CUERVO WENT DOWN the cliff with an agility that denied his age. In places it was necessary for Churro or Bavispe to assist him, but for a man looking more like a withered stick than a human being, he moved with speed and surprising deftness.
They reached the valley bottom and halted, looking out over the crowd.
A woman was weeping over the remains of Vaza, a lonely figure crouched down inside a semi-circle of onlookers who turned away as Cuervo hobbled forwards and lifted one gnarled arm. Bavispe stood close behind the ancient man, but made no attempt to speak.
‘Do not cry for Vaza.’ The aged, whispery voice carried through the silence. ‘For he was, in his own way, an honorable man. So is the one who killed him. The fight was fair and the Spirit chose the victor. The one called Azul is as one of us. To be honored as a true friend of Bavispe’s clan. Who heeds me, heeds him. Let it be that way.’
The crowd of Indians parted to let the ancient brujo through. Bavispe came after, then Churro and Matanza, Azul and old Urraca.
The woman went on weeping.
They moved out past the Apaches and squatted down before the large hogan. The clan grouped about them, eager to learn what was going on. Bavispe turned to Azul.
‘I will send a party to escort the Old One to Taggart’s home, and I will send men to watch the horses. I do not think there should be too many, in case the other whites fear an attack.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Azul, ‘that is the best way. If they stay out of sight Fogarty and the others will have no reason to suspect anything.’
‘Good,’ said the chief, ‘it shall be so. Churro will go with you to the ranch and I will send my best warriors to the valley.’
Five Indians, led by Matanza, were detailed to guard the horses. Churro and five others formed a protective circle about Cuervo as the ancient brujo rode out from the rancheria.
They rode mostly in silence, partly from habit, but also because the younger men were clearly awed by the presence of the withered oldster. Cuervo himself appeared amused by the impression he created, bird-bright eyes darting about him and a smile showing as best it could through the wrinkles tracking his face. Azul, too, was a little awed: he had never encountered a genuine brujo before. A rancheria of any size would usually have a shaman, his position that of doctor and priest. He would officiate at religious ceremonies, and in spiritual matters his authority was final; he would also tend the sick and teach those who cared to listen of the healing arts. In tribal councils his opinion was sought as being equal to that of the war leaders: the shaman was an important member of the clan.
But a brujo was something different.
More than just a shaman, the brujo was considered a holy man, a magician. He was a healer and a giver of the law. He would preside at ceremonies and his advice and guidance would be sought in council. But beyond all this, he was revered as one touched by the Spirit, a man in regular and close contact with the Shadow World at the end of the Star Road. A brujo could see things denied to other men, hear voices in silence. He was a mystic and a medium: he was holy.
Often a brujo would live alone, owing allegiance to no particular group, but available to all. Sometimes he would travel with one chosen clan, or a rancheria might be built close to his dwelling place—if he permitted—so that gradually it became accepted that that clan war. personal to the holy man.
Azul studied Cuervo, wondering that the stunted ancient could ride so easily. He wondered, too, if the brujo had not arranged the fight with Vaza to maintain unity in the group.
Then the tattooed head swung round and glittering eyes seemed to probe into his mind.
Vaza was no good. You did well to kill him.’ To Azul’s amazement, Cuervo spoke in fluent English. He lusted after power. It was his ambition to take Bavispe’s place and lead the clan into war. Bavispe is a good chief; sensible: he knows that if we fight the Americans now we can only lose. He knows there are too many of them, with too many guns and soldiers and railroads. Cañón Verde is a good place to live: it would be stupid to throw it away by attacking the ranches nearby.’
He chuckled, seeming to enjoy the half-breed’s surprise. Azul wondered if the old man had read his mind, or was just a very good diplomat. Cuervo chuckled again, nod-ding.
