March, 2010

Issue #6

White Hawk
by Kenneth Mark Hoover

I walked between the bodies. Everyone was dead. Horses, dogs, men.

The smoke from the burning wagons towered like black pillars against the blue, unwinking sky. Canvas from the canopy ribs snapped and tore in flaming shreds. Sometimes the wind moaned through the broken wheels like a ghost trying to find his way home.

There were a lot of ghosts here.

Jake leaned forward in his saddle. "I don't know why we live here, Marshal Marwood. The desert...it kills people."

A young girl lay at my feet. Her green dress was torn. The desert didn't do this, Jake."

"Apache? Savage enough. And they didn't just count coup."

I studied the arrow in the back of a man. He was face down, holding the girl. He had tried to protect her with his last breath. Her father, maybe, or brother.

I put my boot against him, took hold of the shaft and pulled it free. "Look at this point, Jake, and the fletching. That's not Apache."

"Navajo." He tossed the arrow away. "That's not like them. They're mostly peaceful folk."

"Someone made them mad." I took the reins from Jake and swung into my saddle. "We'd better find out why."

"But, Mr. Marwood, we're riding to Las Cruces to pick up a prisoner. Sheriff White is waiting with transfer papers."

"Henry White can hold that man a while longer. If renegades jumped the reservation they might hit Haxan next. They're headed in the right direction. We can't let that happen."

I had come a long way through time and wind and dust to make sure something like that never happened. Either to the town, or her.

We followed the unshod pony tracks. It was hard to judge on the hard earth, but it looked like twenty or thirty horses in the war party. "A good sized group, Jake, moving fast."

"Lucky thing we were skirting Crooked Mesa to the east or we'd have never found them." He turned round in his saddle. "Six wagons. And they didn't have time to circle up and defend themselves."

I pointed to a hillock a hundred yards away. "Looks like the war party came over that rise. Let's ride that way." Jake pulled his rifle from his boot. The desert was quiet around us. We were holding our breaths, too.

I was thinking about the dead girl. Her hair was long and black. Just like Magra's.

"My stars, can you imagine what it was like?" Jake whispered. "Thirty men on war ponies screaming out of the sun. It's enough to freeze your blood."

"That's enough, Jake."

"Yes, sir."

We topped the rise. "Oh, no...."

A cabin a quarter mile below was wreathed in flames. There were more people on the ground. All the livestock were dead.

All men are born of blood. We die that way, too.

It is the blood of our family and friends that ties us together. Makes us human. Gives us enemies.

I cannot remember how long I have traveled or from what depths I arose. I only know I am here now, brought to stand against that which must be overcome. As all my people are.

"I telegraphed Fort Providence before the lines were cut. A war party of fifty jumped the reservation two days ago and another one, a smaller one, yesterday. Two more this morning. Something's got them stirred up."

Mayor Frank Polgar and Doc Toland were standing in my office looking nervous and unsure. Jake was oiling his Winchester.

Mayor Polgar had thinning red hair and watery blue eyes. His face was drawn and yellow in the desert morning light streaming through the open window. "Who's in command there?"

"Colonel Chapman. I've dealt with him. He's competent. They've got a troop trying to run this first war party, the big one, along the El Camino Real. No luck so far."

"What do you think we should do, Marshal Marwood?"

"People are safe if they remain in town. It looks like this southern party is hitting up and down the territory, restricting their terror to Sangre County. But they're bypassing towns like Haxan and Glaze."

"Are these random attacks, John?" That was Doc Toland, a grizzled man in a black frock with dusty cuffs. I remembered the night Ben Tack gunned me down and Doc Toland running across the plaza toward me.

"No, doc, more like they're looking for something. Or someone."

The two men exchanged swift glances. Polgar squinted in disbelief. "Say again, Marshal?"

