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

by W. Michael Farmer

  CHAPTER 41

  DISASTER

  * * *

  Klo-sen and Beela-chezzi ran for the ambush spot they had identified three nights before and less than two miles from where He Watches rode off with their horses. I know the sweat must have already covered their bodies after running in that hot, brilliant sunlight, when they crawled under the blankets covered with dirt and sand and waited. We believed that the Witch was certain to cash in his scalps at Casas Grandes to ensure he didn’t lose his valuable scalps in an overpowering raid where they might run low on bullets and men in the case of a long siege from Apaches or Nakai-yes seeking vengeance for his past raids.

  They said the heat under the blankets was mightier than that in a sweat lodge. Klo-sen and Beela-chezzi, pointing their heads toward the road so they saw anyone coming from either direction, must have had to lie in a thin mud gruel formed from their sweat and sand. Their rifles cocked, they waited, barely breathing, ignoring the thick, fiery air scorching their throats and filling their lungs. Beela-chezzi kept his ear pressed to the ground listening for approaching horses. Soon the faint, unmistakable tremor . . . jogging horses . . . four of them, and with them, the steady crunching sound of wagon wheels. He later said he looked across the road and saw Klo-sen watching him from under the edge of his blanket. Klo-sen held up four fingers to indicate four horses and made the sign for a wagon. Beela-chezzi raised the edge of his blanket and looked down the road toward the wagon before becoming just a ripple in the sand. Klo-sen grunted with satisfaction and lowered the edge of his blanket so that he, too, disappeared, leaving only a small wrinkle for a peephole to watch Beela-chezzi and follow his lead.

  They described something I’ve seen happen in other ambushes. When the wagon and the mounted vaqueros passed Beela-chezzi, he rolled back his blanket without making a sound and kneeled to sight his rifle on the nearest vaquero. Klo-sen, too, rose from his cover and sighted on the wagon driver. They said the shots, barely distinguishable, they were so close together, knocked the vaquero off his horse and the wagon driver off his seat. The driver fell in front of and scotched, for a moment, the wagon’s right, front wheel. The startled team jerked forward determined to run, but the driver’s body slowed forward motion and twisted the wagon’s direction to the right, giving Klo-sen time to dash forward and jump on the wagon. Scrambling across the seat and onto the wagon tongue, he grabbed the reins and stopped the team before it ran more than a hundred yards.

  Beela-chezzi told me how the third vaquero momentarily froze, looking at them over his shoulder with round eyes filled with surprise and fear. Then his spurs’ big rowels slashed into his pony to make it run. Instead, it reared up, and the vaquero had to lean forward, rising in his stirrups, to stay on his saddle. Beela-chezzi’s shot shattered his spine and made his heart explode. He slumped forward and fell, dead before he hit the ground, his reins clutched in a death grip that left his pony dancing in place, its eyes white, filled with fear.

  The first rider’s horse had charged after the team, but, seeing it stop, it stopped, too, and waited in the middle of the ruts. Klo-sen spoke gentle, soothing words to it and walked up to take its reins to tie to the wagon.

  Klo-sen returned with the wagon so that it was headed back toward the hacienda. He and Beela-chezzi tied two vaqueros upright on the wagon seat, even tying the foot of the driver to the top edge of the wagon box so they looked from a distance like two men sitting side-by-side on the wagon. They laid the third vaquero’s body in the wagon bed, then scalped all three and sent the team walking back down the road toward the hacienda, but keeping the saddled horses to ride themselves. Disgusted, they used sand to clean blood off their arms, hands, and bellies. Later, Beela-chezzi told me, “I took those scalps only for revenge and to help you kill the Witch. If I never take another, it will be too soon.”

  I said, “You speak for both of us, my good friend.”

