Packing Iron

For you, Cora

From her hiding place among the rocks Raven watched the lone horse limping across the hot, sun-baked desert toward her. The
all-black
stallion, a once-magnificent-looking Morgan, was
sweat-caked
and exhausted and blood from its wounded rider glistened on its flanks.

The horse moved slowly, each wobbly step a painful effort. Too weak to keep its head up, parched tongue lolling from its
foam-slathered
mouth, the animal was on its last legs.

Raven wondered what kept the stallion going. Other than the well by her folks’ cabin there was no water within miles and in this intense New Mexico heat she knew the horse must be dangerously dehydrated.

As for the hatless man slumped motionless over the saddle, a tall, big-shouldered man with long tangled dark hair hanging over his face, she guessed he was already dead. And if he wasn’t, she knew he soon would be. The buzzards circling ominously in the cloudless, eye-achingly blue sky overhead would soon make sure of that.

A slim, grubby-looking girl, almost fourteen, whose short
crow-black
hair, big black eyes and sun-faded denim shirt and jeans gave her a tomboy look, Raven watched impatiently as the horse drew level with her. How long would she have to wait, she wondered, before the horse collapsed and she could collect the dead man’s weapons – a well-used holstered Peacemaker with ebony grips, a
bone-handled hunting knife and an old Model 73 Winchester tucked into a scabbard.

As if answering her question the man suddenly slipped from the saddle and collapsed on the burning sand. The foot nearest her was still hooked in the stirrup and the Morgan, feeling the man’s weight dragging, stopped, legs trembling, flanks heaving.

Scrambling down from the rocks Raven cautiously approached the horse, waiting to see how it would react. Fighting off its
exhaustion
, the stallion bared its teeth at her. Not wanting to get bitten or kicked, Raven hunkered down a few yards away and made
soothing
sounds in hopes of gaining its trust.

Within moments she had company. All around her the buzzards landed in a wing-flapping rush, screeching and pecking at each other for position. Enraged, the horse wheeled and charged them, scattering the big ugly birds from its path. The sudden movement caused the man’s boot to jerk free of the stirrup, leaving him sprawled on his side in the dirt. Raven now saw that his jeans and shirt were soaked with blood and realized he’d been shot in the lower back.

She moved close to him – only to have to jump aside as the exhausted stallion wheeled again and wearily charged her. Raven easily avoided it. The Morgan turned, pausing to gather its strength, only to see the buzzards closing in on their prey. The horse charged again, squealing with rage as it tried to bite them. The birds scattered. But persistent as death, they quickly returned and once more hopped close to the man.

Again, the stallion charged and again the buzzards scattered and then returned for their meal. With each charge the horse grew weaker. Finally, it stopped charging and stood protectively by the man, flanks heaving, too exhausted to move.

The buzzards formed a circle around man and horse, and patiently began their death watch….

Admiring the horse’s effort to protect its rider, Raven took a
slingshot
from her back pocket, loaded it with a stone, aimed low so as
not to kill the bird and let go. The stone struck the buzzard in the body. It screeched and flew aloft. Alarmed, the other birds followed suit. Raven, knowing they would soon return, spoke soothingly to the stallion, all the time inching closer. The Morgan snorted, and glared at her with blazing red eyes but made no move to bite or kick her.

Kneeling beside the inert man, Raven kept her eye on the horse as she gently eased the big Colt .45 from its holster. It took a few moments. As she finally pulled the gun loose, the man’s right hand suddenly grasped her wrist, startling her. Realizing he was still alive, she tried to jerk free but even near death he was too strong for her.

Through the dark, sweat-matted hair caked to his forehead she saw him staring at her. His eyes, deep-set and paler than any blue eyes she’d ever seen, seemed to pierce her like bullets. She tried to think of something to say, but before any words formed the man’s eyes clouded over and he passed out.

Raven quickly pried his fingers open and, still holding the gun, jumped up and ran off. When she reached the rocks, she stopped and looked back at the man. He hadn’t moved. But the stallion now sank to its knees and flopped onto its side, the breath from its flared nostrils stirring the sand in little spurts.

Immediately, the buzzards returned, circling their prey and once more beginning their grim death watch.

Holding the pistol with both hands, Raven aimed above the birds and fired. She’d never shot a handgun before and wasn’t prepared for the recoil. Her hands kicked upward, sending the bullet wild of its mark. But the echoing boom frightened the buzzards, chasing them aloft where they began circling.

