Haxan (15 page)

T
hermopylae. Masada. Agincourt.

And now Haxan, New Mexico.

We have many different names, we who come. Some are unpronounceable. Even we don’t know them all. I don’t think we’re supposed to because it would be too overwhelming. But we all have names and some are bigger than others.

We go where we are needed.

I have a name. Lots of them. So did Ben Tack. When I am called I must stand against that which must be faced. I have done it since the beginning of time.

You see, there is a thing inside me, coiled in wintry sleep. Rarely does it awaken. But when it does I let it have full voice.

It’s who I am. It’s my Name.

“I am White Hawk,” the war chief said.

I had a name in his tongue, too, but he probably wouldn’t believe it. “My name is John Marwood. I’m a U.S. Marshal for this territory. This is my deputy.”

“My people know you as Long Blood. I will call you that. We will talk between us, Long Blood. I have much to say and I will listen to you as well.”

“I think that’s a fine idea, White Hawk.”

“We will speak inside Magra’s lodge. She is the daughter of Black Sky. Her words and her heart are made straight.”

“I think so, too.”

“We will sit as White Men so you will know my words have serious meaning. We will sit inside a circle, which is important to my people.”

“I appreciate that, White Hawk.” It was a big concession on his behalf. I wondered why he was making it. “Jake, stay here. White Hawk’s men won’t hurt you. Magra. . . .”

She smiled at me. It always made me feel good when she smiled. “I’m all right, John,” she assured me. “I’ll remain with Jake. Go and listen to what White Hawk has to say. I . . . I hope you can help him.”

I nodded and followed the other man inside. We sat on either side of an upended stump that served as a table, hands crossed before us. We studied one another for several moments before White Hawk began to speak in slow, measured words.

“The roof of Magra’s lodge is open to the sky.” He meant this was a place we could trust one another. He didn’t want there to be any half-truths between us.

“It’s a good place for men to talk straight,” I agreed.

“I have killed many Whites these past days. I will kill many more.”

“It has to stop, White Hawk.”

“I cannot stop, Long Blood.” His sadness sounded genuine. “I must keep killing until I find that which our people have lost.”

“What did you lose?”

I had pushed him too hard. His pride and his culture would not allow him to be so direct with a stranger. Even among his own people he would be more circumspect.

“My great-grandfather, Crooked Tent, told me stories how it was before the Many Whites came,” he said. “He taught me our people believe all things are living in this world, so we should not be surprised there are other men who also live. But over the years I have learned the White does not believe all things are alive. To him, all things are dead. Even other men who are living are dead in their eyes. This makes their hearts hard and they have no reverence for those who are truly dead. This saddens me as a human being. Men should live together in peace. When they do not we must fight. This is the way of all men. I have spoken. I ask you to remember my words.”

“I think you’re right, White Hawk. You shouldn’t have to apologize for who you are, and what you believe.”

White Hawk stared down at the “table.” He was moved by his own words, and my willingness to agree to them.

“We have allowed our nation to be put on land that is not ours,” he confessed. “By doing this we have let the hearts of our ancient fathers be cut from our memory.”

He made a cutting gesture with his hand.

“But it is not my hand that broke the treaty. We are not the ones who forgot the words on paper. I am White Hawk. I speak straight.”

“I know you do.” His talk about reverence for those who are dead had me thinking. “Listen. Did something happen on one of your burial grounds?”

He returned a solemn nod but didn’t pursue it further. Now I understood why he was reticent, why it was such an internal battle to reveal what was bothering him. It wasn’t the topic itself, but the cultural embarrassment mixed with righteous anger.

“We are in Magra’s house,” I reminded him, “a place of friendship between men who can confide in one another. Like you said, her roof is open to the sky. Tell me what happened, White Hawk. Magra, the daughter of Black Sky, thinks I can help.”

The mention of Magra’s mother at last swayed his decision. Apparently, her name carried great weight among his people. It was something to remember in case I had need of it again.

The stoic man began to speak. At first he had to push the words out one by one, but then they came more easily.

“You know something of our medicine, Long Blood. Our burial grounds are sacred. Last week men dug holes in the earth and put the bodies of our dead in them. They said their own spirit words from the book they lean upon like a crutch. Then they went away after violating the quiet medicine of that place.”

That was bad enough, the way he explained it, but there was more.

There was always more when whites were concerned.

“When the moon was yellow a Navajo maiden died of sleep fever. Her name was Morning Star. Her passing cut the heart from my body forever and made me lose my memory. I have forgotten who I am. I will not remember until I find her again.”

He made a motion with his hands to signify the pain he felt and passed them across his eyes to show his spiritual blindness.

