“Yeah,” Paiz agreed, “all he needed was the core.” He turned to Sonny.
Sonny mumbled, “Raven knew Chernenko was being watched. He knew you would make a move as soon as you thought the pit was brought in. He’s building another bomb somewhere in the city.…”
Someone arrived with Styrofoam cups of dark coffee. “Drink,” he heard Rita say, and felt the hot liquid on his heavy tongue, the coffee dripping down the sides of his mouth.
It tasted good, something heaven-sent to his dry mouth. But he really couldn’t fight the effects of the drug for long, and he didn’t want to go to the hospital and get shot full of uppers. That would only postpone the meeting with Raven in the dream. Why not do it now and get it done with? Now or never. Turn the tables on Raven.
“Let me sleep,” he whispered.
“He wants to sleep,” Rita said to Lorenza.
“Sleep?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to try to stop him in the dream?”
Sonny nodded. Come what may, the struggle had to take place in the dreamworld. Sonny would not be a bystander; he would actually be a participant in the dream.
“Coyote,” he managed to say.
“Yes,” Lorenza agreed. “Coyote knows the world of dreams. Find Coyote.” She turned to Rita. “Maybe he’s found a way! We need to get him home!”
“You’re taking him home?” Paiz asked. “Don’t you think we should get him to a doctor?”
“We have a clinic—” Ward said, but Rita cut in.
“No, home is best,” she insisted.
“Okay. Hope you know what you’re doing. I’ll call anyway, soon as we find out what’s in the syringe.”
“It’s just something to make him sleep,” Lorenza said.
Yes, Sonny thought, and felt himself being lifted. Someone had brought in his wheelchair. The wheels creaked as the chair moved out into the cold night, past the bodies of Tallboy and Sweatband, past a swarm of SWAT figures looking like shadows from the underworld in the dark.
Somewhere a Christmas carol wafted through the cold night. It was probably nine o’clock, and somewhere a radio was playing carols. How nice, Sonny thought as he was lifted into the van. Rita put the serape around him. Around him the books he had collected had spilled on the floor of the van.
“We ran a few red lights,” Lorenza explained as she swept the books aside.
“I’ll clear you with the gate,” Sonny heard Jack Ward say, his voice ringing from far away.
He felt the van moving. “We’re going home,” Rita whispered, holding him in her arms. He was shivering. The night was cold, clear, and frozen. The streetlights overhead seemed enveloped in fuzzy auras of light. Through the window a tile-covered Chevy appeared, riding high on a pedestal, then disappeared.
“A flying Chevy? Am I dreaming?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Rita answered.
“Do you know where you are?” Lorenza asked.
Where I am? The same question don Eliseo had asked him right after Stammer juiced him. Knowing the here and now was something he knew he had to keep in mind. It centered his consciousness, his soul. It focused his identity in this world.
But the world was breaking apart, the seams were ripping open. The sacred regions were all plowed under or controlled by the feds.
“Novo Mexic,” he answered sleepily, slurring the words. “Novo-Mesh-ic.”
The ancestors of the Aztecs of Mexico, Owl Woman’s people, had called this place Aztlán. The original homeland, the place of birth, place of covenant with the gods. Land of the pueblos. They named the sacred mountains, the rivers, the mesas. The Spaniards came to map it. Called it La Nueva México. Landscapes renamed, maps overlaid previous maps, sometimes peacefully, most often violently. Que chinga, why was violence part of the naming ceremony? Why did the newcomers always have to rename, remap? The old people had kept the promise of the dream in their hearts, and waited. They knew the land was sacred. Sacred mountains, north, west, south, east. Sacred sun. Sacred food of the gods: corn, squash, beans, chile. Meat from the brother deer who gave his breath of life so the brothers and sisters might have sustenance. Bountiful summer rains of the spirits.
“We will keep it always,” Sonny muttered.
“Yes,” Rita answered as she and Lorenza got him down from the van and guided his chair into the house. Together they helped him into the bed.
“What does he need?” Rita asked.
“He needs to find Coyote,” Lorenza answered. “Sonny, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, okay … feel dopey.”
“Follow don Eliseo’s instructions. Call Coyote. He can help. You need to set the stage. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Sonny mumbled.
