Mojado

by R. Allen Chappell

  Thomas had expended a lot of energy in the climb and rested now in the shade of the bluff as he caught his breath and gazed across distant panoramas of mountain and desert. In the old days, and on a clear day, it was said a man up high could see as far as 75 miles in this country, sometimes more. That was before the coal-fired generating plants began operating. Now one was lucky to see a third that far no matter how high the vantage. Still, it was magnificent. Some think the Diné indifferent to the more esthetic nuances of their homeland but when taken from it they, almost without exception, miss it deep in their soul and their hozoji suffers to one degree or another. An illness of the heart sometimes ensues, and has been the cause of many a one going “back to the blanket.” Thomas thought about Charlie Yazzie and wondered if this might not be what brought him back to the reservation, when clearly he had the ability and education to be a success most anywhere. Even though Charlie sometimes disavowed any traditional cultural ties, Thomas got the feeling there was more to his return than just the job at Legal Services. Originally the young lawyer had applied for a spot on the legal team, but when one finally did open up, he turned it down in favor of the job he was doing now—a job that took him out amongst the people and to the far reaches of the reservation. He had pretty much carved out his own niche in the tribal hierarchy and had helped many a one who had no one else to turn to, including Thomas himself.

  Thomas Begay studied his back trail for some sign of the other two. He was sure they could not be far behind, but should something delay them, they might choose to wait until morning rather than attempt the final climb in poor light. The ground was hard, mostly rock and shale, and he could find no sign of the quarry, causing him to wonder if Harley Ponyboy might have been wrong in thinking the fugitive had come this way at all. For all they knew he might have circled back below them and already be headed out to a road. To some that might seem a foolish plan, what with all the searchers in the area, but this was not your average sort of renegade; this one went well beyond what some might think. Harley and Thomas both were convinced he had powers. And even if he didn’t, and Charlie Yazzie was right, Thomas Begay knew this was a dangerous man, skilled at what he did, and an adversary to be reckoned with. While Thomas was a man confident in his own abilities he still was apprehensive and had his doubts about taking on such a person and thus his resolve weakened as the day wore on. There was no turning back now, however, the game was in play and there was nothing for it but to persevere and hope when the time came he would measure up to the task.

