A Long and Winding Road

by Win

  Sam gave Baptiste a sharp glance. Here was the tricky edge of trouble.

  “We will be glad tomorrow to discuss all of what you said earlier, and to seek common ground, if you like. Then you will give us the people born to us, and we will give you yours.”

  On the way to the little camp, Armijo told Sam, “Something is not right. If he meant to negotiate a treaty, Narbona would be here.”

  9

  A fire, a coffee pot, the first glow of light in the east. These small things brought solace to Sam’s heart. He liked to get up early, while others slept, with only Coy for company, and drink coffee. Not to think, especially, but just to take in the beginning of the day.

  This morning, though, he was thinking. He was wondering what would happen when Hosteen Tso found out Armijo’s secret. He was wondering if he and his friends would have to fight Navajos for the sake of the cheating New Mexicans. Hell, he thought, maybe we should switch and fight against the New Mexicans. Except for Tomás and Joaquin, why not?

  He grinned. He’d been thoroughly a Crow once. Took a Crow name, Joins with Buffalo, carried the sacred pipe (as he still did), became a member of the Kit Fox Society, went to war with Crow comrades, and married Meadowlark. Without hesitation he would have fought Blackfeet or Californios or New Mexicans shoulder to shoulder with Meadowlark’s brothers.

  But then it all went wrong, and he wasn’t going to dwell on that.

  He poured coffee and pulled down his first swallow of the day, strong and hot.

  Tomás materialized, reached for the pot, and poured for himself. They sat together without a word. Coy rolled onto his back and scratched himself on the seams of Tomás’s moccasins. He liked to wear Navajo footwear, with the red tops and white soles.

  Silence was good. Sometimes father and son were good together. Not always. Tomás was hot-blooded, self-conscious about being short and skinny, and never quite satisfied that he hadn’t killed any of the men who took his sister’s life.

  For sure Cerritos and Don Emilio did exactly that. The day after she was sold at auction, still in Don Emilio’s bedroom, Maria’s despair led her to hang herself.

  Sam couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine, what it was like for Tomás to walk in on his sister like that. Coming to rescue her, finding her body at the end of a noose. Then he lashed out at one source of her agony, Don Emilio.

  Tomás stirred a second spoonful of sugar into his cup. He liked it sweet, the way Indians drank it.

  Not that anger about being enslaved and about Maria’s death were the whole story. Tomás was a teenager and full of hot teenage juices. He and Sam had their spats. But Sam was glad every day that he had a son.

  He grinned and looked sideways at Tomás. Life would be easier if I stopped thinking of my son as a boy.

  And then Sam thought of his daughter, far away in Crow country.

  The only good part of the morning conference was that it started early.

  Armijo spoke first, and he talked in circles. His answer to Hosteen Tso’s questions—Tso’s objections, really—was to spin out a lot of words, float them around everyone’s heads, and then smile like he’d actually said something.

  Not that anything Armijo could say would matter. The treaty was tilted steep as a sitting dog’s back to the advantage of the New Mexicans. Outrage was written all over Piercing Eyes’ face.

  Finally El Gobernador ran down. There was silence. Then Hosteen Tso said, “Do you want to exchange captives now?”

  Big, heavy silence. When Armijo opened his mouth to speak, Sam could see the lie darting of his mouth.

  “Tell him the truth,” Sam said in English.

  Armijo flinched. Sam wondered whether it was because of the switch in language or because Armijo couldn’t stand to be given orders by an inferior.

  The governor gathered his breath, turned to Hosteen Tso, and started to speak again.

  “Tell him your dirty little secret,” said Sam. “We’ve ridden all the way out here on a fraud. We haven’t brought a single captive to exchange for theirs.”

  Now Armijo stared at Sam.

  “We don’t have one member of a family of any Navajo to give them.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “If you don’t tell him, I will.”

  That made Armijo recover. “How dare you?” he growled in English.

  “I dare to save your goddamn life.”

  “To save all our lives,” added Baptiste.

  “I want to know what White Hair has to say,” said Hosteen Tso.

