Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2

by Leverett Butts

  So I dressed in my uncle’s clothes and mounted my pinto, Luck in Battle, and left Mother and Grandfather that afternoon. I rode southeast along the Little Big River until I saw signs of settlement: the scents of baking bread and bacon on the wind, the sounds of children at play, and black smoke from cook stoves wafting over the horizon. Turning west, I soon found myself riding down the main thoroughfare of Bretton.

  I had been on the trail four days.

  An angry looking man about my mother’s age came from one of the buildings and headed in my direction.

  “Here,” he cried waving his arms to get my attention. “Here, now. What the Sam hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I reined Battle in and came to a stop, but I said nothing. The wise man remains silent and lets the fool speak.

  “I ain’t never seen such. An Injun riding in town as pretty as you please wearing white man clothes. You scalp somebody for them clothes, boy?”

  “Not yet,” I replied, “but the day is young.”

  It was the angry man’s turn to be silent.

  “I am looking for Fighting Bear.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna find none of that here.” The angry man looked confused. “We ain’t had a circus in ten years, the one what come then wasn’t all that much to speak about.”

  I had no idea what a circus was, so I only stared at the angry man.

  “I don’t recall any bears, fighting or otherwise.”

  “Fighting Bear is a man,” I explained. “The man you call Ardiss. I seek him.”

  “Oh well, then, why didn’t you say so?” The angry man’s face broke into a grin, but his words had no humor, only derision. “Let me just go get him. I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to spend his morning jawing with some redskin. I’m sure running the town can wait as long as there’s some stray wants to have a word with the boss.”

  I said nothing, but I met his sarcastic eyes with a blank stare. “He is my uncle,” I said after he ran out of steam.

  The angry man’s jaw fell, and he looked at me as if a snake had crawled out of my ear. “Well, shit,” he said after a while and turned his back to me walking towards the building at the end of the row. “Come on, I’ll get him.”

  The building turned out to be a peace-keeper’s office divided into two rooms, a front gathering area for the Braves in the front and a private one where the chief could meditate in the back. The angry man took me through the front room where there was only a lone brave clad much like me asleep at the front desk with his head propped on his hands as if in prayer.

  “Wake up, Bedford.” The angry man slapped the sleeper’s head as he passed, knocking his head off balance and causing Bedford’s face to hit the desk.

  “Dammit, Caleb,” Bedford complained, “There ain’t no call for that.” He caught my eye as if looking for sympathy, then looked startled. “Who’s the Buffalo jockey?”

  Caleb gave Bedford a hard stare. “The boss’s nephew, Bedford.”

  Bedford colored red as me, then turned away, making a show of shuffling papers, and we entered the back room.

  My uncle sat at a desk reading when Caleb ushered me in. He kept his iron-gray hair short, barely hiding a thinning patch on his crown. As we entered and Caleb closed the door behind us, he closed his book and looked up revealing steel blue eyes and a darker beard trimmed short. He stared past me at Caleb. Caleb looked at Ardiss then back at me. He looked at Ardiss again.

  “Ardiss,” he said, “this boy claims to be your … nephew.”

  Ardiss looked back at me with a blank stare. “I have no siblings, Caleb, as you well know, so unless he also claims to be your son, I have no idea who he is.” He looked at me again, and this time, a spark of recognition passed across his face but just as quickly faded. “Unless Guernica has a brother or a sister. Is Guernica Gracie your aunt?”

  “No, Uncle,” I replied. “My name is Apistanewj, and my mother is Hachi-Mahal. She is the only child of my grandfather…”

  “Michaa Odjig, Great Fish” Ardiss finished. “Your mother is Woman of the Stream?”

  “Yes, and you are Fighting Bear?”

  Ardiss rose from his seat and gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit. Caleb, give us a minute. Go make sure Evers has not fallen asleep at the desk again.”

  After Caleb had left, we sat, both taking the measure of the other, neither willing to break the silence first. Finally, Ardiss spoke, answering my question as if I had only just asked it. “Yes,” he said, “I was once known by that name. Your grandfather gave it to me on the day he took me in.”

