El Paso Way (9 page)

Horses snorting and whickering were the only sounds, and the seriousness on all of the Apache faces could have stopped a dust storm. What Enrique noticed most, however, was how this man on the bald-face horse kept staring at Pang. Then he looked back and forth between both Enrique and Pang and spoke in his known Spanish dialect. “Who are you people?”

Once Enrique began to speak, all eyes looked at him. “I am Enrique Osorio. I am born of this land and am a friend to the Apache. This man who rides with me is no threat to you.”

The leader studied Pang again. “I have seen his kind before, many moons ago when the white man built the trails of the iron horse. But they did not wear a white man's clothes.”

Enrique thought about how strange the derby and serape must look on the Chinaman. “He only wears the clothes to protect himself from desert travel.”

“I am Geronimo, chief of the
Nnee
, and of the land of my people. Why do you tread on our land?”

Enrique had heard of Geronimo, and how he had fled the reservation and made war with the army. He had rarely heard, however, Apache refer to themselves as
Nnee
, which meant “the People” in their own native language. Apache was a name given to them by the Spanish, and
Nnee
was typically only used during conversations with their own people. Enrique understood this because the Spanish called his own Tohono O'odham people
Papago
, which was a name that his fellow tribesmen rejected. This meant that the Apache were fed up with the centuries of lies offered them by the Spanish, the Mexicans, and now the Americans.

“We are on the trail of Antonio Valdar. We do not pose any threat to the
Nnee
. We just want to pass through and make it to El Paso before Valdar does.”

“What is this business you have with the Demon Warrior?”

Enrique was not surprised that the Apache had knowledge of Valdar, and was no more surprised at the name he had been given. “Justice, Chief. Pang and I want his blood.”

There was silence for a moment, then Geronimo nodded at the men behind the
Criollo
and they held up their rifles. They came forward, and the ones on the hillside came down closer, and one of them cut loose the pack burro and pulled the braying animal away.

Enrique looked to Geronimo for an answer.

“The Demon Warrior is a friend to my people. You say you are a friend to the Apache, but we do not know you. We will take you back to our camp and hold a trial. That will decide your fate.”

Pang looked around nervously as the Apache men drew closer to them. “What do we do?”

“We go with them,” Enrique said.

“Maybe we should fight them.”

Enrique looked at Pang with disgust. “You try anything and you'll get us both killed. There is no bow and arrow or kung fu that will outfight these men. We stand a much better chance back at their camp.”

Before Enrique could say another word, he and Pang were in the clutches of the men, who tied their arms tight against their torso with leather. Pang tried to fight, but Enrique's voice calmed him to an easy surrender. “Don't fight it! It will only make things worse!”

Pang was breathing heavily, but it was not an exercise. He called out in his own Chinese tongue, in words that Enrique didn't understand, but his tone was very clear. The Chinaman was showing his anger and his fear.

* * *

Jackson and a man named Farrell had tracked Valdar through the Pedregosa and thought he'd probably crossed the border into the New Mexico Territory, but the trail came to a dead end. The two men studied a camp but saw no trail out.

“Where do you think they went?” Farrell said.

“I can't figure,” Jackson said. “Either they turned back, or they are right on top of us.”

Farrell looked around him nervously. “So what do we do now?”

“We better head back and tell the sheriff.”

The two men started back, and as they passed through a steep cut in the mountains, Jackson noticed his horse's ears twitch, and on occasion it raised its head and peered to the south.

“What's the matter?” Jackson said, patting the horse on the neck.

The horse suddenly reared and Farrell fell from his own mount. Jackson pulled his horse back to find Farrell lying dead with a knife in his chest. He looked around to see where the knife might have come from, but before he could ascertain anything, his hat flew off and a rope fell around his chest and tightened. He was pulled down from his horse, and the spooked steed ran away, only to be captured by another lasso.

Jackson rolled in his own dust and to his back, and when he looked up, he stared into the grinning face of a man with a thin black mustache. The man reached down, grabbed him by the shirt placket, and picked him up to his feet. He pushed him back to his horse and laid him over its back, then tied his feet together.

