Written in Blood (2 page)

2

S
o I am down here in the desert to search for a father I have not seen in ten years, but my quest is not as futile as it may seem, or as my mother thinks. I have a clue, a starting point that she gave me and yet knows nothing of.

As soon as Mother thought I was old enough, she began teaching me how to use father's revolver. I treasured it and spent long hours practicing loading, shooting and cleaning it. One day, after I had been in the woods at target practice, I was cleaning the gun in my room when I dropped the box, and the felt lining where the revolver nestled came loose. Beneath it was a letter my father had written before he left and which he had obviously intended me to find one day. I have it in my jacket pocket now, but I do not need to take it out. I know every word by heart.

Dear James,

I do not know when, or even if, you will find this, but I hope you will read it one day.

I also sincerely wish that you do not hold a grudge against me for leaving, but, as I hope you will one day understand, I had little choice.

I know how much you love sitting by my knee listening to the stories of my life in Mexico and California, and those occasions were a great joy to me also, but you must know that I changed the stories for the ears of a six-year-old boy and that there are things that I left out, things that not even your mother knows.

For all the stories I told, I said nothing of my family or early life. It is not that I am ashamed, but it was a difficult, complex time that I wanted to leave behind when I came north and met your mother. I planned to tell you everything one day when you'd be old enough to understand, and perhaps one day we may still have the opportunity to set the record straight, but the fact that you're reading this letter suggests that I may not have that chance.

I do not wish to go into details in this letter, suffice it to say that in journeying north, I had managed to leave the past behind. Marrying your mother and your arrival are the two most important things I have done, and my time in Yale with you both was the happiest of my life.

Unfortunately, I was mistaken in thinking that it is possible to escape one's past; you take it with you wherever you go. Things have occurred recently that make my departure, if I wish to protect your mother and you, essential.

I have told your mother nothing of all this as I am certain she would insist on trying to help me and that is not possible. She believes that I am moving on in response to my restless soul, and I would ask that you not disabuse her of this idea.

I will journey to Don Alfonso Ramirez's hacienda outside Casas Grandes in Chihuahua State in Mexico, and there attempt to resolve these difficulties. If I am successful, I shall return to you swiftly. If I have not come back, it is because I continue to try or have perished in the attempt.

I do not relish leaving, but you and your mother are well provided for. She is a strong and resourceful woman, and you show signs already of growing into an intelligent and quick-witted boy. I take comfort from knowing that the pair of you will prosper. Perhaps one day, when you are grown up, we shall meet and I can tell you the full story.

Grow strong and look after your mother.

Believe that I always loved and cared for you and your mother and that I always will.

Your father,

Bob Doolen

I never blamed my father for leaving, and I never did tell my mother about the letter. It was a secret between my father and me, and the more I read the letter, the more I began to believe that he had written it to give me clues that would start me on a journey to discover the story that, for some reason, he couldn't tell me. I swore to myself that, as soon as I was able, I would seek out my father and learn the truth. I would start by finding Don Alfonso Ramirez at Casas Grandes in Chihuahua.

One year ago, I sent a letter to Señor Ramirez, but I received no reply. I don't know what this means; the letter may have gotten lost or Señor Ramirez may have moved away or died. Two months ago, I sent a second letter outlining my plans to come down. Again I received no reply, but who knows? Perhaps someone read the letter and awaits my arrival. One way or another, I intend to follow the trail that my father left.

In San Diego I purchased my pony and tack from a Mexican who had ridden her all the way from Texas and was about to take passage down the coast to Acapulco. I suspect I paid above the going rate for her. She is not a pretty animal, being a dirty dun color and small, but she is good-natured, hardy and used to the desert. And she and I have become friends. She is my only companion and I talk to her. I tell stories of life in Yale and of my father and why I am here. Her name is Alita, after a girl who fought in the battles that made Mexico free from Spain.

