His words chilled me, but I said nothing, for what answer could I give? I saw the wrath that burned within, and I did not wonder at Keste’s sourness – I too would have known anger had I been asked to remain in the camp – but I feared how it would show itself to Dahtet in the absence of older, wiser men who might restrain him, and bid him hold his temper.
For all that day we walked: the Black Mountain, the Chokenne and the Dendhi Apache. We walked from sunrise to sunset, stopping only once to eat, following the hidden ways chosen by Golahka, along river beds and through ravines and mountains, where we would be concealed from our enemy.
And as we walked, in soft silence, I thought of my father.
None had ever found his body. Those who had survived the ambush had not lingered to retrieve and bury the dead. When he did not return, all had thought him slain. I had never until now questioned that certainty. For what but death would keep a warrior from his tribe? What but death would keep a husband from his wife? What but death would keep a father from his child?
My feet pounded the answers on the earth.
Shame.
Disgrace.
Treachery.
Before the sun sank beneath the horizon, the war party stopped in a river valley, beside a deep ravine where our fires could be safely lit without being seen. Should troops come upon us, the ravine gave us also the means by which we could escape and climb and conceal ourselves amongst the mountains.
Scouts were sent ahead to ensure no enemy was close by. The warriors sat down to rest and the novices set about their tasks. Mine was to collect firewood and thus I followed the river’s course, for I had seen a line of trees that grew where the valley curved ahead and thought to begin my search there. But as I reached a bend in the river, I stopped suddenly. There before me lay a Mexican dwelling. Stone built, the rocks gouged from the body of Mother Earth, fenced with the hacked remains of felled trees.
I cursed my own foolishness. Blindly I had trusted our scouts, and once more I had wandered incautious. I dropped behind a rock, knowing that the Mexicans might yet come upon me, and slit my throat as easily as if I were a trapped rabbit. Even as I reached for my bow, I knew they might be drawing their weapons upon me. I recalled the death of the guards at Koskineh: slain before they had time to fire a single arrow.
And yet, even as my mind was flooded with such thoughts, I felt a pricking of the hairs upon my neck. All was not well in that place: the silence was too complete. The living, however still they may keep, however motionless they may stand, will fill a place with their presence. A human soul will quiver and set the air around it trembling. That dwelling did not contain living people – I was sure of it.
I stole a look over the rock that hid me, and let out a long breath of relief. It was deserted. Warily I approached, my bow strung with an arrow lest any came upon me. As I neared the doorway, a startled kid goat ran out and I loosed my arrow, piercing her between the ribs. She slumped against the drunken door and, leaving her where she lay, I stepped over her and entered the dwelling.
It was the first time I had seen inside the house of a Mexican, and to my eyes it was a strange and curious sight. The Apache moves upon the land lightly, leaving few signs of his passing. For firewood he picks what has fallen; to make a brushwood shelter he ties small saplings together. If he must cut wood, he takes but little from the living tree. Not so the Mexican, who hews and hacks and gouges to force the earth to his will. Much labour had been expended in the building of the dwelling, and yet I wondered how its inhabitants could have borne to remain there, for the place was dark as a cave. The air was thick and sour; the wind could not breathe freely. None who lived there could glimpse the wide sky, nor look upon the stars. To live within must be daily torment.
Many objects – whose purpose I could not divine – littered the beaten earth floor. The figure of a tortured man, nailed by hands and feet to crossed branches, hung upon the stone wall. I shuddered at the barbarity of the image. A man must walk in the afterlife with his body in the same condition as it has left the living earth. This man must walk for ever with maimed hands and broken feet. How could any bear to look upon such suffering?
My eye was caught by a red and black coloured blanket; Tehineh had laid her babe upon such a one as this. It had been chewed in one corner by the goat. I reached towards it, and as my fingers stroked the woven threads Power filled me, and my mind ran free with images.
I know not how I saw it. It was not as clear as watching a reflection dancing upon the water, nor yet so indistinct as a blurred, half-forgotten memory. Power flooded me with the knowledge that a black-haired man had once dwelt here, with his wife and child.