  From the tower, I watched the three men in the wagon disappear on the llano road toward Casas Grandes. The once sleepy hacienda became an armed camp as slaves filled water barrels and guards were posted on the top of the walls at the corners of the compound. Livestock were driven into a corral inside the compound, and women and children carried firewood from near the corral barn into the compound courtyard. The slaves carrying the wood appeared to beg their Comanche overseer for water, but he beat them in a fury with a quirt hung on his wrist. I thought, You dung heap Comanche, you’ll not beat children or scalp Apaches much longer, but will spend eternity wandering blind in the land of the grandfathers where I’ll send you.

  Watching every move around the hacienda, I waited for the rush of men to the supply wagon when it came into view much sooner than they would expect it, which would be my opportunity to kill them in the open without cover. I reasoned that, if we had counted correctly, only eight or nine of the Witch’s band now walked the compound, and if I killed four or five as they rode for the wagon, the odds would become about even between us and allow us to breach the compound and kill the Witch before the others chasing He Watches returned.

  Then, a brilliant burst of light exploded in my brain, and then darkness, and I was falling, falling, falling like a dry leaf, spiraling into a bottomless hole in the earth until I came to rest on hard, smooth tile.

  A dull pain thumped like a pounding dried buffalo skin drum on the right side of my head. I touched it above my right ear and felt sticky ooze. Thirsty, I ran my tongue over my lips to find only the salty taste of my own blood.

  When I opened my eyes, I was in dark gloom surrounded by windowless adobe walls lighted by a weak, flickering flame from a small oil lamp. I recognized Segundo, the Comanche I’d often seen through the Shináá Cho, staring at me. He squatted against the walls in the opposite corner and held a Winchester by its barrel like a staff.

  When he saw my eyes flutter open, his lips twisted into a malevolent grin. “So, Apache, you return from the dark place. Soon you’ll go again and never come back. I worried I swung my rifle a little too hard against your soft head. Sangre del Diablo told me not to kill you. He wants to see you before he sends you, cursed and hairless, to the place of no return. I hope he gives me a chance to use my knife on you for the life of my brother you killed in the brush last night. If he gives me that pleasure, you will suffer a long time before you leave us. Tell me, dog, why did you want to kill yourself like this?”

  As my wandering consciousness returned and focused, I grew furious at myself for being taken. I stared at the Comanche and said nothing, my numb mind already grasping at thoughts of escape while keeping my face a mask of oblivion. How could this have happened? How could we be so stupid and blind to let them take us?

  “Ah, yes. You will be glad to know we also found your crooked-leg elder. He led four warriors on a good chase until they understood his dust cloud was only one man and a few juniper bushes. He waits nearby like you, except I think maybe he broke a rib or two when he fell from his horse. He should learn to ride faster with his crooked leg and walk upright without limping. Perhaps Sangre del Diablo will use his power to make the leg straight before he sends him to the Happy Land. Even if he is old and has no Power, his hair will bring a good price.

  “Whoever you are, Apache, your hair and Yellow Boy rifle will bring a good price in Casas Grandes. Maybe I will even sell that old eyepiece you use, but I’d like it for a trophy to remind me of how one little sparkle from it in the sunlight gave you away. We thank you for bringing these things to us.”

  A door opened, and a vaquero stuck his head inside and motioned for the Comanche to come. “El jefe calls you and says to bring the lamp. The Apache is awake?”

  The Comanche picked up the lamp and moved out the door with an easy fluid motion and into the dim light behind the vaquero. “Adios, Indio. Soon I see you again, eh?” I heard a key turn against the latch and a lock bolt slide into place.

  Total darkness filled the room. I heard the occasional clink of spur rowels and thumps from passing vaquero boots and the soft
padding of moccasins and bare feet shuffling past the door but no voices of any kind. I sat up, leaned my back against the smooth, cool wall, and tried to think but only wandered through the jumbled clutter of my mind.

