Written in Blood

by John Wilson

  The man falls silent, and I can’t think of anything to say. I shiver and it’s not with cold. Any moment now I expect the pain of arrows or bullets piercing my back and feel the knife in the stranger’s belt slicing my scalp off. To my utter surprise, the man bursts out laughing.

  “So, the old fool still keeps that dried-up corpse in his cave, does he?” he asks as soon as he has calmed a bit.

  “Yes,” is all I can think to say.

  The warrior walks forward until he stands beside me. The fresh red-haired scalp is hanging at face level not two feet from my eyes. “I took this two days past,” he says, waggling the scalp. “It is a good color, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is,” I agree quickly.

  “Tonight, I intended to take your hair to adorn my lance beside it. I followed you and listened to you talk to your horse. At first I thought you were a crazy man, and I was not happy. It is bad luck to take the hair of a crazy man, but then I heard you talk of Too-ah-yay-say and knew you were not crazy. But I cannot take the hair of one who has shared stories with Too-ah-yay-say.”

  “You know him?”

  “All know Too-ah-yay-say. He is the keeper of stories. What is your name?”

  “My old name was James Doolen, but Too-ah-yay-say gave me a new one: Busca.”

  “Busca.” The warrior savors the sound. “A seeker, that is a good name and names are important. My name is Nah-kee-tats-an. It means two deaths. My father gave it to me after I fell in the river and drowned. When I was pulled out, all thought me dead, but my father held me upside down and thumped the water out of me and allowed the air back in. He said I was lucky. Because I had died once, it would be a long time before the Gods wished to see me again, so I would have a long life.

  “You are lucky as well, Busca, that your hair does not now hang from my lance. I wish you well in your search.”

  Nah-kee-tats-an holds up his hand. I take it and his grip almost crushes my bones. I squeeze back as hard as I can.

  “Don’t go north,” I say, remembering the lieutenant and his talk of savages. “There are soldiers there.”

  “I do not fear soldiers, but thank you.” He releases my hand. “Goodbye, Busca.” He takes a step but then turns back to look at me. “And yes,” he says. “The story you read of Dasoda-hae’s death was a true one.”

  In three strides, he has disappeared into the shadows. I turn round, but every other figure has vanished as well. Shaking with relief, but also strangely honored by the encounter, I dismount and lead Coronado down to the water’s edge. There we drink before I unsaddle him, hobble him beside some lush grass and curl up in my blanket at the base of a willow. I am asleep in moments.

  10

  I wake up shivering to see tendrils of mist drifting over the river and twisting through the trees.

  I debate lighting a fire to warm up, but Coronado is standing beside me snorting, telling me it’s time to get moving. It’s two days since I met Nah-kee-tats-an and almost time to leave the river and head south for Esqueda. I eat the last couple of handfuls of beans that I cooked two days before, drink from the river and fill my canteen. Then Coronado and I go through our morning ritual.

  Normally I would brush down my horse before saddling him, but I don’t have a brush, so I stroke Coronado with my hand, removing any burrs, knots of hair or twigs he has picked up in the night. As I do this, I talk to him, telling him about any dreams I had the night before. This morning I don’t remember any dreams.

  “We were lucky the other night,” I say. “At least I was. I reckon if I’d been scalped you would’ve become an Apache pony. Would you have liked that?”

  Coronado turns his head and nuzzles me.

  “Well, that’s nice. There I’d be dead on the ground, my hair hanging from Nah-kee-tats-an’s lance and off you go quite happily to your new life without a backward glance. Don’t expect me to buy you a sack of grain in Esqueda for the ride over the mountains. Although, I don’t suppose I should blame you. Your life with the Apaches would probably be quite good.”

  I pause for a moment and reflect on the past few days.

  “Odd, the Apaches we’ve met are nothing like the ones I read about in the dime novels, or the way that Lieutenant Fowler saw them. I suppose there’s good and bad, and maybe we just got lucky with the ones we met, but they don’t seem like the savage killers everyone says they are. If the stories about the scalp hunters and Dasoda-hae are true, they’ve a right to be angry.”

