by Don Dewey
Session 8
The next morning started out for Kenneth exactly as each day did. Today however, his host seemed agitated. Something about the story of the day bothers him.
“More about our Roman today, or our Inuit friend?” Kenneth asked in a light bantering tone. His aim was to irritate without bringing retribution on himself.
His host looked at him with eyes that headed off any other comment. “Close. He is an Indian.”
Automatically, having come to adulthood in the world of the seventies and eighties, Kenneth corrected him. “You mean Native American.”
Stepping up to his captive quickly, the host lifted him easily from his seat, holding him high. “Some mornings you test me. I’m not in the mood today, Kenneth. Be silent, and just listen. Am I clear?”
Kenneth nodded ascent.
Setting him down roughly in his chair again, his host continued. “Today, I have to tell you about another unique man, and one of whom I am not overly fond. Nonetheless, he is a Pure, and his story is interwoven into our lives. It must be told. His name is that of legend, and he is a fascinating person from any point of view. His tale starts in the Old West of your United States.
His name is Goyahkla, but you may recognize him by his most famous name, Geronimo. Of all the Pures of whom I have knowledge, none heal or recover like Geronimo. None!”
Chapter 27
Goyahkla
He was born in what is now New Mexico, part of the Bedonkohe Apache tribe, in June of 1829. His Chiricahua name was Goyahkla. He looked every bit the Apache, and applied himself to the skills of his people. Along the way he had wives, children, and realized that he was going to live a longer life than expected. History, as recorded, says that he lived eighty years: a very long life for a man of his times and passions.
He tried to live at peace with the white men, and with the Mexicans, as did many of the other Indian nations. But it was not to be.
Goyahkla and three braves, warriors close to him, had just returned to the camp, and he went to see his wife. He loved his family and was devoted to his wife and children. He did not show affection as the pale people did, but his sons knew he loved them. His wife knew it also, with no doubt whatsoever. He entered the tent, and his sons greeted him, then ran out to give their parents some privacy. Goyahkla would remember this day for many, many years.
In fact, he would never forget it, not one tiny detail of it. He made love to his wife and it was sweet. The memory of the catch in her breath, the exquisite touch of her fingers on his skin, and the delight in her eyes as they lay together would always be with him. For some reason they lay and held each other for a long time afterwards, still and quiet. Ever practical, he finally said to her, “The Mexicans are close, and I don’t trust them. Be wary as we go to the town today. Perhaps I should not go at all.”
She looked at him strangely with her captivating eyes. “Would you let them think you fear them? You fear no one, and should do what you have planned. We’ll watch with care, my husband.”
He caressed her as he spoke softly to her. “My brave woman. You shame me. I’ll go, but we’ll be back tonight. Watch the boys. They think they’re grown men, but they’re still boys.”
He rose and left, gathering his men with him to head out.
While Goyahkla and other men from his camp were in the local town trading, four hundred Mexicans under the command of Colonel Jose Maria Carrasco attacked the camp, slaughtering everyone still in the camp: the women, children, and the elderly. Goyahkla lost his wife, all three sons, and even his mother in that raid. The experience instilled in him a deep and abiding hatred for Mexicans. He would never forget, and maybe never forgive. Longevity has its benefits and curses: this was both.
He rode into the camp, realizing that all had died, and raised his knife and his face to the heavens and screamed out in Apache, with a voice aching with both anger and pain, “Sishxéná: I will kill him!”
He would never forget that day. When he returned to the camp he had found it burned, his family and tribe butchered. The signs were easy to read, and they hadn’t tried to hide who they were. Mexicans!
It was also on that day that he set out to find them and exact retribution. While he and his braves didn’t find the large group that had massacred their families, his band found a sizable group from the Mexican army and attacked them without hesitation. As Goyahkla led the charge, he felt the massive thrust of the lead pierce his shoulder and whip him sideways, but on he charged. Before they joined in combat with their enemies he felt another bullet pass through his left leg, and still he urged his pony onward in his charge. His pony was shot from under him, and still he charged. It would have been easy for others to believe he was never hit. The precision of the rifles and pistols used was not great, and the skill of the relatively untrained soldiers was equally poor. On top of that, it was always more difficult when the target was moving and trying to kill you. Combat made many too twitchy with their weapons.
While running was excruciating and jagged, he led his braves on foot, and when he reached the enemy, his knives were slicing and stabbing as he danced through their lines, dropping bodies behind him like scythed grain. His warriors bravely followed him, though many of them died. When they were done, not a Mexican was left alive, and Goyahkla was bloodied badly. His braves thought the blood was from others, for he walked with them through the field, cutting the throats of any Mexican who might be unfortunate enough to still be breathing. He left the scalping and trophy collecting to his men. He just wanted the lives of these murderers of women and children.
Often he would lead his followers into battle against any nearby Mexicans, leaving none alive. He became ruthless in his war against them. They’d taken everything he held dear from him, and he could never exact enough revenge for the lives of his wife and sons.
