Almanac of the Dead

  The man who had been born at the headwaters of the Gila River in New Mexico and who had spent years as a medicine man before assuming certain duties on raids had gone by different names. He had been photographed in a group picture some years before with Nana, Mangaas Coloradas, and Jute. He was known to the Yaquis in the mountains of Sonora as Wide Ledge, which the Yaquis understood to be the meaning of his Apache name. But Yaquis also understood that a person might need a number of names in order to conduct all of his or her earthly business.

  The discussion of the photographic image centered upon the group photograph, which Wide Ledge had been shown by a young U.S. cavalry officer. Wide Ledge recalled that the young white man had pointed to the flat paper. Here the chorus of voices in the darkness had quickened, and Calabazas knew they were nearing what they considered to be the heart of the story of the four Geronimos. Wide Ledge, old Mahawala told Calabazas emphatically, had done a lot of thinking and looking at these flat pieces of paper called photographs. From what he had seen, Wide Ledge said, the white people had little smudges and marks like animal tracks across snow or light brown dust; these “tracks” were supposed to “represent” certain persons, places, or things. Wide Ledge explained how with a certain amount of training and time, he had been able to see the “tracks” representing a horse, a canyon, and white man. But invariably, Wide Ledge said, these traces of other beings and other places preserved on paper became confused even for the white people, who believed they understood these tracks so well. Wide Ledge had actually observed a young soldier fly into a rage at the photographer because the soldier said the image on the paper did not truly represent him. The soldier’s friends had examined the photograph, but among themselves they could not agree. The photographer only wanted to be paid.

  The secret, as a Yaqui or Apache might already have guessed, was that the black box contained a huge quartz crystal that had been carefully cut, polished, and mounted inside the black wooden box. Wide Ledge had had a chance to look through the flat, polished crystal; a boulder nearby had taken on a great many different forms while Wide Ledge looked through the lens. Wide Ledge said he was just beginning to have an understanding of the big polished crystal when the photographer saw him under the black cloth and began shouting at him.

  Each of the so-called Geronimos had learned to demand prints of themselves as payment for posing. At meetings in the mountains they had compared photographs. The puzzle had been to account for the Apache warrior whose broad, dark face, penetrating eyes, and powerful barrel-chested body had appeared in every photograph taken of the other Geronimos. The image of this man appeared where the faces of the other Geronimos should have been. The old man called Nana by the whites studied the photographs and conferred with his acquaintances, elderly people who had ranged in the mountains even before the Apache Wars. The identity of the Apache in the photograph could not be determined, but a number of theories were advanced by both Apaches and Yaquis concerning the phenomenon; the light of the polished crystal, the light of the sun, and the light of the warrior’s soul had left their distinctive mark with the Apache face white people identified as Geronimo.

  Opinion had been divided over the dangers of allowing a photographic image to be made. Could the face and body that kept appearing in place of the three Geronimos be evidence that at some earlier photographic session, the soul of an unidentified Apache warrior had been captured by the white man’s polished crystal in the black box and was now attempting to somehow come back? If so, why did this warrior’s soul appear only in connection with the three Apaches white people called Geronimo?

  Well, there were many interesting questions surrounding the strange polished crystals in the white men’s black boxes, Sleet said. Why bother with speculations and arguments over whether the crystal always stole the soul or only did so when white men harbored certain intentions toward the person in front of the camera. The point was, Sleet reminded Wide Ledge and Big Pine, whites on both sides of the border were hunting the Apache called Geronimo. U.S. newspapers from Tucson to Washington, D.C., had the biggest headlines in the blackest ink Sleet had ever seen, demanding death for Geronimo. Wide Ledge was the oldest and most tired of the three Geronimos. Constant movement through rough desert country and the endless scattering of the women and children had exhausted this “Geronimo.” He had been ready to “go in” until the bootlegger in the whiskey wagon from Tucson had shown him that same newspaper. The bootlegger had read the big words to him, Wide Ledge said, and that had scared all of them. If they were going to die, to have their heads chopped off and their skins tanned for chair cushions, Wide Ledge and all his people had agreed, they would not make it easy for the whites. The people would crawl back into the stony crevices and cling fiercely like scorpions.

  OLD PANCAKES

  BUT WHILE THE THREE Apaches had been meeting to discuss the confusion of the whites over “Geronimo,” news came that Old Pancakes had surrendered to U.S. troops in Skeleton Canyon. Old Pancakes had been the best customer the Tucson bootleggers had ever had. Old Pancakes bragged that the bootleggers in Tucson protected him from the army; Old Pancakes would only “surrender” his tiny band long enough to rest, fatten up, then they would escape again. Old Pancakes bragged he was fighting his own personal war, for his right to drink when and what he wanted to drink, and as much as he wanted to.

