There were perhaps a hundred of us setting out from the hill camp that day, including all the principal men of the tribe, Mangas himself, Delgadito, Black Knife, Iron Eyes, Ponce, the Yawner, and Quick Killer; every horse in the valley had been pressed into service, for the Apaches were by no means so flush of horse-flesh then as they became later, and about a quarter of our command were afoot. The medicine men inspected us to make sure we had our talismans and medicine cords, and that the younger fellows had their scratching-tubes; then they threw pollen at the sun, chanting, and off we went, in five groups as we left the hills, which is the Apache style on the warpath, the separate bands scouring the country and converging on the main objective.45 My heart leaped as I heard Mangas shouting in their dialect to the infantry groups as they branched off north-east across the plain, and I caught the name “Fra Cristobal”. For that lay north on the Del Norte, not far south of Socorro, and if I couldn’t win to safety between here and there – well, there would be something far wrong. Needless to say, there was.
From the hills our five groups fanned out across the mesa which stretched away endlessly towards the east; I was in the centre group, with Mangas and Delgadito; I wasn’t sorry that the Yawner and Quick Killer went with one of the south-east bands, for they were the last chaps I wanted on my tail when the time came to cut stick. We rode due east, with the sun like a pale luminous ball in the misty morning, and made good time at a brisk trot; we must have covered forty miles that first day, and I was pleased that my Arab showed no signs of fatigue. We saw not a living soul on the plain, but in mid-afternoon I had the shock of my life, for ahead of us on the horizon there came into view the outline of what could only be a city, and such a city as I couldn’t believe existed in this wilderness. Great buildings reared up out of the mesa in symmetrical array; brown adobe by the look of them, but far larger than anything even in Santa Fe. It was bewildering, but my companions paid no heed to it, riding on in their usual sullen silence on either side of me, and it was only when we got to within a mile or so that I realised these weren’t buildings at all, but enormous square and oblong rocks, for all the world as though some giant had set them down like a child’s building bricks in the middle of nowhere. We passed within half a mile of them, and they looked so neatly arranged, and reminded me so much of an enormous Stonehenge, that I supposed they must be the work of some savage sun-worshippers, though how they transported those massive stones I couldn’t imagine.46
We camped that night in a shallow river-bottom filled with cotton-woods, and rode on next day through broken country which began to incline slowly downwards; my excitement rose, for I guessed we must be approaching the Del Norte valley. Sure enough, in the late afternoon we came out of low hills, and there below us in the fading light of sunset lay the familiar fringe of cottonwoods, with here and there a gleam of water amongst them, and low scraggy bluffs beyond. Just over the river smoke was rising from a fair-sized village, all peaceful in the last rays of the afternoon sun. As we dismounted, my heart was thumping fit to burst as I realized that if this was our quarry, I’d never get a better chance to break.
We were in a little gully, and while we stripped off our shirts and oiled ourselves, and renewed our paint – it’s mad, isn’t it, a civilised white man decorating himself like a savage, but after six months among these beasts I never thought twice about it – Mangas told Delgadito what was to be done. We would ford the river with the last of the light, descend on the village, burn and pillage it, especially of any horses and mules it might contain, and withdraw to our present position for the night; we didn’t want prisoners, since tomorrow we would be riding north, wiping up any small settlements that lay in our path along the river, making for the rendezvous where we would meet the walking bands.
Mangas was not to lead us against the village in person. In many ways he was a man after my own heart, for he never ventured his skin unless he had to, but no one thought twice about it, his valour was so well-established – and how many civilised generals do you know who scrimmage alongside their soldiery? While Delgadito, a slim, evil-faced villain who looked more Spaniard than Apache, gave us our tactical directions, Mangas loafed among us inspecting; I can still see that huge, stooped untidy figure in the gloaming as he stopped before me, the black eyes glinting beneath his hat-brim, and feel his coarse thumb as he wiped a smear of paint from my cheek and patted my shoulder, and smell the rank odour that I associate forever with the word Apache.
