Redeye

by Edgerton, Clyde

  He was about back in form.

  “Well, old boy,” I said, “have a little drink of water. Good dog. Now . . .”

  The other steer was standing off a ways, puzzling. I started trotting toward that skinny old critter—some descendant of the real Texas longhorns it looked like, a little more scraggly than that other one—like they had took up from different herds. “Get ’em, Redeye, get ’em. Come on, sic ’em.” He started out and I called him off—“Halt, Redeye!”—before he’d got far. He slid to a halt. He’s back in form.

  . . . The conditions inside the corral were very bad . . . The women and children crowded around us, very excited at the prospect of deliverance . . . Just after we thought the ordeal was over, I saw a girl some nine or ten years old covered with blood, running towards us, from a place in the rear. An Indian shot her at about ten yards out. That was the last person that I saw killed on that occasion.

  ———

  When we get to town I find out that the tourist trip plans are well under way along with all sorts of Billy Blankenship business. Set up for April. He had a display of relics and the mummies down at the train station. Turns out that the saddle maker’s mama sits in her rocking chair all day beside the baby mummy, and when they stand her up to walk her around they have to take the little mummy along in its box. Used to there weren’t no women or babies much out here. Now it’s grandmas and mummies. Next it’ll be penguins, or llamas. It’s getting to be the world’s trash heap. Pygmys.

  Somebody had put a little headband on the mummy—hide that cross from the Mormons.

  I stood around, looked at all the relics, the mummies, and then when Copeland stepped outside, I pulled up a chair and set down right beside his ugly little mama.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” I said.

  She had on that bonnet and her mouth was all sunk in. She rolled her eyes to look up at me. Even though we were sitting side by side, she had to look up.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I said. They said she couldn’t talk, but there was listening in her eyes. “I ought to sic my dog on you,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “That baby is a mummy,” I said. “I ought to sic my dog on your baby.”

  She looked at the baby.

  “You’re going to hell when you die,” I said. “And your baby, too.”

  She looked back at me and smiled. “Kiss yo mammy’s ass,” she said.

  I got up and left her alone then. I figured all along she could talk.

  ———

  “You getting a little scruffy, boy. Let’s see can’t we give you a little clipping. Where is them scissors? Now, you be still. Cut back the trees a little bit here so we can look down in the woods there and get them B flats and mash ’em. Good boy. There you go. That’s right. Wups, there goes one . . . That a boy. You just take it easy. Here. See that? Taste good? You gone be interested in a little trip up onto that big old mesa? It might get cold up there in April. We might have to get you a bedroll—just for you. Get you a pack mule. Maybe get you your own little donkey to ride. How’d you like that? Huh? How’d you like that?

  “Think we can do a good job on him? He is a mean old man.

  “Now, that looks pretty good. You hungry? What you hungry for? We got some greens, we got some potatoes, we got some elk. Here, take a little piece of that. You like that, don’t you? I figured you would.

  “How we ought to do it? Huh? How we ought to do it? Push him off a cliff. Come here, boy. Here, taste them greens. They good, ain’t they? Don’t you wish we had a little fried okra. Huh? Don’t you wish we had some of that good old crisp fried okra. Yes sir. You like them greens don’t you? Good for you. Well, old Cobb does too. Wups—there goes one. Let’s get his ass. Wups. Hold still. Here. There. Was he good?

  “Maybe we ought to rope old Thorpe up good and tight and take him down to that little island off the Texas coast where there’s them clouds and clouds of mosquitoes. Tie him to a tree down by all that old brackish swamp water about sundown and cut his clothes all off and ride off a ways and build us a little smoky fire and rub on some fresh mosquito oil, and sit and watch that old man jerk on that rope hoping his heart out that he can run, run, run, from the clouds of mosquitoes settling down so gently and softly and quietly all over his body while he changes from a white man, all pale white in that late evening light, to a man turning brown—kind of reddish brown . . . then brown . . . then black—right before our eyes. What you say, Redeye? What you say, boy?

