El Paso Way (7 page)

The priest looked back up at him with a gasp, but nothing was said. He looked away slowly, stood up and walked outside to the garden.

For a year they had planned for Enrique's departure, but had been waiting for the sign to go. Enrique had spent many days hunting and helping the father with the garden and saguaro fruit harvest, stockpiling food and collecting wood for the winter. He also spent time making more arrows, collecting feathers, and even made another trip to Tucson to get a new serape and a new pair of boots. In many ways he had been ready to go for months, but mentally he had never been able to put it all together. Now, he was certain, he would have to.

There was, however, one more thing that tugged at Enrique's heart. So many times the priest had asked him about accepting Christ and being baptized, but Enrique couldn't handle letting go of his anger or his desire for justice, and that was something, the priest advised, that would be required. The priest also warned him that the sign for his departure might not necessarily be from God, but from Satan. That Christ would never condone acts of violence, but that God's wrath on the evildoers could include Enrique's passion.

There was also another reason why Enrique had a hard time accepting Christ. He remembered how his father believed such religion to be nonsense, but how devout his mother was in the faith. His father had more respect for the old Indian shamans than he did for the priests of Christianity, and Enrique always believed that if the truth found him, he would know. After all the years that had passed, Enrique had made little sense of it all. He wasn't sure about God, but he did believe in the priest. It was the priest who'd found him and taken him in, not an old Indian shaman. Many of the challenges and purposes that the priest had taught him came to light. Especially now, having crossed paths with Pang. It was more than convincing.

As he turned from the river and looked back at the mission, this place that had been his home for seven years, he looked at the adobe structure, and up at the bell tower, still minus a bell, and at the garden, the stable, and at the creosote bush where he had first seen Sereno, his friendly shadow. All were so special to him. His comfort from a tragedy. His home.

Father Gaeta walked out the mission door, with Pang behind him. They stood and looked at Enrique. The priest, Enrique could tell, was worried and sad, but they had lived together long enough to know that this day would ultimately come, even though neither could ever be totally prepared for its arrival.

“Well, my son,” the priest said, “I'm sure your mind is troubled.”

“No,” he said. “I know exactly what to do.”

“And what will that be?”

“I would like you to baptize me, Father.”

The priest stared solemnly for a moment and then walked close to Enrique. “You remember, Enrique, that baptizing is only a symbol. Christ must be truly in your heart to accept him.”

“I accept him.”

The priest put a hand on Enrique's cheek. “Then follow me.”

They stepped into the river, to the deepest part, where it was up to their waists. Enrique stood with his side toward the priest, and Father Gaeta put one hand on the back of Enrique's head and the other on his stomach. The priest bent him backward, until his head was mostly submerged, and recited, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Father Gaeta brought Enrique back up, and he blinked from the water that dripped from his hair over his eyes. “I will let God lead me on this journey. It will not be of my own desires.”

The priest smiled. “I will pray for you, my son.”

Geronimo

The terrain changed considerably the farther the posse traveled into the mountains. It was hilly and rough with pine, oak, and juniper trees, and at night it was cold. When they made camp, they had gathered wood from dead trees fallen, and some still standing; they broke off limbs and mixed them with mesquite to make a nice, hot fire to deaden the chill. But it was more than the chill in the air that brought discomfort to Sheriff Dutton. Earlier that day, in the afternoon, they had wandered upon a military party led by General George Crook, who informed them of several Apache on the warpath, led by the Chiricahua chief Geronimo. As if it wasn't already enough to worry about a savage killer on the loose, who could ambush them at any time, now they were aware that warring Apaches could ignite just as devastating an attack on the posse. The Apaches knew the land and terrain better than anyone, while Valdar was more vile, fearless, and manipulative. But the two of them together, and both on the enemy side, was like riding inside the gates of hell.

Dutton knew that their safety improved with their numbers. With more than forty members in the posse, he was able to establish shifts of men to stand guard while others slept. Very few, however, especially Dutton, could sleep. Most of them just lay on their bedrolls watching the fire, drinking coffee with one hand, and holding their guns with the other. Little conversation took place, other than when Dutton made his rounds to check on everyone. He took particular notice of a young man named Dempsy, maybe twenty years old, who clutched a knife between his hand and coffee cup. His hand shook a bit when he took a drink, and the nickel-finished .45 Colt revolver in his other hand rested on his bent knee and reflected the firelight. Dutton noticed, too, a Winchester lever-action rifle at Dempsy's feet.

Dutton squatted beside him and shared the view of the glowing embers. “We got a long day tomorrow, so we'll rise early. You boys should try and get some sleep.”

A man named Payne spoke from across the fire, his sunburned cheeks and forehead glowing above a black beard. “Hell, Sheriff, we can't sleep no easier than you can.”