“Softly across the ford, then scatter and ride straight in,” growls Delgadito. “First kill, then plunder, then burn – all except for Iron Eyes, Wind Breaker, and Cavallo, who ride round for the far side and secure the corral.” Very neat and professional, thinks I. “Right, Mimbreno? Let’s go!”
I’ve ridden in some odd company in my time – Light Brigade at Balaclava, Ilderim’s Pathan irregulars, Yakub Beg’s Khokand horde under Fort Raim, to say nothing of Custer and that maniac J. E. B. Stuart – but that descent of the Apaches across the Del Norte must have been the strangest of all. Picture if you will that score of primitives with their painted faces and head-bands and ragged kilts and boots, fairly bristling with lances and hatchets, and in their midst the tall figure of the English gentleman, flower of the 11th Hussars, with the white stripe across his face, his hair rank to his shoulders, his buckskins stinking to rival the Fleet Ditch, lance in fist and knife on hip – you’d never think he’d played at Lord’s or chatted with the Queen or been rebuked by Dr Arnold for dirty finger-nails (well, yes, you might) or been congratulated by my Lord Cardigan on his brilliant turnout. “Haw-Haw, Fwashman wides uncommon well, don’t he, Jones?” – and there was his pride and joy, as foul an aborigine as any of them, picking his way through the shallows and sand-flats, and breaking with a whoop and a scream as the first yell of alarm rose from the village, the shots rang out, and the savage band charged into the mass of huts with Delgadito at their head.
I swerved after Iron Eyes under the cottonwoods behind the village – and my eyes were already straining ahead towards the low bluffs beyond. If I could drop out of sight in the confusion, and make my way through the dusk, it might be hours before they realised I’d gone, and by that time I’d be flying north along the east bank of the Del Norte – by God, and I wouldn’t stop till I reached Socorro at least …
There was a shriek from my left; Cavallo had reined up and was letting fly with his bow at an elderly Mexican who had emerged from one of the huts and was standing flat-footed as the arrow took him in the chest; he toppled back, clawing at it, and a woman ran to him from the doorway, an infant clasped on her hip. She stopped with an unearthly scream at the sight of Cavallo, and the evil bastard whooped with glee and rode her down; he leaned from the saddle to seize her by the hair and slashed her across the throat with his knife, and as the infant rolled free from the dying woman’s grasp, he let her go and turned the bloody knife in his hand, managing his mount to get a clear throw at the helpless, squalling little bundle. Without thinking I jerked out my Colt and let blaze at him; the knife fell as he reeled in the saddle; he was staring at me in blank astonishment as he clutched his belly, and I thrust my pistol towards his ugly painted face and blew it to pieces.
It was all over in a second, and I was staring round in alarm for Iron Eyes, but he had vanished into the shadows ahead; my shots would be lost in the hideous uproar from beyond the huts, where those fiends were at their red work; shrieks of agony mingled with the whoops and reports, and a ruddy glare from a lighted thatch was already rising to light the shadows around me. I wheeled my Arab and urged her into the concealment of the bushes beyond the cotton-woods – in the nick of time, for here were two Mexicans appearing from between the huts, one of them crying out in horror as he saw the slain woman, the other letting fly with his ancient musket at Iron Eyes, who came at the gallop out of the dark. The shot missed him, and the Mexican went down before his lance thrust; as the second dago rose from the woman’s corpse and hurled himself at Iron Eyes, I though
t, now’s your time, my boy, while they’re well occupied. In all that mêlée, no one was going to miss old Flashy for the moment; I slid from the saddle, took the Arab’s nose, and led her through the bushes to the far side, where I remounted and made haste towards a gully that opened in the bluff not a furlong away.
The bushes and trees screened me behind; over my shoulder I could see the glow of burning buildings, and envisage the horror that was taking place, but as I gained the gully the awful din of conflict was cut off, and I was coursing up the narrow ravine towards the dimly-seen mesa ahead. Five minutes and I was out on the flat, but there were bluffs ahead, and I veered off eastward, since to flank them on the river side might bring me too close for comfort to the eyes of my comrades.
