The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  “I wanted to ask her name,” explained Aditsan to Kuruk, “but she was skittish, and a crack of a branch not far away sent her scurrying.”

  Before the old man could say anything, they were joined by two warriors, Bidzill and Tarak. Both wore stern expressions. Bidzill was a large man with a strong jaw, Tarak was taller and lanky and closer to Kuruk’s age. They bent low when they approached, and seated themselves so they were out of view, and could also watch the Spaniards below.

  Bidzill gestured at them with his chin.

  “Tarak just returned from the valley,” said Bidzill. “He said those two have been causing trouble.”

  “They are strange men,” said Kuruk. “What were they up to?”

  A darkness descended over Tarak’s features. “They tortured an old woman—and several people are missing.”

  “An old woman?” asked Kuruk, not believing his ears. “Why would they do that?”

  Tarak shrugged and placed a log on the fire.

  “And who is missing?” asked Kuruk.

  Bidzill held the old man’s eyes. “My niece, and a young man.”

  Kuruk nodded, “See what they’re here for,” said Kuruk. “But do not engage.”

  Bidzill was about to protest, but Kuruk held up his hand, and said, “When we rush into things only death comes of it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The brothers followed Oak Creek, now heading downstream, again. For the last few days Cristóbal had marched them back and forth as he tried to orientate himself and apply what the old woman had told him.

  Her information puzzled him. At first, she had refused to say anything, even when beaten. But then her eyes had changed, and she began talking; as if, for some inexplicable reason, she suddenly wanted him to find the treasure.

  Her gaze haunted him; it was as if she knew something important that he didn’t. And that feeling stayed with him as he led his mule along a game trail that skirted the creek.

  Both Cristóbal and Alonso moved cautiously now, solemnly scanning the cliff tops, which seemed to lean inward, their steep slopes now covered with ponderosa pines in place of the stunted piñons of the lower desert. The desert plants had all vanished, and the icy blast of wind that occasionally roared down the canyon had them yearning for the hot temperatures further south.

  “Cristóbal… hermano,” pleaded Alonso, “why are we dragging ourselves through this wilderness? We should be where there are active mines—I heard two fugitives discovered an incredible lode near Chihuahua City.”

  “Si,” sighed Cristóbal, “I am aware of that find.”

  “And in Sinaloa there are many Spaniards! If we stayed there we would have protection,” continued Alonso. He remembered their last stay in a Spanish home upon first arriving in Mexico: The soft lights over the long table, maids baking tortillas on the charcoal stoves and dealing them out, dogs under the table, hoping to score some scraps.

  But Cristóbal´s mind was somewhere else. He spat as he thought of a yellowish roll of parchment, wrapped in buckskin, that he had purchased from a servant in Mexico City. It contained official correspondence between the Jesuits and their headquarters.

  “Sure,” he said patiently, “there are thousands of Spaniards in Sinaloa, but the Jesuits there send their disciples to seek out the minerals in the area. So much of the gold panned from placers in that watershed is made into candelabras and other religious ornaments for the churches.”

  “Still,” said Alonso, “they say there are a lot of gold nuggets there—mucho oro bruto!”

  Cristóbal spat again. A vast treasure had been described in the parchment: Six muleloads of minted silver reales, three chandeliers of beaten gold, several crates of silver chalices, a gold baptismal urn… the list went on and on. It was treasure! Tesoro! And the church simply claimed most of it.

  “I will not let those bastardos get this treasure!” he hissed. “Not my treasure. Not this time.”

  What made him equally angry was how treasures also ended up in the hands of the noble Spanish families who had never lifted a shovel or feared for their lives in the hunt for it.

  He had seen their heirlooms: silver mugs, spoons and platters, and washbasins, all made of solid silver. He’d even heard of one man who owned his own hand-press for coining silver reales.

  Someday he would be so rich that he need not care what they thought or did. Even nobility would then be beneath him.

  A rock skipped down the east wall of the canyon, and its echo filled the morning.

