The Last Good Day

by John L. Lansdale

  “It is. Your mama not Indian?”

  “No, a colored slave. Not sure who my daddy was except he was Indian. Don’t think she knew either. Was passed around to a lot of bucks.”

  “What tribe?”

  “Cherokee,” he said. “North Carolina.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Gv-nah-ge Tadewi.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Black Wind.”

  “Noticed you was darker than most Cherokees. The Cherokee in that region had slaves, fought for the Confederacy. How come you didn’t?”

  “Had a different feeling bout it,” he said. “Better eat your rabbit, major, it’s getting cold.”

  Rance nodded and took a bite.

  “Where’s home, major?” Black Wind said.

  “The Shenandoah Valley. A little town called Milberg.”

  “My misguided Cherokee brothers fought some battles in the valley under General Early.”

  “I know,” Rance said. “Your mama still with the tribe?”

  “She died from the fever last year. She was traded to the Cherokee for a horse. We belonged to Chief Yo-nu-gv-ya-s-gi, that’s Drowning Bear to you white folks. The chief was considered a prophet. Was supposed to have died, went to heaven and came back. I barely remember him. He died for good when I was little. Probably was too old to be my papa but he was big as me, maybe? What bout you, major, you have slaves?”

  “No, never did.”

  “Then why you wearing that uniform?”

  “Like you, I have my reasons.”

  “You do know what the war was bout?” Black Wind said.

  “It was more than freeing the slaves,” Rance said. “They wanted our land and control of the southern states.”

  “Not sure I buy that. I think you made the wrong decision. But…you paid for it and we won the war. I’ll settle for that. Let bygones be bygones. No sense in us hating each other anymore.”

  “What about them,” Rance said, looking at the dead men.

  “Got no forgiveness for them.”

  “How did they get the drop on you?” Rance asked. “You’re big enough to go bear hunting with a switch.”

  “Stupid for the most part,” he said. “Got drunk and wound up in a place I shouldn’t have been, and the next thing I know I’m tied to my horse with those two idiots telling me they’re going to scalp me and sell my hair to a renegade trader.”

  “Where you headed now?”

  “Can’t go back home, they would scalp me. We can ride along together while I think it over and watch each other’s back. Or go our separate ways, not opposed to either one.”

  “Might be better to ride together for now till some of the hostility on both sides wears down a bit,” Rance said.

  “That’s goin’ to be a long time.” Black Wind walked over to the two dead men, emptied their pockets, grabbed them by their collars with each hand, dragged them to the creek and rolled them in. He untied the horses, reached in Jake’s saddle bags and took out two small sacks. “Heavy. Let’s see what we got here.” He placed the sacks on a rock and untied the sacks and looked in. “Full of gold and silver coins,” he said. “Must be over two hundred dollars here. Looks like they been outlawin.’ I’ll split it with you.”

  “Don’t want it,” Rance said, struggling to get to his feet.

  “Then I’ll keep it.” He reached in Smiley’s saddle bag and took out a tomahawk. “Almost forgot that bastard had my tomahawk,” he said and stuck the tomahawk in his belt. “They both got Henry’s in their saddle boots. Best we move on fore we need them. You can saddle your horse later with one of their saddles.”

  He handed the reins to Smiley’s horse to Rance. He hesitated for a moment then took the reins.

  The two men gave each other a long look before mounting. They knew there was more to be said but it could wait. Rance pulled himself up on Smiley’s horse and looped Buck’s reins over the brass spyglass on the saddle horn .

  “Wish we had killed them fore they drank the whiskey,” Black Wind said.

  “You got a Christian name?” Rance asked.

  “B.W. Ramsey. Ramsey was my mama’s slave name. Indians called her Dark Sky. Got no problem with B.W. I’ll just call you major.”

  Rance nodded okay.

  3

  They rode along in silence most of the day, each holding his thoughts before Rance spoke.

  “We’re getting close to a town called Whiskey Gulch if I remember right. Maybe we can get a bath and some clean clothes there.”