I was free! After six months with those hellish brutes I was riding clear, and within a day – two days at most – of safety among my own kind. However fast Mangas and his mob of fiends moved up the west bank, I must be flying ahead of them; I could have yelled with delight as I pressed ahead at a steady hard gallop, feeling the game little Arab surge along beneath me. Dark was coming down, and stars were showing clear in the purple vault overhead, but I was determined to put a good twenty miles between me and possible pursuit before I halted. They must miss me by tomorrow, and knowing their skill in tracking, I didn’t doubt that they would pick up the Arab’s trail eventually, but by then I would have a day’s lead of them; I might even have found a large enough settlement to count myself safe.
I took a sight on the North Star as I rode; so long as I made straight for it I should do well enough, and be able to turn in towards the river when I felt it safe to do so. It was too dark to see much on either side, but the going was hard and level, and I trusted the Arab’s footwork. I was still trembling from the shock and elation of escape, and my mouth was dry, so I took a swig from the little canteen at my belt – I must make for water as soon as it was light, but I had some jerked beef in my pouch, and the Arab would be well enough with rough grazing.
For two hours I rode steadily on, and then slowed as the moon rose, to take my bearings. To my right was nothing; on the left a range of hills rose in the distance, which gave me a jar for a moment – the river ought to be that way, surely … but perhaps those hills lay beyond it; that must be the explanation … it was impossible to judge distance in that uncertain light. But as the moon came up I was able to see as clear as day, and what I saw puzzled me. Instead of the usual rough mesa, I was on a dead flat plain, with a few sparse bushes here and there; the ground, when I tested it, was more like sandy rock than the usual crumbly red earth of the Del Norte valley.
Off to my right a prairie wolf howled dismally; it had turned bitterly cold, and I unstrapped my blanket before riding on, my spirits unaccountably lower than they had been. I couldn’t figure where I was at all – but so long as I kept north I must be all right. It looked a fairly waterless desolation, though, and when I saw a point of rocks off to my left I made for it, in the hope of finding a stream, but no luck. The rocks were spooky in the moon shadows, and looked a likely lurking-place for snakes or poisonous lizards, so I turned away sharp, and to my relief found myself on a well-defined wagon road leading dead north. There were distinct ruts, and I pushed on in better heart, hoping to come on to less desolate country soon; but as I rode I realised that the scant bushes on either side had petered out, and there wasn’t a sign of growth or grass as far as I could see in the silvery radiance. Even the occasional yelp of the coyote was absent now. I halted and listened. Nothing but an immense, empty silence surrounded me, and an icy fear that was not of the freezing night took hold of me. This was not canny; it was as though I were in some dead world – and at that moment the Arab’s hoof struck something that rang sharp and hollow. It wasn’t a rock, so I climbed down and groped under her hooves; my hand fell on a light, hollow object, I picked it up – and screamed an oath as it fell from my shaking hand. Grinning up at me from the white floor of the desert was a human skull.
I squatted there trembling, and in sudden revulsion kicked the ghastly thing aside. It rattled off the road, and came to rest beside a pile of white sticks which I realised with a thrill of horror was the skeleton of some large beast – an ox or a horse which must have died beside the wagon-tracks. As I stared fearfully ahead I saw in the fading moonlight that there were other similar piles here and there … skeletons of men and animals beside a deserted road in the middle of a great waterless plain of rock and sand. It rushed in on me with frightening certainty; I knew where I was, all right. There was only one place in the whole of this cursed land of New Mexico that it could be – by some dreadful mischance I had strayed into the Jornada del Muerto – the terrible Journey of the Dead Man.
For a moment panic seized me, and then I took hold, and tried to remember what the soldier had said that morning south of Socorro: “A hundred and twenty-five miles of rock and sand … no water, unless you happen to find a rain pool … only one way across – fill your mount with water, take at least two canteens, start at three in the morning and go like hell, because if you don’t make it in twenty-four hours, you don’t make it.”