Coyotes. He had first seen the coyotes when as a child he played along the Río Grande on visits to his grandparents in Socorro. He spent hours by the river, watching the coyotes play, and this most wily animal of the llano, the river, the hills, and forest had grown to trust him.
“Los coyotes,” his grandparents whispered as they sat up late into the summer night, talking, discussing the day, the work, the growth of crops, animals, the neighbors, marriages and deaths, the weather, the acequia water flooding the fields under the moonlight of the Río Grande night, the crickets chirping away, filling the night with their love song.
“Habla la idioma de los coyotes,” the grandfather said. The boy spoke the language of the coyotes.
How long had it been since a child who could speak to the animals had come to the pueblos south of Belen? They didn’t remember. A few stories lingered. Los antepasados had told stories of those who spoke to animals. Now this boy, Francisco Elfego Baca, Sonny as he was called in school, spoke to the coyotes.
The voices of his grandparents grew hushed, and Sonny, who slept in a rollaway bed on the screened porch, caught only wisps of words.
They say his bisabuelo could also speak to animals. Those old vaqueros, him and Billy the Kid, they roamed the llano like coyotes.
Words with smiles turned to words of tragedy. It was a blessing, and it was a curse. The child who spoke to the coyotes would always have a strong guardian spirit to watch over him, but with it came a responsibility. A vortex of evil would gather around him to curse his footsteps. It had always been so.
“He’s asleep,” Rita whispered.
No, Sonny replied, not asleep. I’m preparing my dream.
Where to go? To my bisabuelo, Elfego Baca, and his adventures with Billy the Kid. Just now I heard my grandparents speak of them. For a reason. Maybe el Bisabuelo and Billy have come to help me.
I will open the door, set the stage, call his name.
“Billy?”
A young man appeared. He was about five foot seven, with a slight build, sandy hair, and blue eyes that sparkled. It was his friend, William Bonney.
Billy? Is that you, Billy?
Quién es? the Kid answered.
Sonny Baca. Hijo de Polonio Baca, nieto de Lorenzo Baca, bisnieto de Elfego Baca, tu amigo del condado de Socorro.
There, Sonny thought. I’ve described myself in my dream. That’s a start.
Sonny, I’ve been waiting for you. The bucktoothed kid with wavy brown hair stepped out of the shadows and smiled. Lordy, Lordy, Sonny, am I glad to see you.
The Kid, twenty or so, held a Winchester rifle in one hand. A pistol hung easily on the belt around his waist. A wide-brimmed, dusty hat shaded his smiling eyes.
Where you going, Billy?
I’m going to Fort Sumner, Sonny. Come with me.
What’s in Fort Sumner?
Didn’t you know? I’m gonna marry Rosa, the prettiest flower on the Llano Estacado. I told you about Rosa. I’m going to marry her, settle down, raise children instead of raising hell.
Billy the Kid laughed good-naturedly, as was his manner. He looked happy.
Rosa!
Yeah, Paco’s sister. You know that Mares/Luna clan from Puerto de Luna. She’s related to Maria Luna, who was
the daughter of Liborio Mares. Big family, lots of pretty daughters.
Billy continued speaking the names of the llano, the names of the Pecos River valley, and Sonny thought, Ah, so this is why I entered this time. Rosa is a grandmother! Billy is going to marry, give up his violent ways. Peace can come to Lincoln County and to the Llano Estacado.
Say you’ll come, Billy pleaded. I want you to be my best man.
Rosa is a grandmother of the llano, that bloody land of the Nuevo Mexicano cibolleros and comancheros who went from the villages of the Río Grande to hunt buffalo, to trade with the Comanches. Mexicanos from Taos, Mora, Pecos, Ranchos de Taos, Córdova, Truchas, Picuris Pueblo, Santa Clara Pueblo, and San Juan Pueblo.
They settled along the Río Pecos, founded the farming villages from Anton Chico to Puerto de Luna, and another dream was born. They grew corn, chile, and squash in the fertile valleys. Small adobe villages sprouted as the Nuevo Mexicanos claimed the eastern Llano Estacado. They sought the dream of peace.