  “Not so anxious to take off your helmet now, eh?” Cristóbal teased.

  Alonso looked scared. “We are not alone.”

  Cristóbal nodded in response; they continued in silence.

  Soon, they stopped at a fork in the creek. The main stream continued, but a smaller tributary flowed in from the right, emerging from an even narrower, high-walled canyon.

  Cristóbal surveyed the confluence and squinted his eyes, trying to see what lay beyond the narrow entry.

  He said, “We separate here.”

  He began to divide their gear, leaving the two burros and most of the supplies with Alonso. “I will explore this fork, you follow the main creek, going upstream, until you summit on the plateau.”

  Alonso began to protest, but his older brother cut him off. “Obey me, Alonso. Go to the top of the canyon. Search any side canyons you encounter on the way—and then return to this point. You will be fine.”

  “But how do we meet up again?” Alonso asked. “What if you’re not here?”

  Cristóbal scratched his chin. “Be here for the next full moon.”

  Alonso furrowed his brow, “I don’t like this place. “

  Cristóbal chuckled at his uneasiness.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” Alonso shouted. “I hear things all around us!”

  “It is all in your mind,” said Cristóbal.

  “No,” Alonso insisted. “I hear singing.”

  Cristóbal lifted the string of scalps and said, “Do you want to take these? Maybe they’ll scare away these sirens you keep hearing?”

  He tossed the scalps at his brother. They landed by his feet where he gaped at them. “I think it’s been too long since you bedded a woman,” chided Cristóbal.

  “Don’t play with me, hermano! I know you feel something, too,” cried Alonso.

  Cristóbal stared at his brother, hard, without uttering a word.

  Finally, he said, “What you sense is my treasure, and I will not leave without it.”

  Then he reassured his brother. “You’ll be fine.”

  He slapped Alonso’s mule and it moved upstream.

  He shouted after him, “You will wait for me here, by this fork. If I’m not here for the full moon, stick around for a few days, then come back in a month.”

  Alonso’s face rippled with dread. “In another month?” he whispered in disbelief.

  As he rode away, he heard his brother yell, “Keep your powder dry and your breastplate on!”

  Reluctantly, Alonso continued up the main canyon. His eyes darted across the cliff tops, and when a raven cawed near him he jerked and sent his mule hopping forward.

  * * *

  Bidzill watched the two Spaniards separate by the confluence, and when they were barely out of sight he inspected their campsite. Tarak was with him, and he whistled low when he discovered the scalps.

  “Indeh,” said Tarak. “Our people—looks like they did more than just hurt an old woman.”

  One of the scalps had beadwork woven into a braid, and after inspecting it, Bidzill sank to the ground. His eyes teared up. This was his niece´s braid.

  He screamed, not caring whether the Spaniards heard him.

  Kuruk listened to the two braves when they returned to his fire.

  “The mean one has turned off into the West Fork,” he said. “He cannot leave that way this time of year—there is too much ice and snow at the other end.”

  Kuruk exhaled. “That is true—follow him from the high tra
il. When he returns to Oak Creek you can kill him.”

  A silence descended over Bidzill and Tarak. Bidzill stared at the fire for a long moment before lifting the scalp and holding it before Kuruk.

  “I will have vengeance,” he said.

  The old man nodded. “Yes,” he began, “you will. But the Spaniard heads into the land of the witch. If you see her, you will die soon.”

  Bidzill scoffed. “I am not afraid of witches.”

  Kuruk lowered his gaze. He could not share with Bidzill what his wife had told him just before her passing. A warning was all he could give.

  “Be patient,” he said, “follow him and observe—your time will come. But do not descend to the canyon floor.”

  Bidzill nodded obediently, but as his eyes peered deep into the fire’s coals he was shaking.

  * * *

  Cristóbal walked up a slender canyon, a frozen creek cutting through its floor. Far above, dense gray clouds heralded a change in the weather.

  The canyon wended its way ever deeper into the plateau, and it seemed colder here than Oak Creek. No sunshine reached the icy ground.

