by Brian Hodge
All except for one. A Navajo boy—Amos's grandfather.
According to what Amos's grandfather had said about that night, the killers had appeared as though they were ghosts. They were dressed in blue, he said. And quiet. The wind made more sound than the blue men. As best anyone could figure out, the Navajos and townspeople had been killed by Union soldiers. They were probably deserters from General George Crook's army, headed for Mexico.
Still, no one could ever figure out how the soldiers had managed to catch the Navajos unaware. Guards were always posted. If any of the soldiers had been killed, no one had ever found any evidence of it.
The Right Reverend Jebediah Crowder and his band of followers had been the ones to find the massacre. They too had been on their way to Mexico to spread the Lord's word to those godless Mexicans, as Jebediah was fond of saying. The carrion birds had pointed the way to the dead from high in the sky for a day before anyone knew what had happened.
When the reverend and his people arrived, they found dead bodies strewn everywhere and the town burned to the ground. They searched in vain for survivors.
They had been stacking the dead like cordwood in the open pit when they had found one who was still breathing, a boy trapped beneath his dead mother. That was, of course, Amos's grandfather. The reverend and his followers took it as a sign that they should stop there and rebuild the town. A sign from the Lord, Jebediah was quoted as saying. Old Scratch would not have his way as long as the reverend was there to fight him.
Now all that remained from that long ago day was a white cross inscribed by old Jebediah Crowder, himself, that said simply: Washed in the blood of the Lamb. And of course, the Frontier Days celebration that Crowder Flats threw every year to commemorate the rebuilding of the town.
In moonlight the color of blued steel, Amos looked around the desolate spot high on the mesa, at the Joshua trees that raised their twisted, spiked arms to the white man's heaven, at the cross of Jesus. All for the white man. But what of the red man, what of the murdered Navajos who were buried here? Did their spirits rest easy? Amos thought not.
The huge mass grave was surrounded by a rock wall that was falling down in spots. Amos was the only caretaker the place had ever had, and even he didn't like coming out here. The wind blew constantly in this place, a high keening sound that spooked him if he stayed very long. He kicked Amanda in the ribs to hurry her along.
There was business to take care of.
Tonight was not just another trip to Chester Roberts' ranch to chase off a few horses. Chester was gone on a stock-buying trip to Dallas and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. That meant Bobby was in charge of the ranch. And that meant the Ridgebacks would be running loose. They were only supposed to be used for keeping the coyotes away from the stock during calving season, but that wasn't the reason Bobby had talked his father into buying the huge attack dogs. The boy was pissed at Amos.
Jesse had told Amos that the kids at school had laughed at Bobby because Amos, who was only an old drunken Indian, had chased off Chester's horses. It made Bobby look foolish in the eyes of classmates, especially Amy Warrick.
To make matters worse, Jesse said someone had let out a war whoop when Bobby had entered algebra class. And someone else had drawn a picture of a scalped Bobby on the blackboard.
That night Amos and Jesse had sat in their old trailer laughing, and Amos felt that for a moment that Jesse had been proud of him.
Instead of ashamed.
Soon Jesse wouldn't have to be ashamed of his grandfather.
Amos, in his drunken logic, had determined he would make one last raid on Chester Roberts' ranch, and this time he intended to die. The guard dogs would see to that. He had seen the animals, huge black-and-brown brutes that could tear a coyote to pieces. Or a man. There were five of them roaming the grounds.
Being a full-blooded Navajo who no longer quite believed in the old ways, Amos was determined to die in the old way.
In battle.
In his mind's eye, he saw the fight with the guard dogs as the only way to die with honor. The two bottles of Jack Daniel's he had consumed tonight played a big part in his decision. He was ready for battle. Daubed across his face were a few streaks of red war paint that had come from an old lipstick tube he had taken from Amanda Oliveros ten years ago. Tied around his neck was a razor-sharp machete. Tied to his saddle was his war charm necklace, which consisted of obsidian, red beans, a yellow bird's head, and two black eagle feathers. He had brought the only other things that meant something to him: his horse, Amanda, and his dog, Custer. They would accompany him on his journey to the next world.
