Safe Passage

by Carla Kelly

  “Here they are,” he told Joselito. “Cut out the five you want and leave the rest.”

  It was utter fiction; he knew it and they knew it. Still, he could try. “Joselito, my family could use these cattle too. If you need more in a while, take them, but don’t take them all, if you please.”

  The Indian nodded. Ammon glanced at his fellows squatting there, exhaustion writ large. He knew they were used to hard times, but he asked himself how many hard times it would take to break even these resilient people. Ammon’s stomach rumbled loud enough to make Blanco prick up his ears.

  “Joselito, pick out a good one right now, will you? I’m hungry and I suppose you are too.” I can’t do it myself, Ammon thought. I just can’t butcher my family’s future.

  The Indian spoke to one of the squatting men, who got up in that enviable, fluid motion of his tribe and walked toward the herd, nocking an arrow to his bowstring as he walked. One well-placed arrow to the lungs and the cow dropped in her tracks. It happened so fast that none of the other cattle did more than glance around and continue grazing.

  They ate the best pieces immediately, some of the Indians so hungry that they didn’t bother with a cooking fire. Ammon let his chunk sear and then turn a moderate shade of done, when the juices dripped and hissed in the fire. He always carried a tin plate and a little salt in his saddlebag, so he prepared his own feast while the blood dripped off Joselito’s chin. Any misgivings about dinner vanished with his first bite, pure heaven after several days of nopal cactus and canned salmon.

  He ate all he could and so did his dinner guests. Eyelids drooping, Ammon lay back in that simultaneous agony and ecstasy of overconsumption and watched the Indians cut up the rest of the beef with their own wicked knives. He wondered what they were going to carry it in, until they took off their loin cloths and bound up the raw meat. Resourceful, he thought, smiling a little to imagine what Addie would think of all those bare rumps.

  When they finished, Joselito returned to Ammon, squatting down and holding up his bloody hand in a gesture that could have meant anything from “Thanks, chump,” to “Look out for rustlers and card cheats.”

  Joselito put his fingertips near Ammon’s hand, and Ammon understood. He had seen the Tarahumara Indians touch fingertips in greeting and farewell, but never with a white man. He held up his hand too, impressed by the delicate gesture and its implication.

  “Watch your backs, boys,” he called after them as they cut out five of his fattest beeves and chivvied them on foot toward the entrance to the box canyon. Joselito gave him an answering wave, and they disappeared as quietly from his life as they had entered it.

  He toyed with the idea of moving his cattle, but he knew it was pointless, now that the Tarahumara knew the general location of his herd. He looked at his fingertips, bloodied by Joselito’s gesture, and smiled, pleased with himself.

  He added more piñon to the campfire until he had a blaze big enough to warm him and light enough to read by. Lonely now that his dinner guests had left, he read aloud the chapter in Alma where Ammon and his brothers head for the land of the Lamanites. Belly full, he made himself comfortable, and read until the fire burned down.

  As near as he could figure, Old Ammon just went about doing good, even if he was in the land of his enemies. He went to King Lamoni and asked how he could be of service. Am frowned at the well-thumbed pages, wondering how that figured in his current situation. He flipped to Second Nephi, hunting until he found what he wanted. He settled back against his saddle.

  He smiled over “He hath confounded mine enemies,” well aware that the only person confounded by the Tarahumara Indians had been Ammon Hancock. He flipped another page and found what he wanted even more: “Wilt thou deliver me out of the hands of mine enemies?”

  It was a good question, but with a start, he found himself thinking more of Adaline than himself. He was well-fed and doing fine out here by a little fire, and he possessed a rifle. He had no idea where his wife was or in what circumstance she found herself at this moment. He didn’t think it was anything good, so he prayed for her. “For goodness sake, keep her safe, Father,” he murmured.

  Not so comfortable now, he kept reading, then found what he had probably been looking for since she had thrown his ring at him. He read it twice, then closed the book, satisfied and ready to sleep.

