Redeye

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Redeye Page 6

by Edgerton, Clyde


  Mr. Pittman was laying on his side, looking in the fire. He says, “At the time, I didn’t even know Papitaws had milk cows.”

  Zack took his bottle from his saddle roll and handed it to me and I took a drink and he took a drink. I took a bigger drink than the night before and about spit it back, but held it down. I handed it back. “You want another drink of this?” he said to Mr. Pittman.

  “No.”

  Zack was laying on his back with his head on his saddle, and looking in the fire. “Ain’t nothing like a fire, is there?” he said. I could see in his eyes he was getting a little drunk. “It won’t be long before every house in the country has a stove. They’re bringing stoves and clothes wringers out here by the train-car load. And they’re saying it won’t be long afore they got stoves and fireplaces run by electricity and there won’t be no more woodcutting for cooking or heat because electricity will do it all. There won’t be nobody left in a hundred years knows the first thing about building a fire. It’s pitiful. Hell, it’s pitiful now. Pigs and sheep all over the place. And they got telegraph wires strung through the air, rails up off the ground, getting light through wires that run through the air. What it’s going to come to is a man can live and never touch the ground or a piece of wood. We’re going from the land to the air.”

  Mr. Pittman stood up. “I’m going to walk down to the river.” He left. Redeye’s ears perked up and he watched him walk off into the night, whined a little bit, pulled his head in, tried to get out of the bag, gave up, and stuck his head back out of his hole, perked his ears again.

  “Has he got a job?” I asked Zack.

  “He works for the government. Surveying or some such. I met him after the war. And he did some trapping somewhere along in there. We did some of the last big cattle drives for the Bridger Company. We drove one bunch from Texas up to Oregon and got lost in the mountains up there. God awful trip. His eyes were just starting to go bad then. In fact that’s the trip we gave out of food and had to kill a mule. You ever had any mule’s head soup?”

  “Nosir.”

  “We did. Without salt. It’s better with salt.”

  “What’s wrong with his eyes, anyway?”

  “Red and swolled. He has to wear them glasses.”

  “He looks poorly.”

  “He is poorly. He always was. Always looked that way, except he used not to have a beard. And he’s pretty old. Looks old. He’s probably on up in his sixties. Seems like his mind wanders sometimes. I have heard that he killed a man over in Parson Creek, a Mormon, somebody said a Jack Mormon, but I don’t put no stock in it.”

  “Is that a Mormon that ain’t a Mormon no more?”

  “That’s about it. They won’t let you go—they have to kick you out.”

  “Do you believe all that about Joseph Smith?”

  “That’s as easy to believe as any of it. I just ain’t ever took real good to the Beacon City Mormons. My folks was a different brand of Mormon.”

  “I don’t like that Bishop.”

  “He’s a hard man. I’ve heard he was involved in the Mountain Meadows.”

  “Did you ever know anybody involved in it?”

  “No, but I remember hearing about it when I was nine years old. I know I was nine because we’d just moved to Salt Lake City. I heard it whispered more or less and you got a clear idea that it was something that wouldn’t be talked about, something that Mormons were ashamed of. Since then I’ve heard sides—one that the Indians did it, one that the Mormons did it. One that the wagon train was guilty of doing something to the Indians, one that they was innocent. Then there was the Calvin Boyle trial. But I remember the men and women in our church back when I was a boy. They was mighty good people. People that would give you the shirts off their backs. Mighty good. I don’t really know what happened at Mountain Meadows, and so that’s my opinion on it.”

  . . . The West has never been without its foreigners, large and small, clean and dirty, smart and dumb, handsome and ugly, fierce and timid, rich and poor, &c. Arriving in Mumford Rock about the same time as Cobb Pittman and Star Copeland was a young Englishman, one Andrew Collier. Collier was of distinguished upper-class English stock . . .

  ANDREW COLLIER

  Merriwether Ranch

  Mumford Rock, Colorado

  United States of America

  August 19, 1891

  Dear Father,

  This correspondence brings an urgent request toward which I fervently hope you will be favourably inclined. Rather than continue west across the Pacific to Asia, thence home to England, I wish to remain here in Colorado and return in the spring by an easterly route. As you hear more about my present circumstances, I hope you will concur.

