A forgotten evil, p.24
A Forgotten Evil, page 24
For two days they trudged across the flats, their water low, their food dwindling, their spirits numbed with the tedium and the maddening winds. Pickings for the pinto were slim, an occasional yucca or thorned mesquite, and his sides grew gaunt from lack of water.
On the second day, as the sun hung low in the sky, they climbed at last onto the mesas. Buttes stretched across the land, sheared away by some colossal scythe, rocks the size of houses tumbled and strewn into the valleys below. Mesquite twisted from out of the gypsum, tortured with lack of water, and paddle cactus sprouted about like shriveled and deformed hands.
They stood at the precipice and looked out into the expanse, their faces burning from the cold, their eyes watering with its sting.
“Well,” Caleb said, “at least we’ll be out of the wind tonight.”
“Out of everything,” Joan said.
“I’ve seen a few mesquite. Maybe I can round up enough for a fire.”
And so they made camp on the lee side of a gypsum boulder. While Joan unpacked, Caleb scoured the area for mesquite, an armful of limbs no larger than a man’s finger, but they were hard and would make a steady fire. He cut paddle cactus with his axe, carrying them in by the thorns and stacking them next to the fire.
“I never eat cactus without a good wine,” Joan said.
“These are for the pinto, just the same,” he said.
Starting the fire was difficult without proper tinder. Exasperated, Caleb cut dry sage, and within moments, a spark glinted and sputtered to life.
“It’s just a matter of time before you want my braid for tinder, I suppose,” Joan said, holding her nose against the pungent smell of the weed.
Blowing on the ember, still tenuous and shimmering in the sage, Caleb smiled. “Sacrifice is expected from the least of us.”
“I’m all paid up on sacrifice, thank you,” Joan said.
When the fire at last blazed into life, they took refuge in its light and warmth.
“Anything you want cooked, you best get on it,” he said, holding one of the paddles in the fire. “It’s a short heat at best.”
He dug through the parfleche for the squirrel, and she looked over at him. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Searing off the prickleys. The pinto wants cactus pie, wine or no wine.”
Joan heated the meat on a spit, while Caleb finished burning away the cactus thorns. Without complaint, the pinto wallowed the paddles into his mouth, happy enough for the green that drooled from his lips as he chewed.
Caleb warmed his back at the fire and said, “There’s coyote droppings about and cougar tracks leading up that draw. Maybe that ole cat could lead us to water.”
Taking a piece of meat from the stick, Joan leaned back against a rock. “I hope he’s on his way to Fort Dodge for a drink at the sutler,” she said.
That night, Caleb dreamed that Red Nose rose up from the grave and forced him to eat quantities of paddle cactus. Much to his distress, great thorns erupted from his intestines and stomach, painful and bloody pustules that sent Red Nose into peals of laughter.
Morning came, and they ate the last of the apples Joan had brought. Shivering in the cold, they tied their belongings on the pinto and picked up the cat tracks at the base of the mesa. Joan checked the faded tracks and shook her head. “They look like they’ve been there a while to me, Caleb, like a hundred years or so. If we find anything, it will be its carcass where it died of thirst.”
“It’s either trailing this thirsty old cat or a blind walk out there,” he said, pointing into the mesas. She hooked her arm through his and said, “I’m with you, Woodcutter. Let’s go.” For several hours they followed the tracks, a winding and unpredictable trail through the jumble of rocks. Once, the tracks faded away altogether, and it was sheer luck and providence that they stumbled across them.
“We’ve lost them again,” Caleb said, searching the ground, his hands on his knees.
“No, there,” Joan said. “See, it looks as if he’s climbed up in those rocks.”
They followed the tracks as Caleb worked his way into the rocks that had eroded and slid from the heights of the mesa. “Will you look there,” he called out. “This ole feller knew his way around after all.”
Water shimmered wet on the face of the rock and gathered in a shallow pool at its base. From there it disappeared once more on its subterranean journey. All about were cat droppings filled with rodent bones and indiscernible seeds.
“It smells of dung,” she said.
Cupping his hand, Caleb sampled the water.