Satisfied, Raven took a final look at man and horse, decided the Winchester and hunting knife could wait, and ran off.

It was late afternoon. The desert sunlight flooding in through the open barn doors cast long shadows over the woman tending to a wounded man lying on a pile of straw.

The woman, a young widow named Ingrid Bjorkman, was pretty in a fair-skinned, wholesome way. Small and slim, she had large blue eyes, a wide mouth shaped for smiling and sun-streaked tawny hair that she kept tied in a bun behind her head. She looked too gentle for the harsh, arid
environment
she was living in; yet the very fact she was here, with calluses on her slender, elegant hands, recent scratches on her legs and dried bloodstains soiling her cotton print dress proved that she was no quitter.

Finished bathing the stranger’s face, she gently placed the wet cloth across his forehead. Then uncorking a bottle of rye that she kept for medicinal purposes only, she poured a small amount into a cup and pressed it against his parched lips. It took a moment, but finally she managed to pry them open, allowing a little whiskey to trickle into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. The woman repeated the procedure, then corked the bottle, set it down and studied her patient.

He was taller and rangier than her late husband, Sven, who had inherited his Norwegian father’s massive shoulders and barrel chest, but looked as if he had great stamina. She guessed his age to be anywhere between 35 and 45. But despite all her efforts to save his life – cutting out the bullet lodged in his lower back, cauterizing the wound with the white-hot blade of his knife and then bandaging it with torn strips of sheet – by then the stranger had lost so much blood she sensed he wouldn’t live long enough to see his next birthday.

That would be a shame, she thought. Even unconscious, his rugged, chiseled face possessed the integrity of a
mountain
. And by the jut of his jaw, Ingrid sensed this man had grit and determination and knew she was looking at no ordinary drifter or desert rider.

Hearing a whinny outside, she hurried to the door. The all-black stallion that Raven had earlier hand-fed water until it struggled weakly to its feet was now fully recovered. It stood in the corral looking over the fence at the hot desert scrubland.

Ingrid followed its gaze and in the distance saw a plume of dust trailing the wagon racing toward her. Two slender girls sat in the wagon, one handling the reins; while riding alongside them were three Apache horsemen. Ingrid’s heart pumped faster. She knew they would not be there if her daughter hadn’t succeeded in her mission.

Earlier, when Raven had come running up to her outside their cabin, Ingrid had chided her for conveniently
disappearing
when it came time to hang out the wash. Nor did she believe her daughter’s story about a man dying from a gunshot wound in the desert just over the rise.

‘Lying only makes it worse,’ Ingrid scolded. ‘I’ve a good mind to send you to bed without your supper.’ 

‘If I’m lying,’ Raven said, producing the six-gun from under her shirt, ‘then where’d I get this from?’

For a moment Ingrid was too surprised to speak. Then she quickly told Raven to hitch up the team while she got the iodine and bandages and filled a canteen with water.

‘Hurry,’ she cried as Raven ran to the barn. ‘We must do all we can to save this man.’

As the wagon and horsemen drew closer to the cabin Ingrid recognized the two young Apaches as Walking Man and Runs With Head Up. Since settling in the desert fifteen years ago, she and Sven had often talked to them during their many visits to the nearby Mescalero reservation.

The third and much older man, Almighty Sky, she knew was the tribal shaman. A shape-shifter, supposedly capable of becoming any animal or bird he chose, he was famous for his uncanny ability to predict the future. It was he, in fact, who in 1886 had predicted that Geronimo would be captured.

A year later Sven’s father, Johan, while out hunting had rescued Almighty Sky from marauding Comanches who had covered his naked body with wild honey and staked him over an anthill. From then on Johan, his family and their descendants never worried about being attacked by Apaches.

Almighty Sky rarely ventured from the reservation and on any other occasion Ingrid would have been impressed to see him. But today her eyes were riveted on the young Apache girl sitting on the wagon box beside Raven. Despite the intense heat she clasped a white blanket about her, revealing little of the beaded white doeskin dress
underneath
or her matching knee-high moccasins. No more than
sixteen, her impassive, beautiful face was framed by long prematurely white hair, and her large almond-shaped eyes were completely covered by milky cataracts.