  Despite my desire to remain impassive and show no weakness, I felt myself leaning forward. I had never heard this story.

  “I was about your age, perhaps a few years younger, and my foster father,” here he nodded in the direction of his door, “Caleb’s father, had sent Caleb as a drover, along with three of his ranch hands, to bring his cattle to market here in Bretton. There was Two-Guns Balin Salvaje, Blackie Bruno Freeman, and Punchy Owen Urichson. I wanted to go instead to prove myself, but my foster father refused. He said I was not near old enough. Caleb tried to plead my case as well, but my foster father would hear none of it.

  “Later, I convinced Caleb to let me go in his stead. The convincing included a good portion of the allowance I received form my monthly upkeep stipend, but in the end, I got to go, and Caleb spent the time in the stews nursing both bottle and bawdygirl.

  “Even though we only had about a dozen head to drive, it was still about a week’s journey. We’d been on the trail about three days when we crossed paths with a band of Comanch. We were outnumbered three-to-one, and we hoped to avoid a conflict, but you know how the Comanch are.”

  “A Comanche cannot let even a snake lie still,” I nodded.

  “Exactly,” Ardiss smiled and continued his story. “They certainly had no intention of letting us lie still. They attacked us almost immediately. It was the first time I had ever used my pistol on anything larger than a tin can or whiskey bottle, but my companions were seasoned fighters, and we managed to hold them off for most of the afternoon. However, by dusk, our munitions were perilously low, and we had not thinned their numbers at all. Two-Guns managed to wing their leader, we believed, but he paid for that shot with an arrow through his left eye.

  “It didn’t kill him right off, but he fell backwards and began talking to his mother in broken Spanish as if he were a young’n again. After the first attack, we tried to remove the arrow, Punchy and Blackie holding him down while I pulled the shaft, but it was no use. The best we managed was that the shaft released itself from his skull with such a force that I fell backwards with it in my hands while the flint arrowhead remained firmly lodged in his eye socket, the blood and jelly making it impossible to grip.

  “By nightfall, the Comanch had pulled back, but we knew better than to hope they had given up. Two-Guns was in such a state that we could not mount him on his horse. He didn’t know enough to hold his reins; he just babbled incoherently and kept sliding from his saddle. We had no choice but to dig in and wait out the night. Blackie tried to make him comfortable, but it seemed that as the night wore on, it was a dark night with only a sliver of a moon rising in the sky, Two-Guns got more and more like an infant. No amount of comfort could stop him from weeping like a babe. By midnight, he was unable to hold his waste, having both wet and soiled himself.

  “The night passed without further attack, but come daybreak, the Comanche returned in greater numbers. We had, none of us, gotten any sleep, and without Two-Guns’ pistols, we mounted a far less effective defense. Punchy ran directly into the fray, avoiding arrows, tomahawks, and panicked cattle, dragged one warrior from his mount and in blinded rage, pummelled him into the ground. But he did not see the Indian mount ride up behind him, nor did he appear to feel the tomahawk as it caved in the back of his skull and drove him onto the lifeless body of his own victim.

  “I watched in horror as Two-Guns crawled across the ground,
squalling incoherently, until his cries were cut short as a Comanche horse trampled across his back, crushing his head with a sound like an overripe melon bursting in the sun. I had long since run out of ammunition, but still I fired my gun, oblivious of the ineffective clicks of the hammer as pounded on the empty chambers. The last thing I remember before my own world exploded into a blinding red light was the image of Blackie, pierced by dozens of feathered shafts. Red blood mixing with his sweat and dripping down his dark brown skin, firing his Winchester over and over (he, at least, seemed to have a never-ending supply of shells) and screaming unintelligibly at the savages until a stray arrow found its mark in the back of his throat just as another warrior galloped behind him, taking his head with one blow of what appeared to be a cavalry sabre, and heading straight for me.”

