HUNTED

In The Footsteps of the Ancients

by Hank Barone

1

An inhuman scream pierced the mountain silence.

I wheeled my horse.

An Apache warrior whipped his mustang up the trail. He charged straight at us. Neck strained, veins popping below satanic black eyes locked on me. Half his face was yellow, the other side, white with vertical blue streaks.

Above his powerful shoulders, he wielded a war ax in his massive hand. Its wide blade gleamed in the sunlight. I drove my heels into my horse’s ribs, jumping him into a full gallop.

Slouched in the saddle clad in ratty old buckskin trousers, a faded blue flannel shirt and a battered felt cowboy hat, I was riding through the ponderosas, whistling, along a mountain trail high above my home in the valley when the warrior came for me. Lobo, a black shepherd and my constant companion, led the way.

I bellowed and my palomino gelding, Sundance, rocketed right up an impossibly steep hill. A sure-footed mountain horse, his hooves bit into the steep ground. Dislodged rocks clattered down the slope.

The saddle creaked and groaned as I leaned forward clinging to the horn with one hand. We’d never make it! Lobo sprinted beside us.

But Sundance was equal to the task. His Herculean leap saved us a lot of ground as the Apache had to follow the trail around its U-turn and then back to where we landed.

At the second switch-back, I looked straight down on the Indian. Lobo leaped down on the charging warrior, carrying him off his horse and over the precipice. The Apache let out a terrifying scream as he fell 40 feet with Lobo clawing his back. I pulled up Sundance and dismounted, running to the edge to look for them. They both lay still on a rock ledge.

Not Lobo! I silently screamed. I’d had Lobo since he was a small bundle of fur only six weeks old. I got him four years ago and we were always together. I thought more of him than I did most humans, not that I've had that much experience with people. Breaking out in a cold sweat, stomach doing flip-flops, I remounted and glanced back to be sure no more Indians approached. We plunged down the rocky path. Sundance slipped and slid on the loose shale to where they lay on the edge of the trail. As we skidded to a halt and I leaped from the saddle, I saw by the angle of the Indian’s neck that it was broken. He no longer looked so large and fearsome lying there, loose and shattered.

When I got to Lobo, his rib cage rose and fell, but he was unconscious. Landing on top of the Apache must have broken his fall. As I ran my shaking hands over him to see if anything was broken, I noticed a large lump on the side of his head. I exhaled, unaware that I’d been holding my breath.

"Lobo. You're okay. No one's as brave as you. Get up." It surprised me that my voice trembled. I couldn't lose any friends. I didn't have many. Besides my dad, Lobo and Sundance, the only other close friend I have is Elena de Alba from the ranch next to ours.

I lifted my limp, 100-pound dog, laying him gently across my shoulder and struggled to mount Sundance, sliding Lobo down and across my lap.

" Wake up, Lobo. This won't be very comfortable, but you're tough. We have to get back to Dad. I hope he's all right."

We edged down the trail and I let Sundance pick his own way. It looked like my bad luck hadn’t ended. I had been so busy with my immediate problems that I hadn’t looked down into the valley for some time. I swallowed hard and gasped. Flames shot up from our house and out buildings. How had I missed all that smoke? What happened to Dad? The thought left my heart in my throat. Smoke filled my lungs and the fire crackled.

I wanted to set my horse flying down the trail, but I got a grip on my emotions and forced myself to be calm and think. My dad had brought me up to think before I act. Sometimes that’s almost impossible for a fifteen-year old to do, but I realized I wouldn’t be much help if I ran into a trap before I got there. There could be Indians anywhere and lots of them. It must be them who started the fires. Maybe we're at war. We'd been worried about that for some time because of the soldiers’ attacks on Apache camps.

Recently, Lafayette, our bearded mountain-man friend, who lived with Apaches with his Apache wife, stopped by our ranch on his way to rendezvous. He said, “The soldiers wiped out our camp of several hundred, killing them all, men, women and children. I was lucky to be away at the time, but my wife and son weren’t. They’re dead. The Army claimed the Apaches caused it all, but I lived with them and know the Apaches have been abiding by the current treaty. White men betrayed their promises to the Apaches again. It makes me ashamed.”