I turned to the yellowed map of Sangre County framed behind my desk. "Here's where they hit that wagon train we found. This was the cabin on a little farm where a creek hits the rise. And an hour ago I got a report of a whiskey drummer who had his mule train attacked before sundown. It's scattered all over the county. Back and forth along this line between Crooked Mesa and Coldwater."

"That's a lot of territory, Marshal."

"The attacks are concentrated there. That first party, well, if you ask me it's a feint to give this second party time to attack in force."

"But, if they're raiding up and down-"

"This isn't a raiding party, Mayor. Jake and I saw those wagons. They were fired and broken but they weren't ransacked. Nothing was stolen, except for maybe guns and ammunition which you would expect. Same on the farm. Everybody was just...dead."

"Scalped?"

"They were dead. Let's leave it at that."

Jake put his Winchester down and loaded Magra's old shotgun, clicked the breech shut. He handed it to me. "I'm ready, Mr. Marwood."

Polgar gaped. "Where are you going?" He and Doc Toland followed us out of the office and onto Front Street. "You have to stay and protect the town, Marshal. Both you and your deputy."

"No, we don't, Mayor. I told you these renegades are skirting big settlements. If they're roaming the countryside then that's where we need to be. Maybe we can run them down and learn what this is about."

"This is an Army problem. Let them handle it."

"And I'm a U.S. Marshal which makes it federal business. Anyway, Fort Providence is chasing that group up north. This smaller war party is our problem. Keep everyone inside and no one will get hurt." I mounted my blue roan and he kicked a little. He was always able to smell blood coming.

"I mean it, Frank. I don't want any posses forming up without my knowledge. I won't stand for it. Doc, you get the word out, too." He waved his understanding.

Polgar had his hand on the bridle of my horse. "You're taking an awful risk, John."

"I'll handle this problem my way, Frank."

"How?"

"I'm headed for Magra Snowberry's place. She's part Navajo and they've always trusted her. Maybe she has some idea what this is about."

Jake and I kicked for the old Shiner Larsen place. As we rode through town several shopkeepers called from their doorways for us to stay. The plaza was empty. People were scared and I couldn't blame them. We followed the road out and cut across country to save time.

Magra's place - everyone called it the Shiner Larsen place after her dead father - was on a small rise where Gila Creek turned through a field of boulders. Jake and I were skirting the last big boulder when we reined our horses hard enough to cause them to stumble and snort.

"My...stars," Jake whispered in awe.

Magra's little cabin was surrounded by Navajo braves mounted on sleek, painted ponies. There must have been a hundred or more and they were wearing war paint.

"Ride easy, Jake," I said. "Keep your hands in sight or we'll both end up as a smear spot on the desert floor."

"You think they're holding Miss Magra hostage?"

"I don't know. Come on."

We rode slow. Their hard faces watched us come. We pulled short ten yards away.

"Now what?" Jake wondered.

"Let them make the first move."

The door to Magra's cabin opened and a tall Navajo wearing breechclout, moccasins and an imposing war headdress came out. His face was marked by the New Mexican desert and wind, his shoulders burned red from the blistering sun. He had a single white feather tied around his neck. Magra emerged after him, unharmed. She wore buckskin instead of her usual calico, perhaps as a concession to her people. Even her hair was tied back Indian fashion.

Addressing the war chief standing at her side, she pointed at me.

"That's him," she said. "The man known as Long Blood."

Thermopylae. Masada. Agincourt.

And now Haxan, New Mexico.

We have many different names, we who come. Some are unpronounceable and even we don't know them all. I don't think we're supposed to because it would be too overwhelming. But we all have names and some are taller than others.

We go where we are needed.

I have a name. Lots of them. And when I am called I stand against that which must be faced. I have done it since the beginning of time.

You see, there is a thing inside me, coiled in wintry sleep. Rarely does it awake. But when it does I let it have full voice.

It's who I am. It's my Name.

"I am White Hawk," the war chief said.

