The Caldera Trilogy

By Dan Baldwin

What is the meaning of family and what dangers does a quest to discover that meaning bring?

Down on his luck Mountain Man Bull McKenzie discovers a treasure in the rugged Superstition Mountains of Arizona. Later, as one of the richest and most powerful men in Arizona Territory, he fathers a son by one of his prostitutes. The boy, named Caldera, means nothing to McKenzie. He hands off Caldera to a Pima warrior/farmer who comes to love the boy and who raises him as his own son. Caldera is torn between the love he has from his surrogate father and the indifference of his blood father. Caldera’s quest to find the meaning of family becomes a deadly, twisting journey as he becomes: a free-spirited kid, Confederate Army scout, capable cowhand, the falsely-accused murderer of his wife and unborn child, and a legendary madman on a vendetta ride. His quest seemingly comes to a conclusion as he finds war, betrayal and perhaps love in Cuba as a behind the lines spy for Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Baldwin
• Release date: Aug 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386502951

Dan Baldwin

Dan Baldwin is the author of westerns, mysteries, thrillers, short story collections and books on the paranormal. He is the winner of numerous local, regional, and national awards for writing and directing film and video projects. He earned an Honorable Mention from the Society of Southwestern Authors writing competition for his short story Flat Busted and  a Finalist designation from the National Indie Excellence Awards for Trapp Canyon and Caldera III – A Man of Blood. Baldwin received a Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Sparky and the King. Bock’s Canyon earned the Winner designation in the 2017 Best Book Awards. Baldwin’s paranormal works are The Practical Pendulum – A Swinging Guide, Find Me as told to Dan Baldwin, They Are Not Yet Lost and How Find Me Lost Me – A Betrayal of Trust Told by the Psychic Who Didn’t See It Coming. They Are Not Yet Lost earned the Winner designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition. How Find Me Lost Me won the Winner designation in the Best Book Awards 2017 competition and the Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition.

Book preview

Prologue

Call me Bitter. I am 117 years old. These were the first words of any significance the old man spoke since I crawled into the adobe cavern that was his home. Bitter in my language is ‘Siw.’ My name accurately describes my current disposition. He paused as if reaching back into a dark storehouse of memories, then added, And all too well the long sunset years of my life.

I had been warned of his eloquence and command of English. He closed his eyes and his breath expelled the just-tolerable weight of too many desert sunsets. I waited, afraid to speak, afraid to be silent, afraid of breathing in the pain and sadness issuing from his tired old lungs. After a journey of 1200 miles and several years of my life I was not about to allow a misspoken word to cancel the race halfway through the last lap. I stared at the small pile of red hot coals in the center of the dirt floor and tried to beam courtesy and respect. The smile on my face hid a heart holding back a few thousand questions. I wanted to drench him in a monsoon rain of who, what, where, when, why and how. I felt a compulsion to beg for more-more-more before the gentle breeze blowing through his dwelling shattered the frail old man like a dry cattail, caught him and carried him off in bits and pieces.

All things in their time. The thought brought no comfort as I stared into eyes that could have seen Kit Carson, Wyatt Earp’s gunplay, Gayle McCracken or Malon’s gangs, Geronimo’s war and surrender, the Rough Riders and a West rushing from a wide-open frontier to the claustrophobia of fenced land and no trespassing signs.

"The wind entering my olas-ki is colder now and it will soon carry me to Morning Land in the East, but not before we speak. The old boy must have been part mind reader. Hear me for my case and be silent that you may hear."

Julius Caesar, right? I’d learned that long ago he studied Shakespeare back in the old days to improve his English.

Marc Antony to the crowd.

Thank you, Siw.

He winced. I must have badly mispronounced his name. Miliga’n, white people, have always called me Prospect. Perhaps that will be easier on your tongue, he said.

Yes, sir. It was all I could muster.

Chu-I, he said while handing me a plate of candy. It was pinole, a sweet made from ground mesquite beans and considered a treat by the Southwestern tribes. I took a piece and bit down with a false smile that turned real as the pleasant flavor said Welcome, to my home, Friend.

Strange, strange, strange, I thought. Outside these adobe walls FDR had just been elected to a third term. Europe was at war with Hitler’s Germany and many on both sides of the Atlantic were saying America soon would be drawn into the conflict. People were humming a new hit tune—You Are My Sunshine—and for many the toughest choice of the day was whether to tune-in the Bob Hope radio show, the Lone Ranger, or Amos and Andy. In the midst of all that I had driven across Texas, southern New Mexico and half of Arizona to crawl through a hole into the Stone Age and hear an Indian quote Shakespeare.

I must apologize, but my mind is as frail as my body, he said. Would you tell me again your name?

Quiller, I said. Robert Quiller. That was, in its fashion, the truth. "Please call me Robert.

And why have you come to see a man whose shadow is longer than the man himself?

I pulled a folded scrap of newsprint from my notebook and handed it over. It says—

I read quite well, Robert.

Damn all assumptions! I grinned like the big fool I had just made of myself.

History’s Mysteries by R. Quiller. He scanned the article, a near-amazing feat in the semi-darkness of a home lit by a single kerosene lamp. He looked up. What mystery brings you to Prospect?

I lied to him with the truth. For more than a decade I had been tracking down historical records of an enigma, a man who was little more than a series of footnotes in obscure books on the great wild days when Arizona was part of New Mexico territory. Official reports, manifests, wanted posters, small stories in forgotten newspapers, letters and even an interview on a local radio station—no matter where I looked, I encountered slight references to an amazing character, a man as historical as the OK Corral and just as fictional. The enigma was never prominent, but it was always there, always a whispered presence in the background. At some point, the precise moment forgotten, my curiosity became personal and, out of ignorance and passion, a quest was born. As far as they went my words to Prospect were God’s own truth.

Prospect, will you tell me of Caldera?

