Leaving Yuma

by Michael Zimmer

  A chill crept up my spine. I’d never known Luis to speak so prophetically, but I knew him well enough to trust what he was saying. Pushing to my feet, I said, “Let’s ride.”

  Session Eighteen

  The sun rose, then started down again, but the heat kept climbing. Our horses were still in good shape, but you could tell the desert was taking its toll. The damned desert always claims its share, one way or another.

  Far ahead I could see a line of boulders jumbled up along the horizon like an old logging chain fallen from the back of a wagon. It was our destination, the top of the bluffs. I figured we’d be there by dusk if nothing got in our way, but had no idea how long it would take to locate one of the tanks cupped down among the rocks.

  Luis had the lead again. Susan was riding with him, perched on the coarse wool serape tied behind his cantle, her little fingers clinging to the cartridge-lined gun belt at his waist. She’d begged her mother to ride with him before we left the glade among the catclaw, and Abby had consented once Luis assured her the girl wouldn’t be a bother. Abby rode beside them for a few miles, then fell back with me, smiling pleasantly.

  “I believe I am getting used to this heat, Mister Latham.”

  “It’s survivable if you’ve got enough water and know what you’re doing.” I didn’t add that we’d been pretty lucky so far. If I hadn’t spotted that seep the night before, we would have been in bad shape.

  “Susan was asking this morning how much longer it would be until we could go home. I think she has a vague awareness of our danger, but only a child’s cognizance of what it means.”

  “If I told you four days, it could be a lie.”

  She looked surprised. “Really, that long? I had thought we might be closer.”

  “With good horses and plenty of water we could be there in forty-eight hours,” I replied, although that might have been stretching it. I’ve looked at a couple of maps of Sonora since then, and we were pretty deep into the state at the point.

  “But we don’t have good horses or plenty of water?”

  “I’ve got no complaint with the horses, other than I’d like to have a saddle for your gray. As far as reaching Arizona, water will be a problem. An even bigger obstacle will be Alvarez and his men, not to mention the possibility of Indians.”

  “Yaquis?”

  “Those and others.”

  “Mister Vega hinted that you were familiar with the Yaqui Indians.”

  “About that.”

  “About what?”

  “About familiar, I’d say.”

  She gave me a doubting look, like she thought I was trying to be flippant, but I wasn’t. It was just that, even though I’d lived with the tribe for three years, I’d never really come close to understanding them. You’d have to be born a Yaqui, or captured within the first few months of your life and raised by them, to really comprehend their ways. I was familiar with them, but that was about all.

  “Mister Vega mentioned a chief called Old Toad. He said the man was quite dangerous, but I’m not sure he wasn’t making a joke at my expense, exploiting my ignorance of the country and its people.”

  “No, Old Toad is real enough. He’s the war chief of a bunch that calls itself the Dead Horses, after a branch of the Río Concepción where they used to winter. It’s a small band, but meaner than most. Toad hates White Eyes as much as he does Mexicans, and that’s a lot. We’d be better off falling into Soto’s hands than running into him or any of his Dead Horses.”

  Her expression sobered. “I would dislike having to consider either of those options,” she admitted. “Was … is this Toad fellow the Indian who abducted you as a child?”

  “I wasn’t much of a child by Sonoran standards,” I explained. “I was thirteen when Toad’s warriors jumped us in a freighter’s camp outside of Magdalena. That was back in 1888, and I was working for a muleskinner named Henry Toomes, who was a good enough man, though reckless to be in that country with just a kid to cover his backside.” I was dimly aware of my anger—never very far away when the subject of Old Toad came up—and of the growing sharpness of my words. “There were close to twenty of them, and only the two of us,” I continued. “They were on us before we even knew they were around. I was knocked unconscious pretty quick, but they caught Henry and …”

  My words trailed off as I recalled what Toad’s bloodsuckers had done to poor old Henry. What they’d done to others, too, over the years that I ran with them. But when I glanced at Abby, I was startled by the look on her face, a kind of morbid reluctance that made me aware of my own blackening mood.

