Scalphunters

Mexican land is ravaged for cattle and horses by the Indian tribes. The state of Chihuahua is molested by raids from the Comanche and Apache. A price of a hundred pesos per an Indian scalp is a set price. Scalphunters haunt the lands. Chihuahua borders New Mexico, which has not yet been overtaken by the United States. Señor Hector Gomez’s small ranch north of Chihuahua:
“Esmeralda ¿dónde estás?”
“Aquí Papa. I’m in the stable house.”
“Hurry, hide the horses! The Comanche are at it again. Another raid,” Esmeralda’s father warned. “Come on, go hide with your mother and sisters.”
She was on her way out of the stable until one of the horses broke loose.
“No, Chiquita! Come back. Stupid horse.” she started tearing. “Por favor, come back.”
The horse broke out of the stable. She snatched her arm away from her father’s grip and ran after the horse. She ran after the horse until she lost her breath. She felt the ground shudder beneath her, and looked at the horizon; she could see thick clouds of dust trembling closer. She got up and held on to the horse’s neck, hopped on it without a saddle:
“Vamonos Chiquita! Vamonos!” she tapped the horse with her right foot on its abdomen.
The horse took off sprinting. She held on to its neck, while it galloped in fear. She kept titling her head and looking backwards. She was being overtaken by a crowd of barbarians yelling and making unfamiliar noises, with painted faces and long hair. Beyond the horizon, a tall man with a fixed posture on his horse skillfully aimed and double-sprung two arrows. The arrows pierced through the air and struck the pony’s hind buttock. The horse chaotically tumbled onto the ground. Esmeralda fellout and rolled along with the horse; and Chiquita, wounded, took off running toward the stable, with two arrows deeply pierced into its back.
The horde continued on their stampede toward the ranch. The same tall man was in the lead of the pack. His horse galloped at tremendous speed. He knelt down and snatched Esmeralda by the waist off of the ground like a zealous warrior snatches the spoils of war. She screamed and panted, begging him to let her go.
They ravaged her ranch in front of her own eyes. Gathered what they could of cattle and horses and vanished like a tornado undoes a solemn town from its stringent roots. Her family was nowhere in sight. They had fled in despair.
He was a large man, with a sturdy looking body, and rough features, like some ancient tree. He kept on eyeing her and studying her every feature; he was mesmerized; she had long, thick, curly black locks, deep soulful black eyes, as black as wild night, with lashes like the raven’s feathers, perfectly sculpted nose, and finely drawn lips. He was lost in her countless, nameless features.
“My name is Ituha. I am Sturdy Oak. I am the chief of this Comanche tribe,” he rigidly introduced himself. “You are going to be my third wife. You are my prize.” he sternly said, without giving her a chance to speak. She eyed him carefully and his physical features fit the name and his personality fit the profile. He was as stiff and senseless as an oak tree. She figured the title was adapted out of respect and adherence toward him, being the chief of the clan.
Night fell upon her, and the savages camped on the northern border of Mexico. She quietly squatted, holding both legs in her arms, with her head piously in between, at the far end of the tepee, like some wise hermit meditating. His other two wives were Indian. They eyed her in despise being a foreigner. She lowered her gaze and tried not to make any eye contact, and prayed for day break.
One of the wives was considerate enough to bring her some of the meat of the cattle they’d slain out of her ranch. Buffalo liver. She had no appetite for food, and her eyes restlessly chased after slumber with no avail. The chief told his other two wives to leave. They both exited the room, with each one of them giving her a poisonous glance. The ancient man called onto her to sit beside him:
“Come, come,” he patted with his hand on the ground next to him. “You’re Ituha’s wife now. You must not be afraid,” he ran his fingers through her silky smooth hair. He tried caressing her, and seducing her. She shoved him back and waved his arm aside in disgust. The reaction troubled him. He had never seen a woman react in that manner toward him before. His wives were submissive. He tried mating with her, but she would have rather died and denied him stubbornly. He finally let her be.
“You are going to have to mate. We must have children to bond us. You are my wife,” Sturdy Oak said.
“I would rather die,” she replied.
“What is your name?” he inquired in wonderment.
“Esmeralda,” she quietly said, “Esmeralda Gomez.”
“Why will you not mate Esmeralda Gomez?”
“You invaded my home, ravaged through our property, cattle and horses, and you made my family flee our home, and you ask me why I don’t mate with you?” she stared into his dull eyes. “Idiota Indio,” she frustrated. He recognized Spanish, but did not understand it. He remained patient. Figured that he eventually would woo her in some way.
