Tell the whole story if you gonna tell it, go back to sitting in the hold of the ship in Port Tampa a month, not allowed t o go ashore for fear of causing incidents with white people wh o didn't want the men of the Tenth coming in their stores an d cafes, running off their customers. Tell them--so we land i n Cuba at a place called Daiquiri . . . saying in his mind then , Listen to me now. Was the Tenth at Daiquiri, the Ninth at Siboney. Experienced cavalry regiments that come off frontier station after thirty years dealing with hostile renegades, cutthroat horse thieves, reservation jumpers, land in Cuba and they put us to work unloading the ships while Teddy's peopl e march off to meet the enemy and win some medals, yeah, an d would've been wiped out at El Caney and on San Juan Hill i f the colored boys hadn't come along and saved Colonel Teddy's ass and all his Rough Rider asses, showed them how to go u p a hill and take a blockhouse. Saved them so the Rough Rider s could become America's heroes.
All this in Bo Catlett's head and the banners welcoming Captain Early hanging over him.
One of the cowboys from the Chinaman's must've asked what was going on, because now the smart-aleck one brough t his claybank around and began talking to them, glancin g back at the porch now and again with his mean look. The tw o from the Chinaman's stood with their thumbs in their belts , while the mounted cowboy had his hooked around his suspenders now. None of them wore a gun belt or appeared to be armed. Now the two riders stepped down from their mount s and followed the other two along the street to a place calle d the Belle Alliance, a miners' saloon, and went inside.
Bo Catlett was used to mean dirty looks and looks of indifference, a man staring at him as though he wasn't even there.
Now, the thing with white people, they had a hard time believing colored men fought in the war. You never saw a colored man on a U. S. Army recruiting poster or a picture of colored soldiers in newspapers. White people believed colore d people could not be relied on in war. But why? There wer e some colored people that went out and killed wild animals , even lions, with a spear. No gun, a spear. And made hats ou t of the manes. See a colored man standing there in front of a lion coming at him fast as a train running downgrade, stand s there with his spear, doesn't move, and they say colored me n can't be relied on?
There was a story in newspapers how when Teddy Roosevelt was at the hill, strutting around in the open, he saw colored troopers going back to the rear and he drew his revolver and threatened to shoot them--till he found out they were going after ammunition. His own Rough Riders wer e pinned down in the guinea grass, the Spanish sharpshooter s picking at them from up in the blockhouses. So the Tent h showed the white boys how to go up the hill angry, firing an d yelling, making noise, set on driving the garlics clean fro m the hill. . . .
Found Bren Early and his company lying in the weeds, the scrub--that's all it was up that hill, scrub and sand, hard t o get a footing in places; nobody ran all the way up, it was ge t up a ways and stop to fire, covering each other. Found Bre n Early with a whistle in his mouth. He got up and starte d blowing it and waving his sword--come on, boys, to glory-GCo a nd a Mauser bullet smacked him in the butt, on account o f the way he was turned to his people, and Bren Early grunted , dropped his sword, and went down in the scrub to lay ther e cursing his luck, no doubt mortified to look like he got sho t going the wrong way. Bo Catlett didn't believe Bren saw hi m pick up the sword. Picked it up, waved it at the Rough Rider s and his Tenth Cav troopers, and they all went up that hill together, his troopers yelling, some of them singing, actually singing "They'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight."
Singing and shooting, honest to God, scaring the dons right out of their blockhouse. It was up on the crest Catlett got sho t in his right hip and was taken to the Third Cav dressing station. It was set up on the Aguadores River at a place called "bloody ford," being it was under fire till the hill was captured. Catlett remembered holding on to the sword, tight, while the regimental surgeon dug the bullet out of him an d he tried hard not to scream, biting his mouth till it bled.
After, he was sent home and spent a month at Camp Wikoff, near Montauk out on Long Island, with a touch of yello w fever. Saw President McKinley when he came by Septembe r 3rd and made a speech, the President saying what they di d over there in Cuba "commanded the unstinted praise of all your countrymen." Till he walked away from Montauk an d came back into the world, Sergeant Major Catlett actually di d believe he and the other members of the Tenth would be recognized as war heroes.
