indé.”

  And what should I be called? Miguel suddenly thought with confusion. He was Mexican, but when Mexico sold the territory where the family had its ranch, he became American—just like magic. He remembered Rushing Cloud saying that while people might change on the outside, they are still the same on the inside, where it counts. Miguel was American, but he would always have his Mexican heritage.

  “So where is this Indian of yours?” the captain asked, interrupting Miguel’s thoughts.

  Miguel felt an unexplained emptiness. “His name is Rushing Cloud,” he repeated. “He disappeared last night after we found your camp. I wanted him to stay with me. I told him the cavalry would help him get home too, but he just vanished.”

  Miguel glanced up just as the captain and the medic exchanged a meaningful look. A feeling of uneasiness settled over Miguel, and he eyed the men warily.

  “Luckily, these wounds are pretty clean,” the medic said, packing up his bag. “You’re going to have a couple of right manly scars there, though. Someday you can brag to your grandchildren about how you got them.”

  The burst of energy that had fueled Miguel’s flood of conversation was nearly spent. He felt consumed by exhaustion and couldn’t keep his eyes from fluttering closed.

  “I know you’re plumb worn out,” the corporal said, “but I’m gonna have to take a closer look at that shoulder. Can you take off your shirt?”

  “It’s really Rushing Cloud’s,” Miguel explained. “He gave it to me last night.” He tried to pull it off, but couldn’t raise his arm high enough. The medic gently slid the sleeve from Miguel’s good arm and eased the shirt over his head. Next, he untied the sling. Miguel groaned as the young soldier tested how far the arm could move and then prodded the joint with his fingers. Searing pain surged through Miguel’s shoulder and spread across his chest and back.

  The medic let out a breath. “This arm is pulled right out of its socket. I can pop it back in, and it’ll likely heal just fine, but it’s going to wake you up real good when I yank it.”

  The captain stepped quietly outside the tent, his boot steps moving off down the row of tents and sounding fainter and fainter. The sound of tin plates and cups rattled in Miguel’s ears, and the soldiers’ voices seemed louder than they had before.

  “I usually give the men a couple of shots of whiskey before I perform this little maneuver,” the corporal said, taking a dented metal flask from his sack. “I guess if you’re old enough to be clubbed by an Apache, you’re man enough for a swig of this to help you through.”

  “I just turned thirteen,” Miguel murmured. He had believed it when Papá had told him he would become a man when he had his birthday. Yet he had felt like a child compared to the Apache and like a bumbling little brother next to Rushing Cloud.

  Miguel sniffed the amber liquid in the flask. It gave off a woody aroma mingled with a faint hint of sweetness, but both were overpowered by a sharp, pungent smell.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I guess I could give it a try.”

  “Just swig it,” Corporal Pinter advised. “If you let that whiskey linger in your mouth, you’ll never get it down.” He looked apologetic. “I wouldn’t give this to you if there was a better way.”

  Miguel’s hand shook as he lifted the flask and gulped down a large swallow of whiskey. He coughed and sputtered as the fiery drink burned his throat and lit into his stomach like a burning match. He tried to hand the container back, but instead, the corporal tilted Miguel’s head back and forced him to drink more. He gagged on the fiery liquid.

  “Everybody remembers their first shot of whiskey,” the medic said, releasing Miguel. “Just add this to that list of stories you’ll have to tell.” He helped Miguel over to the captain’s cot and eased him down onto his back. The wooden frame creaked, and the thin mattress sagged under him. Miguel had not seen a soft bed piled with wool blankets in weeks, and he longed to give in to the need for sleep. His head felt light, and the room began to float in a hazy blur of images.

  “Go ahead,” the medic’s voice soothed. “Just let go.” Miguel tried to focus on the soldier’s face, but it dissolved into a pink shadow. He closed his eyes, but the room still seemed to be spinning. The medic straightened Miguel’s arm, and he gasped at the pain.

  “You ever heard a rebel yell?” the corporal asked, but Miguel couldn’t focus on the question and his tongue felt thick and unable to form words. The medic kept talking in gentle tones, as if from a great distance, and slivers of pain darted through Miguel’s shoulder like arrows. “Guess you’re not old enough for that. During the war I unfortunately had occasion to hear them Southern Rebs give their famous yell. Why, it just curdled my blood. Lucky you never heard it for yourself. But you think on it, and when I fix to pull this shoulder back into place
, you give it a try. Just yell for all you’re worth. I bet you’ll come real close.”

