The Wild Girl

by Jim Fergus

  “It is too late for me,” said the old man.

  “It’s too late for Charley, as well,” I said.

  “What would you wish for him to do?” Joseph asked. “Return to the White Eyes world? They would put him in a circus.”

  “It’s the twentieth century, Joseph,” I said. “Wild Indians don’t get to live in the White Eyes world anymore.”

  “That is so,” Joseph said. He opened his arm out to take in the country. “But this is not the White Eyes world.”

  “You, of all people, know better than that, old man,” I said. “Everything is the White Eyes world now. Even this.”

  Since we have been here, the girl has been showing me her home country. I carry my camera on these outings, which we often make on foot in the vicinity of the ranchería. Sometimes, if we’re going farther afield, we ride my mule. Either way we try to return before the afternoon rains begin, but if we get caught out, she always seems to know another cave in which to take shelter, and sometimes we’ll spend the night there. We are like a couple of kids exploring, and somehow we manage to exist in this time together in that same spirit of childlike innocence and wonder. We have managed to create our own private world and we let nothing else in to violate or spoil it. And yet we are both aware of the fact that this world we have made does not exist outside itself.

  I’ve never been a big believer in signs or portents, but the Apaches are a deeply superstitious people and yesterday during one of our explorations something very disturbing occurred that seems to have shaken the girl to her core.

  We had lost track of time and wandered on foot several hours away from the ranchería. The afternoon storm clouds had begun to build over the mountains, but not until we saw the first distant flash of lightning and heard the accompanying rumble of thunder did we realize that we were too far afield to make it back before the rains came. The entire region is pocked with caves and as usual we had little trouble finding one in which to take refuge. Obviously because the caves also provide shelter to a variety of wildlife, including mountain lions and bears, we always investigate them thoroughly before seeking lodging inside. On these outings, we carry a rawhide bag with fire-making materials—a juniper stick about the length and thickness of a pencil, a flat piece of wood made of sotol stalk and dried bark or grass to use as tinder. I’m much less adept at the process than the girl; by twirling the stick in a notch on the wood, she can start a fire in a matter of minutes. When we had some larger sticks burning, we made a torch using a piece of cloth saturated with pine pitch. We had to crouch down in order to fit through the opening of the cave, but once inside we were able to stand up. It had obviously once been inhabited, for in the center was an old fire ring and the roof of the cave was blackened with smoke. The side walls were decorated with a number of prehistoric drawings—odd representational figures of birds, animals, and men, and various symbols, the meaning of which it was impossible to decipher. We had come upon similar rock drawings in other caves and on some of the canyon walls in the area. The cave seemed like a perfect place to wait out the storm, and as we had brought a blanket and a little food, we could easily spend the night here if we had to.

  While the girl got a fire burning in the fire ring, I explored the cave further, just to make certain that we were its only residents. It was maybe fifteen feet deep and had two more passages in the rear. I crawled through one of these, which opened up into another smaller chamber. When I raised my torch, I saw the outline of the figure lying on the floor and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was clearly a human form, but covered in a mound of silty white dust. I knelt down and began to carefully brush away the dust. As I did so, I began to expose the mummified remains of a woman. She was lying on her side, with her knees drawn up. Although desiccated and shrunken, her skin was nearly unbroken, stretched taut against her bones, and her features were perfectly intact. She had light, wavy hair, nearly flaxen, not at all like Indian hair, and as I uncovered more of her body I saw that she cradled an infant in her arms, and that the child was also perfectly preserved. Both of them wore oddly serene expressions on their faces, as if they had just lain down for an afternoon nap.

  I sat there for a while as my torch burned down, watching the mother and child, and when I finally spoke to the girl it was in a whisper, as if afraid of waking them from their centuries-long slumber.

  “Chideh,” I said, “come here. Bring my bag and another torch.”

  I wish now that I had left the burial chamber and never called to the girl, never even told her what I had seen there. It was a secret better kept to myself.