He wished Bren would hurry up and get here. He'd ask the hero of San Juan Hill how his heinie was and if he was gettin g much unstinted praise. If Bren didn't come pretty soon , Catlett decided, he'd see him another time. Get a horse out o f the livery and ride it up White Tanks.
The four Circle-Eye riders sat at a front table in the Belle Alliance with a bottle of Green River whiskey , Macon staring out the window. The hotel was across the stree t and up the block a ways, but Macon could see it, the colore d man in the suit of clothes still sitting on the porch, if he tilte d his chair back and held on to the windowsill. He said, "No , sir, nobody told me they was niggers in the war."
Wayman said to the other two Circle-Eye riders, "Macon can't get over it."
Macon's gaze came away from the window. "It was your brother got killed."
Wayman said, "I know he did."
Macon said, "You don't care?"
The Circle-Eye riders watched him let his chair come down to hit the floor hard. They watched him get up withou t another word and walk out.
"I never thought much of coloreds," one of the Circle-Eye riders said, "but you never hear me take on about 'em lik e Macon. What's his trouble?"
"I guess he wants to shoot somebody," Wayman said. "The time he shot that chili picker in Nogales? Macon worked hisself up to it the same way."
Catlett watched the one that was looking for a fight come out through the doors and go to the claybank, th e reins looped once around the tie rail. He didn't touch th e reins, though. What he did was reach into a saddlebag an d bring out what Catlett judged to be a Colt .44 pistol. Righ t then he heard: "Only guests of the hotel are allowed to sit out here."
Catlett watched the cowboy checking his loads now, turning the cylinder of his six-shooter, the metal catching a glint of light from the sun, though the look of the pistol was dul l and it appeared to be an old model.
Monty the desk clerk, standing there looking at Catlett without getting too close, said, "You'll have to leave. . . .
Right now."
The cowboy was looking this way.
Making up his mind, Catlett believed. All right, now, yeah, he's made it up.
"Did you hear what I said?"
Catlett took time to look at Monty and then pointed off down the street. He said, "You see that young fella comin g this way with the pistol? He think he like to shoot me.
Say you don't allow people to sit here aren't staying at the ho-tel. How about, you allow them to get shot if they not a guest?"
He watched the desk clerk, who didn't seem to know whether to shit or go blind, eyes wide open, turn and ru n back in the lobby.
The cowboy, Macon, stood in the middle of the street now holding the six-shooter against his leg.
Catlett, still seated in the rocker, said, "You a mean rascal, ain't you? Don't take no sass, huh?"
The cowboy said something agreeing that Catlett didn't catch, the cowboy looking over to see his friends coming u p the street now from the barroom. When he looked at the hote l porch again, Catlett was standing at the railing, his bedrol l upright next to him leaning against it.
"I can be a mean rascal too," Catlett said, unbuttoning his suit coat. "I want you to know that before you take this to o far. You understand?"
"You insulted Colonel Roosevelt and his Rough Riders," t he cowboy said, "and you insulted Wayman's brother, kille d in action over there in Cuba."
"How come," Catlett said, "you weren't there?"
"I was ready, don't worry, when the war ende
d. But we're talking about you. I say you're a dirty lying nigger and hav e no respect for people better'n you are. I want you to apologiz e to the colonel and his men and to Wayman's dea d brother. . . ."
"Or what?" Catlett said.
"Answer to me," the cowboy said. "Are you armed? You aren't, you better get yourself a pistol."
"You want to shoot me," Catlett said, " 'cause I went to Cuba and you didn't?"
The cowboy was shaking his head. " 'Cause you lied. Have you got a pistol or not?"
Catlett said, "You calling me out, huh? You want us to fight a duel?"
" 'Less you apologize. Else get a pistol."
"But if I'm the one being called out, I have my choice of weapons, don't I? That's how I seen it work, twenty-four year s in the U. S. Army in two wars. You hear what I'm saying?"
The cowboy was frowning now beneath his hat brim, squinting up at Bo Catlett. He said, "Pistols, it's what yo u use."
