Written in Blood (11 page)

“Didn't work out that way. Even dead, Roberto was still my father's favorite son.” The bitterness in Ed's voice sends shivers through me. “I lived every moment of my life trying to please Alfonso. Trying to be Roberto. It was no use; never once did my father show me the slightest affection. Oh, he spent time with me, taught me how to shoot and use a knife, but it was like he was training a horse; there was no passion or reward in it, no sugar cube when I got things right, just beatings when I got something wrong.”

Ed smiles ruefully. “Alfonso was always telling me, ‘Life's hard. There's always someone out to get you; if it's not Apaches after your scalp, it's a neighbor wants to steal your land or some revolutionary wants your power. The only way to survive is to be faster and harder than them. Hit them before they can hit you and don't ever let them close to you. Once you start to care about someone, you have a weakness and they'll exploit it.'

“I grew up believing that, but I reckon I'm getting soft in my old age. I stopped the Kid from killing you and now the Kid's dead and here you are causing me difficulties again. I won't make the same mistake twice.”

I shudder at that last statement, but there's nothing I can do but listen to the rest of his tale. This is where my quest has led me and, for all my fear, I must listen to this final story.

“I think Alfonso went mad after my mother died of the fever. He would walk around the hacienda at night, calling Roberto's name and weeping. He let the ranch fall away and would beat the servants at the least excuse. They began to call him
loco
, and more and more of them would disappear in the night. Apache attacks drove the rest away. Eventually it was just him and me. I thought about leaving too, but surely, if I was all he had left, he would begin to treat me with the respect I craved.

“When I was sixteen, Roberto came home. I was outside skinning a jackrabbit I had just shot when I heard shouting from the house. I ran in and saw Alfonso standing over there.” Ed waves his hand toward the fireplace. “There was a stranger standing facing him, holding a small pistol in his right hand. He wore his hair long in the Apache fashion, but he was dressed in cowboy clothes. They stood about a foot apart and were too engrossed in their argument to notice me.

“‘I should kill you now,' the stranger said. ‘I returned to resolve things between us, but I talked to the townspeople and they told me what happened the night of my birth. You let her die.'

“‘She would have died anyway,' Alfonso said in a voice that was so cold it scared me. ‘Anyway, you were what was important, the next generation, a son to take over the ranch, to give me immortality. You had responsibilities. Instead, what do you do? You shame me by running off to live like a savage. Now, all these years later, you crawl back whining about resolving things. I'm glad your mother died. She was weak, and you've inherited that weakness. All you are worth is the money I could get for your scalp.'

“I was confused,” Ed went on, “but I was gradually realizing who this must be. The stranger cocked his pistol and raised it to point into Alfonso's face. His hand was shaking.

“‘Go on,' Alfonso sneered. ‘Shoot me. It would be the one real thing you have ever done.'

“For a moment I was frozen in terror, thinking that this man was going to kill my father. Strangely, even in my confusion, all I could think of was saving my father's life. Perhaps then he would care for me. The stranger let out a long sigh and lowered his weapon. I made a run at him just as Alfonso made a grab for the pistol. The three of us twisted around. Then the pistol went off.

“The stranger jumped back, pulling me with him. My father stood alone with a frown on his face. He was staring down at the left side of his stomach and his hands were held out in front of him in an almost pleading gesture. A wisp of smoke was rising slowly from a burned circle on his shirt and dark blood was already beginning to well out of a black hole at the center of the circle.

“‘You killed me,' Alfonso said and took an unsteady step forward. He looked up at the stranger and spat full in his face. ‘Damn you to hell,' he said and fell heavily forward against the corner of the oak table.

“The stranger said, ‘Oh my god,' and stepped back, Alfonso's spit sliding down his cheek. He stared at my father, slumped in a crouch by the table, blood dripping into a growing puddle on the floor, and then he looked at me. For a moment, I thought he was going to shoot me too, but his expression was one of terrible sadness. Then he turned and fled.”

Ed sits in silence on his horse, staring at the floor as if Alfonso's blood were still there. I don't think now that I could flee, even if I was't bound. I am beginning to suspect some of the places Ed's tale is taking me, and I feel as if I am standing on the edge of a precipice, my past yawning before me.

