Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel (27 page)

Behind, he felt Lozen grab hold of
the knife at his side. She shoved him toward a cluster of brush dwellings in
the distance.

“I
thought you knew each other
, “Piishi said in his mind.

“We
do.”

“Well
he is not glad to see you.”

In Nacozari the Indian had stuck a
stick in the hornet’s next. Mendez was issuing orders for an expedition up into
the mountains when the
vaqueros
arrived, three of them on horseback, and a distinguished looking old caballero
in the lead, riding high in a silver spangled saddle atop a finely muscled
roan.

Faustus and Belden had left Kabede
in the vardo to go over and listen to the hubbub at first light. The Indian had
been with of a party of
vaqueros
who
had been robbed by a lone Apache and followed him up into the mountains. The
Indian said they had been ambushed by a dozen Apaches who had then beheaded the
others.

Among them was the son of a
prominent local rancher, and when the old man and his hands rode into the
plaza, Belden did not have to wait for him to introduce himself to know he was
Don Elfego Alvarez.

Neither did it escape their notice
that the rifle the Indian bore was the one the Rider had inscribed and given to
Piishi.

As Corporal Mendez came out to meet
him, buckling on a heavy saber, Faustus tugged Belden’s arm and led him back to
the vardo.

“The old man is gonna want blood,”
Belden said.

“Indeed yes. And I’m afraid that
Indian’s going to pick up Piishi’s trail and lead them right to the stronghold.”

“Might be for the best,” Belden
said.

Faustus looked at him.

“If the Mexes take out those Apaches
who’s to say everybody isn’t better off? Then they don’t make their pact with
the Devil or whatever and the top dog war chiefs get rubbed out in one fell
swoop.”

“Piishi is with them,” Faustus said
as they reached the wagon.

Belden shrugged.

“You ever been to a reservation,
Mister Montague? Not the nice ones. I mean like San Carlos.”

“I have.”

“Well then you ought to know. How do
you think the Apache are better off? Penned up and starvin’, their corn fields
dyin’ out ‘cause they ain’t used to raising nothing but hell and hair? Maybe
ridin’ wild like they’ve always done, killin’ settlers and stealin’ women? Or
dead?”

“They were here first,” Faustus
said.

“And we’re here now. Don’t
misunderstand me. I don’t say these things ‘cause I hate Indians. Progressives
wanna tame the Indian. Take away his religion, even his language, and replace
it with Jesus and the King’s English. They think it’s the best thing for him.
But I’m a realist. My uncle once tried to keep a pup he found draggin’ on a
dead she-wolf’s teat. He raised it alright, but when it got big well, it was a
wolf, not no coon hound. It took to killin’ his chickens, took a bite out the
back of my aunt’s thigh. It wasn’t meant to be kept in a cabin. These Indians,
they don’t want no part of how we live. But we ain’t goin’ away. So what’s
really the best thing for ‘em?”

“If you have to ask that then I
guess that means you’ll stay here,” Faustus said, as he stepped into the vardo.

“What word?” Kabede asked, standing
up.

“An Indian says a group of cattle
hands were ambushed by the Apache a few hour’s ride from here. The Indian has
the rifle the Rider gave Piishi. I know Piishi isn’t dead. He and the Rider are
even now with Misquamacus. But in a few minutes Corporal Mendez is going to
lead his men up into the mountains. The Indian will find the way to the stronghold.”

“I say we wake up Joe,” said Belden,
ducking inside. “Then we let these
rurales
do our work for us.”

“That is not possible,” said Kabede.
“The Rider cannot be awakened. Trying to do so could endanger him.”

“You could go to him,” Faustus suggested.
“Warn him.”

“I will,” Kabede said, gathering up
his staff and his rifle. “But bodily.”

“What?”

“I will join the Mexicans. If I can,
I will keep them from finding the stronghold. If I can’t, at least I will be
there to help the Rider.”

“That sounds like a plan. I’ll go
too,” Faustus said.

“Well I ain’t stayin’ here,” Belden
said.

“You have to,” said Kabede. “Someone
must watch over the Rider and the animals.”

“You know them Mexes’ll be ridin’
horses, Kabede,” Belden said, as Faustus shouldered into his blue coat and took
a shotgun from a hutch.