  The medic braced his knee on Miguel’s chest, and Miguel’s eyes fluttered open for a moment. One thick hand pressed around his shoulder at the joint, and the other gripped his upper arm. He wanted to see what the medic was doing, but he was overcome with dizziness. Suddenly, Miguel’s shoulder seemed to rip from his body with a sickening pop! In a blinding flash of white light that blazed across his closed eyelids, Miguel heard a distant voice let out a wild, deafening scream.

  Chapter 15

  Indian Prisoner

  A clamor of unfamiliar noises disturbed Miguel’s heavy sleep. He awoke to the stifling heat of the captain’s tent, illuminated by bright sunlight against the canvas roof. His head throbbed from the clatter of pots, cursing soldiers, and wagon wheels creaking and groaning. He struggled to his feet, holding the tent pole for support.

  Miguel’s stomach roiled and a sour taste, like rancid butter, rose in his throat. Lurching through the tent flaps, he fell onto his knees, vomiting until his stomach had given up every bit of breakfast.

  “Considerate of you not to foul the captain’s quarters.” Miguel tried to focus on the tall boots planted in front of his face, then raised his eyes to meet those of the medic. Corporal Pinter reached down and helped Miguel to stand. Everything around him seemed to tilt from one side to another, and his stomach felt queasy.

  “I told you no one ever forgets his first taste of whiskey,” the medic said with a wry smile. “How’s that shoulder?”

  Miguel tried to move his arm, but a stiff canvas sling bound his shoulder tightly against his side. His elbow was fixed in a bent position, and he could barely wiggle his fingers. Sharp pains in his shoulder throbbed in time with a pulsating headache. Miguel opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t seem to speak.

  “You’re a pale shade of green,” the corporal said. “Better sit down.” He led Miguel back into the tent and settled him on the cot. “Camp’s just about broke and we’ll still make a few miles today. Think you can handle a wagon ride?” When Miguel nodded his agreement, a new wave of dizziness washed over him.

  “Drop your head between your knees,” Corporal Pinter said. Miguel leaned over, and the lightheadedness began to ease.

  The medic kept talking quietly. “I’m sorry to report that we won’t make it back to Tucson today. We already lost most of the morning because we didn’t want to move you too soon.” He eased Miguel into Rushing Cloud’s shirt. “The captain sent a messenger on ahead, though, so when we arrive tomorrow, you’ll get a proper welcome.” The corporal opened the lid on a wooden bucket filled with water and dipped in a tin mug. He handed it to Miguel. “Some water will help clear your head.”

  Miguel took a few sips, and the medic splashed the remaining water onto the dirt floor. Miguel’s heart raced as he watched the water soak into the dry earth, but he was too worn out to utter a word of protest.

  “Okay, amigo, it’s roundup time,” the corporal said. He helped Miguel out of the tent, supporting him with one strong arm. Two sweating cavalrymen began dismantling the tent, pulling up the stakes and rolling the ropes. As Miguel moved away, he saw the aide dump out all the water that remained in the bucket.

  The camp seemed swallowed up in a confusion of rushing soldiers. Men tied their tents and haversacks onto their horses and hung frying pans and tin cups from their bulging saddlebags. Several cavalrymen kicked sand over the smoking ashes from abandoned campfires. A few broken tent stakes littered the ground, and one soldier scraped the remains from a dirty plate onto a pile of rotting garbage. The shallow latrine was hastily covered with a few shovelfuls of sand. Miguel stepped carefully around horse droppings that dotted the area where the animals had been tethered, painfully aware of his bare, unprotected feet.

  Wagons and horses lined up as they were ready, and the corporal guided Miguel directly to the cook wagon at the front. Three-legged iron pots were stacked inside atop sacks of flour and beans. The water barrel was attached to the back.

  “Cookie will take good care of you,” said the medic. The cook who had served up breakfast a few hours earlier gave Miguel a two-fingered salute. He sported a clean shave, and his uniform was neatly brushed.

  “You hungry, son?” he asked.

  Miguel shook his head gingerly. His attention was drawn to a slow drip coming from the spigot on the water barrel. He cleared his throat and pointed at the barrel.

  “You’re losing water,” he said, his voice raspy.

  “Don’t pay it no mind,” the cook reassured him. “We’ve got enough water to float this cavalry back to Tucson.”

  “Careful with that shoulder,” the medic warned the cook. The two men lifted Miguel onto the wagon seat in one swift motion. Corporal Pinter looked up at Miguel and winked. “No bronco busting or cattle roping today. I’ll check on you again after we set camp tonight.”

