Still whooping, Tolley rode into the ranchería, slowing slightly when he saw that the place was virtually deserted. A couple dozen women, children, and old people faded into the trees along the river bottom, where they had instinctively run as soon as they heard the young guard’s warning cries. It was a lesson well learned over centuries of attacks upon their villages. Tolley spotted us and spurred his horse anew, covering the last fifty yards at a dead run and pulling up short in front of the wickiup, his horse lathered, snorting and prancing.
“What’s with the getup, Tolley?” I asked, still holding the rifle on Charley, who remained stoically silent.
“I liberate you from the fiendish clutches of the savages,” Tolley said. “And that’s how you greet me, Giles? … I had it made by my tailor in New York, if you must know. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” He raised his arm, from which the fringe dangled at least eight inches long. “Not a bad look for me, don’t you agree, old sport?”
“You do know how to make an entrance, darling,” Margaret said, laughing. “And your timing is impeccable.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Tolley?” I asked. “I thought you went home. How did you get through?”
“All of that in good time, old sport,” Tolley said, dismounting and looking around like a conquering general.
By now Albert had reached us. He dismounted and embraced Margaret, and they held each other for a moment without speaking. Finally, Jesus trotted up on his burro. “Señor Tolley, why do you leave me behind like that?” he complained. “I cannot keep up to your fast horse on this little donkey.”
“Sorry, young lad,” Tolley said. “But I had to make an impression, and you and your burro don’t exactly strike terror into the hearts of men. You appear to have been correct, Albert, when you said that the Apaches are inordinately impressed by displays of personal courage. I seem to have taken the village single-handedly and without firing a shot.”
“I came back to rescue you, Señor Ned,” the boy said proudly.
“And a fine job you did of it, too, kid.”
The question of what to do with Charley presented itself, and for now we bound his arms and legs and left him on the ground in front of the wickiup. He did not utter a sound. The girl had disappeared, as had Charley’s wife, Ishton, with her baby, presumably all of them fleeing into the river bottom with the others as soon as the commotion began. We had to assume that they might have weapons cached there, but we suspected that they would be less likely to try to attack us if they saw that we held their chief.
“Where is my good man, Mr. Browning?” Tolley asked.
Neither Margaret nor I wanted to be the one to break the news to Tolley, but it must have been clear in our faces.
“Oh, no …” Tolley said, stricken.
“I’m sorry, Tolley,” Margaret said finally. “I did everything I could.”
“You mean to say that I’ve come all this way,” said Tolley in a low voice, “to prove to him that I wasn’t the same kind of cad as his former employer, to show him that Tolbert Phillips Jr. stands by his people through thick or thin …”
“I think Mr. Browning knew that, sweetheart,” Margaret said. “In any case, there’s nothing you could have done. He died of his head wound that first night.”
“Trying to be the big hero, weren’t you, White Eyes?” Albert asked me. “Coming back here all alone. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have come with you.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to be a hero. And don’t worry, Albert, Margaret knows you would have come, too. What about you, Tolley, why the sudden change of heart?”
“You never gave me a chance to come to my senses, Giles,” said Tolley. “I got to thinking about everything you said that night, and damned if I wasn’t ashamed of myself. The next morning I couldn’t bring myself to leave with the others. At the same time, the prospect of a long journey home in the company of that insufferable moron Winston Hughes was more than I could bear. The fact is, I missed you, old sport. However, when I came looking for you, you had already sneaked off.”
“Carrillo just let you go like that?” I asked.
“No. In fact, at first the colonel forbade us from leaving,” Tolley said. “Which is why our rescue of you was delayed. But with the American-Mexican alliance already unraveling with the defection of so many volunteers, and the fact that Carrillo had no clear plan of action of his own, he was finally powerless to stop us.”
“And Gatlin encouraged him to let us go,” Albert added. “I think the chief figures he’s seen the last of the city boy, the fairy, and the injun now.”
“How did you get past Indio Juan and his men?” I asked.
