Rubio: The Legend (Ben Blue) Page 9

  I continued along the north bank of the river looking for a place to cross. The next morning, I found what I was looking for. It was a wide shallow place with a rock and gravel bottom. Lashing my weapons together, I used a sling to tie my bow and supply of arrows across my back. My lance was to be used as a staff to help keep my footing. Leading the roan with the Apache pinto pony in tow, I let the buckskin come on his own. He would follow, but I wasn’t sure of the Apache pony.

  The water was cold and very swift; it came up to my hips. The ponies plunged in except for the Apache pony, which fought its tether, but was pulled in by the roan. The pinto was scared almost to the point of panic. My buckskin waded close beside it and seemed to have a calming effect on it. We were nearing the halfway point when the bottom suddenly went away and I found myself underwater and being swept away to the right.

  The bottom came up to meet me, and I pushed off trying to reach the surface without being kicked to death by three scared horses. All three were being swept along with the current. I saw the pinto slam into the buckskin sending it under. I broke the surface gasping for air, only to be shoved under by the bulk of the pinto. The last I saw of the buckskin, he was fighting for footing, going around a bend, and out of sight. I had let go of my lead line, knowing that there was nothing I could do for the roan or the pinto. They had a better chance without me.

  I was going the same way as the buckskin, and I knew there was rough water not far beyond the bend. I saw my chance and jammed my lance into the fork of a half submerged fallen cottonwood. I held it with both hands hoping the shaft wouldn’t break.

  Once I was able to take a few breaths of air and a little rest, I worked my way along the cottonwood, until I was able to climb among the branches. When I was free of the water, it was no great problem to walk along the trunk until I reached the torn out root mass. From there I was able to leap to shallow backwater.

  Looking upstream, I could see the roan standing waiting for me. The pinto stood on shaking legs with its head hanging, but it still had the lead line in place. I turned downstream, hoping to find my buckskin standing waiting for me as well. What I found was the wreckage of a good pony piled up and lifeless among some boulders.

  I walked back with a fierce scowl and a dark mood. My first thought was to use my hatchet and kill that pinto. His panic had cost me a good pony… too good to die like that. But by the time I reached them, my killing rage was gone. If there was blame to be placed, then I was the one to blame for not choosing a better crossing. I had made the mistake, not the pinto. It was just a dumb brute with no value other than any other beast of burden.

  The deep drop off must have been the main channel of the riverbed. I should have expected that with the river in flood. I had to admit to myself, that I really didn’t know much about flooding rivers. That was a costly lesson which I had learned the hard way. The question that crossed my mind, was should I forget my plan for the pinto and ride him, or should I stay with my plan? It was an easy answer; I’d stay with my original plan. The pinto couldn’t be trusted to keep its head in troubled times. The roan would be my only horse, unless I could steal another from the Apaches… I wasn’t counting on that.

  There was plenty of cover along the river, so I stayed close to it. I would circle the mountain and move in closer on the far side. I would need to get close enough to the camp to see if I could find Scar Face. If I didn’t see him after two or three days I would take a prisoner and persuade him to talk. That would be a task that I didn’t look forward to. An Apache warrior is raised with the knowledge that if he is ever captured, his fate would be painful death.

  The second day along the river, I was due north of where the camp was supposed to be, but I was a long way out. I saw the dust coming across the plain. It wasn’t much… no more than one horse. My first thought was to get under cover and hope he doesn’t see my tracks. Of course, tracks don’t always mean an enemy. But it could raise unwanted curiosity.

  Maybe it would be better to give him something to be curious about and bring him into my web. So I found a likely camp site and went about building a fire. It would be impossible to see the smoke from where the Apache village was, but the rider would be able to see it. Then I skinned the jackrabbit I’d shot earlier and rigged a spit to roast it.

  The rider had changed his course and was coming directly toward me and my fire. I stayed busy at the fire turning the rabbit and making sure things were what they seemed to be. I almost forgot my wolf cape and took it off before he came close enough to see it. I had no markings on any of my possessions that would tell him I was not an Apache from another clan.

  The Apache groups fight among themselves like any other family, but at this time, the Mescalero and the Chiricahua bands were on good terms, so I became a Chiricahua. Our languages were so close that unless he was very wise, he would notice very little difference in my speech. I waited and turned my rabbit.

  The brave drew up just out of arrow range and studied me. He turned his pony and circled to the left, and then he retraced his course and circled right. Finally, coming back to his original position, he sat and studied me some more. He was looking for signs of more men and horses. He would have seen my ponies beyond me near the river, but could only see that they were ponies.

  I gave him the raised open palm sign of peace, he cautiously moved forward. He was young, straight, and strong looking. A handsome young man, he was wearing no paint. That told me he was probably hunting instead of looking for scalps. I could see his war club across his lap within close reach of his hand.

  “Who are you and what are you doing on Mescalero land?” he asked without taking his eyes from mine.

  I told him my story, “I am Chases His Dog, of the Chiricahua… from far beyond the eastern mountains.” I chose a demeaning name to give him the notion that I was a nobody in hopes that he would lower his guard. He was young and likely didn’t know all the bands of the neighboring tribes.

