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Authors: John Wilson

Tags: #Historical, #Young Adult, #book, #Western, #JUV000000

Written in Blood (6 page)

BOOK: Written in Blood
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Wellington pauses thoughtfully.

“He was a great warrior, even though he did not have a proper name.

“After that, I became a scout for the blue army in the great war that was fought between the states. I scouted the enemy ambush at Picacho Pass, but the young Lieutenant Barrett didn't listen and went forward anyway. The price was his life and that of several of his men.”

Wellington shrugs as if the stupidity of the world is not his concern.

“Eventually I came to see that men are all the same. It makes little difference whether they are white or red, or black like the buffalo soldiers I saw once. Some are good, some are bad, but all die alone. So I decided to give up the company of men and live alone in the desert.

“One day, I found this cave, crawled in and saw Perdido. I think he was one of the long-ago southerners, maybe even one who accompanied Coronado on his search for golden cities. Perhaps he was wounded by our young warriors and managed to drag himself here before he died.

“I liked Perdido immediately. He understood loneliness. I made my home in his cave and we became friends. Occasionally others, such as yourself, come to visit, but Perdido and I are content.”

The old man again lapses into silence and sips his coffee.

“That's quite a story,” I say. Remembering something Ed told me, I ask, “Did you know of a scalp hunter called Roberto Ramirez?”

The old man looks at me sharply.

“Always more questions,” he says. “Was my story so much not to your liking that you wish more?”

“Yes. No,” I say in confusion. “It was a good story. I liked it very much. It was very interesting.”

Wellington seems mollified.

“Then you owe me a story, as you promised.”

“Of course.” I launch into the tale of my journey down here. I skim over the early parts, but when I tell him of the schooner, the
Robert Boswell
, on which I sailed to San Diego, he nods vigorously and says, “Yes. Yes. I have heard of such vessels.”

I concentrate on the meeting with Ed, the ambush and my killing the kid in the pork pie hat. Wellington listens closely and occasionally nods as if confirming that I have got the details right.

When I finish, he nods approval.

“That was a good story, thank you. I shall remember it. That way, even if you die tomorrow, you will live on in what time I have left to remember.”

Wellington stands and stretches stiffly.

“But now we must tend to your wounds.” Without waiting for an answer, he heads off down the mountainside. I scramble to my feet and follow.

At length, we come to a spring coming out of a cleft in the rock. It's not a rushing torrent and it quickly soaks into the sands of the arroyo below, but enough water flows to fill a small hollow in the rock. Wellington makes me kneel beside the pool and gently washes the blood off my face. Then he carefully picks out the pieces of rock and bullet embedded in my cheek. It's a painful process, but when it's done, I feel better.

When he is satisfied that he has cleaned everything, Wellington takes a few small dried leaves out of a pouch on his belt, puts them in his mouth and chews vigorously. When he is satisfied, he takes the soggy mess out and plasters it over my wounds. It feels soothing.

“Now you must sleep,” he says, shepherding me back up the mountain and onto his sleeping pallet in the cave. I don't even have time to think about sharing the cave with Perdido before I am asleep.

8

T
he sun is still high in the sky when I wake up and crawl out of the cave, so it can't be much past noon. I can't have slept more than a couple of hours, but the effect of the rest and the food is amazing. My injuries still ache, but I feel revitalized and eager to go on. Wellington is crouching by the fire and greets me as I stand and stretch.

“You do not sleep long, Busca. That is good. Sleep is the little death,
la pequeña muerte
, and the end comes soon enough without it.” He stands up. “Come, I have your horse.”

Wellington strides off without giving me a chance to ask what he means. I don't have a horse, Alita's dead. Confused, I hurry after Wellington, down into a narrow arroyo where a few gnarled mesquite trees have pushed their roots sufficiently deep into the desert ground to find enough water to support life. Where the arroyo widens at its mouth stands a horse, its head low and its reins dragging on the ground. It has white star on its forehead.

“That's not my horse,” I say. “It belonged to the man I shot.”

