The Wild Girl (16 page)
She nodded. “I am safe.”
I turned once more at the large carved wood doors of the church to look back at Magdelena, a dark hooded figure huddled on the pew. I wondered if I would ever see her again.
Jesus and I got back to camp in plenty of time. There we learned that a Mexican vaquero had been killed in last night’s brawl, and three others, including two American wranglers, seriously wounded. Those held responsible, both Mexican and American, had been escorted this morning by some of Carrillo’s soldiers and turned over to the sheriff in Agua Prieta, which had delayed the start of the expedition. It was nearly noon before the buses were finally loaded and under way, a considerably less festive departure than yesterday. Everyone is subdued today, and a number of the men are sick with hangovers.
I’m riding in one of the staff buses with Big Wade, Margaret, and Jesus, among others. Wade managed to secure permission to bring Jesus along, after all. Between us we have a lot of gear and he has already proved himself useful.
The Sonoran roads are rough, in places little more than faint two-tracks, the going slow, bumpy, and dusty. In the first hour, one of last night’s revelers vomited inside our bus, and the stink of it mingles sickeningly with the smell of diesel fumes. Big Wade finally lit a cigar to cover the stench, but I don’t know what’s worse. Then two hours later, as the bus was climbing a steep grade, the engine overheated and the radiator boiled over and we were all asked to get out and walk to the summit.
Jesus managed to find a man in one of the other buses willing, for a price, to give his place up to Big Wade.
“It was a stroke of pure genius to bring the boy along,” Jackson said to me. “I owe you big-time for this one, kid.” And to Margaret he said: “I know that a gentleman is supposed to offer his seat to a lady. But you’re young and in shape, and I hope that under the circumstances, you will forgive me.”
“No problem, Big Wade,” said Margaret. “I’d just as soon walk, anyway, as smell this revolting stew of puke, diesel fumes, and cigar smoke.”
So we walked to the summit, mostly in silence, and are now back on the bus. I diverted myself by making some negatives of the countryside with my 8×10 before we loaded back up. The landscape looks rather different at ground level than it did from Spider King’s airplane and has risen quickly from treeless plains to rolling hills covered in pale green spring grass and bright wildflowers. The hills are studded with oak trees and mountain cedars, and in the lush river and creek bottoms we ford, mature cottonwoods and sycamores grow.
The bus motor is so noisy that it’s difficult even to make conversation. I don’t feel much like talking anyway, and besides my camera I’m glad I have my notebook to distract me, even if these entries do look like they’ve been written by a drunkard.
Well after dark . . . a long, rough, dusty day of travel . . . breakdowns and flat tires . . . our ungainly convoy has finally reached the expedition base camp outside the village of Bavispe on the river of the same name. Camp has been set up in advance of our arrival and dinner was waiting for us. Everyone is whipped. We ate quickly, with little conversation, and have retired early to our assigned tents. All is quiet, but for Big Wade’s snoring, but I don’t think even that will disturb my sleep tonight. Too dark by the time we arrived here to see much of our surroundings. I was thinking today on the bus that I should find Magdalena’s parents and tell them what happened to their daughter. But it occurs to me that I never even learned her last name. And anyway, what could I possibly say to them?
7 MAY, 1932
Bavispe, Sonora
A busy week, spent planning and preparing for our first foray into the Sierra Madre. We’ve been making short day trips into the foothills, in order to acclimate both man and stock to the terrain. A dirt airstrip, marked by oil lanterns and a wind sock, has been carved out above the river and the expedition “air force,” which consists of five planes, including that of Spider King, makes daily reconnaissance flights into the mountains, looking for signs of the bronco, or “lost” Apaches, as they are called.
I’ve been assigned to a sorrel mule named Buster, a gentle, sure-footed beast who is patiently forgiving of my lack of equestrian skills. Jesus has been given a donkey, which also carries our photographic gear. He trails along behind me a bit like Sancho Panza. Big Wade rides a stout bay gelding and mutters expletives to himself and anyone else within earshot.
