El Paso Way by Steven Law Page A

top of the cloth, with the contents gone. The system had once again proven itself. With the rock back on top, Enrique was confident that Sereno had gotten the food instead of a desert varmint.
    Enrique squatted next to the fire, warmed his hands, and was finishing his morning prayer when Pang walked back into the camp.
    â€œWhat were you doing up there?” Enrique asked.
    â€œLessons one and two,” Pang said.
    â€œI don’t remember kicking being part of those lessons.”
    â€œThat is because I did not teach you all of the lesson. Breathing is the beginning. Then the muscles must be stretched, and the blood must circulate well to feed those muscles.”
    Enrique was beginning to get frustrated with the Chinaman, but he decided not to let it bother him. He stood and kicked at the fire, spreading the coals apart. “We better get riding.”
    They put the blankets on their mules, tied on the pack burro, and proceeded east into a mountain draw. After riding a mile Enrique heard the unique whistle, as if a bird and mammal had joined voices, and saw Sereno dash away into hiding. This, Enrique knew, was an alert not just of something near, but of possible danger. That’s when several men on horseback began to appear on a ridge south and east of them. He stopped his mule abruptly. “Whoa!”
    Pang followed suit and made his confusion apparent as he gawked aimlessly.
    The men on the ridge, at least twenty Enrique counted, stood on their horses and stared at them.
    â€œWho are they?” Pang said.
    â€œApache, for sure,” Enrique said. “We just don’t know how friendly.”
    Enrique had learned enough about the Apache to know that it was always better to go on about your business than to ever appear frightened or aggressive. He also knew that the enemy to the Apache at this time was not the Mexicans, the Tohono O’odham, or even other warring Indian tribes, but the white man. What he did not know was how they felt about Chinamen.
    He decided to keep riding and nudged his mule forward. Pang followed him.
    â€œWhat do we do?” Pang said.
    â€œWe go about our business. Look at them occasionally. Let them know that we see them. If they are worried about us, then they will surround us. If not, they’ll just likely watch us ride on.”
    The two rode for another mile through the lengthy draw, and several of the Apache disappeared; only two remained on the ridge. Enrique began to wonder if they were surrounding them, and then he saw a large group riding toward them.
    â€œKeep riding,” he told the Chinaman. “Don’t let them think you’re afraid.”
    â€œBut I am afraid,” Pang said.
    â€œWell, let that be lesson number one from me in dealing with Apache. Never show them your fear.”
    Enrique was not as concerned until he saw other riders appear to their north as well, and then when he turned and looked behind them he saw more. He was sure now that whatever the Apache wanted, they’d likely get it.
    When the riders ahead of them were within fifty yards, Enrique and Pang stopped their mules. The Apache got closer and spread out in front of them and behind them, and several loped their horses up the slope of the mountain base on each side of them, and all eventually stopped. They were like most Apache Enrique had seen before. Cloth headbands around their foreheads; long, silky black hair; deerskin leggings or loincloths; and moccasins. They all carried rifles. Their horses were a variety of colors—many paints, sorrels, and bays—but one particular horse caught Enrique’s attention. It was a dappled gray with a bald face and pink eyes, and it worked its way through the riders ahead of him and stopped just a few feet away. Two other riders came up from behind, and each took his place on one side of the dapple gray.
    Horses snorting and whickering were the only sounds, and the seriousness on all of the Apache faces could