  She came in through the passage, holding the torch ahead of her and dragging my camera bag. When she saw the woman and child, her expression went from incomprehension to disbelief and finally to horror. She shrank back against the wall of the cave. “What have you done?” she asked. “¿Qué has hecho?”

  “I have done nothing,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “It is a very bad thing to disturb the dead.”

  “I only brushed the dust off them. That’s all.”

  “Why are they not bones?” she asked.

  I did not have the words to explain that some substance in the dust must have preserved the bodies. So I just said, “I don’t know.”

  “You dug them up,” she said. “You let their ghosts loose. Look how they smile.”

  “That’s nonsense. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “They will haunt us now,” said the girl, not to be assuaged. “We cannot stay here.”

  The rain had already begun and fell in loud, driving sheets.

  “Look, I’ll cover them up again,” I said. “Just like I found them. Then I’ll close the opening of the passageway with rocks. They won’t be able to get out.”

  The girl looked at the woman and child, but there was something like compassion now in her gaze, the tenderness with which another woman looks upon a mother and her child. She put her hand on her own belly. “It is too late,” she said. “They are already out.”

  She went back into the main cave, and I made some time exposures of the bodies using what dim light I had from the torches. I was not superstitious about it and, unlike the girl, had no sense that I was violating the peace of the dead. I knew that later, when I looked at the images themselves, I would see them differently; I would see then the poignancy of a mother holding her baby for eternity, at least, that was the image I hoped I was making. I hoped that my camera might breathe life back into their human remains.

  When I had finished shooting, I carefully re-covered the bodies with the white dust. I touched a little to my tongue; it was some kind of mineral which must have preserved them so perfectly. I hoped that it would be another thousand years before they were disturbed again.

  With the torrential downpour, we had little choice but to stay in the cave. The girl was sullen and withdrawn, did not speak or eat, and curled up with her back to me when we lay down, in much the same posture, it occurred to me, as the woman with the child. I fell asleep with my arm around her, holding her, trying to reassure her that everything was all right, that the ghosts would not harm us. But during the night I dreamed that I woke and rolled the girl over toward me, and she had become the desiccated corpse of the ancient woman. I was not afraid of the corpse in my dream, just enormously sad for her death and that of her child, and I held them, weeping. In the morning I did not tell the girl of my dream.

  9 JULY, 1932

  The ranchería was quiet and seemed largely deserted by the time we returned this morning. The girl went immediately to seek one of the old woman di-yins so that she might be cleansed of her contact with the dead, so that she and our unborn child would not be stricken with the “ghost sickness,” as the Apaches call it.

  For my part, I went to find Margaret in order to tell her about my discovery of the mummified bodies. Charley and the old man were sitting in front of the wickiup when I got there. Margaret and Charley’s wife were grinding corn on a stone
metate nearby.

  “I’d love to chat, little brother,” Margaret said. “But as you can see, a woman’s work is never done around here.”

  “What happens if you refuse, Mag?” I asked.

  “Trust me, Neddy, it’s easier just to do the work.”

  “Joseph,” I said to the old man, “would you ask Charley if I might speak with Margaret for a few minutes?”

  Joseph spoke to the white Apache. “Charley says it is a good thing that the White Eyes are finally learning some manners,” he said. “Although you should make this request of his wife, Ishton, rather than of him.”

  “Go ahead and ask her then, will you?” I said.

  In his most florid oratorical manner, Joseph spoke for what seemed like forever to the woman. But after all that, it was clear that when the woman, Ishton, answered him, she did so in the negative. In exasperation, Margaret dropped her grinding stone and said something in what sounded to me like surprisingly fluent Apache. Then she stood defiantly, wiped her hands on her dress, and began to walk toward me. Ishton grabbed hold of Margaret’s arm to stop her, squawking at her like an angry hen. Without hesitating, Margaret turned and threw a roundhouse punch that caught the woman behind the ear and knocked her to the ground.