“Fucking madness,”
he gripes. “Has anyone else noticed that neither our mayor, nor any of his illustrious committee members, are along for the expedition? No, instead they send an overweight, middle-aged rummy photographer in lousy health to bring back vacation photos for them.”
Indeed, so far the expedition resembles nothing so much as a leisurely idyll through interesting new country, very much as Big Wade originally described it: “an excuse to take a bunch of rich guys hunting and fishing in the Sierra Madre.” The guides have begun taking some of the volunteers out to hunt deer and quail, and to fish for trout in the mountain streams around Bavispe. So far our main responsibility has been to take photographs of the beaming sports with their game and catch. The film is then flown back to Douglas and the photos run each day in the
Daily Dispatch
with stories that we both write. The pilot returns the following day with the newspapers so that the volunteers can see their photos, with captions such as:
Mr. Dudley Chalmers, of Greenwich, Connecticut, with a 14-inch Apache trout taken on a dry fly in Santa Maria Creek, a small tributary of the Bavispe River.
Or,
Mr. Charles McFarlane and his English pointer, Brewster, with a brace of masked bobwhite quail.
No one seems to be in any great rush to engage the dreaded Apache Indians.
In the evenings, communal dinners are held in the mess tent during which volunteers and staff mingle. In keeping with the general tone of the expedition thus far, these are not exactly spartan military camp meals, so much as well-catered social events. Besides what was trucked and flown here from Douglas, the cooks secure all manner of produce and other foodstuffs from the village, and with the bounty of fresh fish and game supplied by the sporting members of the party, we are eating quite well.
Even though there is a certain democratic spirit inherent in the fact that we all share the same mess tent, it’s interesting to note how everyone divides up into their little cliques during meals. The wranglers tend to sit at tables together, as do the mule packers, as do the former military men, as do the wealthy young scions. For their part, Joseph and Albert Valor have pitched camp along the river at the edge of the village. They keep entirely to themselves and prepare their own meals.
Our own little dinner clique consists, with some variation, of Margaret, Big Wade, Spider King, Mr. Browning, and yours truly. Often Tolley sits with us. It occurs to me that we are perhaps less judgmental of his . . .
peculiarities.
Some of his wealthy young peers and some of the military men seem almost afraid to associate with him, as if he might be contagious. They make little effort to conceal their disdain, and some of them ridicule him openly.
I’ll say this for Tolley: He may be a big sissy, but he has a certain strength of character; he is forthright and entirely unapologetic about his own nature. For the most part, he ignores the insults and snubs of the others, even sometimes encouraging them. One fellow who particularly enjoys needling him is the steel magnate’s son, Winston Hughes. He’s a stolid, dim-witted Yale boy, with close-set eyes and a smugly amused look on his face, as if his little mind is forever cooking up some fraternity prank or other. Last night in the dining room he was mimicking Tolley’s effeminate mannerisms to the snickers of his tablemates, when Tolley walked up behind him, put his hand affectionately on his shoulder, leaned down, and said in a stage whisper, “Winty, you simply
must
stop being so swishy, or everyone will guess that we’re lovers.”
Hughes leaped up from his seat. “Jesus Christ, Phillips,” he said, red-faced and flustered. “Keep your faggot hands off me or I’ll beat the stuffing out of you!”
“See you later in my tent, big guy,” Tolley said, pursing his lips in a kiss.
Tolley sat down at our table. “God, what a moron,” he said. “It’s shocking that he actually got into Yale. His father must have built them a new science laboratory.”
“You know one of these days, sweetheart,” Margaret said, “Winston really is going to beat the stuffing out of you.”
“Margaret’s right,” I said. “Why do you provoke everyone so much, Tolley? You’re just asking for it.”
“What would you two have me do,” Tolley asked, “pretend to be something I’m not? Swagger around like some kind of macho cowboy?” He leaned over toward Margaret and in deep voice said,
“Hey there, little lady, how ’bout a little tumble in the old hay?”
