“One morning years ago when I was in Sonora—” Brother Charles began when we’d stopped for a break near the top of the mesa.
“You were in Sonora? When?” I interrupted.
“I grew up there.”
“I was there once in the mid ’70s. Did a little hunting in the Dragoon Mountains. Cochise is buried thereabouts. I dropped into Sonora to look around. I was always looking over my shoulder, figuring Cochise’s spook was eyeing my scalp. I got no truck with Jicarillas and I respect Mescaleros, but the Chiricahua scare me. The only one I ever met was Mickey Free.”
“Cochise was Chiricahua alright, but Mickey Free was Mexican and Irish. Of course, there may be some Indian blood mixed in with the Mexican. If not Apache, maybe Yaqui or Pima. Mickey and Cochise had a history together though. Mickey was the cause of the Apache War.”
“Figured Mickey Free was Chiricahua. At least half-breed. What’d he do to earn that old Indian’s enmity?”
“He was only a boy. His real name was Felix Telles. His father died when he was ten. His mother remarried. An American, John Ward. They moved to a ranch north of the Patagonias. A couple of years later an Apache raiding party stole Ward’s stock and kidnapped Felix. Ward was angry. Not over Felix. Over his stock. He asked the army for help. Lieutenant George Bascom was assigned the task.
“Bascom assumed the Chiricahua were responsible. He arranged to meet with Cochise at Apache Pass. Cochise showed up with his family. He told Bascom that it was the White Mountain Apaches, not the Chiricahua, who raided the Ward ranch. He offered to help get Felix back. Bascom called Cochise a liar and tried to arrest him. Cochise escaped but his family was captured.
“The Butterfield Stage had a way station at the Pass. Cochise captured the stationmaster and some passengers to trade for his family. Bascom said he wouldn’t trade without Felix and the stock.
“Cochise was a man of integrity. It was stupid for Bascom not to negotiate. Both sides paid a heavy price. Cochise butchered his hostages and Bascom hanged his. Cochise’s family hung from the trees till the ravens cut them loose. That started the Apache War. Cochise fought the army for a decade. He finally quit before he died. Cancer I think. Bascom was already dead. Killed in the Battle of Valverde. Cochise signed a treaty and moved to the Chiricahua Reservation. Of course that didn’t end the war. Gerónimo’s kept it alive ever since.
“A decade later Felix showed up as a military scout working with Tom Horn. His Apache name was too hard to pronounce. Tom Horn called him Mickey Free after a character in a novel. The name stuck. He’s built a reputation for himself. He speaks English, Spanish, every dialect of Apache. Some Comanche too. Even a little Kiowa. I’ve heard he’s the best scout in the army. Gerónimo hates him. Blames him for his troubles. If Gerónimo’s ever captured I expect Felix will have a hand in it.”
“How come you to know so much about him?”
“He’s my brother.”
It was a magnificent morning when we reached the crest of the mesa. The air was crisp, the sky cloudless. Far below, the cottonwoods traced the path of the Río Chama across the canyon floor.
“Believe we’ve been blessed this morning, Brother Charles.”
“Blessed indeed, Brother Billy. What could go wrong on a day like this.”
As we continued up the mountain, the piñons and junipers gave way to ponderosas. Huge trees, tall and straight, bare of branches the first fifty feet. The ground was buried a foot thick in pine needles. The calls of nuthatches and jays echoed through the forest. The trees put out an incense that smells like vanilla. I’ve heard of forests being a kind of cathedral. This was that kind of place.
“When we got off on Mickey Free I was telling you about an adventure in Sonora,” Brother Charles said. “I was walking in the mountains one morning. Not much younger than you. I saw a rattlesnake curled up under a rock ledge. A rock squirrel happened by and stopped right in front of the snake. With his front paws he kicked dirt onto the snake. You’d think that after catching a face-full of dirt the snake would strike at the squirrel. It just lay there. Before long it was completely covered. The squirrel seemed satisfied and sauntered on. In a few minutes a towhee hopped by. When it was within range the snake exploded from under the ledge and grabbed it. When the bird stopped flopping, the snake swallowed it, head first, then disappeared under the rock.”
