by Tony Masero
‘Nope, we’re on our own. I’m laying aside my badge on this one. These people came in my home and hurt my people. I can’t allow that.’
Nate blew air, ‘Phew! Kinda risky.’
The little Mortimer growled for attention, his fingers scrabbling in his beard. ‘It is a good work you intend, a crusade against the ungodly and rescue of the innocent. I would also join you in this venture.’
‘Nate?’ asked Tarfay. ‘What do you think on this?’
Nate shrugged, ‘I don’t know. It’s true these two boys ain’t got long to go on their sentence, I reckon they could be let out under your provenance if it came to it.’
‘What about your hire work? You’ll be out of pocket on that if they come along of me.’
‘You will not worry on this,’ cut in Isabella. ‘Nate will always find others. He is good at making prisoners and the little children are more important.’
‘True enough,’ grinned Nate. ‘Won’t take long before some fool passing through here breaks the law, I’ll see to that even if I have to bend the rules some. You take them, Tarfay, if you reckon it’ll do any good.’
The Ranger turned to Cornpone, ‘What do you say?’
‘Five guns are better than two.’
Tarfay turned back and looked at each man sternly, ‘All right you fellows but you’d better understand one thing. If you’re thinking this is an easy way out of your time here, forget it. You keep up with me and follow orders or I’ll drop any one of you in the desert and leave you out there to die. The Apache is a mean and tough fighter, better not believe otherwise. He’ll outrun you, outfight you and kill you without mercy. As a tactician he is amongst the best in this land, he knows every gully and draw and don’t need no map to find his way around. This is an awesome foe, don’t ever underestimate it. But if you diddle out on me, the Apache is nothing compared to my comeback. Break faith with me and the heaven’s will fall, just you remember that.’
Silence followed Tarfay’s pronouncement and nobody doubted the truth of what he said.
Nate harrumphed politely, ‘Guess it’s time to break out the tequila, honey.’
Chapter Five
Tag had little time to assess his new situation.
His integration into the tribe began almost as soon as he arrived. He was placed under the care of the old women and without any understanding of the language was at a loss as how to behave. The women resolved this quickly with cuff about the ear or a long switch across the rear.
Within days he was introduced to the type of thing that awaited him. From his corner of a wickiup, were he had been kept with only a blanket for company, he was taken with the elderly squaws to collect berries and roots, to hunt rabbits and terrapins, all under their stern direction.
Tag considered making a run for it as the women wandered, scattered amongst the brush, chatting together and hunting down the fruits they prized. The trouble was Tag had no idea where he was and it had been a long and convoluted journey from the Ranger’s home. Without a pony, Tag decided, he would probably starve or die of thirst alone in the vastness of the mountains and prairie. They were far from any settlements; he knew that and being high in the fastness of the mountains there was little hope of him finding his way back. So he stuck it out and took the women’s direction, wandering through the bushes with his basket and picking whatever he was told to.
A week of this palled and Tag was becoming relaxed. He sat it out on the seventh day, bored and taking his ease he hid himself in a grove of oaks whilst feeding on the berries he had so assiduously picked. It struck him suddenly that something was different. No sound of female chattering came on the breeze and getting to his feet he could see none of the bulky long dresses of the old Apache women anywhere. It was a surprise when he suddenly realized he was entirely alone.
For a while, Tag pondered on what to do. He climbed to the top of the rise where they had been working but the landscape was empty and free of any movement. The mountains stretched away from him under a bright blue sky, its upper reaches bare rock and the lower slopes green with scrub and Pinyon pine. It was empty! He searched the hills and the dry pink dust and yellow grasses at the foot of the hills but there was no movement anywhere. Where had they all gone? He wondered. Had he been left behind deliberately? Were they dumping him and leaving him marooned to fend for himself?