“The Lord will understand,” Kabede
said, and leapt down out of the wagon.

Don Elfego Alvarez knew well why his
son Mauricio had chased the Apache into the mountains, even if his faithful
servant Pies did not. Don Elfego’s own father had been a prospector, and had
weaned him on a story of a legendary vein of gold guarded by the Apache. Don
Elfego himself had dismissed the story. He had known many Apache and they cared
nothing for gold. But Mauricio had listened to the old man’s sun-baked tales
with wide, avaricious eyes. The boy had never been a good worker. Always, like
his grandfather, looking for the fast way to wealth, even as their hacienda had
slowly grown around him to sit on one of the biggest ranchos in the region.

The boy had caught gold fever from
his grandfather, and now it had killed him too. They would lay side by side,
the old man having slipped off a mountain, Mauricio killed by Apache.

The damned fool. He would go into
the mountains and reclaim Mauricio’s body, if only for his wife’s sake. If this
bandit Corporal Mendez wanted to hunt for the Apache, and Pies was willing to
go with him, that was no concern of his. The less time he spent in the company
of these miserable cutthroat
rurales
the better.

“Corporal!” came a voice from across
the plaza.

A ridiculous looking old gringo in
blue and a black in robes with a shepherd’s staff came across the plaza as the
rurales
mounted up.

“What is it, old man?” Mendez
called.

The old man and his manservant broke
into a trot until they stood at the feet of the horsemen. Twenty
rurales
were mounted in all, most of
them, Don Elfego observed, hungover.

“Corporal Mendez, sir,” said the old
man, breathless from the short run, “if you’re mounting a punitive expedition
into the mountains against the Apache, then I should like it very much if you
would allow Mister Kabede and myself to join you.”

Mendez smiled and translated to his
lieutenants. All the
rurales
in
earshot burst into laughter.

When it had died down to a dull
roar, the old man said,

“We’d be willing to pay for the loan
of a pair of horses of course, and we can bring our own guns.”

“Hey,” said Mendez, wiping his eyes.
“This isn’t going to be a sales opportunity, old man. You want to sell your
piss and vinegar to the squirrels and the coyote?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said the old
man, ruffling. “I’ve no love for the Apache, Corporal. My wife was killed by
those damned red niggers, and I welcome any opportunity to kill a few in her
name.”

“Oh is that so?” said Mendez, still
amused. “How many have you killed so far—ah, not counting any you poisoned with
that shit you peddle?”

“Let them come along,” said Don
Elfego.

He didn’t know quite why he said it.
He didn’t for a minute believe this old gringo was a widower. He looked like a
mayate
in his blue fineries. But the
black intrigued him. He looked strong and able, if strange.

“What, these?” Mendez said, turning
in his saddle to look at him. “Don Elfego…”

“We could use a couple sober men,”
he said, cutting the corporal off. “I’ll lend them a pair of ponies to ride
myself.”

Mendez shrugged, obviously rankled.
The little killer liked to think of himself as being in command, but he and his
men were strangers here, and not welcome.

The old gringo tipped his tall hat
to him.

“Much obliged,
señor
…”

“Alvarez. Don Elfego Alvarez. My son
was killed.”

The old man’s genial smile slipped.

“My condolences, sir. I am Faustus
Montague. My companion is Kabede.”

Don Elfego nodded and ordered his
man Silvanito to cut them a pair of horses.

“Be sure and keep up,” he said in
parting, and trotted ahead.

To Mendez’s obvious displeasure, the
rurales
fell in behind.

The light sifted in luminous slats
between the brushes of the dim wickiup, slashing the reddish earth with
sunbeams.

The Rider and Piishi did not know
how long they had sat alone before Misquamacus came inside and sat down across
from them. They felt an unaccountable dread here as they waited, but could not
discern a source.

There was a hide parfleche in the
corner, adorned with stones, fur and feathers. The old man entered, sat down,
leaned over and sifted through it, producing a carved wooden pipe, one end
fitted with a tarnished iron tomahawk blade.

“Do you recognize this pipe, Rider
Who Walks?” the old man asked, as he packed it with tobacco from a pouch.

