Killer of Witches: The Life and Times of Yellow Boy Mescalero Apache

by W. Michael Farmer

  He Watches’ eyes darted from one shadow to the next, the fingers of his right hand passing through the lever loop of his rifle, his index finger near the trigger guard, and his thumb on the hammer. I saw Caballo Negro relaxing as if he sat next to Sons-ee-ah-ray’s wickiup, so I relaxed. My eyes roamed over the canyon walls, the house, and the two outbuildings, one a place of shade for horses and mules, and one a small house with its door hanging open barely big enough for one man to sit inside. Cattle up the canyon were bawling, and there was a young gray mule in the corral, her ears up, watching us as if we carried socorro for her next meal.

  Soon the house door opened, and an Indah stepped out onto the shaded porch. He carried the biggest rifle I had ever seen. Its barrel was maybe two hand-widths longer than the one for my rifle, its receiver, wider. It had no lever and no barrel to hold cartridges. The Indah chewed on something in his cheek, and with his friendly, alert eyes taking in every detail, he rested the big rifle in the crook of his left arm. Wisps of hair sticking out from under his campaign hat had streaks of gray, and his black and gray speckled beard had streaks of brown flowing on his chin like tiny rivers escaping from the dam of his lower lip, and he wore a thing balanced on his nose holding small clear rocks like the ones on the end of the Shináá Cho. I had learned the Indah called the thing “glasses” and suddenly I recalled seeing it on the noses of a few Blue Coats when I was a child at Bosque Redondo.

  The Indah stared at Caballo Negro for a few moments and then broke into a big grin, saying in the Indah language, “Well, I’ll be damned. You Caballo Negro? Ain’t seen ya in years. Ain’t seen ya since ya was a pup. Come back to finish what ya started? I’m still here, aye God, jess like I tol’ ye I’d be. You wanna have a go at ’er, I’m a ready.”

  Caballo Negro smiled and held up his hand, palm out, and, although I knew he understood the Indah words, he replied in Spanish, which he knew much better and which He Watches spoke well. “No fight today, Roofoos Peek.” He swung his arm toward He Watches and me. “These hombres are my son, Nah-kah-yen, and his grandfather, He Watches. Speak in the words of the Nakai-yes so they’ll understand you.”

  Rufus Pike nodded toward us and said in Spanish something like, “Howdy, boys. Git off them stolen ponies and sit a spell. I’ll whip us up somethin’ to eat here in a bit.”

  We slid off our ponies, tied the reins to the fence near the holding tank, and, following Caballo Negro, walked to Rufus’ porch and sat down in its shade. Rufus spat a long stream of brown juice into the yard, swiped the back of his hand across his beard, and sat down in the porch shade with his back against the house wall, facing us with the butt of his long rifle planted squarely between his feet, the barrel resting on his shoulder. He Watches and Caballo Negro kept their rifles in the crooks of their arms, but when I saw the way Rufus Pike held his rifle, I tried to hold mine the same way.

  We sat for a long time not saying anything as the sun lighted the distant clouds with many colors and slowly disappeared for the night.

  Rufus broke the long silence. “Can I get you fellers something to drink? Got some coffee in the pot on the stove, it’s a little strong now, but you’ll probably like it.”

  Caballo Negro said, “Whiskey?”

  “Now you know I ain’t got no whiskey for no Apaches. You boys is used to drinkin’ tiswin. It ain’t too strong. Whiskey is too much for you to handle the way you swallower it down so fast.”

  “Hmmph. Then I drink your coffee.”

  “Good. I’ll get ya some. These boys want any?”

  “Hmmph. We’ll all drink coffee. Then we’ll talk. You agree, Roofoos?”

  Rufus stood, using his rifle to push himself up, groaning under stiff joints slow to unbend, and said as he opened the door, “Yes, sir, I agree. Back in minute with some cups and the coffee pot.”

  He brought four blue-speckled, enameled cups and poured hot, syrupy brew into each. We all slurped the coffee, sounding like horses at water after a hard run. Caballo Negro and He Watches looked toward the far mountains to the west at the last blaze of colored glory. I studied this Indah and wondered how Caballo Negro knew him and why he was so special in teaching a man to shoot a rifle. I was puzzled. My People killed Indah where we found them. I knew I had a lot to learn about Indah and rifles.

