by Rob Buckman
The southwestern jack rabbit was fast, especially with the ever present eagle circling overhead and, without a bow and arrow, he’d have to use cunning to get one. A throwing stick might work if he could get close enough, and he could find a chunk of wood heavy enough to do the job. His best bet was a snare if he could find out where the little bugger lived, or what rout it took to water each time. The length of rawhide in his pouch served to make a crude snare, but without anything to secure the other end meant he’d have to lay down in the dried out grass and hope Mr. Bunny didn’t smell him. His tummy rumbled as he lay there, reminding him how hungry he was and the hot sun beat down on his back, making him sweat. The track was easy to find and without humans or large predators, Mr. Bunny had the bad habit of taking the same trail each time and that was his down fall. He hadn’t expected a whole herd of them to come galloping down the trail at dusk, nor the loud squeal as Mr. Bunny senior ran into the snare. The rest scattered the moment senior was caught, and Mike quickly reeled him in. He had no compunction about slitting the poor defenseless animal’s throat, picking up a bunch of scratches and a bite on his finger for his troubles. Now came the question of how to cook it. Retreating back to the old wickiup Mike thought about it for a while as he skinning the little beast. He realized that whoever did this to him hadn’t really left him out here with nothing. The clothes, knife, rawhide, and jerky implied they wanted him to survive. With that in mind, he took out the leather wrapped rocks and looked at them again.
“Duh, how dumb can you be.” He muttered. They were flint, and he should have recognized them immediately as they were common in England. Gathering tinder and sticks he started the slow process of striking a spark with his knife and soon had a small fire burning. That evening, he doubted that he’d eaten anything finer than Mr. Bugs Bunny in his whole life, belching contentedly as he made himself an improvised bed for the night.
As the last light from the sun vanished and true night descended, he contemplated the ocean of stars over his head through the broken roof of the ‘Wickiup’ finding a better appreciation of them now. He still felt scared, but less so now. He had food, water and a place to sleep and the distant bark and howl of the coyote to lull him to sleep, and no parents around to tell him what to do, what time to get up or go to bed. What else could a young boy want? He smiled as he drifted off at the thought he could play cowboys and Indians for a while, without the cowboys spoiling his fun. This was his dad’s ancestry and he wondered if he’d ever had something like this happen to him. Now he realized the only person who could have done this was his grandfather. There was no other explanation of how he’d been drugged and taken out of the house. If that was the case, he was trying to teach him something and he’d just have to figure out what. Even playing cowboys and Indians was hard, as each day he had to think of his survival, hunt for food, repair the Wickiup, and work out a way to make better weapons as the bunny rabbits were getting smart. An old pinyon pine tree gave him the makings of a small bow while the rabbit gut gave him a bow string, but it was the fletching that gave him the biggest headache until he found several bird feathers near the tank. Resin from the pinyon tree gave him the glue but it still took time and a hungry evening before he had it ready and could hit what he aimed at.
Laying upwind of the tank late one afternoon, he observed the number of animals and birds that visited the place, including a couple of coyotes. He crossed them off his food list, and as long as they didn’t go after his rabbits, he’d leave them alone. He did watch to see which way they went, intending to follow in the morning on his first day trip off the Mesa. With a canteen full of water, some parched corn and leftover rabbit he took off after the coyotes the next morning after one long drink. The sun wasn’t even up over the distant mountain yet, but there was enough light for him to see, and track the animals off the Mesa and down onto the desert floor. Once there he headed west, putting the sun at his back in both directions and walked toward some low hills in the distance. By noon he reached the hills but other than two jack rabbits, they had nothing to suggest a way home. Once the sun had passed its peak, Mike headed back half trotting, half walking now, and feeling more confidence in his abilities and more comfortable in himself. His timing was perfect, and he reached the base of the Mesa at sundown, making the climb back up less exhausting.