Riders came, Chokenne warriors, who sought meat to fill the bellies of their children. The land had been theirs long before the coming of the Mexican. Why should they hunger amid this plenty? His eyes brimful of outrage, the black-haired man ran to stop the Chokenne freeing his animals. A warrior swung his club and the black-haired man was slain. The woman fled, the babe clutched to her breast. For a fleeting moment she had the look of Tehineh as she ran. The warriors watched her go. They were kinder than those who had ridden against our women and children at Koskineh and did not pursue.
I dropped the blanket and stood, as startled by the occurrence of the vision as by its content. My breath came in sharp gasps. I steadied myself, and felt the sudden need to get away from that place, to be amongst my own people once more.
Heaving the goat around my neck, I returned to our camp; the warriors would welcome the taste of fresh meat. I told none of what I had seen, although Chee saw the shock upon my face and raised his eyebrows in enquiry. I did not speak, for I was a novice and would keep my silence. Pushing the troubling images away and leaving Chee to skin the goat, I pursued my task of gathering wood.
And as I did so, I cursed that Ussen should have given me Power, and that I, in using it, had felt for the black-haired Mexican – my enemy! – nothing but pity.
From sunrise to sunset on each day that we walked I thought of Koskineh, only Koskineh. I threaded the memories of that slaughter like beads onto a sinew thread, and wore them around my neck as an amulet.
I saw the mother of Golahka, felled like brushwood. Slender Tehineh, blood blooming on her deerskin shirt. Her children – the children of Golahka – hacked to pieces.
And Tazhi, who even now walked the spirit world, maimed and broken.
I knew not how many days we walked thus. The rigours of the journey and the tasks I had to perform as novice tested my body as it had never been tested before. Many miles we walked each day, and the work was hard and heavy when we made camp. Because we also had to stand guard, I had little time to be refreshed with sleep. In addition I had to remember the many rules Golahka had spoken of: I should not gaze upwards at the sky, lest I invite heavy rain to fall upon us; if I had to look backwards I should turn following the direction of the sun. Many times I feared I would endanger the war party by forgetting the many strictures and prohibitions governing a novice’s behaviour.
But at last, as the sun began to sink and colour the earth red with its dying rays, we halted and made camp on the hills that rose behind the town of Jujio. And now we concealed neither our force nor our intent. As we looked down upon the dwellings of our enemies I smelt the scent of fear drift upon the evening air. The Mexicans quaked at the sight of us, and I rejoiced in their terror. I gazed at the town for long moments. In that place were the men who had ridden against us; in that place were their loved ones.
There lived the man who had slain Tazhi.
I turned away, and set about my tasks. As I began to gather wood, my palms grew suddenly hot, and tingled as if bitten by ants. I dropped the branch I held, and spoke aloud.
“They come,” I said. “Eight men. They come to talk.”
I was a novice; I was not to speak unless asked to do so. Punte opened his mouth to chide me for my impudence, but Golahka, who was close by, stopped him. He seized me by the arm, and said, �
�Mexicans? You are sure? You have seen it?”
I nodded. I knew not how, but I was as certain they came as if I had watched them take their horses from their stables and place the saddles upon their backs.
And as Golahka fixed me with his blackly glinting eyes, a scout who watched the town called, “Riders!”
Golahka smiled at me grimly and nodded with satisfaction, for he had proved himself right: he thought I had Power, and it was so.
Eight soldiers wearing the dark clothes I had seen at Koskineh rode into our camp, carrying the white flag of truce. As I looked up at their faces, rage flared within me. They had slaughtered the defenceless. The unarmed. Children. Babes. Had I held Tazhi’s spear in my hand as they climbed down from their horses and smiled coldly upon our chief I would have used it.
Chodini did not smile. He raised his hand, and the order was given.
Swiftly the eight were captured. Cleanly were they killed. Flint-sharp knives were drawn across their throats and the first blood of the Apache revenge was spilt on Mexican soil. We had not come to talk. Battle was all we sought. Killing the men thus would draw the troops from the town to a place of our choosing.
