Mojado

by R. Allen Chappell

  A calm voice whispered, almost next to him, “I got it already, esse.” There was an unseen grin behind the words… then everything went completely black—not the black that comes from loss of light, but rather the dark and all-consuming vacuum that swallows consciousness.

  When at last Thomas arrived at some semblance of rational thought, his head throbbed, and there was a warm seep of blood running into his ear. He tried to move but found himself bound with thin strips of his own blanket, and he had been shoved nearly to the brink of that great nothingness below. The moon was on the rise—a slightly thicker slice than the previous night—along with a brilliant array of stars, and they cast just enough light that Thomas could make out the mojado, who rocked back on his heels and was no more than six feet away. There was a glimmer of teeth as he took bites from a can. He carefully took another small sausage from the point of the big knife and chewed reflectively before wiping the blade clean. He felt at his belt and replaced the folded knife in its sheath before asking, “You awake, Indio?”

  Thomas shifted his weight to one shoulder, the better to see, but there was barely enough light, even for that short distance. What he could see, however, sent an icy chill up his spine. This was not so big a man as he had imagined, but even in that light the scarred face and sunken eyes showed a capacity for evil. Thomas remained silent, watching to determine whether or not this was indeed a man, or perhaps something else altogether. Thomas Begay had been in numerous jails and seen many desperate men—but none quite like this, he was certain.

  “After two days push’n, push’n’ to find me… and now you don’t got nothin’ to say to me, pendejò? The mojado’s face cracked a fragment of a smile. “I been wait’n for you and you little friends, hombre. But I guess you compadres had to go home to momma, huh?” Then, with his tongue against his front teeth, he made those three little tsk, tsk, tsk, sounds that are the universal indicator of regret or sadness. “You should have gone with them, hombre. You could be safe and warm in tu casa, ahorita. Pero no, señore, you gots to be a big man an catch the bad guy, eh? Well, you see how that turned out for you then?” Luca paused to peer at Thomas through the darkness. “I don’ feel sorry for you, Esse. You bring this all on you ownself, and now you just gonna’ have to suffer for it. This is how it is when a man pokes his nose where it don’ belong.”

  The nature of this… apparition… was discernable in his voice, and bile rose in Thomas’s throat at the thought of being at the mercy of this… he still was not sure it was a man… Humans don’t come and go like a night wind, with no sign or warning. This was the stuff of witches, for sure, and Thomas’s mind recoiled at the thought of such wickedness in human form.

  The mojado finished his meal and unconsciously reached for his shirt pocket and tobacco. “You don’ got no cigarillos, amigo? I could use a smoke …It’s a long time now I don’ got no smokes.” He chuckled deep in his throat, almost as though to himself. “Don’ no one smoke in this country?” Then he cocked an eye at Thomas. “Why you want to catch me so bad, hombre? I’m not nothin’ to you. Why you want to cause me all this trouble?” He held the .38 up in the light of the moon and looked at it. “This is a nice li’l pea-shooter you got here. What you hunt with it? ratoncitos? Mouses?” He laughed, ended with a cough from deep in the belly, and spit bloody phlegm over the edge. Something inside had been hurting his chest since the wreck, and it wasn’t getting any better. He wiped his mouth and went on, “Well, I don’ mind telling you, my friend, it don’ look good for you… it don’ look good at all. Where you leave you trucke, amigo? You didn’ ride those caballos all the way from town, I bet you.” He slapped his knee in the darkness and grew pensive. “Naa, hombre, I think you got a trucke somewhere.” His voice fell to a whisper. “…and I bet you, I can find out where.”

  Thomas heard him lay the revolver down and reach into his pocket. When the click of the switchblade reached him, he didn’t at first recognize it. Then it came to him—he and Harley had once traded their truck jack and spare tire for a cheap bottle of whiskey and a switchblade knife. It was from a seller of curios outside Gallup. Harley knew the man, and that he sometimes sold a little whiskey on the side. They drank from the bottle and nearly wore out the switchblade snapping it open and shut the better part of the night. He recalled the sound of it now and knew without doubt, this was what it was.

