Max turned and walked until he found an anthill. He scooped the top of it up in his hands and went back to the man. Carefully he set it down on the man's pubis. In a moment, the tiny red ants were everywhere on the man. They ran into all the blood-sweetened crevices of his body, up across his eyes and into his open mouth and nostrils.
The man began to cough and moan. His body stirred. Silently Max watched him. This was the Indian punishment for a thief, rapist and murderer.
It took the man three days to die. Three days of the blazing sun burning into his open eyes and blistering his torn flesh while the ants industriously foraged his body. Three days of screaming for water and three nights of agony as insects and mosquitoes, drawn by the scent of blood, came to feast upon him.
At the end, he was out of his mind, and on the fourth morning, when Max came down to look at him, he was dead. Max stared at him for a moment, then took out his knife and lifted his scalp.
He went back to the horses and mounted his pinto. Leading the other two animals, he turned and rode north toward the land of the Kiowa.
The old chief, his grandfather, came out of his tepee to watch him as he dismounted. He waited silently until Max came up to him.
Max looked into the eyes of the old man. "I come in sadness to the tents of my people," he said in Kiowa.
The chief did not speak.
"My father and mother are dead," he continued.
The chief still did not speak.
Max reached to his belt and took off the scalp that hung there. He threw it down in front of the chief. "I have taken the scalp of one of the murderers," he said. "And I come to the tent of my grandfather, the mighty chief, to spend the time of my sorrow."
The chief looked down at the scalp, then up at Max. "We are no longer free to roam the plains," he said. "We live on the land that the White Eyes allow us. Have any of them seen you as you approached?"
"None saw me," Max answered. "I came from the hills behind them."
The chief looked down at the scalp again. It had been a long time since the scalp of an enemy hung from the post before his tepee. His heart swelled with pride. He looked at Max. The White Eyes could imprison the bodies but they could not imprison the spirit. He picked up the scalp and hung it from the post then turned back to Max.
"A tree has many branches," he said slowly. "And when some branches fall or are cut down, other branches must be grown to take their place so their spirits may find where to live."
He took a feather from his headdress and held it toward Max. "There is a maiden whose brave was killed in a fall from his horse two suns ago. She had already taken the marriage stick and now must live alone in a tent by the river until his spirit is replaced in her. Go now and take her."
Max stared at him. "Now?" he asked.
The chief thrust the feather into his hand. "Now," he said, with the knowledge of all his years. "It is the best time, while the spirit of war and vengeance still rages like a torrent in your blood. It is the best time to take a woman."
Max turned and picked up the lead and walked down through the camp with the horses. The Indians watched him silently as he passed by. He walked slowly with his head held high. He reached the bank of the small river and followed it around a bend.
A single tent stood there, out of sight of the rest of the camp. Max walked toward it. He tied the horses to some shrubs and lifted the flap of the tent and walked in.
The tent was empty. He lifted the flap again and looked out. There was no one in sight. He let the flap down. He walked to the back of the tent and sat down on a bed of skins stretched out on the floor.
A moment later the girl came in. Her hair and body were wet from the river and her dress clung to her. Her eyes went wide as she saw him. She stood there poised for flight.
She wasn't much more than a child, Max saw. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at the most. Suddenly he knew why the chief had sent him down here. He picked up the feather and held it toward her. "Don't be afraid," he said gently. "The mighty chief has put us together so that we may drive the devils from each other."
6
ASTRIDE THE WIRY PINTO, MAX CAME DOWN THE RAMP from the railroad car behind the last of the cattle. He waited a moment until the last steer had entered the stockyard and then dropped the gate behind it. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve and looked up at the sun.
It hung almost overhead, white hot, baking into the late spring dust of the yards. The cattle lowed softly as if somehow they, too, knew they had come to the end of the road. The long road that led up from Texas, to a railroad that took them to Kansas City, and their impending doom.
Max put the hat back on his head and squinted down the fence to where the boss sat with the cattle-buyers. He rode down toward them.
