Written in Blood (3 page)

It's an old, irregular piece of dark brown leather from some animal, and there is long black hair hanging from it.

“Piece of bearskin?” I guess.

Ed laughs loudly.

“Reckon you led a sheltered life up yonder in British Columbia. What you're holding there is a genuine human scalp.”

I almost drop the grisly relic and hurriedly toss it back up to my companion.

Ed catches it deftly and strokes the hair.

“This here scalp was fresh in 1850, the year I turned sixteen. Scalps were worth good money in them days, a hundred silver dollars for an Apache warrior, fifty for a woman and twenty-five for a child. In some places rate went as high as two hundred and fifty dollars for a warrior scalp.”

“That's horrible. Who would offer money for a scalp?”

“Mexican state governments. They put a bounty on Apache scalps,
Ley Quinto
it were called. Still a law down there in many places but not the trade there used to be. Not enough Apaches left and those that are left are hard to catch. Course, it's difficult to tell from a piece of skin and hair if it come from an Apache or a Mexican, so I do hear tell that there's some money to be made still, especially when an Apache band breaks out of the reservation, like Victorio did this past summer up at San Carlos. That scares a lot of good folks, and everyone gets kind of skittish then and is prepared to believe that every old piece of hair is the scalp of one more vicious Apache brave they don't have to worry about.”

I sit in shocked silence, listening to Ed's brutal tale. I wonder vaguely why, if scalps were worth so much money, he hadn't sold this one, but I'm not about to ask. Ed goes on talking. He seems to take pleasure in the grim details of the business.

“Around 1850 it were so profitable they had to tighten up the laws. You see, when a scalp's still fresh, it's possible to stretch it. Then you can cut it up into seven or eight pieces, dry them and collect the bounty on each piece. Law said a scalp had to include at least one ear and the crown of the hair.

“Gangs of men made a good living harvesting scalps and didn't pay too much attention to where they came from. One of the best was led by a fella called Roberto Ramirez.”

I started at the name from my father's letter, but it was probably a common Mexican surname.

“He weren't no more'n a kid back then, not much older than you are now, I would guess, but he was brutal.” Ed looks down at me with an odd, almost conspiratorial smile. “It's said that in one raid in the spring of 1851 Ramirez and his boys took two hundred and fifty scalps in a single day.

“The Ramirez gang had their own way of doing things. Once the shooting was over, each man would take out his scalping knife. He'd sit by the head, run the knife around the scalp, put his feet on the shoulders and pull. Scalp came off as clean as anything—made kind of a popping sound I hear tell. Then all you had to do was sprinkle some salt on it and hang it to dry.”

“How do you know all of this?” I ask.

“I been around,” Ed says noncommittally, “and those days ain't completely over. I heard it said that Victorio and his band is raiding around the Black Mountain in New Mexico. Nana and Geronimo are still out there raiding in Mexico and Texas. I daresay you could find someone to pay a penny or two for any one of their scalps.”

Ed's smile is almost a leer now.

“But enough storytelling. The next range of hills”— he waves a hand at the low rocky ridge that lies about two hour's ride to the east—“is the last one afore Tucson.”

We mount up and ride on in silence. I don't feel inclined to encourage Ed to tell me any more stories about scalps or raiding Apaches, and I find myself looking around nervously as we enter the narrow rocky pass through the hills.

Toward the top of the pass, the trail narrows so much that we have to ride in single file, and Ed drops behind me. As we near the top, two riders crest the ridge and descend toward us. They make no attempt to quit the trail and let us past. In fact, they stand their horses abreast at a slightly wider spot in the path and await our arrival.

I rein in a few feet in front of them. Both are filthy from long days on the trail. One is bareheaded and has striking red hair. He is riding a pale pony with a darker mane and tail. The other is no older than I am and wears a battered pork pie hat. His horse is skinny and wild-looking and has a star-shaped white mark on its forehead. Both stare sullenly at me.

“Good day,” I say. “May we pass?” Alita shifts restlessly beneath me.