  Sam let this sit for a moment. Then, to Armijo, “Suppose you go through with this. Suppose you ask them to bring their captives in, and you turn up with none. They’ll know you for a cheat and will figure you intend to take their captives by force.”

  “Which damn well would be the only way you’d ever get them,” said Baptiste.

  Sam went on, “And they will attack.” He eyed Armijo with heat. “We have no idea how many warriors Tso has holding the captives. How many warriors he has just two or three hills over. How much we’re outnumbered. But you can bet he has enough to get the job done.”

  Enrique spoke up. “Gobernador, Señor Morgan speaks the truth.”

  Sam couldn’t help smiling. So Enrique spoke English too.

  “I’m going to count to ten,” said Sam. “By ten, if you haven’t started telling Tso the truth, I will. My first words will be, ‘Hosteen Tso, we are sorry. Gobernador Armijo was unable on short notice to find people captured from you who want to be returned. However, I know there are many who long for their families. Perhaps we can make an exchange in, say, one moon from now.”

  Sam laid one finger on his thigh, then two. On finger five El Gobernador began, “Hosteen Tso, we are sorry…”

  10

  Piercing Eyes spoke quietly but vehemently to Tso.

  Baptiste translated for Sam in a whisper, “Hosteen, why should we not kill these men?”

  Unable to hear Baptiste, Armijo smiled at Tso fatuously.

  His eyes on Armijo, Tso spoke to his warrior.

  “We don’t kill people for being fools,” Baptiste translated softly, “or everyone would be dead. And we may yet get some women and children back.”

  Sam suspected that the hosteen knew Baptiste understood his words.

  “What you suggest is good,” Tso said to Armijo. “We will meet you at this place at the next half moon. We will bring captives,” he paused, “and so will you.”

  Tso rose abruptly, turned his back on the New Mexicans, and strode away.

  Sam wondered if Armijo knew he’d just been insulted. If he knew that this affair was not over, and blood might yet spill onto the sand.

  Piercing Eyes, with his magnificent physique, stood up and glared. Then he stepped toward the creek, perhaps to get a drink. As he passed by Tomás, the youth said, “Thank you.”

  Sam thought, Strange thing to say.

  Piercing Eyes’ reaction was stranger.

  “Fool!” he exclaimed in Spanish. “Idiot!” His look of contempt erupted like lava in Tomás’ face.

  Sam spoke to defuse the situation. “You speak Spanish,” he said.

  “Since childhood,” snapped Piercing Eyes.

  Begay turned back to Tomás. “Diablo.” He uttered the insult calmly. “A Navajo does not say or accept ‘thank you.’ Unless it means that someone has performed such a service that he is indebted to you for life, those are the words of a beggar, or a slave.”

  Tomás colored. Then he slapped the Navajo’s face.

  Sam and Baptiste both grabbed Piercing Eyes instantly, one on each arm.

  The man screamed and exploded upwards, and both of them flew like dolls. With an unforgettable war cry the Navajo dived at Tomás.

  The youth dodged with amazing swiftness.

  Before Piercing Eyes could recover and change direction, half a dozen men grasped him.

  “Amigo!” said Sam, holding tight. “Amigo! We understand. We will make this right.”
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  The Navajo lunged like a bull at the end of a rope.

  Tso spoke sharply in his language.

  Piercing Eyes visibly willed his body to relax.

  Hosteen Tso walked back to the group, and Sam saw a glimmer of pleasure in his ancient eyes.

  He asked Piercing Eyes something in Navajo. “What has happened?” Baptiste translated to Sam in a whisper.

  Piercing Eyes answered, “The bastard slapped me in the face.”

  Tso considered. Then he turned to Armijo and said through his translator, “That is a grave insult. This man must answer for it.”

  Sam heaved out the biggest breath of his life. A fight, not a war.

  “My son is called Tomás,” said Sam. “Will you tell us the name of the man he will fight?”

  “Nez Begay,” said Hosteen Tso. It was not a proper introduction, with the name of the mother’s clan and the father’s clan. Another slight.

  Sam’s chest constricted violently. My son…

  11

  Sam said to, “I understand your rage at being called a slave.” He added not a word about the youth’s foolishness.

