Ghost Bandits of Sonora by Robert Isenberg

Author:Robert Isenberg [Isenberg, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Glass Beaker Publishing
Published: 2018-01-22T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

“All right, Sparrow,” said Elizabeth. “Let’s hear it.”

Sparrow sat on the ground, his face salmon-colored in the glow of the campfire. The flames crackled. The black logs were fringed with florid gray. The fire spat sparks into the smoke. If Elizabeth weren’t so eager to hear Sparrow speak, she would have relished its primal scent.

“Understand,” said Sparrow stoically, “I’m no expert in Indian lore. I know the things that people tell me, nothing more. Indian blood may flow through my veins, and Indian men may welcome me, when our paths cross. But from the moment my father found my papoose on his doorstep, I was raised as a white man. And you will not be surprised, I think, that I live in both worlds—and neither.”

Elizabeth could feel her heartbeat in her temples. Sparrow spoke in a breezy voice. His eyes fixed on the fire.

“I loved my father,” said Sparrow, “who raised me like his own son. He lost his wife, so I was motherless. When I was a young man, I lost my father, too. My heart cracked that day. But I found my own way to mourn.”

“How?” murmured Elizabeth.

“My father was a cartographer. That’s how he came to the Arizona Territory. The government sent him to map the backlands. His study was full of maps. So when he passed, I took those maps, and I walked. I walked for years. I wanted to retrace his steps. To see precisely where he had gone. I slept in a tent. I ate whatever I found. And my only companions were my horse and my gun.”

Sparrow looked up, and his eyes met Robins’. The Deputy stood a few feet away, on the edge of the firelight. He held his unopened tin of tobacco; he didn’t move. After a moment, Robins nodded his head in silent fraternity.

“Spend enough time out there,” Sparrow went on, “and the desert becomes everything. I saw my father in every contour. I saw his kindness, and I saw his pain. I saw his strength, and I saw his brittleness. And I saw something more. Call it whatever you want—spirits, ghosts, tommyknockers. But once you’ve been alone, truly alone, a mirage is as real as anything.”

Elizabeth smirked. “Sparrow—please don’t tell me it’s the Boogie Man.”

“No. I fear it’s something stranger.”

Sparrow leaned forward and dug his cigar into the smoldering log. One end flared with light, and he raised the stogie to his lips and puffed. “I’ve met every kind of traveler in these parts. Indians and white men. Panners and furriers. Miners, fugitives, everything in between. They all tell stories. They’re full of tall tales. You never know what to believe. But one story stays the same. No matter what language. No matter what temperament. Late at night, after a lot of drink, men let down their guards, and they tell me—about the passages.”

Elizabeth straightened. She raised a finger to Sparrow. “You knew, didn’t you? When you saw the spiral in the stone—you knew there would be petroglyphs. You saw them before either of us, because you thought to look for them.

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