  The serpentine trail beneath them led along walls rising steeply to long slopes which climbed all the way to the plateau’s edge.

  From side canyons, and drainages, a steady flow of ice clung to the rocks. A few times he came across a frozen pool and wondered if there would be fish lurking in the cold darkness below the ice.

  The footing was treacherous, so he walked in front of the mule, wondering if he should have left the animal behind. But of course, without the mule he’d be carrying the load now fastened to the saddle.

  It was only mid-afternoon, but the sun had left the sky overhead, and a sharp coldness had descended. His footsteps, and those of the mule, echoed in the crisp, cold air.

  And then he heard more footsteps. They seemed to come from just around the bend ahead.

  He stopped. “Show yourself!” he shouted. No answer came.

  As he stood listening he could clearly hear steps echoing, and then distant singing.

  He turned the bend, but there was nothing there.

  He yelled, “Coward!” and the word echoed right back at him.

  By his feet something sparkled. He bent down to pick up what looked like a gold coin, frozen under the ice.

  He grabbed his pick and was about to strike when he heard a hissing sound.

  Cristóbal stood and scanned the canyon. But there was no one. The high walls were only twenty paces apart now, and there was nowhere a person could hide.

  He took off his helmet and pricked up his ears. Faintly, he heard it again, coming from below. He knelt and placed his ear close to the icy ground—and heard whispering.

  And then the dark sandstone walls wailed, as if they were in terrible pain. He jumped to his feet, then shook his head to snap out of this mad hallucination. Was he losing his sanity?

  Suddenly the sky was black. A wet snow came down, soaking the red walls and giving them a deep crimson color.

  He put his helmet on and quickly headed deeper into the canyon, forgetting the gold coin.

  * * *

  From a trail that followed the higher ground, Bidzill observed Cristóbal’s progress. Tarak crouched beside him with a young warrior, Nitis, who fidgeted in place, eager to prove himself.

  Below, the Spaniard advanced slowly, picking his way through the icy landscape. His armor was impractical here, and when he slipped and fell, the clang of steel on ice reverberated throughout the canyon.

  The Apaches on the high trail had the sun on their side. They were out of the shadows and welcomed the warm rays that had already melted the snow around them.

  But Bidzill was still anxious to reap his vengeance. He watched Cristóbal, hoping at every turn that he would finally turn around and return to Oak Creek.

  And then a young warrior approached on the high trail, coming from deeper in the West Fork, and Bidzill feared instantly the man’s presence would alert the Spaniard below.

  He motioned for him to crouch and stay out of sight.

  When the man got closer Bidzill wasn’t surprised to see it was Aditsan. A quick glance showed that while Bidzill had been distracted, the Spaniard had moved out of sight.

  Bidzill ordered Nitis to scout ahead and see what the Spaniard was up to.

  “What are you doing here?” he snapped at Aditsan.

  Aditsan squirmed but held his tongue.

  Bidzill looked into Aditsan’s eyes. “The old man doesn’t like anyone going into the West Fork.”

  Aditsan shook his head. “Only the canyon where the witch lives is taboo, and nobody even knows if she is real. I saw no witch—only a beautiful girl. She smiled at me.”

  Bidzill shook his head. “You better not mess this up for me—the Spaniard must die.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A narrow tunnel blocked his way. Well, not completely. Cristóbal laid on the ice, staring down it. There was just enough space for a man to crawl between the ice and the passage ceiling. When the water wasn’t frozen, he imagined one could just wade through, but now he would have to scramble if he wanted to explore the canyon further.

  The mule would have to remain behind. He would reconnoiter the canyon on the other side of the tunnel, then return to the mule and make camp for the night.

  A cold wind rushed at him across the ice.

  Cristóbal paused to make a torch using materials from the mule’s saddlebag, and then lit it with his flint. Then he grabbed his pistol, rifle and powder horn, and began sliding up the tunnel on his back, propelling himself along by kicking off the ceiling.