  Crickets and peepers down by the tank and wash had already begun tuning up when Caballo Negro turned from watching the far horizon disappear in the dusk and said, “Now we talk, Roofoos Pike?”

  “Since you ain’t aimin’ to rip me a new one this visit, reckon we can. What’s on yore mind, amigo?”

  Caballo Negro nodded toward me.

  “My son is young, but a strong and powerful warrior. I gave him his first rifle and showed him how to load and shoot. After I said, ‘You shoot,’ he shot and missed many times. He never hits targets up close and never hits ones far. I bring him to Roofoos Peek before he learns bad ways to shoot and never shoots straight. You never miss with your rifle. You know how to shoot from far away. You shoot today, kill tomorrow. You can kill a man so far away he never sees you, never hears the gun that kills him. Teach Nah-kah-yen to shoot, to send bullets straight up close, to send bullets true from far away. You make him always shoot good. You do this, Roofoos Peek?”

  Rufus slowly chewed his wad of tobacco, and then turned his eyes from Caballo Negro to me and the Yellow Boy Henry rifle leaning against my chest. Rufus thought awhile, chewed some, spat again in the yard, and turned his gaze again to Caballo Negro.

  “What’s in it fer me?”

  Caballo Negro nodded. I knew he liked the way Rufus looked him in the eye and spoke straight to the point.

  “You do this, Roofoos Peek, you teach Nah-kah-yen to shoot the Yellow Boy rifle fast and straight, close and far, and I’ll never come for you. I’ll no longer claim rights of trial with you. The Apaches will never raid or attack Roofoos Peek if you give water for horses and meat for the trail.”

  Rufus spat again in the yard as the evening light grew dim and the cold air rolled off the mountaintops and down into the flats and canyons. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and groomed his big moustache with his thumb and forefinger, and said, “Aw right. I think that there is a fair bargain. I’ll do ’er, but it’s gonna take at least another case of cartridges and about three moons of time. Ya want me to teach him ’bout that pistola he’s packin’, too?”

  “Hmmm. You show how to shoot rifle. No pistolero unless he teaches himself. You understand, Roofoos Peek?”

  “I do. My feedbag’s ’bout empty. They’s plenty of eats on the stove. You boys camp where it’s comfortable for ya. Come back here an’ I’ll give ya supper. Good spot to camp is up the canyon there where the spring water is dammed up and you’n take a little swim to git the trail dust off if you want. When you’re ready, come on back, and we’ll eat and talk a spell.”

  Caballo Negro nodded at me and He Watches, and we all stood up as if pulled by the same string.

  “We return pronto, Roofoos Peek.”

  CHAPTER 14

  FIRST LESSON

  * * *

  Rufus fed us steak and beans. We sat on the porch’s rough-cut lumber, our legs crossed, eating out of battered pie pans with our knives and big soupspoons. We were hungry. The steak filled our mouths, and the juices from the meat ran down our chins as we grunted in pleasure and slowly chewed the remains of a tough old bull that had tried to gore Rufus once too often.

  Rufus watched us eat and appeared to study me as I sat back in the shadows made by the rising moon. I wondered if he was impressed with my jet-black hair, woven in a long braid that reached my waist. Since he was to be my teacher, I tried to project strength and self-control and returned his gaze without fear.

  When we finished supper with good belches of appreciation all around, Rufus poured another round of coffee in the blue-speckled cups and carried the ancient, dented pot back inside. He soon returned from the shack’s dim interior to sit on the porch edge with us, cut a chew, and wa
tch the lights twinkling in the villages and ranch houses along the Rio Grande valley.

  When Rufus pulled his twist of tobacco, Caballo Negro and He Watches pulled corn shuck wrappers and bags of tobacco out of their vest pockets to roll cigarettes. Caballo Negro snapped a big red head phosphorous match to life with his thumbnail and lighted the cigarettes.

  Rufus watched with raised brows and with a grin and said, “I ain’t never seen an Indian strike a match like that before. Where’d you learn that trick?”

  Caballo blew smoke to the four directions and then blew a long draw straight up into the still night air. He said, “Hmmph. I found a vaquero at his camp one night. He made fire with his thumb at the end of the little stick. I watched close. The little sticks make fire for cooking, fire for four maybe five cigarillos. I killed him when sun came and took guns, saddle, pony, good boots, good sombrero, and the little fire sticks. The vaquero makes fire no more.”