I have heard of a sad smile, but until that moment I had never truly experienced one. As he sank back and looked into the pulsating red light of the coals I pulled two double-corona cigars from my shirt pocket. They were Cubans and a major expense for someone on a writer’s salary. The old man’s grandsons who had helped arrange this meeting told me he was fond of a good smoke. Presents? Bribes? Ice breakers? Hell, I didn’t know, but I lit one on a hot coal and handed it over. I lit another and we enjoyed the smoke for some time before he spoke. Caldera... he was my young friend, my sometimes son and my curse. My son... more than to his own blood father, Caldera was my son. Why do you bring such sadness to me?

I am a storyteller, Prospect. Stories must be told.

Must they?

I have dedicated my life to it.

Ah, such commitment is easy for those who only tell the stories. What of those who must live them?

Tell me of Caldera, please?

Half of the large cigar was gone. Sunlight spiking through the door created haunting images of light in the swirling smoke and dust. We smoked for a long time before he spoke. "Mant ‘abo va n-ju, shahali’I."

What does that mean?

Okay.

I opened my notebook and slipped out one of the pencils.

To know Caldera is to embrace power... a special, pure kind of power, Robert.

What kind of power, Prospect?

He took a long, soul-satisfying drag of the cigar and looked me right in the eye. Madness, Robert. Madness.

Chapter One

You cannot know Caldera without knowing his father, Prospect said.

I suppressed a jolt of excitement. I knew some of Bull McKenzie, a well-known if poorly documented early pioneer and one of the first tycoons in what became the State of Arizona. I wanted to know more and with the hunger of a starving artist I wanted that knowledge now.

Before he continued, Prospect’s grandson called out respectfully and crawled through the two-by-four doorway of the olas-ki. He carried a shovel full of hot coals, which he added to the dimming pile at the center of the round house. He stayed a second longer than necessary, just long enough for the elder to nod all is okay, before he left. The coals brought welcome warmth, but damn little light and I prayed that at day’s end I’d be able to decode my notes.

Robert, if you would, please hand me my stick. He pointed to the wall. The first thing I saw was an old and faded war shield, a circle of stretched leather decorated with a once-colorful cross. The faded paint was scratched and dented, hammered, I imagined, by arrow, club and bullet in ancient battles in times and places I couldn’t begin to imagine. Beside it hung a war club, a carved piece of hard wood that looked more like an old potato masher than a weapon, but the thick, heavy end was stained a dark and bloody brown. Above them in a position of respect was what appeared to be a walking stick, dark wood carved with a hundred or more nicks, notches and small designs.

Are we going for a walk, Prospect?

You ain’t from around here, are you, boy?’ His smile and the near-perfect redneck dialect, damn close to my own, was a gentle way of telling me to shut the hell up and listen.

You have my life in your hands, he said. This is my calendar stick. A playful side of the old man was emerging, the smile working its way out of sadness. I handed over the worn staff and he ran his fingers across the marks like a blind man reading a beloved text in Braille. His hand stopped at the oldest, most worn marks. Long years after the Pima drove the Mexicans back to the south, back before your great Civil War, many Milinga-n stole their way into the lands of the Gila River. The white hunters came alone or in small groups and they all carried with them the same complaint. The beaver were no longer shining. This was strange to me because I had known the beaver all my short life and never had I seen even one shine. Not even in the full moonlight. At the time I thought perhaps the white hunters had some special magic that gave them power to see such a thing. Bull McKenzie was one of these men. Prospect’s mind raced into the past to the man who was Caldera’s father. His melodic voice, like the wind, picked me up and carried me back with him.

Prospect closed his eyes. I first met him the day after he invaded Mexico.

* * *

The expedition was a disaster, a foolhardy adventure led by a scoundrel and followed by idiots. Bull cursed in a whisper and swore an oath to never again dog another man’s trail. Come hell or high water, feast, famine, Apache, bandit or golden opportunity presented on a silver platter, he would carve his own path. If it led to another inglorious, deadly, foolish defeat, then at least he’d be the stupid bastard leading the charge. Damn McCracken! And damn the whiskey that made men with better sense listen to him.

The greed that drove McCracken swept up good men and bad, a drunken Bull McKenzie among them. They were out to conquer half of north-central Mexico with just a handful of men. It all made a mad sort of sense at the time, especially since he hadn’t a grubstake. Bull had found his way to the Gila River country, hoping to trap beaver. The market for pelts had just about played out and there hadn’t been a rendezvous in years, but he had hope born from an empty purse, desperation and nothing better to do.

The beaver were a disappointment. They were a lighter shade and of poorer quality than those found in the northern mountains. He’d traded all his plews for a couple of bottles of the damnable Taos whiskey at a miserable town south of Tucson that was nothing more than a swindler’s trading post and a couple of shanties. It didn’t even have a name. Late in the day he was roused by the ranting of a calculating bastard and the shouts of support from his audience. Half the men, the smarter ones, knew McCracken’s tall tales of empire were bunk. They were going on a raid of plunder. It would be shoot, grab ‘n git, and any man foolish enough to stick around empire building deserved the execution he would surely earn.

Gayle McCracken jumped up on an old wagon. Gold, men, and silver no more than a few miles from here. The wagon creaked and cracked and nearly collapsed under his weight. He was big, fairly close to Bull in girth, though shorter by half a foot or more. He was dark, baked hard by the desert sun and old enough to know better than to invade Mexico.

Some other tale’s being played out, Bull thought. Maybe he and a few companions had nosed around and come on a rich hacienda, a bank or mining office. McCracken  was going after something specific and a big raid would provide a nice cover for his escape.

Hell, boys, all Sonora’s up for grabs. It’s ours for the taking.

What the hell. Bull had been knocking around southwestern New Mexico Territory for a couple months without cutting the trail of opportunity. He might even like it down in Mexico and decide to stay a while. The fact that he did not realize the Mexicans would resent a lone invader taking up residence among the invaded showed the quality of the whiskey he had consumed. And the amount.