That set the pattern for the next few weeks as he gradually explored the region around him, using the sap from the Aloe Vera leaf for his sunburned skin as his grandmother suggested. So far, his search hadn’t brought him any luck, as he still didn’t know where he was, or how to get out of here. He did find a long, stout branch and fashioned himself a spear, sharpening, and hardening the point in the fire. Going north only took him deeper into the canyons where he came face to face with a Puma standing over the carcass of a deer. That represented a lot of food, but two light arrows into its hide only made the creature madder, spitting, and snarling at him, unwilling to give up its kill. Mike backed away shaking like a leaf, thinking the animal was about to attack him. Slinging the bow over his back, he gripped the spear with sweaty hands and considered his chances of driving the cat away from the deer. He didn’t want all of it, just the hind quarter, and with that in mind, he walked towards the snarling cat, screaming at the top of his lungs from fear and excitement. This made the cat back off a little and driving forward he managed to stab the cat in the chest a couple of time, pushing it back further. Stepping over the carcass, he claimed his prize, yelling and screaming as hard as he could. This obviously confused the cat as man animals didn’t usually challenge him. A couple more stabs drove the cat back even more and it retreated under an overhang, still snarling and spitting at him. That was all Mike needed and he quickly cut off the hind quarters and retreated with his prize, laughing hysterically. He’d just faced down a badass cat and got away with a large chunk of its dinner. Shouldering the deer’s hind quarter, he trotted away back to his hideout on the mesa and dined on fire roasted venison until he could eat no more. Early morning found him up and smoking strips of deer meat over his fire, but the sound of muted thunder reached him, drifting on the light breeze from the southwest today, and probably the reason he hadn’t heard it before. Looking up he saw the white contrail of a jet aircraft as it passed over and smiled. Now he knew which direction to go in, southwest towards Phoenix airport. If he guessed right, that was only three to four days walk at the most, and between him and Phoenix was the San Carlos and the Blue Rivers and life giving water. All he needed now was a supply of died meat and some way to carry as much water as possible. Two large dried out gourds would provide him with an extra edge and he carefully cleaned them out. He then used rabbit gut to make a sling to carry them.
A commotion near the tank drew his attention and something thrashed about in his snare, whatever it was, it attracted the attention of an eagle, and Mike swore. The damn bird was going to steal his prize, and screaming like a madman he raced across the clearing and made a dive for the captured rabbit as the eagle struck. With one talon buried in the struggling rabbit, he raked Mike’s arm with the other, drawing blood with his razor sharp claws. Mike managed to get a handful of tail feathers as the eagle screamed at him, finally lifting off with its prize. Other than the three deep cuts down his forearm, Mike felt it was a fair exchange. He didn’t really need the rabbit meat now he had the deer, so a young rabbit in exchange for tail feathers wasn’t a bad exchange. Mike carefully washed and dressed the cuts as best he could, and used Aloe Vera sap and a wide strip of leather as a bandage. Two days later he was ready to start out, cleaning up the camp first and making sure the fire was out before making his way down from the Mesa as night was falling. His plan was to use the night to travel as far as he could before it became too hot, then find some shade and wait till nightfall again. This way he could conserve as much water as possible and not exert himself in the heat. He used the strip of cloth in his pouch as a head band, wetting it before tying it on. Had he had a mirror he would have seen that he looked
like an Apache warrior of old now, confident he could handle anything that came his way. His plan worked, but he did drink more water than he planned, as the mid-summer heat in the Arizona desert was brutal, even laying in the shade of an overhang it still had to be one hundred and fifteen in the shade. The second day went slower, as he had to climb low sandy, or rocky hills in the dark, unlike the flat desert where he could trot and walk. Topping out on a ridge, he saw a river glinting in the dawn light and knew he was close. Heartened at the sight he got careless and failed to hear the sound of the rattlesnake rattle before it struck him in the ankle, it’s fangs passing right through the soft leather of his boots. He quickly stomped on it with his other foot, momentarily stunning the creature. His knife finished it off.
Heart pounding in fear, he ripped the boot off and quickly sliced across the fang marks and squeezed out as much poison as he could, but he knew he was in trouble. Using some strips of leather, he bound it tight and pulled the boot back on. Now it was a race against time to reach the river and find help before he became delirious or unable to walk. The river was tantalizingly closer, but he was frustrated by ridges and patches of soft sand that barred his path no matter which way he took to get round them. He felt hot and couldn’t help himself as he sucked greedily on his remaining water, pushing himself as hard as he could. His ankle and leg started to swell and it wasn’t long before he was using the spear as a crutch. Rounding a low hill, he saw his goal no more than a hundred yards away, but his leg failed him and he crashed to the ground. He didn’t try to get up, but just crawled towards the life giving water. He remembered reaching it and drinking deeply before he passed out completely and drifted into a twilight zone between life and death. Here he heard chanting and saw many thing he didn’t understand, or remember after, only knowing he was going to live and have a beautiful woman walk proudly by his side. A week later, he came back to the land of the living, seeing his grandfather’s face looking down at him.
“You came back from the land of the dead, my son.”
“I did?”
“Yes, and now you are a man who will walk proud and be the true son of my son. You are now N’de and of the people”
“I… I don’t understand, granddad. Why did you leave me out there all alone?”
“I didn’t my son. I was always there to watch over you, but you did well without my help.”
“What did I do, grandpa?”
“I took a boy out into the desert, and you came back a man, my son.” He didn’t need to say anything else. It all became clear. This was his trial into manhood. Live or die, just as his ancestors had done for generations before him.
“Thank you, grandfather.” He muttered before drifting off to sleep again. In all, it took four weeks before he was back on his feet, and another two before he felt normal again.
“I’m off to town for supplies. Want to come Michael?” Mike hesitated, knowing what would happen if he did. What stopped him wasn’t the expected confrontation with the other Apache boys, it was the fact he didn’t have anything to prove anymore. He knew who he was now and that was sufficient.
