Prologue

It's been a long time since I saw this long and empty space they call the Great Plains. Seven years, to be exact, or maybe a little more if you figure in time spent traveling, time spent being processed. That's what they always called it, in the pen, but I never liked it. You already feel like so many cattle, herded into what is for most the final corral; and that ain't helped, not a bit, by words like processed—words like that make a man feel like he's not a man.

But I guess that's what they want you to feel like anyway, at least while you're there.

Me, I never much felt like a man in the first place; you got to be treated like a man, before you can feel like one—and men, they always treated me like a dog.

Seven years I spent with nothing but walls and bars for landscape, seven years in tiny spaces with big men crowding me out. Standing here now, in the middle of this great vast wilderness, it's breathtaking after all that confinement. You don't really know what space is, until you've lost it—and the Plains, they're nothing but space.

I don't know where my story begins—whether it's here, now, on this train headed back home; if it's the day they took me to prison, or the day they let me out; if it's the day I turned to crime, the day I found my criminal's hands and realized that yes, they did feel right.

Best I can figure, though, it probably started the day I lost my face.

I was young—real young, maybe four or five. See, my father had moved out to New Mexico Territory in hopes of making his fortune; back then they were paying men to take land, practically begging, and my pa probably reckoned it was the best move a broke man could make.

He wasn't much of a farmer, my pa—he was nothing but a hard laborer, back home—but he learned what he could from those he met along the way, and when he staked out his land he had visions of barns and pastures, and great wealth springing up from his own two hands.

What he didn't have visions of was bad lumber, brush fires, stray cattle. Later in life I learned my pa's type was called an idealist—a man with big ideas, but no practical knowledge to make them happen. It wasn't his fault, not really; life had lied to him, the “American Dream”, Manifest Destiny, had lied to him. The world told him he only had to try to make it happen, and he learned the hard way it took a great deal more than a strong heart and willing hands.

So six years later, there my pa stands, broken, dying, flanked on one side by a decrepit barn, on the other by a cabin whose roof fell in if it rained too hard. His cattle were half-starved, half-wild, and fully worthless to any but the most desperate bidder. His household had grown—three children to support now—and his wife, a beautiful young Mexican girl he found in a village just over the border, was again fat with child.

I stood that morning, peeking from around the corner of our barn, watching my pa. He was tall—but then, every boy thinks his father is tall, so maybe I am mistaken—but I remember him tall, with a strong chin and dark Italian eyes. Or at least, my mamma told me they were Italian eyes; I however, in my infinite child's wisdom, swore they were Indian eyes. His hair, my mamma told me, was thick and dark when he first moved here; she said the sun, though even then I knew it was the work and worry, had turned his hair to white.

He had big hands, and it is not just child's memory but my mamma's promises that make me sure of this. Whenever we—the children—were afraid, my mamma said nothing could happen to us so long as we were under the protection of our pa's hands.

“They are big enough to cover all of us,” she would tell us in whispers, “and if bad things come, your father will pick us all up—“ and she would put her arms around the three of us, and squeeze tight “—and wrap us up in those big hands, and we will disappear!”

Collectively, we gasped, and she would laugh. My mamma had a beautiful laugh. “And then he will fight the bad things for us! He will kill those who fight, and he will chase away those who surrender!” And she would lean in, close, so that her long dark hair tickled our arms, and so that her sweet breath pooled in the hot stillness between the four of us. “And when it is safe,” she whispered, her big round eyes shining with love, “he will open up his hands again, and out we will come, with not a scratch!”

My mother was a small woman; I marveled at how myself and my younger brother and sister could have come out of her. At five, I was already half her size. I know not how old she was, but she seemed far too young, more like us than like a mother.

Perhaps we were all children, really, but we lived in the shadow of a giant, and believed ourselves truly safe.