“She was brought to the burial grounds in the tradition of my people so her body could cross into the spirit world. When those men came she was not put into the ground with the others. Morning Star was stolen.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All too often settlers moving through the territory, who didn’t know any better, precipitated cultural clashes with various Indian tribes. I had never heard of anything like this. No wonder the entire Navajo Nation was up in arms.

“Who did this, White Hawk?”

“One of the Great Wheels that bruises the ground and makes the buffalo stampede.” The wagon trains moving along the El Camino Real. The Navajo, and other native people, had less cause to fear the great cattle herds that trailed north. That was something they could understand, even if they didn’t particularly like it. Mechanical wagons ferrying armed settlers in numbers hitherto unimaginable to them, as were the stars, was downright frightening and incomprehensible.

“Why did they steal Morning Star’s body?” There had to be a reason. Despite what White Hawk believed white men didn’t do anything without reason. Their intentions might be misguided, but there had to be a reason for it.

“Morning Star was beautiful even in her death,” he said. “She was dressed in white and wore beads, and her hair was braided in the fashion of our dead. Too, it is not uncommon for men of your race to steal totems and fetishes from our burial grounds and sell them to people in the east. We know this happens. I have heard Whites sell our scalps in a place called Lon-Don across the Great Eastern Water. They put these totems and fetishes in their lodges and make themselves feel superior to people whose shoulders are burned red from the desert sun.”

“White Hawk, I’m sure you have taken badges of honour from enemies yourself.”

“Yes, Long Blood, you speak a truth.” His face was impassive. “But I honour the enemies whose lives I have taken. There is no honour in what the White Man does. His eye is focused on the money he makes, not the sacrifice a fallen enemy gives in battle.”

It was a damning condemnation.

“Mayhap you are right,” I conceded.

He released a long, slow breath. I think he was relieved now that he had unburdened himself of part of his pain.

“After Morning Star was stolen I didn’t know what to do. My mind was swallowed with immeasurable grief. I went riding and the power of my memory returned. I remembered Snow Berry, daughter of Black Sky. How it was said in the old stories and medicine visions a man of blood and violence would one day come to this desert. I sent a night bird to speak these words to Magra. She told me a man known to care for a half-white Navajo girl was someone I could have faith in.”

“I hope so.”

“Too, Magra is the daughter of Black Sky, a woman of great Earth power in our nation. This will never be forgotten.”

“It won’t be, I promise.”

“This is my story, Marshal Who is Long Blood.” His voice was deep and measured . . . and full of conviction. “My words are straight. I will not turn away from them.”

“I know you will not, White Hawk.”

He crossed his arms to show how serious he was in this matter.

“They stole Morning Star’s body,” he went on. “Now I kill Whites. And I will keep killing until her body is returned to my people.”

I
rode with White Hawk for five days along the El Camino Real. I never knew there were so many people on the move, but this was spring, the season for travel. We came upon camps and river sites and way stations, searching for a wagon train that had passed through Indian burial grounds in the Bosque Redondo when the moon was yellow.

We had a fair idea where the train could be found. After all, wagons can only roll so many miles a day under the best of conditions. Given the relation of the burial ground, and the fact wagons stick to well-marked trails, it should have been easy.

But there was an awful lot of territory for two men to cover.

The Navajo Nation was standing down for the moment. It hadn’t been an easy armistice to arrange. White Hawk reminded me if I helped find Morning Star before the next moon he would call off the slaughter. It was a huge concession on his part, but that didn’t leave much time. On the other hand, President Grant, a man not known for leniency, particularly with American Indians, ordered the Army to stand down. He understood if this thing got out of hand all the Nations of North America might rise up together. No one, White or Red, wanted that.

It was enough to put anyone off their feed.

Meanwhile, despite the truce, the Army sharpened their sabres and the Navajo braves sang their death songs, preparing for war.

One thing stood in our favour. The entire countryside was talking about this, which both helped and hindered our search. Most people were supportive, understanding the nature of White Hawk’s shame, while others on both sides were downright hostile and wanted to hurry the war along. It felt like we were riding through a powder keg. Every day the fuse sputtered closer to detonation.

With two days remaining before the new moon we found the wagon train in a wooded draw. It was twenty miles south of Santa Fe. There were four wagons in the train: one boat-shaped Conestoga with faded red and blue paint, and three smaller prairie schooners. One of the schooners had broken its whiffletree and they had stopped to carve a new one. If the wagon hadn’t broken down it was likely White Hawk and I would have missed them by hours.

Like I said, we go where we’re sent. Yet, sometimes it seemed those who sent us were also looking out for us. I didn’t actually believe that. But it was nice to think it could be true.