Tag was confused; here was his chance to run off if he so cared. But he had no water and the sun was already hot overhead. He went back to where he had last seen the women and remembering Tarfay’s words he searched the ground for sign of their wanderings. He found moccasin prints in the dust, noted dropped berries crushed underfoot and saw where some of the bushes had been picked clean at waist-height, which he knew was the old women’s work and not animals as the elderly ladies did not like bending too low.
Gradually he made out the trail and followed it, they had made their way around the side of the rise and although he expected to find the group on the other side, there was no one in sight. It was rocky here and the trail ended, hidden amongst the scramble of a slide of tumbled scree.
In the earlier wildness of his youthful freedom, Tag had learnt whilst hunting for small game with his .22 how to use the sun’s position to find his way home. He did the same now, remembering when they had left the encampment earlier that the sun had been on his left hand side. Although later in the day now, he knew that if he kept the sun positioned on his right hand side he would be moving in the correct general direction.
Tag made his way through high-sided rock walls and shallow valleys where the stone was burnt the colors of bright yellow and orange by mineral deposits. The wind had worked strange shapes in the soft material and twisted the colorful formations into strange and veering shapes. A soft wind blew here, channeled through the narrow confines of the valley and it fluted strangely over the bored holes and crevices in the stone. It was an eerie sound and Tag was glad he was not making the journey at night but in the daylight all seemed possible and his heart leapt as he found a scattering of dropped berries in his path. He was heading in the right direction! Passing through a forest of giant Saguaro cactus he felt even more confident, he remembered the giant thirty foot cacti as the first thing they had come across when they had left the campsite.
He could smell smoke and as he reached the end of the valley he saw spread below him the stream and the outskirts of the Apache camp. He wandered back in amongst the Indians none of whom paid him any attention and when he reached his wickiup he lifted the covering and went inside to get himself some water. Inside, sat Telkashay cross-legged on the ground and Tag froze in the doorway at sight of the solemn faced chief. Telkashay indicated that he should enter.
‘You have found your way home,’ the chief stated, offering him a small clay bowl of water.
Tag nodded, a little bemused and taking the bowl he swallowed thirstily.
‘Then you have learnt,’ Telkashay went on. ‘This is the way Apache boys discover how to navigate in the mountains and desert. You have done well, white boy, not many of your kind do so well. Maybe you will prove useful to us after all.’
‘You mean you just leave people out there alone like that?’
Telkashay shrugged, ‘You are here. It is well.’
‘I could have died without water,’ said Tag angrily.
‘Be quiet, boy. You are alive and safe, that is all that matters.’
‘Where is my sister?’
Again Telkashay shrugged, ‘I do not know, she is with Shulki’s party. They are to the west somewhere.’
‘I would like to see her again.’
‘Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. You are Chokonen now, nothing else is important. There are things you must learn quickly, white boy. You must learn to ride like a warrior, how to make arrowheads, to shoot with the bow.’
‘Maybe I don’t want none of this,’ grouched Tag.
‘And who should care what you want, this how it will be. Those that do not follow our ways, the oth
ers we have captured who decide this is not to be, you know what happens to them?’
‘You kill them off I suppose.’
‘There is no need to kill them, they do it to themselves. If they have no heart and weep and cry for their old life it is not long before the spirit leaves them and they sicken and die of their own accord. In such a way it is shown if the Great Spirit lives in them, if they have courage and bravery and a strong heart. If not, then what use are they to the Chokonen? It is better that they should die and make room for others who are better than they.’
‘Great choices you allow,’ observed Tag cynically.
Telkashay unfolded himself and climbed lithely to his feet, ‘You will learn,’ he said confidently. ‘And then life will be a pleasure to you again.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Tag muttered to himself.
‘Can you ride?’ asked Telkashay.
‘Sure I can ride.’
‘Without a saddle or bridle?’
‘I’ve done that.’
‘You are very sure of yourself, white boy. I like that, as long as you can live up to it.’
‘I’ll live up to it,’ bragged Tag, the Indian getting under his skin and his more pugnacious attitude coming to the surface.