So on that morning, as I watched my pa's outline against the rising sun, I was surprised to feel the tickle of uncertainty at the bottom of my heart. He could not have been more than thirty—but he looked so old, standing there in the dusty lane, arms hanging useless at his sides. My young mind knew not what it feared or why, but it knew that something bad must be coming.

And come it did, with a brutality none of us could have foreseen.

My pa stood watching the sun's climb for nearly an hour, standing motionless but for his clothes blowing in the wind. I grew bored, as children will, and had dropped to the earth to build pebbles into forts, like the one we visited for supplies every month. The sun, still low in the sky, had stretched my pa's shadow until it rested over my workspace, and I took joy in building forts along the perimeter of his shadow-head.

And then—movement. I saw his shadow-head cock a little to one side, then turn; his hand rose to shield his eyes, and I abandoned my play to sate curiosity. I could not see what he saw, only a dust cloud blowing across the sky.

“Cora!” He called for my mamma, suddenly and without warning, and I startled, one foot kicking through my forts. “Cora, get the children!”

I watched as my pa transformed, a moment ago a statue, a monument to defeat—and now, a whirlwind of activity, rushing for the house and leaping—clearing the stairs without ever touching them—clean into the cabin. I stood, frozen, terrified and uncertain; I had seen what no child wants to see in their father's face: fear.

There was muffled, frantic talk from within the cabin, and when finally my pa reappeared he had my mamma at his side; he held our hunting rifle, while my mamma had our shotgun. Of my brother and sister, I saw no sign.

The dust cloud had come closer, and finally I realized it for what it was: sign of approaching riders. I made a start for the house, but my mamma saw me and ran to meet me halfway. She shoved the shotgun into my hands, pushed shells into my pockets. “Go,” she whispered fiercely, “go hide, under the smokehouse. Cover your eyes and don't look out!” I nodded, lower lip trembling. There were tears on my mamma's cheeks. “Go!” she hissed again, shoving me with one hand while drawing a pistol from her apron with the other. “Go!”

I went. Without a word, I turned and dove beneath the smokehouse, and I folded my arms over the gun and buried my face in the hard New Mexico soil.

It was not long before I heard horses' hooves, and shouting. I heard my pa's voice, and other men yelling in a strange language. I knew English and Spanish both, but this was neither. My pa shouted something at them, I could not hear what—and then I heard gunfire.

Against my mamma's wishes I raised my head. The smokehouse was low to the ground, and my view was limited, but still I saw my mamma fall, then my pa. Blood pooled around them, quickly seeping into the thirsty ground. More shouting, more yelling in that alien dialect; horses rode over my parents' bodies and into the space between barn and cabin. The men dismounted and I knew them at last for Apache.

Two men searched my parents' bodies, while another two went into our cabin; a fifth man watched the ponies, and there was one I could see still rode his horse, barking orders—or what I assumed were orders—at the others. I did not see the seventh man, but I heard him as he walked along the side of the smokehouse, then climbed up into it. I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face again, and hardly dared even breathe for fear of discovery. I listened to him walk above me, tracked his movement across the floorboards, any moment expecting him to look down and see me between the boards.

No cry of alarm went up, though, and after what seemed an eternity he left the smokehouse and returned to his companions.

It was barely a moment after that I heard my siblings screaming, and could not resist looking again. One of the Apache in the cabin came out, carrying them both by the hair, one in each hand. My sister was barely a year younger than me, but my brother was not even one, and screamed with the lung power possessed only by the newly born.

The Apache threw him to the ground and, laughing, crushed his soft head against the earth.

My sister, he threw over his shoulder, and carried back to the ponies. The Indians were talking, more relaxed now that they had assured themselves of a victory. The smokehouse Indian approached my sister and fingered her hair—blonde, very fair; my pa said she got it from her grandmother. He said something, and they all laughed again. My sister was silent now; though I could see her shaking from head to toe, she kept quiet.