“Is it the pipe we once smoked
together?”

“It is.” He lit it and inhaled
deeply, the smoke curling over his face, rich and woodsy smelling in the
closeness.

“That was a long time ago,” said the
Rider.

“Not so long,” said Misquamacus. “My
Apache brothers do not believe in the sacred pipe. But you and I will smoke in
the old way, and there will be no lies between us.”

He made to hold it out to the Rider,
then paused, and the Rider looked at Piishi’s extended hands with the old man
between them. Misquamacus was looking down at the pipe, as though he had
absentmindedly forgotten its purpose.

“Did I ever tell you about this
pipe, Rider?” he asked, in Apache.

“No,” the Rider answered in kind.

“It is not Indian made. The wood is
native, sure. But see the steel inlay work?” he said, pointing to the intricate
metalwork lashed to the solid handle. “Probably it is German. I received it
from an Englishman over two hundred years ago, when I lived among the
Wampanoag. Back then, it was used in negotiations with the white man. The pipe
was for peace, and the hatchet for war. Simple symbols that even two men who
spoke different languages could understand. The work of two peoples, merged.”

The old man’s eyes lifted and fixed upon him,
dark and serious. “Which end should I give you, Rider? The hatchet or the pipe?”

The Rider said nothing.

The old man held the pipe out and
the Rider took it, turned it, and inhaled, the heavy flavor swirling in his
lungs, irritating. He blew it out, but managed not to cough.

“You mean to tell me you were alive
two hundred years ago?” the Rider asked.

“I have lived many lives, Rider,”
said Misquamacus. “I came from the sky to the Painted Woods and lived as an
Awatixa between the Heart and Knife Rivers. Lixua Araxaash, they called me
then. Charred Body. I gave the worship of the Dark Man to them. That was long
before the white men brought their God.” He held the tomahawk pipe, and traced
one weathered finger along the haft between the pipe bowl and the axe head.

The Rider felt Piishi’s pulse
quicken.

“What do you mean you came from the
sky?”

“I became foolish,” he went on,
ignoring the question. “I took it upon myself to save the Mexica from slavery
to the people of Aztlan. The Mexica worshiped me for it. I led them to Texcoco,
and built two great cities. We were masters of the Earth.”

“These
words are familiar
,” said Piishi.

“Yes,
”
said the Rider. He too remembered this story. Chaksusa the blue monk had told
it to him before he had gone to Red House, and Faustus had alluded to it
himself the last night in Camp Eckfeldt. He had said that the brother of the
blue abbot had done these things. Faustus’ brother. A being from another world.
They had come together from their own universe, pursuing one of the Old Ones
into this one.

Mun Gsod was what Chaksusa had
called his master’s brother. Were Misquamacus and Mun Gsod the same? If this
was Faustus’ brother from another universe, why hadn’t the old man told them?
And who was The Dark Man?

“What was it the Mexica called you?”
the Rider said. “Was it Mun Gsod?”

“No,”
Piishi said, “
that wasn’t right.”

“No,” said Misquamacus, shaking his
head, smiling faintly. “That was not my name. Huitzilopochtli, they called me.
The Hummingbird.”

“Yes
of course. Mun Gsod must have been the name the Tibetans called him
,” the
Rider thought. He had no idea what Mun Gsod’s real name was. No idea what
Faustus was truly called, for that matter.

“I was Tlaxcaltecan too,” said
Misquamacus. “They called me Xicohtencatl then. I had a good, long, fat life
among those people, in Tizatlan.” He smiled fully, remembering. “I had a son.”
Then his smile faded to a thin, straight line. “That was the first time I met
the white man. It was Cortes and his Spaniards. They came to Tizatlan for help
against the Aztecs. They brought us gifts. They brought us their God. I was
even baptized. But my son never trusted them, and against my wishes he attacked
them. He would have ground them beneath his heel too, but for the dealings of
lesser kings. They forced him to sign a peace treaty. Oh, the white men and
their treaties. Would that my son had been allowed to finish his work. How
different things would have been. As it was, he led the Tlaxcalans into
Tenochtitlan, and helped to tear down my own temples.” Misquamacus chuckled
here. “For his bravery and his brilliance, Cortes hanged him.