Chango liked to alternate between the two mules, Bruto and Bobo, using one to pull his supply wagon while he rode the other. I’m not sure which job the mules preferred, but there couldn’t have been much of a difference, not given his size.
I once asked Miguel how Chango had come across a matched pair that big.
“Oh, he had them when we met him,” Miguel replied. “Don Enrique was returning from a sale in Tampico with a bunch of us when we come across Chango, alone, with that wagon and those two mules. His padre was a great herrero …you know, a blacksmith…but he was shot to death. A bandido everyone called El Tuerto once rode through their pueblo looking for someone to shoe his horse. When Chango’s father finish the job and ask for his money, El Tuerto shoot him, instead of paying. So Chango, he go look for this assesino, and later he find him in Los Senos del Diablo, a very bad place near Saltillo. Even the Federales don’t go there.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Chango, he find this man in a cantina with two others, drinking tequila and playing the cards. El Tuerto had a gun, sure, but Chango had his father’s hammer. The other bandidos joined in the fight, too, but Chango…he used that hammer on them. They say you could slide what was left of those three under the door. Both mules and the wagon belong to the two men who were playing poker with El Tuerto. I guess Chango not feel like walking home, so he just took them. Chango didn’t any longer want to stay at home after his padre’s death, so he rode away to look for other job. After they met, Don Enrique give him a job and he has been with us ever since. But you know, nobody ever give him the hard time or make fun of his choosing to ride mules.”
Of that I had no doubt.
Bruto, the mule, stood quietly in front of me as I bent over to pick up the shovel I’d dropped when he surprised me. I laughed again, wondering who’d been more startled, him or me. Even though my nerves were still on edge, that’s not always a bad way to feel when you’re alone in the wild. It heightens the senses and keeps one alert for danger. At least this time it did, for, as I stood there in front of that mule, the sudden flicker of his ear and the toss of his head warned me something was wrong.
Any other time I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it, but that sixth sense of mine had suddenly begun to act up again. I listened carefully, but heard nothing unusual. Even so it seemed that the mule was standing a trifle too still and he kept staring straight at me without blinking. Something was definitely wrong, but it was something I couldn’t put my finger on. I strained to hear, see, or even smell something, anything that might be out of the ordinary. It was while I was looking at that old jack that I finally caught the reflection in his eye. My blood almost froze at the realization that I was watching three Apaches closing in silently from behind, captured crystal clear in that mule’s big old round pupil.
They rushed me just as I turned, swinging that shovel. It caught the first one with a crushing blow to the side of his head that killed him instantly. There was still time to draw my pistol, and the Navy Colt bucked in my hand, sending a slug squarely into the chest of the second brave. Although a lethal shot, it didn’t stop his forward motion, and the Indian plowed right into me, knocking the gun from my hand and sending me spinning off to the side.
Fortunately his dead body landed on top of my gun, putting it out of reach of the last Apache. The fall also blocked the Indian from reaching me before I had a chance to recover, forcing him to cross over the body. Judging by the six-inch knife in his hand, it was only pure luck that had saved me from being gutted on the spot.
That luck was short-lived, however, since Apache warriors don’t waste time. This one turned back around to rush me, but I quickly reached down and pulled my Bowie from its boot sheath, forcing him back a step. It made him pause to reconsider as only fools rush someone with a blade. My stomach muscles tightened as I remembered Uncle Zeke’s advice on knife fighting.
“Expect to get cut, and don’t ever play fair. Try to git outta there, but, iffen you cain’t, use whatever you can to win,’ cause in a knife fight the winner sometimes ends up in worse shape than the loser.”
This battle was now going to be one on one. Had there been any other Apaches around I’d surely have been dead by now. These three had probably fled the reservation and then later spotted the campfire. More likely than not they were only after the mule and some guns, but this Apache clearly wasn’t about to quit now. There was nowhere for me to go but right into it.
We circled, twisting and turning, thrusting and parrying, trying to feel each other out. Some men use a knife like a sword, slashing or jabbing, trying for the quick kill, but the more experienced ones make small circular slicing movements, keeping the blade in close. They prefer to cut up an opponent little by little, bleeding them out enough to make them helpless, before finally going in for the kill.
This Apache was strong and very determined, as most are. He had obviously used his blade many times before, but then so had I, and there was no way I was going to do anything foolish like kicking at him, which would risk a severed leg muscle. Nor would I just stand there facing him straight on.
All I offered my opponent was a constantly moving and well-guarded side view. Even so, his blade nicked my left arm twice, and a couple of times came uncomfortably close to my throat. We locked grips once, but I managed to drop down onto my back while at the same time throwing my feet up into his chest. By holding onto his arms, I managed to flip him backward over my head. Although I came up fairly quickly, he had already jumped back to his feet in what wrestlers call a “kip up”. It was a beautiful move, but one I was in no mood to appreciate.
We traded blows for a while with both hands and feet. I managed to backhand him with my left hand while at the same time sweeping his legs out from under him with my foot. But once again he was quick to recover, and rolled out of my reach. I was tiring quickly, and the Apache began taking advantage of that fact by grappling more, all the time trying to wrestle the Bowie knife from my grasp.
Once again Uncle Zeke’s words came back. “Use whatever you can. Whatever it takes.” So I let the Apache lock up with me once again, and then fell to the ground in a side roll, taking him down with me. We rolled over several times and my face was pushed down into the ground before we finally pulled each other straight back up to our feet.
Neither of us let loose of the other the whole time, until we finally came to a stop and stared, face to face, at each other, arms outstretched and locked. When the Apache made eye contact with me, I shrugged as if to apologize. The Indian was staring me squarely in the eye with a puzzled look when I sprayed his face with all the dirt I’d swallowed when we’d rolled over.
Instinctively his hands jerked up to his face as he tried quickly to wipe his eyes. When he finally looked back at me, it was with an expression of bewilderment. He looked slowly down to my Bowie knife, now embedded in his belly, and then back up at me. With his hand clutching the hilt, he fell over backward, dead.
Chapter Ten
For obvious reasons I didn’t hang around the camp any longer. I briefly considered going after the rustlers alone, but it was out of the question. I had almost no supplies, little ammunition, and the mule wasn’t fast enough to catch the herd. San Rafael was the only logical place to go since there I could remount, reëquip, and find help. Riding Bruto would be slower than a horse, but at least he was solid and dependable, and would get me back to town. Once I managed to climb up on that enormous back of his, that is.