El Paso Way

by Steven Law

  Jackson could not answer, but he knew that he was staring into the face of one of the most evil men he’d ever heard tell of. He also knew that it was likely his life was over, but just how soon, or how quickly he would die, was the critical unknown.

  “So, amigo, I hear there are many men looking for me, but you and your poor compadre back there are only two men. Are there more hombres you should tell me about?”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, you sick sumbitch.” Jackson spit in Valdar’s face.

  Valdar’s fury was short-lived, as he wiped the saliva from his cheek then laughed and summoned Beshkah. The bandit came forward, his spurs jingling and the tips of his shoes glistening in the sunlight. He stood next to Valdar, and Valdar grabbed Jackson by the chin and lifted him to his feet. He forced him to a boulder and slammed him against it.

  “This man is complaining about his knees,” Valdar said. “Do you have something for the pain?”

  Beshkah grunted and stepped in front of Jackson as Valdar backed away. In one swift motion, Beshkah reared a leg back then kicked forward, busting Jackson’s knee with his steel plated shoe. The posse scout screamed in agony.

  Valdar came close to his face and breathed the same stale breath as he heckled him. “How’s the pain, muchacho? Is it better now?”

  Jackson stared back at Valdar with watery eyes. “You’ll rot in hell for what you do.”

  Valdar turned to Beshkah. “I guess it was not enough medicine. Give him some more.”

  Beshkah reared back and kicked the other knee, and Jackson fell to the ground screaming. Valdar hunched to the ground and leaned over in front of his face, grabbing his chin with his hand. Jackson fought for his breath as Valdar turned his face to his own.

  “Now, if you think I will kill you before you tell me anything, you’re badly mistaken, señor. You tell me what I want to know and you’ll die much quicker.”

  Jackson didn’t trust this monster in any way, but torture was something that he knew Valdar would continually subject him to until he got what he wanted. Whether he would actually kill him or not was uncertain, but at this point, with the image of the naked gambler in his mind, he figured it was worth the gamble.

  “There is a posse,” Jackson said in a mumble, followed by a heavy breath and a grimace.

  Valdar squeezed his chin tighter. “How many?”

  “Eighteen. About a mile west of here.”

  Valdar let go and lightly slapped Jackson’s face. “Ah, now that wasn’t so hard, was it, amigo?”

  Jackson swallowed and closed his eyes, then he felt Valdar grab him by the hair and hold his head back against the boulder. Beshkah then came forward, stood before him, lifted his boot, and with a steady swipe, brought the rowel of his spur across Jackson’s neck. There was only a slight sting at first, but then he realized he could not breathe, and felt the warm blood flowing down his neck and onto his chest. To Jackson’s recollection, this was the only time he’d ever gambled and won.

  *

  Enrique and Pang sat back to back, their wrists tied together, at the trunk of a dead cottonwood. The Apache camp was not like those Enrique had seen before, with grass wickiups but less primitive, with makeshift shelters of poles, deerskin, and the white man’s canvas. It was, indeed, a camp for a tribe constantly on the move.

  Several men sat outside near a fire, while the women prepared meals and the children played. But a majority of the men were inside one of the shelters, deciding the fate of their two captives.

  Enrique felt bad for Pang, knowing that after all he had recently gone through, this moment only added to his pain.

  “I’m sorry,” Enrique said.

  “For what?” Pang answered, as he squirmed and rolled his wrists.

  “For getting you into this mess. I know it was not in your plan.”

  “I’m sure it was not in your plan, either. I do not blame you.”

  Enrique could tell that the Chinaman’s words were genuine. “And I was supposed to teach you how to shoot the bow today.”

  Pang sighed and pulled his wrists free. “Such a lesson is the least of my worries,” he said, now looking at Enrique and untying him.

  “How did you get free?” Enrique said, looking at the Chinaman, dumbfounded.

  “Apache might be good at surrounding and capturing, but they are not good at tying knots.”

  Enrique rubbed his arms where the leather ties had cut into them and made them sore. He decided not to question Pang’s tactics and, like him, to take advantage of their new freedom. “I’m not sure where they’ve taken our mules … They must be tied on the other side of the shelters.”