  “You do stink,” B.W. said.

  “And you don’t?” Rance said.

  “Naw. Indians have a kind of tree bark smell, blends in.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s a fact. My mama said we did and white people smell like lattice.”

  “Lattice doesn’t have a smell.”

  “Does to us.”

  Rance shook his head.

  As they topped the next hill, Whiskey Gulch came into view – a one street mining town with three or four saloons, a livery stable and a mercantile store.

  It was dusk when they rode in, the only light coming from the saloons. A lady from the balcony of a two-story saloon waved a lace handkerchief at them and pulled her skirt up to show her leg and smiled as they rode by.

  Most of the horses tied to the hitching post along the street looked like plow horses instead of cow ponies

  A two-horse wagon with “Caraway Mines” painted on the side of the wagon was tied to a hitching post in front of a saloon. A sign in the window read: Hot baths $5.

  “Looks like we hit town ‘bout the same time all the miners did,” Rance said.

  “Maybe we should get us a drink, something to eat and move on,” B.W. said.

  “I’m goin’ to get me a hot bath with soap and clean clothes,” Rance said.

  ”Think I’ll wait,” B.W. said.

  Two men staggered out of the saloon, one falling into B.W.’s horse. B.W. kicked him away and he staggered on down the street.

  “Trust me, you don’t smell like a tree,” Rance said.”Well, at least not a live one.”

  “You go ahead,” B.W. said. “I’ll take the horses to the livery stable. Don’t think I want to pay five dollars for a bath anyway. You got money?”

  Rance nodded.

  “I’ll come back and buy you a drink,” B.W. said.

  “Suit yourself,” Rance said, dismounted and handed B.W. the reins to Smiley’s horse and to Buck, then walked in the saloon.

  B.W. sat there on his horse for a moment, looking at the swinging doors, inhaling the whiskey smell that drifted into the street. He wiped his mouth like he could taste the whiskey and led the horses to the livery stable.

  A young boy dressed in overalls, barefooted with shaggy blonde hair and bright blue eyes was sweeping out stalls.

  “Can I get some feed and water for my horses?” B.W. asked.

  “Yes sir,” the boy said. “Fifty cents a horse.”

  “That grain and hay?”

  “Yes sir,” the boy said.

  “Alright. Here’s two dollars.” B.W. handed him two one-dollar gold pieces. “Unsaddle them and put the saddles back on after they eat. Put the saddle on the bay on the buckskin. I’ll be back in a couple of hours and those rifles better still be on the saddles.”

  A big man with a grisly face and a long black beard walked in chewing on a chicken leg. “I’ll take that,” he said, slapped the boy and held out his stubby-fingered hand for the money. The boy rubbed his jaw and dropped the money in his hand and led the horses to the stalls.

  “No need for that,” B.W. said.

  “Mind your own business, Injun.”

  “You his papa?” B.W. asked.

  “No. He just hangs around, helps out a little. I feed him and let him sleep in the stable. Tries to steal my money every chance he gets.”

  “Don’t have a mama?” B.W. asked.

  “Mama was a whore. A cowboy shot her couple years ago for stea
lin’ his money.”

  “They catch him?”

  “Didn’t try. Don’t nobody care what happens to whores.”

  “What about his papa?”

  “Ain’t answerin’ no more questions.”

  The boy walked up. He couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. “I took care of them, Mr. Harden,” the boy said.

  Harden gave the boy an angry look and looked back at B.W. “If you don’t come back for them tonight it will cost you more money.”

  “Be back tonight,” B.W. said.

  Harden checked the money, put it in his pocket and walked away.

  When B.W. went in the saloon, four big men with straggly beards and thick muscular bodies wearing coal dust overalls were holding Rance against the bar. Two of the men were hanging on his good arm, one holding the bad arm, and the other one with a handful of his hair, tilting his head back and pouring whiskey down his gullet. Several other men were standing back from the bar with whiskey glasses in their hands, yelling, “More! More! More!” A bald-headed bartender was leaning on the bar with a smile on his face and two young whores were holding the piano player’s head back, mocking the scene.