  My uncle’s voice trailed off, and his eyes lost their focus. He stared at me as if I had faded away. He sighed thoughtfully and took sip from a tin mug on his desk before rising and turning his back on me to stare out of his window.

  “I thought I was dead,” Ardiss said, not looking at me. “Even today, I sometimes wish I was. Two-Guns taught me how to shoot when I was nine years old.” His voice was low as if he were no longer speaking to me. “Blackie taught me when to shoot. For all the good it did me then.

  “Punchy was an unmitigated ass. He didn’t deserve to die, but he was still a jackass.

  “When I came to again, night had fallen, and I could hear a strange snuffling sound. I looked around as best I could and saw what I at first thought was a coyote with his head inside the ribcage of one of the dead steers. When it moved its head, though, its shadow looked nothing like a coyote. It walked around on all fours, like a dog or a mountain lion, but had scaly skin like a snake. I couldn’t get a good look in the dark, but its head was kind bird-shaped, like a buzzard. I didn’t know what it was, but I figured that was a good thing. I hollered as loud as I could, and the beast jumped and ran off. I resolved to stay vigilant throughout the night, but I fell asleep almost immediately.

  “I awoke to find myself under the bodies of my comrades, who had been piled atop me. My head was on fire, and my hand came away red when I felt the base of my skull. I looked around, and the field was clear. The cattle that hadn’t been killed in the fighting were gone as were our horses. The only sound was the faint chirping of birds.

  “I lay there under the corpses and gradually became aware of voices. They weren’t speaking English, so I knew they were Indians, probably the Comanch coming back. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing and hoped they weren’t coming back for scalps. It was hard to measure time this way but after what seemed like hours, I felt the weight on my chest shift and heard the dull thud of meat hitting earth. I realized the heathen were moving the bodies off me and laying them separately on the ground.

  “As soon as I felt the rough hands on my lapels lifting me up, I sprang into action. I opened my eyes and grabbed my assailant about his shoulders. I felt him stiffen in alarm, but before he could scream, I bared my teeth and went for his throat while my fingers clawed into the bare skin of his arms. I could feel my fingers drawing blood and felt my teeth at his neck begin to break the skin. I dug my heels into the ground and pushed my assailant backwards, falling on top of him and still biting into his neck.

  “By now, his companions were aware something was amiss, and he was able to scream. I heard other cries of alarm and felt many hands grab me and pull me off. I still fought like a wild man, kicking any body part within reach. As they forced me backwards and to the ground, my hands were pulled from the Indian’s shoulders, but I felt some of his skin come with me. More Indians piled on me, and I relied more on my teeth as weapons, biting anything that came within reach of my face.”

  At this, Ardiss turned to face me again, looking at me quizzically. “You have ridden all day, have you not?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I replied and other than to sleep, for three days before that.”

  “I don’t suppose my brother, Caleb offered you so much as a cold biscuit.”

  “No, Uncle,” I replied.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, Uncle.”

  He looked at me again, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  He smiled thoughtfully, walked around his desk and stuck his head into the other room. “Bedford?” he called, “Bedford Evers? Are you sleeping again?”

  “No, boss,” A voice from the other room said, stifling a yawn.

  “Huh.” Ardiss sounded doubtful. “Well, go next door and tell Caleb to rustle us up some sandwiches and tea.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Tell him to put ice in the tea, too. I ain’t Lancaster.”

  “Yessir.”

  He closed the door and returned to his desk, smiling at me. “It is hard,” he said, “to get good help these days.”

  “Truly, Uncle,” I protested. “I am not hungry.”

  “You are just like your grandfather,” He said with a chuckle. “Stoic to the end. Where was I?”

  “You were fighting with Indians.”

  “Well, we fought that way for what seemed like hours but was really only a few seconds.

  “The struggle was interrupted by the sound of a rifle shot fired directly at us. We all turned to see an old man, clearly the party’s leader, brandishing and old muzzle-loader.

  “‘Get off him,’ the old man said quietly, though no one had trouble hearing him. ‘I would have assumed my own Braves were smarter than Comanche women. Even they know not to wrestle a fighting bear.’