  “ ‘Wilt thou make my path straight before me?’ ” he asked out loud, as Nephi had probably done.

  B

  Ammon woke up to his cattle grazing all around him. He watched them, content for a moment, then felt a pang and the certainty that the next time he came through this canyon, if ever, they would be gone. It hurt less than he thought it would, confirming a long-held suspicion that he was a better freight hauler than stockman.

  He had wakened before daylight. Breakfast was more chunks of beef cooked over a fire. “I’m cooking one of your compadres,” he announced to the milling herd. The only response was a level look, then back to cud-chewing, reminding him that he ranked a little higher on the food chain, but not by much, considering the wisdom of his recent decisions. Addie would likely agree.

  He was in the saddle before daybreak and out of the box canyon after carefully securing the camouflaged gate. He rode Blanco steadily into the dawn, not taking any time to admire the beauty of the sunrise. Addie called it pagan of him, but he had long been in the habit of raising his arms to the rising sun, as he had seen the Tarahumara do. Maybe she was right.

  He came to Colonia García on a morning much like the one when he and the others had ridden away more than a week ago now. The few streets looked just as deserted, and he felt himself relax. His first stop was his house, where he stabled Blanco in the kitchen again. Nothing had disturbed the grain he had left for his horse, which gratified Blanco to no end and relieved Ammon.

  He gave the house another close look as he left it, walking backward. Burning the front room had been the right idea, and heaven knows he didn’t ever plan to live there again without Addie. Set well back in the trees, the house looked like a ruin. Much like my life, he thought. He wondered if Old Ammon the Nephite, former reprobate, had left behind anyone he loved when he went on his fourteen-year mission to the Lamanites.

  As much as it seemed the same as last week, something had changed in García. Staying in the early morning shadows, Ammon walked toward the town center. Movement in the cornfield caught his eye and he stopped. Colony cattle grazed among the corn now, so he knew some faction or other had passed through, probably taking what they wanted, then turning the cows into the corn so they would be even fatter when they came back to rustle some more.

  A door banged behind him and he raised his rifle, stepping back farther in the shadow. It was the front door of the Odegaard’s house, which he knew had been closed and locked when they left town. The slight breeze had slammed open the screen door, which already hung on one hinge only.

  Silent, still, he waited, just watching the house. When nothing happened, he looked both ways and crossed the street. When he got closer, he saw that the inside door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open slowly, then stepped inside.

  The sight before him made Ammon suck in his breath and just hold it, until he reminded himself to breathe. Someone had ripped open the little lace-covered pillows that Sister Odegaard placed on her settee and wing chairs, scattering stuffing until the room looked like García after a snowstorm. The backs of the settee and chairs had been ripped open too, and innards spilled out like gaping wounds.

  Worst were the pictures of the Odegaard’s parents. Someone had thrown jars of bottled fruit at the frames. Cherries and peaches, moldy now, adhered to the shattered glass and the wallpaper around the pictures.

  Ammon walked as far as the door to the kitchen, his boots sticky with fruit juice and pillow stuffing until he looked like one of Mama’s exotic Cochin chickens with the feathery legs. The kitchen was a ruin, partly burned where wood from the firebox had been spread around. The pie safe had been thrown onto
its face. Shattered crockery lay everywhere.

  Lips tight together, Ammon stared at the mess. He knew the Odegaards had already left for Provo. He was grateful they would probably never see the desecration of what had been one of the loveliest houses in García. He couldn’t have counted how many times he had sat on the side porch there and turned the crank to the ice cream freezer.

  Leaning against the doorframe, he heard a grunt and squeal coming from the pantry. He raised his rifle, angry enough to shoot, then lowered it when two hogs tried to squeeze through the narrow door. They were stuck, which gave him time to avoid them. He turned on his heel and left the house, suddenly not curious to look into another house as he continued down the street.

  He couldn’t help himself. He went only as far as the open doorway to the bishop’s house, sick at heart to see the piano, the family’s pride and joy, caved in by an axe still imbedded in the top. The piano keys had been yanked out like a deranged dentist had been at work, which made him run his tongue over his own teeth.

