The Grey Pilgrim

by J. M. Hayes

  “They called him Big Jack for obvious reasons. He was very large, even for a White Man. I wanted my money, but I knew I couldn’t make him give it back. I considered going to the foreman or the owner but I thought they would believe another White Man and not me. So, one Saturday night when Jack and his friends had gone to Sasabe after drinks and women, I slipped into his bunkhouse and went through his belongings. He must have carried most of his money on him, or hidden it elsewhere. I was checking under the mattress when Big Jack came in.

  “I had been very quiet. There were two other men sleeping in the same room. If they woke and caught me they would beat me, perhaps send me to the White Man’s jail. I had heard about that place and didn’t want to see it first hand. I just wanted my money. Then I would leave and find another ranch, far away, where I could earn more and never see Big Jack again.

  “But Big Jack came home way early. He shouted when he saw me. I broke for the back door but he caught me and slammed me against a bunk in the corner. I went over it backwards. Hit my head against the stacked crates beside it that made do as shelves. Jack came around the bunk after me. His face was ruddy from the drinking and he was grinning. He was enjoying what he was doing. I had seen him fight before. He liked giving pain. I kicked him in his crotch and the smile went away. So did the ruddy. He backed out in the aisle, holding himself. I jumped over the bunk and sprinted toward the front door but one of the men who had been asleep blocked the way. He was more my size, but he had picked up an ax handle.

  “I went back toward Big Jack. My boots weren’t hard enough for what I’d done to him. He was recovering, and he was angry. I tried to duck around him but he caught me and threw me against the nearest wall. He grabbed hold of my hair with one hand and began pounding my head against it. I don’t remember doing it, but the next I knew Jack had stopped smiling again. He was sitting on the bunk across the aisle, holding his stomach and bleeding from where I had put the knife in him.

  “The other two White Men started toward me, but they came slowly because of the blade. I went over to Jack and put it against his throat and told them to stay away. I pushed the big man back on the bed and rolled him to where I could pull out his wallet and take his money.

  “It wasn’t even close to what he stole from me. I went out the back door. They came looking for me but none of the Papago hands who might have tracked me had any reasons to like Big Jack either.

  “I headed back to the reservation. I used the money to buy a horse and some provisions at the first village I came to. Then I kept running. Eventually, I began to wonder where I was running to. I don’t want to live here. I want the White Man’s world, but I don’t want to go to their jail for what I did to Big Jack. I thought about it and decided you would help me. You have a reputation. You fight the authorities for our people. Maybe Big Jack isn’t dead. Maybe he is. You can find out. You can find out if I can go back because no one cares what happened, or help keep me out of jail if they do.”

  Parker looked at him for a minute and wondered whether the story was true or if it just put Talker in the best light. “You spent the money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you plan to pay?”

  Parker kept a .44 in his desk drawer just in case, not that he thought pissing the kid off would make him a threat. This Talker guy didn’t have any options other than him just now.

  “Nothing is free,” Parker said. “That’s why I won’t turn you in for it either. Not likely there’s a reward out for you.”

  The little man got up and started for the door.

  “Hold on,” Parker said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, did I?”

  “But I have nothing to pay with. Maybe, after, I could send you some of my earnings.”

  Parker laughed. “No, I prefer to collect up front, and I’ve got something else in mind. Look, you need a place to hide, right? Well, somewhere out there a whole village of Papagos is hiding. You’ve heard of Jujul.”

  “Everyone has.”

  “OK. Nobody can find him, so far. But I figure that’s because the wrong people are looking. Clever man like you could probably find him. And, think about it. If the authorities can’t find a whole village, how they going to find one lone Papago thief and assassin, especially if he was to hide in the same place.

  “Pete, my friend, you find me Jujul, locate his village for me and I’ll not only take your case, I’ll get you off scot-free and find you a good job on a ranch where there aren’t any Big Jacks and you can start earning those mirages again.”

  The attorney could see the wheels turn behind the boy’s eyes. He didn’t like the idea of betraying another Papago, especially not a hero like Jujul. But, even more, he didn’t like the idea of being a nobody, hiding out on the reservations for the rest of his life. He had dreams, and they had dollar signs on them.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll find him for you.”

  Parker doubted it, but who knew. Sooner or later somebody was going to find Jujul. If it was John Parker, maybe he could find a way to make some of that hero stuff rub off, just in time for the next election.

  So That He Might Dream

  He had been standing in the darkness above the rock shelter, watching when she came in with the others. Jujul had kept riders near them from the beginning so he could track their wanderings and watch their trail to be sure no one followed. He had hoped clouds, and maybe rain, would come quickly, and they did. Best not to walk her about for weeks. There would be enough reasons for her to become suspicious. The longer it could be avoided, the more they would learn from her.

  She was tall and slender, too skinny to be attractive, even with her woman’s hips and upright breasts. She looked very young, but he had no practice in judging the age of Anglos. It might be fashionable among Whites for their women to make themselves look artificially young, just as it was once fashionable for O’odham women to tattoo their faces with geometrical designs. The modern custom held that a woman should be large and heavy to be beautiful. It conferred prestige on her husband or father for his ability to feed her well.