I bartered my carpetbag for a bedroll that straps behind Alita's saddle and bought a pair of saddlebags, a large water canteen and a flint to start fires. I also acquired clothes more suited to desert travel than the ones I brought with me—a wide-brimmed hat, loose shirt and pants, and a woolen jacket and extra blanket, as it is December and the nights on the trail can be bitter.

For food I took flour—with which I have learned to make
tortillas
, a kind of flatbread that people here eat with everything—dried beans, meat and coffee. I have had no trouble replenishing these basic commodities as I travel. Whenever I can, I also carry a bag of grain for Alita, but she is very good at foraging when we stop in the evenings.

In the weeks of my traveling east, I have toughened and discovered much. For the first days, Alita and I progressed at a steady walk. She became restless and I ached as if run over by a herd of stampeding cattle. Now I have learned to vary the pace, sometimes walking, sometimes trotting and sometimes cantering and resting often, and we are both much happier. Through watching and talking with travelers I meet on the trail, I have ascertained something of the habits of the creatures that live hereabouts, enough at any rate to snare some fresh meat on occasion. I am also getting better at reading the land, spotting the places where the trail is easiest and the gullies,
arroyos
they are called here, most likely to carry a stream for fresh water. And I have a book, which I read in spare moments and from which I am attempting to improve the Spanish that my father taught me.

After the first day or two inland from the coast, the land becomes rough and harsh. It is almost as if the earth is wrinkled like old skin into mountains and valleys that run north and south so that the trail is an endless repetition of crossing wide, dry plains and winding through rugged mountain passes. Rain comes in violent evening storms that can turn a dry arroyo into a raging river in minutes. All this is so different from the wet lushness of home. I miss seeing decent-sized trees.

As the jackrabbit sizzles before me, I squint at the campfire only two or three miles away. If the man were stalking me with the intent to rob or murder me, surely he would not let me see his campfire every evening. I find myself almost eager for him to catch up. Alita is a fine companion, but it has been a lonely journey, and, even with my determination and the pride I feel at my good progress, I do miss my mother and my previous life.

Six days ago I crossed the Colorado River on the new bridge at Yuma and headed into Arizona Territory. This time tomorrow I should be in Tucson, and from there I shall confirm my best route to Casas Grandes.

I reach forward and lift the jackrabbit from above the fire. It cools quickly in the evening air, and soon I am pulling the flesh off with my teeth. It's a scrawny beast and it has a bitter taste that I don't recognize from the similar creatures fed on the exuberant vegetation of British Columbia.

I suck the last of the rabbit bones clean, build up the fire, wrap myself in my blanket and settle down. Is the follower settling down as well? In the distance I hear a coyote bark. Lightning flashes harshly and thunder rumbles to the west. I wonder if I'm going to have a wet night, but I'm asleep before I can think too much about it.

3

S
omeone or something is watching me. I can't see them, but I can feel their eyes boring into my back. It's almost fully light and I am lying staring over the dead ashes of the fire. What if it's a wolf? I'll never be able to rise, cross the fire and retrieve and load my revolver before the beast is on me, ripping out my throat. With my heart racing, I roll over.

The man is squatting with his back to a tree, looking at me. For a gut-wrenching moment, I think it's my father. The man is middle-aged and has a drooping mustache, but his skin is too swarthy and he doesn't have my father's smile.

The stranger is dressed in worn traveling clothes and wears a battered wide-brimmed hat. His hair is long and straggles over his ears. His eyes, peering out from under bushy eyebrows, appear almost black. His skin has the weather-beaten look of someone who spends his life in the open. He carries a large Colt Navy revolver tucked into his belt.

“Howdy,” the man says. It's an American expression, but the accent has a hint of Spanish.

“Good morning,” I reply.

“Didn't want to startle you awake,” he says with a slight smile. “You never know who's carrying a pistol beneath their blanket and who ain't afraid to use it afore they think.”

“Have you been following me?” I ask, sitting up.