  He backed out of the house, nearly ill and disturbed at what he might see at Grandma Sada’s house. Addie, what have they done to you? he asked himself in horror.

  He knew the town was deserted now, so he hurried through the little business district and down the second side street, where other doors hung open. The Flynns’ residence had burned to the ground, with just the chimney remaining, at least until a strong wind came along and toppled it. He doubted the chimney would survive the winter.

  Ammon stood for a long moment in front of Grandma Sada’s house. The door was closed, which only disturbed him more, for some reason. He opened it, ready for the worst, and was not disappointed.

  The same wreckage greeted him that he had seen in the other houses. What hadn’t been looted and carried away had been ruined so no one could ever use it again. He glanced into the dining room. He already knew the tablecloth was gone because he had last seen it covering corpses on the outskirts of Topia. The table had collapsed under the weight of the massive sideboard that had been pulled over on top of it. He looked away. Grandma Sada had always been such a tidy housekeeper.

  This wasn’t finding Addie, he knew. The main floor was a ruin. He started for the stairs, not wanting to climb them, but determined to search the entire house. He stood a long time at the foot of the stairs, saying one of those wordless prayers that he hoped made sense to Heavenly Father, steeling himself for what he might find.

  “¿Hay alguien aquí?” he called, not realizing until he had said it that he had spoken in Spanish. “Anyone here?” he repeated in English this time but softer.

  Nothing. His rifle at his side, he started up the stairs. Since he and Addie had lived with Grandma Sada until their own house was finished, he knew which treads creaked and avoided them. Silent, he checked the room he and Addie had shared, which was as tidy as it had been every day they lived there. Addie never left a bed unmade unless she was in it.

  He closed the door and walked down the hall, unwilling to open what he knew was the door to Grandma Sada’s room. The other doors were open, and he looked in them, surprised that no guerillas had come upstairs to destroy the rooms’ contents.

  Indecisive, Ammon stood outside Grandma Sada’s closed door. Finally, he tapped on it with his knuckles, just a little tap. “Grandma? Addie?” he asked. “Abuelita? Abuelita?” he called louder. Grandma Sada liked it when he called her “little grandmother” in Spanish.

  No answer. He tipped back his sombrero and leaned his forehead against the door frame, unsure what to do. The room was empty, and he had no earthly idea where to search for Addie.

  This was getting him nowhere, and the sun was up now. Time to hide. He turned the handle and walked into the room.

  Or tried to. He stopped, transfixed at the sight of a shotgun pointing right at him. The barrel shook, because Addie held it. He had never stared into such terrified eyes.

  His relief at seeing his wife made him sigh, and then yelp and slide down the doorframe when she shot him.

  EIGHT

  ADDIE! YOU SHOOT better than you throw,” he managed to gasp out before he flopped over sideways on the rag rug.

  When the darkness and spinning stopped, his head rested in Addie’s lap. He noticed her shirtwaist was stained with perspiration and her sleeve was ripped. This was not the tidy Addie that he remembered.

  But there was this matter of his bleeding arm. He had never been overfond of blood, especially his own, when it was supposed to stay inside and chug merrily along. Addie had managed to stop the flow from that fleshy part of his shoulder by pressing a handkerchief against it. The wound was already starting to ache. He grimaced with the pain, maybe a little more than he needed to, but his wife had shot him, and that hurt too.

  Then he looked into her eyes, those big blue ones he had once labored to describe in a dreadful poem he wrote her during a long week freighting, when he really wanted to be home with her. Addie’s eyes were still wide with terror and the worst kind of loneliness. He knew she had her gripes, but for that moment, at least, the last thing she wanted in the world was for her estranged husband to bleed to death and leave her alone again.

  It was time to put her out of her misery and not play on her sympathy. His arm wasn’t that bad. Maybe she would have looked at any man that way who spoke English and wasn’t out to hurt her, but right now, he was the man.

  “Addie, it’s not that bad. You just blew some skin off my arm.”