  The landscape here is splendid. The state of Colorado is an alpine region of high mountains and generally rugged terrain. Here, around a ranch in the southwest extreme of the state, the landscape is substantially different from that to the north and east. Here, rather than high mountains, there exists a desert-like terrain formed by plateaus that rise in terraces, and are occasionally laced by gigantic furrows called “canyons,” an adaptation of the Spanish name. On the cusp of the geological change from the mountains to the plateau region is situated the small mining town, Mumford Rock. Abel Merriwether’s ranch is approximately eight miles west of Mumford Rock, which is in turn twenty miles southwest of another town, Garvey Springs. A recently established railroad connects Mumford Rock, Garvey Springs, and Denver, Colorado, the latter being the commercial centre of the state.

  The Bright Owl River, just west of the ranch, runs northeast by southwest. Across the Bright Owl from the ranch is the eastern point of Mesa Largo, the most eminent and extensive mesa in the region—over sixty miles long, and ten to thirty miles wide. The mesa, I am told, is covered on its flat top with small cedars and piñon (Juniperus occidentalis and Pinus cembroides), which are able to withstand the area’s searing summer heat.

  Within Mesa Largo, along canyon walls, hidden away, are cliff dwellings once inhabited by prehistoric Indians. I am hopeful about the possibility of exploring these dwellings and recording my findings in detail. Only in the last four years has Abel Merriweather—the local cowboy and rancher (and a first-rate chap) on whose ranch I now reside—discovered that Mesa Largo is probably full of cliff dwellings like those described in your Ferguson’s Aztec Ruins. Only a few such dwellings have been discovered in isolated canyons in New Mexico and Arizona (nearby territories) and in Brown Canyon, Colorado.

  I am told that the local population believes all pottery from Mesa Largo is only “old Aztec stuff.” But Merriwether is convinced we’re onto something quite different. As plans advance I will send reports, and will surely write from the mesa itself once we are upon it.

  I have uncovered only one study of cliff dwellings in the region. Completed in 1874, it is sketchy at best. Father, I do believe that I could be the first explorer to contribute significant narrative detail based upon systematic observations in Mesa Largo. Many exciting questions arise. During what era did the cliff dwellers arrive on Mesa Largo? When did they leave? Why did they leave? How were their culture and daily lives related to the Mescadey and the pueblo dwellers to the south of Mumford Rock, and to other agricultural and even nomadic tribes of this region?

  Upon my return to England I shall endeavour faithfully to convert my findings into a book-length publication that might well establish these people as being worthy of future archaeological study.

  Father, my extended stay will make necessary about two hundred pounds for my expenses during the next six months. Would you please arrange for my trust to send the funds in said amount to me, in care of the Merriwether Ranch, Mumford Rock, Colorado, USA? I should be most grateful. A portion of these funds will be used to outfit myself for trips into the mesa.

  Warmest regards to Mother. Please convey my love to Mary Charlotte and tell her that I am thinking of her and that I imagine her applying herself to her studies with gusto, especially to her Latin, which wi
ll certainly be of service in her botany lessons next year.

  With Sincerest Regards and

  with Love,

  Your devoted son,

  Andrew

  BUMPY

  Next morning, the road we got on was mostly rutted. Mr. Pittman said it was made by the Mormons when they first come out here. By the time it was getting hot we had left the river for good. The road dropped down to an arroyo and we went along it with Zack, Mr. Pittman, and the bell cow up front, and me bringing up the rear. We had tall mountains to the east and mostly mesas and buttes to the west. We were in a long valley. It was getting just as hot as the day before.

  At dinnertime we drove the cows into the shade of some bushy little trees that looked like buffalo berry, but wasn’t. We ate the same stuff we’d been eating, but added some beans.

  After dinner we started along a little sand flat in the arroyo, and saw right off that two cows were missing. The only place they could have gone was up this little finger gorge in the plateau, a right considerable mesa, but not close to as big as Mesa Largo. There was a little draw close by where we could corral the cows and mules while we tracked the missing ones. Mr. Pittman said he’d stay with the cattle—and that he had some work to do with Redeye.