  In the little time available he talked gently to Tomás about fighting without weapons. He reminded him of the techniques they’d worked on, and mentioned what he might be able to use. Not that he really thought Tomás could use anything. He said the obvious: “You must not let him get his hands on you.”

  Tomás could survive a blow, maybe a lot of blows. But not a neck twisted until it broke. Nor could he afford an arm wrenched out of its socket, an eye gouged out.

  Both parties, Mexican and Navajo, were circled around a big space of red sand. A few greasewood bushes grew here and there, and there was one rock as high as a man’s waist. Not much to use.

  The terms were simple. They were to fight until one man admitted defeat. No weapons and no killing.

  Sam had no confidence in the no-killing provision. And he didn’t think Tomás would quit, ever.

  Sam fixed his eyes on Tomás’s and made a hard decision. “Listen to me,” he said, “I know you’ve got those blades on your waist cord.”

  “What?!” These were strictly secret.

  “If you go for them,” Sam said, “we’re all dead. All of us.” He was so scared it hurt his belly.

  Tomás nodded, turned, and walked away.

  Sam thought, You are a sacrificial goat for all of us.

  He called after his son, “You’re only trying to satisfy him.”

  “I will kill him with my bare hands,” said Tomás.

  At first the antagonists circled, eyes on each other.

  The Navajo suddenly strode to the middle of the ring and stood stock still. It was an invitation: ‘Attack me, little man.’

  Tomás circled. He shook his head, grinning. His message was, ‘The first move is yours.'

  It came so fast Sam missed the start. Nez Begay dived at Tomás and seized an ankle.

  Tomás kicked wildly and got loose.

  Nez Begay had intended mostly to intimidate. But he was on his face in the dirt, and Sam heard a few titters.

  Like a cougar, the Navajo sprang back to his feet and charged head first.

  Tomás rolled, and the Navajo missed again.

  Tomás bounced to his feet. For a youth trained to do somersaults on a horse, rolling was no great trick.

  Now Tomás attacked. To Sam’s astonishment, while Nez Begay was recovering, Tomás took two quick steps straight at him, flew into the air, and lashed a foot at the Navajo’s head.

  Nez Begay dodged the kick.

  Tomás landed on one foot and one fist.

  “Crow-style kick,” Sam murmured. He couldn’t help being proud.

  Nez Begay charged.

  Tomás got balance enough to roll.

  The Navajo turned, bellowed, and sprinted at Tomás.

  The boy ran ahead of the warrior.

  Several times they repeated this—the Navajo would scream and run at Tomás, the boy would dash away. He was taunting the warrior.

  Suddenly Tomás ran behind the waist-high boulder, jumped onto it, and in one instant threw himself feet first at the Navajo.

  Nez Begay shifted to one side and grabbed Tomás’s legs. It was one of the quickest, most athletic movements Sam had ever seen.

  With the ankles in his grip Nez Begay whirled Tomás’s body full circle and hurled him back at the rock.

  Tomás splatted into the boulder. He collapsed to the ground and laid limp.

  The Navajo pounced on him.

  Before the warrior could twist off an arm or a leg, Sam and Baptiste seized him.

  Nez Begay froze, his eyes furious.

  Sam appealed to Hosteen Tso. “The fight is over. Our man is knocked out. The fight is over. That’s what we agreed.”

  Hosteen Tso stepped forward and looked at Tomás’s crumpled form. His forehead was bleeding, his nose bleeding, his lips bleeding. Sam had no idea whether his son would live or die.

  Ignoring Nez Begay, Hosteen Tso looked at the circle of Navajos and Mexicans. “Honor is satisfied,” he said.

  Sam knelt by Tomás. He felt gingerly of the head. For several minutes…

  The youth’s eyes blinked open. Sam smiled.

  12

  The New Mexicans put their horses to a lope for a mile or two and then walked them fast.

  As they rode, Sam and Baptiste told Tomás what was going to happen.

  “We’re going to follow them.”

  “No, you’re not coming. You can barely ride.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m very proud of you, but you’re not.”

  “You were incredible, but you can barely ride.”

