Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  When the sun was about halfway across the sky and the river only a little farther ahead, the white men stopped to drink from canteens and eat from cans. They stopped in a very foolish place, near the edge of a deep wash. They did it, Goyathlay knew, to take cover in shade near the rim, but that spot would have made it easy to attack them—the Chiricahua could simply have dropped down and been on them before they knew what was happening. Tawhatela again wanted to attack. He said it was boring to follow them.

  “It’s going to rain again soon,” Tawhatela said, gesturing up toward clouds gradually growing thicker and darker. “If there’s a bad storm, we might lose them in it.”

  “We won’t,” Goyathlay promised. “The next time they stop it will probably be for the night, and then we’ll play our first trick. There’ll be plenty of mule meat for everyone, and tomorrow we’ll take them, probably in those mountains ahead. Be patient a little longer.”

  When the white men were finished eating they tossed the cans on the ground. Then they relieved themselves and resumed their journey, the big man riding and the small one still leading his horse.

  “They ought to go ahead and kill that horse,” Nantee said. “Anyone can tell it’s getting ready to die. The big one’s horse could easily carry two. I guess he wants the small one to walk.”

  The Apache paused to collect the cans discarded so carelessly by the white men. Back at the agency, away from the sight of Clum and his subagents, the cans would be cut into sharp-edged pieces of metal suitable for arrow points. Whites threw away useful things. It was one of the many reasons the Chiricahua felt superior to them.

  The rain began just as the white men reached the river. It wasn’t a full-fledged storm, but the downpour was steady. The Apache watched as their quarry stopped at the river’s edge. Its channel was wide but not very deep, up perhaps to knee-high in a few places but no more than that, even with extra water from the rain. The big man gestured for the small one to lead his horse into the river. The small one argued—it was the first time the Chiricahua had seen him talk that much. They couldn’t hear his words and wouldn’t have understood them if they had, but the gist was clear. He didn’t think his horse would get across. The big man said something, the small man talked back, and the big man hit him on the side of the head. It was an impressive blow, delivered by bending down while still on horseback. The big man struck with such force and swiftness that Goyathlay whispered, “Be careful when we take him tomorrow.” Americans seldom required such caution.

  The small man, knocked to his knees, rocked back and forth, attempting to regain his senses before standing. When he did, he tugged at his horse’s reins, but the horse refused to move. The small man said something to the big one, making sure to stand well out of reach. The big man answered, then pointed at the river. The small one dropped his horse’s reins and left the animal standing there. Then he slowly walked down the short, sloping bank and into the river, with the big man riding just behind him. It took them longer than it should have to cross. The small man kept losing his footing and falling completely in. It was very funny and the Chiricahua were hard-pressed not to laugh. They probably could have without danger of being heard. The rain drummed on the ground and they were still several bowshots away. But Goyathlay insisted on silence. It was good practice for when they stalked more alert foes.

  When the whites were finally past the river and walking east toward the mountains, the Apache took their turns. As they passed the horse that had been left to die, Tawhatela fired an arrow into its side, then leaped forward to slit the horse’s throat as it fell. Usually they would have cut strips of horseflesh from the dead animal. That kind of food was handy on long journeys. But they looked forward, very soon, to gorging themselves on mule meat, so they left the dead horse for the buzzards.

  “I think the white men will stop soon,” Goyathlay predicted. “The small one looks worn out. The big one will think they can easily reach the mountains in the morning, then get through them before night, with the white village not far away after that.”

  He was right. The rain stopped, leaving the ground mucky and the bottoms of the deepest gullies puddled with standing water. The white men splashed forward for a little while and then paused at an outcrop of rocks a few hours’ ride from the first foothills of the mountains. The rocks were positioned so that one provided an overhang and protection from the rain if it started again. Even before it was fully dark the white men ground-hitched the mule and their remaining horse. They gave the animals grain from a pack while the Apache watched from a low gully not far away. There were other gullies and crevices of various depths nearby; here and on the east side of the mountains, the ground was abruptly broken in places, in contrast to the gentle undulations farther west.

  After the animals were fed, the white men had canteen water and food from more cans.

  “No fire,” Nantee observed. “Maybe they don’t know how to make one.”

  The whites sheltered under the rock overhang. The big man appeared to tie up the small one. The Chiricahua couldn’t tell because it was too dark. Whether or not one of the men was tied up didn’t matter to the Apache. All they cared about for the moment was the mule. There was really no sport to stealing it. The animal was tethered so far from where the big man rested under the rock that even if he’d heard or seen them, he could never reach them before they got away with their prize. Goyathlay gave John Tiapah, as the youngest and also the one related to the most other possible followers, the honor of crawling up, cutting the mule loose, and bringing it back to the waiting Chiricahua. Then they led the mule back toward the river. It was very cooperative and did not bray even once. When they were far enough away from the where the whites were camped, they cut the mule’s throat and butchered it. This was done more by touch than sight because it was so dark. They only lit a fire when they were ready to cook. The available sticks and brush were damp from the rain but they patiently struck their flints until finally a spark caught. They soon had a bright blaze. John Tiapah asked if the white men might not see it and the others laughed.