I was in the saddle before I had finished recollecting, for my one hope was to push on at my uttermost speed while the cool night lasted. How far had I come? Perhaps twenty miles – one hundred to go … but unless I found water I was a dead man. Could the Arab carry my weight for another five hours – say, thirty miles, which would see me almost halfway on my journey? If he could, and I found water at – where was it? Laguna? – we should get through, but if I pushed him too hard, and he foundered … But I daren’t dawdle now. I paused long enough to pour the last couple of inches of water from my canteen over his tongue, and then pressed ahead through the freezing night, while the moon sank and I was riding almost blind with no sound but the echoing hoofbeats over that trackless plain, and the Pole Star over the Arab’s ears.
By resting at intervals, I kept him going for close to six hours, and then gave him two hours with my blanket over him to keep out the chill – his health was a damned sight more important than mine just then. The cold was sharp enough to be truly painful, and we were beginning to suffer damnably from thirst; the poor brute nuzzled and snuffled at me, trying to bite the canteen; I led him ahead for a while, and suddenly he began to chafe and heave, neighing feverishly, and knowing the signs I mounted and let him have his head. He fairly flew along, for the best part of another hour; I felt that we were descending a slight incline, and as the first dawn came over the Jornada I saw ahead through the mist the undoubted glitter of water pools. My tongue was too dry to holla for joy; I fairly flung out of the saddle and threw myself face down at the first pool – and to my horror the Arab sped on, clattering through the mist, while I sank down between consternation and thirst – thirst won, I thrust my face into the pool – and started back with a croak of horror. It was pure brine.
If I have grey hairs, is it any wonder? If I have any hair at all, it’s a miracle, for I swear that in that dreadful moment I started tearing at the stuff, staggering to my feet, ploughing ahead, trying to rave to the bloody pony to stop, wherever he was, and unable to produce more than a rasping sob from my parched throat. I ran in blind panic, stumbling through the mist, knowing that I was a dying man already, without water, without a horse, and lost in that arid desert; twice I fell on the sandy rock, and twice I rose, blubbering, but at my third collapse I simply lay and pounded the ground with my fists until they were raw, and I could only writhe and whimper in despair.
Something touched the back of my neck – something wet and cold, and I rolled over with a gasp of fear to find the Arab nuzzling at me. By God, his muzzle was soaking! I stared ahead – there were other pools – one of them must be fresh, then! I lurched up and ran to the nearest, but the clever little brute trotted on to stand by a farther pool, so I followed, and a moment later I was face down in clear, delicious water, letting it pour until it almost choked me, rolling in the stuff while the little Arab came fo
r another swig, dipping daintily like the gentleman he was. I fairly hugged him, and then saw to it that he drank until he was fit to burst.
We rested for a couple of hours, and I wished to God I had just one good waterskin instead of the pathetic little pottle at my belt. Such as it was, I filled it, and we rode up out of that long shallow depression in the warm dawn; ahead stretched that fearful desert, with never a scrub or vestige of grass on it. To the right lay grim barren mountains, with rocky spurs running down to the plain, and to my left front more hills in the far distance – surely they must be the Cristobal range by the Del Norte? I pointed the Arab’s head towards them; if we pushed on hard now, we might reach them even through the worst heat of the day. We set off at a gallop, I turned in the saddle for a last look-see behind – and reined up, staring back in consternation.
Far off on the south-western horizon a little column of dust was rising … ten miles? Fifteen? However far, it meant only one thing: horsemen. And the only horsemen who would be riding north in the Jornada del Muerto must be Apaches.
They had spotted my trail, then, within a few hours of my evasion, for I didn’t doubt for a moment that it was Mangas’s band, hell-bent to avenge the mortal insult dealt to their chief and his daughter, their raiding forgotten for the moment. Well, they could ride themselves blue in the face, for there wasn’t one of their cattle fit to live in a race with my little Arab … provided he didn’t go lame, or founder in the heat, or step on a loose stone …
I watched the cloud grow imperceptibly larger, and turned the Arab away from the Cristobal hills, heading just east of north to give them a direct stern chase in which they would have no chance to head me off. Time enough, when I’d distanced them, to make for the Del Norte.
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