Another ten minutes and a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel's brought Amos to Chester Roberts' place. He studied the ranch from high on the hill, looking for the dogs.
They didn't seem to be running loose. Maybe he had been wrong about Bobby. Maybe the boy wouldn't turn the dogs loose on him.
Everything looked normal. The horses stood sleeping in the corral. A single light on a pole burned down by the bunkhouse, attaching long shadows to everything, but the main house was dark. This was Saturday night and that meant everyone was over at Jake Rainwater's place, drinking and dancing, shooting pool, maybe playing some cards in the back.
Still, there would be at least one hand here. Chester never left the ranch deserted.
Time to make a little noise.
Amos opened the corral gate and rode in among the sleeping animals. A sleepy nicker or two greeted their presence. The smell of warm horseflesh met Amos's nose. "Sorry to do this, my friends." He shook loose the rope from his saddle and began lashing the horses.
A whoop made the twenty-odd horses bolt through the gate. By the time the herd passed the bunkhouse they were making enough noise to raise the dead. Amos was yelling at the top of his lungs, and the horses stampeded away into the night.
No lights came on, no faces appeared in the doorway, no shouts of outrage sounded. Everything stayed exactly as it was. Quiet.
Amos reined Amanda in, pissed. This wasn't the way he had seen his last raid going. There was no honor in chasing off horses from a deserted ranch. Where was everyone? Where were the dogs? Their pen was open. The wind gusted, blowing the gate open and shut, making odd random slapping sounds.
Amos picked up a stone and heaved it at one of the bunkhouse windows. And missed. The crash of the rock against the wood was loud as a gunshot in the quiet.
The quiet returned, becoming something unexpected. The old Navajo felt a flicker of unease. A great deal of the whiskey he had consumed earlier was wearing off and maybe dying didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.
"Martin," Amos called out, "where the hell are you? You'd better get your ass out here or I'm gonna have to chuck another rock."
When no answer came, Amos finally decided his last raid was a bust. Now all he wanted was to find a warm place to sleep. The cold was eating into his bones, making them ache. He walked closer to the bunkhouse. Martin would give him hot coffee and a lecture about the evils of alcohol, but Martin would forgive him. He always did.
As Amos weaved nearer, he saw the bunkhouse door stood slightly ajar.
Had it been open when he had first ridden up? Amos couldn't remember. Calling out, he dropped his rock and walked inside. He felt the warmth of the stove immediately. It felt good. The bunkhouse was dark, except for a single small light over Martin Strickland's desk. There was nobody here.
The huge room looked neat and clean as always. None of the bunks were occupied. A cup of coffee sat on Martin's desk, still warm to the touch. The chair had been pushed back as though he had stood up to stretch his legs. This was curious, even to Amos's whiskey-soaked mind. He called out Martin's name again.
Only silence. A few loose boards squeaked underfoot as he walked around. Reaching into the open desk drawer, Amos fished out the whiskey bottle and took a stiff belt Papers lay on the floor. Someone had been rummaging around.
A quick look back outside showed Amanda standing patie
ntly. Custer was, however, eating something. Amos sure hated to leave the stove, but he was curious about whatever it was that Custer was bolting down.
"Dog food." Amos looked at the busted sack lying on the ground. "Looks like somebody left in a big hurry. Maybe they went to look for the dogs." That made sense. Suddenly, feeling very much ashamed, Amos walked back and climbed on Amanda. What had seemed like a good way to die a few hours ago now seemed very foolish. "What if the dogs had been here? They would have killed me and Martin would have blamed himself. I really am a drunken old fool, you know that, Custer?"
Custer didn't seem overly concerned with Amos's repentance. Maybe he'd heard it before. This was the first time in his life he had ever tasted dog food. He decided he liked the stuff better than those stringy old jackrabbits he chased every day. It was a lot easier to catch, too.