“What was the squirrel doing?”
“I don’t know.”
Later in the morning we were climbing up a rocky ledge. Brother Charles was behind me. Off to my right I heard a rattle not more than a foot or two from my head. I reached for my six-shooter and fired about the time the rattler launched off the ledge. His head exploded just before he slammed into my chest.
“¡Puta madre! That ole boy scared the piss out of me. My nerves ain’t as steady around rattlers as they are around Dolan’s boys.”
That’s the second time I’ve had a run-in with a striking snake. The first time was in a saloon in Mora. Fred Waite was with me. The saloon keeper kept a rattler in a glass jar on the bar. I told your brother about it.
“You touch that jar,” Fred said, “that snake’ll strike. You’ll jump like a jackrabbit.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
“You wouldn’t huh?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You’d be the first. A blind man couldn’t hang on when that there rattler strikes.”
“Then I’m the first.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself,” the barkeep said.
“Yessir.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll bet you a double eagle to a quarter eagle you can’t hold your finger against that jar for thirty seconds.”
Fred tried to talk me down but I wasn’t about to pass on the bet.
“This’ll be the easiest money I ever earn,” I said.
The barkeep laid a double eagle on the bar.
“Show me your money, son.”
I fished a coin out of my pocket and slapped it on top of his. I reached over and touched the jar.
“Start counting.”
When the snake struck I near fell off the stool. After the second try, the barkeep gave me a whiskey to steady my nerve. I was a double eagle poorer when I left and would of lost my six-shooter if Fred hadn’t of dragged me out.
That night Brother Charles and me camped among the ponderosas on the side of the Jemez Mountains. It was a crisp fall evening. The moon was out. The pine needles were soft. A lion’d left his scrape a little down the hill. A day-old pile of pine straw big as a man’s head, reeking of cat piss. Mangel studied it while I fixed supper. A porcupine ambled by to inspect the new neighbors.
“This day’s as good as it gets,” I said over supper. “I’m as content as a cat in a hamper.”
“I know what you mean, Billy. Today was close to a mystical experience for me.”
“Ain’t sure what you mean.”
“Mystical?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a tough concept. Mystical means . . . well, coming directly from God. Padre Romuald’s a mystic. His mind is not clouded by the anger, the fear, the turmoil that race through our minds, always looking for answers. Mystics just are. They accept things as they are. The rest of us are looking instead of seeing. Listening instead of hearing. I suspect that animals aren’t looking for answers. They just are. Wanting answers makes us human. Did the rock squirrel want answers? We do. That’s why you asked me what the squirrel was doing. How about the rattlesnake? Or the rattlesnake in the jar? Does Mangel? Mangel just is. He may have a better grip on reality than us more rational beasts.”
After Brother Charles was snoring I lay in my bedroll pondering what he meant when he said Mangel just is. A porcupine nosed around the campsite. Porcupines like the salt on outhouses. Maybe this one was after the salt on the jerky. He for sure wasn’t after answers. I chunked a pinecone at him. He ran into the outer dark. I drifted off to sleep.
Next morning Brother Charles kicked my bedroll. He
set a cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits beside my head. When I crawled out Mangel was nowhere in sight.
“Something caught his interest,” Brother Charles said. “A wapiti passed through before daylight. Maybe that’s it. If he’s not back when we leave, he’ll find us soon enough.”
Mangel showed up when I was finishing my coffee. He slinked into camp and crawled under my knees. Hackles were up.
“What’s the matter, boy? Something bothering you?”
“We’d best pack up and move out,” Brother Charles said. “If Mangel didn’t like what he saw, we probably won’t either.”
The woods were deadly quiet. That time of morning we should of heard jays, ravens, nuthatches, something. I strapped on my six-shooter and picked up my Winchester.
A few minutes later we were headed south toward Frijoles Canyon. We didn’t know what had spooked Mangel so we walked in silence till the sun was well up in the sky. Mangel stuck close to my side.