  He thought of Lucy Tallwoman and his children who were now out of school and while the two of them could at least provide a bit of help to their adopted mother and grandfather it would not be the same as him being there. His place was there not here he thought, those sheep need shearing and Annie Eagletree’s cattle are still to be gathered. There are plenty of other things I should be doing rather than running around the country looking for some wild man.

  ~~~~~~

  10

  The Devil

  Luca had found himself yet another hiding place, and while this one had no water, he doubted he would be there long enough for it to matter. The three trackers were pushing him, and showed no signs of giving up. He had hoped the destruction of their camp would dissuade, or at least discourage them, but apparently it had quite the opposite effect. When he thought about it, he probably would have been much the same himself, but then not many were as dedicated to their work as Luca Tarango, certainly not these Norteños, who he doubted had it in them to confront a truly bad man. Even some who thought themselves bad men had no concept of what one actually was. Down in Mexicó there still were “bad men” of the fiercest kind… and he knew for certain he was one of them.

  He thought of the time in San Carlos, when coming out of a bar, he was spotted by members of another gang and recognized as working for the rival faction. The two ringleaders were determined to make an example of him and, at the same time, impress their two new recruits. They had beaten him then—they had guns, and he thought it prudent not to fight back, and rightly so. That would have been sure death. Only in the movies does one man do well against four able adversaries. He knew the best he could hope for would be for them to beat him senseless and possibly leave him for dead… All he had to do was endure.

  These were practiced people and not easy to fool, but he had the inner strength of his indigene forebears, taking the beating without a whimper and withstanding the thin-bladed knife, gently probing, determined to detect the slightest sign of awareness. Fortunately for Luca, more people began coming out of the bar, and in the end his attackers did leave him for dead, and he was nearly so. It was as though his mind completely disconnected from his body, drifted above it, and knew no pain or suffering of worldly flesh. No one tried to interfere or help him, as that would have been foolish. He lay in the gutter with his cheek tight against the curb until his mind returned from wherever it had gone to hide. There was a smile on his broken lips as he crawled his way to the nearby alley, where the next morning a cleaning woman found him and did what she could, and then called the number he whispered. It was nearly a month before he was, in any way, his former self. He’d had plenty of time to think and knew finally that it was time to do what had to be done. Letting something like this pass without consequence would be the end of a person in his line of work.

  While not a religious man, in any sense of the word, he kept a cross on the wall above their bed and even hung a rosary from it as added insurance. He and Tressa went to mass occasionally… but he never went to confession. He did not trust the priests so far as that. Even during the beating he had not called upon God to help him as he felt it would be taken as a sign of weakness and possibly cause the punishment to become even more severe. It was in the nature of these people to test a man’s faith and prove it unfounded if they could. This was as much for their own peace of mind as anything else.

  Two of his assailants he had recognized, and even knew where they lived; they were brothers and had been the lesser of the four who beat him. These new recruits had only kicked him a few times, hung back during the worst of the beating, and did not participate in the later knife work. These two he only killed and did not exact any particular satisfaction from it. They were young and only doing what was expected of them; he understood that. It was their job, and he would have done the same.

  While he had not previously known the identities of the two in charge, he did by the time he had finished with the brothers. The second and youngest brother talked, though he knew by then it wouldn’t save his life; that was no longer his goal. To his way of thinking, it was the older two that brought him and his brother to this end, and he felt it only right they should suffer the same fate. It was true the brothers were not nearly such bad men as those other two… but of course, in time, they would have been.

  When Luca caught the third man, he was coming out of his girlfriend’s shabby apartment in a bad part of town. The man had become cautious after hearing the fate of the two brothers but still didn’t connect their deaths with the beating of Luca Tarango. It never entered his mind that so insignificant a person could have survived such abuse, let alone have the audacity to seek revenge. Those brothers probably ran afoul of a rival gang, or perhaps angered higher ups in their own organization. Not unusual, but I would have thought I would hear something about it. This is what he was thinking as he stepped past a doorway and felt the garrote around his neck, but only for a few moments, then he felt absolutely nothing. Luca let him return to consciousness several times before showing him the final mercy of death.

  No, Luca’s main focus was the man with the knife. He was the one who made the added effort to inflict such terrible pain—almost more than Luca had been able to endure. He would see now how that one liked the same treatment. He would give the man time to hear about his friends, and consider… Luca could wait. It is worry that puts wear and tear on a man’s head, often bringing about errors in judgment and the inevitable poor
decisions. Yes, it would be better to wait a bit and let the knifeman suffer.

  It was fully three days before Luca ferreted out the final assailant. By then the man was fully aware of the fate of his three compañeros and through local talk, knew who was responsible. He then took extraordinary steps to protect himself, going so far as to remove himself entirely from his usual haunts. He went to stay once again with his old father on the little ranchito—the impoverished surroundings which had caused him to leave for the bright lights of Guaymas, and his ill-considered new life.

  For three days the man stayed in his father’s squalid little house, pacing the dirt floor during the day, and at night tossing and turning on the same ratty bed he had once slept on growing up. His father drank mescal, and for the most part was either drunk… or crazy from being drunk. He offered no advice and spent much of his time sleeping.

  The son, unable to sleep, started at every noise and leapt to the front window at each new sound. He dared going to the outhouse only in the dead of night and held out as long as he could each time, then went through the elaborate ritual of peering through each window, searching every inch of the yard, the broken corrals, and chicken coops he knew so well. He looked for the slightest thing out of place—hoping that would prove warning enough.

  He had a gun, of course, two in fact, his own automatic pistol, and his old father’s long barreled shotgun that he himself had used as a boy. During the day he was never out of reach of either—carried the pistol in his waistband, and at night hid it under his filthy pillow and propped the shotgun near at hand. He had never known such fear, even when conscripted into the military for his obligatory two-year stint of service in the Mexican army. Posted to the rampant violence of Ciudad Juarez, he had nearly lost his life on several occasions and thought he had become hardened in the process. He saw now this probably was not the case.

  He woke his sleeping father and half-dragged him to the window to stand watch with the single-barrel shotgun, then opened the creaking old door and made his desperate run for the refuge of the privy—pistol gripped tight in his right hand—feeling safe only when he slipped inside and slid the wooden bolt into place. He was still holding the pistol in the air as he was struck a blinding blow to the side of the head, not enough to cause full loss of consciousness, but hard enough to rattle his senses and cause the gun to fly from his hand and into the evil morass of the toilet. Retrieving the weapon was unthinkable, but still he dove for the hole with every intention of making the effort, and immediately felt his head pushed into the vile opening and held in that choking, caustic, atmosphere, causing him to gag, unable to catch his breath or throw off the weight of his attacker.

  “You see how it is, my friend?” Luca’s voice was calm, almost sympathetic. “It hurts a little now, does it not? …But not as much as it will later, I can assure you.” There was the sharp and unmistakable sound of a switchblade springing open, and Luca began the more delicate work that only so narrow a blade can do with any sort of precision. The knife had been honed to a razor edge and with each stroke of the sharpening stone the exact blueprint of its future work had been planned. Luca had an exacting knowledge of butchering pigs, and man is so like them that it was no trouble slipping the blade between the ribs and into one kidney… no more than that… He didn’t twist the blade before sliding it out. He wanted this to last a while. The man screamed into the black hole, but Luca thought he would barely be heard outside the little privy. Since his own beating, Luca’s hearing had not been the same, and he was not so sure what anyone listening might hear, nor did he care. He took his time now, probing, incising, but never so much as to cause the man to faint or give up the hope of life entirely… just enough to prolong the excruciating agony. By the time Luca had cut several tendons including those of the wrists and the big ones inside the elbows, the man had come to the realization that even should he survive, life would no longer be worth living. He now prayed to die, but that was not part of Luca’s plan. He would cut the man’s Achilles tendons as well, and then let him go. The hope was to someday see the pitiful wreck of this person going about Guaymas on padded knees and elbows begging for the pesetas to feed himself… not that he would actually be able to feed himself of course. He would have to eat from the ground like a dog. Now that would make a suitable and lasting atonement.

  The old man in the house had been running from one window to the next, wondering what could be taking so long at the privy. Several times he thought he heard noises from the little building and once imagined he saw the door of the shack tremble. Twice he had called out for his son but heard nothing in return. He did not think it wise to go and see for himself what the matter might be.

  When, at last, Luca thought there was little fire left in the man, he moved to begin the work on his heels. It was then the wretched creature reared up and hurled himself backwards against the beleaguered door, spilling them both out into the dirt and blackness. Luca was well aware there was someone watching from the house and intuitively rolled to one side.

  Even as the blast and belch of flame left the window, the old man realized his mistake, but by the time he had opened the gun and inserted another shell, the intruder had disappeared into the night, leaving the father to contemplate the ruined state of his son… He did not yet realize what a great favor he had done him.

  In the darkness Luca gnashed his teeth and cursed that death should cheat him of his full vengeance. After a while, though, he took it as a sign, and was not so disappointed. Word of what he had done would get around, and that alone was some consolation. People would know then what it meant to deal unfairly with Luca Tarango.