  He looked puzzled but accepted that he may be lacking in knowledge. “You said who you are, but not why you are here?”

  “I come seeking counsel with Red Hand… My chief, Ten Ponies, has a beautiful daughter, and he feels that there are no braves among the Chiricahua worthy of her charms. He sent me as an emissary to persuade Red Hand to come and see his lovely daughter.”

  “Why Red Hand? I am available to ride right now. I will be taking many scalps soon. Tell me about this maiden.”

  “You are indeed a fine looking brave, and perhaps he might send me back when his younger daughter is of the marrying age. My chief has heard many stories of Red Hand and his raids against the cursed Navajo…. Our land borders the Navajo land and my chief would use this marriage to put fear into the corn planters.”

  He knew that he couldn’t compete with Red Hand’s reputation, so he gave up trying and told me how to find the village. I offered him food as was the custom, and we shared the rabbit.

  During the meal, the young brave became talkative and let me know that Red Hand was in the village, and his father in law, an important man, wanted him to stay there for the summer instead of going on the warrior’s path. Red Hand’s squaw weeps until cold weather brings him home again. Red Hand had one small girl child, but no sons.

  He laughed and said, “Maybe he should stay home more and get a son or two.”

  When we had finished picking the rabbit clean, we both got up, and he explained that he was on his way to meet up with some friends who had been raiding Mogollon pony herds. He was hoping to catch them soon before they got all the ponies. His eyes caught something behind me, and his eyebrows puckered with confusion.

  “Is that spotted pony yours?” he asked, and I told him it was. “That looks like Buffalo Heart’s pony.”

  He squinted at the pinto, and his eyes flared with the sudden knowledge that he had been tricked. His hand went to the war club hanging at his belt, but my hatchet was already making its arc and connected with the side of his skull. The force of the blow killed
him instantly and threw him to the ground on his side. His right hand was penned beneath him still clutching his war club.

  He was a fine young brave, but his wits were too slow to make him a good warrior. I quickly took his scalp trying not to think about it. Then I broke his lance and put it with the other broken lances. His pony, a poorly treated animal would be no use to me, so I tied it to the pinto. His body went into the churning flood waters of the river along with his war club and bow.

  There was little I could do to remove all sign of the fire and the tracks, so I put out the fire and left.

  Chapter 14

  I had to get lost and become invisible, so I moved on along the river, looking for a place to cross again. Hiding the trail of three ponies would be difficult and take too much time. Late in the day, I found the place I wanted. The water was still swift and strong, but it had washed out an area of low ground.

  Gravel had been deposited in a large area on both sides, and the bottom was a solid rock shelf. Just below the crossing the water cascaded and churned over the edge of the shelf. Below was no place a man wanted to be, but on the rock bottom he could cross easily. It must have been a popular crossing for the Apaches because there were tracks of many ponies going in both directions… but none were fresh.

  Instead of turning east and following the river on the other side, I went inland until just before sundown. The trail led up into the mountains, but I wanted to go east. I found a suitable place to leave the trail without leaving telling signs and became invisible again. After a night without a fire, I took my small pony herd and moved back toward the river in a southeast line.

  I crossed the river again due east of the mountain. Two and a half days after sharing a rabbit with the Mescalero brave, I was riding up the mountain looking for a hidden place to make my base camp. Well up into the pine and fir, I found what I was looking for. It was a rock ledge with an overhang. It would be suitable to protect us from the weather and I could build a fire without much worry.

  My overhang was located halfway around the mountain facing north. It was far enough from where the village was supposed to be, so it would not likely to be stumbled upon. And it was high enough, and it was shielded by the forest which surrounded it. The only drawback was, the distance meant I would have to travel far and often on foot… I could do that.

  Leaving the two Apache ponies tied on some grass, I took the roan and went to scout the village. It was late in the day, but I would need to get used to traveling the mountain in the dark.

  The village was where it was said to be, and I found a vantage point high above on a bluff that surrounded three sides of the village. The village was in a wide mouth of a canyon. The canyon was made up of the bluff I was watching from on the right side and an old water course running down from the mountain on the other side. The water course had cut deep into the mountain and at one time flowed from a high waterfall. Now it only housed a quiet little stream.

  I couldn’t tell if there were any lodges farther up in the canyon, but there were maybe forty or fifty lodges scattered haphazard in the open area of the canyon. As I watched, two youths brought the pony herd in from the plain beyond the canyon mouth. It made sense that they would take the animals out onto the plain during the day to forage and bring them in at sundown.

  The canyon mouth was very wide and grass was plentiful, and from where I was lying, it looked like they kept the herd at one side or the other at night. The grass in those areas was somewhat trampled and the color showed it to be cropped. The two young herdsmen took the ponies to the left side. The grass on the right side was taller and greener. I took that to mean they were letting it grow out. If they switched sides the next evening, my work would be harder, but I would manage.

