Depth of Winter

by Craig Johnson

  He nodded once and then turned to head up the trail as I put the purloined canteen away and started off again—after a while it became obvious that our two paces were not going to match. “Isidro.”

  From the next switchback, he turned to look down at me. “You go ahead, and I’ll catch up at the top. I’m just slowing you down, and I’d rather you be up there with them than hanging around here waiting for me.”

  He tilted his head in an almost canine confusion.

  I pointed toward the rim of the canyon. “I don’t want them up there without protection.”

  He quickly nodded and then doubled his pace, and in a matter of moments his thin legs and tire-tread sandals were out of sight.

  After what seemed like a couple of forevers, the added high-test adrenaline was beginning to peter out, and I was just glad to make it to level ground as I took one last look at the canyon bottom and then walked over the edge into a flat, ochre-colored landscape that stretched as far as my tired eyes could see. It was like a huge, dead beast, leonine in color with ridges resembling desiccated ribs that rose without grace—a carrion land.

  Isidro was not there, and neither was anyone else.

  I slowly turned in all directions, but all I could see was the heat undulating from the baked surface of the desert like invisible samba dancers. I wished for a sound, but pressed hard against the sky, the terrain gave no answers.

  There were a few cactus and sagebrush sprigs to break the monotony, but the tract seemed to go on forever and, pressed here between sky and earth, I could only see the shape and roundness of the earth. I took a few more steps and stumbled over the wash of an old two-track that had grown over. A few of the pieces of sagebrush were bent, and as I looked closer, I could see the imprint of tires in the powdery sand; the tire marks were fresh—off-road truck tires which looked to be pulling on all four wheels. Someone had been here and recently.

  I turned around slowly, trying to spot a trail of dust that might give me an indication of where they’d gone, but there was nothing.

  I backtracked and moved to my left, where I could see that our group had stood in a bunch and then had either been forced into a vehicle or had driven off in one of their own, but if that was the case who was driving the truck, how did they get here, and why would they leave Isidro and me behind?

  I didn’t like it, I didn’t like it one bit.

  And where the hell was my sniper?

  There was a strange noise, almost like a chirping, and I turned in a circle in an attempt to locate it. It was only after a moment that I realized it was the sat phone in my pocket.

  I pulled the thing from my shirt, glanced at the further damage it had incurred, and then hit the green button and held it to my ear. “Howdy.”

  “Now where in the wide world of fuck are you?”

  “Hi, Vic.” I licked my lips and swallowed. “Henry call you guys?”

  “He did, and McGroder and the rest of them are trying to get a GPS positioning off of that satellite phone in your hands, so don’t you dare hang up.” There was some jostling, and her voice became more personal. “Other than where, how are you?”

  “Tired.” I glanced around. “I thought we’d gotten away, but I’m thinking something’s happened and now I’m not so sure.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  I breathed a laugh. “A little beat-up, but fine.”

  “Well, this place is a clusterfuck. . . . Did you set off some kind of thermonuclear device in that village?”

  “No, I just ignited some old sulfur mines as a diversion.”

  “Well, it also ignited a panty bunch of international proportions. The Mexican government now thinks there’s some kind of military intervention going on on their soil and are refusing to assist.”

  “I’m never eating Mexican again.”

  “What?” There was more fumbling. “I don’t fucking know. I’ll ask him.” More fumbling. “Walt, why isn’t your phone giving us a GPS positioning?”

  “How the hell should I know?” I held the thing out, staring at the screen as if it did me any good, and then put it back to my ear. “Is there a button for that?”

  “They say they’re not getting anything. . . . ”

  I glanced around in all directions. “Look, I’m about seven miles east of the village. Wherever the others are, I’ve got to find them before we can do anything, so work on the assumption that I’m headed due east by northeast at a walking pace.”

  “Walt?”

  “I’ve got to go.” Punching the button before she could reply, I stepped into the sand and started following the tracks. I hadn’t gone far when I saw something standing upright on a flat rock in the center of the road.

  I reached down and picked up the gleaming, 180-grain .30-06 round and held it up to the sun, turning it in my fingers until I saw the tiny sign of a cross scratched in the brass casing that Guzman had mentioned a couple of lifetimes ago.

  Isidro.

  They’d gotten him too, or he’d seen something and hadn’t had time to come back for me.

  Slipping the calling card into my shirt pocket, I looked in the direction where the road disappeared like the vanishing point of a surrealistic painting and started walking toward the horizon, following the tire tracks and looking for the prints of the Indian’s sandals.

  The sun was about an hour from reaching its zenith, and I judged the temperature to already be in excess of a hundred degrees. The sweat burst under the band of my hat, ran to the end of my nose, and dropped on the sand, making a slight indentation, which quickly evaporated. It was like walking in a convection oven. I tried to think back to the conversation I’d had with Adan about the layout of the area, and I remembered him saying it was about five miles to the canyon from his place—I could only hope that by following the road, I was taking the right direction.

  I’d gone about a hundred yards when I hit a fork. Staring at the dust, I could plainly see that the tire tracks headed slightly south, which was strange, because I could’ve sworn from the set of the sun that the ranch was slightly north. I looked at the tire marks again, still not seeing any sign of Isidro, and then set off after whatever vehicle had made them.

