by Charles Ray
They made it as far as the Washita River, and, if O’Malley, Floyd, and Washington hadn’t all stood together in their refusal to try and cross even a narrow river in the dark, Bass would have kept going. He felt an urgency to keep moving that he couldn’t even explain to himself, but he’d learned to listen to those he worked with, and he had to admit that they made sense.
They spread blankets under the prisoner wagon and chained their prisoners to the wheels, with O’Malley and Floyd switching off on prisoner guard duty. Bass hung around the hastily prepared cook fire and watched Washington as he fumbled with his pots and pans and grumbled about having to work without enough light to see things properly.
As he stood there staring into the cookfire, he began to feel drowsy. Guess I should’ve stopped earlier. This has been one long trip, and I been drivin’ everybody too hard. “Elijah, I’m powerful sorry for waitin’ so long to stop, and causin’ you to have to go to so much trouble,” he said to the man bent over the fire.
“Aw, I ain’t really blamin’ you,” Washington said. “If’n some old Injun medicine man done put a hex on me, I’d be in a hurry to git home, too.”
“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” Bass said. But, even as he spoke, he could hear the hesitation and doubt in his expression.
“Sho, Bass, whatever you say.” Washington hunched even closer to his iron pots.
“You believe in that stuff, Elijah?”
“Well now, Bass, I reckon they’s more on this earth than plain folk like you ‘n me can ever understand. I come from down in the Louisiana bayou country, and I can tell you, I done seen things down there that make a believer out of the hardest man.”
“That long speech your way of sayin’ you do believe in this evil spell?”
“I saw a juju man one time curse a man, and sho nuff, the next day that man fell offen his horse and broke his neck, he did. Now, some folk say it’s just one of them, what you call ‘em, coincidences, but that fella what fell offen his horse was a expert horseman. Ain’t had no reason to fall.”
“Maybe a skeeter bit him and caused him to fall.”
“Naw, I don’t think so. It was that juju man and his conjure bag what done it.”
“Conjure bag? What’s that?
“That’s what them juju people keeps they charms and stuff in.”
“What kinda charms, and what they for?”
“Well now, I ain’t seen inside a conjure bag myself, but I done heard they keep all kinds of strange stuff in ‘em, stuff like chicken bones and special rocks. S’pose to be stuff what carries the magic power they needs to throw they spells.”
“I thought they just chanted or such.”
“Uh-uh, they needs that conjure bag, or they chantin’ is just words.”
“Well, I still don’ believe any of this stuff,” Bass said, because he felt he had to say something.
But, in truth there was nothing useful he could say. He’d often said that he didn’t believe in coincidence. He wasn’t sure whether or not he believed in magic. And, he wasn’t feeling all that well as he stood there staring into the fire, and almost falling asleep on his feet.
“Well, hurry up with that grub, ‘cause I’d like to eat a mite ‘fore I go to sleep, and if I don’t eat pretty quick, I’m liable to fall over right here.”
“I didn’t want to say nothin’, but you do look a bit peaked.”
Little was said by anyone as they quickly ate the fried beef, beans, and hard tack that Washington had hastily prepared. While O’Malley and Floyd stood by, weapons at the ready, Washington fed the prisoners after they’d eaten. Bass normally took this time to lecture the captured fugitives on the error of their ways, but he felt so out of it, as soon as he’d finished the last of his food, he stretched out on his blanket, his head on his saddle, and fell into a troubled sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. He felt a pounding in his head like a signal drum, and when he squinted at Washington kneeling by the fire, he saw two of him and two fires. He pushed himself to a sitting position, and stood, swaying on his feet. O’Malley, who had just been relieved of prisoner guard duty by Floyd, rushed to his side, but restrained himself from grabbing him.
“You okay, Bass? You don’t look so good.”
O’Malley’s voice seemed to Bass to be coming from a distance, despite the fact that he could see the man was standing close enough to touch.
“I don’ know,” he said. “I got a headache, and I feel kinda dizzy. Wonder if I might be reactin’ to somethin’ Elijah cooked last night.”