By dawn, they would come.
The crowing of a bird marked the new day. Three times its harsh call pierced the air, as the sky began to lighten in the east. And from the town terror rose like the shimmering haze of desert heat. I felt the women’s dread; I knew their longing to hold the darkness, to slow the moon’s set, to bid the sun pause awhile. But they could not stop this day – a day that would bring death to many – from dawning.
I had not slept, for I along with all the novices had kept watch during the long night while the warriors took their rest. In truth, I did not think many of them slept deeply. Though our force was great, the Mexican troops numbered more. Throughout the camp was the knowledge that the fight to come would be long and hard.
Golahka called the warriors to council.
“We shall deceive our enemy,” he told them, and briefly his black eyes met mine. “For I have seen that often cunning will prevail where strength may not.”
The town of Jujio stands on a wide plain, and is backed by rolling hills. These are cleft by a broad river valley that runs from north to south before it meets the plain. Golahka directed half the warriors to remain with him in the valley, beside the river with their backs to the hills, in the cover of the brush and trees. They were ill hidden, and thus it was intended. To a Mexican eye it would look as though our whole force held the ground in that one place. Golahka gave orders that the rest of the men should go quietly across the flat valley, and conceal themselves in the facing hills.
We novices were advised to remain apart, high on a peak, where we would be safe. We were to keep out of danger, and stay far from the battle so that we should not impede the warriors in their task. If the fight was lost and the warriors had to flee, we were to go at once to the appointed place and wait there until we could regroup. It made much sense. But I could no more follow this advice than stop the sun from rising.
I crept down the hill to a place from where I could watch the battle, and Chee crept beside me, for how could we do otherwise? I knew not where Ishta and Naite went, but I was certain they would not remain in the place of safety. Chee and I concealed ourselves below the breast of a sharp outcrop, at the foot of which ran the river that divided us from where Golahka stood with his force. We dared creep no closer. But from here I could watch all. If Tazhi’s slayer came, I would see him.
We waited the long, weary morning. Not until the sun was high did the Mexican soldiers march from the town. Our warriors in the river valley gave a great war cry as the scouts passed word of the advancing troops, but the warriors hidden amongst the hills kept still and silent. No eye would detect their presence there. They had vanished into the land like the sweet spring rain.
The Mexicans marched into the valley. Two columns of soldiers on foot, with a great crowd more of men on horseback held in reserve. I looked upon the Mexican commander with astonishment; he kept well behind his troops, where he was in no danger. No Apache chief would behave thus. A chief goes ahead of his warriors into battle; he is first in any attack: how else can he claim to be their leader? I marvelled at the cowardice of this Mexican, who ordered his men forward – driving them before him like cattle – while he himself sat on his great warhorse and did not fight.
As the Mexicans advanced, the earth pulsed with the beat of many feet marching together in perfect unity. It was a strange manner of warfare to me. When they had come but halfway across the valley floor, they stopped and stood in lines – easy targets for our warriors. As bowstrings twanged and the air hissed with the flight of many Apache arrows, the Mexicans opened fire.
The first wave of shots hit the cover where our warriors stood in less time than it takes to blink. And in that time, many fell, to rise no more. Jotah, father of Huten, who had broken the silence with his laughter after our deer hunt, was amongst those slain.
A second line of Mexicans stepped forward and fired, and more of my people fell lifeless to the earth. The gun seemed a terrible thing to me then: it slaughtered without skill, without honour. The clumsiest, most cowardly man could kill with it as well as the finest of warriors. Despair like a cold hand clutched at my belly.
But even as it sank, my heart rose once more.
With a mighty cry – a sound born of the raging grief that enveloped his heart – Golahka charged at the Mexican lines. Shots rained down upon him, but it seemed the great hand of Ussen shielded him from their fire. The warriors, fierce in their warpaint, the lust for blood gleaming in their eyes, followed where Golahka led. Terror swept through the Mexican troops. Frantically their leader called upon them, but from where he sat his soldiers could not hear such orders as he gave. And as Golahka charged, the warriors who had been concealed in the hills behind the Mexicans now showed themselves and ran, whooping, down upon them.