  A vast and prehistoric basin covered with mica, basalt, feldspar, and quartz that reflected the sky like a shattered mirror, a land where ice claws had ripped deep arroyos, wounds that then had been healed by the wash of ancient waters, a land that now thrived with mesquite, cactus, and Spanish bayonet, a place with a snake of low, blue hills at the horizon.

  I found the first body an hour later.

  Trudging around a rock shelf, I could see something lying in the ditch ahead, a few turkey buzzards picking at it. I ran toward the body, scattering the vultures, and flipped it over, finding the electronic whiz, Lowery, with his throat cut. The desert had greedily drunk up the blood from his almost severed head, the neck cut with a surgeon’s precision, the fatal wound looking almost like a wide, lipless, second mouth.

  The California kid’s dry eyes stared out straight into the burning sun and even in death, the cocky smile still played on his sand-covered lips.

  I sat there holding him for a few moments and then dragged him to the side of the road, propping him against the rocks, I’m not sure why. Maybe I was showing respect, maybe I was a lawman used to clearing the road, and then maybe it was just something to do.

  I went through his pockets, but there was nothing, and it was only when I eventually stood that I came face to face with a second Springfield .30-06 round standing erect on the rocks. Noting the scratched cross, I stuffed it in my pocket and again glanced around trying in vain to find tire-track sandal prints; then I started off again without looking back.

  Unless I’d dreadfully misjudged Isidro, my assumption had been correct. Bidarte’s men must have taken the others who had covered for the Indian and me, and when Isidro had gotten to th
e flat he’d seen a vehicle and had given pursuit in hopes of keeping them in sight, leaving messages for me in the only tongue in which he spoke.

  I pulled the canteen up and started to take a swig but then decided I’d better start rationing if I was going to make it to who knew where. Placing a hand at the small of my back, I stretched in an attempt to drive away the muscle cramps.

  * * *

  —

  The makeshift road continued to sweep southeast, and I dragged my feet along the tracks until the surface of the desert changed, becoming harder with less vegetation. The hardpan gave way to the dead south where the tail end of the mountains curled to the southeast, and I couldn’t help but think I was headed in that direction toward the Orfanato or Torero and not north to Adan’s ranch.

  It seemed as if I’d been walking for hours, my legs and back cramping and my throat feeling like the road I was walking on, so I opted for a swallow of water. I unscrewed the top and took a deep slug.

  As near as I could tell, I still had a quarter of my water supply left.

  I set off again, but the spasms were getting worse. All I could think about was finding a shady spot to rest, of which there was none. I kept moving. Somewhere out there was my daughter, and if they thought I was giving up short of dying, they had another thought coming.

  The second body was lying in the road just like the one before.

  Even from a distance, I could see it was Alonzo, lying on his back, his throat cut from ear to ear. Once again, the blood had poured onto the ground, but here the rocky surface refused the young man’s blood and the stuff was everywhere, drawing flies that buzzed around me as I stooped and turned his jaw to look in his face.

  His eyes behind the broken, thick lenses were still, but his face held the rigor of a vicious battle. He must’ve seen how Lowery had gone and decided it wouldn’t be as easy to kill him, but he was dead nonetheless, and for the second time that day I dragged a body from the road.

  I was panting with the exertion and putting my hands on my knees, took a deep breath and glanced around, still seeing nothing but the endless expanse of desert. The sun was now directly above, and I felt like the flesh was burning from my bones, even with my palm-leaf hat, the light striking the desert and bouncing back up at me like grease in an overly heated frying pan.

  Taking the next step, I wavered a bit and used the stock of the M16 to steady myself. A little panic ran through me as my eyes wavered, and I felt my balance giving way again. Finally standing still, I looked at the minimal shadow that I cast, barely covering my dust-covered boots.

  There must’ve been water at some point that had maybe filled the flat distance, but the water was gone now, leaving behind a hardened crust of gray mud that broke apart with the weight of my boots like thin-set tile. I took a step and then stood there looking at the cracks spreading out from beneath my feet; it looked like the entire world was covered with dirty ice, ready to break through and swallow me up.

  Taking the second step I looked down and saw a .30-06 round lying on an elevated portion of the dried mud.

  I reached down to pick it up, and as I did, I could feel my balance giving way and I crashed into a rut in the road. I just lay there for a moment to catch my breath, watching the dust scatter as I shot air from my nostrils. I could feel the sun on the side of my face where my hat had come off. Finally rolling onto my side, I reached out and took the bullet, placing it in my shirt pocket along with the others.

  How many were dead? I couldn’t even remember. When had this all started, and how many would be dead before it ended? I had to get up or I would be part of the count, but somehow I couldn’t and put my head back on the ground.

  Lift up your head and heart.

  “I’m tired.”

  I don’t care.

  “I can’t move.”

  You can, you simply have to want to, Lawman. Lift up your head and your heart will follow.

  Sliding a boot beneath me, I shifted my weight and leveraged the rifle so that I could lean into it. I looked around for Virgil White Buffalo, but he wasn’t there.

