The Grey Pilgrim

by J. M. Hayes

  Grandfather wouldn’t tell him where to look, but the old man pointed him in a direction. “Jujul is a man who runs toward his enemies, not away from them.”

  So Talker headed toward Tucson and the eastern edge of the reservation. He asked at the villages he visited and the answers were usually silence. Occasionally, though, someone would admit they thought Jujul was nearby. Talker knew, if that was true, Jujul’s people would have to establish contact with the villages close to him. They would need to trade and get word to friends and relatives that they were well, that babies had been born, that young people needed brides and grooms. Talker decided he was more likely to succeed if he stopped hunting and waited for his prey to come to him.

  He chose Fat Wolf’s village of Shongam because it was a poor place that needed hunters and laborers badly enough to take in a stranger without asking too many questions. He chose it because the rumors he’d collected put it in the right area and because something about the place felt right to him. It didn’t take long to find that he’d chosen well. Gossip wasn’t always shared with an inquisitive stranger, but a fellow citizen was different. Jujul and his people were, indeed, nearby. No one knew just where, but they passed through Shongam often enough and sometimes came for news and trade.

  After that, the waiting was hard. The village offered no opportunities for the mirages he dreamed of, but it offered the possibility he might pay Parker. After that….

  The posse arrived, too quick for him to slip away. There were five of them, two White Men, a Mexican, and two Papagos. He tried to be inconspicuous, brushing down his mount as if he’d just come back from somewhere instead of having been ready to run.

  In the end it was fine. No one paid him any attention. The White policeman spoke and the Mexican translated. No one admitted knowing anything about Jujul, though Fat Wolf was so clumsy about it that Talker was sure they knew he was lying.

  They watered their horses and rode back the way they had come. They never gave any sign they were also looking for a Papago thief who’d murdered a man named Big Jack. If they were after him too, their minds weren’t on it. Not with a whole village in need of capture.

  When he was sure the posse was really gone, Talker resaddled his horse and rode out of Shongam along the northernmost of the trails taken by the men from Jujul’s band. Since the posse had come from the south he thought that was the most likely direction. He took his time, and where the horse with the marked hoof left the trail, he rode on for more than a mile until he was out of sight of the man who watched from the cliff and there would be no reason to think that Talker followed him.

  He called on the lessons his grandfather had taught. He came back to the cliff from the other side. By then, of course, the man was gone. After that, Talker was even more cautious. He found a place with water, hobbled his horse, and followed the trail on foot.

  The horse with the marked hoof rejoined the other two at the mouth of an insignificant wash. It was almost dark before Talker found the place. They could be far ahead of him, but he wasn’t worried. He could tell by their trail that they were satisfied they’d lost their pursuers. No reason for him to hurry. Their pace was leisurely now. They didn’t have far to go.

  Talker guessed they were home before dark. It took him longer, but no one knew when he found them and, he took care that no one ever would know. He didn’t get too close and he stayed down wind so the dogs couldn’t scent him.

  They had chosen a good place. The village was well off the regularly traveled paths. And, it was the right village. He recognized the horses, and he recognized one of the men as he treated a cactus wound on his pie-bald mare by the light of a fire.

  This would satisfy Parker, then Parker would satisfy him. The lawyer had promised. Talker spent the time it took him to get back to his horse dreaming about the automobile he would drive into his home village the next time he went there. It was a beautiful mirage, complete with a rumble seat.

  New Year’s Dubious Promise

  Tom and Maggie Edgar had a tradition of throwing big, raucous New Year’s Eve parties. J.D. wasn’t really in the mood for it, but he was less in the mood to sit at home and suffer his own company. By way of excuse, it occurred to him that Hank Lewis might be there. Hank Lewis owned an airplane.