‘Come then, the young men practice. It is a hard run. You know that we tie them in saddle at four years old so they will learn early. If you can do this you will be on your way to making a warrior.’
As Tag followed him from the wickiup his earlier cockiness gave way to a nudge of concern, he could see long lines of horsemen gathering at the outskirts of the village. The half naked braves milling the ponies and calling to each other in loud excited war cries.
‘You’re half white, ain’t you?’ Tag asked.
Telkashay turned on him swiftly, ‘No,’ he barked. ‘I am Apache.’
‘Then how come you speak English so well?’
Telkashay paused and modified his tone, ‘It is true, my father was white but he is dead and now I am Apache.’
‘Your ma still alive?’
Telkashay shook his head negatively, a touch of sorrow crossing his face.
‘Mine ain’t either and my pa died in the war.’
For the first time Telkashay allowed a brief smile to cross his face, ‘Then we are alike in something. Your father was with the long knife soldiers?’
‘He was with the Confederacy.’
‘Ah! The gray coats. Yes, I see you are a warrior’s son. That is good.’
There were cries of greeting as they approached the group of horse riders and Telkashay spoke rapidly and a gray dappled pony was brought forward. It had no saddle or blanket on its back and only a loop of rope at its nose.
‘This you will ride,’ said Telkashay.
‘And where should I go?’ asked Tag.
‘The older men will form two lines; you shall ride the length between the lines. They will try to knock you from the pony with sticks and maybe stones. To reach the end without falling is the aim.’
‘That it?’ asked Tag doubtfully.
Telkashay quirked a knowing eyebrow, ‘That will be enough. You are as proud and strut as a prairie turkey, white boy. Now you will learn that in reality you are no taller than a lizard that crawls in the grass.’
Tag did not like the sound of that and without a stirrup or handy rock to climb up on he needed help to mount the pony. Telkashay lifted him easily and tossed him aboard and Tag grasped the mane and dangling halter rope.
‘Go, white boy,’ said Telkashay, slapping the gray on the rump. ‘Let us see what you are made of.’
Tag took his place amongst the young men waiting to make the ride. Each of them eyed him suspiciously and Tag replied with a grin, ‘How you doing, fellas? We going to show these old boys how its done or what?’
The teenagers all frowned and whispered to each other, not understanding what the strange white child had said.
There was a loud ululating cry and Tag turned to see that the older men were forming themselves into a ragged double line corridor about thirty feet long and ten feet apart, in the men’s hands they clasped long sturdy clubs and bow staves. Some held rocks and other even brandished tomahawks. All of them looked at the waiting young men with gleams of expectation in their eyes.
Tag pursed his lip, ‘Who gets to go first then?’ he asked nervously.
One bold young fellow, snarled a look of distain at Tag, then with a whoop he kicked his pony into a run. He only made it three feet into the channel of eager warriors before a welt in the face from a hard swung pole knocked him tumbling over the pony’s rump. Tag watched him stagger to his feet as his pony raced off, the boy’s face was streaming with blood and all the older warriors whooped and jeered excitedly.
They were enjoying it, Tag thought. He saw then how the Apache were capable of all the cruelties he had heard tell of them. It was in their culture, this disinterest in personal suffering. How else, he supposed with sudden clarity, could a people survive in this arid and desolate land if they were not hardy.
The next rider made it about half way down the line as he was buffeted by a series of clubs across the shoulders and ribs; it was a thrown stone that brought him down. The rock hitting him in the head and knocking him clean from his seat on the pony’s back.
Tag could wait no longer and with gritted teeth, he urged his pony on. Tag played it smart; he did not ride exactly down the open center path but veered to one side, aiming his pony at the noses of the gathered mounts. He came close, causing the riders to rear back with shouts of irritation.
