Storyteller

  When we stopped for lunch we were still traveling along the edge of the lava. I had never walked on it, and there is something about seeing it that makes you want to walk on it—to see how it feels under your feet and to walk in this strange place. I was careful to stay close to the edge, because I know it is easy to lose sight of landmarks and trails. Pretty soon Siteye came. He was walking very slowly and limping with his broken foot. He sat down on a rock beside me.

  “Our ancestors have places here,” he commented as he looked out over the miles of black rock. “In little caves they left pottery jars full of food and water. These were places to come when somebody was after you.” He stood up and started back slowly. “I suppose the water is all gone now,” he said, “but the corn might still be good.”

  When we finally left the lava flow behind us and moved into the foothills of the Zuni Mountains, Siteye looked behind us over the miles of shining black rock. “Yes,” he said, “it’s a pretty good place. I don’t think Geronimo would even travel out there.”

  Siteye had to ride up front most of the time after we entered the Zuni Mountains. Captain didn’t know the trail, and Sousea wasn’t too sure of it. Siteye told me later on he wasn’t sure either, but he knew how to figure it out. That night we camped in the high mountains, where the pines are thick and tall. I lay down in my blanket and watched the sky fill with heavy clouds; and later in the night, rain came. It was a light, spring rain that came on the mountain wind. At dawn the rain was gone, and I still felt dry in my blanket. Before we left, Siteye and Captain squatted in the wet mountain dirt, and Siteye drew maps near their feet. He used his forefinger to draw mountains and canyons and trees.

  Later on, Siteye told me, “I’ve only been this way once before. When I was a boy. Younger than you. But in my head, when I close my eyes, I can still see the trees and the boulders and the way the trail goes. Sometimes I don’t remember the distance—things are closer or farther than I had remembered them, but the direction is right.”

  I understood him. Since I was a child my father had taught me, and Siteye had taught me, to remember the way: to remember how the trees look—dead branches or crooked limbs; to look for big rocks and to remember their shape and their color; and if there aren’t big rocks, then little ones with pale-green lichens growing on them. To know the trees and rocks all together with the mountains and sky and wildflowers. I closed my eyes and tested my vision of the trail we had traveled so far. I could see the way in my head, and I had a feeling for it too—a feeling for how far the great fallen oak was from Mossy Rock springs.

  “Once I couldn’t find the trail off Big Bead Mesa. It was getting dark. I knew the place was somewhere nearby; then I saw an old gray snake crawling along a sandy wash. His rattles were yellowy brown and chipped off like an old man’s toenails.” Siteye rearranged his black felt hat and cleared his throat. “I remembered him. He lived in a hole under a twisted tree at the top of the trail. The night was getting chilly, because it was late September. So I figured that he was probably going back to his hole to sleep. I followed him. I was careful not to get too close—that would have offended him, and he might have gotten angry and gone somewhere else just to keep me away from his hole. He took me to the trail.” Siteye laughed. “I was just a little kid then, and I was afraid of the dark. I ran all the way down the trail, and I didn’t stop until I got to my house.”

  By sundown we reached Pie Town. It didn’t look like Geronimo had been there. The corrals were full of cows and sheep; no buildings had been burned. The windmill was turning slowly, catching golden reflections of the sun on the spinning wheel. Siteye rode up front with Sousea and Captain. They were looking for the army that was supposed to meet us here. I didn’t see any army horses, but then I didn’t see any horses at all. Then a soldier came out of the two-story house; he greeted Captain and they talked. The soldier pointed toward the big arroyo behind the town.

  Captain told us that they were keeping all the horses in a big corral in the arroyo because they expected Geronimo any time. We laughed while we rode down the sloping path into the wide arroyo. Siteye handed me Captain’s sorrel mare and Rainbow for me to unsaddle and feed. I filled three gunny-sack feedbags with crushed corn that I found in the barn. I watched them eat: tossing their heads up in the air and shaking the bags to reach the corn. They stood still when it was all gone, and I pulled the feedbags off over their ears. I took the feedbags off the other Laguna horses, then I tossed them all a big pile of hay. In the other half of the corral the Pie Town horses and army mounts had gathered to watch the Laguna horses eat. They watched quietly. It was dark by the time I finished with the horses, and everyone else had already gone up to the big house to eat. The shadows in the arroyo were black and deep. I walked slowly, and I heard a mourning dove calling from the tamarack trees.