Eventually Ed continues. “I carried Alfonso to bed and tended him as best I could, but there was little I could do; the wound was fatal. It took my father five full days to die, most of it screaming in agony. I sat by his bed because I didn't know what else to do.

“The night he died, I was sleeping in a chair by his bedside. Something woke me and I looked up to see Alfonso sitting up. His face was thin and drawn and his sunken eyes gleamed with a feverish unnatural light. ‘The man who shot me,' he said. ‘His name was Roberto Ramirez. He is your half brother.'

“I had already worked out who the stranger was, but hearing that he was my half brother surprised me. My father had never told me he had been married before and I had assumed that Roberto and I had the same mother. I tried to talk, but Alfonso silenced me. ‘I don't have much time. You must listen. I was married before, when I was a young man, to a foreign girl. Her name was Maeve Doolen. It was a mistake. She was weaker than me and life in this land requires strength.

“‘She bore me Roberto; however, she did not have the will to survive and died the same night. From his earliest days, I saw that Roberto had inherited her weakness, so I worked to build his strength. As soon as he could walk, I forced him to ride, shoot, rope calves and work hard from dawn to dusk. He hated the life and wanted nothing more than to waste his time in books and daydreams, but I kept at it. To crush the weakness in Roberto, I beat him for the least infraction. To make him hard, I had to be hard.'

“Alfonso suddenly clenched his fists and grimaced as a wave of agony swept over him. Beads of sweat formed on his face and he gasped, but he fought the pain back and went on. ‘I failed. Roberto would rather flee than face up to his responsibilities. I disowned him, tried to forget him. Of course, I had you, but you were not the first born and, for all his weaknesses, I never felt for you the way I did for Roberto.'”

I have the strongest feeling that Ed is about to cry, and I almost feel real sympathy for the tortured, unloved boy he had been. But he takes a deep breath and continues.

“I should have hated Alfonso then, but I couldn't. I still craved his blessing, so I sat and listened to the rest of his tale. ‘I lived in hope that Roberto would come back and that we could be reconciled. As you saw, he returned, but only to torment me, to blame me for everything and tell me of some mad plan to go off looking for gold in California. You saw what happened.'

“I was weeping by now. It was obvious even to me that Alfonso was dying and the mad look in his eyes frightened me. He raised his hand to try and hit me, but he didn't have the strength. ‘Don't be a weakling like your brother. You are the head of the family now. I do not care what you do with what is left of the ranch or your life. I have only one request of you. Roberto disgraced me, the family and you. That cannot be allowed. I want you to find him and kill him.'

“I suppose I must have gasped or looked shocked, because Alfonso suddenly reached forward and grabbed my shirt in his clawed hand. His dying face was inches away from mine. I could feel the spittle on my cheek as he spoke and see the empty depth in his eyes.

“‘You must do this,' he said. ‘It is an order, my dying wish. My honor and yours depend upon it. Swear an oath that you will do it or, by all that is holy, I will return from the grave and my ghost will haunt you into madness and death. Swear an oath!'

“I was utterly terrified. I didn't know what I was saying, I just did what he wanted. I swore an oath that I would search out and kill my brother.”

For a moment, Ed looks like a helpless child. How could he have possibly grown into a normal person after an upbringing like that? But his face hardens. He takes his disgusting good-luck charm off his saddle horn and holds it up before me.

“D'you know what this is?”

“It's a scalp,” I say, confused. “You told me.”

“But whose?” There's a madness in Ed's eyes now. I shrug and he laughs crazily. “This,” he says in a terrifyingly soft voice as he waves the hair slowly in front of my nose, “this is Alfonso Ramirez's scalp.”

“Your father?” I gasp.

Ed laughs again. “For several weeks I lived alone in the ruins of the ranch as Alfonso's body slowly decayed and dried. I was haunted by nightmares in which he returned and reminded me of my promise. Eventually I decided I would have to keep my oath. I took his scalp with me so that he would know I had done it and not haunt me.