  They had worked the White Woman hard on her journey, but she arrived with a willing step, carrying her share of the burden. It impressed him because the few Whites he had known were not accustomed to much physical effort. When the group stopped, she helped unload, then joined the women in preparing the evening meal.

  She showed good qualities: strength, curiosity, and a willingness to help as she learned. Jujul felt uncomfortable about the tricks they planned for her, but her people had sent Larson to attack his village. He did not wish to go to prison nor see his young men taken away to fight a war they could not understand. He did not want them exposed to the White Man’s ways. He had seen the effect on other villages. The White Man’s path was an inviting one. It gleamed and beckoned, but was not truly open to the People. The only reward he had witnessed for those who pursued it was frustration.

  The first test came in the morning. While the girl slept, the men stealthily packed the goods she brought, and set out in silence. They would leave them in a cache, two days south, in case Rat Skin and his friends were right. The cache would be watched, as had the trail, to be sure it drew no police or soldiers. Jujul was sure there would be none, at least not soon.

  He kept only one of the men with him. After the girl woke and they took her to the women’s hut, someone had to carry the last of her belongings to the cache. Otherwise, only Grey Leaves and the women remained. He had chosen Grey Leaves to assist him because she was an old friend and a medicine woman of some power in her own right, and because she agreed with his plan.

  At dawn, he gathered the women and reviewed what was expected of them. Grey Leaves added her own instructions, then Jujul went to wake the girl.

  Up close, sleeping, she seemed even younger. For a moment he was reminded of Many Flowers, his child bride, dead so long ago. It took his breath away and briefly, he was able only to kneel and watch her and wonder at the improbability of such a simil
arity. Their faces were very different. Marie’s hair was the color of polished ironwood, dark brown with a hint of rich red. The People’s hair was always black until age lightened it. Even the texture of her hair was different. But there was a smoothness to the line of this face that indicated youth and innocence, and there were little wrinkles about her mouth and eyes, tiny remnants of past joys and laughter. Many Flowers’ face had been like that, only she had also been pretty, not so pasty and scrawny as this one.

  He reached out and woke her. He had let his beard grow since the village moved to Black Caves but it did not change his face greatly. How vividly had the Whites been able to describe him? If she knew about him, would she know what he looked like? If she recognized him they might learn nothing from her, but he could not hide and leave the questions to someone else. He must be there to ask and to judge her answers himself. These were his people. He was responsible for them.

  The girl woke easily. It must have been a surprise to find a strange face above her, but if she was startled, she hid it well. She peered up at him and smiled a greeting. Yes, she impressed him, this young woman of his enemy.

  He told her who he was and it was true, though he did not give her the name she might know him by. His people had been instructed to call him only by his titles while she was with them. There was a good chance that even the children might remember to do so for a time. He became sure, as he talked, that she did not know him, that she did not suspect he was the outlaw Papago whom her people hunted. She listened quietly and answered correctly when it was required. She seemed genuinely honored at what he proposed to her. It made him feel ashamed that it was an elaborate trick designed to separate her from the last of her belongings and further confuse her sense of where she was. He was glad he had insisted, along with Grey Leaves, that if the ceremony was to be done, it must be done correctly. She would be a fine addition to the People.

  When he finished he turned and walked away, leaving things to Grey Leaves. He climbed to another rock shelter where he performed his own rituals, and began fasting and consulting his crystals, so that he might dream her true name. When the dream came it did not surprise him. From the moment before he woke her he knew what he wanted to call her. Many Flowers. It had been too long since the name lived in his village. His dreams confirmed it. Most of them were pleasant, but not all.

  ***

  The sun was high and hot and there was sand in his mouth. For a long time he lay, unable to move, comforted only because he knew he must be dreaming. Pain such as this could not be real. It had to be a nightmare.

  But the nightmare would not end. He fought it, trying to free his mind and body from its bindings. He pushed at it with his thoughts, then tried his arms and legs. It only made the pain infinitely worse and carried him away to the realm of real nightmares again.

  It was probably the flies that saved him. They were feasting at his wounds, exploring his face and drinking from his eyes. They crawled in and out of his mouth and nostrils. The pain was bad enough. The flies were unbearable. He murmured a protest and brushed a heavy hand at them, one that required tremendous will and concentration to move at all. The flies sensed the lack of any real danger and stayed, tearing at his raw flesh. It felt as if they meant to rip away a piece of his leg as big as a fist. Finally, he could stand it no more. He swatted at them and half struggled to a sitting position.

  The world spun madly, the way he remembered it doing at the beginning of the O’odham Year in Saguaro Fruit Month after he drank too much of the fermented juice of the great cactus, or anytime he had sipped the potent beverages of the White Men. He grabbed hold of the sand until, gradually, things ceased their wild whirling and the sky slowed and stayed above and the earth beneath, and he knew where he was, and the terrible things that had happened there. He knew where the flies had gone.

  Cloud Peak was dead. He had seen a bullet steal her life. Many Flowers had been alive, kicking, screaming, clawing at the soldiers when he last remembered. But the flies were feeding on two bodies, each frighteningly still. He was afraid of who the second must be. He tried to get up, to go to her, but the world spun again.