  ~~~~~~

  By mid-afternoon and far below, Luca spotted a lone follower and smiled. The tracker was headed in a direction that would take him well below this newfound refuge. It was one of the three Indios all right, and it was plain from his stride that he was tiring. Luca smiled at the frequent rests the man took, rests Luca himself would not have needed. Good! Maybe the other two had finally become weary and turned back, leaving only this cabron to be dealt with. These people up here were not the caliber of the tough Yaqui trackers of Mexicó. He would watch, see where the man wound up and then perhaps, after dark he would ease down there and see what could be done about him.

  ~~~~~~

  By sundown, Harley Ponyboy was having difficulty following even Thomas’s sharp, boot-heel tracks. The ground was rocky and the fading light was playing tricks on his eyes. While the deep shadows made him and Charlie nearly invisible from above, he was not sure how much longer he could trust the sign. When finally he stopped to study the trail more closely, Charlie caught up to him, and that exact question was in his eyes when he whispered, “Do you think we should drop back down in the brush and wait for morning?”

  “No.” Harley had already considered this. “Thomas has been following this game trail for a good bit now. It’s headed for that split in the bluff and might even work its way out on top eventually. Thomas knows that; he’s trying ta get above that cholló.” He pulled at one ear and then scratched his head. “The problem is, it’s still a long way ta the top. He’s not going to make it tonight, and maybe we can still catch up, if we keep after it… and don’ fall off the mountain.”

  It was that last part that was beginning to worry Charlie; he had twice already slipped in the loose shale and nearly gone down.

  In the fading light, Harley pointed out a considerable ledge bordered by oak brush and stunted cedar. “That little bench up there seems a likely spot for Thomas ta spend the night. The deer have got this trail beat out pretty good, and we should be able to follow it that far if there’s any kind of moon at all.” Harley and Thomas went back a long way and had always had each other’s back. Thomas had rescued Harley from several runs of bad luck over the years and Harley was not one to forget.

  While Charlie was not convinced, he fell in behind the stubborn little man, and feeling his way along in the gathering gloom, could only hope for the best
.

  11

  The Cat

  By the time Thomas Begay reached the comparative safety of the ledge, he had already decided it was as far as he could make it that day and stood breathless, looking into the shadowy abyss below. Nothing moved that he could see, and he hoped his two friends had the sense to stay below rather than follow him up the steep incline in the failing light. However, he knew Harley when he was on a mission and did not rule out the two of them stumbling in after dark. Thomas watched until finally it became too black to see even the trail he had come in on. He moved to the back of the ledge and put down his meager supply sack and pulled out his blanket and a can of something to eat. The remaining piece of bacon tempted him as well, but only a fool would make a fire now. He pulled Charlie’s .38 from the shoulder holster and laid it on his blanket. It had been become a growing irritation, chafing to the point of distraction. It never seemed to bother Charlie, but then Charlie never wore it enough to be a problem. When he finished eating from the can (he still was not sure what it was), he sat in total darkness and waited for the moon. It would be a while yet. There was enough breeze sweeping up the mountain to rustle the scrub oak and mask the many little night sounds, and he inclined his head slightly that he might better hear. Still there was nothing.

  He had nearly dozed off when a chill took him and he reached for his blanket. I should pick up the gun before it gets in the dirt, he thought; Charlie wouldn’t like that. Drowsily, he felt for the gun and cursed the darkness, “Sonofabitch,” he said under his breath and groped for the revolver.