I had a name in his tongue, too, but he probably wouldn't believe it. "My name is John Marwood. I'm a U.S. Marshal for this territory. This is my deputy, Jake Strop."

"My people know you as Long Blood. I will call you that. We will talk between us, Long Blood. I have much to say and I will listen to you as well."

"I think that's a fine idea, White Hawk."

"We will speak inside Magra's lodge. She is a daughter of our nation. Her words and her heart are made straight."

"I think so, too."

"We will sit at table as White Men do so you will know my words have serious meaning."

"I appreciate that, White Hawk." It was a big concession on his behalf and I wondered why he was making it. "Jake, stay out here. White Hawk's men won't hurt you. Magra...."

She smiled at me. It always made me feel good when she smiled. "I'm all right, John. I'll stay with Jake. Go inside and listen to what White Hawk has to say. I...I hope you can help him."

I nodded and followed the other man inside. We sat across the table, hands crossed before us. We studied each other for several moments before he began to speak in slow, measured words.

"The roof of Magra's lodge is open to the sky." He meant he didn't want there to be any half-truths between us.

"It's a good place for men to talk," I agreed.

"I have killed many Whites these past days."

"It has to stop, White Hawk."

"I cannot stop, Long Blood." His sadness sounded genuine. "I must keep killing until I find that which we have lost."

"What did you lose?"

But I was pushing him too hard. His pride and his culture would not allow him to be so direct. "My great-grandfather, Crooked Tent, told me stories of how it was before the Whites came. He taught me our people believe all things are living in this world, so we should not be surprised there are other men who also live. But over the years I have learned the White doesn't believe all things live. To him, all things are dead. Even other men who are living are still dead in their eyes. This makes their hearts hard and they have no reverence for those who are truly dead. I admit this saddens me as a human being."

White Hawk took a deep breath and stared at the table. He was moved by his own words. "We have allowed our Nation to be put on land that is not ours. By doing this we have let the hearts of our fathers to be cut." He raised his face. Now his eyes found mine. "But it is not my hand that broke the treaty. I am White Hawk. I speak straight."

"I know you do, White Hawk." His talk about reverence for those who are dead had me thinking. "Listen. Did something happen with your burial grounds?"

He gave a solemn nod but didn't speak further. Now I understood why he was so reticent, why it was such a battle for him to reveal what was bothering him. It wasn't the topic itself, but the cultural embarrassment mixed with anger.

"We are in Magra's house," I reminded him, "a place of friendship between men who can trust one another. Like you said, her roof is open to the sky. Tell me what happened, White Hawk. Magra seems to think I can help."

The stoic man appeared to resolve some internal conflict. He started by pushing the words out, but then they came more easily.

"You know something of our medicine, Long Blood. Our burial grounds are sacred. Last week men dug holes in the earth and put the bodies of our dead in them. They said their own spirit words from the book they lean upon. Then they went away after violating the quiet medicine of that place."

That was bad enough, but there was more. "When the moon was orange a Navajo maiden died of sleep fever. Her name was Morning Star. Her passing cut the heart from my body forever and made me lose my memory." He made a motion with his hands to signify the pain he felt. "She was brought to the burial grounds in the tradition of my people so her body could cross into the spirit world. But when those men came she was not put in the ground with the others they defiled. Morning Star was stolen."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. All too often settlers moving through the territory, and who didn't know any better, precipitated cultural clashes with the various Indian tribes. But I had never heard of anything like this. No wonder the entire Navajo nation was up in arms.

"Who did this, White Hawk?"

"One of the Great Wheels that destroy the ground and make the buffalo that remain stampede before them." The wagon trains moving through the El Camino Real.

"Why did they steal Morning Star's body?"

"She was beautiful even in death. She was dressed in white, and wore beads, and her hair was braided in the fashion of our dead. Too, it is not unknown for men of your race to take totems and fetishes from our burial grounds and sell them to people in the East. They put them in their own lodges and make themselves feel superior to people whose shoulders are burned red from the desert sun."