  “They’re sound asleep,” Goyathlay assured him. “They’re too lazy to light their own fire and too stupid to look for ours.”

  The Apache sharpened long sticks, stuck hunks of mule on the ends, and toasted the meat over the fire. They ate ravenously, wiping greasy hands on their deerskin leggings. The resulting grease stains would serve as waterproofing, should there be more rain. When they were done with the meal, they tossed sand on the campfire to extinguish it. Goyathlay told Datchshaw to keep watch while the rest slept.

  “I’m tired too,” Datchshaw whined. This was such a breach of warrior etiquette—on raids, Apache braves never protested their leader’s instructions—that Goyathlay would have been within his rights to order the wounded man to leave them at once. He was tempted, but didn’t. A good leader brought everyone home together.

  “Do what I tell you,” Goyathlay said. “If there’s a fight tomorrow, your shoulder is too badly hurt for you to be in it. The rest of us need sleep to be strong. Next time we go out from the agency to fight, you’ll be well again and somebody else can stand watch at night.”

  “But I want to help kill these white men,” Datchshaw said.

  “And you will. We’ll take our time with them tomorrow. Don’t let them run away while we sleep.”

  Excited by what would happen the next day, Datchshaw remained awake the entire night. He took up a position not far from the rock outcrop and watched intently for even the slightest sign that the white men might be on the move. Datchshaw’s concentration was such that he was unaware of anything else around him. Only these two doomed white men mattered. After tomorrow, he would have so much to brag about back at the agency that even his mother would be proud.

  26

  McLendon wasn’t surprised when his horse balked at the riverbank. Even when he’d untethered the animal that morning, it showed no interest in
moving. Its head drooped and it made wheezing noises. He told Brautigan he thought the animal was finished, but the big man ordered him to mount up anyway. When McLendon did, the horse’s legs buckled and he had to get off.

  “It can’t go farther,” he told Brautigan.

  “Yes, it can. It’s probably stiff from staying still overnight. You can lead it for a while.”

  McLendon looked ahead of them, at the dark line of the river and the mountain range past it. “Your horse is fine,” he said. “Couldn’t we ride double?”

  “You walk, and lead your horse,” Brautigan said. “Get moving.”

  McLendon made a show of trying to tug on the horse’s reins with his injured right arm, then transferring the reins to his left hand. He detected better flexibility in the elbow bruised by Brautigan’s boot but didn’t want the giant to know.

  Even though their pace was slow, McLendon quickly became winded. The hills and dips weren’t steep, but they were constant. He had to keep a constant pull on the reins. Clouds mostly blocked the sun but it remained brutally hot.

  “I need to rest awhile,” he told Brautigan.

  “We’ve hardly been going an hour. Keep walking.”

  “I’m not certain I can.”

  “I could kill you right here,” Brautigan said. “You need to remember that. And maybe that horse is better. Get up on it again.”

  McLendon did. The horse heaved a near-human sigh and stumbled forward. After a few hundred yards, McLendon dismounted and told Brautigan, “It’s done for. You might as well shoot it.”

  “No, it might yet recover. If you can ride it tomorrow, we might make Silver City by sundown.”

  “You won’t let me ride double with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me ride a little while you walk, get my legs rested some.”

  “No. Walk, McLendon, or face a beating.”

  —

  THE HEAT INTENSIFIED, and a new mugginess tainted the wind. McLendon walked east toward the mountains, knowing each step brought him closer to death. Only the place and manner had yet to be determined. Would it be better to stop where he was and goad Brautigan into killing him now, or put the moment off as long as possible, believing every possible moment of life was worth preserving? As long as he still was alive, there was always a chance he might get away from Brautigan. But not much of one. For now, there was nothing to do but walk.

  About noon, Brautigan called a halt. He picked a good spot at the edge of a particularly deep wash. There was some additional shade. Brautigan passed McLendon a canteen and said, “I think it will rain soon. Don’t think about trying to get away in the storm.”

  McLendon gulped warm water. “Because then you’d kill me here instead of St. Louis.”

  “And I’d go back for the girl as well. Don’t be forgetting that.”

  They ate canned peaches. Brautigan gave his horse and the mule water from the cask. Then he looked at McLendon’s horse. It stood with its head hanging so low that its nostrils nearly rested in the dirt.

  “Show the beast some mercy and shoot it,” McLendon said.

  “It may be stronger tomorrow,” Brautigan said. “If you ride then instead of walk, we’ll move faster.” He poured more water into his hat and offered it to the suffering animal. The horse snuffled at the water but didn’t drink. Brautigan shared the water between his horse and the mule instead.

  As they started again the clouds thickened and grew much darker.

  “The low areas flood during storms, you know,” McLendon called back over his shoulder to Brautigan.

  The big man briefly glanced up. “Too much talking. Walk. The river’s just ahead.”