  So the Witch has taken He Watches but not Klo-sen and Beelachezzi. Where are they? Does he know about them, too? Does he know how many we are? Is he keeping us alive for what we know or for Witch tricks to impress his Comanches? He must want to find out more . . . Where’s my rifle? Where’s my pony? I must see Juanita again . . . I must see Sons-ee-ah-ray. Ussen, give me Power to kill this Witch . . . Help me in this place of evil . . . I’m so weary. I need to sleep.

  I squeezed and poked all over my body and found no broken bones, and though I was bruised and sore, my muscles felt strong and firm. The pounding in my head slowed, and I slid slowly into a dream.

  The dream came as it had at Rufus Pike’s ranch. In darkness, I ran, ran hard, ran for a long time. My lungs strained to pull in more air, and I heard the pounding feet of the giant behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw only two great eyes glowing in the darkness chasing me. I ran harder, my strength failing, the eyes coming closer. Thunder spoke, and lightning arrows flashed, and Wind moaned in a wild, roaring rush, and a voice said, “You hold the Witch in your hand. Choose your way.” And then the giant and its two great eyes disappeared. Rest, sweet rest, came, and my spirit lay wrapped in my body, as if my body were a warm blanket in the cool nights of the Season of Little Eagles.

  How long I slept, I could not measure. The deep ba-boom, baboom pounding of a distant drum filling my ears brought me back to the land of the living. I opened my eyes and, seeing only darkness, pushed up straight from where I had slumped in a corner formed by wall and floor. My mind, clear as a pool formed by mountain springs, whirred with ideas about how to kill the Witch, leave with He Watches, and find Klo-sen and Beela-chezzi.

  Voices began chanting with the drum. They seemed at first far away but grew louder and came closer. I saw flickering images of light and shadow pour under the door. Pushing against the wall, I drew my legs under me and, pushing with my hands, slid my back up against the wall and tried to stand up straight, wobbling on weak knees before becoming stable. I faced the wall with the door, crossed my arms, held my elbows with my hands, and waited.

  The drum came closer, the chanting much louder, using unintelligible sounds and words, and there were women randomly ululating through high and low shrieks like bats swooping after insects in the low light before a rising moon. Suddenly the drum and chanting stopped. In the eerie silence, I heard a door latch raise and then a creaking whine as the door opened. For a long moment, a silent pause, and then low, unintelligible words and cadences sounding like Spanish followed by whoops and ululating as the drum began again and moved toward the room where I was being held.

  The sounds grew louder until they were in front of the door and stopped again. I squared my shoulders and waited on the clanking of a key thrust in the lock, the sliding back of the bolt lock, and the scrape of the door latch lifting. Creaking on its hinges the door swung open to reveal Segundo. A crowd of Comanches, vaqueros, and women, and some half-naked slaves, holding torches, surrounded the Comanche at the door. Segundo, his upper torso naked, covered in black paint up to his neck, his head now hairless covered in white, with black paint used around his eyes and cheekbones to make his head look like a floating skull, stood grinning at me like death back from the grave.

  Segundo said, “Good. You stand. We won’t have to make you crawl to see the great Chief of Ghosts, Sangre del Diablo, who calls you and the One Who Limps to his fire, there to look in your eyes, and deliver judgment for the evil you have done. Come!”

  He stepped back from the doorway and motioned me out, the crowd parting to let me follow Segundo down a hall and out a doorway toward a snapping, crackling fire outside the gate. The fire was in the middle of a circle of spears ten feet long stabbed upright in the ground with pitch burning on their butt ends to make torches. Near the far edge of the circle, I saw a dark outline of a man hobbling between two tall men painted like Segundo. Still feeling a little unsteady, I walked erect, my chin up and staring straight ahead, between the two lines of men, some painted, some not, and women, some naked above their waists, their bare feet stomping to the drum rhythm. Somewhere outside the ring of torches, the pounding drum took up a new rhythm, boom ta ta boom, boom ta ta boom, and the crowd again began its chanting and ululating.