  Thomas Begay knew what was coming, and though he had, more than once, been cut in bar fights, the thought of it still left him queasy. The quick slashing of the amateur knife wielder was generally shallow and at first nearly painless. Even should the cut be more serious, one might eventually bleed out without any real pain. So it wasn’t the pain so much that caused fear of the knife, and yet most men he’d known were more afraid of a knife than they were of a gun. It didn’t make sense… but there it was. Thomas had already seen the work of this mojado, and it was not that of an amateur, nor had it been the work of a switchblade… and so he had hope that he was not to be killed just yet.

  “I got some bacon in that sack.” Thomas spoke with a concerted effort, head still pounding and vision blurred. “It’s just you and me up here now.” He was trying to focus and keep his voice calm, friendly even. “A little fire wouldn’t hurt anything. Some bacon and coffee would be good.” Thomas doubted the man would go for it, but he desperately wanted to warn Harley before they stumbled in unawares. They would know Thomas wouldn’t have a fire with the mojado in the area. A fire would definitely send a message.

  “A fire?” The mojado canted his head, appeared to be considering it, and his eyes went innocently looking about for something to burn, then he slapped his leg again and broke into a tittering little laugh. “Really, hombre? Verdad? You think I am that stupid?” He rose to his feet and said, almost in a whisper, “What we are going to do now, amigo, might burn a little, but it’s not going to be a fire.”

  Thomas lurched to a sitting position, steeled himself for what was coming, then instantly fell back into blackness.

  When Thomas again came to his senses, there was a fire and bacon and coffee cooking, and the grey face of dawn seeping down the face of the sandstone bluff. Charley was sitting directly across from him, and Harley was watching breakfast sputter in a pan.

  He found himself propped against the back wall, wrapped in a blanket—his head bandaged with a handkerchief. He was woozy, had a hard time focusing, and peered cautiously around the camp, as though he might see the person from the night before.

  Charlie fixed him with a stare and asked, “How you feeling now, big boy?”

  Harley chimed in, “I hope you feel better than you look,” and moved around the fire with the cup of coffee he and Charlie had been sharing. “Try a little of this Joe—it’ll put hair on your chest.”

  Thomas’s mouth was dirt dry and he was unable to answer until Harley held the cup to his lips, allowing him a good swallow. He finally managed a weak croak, “He was here last night.”

  “Yeah,” Harley grinned, “we didn’t figure you tied your own self up.” He gave Thomas another sip of coffee. “We heard talk’n before we even got close, had an idea what was up. We was trying to ease up without spooking him… then Charlie here knocked a rock off the edge.” He gave Charlie a frown. “We figured we better go ahead and rush the place before something worse happened.” Harley paused and his face took on an incredulous expression. “He wasn’t here. The guy was just gone. Disappeared!”

  Charlie nodded his head through the smoke of the little fire. “He never made a sound that we heard, and couldn’t have passed us on the trail either… not without us seeing or hearing him.” He stirred the fire with a stick and peered into the greying dawn. “When it gets a little lighter, Harley’s going to try to find how he got away. Right now,” Charlie smiled, “he’s thinking the guy just flew off this ledge like a bat.”

  Thomas looked around the shadowy little camp and said quietly, “I been thinking the same thing myself.”

  “Well, I think we’ll
find he went out to the end of this ledge and found a way up or down. He must have eyes like a cat.” Charlie wasn’t quite ready to believe they were dealing with anything other than a man.

  The three ate silently and contemplated the events of the night before. Though still suffering from the blow to the head, Thomas did ample justice to his share of the breakfast Harley brought him. Thomas wasn’t a shirker when it came to eating, regardless of circumstance.

  “You think you will be able ta walk out of here this morning while me and Charlie go after this fella?” Harley wasn’t so sure Thomas was up to going with them. “We’ll have to travel fast to catch up with this guy now. It’s not going to be easy.”

  Thomas smiled weakly in the rising dawn. “I guess I can go with you all right.” He turned to Charlie. “Don’t even think you’re going to leave me behind. I owe this guy now, too.” His expression hardened. “And you know I always pay what I owe.”

  Charlie nodded, equally grim. “Okay… but we’re not going to stop and wait on you every little while.”

  Thomas shook his head. “That’ll be the day, when you have to wait on me.”