His chief, Mangas Coloradas, sent him to the band of another famous warrior, Cochise. There he was to continue the Apache fight for revenge against the Mexicans. It was there that he got his new name. There is much confusion about how it came about, but during the battle he was absolutely fearless, and led charge after charge against the Mexicans, in the face of their gunfire, and was never hit. He attacked with a knife, and did great damage, both to their numbers, as he killed many, and to their morale, as they couldn’t touch him. After that fight he was called, Geronimo. His name became a universal call for “charge,” and a charge into overwhelming odds. It was a shout of courage. He was proud of that. What almost nobody knew was that he had indeed been hit during those fights. Bullets had struck, but he kept going. They never put him down. He healed so fast his own warriors didn’t know he’d been wounded. The blood he always wore following a raid was assumed to be that of the Mexicans and whites he’d killed. He loved his blades, and killed mostly hand to hand, with his knives. He believed he should look at his opponent, face to face, when he took his life.
His closest warriors eventually knew why he couldn’t be stopped. Shoot him, and still he fought. Run a sword through him, as one soldier did, and still he fought. They believed he was unkillable, and the greatest war leader who had ever been born. They weren’t far from the truth in those grandiose claims. Geronimo apparently could not be killed. He was tough, and smart. He intuitively understood strategies and elements which would most likely defeat the enemy. He gathered his braves, and they set out to damage the pale faced invaders and the hated Mexicans. He had no cause but his people, and he watched as the white-eyes pushed them from their lands, forcing them to live on small, contained areas. He would not.
Between 1858 and 1886, Geronimo became famous for being unkillable, unstoppable, and uncatchable. Well, he was caught, but never held. He always escaped. People never saw the wounds, and he always healed.
Chapter 28
Goyahkla’s Death
One of the more famous episodes in the life and times of Goyahkla, or Geronimo, was a pivotal point in his life. It began his journey to the twentieth century. It occurred in th
e Robledo Mountains of southwest New Mexico. He and his braves entered a cave to evade the soldiers pursuing them. Troops dug in to wait him out. Finally this mad, murdering Indian would be theirs. Yet days later, they still waited. He didn’t come out. Finally the unit commander had enough of waiting, and he ordered his men into the cave. They searched, but found nothing.
Later, in another place, Geronimo rose up again, and he finally did surrender. He was famous, and his fame gave him an unusual pulpit from which to preach for the good of his people; and preach he did. He encouraged them to embrace Christianity, and to live in peace. He wrote his version of the history he had helped create. He was a changed man from the days when he’d fought and killed so many.
That was Geronimo later in life – truly a different Geronimo in every way. But the Geronimo back in the cave in the Robledo Mountains told his braves they must slip out through a hidden way. He assured them that he would join them later. One of them he kept with him, and to this man alone he entrusted his story. “I cannot be killed by bullets or arrows. You must become me, and continue our fight. My day is over; I’m dying. I will die here, in this cave.”
The other brave was mystified, and asked many questions. “You are now Geronimo. Lead the warriors, and surrender before you’re all killed. You can’t win against the sea of Whites and Mexicans, but do not die. Our people must live on. I’ll show you how to become me.”
The sly warrior used paints and dyes to change the looks of the man he’d chosen. The man was already about the right size, and looked a lot like his war chief. He was already the tallest man in the tribe after Geronimo, and that in itself would help the illusion. Geronimo didn’t allow him to eat for days – only water was offered. He lost weight and so became more the size of Geronimo, changed his facial lines in tiny ways with dye, and to a casual observer, ‘became” Geronimo.
“But our people will know.” This man was leaving his life for his war leader. Geronimo was not a chief, but the greatest of warriors, and the greatest of war leaders. He would do as Geronimo said, though it cost him all.
Geronimo stood back and appraised the new look of this brave and loyal man he was re-making. “Perhaps, perhaps not, but they will accept you as me. They want a leader, they need a leader, and so they’ll see you as that leader – as Geronimo. I have great confidence in you, that you’ll lead them as you should, and that you’ll fight until you can’t fight. Be ruthless with them at first. If one speaks out against you and opposes you, kill him quickly. They would expect that of me, and you must do it. Don’t sacrifice all their lives by being soft. At some point, and only you can decide when, you must yield to the pale-faced ones. They are too many.” Days later, after indoctrinating his brave as much as he could in the time available, before the troopers gave up waiting and searched the caves, they left. Geronimo however, slipped back in, sought out a small, private part of the caves, sealed himself in it with rocks no individual should have been able to maneuver, and lay down to sleep. He did not wake up the next morning.
In the imposter’s later years he became philosophical and did some writing, some public speaking, and lived out Geronimo’s life to the fullest. He even took wives in his Geronimo persona, making nine the total number of wives the great warrior was credited to have had. He died as Geronimo, while the real Geronimo lay at peace in his cave. The warrior now known as Geronimo had a life that was broader and greater than it could possibly have been otherwise. He was younger than Geronimo, so people believed Geronimo’s great strength and vigor gave him eight decades of life – an amazing feat in that era. The world was amazed that this great, strong warrior of a man, an Apache of Apaches, lived eighty years, truly a long life. They would have been astonished to know the truth.