I feel guilt returning at the memory.

“And, any minute now, he will be walking up the arroyo to claim it back?” Wellington asks. “You took his life, so his horse is yours. And who else will take it? I have no use for a horse in these mountains. Would you rather it wander until a mountain lion finds it?”

“Of course not,” I say.

Wellington shrugs. “Then take it. If you happen to run into the kid again, you can give the horse back to him.”

I can't argue. The alternative is to let the horse run wild, and I do need a horse. I take a couple of steps forward. The horse raises its head, stamps its hooves and eyes me warily.

“It's okay, boy,” I say in a quiet voice as I hold out my hand and slowly move closer. “I'm not going to hurt you. We can become friends. I have a long journey ahead and you can help.”

The horse rolls its eyes back until the white is showing, throws its head up and whinnies through bared teeth. It takes a couple of skittering steps backward and stands looking at me with wide eyes. I repeat the process, but the result is the same.

“Busca,” Wellington says behind me. “You must explain things to him.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Wellington sighs, as if he is dealing with a not-very-intelligent child, and steps past me. He approaches the horse slowly, speaking in the strange, complex language of his original name. In fact, I hear his name, Too-ah-yay-say, mentioned several times. The horse watches him closely and shifts its feet but doesn't retreat. Wellington strokes the animal's forehead and puts his head beside its ear, talking all the time. A shudder ripples down the horse's flanks but it doesn't move.

For an age, Wellington strokes and talks to the horse. Occasionally he looks over at me and I hear my name, but mostly I have no idea what Wellington is saying.

Eventually he looks up and says, “Come over here, Busca.”

Slowly I step forward. The horse watches me suspiciously but stays where it is. It even lets me stroke its head.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I told him your story. I told him that his previous owner was partly responsible for your horse's death and that you had killed his owner. These are things he knew already, but I explained that they meant that he is now yours. He agreed that this is the case, and he hopes that you will treat him better than his previous owner.”

“I will,” I say, trying hard not to think about how Wellington knows what the horse is thinking.

“Then you must tell him so. And also explain where you will go and what you will ask him to do.”

“I have come down here to look for my father,” I say, feeling awkward talking to the horse as if he was another person, “and I would like your help with that.”

The horse nuzzles my cheek as if he understands and agrees.

“I was angry after your old owner and the others killed my horse,” I continue. “Her name was Alita. That is why I lay in wait for your owner and killed him, but now my anger is gone. We won't go and search for the others, but go down to Casas Grandes, which is the only clue I have about my father.”

The more I talk the more comfortable I feel. The horse continues to nuzzle my cheek.

“That is good,” Wellington says when I finish. “Horses need good stories as much as people do. They have their own stories and many are about the men who brought them to this land in their search for cities of gold. Perhaps, if you listen well, this horse will tell you his story.

“Now there is one other thing you must do. Give your new friend a name.”

I think for a minute. “I will call him Coronado after the man who led the army that brought the horses to this land.” The horse pushes against me and Wellington nods. “Coronado,” he says. “It is a good strong name. Now you must go.”

I feel upset that Wellington is dismissing me so abruptly. I have enjoyed my short time here, but I know I must move on. And now that I have a horse, there is no point in delaying. I tether Coronado to a branch and follow Wellington back up to his cave to collect my pistol and blanket. I crawl in to say goodbye to Perdido. When I come out Wellington hands me the battered copy of
Moby Dick
.

“You must take this story,” he says. “Lord Alfred George Cambrey Sommerville, Earl of Canterbury, gave it to me, but I cannot read the words. He began to teach me but he died before I could learn much. I am too old now for such tricks, so you should have Ishmael's story of the sea monster.”

“Thank you,” I say, touched by the gesture. “I shall treasure it.”

Wellington nods and we return to Coronado.

The Kid's saddle is old and worn but serviceable. I take down his bedroll and saddlebags. I don't intend to sleep in a dead man's bedroll, but it is heavy so I unroll it. Inside is a double-barreled scatter gun like the ones I have seen the guards on stagecoaches carrying. This one has both the stock and the barrel cut down severely so that the weapon is not much more than two feet long. It wouldn't be much good at any distance, but at close range, filled with buckshot, it would be devastating.