  Miguel managed a weak smile. “I guess I will take it easy,” he said, “since my head feels like it’s been hit with a fence post and my shoulder feels like it’s on fire. But I’m almost home.”

  He looked toward the horizon. If Rushing Cloud was watching, he would see that Miguel was safe. Miguel prayed that his friend was making his own way home.

  The cook swung up onto the wagon seat and took the reins of the mule team in his callused hands. Miguel couldn’t stop thinking about the leaking water. The bucket from the captain’s tent that had already been wasted that morning would have been enough to last him and Rushing Cloud for days. Just like the scorpion, Miguel thought.

  Miguel turned and watched the campsite fall away behind him. There wasn’t so much as a patch of sagebrush left where the tents had been pitched. An empty burlap flour sack settled into the dust, the red letters stamped on it already faded.

  It seemed that the soldiers were determined to change everything around them, leaving nothing as they had found it. Rushing Cloud and the band of Apaches were content to be part of the desert, accepting what it had to offer and leaving no trace behind.

  Instead of the near silence that had engulfed Miguel as the warriors moved along a trail, the army officers continually shouted orders, and the clattering wagons made a constant din. Miguel missed the soothing sound of Rushing Cloud’s prayerful singing.

  In the late afternoon, as the shadows of the mule team lengthened, the captain rode along the line, barking out orders. The rattling procession drew to a halt. Mounted soldiers rode up to form a double line and dismounted.

  “Are we stopping already?” Miguel asked. “There’s plenty of daylight left.”

  Cookie whistled the mules to the end of the ragged line and pulled them to a halt. “It’s a heap of work to settle these boys down for the night,” he explained. “There’s the horses to be tended, tents to be pitched, and food cooked up. It’ll be dark before the last plate of beans disappears.”

  Now that Miguel was so close to home, a lump rose in his throat at the thought of seeing his parents again. He was ashamed to face them and at the same time realized how much he missed them. He hoped he would be able to find the words to make them understand how the past days had changed him. He felt as if the boy Miguel had walked and walked until he disappeared.

  Rushing Cloud would say that Miguel was still the same inside, but now he saw everything around him with new eyes. When Miguel first heard the opening pages of the diary, he had felt anger and shame. Now he had a sense of calm and a willingness to listen.

  “Come on,” Cookie said, helping Miguel down from the wagon. “Find yourself a spot out of the way, and I’ll fix you some supper along with the captain’s.” He chuckled. “That means your beans get some salt pork in them.”

  Miguel leaned against the wagon wheel and watched the cook stoke a fire and hang black pots of beans from an iron frame. All the soldiers were busy with their own chores and started their own cooking fires. Through the smoky haze, the camp rose out of the desert like a mirage. Men lined up at the water barrel
, and Miguel cringed as water splashed into the sand each time the spigot opened or closed.

  After the cook had served the captain his dinner, he filled two more plates and balanced one on Miguel’s lap. Miguel scooped up the spicy beans with pieces of blackened corn bread.

  Cookie looked at the burnt edges of the pale yellow bread. “May not be perfect,” he said, “but it sure beats hardtack.”

  “It tastes good to me,” Miguel said. “It’s a heap better than an empty stomach and lots better than horsemeat.”

  “I can’t figure how those Indians can eat a horse.” Cookie spit into the sand. “They’re savages.” Miguel was startled by the cook’s hateful words.

  “I guess it’s all a matter of what you’re used to,” he said carefully. “My friend Rushing Cloud said that at the mission school, the native kids hated the food. They weren’t used to it, and it made them sick.” The cook grunted. Before his journey, Miguel might have accepted Cookie’s opinion, but not anymore. The Apache ate what was available, and they were satisfied with little.

  Miguel thought of how easily Jacob Franck accepted people who were different from him. The peddler accepted the native people and got along with them. He hadn’t tried to convince the Abranos that his religion was better, or that anyone had to accept his faith to be his friend. It was Miguel who had felt the need to convert nonbelievers in order to accept them.

  Miguel shouldn’t have judged Señor Franck so quickly. The way the peddler dressed or wore his beard didn’t make him a demon. Neither did his prayers, simply because they sounded strange to Miguel.

  Miguel was restless after sitting on the wagon for so long. That night he wandered around the camp. Tough new skin had grown over the soles of his feet, and he forgot that he had no boots. He looked around the campsite, trying to take his mind off the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He hoped the medic knew what he was doing.