McCracken continued. Rich haciendas guarded by fat Mexicans taking a siesta. We’ll just walk in, take over and live like kings. You want a cold beer? He raised his arm and snapped his fingers.  His hands were gloved so the sound was paltry and muted phht-phht. Fine brown dust popped from his fingertips like a small explosion. Gomez, fetch!

The men laughed.

Wine? Whiskey? Phht-phht.

What about scalps, Cap’n? The question came from an old man everybody called Weezer. He had been a mountain man in the golden days when beaver was still shining, but one night during all those long winters in the high country, a cold wind had slipped into his lungs and taken up residence. He was down in the flatlands looking for a grubstake so he could climb back up and give the winds a chance to finish him off.

Sure, men, take as many as you can. Then cross back over the border next week and sell em’ to the Mex as Apache. He laughed.

What about them señoreeters? That was Phil Lyman, a pockmarked kid from Kentucky who always attached himself to the biggest man around so he could walk in his swagger. Bull couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Yeah, Phillip, my boy. Dark eyes. Black hair. Skin like—

Can we plague ‘em?’

McCracken didn’t understand the question, but its meaning was evident in the man’s sick grin.

You know, Sir, like in the Bible. Can we descend down upon ‘em?’

That brought another round of laughs, encouraged by a leader who appeared as frenzied as the men below him. Son, by the looks of you, I can tell you’ll be a one-man pestilence.

Bull knew what McCracken was stirring up. The more men raped, scalped, and murdered innocent Mexicans the fewer men would be left to fight over the real spoils. Idjits! He finished the bottle and passed out in a stranger’s wagon.

The next morning he woke up to screaming as the wagon rolled past Lyman who was plaguing a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than 12 years old. A couple of other men were waiting for a turn. The column, substantially reduced in number, was in Mexico outside an adobe hovel at the edge of a small village Bull was shocked into sobriety upon realizing where he was and what he was in the middle of. If there’s treasure to be found, McCracken’ll play hell finding it here.

Events moved rapidly and the Americans immediately embraced disaster. Considering all the bragging and boasting that had accompanied the column’s formation and the dust and noise from its movement, no one should have been surprised that the Mexicans were well-armed and waiting. The little brown pissants the men scorned proved that racism has no place in military strategy. McCraken’s army started shooting at the first sight of a Mexican. The man died, but the villager’s return volley ripped into the column and tore it in half. Bull saw uniformed troops among the peasants. They were probably guarding a gold or silver shipment. That explains McCracken’s interest in empire. The soldiers weren’t very good, but they were well armed, they had the support of the villagers, and they had the element of one hell of a surprise. Chaos took command as the men turned to flee. The wounded were passed over by the charging soldiers, only to be hacked apart by the peasant army materializing from adobe huts, family gardens, and nearby washes. At times they seemed to burst right out of the ground, an army of brown ants crawling over fat, Yankee waterbugs, killing with a thousand relentless stings. Weezer went down, his leg shot off at the knee. The ants were on him before he could club or knife his way out. The last image Bull had of the man was a kid hacking his head in two with a field hoe. Back in the center of the column Bull could do nothing for the man and none of those closer even made an attempt. A damn good example of why a man ought never partner up.

The Mexicans cut off the column’s retreat and cornered them in a corral. About thirty men, many of them wounded, stood back to back and waited for the final rush and the inevitable slaughter. A few notes from a bugle and a lot of shouting in Spanish stopped the swarm before it could engulf the defeated Anglos. Most of the men waited in fear. A few cowered and cringed, but a small core, Bull among them, waited at the ready. Let’s get this bloody business over with! he said. A moment—a lifetime—later the small multitude parted for a regular Mexican army officer. He was no more than 30 or 35 years old, but he carried himself with authority. His stride was purposeful, like a sovereign among the unwashed masses. His uniform was bright, his brass buttons fairly sparkled in the summer sun, and the plumage on his tall hat danced in the dead air.

Ain’t he the cock o’ the walk, said McCracken.

You better go see what he wants, said Bull.

He wants our ass.

He’s got it.

The officer walked to the edge of the corral, pausing to slap the dust from his uniform with a clean handkerchief pulled from beneath his vest. It was a brilliant bit of psychological warfare. Here was a man in total control of the situation, the men and their fortunes. I am Captain Juan Peñasco. You have one half of one minute to surrender. His command of English was the best Bull had ever heard.

Kinda’ gets to the point, don’t he? said Bull.

Some kid behind them was whispering. Twenty-eight... twenty-seven... twenty-six.... His voice cracked, as much with thirst as with fear. This was the kid’s first encounter with inevitability.

Bull looked at McCracken. Whaddya gonna do, McCracken?

Twenty-two... twenty-one... twenty....

Give me time, you bastard!

I ain’t the one holding the watch.

Seventeen... sixteen... fifteen....

Bull wondered at his leader’s hesitation. It was not as if the situation required thought or even a decision. Captain Peñasco and the fifty or so men behind him had rendered decision-making an unnecessary exercise. Mentally, Bull raced through as many negotiating possibilities as he could find. They were damn few and not a one worth a damn.

Ten... nine... eight.

Suddenly McCracken cocked the hammer on his pistol and raised his arm.

No! Bull struck the man’s arm and the weapon discharged into a pile of cow manure. Without a command the Mexicans opened fire. So close were the guns that all the men at the rim of the small circle fell. Their sacrifice gave the others time to fall to the ground, protected only by the bodies of their slaughtered comrades. The explosions were followed by a staggering silence broken only by terrified grunts of men who were suddenly faced with the thought that, maybe, just maybe, this time God wasn’t on their side.

Three... two—damn! The kid’s spirit faded and his life force joined the gun smoke covering the field of fire.

Captain Peñasco lay face down in the dirt, blood flowing from half a dozen or more wounds in his back. McCracken lived, and were it not for a shout from the Mexican ranks Bull would have slit the man’s throat. Bull didn’t speak a word of Spanish, but kill the sons of bitches is universal. Another round of gunfire ripped through the corral, kicking up more dust, blood, manure, shouts and pleas for mercy.