  Charlie started to rise, winced, then reached behind him in the dirt and pulled out the .38 Smith & Wesson. “Well now,” he grinned, “The prodigal gun has returned,” and began wiping the dust off the revolver with his shirttail, blowing on the cylinder, and making sure it was still loaded. He had thought he would never see it again. “I’ll give it a good wash when we hit some water.”

  Harley Ponyboy squinted at him. “I don’ think this guy we’re after is much on guns. I believe he’s a puredee knife man.” He then stopped and thought to himself, he won’t be a knife man for long if I get him in the sights of this army gun. He patted the venerable Krag rifle beside him and recalled the old saw, “Never take a knife to a gunfight,” and smiled broadly at the other two, but didn’t let them in on the joke.

  Harley gathered their meager belongings while Charlie helped Thomas to his feet and held his arm for a few steps, until he saw his friend could indeed walk, but not quite as well as either of them hoped.

  Charlie was not kidding when he said, “Remember, if you can’t hack it, we’ll damned sure leave you behind, and send someone back to get you.”

  Thomas shrugged. “We’ll see who leaves who behind, college boy.” As his head cleared, the grogginess turned to resolve. Thomas meant to keep up, no matter the cost.

  As the sun inched above the horizon, Harley checked the far end of the bench for sign. “He did’n get out this way,” he said, “…’less he can fly,” and threw a concerned look at Thomas. While the others gathered what little gear they had, Harley moved past them to the trail they had come in on the night before, then whistled, “Here it is. Hard as it is ta believe—he came right toward us when he heard us coming, jumped up that little outcrop there, and let us pass right beneath him, then took the trail back down, I guess. Here’s his tracks right on top of mine and Charlie’s, and headed down. We might have been what saved Thomas getting hurt real bad.”

  Thomas, now at his side, looked askance at the tracks. “You sure?”

  Harley snorted. “I’m sure, all right. The guy’s like a cat!” Harley moved farther down the trail. “But he’s not going back down,” he called over his shoulder. “It looks like he’s cutting straight across the base. If he makes it around the mountain, he’ll hit that sheep camp the herder told us about.”

  Charlie and Thomas exchanged anxious looks.

  “Why didn’t he go over the top?” Charlie asked. “That looks to be shorter.”

  Thomas glanced up the fissure that led to the top. “Too dark last night to climb that trail, and he knew it. He’s going around, all right. He’s trying ta find a road out of here—he was asking me about a truck.”

  Charlie thought about this for half a second. “Those people over there don’t have a truck—their brother told us they have to pack in their groceries from the trailhead by packhorse.”

  Assuming it was a man, Harley thought he couldn’t be far ahead of them. “He would not have been able to travel very fast up here in the dark… no matter how good he is.”

  “There’s no telling what this guy can do,” Thomas said. “I never saw anything like it.” He looked around the ledge through bleary eyes. “Old Man Paul T’Sosi told me a lot of stories about Yeenaaldiooshii and how they can change into other creatures and escape pursuers… change right into an owl or wolf.” As an afterthought he said, “He’s a Mexican, all right, but not like any we know. Like Samuel Shorthair says, he’s probably from that bunch of mojados that wrecked on their way up from Gallup the other day. He seemed almost like an Indian, but different.”

  Charlie could see Harley taking this in and nodding agreement, but said nothing to the contrary; he knew these beliefs ran deep in his two friends, and they were not likely to listen to anything he had to say to the contrary.

  At midmorning they came across a little spring, one whose source lay deep in the bowels of the mountain. There wasn’t enough water in those hidden reservoirs to last long without replenishment from rain or snow, but they would often produce a little water until well into July.

  Thomas flopped down in the grass near the pool and began filling his canteen. The others did the same but kept an eye on Thomas to gauge how he was holding up. They knew he was hurting and were surprised he had come this far, considering the pace Harley set. The ugly gash on the side of Thomas’s head bothered Charlie. He knew they had nothing to put on the wound, but he examined it anyway and retied the bandage. “We should get something on this, or it’s going to get infected.”

  Thomas looked disinterested, his face drawn and sallow—he was clearly starting to tire. Still, it was he who first struggled to his feet. “You know,” he said carefully, looking at Charlie, “Annie Eagletree’s place is not too far down the other side. I hope they are okay.”