  Looking away with a self-conscious chuckle, I rolled my shoulders as if I could work the anger loose like tight muscles. Deciding to change the subject before my fury toward both Old Toad and Henry led me to reveal the kind of graphic details a woman of Abby Davenport’s refinement had no business hearing, I said, “Anyway, I was pretty old to be taken captive.”

  And fortunate, too, I’ve reflected a thousand times since then. Lucky not to have been gutted and burned alongside Henry, or hauled back to Toad’s village as a slave, or fodder for their dogs.

  “I’m sorry,” Abby said softly. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “You weren’t prying,” I assured her, but I was glad when she let the matter drop, and even more relieved a few minutes later when she urged her horse back up beside Luis’. I wish I could get rid of the memories that easily.

  The Yaquis called me White Dog, but it wasn’t a compliment, or even a descriptive name, like Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull. It was just a coarse description of a scared but combative youth, and when you transcribe these recordings, you could easily lowercase both words and still be correct.

  I’ve mentioned my anger toward the Yaquis a couple of times now. A lot of people believe getting mad is a waste of time and energy, but I’d argue that it was my antagonism toward my captors, and Old Toad in particular, that kept me alive during those first chaotic weeks of my capture. It’s also what kept me out of the clutches of the women, who would have made my life a living hell as a slave, fetching wood and water and fighting the dogs for scraps of food. In my defiance, I think Toad saw the potential for a warrior, another defender of an already badly decimated nation.

  The others never saw me that way, and I suspect in time even Old Toad came to regret his decision. Oh, I was fighter enough. Even a thirteen-year-old can take up the Yaqui cause when there’s a Federale on the other end of a gun trying to kill him, but my heart was never in it. I wanted to live, which is about as basic a desire as exists, but I didn’t care whether or not the Yaquis did. Argue all you want about the abomination of genocide, but my feelings toward the Dead Horses were cemented when I learned what they’d done to Henry Toomes during the final hours of his life.

  I lived with them, I hunted with them, I even raided with them. And I learned the country, all along the coast and as far inland as the Sierra Madres. Not as intimately as the Yaquis, but better than any other man, white or Mexican, that I’ve ever met. I didn’t know all the water holes—the tanks and seeps and springs—but I knew a lot of them, including the Cañon Where the Small Lizards Run, which is what opened up a previously unforgiving country to regular business trips between Nogales and Sabana.

  My thoughts were still running with the Yaquis when I heard a warning shout from Luis. Jerking my head around, I was struck nearly dumb by the sight of half a dozen soldados, all but one of them wearing the tall caps and khaki uniforms of the Army of Liberation, pouring from the mouth of a draw to the northeast like milk from a broken jar. They were still pretty far away—a mile, at least—but I guess they’d decided they weren’t likely to get any closer before nightfall, and didn’t want to risk losing our trail again in the dark.

  I shouted for the others to make a run for it, but they were way ahead of me. Luis had wheeled his sorrel behind Abby’s gray and was lashing its rump with the
loose ends of his reins. I slammed my heavy stirrups into the claybank’s sides, and the horse practically lunged out from under me. We were heading for the line of rocks I’d spotted earlier, and that I was convinced was part of the upper lip of the escarpment.

  I yanked the Winchester from its scabbard, but didn’t even consider taking a shot at that range. Up ahead, with Abby’s gray darting through the cactus like a fleeing jack rabbit, Luis had also drawn his long gun. He was staying close to the woman, though, which I appreciated. If the need arose, I could fall back or split off, and not have to worry about Abby’s safety.

  Those rocks I’ve been telling you about, they weren’t that far away when Alvarez’s men jumped us. Maybe three miles to the top, and with another couple of hours of daylight left, too. We were going to have to find a place to hole up real quick when we got there, though, before the soldados could pin us down. And we’d need to be close to water when we did, because those soldiers weren’t going to give us time to poke around for the most likely spot to defend.

  We rode silently for the most part, with just the wind rushing past our ears and the pounding of our horses’ hoofs beating a desperate cadence against the hard dirt. Alvarez’s troopers weren’t yelling, which bothered me for some reason. I mean, what kind of men don’t holler and shout when they attack, if only to bolster their own courage?