It wasn’t possible to live in this country without encountering the Apache and we always maintained a respectful relationship even though most were never actually friendly.

Natiotish, an Apache who stopped by once in a while, told us a couple of years ago, in 1863, soldiers captured a Chiricahua Apache chief named Mangas Colorados under a flag of truce while attending peace talks. They claimed they killed him trying to escape. He’d been tortured. It was no wonder the Apaches hated the white man.

Lobo began to squirm and whine.

I dismounted and eased him down with my arms under his chest and backside. His tongue sloshed across my mouth as I knelt beside him.. He wobbled a little at first, but seemed to be okay otherwise.

"You were great, Lobo. You took out that Apache and saved us. You're the bravest friend in the world." He rammed his head into my chest and then licked my face again. I hugged him. "Enough. We have to get moving. Dad might be in trouble. Scout, Lobo."

We trotted down the rocky path again, on the lookout this time. Lobo dragged one foot a little. Our ranch house, or the remnants of it, lay a half-mile away and there was no telling what waited for us in the trees or behind the boulders along our route. I had my Lobo scouting ahead. If enemies lurked in the shadows, he would seek them out.

Zach Malone’s my name. My dad, Al, and I live alone on our 3,200-acre ranch in the Territory of New Mexico. Dad and Mom claimed the land in 1849 through the Donation Acts, encouraging settlers to claim free land in remote areas like New Mexico. Mom died when I was five. Our wagon flipped over and crushed her. I was lucky, thrown clear and only bruised. At the time it didn’t seem lucky to have lost my mom. I still see Mom’s crushed body in nightmares and sometimes wake up soaked in sweat.

I dropped my hand to the gun holstered at my waist. A .44 caliber Single Action Army revolver known as the Peacemaker. It boosted my confidence. I checked my Winchester 44-40 caliber lever-action rifle and laid it across my lap. I’ve killed deer and elk for food, and even a mountain lion about to attack one of our horses, but never set my sites on a man. The reins slid through my sweaty palms. My grip tightened, but my hands refused to cooperate. Wondering if Dad was alive or dead sent chills through me. I wanted to pick up the speed, but kept Sundance at a steady, cautious pace.

With Lobo leading the way, I dismounted when we set foot in the valley so we could approach the smoking ruins without sound. There were too many hiding places in the forest, but Lobo and Sundance had better hearing and sense of smell than I, so we might be all right. I carried my rifle in my right hand and led Sundance with the other.

We circled through the trees, hoping to avoid an ambush. All the while, my stomach swirled like a butter churn. I tried to relax and silence my growing panic. Hang on and think positive, I thought.
As we came out of the trees without mishap and over a hill, my whole body turned ice cold. In the field, half way to our now smoldering home, sprawled several bodies. The sight stopped my heart.

“No, no, no!” I screamed.

I threw myself on Sundance and spurred him to a full gallop straight toward them. Lobo drew away from us in the all-out dash. The adrenaline pumped panic through my veins.

 

 

2

Lobo reached them first. He sniffed and whined at one of the bodies. He nudged it with his head, but got no reaction. My heart sank as I recognized my father.

Throwing myself off Sundance, I hit the ground running. I dropped to my knees and grabbed my dad’s shoulders, shaking him. He didn’t wake. I buried my face against the cold skin of his neck. Too late. I let out a cold-blooded wail I didn't recognize as coming from me. Lobo nudged me with his head. Tears welled up and streamed down my cheeks. Lobo woofed and licked my face. I hugged him and he shoved his head against my chest. He'd loved my dad, too.

"It's a nightmare, Lobo. But we'll never wake up from it."

I don't know how long I knelt there, unable to move or take my eyes away from the look of helplessness frozen on Dad's face. Perhaps his last thought had been of me; the fix I'd be in. Gone forever. I had no other family. I could hear him telling me how tough I was. I didn't feel tough at all. It was over for me now. I knew it. Nothing more to say.