‘You wonder how I can speak your father’s language so well.’ He smiled as Azul ducked his head in agreement. ‘I have lived a very long time. Longer than I can remember. Given that much time, it is important to use it well, and one of the best uses is to learn. I have learnt many things. I speak Spanish as well as any hacendado. And French. But the English I learnt from a man you would have liked. His name was John Hedges. A small man with a great deal of courage and an even greater amount of understanding. He was a friend to the Apache, a friend to Cuchillo Oro.’
Azul’s surprise grew. He had heard of the legendary Cuchillo Oro, named for the great golden-hilted knife he ‘ carried in his quest for vengeance against the white man who had destroyed his family and maimed the Apache. His father had known the Mimbreño and sometimes excited his son with tales of Cuchillo’s exploits. Like his own grandfather, the great Mangas Colorado, Cuchillo had become a symbol of Apache independence.
‘Yes: a very good friend,’ Cuervo went on. A man of honor. He was a teacher who believed that all men had the right to learn, no matter what their color. Why do you help Taggart and his wife? Are they friends?’
The abrupt change of subject took Azul by surprise. For a moment, he was confused, Cuervo’s direct question prompting him to assess his own reasons.
‘No,’ he murmured, ‘not really friends. As I told Bavispe and the others, I found Taggart hurt by Fogarty’s men. He made a bargain with me: a horse for his life.’
‘You saved his life,’ said the brujo. ‘You brought him back to his home and fetched the white doctor to him. Why do anymore? Your bargain was met, but now you continue to help them. Why?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Azul shrugged. ‘Perhaps because they are threatened by Fogarty. He wants to own all this land. I think he would drive the Apache out if he could; but Taggart is friendly.’
‘For his own reasons,’ murmured Cuervo. ‘He plans to build his ranch up; and for that, he needs help. The Chiricahua mustangs lend a fresh bloodline to his stock, and his trading buys our protection. It would have been easy to take his horses and drive him out, but it is better that we learn to live with the whites. And them with us.’
Azul nodded. ‘My father told me that. It makes a great deal of sense, though it is hard to do.’
‘Peace is seldom bought cheaply,’ said Cuervo. ‘Men are quarrelsome animals who find it easier to take than to give. And once they have taken one thing, they usually see something else they want. The whites suffer more from that than we do: I do not think they will be satisfied until they own all of this country.’
‘Yes,’ said Azul, ‘I think that, too. But surely there is a middle path? We can learn to live together.’
‘The man who walks the middle path will look at the sides and wonder if he can make the path wider,’ said Cuervo. ‘It is difficult to stay on the path and hold its boundaries firm.’
Azul nodded, not knowing what to reply. The brujo sighed and fell silent.
They came closer to the Taggart ranch.
Mary Taggart was on the stoop, shading her eyes against the sun and holding her husband’s Winchester in her right hand. She lifted the rifle as they came in across the grass, and Azul rode out in front, calling for her to stay calm.
She had changed into a dark blue dress dotted with white spots, and her hair was piled up on top of her head. She looked recently bathed, but the hollows remained beneath her eyes, and her face was still drawn with worry. She lowered the Winchester as Azul approached.
‘I thought you were fetching help,’ she said. ‘Not a trading party.’
‘Protection.’ Azul swung clear of the saddle ‘You got more friends than you knew. There’s Chiricahua guarding the horses and I’ve brought a medicine man to look at Jody.’
‘A dirty old Apache?’ Her lip curled. ‘What can he do?’
‘I’m half Apache.’ Azul felt a flash of anger. ‘I’ve helped you, haven’t I? Maybe Cuervo can do more than Shelby.’
‘I can try.’ The brujo’s English shocked Mary Taggart even more than it had surprised Azul. ‘May I come inside?’
The woman gasped and stepped a pace backwards, staring at the strange old man with wide, nervous eyes.
Cuervo waited politely.
Mary nodded, biting her lower lip.
Cuervo swung down from the pad saddle, leaving his mustang ground-hitched as he hobbled over to the porch and went in through the door. The woman followed him inside, and Azul motioned for Churro and the others to dismount.
