by Jory Sherman
“But what?” Lazaro asked.
“I do not know. But God will show you the way. You must listen to your heart and you must be patient.”
“You are always telling me to be patient. That means waiting, does it not?”
“No, it means that you must be always ready for more gifts from God. You must keep your heart pure and know that you are blessed by the Almighty.”
“I do not know who God is. I cannot see Him in my mind.”
“Nobody can. That is why God is God. He is not seen, but He is everywhere and He is in every living thing.”
“I do not understand how God can be everywhere.”
“In time you will, Lazaro. Be patient. God is a spirit, and spirit cannot be seen with the eyes—only with the heart. God will come into your heart and you will see Him.”
“Will I really see Him?”
“Not as you imagine, but as a spirit, as a force inside you, as power. When you are older I will tell you of miracles performed by God and by His son, Jesus.”
“Why do I have to be older?”
“Because you will be ready to understand; you will know that truth when you see it and hear it.”
“I wish I were older now.”
“Go to sleep, Lazaro. You will be a little older when you awake.”
She walked over to the bed and put her hand on Lazaro’s forehead. Then she closed the lids over his sightless eyes and held her hand there.
He could feel sleepiness overtake him. It was so soothing to have her hand on his eyes. She did not say anything, but he thought that she was singing a lullaby to him as she used to do when he was a baby. He could hear the words in his mind, and he could hear the melody and the hearing brought a great peace to his heart, and he felt himself falling away into that deeper blackness that he called sleep, and just before he lost consciousness, he thought he heard Esperanza humming that little lullaby she used to sing to him and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
28
BONE HAD KNOWN that Reynaud and ten men were following him. Gradually, he had been widening the distance between him and them. He knew why Matteo had sent the Frenchman Reynaud, and ten others, to follow him. The Frenchman was to kill Anson Baron. But, if Bone had anything to say about it, Reynaud would not do that.
He had left the road several times to confuse Reynaud and those who rode with him. They would spend time trying to find his track, and time was what he needed to gain, along with distance.
There was something inside him that had hardened after he left Matteo. Something that had been working inside him for a long time, something he had not been able to put a name to, but something that was attached to an old hate, a hate that also could not be named quickly or easily. But he thought it arose out of being back with his people again, after realizing, when he had returned, still again, that he had no home, no people, anymore. There was only Dawn and his son.
He had thought he might find a home with Matteo Aguilar, but that man wanted only those around him who were like the slaves that were stolen from him, men who did what they were told and did not ask questions. Bone had seen the look in Dawn’s eyes when he told her he was leaving again, that he was riding after a man Matteo wanted killed. He had seen the shadows in Dawn’s eyes and those shadows had spoken to him more clearly than any words she might have said.
The hatred inside him was formless, but it was like a river seeking a bed, cutting through him to carve a way to run to some ocean where it could be swallowed up, where it could fill a basin inside him that was like a reservoir gone dry.
The old ones had told him that he would be homeless, that the tribe was dying out to make room for new people, just as the ancient ones had died off long before the Lipan sprang from the earth. The old ones had told him that the earth was alive, and all things on it, but, like the leaves of the trees, people died off and others came to take their places, like new leaves that would also die one day.
He had thought long and hard about the stone he had found in the brasada, and felt that it had been left behind by the ancient ones, perhaps just to say that they had been here on earth and were leaving it behind.
With the anger, there was a sadness in Bone, too. He had taken Dawn away from the mountains, away from the dying old people, hoping to find a place for her and their child, hoping that, with Matteo, he would find a home, peace, new roots in soil where his son could grow to be a man. But now he thought that perhaps he could not outrun time, that he could not be the lone Lipan to survive and raise his son to begin a new generation. The people were scattered and their bloodlines wiped out by Spanish and mestizo blood and his son would never find a Lipan mate, and even if he could, he was no longer pure Lipan, but had his mother’s mixed blood in him.
He was weary thinking about it, thinking about the anger and living with the sadness. He was not old, but he felt old, sometimes. Dawn was young, and he wanted her to be happy. She liked Matteo’s wife, Luz, but she did not like Matteo, and she hated the Frenchman Reynaud. She hated that she and Bone lived on Matteo’s land and not their own. But they had no land; they had no people.
Where could he go? Bone wondered. Where on earth was there a place for him, Dawn, and their little son?
He did not know, and the anger grew in him along with the sadness, and he felt like a blind man groping his way through a darkness that had fallen upon the earth and surrounded him, cut him off from the sun and all his brethren.
But he could not just go away and leave no trace of himself. The ancient ones did not do that. They left behind memories and stones inscribed with words of their own language. They left behind skeletons that spoke of their passing to those who could read the stories of the bones—like the tracks he was following—like some could read books.
Mickey Bone had the uncanny ability to read sign and figure out, after a while, where the person he was tracking might be headed. Now, as he followed the tracks of Anson and Peebo, his thoughts roamed over the country ahead. He saw the land beyond unfold in his mind and knew, in that instant, not only where the two riders were headed, but what Anson’s plan for ambush was to be. He knew the country, and he knew how Anson thought, for he had taught the boy some things about tracking and concealment.