  This was awkward and slow, especially with the torch, but at least in the darkness of the tunnel the flickering flame provided just enough light to see.

  It was spooky in here. Every sound echoed loudly around him, each movement seemed to create enough noise to wake the dead.

  About halfway through, the lambent light illuminated a hole in the tunnel´s ceiling: the entrance to a small cave, it seemed. The opening was too small for even a small man without armor to fit through. Cristóbal stuck his torch into the hole and could see that the ceiling of the cave was filled with hibernating bats.

  He continued, and was almost out of the tunnel, when he heard the ice crack. Cristóbal knew he was going to get wet. He held the torch up in one hand and his rifle in the other, and the ice gave way.

  The frigid water seemed to suck all the oxygen out of his lungs, and he gasped for air. He frantically kicked and twisted, trying to keep torch and gun above water.

  The water wasn’t deep, nevertheless all but his head and hands went under before he found his feet.

  He staggered through the broken ice, out of the creek, lifting the torch and gun above him.

  Shivering violently, he stuck the torch into a snowbank, and desperately looked around for dry tinder. He grabbed an armful of debris left by monsoon floods in the bushes around him, set it on a flat rock, and then put fire to it.

  His body was going numb as the dry faggots took and began to crackle. He rubbed his pale hands over it. The armor had been cold before it got wet, but now it chilled him to the bone, and he reluctantly took off his breastplate.

  Lying next to the fire, he praised his luck on having a torch with him. He didn’t know if he would have survived the crawl back to the mule, and then making a fire, if he hadn’t.

  The sun made a rare appearance, and he lay back, trying to control his breathing as his body slowly warmed.

  He closed his eyes. The wind rushed above him, and on its wings he thought he could hear someone singing, very softly.

  He opened his eyes slightly and looked around, but he saw nobody and closed them again.

  Suddenly, a dull thud hit his shoulder, immediately followed by a sharp pain. An arrow pierced his flesh, and he screamed. His eyes scanned the cliff tops in panic. He could see a man scampering to get a better shot, and others behind him.

  Up top, Bidzill announced proud
ly that it was his arrow that hit the Spaniard.

  Arrows landed all around Cristóbal as he scurried for cover.

  He stumbled, and almost fell, when another penetrated his leg.

  “Puta!” he screamed.

  He huddled behind a jumble of boulders. He ignored the arrows protruding from him and checked his guns. The black powder rifle was still dry, but the pistol was soaked. He stuffed it inside his belt, where he wouldn’t lose it.

  Thankfully, the powder horn, which hanging from a cord around his neck, was sealed.

  He began loading the rifle with shaking hands and stiff fingers.

  At first Bidzill had only intended to harass Cristóbal from above, but when his arrow struck home he found himself unable to hold back. He would have his revenge.

  Tarak and Nitis were just as anxious and followed him without a second thought. Moving like goats down the slopes of the canyon, the braves closed in quickly.

  Bidzill taunted Aditsan, “This is your chance to be a man, Aditsan.”

  Aditsan reluctantly followed but looked miserable. When Bidzill teased him again, Nitis sprinted past them and took the lead.

  Bidzill glared at Aditsan. “If you cost me his scalp, I will beat you,” he threatened. Aditsan stepped up his pace.

  Cristóbal had barely finished loading as they were upon him.

  He shot Tarak in the stomach and the warrior staggered backwards.

  Then he turned to locate Nitis coming from behind. He smashed him in the head with the butt of the riffle, and the young man crumbled. There was smoke everywhere.

  Bidzill and Aditsan retreated, fading into the rocks.

  Cristóbal took two quick steps toward Tarak, pulling his knife out on the way, and quickly finished him off.

  He grinned fiercely, turned, and hastily limped up the canyon, towards cover. On the ice, he left a trail of blood drops.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The sun stayed hidden the next day, as snow fell on the plateau above the canyons to the north. Every now and then a grey-bellied cloud spilled over the plateau´s edge and drifted through the narrow canyon with a trail of flurries.