  The next morning, I was ready to put my plan into motion. I had saved the broken lances of the four Mescalero braves I had killed and scalped. They were securely held under the tied down blanket on the pinto. I had burned drawings into a piece of buckskin, which showed four simple figures with red stains on top of their heads. It also had a crude drawing of a walking wolf approaching an equally crude berry stained drawing of a red hand. I would never win the honor of being a tribal artist, but they would get the message.

  As a finishing touch, I tied the scalps of the four Mescaleros to the buckskin. I did not like the custom of taking scalps, and did not care to collect them. They served a purpose in battle of intimidating your foe, but I wasn’t concerned about that.

  As the sun touched the western hills, I mounted my roan and led the other two down and around the mountain. Tethering the roan in the darkness beyond the mouth of the canyon, I led the other ponies around the point and into the canyon. I found that they had switched sides and put the herd on the fresher grass of the right side. I would have to be more careful… and more skillful.

  I stopped and looked over the situation. I could see one rider outlined against the fires from the camp. I could only hope that there was not another somewhere on foot. That was a chance I would have to take. Tying the ponies to a mesquite bush, I sat on a small boulder and waited. I waited until the fires from the village were only glowing spots. I waited until the rider looked to be slouching in the saddle. When I saw his head drop to his chest, I moved in.

  Working my way with great caution, I slowly moved through the herd. They didn’t like the smell of me, nor did they like the wolf cape and headpiece. But none made a fuss; they just got out of my way. There was a little stirring among the animals, but the herdsman was beyond noticing.

  Reaching the sentry, I moved to the right side of his mount from the rear. In one smooth move, I reached up, encircled his waist with my left arm and pull him to the ground with a slam. The ponies scrambled about trying to get away from the disturbance. As I threw the man to the ground, I had my hatchet ready to split his skull, but I saw he was only a boy of maybe twelve or fourteen summers. I turned the hatchet around and gave his head a tap with the back of it.

  I dragged him from under the feet of the herd, and when he awoke, he found himself tied hand and foot with his headband stuffed in his mouth. His eyes were wide and fearful, for he found himself looking up in the darkness at a man with a wolf’s head. He would have a story to tell in the morning.

  Next I went back and collected the two ponies I’d been leading around for so long. I would be free of them soon. Leading them to the edge of the village, I found one of those miserable domed shaped hovels they call a lodge. It looked deserted so I tied the ponies to the door frame and started to move away, when I heard movement on the darkness.

  I heard the sound of coughing and then the distinct sound of a man relieving himself. He must have come from the lodge behind the one I’d used to tie the ponies to. I stood still as a stone, hoping he wouldn’t see the ponies in the darkness. One of them blew, and I heard the man utter his surprise.

  He didn’t move for a short time, and then he came toward the tethered ponies, muttering as he came. If he sounded an alarm, I would have little chance of getting to my horse. I would try to take one from the herd and scatter the rest. It would be my only chance.

  The man came out of the darkness and walked straight toward the ponies, passing me in the shadows. I stepped out and he heard my movement. He started to turn but I buried my hatchet into the back of his skull before he could make a sound or pull his knife. He fell into the pinto, but bounced back and fell face up. The pinto side stepped against the other pony, but they were used to each other and soon became docile.

  I quickly took the man’s scalp and tied it to the buckskin picture with the others. Breathing again, I couldn’t remember if I had been breathing at all since the man came out to relieve himself.

  Moving as quiet as a coyote, I moved back to the pony herd and then out of the canyon. Once I was back straddling the roan we walked quietly for a long way before we picked up the pace. I would have liked to go back to camp and get some sleep, but I wanted to see the effect of my night’s work. We went up the mountain
to the bluff.

  From my perch atop the bluff I could see little as the sun was coming up, but by the time the fires were rekindled and smoke started rising I could see well. People were starting to move around, but no one had noticed anything unusual yet. I was watching the two ponies standing together tied to the door frame of the deserted lodge. Still no notice was taken of them.

  I saw a woman come from the lodge where the late night relief seeker had come. She looked all around and started building her fire. The smoke was starting to rise from it, and she was still looking in all directions. I assumed she was looking for her man. Finally she left her fire and came toward the empty lodge craning her neck to see around it. She stumbled and looked down.

  Her scream could be heard from my perch atop the bluff without trouble. Then she started to wail. Men and women came running from all directions. Women surrounded her and seemed to be trying to console her, but the men were more interested in the body with its missing hair.

  As more men arrived, the ponies were crowded, and someone decided to move them. But as soon as he had them out of the crowd, he recognized them and saw the picture. Another yell and more people came running to the scene. The crowd was pushed back and two men of importance were made way for.

  One man was older and a big belly, he would be a chief or headman of the village, but the other man was younger and in his prime. I didn’t have to get close enough to see his face to know he had a scar running from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. The way he stood, moved, and the arrogance that he showed left me no doubt that I had found my man.

  Someone had cut the rawhide thongs, which held the picture, and had handed it to the chief. He looked at it and slapped it against Scar Face’s chest. Scar Face studied it and threw it to the ground along with the five bloody scalps that were attached. He looked to the hills and the mountains as if I would be likely to stand up and wave at him.