by Douglas Bell
“Where does a boy your age get the money to support five people?” Narn asked suspiciously.
“Well…” Rocky looked evasive. “Let’s just say I’ve been real successful with my vegetable garden.”
“Your garden … I see.” Narn scowled.
“Come on.” Mojo pulled on Narn’s arm. “You said we were in a hurry.” Mojo wanted an early start. He didn’t want to take any chances on being caught up in the mountains at night again.
“And I suppose those loose joints you had in your pocket back in the cave were stuffed with fresh lettuce?”
“Come on.” Mojo began to drag Narn away. “You can discuss this some other time.”
Narn came reluctantly.
* * *
Narn and Mojo and Juanita followed the path beside the stream down the valley. The path led them through another meadow and down a canyon and back out into a third meadow. The path veered away from the stream on the meadow’s far side and cut through a willow grove and then wound back to the stream again at a spot where two logs had been laid to form a bridge.
There was a small animal sitting on the log bridge waiting for them. It was a sleek fat rat with a long pink tail. As Mojo approached the log bridge the rat stood up on its hind feet and began to squeak. It hopped about. It flipped its long nose from side to side.
“Look!” Juanita stepped up beside him. “It’s Mr. Rat!”
“Is it?” Mojo moved closer. All rats looked alike to Mojo.
“Of course it is,” she said. “Do you think rats normally dance for anybody who comes along? It has to be.”
The rat scampered to the far end of the bridge. Stopped. Turned expectantly towards them.
“I think he wants us to follow him,” Juanita said.
“Should we?” Mojo looked longingly down the trail that Soaring Eagle had assured him led back to the bright lights of civilization. “I mean, what if he takes us back to the hunting lodge or something?”
“Oh, go on.” Juanita gave Mojo a shove. “I’m sure Mr. Rat wouldn’t lead us anywhere dangerous. He just wants to help us. He probably knows a shortcut back to where you two parked your car.”
Mojo wasn’t so sure about the rat taking them on a shortcut, but he stepped onto the bridge anyway.
The rat trotted off down a poorly defined trail, disappearing behind some drooping pine limbs. Mojo and Juanita and Narn crossed the bridge and followed.
The rat led them through the woods and up a rocky ridge on a narrow, slippery path covered with loose rock. They crossed the crest of the ridge and went down a somewhat better trail into a valley on the far side. As they neared the bottom of the valley they could see two figures through the trees. The figures were seated beside a small stream. It was Grandmother and Captain Benegas.
* * *
“Juanita! Child!” Grandmother rushed forward to hug her. “I was so worried about you!”
“What are you doing here?” Narn asked Grandmother.
“What am I doing here? I am here because of the most wonderful thing! The most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me!” Grandmother said exuberantly. She released Juanita and stepped back. “The Child of Atocha appeared to me in a vision! Yes, the Christ Child himself! He came to me while I was speaking with Captain Benegas here.” She gestured towards the old man. “And gave me a vision! The child granted me a vision of this place in the woods. This very spot! He didn’t speak a word, yet I knew with a certainty to take the heart and the captain and come here!”
Juanita smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“Did you see me?” Mojo asked.
Grandmother frowned, puzzled. “See you?”
“In your vision. Was I there? With the child? Did you see me with him?”
“Listen,” Narn said impatiently. “We don’t have time to be standing around. We’re supposed to take the heart back to the Madonna. And I’d like to get it done today. Before nightfall,” he added significantly.
“You’re right. We must hurry.” Grandmother nodded solemnly. “We must return the heart to the Madonna as soon as possible. The child showed me this also. We must take the heart to the old mission.”
“But how can we?” Juanita asked. “Captain Benegas told us the mission was lost. That nobody could find the trail. Or did the child show you the way?”
Grandmother shook her head. “No. He didn’t show me the way to the mission. I believe it must be too far and too difficult for that. But he did send me a miracle to aid us in finding it. A miracle that will allow Captain Benegas to guide us there.”