“She tastes of gypsum, but she’s wet, and she’ll get us down the road, won’t she. We’ll make camp up there in those rocks tonight. It’s out of the cold, and the smell, too, if the wind don’t shift. There’s a good bit of mesquite about in these rocks, and a hot fire is in the making, I’d say.”
“And tomorrow?”
“With a little luck the sky will clear enough so’s we can locate the north star. It ain’t much of a compass, I admit, but it’s all we got.”
“What about the pinto?” she asked, looking down the embankment where the horse waited.
“He ain’t got a compass either,” he said.
Picking up a rock, she threatened to throw it at him. “Caleb, you know what I mean.”
“I can lead him up here for a drink, but he’ll have to be tied below. It’s a rare horse can sleep standing on his hind legs.”
After the pinto drank, Caleb led it back to level ground and by nightfall had built a roaring fire. They boiled water to warm their stomachs and ate squirrel while huddled about the fire. The flames settled away and a wind set up, howling down the draw, a dirge from out of the mesas.
“It’s a lonesome call tonight,” Joan said.
Drawing her under his arm, Caleb kissed her cheek. “It’s no more than the wind,” he said.
Moments passed, neither speaking as they stared into the fire, but there was sadness in the wind that neither could shake, a foreboding and hopelessness that had crept into their camp.
“Caleb,” she said, “I didn’t want to have to say this, but I guess I must. We are out of food, you know. There’s nothing left.”
“I was wondering about that,” he said, “but we have water. We can get by for a few days without food if we have to.”
“What are we going to do, Caleb, if we are going the wrong way? We don’t know where we are for sure, and winter’s coming on.”
“We’ll find food,” he said, pulling her in close. “We got the bow and the knife, and this here axe, too. Soon enough there will be a jack or maybe even a deer, something to get us by.”
“There’s no deer out here, Caleb. There’s nothing but cold and wind and loneliness. It couldn’t be any worse, could it?”
When she looked up, Caleb’s face was blanched, his jaw set, his fists doubled at the two men standing silent and wary in the shadows of their fire.
Chapter 23
Caleb reached for his bow, his eyes trained on the strangers.
“I got armed men posted,” he said, “so step into the light and make yourself known.”
Coming forward, the men held their hands in the air. One of them was tall with high cheekbones and haunting dark eyes. The other was short and stood a pace behind, as a servant might stand, his cuffs frayed, his beard clotted with dust from the trail. There was little in his eyes, shallow and absent of character. Every now and again he would scratch under an arm or in the thick of his beard. Both wore overcoats and field caps, the cavalry’s crossed sword insignia pinned on the front. Even in the dim light, their poor condition was apparent.
“We ain’t armed,” the tall one said, “just hungry and in need of fire.”
“We ain’t got food,” Caleb said, “but there’s a spring just down there if you’re in want of water before you move on.”
“Maybe we could warm a little at your fire?” the tall one said.
“How is it I know you boys are alone?” Caleb asked, standing up. “For all I know there’s a pack waiting over the hill.”
The tall one held his foot up to the fire and showed Caleb the hole worn through the sole of his boot. “Mister, we been walking in these hills near on a lifetime. There ain’t nothing left of my feet, as you can see. If I had a pack of men over that hill, I reckon I wouldn’t be standing here asking to warm at your fire. Besides, you got us covered with them boys of yours, ain’t you?”
Glancing over at Joan, Caleb shrugged. “I reckon it’s a point, but fact is, there ain’t but me and this here bow, although it’s a mighty good one. We’ll heat a little water for warming your innards. That’s the best we can do. It ain’t coffee, and it ain’t food, but it’s better than the north wind blowing up your skirt.”
“We near thought you was Indians at first,” the tall one said, “what with those buckskin clothes and that gal with a turkey feather in her braid.”
“We ain’t Indians,” Caleb said.
“Mighty proud you ain’t,” the tall one said, “given their particular dislike for soldiers.”
Caleb moved to the other side of the fire and kept his bow at the ready as he sat back down. If worse came to worse, he might get a shot off. Taking one out would at least keep the odds right.