  Wide Ledge and Big Pine did not see why this news should concern them. But the young boy who had brought the news of Pancakes’ surrender stood before the three Geronimos seemed to have something more to tell them. Sleet told the boy not to be afraid to tell them whatever it was. Well, Old Pancakes had really done it. Old Pancakes had claimed he was the warrior called Geronimo. The Indian scouts doubted the story, but the attaché to General Miles had heard the name Geronimo. The attaché accused the scouts of withholding critical intelligence information. It was no secret General Miles wanted to do what his rival Crook had failed to do, namely, bring in the ferocious criminal Geronimo and make the territories safe for white settlement.

  Thus Old Pancakes had finally been able to use his skills as a liar and joker to seize the opportunity to save the others. Old Pancakes had released all his men and women of fighting age early in the campaigns. For years Pancakes managed somehow to guide his small band of old women and small children left in their care, to one or two campsites in the Santa Rita mountains south of Tucson.

  The boy reported that Old Pancakes had not expected the Geronimo trick to work because he was such an old man and he had no warriors with him anymore, and he spent most of his time dozing under shady trees in Skeleton Canyon or one of the other canyons in the Santa Ritas. But Pancakes had not counted on army politics. Even when the scouts failed to convince the attaché and the general that Pancakes was an impostor, Pancakes had been certain once the wagon carrying him in shackles and chains reached Tucson, General Miles and his aide would be set straight by other seasoned army personnel.

  But as the troops with their captive arrived in Tucson, a strange thing occurred. A stagecoach load of East Coast journalists who had arrived a few days before came running out of bars and whorehouses. The only word Old Pancakes heard was “Geronimo!” Pancakes watched the bootlegger come out of his yard where the wooden vats of fermenting liquor were poured into oak barrels. Pancakes watched the face of his old friend who had made vast fortunes off the Apache Wars. Out came the townspeople who held contracts to supply the U.S. cavalry troops with hardtack, beans, and meat. Pancakes watched the faces of the Tucson city fathers.

  Pancakes’ good friends, the white fathers of Tucson, realized the Army’s mistake but the swarms of journalists at the telegraph station and the army greatly outnumbered them. The news of Geronimo’s capture had been telegraphed to the entire U.S. By then, Pancakes had begun to be frightened by his joke. He could see he was not going to be turned loose, with all forgiven as a big misunderstanding. When the bootlegger and other Tucson dignitaries told the army they had the wrong Apache, General Miles revealed to th
e press there had been cooperation between some white men and the marauding Apaches. Although Miles did not say so, the implication had been the white businessmen in Tucson might have reasons for alleging Miles had captured the wrong Apache.

  Within three days the president of the United States had sent a telegram to General Miles, rewarding him with another star. By then Old Pancakes had been locked up in Fort Lowell, and he realized the bootlegger and all the others could not stop what was happening. Pancakes’ last hope had been the skepticism of two reporters—one from the New York Times, and the other from the Washington Post. They had studied photographs in the general’s dossier on Geronimo. The general reminded them the photographs were from years before. As they could see from Pancakes’ appearance, the years of relentless pursuit had taken their toll. The reporter from the Times had a proposal. Would the general allow the captive Geronimo to be taken out the back door of the brig to be photographed? The man from the Times had already engaged the photographer. Miles, who was concerned that reporters might in some way tarnish his moment in history, reluctantly agreed. Miles remarked that he’d had nightmares since they had brought Geronimo from Skeleton Canyon. In the general’s dreams, Geronimo had brushed away shackles and leg irons as if they were cobwebs, and walked away, disappearing as the troops looked on, paralyzed by an invisible force. For more than fifteen years, five thousand U.S. troops, costing $20 million, had stomped through cactus and rock to capture one old Apache man more sorrowful than fierce.

  “And what do you think?” old Mahawala had said, pointing her arthritic finger so it nearly touched Calabazas’s forehead. “What do you think? What did Old Pancakes see when they showed him the picture of ‘Geronimo’s’ surrender?” They had all been grinning at Calabazas, waiting for him to pick up where old Mahawala left off. Calabazas opened the last beer and began:

  Old Pancakes did not go in much for photographs anyway. He held the photograph in his hands and turned it slowly around and over, sniffing it and sneezing from the strong smell of the chemicals. All the white men watching Pancakes would have laughed; the East Coast journalists would have laughed harder than the americano soldiers or the general, who was probably glancing nervously at the brushy slopes of the rocky foothills above the fort, watching nervously for the legions of war-painted Apaches he’d dreamed of the night before. The journalists loved the ease with which this savage desert and its savage creatures so effortlessly yielded front-page copy.

  Hours later, after the plate was developed, they compared it to the wiry old man standing in front of them. Old Pancakes had never been defiant, but he had never given up anything he cared about either. He stood before them refusing to admire the piece of paper covered with brownish spots and smudges. The lieutenant and the major thought it was not a good likeness and turned to the photographer to ask for another shot. But the photographer said he wasn’t being paid by them, he was being paid by the gentleman from the New York Times. If the gentleman from the Times was satisfied, that was that. Of course there was little resemblance between Old Pancakes and the image of the Apache that appeared in the photograph.