“I heard that,” Washington said. “If they’s somethin’ wrong with my vittles, how come you the only one ain’t feelin’ right.”
“Bass, could it be—”
“Hush up, Bill,” Bass said before he could finish. “I know what you gon’ say, and I don’ wanta be hearin’ nothin’ ‘bout no curse.”
“Hey, I was just sayin’. Yesterday, you was fine, and now, after that old redskin said you was cursed, you look like one of them zombie critters I hear tell they got down New Orleen way.”
“There ain’t no such thing’s a curse, so just hush up talkin’ ‘bout it. I just got me a touch of the gut ailment. I’ll skip the coffee and grease this mornin’, and by midday, I reckon I’ll be fine.”
He passed on breakfast, just drinking half a canteen of water, and as soon as everyone else finished eating, had the wagons loaded, and was on the trail heading east toward Arkansas as fast as the straining team of horses could pull the lumbering prisoner wagon. The road, though, was bumpy and rutted from the passage of many other wagons, and their captives were tossed about as the wagon bounced up out of the many ruts and irregularities. The curses from the back of the wagon every time that happened would’ve made a sailor blush.
Yah-ko-te was the only one who didn’t curse and moan whenever the wagon bounced. He just looked through the little window at Bass and muttered something unintelligible. The other prisoners gave him plenty of room.
For many miles, Bass rode, his head bowed, and ignored the old man’s stares. But, he could feel them on the back of his neck like concentrated rays of the sun. Finally, he could take it no longer. He turned his horse and rode back to the prisoner wagon, pulling up beside the window to match pace with the team. He looked into the rheumy, bloodshot eyes.
“Okay, old man, why you keep starin’ at me like that?”
“I am waitin’ for you to die, Bass Reeves.”
“We all gon’ die one day, but I don’t think today’s my day.”
“Oh, you think that, but the shadow of the raven is over you. I can see it. I called my brother, the Raven, and told him what you are doing to me. He has promised me that he will get revenge.”
Bass matched the old man stare for stare.
“Well, I don’ believe in this curse business,” he said. “But, even if it be true, it ain’t gon’ do you one bit of good.”
“Why is that, Bass Reeves?”
“It ain’t gon’ do you no good, ‘cause even if I die, my posse men just gon’ drape me over my saddle, and still take your sorry carcass to the jail in Fort Smith.”
Chao-ko-te’s eyes went wide, which made Bass smile. Apparently, the old buzzard hadn’t thought of that. Then, the look of shock turned to one of pure hate.
“Don’t matter none,” he said. “I may have to spend time in the white man’s jail, but one day I will get out. You will not get out of the grave, Bass Reeves.”
Chapter 8
The old man’s words sent chills up Bass’s spine. Not that he was afraid of dying. Everyone died. It was just a matter of how you died. He knew that one day his luck could run out, and an outlaw who decided to take a shot at him and not miss, as quite a few had done already. One shot had even broken the buckle of his gun belt, and another had shattered his saddle horn; he’d even had a bullet pierce the crown of his hat, missing his skull by no more than the width of a strand of hair. But, to die beca
use of the words of some crazy old Creek medicine man bothered him to no end.
As the day wore on, he became weaker. He tried drinking water, but it spewed right back. O’Malley hovered around him like a hen around a brood of chicks until Bass ordered him to get back to watching the prisoners. Even the usually uncaring Floyd rode closer to him and looked at him with worry in his eyes.
By midday, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle. He swayed from side to side like a cowboy after a long night drinking in a cheap saloon.
O’Malley left his place on the right side of the wagon and rode up beside him.
“Bass, you lookin’ really bad,” he said. “I think we oughta stop early for lunch. Give you a chance to rest, ‘fore you fall off your horse and break your neck.”
Normally, Bass would’ve told him to get back to his job, and quite acting like a fussy mother, but whatever had come over him, had such a hold on him, he weakly nodded his agreement.