They started heading back home toward the east at dawn; heading for Texas. She rode on behind Ituha on a horse by herself. Her face was expressionless. Filled with sorrow and mourning. She held on to her cross tightly and started chanting prayers. The more she remembered parting with her family, the more tears she shed.
“O Dios, ayudarme por favor,” she cried.
They stopped to water the animals. The weather was feverish and dry. Dust contaminated their clothes and faces, their lips and eyelids. They thirsted for water, but the animals were given the priority. They had a day’s length of a trip till the next pueblo in search for water.
While watering their animals, the ground started shuddering and shaking beneath them. They saw clouds of dust and sand for miles to come. The animals started scattering in fear. The women went after the animals, and the men took to arms, readying their rifles, bows, and axes. Bandits were coming; Anglo-Saxon scalphunters. They came blazing on wild mustangs, with their rifle in one hand and the saber in the other.
Both units vehemently crashed. The White Saxons drove into their counterpart Indians like a raging bull gores a matador. Shots fired. Sabers and axes clashed; White men scalping Indians, and Indians skillfully scalping the Saxons. Ituha was busied with a sniveling man half his size, but agile in movement and reflexes. The chief slashed with his axe in frustration, but the White man playfully spun around him like a ballerina dancing at a grand recital. He locked the Indian’s axe in place with his saber, snatched his colt from the scabbard, rammed the gun into the Indian’s gut, and fired. The Indian forcefully pushed him back and stood with a red stain in his lower abdomen. His strewn liver hung from his torso; then he crumbled onto his knees, gurgling blood. The heathen fell flat on his face silently, seldom for the sound of a mute thud.
As soon as the clan’s men saw their leader slain, they retreated in cowardice. The men ran faster than the women and children, and the White men chased after them, massacring them, and scalping as many as they could; men, women, and children. When the dust had settled, slain, bald effigies lay on a bloodquenched earth. The sound of White Saxons shouting and hollering in rejoice, and others aiding their moaning wounded echoed disputed lands.
She stood in digust and paranoia looking at the bearded White men pulling onto the Indian corpses’ heads and scalping them in lunacy:
“I’m goin te get me some pesos,” a man scalped the corpse, closely holding it, as if baptizing it.
Then she looked at the man that killed Ituha. He was decapitating the entire head, holding it by its long grained hair. He had dirty blonde hair and hazel green eyes. He was small in stature, but the manner in which he took on the Indian was spectacular, she thought. He was a barbarian, like his fellow comrades nevertheless, he lived off of the blood of others, but his eyes carried a certain spirit; a wild wolf, one that could not be captured.
He noticed her studying him:
“Hey there, ye don’t look Indian. What is ye?” he sacked the head in a brown cloth. “Ye is Mexican?”
“Sí, soy Mexicana.”
“Don’t go on speakin Spanish now,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”
“Yes,” she said, while fearfully retreating, dragging her buttocks on the ground in a backward motion.
“Don’t be scared now. I ain’t goin te harm ye.”
“Where are ye from? he curiously asked her.
“Chihuahua.”
“Oh, that’s convenient. I’m goin there. I gots to turn in ol’ Ituha’s head now,” he said while proudly smiling, holding the sack dripping thick blood. “Ye know they pay a hundred for an Indian’s scalp, but this son of a *****’s head is worth five.”
“I need to go home,” she said, veering into his captivating, charismatic eyes.
“God all mighty, ye sure are gorgeous!” he exclaimed. “Sure, I’ll take ye home. Ye can ride with me.”
“Thank you señor.”
“Come on now. I ain’t no señor. Name’s Ian Jackson. Ye can call me Ian. I don’t mind,” he said smiling at her sincerely, as if the brute within him dissolved.
They carried their wounded and started heading westward. The night fell upon them. Lonesome wolves howled in a desert that had no boundaries. They made camp. The night creatures crept upon them, but they took shifts guarding the camp. The hungry wolves had luminous yellow eyes, and the coyotes mourned their starvation in sorrow melodies:
“Go on, have ye some goat chops. They’re delicious,” he tore the meat off of the bone and chewed with his mouth open like a carnivore, while reaching out to her with a goat chop with his other hand.
She took the meat and started nibbling on it at first then when she felt comfortable, she started taking full bites. He handed her some whiskey, but she refused, and thanked him. She told him that she doesn’t drink hard liquor. He fell asleep next to her. She looked at him:
“¡Que guapo! How could you be so kind, so caring, pero so vicious and barbaric? You’re no ordinary man. You’re a lobo; a beautiful wild lobo,” she placed his head on her lap, and ran her fingers through his blonde hair and started to tear.