Farrar turned as he stopped his horse beside them. "They all in?"
"They all in, Mr. Farrar," Max answered.
"Good," Farrar said. He turned to one of the cattle-buyers. "The count O.K.? Eleven hundred and ten head I make it."
"I make it the same," the buyer said.
Farrar got down from the fence. "I'll come over to your office this afternoon to pick up the check."
The buyer nodded. "It'll be ready."
Farrar got up on his horse. "C'mon, kid," he said over his shoulder. "Let's get over to the hotel and wash some of this steer-shit stink off’n us."
"Man," Farrar said, after a bath. "I feel twenty pounds lighter."
Max straightened up from putting on his boots and turned around. "Yeah," he said. "Me, too."
Farrar's eyes widened and he whistled. Max had on an almost white buckskin shirt and breeches. His high-heeled cowboy boots were polished to a mirror-like sheen and the kerchief around his throat was like a sparkle of yellow gold against his dark, sun-stained skin. His hair, almost blue black, hung long to his shoulders.
Farrar whistled again. "Man, where'd you get them clothes?"
Max smiled. "It was the last set my ma made for me."
Farrar laughed. "Well, you shore enough look Injun with them on."
Max smiled with him. "I am Indian," he said quietly.
Farrar's laughter disappeared quickly. "Half Indian, kid," he said. "Your pappy was white and he was a good man. I hunted with Sam Sand too many years to hear you not proud of him."
"I am proud of him, Mr. Farrar," Max said. "But I still remember it was white men killed him an’ Ma."
He picked his gun belt up from the chair and strapped it on. Farrar watched him bend over to tie the holster to his thigh. "You still ain't give up lookin' for them?" he asked.
Max looked up. "No, sir, I ain't."
"Kansas City's a big place," Farrar said. "How you know you'll find him here?"
"If he's here, I'll find him," Max answered. "This is where he's supposed to be. Then I'll go down into West Texas an' get the other one."
Farrar was silent for a moment. "Well, dressed like that, you better look out he don't recognize you and find you first."
"I'm hopin' he does," Max said quietly. "I want him to know what he's dyin' for."
Farrar turned away from the bleak look in the boy's eyes and picked up a shirt. Max waited quietly for him to finish dressing. "I'll pick up my time now, Mr. Farrar," he said when the man had pulled on his trousers.
Farrar walked over to the dresser and picked up his poke. "There you are," he said. "Four months' pay — eighty dollars — an' the sixty dollars you won at poker."
Max put the money in a back pocket without counting it. "Thanks, Mr. Farrar."
"Sure I can't talk you into comin' back with me?" Farrar asked.
"No, thank you, Mr. Farrar."
"You can't keep all that hate in your soul, boy," the older man said. "It ain't healthy. You'll only wind up harmin' yourself."
"I can't help that, Mr. Farrar," Max said slowly. His eyes were empty and cold. "I can't ferget it's the same breast that fed me that bastard's usin' to keep his tobacco in."
The d
oor closed behind him and Farrar stood there staring at it.
* * *
Mary Grady smiled at the boy. "Finish your whisky," she said, "while I get my dress off."
The boy watched her for a moment, then drank the whisky quickly. He coughed as he went over to the edge of the bed and sat down.
Mary looked over at him as she slipped the dress up over her head. "How are you feelin'?"
The boy looked at her. She could see the vagueness already in his eyes. "All ri', I guess," he answered. "I ain' used to drinkin' so much."
She came over and stood looking down at him, her dress over her arm. "Stretch out and shut your eyes. You'll be all right in a few minutes."
He looked up at her dumbly, without response.
She put out her hand and pushed his shoulder. A hint of awareness sparked in his eyes. He tried to get to his feet, his hand locked around the butt of his gun, but the effort was too much. He collapsed, falling sideways across the bed.
Expertly Mary bent over him and lifted his eyelid. The boy was out cold. She smiled to herself and crossing to the window, looked out into the street.