  When He Watches reached the fire, two Comanches, painted like my keeper, took me by the arms and walked me to a log the size used to make corral fence posts. It had been adzed smooth and straight and planted upright in the circle of spears with a long crosspiece across its top eight or nine feet off the ground. A similar pole and crosspiece stood diametrically opposite the first pole on the other side of the fire.

  Stools stood against the poles and He Watches, forced to climb on it, managed to rise up and stand with his back to the pole. One of his painted keepers climbed a ladder leaned against the backside of the pole and pulled He Watches’ arms straight out along the crosspiece and tied them with pieces of wet rawhide at his shoulder, elbow, and hand joints. He Watches’ face showed no emotion, his eyes, staring at his captors, calm, unafraid.

  I was tied like He Watches on the opposite pole. The drum stopped and all voices in the crowd grew silent, the only sounds the hiss and pop of the fire giving off the tart, soothing smell of burning cedar.

  A thing, a menacing specter I had never seen, even in my worst dreams, appeared out of the darkness and entered the circle of light. A naked giant lifted his arms high, a human skull in each hand. Strange swirling symmetrical signs in black tattooed all over his torso disappeared into orange and red flames painted around his waist and long streams of red and white flames covered his big, muscular arms. His legs were covered in red paint from his breechcloth crotch all the way to his beaded moccasins. The swirls on his body grew steadily wider and more intricate until they converged at his shoulders and merged with black glistening paint covering his bald head. A huge owl, its wings slightly extended for balance and a leather hood covering its eyes, rode on the specter’s shoulder, its talons dug into a thick leather roll held in place with straps across the specter’s chest and back, buckled together in gleaming silver, and connected to the owl’s silver chain leg leash.

  I shook my head, unsure this wasn’t a dream. I realized I was awake, still among the living, and felt icy fingers of fear reach inside my belly and grab me. For a moment, I thought that those before me were evil spirits come to take me. The idea filled me with rage and the need to scream a war cry to vent my anger and drive them away, but I didn’t make a sound, for there was something familiar about the painted flame and tattoos on the specter’s arms. I remembered seeing points of the flames on the arms of the hacienda headman when I watched him make his hand chopping motions before sending the three men with the wagon off to Casas Grandes. The specter must be Sangre del Diablo, without his strange hair, come to torture us, playing his witch role, keeping his band and his prisoners believing he was the Chief of Ghosts. Except I didn’t fear him now. I only wanted to kill him, and I thought, He may be evil and a witch, but he’s a man. I’ll send him to the land of the grandfathers blind and ugly.

  I glanced at He Watches and noticed he kept his eyes on every move Sangre del Diablo made as he swayed in front of the fire, the Comanche skull men on either side of him. The drum began a low rumble in a different rhythm as he slowly lowered his hands and held out the skulls, one to each of the skull men, who held them so the eye sockets stared out from their chests. They began to dance, Sangre del Diablo between them, in a three-step shuffle around the fire. Each time they reached a cardinal direction point, the Witch threw up his hands and shouted, “Ho!” When he reached the east, he practically screamed his chant, and the Comanches and even the vaqueros made wolf calls, and the women screamed their ululations.

  Sangre del Diablo circled the fire four times this way and
then stopped in front of He Watches, who, showing no fear, stared down at Sangre del Diablo. There was no sound except for the crackle of the flames as Sangre del Diablo took his time looking at every inch of He Watches, even twisting his head to look closely at his shattered knee. He looked in the eyes of He Watches and spoke in a guttural, rasping whisper all heard.

  “Apache, why are you here?”

  He Watches stared at him and said nothing.

  “Why does a limping old man come to the Chief of Ghosts? Perhaps you want your leg healed? Perhaps you want to serve me? Apache, why are you here?”

  He Watches raised his chin, looked toward the stars on the edge of the ragged, black horizon, and was silent. I felt my heart swell with pride at his courage.