The Wild Girl (20 page)

“Do you think she heard you, Joseph?” Margaret asked the old man.

“She will be dead in four days and four nights,” said the old man. “There is nothing I can do for her.”

“What was that you put into her hand?” I asked.

“Something to take with her to the Happy Place,” he said.

“What’s the Happy Place?” I asked.

“What you White Eyes call heaven,” Joseph said.

That same afternoon, Mayor Cargill, with several of his committee members, was flown into Bavispe from Douglas in order to check on the progress of the expedition. The airplanes carrying this contingent brought with them copies of the Sunday
Daily Dispatch
with my photograph and piece about the girl on the front page. Evidently her capture had caused quite a sensation in town, and the mayor wished to see her for himself. By then, many members of the expedition had themselves been down to the village to see
la niña bronca.

Hoping that she could convince Mayor Cargill to take the girl back to the hospital in Douglas when he returned the next morning, Margaret arranged a meeting in Colonel Carrillo’s quarters before dinner. Big Wade and I came along to offer moral support; it was early enough in the evening that he wasn’t too drunk yet. Chief Gatlin was also present.

As befits his own personal stylishness, Carrillo’s spacious wall tent is elegantly appointed with Persian rugs on the floor, an ornately carved Spanish colonial writing desk and leather campaign chairs. As the guard ushered us in and greetings were being made, the colonel kissed Margaret’s hand, and Big Wade whispered to me: “This is why they fought the Mexican revolution, kid. A lot of good it did, huh?”

“I’ve always considered it bad luck to have a woman along on a military campaign,” Carrillo was saying to Margaret. “Especially a beautiful woman. But for you, Miss Hawkins, I make an exception.”

“I would be flattered, Colonel,” said Margaret, “had I not noticed that the exception had also been extended to half a dozen prostitutes.”

The colonel swept this notion away with a precise little backhanded motion of his arm. “Who are certainly not attached to the Mexican army, I can assure you,” he said, deftly deflecting the subject. “May I offer you an aperitif, señorita?”

“We didn’t really come here to socialize, Colonel,” Margaret said. “We came to ask Mayor Cargill to take the Apache girl back to Douglas. She needs to be in a hospital.”

The mayor raised his hands in a politic gesture of helplessness, pursed his lips into his ingratiating little smile. “Miss Hawkins,” he said. “Surely you must understand that I have no jurisdiction here. The girl is a matter for the local authorities. And she has become such a valuable tourist attraction, I think it highly unlikely that they would let her go. Even if they did, there are numerous legal impediments to taking her across the border. For one thing she has no documents.”

Margaret nodded. “Yes, so I thought you would answer, Mayor,” she said. “Therefore I have an alternate proposal. Colonel Carrillo, you do have the authority to have the girl released into your custody, don’t you?”

Carrillo answered carefully. “Possibly, yes,” he said. “But why would I wish to do so, señorita?”

“Because you could use her to trade for the Huerta boy,” Margaret said. “Of course, if you let her die, she’ll be useless to you.”

“I am listening, señorita,” said the colonel.

“I propose that you let the Apache scouts take the girl back up into the Sierra Madre,” Margaret said. “The expedition would follow at a reasonable distance behind. When contact with her people is made, a trade could be effected, the girl for the Huerta boy.”

“We’ve all seen the girl, Margaret,” Gatlin said. “She hardly appears to be in any condition to travel.”

“If she’s left in that jail cell, she’s going to die anyway,” Margaret answered. “But if we get her out of there right now, and back up into her own country, maybe she still has a chance.”

“The girl’s survival is hardly our concern,” Gatlin said.

It was all I could do to be in the same room with Chief Gatlin, and I bit my tongue. Even Margaret looked at him now with genuine loathing in her eyes. “If you can use her to get the Huerta boy back, what do you have to lose, Leslie?”

Big Wade spoke up then. “Margaret, hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe the Douglas area Chamber of Commerce doesn’t really care about rescuing the Huerta boy? That maybe they’re just taking a bunch of rich guys hunting and fishing in Mexico?”