  “I’ve had all I’m going to take from you, you fucking bitch!” Margaret screamed, standing over her, her fist cocked. “Do you hear me? I quit as your slave. And if you lay another hand on me, I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand me?”

  Surprisingly, Charley began to roar with laughter, sitting cross-legged and rocking back and forth in a state of utter hilarity. Even more surprising was that his wife did not fight back, but like a submissive dog who knows it’s outmatched by an alpha dog, she assumed a kind of cowering posture.

  Margaret rubbed her knuckles and turned toward me. “Damn, that felt good,” she said. “I don’t know why I didn’t do that a long time ago.” And to Charley, she raised her fist and said something in Apache that made him laugh even louder.

  “What did you just say, Mag?” I asked.

  “I told him that I did not mean any disrespect to the chief, but that if he ever hits me again, I’ll give him a little of the same medicine.” Margaret sat down next to me as if she owned the place.

  “Wow, I didn’t know you threw such a mean haymaker, Mag,” I said. “What brought that on anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I just couldn’t bear for you to see them treat me like that. It’s one thing to submit to being a slave when you’re all alone, and another thing for your friends to witness the indignity. I guess I kind of snapped.”

  “That is a good thing you did,” Joseph said. “My Mexican captive, La Luna, was also very strong and proud. She, too, did not wish to be a slave. She wished to be treated like the other women. After a time she became my wife and the others all respected her just as if she was one of them because she had Power. The Apaches treat people as they deserve to be treated. You submitted to Charley’s authority, and now you have shown him that you deserve his respect.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me that story when we first got here, Joseph?” Margaret asked.

  “Because it is something that you must learn yourself,” he said, “and prove to them by your own behavior.”

  Charley’s hilarity had finally subsided and we all sat cross-legged in front of the wickiup. The girl joined us, quiet as a spirit, and took a seat beside me. Another woman with two preadolescent boys came over and requested permission to sit. I had noticed that the ranchería was even quieter than usual, and although women and children had already outnumbered the men here, now there seemed to be virtually no men about at all.

  Charley’s wife prepared food to eat and served everyone, including Margaret. Ishton’s ear had swollen like a cauliflower and a little blood ran from it. When Margaret noticed this, she rose and wet a piece of cloth from the water jug, went to her, and gently dabbed her wounded ear. “Lo siento,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.” The woman smiled gratefully.

  Now Charley began speaking, and Joseph translated for us. He explained that one of the boys with Indio Juan’s band had returned to the ranchería last night with news that the expedition was on the move again and that Indio Juan was trailing them, waiting for another chance to attack.

  “I myself have seen the Mexican soldiers and the White Eyes,” Charley said. “As always, there are too many of them for us to fight. We will let our brother, Juan, fight them if he wishes, and while he keeps the soldiers occupied, we will leave here and travel to a new home, deeper in the mountains, where no one will find us.”

  One of the boys spoke up then, with a kind of bravado that was almost amusing given his young age.

  “We let the warrior Juan fight for us,” he said, “while we slip away like women. Why do we not fight like men?”

  Charley looked at the boy for some time before answering. “Why do we not fight like men?” he asked finally. “Because you are not a man, you are a boy. And these”—he gestured with his arm—“are women.”

  “All the warriors have joined Indio Juan,” said the boy. And though he was clearly losing his courage for challenging Charley, he managed to screw up the last of it to say, “All but the old men and the boys … and … and you … Why does our chief not fight the soldiers?”

  Charley smiled wryly at the boy’s impudence. “Because it is my duty to see that the People survive,” he said. “And to do that I must protect the women and children. We have learned that it is useless to fight the Mexicans or the White Eyes because even when we win a battle and we kill the soldiers, they only come back with more soldiers. They are like ants, there is no end of them. Ask this old man,” he said, indicating Joseph, “how many White Eyes and Mexicans there are on earth.”