He let out a long, slow breath. I thought he was relieved, now that he had unburdened himself. "While riding the power of my memory returned. I remembered Magra. And how there was a man of blood and violence who cared for her. I spoke words with Magra. She told me a man known to love a half-white Navajo girl was someone I could trust."

"I hope so."

"That is my story, Marshal Who is Long Blood." His voice was deep and measured...and full of conviction. "They stole Morning Star's body. Now I kill Whites. And I will keep killing until her body is returned to my people."

I rode with White Hawk for five days through the El Camino Real. I never knew there were so many people on the move. We came upon camps and river sites and way stations searching for a wagon train that had passed through Indian burial grounds when the moon was orange.

We had a fair idea where the train might be found. After all, they can only make so many miles a day. Given the relation of the burial grounds, and the fact wagons stick to well-marked trails, it should have been easy.

But there was a lot of territory to cover.

The Navajo nation was standing down for the moment. It hadn't been an easy armistice to arrange. White Hawk said if I helped find Morning Star before the next moon he would call off the slaughter. That didn't leave me much time. Meanwhile, the Army sharpened their sabers and the Navajo braves sang their death songs.

One thing stood in our favor. The entire countryside was talking about it, which helped and hindered our search. Most people were supportive, understanding White Hawk's shame, while others were downright hostile. It felt like we were riding through a powder keg and everyday the fuse sputtered closer.

With two days remaining before the new moon we found the wagon train we were looking for twenty miles south of Santa Fe. There were four wagons in the train. One had broken its whiffletree and they had stopped to carve a new one. If the wagon hadn't broken down we would have missed them by two hours.

Like I said, we go where we're sent. But sometimes it seemed those who send us were also looking out for us. I didn't really believe it, mind you. But it was nice to think it could be true when you have to stand against that which must be faced.

It was going on toward evening. The sky in the west as a cauldron of fire.

The people we were looking for had a big central campfire going with the wagons parked around it. White Hawk and I let the horses browse while we walked out of the gathering dark.

I warned White Hawk to let me do the talking. His noncommital grunt didn't make me optimistic. His eyes glared with hate.

"Hello in the camp," I called.

I heard the distinct click of a gun. I put an arm cross White Hawk's chest to hold him up. I think he would have kept on walking right into the gunfire. He was that angry.

"Who is it?" Gruff voice. Challenging. And a little frightened.

"My name is John T. Marwood. I'm a federal officer." I opened my grey duster so he could see the glint of my badge. "I'm a United States Marshal. Mind if we share your fire?"

"Who is with you, Marshal?"

"You know his name."

"Let me hear him say it," the voice demanded.

"I am White Hawk. I come for the woman you stole."

"Let them in, Paul." This second voice was measured with a fair hint of education behind it. "We can't keep running."

"Come easy, both of you."

We walked between two wagons and into the shifting camp light. Two men stood beside the main fire. One held a double-barreled shotgun with the hammers pulled back. He had a roundm bearded face and heavy shoulders. His partner was lean and clean-shaven with a wide-brimmed hat, fancy striped waistcoat and silver watch chain.

There were a dozen other people, too, keeping to the relative safety of the wagons. Families holding their grubby children, and all with desperation burning in their eyes.

Everyone was staring but they weren't fixed on me. It was likely they had never seen an Indian up close. All they knew were stories from penny dreadfuls and tall tales heard around a drunken camp fire.

The lean man broke the silence once we had taken measure. "Marshal, my name is Dr. Robert Carver Graves. This is Mr. Paul Hickle. I hired him for protection while traveling out West. Put your gun down, Paul, it's okay. Marshal, I want you to know we never meant any harm, but-"

"Where is she, Graves?"

"In that wagon yonder. Wrapped in canvas and packed in a barrel of salt and charcoal."

White Hawk started beside me. "I want to see," he told me. I nodded for him to go ahead. The people beside the wagon ran aside to clear the way. He crawled into the wagon and disappeared.