“What kind of miracle?”
“Eyes.” Grandmother turned and gestured triumphantly at the old man seated on the tree stump behind her. “Captain Benegas has eyes now.”
Mojo peered at the old man. There was a big black crow sitting on the captain’s shoulder. The crow stared at Mojo with bright eyes. “Caw,” the crow said.
“But I have some bad news as well.” Grandmother picked up a large straw basket from beside one of the tree stumps. Reached inside. “There seems to be something wrong with the heart.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Juanita asked worriedly.
“See for yourself.” Grandmother pulled the pickle jar from the basket and held it up. “See? See how weakly it’s beating? And look here. At this spot around the bottom.”
Mojo looked. The black stain now covered almost the entire bottom half of the heart.
* * *
The crow or Captain Benegas or maybe the two of them together—Mojo wasn’t sure how it worked—led them up through the woods. There wasn’t a path, and they seemed to spend as much time wandering around deadfalls and skirting ravines as they did climbing in a straight line. They crossed one ridge, went down into a valley, and then up another ridge. Mojo had the sense that all the ridges were part of one big mountain, but it was hard to tell from underneath the thick canopy of pines.
“How much further?” Narn asked as they broke from a tangle of brush and into a small meadow bright with tiny red flowers.
“I’m not sure,” Benegas said as he, aided by the crow, who chattered incessantly into his ear, led them across the short meadow and into another dark wall of trees. “I’m fairly certain we’re on the right path, but as to where the mission is exactly, I can’t say. I only remember that it was very high up. Near the tree line.”
“We will find it,” Grandmother said confidently. “We must have faith.”
* * *
They were resting near the crest of a steep ridge when Mojo looked down and saw a line of men crossing a meadow in the valley below.
“Damn!” Mojo leaped to his feet.
“What is it?” Juanita asked in alarm.
“Castillo. He’s on our trail.”
Narn joined Mojo. A line of men was snaking its way across the meadow, heading towards them. Castillo was leading, his silver hair easily recognizable. Mojo counted eleven more. They all had guns slung across their backs.
“We’d better get going.” Narn spun on his heel. He picked his shotgun up off the ground. “They’re moving fast. A lot faster than we can. We’ll need all the head start we can get.”
Mojo hesitated. “Wait. I’ve got an idea. Give me your gun.”
“My shotgun? Why?”
“Because there’s no way we can outrun those guys with Grandmother and the captain along. Give me the shotgun and I’ll wait here. Ambush them.”
Narn stared at him. “They’ll kill you,” he said.
“I don’t think so. I don’t intend to fight them, not really stand and fight them. More like delay them. If I take a few potshots at them and then leg out through the woods, they may even follow me instead of you.”
Narn thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. That makes sense. Might even work.” He turned to the others. “Come on. We’d better make tracks.”
“I’m staying with Mojo,” Juanita said.
“And do what?” Mojo asked. “Throw rocks at them? No, you can’t do a
ny good here, and you’ll be safer with the others. Besides, the heart’s the important thing. You should stay with the heart. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay. I don’t intend to take any unnecessary chances; I can promise you that.”
“I’m staying.” She sounded determined.
“Joseph is right.” Grandmother took Juanita’s arm. “You must come with us. You’re the only one besides Joseph who is young enough and fast enough to carry the heart to the mission if worse comes to worst. If they catch us, then you will have to take the heart on up alone.”
“Alone? I couldn’t even find it alone,” Juanita protested.
“We must have faith that you would be shown the way. Now, come along, there is nothing you can do here.”
She hesitated for a long moment, then went to Mojo and put her arms around him. “Be careful,” she whispered.
“Hey, you know I will. You know there’s no way I’m gonna let myself get shot. You can bank on that.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt.
* * *
Mojo found a loose boulder in a rocky outcropping not far away. Using a dead pine branch for a lever, he dislodged the boulder and rolled it over to the head of the trail. Then settled in to wait. The shotgun was in his hands. There were no sounds but the drone of insects and the soft sigh of the wind.
