The High Divide

by Lin Enger

  He led them outside along the bone pile, then across a short dirt yard to the door of a tiny, unpainted house. “Here,” he said, and ushered them inside.

  It was a single room, lamplit, with a pair of upholstered chairs and a sofa with ornate carvings on the armrests. “Wing!” Slovin called out, “where in damnation are you?” He walked to a door at the rear of the house and stuck his head outside. “There you are,” he said, and stood aside to let the man enter—a Chinaman with a skinny mustache that drooped from both sides of his chin who was wearing a black skullcap. He looked at Eli and then Danny, and finally back at Slovin.

  “Mr. Wing,” Slovin said, by way of introduction.

  “Yes,” Wing said.

  Slovin pointed at the floor. “Is Skinner here?”

  “Yes,” Wing said.

  “We need to see him.”

  Wing nodded. Then he squinted at Danny and reached out his hand, pointing. “He okay? Don’t look so good.”

  “He’s only tired,” Eli told him.

  Wing retreated a couple of steps and crouched down on the floor. He grabbed hold of an inlaid handle and yanked on it, lifting a big trapdoor that revealed a stairway going down. A pungent odor rose up, sweet and flowery—but sharper than that, like something burning.

  “Here we go,” Slovin said, and led the way.

  Eli followed the Chinaman, and Danny took up the rear, his hands on Eli’s shoulders. The steps were narrow, and at the bottom everyone waited in dim light to get their bearings, the smell so strong now that Eli’s eyes watered. Soon he could make out bunks against the walls, right and left, two pallets high, figures lying in each one, and a single bunk straight ahead. Five people in all, some on their backs, apparently dozing, some on their sides or half propped up. One of the men groaned—not out of pain but pleasure, as if inspired by the taste or sight of something heavenly. Wing pointed straight ahead and moved toward the bunk at the end of the room, the man lying thereon full-bearded and large. He was smiling sleepily and sucking on a straight, narrow pipe two feet long with a doorknob-shaped bowl affixed to its side. In front of him on a short table was a glass contraption that contained a tarry substance smoldering above a redhot coal. The man’s eyes were open, but they looked as shiny as wet tin. Eli wondered if he could see anything.

  “What’s he doing?” Danny asked.

  Slovin laughed. “Taking a well-deserved holiday, but I think I can rouse him.” Slovin bent over and put his face right down close to the man. “Skinner,” he said, “you have a pair of young visitors.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered and his head reclined to one side.

  “Skinner, you piece of dung, pay attention here.”

  “Somebody’s after me,” Skinner said.

  Slovin reached out and rapped him on the shoulder, telling him, “That’s right, you’re the man of the hour.”

  The man straightened up, moistened his lips with his tongue. “Are you the one?” he asked, pointing at Eli.

  “Me and my brother. We’re trying to find our dad. Ulysses Pope.”

  Skinner glanced all around, scowling, as if a trap had been laid for him. He pushed a hand back through his long, snarled hair and lifted his nose like a dog scenting the country ahead.

  Slovin prompted him: “You came into town yesterday with another man, both of you with bones to sell. Remember?”

  “Ain’t seen the fellow since,” Skinner said. “Not like we were friendly, or somehow related. But you know? This man, he had no ear on one side of his head. Right side—or it could have been the left.”

  “Did Pope tell you how long he planned to stay around? Do you know where he might be headed?”

  Skinner lifted a hand, paused. Then he whistled a few notes—not a melody, as far Eli could tell. It sounded more like a bird singing.

  “You dreaming fat-ass,” Slovin said, and threw up his hands. But Wing bent down close and slapped Skinner’s face hard enough to make his head snap.

  “These boys here,” Wing said. “Their father. Okay?”

  “Beautiful,” Skinner said, rubbing his beard.

  “Okay!” Wing said, and took a fierce grip of one of Skinner’s earlobes with a thumb and index finger.

  The man winced, blinked, and sighed. He said, “Run into him on that trail down to the Cheyenne reserve. Me on the comeback, filling my cart, him with an ox that give up the ghost. Plumb dead, it was. And shitfire! That high load of his almost tipping over.”