I turned to face Graves. "What for?"

"What? Oh, so the body will be preserved, Marshal. We're going to ship it East by rail. But once word got out we thought it prudent to keep it until the brush fire burned itself out. If you get my meaning." Graves tried a knowing smile on me. When I didn't respond he wiped it off quick.

Paul Hickle chimed in. "This here is an important man, Marshal. You would do a better to treat Professor Graves with respect."

"Is that why he hides dead Indian maidens in freight wagons and hires a melon head like you to protect him?"

Hickle's face closed down. His hand tightened on the stock of the gun. "There's no call for that talk, Marshal. We ain't done nothing bad wrong. We gave those bodies a Christian burial. Only a godless savage would leave them to rot out in the sun like that."

"Gentlemen, please." Graves glanced at the wagon in question and cleared his throat. "Look, Marshal, let me explain. I'm a natural history curator for the Smithsonian Institution and a founding member of the Megatherium Club. Though that guild disbanded in 1866 many of us continue to work for the museum. I collect and classify anthropological specimens. My particular expertise is primitive cultures, documenting them as they become extinct. From a scientific point of view we must have a record of these cultures that are disappearing from the West as they are supplanted by a superior one. Therefore, you can realize-"

"You can stop now."

"What's that, Marshal?"

"Talking. You can stop."

"Why, Marshal, I'm just trying to explain-"

"I said shut up."

"You can't talk to Professor Graves that way," Hickle bristled.

I met his eyes. "That's where you're wrong."

One of the women screamed. White Hawk walked from the wagon with a long canvas-wrapped body doubled in his arms.

"Where does he think he's going?" Graves blustered. "That's a very valuable artifact!"

White Hawk approached me. His face was stone. "I will need fire."

"I understand." I had spent enough time with this man to know what was going on inside him. I motioned to the settlers standing around and gawking. "Start gathering wood for a bonfire."

Graves rushed forward, waving his hands. "Wait one blessed minute. You can't order these people around. I'm in charge of this expedition."

The men and women, for their part, were uncertain. "Do what I told you," I told them. They looked at me and Graves and started stacking fresh wood in the clearing.

Graves pushed through the working throng and stood in front of me. "I protest this outrage to the highest degree, Marshal. I'll telegraph Washington and have your badge pulled. I am trying to preserve the memory of this declining culture. How can I make you understand that?"

"Graves, if you say one more word I'm going to shoot you."

He opened his mouth to protest and found himself staring down the iron barrel of my Colt Dragoon. Sweat glistened on his wide forehead.

"Easy, Marshal," Hickle growled. "I've got this shotgun trained on your back."

"Don't be a fool, Hickle. You kill me and you, and all these other people, will never see the sun rise."

"Don't bluff me, Marshal. I'm the one holding the shotgun."

"Look around you, Hickle."

"All I see is you about to be cut in two squirming halves."

"No, melon head, around you. Through those wagons over yonder. And to my right. Now do you see what I'm talking about?"

"Oh, my God...."

The others looked too. They screamed and fell over themselves, dropping firewood and crowding like sheep in the center of the wagon ring.

There were hundreds of Navajo braves dressed in war paint and standing in the dark. They were armed. They drew closer. The light from the campfire played over their features and limbs.

"Put your shotgun down, Hickle," I told him. "And do it slow. That's right." Maybe he was smart after all. "Now, professor, or whatever you want to call yourself, back up against that wagon there. The rest of you settlers, keep stacking that firewood. Go on, do as I say. These braves won't hurt you."

With reluctance and then renewed energy the Whites gathered the remaining firewood carried it to the clearing. All the while White Hawk stood with Morning Star cradled in his arms.

While they were getting the bonfire prepared I walked over to the wagon White Hawk had searched. Inside were crates and barrels and hundreds of glass bottles. More specimens. I pulled one of the men aside helping build the bonfire.