“I’m Caleb Justin,” he said. “This here’s Joan Monnet.”
“Well I’ll be dogged,” the tall one said. “You’re that railroad man’s daughter, ain’t you?”
Joan put the water onto the coals. “Yes, I suppose that would be me,” she said.
“Why, I seen your picture tacked up over half the country. They say your daddy’s threatened to shut down the whole of the railroad if you ain’t found soon. Course, most figured you been kilt by now or ruined by the Cheyenne.”
“You ain’t introduced yourselves,” Caleb said.
“Well, sir, I’m Roscoe Blue, and this here’s Scratch Howson. He ain’t too clever, and he eats more than a short man ought. Don’t say much either, which you’ll find as a blessing soon enough.”
“That’s a funny name, ain’t it?” Caleb asked.
Scratch grinned a toothless grin and stuck his hands in his pockets. Joan poured the hot water and handed it to Roscoe.
Roscoe nodded his head as he took a slurp. “It’s a tad thin for a shriveled stomach such as mine, but it’s good and hot, and I thank you the same, Miss.”
“That your real name?” Caleb asked Scratch.
“No, it ain’t,” he said, digging for something elusive in his beard.
“Well, what’s your real name then?”
Looking over at Roscoe, Scratch shrugged. “I forget.”
Roscoe took another drink of the water and turned the palms of his hands up. “You see what I mean? Say, you folks wouldn’t have a little flour and lard, would you, enough for a biscuit or two?”
“We ate the last of our squirrel,” Caleb said, “and there ain’t a crumb of nothing left to be had. I’m hoping to shoot a jack or deer come tomorrow.”
“My name’s just ‘Scratch’ and nothing more,” Scratch said.
Caleb lifted his brows and glanced over at Joan, who was busy adding wood to the fire.
“Scratch is a little dim,” Roscoe said, “as you can see. They’ve called him Scratch ever since I’ve known, ’cause he’s had the itch near all his life, I guess. Digs at his parts like an ole hound dog, don’t he. Gets downright unsettling after a time.”
“Right practical name,” Caleb said.
When the hot water was nearly gone, Roscoe handed it to Scratch, who drank it without comment.
“I wouldn’t be figuring on no deer, or jacks neither, for that matter,” Roscoe said. “We ain’t seen a living critter for three days, ’cept a skinny ole kangaroo rat, and he was too fast on his feet for me or Scratch either one.”
“You boys with the cavalry, I figure?” Caleb said.
“The Seventh,” Roscoe said, “under ole Autie Custer, ’til the no-good son of a bitch left us behind to starve, begging your pardon, Miss.”
“Why would a man be left behind?” Caleb asked, adjusting his bow across his lap.
“We ain’t deserters, if that’s what you’re figuring,” Roscoe said. “Are we, Scratch? Hell, a man what deserts Custer can reckon with a bullet for his trouble. Course, enlisted’s all right for marching the rogue’s hump, or for being left behind for the Cheyenne to scalp, ain’t they?” Easing down in front of the fire, Roscoe crossed his legs and studied the flames. “That fire sure feels good,” he said. “Hell, I thought me and Scratch was going to freeze stiff as carps last night. Ole Scratch couldn’t even get on with his itching, could you, Scratch?”
“It’s a odd commander what leaves his men behind to be kilt, ain’t it?” Caleb said.
Roscoe pulled a pipe from his coat and sucked on the empty bowl before putting it back in his pocket. “Sure miss my tobaccy,’” he said.
“Maybe you got that big ‘D’ branded on your hip, what keeps you from enlisting somewheres else?” Caleb asked, glancing over at Joan.
“I can see where you might think that,” Roscoe said, “but you’d be mighty mistaken. Show him your cheeks, Scratch, but keep it decent ’cause there’s a lady present.”
Scratch eased his trousers down on the sides and turned into the firelight for Caleb to see. Joan rose to busy herself with packing the parfleche.
“How is it you got left behind?” Caleb asked.