  Wing let go of the man’s ear and stepped back.

  “So you gave him a hand?” Slovin asked.

  “Had me a pair of Percherons, yes, which I give him the use of one,” Skinner said. “Piece of pure providence for him that he run into somebody like me.”

  Slovin chuckled. “At what cost to him?”

  “My horses got the worst of the bargain, pulling twice what they should.”

  Wing put his face right in front of Skinner’s. “Where was he going? This Pope?”

  At which Skinner bolted up straight in his bunk, eyes clicking open. “You think I’m a goddamn fortune-teller?” he shouted. “Well I ain’t. Now leave me the hell alone, I paid you good money.” He’d set the pipe aside, but now he grabbed hold of it and clamped his teeth on its tip and drew in deeply, his eyes going back in his head then closing. He turned away toward the wall, and a tremble ran through him.

  Slovin pointed a stubby finger at Eli. “I guess you heard him as well as I did.”

  “We saw the livery man, Church, this afternoon,” Eli said, “and our father hasn’t been around there, not since he rented the rig.”

  Slovin huffed. He said, “You think he’s going to buy himself a dead ox? I don’t think so. We’re done here, let’s go.”

  Yes, Eli thought. Let’s get out of this crazy-house.

  They left by way of the backdoor into a fenced yard filled with sheep, the mist of their breath hanging in the air. A stiff wind had blown up out of the north, and the sky was quilted with stars, wide, gauzy patches of them. Eli took Danny by the hand and led him to the gate, the sheep scattering before them and butting each other. “We’ll find him in the morning,” Eli said, but his heart was dead in his chest, like a lump of meat. He filled his lungs with the cold air, trying to free up the choking tightness. Their father wasn’t here, Eli felt sure of that. They’d missed him, probably by less than a day, and now Danny was going to be ill.

  “I want Mother,” Danny said.

  “I know that—but I’m going to take good care of you. And as soon as you’re better, we’ll put you on the train for home, all right? Everything is going to be fine. I promise you.”

  Danny held on tight to Eli’s coat as they walked, but his legs kept tangling up with each other. Eli stopped and bent down and hoisted him onto his back.

  “I’m going home,” Danny whispered into his ear. Then: “I’m cold.”

  By the time they reached the Drover House, Eli’s hands ached and his eyes streamed from the cold. Danny’s breath came in fast shivers. In the corner room upstairs they found Hornaday bent close over his desk, writing in a notebook. He was puffing on a fat cigar.

  “Bitter out there, isn’t it, boys,” he said. “And you didn’t find your father.”

  “No.” Eli lowered his brother into a corner, spread a blanket for him, and rolled him up in it. Danny was inert, as loose as a sack of grain.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He gets headaches. Bad headaches.”

  “Just what we need, another sick one.” Hornaday pointed to the corner, and as if on cue a deep moan issued from the bed there. The bedsprings squeaked and jounced. Hornaday took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

  “Sully?” Eli asked.

  “Must have eaten something bad tonight, the catfish, maybe—or so I hope, because if Sully goes down, I’ll have to find another hand. And all we have is one more day.” Hornaday came over and crouched on the floor next to Danny. He lifted him up and studied his face. “D
oesn’t seem to be in any pain,” he said.

  “Not yet, no.”

  “How long do they last?”

  “A day, two days—longer. Mother can make them go away sometimes.”

  “We’ll fetch a doctor first thing in the morning,” Hornaday said, tucking Danny back into the blanket. “And I’ll speak to the sheriff about your father. That’s the best I can do. Now get some sleep, it’s late.”

  Across the room, Sully cried out in his bed: “Mother of God, my bowels!”

  “Go outside and purge yourself, man,” Hornaday said. “Give us a little peace, you hear me?”

  The cowboy rolled out of bed and rushed from the room, apelike, one arm hanging, the other clutching his belly, a foul smell trailing behind him. When he came back five minutes later, he was ashen-faced and groaning. There was little sleep to be had, what with Sully suffering as he was, cursing and bawling, and every so often sitting up in his bed to shout “Bloody ballocks!” as if fighting God or the devil for a bit of relief. At one point Hornaday lit a lamp and tried calming him, but Sully rose to his knees and swung a roundhouse punch that Hornaday managed to slip, his head whipping so fast his spectacles went flying. After which Sully was quiet for a time and Eli finally went off to sleep, only to be stirred awake by his brother.