It was dipping on toward evening. The western sky was a cauldron of bright fire.

The people we were looking for had a small central campfire blazing with the wagons circled. White Hawk and I let the horses browse while we walked out of the gathering dark.

I warned White Hawk to let me do the talking. His noncommittal grunt didn’t fill me with much optimism. His eyes glared with hate.

“Hello in the camp,” I called.

I heard the sharp click of a gun. I put an arm across White Hawk’s chest to hold him back. He would have kept walking right into the gunfire. He was that angry and blind with hate.

“Who is it?” Gruff voice. Challenging. And more than a little frightened.

“My name is John T. Marwood. I’m a federal officer out of Haxan.” I opened my grey duster so he could see the glint of my badge. “I’m a United States Marshal duly appointed by the government. Mind if we share your fire?”

“Who is with you, Marshal?”

“You know damn well who it is,” I said.

“Let me hear him say it,” the hidden voice demanded.

“I am White Hawk. I have come for the woman you stole.”

“Let them in, Paul.” This second voice was measured, with a fair hint of culture and education behind it. “We can’t run forever.”

“Come easy,” Paul warned, “both of you.”

We walked between two wagons and into the flickering firelight. Two adult men stood to one side of the central fire. One held a 12-gauge double-barrelled shotgun with hammers rolled back. He had a round, bearded face, wind-blistered neck, and heavy shoulders. His partner was lean and clean-shaven with a wide-brimmed hat, fancy striped waistcoat, and silver watch chain.

There were a dozen other people, keeping to the relative safety of their wagons—families holding their grubby children close, all of them with fearful desperation burning in their eyes.

Everyone was staring but the stares weren’t fixed upon me. It was likely they had never seen an Indian up close. All they knew were stories from penny dreadfuls and tall tales heard around a drunken campfire.

The lean man broke the silence once we had taken our measure of each other.

“Marshal,” he started, “my name is Dr. Robert Carver Graves. This is Mr. Paul Hickle, my personal bodyguard. I hired him for protection while travelling west. Put down your gun, Paul. Marshal, I want you to know we never meant any harm.”

”Where is she, Graves?” I asked. “Morning Star.”

“In that wagon.” One wagon stood a little apart from the others. “She’s wrapped in canvas and packed in a barrel of salt and charcoal.”

White Hawk started beside me. “I want to see,” he told me. I nodded for him to go ahead. I couldn’t have held him back anyway, not without getting a knife in my gut. The settlers between him and the wagon moved aside to clear the way. He crawled into the back of the wagon and disappeared under canvas.

I turned to face Graves. “What for?”

“What? Oh, so the body will be preserved, Marshal. We were going to ship it east by rail.” He lifted his hands out to his sides, let them fall back in futility. “But once word got out we thought it prudent to keep low until the brush fire burned itself out. If you get my meaning.” He tossed a knowing smile. When I didn’t respond in kind he wiped it off quick.

Paul Hickle decided to chime in. “This here is an important man from Washington, Marshal. You would do well to treat Professor Graves with respect.”

“Is that why he hides dead Indian maidens in freight wagons and hires a melon head like you to protect him?”

Hickle’s face closed like a gate. His hand tightened on the stock of the gun. “There’s no call for rude talk, Marshal. We ain’t done nothing bad wrong. We gave those people a proper Christian burial. Only a godless savage would leave them to rot in the sun and rain like that.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Graves glanced with concern at the wagon in question. He cleared his throat as if he we were about to give a lecture. “Now look here, Marshal, let me explain a few things. I’m a natural history curator for the Smithsonian Institution and a founding member of the Megatherium Club. Though that guild disbanded in 1866 many of us continue to work exclusively for the museum. I collect and classify anthropological specimens. My particular expertise is primitive cultures, documenting them as they become extinct in our time. From a scientific point of view we must have a record of these cultures that are disappearing from the west as they are supplanted by a superior one. Therefore, you can realize the cultural importance of—”

“You can stop now.”

“What’s that, Marshal?”

“Talking. You can stop.”

“Why, Marshal, I’m only trying to explain—”

“I said shut up.”

“You can’t speak to Professor Graves that way,” Hickle bristled.

I met his eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

One of the women pioneers screamed. White Hawk emerged from the wagon with a long canvas-wrapped body doubled up in his arms.

I could not describe his face as he stood in the firelight. Words like that simply did not exist in any language.

“Where does he think he’s going?” Graves blustered. “That’s a very valuable artefact.”

White Hawk approached me. His face was stone. “I will need fire, Long Blood.”