Bull looked up. The peasants were hungry for blood. Instead of slitting McCracken’s throat, he slashed a rectangular piece of cloth from a dead man’s shirt, tied it onto the barrel of his rifle and raised a call for surrender.

Someone back among the ants shouted a command and the guns, machetes and farm implements lowered slowly and reluctantly. Another soldier, a thin man of lesser rank than the captain but clearly of greater vanity, approached. Sword in hand, he strutted toward his prisoners. He stopped at Peñasco’s body and wiped the manure from his boot on his captain’s shoulder. Bull McKenzie hated small-minded men and that one disrespectful gesture made him hate this one above them all. The young officer was clearly proud of those boots. They were almost mesmerizing. They had been marched through rock and dust and run through a battle. They had been walked through a barnyard, and still they were as black and shiny as obsidian. The thin, home-made moccasins on Bull’s feet made for a humiliating comparison. Their lives were in the hands of a petty little dictator who wanted Yankee blood on his hands.

"Habla Espanol?"

"Si!" McCracken scrambled up, dusted himself off and approached the little Napoleon. They spoke for several minutes while what was left of the company, dead, dying and desperate, remained on the ground. Only twenty or so men were still alive.

When McCracken returned he spoke in a quiet voice to Bull. His name is Malón, a damn lieutenant. Look, we’re in a tough patch, but I think I can get us out.

How?

"I told him we followed a crazy man down here, ‘loco in la cabeza.’"

Enough truth in that.

You want to get out of here with your hide in one piece, McKenzie?

What’d you say?

"I told the son of a bitch this was all a big mistake, mas grande. It ain’t our fault."

He believe it?

Some... enough... maybe.

What are we supposed do?

Collect the weapons, all of ‘em, and make a stack outside the corral. Then split the men into three groups: wounded, the young men and the rest of us.

Why?

He knows he can take us, but we’ll take a lot of his men with us, him first. He don’t want that on his record. I convinced the bastard that a few healthy prisoners got more value than a corral full of dead men.

If any of McCracken’s companions were still alive, he made no effort to single them out. He just returned to continue his discussions with Malón. He bowed, scraped and fawned like a drummer selling stolen merchandise at a frontier dry goods store. Both men disgusted Bull, but he would follow the plan that would give him at least some chance of getting out of Mexico. The soldiers took their weapons distributed them among the peasants. A tough old sergeant had trouble keeping the villagers from finishing off the invaders. The moment the younger men were segregated, the old sergeant marched them off at gunpoint. He allowed the peasants to jab and bash them with their rakes, hoes and new rifles.

Where’s he taking them? McKenzie asked.

South, said McCracken. It seems that Lieutenant Malón just inherited that there Captain Peñasco’s share of a silver mine. He says he’s about run out of Indians down there.

You gave up your own men as slaves! Were it not for the guns in shaky hands trained on them Bull would have strangled McCracken on the spot. He actually considered the act in spite of the guns.

McCracken tried to stare him down and failed. "Traded, McKenzie. I traded those men for the lives of a few others."

A few?

This ain’t over yet.

Bull growled, McCracken. The name was all he could manage. Still, it was probably the worst insult the man had ever received.

I get four men—four damn tough men—and right now you’re one of ‘em, so don’t push me.

With that, the rest of McCracken’s deal with Malón became tragically obvious. McCracken cut out three men from the company, like cattle from a herd. They were all big, strong knuckleheads. Instinctively they all knew what was coming. Six soldiers marched into the corral, bayonets fixed and hammers cocked. A group of peasants flowed through that flesh and steel corridor. They grabbed the wounded and dragged them across the compound to an adobe wall. The six soldiers stayed in the corral as another small column marched in front of the wall.

Thus began an afternoon of executions. The wounded were eliminated one at a time. Most of them took it like men. A lucky few were too far gone to know what was happening. Only one man had to be dragged like an animal to his fate. Lyman, the kid from Kentucky, had missed the aborted battle while attempting to plague another woman. His nose was badly broken, his ears were cut or torn off and the light colored clothes of the men dragging him were red with his blood. When he realized what was about to happen, Lyman collapsed at the base of the wall, cowering and begging for mercy. Malón pulled his pistol and shot him in the leg. He then cocked it and handed it to the first man in the firing squad. Each man took a turn, laughing and making jokes and shooting, the bullets working their way inward from the kid’s extremities. They reloaded and enjoyed the sport one more time before a shot to the head put an end to the pestilence.

That dirty cauldron of blood and betrayal solidified beliefs and feelings in Bull McKenzie, making him a loner with near-total commitment to his own isolation. He embraced a cold independence that would guarantee his survival throughout a hard, dangerous life. In a way it became a blessing, an effective mechanism for survival in a dangerous land. It also became a curse, one passed to a son who would be doomed to the life of a lonely wanderer.

By mid-afternoon the once-arrogant, greedy company of Anglos was just a ragged band of five angry, frightened souls. While the peasants stacked the bodies of the invaders in a wash downwind of the village and began pouring coal oil over the pile, Malón made a speech near the corral. No one translated. No one needed to. At last he finished and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He pointed it north and shouted. Git is clearly understood in any language, and the men wasted no time interpreting the order. As they cautiously moved away, Malón wiped the dust from his boots.

The season was summer and a moist monsoon wind was blowing from the south. The grand company of invaders, all five of them, stumbled from the small village with an unknown name. Triumphant farmers threw rocks and cow manure at the defeated army. Bull, McCracken and the three others left amid the curses and laughter of blood-thirsty villagers. Bull vowed never to put his faith in another man, never to depend on the rescue, support or charity of anyone for as long as he lived. The price was just too high. As they entered a mesquite thicket, the first of many natural barriers blocking a safe return, he made a second vow. He spoke to make the oath real, but he spoke in a whisper: McCracken. That was all, but no man had ever uttered a deadlier threat.