“What would you know about that, rummy?” Gatlin said. “You haven’t covered a chamber meeting sober in five years.”

“Who could bear to, Chief?” said Big Wade. “And you know, the thing about being a rummy is that you can wake up one morning and decide not to be one anymore. You, on the other hand, you’re pretty much stuck with being an asshole every day for the rest of your life.”

“That is enough, gentlemen,” Colonel Carrillo commanded. “Let me assure you, Mr. Jackson, that President Ortiz did not attach his troops to this venture in order to serve the interests of your Chamber of Commerce. Recovering the Huerta boy is of the utmost importance to the Mexican government.”

“That’s where your interests are mutual,” Margaret said. “Think about it, Mayor, if you actually did rescue the Huerta boy, you’d put Douglas on the map. Every newspaper in the country would cover the story.”

“How do we know we can trust the scouts?” said Gatlin. “They’re Indians, after all. What’s to prevent them from letting the girl go? Or joining the bronco Apaches themselves?”

“Simple,” Margaret said. “You send someone with them to report back to the expedition. Ned and I can go along. I’m sure the newspaper would love to cover it.”

“And how do we know you wouldn’t let her go?” Gatlin asked.

“Because we want to get the boy back as much as you do, Leslie,” Margaret said. “Probably more.”

This was the first I’d heard of Margaret’s plan myself, but she’d clearly given it some thought. And it made sense—a way to save the girl and recover the Huerta boy.

“Well, of course, it goes without saying,” said Mayor Cargill, never one to miss a political opportunity, “that the matter is entirely up to the discretion of Colonel Carrillo. However, I myself can’t think of a single objection.”

Carrillo stood erect with his hands behind his back. Now he inclined his head in a slight bow to Margaret. “I will speak to the sheriff tonight myself,” he said, “and arrange for the girl’s release. By all accounts she does not have long to live. If this plan has any hope of succeeding, you must be prepared to depart first thing in the morning.”

“Good God, Margaret!” Tolley said, over dinner that evening in the mess tent. “Have you completely lost your mind? It’s one thing to use the girl as bait, but why do
you
have to go?”

“Because I want to, Tolley,” Margaret answered. “It’s the professional opportunity of a lifetime. If we actually make contact with the bronco Apaches, it will be the anthropological scoop of the century.”

“Right, sweetheart,” Tolley said. “You can measure their skulls before they roast you over the fire.”

“I’m afraid you’re confusing my scientific discipline, Tolbert,” Margaret said. “I’m a cultural anthropologist. I study cultures and languages, not skulls.”

Tolley waved this distinction away with a flutter of his hand. “You’re both absolutely hopeless,” he said. “The big question is: Who are they sending along to babysit the two of you?”

“Me!” said the boy Jesus, who had snuck up behind me. “I come with you, Señor Ned. I carry your camera.”

“No way, boy,” Big Wade said. “You’re staying right here with me. I need you more than he does.”

“I’m traveling light, Jesus,” I said. “I’m just going to take the Leica. I’m not even packing a tripod. Besides, you’re terrified of
los Apaches,
remember? You’re even afraid of that girl.”

“I am not afraid,” said the boy with bravado.

“Why don’t you come with us, Tolley?” Margaret said. “You’re a paying volunteer. You could come if you wanted. All you have to do is tell Gatlin. He’d probably be happy to be rid of you.”

“Oh,
please,
darling,” Tolley said. “If you think I’m giving up the creature comforts of this delightfully cushy expedition in order to sleep on the ground and dine on jerky and wild roots with a bunch of savages, you’ve really lost your mind. Plus”—Tolley looked around confidentially—“just between us, in case you’ve wondered where I’ve been spending my evenings of late, I’m seeing a lovely Mexican soldier boy. Very much frowned on by army regulation; he’d be executed by firing squad if our liaison were discovered. Which only makes it all the more exciting.”

“You’re a sick guy, Tolley,” I said.

I was so keyed up that I barely slept all night and rose before first light. I walked over to Margaret’s tent and woke her, and together we walked silently down to the stock corral.