“Me and Scratch happened on a little liquor what came in on a grain wagon. Missed inspection, didn’t we, Scratch, and stable call on top it. Well, ole Autie was some mad about the whole mistaken business. He said that by goddamn if all a man can do is drink and scratch he ought live with his own kind so he put us in charge of his wolf hounds.”
“Wolf hounds?”
“Big as horses, weren’t they. Ole Autie run them bastards day and night. It’s a wonder there’s a antelope left what ain’t had his flanks tore out by them mean sons of bitches. The general was mighty particular about them hounds, wasn’t he, Scratch?”
“Mighty so,” Scratch. said.
“Hand fed ’em like babies, didn’t we, and picked their ticks, and wrapped their feet at night so’s they’d be ready for running the next day. Hell, we ate with them, slept with them, and combed out their tails like they was goddamn royalty, didn’t we, Scratch?”
“Goddamn royalty,” Scratch said.
“So what happened?” Caleb asked.
Roscoe took out his pipe again and knocked it against his foot, looking into the empty bowl. “We had ole Roman Nose cornered just out of Harker, or so we thought, and ole Autie got afeared them dogs would give away our position. ‘Stay behind and strangle them dogs,’ he said. Didn’t he, Scratch? Said he couldn’t take no chance of them dogs making a racket and him losing out on ole Roman Nose. ‘Couldn’t we shoot them, sir,’ I asked. ‘Do what you’re told, Blue,’ he said, ‘or I’ll hang you and that ignorant partner of yours off a cottonwood.’ ”
“We strangled them,” Scratch said, “just like he said.”
“It was a murdering we did,” Roscoe said, “and one I ain’t likely to forget. Then the son of a bitch left us behind to make our way back without no horses, no carbines, and no goddamn rations. We been lost ever since, I reckon, ain’t we, Scratch?”
“Ever’ day,” Scratch said.
Coyotes struck up a chorus somewhere in the mesas, and the pinto whinnied below the spring. “Guess that was that pinto tied up down there in the draw,” Roscoe said, “or a spirited coyote?”
“How did you know we had a pinto?” Joan asked.
“Saw him coming in, didn’t we, Scratch. No offense, Miss, but I ain’t never seen a horse with a scrawnier tail.”
“Well, he’s an Indian pony, earned the hard way,” she said. “Now, we’d like to help you soldiers out, but as you can see, we have no food and precious little else to share.”
“Must be a comfort having a horse, even if he is a broom tail. Me and Scratch walked the danged prairie out on foot, didn’t we, Scratch?”
“Ever’ day,” Scratch said.
Roscoe put his pipe away and said, “I wonder why folks like yourselves is wandering around out here in the prairie with nothing but a Indian pony, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was woodcutter for Harker,” Caleb said, “before the Cheyenne took me to home and hobbled me up like a jack mule. Figured each day was my last, ’til I broke loose. That’s when I happened on Miss Monnet in the night, still alive she was, in a sea of dead soldiers. We’ve been walking to Fort Dodge ever since with winter nipping at our heels.”
“I ain’t never heard of a man be mule hobbled before,” Roscoe said, shaking his head. “Sure glad ole Autie hadn’t thought on it, or Scratch and me would have been living with the mules instead of them wolf hounds, I’m thinking.” Standing, Roscoe dusted his pants. “The hot water and the fire was mighty nice, folks. We wouldn’t want to put you out none, so we’ll be on our way. Maybe we could borry’ a few lucifers so we can start up a fire?”
“We don’t have any matches,” Caleb said.
Pushing back his hat, Roscoe looked at him. “I reckon lightning striked your wood pile and set her afire then? That’s mighty good luck, I’d say.”
“Learned how to use a fuzz stick from the Cheyenne,” Caleb said. “Be glad to wrap up some coals for you boys, though.”
“Yes, sir,” Roscoe said, “coals would be mighty nice. I’d rather sleep at a hound’s back than with ole Scratch here.”
Caleb pulled out some of the coals while Joan packed them in ash, wrapping them in a piece of hide.
“Here,” she said, handing Roscoe the bundle. “Maybe you could help us in return?”