That was for later. In the meantime he faced other trials. In addition to the flesh-rending cactus forests, the heat, lack of food and water, rattlesnakes, and Apaches, Bull noticed a group of peasants break off from the army to scurry out of town. They were armed with machetes. Malón and his men ignored them. This was clearly part of  Malón’s plan: a manhunt for the enjoyment of the peasants. The ants were swarming.

Chapter Two

Four men followed Gayle McCracken toward the American side of the desert, back toward a nameless collection of shacks at a southern Arizona crossroads. They had left its rough comforts with fire in their hearts, whiskey in their bellies and arrogance in their minds for the little brown bastards of Sonora, the pissants who had just wiped them out. Bull McKenzie spotted a narrow trail, an animal run, into a mesquite thicket and led the men into a perilous green maze and possible escape. The peasants’ anger was fueled by their own government’s lack of interest, the cruelties of a greedy ruling class and its army, the insolence of the Yankees, the whims of nature, and the death, torture and slavery at the hands of Apache warriors. The list of their enemies and misfortunes seemed endless. For perhaps just once in their lives, they would have vengeance. The scrawny trees seemed to know this. Their limbs, like skeletal fingers, clawed at the fleeing men’s clothes, scratched their faces, grasped and tried to keep them in Mexico, to hold them for a just retribution.

Bull focused his considerable energies on escape. The vision of old Weezer being hacked to death by children provided the power denied by a lack of food and water. Already he regretted the selection of the men following him. He had no choice with McCracken. The other three, Garces, Olsen and Cowlick, looked like they could handle themselves in the desperate, hand-to-hand fighting that probably hid in the next wash, over the next hill or behind the next natural barrier, but there was another consideration. Not a brain among ‘em,’ he grunted.

McCracken should have picked thinkers instead of fighters. Some of the younger men now marching toward a slow death in slavery would have been wiser choices. At least they would have been frightened enough to take orders, scared enough to live. As he led the men through a dry wash he left no trail by stepping on the rounded stones in its belly. Cowlick stepped right in the sand, leaving calling cards in the soil, invitations to disaster. Garces took careful pains to follow in his footsteps as if practicing some trick of wilderness survival. Olsen, bringing up the rear, stumbled along and was fading fast in the desert heat. McCracken cursed and warned them in a harsh whisper, but the damage was done. The Mexicans would sure as hell know which way their prey was headed. All they’d needed to close in was some clue pointing up the right path. Thanks to Cowlick they would have it.

After the first quarter-mile Bull gave up the idea of hiding the trail. Damn it, why don’t we just run a flag up the pole, break out the bugle and blow chow call? he said. The men behind him were contemptuous of the enemy, cocky even in defeat. They were fools, and fools die in the desert. The lucky ones staggered off to a quick death in a fall off a cliff, with a neck snapped in the jaws of a mountain lion or an Apache arrow through the eye. The unlucky ones.... The thought sent Bull’s mind back a week to the event that had forced his trail south and to the drunken encounter with McCracken’s company of invaders.

He’d came across the body of an old man, a drummer by the looks of his gear and what was left of his wagon. The old man had been staked out and gutted and the last poor son of a bitch saw was some Apache brave dumping hot coals into his belly. Nearby tracks indicated that someone else had been dragged off as a slave or for a more leisurely execution. That was the worst thing about such fools. They get other men killed. The thought brought him back to his present challenge and the three largest obstacles in his path. Time to drop the dead weight, he mumbled. McCracken seemed to have the same idea.

Through a lot of skill and even more good luck, Bull found a small pool of water, It was foul and full of a thick green slime and dead flies, but they drank it. Cowlick even let go a shout of glee. McCracken punched him in the face so hard he fell back to the ground but, again, the damage was done. Bull stepped away to survey the land. His keen hearing picked up Spanish words and sentence fragments in the distance. McCracken joined him and spoke in a low voice. We need to ditch this lot, he said.

Why’d you pick them idjits!

Just so we could ditch ‘em. They’ll slow down them machete-totin’ pissants.

Bull stared ahead. His well-trained eyes found a pathway on hard ground, avoiding any cactus or spindly tree that could tear at cloth or skin and leave a they went that-away message for the men with the machetes. An old saw crossed his mind: Bad companions bring bad luck. He slipped out of the wash, careful to step on rocky ground. McCracken snapped his fingers and followed.

Hey, wait for us! shouted Cowlick.

Already some fifty yards to the north and nearly out of sight, Bull cursed. If the idiot survived and they got through, he promised himself the treat of cutting out the man’s tongue.

McCracken, Olsen and Cowlick scrambled through the wash and into the thicket. Garces stayed to suck up the remaining drops of filthy water. Moments later they heard him shout no! Several panicked calls to McCracken followed. Then the screaming began, a series of agonized shouts, like the barking of a dog being whipped. Long pauses separated the screams. The villagers were taking their time.

McCracken’s a bastard, but he was right. A slow death for some means life for others. Time’s the key. As desperately as he needed water, and even more than he needed food or weapons, he needed time, time to put distance between himself and the blood-crazed peasants on his trail. To hell with the pitiful remnant of the column. He moved quickly and with a grace that few men his size could match. He covered five miles of desert or more in less than two hours. The others lagged behind, but were managing to stay on his trail. He found a prickly pear, pulled off several of the reddish pears and began to peel them. The pulp provided little moisture, but it was food and its flavor helped kill the brackish taste of the stagnant water. He ate them, seeds and all. As hungry as he was, he left several pears for the others. The effort gave him time to think over the situation. Tucson was to the north and east, some forty miles past a small range of mountains called Baboquivari by the Indians. He could get over the mountains and follow a wash down to the scratch in the dust that was the road into town, except that the Mexicans behind him might have send runners ahead. A more significantly longer and more dangerous run across the flat desert toward Punkin to the north might be the smarter move. With the exception of Apache raiding parties, the Indians were said to be friendly that way. He froze in place when a wasp flew by.