But east of the llano in the land of the Santa Fé Trail, east in the place called Kansas, St. Louis, east in the land of the Americanos, the Civil War had just ended, years of bloody rage and murder had finally come to an end, and the war-weary soldiers of the South returned home to find devastation. Their homes were burned and their slaves were gone. Antebellum life had been turned upside down during the four long years of struggle. Many moved west, into Texas, across Texas and into New Mexico. New Mexico, they said in their southern drawl, a slang flavored with the Cajun tongue of Louisiana.
They moved west in search of a dream, and they brought with them the memory of violence from the killing fields of Gettysburg, Appomatox, Shiloh, and all the other battles where violence swelled and grew fat with the blood of men.
Cattle barons appeared on the stage, men eager to run the Mexicans and Indians out of those plains, men who claimed the land and mapped it with barbed wire and a new language. Cowboys like Billy appeared, young men who learned horsemanship from the Mexican vaqueros and hired out to cattle rustlers.
Rosa belonged to Sonny’s past. Part of his family had moved out of the Río Grande valley, spilling over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains onto the eastern plains, where the fat buffalo provided meat and hides. Families from Atrisco near Alburquerque, families from as far south as Socorro, finding the mountain passes to the old Abo and Quarai missions, and into the llanos of Mountainair, Vaughn, Roswell, Portales, Lincoln, Alamogordo, Carrizozo.
The U.S. Army constructed Fort Sumner on the banks of the Pecos, a fort in which to imprison the Navajos.
The tragedy never ceased. The Diné Nation was defeated by Kit Carson and the U.S. Army, and a once proud people were herded into concentration camps long before the world used such terms to describe the atrocity.
Now Billy was going to Fort Sumner, for Rosa, his love.
He’s waiting for you, Billy.
Billy smiled. Hey, I’ve got my pistol handy. I can take care of myself. Besides, Pat Garrett may be sheriff of Lincoln County, but he’s not going to come up to Fort Sumner.
I don’t mean Pat Garrett, I mean Raven, Sonny replied. He had to go with Billy. He had chosen the dream.
I fear no man, Billy replied.
Pues, vamos, Sonny said.
That’s what I like to hear! Billy smiled and put his arm around him. He slapped him on the back. You watch, we’re going to have a grand time. Imagine me, Billy the Kid—el Desperado, as the eastern newspapers call me—married. Settled down and married. I’m giving up the gun.
They mounted their ponies and slapped leather, spurring and turning the horses east, raising a cloud of dust on the back trails to Fort Sumner, on the trail to meet their destinies.
Just like a movie, set the stage! Sonny shouted. Coyote, are you with us?
Ajua! The vaquero Coyote shouted, full of tequila and an urge to ride with those close to his soul.
Vamos! he, too, cried, following on his flaming steed.
15
“Don Eliseo’s here,” Rita whispers.
Sonny thinks it’s Rosa talking to Billy. His mouth is dry as cotton. He senses don Eliseo entering the room. Chica is nearby, whining. She understands he is caught in some sort of web; she wants to help him.
Sonny smiles. He can sense their presence, smell their perfumes. The sheets on the bed smell fresh, crinkly. They brought him here, to his bed, to sleep. He feels Rita’s hands, ministering to him, and he feels the urge to make love to her.
Outside, a winter storm rages. Snow falls, driven by a cold wind. Sonny can feel the fury of nature around him, the fury that reflects the turmoil within. He feels hot, but Rita won’t let him toss away the blankets that cover him.
He has only to say the word and they will awaken him, shower him in cold water, and fill him with coffee, take him to a truck stop where he can get enough uppers to keep him awake into the next century, but he doesn’t want to be awakened. He must face Raven. Can’t let him take Rosa.
“Where are you, Sonny?” It is the old man’s voice.
Sonny struggles to open his eyes. “With Billy the Kid. Billy’s girl in danger …”
“What’s her name?”
“Rosa,” he manages. “Fort Sumner.”
“Who is Rosa?” don Eliseo asks.
“A grandmother.…”
“What did the family tree say about families in the llano?” Don Eliseo asks Lorenza and Rita.
Lorenza answers. “Yes, there is a Mares/Luna branch. They settled in the Pecos River valley. Don Jesus had two children, Rosa and Paco.”
Don Eliseo shouts in Sonny’s ear. “She is your grandmother! Raven will be there! You must act in your dream! Understand? Act!”