"Whose wagon is this?"

"It belongs to Dr. Graves. We met him in St. Louis and he asked if he and his bodyguard could come along. We thought there would be safety in numbers. We never knew anything like this was going to happen. We thought we were doing right burying those exposed bodies, Marshal. That part is true, we never meant harm. But then we started hearing stories about how the Indians were on the warpath because a burial site had been raided. We knew we were responsible and wanted to say it. But Professor Graves, he said the furor would die down if we laid low long enough. Hickle backed him up with his shotgun. We sure didn't mean to cause trouble."

"What's your name, mister?"

"Joyce. Caspar Joyce."

"Where are you headed, Mr. Joyce?"

"Wyoming." He watched the braves and swallowed audibly. "I have a wife and two small children, Marshal. I hope we get out of this with a whole skin."

"You're not going to be hurt. These people will go home once they finish what they have to do."

"Maybe so." He looked at me. "Marshal, there's something I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Well, sir, doesn't this land belong to whoever can hold it?"

It was a dark night. All the world was dark, maybe. I guess it's always that way, though.

"I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Joyce."

"The Indians had this land for a long time. Now it belongs to us. Our people. One day, someone will push us off. That's how life works, Marshal. May not be fair, but no one ever said life was fair."

"Better get back to work, Mr. Joyce. They're almost done."

"Yes, sir." He left me and I joined White Hawk.

"No one is going to stop you," I told him low. Graves was still standing by himself but I was keeping an eye on him.

"I want to thank you, Long Blood," White Hawk said. He had been holding Morning Star all this time and showed no sign of fatigue. "And Morning Star's spirit wishes to thank you, too. Now she will cross to the other side and have a guide to make sure she won't get lost. She will rest in the morning sky, thanks to you."

"Goodbye, White Hawk."

"Goodbye, Long Blood. Magra was right. You are a man who can also be a brother."

Everyone drew back leaving White Hawk all alone. He laid Morning Star on the pyre and raised his face to the starry heavens. He lifted his hands and began to sing. Tears fell from his eyes into his open mouth.

When he finished singing he took a flaming brand from the smaller campfire and lighted the dry wood. It caught easily. He stepped into the smoke and flame and stretched out to sleep beside Morning Star. The flames leaped higher, whorling around their bodies like a tornado. They burned for a long time.

When it was finished the remaining Navajo braves melted into the night. When the fire died down the sky to the east was tinged with pink.

There wasn't much left of the pyre but I picked up a smouldering brand and walked toward the far wagon.

Graves threw himself at me. "No, you can't! I won't let you!"

Hickle grabbed the older man's shirt and pulled him back. "Dr. Graves, those Indians are still be out there. We have no choice. We have to do it."

"Out of the way, Graves." I pushed him aside and pitched the lighted brand into the rear of the wagon. There must have been loose straw or something back there because it caught fast.

The other settlers were packing their wagons and getting ready to pull out in the grey morning. Hickle wrestled with Graves until the latter suddenly lost any fight he had left. Graves watched his specimens and artifacts go up in smoke and flame.

He turned on me, snarling. "Does it give you satisfaction, Marshal?"

"As a matter of fact, Dr. Graves, it doesn't. But I don't expect you to understand that."

I put my back to him and walked out of the wagon ring to find my horse.

"You must realize you haven't changed a thing," Graves shouted. His voice sounded thin in the wide open desert. "The West will die and their culture will die and nothing you or I or anyone can do will ever change that. Marshal! All you did was destroy the memory and record of that change. All you did was destroy yourself!"

A half hour later I caught my horse and rode along the spine of a hogback. Half a mile away three wagons creaked toward the West. A tiny dot followed behind on foot. I watched them disappear in the desert haze.

Magra. She had long hair tied back Indian fashion and it always smelled clean and crisp. I wanted to see her.

I turned my horse toward a bright star that was rising with the morning and rode straight into it.

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