  “We must find them, and quickly,” Pang said, “without alarming the women and children.”

  At that moment at least twenty Apache rode into the camp. Their women chanted as they dismounted, and Geronimo and the other men came out of their shelters to greet them. There was a long discussion with one of the riders, and then Geronimo looked in the direction of Enrique and Pang as they sprinted across the camp.

  Several of the Apache headed them off and surrounded them. The two men stopped, looking all around as the braves closed in. Enrique was surprised at how poised Pang seemed all of the sudden, crouching, with his hands elongated in front of his face.

  One of the Apache quickly lunged at Enrique. The two of them fell to the ground, muscles tight and teeth clenched as they rolled in the dust, each trying to gain control over the other. Enrique gained nothing fast, as two other braves joined in the fight and quickly subdued him. It was when they held him up, one holding each arm, that the real fight began.

  Several Apache tried to subdue the Chinaman, but Pang was quick to stop them, with either a jab to the neck, a kick to the stomach, or both a punch and a kick that quickly disabled the attacker. But all stopped after a rifle was shot into the air, and every head turned to Geronimo, who stood next to several other Apache, one with a rifle pointed at Pang.

  Geronimo nodded to his brave to lower the rifle and then they proceeded toward them. He looked over all of his fallen men, who stood slowly, moaning and grimacing, except one who lay unconscious.

  “You kill one of my men,” Geronimo said, looking sternly at Pang.

  “No,” Pang said, walking to the fallen brave, stooping and slapping his face lightly with the back of his hand. “He’s just, like you say, taking a siesta.”

  The chief nodded and then looked at both the men. “The council has decided. You are free to go.”

  Enrique looked over at Pang, who rose slowly, as if not convinced of they newly granted freedom.

  “May I ask how you came to your decision?” Enrique asked, looking at Geronimo.

  “The Demon Warrior has betrayed us. He promised to free one of our men, but set him free only to follow him and kill him later. For this betrayal we approve of your pursuit to kill him, and the two Apache who follow him. They no longer live the Nnee way and are nothing to our people. To help you, I will send two of my warriors with you. But that is all I can spare.”

  Enrique looked at the two men—short, muscular, and youthful. “Thank you,” Enrique said.

  Two women came forward pulling the mules and the burro, all their belongings still intact. One of the women handed Enrique his quiver and bow. Geronimo complimented him on the weapon.

  “Our council recognized your Nnee bow and arrow, and that the shafts were new. Only someone who knew the Nnee way could have made those arrows. It was agreed by the council that you were very likely a friend to the Nnee.”

  Enrique nodded then reached into one of his saddlebags and grabbed all of the jerky and dried fruits. He handed them to Geronimo.

  “For you and your people. You will need food for strength during your battles. Let it be a peace offering.”

  Geronimo nodded and had one of the women take the goods; then he took one step toward Enrique, pulled a knife from his waist, and drew a cut on his hand.

  Enrique knew what he wanted and did the same, and in
the same fashion as he arm wrestled the priest, the two men joined hands, looked each other squarely in the eyes, and became blood brothers of the Sonora.

  *

  When Dutton and the posse rode up on Jackson and Farrell’s bodies, the men had seen enough. All of them, except the lawman, turned and headed back. They didn’t even stay to help bury the bodies, or try to talk him out of staying, and there was nothing Dutton could do to stop them. He could have cursed them as cowards, but he wasn’t sure it was cowardice that made them turn back. It was likely plain old common sense. He wasn’t even sure what made him stay, but he was quite certain it wasn’t courage, and he was damn certain it wasn’t common sense. He supposed it was duty, but also stubbornness and pride. He was not about to go to his grave backing out on something he was paid to do. It might not be a healthy job, but at least it was an honorable job. Stubborn or not, honor was something he was certain he’d be comfortable taking to the grave.