  The first few raindrops splattered on the ground. The temperature dropped remarkably. Even the wind felt cool. But that relief was short-lived as the force of the rain increased. Now the drops pounded with enough force to kick up puffs of dust. Then, as the ground dampened, loose dirt turned to mud. There was hard crust underneath the dirt, so for McLendon the effect was much the same as slogging through thick gravy spilled on a tile floor. Every slippery step threatened his balance.

  “Can we stop?” he asked Brautigan.

  The giant wiped rainwater from his face. “We’re nearly at the river. Keep walking.”

  The river seemed to be some twenty yards wide. McLendon couldn’t gauge its depth. “What now?” he asked.

  “Wade across with your horse. Don’t try sneaking away. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “It may be too deep to wade.”

  “Then swim.”

  McLendon felt overwhelming weariness and despair.

  “I can’t swim. I’ve never tried. We need to at least wait until this rain stops, see what the river looks like then. What’s your damned hurry? You worried your boss is going to be displeased with you if he has to wait an extra few days to watch me die? What do days matter? Hell, he’s already had to wait two more years because you lost me back in Glorious.”

  Brautigan swung so quickly that McLendon’s head seemed to instantly explode. It was a prodigious blow, struck without Brautigan’s usual control. McLendon, moaning in pain, dropped to his hands and knees in the mud.

  “Up,” Brautigan hissed. “Up, you sorry bastard.”

  McLendon heard the words and tried to obey, anything to avoid being struck again. But he couldn’t stand. His body wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe if his mind wasn’t spinning so. Still on his hands and knees, he shook his head violently, trying to regain scattered senses. That only worsened the pounding in his skull.

  “Up, or I’m killing you here,” Brautigan said. “I’ll take my time doing it, then find the girl for more of the same.”

  Not Gabrielle. Slowly, McLendon willed himself to his feet. He swayed as he stood. Something was wrong with his sense of balance.

  “The horse,” Brautigan said. “Take the horse, lead it across the river.”

  McLendon swayed unsteadily as he stepped toward the animal. He took its reins in his left hand and tugged. The horse didn’t move. He pulled harder; still nothing.

  “This horse is done for,” he told Brautigan. “You can hit me all you want or kill me, it won’t change that.”

  Brautigan studied the horse and looked at the river. Its surface was pebbled by rain.

  “All right. Leave it. Now into the water with you.”

  “Aren’t you going to shoot it, put it out of its misery?”

  “I won’t waste the bullet. Into the water.”

  “I’m dizzy.”

  Brautigan raised his hand. McLendon flinched. “Now,” the giant said.

  McLendon gingerly eased down the short bank and into the river. Brautigan, mounted and leading the mule, came directly behind him. To McLendon’s surprise, the water wasn’t deep. It came just over his knees. There was no current either. The problem was the slimy river bottom. Even if his balance hadn’t been affected by Brautigan’s punch, McLendon would have been hard-pressed to avoid slipping. In his present condition it was inevitable. His left boot skidded and he fell. The water closed briefly over his head. He struggled to stand, slipped, went under a second time. His ass hit bottom and when he sat up his upper body was above the surface up to his shoulders. It was really too shallow to drown in.

  “Keep going,” Brautigan said.

  McLendon did. He fell and went under several times more. When he finally was across, he crawled up the bank and collapsed on the other side, panting like an exhausted animal. Brautigan, holding the mule’s reins, sat astride his horse and watched McLendon for a few moments. Then he said, “The mountains aren’t far. We’ll stop when we reach them. Stand up and walk.”

  McLendon did his best, slipping frequently, trying to remember to break his falls with his left arm rather than his right. His head hurt terribly, and he lost all sense of time. When the rain abruptly stopped, l
ike someone shut off a pump in the sky, McLendon hardly noticed. He simply plodded forward until Brautigan finally said, “There’s a good place up ahead,” and pointed at a rock outcrop.

  When McLendon reached the rocks, he dropped in his tracks. He didn’t think he could move. But Brautigan dismounted and nudged him in the ribs with the steel-toed tip of his boot. “Get the packs and cask off the mule.” When McLendon didn’t budge, he nudged harder. McLendon grunted and heaved himself up. His legs were rubbery and his ears still rang from the force of Brautigan’s earlier blow. He fumbled with the straps holding the packs on the mule’s back, then lugged the wooden water cask under the rock overhang.

  Brautigan unsaddled his horse and ground-tethered it alongside the mule perhaps twenty yards away from the rocks. “Hand me the pack with the feed in it,” he ordered McLendon. After they were fed, the two remaining animals cropped at dripping vegetation. Everything was very wet from the rain.

  “Back under the rock now,” Brautigan said, and McLendon obeyed. His movements were mechanical; it seemed impossible to concentrate. He’d heard somewhere about concussions. Perhaps he had one. Best, for now, to do as he was told and avoid additional beatings, at least until he regained more of his senses.

  Brautigan let his prisoner drink as much as he liked from their last full canteen. “There’s enough in the cask to get us and the animals through tomorrow.” They ate canned peas. McLendon gagged on some of his. Even swallowing seemed complicated. When he finished eating, Brautigan pointed to a spot under the rock outcrop where the giant had spread blankets.

  “Lie down and I’ll tie you.”