We came to the edge of a mesa overlooking the Río Grande valley. Off to the east the Sangre de Cristos were white from the first snow. A cool wind rose up from the valley a thousand feet below. The cottonwoods lining the river were a ribbon of gold. A pair of hawks floated below the lip of the mesa.
“Cottonwoods are glorious this time of year,” Brother Charles said. “Wonder if Coronado saw them when he passed this way, what, three, four hundred years ago? Searching for something he never found. The real gold was right here. How many centuries have cottonwoods been changing colors? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? How many centuries have we marveled at them? Maybe the hawks have seen them all.”
CHAPTER 19Cañon de los Frijoles
The rock is so soft that in many places it can be scooped out
or detached with the most primitive tools, or even with the fingers alone.
—ADOLPH BANDELIER, The Delight Makers
WE SPENT THE SECOND NIGHT in a high mountain valley. Cañon de los Frijoles was a couple of hours ahead. When we awoke at first light wapiti were grazing nearby. I shot a bull and smoked strips from its rump.
The trail led out of the valley and across a mesa, passing around the upper ends of several canyons. The walking was easy. The ground was soft from a light snow that had fallen during the night. The snow was mostly gone by mid-morning. Mangel was the first to see the tracks.
“Bad news,” Brother Charles said.
“Bear news,” I said.
“Old Moze,” Brother Charles said. “His right front foot gives him away. He was here this morning.”
We stopped to listen. The air was calm and clear. A flock of jays called from across the way.
“The storekeep at Gonzales’s said Moze is hard on trappers,” I said.
“He probably lost his toes to a trap,” Brother Charles said. “But he doesn’t pick only on trappers. Many a traveler hasn’t made it home when Moze is about. He’s legendary among the Tinde. Practically a god.”
Mangel sniffed the tracks. He wasn’t a barker but he’d growl if danger was near. He was growling and his hackles were up. A flock of ravens flew into a ponderosa forty feet in front of us. They croaked for a moment then flew back down the trail.
“Could be Moze,” Brother Charles said. “The ravens may be asking us to follow them, hoping we’ll kill him and leave them the spoils.”
“If these ravens ain’t lying we shouldn’t crowd him.”
We left the trail and went to an opening where we could watch for an ambush. Brother Charles picked up a pinch of pine dust and dropped it. It fell to his feet.
“At least we’re not upwind,” he said.
We stayed in the opening a good while. The ravens didn’t return. When the sun was high overhead and Moze hadn’t wandered our way, we went back to the trail and headed toward the canyon. The day’d warmed considerably. The sun felt good. Mangel followed a trail a short distance before coming back to us. His hackles’d settled. A couple of hours later we arrived at the head of the Cañon de los Frijoles.
“The Cochiti were the last Pueblo people here,” Brother Charles said. “This is the escape route they took when the Spaniards tried to roust them off the mesa.”
“What got into the Spaniards’ craws?”
“They wanted the Cochiti to live in the valley near the Camino Real. Build churches. Become good Catholics.”
“You think it was a bad idea?”
“It was a bad idea. I liked them being heathens. They’re good honest people living with the land, not ripping it apart. Besides, the Spaniards killed them, or worse, cut off their hands and feet. We haven’t improved them by making them Catholic either.”
“Is that Benedictine doctrine?”
“No, but Benedictines don’t believe the Church is the only route to salvation. And we don’t believe in killing over religion. Or for any other reason.”
The path into the canyon was little more than a game trail, hardly a trail at all. When we reached the canyon floor a flock of cranes flew over the ridge, croaking. They cut across the canyon in single file and disappeared over the wall on the opposite side. Their wingspans were wide as a man’s outstretched arms.
“Headed home,” Brother Charles said.
When we reached the Río de los Frijoles we followed it downstream. We’d gone a short distance when we met half a dozen Cochiti Indians with a white man. Adolph Bandelier from Illinois. The Cochiti brought him to see the rock houses their ancestors built.