The Apaches led their ponies into the corral, Churro taking the Arab with him. They checked the water and the fodder, then came back to the cabin and hunkered down outside, crouching on the porch like dark-brown statues; waiting.
Azul followed the woman and the brujo inside.
Jody Taggart was asleep, his face pale and sheened with sweat. His lips moved as though he was filled up by fever dreams, and his skin had a waxy pallor like that of a corpse.
Cuervo produced a slender knife from under his furs and cut the bandages on Jody’s stomach. He used the same knife to cut through the stitches Doctor Shelby had used to cover the gap left by his extraction of the bullet.
Then he grunted to himself and turned to Mary.
‘Boil water. Quickly. Your man is dying now, but I think I can save him.’
His voice held sufficient authority that the woman swung round and went over to the stove without any question.
Cuervo looked at Azul: ‘I have everything that will cure him, except the will. That can only come from him. I do not believe he has it. If he was Apache, I could mend him. But he is white, and might die under the cure unless he has something to help him. I do not have enough peyote to use it all here, so you must go into Comstock and fetch me some white medicine: morphine, I think they call it. Can you do that?’
Azul nodded and ran out of the cabin.
The Arab stallion was angry at being ridden again, but not exercised enough to be tired. And it was the fastest horse available. Azul persuaded Churro that he could travel alone, and got the big grey horse saddled.
He reached Comstock thirty minutes faster than on the mustang.
Shelby was not pleased to see him.
The doctor’s face was a mess of bruises, and he moved bent over. Like a man badly hurt around the sides and belly.
‘What happened?’ Azul stepped into the house before Shelby got a chance to close the door. ‘Who beat you up?’
Shelby winced through the spread of his swollen lips.
‘Dan Fogarty. Who the hell d’you think? Him an’ his hired guns.’
‘He’s two short now,’ Azul grinned. ‘I guess it was you told them about me?’
Shelby nodded. ‘I wasn’t left much choice. Who’d you kill? Bulmer an’ Hook?’
Azul nodded.
‘Thought they hadn’t been around much lately,’ said Shelby. ‘But you still got Cyrus Rack to handle. He’s meaner’n the other two set together.’
‘When the time comes.’ Azul left the sentence open, floating.
Shelby looked at him. ‘Yeah. I even believe you could. Meanwhile, what the hell you want? If Fogarty hears you’ve been to see me, I’m in a whole lotta fresh trouble.’
‘Your problem,’ grunted Azul; succinctly. ‘I need morphine.’
‘For Jody?’ Shelby got a look of professional concern over the raw fear on his face. ‘If he ain’t pulled through by now, he’s dead.’
‘No.’ Azul shook his head. ‘He might live if he gets morphine.’
‘I don’t have that much.’ Shelby poured himself a drink. Tossed it down in one fast swallow, and filled his glass a second time. ‘Besides, if Fogarty heard I sold you the stuff I’d be in real trouble.’
Azul smiled. It was a cold and lonely smile. It accentuated the bleak planes of his face, emphasizing his Apache heritage, and transforming his features into an ugly, menacing mask.
Shelby downed his second drink and went pale. He put the glass on the table and stepped over to his cabinet. ‘Morphine! Right. You know how much?’
‘Enough to take a man through an operation.’ Azul banked on fear to control the doctor’s supply. ‘Allow for a little more. And give me the right amounts or I’ll come back and kill you.’
Shelby licked his lips. Sweat broke out on his forehead and began to trickle over the bruises around his cheeks and mouth. He unlocked the cabinet and produced two bottles of clear fluid. Then he found a hypodermic syringe in a leather case, and set the whole bundle on the table. ‘Make sure you wash the needle.’ He tapped the case. ‘There’s a spare inside. Need washing before it’s used, too. Do it in boiling water, then use alcohol.’
‘Come and show me,’ Azul said. ‘You’re the doctor.’
Shelby shook his head: ‘Only so long as I stay alive. If Fogarty knew I was helping you, he’d have me killed.’