  After he buried the bodies, Dutton wanted to build a fire and make some coffee, but he remembered that the camping supplies were with one of the other riders. All he had was some jerky and a sack of raisins that he always carried with him, in case he had to ride a ways out of town. He was more than a ways out of town now; he figured he was close to New Mexico Territory. With only a few hours of daylight left, he supposed it best to head up into the mountains, where Valdar likely wouldn’t be, maybe shoot a deer or pronghorn, have a warm meal, and head out toward El Paso the next day with a full belly and a fresh start. Yes, that was a plan that would likely work and not take him to his grave any sooner than he wanted to go.

  *

  Enrique gave all their food away for two reasons. First, he knew it would please Geronimo and buy them lasting friendship. Plus, it would prove that he not only had the knowledge of making Apache weapons, but he could also use them. To give up his food meant he could hunt and kill for survival. Such a man would be worthy of his freedom and welcome in the land of the Nnee.

  Though the event with the Apache had been worrisome, it turned out to provide them with a new level of confidence. Pang rode with his head higher, looking about the wilderness with interest, curiosity, and an alert eye. The Apache riders who now accompanied them also provided strength in numbers. Though Geronimo had told them about the posse that looked for Valdar, Enrique was certain that the Apache way of tracking and capture was more dependable than any civic procedure of the Anglo settlements.

  The Apache were on mounts from their own remuda—which Enrique believed were likely confiscated or stolen—but that was the Apache way. One of the braves, Perro Alto (Tall Dog), rode a bay mare and carried his repeating rifle in a deerskin scabbard. He was an excellent tracker, which was why Geronimo had sent him. He was named for his slender frame, taller than most Apache, and for his ability to sniff out the enemy.

  The other brave, Torro Rapido (Quick Bull), rode a black-and-white paint, mostly white, and always held his rifle. Geronimo had said he was quick to shoot, which was not always good, but might be in their pursuit of the Demon Warrior.

  They rode for two days and crossed the Pedregosa, and Tall Dog led them to two mounds of dirt. He dismounted, grabbed a handful of soil from a mound, and sniffed it.

  “Fresh graves,” he said. “Two days.”

  The Apache walked around, inspecting the ground, then pointed northwest. “Many riders, head that way.” Then he pointed east. “Other riders, look like eight, go that way.” Then he pointed northeast. “But lone rider go that way.”

  Enrique was positive the posse had had a confrontation with Valdar, which explained part of the division. But the solitary rider he couldn’t understand. “One rider?” Enrique said. “Why just one?”

  “Whoever he is, he hides in the Pedregosa,” Tall Dog said.

  *

  Dutton squatted and placed on a roasting skewer some backstrap slices, which were of a deer he’d killed the prior evening. He’d spotted the doe along with two yearlings foraging near a mountain draw. They were at least two hundred yards away, but he knew he had just as much chance with a long shot as he did trying to get closer and challenge their keen senses. Unfortunately he gut-shot the doe and had to track her blood trail another hundred yards before finding her dead farther down the draw. He hated the thought of an animal suffering and always did his best to make a quick kill. On the trail he couldn’t prepare all the meat; he could only take what he could eat that night. The coyotes, buzzards and crows would certainly find their prize on his behalf.

  He moved the coals in the fire around until the flames shot higher onto the meat. He rose quickly as his horse, tied behind him, let out an alerting whicker.

  As he looked at the horse, he noticed it peering off to the south, its ears turned forward like thistle cones, capturing whatever had alerted its senses. That’s when Dutton spotted the Apache, sitting on a bay horse on a distant bluff, the morning light highlighting specific details of the brave’s features: his hair, his skin, his breechcloth, his rifle.

  Dutton stood there in a staring contest, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed his horse’s head move. Another Apache, on a black-and-white paint, appeared farther east, on another bluff, with his rifle aimed at the sheriff.

  Dutton fell to the ground quickly then crawled behind a boulder. He pulled his six-gun and peered back over the boulder. Both Apaches were gone.

  “What the—”

  Moments later he saw four riders coming into camp, two on mules with a pack burro trailing, and the two Apaches trailing behind. He stood slowly, his six-gun still in his hand but held down.

  “Who goes there?” he said.

  “We come in peace,” said the lead rider, who appeared to be a Mexican wearing a sombrero and serape.