  “Let him go,” B.W. said.

  The one pouring the whiskey stopped pouring and stepped in front of Rance, holding the bottle.

  “What’s that you said there, chief?”

  “I said, let him go.”

  “This Johnnie Reb wanted a drink,” he said and everyone laughed.

  “War’s over, let him go,” B.W. said.

  The other men were still hanging on to Rance.

  “Figured you would enjoy this considerin’ the uniform you wearin,’” the one with the bottle said.

  “You okay, major?” B.W. asked.

  “Kinda woozy,” Rance said.

  Everybody laughed. The whores let go of the piano player and joined the laughter.

  “For the last time, let him go,” B.W. said.

  “And if we don’t?” the man with the bottle said.

  “Then I’ll have to insist.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “How you goin’ to do that? You’re kind of outnumbered,” the man with the bottle said, prompting another round of laughter.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” B.W. said and eased his right hand under the handle of his tomahawk.

  The man waved the bottle at B.W. “Got no more patience with you, chief,” he said and reached for a .44 on his hip. It was the last thing he would ever do.

  B.W. gave a heave upward to the handle of his tomahawk, grabbed it in midair and hurled it across the room, splitting the man’s skull. His gun hand fell away from the gun The whiskey bottle fell from his other hand and they both crashed to the floor.

  B.W. drew his Colt, pointed it at the men holding Rance and they let go and backed off.

  “I’ll shoot the first one goes for a gun,” B.W. said.

  Everyone looked at the dead man as his blood pooled around him on the floor. Nobody moved.

  “Think that bath’s going to have to wait,” B.W. said.

  “Think so too.” Rance turned his head, squinting his eyes trying to focus on the man on the floor.

  He pulled the .44 from the dead man’s holster, stuck it under his left arm and pried the tomahawk out of the man’s bleeding skull and pitched it to B.W. He pulled the pistol from under his left arm with his right hand and pointed it at the crowd as they backed out of the saloon and ran for the livery stable.

  Several of the men from the saloon ran out on the street, shooting at them. When they ran in the stable the stable boy was holding their horses saddled, waiting for them.

  “You better get out of here quick,” he said.

  “Thanks,” B.W. said. “You want to go with us?”

  “Let me get my things,” he said.

  “We don’t have time,” Rance said but the boy ran to a hay stack anyway and pulled out a small feed sack and ran back to the horses.

  “I’m ready,” the boy said.

  “Get on the roan,” B.W. said.

  “We can’t take the boy with us,” Rance said, looked at the saddle on Buck, grabbed the saddle horn and swung up in the saddle. “Where did we get another saddle?”

  “I stole it,” the boy said. “Well, Harden stole it first.”

  “You can’t go,” Rance said.

  “He has to now,” B.W. said.

  “Damn,” Rance said. “All I wanted was a bath.”

  The sound of angry people was almost to the livery. The boy and B.W. mounted and Harden came running in, buttoning his pants.

  “What the hell you doing,” he said. “Where you takin’ that boy?”

  B.W. spurred his horse and galloped toward the blacksmith, kicked him in the chest as he rode by, knocking him down. They rode into the night with bullets whizzing past them.

  4

  They rode hard by the light of a full moon until they felt the miners had given up the chase.

  Rance slowed Buck to a walk and B.W. and the boy brought their horses to him.

  “Okay, explain,” Rance said.

  “Bout the boy?” B.W. asked.

  “Of course ‘bout the boy.”

  “Don’t have no kin, was being beat on by that blacksmith. Had to get him out of there.”

  “That’ll do for me. What’s your name boy?” Rance asked.

  “Thomas Travers,” he said. “Call me Tommy.”

  “You set a horse real good, Tommy,” Rance said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I owe you for your help back there, B.W.,” Rance said.

  “Makes us even. You on your own next time though,” B.W. said.

  “Fair enough,” Rance said. “We need to get out of these uniforms.”