Catlett nodded. "If I say so."
"Well, what else is there?"
Confused and getting a mean look.
Catlett slipped his hand into the upright end of his bedroll and began to tug at something inside--the cowboy watching , the Circle-Eye riders in the street watching, the desk cler k and manager in the doorway and several hotel guests nea r them who had come out to the porch, all watching as Catlet t drew a sword from the bedroll, a cavalry saber, the curve d blade flashing as it caught the sunlight. He came past th e people watching and down off the porch toward the cowbo y in his hat and boots fixed with spurs that chinged as he turne d to face Catlett, shorter than Catlett, appearing confused agai n holding the six-shooter at his side.
"If I choose to use sabers," Catlett said, "is that agreeable with you?"
"I don't have no saber."
Meanness showing now in his eyes.
"Well, you best get one."
"I never even had a sword in my hand."
Irritated. Drunk, too, his eyes not focusing as they should.
Now he was looking over his shoulder at the Circle-Eye riders, maybe wanting them to tell him what to do.
One of them, not Wayman but one of the others, called out, "You got your forty-four in your hand, ain't you? What'r e you waiting on?"
Catlett raised the saber to lay the tip against Macon's breastbone, saying to him, "You use your pistol and I us e steel? All right, if that's how you want it. See if you can shoo t me 'fore this blade is sticking out your back. You game? . . .
Speak up, boy."
In the hotel dining room having a cup of coffee, Catlett heard the noise outside, the cheering that meant Captain Early had arrived. Catlett waited. He wished one of the waitresses would refill his cup, but they weren't around now , nobody was. A half hour passed before Captain Early entere d the dining room and came over to the table, leaving the people he was with. Catlett rose and they embraced, the hotel people and guests watching. It was while they stood this wa y that Bren saw, over Catlett's shoulder, the saber lying on th e table, the curved steel on white linen. Catlett sat down. Bre n looked closely at the saber's hilt. He picked it up and ther e was applause from the people watching. The captain bowed t o them and sat down with the sergeant major.
"You went up the hill with this?"
"Somebody had to."
"I'm being recommended for a medal. 'For courage and pluck in continuing to advance under fire on the Spanish fortified position at the battle of Las Guasimas, Cuba, June 24th, 1898.' "
Catlett nodded. After a moment he said, "Will you tell me something? What was that war about?"
"You mean why'd we fight the dons?"
"Yeah, tell me."
"To free the oppressed Cuban people. Relieve them of Spanish domination."
"That's what I thought."
"You didn't know why you went to war?"
"I guess I knew," Catlett said. "I just wasn't sure."
*
*
THE TONTO WOMAN.
A time would come, within a few years, when Ruben Vega would go to the church i n Benson, kneel in the confessional, and say to th e priest, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I t has been thirty-seven years since my last confession. . . . Since then I have fornicated with many women, maybe eight hundred. No, not that many , considering my work. Maybe six hundred only."
And the priest would say, "Do you mean bad women or good women?" And Ruben Vega woul d say, "They are all good, Father." He would tell th e priest he had stolen, in that time, about twent y thousand head of cattle but only maybe fiftee n horses. The priest would ask him if he had committed murder. Ruben Vega would say no. "All that stealing you've done," the priest would say , "you've never killed anyone?" And Ruben Veg a would say, "Yes, of course, but it was not to commit murder. You understand the distinction? Not to kill someone to take a life, but only to sav e my own."
Even in this time to come, concerned with dying in a state of sin, he would be confident. Ruben Vega knew himself , when he was right, when he was wrong.
Now, in a time before, with no thought of dying, but with the same confidence and caution that kep t him alive, he watched a woman bathe. Watched from a mesquite thicket on the high bank of a wash.