The sound of hoof beats caused Amos to look up. He expected to see Martin riding up, but it was only some of the horses he had chased off earlier returning. They had no desire to be free, they had returned for their feed.
"We're all creatures of habit," Amos said with a sigh, climbing on his horse. A kick in Amanda's ribs and soon the Broken R disappeared behind the low-lying hills.
Custer bolted down a few more bites, started after Amos, then came back to the dog food. He would catch up with Amos later.
Half an hour later, frozen to the bone, Amos rode up to the graveyard and paused for another drink of Martin's whiskey. The liquor wasn't numbing his brain anymore or chasing away the chill. The wind blew again, causing his teeth to chatter despite the burning in his stomach.
Beneath the creaking of the pines, he again heard the plaintive call of an owl. Repeated once, twice. It was a mournful sound.
Amos stiffened when the call was followed by mocking laughter. The sound seemed to come from nowhere and yet seemed to be everywhere. Amos turned in his saddle, trying to locate the source of the laughter.
It came again. Clearer this time.
The laughter was coming from the graveyard. A shadow popped up from behind the fence and then crouched down. Amos turned and rode slowly back, clutching the machete.
"Is that you, Lefty? If it is, I'm gonna cut off your other hand." No answer. Just more laughter.
"Damn it, Lefty, this ain't no time to be fooling around." Amos tried to nudge Amanda closer, but the mare refused to go any nearer. She began dancing sideways and Amos was hard pressed to hold her. Real alarm began burning through the haze of alcohol that clouded his mind.
The figure raised up completely from behind the fence.
Amos struggled to make out who was back there. The figure clung to the shadows along the pine trees, making it impossible to get a clear look. Something was wrong about the figure, the way it moved. Too quiet. Too quick. Amos strained to hear any trace of movement. There wasn't any. And there should be.
The graveyard was mostly loose stones. Christ, he'd almost fallen on them the last time he'd been out here.
The interloper began moving out of the shadows, toward the white stone cross that caught the moonlight. This time the cross wasn't bare. Tied to it was a man. He had been motionless and that was why Amos hadn't seen him.
Amos's eyes darted back to the moving figure, watching its shadowy progress toward the cross.
The figure emerged into the light.
It was unreal, a thing of myth.
Amos's eyes refused to accept that and he looked back at the cross, at the man slumped there. The old Indian could still see incredibly well. Something was familiar about the unconscious figure despite the black shiny substance covering his face. And yet Amos couldn't place the man. Or maybe he didn't want to.
The man on the cross moved and the moonlight flashed off something shiny around his stomach. It was a belt with a silver-plated buckle, common as dirt around these parts—except this one had an eagle on it. Amos recognized his own handiwork, even though he hadn't done anything like that in fifteen years.
The last one had been a wedding present for Martin Strickland.
The ranch foreman was slumped forward, held only by the ropes around his wrists. The wind shifted, bringing a smell Amos was familiar with. Blood.
"Martin," Amos called out. He tried to urge Amanda forward but the Appaloosa mare was having no part of whatever was in the graveyard. She squealed, a high-pitched, almost human sound, as she began dancing sideways. Amos managed to calm her enough to slide off. His feet hit the ground and his knees almost buckled. He fought the sudden overpowering urge to throw up.
The man on the cross stirred and weakly raised his head from his chest. "Amos," he asked in a puzzled voice, "what are you doing here? Ain't you supposed to be out chasing off my horses?" He smiled and then, as though the effort of speaking had cost him more than he could afford, Martin Strickland again slumped against the ropes. This time he didn't move.
The shadowy figure pulled something shiny from concealment, and Amos saw it was a knife. Before Amos could scream a warning that he knew would do no good, the knife flashed over Martin Strickland's head.
The shadow raised something high, something black and wet, and gave it a shake.
Amos didn't want to know what the figure held in its hand but he did—it was Martin Strickland's scalp.