Her pimp was standing across the street in front of a saloon. She raised and lowered the shade twice in the agreed signal and he started toward the hotel.
She was dressed by the time he got up to the room. "You took long enough gettin' him up here," he said surlily.
"What could I do?" she said. "He wouldn't drink. He's just a kid."
"How much did he have on him?" the pimp asked.
"I don't know," Mary answered. "The money's in his back pocket. Get it an' let's get out of here. This hotel always gives me the creeps."
The pimp crossed to the bed and pulled the money out of the boy's back pocket. He counted it swiftly. "A hundred and thirty dollars," he said.
Mary went over to him and put her arms around him. "A hundred and thirty dollars. Maybe we can take the night off now," she said, kissing his chin. "We could go over to my place and have a whole night together."
The pimp looked down at her. "What? Are you crazy?" he rasped. "It's only eleven o'clock. You can turn three more tricks tonight."
He turned to look down at the boy while she picked up her pocketbook. "Don't forget the bottle of whisky," he said over his shoulder.
"I won't," she answered.
"He don't look like no cowboy," he said. "He looks more like an Indian to me."
"He is," she said. "He was looking for some guy who had a tobacco pouch made from an Indian woman's skin." She laughed. "I don't think he even wanted to get laid. I got him up here by lettin' him think I knew who he was lookin' for."
The pimp looked down thoughtfully. "He's carryin' a gun, too. It should be worth somethin' to the guy he's lookin' for to know about him."
"You know who he's lookin' for?"
"Maybe," the pimp said. "C'mon."
* * *
It was almost two o'clock in the morning before the pimp found the man he was looking for. He was playing cards in the back of the Golden Eagle.
The pimp touched him on the shoulder cautiously. "Mr. Dort," he whispered.
"What the hell do you want?"
The pimp licked his lips nervously. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dort," he apologized quickly. "I got some information that I think you ought to have."
The pimp looked around the table nervously. The other men stared at him. "Maybe it's better private like, Mr. Dort," he said. "It's about that tobacco pouch."
He pointed to the table where it lay.
Dort laughed. "My Injun-tit tobacco pouch? Somebody's allus tryin' to buy it. It ain't for sale."
"It's not that, Mr. Dort," the pimp whispered.
Dort turned his back to him. "What the hell are you tryin' to tell me?"
"I figger it's worth somethin'— "
Dort rose swiftly. He grabbed the pimp's jacket and slammed him tightly against the wall. "What should I know?" he asked.
"It should be worth something, Mr. Dort," the pimp said, his eyes wide in fright. Dort was one of the worst killers in town.
"It'll be worth something," Dort said menacingly. "If you don't talk real quick— "
"There's an Indian kid in town lookin' for you," the pimp said in terror. "He's packin' a gun."
"An Injun kid?" Dort questioned. Slowly his grip relaxed. "What did he look like?"
Quickly the pimp described Max.
"His eyes, was they blue?" Dort asked harshly.
The pimp nodded. "Yeah. I saw them when he picked one of my girls up in the saloon. That's how come I didn't know he was Indian at first. You know him?"
Dort nodded without thinking. "I know him," he said. "That was his mother's."
All their eyes were on the tobacco pouch now. Dort picked it up and put it in his pocket.
"What're you goin' to do?" the pimp asked.
"Do?" Dort repeated dully. He looked at the pimp, then at the table of men around him. He couldn't run away now. If he did, everything would be gone. His reputation, his position in this oblique society.
"Do?" he said again, this time with growing strength and conviction. "I aim to do what I shoulda done a year ago. Kill him." He turned back to the pimp. "Where is he?"
"I'll take you to him," the pimp said eagerly.
The others at the table looked at each other for a moment, then silently got to their feet. "Wait for us, Tom," one of them called. "This oughta be some fun."