A powerful bittersweet feeling constricted my chest. My dad had been a kind and gentle man. He liked people and treated them with respect. Apaches lived and believed differently than we do, but it never bothered Dad.

He didn’t believe the saying, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

For a while, thinking about Apaches killing Dad and hating them, I drifted far away in my mind. I relived a talk with Dad a couple of years ago. We sat in front of our fireplace talking about Apaches and some white men's prejudice.

"Zach, way before you were born, I came to realize that different isn't bad, it's simply different. As a young man, I went to sea. Our ship ran into a typhoon and sank off the Burma coast."

"If the sea was strong enough to sink a ship, how'd you save yourself?"

"Three of us hung onto a capsized lifeboat. We were the only ones left. It was the scariest time of my life. The mountain-sized ocean swells rolled and pitched and the howling wind deafened us. The sea tossed us around for hours. To this day I have no idea how we hung on. When the storm finally passed, we ended up not far from land. The typhoon exhausted us so much, all we could do was hang on and float there. Some Burmese rescued us in a small boat."

"Where’s Burma?"

"It's sandwiched between India and China. Anyway, after making it ashore, we lived with the natives, who were as different from us as cats and dogs. But I loved those people. They were as likeable as anyone I've ever met. Devout Buddhists, the fact they weren't Christians didn't matter to me at all. They were a graceful and dignified people."

Dad met other people in his travels every bit as unlike us as the Burmese. In listening to his adventures, I came to realize that different isn't bad. People exist everywhere with different beliefs, but are friendly and kind. The differences don't matter unless you make them matter.

My dad believed in the rights of others no matter what race or beliefs. Why had the Apaches attacked us? We always gave them food. Then they kill us. Revenge! They lumped us all together like the white man’s saying “The only good Indian . . .” Still, when I asked myself why he died, my own beliefs weakened.

I finally stood and, glancing around, saw my father had accounted for five Indians lying dead around him. I struggled to pick him up and carried him to our charred house. Lobo ran ahead and Sundance trailed along behind. After laying him on the ground near what had been our home for so many years, I searched for our shovel so I could dig a fresh grave on the hillside where Mom already rested. A pretty site, three large cottonwoods shaded it. I dug the grave with what remained of the shovel. I stood there beside the two graves, numb for a long while, more alone than ever before. Scared, too, under the rage. My knees trembled as if they might give out

"I'm sorry I didn't get back in time, Dad. I ran into some trouble, too, but not as much as you did. This is a beautiful spot next to Mom. I hope you like it here. I promise I'll remember our good times and be the kind of man you were. I'll keep reading and learning. You always set me on the right path. I'll never forget you. I love you."

I stood there for a long time. Looking around at the devastation, I remembered all the work we had put into the place; we had built the house and out buildings with our own hands; the backbreaking wood chopping; the torture of digging the post holes for the corral; hauling the stones for the fireplace, which now stood by itself.

All Dad’s books destroyed.

I didn’t go to school. Dad taught me my lessons and always had books to read. I still remember Mom reading to me by candle light most nights at bedtime. Learning had been important to both of them.

Mom’s death devastated Dad. We were a close family and they were best friends as well as husband and wife. Even so, it took Dad only a short time till he smiled again. He showed me what it means to get up after you’ve been knocked down. Dad, the strongest individual I’ve known, fought back from his sorrow and loneliness. It helped him that I was so young.

I looked through the ruins of our home for anything salvageable. Nothing remained except a few pots from the kitchen and tools.

"Ah, Lobo. What're we going to do now? We have to get outa here. Dad showed me how to be a man, but I don’t know if I have what it takes."

I wondered where I’d go. If we were at war with the Apaches, what place would be safe? I felt sorry for myself and I wanted to say, “Life isn’t fair.” But I remembered old Lafayette’s response to that not long after losing his own wife and son. “Tough. How can life be fair? Only people can be fair.” I sat for a while, not knowing what to do next. What would Dad do?