Bone turned his horse off the path, for there was no longer any reason to look at the hoofprints that were so plain, so fresh. As he rode to the west, he pondered what he might do, what he must do, when he came upon Anson. He already knew the size of Anson’s small force, to the man, and now he had to figure out where Anson would deploy his companions, what spot he would pick for himself while waiting to ambush Miguel and his men.
A roadrunner streaked across an open patch of land in front of Bone, its legs scissoring the air as if it were cutting through a bolt of tan cloth. A lizard lay sunning on the bright side of a rock, catching the late-afternoon rays of the sun. A jackrabbit froze against a stalled tumbleweed, nearly invisible against the striations of the skeletal plant. Bone judged the distance he would have to ride the semicircle to come up on the west edge of the mesquite forest as he rode through the waning afternoon. His mind teemed with thoughts of what he would do when he found Anson. He had not talked to him in a long time and he knew the boy had grown into a man and was no longer the youth he had once known.
The sun was slipping over the distant horizon when Bone rode up to the beginning of the huge mesquite forest. He rode a hundred yards before he turned his horse into the thicket. A covey of quail burst into flight in front of him and scattered through the trees like flung featherballs. His horse skittered under him, but did not bolt.
It was darker inside the grove, but he could see well enough to follow a course he had set in his mind. If his timing was right, it would still be light enough to see when he reached the edge that bordered the road. But he would know where Anson waited, a few minutes before he reached that point.
Shafts of sunlight penetrated the leafed-out mesquite as shadows gathered and striped the ground, puddled
up in the heavier growth. The sun’s warmth began to dwindle as Bone followed his eastern course. Every so often now, he stopped to listen. It was deathly still inside the green garden of mesquite, but he listened intently, even so.
He looked at his shadow and his horse’s moving on the ground in front of him, constantly changing shape like some inky sea creature floating and flapping just beneath the still surface of the sea.
As the mesquite woods darkened, Bone’s horse slowed as it encountered deep pockets of shadows that sometimes bore frightful shapes, and some that resembled hollows and holes in the ground, pits into which man and horse might fall and disappear in the bowels of the earth.
A small deer arose from its dusty bed and ran off, making little sound. Bone passed the bed and smelled the musk of the deer. A crow flew through the trees and began cawing after it had seen him. Soon he heard answering caws and heard the flapping of wings, as others of their kind took wing and announced his presence.
It could not be helped. Anson would know he was coming, if he judged the man right. The din blotted out almost all other sound and Bone prodded his horse’s flanks, putting him into a lope through the mesquite. They followed a deer trail that wound through the trees and coursed the more open places.
Bone knew he was not far from the road when he reined his horse in. At that moment, he heard the snicking sound of a cocking hammer and knew that he was no longer alone in the woods.
He started to reach for the rifle in its boot, but stopped before he moved his hand. Bone knew that if he tried to pull his weapon free, he would be a dead man before he drew another breath.
29
ANSON HEARD A crow caw deep in the woods behind him. A few moments before, a small deer had run across the road into the mesquite forest on the other side. The deer flashed the white of its tail like a warning flag and then disappeared.
Peebo sat his horse a few feet away, his rifle across the pommel of his saddle. He looked as if he were dozing, but Anson knew he was wide-awake and as alert as he was.
“What you reckon scared that there deer?” Peebo asked.
“Same thing that made that crow caw,” Anson said.
A few minutes later another crow took up the chorus, then a series of caws rang through the woods. Anson stiffened in the saddle and shifted his own rifle until its stock lay across his right leg. He put a thumb on the hammer and turned his horse to face the woods behind him.
“Jesus,” Peebo said. “What a damned racket.”
“Yeah, you stay here. I’m going to find out what’s got those crows a-yammerin’.”
“Sing out if you need help.”
Anson nodded and clucked to his horse as he ticked its flanks with blunt spurs. The horse glided into the deep shadows of the mesquite under a rapidly graying sky.
Crow calls filled the air and Anson heard the flapping of wings as birds left their roosts somewhere up ahead of him. He rode with care, moving from copse to copse, then waiting a few seconds before continuing on, deeper into the woods.
Then he heard the muffled sounds of an animal moving very slowly through the trees. He stayed behind a group of three trees, listening. The sounds came closer and Anson did not move a muscle. He laid a hand on his horse’s withers to keep him from whinnying, while pulling gently on the bit to keep his mouth occupied.
He recognized the horse when it came into view, then saw Bone. Anson’s blood quickened as he remained motionless. Still, Bone came on, about thirty yards away, at an angle where Bone could not see him unless he turned his head and looked directly at Anson.
Anson waited until Bone had passed him on a parallel course, then, when Bone’s back was to him, Anson thumbed back the hammer of his flintlock. Bone halted and stiffened in the saddle.