The man with the red hair laughs coarsely, exposing a mouthful of rotting teeth. I swivel in the saddle to see if Ed has any suggestions on how to resolve this. He is sitting, casually holding his Colt Navy above his horse's head. At first I think he is threatening the men, but the revolver is pointing directly at me.

“What?” I ask in confusion.

“Git down,” one of the men on the trail orders.

I turn back. Alita is moving backward, away from the strangers, but Ed is crowding us from behind.

“Git down,” the redhead repeats. He's pointing an old flintlock rifle with a hexagonal barrel. “I ain't aimin' to ask again.”

“Best do as Red asks,” Ed says from behind me. “We don't want no unpleasantness.”

I hesitate. What's going on? Ed is obviously in on the ambush. Was it planned long ago? Was that why he followed me and joined me on the trail?

As I try to come to terms with what is happening, the kid in the hat swings off his horse and comes forward. He clears his throat noisily and spits before reaching up, grabbing my belt and hauling me unceremoniously out of the saddle.

I fall heavily and a sharp rock sends arrows of pain through my right shoulder. The kid kicks me savagely in the side, and I cry out. I scrabble to one side and look up. In almost unbelievable slow motion the kid pulls a worn revolver from his belt, leans forward and points it between my eyes. The black hole of the barrel seems like a vast bottomless cave, and the sound of the hammer being cocked is deafening.

I'm going to die. I should plead for my life, grab at the revolver, roll to one side, run away. All these things fly through my mind but they are no use; I'm paralyzed and struck dumb by the image of the bullet exploding its way through my skull.

“Hold there, Kid!” Ed's voice is authoritative, but the revolver doesn't move. I can feel the tickle of warm blood running down my arm from where I landed on the rock.

“What d'you mean?” The Kid asks without taking his eyes off me. They are blue and cold. “We allays kill 'em.”

“I mean, hold. We ain't gonna kill this one.”

I almost cry with relief, but the gun's still pointing at me.

“Ain't gonna kill him? You bin out in the sun too long. That's crazy talk. If 'n we don't kill him, he'll have the law on us afore we're half a day's ride away.”

“We've outrun the law before, and I say we ain't gonna kill him. Besides, this boy ain't gonna cause trouble. Soon as we're done, he'll be heading back west to California to find a ship home. Ain't that right?”

With an extraordinary effort of will, I look away from the gun muzzle and back over my shoulder at Ed. He's still sitting, relaxed on his horse, but now his Colt is pointed at the kid in the pork pie hat. For an age all possibilities hang in the balance; then Ed repeats, “Ain't that right?”

“Yes. Yes. Sure. I won't cause any trouble.”

The kid spits again and lowers his gun.

“You're crazy,” he says under his breath.

“Maybe so,” Ed replies, “but I still give the orders round here. Now, empty those saddlebags and let's see what he's got.”

The kid pulls his hat down over his eyes and turns away. I suck in my first large breath in what feels like a lifetime.

“What 'bout 'is 'orse?” the one called Red asks.

“Leave it,” Ed says. “Ain't worth much anyways.”

In one fluid motion, Red raises his heavy rifle, cocks it and shoots Alita between the eyes. The explosion is deafening. Alita's head jerks up as if she is startled. She tries to move her feet and fails before she falls heavily on her side.

It happens so quickly I have no time to react other than to gasp, “Alita,” in horror.

“What the hell d'you do that for?” Ed asks.

Red shrugs. “You didn't say to leave the horse alive, an' this way, the kid ain't gonna catch us up.”

“You know that leaving a man in the desert without a horse is the same as killing him. How's he supposed to get back to the coast without a horse?”

Red shrugs again. “That'd be his problem.”

I'm still staring stupidly at Alita's body when the Kid's heavy revolver catches me a solid blow to my left temple. Pain erupts behind my eyes and the world goes black.

4

W
hen I come to, the sun is low in the western sky, and the blood on my arm and down the side of my face has caked to a stiff crust. Every movement sends bolts of pain through my head and explodes bright white lights behind my eyes. Slowly I manage to struggle into a sitting position.

Alita's body lies where it fell, her back to me and her head twisted back. Her eyes are open and seem to be staring at me. Her bridle, reins and saddle are gone. A black swarm of flies hover above her and are thick on the congealing pool of blood by her head. Two vultures are working at her stomach. Weakly I throw a rock at them, and they raise their bloody heads and waddle away a few feet.