Water. The foul, green soup he had found earlier slaked his thirst, but did nothing to satisfy it. He needed as much as he could drink as often as he could get it.

He followed the flight of the little beast, scanning the flat landscape, and finally saw on a spot of deep green in the bend of a low wash just ahead. If luck were with him.... Bah! I’ve been cursed from the first moment I fell in with McCracken’s lot. I’ll make my own damn luck. He jogged to a place in the bend where the plants were a bit more numerous and a slightly darker shade of green. He kicked up the sand with his right foot. Sure enough the soil beneath was dark with moisture. He scooped out a hole about a foot in circumference and deeper by another six inches or so. He soaked the shredded cotton rag that had been his shirt in the muddy water and began squeezing the precious liquid into his mouth. By the time the others arrived, he was no longer thirsty.

Bull took his first really close look at the men for whom he had risked his life and meager fortune. He felt humiliated by his own foolishness. Gayle McCracken was a hard man with hard eyes in constant motion, always looking for a weakness to exploit. It was no coincidence that he traveled with one man before and one man behind. He had just enough dark hair over his ears to emphasize the bald spot riding the top of his head. He reminded Bull of a deranged monk. His deadly reputation was due more to the fact that he could get others to do his dirty work than to his own prowess.

Cowlick was a string bean with a devious mind and a mean streak. He was the child who enjoyed tying kittens in a bag and tossing them into shallow waters because he liked to see them thrash and hear them scream before dying, a child who never grew out of that twisted delight. He was a weasel of a man who could slip through a crowd, pick a pocket, push someone in front of a racing wagon, or shove a dagger up a man’s kidney and be gone before the first Oh, my God! And as for Olsen, there wasn’t much to say. He had the hollow look of death in his eyes.

No one paused to take the prickly pear Bull left for them. Too stupid to eat. Damn the lousy luck I brought upon myself.

Cowlick practically cheered at the sight of the damp muck at Bull’s feet. He fell down and tried to lick the soil.

McCracken kicked him in the back, ramming his face into the mud. You damn fool. Like this. He bent down and waited until water seeped into the small hole. Soak it up in your shirt and squeeze it into your mouth. This demonstration of care and concern for his fellow soldier meant McCracken got to drink first. Bull stood up, but before he left, McCracken’s hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist. Which way, Bull? Tucson?

Bull shook off the man’s grip, glanced north and stepped out of the wash.

McCracken gave final orders to the other two. We’re splittin’ up. McKenzie’s headed north. Punkin, I guess. I’ll strike out northeast. Cowlick, you and Olsen head east and then north. Meet me in Tucson. First one there sends out a party for the other.

Cowlick frowned. How’ll I do that? I ain’t no scout.

You know where the sun comes up?

Yeah.

Go that way. When you hit a road or a river turn left. Got that?

Yes Sir.

McCracken leaned closer and whispered, We’ll let McKenzie draw them sons of bitches off our backs.

The men grunted their agreement, their eyes riveted on the mud slowly forming in the bottom of the water hole.

Let’s go. He stepped out of the wash, then paused a second for one last word. I’m counting on you.

We’ll send help. I won’t let you down, Cap’n.

That was just what McCracken was counting on. Their clumsy steps, grunts and curses would lead the Mexicans east while he doubled around and followed Bull McKenzie to the north.

Bull picked up his pace, more disgusted than ever at his rash choice of partners. He came to a narrow arroyo and jumped down, landing solidly on a wide rock. He hopped, rock to rock, for a hundred yards or so until he rounded a bend. He climbed out, leaving no trace. He jumped from rock to hardest possible ground, leaving no trace of his passing.

Bull! The voice was McCracken’s, a desperate hiss from down in the arroyo. McKenzie!

Bull didn’t answer, didn’t look back. He’d made up his mind to push on past sundown, into the night and through the next day. Since he’d accepted the difficult challenge mentally, his body would follow as directed. Nothing would stop him and no one would slow him down. McCracken would not be able to follow his trail. The Mexicans would give up sometime the next day and return home as heroes, proudly waving their bloodied machetes and probably the heads of a couple of wide-eyed shatterbrains. Ahead lay a hot, hostile desert full of Indians, deadly plants and creatures that killed with the speed of lightning. He would have to strike a trail soon to survive. For obvious reasons, the south was out. Tucson was the closest community, but if the peasants were watching the roads, that trail would be number one on their list. To the north was a small settlement called Punkin and beyond that the unknown. Compared to the vengeful known approaching from his rear, the unknown was just fine. He was alone and for the first moment in quite some time he liked the odds.

* * *

Keli’hi awoke early, but not as early as his mother. As he rubbed his eyes she was already walking gracefully toward the flowing waters of the Gila River. She carried an olla, a large clay water bottle, nestled in a ring basket worn like a crown on top of her head. The young man, barely 15 years old, sat up and willed the night from his body. Eventually he stood up for a long stretch beneath the shelter of the family’s vato, an arbor, little more than a brush roof covered with earth. Nearby was the fully-enclosed olas’ki, but it was used only in winter or during the really heavy rains. Keli’hi means old fashioned in Pima, and the boy had been so named because of his affection for the tribe’s elders. As a child he spent what hours he could listening to their tales, studying their ways and learning more of his people and their ways. Many believed, and the elders knew, that someday the young man would become a strong and respected leader among the people of the river, the Achimel O’Otham.

He looked at the strips of dried meat hanging from cords tied to the vato roof and remembered his task for the day. Usually he would join the young men in rounding up the family’s cattle and then spend the rest of the day tending to their crops in the field. This day he would spend hunting. He took down his bow and arrows and his kickball and started off toward the river, choosing a path that would take him downstream from his small village.