“Following you? Naw. Reckon we're just headed in the same direction and I'm moving a touch faster than you.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Tucson,” the man replies. “After that, who knows?

I hear there's work over in Lincoln County in New Mexico Territory, and a fella can always find something to fill his belly down around Casas Grandes.”

“Casas Grandes?” I try to hide my surprise. “You know Casas Grandes?”

The man stares hard at me for a long moment.

“Sure,” he says eventually, “everyone hereabouts does. Some big ranching spreads down that way. It's harsh country, so they're always looking for good hands. Trouble is the pay's no good. Probably better off in Lincoln County.”

The man stands up, steps forward and holds out his hand.

“Name's Eduardo, but most folks just call me Ed.”

“I'm James. Most people call me Jim. Are you Mexican?”

A shadow passes over Ed's face, but then he smiles and goes on.

“I am but I don't make much of it. Ain't no percentage in being Mexican these days. I spent a lot of years up in New Mexico Territory, learned the lingo and the cattle business. If I talk 'merican, folks assume I ain't no Mexican.” Ed exaggerates his accent to sound like a rough cowboy. “But when I dine with the grandees in Mexico”—almost magically, Ed's voice becomes soft and cultured with a stronger Spanish accent—“I throw off the coarse smell of cattle and become one of them.”

Ed smiles and reverts to, what I assume, is his normal voice. “Anyways, I reckon it's no more'n twenty miles to Tucson, and that's but an easy day's ride, even with your late sleep and on that pony you have.” Ed nods to where Alita stands placidly. “What say we keep company? A journey shared is a journey lessened, I always say.”

The man tilts his head and gazes at me. He's friendly enough, but there's something about his look that I instinctively don't trust. I'll keep a close watch on him.

“I'd be happy to ride to Tucson with you,” I say.

“You ain't from these parts?” Ed asks as we ride, side by side, across a dry plain studded with tall, slender cactus. The sun is up and the air is warming. The thunderclouds of last night have vanished. No rain fell on me, but I can smell dampness in the air and Alita's delicate footsteps kick up no dust.

Ed rides a black gelding considerably larger than Alita, and I have to look up slightly as we talk.

“No. I'm from up north, the colony of British Columbia.”

“So you're a Brit then.”

“Half,” I reply. “My father was an American who came up for the Gold Rush.”

“Did he come from these parts?”

“He came up on a ship from California, but he told stories about Mexico, so he knew this area well.”

Ed nods. “He still up there in British Columbia?”

“He left my mother and me ten years ago. I haven't seen him since. That's why I came down here, to look for him.”

Ed stares over at me thoughtfully as we ride and talk.

“Down here's a big place. How do you aim to find him?”

“His name's Bob Doolen, and he had some connection with the town you mentioned, Casas Grandes. That's where I'll begin.”

“Not much to go on,” Ed muses, looking ahead to the rough hills on the horizon. “Doolen's an Irish name.”

“I guess so. My father never said whether his father was Irish or not.”

We lapse into silence and ride on through the morning and I have a chance to examine my companion out of the corner of my eye. He rides comfortably on a worn saddle that shows the remnants of some ornate silver work on the horn. It must once have been worth a lot of money. His bedroll is tied behind the saddle, and two stained and worn saddlebags hang down. A multicolored Indian blanket sits beneath the saddle and the stock of a large rifle sticks out of a scabbard strapped along the horse's flank. There's something black and stringy hanging from the saddle horn.

In the early afternoon we stop to rest the horses in a small stand of mesquite trees. A heavy thundershower passed over here in the night, and there are pools of water standing in hollows in the red rock. The horses drink and we fill our water bottles. I eat the last of some tortillas and beans I bought two days back, and Ed chews on a long strip of tough-looking jerked meat. I notice that he has the black object from his saddle beside him. He sees me looking at it.

“This is my good luck charm,” he says, tossing the thing over to me. “What d'you reckon it is?”