  Rufus puffed his cheeks, blew, and shook his head. “Shore glad I ain’t got nothin’ you’re a watchin’ . . . Have I?”

  Caballo Negro grinned, took another long draw from his cigarette, blew the smoke out through his nose, and shook his head. At the far end of the porch, I produced an ugly, short, black cigar, about a hand-span long, narrow and slim, but tapered, shaped like a baseball bat. I said in my best Spanish, “Will you bring fire for this tobaho also, Padre?”

  Rufus grinned at the surprise on Caballo Negro’s face as he reached in his pocket and pulled another match, snapped it with his thumbnail, and lit my tobaho. I puffed on it hard until it had a good coal and blew the smoke to the four directions. The cigar smelled acrid and harsh, not smooth like the cigarettes, and Rufus’ nose wrinkled. The other two ignored the smell of my cigar, as if by doing so, its stink might go away. It was my first real smoke, and I thought it left an ugly taste in my mouth, but I would rather have been tortured than to admit I didn’t like it.

  Rufus asked, “Where’d you get that nasty ceegar, Nah-kah-yen?”

  They all looked at me as I puffed on it, even though I felt a little sick and woozy. “I found a box of many on a wagon train.”

  Rufus nodded. “Well, don’t smoke too many of them things. They stink and’ll ruin your wind.”

  I looked at Caballo Negro and He Watches, who shrugged their shoulders. I, a man, made smoking my choice.

  We sat with Rufus and told stories of fights and raids, and Rufus gave us the latest gossip of what had gone on between Santana and the Indah, Doc Blazer, who ran La Máquina (The Machine), a sawmill on the Tularosa River in the heart of the Mescalero reservation. Santana had died from pneumonia that winter in the Ghost Face Season after Doc Blazer had nursed him back to life from smallpox. He told us Cadete had died in a canyon not far from the reservation four years earlier, murdered by Nakai-yes after he gave evidence in a trial against them for selling whiskey to the Indians. On hearing this, I remembered that when my father and Cha had first learned of this over three years earlier, they had led a long murder raid against the Nakaiyes in the land across the great river. Cha was Cadete’s half brother, and although they didn’t get along, blood was blood, and vengeance unpaid was vengeance due.

  As the moon swung toward the west and the time between stories grew long, we left our porch seats without a word to return to our camp by the cattle pool. Rufus raised his right hand, fingers spread, and said, “Caballo Negro, we speak together?”

  Caballo Negro nodded for He Watches and me to go on, and he turned to face Rufus. I walked away, but not far, before turning into some shadows to watch them by moonlight and listen. He Watches knew this and did nothing to stop me.

  Rufus spat off the porch, leaned his shoulder against a post, crossed his arms, and squinted at the face of Caballo Negro, who stared back at him unblinking.

  “Tell me why you want me to teach that boy to shoot. You’re a purty fair shot. You don’t need me to teach him—oh, I’m glad to do it—but what else is he supposed to get from me?”

  Caballo Negro said, “Roofoos Peek, you have eyes that see more than the day. You’re an Indah who speaks truth. You keep your word. Nah-kah-yen must learn not only how to make his bullets go where he wants, he must also learn Indah ways, ways of the thing the Blue Coats call Indah law, and he must know Indahs he can trust to keep their word. Three moons with you, and he will shoot good, have an Indah amigo, and will have learned many Indah ways from a man who speaks straight and does what he says he will do.

  “Cha is a skillful war chief, but does not use good judgment. He wants only to kill and fight. He loses warriors with almost every raid, every fight. Those who remain take more wives, the women of the warriors who die. Cha must stop his foolish raids, or all his warriors will live in the land of the grandfathers. In a few years, only women and children will be left. Without warriors, they’ll go hungry and live in rags. The Nakai-yes will make ’em slaves.

  “Indahs increase every day. We never kill enough to make them leave. Soon I’ll take my family and live in peace on the reservation Santana started with this Indah, Blazer. I’ll make no more raids, no more war. It fills my mouth with ashes to say this, but my only other choice is to die like a fool in some Blue Coat ambush or from a stray Indah bullet in a raid and leave my woman and little son to starve and crawl in the dust before my enemies. This I will not do. I will not die except face-to-face by the hand of my enemy or if Ussen takes me.”