  Me, I was cussing a blue streak under my breath as we raced through the scrub, and I won’t apologize for it, either. I don’t know why, but, as we made that dash for the rocks, I was more afraid than I’d been at any time since breaking Abby and Susan out of the garrison at Sabana. Bent low over the broad horn of my Mexican saddle, the Winchester at my side like a sawed-off lance, the curses just kept jolting out of me with the claybank’s every forward lunge.

  We were still a couple of hundred yards shy of the rim when I heard the first report of a rifle. I twisted around in my saddle in disbelief. The khaki-clad horsemen were still at least a mile off. They wouldn’t waste a shot at that distance. Then I heard another shot, and swung back just as Luis howled and jerked his left hand back, shaking his fingers as if they’d gone to sleep. One of his reins had fallen and was whipping through the brush like a striking rattler. Gunsmoke drifted from the rocks in front of us like a skulking cur. Abby glanced wildly over her shoulder, and I pointed the Winchester’s muzzle toward a jumble of gray stones a couple of hundred yards south of where the shooter was crouched. Taking a rearward peek, I saw Alvarez’s men slowing their mounts, as puzzled by the rifle fire coming from the rim of the bluff as we were.

  Abby was racing toward our second destination with Luis crowding the gray’s tail, his loose rein recovered. Susan was bouncing up and down on the saddle’s skirting, hanging on for dear life. Then, even as I watched, another shot rang out from the bluff, and Abby’s dappled gray went down in an explosion of dust and shattered brush. Luis, right behind her, couldn’t stop. His sorrel made a valiant effort to leap the tumbling gray, but came down on top of it, instead.

  After that, everything was a blur, like a series of out-of-focus snapshots. I remember a pinwheel image of Abby’s skirt, its twin spokes clad in a pair of frilly pantaloons; Luis flying low through the desert scrub, both hands stretched in front of him with his palms raised against the rapidly approaching earth; horses legs flailing—at one point I think all eight of them were pointed skyward at the same time—and a sombrero sailing clear of the wreckage like a hawk in flight.

  Of Susan I saw nothing, not even a splash of white satin, and my heart sank as the mass of horses, of man and woman—and somewhere in that hodgepodge of death and destruction, a child—spun across the desert before me.

  It was all over in a handful of seconds. I jerked the claybank to a dirt-showering stop and jumped clear of the saddle. A cloud of dust hung over the crash site. The gray was on its side, squealing and kicking, but Luis’ sorrel wasn’t moving; its neck was broken, tucked back almost under its body.

  Susan, thankfully, was sitting spraddle-legged on the far side of the pile-up, screaming her beautiful brown eyes out at the indignities that had befallen her young life. There were shallow abrasions on one cheek and a prickly pear pad clinging securely to her thigh through the fabric of her dress, but otherwise she seemed fine.

  Abby was also sitting up, although with her hands braced flat on the ground behind her. She looked dazed, and, having survived more than a few wrecks myself over the years, I could appreciate her confusion. Her hair had finally come completely undone and was hanging loosely around her face and shoulders in a way that did nothing to distract from her looks, and her clothing, although in a disarray and revealing several new tears, appeared bloodless.

  Luis was standing with his legs spread wide for balance, both hands—the palms bloody from where he’d tried to stop his fall—held out to the side while the world spun around him. I knew that feeling, too. Then a fourth shot exploded from the rocks, and Luis’ jacket twitched as the bullet passed through its hem. I grabbed him around the waist and threw him to the ground, then dropped to my knee at his side, corkscrewing partway around and snapping off probably the luckiest shot I’ve ever made in my life.

  Up in the rocks, our ambusher was spun violently to one side. He tumbled into a boulder and was starting to fall when he suddenly caught himself, then pushed to his feet and darted into the stone forest at his rear. Although Luis was cursing vehemently in Spanish, the bullet had missed and he was unharmed save for the raw flesh of his palms. Abby had crawled over to Susan’s side and plucked the cactus pad from the youngster’s thigh. She was holding the child in her lap, rocking her gently and murmuring in her ear.

