"A Brother's Loyalty" Chapter 11

 

Professor Alan Templeton rubbed his eyes and sat back in his leather chair. He simply couldn’t believe what he was reading. But there it was right before him in black and white as he continued to read the e-mails from the young man from Casa Grande. Jesús, he said his name was, had found a pocket watch belonging to Professor Templeton’s great-great-grandfather. The young man said he’d found it clutched in the hands of a partial skeleton he came across while exploring a cave.

And that wasn’t all. The young man from Arizona also found a spur that had belonged to the brother of his great-great-grandfather. Professor Templeton deduced this from the scratched initials on the side of the spur, standing for Jeremiah Benton Templeton.

Elated by the out-of-nowhere news, Professor Templeton only knew that he needed to get to Arizona as soon as possible and quickly typed an e-mail message back to the young man in Arizona who’d found these priceless family artifacts, each providing valuable historical significance. Professor Templeton swore to himself that he’d be on the first plane out in the morning.

* * *

Joshua, his hands tied, salty sweat running into his stinging eyes, stumbled behind the Apache’s paint, stamping up small plumes of fine dust. Besides binding his hands, the warriors had also slipped a noose around his neck and took great pleasure in yanking on it hard every so often. They’d all laugh and point at the white man as he gagged with each powerfully-binding yank.

Soon the band of warriors and their prisoner made it to their village up in a high mountain valley. Joshua recognized at once what a well-hidden spot this was, easily defendable. He doubted that anyone besides the heathen Apache would ever be able to find it. He also knew what lay ahead for him hearing tales of those that went before, those that survived. He began to make peace with his maker.

Joshua was dragged like a reluctant dog into the crowded yet desperately poor village as women and children jeered and pointed dirty fingers in his direction. Quickly and roughly he was staked to a post in the middle of the village. The old women of the tribe then took great pleasure in throwing rocks at him, some walking up and beating him with a piece of wood, their toothless smiles displaying their great happiness. Red blood soon ran from his head and purplish bruises began to appear on his body like some kind of sadistic magic show. Eventually, the searing pain became so unbearable that he gratefully passed out.

The next morning, Joshua slowly came back to the world of the conscious. The cold desert air had tormented him all night long, shivering, shaking, and freezing. Now every part of his body ached, a dull throbbing ache that coursed through every part of his once strong body. And he knew that the day was just beginning.

After a morning of more taunts, Joshua watched through swollen eyes as all the women gathered in the center of the village, each carrying pieces of wood, bows and rocks. They soon formed two lines, facing one another, each having done this many times before. Joshua looked down between the lines, gauging the far-off end, knowing he’d probably never reach it. He was about to run the gauntlet.

The same raggedy-looking Apache that first spied Joshua walked over and, after placing a well-aimed good-morning kick in his ribs, yanked him by his noose to the beginning of the line. There he pulled his knife and expertly sliced away Joshua’s ropes, urging him forward, using the tip of his knife, jabbing its rock-sharpened point into his back.

Joshua turned his head and looked at the warrior, hate dripping from his stare, then spat on the ground. He looked again down the line, took a deep breath and ran as hard as he could right down the center until a fire-hardened club landed squarely on the back of his head, knocking him down. He rose to his knees, only to be beaten down again. Fresh blood streamed from his face, blurring his vision. But he mustered all his strength and continued on, toward more brutal beatings as the women laughed, the children cheered and the men smiled.

He didn’t remember what happened next. He thought he must have blacked out for when he woke, he was back, tied up to that pole in the center of the village, and every part of his body hurt worse than anything he’d ever imagined. His head was covered with dried blood. His jaw felt like it was broken. He could barely breathe and his ribs hurt so badly that every necessary breath caused shocks of searing pain. And standing was definitely out of the question, his legs were covered with purple bruises and swollen golf ball-sized welts. But he was alive and would see tomorrow. That’s when he vowed he’d escape or die trying.

The next day Joshua awoke to the laughing of a few of the younger braves who wanted to have some fun and show their elders that they were warriors too. They laughed and gestured at Joshua who just stood there and took it. Then they stripped him of all his few remaining clothes, rags really, except for his undergarments. They pointed and laughed at the ugly white man.

Suddenly, Joshua began to laugh too, momentarily stunning his tormentors. Then he began to call them names, his eyes wild. He called them women. He mocked them, spat at them, watching as the English-understanding boys began to grow angry, just as Joshua wanted, just as Joshua remembered how Jeremiah reacted when he was mercilessly teased. He continued to call them women; his eyes darting about, like a mad man’s. He began to imitate them crying, sounding like little girls, watching as they grew madder still.

Finally, it worked, just as he knew it would, just as it always worked with Jeremiah. The oldest walked over to him and spat in his face. Joshua just threw his head back and laughed again. Then he slowly lowered his head and met the anger in the young brave’s eyes. Joshua held his stare and said one word – “squaw.”

 Abruptly, the insulted, angry brave untied his hands and pointed off into the empty desert.

Joshua knew what they wanted him to do. Without hesitation, he immediately took off running at full speed, his aching legs wobbly, heading into the rapidly heating desert while the young warriors sharpened their arrow points, talked bravely and waited the proper, sporting amount of time.