She bathed at the pump that stood in the yard of the adobe, the woman pumping and then stooping to scoop the wate r from the basin of the irrigation ditch that led off to a vegetable patch of corn and beans. Her dark hair was pinned up in a swirl, piled on top of her head. She was bare to her gra y skirt, her upper body pale white, glistening wet in the late afternoon sunlight. Her arms were very thin, her breasts small, but there they were with the rosy blossoms on the tips an d Ruben Vega watched them as she bathed, as she raised on e arm and her hand rubbed soap under the arm and down ove r her ribs. Ruben Vega could almost feel those ribs, she was s o thin. He felt sorry for her, for all the women like her, stic k women drying up in the desert, waiting for a husband to rid e in smelling of horse and sweat and leather, lice living in hi s hair.
There was a stock tank and rickety windmill off in the pasture, but it was empty graze, all dust and scrub. So the man of the house had moved his cows to grass somewhere and woul d be coming home soon, maybe with his sons. The woman appeared old enough to have young sons. Maybe there was a little girl in the house. The chimney appeared cold. Animals W s tood in a mesquite-pole corral off to one side of the house, a cow and a calf and a dun-colored horse, that was all. Ther e were a few chickens. No buckboard or wagon. No clothes drying on the line. A lone woman here at day's end.
From fifty yards he watched her. She stood looking this way now, into the red sun, her face raised. There was something strange about her face. Like shadow marks on it, though there was nothing near enough to her to cast shadows.
He waited until she finished bathing and returned to the house before he mounted his bay and came down the wash t o the pasture. Now as he crossed the yard, walking his horse , she would watch him from the darkness of the house an d make a judgment about him. When she appeared again i t might be with a rifle, depending on how she saw him.
Ruben Vega said to himself, Look, I'm a kind person. I'm not going to hurt nobody.
She would see a bearded man in a cracked straw hat with the brim bent to his eyes. Black beard, with a revolver on hi s hip and another beneath the leather vest. But look at my eyes , Ruben Vega thought. Let me get close enough so you can se e my eyes.
Stepping down from the bay he ignored the house, let the horse drink from the basin of the irrigation ditch as h e pumped water and knelt to the wooden platform and put hi s mouth to the rusted pump spout. Yes, she was watching him.
Looking up now at the doorway he could see part of her: a coarse shirt with sleeves too long and the gray skirt. He coul d see strands of dark hair against the whiteness of the shirt, bu t could not see her face.
As he rose, straightening, wiping his mouth, he said, "May we use some of your water, please?"
The woman didn't answer him.
He moved away from the pump
to the hardpack, hearing the ching of his spurs, removed his hat and gave her a littl e bow. "Ruben Vega, at your service. Do you know Diego Luz , the horse-breaker?" He pointed off toward a haze of foothills.
"He lives up there with his family and delivers horses to the big ranch, the Circle-Eye. Ask Diego Luz, he'll tell you I'm a person of trust." He waited a moment. "May I ask how you'r e called?" Again he waited.
"You watched me," the woman said.
Ruben Vega stood with his hat in his hand facing the woman, who was half in shadow in the doorway. He said, "I w aited. I didn't want to frighten you."
"You watched me," she said again.
"No, I respect your privacy."
She said, "The others look. They come and watch."
He wasn't sure who she meant. Maybe anyone passing by.
He said, "You see them watching?"
She said, "What difference does it make?" She said then, "You come from Mexico, don't you?"
"Yes, I was there. I'm here and there, working as a drover."
Ruben Vega shrugged. "What else is there to do, uh?" Showing her he was resigned to his station in life.
"You'd better leave," she said.
When he didn't move, the woman came out of the doorway into light and he saw her face clearly for the first time. He fel t a shock within him and tried to think of something to say , but could only stare at the blue lines tattooed on her face: three straight lines on each cheek that extended from he r cheekbones to her jaw, markings that seemed familiar, thoug h he could not in this moment identify them.
He was conscious of himself standing in the open with nothing to say, the woman staring at him with curiosity, a s though wondering if he would hold her gaze and look at her.
Like there was nothing unusual about her countenance. Like it was common to see a woman with her face tattooed and yo u might be expected to comment, if you said anything at all , "Oh, that's a nice design you have there. Where did you hav e it done?" That would be one way--if you couldn't say something interesting about the weather or about the price of cows in Benson.
When the Women Come Out to Dance Page 12