  The Edgars lived in a fashionable neighborhood on the east side out past the University at the edge of the desert. El Encanto was filled with immense, ostentatious houses with plenty of room for boisterous celebrations of wealth. J.D. liked the Edgars in spite of their showy lifestyle. They had earned it and they damn well meant to spend it. At least they seemed to be having a good time doing so, and they enjoyed dragging a few friends along with them.

  Hank Lewis wasn’t there. By the time J.D. established that, he’d had enough drinks not to care so much anymore. Jujul was going to know they were on to him, but he was also going to know that, so far, they hadn’t been able to locate him exactly. There wasn’t any reason to think Mary should be in greater danger yet. That was going to happen when J.D. got the ball rolling and the real search began.

  J.D. stood around and contributed meaningless pleasantries to conversations without significance. And he drank too much. He couldn’t get his mind off Mary. It didn’t help that Larry was there and wanted to talk to him about hearing from Mary and the letters getting lost and all. The man was a constant reminder of the inappropriateness of J.D.’s level of concern. He ducked out of the conversation at the first opportunity and spent the rest of the evening avoiding its resumption.

  An hour and a half after the new year began most of the more conservative guests had gone home. Tom and Maggie were still serving and it was beginning to look like they’d end up with a number of overnight guests, unconscious testimonials to the success of their party. J.D. was looking for the kitchen with the intent of procuring ice cubes for a drink he didn’t need. He got lost, which was some indication of how badly he didn’t need it, and found himself in a dark hallway at the rear of the house. He opened a door. It led out onto the patio. It was cool and quiet out there. The horns and guns and fireworks that had ushered in 1941 were silent now. Most of Tucson was greeting the new year’s dubious promise sensibly, in deep and oblivious slumber.

  An eerie mist shrouded the Edgars’ pool, shifting and undulating gently as an occasional breeze found its way over the six-foot wall that surrounded their artificial oasis. The crisp air helped clear a similar mist from J.D.’s brain and he suddenly realized he’d drunk too much. He poured the contents of his glass onto the base of a magnificent bougainvillea and wished it a silent Happy New Year. He was ready to go home, but not sure he was in any shape to make the drive. It struck him that a brisk walk across the Edgars’ backyard might do him a world of good and provide an accurate measure of the level at which his navigational faculties were functioning. If he could successfully manage a round trip to the rear gate without falling down or getting lost again, he would trust himself at the wheel of the Ford and take himself home.

  He made it there all right, but on the way back encountered some shrubbery that wasn’t where it was supposed to be. There was no moon and it was pretty dark so he had some trouble finding a way through it. When he did, he discovered that the pool had also been moved to block his path. He decided he needed another practice lap or two around the yard. He was about to look for a way back through the bushes when he realized he wasn’t alone.

  There was a figure on the other side of the pool, man size, but massively bulky and misshapen. It sobered him more than the cold air and walk had done. The figure moved and separated and became two, and J.D. realized it had only been a man and woman embracing. They were dimly backlit from the house but it was obvious they were naked. The small heaps beside them were probably their clothes. They giggled and whispered and weren’t too steady on their feet.

  “Come on,” she urged. She had him by the hand and was pulling him toward the mists that hid the pool. She had a silhouette that was pretty spectacular. He seemed reluctant
to join her, but she went back into his arms for a moment and did some things that helped persuade him. They slipped into the cloud and descended into the warm water. Gentle waves began to slap at the sides of the pool and the woman crooned with evident pleasure.

  It seemed like a good time to leave. They didn’t need company. Fighting back through the shrubs would be too noisy, so J.D. decided to skirt the pool instead, using the fog and their preoccupation for cover. He set off on tiptoe, his destination the dim light from an open door into the house. He would have made it if he hadn’t been watching the mist so closely in order to insure they hadn’t seen him. He tripped over a lounge chair. The empty glass he’d been dutifully carrying flew from his hand and crashed onto the patio tiles. It made quite a racket.