At the edge of the river he paused to admire all that was before him. The glory of dawn bathed the vast fields with a light that made every living thing glow with the life from within. Even the dark and distant mountains rising from the desert floor looked as if they were dwellings for the gods. Indeed, many were said to be places only for the gods. Closer in and as far as a man could see were fields of cotton, corn, beans, squash, and melons, their leaves already turning upward to greet and worship the sun. The village men were at work. His uncle was repairing a small breech in a narrow irrigation canal, one of the many lifelines that turned the hard, sun-baked rock fertile. In the distance, young boys followed familiar trails to bring in their cattle, and the women and girls were busy grinding, weaving, teaching and telling exaggerated tales of the men folk and their oftentimes silly ways.

The vitality of youth and inexperience filled Keli’hi. I was born in this place, he said quietly. Here I will live. Here I will become a fine hunter and an honored elder among my people. I will grow old, share my knowledge with the young men. And here I will die in peace and contentment. With that solemn pledge to himself and to the future, Keli’hi whooped for joy and jumped into the river. He splashed around for a moment, watching the swift, flowing waters disappear into the desert. The young man believed he could see the ebb and flow of his own life in much the same way. He had proven himself through a deep respect for the elders, skill in the hunt, responsibility in the fields, care for his family’s well being and, not the least, his talent at kickball. Wuichutha was more than a game to the Pima. It was training, discipline and, best of all, gambling. His uncle had even won a fat calf betting on Keli’hi’s abilities. He sprang from the river and grabbed his bow and arrows. He dropped his kickball and hooked his right big toe under it. Hunting also provided time to practice for the next game.

Hemako! he yelled, the Pima equivalent of one.

Gonk!

Waik!

Thohuai! And he was off. He loved to run although he was not fast. He never won the short races at the quarter-mile track cut into the desert sand near his village. At best, he was a reliable member of the relay teams, capable of running a good race if not the fastest. Few in the village or any of the nearby villages could defeat him in a distance race. Already he had bested most runners in the 25 mile race and soon, perhaps this very year, he would best them all. Again and again he kicked the ball and with a skill admired by the men of his village, young and old, he was able to keep it rolling within the narrow confines of the trail, a feat of considerable skill. Hunting would be poor so near the village, so for many miles he lost himself in the game.

When he came to an area far enough from people to support plenty of game, he stopped playing. The supply of meat was short and the family needed his skill. This hunt was another test of his responsibility as a man. Others about his age had gone on similar lone hunts only to lose themselves completely in running, kickball, swimming or exploring some strange find in the desert. He had noticed the looks passing between the eyes of the men in the village when a youth returned empty handed or with nothing more than a few desert rats in his bag. Young Keli’hi did not want to face such looks, such unstated messages darting about him, for those glances often determined the status of boy and man.

By mid-morning he was well on his way to a successful hunt. Half a dozen fat doves, a cottontail and a jackrabbit filled his string bag. Kehi’hi had wisely not risked his arrows on the birds. A dove will fly from a man, but not very high and not very far. A good runner, even one who is not a swift sprinter, can catch them with skill. Each time a dove took to wing he simply ran after it. When it landed, the young man was already in place, rock in hand. He shot the rabbits with bow and arrow and even though the young Pima chased them at a full run, he brought them down with a single arrow each. He believed he could easily double his catch by following the river back to his village, yet he wanted more. The delight he envisioned in his mother’s eyes and the approval in the glances of the older men drove him to seek bigger game. He knew of a small, intermittent spring protected by ravines, rolling hills and a few small peaks. If any of the small, dark deer that inhabited the desert were around, they just might be enjoying those cool waters.

He drank deep from the river and ran into the desert, far from the cool sanctuary of his beloved Gila.

He had killed deer before. Old Uncle Clay Eyes, who taught him the art of hunting, had first spotted the tracks, but allowed his pupil to take the lead. They found the animal in a narrow wash leading from the river. Keli’hi crept close, making his loudest noise with the hiss of a swift, deadly arrow. Its flight was true and the deer fell with that one shot. Honoring long-standing custom, the young man presented his first kill to the man who had taught him the skills of a hunter. Such gifts were a tradition with the Pima. Even young girls learning to make baskets or clay pots would give their first creation to the teacher who had given them knowledge of the craft. Keli’hi learned well and took justifiable pride in his skills. If a deer was in the area, he would bring it down.

He found tracks leading toward the water hole and although they were days old, he followed them. Where one deer wanders, others are sure to come. He moved slowly, carefully, practiced. Success in the hunt depended far more on getting close to the target than on marksmanship.

A hunter’s awareness, an instinct for survival, something out of the ordinary caused Keli’hi to stop. Something’s wrong. Motionless and silent he waited, becoming part of the desert, nothing more than another scrawny tree, dried grasses in the wind, or a water-worn stone hidden in the sand. Something floating on the wind was not right: noise. The sound was an angry grunting, like that of a bull who does not want to leave his resting place in the desert thickets. He followed the sound more carefully than he had followed the tracks and soon observed a most strange occurrence. The grunting came from a miliga’n, a white man, a great beast of a white man. He was on all fours, crawling toward the deep greenery that meant water.

Crack’n, he grunted.

Keli’hi knew very few of the white men’s words. He’d learned them from stealthy observation of the white hunters who occasionally visited his village. Crack’n was a new word. Perhaps it meant water or perhaps it was a cry for help. On further observation he decided it was a magic word. The way the big man spit it out, it must be a curse. The miliga’n was huge. His hair was long and shaggy, but his face was clean, as with most of the white hunters. His eyes were dark. Too late, Keli’hi realized the man had seen him. The strangers stared at each other with a mix of fear and curiosity. The beast man tried to get up, but collapsed with a final, powerful grunt and did not move. The young Indian thought, Well, the beast man isn’t a Mexican. Neither is he Apache or Yavapai. Without further thought he rushed to the man’s aid. I am here to help you. I do not want to bring you any harm, he said. The man would probably not know the words, but perhaps he would understand the tone of a friendly and caring voice. He did not want to kill a white man.