  “If you come, it will inflame Nez Begay. You’ll put all our heads on the block.”

  Finally, Sam and Baptiste simply galloped off. Luckily, Tomás stayed where he was.

  Back near Turkey Spring they staked their horses on some grass, crawled to the top of a hill, and found the Navajos with the field glass. The Indians rode northwest. Sam and Baptiste followed at a distance, being careful not to skyline themselves.

  After about an hour the Navajos rode into a small, grassy valley. Ponies grazed, and two dozen people moved around two hogans on their daily chores.

  “The captives,” Baptiste said.

  Tight-throated as he had been in his entire life, Sam glassed the camp. “I don’t see Lupe or Rosalita, but they might be inside.”

  “Getting caught now,” Baptiste said, “would be a very bad idea.”

  “So let’s do the opposite of getting caught.”

  Sam spurred Paladin at a gallop toward the Navajo camp.

  On the next to last rise he saw riders whipping their horses out toward him. He hoped Tso would be one of them. Sam and Baptiste stopped their horses on the hill, dismounted, and waited.

  “We are calm,” said Baptiste with a half-smile.

  “Naturally,” answered Sam. “Mountain men have buttermilk for blood.”

  They both laughed, and Coy gave a little bark.

  “He agrees,” said Baptiste.

  A dozen warriors galloped up, bristling with weapons. Sam was relieved to see only one rifle.

  He set the Celt on the ground butt down. This rifle, his legacy from his father, had gone with him everywhere between Pittsburgh and California.

  The warriors charged up face to face with the mountain men. Nez Begay came to the front. Tso wasn’t there.

  “White Hair,” said Nez Begay, “what do you want?”

  “We have come with gold. We want to buy two women back. Relatives. Women from Tosato.”

  The warrior slowly took in the several meanings and smiled. “And why shouldn’t we kill you and take your gold?”

  “Because you don’t know where the gold is,” said Sam.

  “Also,” said Baptiste, “your lives are more valuable than coins.”

  The Navajo regarded Baptiste coolly.

  Sam slid one hand down the barrel of t
he Celt, and with the other touched the pistol at his belt. He smiled at Nez Begay. He didn’t have to say, ‘Four of you will die, maybe more.’

  He did say, “Let us talk to Hosteen Tso.”

  After a long moment, Nez Begay nodded, and led the way to the camp.

  Sam had nothing to go on but his appraisal of the Navajo leader, which was based on very little.

  They sat in a circle. The afternoon had gotten hot, and a gusty wind kicked up dust devils.

  “You sure like to live on the edge,” Baptiste had said as they dismounted.

  “Every year I like it less.”

  Hosteen Tso welcomed them to the sheep camp of the Etcitty family, and introduced Hosteen Etcitty, a very elderly man.

  Old enough not to be bloodthirsty, Sam hoped.

  Sam thanked Hosteen Tso for his courtesy and hospitality and for hearing his request. Then Sam spoke in a direct way, and what he said would have been honest in the Navajo way of understanding blood relations. “Two women taken from Cebolleta were my daughters. They are also the sisters of one of the young men with me back at the spring, Tomás. We want to give the Navajo people whatever is right for the return of these women, especially because one is with child and one is the mother of an infant. Their names are Lupe and Rosalita.”

  “Some gold is hidden back near the spring, two thousand pesos. In return for my daughters, we will give it all to the Navajo people. And I will give you the gratitude that only a father can feel.”

  Sam could feel Baptiste’s wariness next to him, like heat. Before walking into camp, they had told each other about their hidden weapons.

  Tso was equally direct. “White Hair, we do have here people who were willing to go back to the New Mexicans. But we have no women of child-bearing age, and none from Cebolleta.” He looked at Nez Begay. “Bring all eight of them.”

  In a moment the warrior was in and out of a hogan, followed by six women and two small boys. Half the women were elderly, half middle-aged. One of the boys walked on a crutch, and the other had a deformed spine.

  “Do you want to buy any of these people?”

  Sam was tempted, but he shook his head no.

  “You are not New Mexicans,” said the hosteen, “I know that. I do not trust the New Mexicans.”