“Mickey.”
“That is you, Anson.”
“You trying to sneak up on me?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Just sit there. Don’t go for your rifle. I’m going to ride up behind you.”
“I mean you no harm.”
Anson said nothing. He held the rifle in his right hand, pointed at Bone’s back, the reins in his left hand. He prodded his horse forward and rode up behind Bone.
“Why are you looking for me, Mickey?”
“Matteo sent me to follow your tracks. I think some of his men will be along soon. Matteo means to kill you and your father.”
“Did Matteo send you to kill me?”
“No.”
Anson believed Bone, but he continued to be wary.
“How many men are coming?”
“I do not know, but I would bet many pesos that the Frenchman, Reynaud, is among them.”
“I don’t know the man.”
“No, but Martin does. Reynaud is very dangerous, I think.”
“Why would you warn me?”
“I told Matteo I would not kill you.”
“He must have really liked you to say that.”
Bone said nothing.
Anson rode up close enough to shove the barrel of his rifle into the center of Bone’s back. Bone did not move.
“I want to believe you,” Anson said.
Bone still said nothing.
“Why in hell would you work for Matteo?” Anson blurted out.
“It was a mistake.”
“So, are you going back to him if I let you go?”
“I will go back and get my wife and son.”
“You have a son?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. Well, maybe you want to live, then.”
Bone stayed silent.
“Can I trust you?”
“That is up to you, Anson.”
“Well, I want to hear you say it.” Anson poked the barrel into Bone’s back, kept the pressure on the spine.
“I was coming to warn you.”
“So Matteo is riding to attack the Box B?”
“Yes. He and his men will be there in the morning.”
“At dawn.”
“Yes. That is what Matteo says.”
“You saw my tracks at the Rocking A.”
“Yes. So did Matteo. He sent me to track you.”
“Does he know I’m waiting for him?”
“I do not think so.”
“What are you supposed to do? Tell him where I am?”
“Yes.”
“But you will not. Not now.”
“I never would have.”
“Then why did you track me?” Anson asked.
“Are you going to shoot me in the back, Anson?”
“Maybe not.”
“It is hard to make talk with a gun in my back.”
Anson pulled the barrel back an inch.
“I will answer,” Bone said. “But let me turn around so that you can see my eyes. So you can see if I speak the truth.”
Anson backed his horse. “Turn around. Real slow, Mickey.”
Bone turned his horse. The crows began to fall silent. Only one or two still cawed and they were far away. The shadows in the mesquite forest began to deepen and the sky began to darken, its grayish cast turning to slate.
“I’m listening,” Anson said.
“I thought if I tracked you, I would find you. And then I would tell you that Matteo is coming to rub you and Martin out. If someone else had tracked you, I do not know what would have happened.”
“Matteo is still coming. I mean to slow him down.”
“When I left the road, I wiped out your tracks for some ways. Then I rode back and forth, leaving my tracks all crossing each other. This might slow down those who follow. For a little while. Then Matteo, Reynaud, and many men will come. They carry many weapons.”
“Now that you’ve found me and warned me, what will you do?”
“I will go back to the Rocking A and get my wife and son. We will leave this place. I will not work for Matteo.”
Anson considered what Bone had told him. He could still see his eyes, but he could not tell if a man was lying just by watch
ing his eyes. He could only tell what a man might do in the next instant. He kept the rifle barrel level on Bone’s gut while he thought over what he had said.
“Matteo will come after you, if you do that,” Anson said.
“I do not think so. And, if he does, he will not find me.”
“Where will you go? Mexico?”
“I do not know.”
“There is a war now. Coming to Texas maybe.”
“I have heard this.”
“You might be hunted down by others. By soldiers.”
“We must follow the paths we choose.”
“You sound like Juanito.”
“He was a man muy sabio.”
“Yes. But you have the chance to choose the path. You chose Matteo.”
“And I am leaving that path.”
“To follow a more dangerous one, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. But I speak the truth. I will go away from the Rocking A. That is not my path.”
“I wish you well. Buena suerte.”
“Buena suerte a ti, también.”
Anson hesitated. He did not want to leave, but he knew he must. Once, he had wanted to ride with Bone, to go with him to Mexico when he had left the Box B, but he had stayed behind because Juanito Salazar had told him not to go with Bone. But he was still fascinated with the man, and he had learned much from him when he was a boy growing into a man.
“I got to be going,” Anson said. But he did not move, nor did he change the aim of the rifle in his hand.
“Yes. There is not much time. You will not be able to stop Matteo, you know.”
“I just hope I can slow him down a little.”
“He has many men. You have only four.”
“I know.”
“Watch out for the Frenchman.”
“I will.”
“Are you going to keep that rifle pointed at me? Or are you going to shoot me dead?”
Anson looked down at the rifle as if realizing for the first time that he had it in his hand.
“No. You go, Mickey. Maybe I’ll see you sometime. Again.”