‘You’re that afraid?’ Azul asked. ‘You let him run this town?’
‘He owns it,’ said Shelby. ‘Grants from the government have made him the biggest cattleman around. He owns Mengers like most people own a horse. Jesus! Poor old Johnny Mengers don’t own a pocket of his own. He couldn’t pull a sock on without checking his pockets first, in case Fogarty left a message there.’
‘He’s still the law,’ Azul said. ‘Why don’t he call in a U.S. Marshal?’
‘And buck Fogarty?’ Shelby sounded genuinely surprised. ‘I thought I’d explained that. All John Mengers wants is an easy life. He wants to collect his pay and be left alone. He knows that if he upsets Dan Fogarty, he gets dumped. Either Rack calls him out an’ kills him, or Dan buys off the next election. Either way, John Mengers gets dumped. That man’s fighting to hang on.’
‘Sad way to live.’ Azul gathered up the vials and the hypodermic. ‘Not much respect left.’
‘He’s alive,’ grunted Shelby. ‘Like me. Which is better: the respect, or the living?’
‘Depends on the man, I guess.’ Azul turned to the door. ‘On what he thinks of himself.’
‘In my case, not much,’ said Shelby; sourly. ‘In Mengers’s case, a whole lot: he thinks he’s a big man, so long as Fogarty lets him bark. Watch out for him.’
Azul nodded and went through the door. He stowed the morphine and the syringe inside his saddlebags, and then mounted the Arab stallion again and walked the big horse down to the end of the side street. He left Comstock the same way he had come in: quietly, through the rear alleys.
He got back to the Taggart spread as fast as the stallion could make it, but it was still nightfall before he got there.
The silently drifting shape of a Chiricahua warrior passed him through the gate, and when he reached the cabin he saw two more Indians standing guard outside.
Cuervo was inside the house, preparing herbs on the stove as Mary Taggart watched him with bright, tired eyes. She smiled as Azul came in, looking at him like she was greeting an old friend.
‘Did you get it?’ Cuervo asked.
Azul nodded. ‘Sure. And a syringe.’
‘Good.’ The brujo went back to his herbs. ‘We might be able to save him.’
Azul sat down. He felt a deep weariness that seemed to fill his body and drain the energy from it. It was unusual for him, and he wondered if he had not made a mistake in deciding to help Taggart. Then he pushed the thought from his mind: he was already committed too far to back out, so the only way left to go was onwards.
Cuervo turned away from his aromatic brew and smiled.
‘It will be ready soon. Let’s give Taggart the white magic now.’
Azul stood up, nodding. They went into the bedroom where Jody Taggart lay sweating and mumbling in his sleep. Cuervo had already gotten alcohol and hot water ready, so it was a matter of moments to cleanse the rancher’s arm and inject the morphine. Azul was surprised at the deftness of the ancient brujo’s touch: it was as though he knew all about white medicine, as surely as any doctor.
‘Now we must wait a little while,’ murmured Cuervo, ‘before tending the big wound.’
At first, Mary Taggart wanted to stay with her husband, but Cuervo persuaded her to leave the bedroom and get some sleep in an armchair in the main part of the cabin. The woman agreed reluctantly, but no sooner was she settled in the chair than her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep.
Azul could feel the effects of the fight and the riding and lack of sleep beginning to numb his body. He was capable of going on, but knew that his reactions must get slowed down in time. If Fogarty chose to attack the ranch, or Cyrus Rack decided to call him out, that weariness might make the fraction of a second’s difference between life and death: he decided to grab some sleep.
Churro was outside the cabin, a dark, immobile shape in the night. Azul hunkered down beside him.
‘How does it go?’ The Apache spoke in the Chiricahua dialect.
Azul shrugged. ‘Cuervo thinks there may be a chance, but only time can tell.’
‘The Old One is a great healer,’ Churro grunted. ‘If there is a chance, then he will take it.’