Chapter 29
Goyahkla’s Return
In 1923, Geronimo woke up, a bit stunned that his intuitive leap had worked and that he still lived. He’d been tired of his life filled with fighting and bloodshed, and he had fully expected to die, but hoped for a different outcome. He shook off the dust of the cave, and walked out to this new world, feeling reinvigorated from his long “sleep.” Eventually he determined that he’d skipped close to forty years.
He found that while many of his people lived on reservations, many did not. And while they weren’t completely accepted into this United States of America, they were “kind of” accepted. They could work, earn, own, and live among the whites he had come to hate. Many Mexicans were around as well, and he wasn’t as tolerant of them as he was of the whites.
After his first altercation with some Mexicans, in a town just a few hours from where he had once lived, he was arrested for killing three Mexican men in a fight that had required very little provocation. His hatred was almost controllable at this point, but still seethed under the surface. It had taken just one shove and remark about this “Indian getting out of the way of good folk,” to set him off like a hot kettle breaking into a boil. The three offenders were knifed to death before they really knew what was happening. They had not met an Apache, in their day, anything like Geronimo. His enthusiasm for life was back, and his anger was still very strong.
The young sheriff had two others with him, all holding rifles. “You’ve got to come with us, Mister. If you don’t we’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Geronimo considered attacking them too, but they had done nothing. “Why? So you can hang me?”
“You’ll get a trial, which is more than those three got. Either way, you’ve got to come with us.”
The sheriff was just a boy, and Geronimo had no desire to kill him. He was locked in a jail cell – a cage such as he’d been locked in many times. But he had always escaped. This time would no different. “Sheriff, I need some water!” He watched the young man fill a cup from the basin on his desk and bring it over. “You seem kind enough. How did you get to be the lawman here?”
“Somebody had to do it, and I’m pretty quick with a gun. I really will try to get you a trial. It’s not easy to do. The judge who comes through every few months thinks it’s a waste of time to hear an Indian or a Mexican.” He handed him the cup. The town wasn’t great in size, but the law keeper’s house was finer than any building Geronimo had known, while still rough in a solid, western way. As the man warily slid the cup of water between the bars, Geronimo seized him with lightning speed and jerked him hard against the bars, rendering him unconscious. He was far faster than the young jailer could possibly have anticipated. It was a simple matter to take the keys from him as he lay unconscious and leave the cell. Before he left, he looked at the unconscious young man and wondered what he should do to his former jailer. Geronimo had seen too much bloodshed and death, and desired a different life now. He sat the man up, a boy really, not unlike his own dead sons. He would cause no harm to this boy, so he arranged his body to make sure he wouldn’t choke to death, and stepped out into his new life.
He took his old name, Goyahkla, because he found that none knew it. He sought out someone on the reservation near his old haunts who could teach him English. She was a warm, intelligent woman. She marveled at his archaic Apache dialect. Her name was Ohma. Her petite stature belied her great inner strength and insight. She was Apache, through and through. Her long black hair, braided down her back, and her strong chiseled features still left her attractive. In Geronimo she saw character, strength, and real power.
He found some basic manual labor to do for enough money to get by on, and spent many evenings speaking with Ohma and learning from her. She had much more to teach him than a new language. She taught him history, which amazed him. He found that “he” had died in 1909, and that this was 1923. He learned of the life finished off by his loyal follower from the cave those many years ago. He decided that the man had done him justice, and that his decision had been the right one. The man had even turned to the Christian faith, and Geronimo filed that away to look at later.
He studied history with a vengeance, and his keen mind took in every discipline Ohma was w
illing and able to teach him.
His English became “more good,” as he said early on, and his hatred slowly burned down, like the last embers of a hot fire, cooling as the fire aged. There was much to live for, and he chose to not live for revenge any longer. Eventually he married Ohma, and she bore him a son, Elihas. Their life was good.
Geronimo knew they couldn’t stay there for too many years. Already his wife seemed older than he, and there was still much he would learn in this wide world that his beloved Ohma couldn’t teach him. Her strong Apache bloodlines gave her a naturally youthful appearance, which was very helpful.
He had tried to tell Ohma his real story, but each time he did she was sure he was joking. “Husband, sometimes I think you hit your head on your way to me. You simply can’t be that old. We will grow old together, and our life until then will be good.”
But Ohma, what of the dialect I spoke when I first met you? What of the details of history that I know which aren’t in the books? I am that old. Do you wish to know my name from that time?”
“No. I want you to stop this nonsense. I love you here and now, and we won’t speak of the past.” Her eyes challenged him, and he backed down. Often he thought she knew, but didn’t want to acknowledge that truth.
They moved to Chicago, and started a new life there. He had become a fine craftsman, and built quality furniture to support them. He was an expert with blades, after all, including his wood carving knives and planes. Their son Elihas went to college nearby, the same school his father attended at night. Both had great intelligence, and a hunger for knowledge which rivaled Geronimo’s length of years. Geronimo and Elihas spent many nights discussing and arguing philosophy, science and world views.