Sonny knows this.
There is silence in the room, silence in Sonny’s dream. He crosses the threshold of the luminous door, returning to the dream he is creating. Like an old Western movie. Keep hold of the story. Become the actor in your dream!
On the other side of the door he is greeted by Coyote. He is dressed in a shiny purple cowboy shirt, Mexican leather vest, a cheap one, the kind one buys in Juárez mercados, and jeans. A red handkerchief adorns his neck, and two low-slung pistols hang at his sides. He peers at Sonny. His nose twitches, smelling for Raven-danger, but he says nothing. His honey-colored eyes continue to stare at Sonny.
Coyote?
Yes.
You’re here?
Been here all along, Coyote replies. His pistols are two Colt .45s in well-worn leather holsters.
Can you help me, pardner?
You want to find Billy?
Yes. Billy and Rosa.
You think you’re ready, pardner?
Now or never.
Pues, vamos! Coyote calls, like an old Indian scout ready to lead Sonny into the underworld. He mounts his horse, a red stallion that rears and paws the air. He turns it smartly and skids down the slope of the mesa into a wide arroyo, leaving a cloud of red dust behind him. The cloud boils and becomes dark. Sonny follows on a skittish paint pony.
Can I reenter my dream? Can I find Billy? Can I be there to protect Rosa? For a moment he feels lost, a hot panic engulfs him. He can’t see Coyote in the darkness.
Coyote, help me! he calls.
Spur that sombitch! Coyote shouts. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes!
He laughs, a wild Coyote laughter that echoes in the labyrinth they’re entering. A wild howl of the West, for Coyote is the spirit of the West, the guardian animal of even those who hate him and poison him. His laughter echoes all the way from the Rocky Mountains to the Sierra Nevada of California. From the frozen reaches of Alaska to the Sonoran Desert. Even in the eastern cities he haunts dark alleys.
Vamos! he shouts like the old vaquero he is.
Sonny follows. As usual, Coyote is right on target. When Sonny reins in his horse, Billy appears.
Sonny! Billy calls. I’m darn pleased you came back. Boy, you missed the action. Tom and me and Charley Bowdre just rustled us up some cattle. br />
The cowboys around Billy laugh and disappear in a cyclone.
Life in the dream is no easier than in the other reality, Sonny thinks. In fact, it’s damn harder! No matter what he says, he can’t seem to control the dream.
You’ve got to get deep into the dream, Coyote urges. His horse rears up. Coyote is an expert vaquero! A trickster! A carrier of the dreams!
Anda! Vamos! Sonny shouts, gathering his courage and mounting his pony. Let’s find Billy! Let’s see how deep I can go!
With purpose and gusto he rides into the rustling, gambling, and hard life of the New Mexico territory. From Tularosa to the Texas panhandle, Billy’s boys are wanted men, and Sonny follows.
Folks, a reporter for the Las Vegas Optic, writes, a dangerous drama is being played out in our territory. Down in Lincoln County a bunch of wild outlaws threatens our civilization. These murderous bullies have had their way with the law long enough. We, the law-abiding citizens, call upon the governor to stop this bloodshed once and for all.
Pat Garrett enters from the back of the stage. Azariah Wild has just made him a U.S. marshal, and Governor Wallace has just posted a five-hundred-dollar reward for William Bonney, alias Billy the Kid.
If no one else can stop Bill Bonney, I can, Pat Garrett vows, his words as dangerous as a rattlesnake bite, his eyes gleaming with determination. I know Billy from a long time ago. I know how he thinks, where he goes. I can be there waiting for him.
Sonny rides into Fort Sumner, hoping to catch up with Billy. He reins in, ties up, and enters the saloon. The fallen doves of the cantina are putting on a play. They take Sonny’s arms and direct him to a seat.
I don’t want to sit, I want to be on the stage, Sonny replies.
Oh, but this is not your play, a young whore with flaming red hair chides him. This is Billy’s play. You just watch and clap in all the right places. Remember, life is but a waking shadow, and we the petty players strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are heard no more.
She goes off laughing.
Sonny watches Billy enter and meet his old friend, Paco Anaya. Paco embraces Billy. Oye, Bilito, que gusto me da verte. Anda, vamos a mi casa.