He waited for what seemed a long time. Then he heard voices coming up the trail.
Mojo braced his shoulder against the boulder. His plan was to send the rock rolling down the trail and then, while Castillo and his men were scrambling to get out of its way, open up with the shotgun. What would happen after that was a little vague, but at some point he intended to make a run for it.
The voices drew closer. Booted feet crunched in the trail’s loose gravel. Mojo tensed. He dug in for the shove that would send the boulder crashing down.
The voices and the footsteps slowed. Stopped.
Mojo remained pressed against the boulder. He felt beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He wiped his hands on his Levi’s. Listened. Waited.
Mojo waited a few minutes longer, and then, when he still couldn’t hear anything, raised carefully over the top of the rock and peeked down the trail.
The trail was empty. There was no sign of Castillo or his men.
Mojo realized immediately something was wrong. He backed quickly away from the boulder, the shotgun tight in his hands. He hadn’t gone far before he backed into something hard and round and cold that jabbed into the small of his back.
“Drop it, shit-for-brains!”
Mojo hesitated for a moment, then dropped the shotgun. It struck the ground with a clatter.
“Now, get your hands in the air and turn around.”
Mojo turned. It was the Reverend Jerry Lee Rutt. The Reverend Rutt had an automatic rifle pointed at Mojo’s stomach. He had a big grin on his face. The grin was full of the whitest, straightest teeth Mojo had ever seen.
“Party’s over, dog-breath,” the reverend told Mojo.
* * *
“I don’t know where they went. Honest.”
Mojo was hanging upside down from a tree branch, strung up like a gutted deer. He felt dizzy and disoriented. He could feel his heart laboring.
“Let me have him.” A short, stocky Oriental stepped up beside Castillo. At least Mojo thought he was Oriental. It was difficult to make out facial features when hanging upside down.
“Give me twenty minutes, and he’ll tell us everything he knows,” the Oriental promised.
“We don’t have twenty minutes,” Castillo told him. Then: “Forget this boy, he’s nothing. We’ve wasted enough time with him already. We need to get back on the trail. After the others. After the heart.” Castillo wheeled away from Mojo, his face floating like a bird in an upside-down sky.
“You’re just gonna leave him? Without even taking a knife to him?” the Oriental asked plaintively.
“Hell, Ray, listen to the man!” a new voice protested. “Come on, be a sport! Old frog-face is on his way. He’ll take care of the heart for us.” It took Mojo a second to recognize the voice as the Reverend Rutt’s.
“We can’t rely on that. Not when there’s this much sunlight,” Castillo said. “No, we can’t take the chance. We have to make sure ourselves.” His voice was receding, moving away from Mojo.
“At least let Bigthumb stay behind, then. Thumb can get the truth out of him, then catch up with the rest of us later.”
“All right.” Castillo was on the other side of the clearing now. “You heard the reverend, Thumb. You stay here and work on the boy. Come after us in thirty minutes whether you get anything out of him or not.”
Someone—presumably this Bigthumb—acknowledged the order with a low grunt.
Many footsteps receded, moving away from the clearing and into the woods.
A single set approached Mojo.
* * *
A broad face floated into Mojo’s view. The face was dark and grinning. Its upside-down eyes had a dull yellow glint.
“Afternoon. I’m Hubert Bigthumb.”
“Er … hi. Nice to meet you,” Mojo said politely.
“I got the mountain power. Know what that means, boy?”
Mojo shook his head dumbly. He had no idea.
“It means I’m a full-blood Apache. And that means,” Bigthumb continued, leaning in towards Mojo, “that you’re gonna be a long time dying. Maybe all day. Maybe two days. I can’t tell yet. It depends on the man, depends on how much cajones he has. But just looking at you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t go quick. I hope not, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“All day? But … you’ve only got thirty minutes! That’s what Castillo said!”