As I thought about him, I struggled to put my bitterness aside. It’s difficult to be logical when the blood has rushed to your head, but I knew I needed to be careful. All alone. Dad couldn’t help me or give me his sound advice. At that moment, deflated and sick to my stomach, I thought of Elena de Alba and her family. What if the Apaches attacked Elena's ranch, too?

At round-up time, the de Alba family from the ranch next to ours would help out, and we’d help them. My friend, Elena, is amazing. She’s my age and not only the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, but she can do anything a boy her age can.

"Come on, Lobo. Time to go. They may need help. If not, maybe they can help us." I motioned Lobo to follow and trudged down the slope toward Sundance. I found myself about to lose control. Tears again ran down my face. When I thought of Dad and my promise, I regained control, refusing to give in to panic. Lobo thrust his head up under my hand as we walked. Having him near gave me some comfort. He loped ahead to Sundance who whinnied softly to him. We had to get started for the de Alba's, but my feet felt like a couple anvils weighted them down.

I took a glance back at the hillside graves. I remembered Mom’s warmth and Dad’s steadiness. I wondered what would happen now. I didn’t know anybody else except Elena and her dad.
When we first settled on our ranch, Elena’s mother was ill and Mom helped take care of her. Since Elena and I were the same age, Mom always took me along with her when she cared for la señora de Alba. We didn’t see as much of each other after her mother died, but remained amigos. Mine died a year later.

I gathered up what I could carry and packed it in my saddlebags. Fire destroyed all my food and clothes. I had some ammunition I always carried with me. Before leaving, I found some venison jerky and filled a canteen with water.

As I rode Sundance away through the thorny locusts and bristlecone pine, I wondered if I would ever be back. Death seemed more likely. Shoulders slumped and head down, I said good-bye to Mom and Dad in my mind. Thinking about my dad, I realized that as long as I could remember him, he'd still be around to help me.

The white man’s treatment of the Indians shamed my dad. A proud man, this constant betrayal didn’t sit well with him. Natiotish also told us of Mangas Colorados’ son-in-law, another Apache chief, Cochise, who the soldiers captured under a flag of truce. He was lucky and escaped, but they hanged those who traveled with him, and so the Apache Wars began. Apaches attacked us, even though the one Lobo had taken over the cliff wore war paint like no Indian I ever saw.

Under other circumstances I would have understood why the Apache struck out at us. But I couldn’t forgive them for what they had done. At least not now. It was easier to hate than to feel the sorrow.

I remembered something else Dad said when he explained the Apaches to me.

"Son, you have to understand the Apache think differently than the white man. They don't even think the same as other Indian tribes. Unlike the Pueblo groups with their slow farming seasons, the Apache world is one of constant movement and action. There's interaction and sometimes even inter-marriages between the two, but conflict as well, largely instigated by the Apache groups who raid for anything they can't trade for. They believe if you aren’t strong enough to keep what's yours, you don’t deserve it."

Lobo limped even more as we plodded along the trail toward the de Alba ranch. I guess the rest he had while I buried Dad caused him to stiffen up. Pain never seemed to bother him, though. I remember when just a pup, he ran into a tree at full speed while he was looking back at me. It was a terrible collision and yet he never even whimpered.

At the end of our valley, the trees thickened again. We came to a rocky, pine-covered slope we had to descend. I slowed the pace. To hurry could mean death. We threaded our way down the steep, narrow trail. I leaned back in the creaking saddle. The only other noise was Sundance’s hooves striking the loose shale. Fifty yards down, three bull elk ambled across our path. The trail flattened out and followed the contours of the hills and forest. Some large Ponderosas still grew here.

I had a hard time holding my head up. If only Dad were here to take charge.

To avoid being spotted, I chose our path with care. The shadowed places everywhere made me shiver. I half expected the shock of a bullet.

Lobo led the way, scouting ahead, making no sound. When he reached the crest of a ridge, he stopped and let out a low growl as the hackles stood up all over his back.