  Rufus nodded and took a couple of thoughtful chews and spat off the porch. “It’s a honor to teach Nah-kah-yen and to hear what you say about me. You gotta right to know how to defend yore self against the Indah. They’s a bunch that deserves killin’; I ain’t got much use fer most Indahs either. Come back in three moons, and he’ll be shootin’ good as he can, and he’ll know enough to live with the Indahs. Leave him longer and I’ll teach him more. I know I don’t need to tell you to watch out for the Blue Coats when you go back to the mountains. They’re all over the place just waitin’ fer Indian trouble.”

  “You speak true words, Roofoos Peek.” I quietly started for our camp, sensing their talk was almost over and not wanting Caballo Negro to catch me eavesdropping.

  Dawn’s gray light was driving away the night when I heard Rufus stirring in the house. When he stepped out on the porch, he jumped back, apparently startled at seeing me wrapped in a blanket with my back to a porch post and my rifle posted up against my shoulder. I fastened my eyes on Rufus’ face.

  “Haw! Didn’t expect to see you this early. Where’s Caballo Negro and He Watches?”

  “They left before the moon found the far mountains. I stayed. Caballo Negro said you’d teach me many things.”

  Rufus jerked his head toward the door. “Go on inside. I got to visit that little house yonder, and then I’ll make us somethin’ to eat before we start your lessons. Does that suit you?”

  I stood and nodded. Evidently in a hurry, Rufus stepped off the porch and took long, fast strides toward the little house with the door hanging open.

  Sunlight flooded the valley, but the canyon was still in deep shadows, the air cool and dry, and a slight breeze from the top of the Organs whispered past the shack. Sitting on a blanket at the porch edge, Rufus asked me to show him how I loaded the Henry, levered the cartridges, and aimed along the top of the barrel using the sights.

  Rufus said nothing as he watched me repeat the lever and sighting actions until the rifle was empty and all the scattered ejected cartridges collected. I compressed the loading spring and twisted open the bottom barrel to reload, but Rufus held up his hand for me to stop and said, “That’s good. You’re fine handling that Henry. We’re ready to start shootin’. Let me get my thunder stick and a few tools, and we’ll go. Put them cartridges in your vest pocket and reload when we get up to the end of the canyon.”

  We walked to the face of a high cliff that leaned back toward the tops of the Organ spires. I saw a string of foot notches that someone, probably cliff people and used by Apaches many years before, had made to
help climb the steep cliff face. There was a crack, twenty yards wide in the south canyon wall opposite Rufus and me. The crack ran perpendicular to the south wall and was more than four hundred yards deep before it became impassable. Sunlight only penetrated the little side canyon near the middle of the day, but there was enough light for me to see the glittering mounds of dirt about twenty-five yards apart that stretched from where they stood at the north canyon wall to the south side and disappeared into the little south side canyon.

  Rufus sat down in the shadow of a juniper, set his rifle across his knees, and said, “This here is where I come to shoot. Ain’t nobody gonna bother us back here. Go on and load your rifle.”

  He pointed to the second mound fifty yards away. “When you’re ready, take a shot at that piece of glass halfway down the side of the number two mound yonder. Before ya start shootin’ put these here things in your ears.” He put two small rolls of wax in my hand, then took two more out of his pocket and worked them into his ears. “Keeps ya from goin’ deaf from too much shootin’. Comprende?”

  I smiled and said, “Caballo Negro already showed me this.”

  Rufus grinned and nodded. “Shoulda knowed he showed you proper.”

  I used the wax to stop my ears, filled the Henry’s cartridge barrel, faced the target mound, and levered a cartridge into the firing chamber while Rufus watched every move I made. Then I sighted on the broken glass and fired. The bullet missed the second mound and raised dust ten yards in front of the third. I turned to Rufus and frowned.

  Rufus extended his hand and said, “Lemme have a look.”

  I handed the rifle to Rufus and stepped back, waiting. Rufus rested his elbows on his knees and sighted on the glass. When he fired, a small geyser of dust flew up about eight inches to the right of the bottle. He looked at me and grinned. “Thought so. Sights need adjustin’, and you ain’t breathin’ and squeezin’ the trigger right. We’ll git them fixed, and you’ll be bustin’ targets pronto.”