  Charlie nodded. “I already thought about that, but they are nearly to the highway, and I’m sure they’ve already heard about all this and are prepared. This is right up Annie’s ally, what with all those cop shows she watches, and Clyde’s a pretty good hand with a gun. I’m sure he’s all over this by now.”

  Thomas looked away and said, “Clyde is like someone else I know—he only thinks he’s good with a gun.” He looked up the mountain. “It don’t matter how good he is anyway; he’s no match for this guy.”

  Harley interjected, “Well, there are several camps between Annie’s place and here. I don’ think there’s too much ta worry about. What bothers me is, we don’ seem ta be catching up ta this guy… I think we might be losing ground.”

  Charlie Yazzie was not one to worry a thing to death when once he set his mind to it. “Were going as fast as we can, and that’s all we can do. Keep in mind, there will be search parties coming in from Teec Nos Pos again this morning.” He nodded to the north. “I doubt they’ll catch him, but they may damn well slow him down some. Just having to stay out of their way should do that. Let’s hope so anyway.”

  Harley brightened. “He may not travel at all today… Because of those searchers, he may just lay up in the brush somewhere.”

  Thomas Begay nodded but did not seem convinced. “We’ll see…”

  Several hours later they could, indeed, see the sign grow fresher, and Charlie knew he had been right. Though they had not yet seen anyone from the search effort, there had been several fly-overs by small craft, including a fish and wildlife agency Piper cub, and an FBI-leased Cessna. Charlie worried about that one a little. Agent Mayfield had made it quite clear he would prefer they stay out of the case. There’s no law against searching for cattle though, he thought grimly, as he fell in behind the other two. He kept a watchful eye on Thomas, who at first seemed to have trouble keeping his balance on the steep talus slope. But as the morning wore on, Thomas grew stronger. Some hidden reserve seemed to kick in, which caused Harley to smile. He had seen evidence of Thomas’s recuperative powers many times over the ye
ars.

  It was still early morning when they came to the sheep camp and saw they were too late.

  ~~~~~~

  Luca Tarango was disappointed in himself. First, he had misjudged the persistence of the Indians—thinking two had quit and given up the chase; that had been a mistake. Not hearing them coming had been another. And while his poor hearing could not be helped, his arrogance in discounting those others so quickly was something he would have to guard against in the future. It is always a dangerous thing to underestimate one’s adversaries, and he silently vowed not to let it happen again. There was more to these Norteñoes than he had first thought. That one on the ledge had shown himself to be more resilient than expected. He couldn’t help but wonder how he would have held up under the knife. Luca could see now that these people were not so different from himself, at least when it came to that inner toughness required in a bad situation. No, he would have to be very careful indeed when dealing with these people.

  He had traveled most of the night—taking it slow. He doubted anyone could follow his sign until first light. He stayed to the shelter of the bluffs and took advantage of what little timber there was. He almost missed the sheep camp, hidden in a little swale. He had been lucky to come in downwind, the smoke from a dying fire alerted him. He knew there would be a dog or two but thought that he might be able to wait in the rocks near the camp until the herder was gone, then see what they might have that could be of use to him, without raising an alarm… These people might have guns, and would likely know how to use them.

  This side of the mountain was not so rugged, and should he get his hands on a horse, he might well be able to work his way out to a road, and a chance at a vehicle—a way north to Colorado, and Tressa. Of course, a vehicle would require a driver (he had never acquired that skill), so there was that.

  As he crouched there in the predawn, he could not help but think of Tressa and the good life they had led there in their little village, each day running into the next, the only worry being what they might have for dinner, or if the hens would lay an egg for breakfast. The thought of a fried egg and refried beans rolled in a fresh hot tortilla caused his mouth to water, making the pouches of freeze dried food pale in comparison. All in all, he knew their time in the village would not seem like much of a life to some people, but there was a certain satisfaction in the sameness and knowing what the days ahead might hold. The making of adobe bricks was not an occupation that required a lot of thinking. Too much thinking was not good for a person. It only led to dissatisfaction, and ultimately to… change. No, it was better the devil you knew, than one you didn’t. This was how Luca thought as he sat waiting and watching as a young boy quibbled with his uncle about going with the sheep. Though he could not understand what was said, he could plainly see the older man was adamant as he gently pushed the boy toward the corrals, called up the dogs, and watched as they rallied the sheep.