Dutton half-grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I reckon you're right.”

Dempsy emptied his coffee cup into the fire, then dropped the cup next to him but held on to the knife. “How far away from Valdar you reckon we are, Sheriff?”

“It's hard to tell, but I'd say he's not far. He's turned back south. Will probably ride close to the Mexico border all the way to El Paso.”

“What's your plan to get him?” Payne said.

“I'll know more how to do it when we find him. My hope is to surround him and just shoot them all, dead. Just try not to shoot the women.”

“Ah hell,” Dempsy said. “They're just China girls. I ain't taking no chances on missin' anyone. I'm gonna just open fire and kill them all.”

Dutton stared at the young man gravely. “I don't care what kind of girls they are, they're victims, and everyone here is to treat them as such.
Comprende?
”

Dempsy glanced embarrassingly at the others around the fire, and Dutton stood up and went back to his own bedroll. He lay down, put his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the stars. He took in a deep breath of cool air through his nose and worried about how his posse would handle this situation. It was hard enough to know he had two enemies out there, let alone worry about racially driven men who might act out of stupidity and botch the whole campaign.

It made him wish he was still a cowhand. He'd spent many nights just like this one sleeping out on the range, studying the constellations in the sky, but thinking only about a roundup in the morning, or maybe about a few Apaches stealing beeves, but never anything this worrisome. Why did he ever let them talk him in to running for sheriff? He closed his eyes and brought his hand out to rub them. “You're a damned fool, Chas Dutton.”

* * *

Enrique had spent most of the evening packing, and couldn't sleep at all that night. He lay in his bed thinking about what it was going to be like trailing Valdar and how he would confront him. He really didn't care how he killed him; he just wanted to make sure Valdar saw his face when he did it, that the last vision the lunatic had in his dying eyes was that of Enrique Osorio.

Pang let it be known that he would be shouting his father's name when he delivered the last blow. When Enrique asked him how he would kill him, Pang held up his hand. How foolish, he thought, that the Chinaman believed he could kill such a man with his bare hands, and he told him so. To prove him wrong, Pang had Father Gaeta hold up a large stone crock, and not far from the priest, he had Enrique hold between his hands a thick oak board that the priest used to cut vegetables and meat. Pang stood between Enrique and the priest, with both of them no more than two arm lengths away.

Pang closed his eyes, put his hands over his chest in a praying position, took a deep breath through his nose, and then exhaled through his mouth. When his eyes opened, it was like a flash of light. Pang rose up on one leg and kicked the stone crock, shattering it into a pile of broken fragments and dust, and then pivoted on his leg, squared away in front of Enrique, and with a downward thrust of his arm, his hand elongated, he yelled and brought the hand down on the board, splitting it in half.

Enrique and the priest both stood astounded as Pang straightened back up, put his hands back together, and took another deep breath.

“Bravo,” Father Gaeta said, looking over all the broken fragments. “I'm quite impressed.” He placed a hand on Pang's shoulder and offered a slight smile. “But don't think I don't expect you to replace my best water crock and cutting board, and clean up the mess.”

Pang nodded, then looked at Enrique, who stood still in awe, with his mouth slightly agape.

“How'd you do that?” Enrique said.

“My father taught me.”

“Can you teach me?”

“It takes many years to teach such things. I cannot do it in only a few days.”

“I wouldn't worry about it, my son,” the priest said to Enrique as he handed Pang a straw broom. “You are skilled at things that Pang is not. Together, with both of your skills, and of course with God's help, you will be able to realize your passions.”

Enrique couldn't stop thinking about this new edge. For the past seven years he had always imagined killing Valdar by himself, or maybe with the help of his grandfather, but the thought of a Chinaman accompanying him with such a special fighting skill was beyond anything he'd ever dreamed. But it wasn't so much this new company; he saw Pang as much more than a partner in his pursuit. Now there were two men that wanted Valdar's blood, one as bad as the other, and the real challenge would be not just to kill Valdar, but to share in the glory.

* * *

Baliador held the captured Apache with a knife to his throat, and Beshkah sat nearby on a boulder, with one leg propped up on an opposite rock, twirling the rowels of one of his spurs with the tip of his pistol barrel.

Several Apache rode into camp with Geronimo centered among them. Valdar sat near the campfire chewing the meat off the rib bone of a lame horse they'd killed the day before. When he saw the Apaches, he smiled, threw the bone into the fire, and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. He walked to the other side of the fire as the Apache spread out and Geronimo worked his way to the front on a dappled gray, bald-faced horse.

Valdar looked around him and quickly knew he was surrounded, but he was certain that the Apache wouldn't attack and risk losing their fellow brave.

