I RODE OUT OF PARRAL WITH NO SENSE OF PURPOSE,
no mission. I was lost. I still had the dreams. Every night.
They began as they always did, with the bloody tears stream-ing from my mama’s portrait, the wraithlike figures of Aunt Callie, my daddy, my sister, and my fiancée swirling about me, asking why I hadn’t saved them. And then, after the fire and the blood of my home place, the faces of Ruth and Laurie and the bodies of Abby and Jacob. And then all of the loved ones in the dream swirled around me like tormented spirits. Their voices joined together in a single chorus. Though their mouths never moved, I heard their words.
You’ve failed us. Where is our vengeance? Where is our peace? What are we to do?
Their haunting bodies pressed around me, choking me with their presence.
And each night I would come awake, unable to breathe, my heart racing. It always felt like I would never regain my breath or still my heart. The oppression of sadness and pain and guilt never seemed to go away.
As I rode westward, riding the big gray stallion, Quicksilver Ghost, and leading three other horses, Lady Red, the bay I had given my sister, and two black geldings, I still carried the hope of revenge on George Stoneman for what his bummers had done to the ones I loved back in Virginia and North Carolina. But withthe failure of Jo Shelby’s plans to regroup and reenter Texas to continue the fight against the Yankees, I had little left but despair. I rode the lonely wastes of Chihuahua State in Mexico, heading for the Copper Canyon. I had nothing else to do that mattered.
I decided I would enter the Barrancas del Cobre, the Copper Canyon, from the west and ride back toward Texas. I rode through the towns of La Noria, El Tule, San Pablo Balleza, La Loma, Yoquivo, Batopilas, La Bufa, and Cusarare. At each of the towns, I found a place for my horses and cared for them. I ate in whatever cantina the town had to offer and drank mescal.
At Cusarare, I rode east toward the canyon, descending into
the most desolate country I had ever seen. And the most beauti-
ful. From the high mountain ridges to the bottom of the canyon,
I went from alpine peaks of pines and Douglas fir at almost eight thousand feet to huge figs and palm trees at the bottom of the canyon at just eighteen hundred feet above sea level. For the next two weeks, I rode through the Copper Canyon. I marveled at the copper and green color of the canyon walls and the beauty and stillness of it. There was plentiful game, and I ate well while riding through this marvel of nature. I saw no one and no sign of anyone.
The peace and solitude felt good. I thought a lot. About my life for the past few years. And about what the Padre had said to me. But I still had the dreams.
On the sixteenth day of my ride through the canyon, as I was nearing its eastern end, I saw horse tracks. I was riding a ridge a little above the floor of the canyon when I came to a place where a slide had recently happened. At the foot of the slide, I saw a horse on its side. I rode down to it, Lady Red and the two blacks following me.
I dismounted and went to the fallen horse. Its left front leg was broken. Not wanting to call attention to my presence there, I drew my Bowie knife and cut its throat. No horse deserved to suffer.
I saw drag marks leading away from the fallen horse. I led Lady Red and the blacks into a secluded place with a small spring and good grass. I picketed them there and mounted Ghost. I rode back to the dead horse and followed the drag marks. I soon saw ahead of me an old Indian woman, pulling herself forward and dragging a twisted leg behind her.
I rode up to her.
“You seem to be in trouble, old woman.”
“That hijo de puta of a horse,” she said, and spit, “could not
ride a ridge. He stumble and fall. Take me with him. Now I crip-pled and you come for scalp.”
“I do not want the stringy hair of an old woman.”
“My hair worth fifty pesos like all Indian scalps.”
“I don’t take scalps.”
“Then why you follow me?”
“Curious, I guess.”
“You better run, white man. When scalp-hunters come, they kill you quickly. Then they kill me.”
“Reckon we’ll see about that when the time comes.”
I dismounted and went over to her. I could see her left leg was broken below the knee. No bone was protruding through the flesh, so it wasn’t too serious. Still, she was in pain and pretty help-less against the scalp-hunters.
“Looks like you broke your leg, old woman. I’ll help you move to a better place.”
“Why you help me, white man?”
“Guess I don’t like to see folks left helpless. How many scalp-hunters are after you?”
“Ten hijos de puta.”
Again she had used “son of a whore” to describe something or someone she didn’t like.
“Reckon, old woman, I’m going to have to teach you a cou-ple more ways to cuss things.”
I bent down and lifted her in my arms. She drew a knife.
“Put that away, old woman. I’m not going to harm you.”
“You white man. All white men my enemies. I am Mescalero.”
“Good for you. Now, I’m going to carry you over to that brush and lay you down. I imagine it’ll hurt a bit. Think you can stand the pain?”
“I am Mescalero.”
“So you said.”
Ghost followed me to the brush where I laid her. I went to him and pulled the Henry rifle from the saddle. I handed it to her.
“Now, lie here and wait. Keep that rifle down beside you where they can’t see it until they’re close. Then you can start shooting.”
“I could shoot you now, white man.”
“Yes, ma’am, you could. ’Course, you’d have one less person to help you kill those scalp-hunters. And one less bullet to use on them. You decide what you want to do.”
I turned my back on her and started back toward Ghost.
“What you going to do, white man?”
“Well, I thought I’d use you as bait. Then, when the scalp-hunters show up, I’ll kill them. What do you want me to do?”
“What if they kill me first?”
“Old woman, you’ve got a rifle and fifteen shots in it. If you can’t protect yourself, I don’t reckon you deserve to live. Just you wait to start shooting until I do, hear?”
I turned away from her, mounted Ghost, and rode into con-cealment a little way away from her to wait for the scalp-hunters.