“Providence, old sport,” Tolley said. “Or as some might say, pure dumb luck. By the time we reached the scene of the ambush …” Tolley paused here. “You must have seen it yourself, Giles. Well, you can just imagine it a week later …”
Tolley hesitated for a long time, quite overcome with the memory, and finally Albert continued for him. “We had dropped down into the canyon to get past the scene of the ambush,” he said, “as you must have done. We had just stopped to rest in the shade of the rocks, when we spotted Indio Juan and his band on the trail above us. Tolley’s right, we were just damn lucky. If we’d been moving, they’d have seen us or heard us. And if we’d been a moment earlier or a moment later, we’d have run directly into them on the trail. As it was, we were well concealed by the rocks.”
“We kept our hands clamped over the mouths of our mounts as the Apaches passed above us,” Tolley said, “for we were close enough that had one of them so much as nickered, we’d have been given away. It was the longest five minutes of our lives, I can tell you. We waited over two hours before we dared move again. We had expected that they might have posted a lookout at the pass, and when we reached it, Jesus and I hung back while Albert climbed into the rocks above on foot to investigate. It appeared to be unguarded. And so we crossed one at a time. And miraculously, we passed unmolested. Evidently, every able-bodied man among them, with the exception of Charley here, was in Indio Juan’s war party and he must have been focused on the expedition, not expecting a mere three people to try to slip by. And voilà,” said Tolley, opening his arms wide, “we have taken the ranchería.”
“So you see,” added Albert, with a sly smile, “Tolley knew there were no warriors here before he made his heroic charge.”
We all laughed.
“Well, it was still damned effective,” Tolley protested.
“You scared the hell out of the women and children, darling,” Margaret said. “Sent them scurrying into the river bottom. They must have thought an entire army was attacking.”
“And you don’t know how close you came to getting your head shot off by Charley,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you saved my life again, Giles, just when I thought I had repaid the favor?”
“I had nothing to do with it, Tolley,” I admitted. “Margaret saved your ass this time. I’d say we’re all even.”
“Which, of course, begs the next question,” Tolley said. “What do we do now?”
It was a good question. We looked at Charley, lying hog-tied on the ground. He had still not spoken a word, would not even look at us.
“If we give him up to Carrillo,” Albert said, “the Mexicans will certainly execute him.”
“Why not return him to his own people?” Tolley suggested. “Take him back across the border.”
“That would be worse for him than execution,” said Joseph, who had remained silent up to now. He had not tried to speak to Charley, either, and it occurred to me that his loyalties must be divided at this point.
“I agree,” Margaret said. “What are you going to do, Tolley, get him a haircut and a shave, dress him in a suit, find him an apartment and a job in the bank?”
“Yes, he could be rehabilitated,” Tolley said. “Look at Joseph, he’s a civilized man.”
“W
e can’t take him back to the United States, Tolley,” I said. “Imagine when the newspapers get hold of the poor bastard. Little Charley McComas found alive fifty years later. We might as well put him in a zoo. And as Albert says, we can’t give him up to the Mexicans, either.”
“Then what do you suggest we do with him, Giles?” Tolley asked.
“Let’s make a trade with him,” I suggested. “His own freedom in return for the Huerta boy.”
“He will never agree to such a trade,” Joseph said, “without some assurance from the Mexicans that if he lets the boy go, they will stop hunting the People.”
“Okay, then we take Charley and the Huerta boy back down with us until we locate the expedition,” I said, “and we let him make that deal with Carrillo: They get Geraldo back, Charley and his people go free and unmolested. Everybody goes home happy.”
“In the long, bloody history of the Indian wars,” Albert said, “has that ever happened, White Eyes?”
“You got a better idea, Albert?”
“Your plan overlooks one other, not-so-minor detail, old sport,” Tolley pointed out. “The wild card.”
“Yeah, I know. Indio Juan.”