He ran as hard as he could, jumping through cactus and over tumbleweeds, his feet constantly being sliced by the desert floor as if a hundred blue-steel razor blades were being slowly dragged across his bare and bloody feet. Soon, he had to stop. He knew that if he kept heading in the same direction, he’d end up in the middle of the desert, dead. No, he needed to change the odds. He needed to use the terrain to his advantage. He turned right and ran back up into the mountains. He knew that his guerrilla training would best serve him if he could operate using the element of surprise as well as the natural terrain, just like old Jeb Stuart taught him.

 He trudged up the side of a boulder-strewn mountain, his legs burning. When he’d almost reached the top, he turned around, bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and looked back. There he saw four braves hot on his trail. Four, he thought – I should be able to handle that.

He reached the top of the low mountain and looked over the steep back side. Perfect, he realized; a perfect killing field. Then he ran part way down the back side and stopped, and backtracked, being careful to place his swollen feet on any available rock, hiding his footprints. When he reached the top again, he squatted behind a mound of loosely stacked boulders. He held a long, sturdy piece of wood he’d quickly grabbed along the way and waited, already knowing what he was going to do.

The braves expertly tracked him like a dying animal. And they took the bait, soon cresting the mountain moving down the other side in single file, the lead brave continuing to track his quarry’s movements.

Joshua waited and watched as the braves move slowly away from him, deeper into the killing field. Then, when he guessed they were in the center, Joshua stood up, placed the lever in between the rocks and pushed down with all his strength. His muscles strained as he saw the pile of boulders begin to shift slightly, then tumble with fierce cracking and crumbling sounds as the rocks careened haphazardly down the steep hillside, bumping and bounding up into the air only to crash down and tumble on.

Immediately the braves saw the avalanche of death and tried to take cover as the boulders bounced down the hill like deadly, solid basketballs, their killing weight busting and exploding other rocks along the way.

One of the boulders suddenly hit a rock and bounced straight up in the air. It came down, directly on top of one of the braves, caving in his head and chest. He died instantly. The boulder continued its wild roll until it finally came to a dusty stop at the bottom of the hill, a bloody stain on its top, staring toward the sky.

Another of the braves had his leg crushed when a boulder tumbled across it, pulverizing his bones beneath lacerated and bleeding skin, his horrible screaming drowning out the sound of the runaway boulder.

Joshua, peering down from the top of the ridge, smiled. His plan was working. Now there were only two left. The odds were shifting in his favor.

After the hailstorm of boulders passed, the two remaining braves ran back up the mountain, more determined than ever to kill the hated white man and then happily mutilate his body, ensuring that his entrance into the great beyond would be as only half a man. They came to a stop at the top of the mountain and looked around. But they saw nothing.

Meanwhile, Joshua had traversed the crest of the mountain and sneaked down along the side of the boulder field. He hid when the two braves ran past, wildly searching in vain. Then he dashed over to the dead Apaches and took their bows, arrows and knives. He was now armed and ready for battle.

The braves hunting him looked at each other and turned to ascend the ridge again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing captive. They were perhaps twenty yards away from the top when suddenly an arrow, silent as lightning before the thunder, struck one of the Apaches squarely in the back, killing him, his wide eyes meeting his friend’s in disbelief.

One left, Joshua told himself, dropping his bow as the other brave ran for cover.

Time was on his side, Joshua knew. So, for the rest of the day, Joshua hid near the top of the mountain, waiting for the remaining brave to try and sneak up on him, waiting for his mistake. But that never happened.

After nightfall, Joshua, tired, thirsty and in agony, headed out back down through the boulder field. He needed to get as much distance as he could between himself and that brave before the sun rose.

Finally, after too many hours of running and walking, his body collapsed. He passed out from exhaustion and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

While he slept, he dreamt about his time in the Civil War. Never had he seen so much death and gore in all his life. He dreamt about the many cavalry charges he’d made under the expert command of Jeb Stuart.

Then he awoke. A cold knife was being held to his throat by the last Apache brave. Joshua knew he’d just lost the life-and-death contest.

The young brave looked at him. Then he stood back, allowing Joshua to stand. The brave wanted to fight him one-on-one out of respect for his adversary.

Joshua figured the brave needed to do this to avenge his friends’ deaths. But Joshua was unarmed.

The brave suddenly broke out in song.

Joshua thought the brave was making peace with his God. He momentarily lost himself in the lonely desperate melody as he looked beyond the brave into the vast, beautiful morning desert.

Then the brave stopped and ran directly at him, his blade at the ready. Joshua easily deflected his knife thrust. But the attacker did manage to slice Joshua’s upper arm with a quick back-handed slash.

Joshua, blinded by rage, not feeling any pain, ran toward the brave and, at the last second, jumped high in the air, planting his kicking foot squarely in the brave’s chest. The young man tumbled to the ground and Joshua was quickly on top of him. He easily grabbed the knife away and plunged it into his enemy’s young chest; blood and air gushed. The brave died quickly and silently, staring up into Joshua’s cold eyes.

But Joshua wasn’t finished yet. His rage had taken control of his mind. He grabbed a handful of the brave’s long black hair, lifting the young man’s head off the ground. Then with a quick scrape of his knife, peeled a strip of his scalp away, the brave’s head falling back to earth making a thud sound while Joshua’s hand full of hair, now freed from the brave’s head, sprang into the air, an involuntary act of violent victory.

Joshua dropped his bloody knife into the sand and held the mess of black hair, skin and blood, up to the sky again. Then he smiled, feeling justified.

Exhausted then hit and hit hard; Joshua fell to the ground and blissfully slept for a few peaceful hours under the rising desert sun.