“I buried what was left of him and went searching for Roberto. I scoured all northern Mexico, but I was too late; he had done as he had told my father and gone to the California goldfields. I tried to convince myself that I had done my duty, so I didn't follow him, but the dreams didn't stop. I tried to kill Roberto in a different way. I got a band together, and for a couple of years in the early fifties when no one was too picky about where a scalp came from, we made good money.”

“I thought Roberto rode as a scalp hunter in those years,” I say in confusion.

“No,” Ed says with a smile. “He was in California living under a false name. I figured if I couldn't kill his body, I could at least kill his name. For those years, I was Roberto Ramirez.”

I stare at Ed in shock. “You used your brother's name?”

“I did and it made me free. I could do whatever I wanted, and everyone thought it was Roberto. While I was scalping women and children, it wasn't really me doing it, it was my damned brother. Finally, I was showing my father that I was better than Roberto.”

The mad look hasn't left Ed's eyes as he tells me this. I'm scared, but there's nothing I can do but wait for him to go on with his story. Eventually he does.

“Through the fifties and sixties I moved around, scalping when there was money in it, rustling cattle up Lincoln County way, shooting buffalo for the army, robbing any travelers I fell in with, and always making sure that everyone knew it was Roberto Ramirez doing this. Problem was, I was free to do anything I wanted during the days, but the nights were bad. In my dreams Alfonso kept urging me to fulfill my oath. I even went out to California to try and find the real Roberto. I had no luck, although I did find a man who'd been his partner in the goldfields. The man said he'd moved on, following the gold.”

The scalp hangs by his side, and his gaze drops to the floor. I am confused as to why Ed is telling me this.
“Did you ever catch up with your brother?” I ask.

Ed's head snaps round as if I have hit him. His eyes stare at me coldly. “My story's not done yet and there's something I haven't told you. Something you need to know to understand the end.”

Ed's gaze drifts away, and I think I am going to have to wait through another of his long silences, but he keeps talking, although his voice drops to near a whisper.

“When my brother went to California, I took his name, but he changed his as well. I don't know whether it was because he was ashamed of Ramirez or because Mexicans weren't looked on too kindly in the goldfields. In any case, he took his mother's name. Roberto Ramirez became Bob Doolen.”

15

T
he real Roberto Ramirez was my father. The cruel Don Alfonso Ramirez was my grandfather. The tragic Maeve Doolen was my grandmother. Ed is my uncle. My mouth hangs open in shock as I absorb the implications of what I have been told.

“What do you mean?” I ask stupidly.

“Just what I say.”

“But what…?” I begin asking a question and then tail off, not knowing what to ask. A thought strikes me as I run through what this all means. “Were you waiting for me on the road when we first met?”

Ed smiles. “Smart kid. There's not many lone travelers your age passing through Yuma, and you were easy to follow.”

“How did you know I'd be passing through?”

Ed's smile broadens. “I still keep contacts here in Casas Grandes. Your letter to Don Alfonso Ramirez got to me. I was going to reply, but your second letter saying you were coming down arrived before I could. It was a simple matter to work out about when you'd arrive and sit and wait in Yuma. You even look a bit like your father, and after five minutes' talk, I was certain.”

“But why didn't you say who you were, who I was? Why did you set up the ambush and rob me?”

“I reckon old habits die hard, and I weren't looking for a family reunion. I just wanted to see what you looked like. I stopped the Kid from killing you, and if you'd just gone on your way after that, like I suggested, none of this would've happened.”

“I couldn't. I had to find out what it all meant.”

Ed nods. “I should've known that. Stubbornness is a Ramirez trait, I guess.”

The mention of the Ramirez name reminds me of why I am here. “Where's my father?”

“Well now. That's the final piece of the story. After I looked unsuccessfully for Roberto—Bob, I reckon we should call him now—in California, I gave up. Decided I would just have to live with my nightmares and make the best of it. I come back to Arizona Territory and made do. War came along and that provided some opportunities for the likes of me. Then, winter of sixty-seven, I was having a drink in a bar in Tucson and who should waltz in but Bob's old mining buddy from California. Recognizes me right off and comes over. Says he can tell me things if I buy him a drink, so I buy him a drink.