  Once we got a ways up the gorge on a narrow ledge along the wall of the plateau, we got off the horses, hobbled them, and blocked the trail so they couldn’t go back down. We started up on foot. Cattle hoofprints were right there along the ledge. Zack said it didn’t make sense that they’d be going up, unless they was smelling water. He said they could smell better than a deer.

  The cliff below us had started out at ten or fifteen feet high, but had gotten higher and higher until we was I guess over eighty feet straight up walking along this ledge which was down to less than four feet across, and if you looked down you got dizzy. We thought there might be a tank or a spring on top where we’d find our cattle.

  The ledge ended up ahead of us where there’d been a old slide, but when we got a little closer we saw a new slide—which had taken out a big rock that must have rested right in the middle of the ledge because when we got near we saw that there was a hole in the slide that you could step through and it led into a kind of cave.

  We stepped through and there was all these little rooms all built together and looking really . . . old. Light come in through a big opening on the far side. It was a cliff dwelling—looked like what Star had told me about Mr. Merriwether finding in Mesa Largo. I’d never seen one. And there stood the cows at a seep spring back where the cave wall met the cave floor, just like a slanting attic wall. The rooms were crumbled in most places and the whole place was covered by the roof of this cave. The cave floor, before the slide, had been a ledge that dropped off into the canyon. It was a more or less long shallow cave right in the wall of the cliff. Some of the littlest square rooms were on top of each other. There was little doors in the walls shaped like a fat T. You could tell they was doors and not windows because the windows were smaller and there wadn’t no way to get in except through these short doors. The place had to be very, very old. We went into a room that was about six feet by six feet and less than head high. It was by itself, off from the others. Somehow it all made me want to measure everything.

  Inside was corncobs everywhere, and four tall standing pots, two broken by the fallen rocks and two whole ones, and there was some very old skins piled in a corner. The smell was some kind of ancient smell of dryness, no dampness—a smell I’d never smelt before. Not bad, just different.

  Little holes were around in the walls and in one of them I saw a little leather pouch, or something like leather, real old, tied with a string. I got it without Zack seeing me and put it in my pocket.

  We heard a rifle shot down in the valley.

  “That’s Pittman shooting a coyote for Redeye,” said Zack.

  “What for?”

  “I ain’t sure. That’s just what he said he was gone do. I ain’t sure about him and that dog. It ain’t natural.” He looked out at the late sunlight. “We better start on down. If we had a little more time, we could look for stuff.”

  “Do you think that’s true about lost tribes of Israel being in here?” I’d heard talk about that.

  “Naw.”

  It was getting dark, so we filled up our canteens and herded the cows out and down the ridge. They’d smelled that water, I guess, and didn’t want to go down but we poked them and got them started and then followed them down and got the horses. Zack blocked off the ledge with dead wood so no more cattle could get back up.

  Mr. Pittman had a fire going and hot coffee and some oatmeal, cornbread, and bacon cooked up. We was all good and hungry and he’d cooked up enough. After we ate, we smoked a smoke and took a swig of whiskey.

  Mr. Pittman says, “You boys come on with me and I’ll show you something. Redeye. Stay here. Stay!” He lit a lighter knot and we walked in the dark a ways until he lit another pile of wood that he must have fixed up earlier. I saw what he’d rigged. There was a fairly high tree limb that had a rope over it. One end of the rope was staked to the ground—out a ways from under the limb and at a angle. The rope looped right many times around the stake. The other end of the rope was tied around the hind legs of a dead coyote so that he was hanging straight down from the limb with his nose about head high. The fire wavered light over all of this.

  I was trying to figure out what he was gone to do.

  “Redeye,” he hollered, and whistled.

  Redeye came a-running and as soon as he saw the coyote, he went into a crouch, and started creeping like a sheep dog.

  “See him, Redeye, see him, boy. Now, whoa, whoa . . . stay. That a boy. Don’t move. That a boy. Stay.”

  Redeye froze like a bird dog pointing. He was watching that coyote.

