Gringo Wade

by Tony Masero

  The Apaches were moving about the camp preparing their sleeping places. The young brave had lit a fire and was taking dried meat and grain from a parfleche rawhide bag in preparation for their evening meal. Another was watering the animals from sheepskin gourds they carried slung across their ponies’ necks and it was this man, alone amongst the animals that Judas marked as his prey.

  He moved parallel to the draw on the low cliff tops, keeping below the horizon and hidden from any glow from the fire. Once overlooking the herded livestock that milled passively in the box of the cliffs, he paused waiting for the lone warrior to show himself.

  Judas slid the tomahawk and knife from his belt and felt comforted as his fingers ran over the brass nail heads along the tomahawk’s handle. Patiently, he waited, his eyes glittering, their cold blue hardening into a stony glaze as the prospect of the kill approached.

  The man showed himself, the great sacks of the sheep carcasses half empty now. Judas watched him sling the water bags over his shoulder, the weight was awkward as the water swayed and the Indian staggered a moment, then he caught his balance as the sacks settled in place.

  Judas crouched for a second then launched himself into the air. Like a giant swooping bat, black against the night sky, he flew out over the heads of a couple of mares and fell on the unsuspecting brave. In a cloud of dust the man was pushed face down with the breath driven from his lungs by the weight of Judas’ body, the heavy sacks making it impossible for him to defend himself.

  Judas sat astride the Apache’s back and with a mighty blow brought down the small axe-head swift and hard. The blade buried itself in the back of the Apache’s skull with a muffled thud, killing him instantly. The man quivered and shook in his death throes, the attack so sudden and final that no sound had escaped his lips.

  The pony herd skittered away and snorted in distress at the scent of blood as Judas levered out the tomahawk and cut free a section of scalp. Then he rolled the body over to bare the chest and leave his mark, slicing the letters J-J into the flesh of the chest with the knife blade. Stuffing the raw hank of hair into his belt, Judas tugged the dead Indian across to the side of the cliff and left the body stuffed behind some fallen rocks.

  Wiping the tomahawk’s residue of blood and brain matter across the thigh of his leggings, Judas crept through the herd pushing aside rumps and curious nostrils as he made his way through the restless herd and nearer to the camp.

  As he did so, Gringo arrived in the darkness and climbed the dune, leaving Allumette with their ponies at the foot of the mound. The Frenchman miraculously managing to keep the creatures totally silent and tranquil even though they sensed the nervous tension arising from the two men and the herd nearby.

  On the crest of the dune, Gringo looked around anxiously for Judas but could see nothing in the black night. He ground his teeth in frustration as he searched the shadows for the errant mountain man. Instinctively he knew that Judas had gone out intent on his own mission and with that understanding he regretted his rashness in leaving him alone. He slid back down to where Allumette waited.

  “He’s gone,” Gringo whispered.

  “Where?” asked Allumette.

  “Goddamn it! I don’t know. The fool’s off somewhere on his own, probably bent on mixing it with a few of those braves down there.”

  “Mon Dieu! It is well known he is dangerous like that but the children, did he not think of them?”

  “Fellow’s got a blood feud, I guess. Thinks of nothing else but taking scalp.”

  “What to do?” asked Allumette nervously.

  Gringo sat pensively for a moment, staring off into the darkness, which was now as solid as a blank wall with no moon above to shed any light.

  “I’ll have to go down there and get close,” Gringo decided.

  He was just as adept as Judas at moving silently and Gringo sinuously eased his way over and around the barriers that presented themselves as he made his way down the sloping sides of the draw. Soon he was positioned behind a boulder that sat on the fringes of the Apache campsite. He could see the Indians lounging quietly around the fire as they ate their evening meal.

  The young brave, Gringo noticed, sat to one side, his food untouched before him. A handsome boy, Gringo noticed, smooth featured and erect with a stamp of pride about him. The red striped Chiricahua looked up from where he rested on one elbow and grunted some instructions to the lad and the boy nodded obediently and climbed to his feet, making his way over towards the corralled livestock apparently searching for another member of the band.