  She was in tears now, holding him closer to her marvelous bosom, and he figured explanations could wait. His father-in-law had complained once that Hancocks spent way too much time enjoying the moment and not enough time planning ahead. Probably he was right. Addie was still a woman to admire at this particular moment.

  “Hey, hey, don’t cry over this,” he chided gently. “Help me sit up and we’ll see how bad it is.”

  Her sob ended on a shudder, but she did as he asked, helping him into a sitting position on the floor at the end of Grandma Sada’s bed. He leaned his head against the footboard and smiled at his wife.

  “At least we didn’t wake up Grandma,” he said.

  Addie sobbed again, then put her hand against her mouth in a futile attempt to stop. She shook her head. “Grandma died last night.”

  “Oh, Addie.” He closed his eyes. “And you’ve been waiting here for … for what?”

  “My father said he’d send some help but no one came,” she said, staring at his bloody arm. When she looked in his eyes again, it was a long-distance stare, something he never cared to see in a woman’s eyes. “I suppose I’ve just been waiting for the guerillas to return and find me.”

  Again the look of terror came into her eyes, and Ammon knew she was on her last nerve.

  If she were a child, he could soothe away her fears, but she was a woman, one with different fears. “They’re not here yet, but the army of the north is on the move. We need to act quickly. You have any scissors?”

  She got to her feet, rummaging in Grandma Sada’s bureau until she found a pair of shears. As Ammon watched, she carefully cut up his sleeve and through his garments until the wound was exposed. He glanced at it and looked away, frowning. He looked at Addie then, and she gave him the barest smile.

  “You never have been much of a brave man about blood,” she reminded him. She gave herself a little shake, as if gauging how close the bullet had come to something vital. At least, he hoped that was so. “All … all I heard was something in Spanish, then someone coming up the stairs.”

  “I should have known better, but I’ve been speaking nothing but Spanish for days now. I forgot.”

  She nodded, then took away the handkerchief. It was her turn to frown.

  The bullet had tracked through the top few layers of skin and kept going. “If I bind it really tight, I think the bleeding will stop,” she told him. “You’re going to have a dimple there. Hold this handkerchief.”

  He did as she said, watching as she cut a length off Grandma Sada�
��s sheet and bound his arm, leaving the handkerchief in place. A knot over the wound made him wince, but he knew she was right.

  When she finished, she leaned against the footboard too. She closed her eyes and he could almost feel her exhaustion. He was starting to feel stupid and groggy, even though he knew it wasn’t much blood, not in the greater scheme of things—certainly not as much as Serena Camacho’s brother had spilled. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, and he knew that was a bad idea. Still, he was almost touching shoulders with his wife right now, and he liked the feeling.

  But here too was Grandma Sada, not getting a moment younger.

  “Addie, you’ve been watching Grandma all this time?”

  She nodded. She moved a little closer until their shoulders really were touching. Or maybe he had started to lean a bit.

  “Papa had been so sure she was dying this time and told me he’d be back.” She sighed. “Why did everyone in García vanish?”

  Funny how such a small wound was making him dizzy. He leaned his head against her shoulder, not because he wanted to—well, maybe he did—but because he didn’t seem to have a choice.

  “You haven’t heard anything?”

  He felt her shake her head because his eyes were closed now.

  “President Romney sent out the women and children to safety on August 1, and the men followed last week. We didn’t think anyone was here.”

  She sighed. “She was so sick and I didn’t know what to do.”

  She said it in a small voice, then drew her legs up and rested her forehead on her knees. “I’m hungry, I’m tired, it’s hot, and I still don’t know what to do. Please, Ammon, stay awake.”

  He forced himself to pay attention to her, even as he knew he was drifting into shock. “I’m feeling awfully cold, Addie. Can you get me a blanket?”

  She just stared at him and he realized he was speaking in Spanish. Too bad Thomas Finch had never wanted his family to learn Spanish. “Our leaders have told us to keep separate,” his father-in-law had primly reminded him once.