  The boy looked questioningly at Joseph.

  “There are so many White Eyes and Mexicans on earth,” said Joseph, “that if they were all lined up in front of you and you started walking past them, you would walk your whole life and grow as old as I am, and you would still not reach the end of the line.”

  The boy looked puzzled. It occurred to me that he had probably never seen more than thirty people assembled in one place in his life. How could he possibly imagine how many White Eyes and Mexicans there were on earth?

  “We will pack our belongings tonight and leave in the morning,” Charley said.

  “May I speak?” I asked. “¿Puedo hablar?”

  Charley looked at me approvingly. He nodded and answered in Apache.

  “Charley says that this White Eyes has good manners,” Joseph translated.

  “They don’t really want to fight,” I said. “They just want the Huerta boy back. And they want this woman, too.” I indicated Margaret. “If you give them up, no one will even follow you. You can disappear in the mountains, and if you stay away from the ranches and settlements, you can continue to live up here forever.”

  “Charley wishes to know if you are coming with them?” Joseph asked. “With your wife.”

  “You’re on the spot now, little brother,” Margaret said. “Are you going to do the right thing?”

  “Is there a right thing to do, Margaret?”

  “Well, you can tell them that you’re planning to abandon your wife,” she said. “In which case they’ll probably kill you before they leave here in the morning. Or you can go with them. In which case, they’ll never let you leave once you get there. And Neddy, it’s going to be really tough to find film for your camera where they’re headed.”

  “That’s what I’m asking, Mag,” I said. “Is there a right thing to do?”

  “The right thing to do around here,” she said, “is to avoid dying. Live one more day. That’s my position. And on the bright side, at least we’ll have each other.”

  “Tell Charley I’ll go with them,” I said to Joseph. “But that they must leave the woman and the boy here.”

  “Don’t try to be noble, Neddy,” Margaret said. “Y
ou don’t have that kind of bargaining power.”

  “Charley says that everyone comes,” Joseph said. “That there are not enough People left to leave any behind. He says that you will take more Apache wives and make more Apache babies. He approves of you.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to have to get a real job, sweetheart,” Margaret said. “To support your extended family.”

  “That’s real funny, Mag.”

  “Just remember what I said, Neddy. One more day. Whatever it takes.”

  It was then that an extraordinary thing occurred, something that I expect I’ll remember until the day I die. We heard a commotion on the edge of the ranchería, a cry of alarm from the boy who had been posted as lookout there. Everyone leaped up and Charley scrambled for his rifle as we heard the pounding of horses’ hooves, and three mounted figures rode into view up the valley, riding hard. The lead man held a rifle aloft and issued a kind of high-pitched war cry that was immediately and unmistakably identifiable. “Chaaaaarrrrgggge!”

  “Oh, good God,” Margaret said under her breath.

  Yes, it was none other than Tolbert Phillips Jr., galloping another of his polo ponies up the river bottom, whooping like a madman, waving a rifle overhead; he was dressed in a preposterous white-fringed buckskin outfit that I’d never seen before, and that made him look like he’d ridden right out of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Behind him came Albert Valor on a running mule, and bringing up the rear on a burro, trotting as fast as its little legs would take it, came the boy Jesus.

  “What in the hell does he think he’s doing?” I muttered.

  Charley calmly jacked a shell into his Winchester and raised it to his shoulder; in his hands the weapon looked as small as a child’s toy. Stupidly, I stood there frozen, watching him as if in a dream. But Margaret had more presence of mind, and before he could squeeze off a shot, she leaped onto Charley’s back, wrapping her arm around his neck and her legs around his waist. The rifle discharged and Charley dropped it. Although he was not a young man, a lifetime in the wild has given him a physique as lean and hard as a mountain lion, and although Margaret hung on for dear life, he shook her off easily and flung her to the ground. But by now I had recovered my senses and I picked up the rifle and held it on him.