The cold night air had settled into the river valley, so cold that the horses and mules blew plumes of steam from their nostrils. A few of them nickered softly at our arrival. It’s a lucky thing we weren’t horse thieves, because the wrangler on night watch, a skinny young fellow named Jimmy, had fallen asleep with his chair tilted back against the rails of the corral, his rifle lying across his lap, and even the stirring of the stock didn’t disturb him. Afraid that when we woke him he would fall off his chair and accidentally discharge his rifle, I put one hand on the barrel of the rifle itself while Margaret took hold of Jimmy’s shoulder very gently. He woke up as calmly as can be, just his eyes opening, not moving a muscle.

“Jimmy, it’s Margaret Hawkins,” she said. “We came to get our mules.”

Jimmy tilted forward in his chair. “I must have fell asleep,” he said. “Don’t tell no one on me, all right, Miss Hawkins?”

I collected my jack mule, Buster, and Margaret her gray jenny, whose name is Matilda, and Jimmy helped us saddle them. To each he fixed two pairs of saddlebags for our personal effects, one in front and one behind the saddle. A third mule to serve as our pack animal was outfitted with panniers, which were half loaded with tents, food, cooking utensils, etc.

“The
injuns
already come and got their animals,” Jimmy said.

“When?”

“’Bout an hour ago. I got a rifle scabbard here for you, too, Ned.”

“I won’t be needing that, Jimmy. The only thing I know how to shoot is my camera.”

“By golly, you
are
a city boy, ain’t you, Ned?” Jimmy said with wonder in his voice. “You can’t go into Apache country without a firearm. The chief has a rifle for you along with the rest of your gear down at the jailhouse.”

Margaret and I split up again, leading our mules back to our respective tents to load our personal effects. We arranged to meet on the road at the edge of town in thirty minutes. At the tent I packed my saddlebags, trying not to disturb Big Wade, who, as usual, was snoring like a freight train. Just as I was about to leave, he snorted awake and sat up on one elbow. He looked at me vacantly for a moment with red, mescal-sodden eyes. He cleared his throat, a long, ugly process, and rubbed his hand across his face.

“So you’re really going through with this, huh, kid?” Big Wade said at last. “Jesus, I hope you know what you’re doing.” He shook his head. “And the scary thing is, I know that you don’t have a fucking clue.”

“I’ll be okay, Big Wade.”

“Yeah, that’s what you kids always think, isn’t it?” he said. “Because youth has an underdeveloped sense of mortality. It’s why the old fucks always send young men off to fight their wars for them.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say we’re going off to war.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t, would you, kid?” Big Wade said. “I guess you’re right . . . you’re more like sacrificial lambs than you are warriors. I can hardly believe Carrillo is letting you go. But I suppose to him the lives of a couple of naive gringo kids is worth the risk if you can help him locate the Apaches.”

“You got any last-minute professional advice for me before I leave, Big Wade?”

Jackson considered this for a moment. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do, kid,” he said. “And I want you to pay close attention.”

“Okay.”

“Your camera is not a shield.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It’s not a lucky charm. Or a weapon.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It means your camera does not protect you from harm,” said Big Wade. “It
just
takes pictures. Photographers can get themselves in a whole world of trouble because they seem to believe that in the face of danger, they can hide behind their camera and somehow it makes them bulletproof, or invisible. It doesn’t. Trust me on that one, Ned.”

“Okay. Listen, I’d better be going.” I held my hand out. “Good-bye, Big Wade. I’ll see you soon.”

“So long, kid, good luck to you,” he said. “Hey, before you go, hand me that cigar butt and the bottle of mescal at the foot of the bed, will you? Time to restart this old heart for another day.”

I led Buster and the pack mule down to the scouts’ camp. It was daylight now, but the sun had not yet crested the bluffs above the river. Joseph and Albert sat cross-legged by the fire drinking coffee. Knowing better than to try to hurry them, I sat down myself and Albert filled a tin cup for me from the pot. “Coffee is the best invention of the White Eyes,” he said.