  I place the saddle blanket on Coronado’s back and then the saddle. I reach beneath him and grab the cinch straps. “Now, are we going to play this game again?” Coronado stamps his foot in answer.

  I discovered the first time I saddled Coronado that he has a sense of humor. As soon as he feels the saddle on his back, he takes in a deep breath and swells his belly and chest. If I don’t wait for him to breathe out before I tighten the cinch, it will be loose and I will end up in an unceremonious heap when I try to mount. It’s amazing how long Coronado can hold his breath.

  “Okay,” I say, holding the cinch ready to tighten it, “I can wait.”

  Coronado turns his head and looks at me. He snorts out a breath that clouds the cold air.

  “You’re not going to catch me that way. That wasn’t a full breath.”

  I stand and wait, and wait, and wait. Coronado becomes restless, shuffling from one forefoot to the other. At last he exhales a huge cloud of steam. I yank the cinch tight before he can breathe in again.

  “Got you,” I say triumphantly. “I know your tricks. I’ll always outlast you in a waiting game.”

  Coronado shakes his head and snorts. I finish packing up, mount up, and we set off along the river. I carry the loaded sawn-off scatter gun across the saddle in front of me in case we scare up some game. It’s a beautiful morning for traveling, with the river nearby and the air warming in the rising sun. However, after a couple of hours the river turns north and we turn south and are back once more in a broad dry valley. At least I have a pair of plump quail hanging from my saddle horn, so there’ll be fresh meat for supper.

  At first I don’t realize that I have reached Esqueda. The outskirts are nothing more than abandoned adobe houses with collapsed roofs. Pigeons and crows fly through empty windows, and a skinny dog stares suspiciously at me from a gaping doorway. My hopes of replenishing my supplies and finding a bed for the night after a long day’s ride vanish.

  Eventually I come to buildings that are still inhabited. Skinny children in rags appear for a moment, their large eyes staring, and then vanish. I feel I am being watched from the doorways and windows but I see nothing except the occasional vague movement.

  I have resigned myself to riding on to find a suitable campsite where I can roast the quail, when an old man steps out of a doorway. His black jacket is short, cut to his waist and decorated with tarnished silver buttons. His pants are narrow and also black with silver braid decorating the seams. The man’s white beard and hair are neatly trimmed.

  “Buenas tardes,” he greets me.

  I rein in Coronado. “Buenas tardes,” I reply. “Está esto la ciudad de Esqueda?”

  “Si.” The old man nods. “Es usted americano?”

  “No, señor. Soy de Canadá.” I am speaking haltingly, struggling to understand his simple questions and make up answers that, I hope, aren’t too bad. “Do you speak English?” I ask, hopefully.

  “Oh yes, certainly,” the old man says with a wide grin. “In my youth I worked for the Governor of Alta California in Monterey. It was my job to present the complaints of the Americano settlers to the governor. But I am being unforgivably rude. Please, you must come in and take some supper with us. I insist.”

  “I should be honored,” I say, charmed by the old man. He seems like an island of civilization in this wilderness.

  “Excellent. But before that, we must tend to your horse. A horse is everything in this land and must be well cared for.”

  Leading Coronado, I follow the old man around th
e back of the house. I notice that his right leg is shorter than his left, forcing him to walk with a pronounced limp. He gives me a brush, and I unsaddle Coronado and brush him down. Behind the house is a large courtyard surrounded by a low adobe wall. Down one side are a dozen roofed horse stalls. Only one is occupied by an ancient, skinny gray horse. As directed by the old man, I lead Coronado to the stall beside the gray, throw in an armful of hay, some grain and a bucket of water. “You’ll have a comfortable night here,” I whisper.

  “My name is Luis Santiago de Borica,” the old man says as he leads me back to the house. “Please to call me Santiago.”