The man pulled Jackson's horse to his own, which he mounted, and pulled Jackson around the bend and into the rocks, where they joined two other men and what appeared to be three women prisoners. When they stopped, the man came back and pushed Jackson off the horse and to the ground.

Another man, who smelled foul from tequila, pulled him up to a sitting position. The man laughed. “You look like you've had a rough day,
señor
.” The other men followed with laughter. “So, did you find what you were looking for?”

Jackson could not answer, but he knew that he was staring into the face of one of the most evil men he'd ever heard tell of. He also knew that it was likely his life was over, but just how soon, or how quickly he would die, was the critical unknown.

“So,
amigo
, I hear there are many men looking for me, but you and your poor
compadre
back there are only two men. Are there more
hombres
you should tell me about?”

“I ain't tellin' you nothin', you sick sumbitch.” Jackson spit in Valdar's face.

Valdar's fury was short-lived, as he wiped the saliva from his cheek then laughed and summoned Beshkah. The bandit came forward, his spurs jingling and the tips of his shoes glistening in the sunlight. He stood next to Valdar, and Valdar grabbed Jackson by the chin and lifted him to his feet. He forced him to a boulder and slammed him against it.

“This man is complaining about his knees,” Valdar said. “Do you have something for the pain?”

Beshkah grunted and stepped in front of Jackson as Valdar backed away. In one swift motion, Beshkah reared a leg back then kicked forward, busting Jackson's knee with his steel plated shoe. The posse scout screamed in agony.

Valdar came close to his face and breathed the same stale breath as he heckled him. “How's the pain,
muchacho
? Is it better now?”

Jackson stared back at Valdar with watery eyes. “You'll rot in hell for what you do.”

Valdar turned to Beshkah. “I guess it was not enough medicine. Give him some more.”

Beshkah reared back and kicked the other knee, and Jackson fell to the ground screaming. Valdar hunched to the ground and leaned over in front of his face, grabbing his chin with his hand. Jackson fought for his breath as Valdar turned his face to his own.

“Now, if you think I will kill you before you tell me anything, you're badly mistaken,
señor
. You tell me what I want to know and you'll die much quicker.”

Jackson didn't trust this monster in any way, but torture was something that he knew Valdar would continually subject him to until he got what he wanted. Whether he would actually kill him or not was uncertain, but at this point, with the image of the naked gambler in his mind, he figured it was worth the gamble.

“There is a posse,” Jackson said in a mumble, followed by a heavy breath and a grimace.

Valdar squeezed his chin tighter. “How many?”

“Eighteen. About a mile west of here.”

Valdar let go and lightly slapped Jackson's face. “Ah, now that wasn't so hard, was it,
amigo
?”

Jackson swallowed and closed his eyes, then he felt Valdar grab him by the hair and hold his head back against the boulder. Beshkah then came forward, stood before him, lifted his boot, and with a steady swipe, brought the rowel of his spur across Jackson's neck. There was only a slight sting at first, but then he realized he could not breathe, and felt the warm blood flowing down his neck and onto his chest. To Jackson's recollection, this was the only time he'd ever gambled and won.

* * *

Enrique and Pang sat back to back, their wrists tied together, at the trunk of a dead cottonwood. The Apache camp was not like those Enrique had seen before, with grass wickiups but less primitive, with makeshift shelters of poles, deerskin, and the white man's canvas. It was, indeed, a camp for a tribe constantly on the move.

Several men sat outside near a fire, while the women prepared meals and the children played. But a majority of the men were inside one of the shelters, deciding the fate of their two captives.

Enrique felt bad for Pang, knowing that after all he had recently gone through, this moment only added to his pain.

“I'm sorry,” Enrique said.

“For what?” Pang answered, as he squirmed and rolled his wrists.

“For getting you into this mess. I know it was not in your plan.”

“I'm sure it was not in your plan, either. I do not blame you.”

Enrique could tell that the Chinaman's words were genuine. “And I was supposed to teach you how to shoot the bow today.”

Pang sighed and pulled his wrists free. “Such a lesson is the least of my worries,” he said, now looking at Enrique and untying him.