  “And get the boy some shoes,” B.W. said.

  “And me and you a new hat,” Rance said and grinned.

  ”I need a hat too,” Tommy said. “I can buy my own. I got five dollars I swiped from Mr. Harden.”

  “That’s the kind of talk that would have got me a serious whipping when I was a boy, Tommy” Rance said. “But considerin,’ I think he owed you that. Right, B.W.?”

  “Right,” B.W. said. “You still drunk?”

  “Pretty well wore off now. A couple hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m for that,” B.W. said. “How ‘bout you, Tommy, you bushed?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How old are you boy?” B.W. asked.

  “Twelve, I think. Not real sure.”

  “Was your mama murdered?”

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “The blacksmith said something about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Tommy said.

  “Okay,” B.W. said.

  They rode into a clump of trees and dismounted.

  “I’ll unsaddle the horses,” Tommy said.

  “That’s right kind of you boy,” Rance said as Tommy led the horses to a low-hanging tree limb.

  Next morning, Rance was having trouble tightening the girth on his saddle. Tommy ran over and grabbed the girth to help.

  “I can do it, boy, don’t need your help.”

  Tommy turned the girth loose and Rance continued wrestling with it.

  “Boy was just trying to help, major,” B.W. said.

  “Don’t need no help.”

  “Yes you do,” B.W. said. “Me or the boy can tighten that for you, or you can be stubborn and take forever to do it. Which is it?”

  Rance stopped pulling and dropped his head. “Yeah, go ahead,” he said and backed away from his horse. “Not much of a man anymore.”

  “You’ll have to do some things different now, that’s all,” B.W. said.

  Rance didn’t say anything and waited for B.W. to tighten the girth and climbed on his horse. They rode a ways and saw buzzards circling in the distance.

  “Want to have a look?” Rance asked.

  “Might as well,” B.W. said.

  They
came to a burned-out house and barn. Buzzards were swarming the half-eaten carcasses of a horse in a corral with what looked like two bullet holes in his neck.

  “Think it was Indians?” Rance asked.

  “No,” B.W. said. “They would have stolen that horse, to ride or eat. Don’t see any bodies.”

  “Not much of anything, really,” Rance said. “Everything’s burnt to a crisp.”

  “There’s wagon tracks and hoof prints leadin’ out of here,” B.W. said. “Must have made a run for it.”

  Tommy came running up, carrying three jars of canned peaches. “Look what I found in the cellar. There’s more if we want them.”

  “Good job, boy,” B.W. said. “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” Rance said.

  “May taste better if we move over the hill to get away from the smell,” B.W. said.

  “Yeah,” Tommy said and handed Rance and B.W. a jar of peaches. “I’ll get the horses.”

  “Well one thing you gotta say for that boy, he’s helpful,” B.W. said.

  “He is,” Rance said.

  Tommy led the horses over the hill and Rance and B.W. followed and sat down under a big oak and the wind picked up the smell.

  “Well I guess we eat with the stench or don’t eat at all,” Rance said.

  “After the last four years ain’t nothin’ much gets in the way of me eatin’ when I’m hungry,” B.W. said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Rance said.

  “What you goin’ to do when you get to the valley, major?” B.W. asked.

  “Not sure. The Union commandeered our land that’s been in the family for over a hundred years, don’t think I can get it back. Mainly just wanted to visit my wife and daughter’s graves, didn’t get a chance to bury anyone else. What about you?”

  “Thought about practicin’ law. The tribe sent me to law school with the help of a white man named William Holland Thomas. He became chief after Drowning Bear died. Only white man to ever be chief of the Cherokee. He thought the tribe needed an Indian representin’ them. For all I know he could have been my papa. I may not even be an Indian.”

  “Heard of him. Led the Cherokee against the Union,” Rance said. “ I’ll say one thing for him – he never lost a battle to Union troops. Probably should have been leading the Confederacy instead of Lee.”

  “Lee was so impressed with himself he didn’t think he could lose,” B.W. said.