  In that moment a dark shape left the shadows around the animals, it moved fast and bellowed a loud cry as it came. A blood curdling scream that for an instant froze the surprised Apaches. Then the figure was amongst them.

  Gringo saw the flash of steel as Judas swung his tomahawk in a searing arc that half sliced through one brave’s throat leaving a plume of blood spurting, the spray glittering in the firelight as the Indian fell. Without hesitation, Judas moved on, shouldering aside one more Apache to his left as he struck at another rising opponent before him. The tomahawk buried itself deep in the man’s chest and with his left hand full of the sharp butcher knife, Judas swung out at the recovering brave to his left, slashing a long gash across the man’s cheek.

  Cuchillo was on his feet, the broken sword drawn from the scabbard across his back. He crouched waiting to make out his foe in the dim light and from amidst the dust raised by the struggle.

  Gringo was as surprised by the boldness of the attack as the Indians and he watched in amazement as Judas fell amongst the Apache like an avenging devil. As the wild mountain man tussled with the brave whose cheek he had slashed, Gringo glanced across at the young Indian who stood near the now restless livestock and was scooping up a musket, which lay near his fallen companion. He watched as the young man levered back the hammer and pointed the barrel in Judas’ direction, waiting for a clear shot.

  There was little Gringo could do other that bring up his own musket and without hesitation, fire. Smoke and flame flew in a flash from the barrel, it’s boom echoing against the walls of the draw. The young brave howled in pain as the lead ball drilled into the side under his raised arm and threw him over, his musket swinging away and exploding, the shot burying itself harmlessly in the dusty cliffs.

  Cuchillo moved. Realizing they were ambushed by an unknown number of attackers, he leapt forward and ran past Judas swinging his blade in a long slashing pass as he went. Judas screamed and arced his back in pain but could not stop in his defense from the opponent before him. Gringo quickly drew, cocked and fired the pistol in his belt but in the flickering firelight he missed the fleeing Apache. Throwing aside the empty pistol, Gringo began to reload his musket.

  Cuchillo paused only to kneel and catch up the slim fallen figure of Mapache and, carrying him bodily under one arm, he continued to run for the horses.

  Judas meanwhile, had taken Cuchillo’s blow across his exposed back and it had sliced his buckskin shirt apart as if it were a sheet of plain paper and opened a deep welling wound. Wincing in pain he continued to struggle with the last of the Apache braves as Cuchillo swung Mapache across a pony’s back and leapt aboard himself. Gringo was ramming home his shot as Cuchillo raced past and out of the draw, disappearing into the night with the wounded young man.

  Gringo turned away from the lost shot and swung the barrel over to the Indian who seemed to be getting the upper hand over Judas. Weakened by Cuchillo’s attack, Judas had fallen to one knee amongst the scattered remains of the fire and the Apache stood over him, a raised stone war club in his hand.

  Gringo fired the musket, the ball catching the Indian full in the face and taking the back of his head off in a blossoming dark mist. He flew away from Judas and slammed against the rocky wall behind before dropping limply to the ground.

  Judas staggered to his feet, the sweat streaming from his face. With teeth clenched in a grimace and eyes wildly staring, before Gringo could stop him he crossed o
ver to the body of the Apache and lifted the ruined head and began to scalp.

  “Leave it, man!” called Gringo but Judas continued his bloody work as if he had not heard. Gringo compressed his lips bitterly then he offered a long whistle to call up Allumette finally turning his attention to the two children.

  They clung together, their eyes wide and wary in their grubby faces as Gringo approached.

  “It’s alright, little ones,” Gringo said softly. “We’re here to save you. Do not be afraid.”

  They looked at him round-eyed and said nothing. Gringo knelt and sliced through the rope that bound them and only then did the tears start to fall.

  “I want my mama,” one begged.

  “Do you not remember me?” asked Gringo gently. “You are Mary Jane, are you not? I visited with you some time ago.”

  The little girl looked at him dumbly, her face registering no sign of recognition. She was either too shocked or had been too young at the time to remember him.