  “You hear that?” Danny asked.

  “What?”

  “That.”

  In the faint light from the window, Danny’s face was white and feverish, his wide eyes glossy, his lips chapped. He was propped on an elbow and pressing a finger into Eli’s shoulder. “Listen,” he whispered.

  Eli heard only the ragged grunts of Sully and, beneath them, Hornaday’s breathing. “It’s your dreams. You’ve got to sleep now.”

  “No, listen.”

  “Quiet.” Eli laid a hand over his brother’s mouth.

  In the corner Sully whimpered, “No, no, no,” then came a rustle of blankets, a jostle of bedsprings. Danny wriggled free of Eli’s hand and got up on his knees. He tugged on Eli’s sleeve, took hold of a fistful of cloth, and got to his feet. “Let’s go out in the hall. Come on, I have to tell you something.”

  Reluctantly Eli allowed himself to be led toward the door, but Danny bumped into the wall and Eli had to guide him out of the room. The hallway was dark and empty, a single lamp burning at the end near the stairwell.

  Danny’s breathing was fast and light. “There’s a boy, a little boy in my dream. And I heard him crying. I think he’s hiding someplace.”

  “You heard Sully.”

  “No, his voice is high, and it’s coming through the window. We need to go and find him. There, you hear it?” Danny lifted a hand to his ear. “There. He’s in trouble.”

  “We’re the ones in trouble,” Eli said.

  “We can’t just leave him. We have to go outside and look.” Danny’s eyes glistened and blinked. He was taking air in fast gulps. Eli placed a hand on his brother’s chest and felt his heart going like a squirrel’s, way too fast.

  “All right, relax. We’ll go out and check.”

  Danny started off toward the stairs, arms half raised for balance, and Eli had to run to catch up with him. He took him by the shoulders and turned him around and told him to wait where he was, then returned to the room for their pants and shoes and coats, Danny’s big, floppy hat. The north wind had let up some, but the cold had settled in beneath a clear sky. In front of the hotel a cowboy lay spread-eagled on the boardwalk. As Eli and Danny stepped past him, he lifted up and asked if they could spare two bits, then fell back again, his head banging the planks like a dropped pumpkin. They walked fifty paces north before Danny stopped and looked up at the smear of stars, his face sad and rapturous.

  “Do you hear him?” Eli asked.

  “Only a little. No, I can’t tell where it’s coming from—I think we’re too late.” He let go of Eli’s arm and dropped his hands to his sides. His head fell forward on his neck. His body quaked. “We can’t help him anymore,” he said.

  “Let’s go back in then. It’s cold.”

  For a moment Danny stood thinking, or possibly sleeping on his feet, Eli thought, but then he turned and set off for the saloon across the street, where light still leaked from the shuttered windows. He moved like an animal lame in one foot, listing to one side as he walked. Eli followed, half-heartedly. “We’ll go ask if they’ve seen him,” Danny said. “As long as we’re out here.”

  Inside, men were gathered in twos and threes at half a dozen tables across the low-ceilinged room. Hanging lamps cast a sickly light on their drawn faces. Most were quiet, slouched in their chairs or half sprawled across their tables—though off in a corner a bald man told a story, his hands drawing pictures in the air. Something about a rainstorm and a mud hole. One of his listeners, coming awake, stood up and moved for the door, and as the roomful of men registered his passage, their dull eyes landed on the boys. Eli, wishing he were anywhere else, felt Danny’s elbow in his side.

  He cleared his throat, took a breath, and summoned the deepest pitch he could manage. “We were wondering,” he said, “if any of you might have seen our father.” Beside him, Danny nodded.

  The men waited. The one heading for the door stopped to look at them. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

  Eli offered their father’s name and described what he looked like, explained that he’d just gotten back into town yesterday, having made a trip south for bones.