I go through the pockets of the saddlebags. There's not much in them—a flint, some tobacco, some dried beans, a bag with a mix of a few silver dollars and some pesos, some bullets for the Kid's Colt revolver and a few scatter-gun shells, and a half-empty whiskey bottle. I give Wellington the Colt ammunition, the beans and the tobacco, and smash the whiskey bottle against a rock.

I'm about to pack my meager belongings, when I notice something else. At the bottom of one pocket lies a silver locket. It's oval, almost the length of my thumb and covered in intricate engraving. There is a silver chain looped through a ring at one end.

I undo the clasp and am suddenly staring at the faces of two fair-haired women. They are both dressed formally and are obviously related, although one is about my age and the other significantly older. I guess mother and daughter. Despite the formality of having their pictures taken, both are smiling gently at the camera.

The thought of this happy pair being the Kid's mother and sister shocks me. I barely imagined him as human, let alone having a family that would miss and mourn him. I guiltily snap the locket closed and stuff it back in the saddlebag.

“You go to Casas Grandes?” Wellington asks when I have finished packing and am ready to mount.

“It's the only clue to where my father might be,” I say.

Wellington nods. “That is good. Follow the arroyo out into the valley. Keep the rising sun over your left shoulder for five days until you reach the village of Esqueda. There you must turn to face the rising sun for five more days as you cross the mountains. Then you will be at Casas Grandes.”

“Thank you, Wellington,” I say, feeling sad at leaving the old man. “For everything.”

Wellington shrugs. “
No es nada
. What are a few tortillas and beans. I thank you for your story.”

There seems nothing more to say, yet I have trouble leaving. Eventually Wellington speaks again.

“You asked if I knew the scalp hunter named Roberto Ramirez.”

“I did,” I say.

“I knew of him,” Wellington says.

“Was he as evil as some say?” I ask.

Wellington shrugs.

“People say many things, but one must think of who is doing the saying. Is the word of an evil person to be taken the same as that of one who is good?

“Be careful of names. Some men do not understand their importance. They think a name is like a gun: it can be stolen and used for good or evil by whoever possesses it. They are wrong. You may steal a name, but you can never own it. I am not so clever that I can judge this Roberto Ramirez, whoever he may be.”

Wellington pauses and I am about to ask for more detail when he says, “You must go. Perdido and I wish you well on your journey, Busca, and hope your search is fruitful.”

Wellington turns on his heel and strides back up the gully toward his cave and his long-dead companion. Reluctantly I turn Coronado's head and we walk down the arroyo and out onto the next wide, dry valley.

9

I
sit on Coronado, watching the column of dust move slowly toward me over the wide, empty valley bottom. I don't think it's a threat, and there's nowhere to hide out here even if it is. It's the second day since I said farewell to Wellington, and I am traveling more or less southeast down a dry valley with rugged hills in the distance on both sides. I can't be far from the Mexican border. Eventually the shapes at the base of the dust resolve themselves into a column of soldiers. I encourage Coronado and we trot forward to meet them.

“Good day,” the young officer at the head of the column greets me as he raises his hand to bring his men to a halt. He is white, but the twenty or so men behind him are black, although it's hard to tell them apart through the thick layer of dust covering them and their mounts.

“I'm Lieutenant Fowler of B Company, Tenth US Cavalry, on patrol chasing savages out of Fort Bowie. Who might you be and where you headed?”

“My name's James Doolen, and I'm headed down to Mexico.”

Lieutenant Fowler stares hard at me for a long moment.

“Can't imagine why you'd want to go down there,” he says eventually, “but I reckon that'd be your business. What I will do is give you a bit of advice.

“Sergeant Rawlins,” the Lieutenant shouts back over his shoulder. “Show this young man what we're carrying on them mules.”

BOOK: Written in Blood
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