One of the Indians had a broke leg and was washing it in the creek. He’d been climbing the cliff to reach a rock house when he fell. Bone was sticking out of his shin. Brother Charles stepped in. He was no Brother Jude but his gentle ways convinced the Cochiti he knew what to do.
I spent the next day with Bandelier and the Indians. We climbed among the rock houses while Brother Charles cared for his patient. Bandelier said the rock was volcanic and soft enough that Indians could cut it with stone tools. One of our companions talked about his ancestors living there hundreds of years earlier. He said they built houses against the canyon wall. They carved rooms into the wall from the upper floors of the houses. Mainly for storage and sleeping. When the houses were abandoned and fell into rubble, the rooms were exposed like caves high up in the wall.
I asked about the birds and animals that had been carved into the canyon wall dozens of feet above the ground. The Indians wouldn’t talk about them. Brother Charles said they were religious pictures. No Indians would talk about them.
Next morning Brother Charles and me said goodbye to our compadres and started back toward the monastery.
The first night out we set up camp in a meadow high in the mountains. I walked down the ridge into the ponderosas looking for firewood. On the way back I found a dead raven in the duff. Picked it up. Thought I’d make a hatband from its skin. A raven croaked in the trees overhead. In a few minutes there were several more. Dozens were squawking by the time I got back to camp.
“Seems you’ve caused a ruckus,” Brother Charles said.
“Wasn’t what I expected.”
“Do you remember where you found it?”
“I do.”
“You should probably put it back.”
The ravens kept up a commotion as I carried the dead bird back to the ponderosas. When I laid it on the ground they stopped squawking.
“You think that ole boy was king of the cuervos?” I said when I got back to camp.
“I don’t know. Apparently we’re not the only birds who honor our dead.”
I had another dream about Aunt Cat that night. She’d led me to a rock outcrop overlooking a small lake in the wedge of a valley between two mountains. The lake was formed by a landslide across a river. Dead trees were standing in the water like stalks of grass in a wet-weather pond. Most of the branches were gone. The few that were left were raven roosts. Dozens of ravens in the trees were facing the late-afternoon sun. Aunt Cat was looking down at the birds. When I looked at her she looked at me. Then I woke up.
Ne
xt morning I told Brother Charles about the dream. I said that whenever Aunt Cat shows up with a raven or two in my sleep someone close to me dies. Sometimes within a day or two.
“Have you ever watched Mangel dream?” Brother Charles said.
“I have. He can be lying on his side, eyes slitted, only the whites showing. His legs’ll kick like he’s on a tear. Chasing a bear. Or a bear’s chasing him. Once, he sprang up and knocked over my coffee pot without waking.”
“Dogs see things in their sleep,” Brother Charles said, “and they probably understand them. Why else would they dream? If dreams help dogs understand the world, surely they can help us too. I think dreams are like paintings we send to ourselves. They’re full of signs and symbols. Apaches consider ravens a symbol of death. Apparently they mean the same to you. Your aunt is the messenger. I suppose she could appear in a dream and say, ‘Billy, someone close to you will die in a day or two.’ But dreams don’t work like that. Maybe they’re a holdover from a more primitive mind. A mind like Mangel’s that doesn’t have words. We rely on words to interpret dreams but words don’t help much. They get in the way. Dogs don’t have words. They may understand dreams better than we do.
“But, of course, that explanation doesn’t explain how your dream knows what’s going to happen.”
CHAPTER 20The Monks
I weep for humanity. Is there no solace in all this misery?
—BROTHER CHARLES, Diary, APRIL 15, 1879
LATE IN THE DAY WE arrived back to where we’d spent the first night. We made camp and crawled into our bedrolls without supper. I awoke in the night and watched the moon come up. I lay in the silence thinking about dreams. Mangel was shivering. I lifted the corner of my bedroll and he crawled in.
“What do you want to do, amigo?” I said as I pulled him next to me. “Head for California when we get back? Or wait out the winter and leave when the snow’s about done? St. Anselm’s been good to us. You’ve made a friend in Scout. Feels like home don’t it.”
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 12