They pulled the wagons up in a clearing beside the road, and while Washington began preparing the meal, and the posse men sorted the prisoners out by chaining them to the prison wagon wheels, Bass went through the painful and difficult maneuver of dismounting.
A big man, at six-feet, two-inches, he had long legs, and usually just swung them over the horse’s rump and dropped to the ground. In his weakened condition, though, he found it impossible to lift his leg that high, and when he leaned forward to lift his right leg, he swooned and almost lost his perch in the saddle. He had to slide his right leg across the rump of his horse, and slowly lower it to the ground. Then, it took a bit of effort to extricate his left boot from the stirrup. His horse, one of his favorite animals, stood as still as a stump during this process, for which Bass was thankful. Had the animal jerked, or bucked, he could’ve been thrown off, and, as O’Malley had said, broken his neck. Now, that, he thought, is even worse than dying from some old man’s curse.
Chapter 9
Bass lay on his back, his head propped on his saddle, while the others ate.
When he’d finished eating, O’Malley walked over and squatted next to him.
“You know, Bass, you really don’t look so good,” he said. “I’m thinkin’, mebbe we oughta stop here for the day. Mebbe you’ll feel better in the mornin’, don’t you think?”
Bass didn’t even feel like arguing. He didn’t feel like eating. He didn’t even feel like sitting up.
“I think you right,” he said. “Leastwise ‘till I get a little more shuteye. I don’t think I slept a minute last night.”
“What do you think’s wrong with you?”
“Hell fire if I know. I got this powerful headache, and when I stands up, I feel dizzy, and my gut feels like it’s got spiders crawlin’ in it.”
O’Malley scratched his head. “I ain’t never heard of no sickness that do all that. Mebbe you got more’n one disease.”
“Ain’t got no disease, I done told you. I think I musta got the only piece of bad meat in Elijah’s chuck wagon last night is all. I get some sleep and I’ll be just fine. Now, you and Jim, you look out for these prisoners ‘till I gets back on my feet, okay?”
“Hey, Bass, you know we do that. Don’t you fret yourself. You go on and get some sleep. We’ll just rest here for tonight. Tomorrow, if you still feel poorly, you can ride in the chuck wagon.”
Bass put a hand to his forehead.
“Now, ain’t that just what I need. I go ridin’ up to the courthouse in a chuck wagon. I be the laughin’ stock of the marshal’s office.”
“That’d be better than goin’ up to it slung across your horse, ‘cause you done fell and broke your neck, don’t you think?”
“Hm, you put it like that, I reckon it is. Okay, gon’ and let me get some sleep.”
O’Malley walked softly away, and Bass lay back and closed his eyes.
He soon drifted off into an uneasy sleep, and the dreams began.
He found himself on the down slope of a hill, afoot and without a weapon. He looked down at his feet, and saw that he also had no boots, and his pants were tattered and barely reached past mid-calf.
Ahead of him, he saw the silver ribbon of the river through the spaces between the trees, and behind him, he heard the baying of the hounds. The slave catchers were close and getting closer. If he didn’t cross that river, he’d be back in chains, after getting a lot of the skin of his back lashed off.
Óh Lawd, help me make it cross that river. I’se tired of bein’ some other man’s propity. I wants my freedom.
He pumped his legs, his bare feet slapping the hard ground, but the river didn’t seem to get any closer. The sound of the dogs, on the other hand, kept getting closer and closer.
He ran harder, but still got no closer to the river.
Got to make it to the river. Got to make it to the river. Got to make it to the river. He chanted it over and over, but the river was no closer.
Then, his bare feet hit a rock protruding up from the dirt, and he fell forward, his chin smacking the dirt, which felt like rock.
He raised his head and looked behind him.
Two slavering bloodhounds came charging from the trees behind him, heading straight for his prostrate form. He struggled to rise, but all his strength was gone.
And, then, they were upon him. The lead animal went for his throat, the other for his gut. He threw his hands up to defend himself but knew that it was a futile gesture.
And, then, he woke up.