A scream of unholy glee undulated through the night, rising higher and higher, until Amos was forced to clap his hands over his ears. Amos felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The cry stirred some memory too ancient to recall, only the fear remained.
Unable to control the roiling of his stomach, Amos spewed out a geyser of soured whiskey. He had to grab onto the rock wall to keep from falling. The rough texture of the stones bit into his skin, keeping him from passing out. His knees were weak and he felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach, yet his eyes never left the shadow standing near Martin.
The only thing Amos could compare it to… was a horned devil.
And then, appearing as though by magic, the five Ridge-backs gathered in a semicircle around the strange figure, standing perfectly still, their heads cocked toward it as though awaiting some kind of signal.
Amos hurled his bottle. The horned devil easily dodged it and the glass shattered with a loud pop.
The signal must have come, though Amos neither saw nor heard anything. The Ridgebacks began moving toward him. He wouldn't have believed anything so big could move so fast. They reached the fence in a few powerful strides, moving as though controlled by a single mind. It was an eerie sight and it had the quality of some old grainy black-and-white movie, ghostly images on a dark screen. Not real. Not real. The movie seemed to be out of sync, jumping forward too quickly.
The dogs reached the fence.
Now Amos could hear them breathing as they sucked in the night air and spewed it back in clouds of thin, vaporous white. There was no other sound.
The dogs scrambled up onto the fence. They paused, frozen statues in the night.
Amos backed away.
The dogs watched him, their tongues lolling from their mouths. They weren't angry or even excited.
"A war chant would be good right here, Amanda," Amos said. He gripped the machete tied around his neck and raised his voice in defiance. "I damned sure wished I could remember one."
The first dog leaped from the fence. It looked like the animal was going straight at his face.
Chapter 10
Amos knew there was no way the dog could miss him as it launched itself from the stone wall.
He threw up his arm, trying to keep the Ridgeback from his throat. His effort was only partially successful. The animal wasn't able to sink its teeth into him; instead it hit him high on the chest and knocked him back. A string of saliva hit Amos in the face, making him think he had been bitten.
The animal's breath smelled of rotten meat and blood.
The dog landed on the ground, ran past him. Then it turned and came back. Slowly. Almost playfully.
It didn't even growl.
Still r
eeling from the blow, Amos staggered back a few steps, fighting for balance. He lost the fight and landed hard on his back among the stones that he had stacked there last year. A clatter came when they were dislodged and showered down on him. A couple of his ribs went with audible snaps, like twigs being broken up for kindling.
The pain took his breath away.
His machete was still clutched tightly in his hand, and even though everything turned black, he still somehow managed to hold on to it.
Damned stones, for the last two years he had meant to fix the wall with them. The ghost of a smile drifted across his face and vanished. The odds were he wouldn't be getting around to the job this year either. Maybe never. He felt a little bit sad about that.
There were so many things in his life left undone.
The blackness ebbed away.
The rest of the Ridgebacks made no move toward him. They calmly watched from the fence, four black statues breathing in the night, blowing it back white.
The blackness ebbed back in and this time Amos felt himself sinking into it.
The scratching of the dogs' nails on the stones carried to Amos as he struggled to move. He felt like something heavy was sitting on his chest, crushing the breath from him. Swimming up from the darkness, Amos swung the machete at the sound. And got lucky. He was rewarded with a yelp of pain.
The Ridgeback scrambled back, one eye a pulpy mess where the blade had caught it. The single yelp was the only indication the dog had felt the blow.
Amos rose to his knees. The injured dog began circling him and, one by one, the rest of the Ridgebacks jumped down from the stone wall. They did it leisurely, as though they were coming to Amos to have their ears scratched. They padded quietly over and joined the injured dog, circling Amos, just outside the reach of the machete.
The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on Amos—the dogs were circling him like celluloid Indians in some old fifties B Western. "I'll be damned," Amos said, unable to stifle the laugh that burst from him. It held a slight touch of hysteria.