  “My name is James Doolen,” I say, “but I have been given a new name since I came down here: Busca.”

  “Busca, the seeker. And what is it you seek?”

  “My father.”

  “A very worthy quest,” Santiago says as he ushers me into his house.

  The house is not big, but the rooms are airy and have high ceilings, giving the impression of coolness and space. The room we enter is the kitchen.

  “It is not the governor’s palace in Monterey,” Santiago says with a shrug, “but it suits my needs nicely.”

  A small woman bustles through a side door. “Ah, Maria.” The old man’s face lights up with pleasure. “Please meet our guest, James Doolen, known as Busca. Busca, this is my companion of half a century, Maria Ygnacia.”

  I step forward and shake Maria’s hand. It feels tiny and birdlike.

  “I’m honored to meet you, ma’am,” I say, feeling a strange need to be very formal in the presence of this elegant old couple. “And I would be delighted if you would accept these as a token of my thanks for your hospitality to a traveler.” I hand over the two quail.

  “I am honored to meet you,” Maria says as she executes a surprisingly delicate curtsey and sweeps the quail out of my hand. “I am certain the governor will look kindly upon your petition. Now, if you will excuse me, there is to be a banquet tonight and I must take these to the kitchens for preparation.”

  Maria scuttles over to the range and busies herself with the fire, leaving me standing openmouthed in confusion.

  “Do not concern yourself,” Santiago says. “The years have not dealt as kindly with my dear Maria as with me. As you saw, she sometimes returns in her head to the governor’s palace in Monterey. It is a harmless confusion, and I assure you, she will do your gift proud. Now”—he places a hand on my back— “let us sit and take the evening air over a glass of refreshment.”

  We return to the courtyard and sit on two barely serviceable chairs at a long, heavy oak table. Santiago disappears into the house and returns with a bottle half filled with a rich amber liquid, and two glasses.

  “It is mezcal de tequila, a drink made from the juice of the agave plant.”

  Santiago pours measures of the liquid into two glasses and pushes one over to me. “Salud,” he says, holding his glass up.

  “Salud,” I repeat, raising my glass to clink against his. Fortunately, I only take the daintiest of sips of the drink. The fiery liquid scorches my throat and begins a violent fit of coughing.

  “My apologies,” Santiago says as I calm down. “I did not know that you were unfamiliar with our local drink.” He gazes thoughtfully at his glass. “It is true that it is not the fine French cognac I drank many years ago,” he says ruefully, “but times change and we must change with them. But I would be honored if you would tell me the tale of your quest thus far.”

  I place the glass to one side on the table and launch into the story of my travels and the characters I have met. Santiago listens with quiet interest.

  “You are a very dedicated young man,” he says when I am done. “Would that more sons were as devoted to their parents. I thank you for sharing your tale. We do not receive much news of the outside world in our little backwater. With your permission, may I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Of course,” I reply, but Santiago has no chance to frame his enquiries as Maria calls us in to eat.

  11

  The meal is the best I have had since I left home, well, most of it is. Maria has cut up the two quail and cooked them in a dark stew with several kinds of beans. The stew is spicy and has a strange, but not unpleasant, musky flavor that Maria tells me proudly is due to something called achiote seeds. We eat the stew with thick, warm tortillas, and when we are done, I regret not having twice as many quail with me.

  My only mistake is taking a mouthful of the chopped green and red peppers that Santiago and Maria enthusiastically add to their tortillas. My mouth explodes into flames—at least that’s how it feels—and I only manage to douse the flames with a mouthful of tortilla.

  “My apologies,” Santiago says as Maria looks on sympathetically. “I should have warned you that the small wild peppers, tepins, that grow hereabouts are quite hot. I do hope you do not think that we are attempting to poison you.”

  “No,” I gasp. “I’m just not used to spicy food.”

  After we finish and Maria clears away, Santiago and I return outside where I politely refuse one of the long, thin cigars that my companion smokes with great enjoyment.