He was trembling and covered in sweat. His hands shook like leaves in the wind, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He looked around, but everything was fuzzy. He could see men and smell horses, but he couldn’t remember where he was. He shook his head, and then the thought came; that old Indian medicine man done put a curse on me.
I’m dying.
Chapter 10
But, Bass Reeves, the man who had run away from his master in the middle of a war and hidden in Indian Territory until President Lincoln issued the proclamation that made him a free man, was not one to give up easily, not even to the dark-robed grim reaper. If he was to die, he would go down fighting.
With all the strength he could muster, he pushed himself into a sitting position, and then, pushing against the ground, managed to get upright.
He had trouble keeping his eyes open, but he could see the prisoner wagon, larger than the chuck wagon, and the blurred outlines of the prisoners sleeping beside the wheels. Slowly, swaying from side to side like a drunk, he made his way across the camp site to the wagon. Floyd was standing guard a few feet away from the wagon. He stood with his carbine across his chest and watched Bass’s meandering journey but said nothing. O’Malley and Washington were kneeling near the fire talking but stopped and watched as well.
Bass’s vision was still blurred; but finding Yah-ko-te was easy because the other prisoners kept as far away from his as possible. They had insisted that he be chained to a wheel by himself, even if it meant crowding for themselves. So, Bass aimed toward the only solitary figure, lying curled up on the ground near the right rear wheel of the prisoner wagon.
He knelt near the sleeping medicine man, who looked evil even in sleep. Worse, the reek from his unwashed body and the noxious odor from his open mouth as he snored, caused Bass to clutch his stomach and clamp his lips shut to keep from throwing up. His head spun, and he swayed from side to side, feeling as if he was about to pass out, but he gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and forced himself to stay awake.
Looking down at the old man, Elijah Washington’s words came back to him, “they needs that conjure bag, or they is just chantin’ words.’ That’s what he had to do, he thought. Find that dang conjure bag and get rid of it.
At first, he saw no sign of anything that could have been used as a bag of any kind, and then, he saw the leather thong around the old man’s neck, and a slight lump in the front of his shirt. Gingerly, he pulled on the thong until a moleskin bag emerged from the front of Yah-ko-te’s shirt. He felt lumpy objects insi
de the soft material, and in his excitement, forgot to use his knife to relieve the man of it. He merely yanked on it with all his strength, almost falling backwards when the thong around the man’s neck broke.
He held the dreaded thing up and looked at it. Could something so ordinary looking hold such evil as Elijah described, he wondered. He opened the bag and looked inside. There were small pebbles of different sizes, shapes and colors, a couple of small bone fragments that looked as if they’d come from a bird, and two black feathers. It all looked so ordinary, but he could feel the menace emanating from the thing he held.
He pushed himself upright and looked around for a place to get rid of the bag. Downslope from their camp was a stream, fifteen feet wide and deep enough to reach a horse’s belly, it flowed sluggishly toward the south. That, he thought, would have to do.
Bass staggered to the bank of the stream, and after one last look at the moleskin bag, heaved it out to the middle of the stream.
It landed with a quiet splash and floated as the current began sweeping it downstream. As it sank deeper and got further away, Bass could feel the pressure in his chest and head easing, and his vision began to clear. The feeling of dread he’d had upon waking up was beginning to lift.
I don’t believe in conjuring, he thought, but there is more under heaven than anybody can know, and besides, it’s a whole lot better to be safe than to be sorry.
He knew that he wasn’t going to die. In fact, he felt better than he’d felt in a long time.
The same could not be said for Yah-ko-te.
Just as Bass took in the first comfortable breath in a day, he heard, from up the slope behind him, a plaintive voice calling his name.
Chapter 11
When Bass jerked the moleskin bag from his neck, Yah-ko-te thought he was dreaming. He woke with a start and looked around. He saw a dark, hunched over figure moving away from him, and felt a stinging sensation at the back of his neck. No one else was near him, though, and, except for the scuffing sound of boots on the hard earth as the dark figure moved away, and the crackle of the cook fire, it was quiet—a bit too quiet, he thought.