“How did you get free?” Enrique said, looking at the Chinaman, dumbfounded.

“Apache might be good at surrounding and capturing, but they are not good at tying knots.”

Enrique rubbed his arms where the leather ties had cut into them and made them sore. He decided not to question Pang's tactics and, like him, to take advantage of their new freedom. “I'm not sure where they've taken our mules . . . They must be tied on the other side of the shelters.”

“We must find them, and quickly,” Pang said, “without alarming the women and children.”

At that moment at least twenty Apache rode into the camp. Their women chanted as they dismounted, and Geronimo and the other men came out of their shelters to greet them. There was a long discussion with one of the riders, and then Geronimo looked in the direction of Enrique and Pang as they sprinted across the camp.

Several of the Apache headed them off and surrounded them. The two men stopped, looking all around as the braves closed in. Enrique was surprised at how poised Pang seemed all of the sudden, crouching, with his hands elongated in front of his face.

One of the Apache quickly lunged at Enrique. The two of them fell to the ground, muscles tight and teeth clenched as they rolled in the dust, each trying to gain control over the other. Enrique gained nothing fast, as two other braves joined in the fight and quickly subdued him. It was when they held him up, one holding each arm, that the real fight began.

Several Apache tried to subdue the Chinaman, but Pang was quick to stop them, with either a jab to the neck, a kick to the stomach, or both a punch and a kick that quickly disabled the attacker. But all stopped after a rifle was shot into the air, and every head turned to Geronimo, who stood next to several other Apache, one with a rifle pointed at Pang.

Geronimo nodded to his brave to lower the rifle and then they proceeded toward them. He looked over all of his fallen men, who stood slowly, moaning and grimacing, except one who lay unconscious.

“You kill one of my men,” Geronimo said, looking sternly at Pang.

“No,” Pang said, walking to the fallen brave, stooping and slapping his face lightly with the back of his hand. “He's just, like you say, taking a
siesta
.”

The chief nodded and then looked at both the men. “The council has decided. You are free to go.”

Enrique looked over at Pang, who rose slowly, as if not convinced of they newly granted freedom.

“May I ask how you came to your decision?” Enrique asked, looking at Geronimo.

“The Demon Warrior has betrayed us. He promised to free one of our men, but set him free only to follow him and kill him later. For this betrayal we approve of your pursuit to kill him, and the two Apache who follow him. They no longer live the
Nnee
way and are nothing to our people. To help you, I will send two of my warriors with you. But that is all I can spare.”

Enrique looked at the two men—short, muscular, and youthful. “Thank you,” Enrique said.

Two women came forward pulling the mules and the burro, all their belongings still intact. One of the women handed Enrique his quiver and bow. Geronimo complimented him on the weapon.

“Our council recognized your
Nnee
bow and arrow, and that the shafts were new. Only someone who knew the
Nnee
way could have made those arrows. It was agreed by the council that you were very likely a friend to the
Nnee
.”

Enrique nodded then reached into one of his saddlebags and grabbed all of the jerky and dried fruits. He handed them to Geronimo.

“For you and your people. You will need food for strength during your battles. Let it be a peace offering.”

Geronimo nodded and had one of the women take the goods; then he took one step toward Enrique, pulled a knife from his waist, and drew a cut on his hand.

Enrique knew what he wanted and did the same, and in the same fashion as he arm wrestled the priest, the two men joined hands, looked each other squarely in the eyes, and became blood brothers of the Sonora.

* * *

When Dutton and the posse rode up on Jackson and Farrell's bodies, the men had seen enough. All of them, except the lawman, turned and headed back. They didn't even stay to help bury the bodies, or try to talk him out of staying, and there was nothing Dutton could do to stop them. He could have cursed them as cowards, but he wasn't sure it was cowardice that made them turn back. It was likely plain old common sense. He wasn't even sure what made him stay, but he was quite certain it wasn't courage, and he was damn certain it wasn't common sense. He supposed it was duty, but also stubbornness and pride. He was not about to go to his grave backing out on something he was paid to do. It might not be a healthy job, but at least it was an honorable job. Stubborn or not, honor was something he was certain he'd be comfortable taking to the grave.