  They would have good food, I knew that. This place was named for the good pies that one of the women could make. I knocked on the screen door, and inside I could see an old white woman in a red checkered dress; she walked with a limp. She opened the door and pointed toward the kitchen. The scouts were eating in there, except for Captain who was invited to eat with the white people in the dining room. I took a big plate from the end of the table and filled it up with roast meat and beans; on the table there were two plates of hot, fresh bread. There was plenty of coffee, but I didn’t see any pies. Siteye finished and pushed his plate aside; he poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “Looks like all the white people in this area moved up here from Quemado and Datil. In case Geronimo comes. All crowded together to make their last stand.” Siteye laughed at his own joke. “It was some Major Littlecock who sent out the Apache alert. He says he found an Apache campsite near here. He wants us to lead him to Geronimo.” Siteye shook his head. “We aren’t hunting deer,” he said, “We’re hunting people. With deer I can say, ‘Well, I guess I’ll go to Pie Town and hunt deer,’ and I can probably find some around here. But with people you must say, ‘I want to find these people—I wonder where they might be.’”

  Captain came in. He smiled. “We tried to tell him. Both of us.”

  Siteye nodded his head. “Captain even had me talk to him, and I told him in good English, I said, ‘Major, it is so simple. Geronimo isn’t even here. He’s at White Mountain. They are still hunting meat,’ I told him. ‘Meat to dry and carry with them this spring.’”

  Captain was sitting in the chair besides me. He brought out his tobacco and passed it around the table. We all rolled ourselves a cigarette. For a while nobody said anything; we all sat there smoking and resting our dinner.

  Finally Mariano said, “Hey, where are we going to sleep tonight? How about this kitchen?”

  “You might eat everything,” Siteye answered.

  “I think it will be O.K. to sleep in the kitchen,” Captain said.

  Then Major Littlecock came in. We all stared, and none of us stood up for him; Laguna scouts never did that for anyone. Captain didn’t stand up, because he wasn’t really in the army either—only some kind of civilian volunteer that they hired because once he had been in their army. Littlecock wasn’t young; he was past thirty and his hair was falling out. He was short and pale, and he kept rubbing his fingertips together.

  He spoke rapidly. “I will show you the Apache camp in the morning. Then I want you to track them down and send a scout back to lead me to the place. We’ll be waiting here on alert.” He paused and kept his eyes on the wall above our heads. “I can understand your error concerning Geronimo’s location. But we have sophisticated communications—so I couldn’t expect you to be aware of Geronimo’s movements.”

  He smiled nervously, then with great effort he examined us. We were wearing our Indian clothes—white cotton pants, calico shirts, and woven Hopi belts. Siteye had his black wide-brim hat, and most of us were wearing moccasins.

  “Weren’t you boys issued uniforms?” the Major asked.

  Siteye answered him. “We wear them in the winter. It’s too ho
t for wool now.”

  Littlecock looked at Captain. “Our Crow Indian boys preferred their uniforms,” he said.

  There was silence. It wasn’t hostile, but nobody felt like saying anything—I mean, what was there to say? Crow Indian scouts like army uniforms, and Laguna scouts wear them only if it gets cold. Finally Littlecock moved toward the door to leave.

  Captain stood up. “I was thinking the men could sleep here in the kitchen, Major. It would be more comfortable for them.”

  Littlecock’s face was pale; he moved slowly. “I regret, Captain, that isn’t possible. Army regulations on using civilian quarters—the women,” he said, “you know what I mean. Of course, Captain, you’re welcome to sleep here.” Littlecock smiled, he was looking at all of us: “You boys won’t mind sleeping with the horses, will you?”

  Siteye looked intently at the Major’s face and spoke to him in Laguna. “You are the one who has a desire for horses at night, Major, you sleep with them.”