Tonight we have moved back up into the caves above the valley, where I make these entries. The evening monsoons have come and gone. We feel relatively safe here, protected both from the elements and from the women and children, who have not yet come out of hiding, although it’s possible that they’ve slipped back into the ranchería without our knowing it. We built a fire and ate our dinner, and afterward Tolley and I sat smoking in front of the entrance to the cave. We will all take turns guarding Charley through the night. Chideh still hasn’t come back, either. She must be trying to sort out who the enemy is now; I am her husband and I hold her grandfather prisoner. I’m not so naive as to believe that her loyalties will lie with me, and perhaps by staying away, she avoids having to make that choice.
10 JULY, 1932
This morning just before daybreak, I slipped away from the cave without waking the others and walked down to the ranchería with my camera. The place felt like a ghost town and I had the sense that the others had come in the night to gather their possessions, for it seemed somehow even emptier and more deserted than it had yesterday. Through my lens, the wickiups had the dead look of archaeological relics, long abandoned, as if the people who once inhabited them could only be imagined. I looked down the valley where it fell away and rose again to a series of impassable rock pinnacles, wrapped in morning mist, the earth lying so silent and calm beneath, patient and unhurried and timeless as it always seems by first light. I wished that I had my large-format view camera with me, as it is impossible to capture the enormity and grandeur of this landscape with the Leica. I wondered how it is that such a vast, wild land stretching away farther than the lens can reach, or the eye can see, how is it that even still it is not large enough to accommodate this tiny band of people. Even here, civilization intrudes on wildness; even here the bears and mountain lions cannot escape the relentless pursuit of Billy Flowers, any more than the Apaches can avoid that of General George Crook or Colonel Hermenegildo Carrillo.
I walked down to the river, which was high and muddy with runoff from the monsoons, the trees heavy with summer foliage, their leaves motionless in the dead calm of dawn. I found a pool where the current did not run so strongly, set my camera bag down on a rock, stripped and waded into the water. The rocks were slick under my feet, the water ice-cold so that my breath caught in my chest. I submerged myself quickly in the pool until the initial shock had turned to a tingling numbness, and when it began to hurt I got out. The air raised gooseflesh on my body.
I was sitting on the rock, putting my clothes back on when the girl appeared beside me. I say it that way because that’s just how it seems; she moves so lightly and silently that it’s as if she is just suddenly there. I wasn’t startled or even surprised when she put her hand lightly on my shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” I said. “Why did you run away?”
“From the time that we are very small children,” she said, “we are taught to run and hide when the village is under attack.”
“Yes, but couldn’t you see that it was just Tolley?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come back?”
“You have tied my grandfather up.”
“We had to. Listen, Chideh, you have to bring the boy Geraldo back to us. We’re not going to hurt Charley, or anyone else. Don’t you see by now that we don’t want to hurt your people?”
“The soldiers hurt the People,” she said. “The Mexicans hurt the People. The White Eyes hurt the People. This is why we hide from them.”
“Yes, I know. And as soon as you give Geraldo back, you can hide again. That’s all we’ve ever wanted from you. The boy.”
“And you will release my grandfather?”
“Yes. Tell the others to come back in. You have to trust me.”
We brought Charley back down from the caves to the ranchería later that morning, and shortly thereafter the girl brought Geraldo Huerta in. An old woman from his Apache family came in with them. She is protective of Geraldo and kept him close to her; he is such a slight, ethereal boy, and there is something nearly fey about him; he hardly seems suited to this hearty life in the wilds.
The others, too, began to trickle back in until little by little the ranchería took on life again as if they had never left. Soon fires were burning, and the smells of wood smoke and food cooking filled the air. Joseph negotiated the boy’s return with Charley and convinced us that it was safe to release the big man from his bonds, for a true Apache’s word is never broken.
“What about Geronimo?” Tolley asked. “Wasn’t he a notorious liar?”
“That is so,” Joseph admitted. “Geronimo was not a truthful man.”
“And how do you know we can trust Charley?” Tolley asked.
