“Well, we have to do something!” Harley was incensed. “According to what Billy Red Clay heard on the radio, Charlie could be off in a ditch somewhere and need help getting out… might be hurt, for all we know.” Harley was generally prone to optimism regardless how hard the facts of a matter appeared. In this case, however, he knew Thomas was probably right. There really wasn’t much they could do. “I think we better check with Lester Hoskinni and see what he knows.”
19
The Storm
Luca Tarango stared in disgust at the trucks front wheel—splayed out at an impossible angle. “You tol’ me you could drive,” he said accusingly.
“No… you told me I had to drive.” Charlie Yazzie put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, making the chain on the cuffs jingle, then pushed his chin toward the front end. “The tie-rod’s broken. Wouldn’t have mattered who was driving… it would have broke.”
The mojado looked again at the wheel and shrugged, then turned his gaze down the forest service road, and toward the highway he knew was down there. “How far ta the big road?”
“…Not sure, seven, eight miles, maybe… maybe farther.” Charlie could smell the rain coming, and judging from the towering black thunderheads to the west, it was going to be a good one. In a couple of hours, it wouldn’t matter what kind of truck they had—even his four-wheel drive would have a tough time of it on the mountain then.
“We don’ got no food, no blankets… and a broken trucke.” The man said these things as though bringing them to the fore would clarify the situation—possibly even suggest a solution. He didn’t seem angry or even frustrated, and as far as Charlie could tell, none of this seemed to bother him in the least. It was almost as if he considered this sort of bad luck the norm and not worth dwelling on.
The fact was, it really didn’t matter to Luca. This was how life was. It was like the ocean—there was an ebb and flow to it. Sometimes the current was against you, and sometimes not. The important thing was to never quit trying, not because you expected anything good to come of it, but rather for the certainty of what would happen if you didn’t.
Charlie was beginning to see a glimmer of how the man’s mind worked and became even more certain he was in a very dangerous position indeed. Thomas and Harley were out there somewhere—looking for him, most likely. He had that, at least. Someone who cared was close, and that alone was enough to fuel hope. He looked at the man across from him and wondered what it would be like to have no one who really cared. He didn’t feel sorry for the man, or any less likely to take him down if he got the chance, still there was a feeling of emptiness that any person should come to so sorry a life.
The Mexican studied the sky, judged the wind, and came to a reasonably accurate forecast for the remainder of the day; dark and gloomy, with more rain than the rutted road could handle was his private opinion—almost immediately the thought became a self-fulfilling prophesy.
The storm, when it came, brought with it a cold wind before the deluge. After only a mile in the thick clay mud, it was all Charlie could do to put one foot in front of the other. The mojado, behind him, rifle at the ready, slogged along immersed in a world Charlie couldn’t even imagine. Luca’s life growing up had been nothing like Charlie’s. There had been beatings, both from older boys, and his father, who felt there was something odd about him right from the start. Eventually everyone realized what it was that set him apart, and then they feared him and left him alone. He had always been different, smarter in some ways, crueler in others. Different.
At that moment, the mojado was thinking only of the mud. In the hands of someone who knew what he was doing, this mud might make good adobe bricks. Not the equal of those in my village, of course, but serviceable nonetheless. When his attention returned to the work at hand, he knew most likely he would have to do more killing, but that was what he did best. No matter that it might be a child, or a woman, or even a dog—should it occur to him it was needed—he would do it, and think no more of it than swatting a fly.
Charlie suspected they were not far from the turnoff to the designated woodcutting area, the one used by the Hoskinni family. He fervently hoped young Lester Hoskinni had the good sense to quit early and already be on his way down the mountain. He studied the road in front of him but could not make out any conclusive indicators that this was the case. The ruts of the road had become torrents of foaming brown water and it would be impossible for anyone to get up this road now, and probably for several days to come. He couldn’t help but consider what might drive a man like Luca. It was more of a professional interest than anything else and at one point he thought to ask him why he had killed the witch-woman… or the old man for that matter, but then thought better of it. He was on thin enough ice already, and who knew what might bring him to even more violence.
Charlie seemed to recall a point of rock somewhere just ahead that might offer some shelter until the worst of the storm passed. He thought he remembered a blow-down of spruce just in front of a rock overhang. It couldn’t be far, less than a mile he guessed. He was an excellent judge of distance and only hoped he could hold out that long. When Sam Shorthair’s truck had rammed the embankment, he had apparently jammed one knee. Now it was beginning to pain, and threatened to give way beneath him. He seriously doubted his captor would greet such a development with any degree of sympathy.
Luca Tarango watched with some curiosity as Charlie trudged along through the mud in front of him. He noticed him favoring his right leg slightly. Something he had noticed previously but judged to be not so serious. That could prove a problem should it grow worse. He had first thought the rain would not last and the storm would soon pass over them—meaning they might reach the highway before full dark. Now, however, he thought differently. The main brunt of the thunderheads had moved past but in their wake had left a steady rain from the southwest. He could smell the wet mesquite up from Mexico, and it was a balm to his spirit. He felt strong, surprised at how much better off he seemed than this younger person. Perhaps the man really did work in an office as he had maintained. That made more sense to him now that he thought about it. A plan had come together in his head, and this man with a badge was to be part of it. He would make certain allowances with that in mind, but in the end would do what he had to do to survive, and if that meant changing the plan, so be it. As he was thinking this through, he saw Charlie hesitate, stop, and look uphill to a ridge and rocky outcrop—only a few hundred feet off the track, but barely visible through the driving rain.