“I take it that we have something you want,” Valdar said to the chief, in a Spanish dialect he knew he'd understand.

“You are the Demon Warrior who raids the camps of the Tohono O'odham and steals their women. We have no fight with you.”

Valdar sucked his teeth then spat into the fire. “No,
señor
, I am not a fighter, I am more like the Antichrist.”

Beshkah and Baliador laughed.

Geronimo found no humor in Valdar's words and only looked at him sternly.

Valdar pointed with his thumb back at the captured Apache. “What do you have in trade?”

“Protection.”

Valdar laughed mockingly. “What do we need protection from,
señor
? From you crazy Chiricahuas?”

“We know that the white man has rewards for your heads. There are more than forty riders that camped last night and are now coming this way. You give us back my nephew, and I will make sure the riders never find you.”

Valdar had a more serious look about his face. “What makes you think the riders are after us?”

“A white man was found gutted and hanging in a tree. If they thought the Apache did it, then only the bluecoats would be out riding. Those men are a white man's posse.”

It did not take Valdar long to ponder the offer. He nodded to Baliador, who brought the Apache forward. Valdar took ahold of the hostage himself.

“Call your men away,” the bandit said. “We will take this nephew of yours and turn him loose in the mountains, then we have our deal.”

Geronimo contemplated Valdar's words. “How do we know you will do as you say?”

“Ah, you don't,
señor
. But I know you like to gamble, and we both stand too much to lose in this game.”

The chief looked around at his men and motioned them in. Valdar watched, and a smile formed on his face.

“
Muy bien
,” he said.

Geronimo turned, as did the rest of his band, and dust kicked up behind them as they rode south into the desert wilderness.

Baliador and Beshkah grabbed the women, who now numbered three. Along with Sai Min and Mun Lo, they had captured a half-breed Tohono O'odham girl with light brown eyes and auburn hair, a sure sale to the Mexican
patrón
across the river from El Paso. They tied the women one behind the other and behind the Apache, then had them walk in a line as their captors rode horses in front of them.

When they reached a steep canyon in the mountains, Valdar had Beshkah ride to the top to look out. When he motioned that it was clear, Baliador cut loose the Apache and pushed him to the ground. The timid man lay there with his hands still tied and watched them ride away with the women.

The Apache had meant nothing to Valdar, but he was amazed at how valuable he had become. Beshkah's own Apache instincts had helped him catch the Indian while he spied on their camp. Valdar had had no idea what they would do with him. He had contemplated letting Beshkah and Baliador use him for target practice with their knives, but when they noticed more Apache coming into their camp, in a number that would easily overwhelm them, he knew the young Indian would be a possible negotiation piece.

Now he only hoped that the Apache kept their end of the bargain, but he took no chances. He put each of the women on the horses behind him and his two
compadres
, and they rode around the forest of Pedregosa and toward the territory of New Mexico.

* * *

The scout that Dutton had sent on ahead of the posse rode back toward them in a hurry. It forced Dutton to look around him for signs of trouble, but he saw none; then all of the sudden the scout's horse reared and the man fell off into a cloud of dust. Dutton had the men divide up and hold back as he and Jackson rode toward the fallen rider. Fear tugged at his nerves when they arrived to find the scout dead with an arrow in his back.

Dutton dismounted quickly, as did Jackson, both drawing their guns, squatting and looking over the backs of their horses.

“Where are they, Sheriff?” Jackson said.

“How the hell am I supposed to know? They're Apaches.”

“But you've fought them before. You know what they do.”

“All I know is that they're damned sneaky, and with the army after them, they'll be full of fire.”

Dutton waved his gun at the rest of the posse, motioning both groups to go into cover. The riders spread out, heading for the rocks, but that's when they came, fifty or sixty Apache, Dutton calculated, on horseback and chanting a war cry.

“Ah hell,” Dutton said, holstering his .45 revolver and pulling his horse into the rocks. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard, rested his arm over a boulder, and began firing. It was such a dusty frenzy that he hardly knew where to shoot, in fear of hitting his own men, so he held back and didn't fire. What was strange to the sheriff, however, was how the Apache didn't seem to be fighting, but more like chasing. Seldom did an Apache shoot his rifle, and when he did, it was in the air or to shoot back. Besides the scout killed with the arrow, neither side was losing men, so it wasn't a bloodbath. The worst of it was that Dutton's posse was divided and scattering among the foothills, and it would be difficult for them to defend themselves should a proper attack occur.

Dutton motioned to Jackson, who hid behind a rock, shooting his revolver aimlessly. Jackson stopped firing, and the Apache were soon riding away, their chants becoming a distant and fading cry.