had no choice but to disappear. He signed on as a hand on a tramp steamer and spent a year as a seaman sailing the Punta Mayo and Juruá rivers of South America, collecting rubber from plantations. From there he had wandered through the interior of Mexico, eventually arriving in Tuxpan, where he was arrested for vagrancy.
He and the Yaqui met in prison, and spent months together in the same cell. When he joined the Yaqui on a pilgrimage through the Yucatan Peninsula, Bradford had slowly regained a semblance of his self-respect. He embraced the Yaqui's mystical beliefs, and when they wished to commune with the sacred soma they chewed the divine mushroom of immortality.
But even during those periods when he was hallucinating—freed from reality—the primitive urge for revenge still haunted him. The ineradicable specter of the Snowman was still buried in his subconscious. Thrusting through the ice were the distended spikelike fingers, the teeth which ground so that hard sparks flew from them, the horned skin and the massive head. He had seen nature's ultimate savage kill his men. The cataclysmic violence of the Snowman during those last few hours would never leave him.
Bradford had left his environment, forsaken friends and colleagues, and entered what he recognized as a fugue state. He suffered occasionally from a loss of memory because the pain of the past was too intense to tolerate. But in spite of the Yaqui's guidance, Bradford knew that he could never enter the state of perfect tranquility until he could vindicate himself. One day he would return to Lhotse.
An Indian boy brought a plate of filleted, mashed trout for the Yaqui, who said: "I'm fasting, you eat it."
The boy took the plate away, and Bradford watched him hurry back to his brothers and divide the portion among them.
"I'll join you," Bradford said to the Yaqui.
"You spent the day working and you're hungry. You'll always be a disciple and never a master," the Yaqui said.
"Why?" Bradford asked without emotion.
"You imitate too perfectly and try too hard for unity. Trying is resistance to the idea of embracing God. Only when you yield will you succeed."
The Yaqui invariably spoke in riddles; when Bradford had been a young college student he had been skeptical of precisely this aspect of religion, the naive and simplistic explanations that passed for profundity. Bradford had not been able to restrain his logical mind, and although the Yaqui had virtually resurrected him spiritually, he still held back the total commitment to the mystical deity.
The Yaqui stared at him, then shook his arm when he did not respond.
"Daniel, I had a vision last night," the Yaqui said in a low, troubled voice. "You were on the snow and blocks of ice were falling. Men were dying . . ."
In the flickering campfire Bradford imagined that he saw the faces of his dead Sherpas. The impression was so strong that he jumped to his feet and stumbled backward as though retreating from some invisible force.
A small Ute boy studied him and peered around him to see what had caused his reaction. He looked up at Bradford and saw nothing, only the mantle of darkness.
"Mr. Bradford, the agent said there was a man up at the post who wanted to speak to you."
"Is he a Fed?"
"I don't think so," the boy said, scampering off.
Bradford walked along the rutted path snaking through the compound. Men finished with their dinner sat smoking around the dying fires. Their resigned faces altered and they greeted Bradford as he passed. He was popular with them, but their affection toward him was inhibited by a certain fearful respect. Bradford did not approve of fighting for trivial reasons. The previous week he had caught two men quarreling over a pack of cigarettes. He had fought both men, using his knowledge of karate and judo to throw them and hold them up as examples to the others. Some of the Utes resented Bradford's skill and the humiliating spectacle of a man no bigger than either of the two
He and the Yaqui met in prison, and spent months together in the same cell. When he joined the Yaqui on a pilgrimage through the Yucatan Peninsula, Bradford had slowly regained a semblance of his self-respect. He embraced the Yaqui's mystical beliefs, and when they wished to commune with the sacred soma they chewed the divine mushroom of immortality.
But even during those periods when he was hallucinating—freed from reality—the primitive urge for revenge still haunted him. The ineradicable specter of the Snowman was still buried in his subconscious. Thrusting through the ice were the distended spikelike fingers, the teeth which ground so that hard sparks flew from them, the horned skin and the massive head. He had seen nature's ultimate savage kill his men. The cataclysmic violence of the Snowman during those last few hours would never leave him.
Bradford had left his environment, forsaken friends and colleagues, and entered what he recognized as a fugue state. He suffered occasionally from a loss of memory because the pain of the past was too intense to tolerate. But in spite of the Yaqui's guidance, Bradford knew that he could never enter the state of perfect tranquility until he could vindicate himself. One day he would return to Lhotse.
An Indian boy brought a plate of filleted, mashed trout for the Yaqui, who said: "I'm fasting, you eat it."
The boy took the plate away, and Bradford watched him hurry back to his brothers and divide the portion among them.
"I'll join you," Bradford said to the Yaqui.
"You spent the day working and you're hungry. You'll always be a disciple and never a master," the Yaqui said.
"Why?" Bradford asked without emotion.
"You imitate too perfectly and try too hard for unity. Trying is resistance to the idea of embracing God. Only when you yield will you succeed."
The Yaqui invariably spoke in riddles; when Bradford had been a young college student he had been skeptical of precisely this aspect of religion, the naive and simplistic explanations that passed for profundity. Bradford had not been able to restrain his logical mind, and although the Yaqui had virtually resurrected him spiritually, he still held back the total commitment to the mystical deity.
The Yaqui stared at him, then shook his arm when he did not respond.
"Daniel, I had a vision last night," the Yaqui said in a low, troubled voice. "You were on the snow and blocks of ice were falling. Men were dying . . ."
In the flickering campfire Bradford imagined that he saw the faces of his dead Sherpas. The impression was so strong that he jumped to his feet and stumbled backward as though retreating from some invisible force.
A small Ute boy studied him and peered around him to see what had caused his reaction. He looked up at Bradford and saw nothing, only the mantle of darkness.
"Mr. Bradford, the agent said there was a man up at the post who wanted to speak to you."
"Is he a Fed?"
"I don't think so," the boy said, scampering off.
Bradford walked along the rutted path snaking through the compound. Men finished with their dinner sat smoking around the dying fires. Their resigned faces altered and they greeted Bradford as he passed. He was popular with them, but their affection toward him was inhibited by a certain fearful respect. Bradford did not approve of fighting for trivial reasons. The previous week he had caught two men quarreling over a pack of cigarettes. He had fought both men, using his knowledge of karate and judo to throw them and hold them up as examples to the others. Some of the Utes resented Bradford's skill and the humiliating spectacle of a man no bigger than either of the two
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