  We all started laughing.

  Littlecock looked confused. “What did he say, Captain Pratt? Could you translate that for me, please?” His face was red and he looked angry.

  Captain was calm. “I’m sorry, Major, but I don’t speak the Laguna language very well. I didn’t catch the meaning of what Siteye said.”

  Littlecock knew he was lying. He faced Captain squarely and spoke in a cold voice. “It is very useful to speak the Indian languages fluently, Mr. Pratt. I have mastered Crow and Arapaho, and I was fluent in Sioux dialects before I was transferred here.” He looked at Siteye, then he left the room.

  We got up from the table. Siteye belched loudly and rearranged his hat. Mariano and George reached into the woodbox by the stove and made little toothpicks for themselves out of the kindling chips.

  We walked down the arroyo, joking and laughing about sleeping out with the horses instead of inside where the white soldiers were sleeping.

  “Remind me not to come back to this place,” Mariano said.

  “I only came because they pay me,” George said, “and next time they won’t even be able to pay me to come here.”

  Siteye cleared his throat. “I am only sorry that the Apaches aren’t around here,” he said. “I can’t think of a better place to wipe out. If we see them tomorrow we’ll tell them to come here first.”

  We were all laughing now, and we felt good saying things like this. “Anybody can act violently—there is nothing to it; but not every person is able to destroy his enemy with words.” That’s what Siteye always told me, and I respect him.

  We built a big fire to sit around. Captain came down later and put his little teapot in the hot coals; for a white man he could talk the Laguna language pretty good, and he liked to listen to the jokes and stories, though he never talked much himself. And Siteye told me once that Captain didn’t like to brew his Indian tea around white people. “They don’t approve of him being married to an Indian woman and they don’t approve of Indian tea, either.” Captain drank his tea slowly and kept his eyes on the flames of the fire. A long time after he had finished the tea he stood up slowly. “Sleep good,” he said to us, and he rolled up in his big gray Navajo blanket. Siteye rolled himself another cigarette, while I covered the hot coals with sand and laid our blankets on top.

  Before I went to sleep I said to Siteye, “You’ve been hunting Geronimo for a long time, haven’t you? And he always gets away.”

  “Yes,” Siteye said, staring up at the stars, “but I always like to think that it’s us who get away.”

  At dawn the next day Major Littlecock took us to his Apache campsite. It was about four miles due west of Pie Town, in the pine forest. The cavalry approached the area with their rifles cocked, and the Major was holding his revolver. We followed them closely.

  “Here it is.” Littlecock pointed to a corral woven with cedar branches. There was a small hearth with stones around it; that was all.

  Siteye and Sousea dismounted and walked around the place without stopping to examine the hearth and without once stopping to kneel down to look at the ground more closely. Siteye finally stopped outside the corral and rolled himself a cigarette; he made it slowly, tapping the wheat paper gently to get just the right distribution of tobacco. I don’t think I ever saw him take so long to roll a cigarette. Littlecock had dismounted and was walking back and forth in front of his horse, waiting. Siteye lit the cigarette and took two puffs before he walked over to Captain. He shook his head.

  “Some Mexican built himself a sheep camp here, Captain, that’s all.” Siteye looked at the Major to make certain he would hear. “No Geronimo here, like we said.”

  Pratt nodded his head.

  Littlecock mounted; he had lost, and he knew it. “Accept my apology for this inconvenience, Captain Pratt. I simply did not want to take any chances.”

  He looked at all of us; his face had a troubled, dissatisfied look; maybe he was wishing for the Sioux country up north, where the land and the people were familiar to him.

  Siteye felt the same. If he hadn’t killed them all, he could still be up there chasing Sioux; he might have been pretty good at it.

  It was still early in the day; the forest smelled green and wet. I got off my horse to let him drink in the little stream. The water was splashing and shining in sunlight that fell through the treetops. I knelt on a mossy rock and felt the water. Cold water—a snow stream. I closed my eyes and I drank it. “Precious and rare,” I said to myself, “water that I have not tasted, water that I may never taste again.”