Her captor began to bind her with leather thongs, while the smokehouse Indian went to investigate the cabin for himself. There was nothing of value in my parents' home; the Indians took what supplies they wanted, and set fire to the rest. Our cattle they chased off, our two horses they took—and the barn, too, they set ablaze. Whooping and shouting to one another, they turned the ponies west; as they galloped past and away, one threw a burning brand into the open smokehouse door.

I covered my face with my shirt, careful to keep my free hand tight on the gun. The buildings all went up fast—there had been no rain for many weeks, and the timber was eager to succumb to the flames. I waited as long as I dared before scrambling out from under the smokehouse, coughing fiercely as my lungs struggled to force out smoke and dust.

My first thought was for my parents; I ran to them, prodding and pulling and begging, but they were dead. My brother I could not even look at without being sick—I left him where he lay.

The shotgun I threw down, picking up my pa's rifle instead. I ran to the edge of the smoke and flames and put the gun to my shoulder. My pa had taught me much already about marksmanship; I sighted along the barrel, squinting against the bright haze, until I had an Indian in my sights.

I pulled the trigger.

The gun's kick threw me back; I stumbled and crashed to the ground, and a second time the rifle fired, this time harmlessly into the sky.

When I got my wind back and raised my head, I saw one Apache pony standing riderless to one side, while two other Indians circled their fallen comrade. One pointed back towards the farm, back towards me.

They started back in my direction.

I leapt up, abandoning the rifle and running full-tilt along the lane. I think I knew they would catch me, but Life and the Desire to Live bid me flee what I knew would be my demise, and I was powerless to disobey.

The ponies caught me up quickly, effortlessly, before I had even passed our burning barn. One Apache rode past me and stopped, barring the way, while the other stayed at my back to cut off retreat.

They spoke to me, shouted in their quick, violent tongue; I know not what was said.

I stood, shoulders squared, looking directly into the eyes of my soon-to-be-murderer. “You will die one day,” I said in Spanish, “and when you do, I will be there in the next life, waiting for you. This, I promise.”

Both were silent a moment, and then they laughed.

“Little boy,” the one before me answered, “you killed my brother from a very long ways away. You made a good shot.” He slid down from his pony, and I heard the one behind me follow suit. “I would not have on my hands the blood of a great warrior like you.”

He kneeled before me, and put his savage face close to mine. “But, little warrior, I cannot let my brother's murder go unpunished.” He drew from his side a wicked-looking knife. “And when you grow, little warrior, you may look very different. I want to be sure that, in the next life, I know you for who you are...”

The man behind me grabbed my arms, and though I struggled, I could not break his iron grip. “Be still, little warrior,” my assailant murmured, “this is delicate work.”

I cannot remember—have mercifully forgotten, or blocked out—the details of his mutilation. I am not sure if I lost consciousness during or after his brutal surgery, but at some point the pain and blood loss was just too much to bear, and I slipped into blessed darkness. That Apache left, without any doubt, his mark in me—he slit open my cheeks at the corner of my mouth, sliced off my lips, cut up my nose, peeled skin from my forehead, cut my eyelids, hacked up my ears... I believe his intention was to remove entirely the skin on my face, but he could not; he succeeded only in destroying most of it.

When I came to, it was dusk; only a sliver of sun remained on the horizon. The barn, the cabin, all had long since ceased burning; their blackened frames hunched down, shivering and smoldering, wisps of smoke still rising up from a few lonely, stubborn embers. What fire did not burn in the wood, however, now seemed to burn in my skull. I dared not touch my face—the wind had given it enough dust and grime for my taste—but I held my hands inches away from the flesh, afraid to know, but desperate to know, what had been done to me.

I cried, and my salt tears burned like fire as they fell down the wrinkles and tears of my deformities. I screamed, and the motion of my jaw sent knives of pain through my cheeks, temples, and forehead. I took short, shallow breaths, for fear of stretching my aching nostrils; I tried breathing through my teeth but the forced air burned against my raw flesh.

Never had I realized how much I used my face, until every twitch of muscle meant unbearable pain. I could not even blink without suffering so immensely that the darkness threatened to take me again.

