‘Only because we are driven from our land,’ said Cuervo. ‘When my people came here it was a barren land. In the summer it is hot; in the winter, cold. No one wanted it, so we lived here. Then the white men came in. When Mangas Colorado pointed them to a better place to find copper they tied him down and whipped him. Then the soldiers took him and cut off his head after they branded him with hot knives. Now they say the land belongs to them and they say we should go away and live on reservations. Live on the land no white man wants: the poor land, where flies bleed poison into your veins at night and there is no game. And the only food is what the white Agents give you. The sick cows, and not even enough of them. That is why we kill people.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said
Backenhauser. ‘I never knew that.’
Over the next few days he worked hard on the painting.
At first, he primed the doeskin, preparing it for the paint and the cutting. When he was satisfied it could take the knife and the oils, he trimmed it into shape and stretched it around the framework of the bronco chief's shield.
Then he transferred his sketch on to the skin and began to paint.
He found a way to mix his own oils with the vegetable colors the Apaches used, adding a degree of flexibility to the hardening paint. Knife-With-Two-Sides’ face emerged from a storm-red background that alternated between sky and black hair. The eyes were dark, with blazing red pupils that contrasted with the gleaming white of the teeth, set off against the tan of the skin. The scar was a livid yellow-white, the snarling lips as red as blood.
Knife-With-Two-Sides loved it.
Backenhauser was pleased with it. He let the oils dry and then applied a coating of oil over the surface of the paint.
Two days later it was dry enough to mount on the frame of the shield.
He supervised the placing himself, watching as Knife’s warriors cut the edges of the skin and punched holes into the circular cut-out.
The doeskin had already been cut into a rough circle, but the first shaping had got lost as the paints applied by Backenhauser constricted the hide, tugging it in.
The artist trimmed the perimeter of the skin and then watched as it was drawn tight over the hickory circle of the shield. Rawhide thongs were laced through the holes in the skin and then woven through the fastenings that held the wooden center-piece in place. Backenhauser had never seen a shield made before, and he was fascinated by the process.
The flat center comprised a single circle of hardwood, around which was stretched a ring of hickory. The disc was fastened to the ring by thongs of rawhide, holes bored through the harder central circle so that it was fastened to the outer loop like the weaving on a blanket. The hide with the painting was set over the face of the shield and laced around the peripheral fastenings, with a series of central strings drawn tight to the middle. Flax was stuffed hard into the open areas, providing a soft covering against blows, and then two strips of rawhide were laced vertically against the inner edge of the shield. The first wide, and heavy; a broad band that would protect a man’s upper arm. The second was thinner, plaited with heavy cord that a man could grip.
And the face of the bronco leader glared grimly from the outside.
Knife-With-Two-Sides fastened the shield on his arm and lifted it high. His men shouted their approval.
‘The little white man paints well,’ shouted the Mimbreño. ‘This is strong medicine I carry.’
He lowered the shield and turned to face Azul and Backenhauser.
‘Now the painting is done and I have my medicine. Now give me the money you promised and I will let you go.’
Azul handed over the thousand dollars. Backenhauser was given the stage horse, and Cuervo bade them farewell.
‘Why do you stay here?’ asked Azul. ‘I thought you would be in Mexico.’
The brujo shrugged. ‘I was, for a while. But all our people do in Mexico is drink and take things easy. I came back so that I could learn what happens here.’
‘What does?’ Azul asked. ‘Apart from these raids.’
‘Not much,’ said the old man. ‘I think we are dying. I think we have been taken over by a stronger race. I think that people like Knife-With-Two-Sides will fight for a while. Like Geronimo and Victorio. But then we shall lose, and the whites will put us where they want. Your way is better, Azul: you see the future, and you are young enough to accept it. The warriors who cannot see that road are destined to die.’
‘But still brave,’ said the half-breed. ‘They follow their own path.’
‘Yes,’ said Cuervo, ‘they do. But they will die and you will live.’
‘I wonder,’ said Azul. ‘Do you see that, brujo?’
‘I see nothing now,’ said the old man. ‘That is why I came to live with these bronco Apaches. Because I was tired of the easy living in Mexico, and I wanted to see what would happen to our people.’
‘Perhaps I should stay here,’ said Azul. ‘And fight with them.’
‘No.’ Cuervo shook his head. ‘Each man has a path to follow. Right or wrong, he must take it and make it as best he can. Knife follows his; you follow yours; I follow mine.’
Azul nodded and rode away.
Knife-With-Two-Sides escorted the half-breed and the Englishman as far as the tunnel, then five warriors took them out to the trail leading around the mesa to where the badlands fed back into Paradise Valley.
‘Now where?’ asked Backenhauser.
‘Lordsburg,’ said Azul. ‘Back to where we aimed to finish.’
‘That doesn’t make much sense,’ said the Englishman, fidgeting on the pad saddle covering the stage horse’s broad back. ‘It all sounds back to front.’
‘Mostly straightforward.’ grunted the half-breed. ‘There’re stages that leave Lordsburg for most parts. You can go to Arizona or Nevada or California. You can lose yourself.’
‘Sounds like you want to get rid of me,’ said Backenhauser.
‘It’s not that,’ murmured Azul. ‘But you got a way of painting your pictures that leaves me filling in the details.’
Chapter Eleven
PARTWAY TO LORDSBURG they ran into an Army patrol.
The column was headed by a captain with a soft, Southern accent who announced himself as Tyree. He was polite but cautious, one hand fisted over the butt of his Colt as he spoke.