He woke up in the morning to find her sleeping in between his arms. He smiled. He woke her up:
“Come on darlin, we gots to get goin.”
“Sí, Thank you for the food yesterday,” she veered into his hazel eyes and fluidly smiled.
He tenderly held her neck and kissed her on the lips, with his eyes closed:
“What are ye doin te me girl? I think I’m fallin for ye.”
Her horse trotted behind his, and he kept on turning and smiling at her. They stopped by mid noon and had some tortillas and pinto beans, and drank some agave nectar. She kept on trying to fix his crooked accent, pronouncing Spanish words and chuckling, and he would chuckle as well:
“Peentoh beans,” she slowly pronounced.
“Pinte beans,” he repeated.
“No, no, peeentohh!”
“Pinteh.”
“Ha ha,” she chuckled.
“Don’t ye laugh at me now girl.”
They finally entered Chihuahua from its northern border:
“Where do ye live?” Ian asked.
“Just a few miles from here. Not too far off, but I doubt there is anybody there. The Comanche raided our home.”
“We’ll go there anyways. Ye might find somebody,” he eased her.
“Bien.”
The ranch was in disarray, as she’d left it a month ago; only chicken pecking at the worms in the ground. She went up the stairs to her room to find her jewelry stolen, so were her mother’s and sisters’ precious belongings, and her father’s vintage Spanish rifle and pistols were taken as well. The cowardly gangs had broken into a forsaken home; slim pickings. She wept in his bosom:
“It’s alright girl, it’s alright. Do ye have any relatives?” he softly gazed into her eyes.
“Sí, I have my aunt and my cousin Iguain in Mexico City,” she helplessly replied.
“That’s deep inte the country sweetheart. I ain’t never gone that far.”
“That’s okay, I’ll manage from here,” she restlessly replied.
“No. I told ye that I would get ye home, and I don’t aim te take my word back,” he sternly replied, “Let me turn this bastard’s head over n’ get my money, then we go where ye please.”
“Bien.” she broke a smile.
“That’s it, show them pearly whites.”
He had departed from his company for a week, and was running low on supplies. As soon as he cashed in the chief’s head, he stopped by the nearest market and resupplied on goods: meat, bread, and liquor.” He gambled a bit of his arms with a few of Chihuahua’s gangs and fellow scalp hunters who mistook him for an idiot. He gambled his 1830’s pepperbox pistol for a hundred pesos and he won it by slyly cheating:
“That’s an Indian scalp amigo. Hand over them pesos!”
“Andale! Dineros!” Esmeralda urged the gangster, with a rugged smirk.
He had contaminated her with his slickness and streetwit.
They spent two nights in Mexico City’s tropical boundaries. Water was in ample supply. By the time they arrived at Mexico City, his pocket was dry; he spent the five hundred pesos on the endless journey. They stood in front of her aunt’s mansion, and a man around his age came out of the gates:
“Hello cousin, are you alright? Your family’s here. We all thought we’d never see you again.” the man said.
“Hello Iguain. That would have been true if it wasn’t for this man,” she pointed at Ian. “He saved my life.”
He did not understand Spanish, but when he saw her pointing at him and heard his name, he assumed he was being introduced:
“Howdy partner. Name’s Ian Jackson,” he gave the man a rugged smile.
“Hello señor, thank you for saving my cousin’s life. We owe you a great deal,” Iguain appreciated.
“Don’t thank me for nothin. I did what had te be done. Somethin as beautiful as the creature by yer side should be protected,” he looked into her infinitely blissful eyes.
“How much do we owe you?” Iguain reached for the sack by his pistol scabbard.
“Ye don’t owe me nothin, I told ye. Keep yer money. She’s priceless,” he sighed deeply. “She da’ gone gave me all I need, and I loved her for it.” Ian peacefully smiled, “So long darling. Been a pleasure,” he tapped the brim of his hat and turned his horse around.
“Adiós Ian. I will never forget you,” she waved and shouted, while he slowly rode on, “I will never forget you. Tú eres para siempre,” she whispered.
He rode onto the sunsetting horizon, with her horse tied to his; the only thing he could remember her by. She tamed the wild man within him; she gave him peace, and he cherished her for it. He vanished into the dissolving sunset. The only thing she could eternally recall him by was his timeless silhouette fading into the distance.


Copyright: Sherif Mohamed 2016