  “What the…. Who’s there?” A masculine voice from the pool. The man half raised himself and J.D. could see the outline of his head in the fog, swiveling, searching for the source of the sounds. It was a voice J.D. recognized. It was Larry Spencer.

  J.D. scrambled to his feet and headed for the back of the house, no longer slowed by any need for stealth.

  “Who is that?” Larry demanded of the retreating shadow.

  J.D. decided Larry didn’t really want to know. He went through the door and left Larry something to wonder about.

  J.D. found his hosts and said his goodbyes. He drove cautiously home. He had something to wonder about too. If Larry Spencer was being unfaithful to his wife, why should J.D. let an antiquated sense of propriety get in the way of desire? Why shouldn’t he go after the half of the union he wanted?

  Maybe by the time he found her he’d have an answer.

  J.D. never noticed when the patrol car fell in behind him. He was driving with exaggerated care, slower than the speed limit, traffic, or conditions, except possibly those of the driver, warranted. He was lucky it was Jesus who had drawn the short straw and was assisting the City of Tucson in its New Year’s eve drunk patrol.

  They drove west on Speedway, right on Fifth, then J.D. swung left on Helen. Jesus slowed and stopped at the corner as he watched J.D. make a u-turn in front of his house that went a little wide and left the Ford with a front tire up on the curb, looking as if it was delicately checking to see what it might have stepped in.

  J.D. emerged with the same exaggerated care he’d used driving. He had a prodigious capacity for alcohol, the kind only years of practice and a troubled soul can produce, but with it came rigid control. He went up his walk and through his door without the slightest hint of a stagger.

  The Plague of Plumbers

  At a few minutes before six on New Year’s morning there was a break in the plumbing of the Imperial Japanese Consulate in San Francisco. Due to the holiday and the early hour, lots of plumbers were called and offered substantial bonuses to respond to the emergency. Most of them did. Eventually, nine plumbers got in each other’s way while combining to fix broken pipes beneath a kitchen sink. All the plumbers were paid in full for the repairs and each was additionally rewarded with a healthy bonus. They departed together, universally pleased by the easy addition to their income, certain it must be a good omen of a prosperous year to come. The staff of the Consulate bowed them out apologetically, locking up behind them. None of the nine noticed that their number had swollen to ten as they left.

  Fog hung in the street like wet lace. Sasaki smiled and nodded and exchanged New Year’s greetings with his fellows as he toted his tool box from the Consulate to the battered Studebaker van that had arrived, more or less simultaneously, with the plague of plumbers. The man who had brought it should already be in Oakland.

  The legitimate plumbers carried wrenches, calks, and torches in their tool boxes. Sasaki had a change of clothes, paperwork for four separate identities, something in excess of $2000 in non-sequential American bills, and a .45 caliber Colt semiautomatic pistol with enough ammunition to establish a respectable beachhead on his own. There was also a shoulder holster for the .45.

  Everything but the pistol was acceptable. The local Kempeitai officers had taken forever to arrange his exit, and then argued with him about what he needed and how it should be done. Mr. Kira’s plan must proceed, but Kira apparently had no friends in San Francisco to see that it was done properly.

  The pistol was a perfect example. They had decided it should be American and in no way traceable to the Japanese government. It wasn’t that the .45 was a poor quality weapon or unreliable. Quite the contrary. The problem was its size. A Colt 1911A1 was eight and a half inches long and weighed two and a half pounds. It took a big man to wear a concealed .45 without being obvious. Sasaki was taller than the average Japanese, but more slender. Strapped anywhere on his person, the gun’s presence would be obvious to even the most naive. The only place where a conspicuous bulge would go studiously avoided by the sight of most upright American citizens was his crotch—not an ideal place to store a lump of cold metal to say nothing of its inaccessibility in the event of any but the most unlikely of emergencies. For the time being, Sasaki had relegated it to his tool box.