  Allumette arrived with the ponies and looked with disdain across at Judas who now sat slumped beside his victim the bloody scalp in his hand and an expression of stunned distance on his face.

  “What is this?” asked the Frenchman with a nod towards Judas as he came over to Gringo.

  Gringo shook his head. “Leave him be for a moment he’s had a hard fight and taken a cut, he’ll come around soon enough.”

  “Ah, my poor little ones,” Allumette sighed, kneeling beside the children. “It is so horrible. But have no fear, uncle Allumette will care for you now.”

  He began to croon softly over them as he stroked their hair and wiped their faces clean of dirt. At this tender show of kindness the two girls broke down and began to wail in earnest.

  Gringo ferreted in his shirt asking, “Lucy Lawrence?”

  The tearful child looked up at him, “I’m Lucy, do you know where my mama is?”

  “She is not here,” admitted Gringo avoiding the question and pulling out the rag doll he had found beside the child‘s dead mother. “But I have this, I believe it is yours.”

  “Sally!” cried Lucy. “You have found my Sally-doll. Oh, thank you.” The tears stopped as she clutched the doll to her. “This is my best friend. Mary Jane,” she turned to the other wailing infant. “Look, Mary Jane, this gentleman has found my Sally-doll.”

  Leaving Allumette to it, Gringo went over to Judas and crouched before the man who now seemed to be showing signs of recovery.

  “You have been wounded, Judas. Best let me have a look.”

  “Where?” grunted Judas, numbly searching his chest. “I feel nothing.”

  “Your back. A knife wound. Turn around.”

  Judas did as he was told and Gringo examined the cut, which was wide and deep.

  “It will take stitches,” advised Gringo.

  “Aye,” said Judas wearily. “I feel it now. Do it, will you?”

  As Gringo helped the mountain man off with his buckskin shirt he was amazed to see the state of his torso. Although lean and well muscled, the skin was covered by a mass of scars, mostly old but obviously the past marks of blades and cutting edges.

  “Now you will have another one to join all those,” said Gringo as he began to clean the long wound that sliced across Judas’ shoulder blades. “Is it worth it?”

  “It does not matter,” growled Judas bitterly. “The price I must pay.”

  “For what?” asked Gringo, taking out a leather-working needle and twine thread from his pouch.

  “For allowing the heathens to murder my family.”

  “That cannot be, how can you take the blame for that?”

  “They were in my care. It was my responsibility.”

  “So,” sighed Gringo, threading the needle. “You take scalps and scars in penance?”

  Judas said nothing just grunted in response.

  “Do you think there are enough Indian scalps in this land to satisfy your guilt?”

  “Are there enough stars in the sky?” answered Judas obliquely.

  Allumette came up, carrying a gourd in his hand.

  “Here, I found this,” he said, handing it to Judas. “It is tiswin, the corn liquor the Indians make. It will help kill the pain.”

  “How are the children?” asked Gringo, as Judas pulled out the plug from the gourd and swallowed a copious amount of the strong brew.

  “They will be well enough,” said Allumette. “They have seen things no little girl should see but their youth will heal them in time, I hope.”

  “Are you ready, Judas?” asked Gringo.

  The mountain man took a deep breath and bowed his head. He made no sound as Gringo pushed the thick needle through the raw flesh at the edge of the bloody wound and drew the thread through.

  “We have a decision to make,” said Gringo as he squinted over his task in the poor light. “Do we follow the Apache or take these children and the livestock back to Le Touquet?”

  Allumette rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “The children need comfort they are exhausted,” he said. “We cannot take them after the Indians.”

  “I agree,” said Gringo. “That and these horse and cattle must be returned. The Chiricahua who escaped will warn the others of our presence, they will be ready for us next time.”

  “What about the wagon train?” growled Judas, grimacing as Gringo pulled the long thread through.

  “If they travel with the army they will be well protected. We cannot do everything and my instructions from the Boosway were to bring back the child and we can return the horses to senor Ibispo.”