Margaret giggled. “Okay, sure, Tolley,” she said. “Anytime.”
“Yeah, that’s much better, Tolley,” I said. “You just have to behave a little less like a . . .”
“Like a what, Giles?” Tolley asked. “A faggot? A fairy? A fruitcake?”
“Yeah, like that,” I said. “Like a homo. That’s what some of the kids in college called people like you. But I guess you’re right, Tolley. You should just be yourself, and damn the consequences. In fact, as weird as I sometimes think you are, one of the qualities I admire about you is that you’re exactly who you are.”
“A
homo
?” Tolley said. “God, is that the best you can come up with, Giles? How deeply unoriginal.” He turned toward Mr. Browning. “Mr. Browning, tell us, what do they call fellows like me in your country?”
Being very much of the old school, Mr. Browning does not approve of servants dining with their employers, so that when Tolley joins us he generally retires discreetly to a different table. But tonight, much to his chagrin, we had prevailed upon him to sit with us.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” he said now, as if he hadn’t heard a word of our conversation.
“I appreciate your discretion, Mr. Browning,” Tolley said, “but you’re not deaf.”
“In my profession, sir,” Mr. Browning said with the faintest smile, “there is a very fine line between discretion and deafness.”
“The question again, Mr. Browning,” Tolley asked. “In your country, what do they call fellows like me?”
“Why, we call them young gentlemen, of course, sir,” answered Mr. Browning.
“Ha! Damned tactful of you, man,” Tolley said. “However, not a genuine answer to my question.”
“Truly, sir, we have as many terms for your . . . predilection . . . as the Eskimos have for ice,” said Mr. Browning. “But may I just say, sir, that I, personally, have never been one to categorize people in this fashion, to put them in a box, as it were. Indeed, that strikes me as a very American characteristic. We in Britain, and I believe in Europe in general, find such notions to be rather provincial. Even small-minded.”
“Well said, Mr. Browning,” Tolley said. “Couldn’t agree with you more. Although you have still managed to avoid answering my question. Out with it now.”
“Nancy boy, sir,” said Mr. Browning. “That would certainly be the most common euphemism in my country.”
“Ah, yes, nancy boy,” said Tolley. “Excellent! And what else?”
“Poufter, sir. Or sometimes people will simply say ‘poof.’ As in, ‘he’s a bit of a
poof,
’” Mr. Browning said, flashing open his fingers like a small sunburst.
At this Margaret dissolved on the table in a fit of helpless laughter.
“Are you all right, miss?” Mr. Browning asked.
Margaret lifted her head from the crook of her arm. “I’m not laughing
at
you, Mr. Browning,” she managed to say through her tears. “Really, it’s just that your delivery is so charming.” And then she fell apart again. “I’m not laughing at you, either, Tolley,” she managed to say through her tears. “Honestly.”
“I do hope that I have not offended you, sir,” Mr. Browning said.
“Not in the least, Mr. Browning,” Tolley said. “Indeed, it’s one of the best descriptions I’ve ever heard of myself. ‘That Tolley Phillips is a nice enough fellow, but he’s a bit of a
poof.
’”
By now all of us had been infected by Margaret’s laughter, and Tolley’s outrageousness, including Tolley himself. Other tables were eyeing us curiously as we giggled and guffawed.
And so we amuse ourselves, not always so childishly, but it’s true that there is something about the expedition so far that feels a bit like summer camp.
On a more serious note, I’ve tried as much as possible to stay away from Chief Gatlin these past days, to concentrate on just doing my job. But I have a sinking feeling from the looks he and Margaret exchange that she may secretly be seeing him. I hope this is not the case, and I cannot bear even to ask her about it. What darkness in her heart could possibly cause her to give herself to a man like Gatlin? I’m running out of space in this notebook. Tomorrow I’ll start a new one.