  He settled on crawling, dragging his useless leg behind. Several times he found his face in the sand again and had to remind himself of what he was doing and why. Eventually he reached her. A few flies came to feed on him again. He hardly noticed. Many Flowers was more to their liking. She lay still, uncomplaining of their appetites. The soldiers had slit her throat from ear to ear and she had bled a great deal, enough even, to satisfy the flies. He turned his head away and sank back on the sand. For a time he did not care if he lived or died.

  It was because of Many Flowers that they were there. The village had just begun its move back to Stohta U’uhig from their other home in the mountains of Mexico when she became ill. It was not a serious sickness, but he knew she would be more comfortable if she could rest until it passed. He sent the remainder of the village on. He planned to build a small arrow brush shelter above the arroyo and stay with her until she was well. She was very young and precious to him. She had only come of age during the winter and they had been married just a short time.

  It surprised him when Cloud Peak decided to stay as well. She was his first wife, and while she was proud that her husband was rich and important enough to have a second, she was also a little jealous of the child. When she asked to stay, Jujul agreed. He was pleased to have her aid, and keep her with them.

  With the resilience of the young, Many Flowers passed the sickness off quickly. She had been ready to travel for several days, but he insisted they stay. It was a pleasant place and he was enjoying this brief taste of freedom. The constant worries of leadership, the village’s daily crises could wait a little. What harm could there be in his taking time to himself and his wives. And there, for the first time, Cloud Peak began to accept Many Flowers, to cherish her also. The three rejoiced in each other and shared pleasures.

  That must have been why the women were in the arroyo. He had spent the night coupling with them like young healthy animals in their season. While he slept the sleep of exhaustion and satiation, the women must have woken early and felt a need to wash themselves. There was a deep pool nearby, a place where there was water in all but the driest of seasons. They had often used it as their bathing place. It was where the Americans had come to water their horses.

  Jujul would never know most of what happened. He could not understand why they slaughtered Many Flowers, then left him alive. Perhaps they thought him dead. Perhaps they thought he could not survive and would suffer more, left as he was. Perhaps, unmoving, unconscious, he was simply no longer a threat and so went unnoticed in their haste to leave. They had wasted no time once he was stopped. They only killed his second wife, took their dead comrade, and left. Had they thought the rest of his people nearby? Had they believed Many Flowers’ screams would bring more warriors? Surely the noise they made trying to kill him would have been enough for that. He supposed it was only that killing her was a quick, easy way to remove an annoyance. Alive, she would have continued to fight those who had harmed the people she loved. He would never know for sure.

  He had few clear memories of the days that followed. He must have dragged himself away from the bodies of his wives, down to the pool and washed his wounds. He remembered bandaging himself with strips from a torn shift.

  He crawled back to the shelter and fed himself and rested. When he could, he made a crutch and went back and buried his wives. He was too weak to do it well. He only managed to pile stones and sand over them where they lay. By that time the animals and birds had already been at them. He did the best he could, then burned the hut in which they had stayed and cut off his hair in mourning.

  He found his rifle. The stock was shattered, but the gun, though scarred, was undamaged. He could carve a new stock. He had plans for the weapon.

  After the sixteen days of purification required for one who has killed a man, he packed his rifle, some food and water, and
started following the trail the rest of his village had taken. He was still too weak to go after the Americans. His people found him a few days later. He was delirious and near death. They took him back to Stohta U’uhig and nursed him.

  It was a long time before he was fit enough to look for the soldiers. By the time he returned to the arroyo their trail was gone. Their kind had also gone elsewhere. He did not know where to look for them. The village remained his responsibility. He went back to it reluctantly, but with ample reason to hate the White Man.

  The Guest of Honor

  She had grown up on a successful Ohio farm where the kitchen never produced meals that were less than bountiful. She owed her figure to genetic predisposition, youth, and metabolism, not a succession of diets. Nothing she’d ever done prepared her for those four days. Giving up cookies for Lent as a little girl just wasn’t the same thing. Even then, she’d thought of nothing but cookies from the moment she gave them up. It was like that for the first three days in the hut. Grey Leaves, or occasionally one of the younger women, sat with her and droned on and on about a woman’s place in the tribe, her duties and expectations. They showed her how to weave cloth and baskets, how to throw a pot, how a house should be laid out—all of it invaluable to an ethnographer—but she couldn’t concentrate. All she could think of was food, and they made it worse by giving her recipes and explaining how to identify edible roots and berries.

  Actually, the first part of the first morning she was more cold than hungry. She’d wondered when she would get a chance to take her next bath. She hadn’t anticipated it would be a shower nor so public and so soon. When they ran out of ice water they bundled her in robes and blankets and dried her. They gave her a cotton shift like those of the People. Grey Leaves had made it for her. They led her into the low, rounded hut where a mesquite fire smoldered behind a shield of rocks so that Mary could not see it. A woman being purified should not look on fire. It was comfortable in the hut and she soon stopped shivering and began feeling hungry.