  “What made you settle in Esqueda?” I ask.

  “My family has roots here,” Santiago explains. “My father was born and I spent my early childhood over the mountains in Casas Grandes.” I start at the mention. Everywhere I look this name comes up, but I stay silent and let Santiago continue. “My father was killed in 1811 in Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla’s revolt that began our war for independence from Spain.

  “After that, my mother took me to Mexico City where she met and married a young diplomat. It was my stepfather’s career that took us to Alta California and work with the governor. After California was lost to the Americans in the war of ’47, Maria and I returned to Mexico. I tried to continue working in politics, but my heart wasn’t in it. The corruption and self-interest saddened me, so we moved to Esqueda.

  “The town was much more prosperous then, and there were well-tended ranches along the valley, but years of Apache raids and the visits of the scalp hunters drove many people to seek a life elsewhere. Maria and I are old now—sometimes I think I live in the past as much as my wife—and we have no children, so where would we go?”

  Santiago gazes across the compound to where Coronado stands contentedly in his stall. Now I have another story to remember.

  “Wellington taught me that stories are important,” I say, “so thank you for sharing yours with me.”

  “No es nada,” Santiago says. “Your name is Doolen, no?”

  “It is,” I say.

  “And that is an Irish name?” he asks thoughtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “It was your father’s name?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing. It is not a common name, that is all. May I ask you the questions I had in mind before Maria called us in to dinner?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What makes you so sure you will find your father, or news of him, in Casas Grandes?”

  “He left me a letter saying that he was going there. Of course, that was ten years ago, so who knows what happened.”

  “Indeed.” Santiago strokes his chin. “And how old would your father be?”

  I frown, puzzled by where these questions could be leading. “My mother said he would be forty-five this year.”

  “So that means,” Santiago pauses,“that he was born in the year of 1832.”

  “Yes, I guess so. Why does this matter?”

  “I just have one more question. Was there a name in this letter he wrote you?”

  “Yes, Don Alfonso Ramirez. He has a hacienda…” My voice trails into silence as I see Santiago’s reaction. His eyes close, his forehead drops into his hand and he lets out a long sigh. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  With an obvious effort, he lifts his head and looks at me. “And you have no idea who this Alfonso Ramirez is?”

  “Other than t
he mention in my father’s letter, I know nothing about him. What does this mean? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not certain what it means, but I can give you some information that may help you in your quest.”

  “Then give it,” I say eagerly.

  “Perhaps once I tell you, you will regret your keenness to know, but the old man you met, Wellington, is correct; stories are important. And I suspect that what I am about to tell you may be a part of your story.”

  Santiago paused as if gathering himself before he continued.

  “When I was a mere boy in Casas Grandes, there was a landowner named Ramirez who owned a ranch outside the town. His ranch was the largest for many miles around and he was immensely rich. His hacienda was a wonder to behold, filled with magnificent paintings and furniture from Europe. The floors were hardwoods from South America, and he had a library larger than the entire house Maria and I now live in. His stables were famous and filled with the finest Arabian breeding stock. Ranchers used to visit from all over New Spain—this was before our war for independence—to buy colts from his breeding line.”

  Santiago reached for his glass, which still sat on the table, poured some of the amber alcohol into it and took a drink. I struggled to hold myself under control and not shout at him to tell me what he knew.

  “With all he possessed, this Ramirez should have been happy, but he was not. It was said that he beat the workers in his fields and his young wife as readily as he beat his horses. But he was rich and powerful. He was the law around Casas Grandes, so no one could do anything to stop him. My father was the only one who tried.

  “After Ramirez beat a worker to death, my father rode the two hundred miles to the state capital of Chihuahua and lodged a formal disposition of complaint, charging Ramirez with murder. My father was correct in what he did, but he was naïve. The judges to whom he complained were all rich landowners and friends of Ramirez. They listened to my father politely but did nothing. The only consequence of my father’s brave action was that he earned Ramirez’s undying hatred.