Charlie saw the mojado raise the rifle slightly and thought for a moment he had decided to shoot him. When that didn’t happen, he pointed to the rocks. “There’s shelter up there behind that down timber. Let’s get out of this rain for a while… at least until it lets up a little.”
The mojado silently considered this, stared at Charlie a moment, and then motioned with the rifle barrel that Charlie was to lead the way. There was an overhang in the rock wall, sheltered from the wind by dead timber. It was nearly dry under the outcrop, almost calm compared to the wind-driven downpour outside, and both men paused to breathe after the short climb.
“Fire?” Charlie questioned, pointing at the abundant supply of dry wood within easy reach.
Luca turned and looked out toward the road, but he couldn’t even see it from here. He nodded. “Si… como que no?” There was no reason not to. No one would be on the road in this weather.
Charlie was now trembling from the cold and wet. He quickly collected a bundle of dry twigs and small branches, which he piled at the front of the shelter. He saw the mojado take out a small plastic vial of the sort back-packers use for their matches. Soon they had a respectable fire going and began feeding it larger pieces of wood. The heat bounced off the rock wall—enough heat that their clothes steamed, and eventually began to dry. They sat with their backs against the rock wall, luxuriating in the warmth of the blaze.
Charlie saw that the handcuffs were wearing raw rings around his wrists
and looked over at the man sprawled beside him, rifle still aimed in his general direction. “How about it?” he asked, holding up the cuffs.
The mojado tilted his head and smiled, then shook his head. “I don’ think so, hombre. We not that good a friends yet… No, I don’ think so, Mr. Charlie.”
Both were silent then, one or the other occasionally feeding a twig or two to the fire, both growing drowsy as they warmed and darkness came upon them.
Luca dozed intermittently, but only for short periods, waking with a start each time to check his prisoner. When awake, Luca thought only of Tressa, and when he dozed he dreamed only of her. Even when awake and trying to figure out what his next move should be, his thoughts returned to the woman. Dreams of people he had harmed never bothered him. He had long ago learned to block those things from his subconscious. In truth he was as barren of such memories as the most innocent of children. Charlie had fallen asleep almost instantly, while the mojado watched and envied him that little luxury.
About midnight the rain stopped. As night moved toward morning, the pain in Charlie’s knee increased, finally waking him in the wee hours. The thought of his wife and son came to him then, as it did each morning before dawn. There was the bittersweet vision of their little place with its garden and corrals. The strangling thought he might never see them again temporarily overwhelmed him. Home and family was what it was all about. Never had they seemed so dear as now, on the brink of what might well be his last hours. These were maudlin thoughts, he knew, and he shook his head to clear his brain; the future of his family depended on what he did next… And not only them, there was the very real chance this man would kill again—there were others to consider.
Charlie opened one eye, just a crack, saw the mojado, eyes wide, staring blankly into the misty dawn. Charlie thought he heard something, and while it might have been part of a dream or other figment of his imagination, he came instantly alert but gave no outward sign. What the sound had been, he could not now say; only that it was something out of tune with the night. As he lay perfectly still, he listened… Soon, there it was again… It was something very faint and far away. From under an eyelid he watched Luca Tarango and saw no indication the man had heard anything. This was not the first time Charlie suspected the man’s hearing was not good.
He listened intently now, concentrating every fiber of his being on identifying the slightest out-of-place sound. Finally, there was no doubt in his mind that it was the sound of an engine still several miles distant, definitely louder now than when he first heard it. He shot a quick glance at the Mexican and still saw no sign that he had heard. He continued to listen as the sound became more distinct—the struggle of a truck, clawing its way up the mountain. Just as he thought it must surely attract the attention of his captor, it died away.
The mojado’s eyes signaled nothing and he was, it seemed, still lost in his own thoughts. But then slowly he turned and his hollow eyes reflected the notion that something was not as it should be.
Charlie looked away wincing as he tried to straighten his leg. The knee had tightened during the night; it was only with some effort that he was able to gain his feet and stand supported by the wall behind him. Luca observed the process with a certain detached interest, then arose and, setting his rifle against a rock, stirred the ashes of the fire, added a few broken branches to the coals, and watched as they ignited, the glow more an illusion of warmth than actual heat.
Charlie rustled around, breaking more wood, adding it to the fire. Noise, he thought, might prevent the truck from being heard, should it happen to start up again.
“Why you want so big a fire?” Luca frowned. “We not going to be here that long, amigo. You leg hurt you maybe? You not able to walk good this morning?” There was disappointment in his voice, but Charlie knew the concern was not for him, but rather for the strategy he had become part of.
“I’ll be fine, once I start moving around… Knee just stiffened up. It’ll be okay in a few minutes.”