  Taking a few more deep breaths, I gathered my hat and pushed myself up, nearly collapsing from the strain, but my legs held and I stood there pulling the rifle sling onto my shoulder with the canteen.

  My hands and feet were swollen, making me feel like I was carrying a weight that was suspended from my arms and legs like the pendulum bobs hanging from the lyre on a grandfather clock. I stepped forward in time, swinging my other leg past in opposition with my arms and found I’d taken a step, then another and another, using the momentum to lurch forward.

  I thought about how the seven-foot Crow Shaman showed up in desperate times and wondered if I could summon him up again, for shade if nothing else.

  Dropping my eyes, half blinded by the white-hot brass eye of the sun, I looked into the distance and thought I could see something up and to the right. When I got closer, I saw that it was an abandoned vehicle, an old truck from the early 1900s with large metal wheels, solid rubber tires, and steel-plated sides.

  Pretty sure I needed shade more even than water, I staggered up beside the thing and pulled open the back door, but the wave of heat that greeted me convinced me that trying to sit in the thing was going to be like trying to rest in a stove, never mind the abandoned mud nests that adhered to the roof of the metal structure, the inside coated with swallow dung.

  Satisfied with sitting on the lip of the doorway, I looked up at the rounded turret in the rear and the heavy rivets where the monster had been stitched together. Thinking back to pictures I’d seen of Pershing’s punitive expedition during the Mexican Revolution, I couldn’t help but think that this old fellow had been driven down here and then abandoned—I knew how it felt.

  There was a plate inside the door that read THOMAS B. JEFFERY COMPANY, KENOSHA, WISCONSIN.

  You need to get moving, Lawman.

  “I know, I just need a second.”

  She needs you.

  I spoke to the dwarf juniper and the candelilla that must have leached some moisture from the shadow of the armored car. “I know, I know . . .”

  Now.

  I attempted to struggle onto my feet but slumped on the edge of the armored car and just sat there, my breath short. I tried to focus my eyes and looked out across the desert at the cactus and the acacia and suddenly remembered the canteen. I swung it around slowly and unscrewed the top, gulped a few mouthfuls of the warm water and then carefully screwed the top back on.

  With a deep sigh, I edged off the metal lip and stood, adjusting the straps of both the rifle and canteen, and then taking a step, then another and another until I’d made the road and started off southeast, farther and farther from home.

  * * *

  —

  I’m not sure when I became aware of the sun being behind me, but it was, drying the sweat that threatened to solidify me into a statue. I’d given up thinking about much of anything as I stumbled on, pretty sure that if I lessened my attention for even a second I was likely to go crashing to the ground again and unsure if I still had the energy to get back up.

  I wiped the sweat from my face and opened the canteen but there was nothing there except the leathery dryness.

  The land had changed again, but the iron-colored mountains still trailed to my right. It was hard to judge how far I’d come. I was sure I’d been traveling most of the nightmarish day, my legs having turned into stilts that moved like a drawing compass, awkward and stiff. The landscape was a negative photograph of itself, the color washed away with nothing but the creosote phosphorescence flushed with heat.

  I watched the tail end of the mountains begin to peter out—I was sure I was as far south as the Orfanato and cast my eyes around looking for it, but there was nothing. Maybe there was nothing as far as I could travel and this was how it ended, alone in a desert. Maybe after all the walkin
g, I was no closer to saving Cady than when I’d cleared the canyon rim at the beginning of this endless day.

  There was a low rumble behind me, like drums.

  I was in mid-stride when I felt a bit of a breeze.

  Turning just a little, I could see the cloudbank that had been building over the mountains, the edges of the clouds shining like platinum, and I could’ve sworn the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees as more than a dozen dust devils wildly pirouetted through the ironwood and cactus, the smell of the creosote like a tonic as I stood there wavering in the wind.

  The world darkened behind me and with the wind at my back I turned toward the Cecil B. DeMille sky with a little more energy, like a light on the road to Damascus.

  The drums were still beating, and I could feel them pushing me forward. My boots took on a life of their own, each following the other carrying me along with the low-flying wind. It was flat now, and the road was straight, and I’d found a juggernaut reserve that kept me stumbling forward, my shirt parachuting in front of me.

  A lashing skiff of rain sheeted across the desert, a gift from the heavens that cooled my skin and allowed some color to return to the world. It was enough to combat the smell of creosote, but not enough to sustain the land, so the desert lay back down and did what it has done since the beginning of time—it waited.

  I cleared my throat as best I could and stayed concentrated on the horizon in front of me when I saw another body lying in the road, saturated by the brief rain, the blue blouse and badge huddled in the center, unmoving.

  Every organ in my body flipped, and I found myself running toward her. I fell onto the road and pulled her to me. I held her head up and gently brushed the wet, matted hair away from her eyes to find the face of Bianca Martínez, whom he must have dressed in Cady’s clothes.

  I hugged her to my chest and held her there, feeling relief that it wasn’t Cady but a deep sadness at the loss of such a friend. I held her tighter and suddenly realized that she wasn’t cold. Pulling her back away from me, I looked and was even more shocked by her fluttering eyelids and the violet irises looking up at me.