  The rest of the scouts were standing in the shade discussing something. Siteye walked over to me.

  “We’ll hunt,” he said. “Good deer country down here.”

  By noontime there were six bucks and a fat doe hanging in the trees near the stream. We ate fresh liver for lunch and afterwards I helped them bone out the meat into thin strips, and Sousea salted it and strung it on a cotton line; he hung it in the sun and started to dry it. We stayed all afternoon, sleeping and talking. Before the sun went down I helped Sousea put the pounds of salted meat strips into gunny sacks and tie them on the kitchen burros, who hardly had anything left to carry. When we got back to Pie Town it had been dark for a long time.

  In the morning the white ladies made us a big meal; we took a long time to eat, and it was almost noon before we started northeast again. We went slowly and stopped early so Sousea could hang the meat out to dry for a few hours each day. When we got back to Flower Mountain I could see Laguna on the hill in the distance.

  “Here we are again,” I said to Siteye.

  We stopped. Siteye turned around slowly and looked behind us at the way we had come: the canyons, the mountains, the rivers we had passed. We sat there for a long time remembering the way, the beauty of our journey. Then Siteye shook his head gently. “You know,” he said, “that was a long way to go for deer hunting.”

  The great Apache leader Geronimo was often photographed during the years of his imprisonment at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, from 1894 until his death in 1909. A friend gave me this print made from a glass negative. The identity of the photographer is not known.

  A morning rainstorm veils the mountains to the north of Acoma Valley. Enchanted Mesa is visible in the distance.

  I just fed the rooster a blackened banana I found in the refrigerator. He has been losing his yellowish collar feathers lately, and I’m afraid it might be that he isn’t getting enough to eat. But I suppose it could be his mean streak too—he is a rooster out of all the rooster stories my grandmother ever told me—the rooster who waited inside the barn on winter mornings when it was still dark and my grandma was just married and going to milk her father-in-law’s cow. The rooster would wait and ambush her just when she thought she had escaped him. It was a reflexive reaction the morning he jumped to rake her with his spurs and she swung the milking bucket at him. He collapsed and didn’t move, and the whole time she was milking the cow she wondered how she could ever tell her father-in-law, my great-grandfather, tha
t she had killed his rooster. She took the milk inside and he was already up drinking his coffee. (He was an old man by then, the old white man who came from Ohio and married my great-grandmother from Paguate village north of Laguna.) She told him she didn’t mean to kill the rooster but that the bucket hit him too hard. They tell me that my great-grandfather was a very gentle person. And Grandma Lillie said that morning he told her not to worry, that he had known for a while that the rooster was too mean to keep. But as they went out to the barn together, to dispose of the dead rooster, there he was in the corral. Too mean to die, Grandma said. But after that, the rooster left her alone when she went out to milk the cow.

  There are all kinds of other rooster stories that one is apt to hear. I am glad I have this rooster because I never quite believed roosters so consistently were like the stories tell us they are. On these hot Tucson days, he scratches a little nest in the damp dirt under the Mexican lime tree by the front door. It is imperative for him that the kittens and the black cat show him respect, even deference, by detouring or half-circling the rooster as they approach the water dish which is also under the lime tree. If they fail to do this, then he jumps up and stamps his feet moving sideways until they cringe. This done, he goes back to his mud nest.

  He has all of us fooled, stepping around him softly, hesitant to turn our backs to him, all of us except for the old black hound dog. She won’t let anyone, including the rooster, come between her and her food dish. The rooster pretends he does not notice her lack of concern; he pretends he was just finished eating when she approaches.

  The lady at the feed store had to give him away. He was her pet and he let her pick him up and stroke him. But the men who came to buy hay got to teasing him and he started going after all the feed store customers. She was afraid he might hurt a child. So I took him and told her I didn’t know how long he’d last here at the ranch because the coyotes are everywhere in the Tucson mountains. I didn’t expect him to last even a week. But that was in June and now it is October. Maybe it is his meanness after all, that keeps the coyotes away, that makes his feathers fall out.