“I hope so, Mr. Charlie. I would not like to leave you here by you ownself. Something bad maybe happen to you then.” He nodded, looking into the fire. “I don’ want to loose you now after all this trouble.”
Charlie caught the implication in the words, and it sent a chill down his back the fire couldn’t dispel and he thought, this knee better improve quickly. We need to move out. This shelter is not easily approachable without being seen and someone is coming. Of that he was certain.
They worked their way back down to the road, Charlie slipping occasionally in the mud and silently cursing each time his leg threatened to give way. It wasn’t any better by time they came to the road, worse in fact; the mojado looked grim as he watched. Charlie could see why the truck had stopped. The rutted track had become a quagmire, impassible even for a 4-wheel drive. He estimated they were still more than a mile from where he thought he’d last heard the laboring truck. If it were Thomas and Harley, they would not be just sitting there in a disabled truck. There was enough light now to move. Hunting light, his grandfather called it.
Charlie hummed to himself… louder as they went along.
“Oye!” The mojado tapped Charlie on the shoulder with the muzzle of the rifle. “Shutup, hombre! What the hell’s a matter with you, cabron?” He growled, “You makin’ it real hard for me to like you, sonofabitch. Maybe I gonna have to kill you now. You no gonna make it out on that leg anyway, I don’ think.”
The pair had just come to an open glade, and in the pre-dawn fog Charlie could just make out the outline of two figures standing in plain sight on the far side of the clearing. That it was Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay was obvious. Under his breath Charlie mouthed, “What th…” Are they idiots? Standing out in the open, not moving, surely they see us coming. The two apparitions in the mist appeared to be unarmed; no sign of long arms, and a handgun would be useless at this distance.
The mojado looked perplexed. His own gun would be uncertain at this range. It was a trap of some sort, he was sure, but he would have to get within range to do anything about it. Luca nudged Charlie forward using the rifle barrel as a prod, staying close, using him as a shield as they moved forward. His nostrils flared as his every sense was brought to focus on this new danger. They were in the open now, and the mojado began chanting under his breath, repeating the same words over and over.
Charlie listened and was puzzled at what he took to be some native dialect from below the border—some mestizo prayer or appeal for good luck maybe. He knew the mojado was going to kill him; the only reason not to at this point was the need for a shield. When that was resolved, Charlie figured he would be the first to die, but by whose hand, he wasn’t sure. He was certain his friends had a plan, but a plan by Harley and Thomas was far from a sure thing. He didn’t even have the option of making a run for it. His knee felt like it might buckle at any moment.
The muzzle of the gun was hard against Charlie’s spine, and a tingle went down his back as he edged forward. Fog swirled across the meadow, and he thought for a moment his rescuers would take advantage of it and do… something. The mojado looked past him—it was time to act. Charlie heard the click of the hammer being drawn and knew then his luck had run out.
A rifle boomed but from a distance. Instantly another shot blasted nearly behind him—this one the mojado’s— and the bullet went harmlessly into the ground. Charlie whirled to see his captor staring blankly at the sky, his right hand pressing something to his breast as his legs folded under him. “¿Me ves?… Can you see me?” he asked in a calm voice.
Lurching sideways, Charlie’s own knee gave way, and the two of them were face to face at arms’ length. The mojado’s rifle lay in the mud, and as the man wavered, Charlie saw the broad blade of the knife in his left hand, and watched helplessly as the mojado drew back for a final deadly strike. The man jerked as once again the thunderclap of a rifle rolled across the meadow. The mojado cocked his head to the right—as though bitten on the neck by a hornet—the light fade
d from his eyes, and he smiled oddly at Charlie. His mouth moved and Charlie could barely discern the words before the man fell forward, face down in the mud… the clean red mud that reminded him so much of home.
A man in military camo strode toward Charlie from the woods, and as he drew closer, Charlie could see it was Thomas’s uncle, John Nez.
The ex-sniper approached, looked down at the figure on the ground, and then glanced at Charlie and said in a puzzled voice, “I never had to take two shots before.” He scrutinized his rifle, a commercial version of the one he had carried in Vietnam. “Either I’m gett’n old… or he was one tough sonofabitch.” He knelt and put a finger to the side of the mojado’s neck, then, satisfied, asked, “What was he saying as he died?”
Charlie looked up and in a shaky voice said, “Oh, that… he asked me to tell his woman… that he had tried.”
John Nez nodded, and waved for Thomas and Harley to come help.
20
Redemption
Charlie Yazzie had long been of the opinion that no person was inherently evil—or good for that matter; rather that everyone was capable of either extreme, depending on the conditions brought to bear. It was a premise put forth by an early psych professor, and for the most part Charlie thought it to be true. In the case of Luca Tarango, however, he had a hard time justifying the notion. Later, when the ragged letter from the man’s wife was found in his pocket, Charlie felt differently and thought it only right that he pass on her husband’s last words. There would, of course, be official notification to next of kin, but only he knew what the man had said in his last moments. Charlie thought there might be value in that for the woman, but in the letter he sent, he didn’t mention the circumstances of his death, only that his last thoughts had been of her. He didn’t expect an answer… and he never got one, yet his mind was eased that he, too, at least had tried.
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