  Within a couple of blocks it was clear that a black Packard was following him. So much for the local Kempeitai’s assurance that those who watched the consulate would be easy to fool. Sasaki pulled over on a quiet side street and the vehicle coasted silently up behind him. Two men got out. One opened his suit coat as he approached the Studebaker. The other casually brushed a hand against his left armpit, reassuring himself that his pistol was where it should be.

  Sasaki climbed out of the car. He left the tool box with the pistol in the van. At the consulate, they had done what they could to make him look like a White Man from a distance. Up close, there was no way he would pass.

  “Good morning,” he said, disarmingly, a picture of innocence. There was not the least trace of accent in his voice.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” one said.

  “Let’s see some ID, bub,” the other contradicted.

  Sasaki shrugged helplessly. “Hey,” he said, “who are you guys? What’s this all about?” They were close now, one on either side of him.

  “FBI,” one said, reaching for his badge. Sasaki put the heel of his hand into the man’s nose, driving cartilage and bone up into his brain and killing him instantly. He caught the other with a hard elbow just below his sternum, then pivoted and chopped down on his exposed neck as the man doubled over desperately seeking his breath. The second man didn’t die until Sasaki was back in the Studebaker, pulling calmly away.

  He took a circuitous route after that, designed to reveal or lose anyone else who might be back there. When he was absolutely certain he was not being followed, he drove down to the harbor. A grey Hudson waited for him in a deserted parking lot.

  Sasaki shed his coveralls in the Studebaker and emerged in a business suit that was too expensively cut for his taste and circumstances. There was no one in the empty lot to notice. He checked the trunk of the Hudson. It contained two suitcases filled with clothing, no doubt as perfectly tailored as this suit, more papers, even more cash, and a Webley-Mars .38 automatic. It was an even worse choice than the Colt. He left both weapons in the Studebaker. It would be reported back to the consulate. Perhaps the officer responsible for this fiasco might be reprimanded, or more. Or he might be able to find a way to blame it on Sasaki, have it put on his record. Sasaki didn’t care. He was on his own. From now on, whether he followed instructions or chose his own path was up to him. If he ever went home again, it would be in such glory that any blemishes on his record would be neutralized. Otherwise, he would be dead. The shame would fall on his family, and they had never expected less.

  He took the Hudson down the coastal highway to Los Angeles. Traffic was light because of the holiday. He abandoned the car in downtown LA in the unlikely event it was known or could be traced. He left it unlocked with the keys in the ignition so that anyone trying to locate it would soon encounter a complicated trail. He filled one suitcase with cash and papers and abandoned the other. He
walked inland until he found a cheap hotel and took a room. In the morning he went to a department store and replaced his wardrobe with a few off-the-rack selections. Then he found a used car lot and made the salesman’s day by purchasing an overpriced DeSoto with a minimum of argument and a chunk of cash.

  On his way out of the City of Angels, he made one last stop. He bought a snub nosed .38 from a pawn shop. He preferred to kill with his hands or a sword, but people didn’t carry swords here and a pistol he could hide might come in handy. It was convenient that he was in the United States. There were few places in the world where he could have armed himself so easily.

  A Key to The Soul

  When she realized her period had started, she informed the women of her family and took her things to the women’s hut again. Counting her initiation, which hadn’t corresponded with her cycle, it would be her third visit.

  The O’odham had an immense respect for everything to do with childbirth and reproduction. They believed an awesome magic surrounded the process, and that this magic took hold of a woman during menses. At this time, she could be unintentionally dangerous to those around her. She must absent herself from the village and go live in a women’s hut until she was safe again. During menstruation she must not touch food for people other than herself or she might poison it for them. She must not touch tools or weapons, or even look at a fire. What she must do was separate herself from her village and repeat, though less formally, the four days of ritual purification she underwent on becoming a woman.

  Grey Leaves escorted Mary to her family’s hut. The old woman went inside and lit the fire, hidden behind its shielding mud wall. She or one of the other women of the family would come back regularly to see to the fire and bring meals.