The screams were what drew them to me. The thick stench of blood would have guided them, eventually, but it was my screams that begged their immediate presence.

Seven coyotes materialized from the darkness. They came from all directions—they are too smart to approach any situation from only one angle. Two grew from the shadows of the smokehouse, two from the barn, while another edged in from around the cabin; the last two came each from either end of the lane.

Surrounded. I glared at them through blood-filled eyes, and my tiny hands balled into fists. In spite of the pain I opened my mouth and screamed at them, roared with every ounce of anger my small body could produce. They flinched, but did not withdraw.

I half-stumbled, half-crawled to my parents' bodies, frantically searching my pa's pockets. Luck was with me, and I found what the Apache had missed or deemed worthless: a small pocket-knife, the blade hardly as long as my father's index finger. In my hands, however, it looked a formidable weapon—and I turned back to face the coyotes, and I snarled at them with the knife brandished before me.

They would take my family before they took me; I was young, but even then I knew the coyotes for the miserable scavengers they were. Firmly I planted a foot on either side of my parents' bodies, and I crouched low to the ground. I had never seen, much less participated in, a knife fight; but the wild blood of man's ancestors flared to life in my little veins, and instinct took charge of me.

I had survived the Apache; I had survived mutilation beyond repair; I would not die at the will of these beasts.

Coyotes are smart, and quick, but they are not brave, and they will not fight if they do not have to. They prey on the weak, on the small, on those who cannot fight back. They saw blood on me, they smelled blood on the earth around me; they saw me as small, and weak, and wounded. They saw me, they saw my family, as an easy meal.

They were wrong.

All night I fended off those beasts from my parents' corpses. All night I fought for my parents and their right to proper burial. All night I crouched over their rancid bodies—for decomposition is a quick thing, in the desert heat. My knife I held ready, though my arm early on grew tired and trembled with the effort. When one of the pack grew brave and started towards me, I lunged, as savage as a wild beast, silver blade flicking silently in the moonlight.

I was a child, and to kill a coyote is beyond the means of any child with a knife.

I could not kill a coyote—but I drew blood, and left many a scar on those not quick enough to avoid my blade.

It was dawn when the patrol found me.

I was exhausted. I had lost much blood, and had endured more than any child should—but I refused to give in. The coyotes were not gone, though a few had lost interest and wandered off; most of the pack still waited, hovering out of my reach, watching for a sign of weakness, a sign of inattention. And I turned, circle after circle, snarling at them, waving my knife, taunting their cowardice.

It was like this that the patrol found me, bloody, ugly, half-crazed by the preceding twenty-four hours. As they approached the pack scattered; in disbelief, I stayed as I was, waiting, watching, prepared at any moment for a surprise attack.

A soldier called to me, but I could not understand him. He spoke English, yes, but my mind had long since shut down to make room for baser instincts. Survival was guaranteed only if thought did not get in its way.

“Boy!” he said again, dismounting and approaching me slowly, cautiously. “It's all right, son, we're not gonna hurt you...”

I lunged, and let lose a war cry of such fury that even my Apache surgeon would have been proud. The soldier merely dodged me, and then grabbed me about the waist. Another soldier wrenched the knife from my hands and, thus defeated, I collapsed in sobs.

I did not know my name—I could not recall it. Like so many of my memories of childhood, it was lost, cast out to live with the rest of the hurt and pain I could no longer bear. The body is comprised of many self-defense mechanisms, forgetfulness its most formidable.

I was carried to the fort in a soldier's arms, perched limply before him in the saddle. He wrapped my face with his bandanna, and spoke softly to me throughout the journey. He spoke as one speaks to a frightened horse: the words are empty, without meaning, but the tone is soothing and sets troubled minds at ease.

When we reached the fort, many men asked for my name. I had no answer to give, and no will to give it anyway; the soldier who carried me, he named me only “Coyote”.