Tales from the Journey of the Dead: Ten Thousand Years on an American Desert

13. The Life and Death of Victorio (On Seeing Apache Plume)

143 13. The Life and Death of Victorio (On Seeing Apache Plume) Victorio sat on his pony and studied his Apache warriors securing the stronghold below him. He wore a bandanna around his head. A weatherbeaten leather vest covered his tattered, checkered shirt. Directly below on a low ridge, three men lifted stones to form breastworks from which to kill soldiers. The army was near. More trouble lay ahead. Across the way a half dozen warriors, including his sister Lozen, rode northward along the rocky slopes of the high San Andres range. They followed an ancient trail that overlooked the Jornada; in a little while they dismounted and waited. The holy mountain rose beside him, the cool, wet springs at its base. He turned to look back at the wickiups the others had built of yucca stalks and grass. In the camp people busied about, readying for whatever might come next. Some cooked, while others gathered water and prepared for a quick flight. His old warrior friend Nana was there, guarding the people. Although both of his wives were now dead, somewhere down there a woman carried his youngest son strapped to a wooden tsach on a her back. Victorio raised his binoculars. His right hand shook slightly from palsy. He scanned to the east, down the narrow canyon that led to the white sand desert and Tularosa. A flash: the sentry’s mirror: once, twice. He raised his gun in the air. The shot reverberated across the basin. In his high-pitched warrior’s cry he shouted, ‘‘Soldiers are coming up the canyon!’’ In the spring of 1880, Victorio – whose name might have been a corruption of his Apache name, Bi-duye’ – was about fifty-five years 144 The Life and Death of Victorio old. Six months after this battle on the Jornada, he would be dead, killed – the Apache say by his own hand – in order to fulfill a vow to not be taken by the enemy. No account of Victorio’s death can ignore the mystery of his birth. Victorio’s origins are largely unknown. He was probably born around 1825. One legend has it that he was a young Apache boy who had been captured and raised by Mexicans. Another has it the other way around: Victorio was Mexican and was then stolen by the Apaches. According to historian Dan Thrapp, no contemporary ever said anything about his origins and ‘‘no white man knew him well. He was an Apache, a man apart.’’ When Victorio was about twelve a band of scalp hunters (most likely James Kirker and his Indians) attacked his village. The young boy and his sister Lozen escaped, but the men slaughtered the rest of their family and many of their friends. The bloody horror of that day set the path for both lives. Lozen would never marry; instead she picked up a rifle. Perhaps the greatest female Indian fighter in American history, she would become legendary for her bravery in battle and for her holy powers. As a result of that day, Victorio dedicated his life to protecting his people. Honest to a fault, he was known far and wide as a man of his word. If treated fairly, Victorio would have been a man of peace. I grab the edge of my seat as Jim Eckles turns west up a jagged stone road into Hembrillo Canyon. He steers the truck around a couple of rocks in the middle of the road. Jim is the director of public a√airs at White Sands Missile Range. Because of the missile range, most of the Jornada’s eastern flank is o√ limits to the public, so I jumped at his gracious o√er to take me to the site of Victorio’s battle. He warned me it would be a very long day. We left his o≈ce at range headquarters at dawn. That was two hours ago. Jim drops the truck into a lower gear. I stammer, ‘‘You just let me know if you want me to get out and move any of these rocks. I’d be happy to if they’re in our way.’’ The Life and Death of Victorio 145 Jim smiles. A fit, bearded man in his early fifties, he wears wide, dark sunglasses and an outrageously colorful Hawaiian-style shirt. ‘‘Nah,’’ he drawls, ‘‘this is a good road for around here.’’ The ruts climb...