‘I know,’ Azul said. ‘I do not think that Fogarty will attack tonight, so I am going to rest. If anything happens, wake me.’
Churro nodded and went back to his vigil.
Azul stood up, feeling the stiffness in his back and arm where Vaza’s cuts were healing. He walked over to the bunkhouse and splashed water in his face. Then he stretched out on the nearest bed and fell instantly asleep.
He woke as the first rays of the sun began to filter across the valley. Somewhere a bird was singing and he recognized the notes of an oriole. More calls sounded, swelling the chorus as the woodlands and meadows woke up to greet the new day. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up, cautiously testing the wounds decorating his body. Cuervo had applied salves back on the ledge, and the ointments appeared to be healing him more swiftly than usual. He smiled to himself, wondering if Jody Taggart was undergoing the same fast recovery. Then he stripped off and began to work the pump. The water was cold, tingling on his skin and bringing him fully awake. He felt rested and fit. And very hungry.
Churro was still outside the cabin, dew frosting his long black hair. He rose as Azul approached.
‘I have sent the others farther out. If anyone comes they will tell us.’
‘Good,’ Azul nodded. ‘I will get us some food.’
He went inside the cabin. The woman was still in the chair, her legs drawn up beneath her and her face resting on the arm. She was sound asleep. Azul walked past her, making no more sound than a cat.
In the bedroom, Cuervo was squatted in a corner, watching Taggart. The rancher was breathing quietly, the fever seemingly departed. Cuervo raised a hand, indicating silence, then eased to his feet. He shuffled to the door, beckoning for the half-breed to follow. His stick made a dull tapping sound on the bare planks, and Mary Taggart woke up as they came in.
‘I have done everything I can,’ murmured the brujo. The wounds are clean and the salves I applied will help his insides heal. The rest depends on him. I will leave certain ointments with you, but what he needs most is rest and the will to live.’
He set out a row of little pots and rawhide bags, explaining to the woman how she should mix them and apply them. Then he sat down and waited while she prepared food. For so old a man he had a remarkable appetite, smacking his lips and complimenting her on the quality of her cooking.
When he was finished he nibbed contentedly at his stomach and nodded his head so that the tattoos danced up and down.
‘It has been a long time since I tasted white food. I had almost forgotten how good it can be.’
He drained the last of the coffee and stood up. Churro, who had not enjoyed his breakfast, followed him eagerly.
‘I can do no more here,’ said Cuervo, so we shall go now.’
Azul and Churro brought the ponies round. On the stoop, an incongruous farewell was in process. The brujo was kissing Mary Taggart’s hand, bowing as he did so. His natural stoop was such that when he ben: over, the woman was forced to duck her body so that she appeared to be curtseying. Cuervo murmured something that made her smile, then turned away.
‘The language was not the only thing I picked up from the French,’ he said, smiling. ‘And it is not often a man so old as me gets a chance to hold the hand of a pretty woman.’
Azul helped him mount his pony. Cuervo looked down at him.
‘I do not think we shall meet again, but I shall do what I can to help you. Churro will leave a man close enough to watch the cabin. If any attack should come in force, then he will warn us and we shall come to help. Otherwise, it is better that the whites do not know of our friendship. If Fogarty heard that Bavispe’s people aided you, he might persuade the authorities to attack the Cañón Verde.
Azul nodded.
‘There is another thing,’ Cuervo continued. ‘The woman. She, too, is dangerous. Remember that.’
He turned his mustang and rode away. Churro raised a hand in farewell and went after him. The other warriors appeared from the ridge and the meadow, forming their protective ring around the ancient brujo.
Azul watched for a spell, then looked at the woman. She smiled and brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘What now?’
‘We got a ranch to run,’ Azul said. ‘You’ve got a sick husband to tend, and I got horses to look after.’
‘Yes.’ She became abruptly serious. ‘You’re right. And Daniel could attack us if he takes a fancy.’
‘He’s already taken that,’ muttered the half-breed. ‘Now it’s just a question of stopping him from taking any more.’