Ingrid had never seen her before. But like most white settlers in the area she’d heard of this remarkable girl whom the Apaches revered and considered sacred. Named Lolotea, which is Apache for Gift from God, she was a blood relative of the famous Mescalero warrior woman Dahteste, who was presently in custody with Geronimo and other renegade Apaches in a government-controlled village at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

According to the Apaches, Lolotea possessed unearthly healing powers. In the short time she’d been alive legends had sprung up around her. ‘Some say she even has the power of life and death,’ Sven told Ingrid. ‘Of course, that can’t be true. But for there to be so many stories about her, there has to be some truth to her healing ability.’

Because of this gift, and the fact that Lolotea was totally blind, she was not permitted to leave the reservation and was guarded day and night by Walking Man and Runs With Head Up. But now, as a favor to Ingrid, here she was ready to try to heal the stranger Raven had found dying in the desert.

Shortly, the wagon and horsemen reined up in front of Ingrid. She smiled at Almighty Sky but did not thank him for allowing the ‘Sacred One’ to come here as she knew he would consider it impolite. Instead, she stood with Raven and watched as the two braves helped Lolotea down and led her into the barn. Presently, both reappeared and stood guard so no one could enter and disturb her.

‘We must leave the Sacred One alone now,’ Almighty Sky told Ingrid. ‘It is not for us to witness the miracle about to occur.’

‘Perhaps you and your warriors would honor my home 
with your presence,’ she replied in faltering Apache. ‘I have tobacco and lemons for lemonade.’

‘I am unworthy of such hospitality,’ the old Medicine Man said. ‘But if it pleases you I, alone, will accept.’

Inside, the one-bedroom cabin was spartanly furnished but comfortable. Four oak chairs and a table that had belonged to Ingrid’s deceased parents occupied the center of the main room, while a china cupboard and a
wood-burning
stove purchased in nearby Santa Rosa stood against the wall by the pantry. The bedroom was just big enough to hold two single beds and an armoire, while on the wall facing the window was an oil portrait of Sven and Ingrid on their wedding day.

Almighty Sky sat at the table and ‘made smoke’, using the tobacco and cigarette papers that had belonged to Sven and which Ingrid still kept in an old coffee can in the cupboard.

Raven helped her mother cut and squeeze the lemons and when the lemonade was ready, she brought the pitcher and three glasses to the table. She did not speak to the old Medicine Man, or even meet his gaze, for both would have been disrespectful; she was therefore surprised when he suddenly spoke to her.

He called her
Ish-kay-nay
, which in Apache means ‘boy’ or ‘one who is indifferent to marriage’ – or in Raven’s case ‘tomboy’ – and despite his age and tribal importance respected her enough not to ask her a direct question.

‘I have many sons and grandsons,
Ish-kay-nay
, but this old man would be proud to have a daughter such as you.’

‘I am pleased to hear this,’ Raven said politely, ‘but I do not deserve such an honor.’

Almighty Sky exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it spiral to the ceiling. Then he nodded solemnly, as if
agreeing
with her, and turned to Ingrid. 

‘
Nah-tanh
,’ he said, which was Apache for cornflower and also the color of her eyes, ‘it must bring you pleasure to have raised a child so courteous.’

‘Great pleasure,’ she said. She smiled at Raven, whose fiery, precocious personality and dark coloring were so different from her parents. ‘I only regret that her father will miss the joy of seeing her grow into womanhood.’

‘Death is a white man’s word,
Nah-tanh
. Apaches believe that a loved one’s spirit always remains with us and
therefore
sees and hears everything.’

‘I have heard this,’ Ingrid said. She gazed sadly about her, thinking how comforting it would be if Sven’s spirit was her constant companion. ‘Perhaps when more time passes, I too will be able to feel my husband’s presence.’

She paused as soft, melodic chanting came from the barn.

‘The healing has begun,’ Almighty Sky said. ‘Now the pale eyes’ life is in the hands of the Great Spirit.’

Outside in the corral the stallion also heard the chanting and pricked its ears forward. It whinnied quietly and pawed at the ground.

Walking Man and Runs With Head Up, still guarding the entrance to the barn, watched as the horse backed away from the corral fence, tossed its head and then reared up.

They weren’t surprised. They knew it was the Spirit god talking to the stallion, assuring it that its master would not die.