  As they rode into camp, the lead rider dismounted, and as Dutton gave a hard look at the second rider, he recognized the face. “You’re that Chinaman—Pang Lo.”

  “I am,” Pang said. “You cannot arrest me now.”

  “I don’t plan to,” Dutton said, holstering his revolver.

  All but the Apaches gathered at the fire. The sheriff invited them to share his meal, and Enrique tried to convince the Apaches to join them. The three of them talked over coffee (donated by the new riders) and fire-roasted venison, and then shared their knowledge and experiences and agreed to work together to find and kill Valdar. Tall Dog and Quick Bull eventually dismounted, after Enrique coaxed them with the sight of the steaming backstrap.

  “I can’t figure how someone can be so wicked,” Dutton said.

  The Apaches continued to eat vigorously, taking large bites of the meat and licking their fingers. Pang did not eat much of the meat, just warmed his hands over the fire. Enrique had finished eating and was washing the meal down with fresh coffee, for which Dutton expressed his gratitude.

  “Father Gaeta said he is the work of Satan,” Enrique said. “No good can come from him.”

  “I’m not so sure Satan could beat this feller,” Dutton said. “He’s one bad hombre.”

  “Where do you think he is now?” Enrique said.

  “I’d say he’s at least two days ahead of us,” Dutton said, “but he’ll ride much slower with those women.”

  Pang looked up at them. “Then we should ride faster.”

  “We will, son,” Dutton said. “As fast as our mounts will let us.”

  “Don’t worry,” Enrique said. “We are much stronger now, being six instead of five.”

  Dutton squinted, calculating in his head. “Six?”

  Enrique grinned. “Ah, but you have not met Sereno, our desert watchman who is out there but does not ride with us.”

  Dutton gazed out across the mountain slopes. “All right, I’ll have to take your word for that one.”

  Dutton looked out at the horizon, the pinkish haze fading away to a brilliant blue. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking of how he had hoped for an answer, and it amused him to think that it had come to him in four languages: English, Spanish, Apache
, and Chinese.

  *

  Valdar and his compadres ran into a camp of three renegade Apache, and they shared their tequila and opium. It was not hard to convince them to join up with Valdar, especially after they raided a small settlement of Mexicans, killed the men, raped the women, ate their food, and took their horses and a young girl at the age of puberty. They kept her pure, however, knowing that a young virgin would bring a premium price.

  Their night camp was always a fiesta, with tequila and opium, but Valdar made it very clear the women were off limits. “They must be clean when we cross the border,” he said. “If they are not, I lose money, and I do not like to lose money.”

  One of the renegade Apache slipped off into the darkness to relieve himself, and he came back with a prisoner. The sight of this young Indian made Valdar lose his rheumy smile and rise to his feet.

  “Where did you find him?” Valdar said, noticing blood on the boy’s pant leg.

  “He was watching me piss,” the Apache said. “He tried to run away, but I threw my knife into his leg. He could not run anymore.”

  Valdar walked up to the boy, grabbed him by his chin, and lifted his face up to look in his eyes. “He looks harmless.” Then Valdar suddenly smiled. “Ah, there is a man in Chihuahua that likes boys, and he pays well.” As he looked the young Indian over, he pushed the boy’s head sideways and noticed the scar on his neck. “Hmm, someone tried to finish this one off and they failed. Are you a troublemaker, Papagito?” Valdar lost his smile. “It could be that you are a lucky one. Well, I assure you, your luck has run out.”

  *

  Enrique rode next to Dutton the entire day, leading the new posse into the New Mexico Territory. He liked this Sheriff Dutton, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his steadfast, willing nature or the respect he seemed to show them all. Regardless, it was nice to have the extra man, whose duty fit the same purpose.

  Pang was also glad to have the sheriff along, and believed the man’s desire to help him was now genuine. He understood how difficult it would have been, if not impossible, to show his support back in Tucson. But it was as if the dream of vengeance he had had was now coming true, only in a different fashion than he had wanted. He supposed it did not matter, so long as the end result, the recovery of his sister and fiancée, along with the destruction of Valdar, took place.