“How does he know he can trust you?” Joseph answered.
So we untied the white Apache, and in that simple act of trust everything was suddenly equalized, leveled, so that no one holds any advantage over anyone else. Just as Charley is no longer our prisoner, so, with his freedom, is Margaret no longer his slave. And in this new democratic arrangement, the tension has been greatly relieved. Margaret and Charley’s wife, Ishton, seem to have grown quite fond of each other and putter around the wickiup like equals now. (Clearly that well-placed roundhouse punch also helped level the playing field.) Margaret, who has always professed to have no interest whatsoever in children, even dotes on Ishton’s baby, cooing and gurgling at it. We all continue to be astonished by Margaret’s command of the Apache language; although I’ve learned a few words and phrases that I use when I communicate with the girl in our particular patois, Margaret, on the other hand, chatters away almost like a native.
Tomorrow we head out to find the expedition. I don’t know about the others, but I am filled with dread.
11 JULY, 1932
Charley has elected to bring the rest of the band with us. We rather expected that he would leave the women and children at the ranchería rather than risk exposing them to the soldiers. But evidently he wishes to keep them close at hand. All that stayed behind were two old women too feeble to travel, one of whom is the blind old woman Siki. The Apaches are so private that Joseph has barely spoken to us of her, and in their own stoic fashion, there were no sentimental good-byes. The two old women were simply left sitting outside the wickiup. They had provisions and firewood.
“I don’t understand,” I said as we were preparing to ride out. “Are they coming back for them?”
“Siki and the other are too old to travel,” Albert explained. “It is the Apache way for the old, the injured, and the sick to step aside for the good of the tribe. Everyone’s time comes. This is understood.”
“Just like that?” Tolley asked. “Don’t they even say good-bye?”
“Good-bye is a White Eyes concept,” Alber
t said. “They have said all that needs to be said.”
And without a look back, the white Apache, astride a small dappled gray horse that looks like a child’s pony beneath his giant frame, rode out of the ranchería, his red hair and beard long and wild, his skin sun- and windburned the color of old mottled rust. Behind him followed his ragtag band of mixed-blood women and children, some mounted, others on foot, trotting to keep up; they put me in mind of Lilliputians following Gulliver. Old Joseph Valor rode with them on his quickstepping donkey, his long gray braids bouncing, his ancient wizened face cut as deeply by time as the canyons and arroyos of this strange wild country.
I had ridden on ahead so that I could expose some film of Charley and his people as they approached. No one in America will believe that such a race of man exists, and when Big Wade asks me the inevitable question—“Did you get the shot, kid?”—I want to be able to say with certainty that I did. The Last Wild Apaches, I’ve decided I’m going to call it.
I rejoined the others, and we rode spread out along the trail behind the Apaches: Margaret, Albert, Jesus, Tolley, and I; sometimes Chideh rode beside me, sometimes she joined her people; we rode abreast in twos or threes whenever the trail opened up to allow it but mostly keeping single file, down the rocky, winding slopes, traversing the canyon and arroyos, through the solemn pine forests, across the lush creek bottoms. The summer rains have brought out the season’s brief, intense flash of color, so that the formerly sere slopes of the Sierra Madre are a bright green, tufts of grass sprouting even from the rocks themselves.
Without our even being aware of it at first, Charley has led us on a different route than that which we have taken from the ranchería before. Tonight we are camped for the night in a spectacular setting, on a high plateau at the head of a waterfall. We arrived just as the sun was setting, lighting the mountaintops purple all around. Here the stream has cut a deep channel into the hard conglomerate rock, before falling off into a nearly straight-walled canyon, perhaps a hundred feet to the bottom. It’s a spectacular sight and we crept to the edge of the chasm and watched as the water dropped in silent sheets through the air, gathering itself again at the bottom to rush down a narrow gorge with a faint distant roar. I didn’t have enough light left to find my way down to the base of the canyon, but I intend to rise early and do so in the morning.