With a grin of satisfaction, Tag raced on but as he looked ahead he saw that the warrior’s had seen his intention and closed the gap ahead, narrowing the space left to reach safety. He charged on and soon felt the pelt of clubs and stones hitting him from both sides. A thud on the skull caused him to see stars and a poke in the ribs from a bow stave doubled him over. Then he blacked out and the next he knew was that he was lying amongst the dust of fretting hooves and the loud sound of calling braves and squealing ponies.
Shaking his head, Tag wormed his way through the press of ponies and looked around attempting to clear his head and find his mount. He felt the warm trickle of blood on his cheek and a throbbing in his temple but ignored it as he saw the gray, standing with its halter rope dangling. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve and caught up the rope.
Tag’s mind was focused and a stubborn determination to show these redskins just who he was flowed through him. His anger was so strong that he hardly noticed that it took him three tries to launch himself up onto the pony’s back again. Then he whirled the animal around and headed for the line again.
Only two other young men were waiting still mounted, the others either lay out cold or were staggering away with bloody wounds, one looked like he was cradling a broken arm.
The three boys stared at each other, none of them was the better for it, each had lumps and scratches, bruises and bloody cuts. The warriors with urgent shouts and curses were calling them on; the men’s blood was up and to Tag’s eye they looked even more dangerous than when he had first attempted the line. A body could get killed here, he thought.
With a wailing cry, the first of his compatriots rode in and Tag watched him disappear amongst a flurry of sticks and fists. The boy was a third of the way when they downed him.
Tag looked across at his last companion, who was a boy about his own age with one eye closed shut by swelling. He was a smooth faced and handsome young man and Tag knew he would not get far with his vision impaired. He leant over and indicated that they should ride together, side by side and that he would guide both ponies. At first the boy balked at the idea, it was unheard of for two to risk the line together.
The Tag tilted his head and shrugged as if to say – what the hell? We ain’t going anywhere anyway. The boy smiled and nodded agreement.
Together they set off, hanging low on their pony’s necks and barging forward into the noisy melee ahead. The charge was a relative su
ccess and they were three quarters of the way when Tag saw his partner hooked from his ride, he rode on a few more yards before a blanket was thrown in his face and he too was dragged down.
The contest was over and with much whooping and cries of glee, the warriors circled, encouraging the beaten young men to rise and make their way back to camp.
Hobbling, with one arm under his half blinded and stunned partner, Tag stumbled towards the stream his dry throat crying out for a cool drink. Strangely, he felt the relief of survival surge through him and aching though he was he almost laughed aloud at the pleasure it gave him.
Tag was to discover more about the lifestyle of the Apache as the days passed. They did not live by any set code of conduct but there were parameters set by custom and stepping outside those patterns of behavior meant being ostracized or worse. Telkashay had the last word and was supreme in all decisions but it was still his duty to show consideration towards the band, he would see that they were well fed and the weakest were attended to amongst the loosely knitted family groups that came together to form the band. He would settle arguments and broker arrangements but if a family disagreed they were free to leave without redress.
There were around seventy-five people in this group of Chokonen and they prized their raided ponies that were a main source of value for hunting and trade. A stoic people normally appearing stolid and cheerless, amongst their own kind they could become lively and voluble. As Tag was promoted to join the other young men in guarding the herd, he was able to pick up more of their tongue. Particularly from the young man he had ridden the final charge with, a boy called Chevato.
Through stilted conversation with the boy, Tag discovered that the chief, Shulki was a fierce and respected warrior chief. That he often raided into Mexico and held a strong resentment against the Mexicans, in the same manner as Telkashay did, it was a long-standing feud fueled by the suffering imposed on Shulki as a child. His raids across the border were savage affairs and resulted in much vengeful animosity from the Mexican authorities, each side vying to bring about the end of the other by the most vicious of methods. Shulki, it proved, was not above the harshest of cruelties and all the bitterness engrained in him as a result of the suffering experienced in his youth had fed his adult life and he now carried these acts of barbarism into the oncoming tide of white settlers that invaded his land from the north and east.