“Okay.” He said at last. “Be out in a second.” Returning to his room, he picked up and tied the headband with the eagle tail feather trailing down the back.
He hadn’t gone back to wearing jeans or western clothes, feeling more comfortable in his leathers now. His grandfather looked at the man coming out of the house, seeing his son come alive again. With his sun darkened skin, traditional clothes and the headband, Michael was every inch an Apache now, and not ashamed any more to show it. They stopped at the tribal council building first, and more than one young girl stopped to take a second look at him, and several of the older council members nodded in approval as they walked by. The second stop was at the casino, and Mike said he’d wait out by the truck. As expected, it didn’t take long before the word got round that the half breed was back and trying to look like an Indian. That got a few laughs as a gang of them approached the pickup truck.
“Hey breed, playing Indian now?” The leader snickered. Mike opened the door and stepped out.
“No, not playing. I am Apache now. The stupid white boy died out in the desert.” The leader’s smile slipped. This had to be the same white boy they tormented before, but the look in those cold green eyes said different.
“We’re still going to give you shit, half-breed,” he snarled, swinging a punch. It never landed as something hard slammed into his crotch and he fell to the ground gagging and choking. Like with the cougar, Mike screamed and jumped into the middle of them, punching left and right. Three went down before the others backed off. Mike drew the bowie knife and swept it back and forth.
“Let’s see what color your blood is.” One look at the knife and the remaining three took off running towards the casino. Grabbing the leader by the throat he lifted him off the ground and placed the blade under the boy’s ear.
“Maybe I should take a trophy as well.”
“God! Please no… we didn’t mean anything… just… just hazing you is all.” He spluttered.
“You want to haze me again, and I’ll take both ears, got it?”
“Y.. yes… I got it.”
“Good. Take your stupid friends and get the hell out of my sight.” The boy did, pulling his friends up and helping them towards the casino as well. His grandfather looked at him when he returned.
“Any trouble?”
“Trouble? No, nothing worth mentioning. Some kids came by to say hello, but I ignored them and they went away.”
“Of course they did. None of them want to tangle with a the White Puma.” He laughed as he started the truck.
* * * * * *
"Who are you?" He wanted to ask, his throat and tongue dry and unresponsive. He had moments of clarity as he looked around at the cave, remembering where he was, and who this beautiful women was.
One time he awoke and saw her kneeling in front of the fire, back towards him. Her back was criss crossed with dark bands, as if she had been whipped, but he knew that: didn't he? He drifted off again, unable to carry the thought. Finally he awoke with a clear head, the warm firelight flickering across the ceiling in dancing patterns, Kat's warm body beside him. Gently, he lifted the blanket and looked at her. She slept on her side, back towards him and, as he again saw the whip marks, anger and tenderness warred inside of him.
'I'm going to kill the bastard that put those there.' He thought. 'Kill him slowly!'
He watched as a moue of displeasure crossed her face, the cold air making her shiver. She wriggled closer to him in her sleep, never knowing what it did to his libido. Not that he could do much in his present state. He covered her again, putting his arms around her, drifting off to sleep dreaming of the future. The next he knew was the smell of hot coffee being waved under his nose and Kat tickling his ear.
"Mr. Lazy bones Grainger, it's time to wake up." He opened his eyes expecting to see the vision again and being prepared to do something about it. Instead, he found she was dressed, including boots, so that killed that idea. It was a bitch trying to make love with boots on. Instead, he asked the standard stupid question.
"What time... or what day is it??" Taking the offered cup.
"You been out for three days, and it's about four in the afternoon; and what's wrong with my coffee?" Seeing the look of distaste on his face as he took a sip.
"Women! I like it with a lot of cream and sugar."
"I thought all you macho types drank it black, plus I couldn't find any more,” she added.
"Try that box over there by the entrance." She did and it was there, canned milk and sugar. Coming back, she opened both, carefully spooning each in until he said stop.
"Next time a little more coffee in it wouldn't be bad,” he said after a second taste.
"Who said there was going to be a next time?" She held her breath waiting for an answer.
"You're right, until this is over, there's no telling if there will be a next time." It was not t
he answer she wanted, and it was bitter sweet.
"You're right. Do you know what we are going to do next?"
"Hell yes, and it's not 'we'. You are going to stay here and I am going to go hunting."
"Wouldn't it be better if you took me up to the house and left me there?" She didn't have to explain what house.
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. This fight had been going the wrong way. He needed to get them on the defensive, and staying here wouldn’t do that. He needed to get them onto his ground, all in one place at the same time, and he knew just the place.
"You're right it would. We might have a little trouble getting there, but with Max and Maxine running guard I think we can do it. However, we've got to get you there without the others knowing. Let’s get ready."
"I'm not sure you're up to it yet, you're still weak."