  “I ain’t seen a one-eared man,” the bald one said. “Never have, thank God.”

  “Nor me,” said the one standing, and he moved on past them and out the door, saying “Best of luck” before he slammed it behind him.

  At one of the back tables a cowboy with a bony skull-face raised one finger. He said, “Well I seen him. I seen him sure as I see the pair of you right now.”

  Everybody turned to look. “Where?” the bald man asked him. “Can’t you see these boys are dyin’ here?”

  “Might be it was down next to the river—yes, close by the pier. This morning, I believe it was.”

  “You believe?” asked the bald man.

  “The ferryman, Williams, he owed me a dollar, and I was there to fetch it. And that’s when I seen him. The bare side of his head is what you can’t help but pay some mind to. Wondered at the time if he could hear anything.”

  “He can hear fine,” Eli said.

  “Now listen, boys,” the bald man told them. “I advise you to wait until morning. There is some folks down there you had best stay clear of, I mean down along the riverbank. You don’t want to walk into anything.”

  “It’s morning enough,” Danny said, and he made a shuffling line to the door, Eli close behind. They were half a block from the saloon and heading west when the cowboy with the bony face came chasing after them.

  “Maybe you’ll want some help,” he called.

  “We’ll be fine,” Eli said, and kept walking, Danny at his side but fading now, his feet getting sloppy. He had one fist knotted into the side of Eli’s coat.

  “River’s down that way.” The man pointed out the obvious with a skinny finger. “Just stay on this here road and there is a pier where the ferry ties up. You’ll see a few dugouts off to your left. The man that’s got no ear—well, your old man—he was out squatting next to the second dugout from the pier. On your left. Actually tried renting my horse off me. Wanted to give me four dollars and the boots on his feet. Told me they would be the finest boots I’d ever wear. But look at this.” The cowboy had caught up to them now, and he lifted one of his feet for the boys to see—a small foot, as it happened, tiny for a grown man, hardly bigger than Danny’s. “Not much good those boots’d do me, right?”

  “Did he look sick or anything?” Eli asked.

  “Sick? No. A little wore out, you might say, in want of a good nap and some hearty victuals. But healthy enough.”

  They had walked well beyond the influence of the town’s few lights, and the ground was beginning to drop toward the river when th
e cowboy suddenly pulled up short. “You boys are good from here—just keep your noses in the wind.” He turned and headed back toward the saloon.

  “Dad must need a horse pretty bad,” Eli said. He was thinking of the pride their father had always taken in the boots he ordered from a shop in Minneapolis, from a bootsmith who used the finest bullhide and carved U.S.P.—for Ulysses Samuel Pope—into the tops of the uppers.

  “I don’t feel good,” Danny said.

  The pier was a broken-down concern, barely long enough for the ferryboat tied to its pilings, and just like the cowboy told them, there was a string of dugouts along the riverbank to the left. In fading starlight, the crude structures looked like arrangements of castoff junk—walls made of planks and crates and bricks, with pipes sticking up at odd angles from earthen roofs. From the second chimney, a stone’s throw from where the boys stood on the pier, smoke rose in a thin trail that angled south with the breeze. Eli led his brother to the door, which appeared to have had a previous life as a tabletop, and knocked on it, using the rhythm their father had always used: da-da, di-daa-da. He was preparing himself for the worst. There’s another man here, not my father, he thought, and he was ready to pick up Danny and run if that was necessary—back up the hill and straight into town.

  But there was movement inside, and a voice called out: “Who is it?” A voice like none other: a low growl, but soft, too, like a big dog that would rather lick you than use its teeth.

  Danny said “Dad”—just that, with utter conviction, as if peering at him through an open window in full sun.

  Then the door swung open, and before them in lamplight was a man hunched beneath the low ceiling who might, Eli thought, be their father—if he would stand up straight, that is, and if his face were not hidden behind a filthy beard, and if his eyes weren’t small and tight like those of a wary animal. And if he didn’t carry the sour smell of a horse that’s been run to froth and allowed to dry in its own sweat.

  “Hi, boys,” the man said.

  17

  The Arm of Flesh