  “Maybe I should try to warn them,” said Judas through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t think so,” said Gringo, looking at the ugly ridged row of uneven overstitching he was finishing off with a knot in the twine. “Not with this wound about to open up. No, we go back to join the others.” He passed Judas his buckskin shirt. “There,” he said. “I’m no seamstress but that’s the best I can do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” grinned Allumette, tweaking his moustache tips impishly as he surveyed Gringo’s work. “I think it is very neat. You have hidden talents, my friend. Perhaps one day you will embroider a fine eye patch for me, or perhaps some uplifting homily on the moral values of a mountain man‘s life.”

  “Perhaps you will get a shovel and put those dead Indians under the ground before the coyotes come calling,” grinned Gringo.

  “I will do it,” said Allumette. “But I would rather see your expertise with a needle and thread. So delicate. So artistic.”

  “Get out of here!” Smiling, Gringo aimed a well-placed boot at the Frenchman’s behind. “Before I sew your other eye shut.”

  Chapter Seven

  Asesino turned at the sound.

  He saw the exhausted Chiricahua standing in the shadows at the limits of their campsite, the limp body of Mapache held in his arms.

  Asesino growled deep in his throat at the sight.

  Breathing heavily from his exertion, Cuchillo stepped forward and dropped the still form unceremoniously at the feet of Asesino.

  “Did he die well?” asked Asesino quietly.

  “With a weapon in his hand,” nodded Cuchillo.

  The others gathered around the fallen figure and waited silently for Cuchillo to explain.

  They had come up on the wagon train the day before and known in an instant that it was too well protected for their small band. But the heavily laden wagons had kept their attention and they had eyed the mysterious contents with greedy eyes. Asesino had finally called them away to consider their next move and it was at this encampment that Cuchillo had caught up with them.

  “White men,” said Cuchillo. “Dressed in buckskin. They took us unawares in the night. One of them a good killer, a giant, a truly fearsome warrior. The other had no hair on his face and carried a long gun. They slew our brothers and took the cattle and horses.”

  “You lost everything?” asked Nachez in disbelief, a deep frown furrowing his brow as he stared at his fe
llow Chiricahua.

  Shamefully, Cuchillo nodded silent agreement.

  “My brother is dead and our raid goods all lost. How can this be? Were there too many of them?” snapped Asesino.

  Cuchillo shrugged. “I do not know. They came out of the darkness as we camped. Of those I saw, one had a long gun, the other a tomahawk.”

  “One gun and a tomahawk!” Nachez spat in disgust. “With only this they took four Apache?”

  Cuchillo looked at him, tight lipped and with a set face. “I have told you. They came and the others are dead. I have brought the body of Mapache, Asesino’s brother. I have no more to say.” He said it as a simple statement of fact without any sense of justification.

  There was a low critical mumble from the others in the group and Asesino waved them to silence as he looked down at the body of the young man at his feet.

  “Who was it that struck down my brother?” he asked.

  “It was the one with no hair on his face, he who carried the long gun.”

  “Then he shall die. First we see my brother Mapache on his way to the Spirit World, then we track these white men and get back our prize. If we do not do this, our heads shall be heaped in the dust of shame amongst the hogans of our people.”

  “What of the wagons you followed?” asked Cuchillo, jerking his head towards the horizon in the direction of the wagon train, camped for the night not a mile distant.

  “Who are you to speak, Chiricahua?“ sneered Asesino angrily. “Are you now a leader of men?“

  Cuchillo balked as if had been struck in the face. He had been expecting praise for preserving the body of their leader’s brother and not an insult.

  “The wagon train promised much….” he began reasonably but Asesino cut him off.

  “We have lost much already under your leadership, Cuchillo. Now you stand before warriors and would give direction. It is better if you leave us and try to recover your courage elsewhere.”

  Shocked, Cuchillo looked across at his fellow Chiricahua for support but Nachez turned his back and looked away in stony silence. The shamed Apache turned this way and that amongst the group but each one in the band showed him his back and Cuchillo was left alone and shunned.