  “And so the three Geronimos suddenly were safe again.” Old Mahawala gave a grin as wide as a full moon.

  “There,” she said to Calabazas, “you have heard that one again.” Calabazas had nodded. A lot of Yaqui stories about Apaches were not so good or amusing. Until the white men came, they had been enemies; sometimes they had raided one another. Of course, as they later reminded one another, the raids and the scattered deaths were not at all the same as the slaughters by U.S. or Mexican soldiers.

  Calabazas had asked if any Yaqui ever claimed to know the identity of the Apache whose face kept appearing in the photographs. But old Mahawala and the others had only shaken their heads and begun to gather up the empty beer bottles to wash and reuse for home remedies. Then an old uncle had hobbled over to Calabazas. The face in all the photographs had belonged to an ancestor, the soul of one long dead who knew the plight of the “Geronimos.” The Apaches were nervous about the dead and the activities of their souls, but the Yaquis were not. The Yaquis had extensive experiences with just such occurrences. The spirit of the ancestor had cast its light, its power, in front of the faces of the three “Geronimos.” Calabazas had been fascinated, and he asked the old man if the spirit had entered those warriors. “Oh, no!” the old uncle had said, waving his arms and shaking his head. “That is something else again! Very different! Not so good!” The spirit could move in and out easily through a crystal rock, that was all, the old man assured Calabazas. So a camera could not steal the soul as some people fear. A camera could not steal your soul unless you were already letting it go in the first place. But Calabazas had never forgotten the last thing his old uncle had said that night: “Of course in the hands of a sorcerer, who can say what might happen. Don’t take any chances. Look where poor Old Pancakes ended up.”

  WILD ONES

  CALABAZAS SAT ON HIS narrow bed with his back against the wall and smoked one of the “special blends” he preferred at bedtime: fifty-fifty Prince Albert and marijuana. Calabazas laughed at the young guys who wanted the sin semilla, something that might have had more kick, but that had none of the sweet calm of a female plant that had completed her full cycle. He must be getting old himself if he was thinking about a night almost forty years ago when he had made one of the last journeys back to the Chalky Place camp where the last of the wild ones stubbornly lived out their last days, refusing to come down to the villages along the riverbank where the melons and pumpkins grew juicy and big, where their grandchildren now had toddlers playing in the white river sand.

  The old wild ones would not leave the mountain camp until the claws of the winter winds raked their necks and legs with icy chills. But gradually, fewer and fewer of the wild ones reassembled each February for the return trip to the mountain stronghold. Calabazas had heard time and again that these last wild people at their moment of death always spoke of the mountains. Some spoke as if they were talking to the others, sometimes in a time of siege and grave danger, but more often, they were welcoming visitors or they themselves were returning to the strong hold. The last thing old Mahawala had told everyone was that human life spans weren’t much, and they should all remember that the soldiers had come once, and they would come again. The day would come when once more the people would have to flee to the mountains. Old Mahawala had even warned them they were becoming forgetful and arrogant because of all the white man’s toys, radios and televisions and automobiles, which were causing them to forget a great many important things. “You think it won’t happen again, that the time won’t come around again. Well, you just go ahead and think that way. I will be the sudden gust of wind that overturns your lantern.”

  None of those old ones had ever forgotten the final year of the Yaqui struggle when Mexican federal troops slaughtered four hundred unarmed men and women at Rooster Hill. Even then, when the heart of every Yaqui was crying out, no Yaqui ever said “surrender.” It was the same war they had been fighting for more than four hundred years, ever since pig-anus De Guzman had come hunting for Yaquis to enslave for his silver mines. Thinking about De Guzman reminded Calabazas about Max Blue. The newspapers had said he had been an important man in the Mafia, but he had had serious injuries that forced retirement in Tucson. Calabazas and the others kept watch, and for a long time Max Blue had performed only out-of-town work—nothing south of Salt Lake City or Denver. But Calabazas and the others had watched the two sons grow up, while the mother bought real estate. Max Blue always had the perfect alibi when a gangland execution took place in Atlantic City or Trenton or in a garden restaurant in Manhattan’s Little Italy. Maybe because Max wasn’t getting any younger himself, but all along Calabazas had been worried about the two sons. Not because the sons themselves were anything special, but because of the mother. The woman. The wife of Max Blue. Calabazas had never felt easy about her. Because she was doing something all the time with land and with money. And
while her husband was reputed to spend all his days on the golf course north of the city, Leah was seen all over, everywhere, and she flew to Los Angeles twice a month sometimes.

  Calabazas took a last hit off the cigarette and headed outside for a last look at the night. More and more he was thinking about “retirement” too, except he meant real retirement, not like Max Blue, who arranged executions from the golf course. Calabazas was thinking maybe of Sonora, of getting closer to where he wanted to rest at last. Whatever retirement was, it couldn’t be any worse than the years Old Pancakes spent as “Geronimo.”