  My claybank was heading back to Vaquero Springs at a running trot, its head and tail held high, reins trailing uselessly. The gray had ceased its pitiful cries and now lay stretched out on its side; blood bubbled from its nostrils in a pink mist, and a thumb-size, scarlet-rimmed crater just behind its shoulder implied a bad lung wound and almost certain death. Out on the desert floor, the soldiers had brought their horses to a stop and were just sitting there, watching and waiting. They were about five hundred yards away by then, and a grim smile played across my lips when I recognized the stocky sergeant in the bullet-pocked sombrero among them. Marcos had already dispatched a rider to fetch Alvarez, and seemed content at this point to keep us corralled until the lieutenant could come up with the rest of his men.

  I took all this in at a glance, then grabbed Luis’ arm and hauled him to his feet. “Find your rifle and get the women out of here,” I barked, then turned to the sorrel.

  Although the claybank was gone, taking one of the gourd canteens and about half our ammunition with it, the rest was on the sorrel. I quickly stripped what I thought we’d need from the saddle and carried it over to the gray’s side. Gritting my teeth in regret, I drew the Smith & Wesson and put a round through the animal’s head. Then I took off after Luis and Abby, who were making a dash for the rocks a couple of hundred yards away.

  I was only a few seconds behind them when they reached the top. This was the escarpment I’d been aiming for ever since we left that little knoll west of Vaquero Springs. The edge of the cliff was about twenty yards away, the emptiness beyond both ominous and awe-inspiring. A strong breeze curling up over the lip of the precipice flicked annoyingly at the brim of my Stetson.

  Dropping the sorrel’s canteen and saddlebags at Luis’ side, I told him to stay with the woman and child, then rummaged under the offside flap for a box of cartridges for my Winchester. Both our rifles and Luis’ Frontier Model Colt shot the same .44-40 round, but we had only a single, twenty-round box of ammunition left.

  Luis watched me refill the long tube under the Winchester’s octagon barrel. He knew what I had to do, and I could tell it bothered him to remain behind, but somebody had to stay with Abby and Susan, not to mention keep an eye on those soldados.

  Not knowing what to say to Luis or Abby, I didn’t say
anything. Slipping out of the tangle of rocks where we were holed up, I made my way north along the rim of the bluff, staying low but moving fast. Without any idea of how seriously our ambusher had been wounded, I was taking some foolish chances. But he had to be rooted out of that high ground; we were going to need it when Alvarez showed up with the rest of his men.

  As pressed for time as I was, I couldn’t prevent myself from slowing down as I neared our assailant’s location—instinct battling instinct, I suppose, with the more immediate danger winning out. I crept forward, hugging the edge of the cliff while the wind tugged at my clothing, threatening to snatch my hat from my head. I spotted an open space in the jumble of boulders ahead of me, like a clearing in a forest, and intuitively headed toward it. What I saw when I cautiously eased around a slab of stone jutting toward the cliff’s face stopped me cold.

  It was a clearing all right, with a body lying on its side beside a bed of ashes from a cook fire. Although the man’s back was to me, I recognized him instantly. He wasn’t moving, and there was no one else around. Stepping into the clearing, I said loudly, “Carlos! Carlos Perez!”

  I don’t know if the wiry little son of a bitch had been faking it or not, but he whirled quick as a diamondback at my words, his revolver spitting a cloud of smoke and a chunk of lead before I came close to reacting. I felt the hot pull of the bullet across the top of my shoulder even as I pulled the Winchester’s trigger.

  Carlos’ bullet didn’t miss, but it didn’t stop me, either. My return shot was dead on, striking the little turncoat square in the chest.

  I stood there a moment, my jaw agape at the rapidity of what had just occurred. I don’t remember dropping to a crouch when I fired, but I guess I did. Straightening slowly, I levered a fresh round into the Winchester’s chamber. Carlos was on his back now, both arms above his head, his revolver lying a good foot above the outstretched fingers of his right hand. I stepped warily into the clearing, but no one else showed up. Somehow I knew they wouldn’t. I don’t know why I felt so certain Perez was alone out there, but I didn’t question it.