“I understand.” I had spent enough time with this man to know what was churning inside him. I motioned to the settlers standing around and gawking. “You people, start gathering wood for a bonfire.”

Graves rushed forward, waving his hands. “Wait one blessed minute. You can’t order these people around. I’m in charge of this expedition.”

The men and women, for their part, remained uncertain. “Do what I told you,” I told them. They looked at me and Graves and started stacking fresh wood in the clearing.

Graves pushed through the working throng and confronted me, his face choleric with rage. “I protest this outrage to the highest degree, Marshal. I’ll telegraph Washington and have your badge pulled. I am trying to preserve the memory of this declining culture. How can I make you understand that?”

“Graves, if you say one more word I’m going to shoot you.”

He opened his mouth to protest and found himself staring down the iron barrel of my Colt Dragoon. Sweat glistened on his wide forehead.

“Easy there, Marshal,” Hickle burred. “I’ve got this shotgun trained on your back. Put the gun back in your holster.”

“Don’t be a damn fool, Hickle. You kill me and you, and all these people, will never see the sun rise.”

“You don’t bluff me, Marshal. I’m the original bluffer. Anyway, I’m the one holding the shotgun.”

“Look around you, Hickle.”

“All I see is you about to be cut in two squirming halves. I’m the man who can do it.”

“No, melon head,
around
you. Through those wagons over yonder and up to my right. Now you see what I’m talking about?”

“Oh my God. . . .”

The others looked, too. Some screamed and fell over themselves, flinging firewood in the air and crowding like sheep toward the centre of the wagon ring.

There were hundreds of Navajo braves dressed in war paint and standing in the enclosing dark. They were armed. They drew closer. The dim light from the campfire played over their features and limbs.

“Put your shotgun down, Hickle,” I said. “Do it slow. That’s right. Maybe we’ll live after all.”

I guess when you came down to it he wasn’t as stupid as I thought. “All right, professor, or whatever you call yourself, back up against that wagon there. The rest of you settlers, keep stacking firewood. Go on, do as I say. These braves won’t hurt you. They want to go home to their families as much as you do.”

With reluctance, and then renewed energy because there was nothing else for them to do, the settlers gathered the remaining firewood and carried it toward the clearing. All the while White Hawk stood with Morning Star cradled in his arms. He did not move. He did not speak.

While they were getting the bonfire prepared I walked over to the wagon White Hawk had searched. I peered inside. It was stacked with crates and barrels and hundreds of glass bottles. More specimens. I pulled aside one of the men who was helping to build the bonfire.

“Whose wagon is this?”

“It belongs to Dr. Graves,” he explained. “We met him in St. Louis and he asked if he and his bodyguard could come along. We thought there would be safety in numbers. We never knew anything like this was going to happen, Marshal. We thought we were doing the right thing burying those exposed bodies. That part is true, we never meant any harm.”

“Go on.”

He licked his lips. “Then we started hearing stories how Indians were on the warpath because a burial site had been desecrated. We knew we were responsible and wanted to admit our fault. That man Graves,” he jerked his chin toward him, “he said the furor would die down if we laid low. He said stone-age cultures always overreacted because they were ruled by superstition and not science. Hickle backed him up with his shotgun. We’re just families trying to find a place to live. We have guns, but we’re not hard like Hickle. We sure didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Joyce. Caspar Joyce.”

“Where are you headed, Mr. Joyce?”

He lighted a hand rolled cigarette. His hands were steady enough. Most men would not be under the circumstances.

“The Territory of Wyoming.” He watched the braves and picked a fleck of tobacco off his lip. “I have a wife and two small children, Marshal. I hope we get out of this with a whole skin.”

“You’re not going to be hurt, Joyce. These people will go home once they finish what they have to do here.”

“Maybe so.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and watched me through the tangled smoke. “Marshal, there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

He leaned against the wagon’s lazy board. “Well, sir, doesn’t this land belong to whoever can hold it?”

It was a dark night. All the world was dark, maybe. I guess it’s always that way when human beings talk.

“I’m not sure I understand you, Mr. Joyce.”

He made tiny circles in the air with his cigarette as he searched for words. “The Indians had this land for a long time. Hell, they took it from each other. Killed each other for it, time and again. Now it belongs to us. Our people. One day, someone will push us off our claim. That’s how life works, Marshal. May not be fair, but no one ever said life was fair.”

“Better get back to work, Mr. Joyce. They’re almost done.”

“Yes, sir.” He ground the cigarette under his boot heel. I joined White Hawk.

“No one is going to stop you,” I addressed him under my breath. Graves stood off by himself. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I want to thank you, Long Blood,” White Hawk said. He had been holding Morning Star all this time and showed no sign of fatigue.