When they got to the hotel, Max had already left. But the hotel clerk told them where they could find him tomorrow. At the stockyards at two o'clock. The clerk was supposed to meet him there and collect a dollar for the room.
Dort threw a silver dollar on the counter. "There's your dollar," he said. "I'll collect it for you."
* * *
Farrar leaned against the fence, watching Max cut the prime steers into the feed pen. A man was leaning on the fence next to him. "That boy's got a sixth sense with a horse," Farrar said, without looking at him.
The man's voice was noncommittal. "Yeah." He finished rolling a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. "Got a match?"
"Why, sure," Farrar said, reaching into his pocket. He struck a match and held it toward the man. His hand froze as he saw the tobacco pouch in his hand.
The man followed his gaze. "What you lookin' at?"
"That tobacco pouch," Farrar said. "I ain't seen nothin' like it."
The man laughed. "Ain't nothin' but an ol' squaw tit," he said. "They the best things for keepin' tobacco moist an' fresh. They ain't much for wear, though. This one's gettin' awful thin."
Suddenly, Farrar turned from the fence to signal Max. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said.
There was a rustle of movement behind him and Farrar became aware of the other men. He watched helplessly as Max dropped the gate on the last of the steers and rode over to them.
Max got off his horse and tied it to a post. "All finished, Mr. Farrar," he said with a smile.
"That was good ridin', boy," the man said. He threw the tobacco pouch to Max. "Here, have yourself a smoke."
Max caught it easily. "Thanks, mister," he said. He looked down at the pouch to open it. He looked up at the man, then down at the pouch again, his face going pale.
The pouch fell from his fingers and the tobacco spilled onto the ground. He stared up at the man. "I never would've known you, you hadn't done that," he said softly.
Dort laughed harshly. "It's the beard, I reckon."
Max started to back away slowly. "You're one of them, all right. Now I recognize you."
"I'm one of them," Dort said, his hand hovering over his gun. "What're you goin' to do about it?"
Unconsciously Farrar and the others moved to the side. "Don't do anything, Max," Farrar called hoarsely. "That's Tom Dort. You got no idea how fast he is."
Max didn't take his eyes from Dort's face. "It don't make no difference how fast he is, Mr. Farrar," he said. "I'm goin' to kill him."
"Go for your gun, Injun," Dort said he
avily.
"I’ll wait," Max said softly. "I want you to die slow, like my ma."
Dort's face was turning red and flushed in the hot sun. "Draw," he said hoarsely. "Draw, you goddam half-breed son of a two-bit Injun whore. Draw, damn you!"
"I ain' in no hurry to kill you," Max answered softly. "I ain' even goin' for your head or heart. I'm goin' to shoot you in the balls first, then a couple of times in the belly. I wanna watch you die."
Dort began to feel fear growing in him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the watching men. He stared at Max. The boy's face shone with hatred; his lips were drawn back tightly across his teeth.
Now, Dort thought, now. I might just as well get it over with. His hand moved suddenly toward his gun.
Farrar saw the movement but fast as he shifted his eyes, it wasn't quick enough to see Max's gun leap into his hand. It roared almost before Dort's gun had cleared its holster.
The gun fell from Dort's hand and he sank to his knees in the dirt, his hands grabbing at his crotch.
Max started walking toward him slowly.
Dort kneeled there for a moment in almost a praying position, then lifted his hand and looked at it. The blood ran down from his fingers. He stared up at Max. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed and grabbed for the gun in the dirt beside him.
Max waited until Dort lifted the muzzle toward him, then he fired twice again.
The bullets threw Dort over backward and he lay on the ground, his body twitching slightly. Max walked closer and stood over him, looking down, the smoking gun still in his hand.
Two days later, Max was given his choice of joining the Army or standing trial. There was a lot of talk about a war with Cuba and the judge was very patriotic. The chances were Max could have got off on self-defense, but he didn't dare take the chance even with witnesses.
He had a date he had to keep, with a man whose name he didn't even know.
7
JC1 The Carpetbaggers Page 9