Moving slowly and stopping frequently to ease the pain and allow my vision to clear, I stand up and look around. In addition to Alita's tack, my bedroll and saddlebags are gone. I still have my boots and clothes, but the pockets have been gone through and all my money stolen. I'm relieved to find the letter from my father still in my shirt. My blanket and hat lie on the ground nearby. At least they've left me something.

The sun has dropped behind the hills where I camped last night. It's still light, but there is a chill in the air. Gingerly I sit back down, put my hat on and lift my blanket. My empty canteen and the black tin revolver box lie beneath it. I open the box and take out my revolver, powder and bullets. Odd that they've left these things. I wonder if it was Ed who slipped them under the blanket. He was the only one who seemed reluctant to shoot me out of hand.

I move the chamber guard of the revolver aside and slowly begin loading it. It hurts to move my arm, but I need something to concentrate on. I pour a measured amount of powder into each chamber, followed by a wad of cotton and a bullet. I place a percussion cap in the opposite end of each chamber and close it. I load only five chambers, leaving the sixth beneath the hammer empty to avoid an accidental discharge. I tuck the revolver into my belt and close the box.

I'm not sure why I've done this, but the ritual calms me. As my confusion recedes, it is replaced by sorrow at losing Alita, my only friend in this land. Fighting back tears, I haul myself back to my feet and stagger over to a large rock about ten feet off the path. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and sit with my back to the rock, feeling the day's warmth slowly seep into my shoulders.

I sit and wonder why I'm still alive. Of course, without a rifle, horse or any money, my chances of remaining alive long have taken a dramatic downturn. However, as the kid in the pork pie hat said, the easy and sensible thing for them to do, and the thing that he suggested they had done numerous times before, was to kill me. Why had Ed prevented him? It hardly seems likely that he has developed a fondness for me over the course of our few hours' traveling.

I shake my head and instantly regret it as my vision blurs and waves of nausea overwhelm me. When I recover, I begin to think about my more immediate concerns. What am I going to do?

For the moment, I have few choices. It's almost dark and the last thing I want to do in my present condition is stumble around blind in the desert. I'll wait here and hope I feel better in the morning. Then what?

I promised Ed I would head back to the coast, but how can I do that without a horse or supplies? Tucson isn't far, just over the pass in the next valley. It's the obvious place to go. I could report the robbery, assuming they have anything like police in this place, but what good would that do? How much effort is a sheriff going to put into searching for a gang who robbed a stupid kid from up north who has no good reason for even being here?

There's food in Tucson and replacements for all the things I've lost, but I have nothing to buy them with or trade for them. I still have my revolver. I could turn to robbery like Ed, but I probably wouldn't be very good at it, and anyway, why should some other poor traveler suffer just because I was unfortunate?

I could get a job, but what could I do? Work in a store and be stuck for the rest of my life behind a counter working for a few cents a day? I clench my fists in frustration and anger.

“Damn you, Ed,” I shout into the gathering darkness. “You can't stop me. I'm
not
going back. I came down here with a purpose, and I'm not about to give up and run home with my tail between my legs at the first sign of trouble. I came down here to find my father and that's what I'm going to do.”

I have no idea how I'm going to do this, but I feel better letting my anger out and with a decision made. I pull the blanket tighter against the growing cold.

It's a long night, and I do little more than doze for short periods only to awaken stiff and shivering. Several times I throw rocks at the squabbling vultures, but, as more arrive and coyotes show up to share in the pickings, they pay less and less attention to my weak efforts. Eventually, I leave them to it.

Sometimes I spend waking spells weeping for Alita, at other times I feel sorry for myself and regret ever leaving Yale. Although I wish I was back home, I hold on to my determination to go on. At other times I am almost overwhelmed by rage. I want revenge. I want Red to suffer for what he did to Alita, my friend who never hurt anyone. I want the Kid to feel the terror I felt with his gun cocked and pointed in my face. And I want Ed to know that I can't be fooled and betrayed so easily.