“Don’t pay any attention to him. I don’t. I told you I was Apache. And the Apache take their time. The Apache do these things right.”
“Right? What do you mean right?” Mojo gulped nervously. He realized this was a man who took great pride in his heritage.
Bigthumb moved away from Mojo. He began gathering twigs and dry pine needles from the forest floor.
“What’re you doing?” Mojo called.
“These are for the fire. You don’t want anything bigger than little sticks in the fire. Big pieces give off too much heat.”
“The fire?”
“Right. The fire I’m gonna build under your head.”
Mojo’s mouth would have fallen open if gravity hadn’t prevented it.
“The whole idea is to build a fire that cooks slow,” Bigthumb explained as he returned and arranged the twigs underneath Mojo. “It’s gotta be real low. You get too much heat or too much smoke, your victim’ll go too quick. But if you get it just right, where the fire’s just hot enough to burn without being hot enough to kill, then it’s the best torture of all. Pain from slow, steady burning never lets up. Just keeps on getting worse and worse without ever making you pass out. Apache invented it, of course,” he added.
Mojo twisted in the ropes. All he succeeded in doing was making himself even dizzier than before.
“Yeah, you Anglos are always going on about how we used to cover you with honey and stake you out on anthills or cut off your eyelids and make you stare into the sun or peel you with sharpened sticks. Minor stuff like that. You’re so ignorant that you think those were the worst we had. What you don’t realize is that your real Apache, your real old-time Apache, never used anthills or that other junk unless they were in a big hurry and didn’t have the time for anything else. When they had plenty of time, like you and I do now, the old-time Apache always used fire. Mainly this brain roasting that I’m gonna do to you. Brain roasting was their favorite. It’s a whole lot more painful than any red-ant hill and it’ll keep you alive and suffering a whole lot longer.”
Bigthumb brought a second handful of twigs over and added them to the pile underneath Mojo’s head.
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Mojo said slowly, finding it somewhat difficult to speak. “Torture, I mean.”
&nbs
p; “Well, I can’t say I’ve had a lot of chances to practice, but I suppose you could say I was an expert anyway. As near to an expert as there is nowadays. I’ve studied the old ways a lot. I consider it a sacred trust to try and keep those old traditions alive.”
“I don’t suppose I could talk you out of this, could I?” Mojo asked.
Bigthumb chuckled.
“Buy you off? In cash?”
Bigthumb snorted contemptuously as he wheeled away.
“A car?” Mojo called after him. “My uncle has a Cadillac.”
Bigthumb returned with another handful of twigs. He added them to the pile. Then wiped his hands on his Levi’s. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a matchbook. Struck one.
“Women? Drugs? Microwaves? A cellular telephone?”
Bigthumb held the match down to the tiny stack of kindling. A white feather of smoke drifted up past Mojo’s nose.
“Oh, shit,” Mojo sighed.
* * *
Time passed with Bigthumb adding small handfuls of twigs at regular intervals. Finally, with the tiny fire burning nicely, he retired to the side and pulled a bottle of vodka from a backpack. He took a seat on the ground and began to drink noisily.
Bigthumb wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, then peered up at Mojo. “Hey, boy! You’re being awful quiet. You hurting much yet?”
“Hell, yes, I’m hurting!” Mojo croaked. “I can’t breathe! I’m being asphyxiated! You built the fire wrong!”
“Wrong?” Bigthumb squinted.
“Hell, yes, it’s wrong! It’s—” Mojo stopped to cough. “It’s too smoky! You said I’d last all day, but I’m gonna be dead in the next ten minutes if I don’t stop breathing smoke! And that’s only if my heart doesn’t give out first from having to pump blood uphill!”
Bigthumb eyed Mojo for a long minute. Then took another pull off his bottle. Then shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “You still got a long ways to go. Hell, the coals aren’t even built up yet. As the coals start to build, the smoke’ll die down and the heat’ll rise. You’ll see. Fact is, I figure we got at least another hour before the real fun even starts.”