  “The Warriors released me and rose. I saw quite a few rubbing their necks and eying me warily. When I could, I rose to my feet, dusting myself off. The old man stared at me smiling.

  “‘I am Michaa Odjig,’ he said, dusting my back between the shoulder blades, ‘Who are you, White Man? What are you doing so far from your homestead? Are you so hungry that you have to resort to cannibalism?’

  “‘My name is Ardiss Drake.’ I shook his arm off my shoulder. ‘I was trying to bring my foster father’s cattle to town, but you people attacked us and killed my pards.'

  “‘We did not attack your party,’ the old man said, ‘that was Comanche. We are Aticota.’

  “‘What’s the difference?’

  “‘Well, for one thing,’ the old man explained, ‘we did not kill you on sight. For another, you will find we taste slightly sweeter.’

  “Some of his men chuckled. None of the ones I had bitten.

  “Michaa Odjig gingerly touched my head, and I felt part of my scalp lift as he pulled his fingers away.

  Then I vomited.

  “‘Come with me, Fighting Bear. You are hurt. Let our women tend your wounds, and we will return you to your people when you are ready.’”

  Ardiss stopped talking and looked me in the eye again. “That is how I met your grandfather,” he said. From the other room, we could hear Caleb berating Bedford for not offering to help carry food.

  “Our dinner is here,” Ardiss observed. “You are more than welcome to remain with us until you wish to return home. I will make arrangements for you to have a room at the boarding house.”

  III.

  Now Ardiss acts as if I do not exist, and I cannot understand why. All I have done was for his benefit, but it seems he would rather take in vagabonds than execute his responsibilities.

  He does not even acknowledge my presence anymore. When I come to his office, he simply stares through his window at the Commons. If I ask him a question, he responds only in grunts.

  Let the Murratt boy appear, though, and it will make your head spin how quickly he changes.

  Chapter Nine – Gary Wayne & Boris

  I.

  Two horses crossed the desert, the blue roan leading the dark bay. Astride the roan, a man in a slouch hat and leather vest scanned the horizon in all directions when he wasn’t looking back at the bay and the man sprawled facedown across its saddle. His head was wrapped in stained bandages, b
ut a shock of red hair peeked out between bands. Both arms hung past the head and dangled about a foot from the ground. His hands were bandaged as well, but the right hand was clearly more injured. It was wrapped in so many strips of bloodstained gauze that only one or two fingertips showed, and the rest of the hand seemed to have been wrapped while holding a small cannonball. His left leg was also bandaged and secured by a wooden splint, forcing it to stick straight out.

  “You are a damned fool, Gary Wayne,” he said.

  The body made no answer.

  “A bigger fool even than that Murratt boy. At least he knows when he’s lost.”

  Still the body made no answer.

  The bay, snorted derisively, clearly in agreement with Boris.

  Boris faced forward again and rode on in irritated silence.

  * * * *

  As the sun sank just below the horizon, Boris steered the horses toward a relatively flat area near a Joshua tree with low hanging limbs. Boris dismounted Valliant and looped his reins over a limb before moving toward Gringo and doing the same.

  After securing both horses, he moved to Gringo’s passenger. He lifted Gary Wayne’s bandaged head by the stray shock of hair. His friend made no sound of complaint. Boris placed the palm of his right hand beneath Gary Wayne’s nose, feeling for breath. What breath there was must have been faint: Boris moved his hand, placing two fingers just under Gary Wayne’s jaw. He felt a fairly even pulse and smiled before undoing the hemp cords holding his friend to the saddle and lugging the body over his shoulder, being careful to jostle the leg as little as possible.

  Propping his partner carefully against the tree’s trunk between the two horses, Boris removed their blankets from their saddle rolls and placed one over Gary Wayne’s unconscious body.

  “We should be back in Bretton in a day or so,” Boris explained as he looked about for fallen wood or dry scrub for a fire. “Sooner if you could wake your ass up.”