  Mr. Pittman walked over and started unwrapping the rope from around the stake so that the coyote was lowered.

  This deep growl started in Redeye’s throat. All the hair along his back was standing up. He looked like all his muscles was about to explode.

  Mr. Pittman stopped unwrapping. The coyote was swaying. It was a pretty skinny, beat-up old coyote, shot in the shoulder, through the heart it looked like. Now it was hanging with the head about waist high and Redeye was starting to move toward it.

  “Whoa, Redeye. Whoa.”

  Redeye stopped.

  “Now. One . . . two . . . Sic ’em, Redeye. Sic ’em.”

  Redeye was off, digging up dirt. He leaped and clamped on the coyote’s nose and the two were hanging like one, swinging slow, back and forth. Redeye’d hold still and sway and then growl and shake his head, swaying back and forth all hooked into the coyote.

  “I used to see terriers and badgers hooked in like that,” said Mr. Pittman, “and they’d go at it so long you’d have to pick the badger up by the hind legs and dip the terrier in a tub of water to cool him off, and then do the same with the other one. Halt, Redeye!”

  He didn’t turn loose.

  “See,” said Mr. Pittman, still looking at Redeye. “That’s what’s wrong with the son of a bitch.” He pulls his quirt off’n his belt and lunges at Redeye—“I said halt”—and hits him with the quirt across the back.

  Redeye drops off, but he starts circling, eying the coyote. Mr. Pittman walks over, pulls on the rope, raising the coyote, and when he gets it up out of reach he loops his rope around the stake. “Heel,” he says, and Redeye starts in behind him, following him on back to camp.

  It made me a little bit jumpy. I couldn’t quite figure it. “That don’t seem like it would be too much fun with something dead,” I said to Mr. Pittman.

  “It don’t seem to make much difference, does it?” he says.

  Though we have found our way out of the old century and into the new, the word “cowboy” still strikes a chord of adventure and excitement. The skills they honed, the sights they saw can hardly be imagined by us mere mortals. Oh, if each of us, for only a day or two, could climb upon the back of a stal
wart steed and . . .

  Next morning the pack mule, Jake, had wandered off. Once we got out of the little canyon, Zack checked ahead and didn’t find no fresh tracks, so he said Jake was probably back where we left the river. He said him and Mr. Pittman would wait with the cattle while I went back after him.

  “Herd him—just like you would a cow,” he said. “If that don’t work, rope him and pull.”

  “I ain’t really learned to lasso yet.”

  “Ain’t learned to lasso? What the hell? And you expect to be a cowboy?”

  “Mr. Copeland hadn’t learned me yet.”

  “Here. Watch this. Hell, I thought you’d have learned to lasso.” He got his rope in his hands and fed out eight or ten feet of it, and twirled it over his head. “You get it going like this and then you throw it just like you would a rock. Damn, I didn’t know you couldn’t rope.” He threw the rope at me and I ducked and it looped right over me and down around my shoulders. He jerked it tight, hurt a little.

  “There you go,” he said. “It takes a lot of practice. Just get up close to him and drop the loop over his head if you don’t know how to use a rope yet. If he ain’t cooperating it won’t be easy.”

  A short ways back I saw Jake grazing next to the riverbed under some cottonwood trees. I figured I’d ride wide around him, and then drive him on up toward Zack and Mr. Pittman.

  When I got about, oh say, twenty feet from him he looked up at me and started trotting away from the riverbed toward the plain, and I started trying to head him up. I was holding up the rope and whistling the way I’d seen Zack do when all on a sudden he stopped dead still just short of a shallow gully. I got right up behind him and popped him on the butt with my quirt and he give a jump, but started off back the way we’d just come, so I rounded him up, but he just stopped and stood still again. I come up beside him and popped him. He jumped a little with his front feet, dropped his ears back, and then bared his teeth, jumped a little again and snorted, so hell, I popped him again and he turned his rump at me quick, flattened his ears and kicked, but missed. Since he was standing still I just dropped the lasso over his head, tightened it, and started out. He started out too, like that’s what he expected.

 

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