That the man was alive bordered upon the amazing. His hands, knees and feet were bloody from crawling through the desert. His body was baked by the heat and his skin was red and dry. He had stopped sweating, a sign of heat stroke. Worse were the numerous deep cuts on his arms and shoulders. Someone had tried to hack the man to death. Two Mexicans. Two machetes were stuck behind the big man’s belt. One was broken in half and both were covered in dried blood. Two dead Mexicans. The slurred words pouring from the man’s mouth made no sense, but the Indian doubted that any sense could be made of them even if he understood the language. He took the machetes, hefted the man on his shoulders and dragged him toward the water hole half a mile or so away.

The walk was a struggle and the beast man vomited several times on the young Indian, but Keli’hi made the rescue. He placed the man beneath the shade of a small cottonwood tree. He quickly removed his ragged clothing, soaked it in water from the small pool and wrung it out over the man’s body. He did this several times, until he could see that the fire in his body was dying. Toward sundown the big man became aware, but seeing no threat he was content to follow the grunts, strange words and gestures of the young man who saved his life. Keli’hi fashioned a narrow drinking cup from an agave plant and let the man drink. He found a grinding hole in the hard rock near the spring. It was about half an arm length deep and the width of a spread hand. He built a smokeless fire and heated a number of rocks. He then crushed the leaves from a creosote tree and placed them in the grinding hole, which he then filled with water. He used a couple of sticks as tongs and placed the hot rocks into the hole and soon brewed a strong medicinal tea. The big man did not like its taste, but he drank it and was grateful. Later he even accepted a few bits of roasted dove.

The big man spoke more and more, but the only word Keli’hi could comprehend was Heelay, the miliga’n word for the river of his people.

Rest well tonight, said Keli’hi. Tomorrow we will eat and then I will take you to my village. He moved his hand down across his eyes, leaving them closed for a few seconds.

With that, the man smiled, nodded, closed his eyes and was soon deep in sleep.

Keli’hi slept not at all that night, partially to keep an eye upon the health of the big man and partially with concern for his own, for he knew nothing of this stranger. In the morning he cooked one of the rabbits and they ate well. As the man dressed he looked at the young Indian who had saved his life. On his face and in his eyes were the clear signs of gratitude and even respect. What’s your name? he said.

"Pi nyi maach, said Keli’hi. Pim. The words meant I don’t understand and he tried to look confused to help convey the message. You’re a Pima, then, said the white man. I’ve heard of you folk. I’m Bull McKenzie."

Keli’hi smiled and nodded, not knowing what else to do.

Bull stood up. Clearly he’d recovered much of his strength and believed he was ready to move on. He swooned and fell to the ground. He looked up, smiled weakly and spoke. Well, Mr. Pima-whoever, my prospects surely changed the day we crossed paths. That’s what I’m gonna call you. Come on, Prospect, where are we headed? Let’s get to it.

The man’s words were still confusing, but his meaning was clear. Keli-hi—Prospect—stood up and pointed to the north and east. Heelay, he said. And the two men began a long, long journey.

Chapter Three

Prospect and his massive burden were at last cooled by the long shadows from the ragged mountains to the distant west, a friendly darkness that reached out to embrace them. The big man was strong. His will to live was stronger, yet the suffering he’d endured was exacting a terrible price. He was singing, but the happy enthusiasm that belched from his mouth was no death song. He sounded more like the braves and elders drunk on the fermented juices of the bright red fruit plucked from the saguaro cactus. The blazing heat of the sun had entered and possessed his body, but he seemed to neither know nor care, for his song was accompanied by the silliest grin the young Indian had ever seen.

The fever is on him. His foolish noises might prove to be a death song after all. This was a problem because the Pima are a very reverent people when it comes to death, so reverent that the word is not used in conversation. It is commonly said that the deceased passes on to Morning Land, a happy place in the East where the earth is even more green and growing than on the fertile banks of the Gila. If this man dies he must be buried quickly. Keli’hi had no digging tools and the desert ground was hard. He moved faster and spoke reassuring words.

At last they reached home and several braves rushed to his aid, including his best friend, Circling Hawk. They took Bull directly to Prospect’s home—that is to say, to the home of his parents—which was located at the western edge of the village. His mother and sister took charge immediately and cleaned the man’s terrible wounds. Prospect took particular pride in the swift and sure movements of his sister’s hands. Only a year younger, she also was regarded as an adult. Nature had pronounced her so with the female bleeding. The dark tattoos on her chin announced her rank to the world. Like her brother, she learned quickly and well from her elders. She was respected for her skills and admired for her beauty. Her name was Si’alig, which means Dawn.

Keli’hi’s father, Koachk, took him aside to speak with several elders. He told his story without elaboration or bragging about his own ordeal in hauling the big man across the desert. That evening while the women ministered to the wounded man, a council convened to discuss the situation. Keli’hi attended, but being young was not encouraged to speak. This was his first council and he wanted to observe carefully before speaking. All the men had heard his story before entering the council hall anyway.

We do not know if he is friend or enemy.

You are correct. We do not know.

He has not harmed any of the Pima.

Any that we know. He comes from the south. Perhaps he has harmed our brothers, the Papago.

Perhaps. Perhaps he has helped them. Again, we do not know.

He has fought the Mexicans.

And we should count that in his favor.

For now, yes.

We know he is a man who has harmed no one here. We know also that he is a man in desperate need. He should be welcomed until he heals, dies or reveals himself as an enemy.

The last words were spoken by the chief and, as he had so far proven himself a wise and thoughtful leader, the others heeded his words. Bull McKenzie would live for a time as a welcome guest among the Pima. How long was a matter of conjecture. Most believed he would not survive his wounds, his hard time in the desert or the fire within that burned within his body and mind. Keli’hi smiled, but to himself. These men have not seen him fight the sun or the desert or the agonies of his own body. The beast man will live.

Bull’s mind wandered, traveling to the mysterious Crack’n. Keli’hi had never heard of such a place, but felt that it must be very special or powerful. The desire to see this place Crack’n again is keeping the big man alive. Even though