The straight lines of the Mexican forces were broken, and now each man had to face his enemy and fight one to one. Golahka moved as if he could not be harmed; his battle fury was relentless and many, many Mexicans fell at his hand. As each soldier thudded to the earth, Golahka stripped him of his gun, throwing it to those of the Chokenne who knew how to use such a weapon. Thus was their leader slain – shot by a musket taken from one of his own men.
The battle was swift, the fighting desperate. The heated air turned rank with the tang of gunpowder, sweat and blood. Our warriors fell, lying stiff upon Mexican soil. In the time it takes to butcher a deer, the battle was nearly over.
Those who remained of our force were bunched together by the river. But Golahka, who had been at the heart of the fight, stood with three others in the centre of a field strewn with corpses.
Two soldiers were galloping towards them.
I saw with sick fear that Golahka’s arrows were gone, and the lances of his fellow warriors had long since been buried in the breasts of Mexicans. They could fight only with knives and their hands. As the soldiers rode at them, firing their guns, two warriors fell. Golahka and the remaining warrior ran towards the river. A Mexican sword cut down Golahka’s companion before they could get there.
But now Golahka had reached our own men. Seizing a lance from the hand of Punte, he turned. The Mexican pointed his gun at the heart of the great warrior. But – perhaps nudged by the great hand of Ussen – his horse stumbled. The shot missed its mark.
Golahka did not. With a mighty cry he thrust the lance, and the rider fell at his feet. Taking the sword from this dead Mexican’s hand, Golahka used it against the second rider. He leapt at the soldier, slicing his arm and pulling him from his horse. They both fell upon the ground, grappling in the dust.
Then there was a terrible stillness, and both lay motionless. The very earth seemed to hold its breath.
But Golahka had slain his enemy. His knife had found the throat of the Mexican, who lay still, pinning him to the ground. With a heaving roll, Golahka was u
p once more, brandishing the sword, looking for more soldiers that he might kill.
There were none. The whole of the Mexican force lay dead.
The exultant Apache cry of victory rang in the valley, echoing from hill to hill, until the air shook with our triumph. It could not bring Tehineh back from the afterlife, nor his mother and children. Yet glory was Golahka’s, and he joyed in his vengeance.
Slipping at once from where Chee and I had hidden ourselves, without waiting for him to join me, I hastened towards the field of battle. I crept down the rocky outcrop with silent speed: moving with caution had been a lesson I would not lightly forget.
Reaching the foot of the rock face, I paused. And it was then that I saw the man who had killed my brother.
He knelt, concealed from the battlefield by the rock around which I viewed him. And as he knelt, he took his musket and fed it with a single shot, ramming it home with a length of metal. From the care he took, I judged it to be his last. He looked towards Golahka, who stood, heady with battle joy, amongst the warriors. Golahka, who had terrorized the Mexican force. Golahka, who had led our warriors to great victory. Golahka, whom this man was determined to kill.
Tazhi’s spear grew hot in my palm. It thrilled with the desire for blood. To use it, I must face him. Face him, and use my brother’s spear without hesitation. I edged forward a finger’s breadth. As I moved, the Mexican took aim upon Golahka.
Yet he did not fire. For Chodini too had moved, and now stood before his finest warrior – in the line the shot would fly – and this man wanted to spend the last of his ammunition on none but Golahka. He lowered his gun, shaking his head in frustration.
Just then Chee came sliding down the scree beside me, laughing with the delight of our victory.
With one swift leap the Mexican was above us, standing on the rock that had concealed him, his gun loaded, his sword at his belt. He was torn between firing upon us, and firing upon Golahka. But he looked down on me and saw a child. A girl child of no consequence, who held nothing but a small spear – a plaything. Beside her, a youth. Both unimportant. Insignificant.
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