  “How about that little wife. What we gone do with her? You don’t think she’ll be along, do you? Ain’t it too bad we couldn’t be living with her down there by the river with another dozen or so wives for to run around and poke every night, with them cooking us greens and fried okra. Huh, boy? We’d get you thirty or forty little dog wives? Huh, boy?”

  . . . while back in town, Blankenship and his associate, P.J. Copeland, continued their progressive inroads into the sometimes “backward” cultural ways of the Old West, the old days, when the most antiquated of ideas and methods held sway . . .

  BUMPY

  Mr. Copeland found out that rubbing a little Remove-All on the faces of the mummies livens them up some, makes them look better. So he got both of them to looking more lifelike than they had at first. It sort of turned their faces from black to brown. He told Mr. Blankenship that they could get a whole new line of business going with mummies. Mr. Blankenship said that was a good idea, that if his tourist business worked, we’d probably be bringing mummies out of the mesa right and left.

  Mr. Pittman come into town and me and Mr. Blankenship and him walked from the train station down to the funeral home, which is between two canvas-top buildings, but it itself is full wood, new, and freshly painted a kind of dark yellow. They got it fixed up inside with three rooms for corpses. They’ve had the whole place filled on at least two occasions that I know of since they opened. They got a new shipment of supplies in a few days ago.

  Mr. Blankenship wants to set up a place in the back to do the embalming, but Mr. Copeland says people wouldn’t stand for that. You can’t display people and embalm them in the same place, he says. So they got a shed-like place out back to embalm—a place besides Mr. Copeland’s now—now that it looks like the business has started taking hold, as Mr. Copeland says, since they blew up the Chinaman.

  When we started in across the porch, Mr. Blankenship says, “Naw, pard, let’s leave the dog out here.”

  So Mr. Pittman ties Redeye to a hitching post with his quirt.

  There was a corpse displayed in the front room. We headed on back towards the office and had to walk right by the casket, which was Catholic. You could tell because there was some Mexicans in there mainly, but also because there was two big candles burning at each end of the casket, vigil candles.

  “Hold on,” says Mr. Pittman. He pulls out a rolled smoke and lights it on the candle at the foot of the casket. A Mexican man sitting there says, “Pendejo,” or something like that.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Pittman, “Lo siento, señor.”

  We went on into the back. I was there to get two blankets for Grandma Copeland and take them back to the train station. Mr. Blankenship told me where the blankets were, but I stood there and listened in for a minute. Mr. Pittman was saying he would like to get in on the experimental trip onto the mesa, that he had a eye disease, and while he wouldn’t be no problem on the trip it might be to Mr. Blankenship’s advantage to have somebody along who had a medical situation similar to blindness, just to help sell the whole idea to the public. He said archaeology was very important to him, and that he felt like him being along would be helpful. Tourists going out on the mesa to see cliff dwellings was about as sure a bet as anything he knew of, he said. And getting the Mormons in there was a good idea because they had a special interest in all that—and there was so many of them around, there was bound to be some money made that way.

  STAR

  We’ve weathered on
e heavy snow now, and after the roads cleared some, I had occasion to ride with Bumpy into Beacon City with a load of bridles for the Mormons. We stopped for dinner in the little house that has MEALS written on a sign on the porch. The woman who runs it is named Rebecca Dennings and is a Mormon friend of Bishop Thorpe’s. We ate and talked about the weather mostly, and a few other things. I was hoping we’d have time to stop at Harmony Beasley’s trading post across the river, also. They are very friendly and warm women.

  After dinner, I stood and walked over to the window and looked out at the Bright Owl River down the slope. I could see the ferry making its way back across toward the near shore. Mr. Thorpe was poling it along. Aboard were three donkeys and a Mexican or an Indian. An Indian. Mr. Thorpe’s head was down and he seemed to be hurrying so that he could get back and pick up the two wagons that were waiting, with another just pulling up. I looked at that wooden ferry, the sun glinting off the glass that was over the Bible and the Book of Mormon, and decided that on the tourist trip up to the top of the mesa in April—at the very latest—I would tell Bishop Thorpe whatever I felt guided by God and my own mind and Aunt Sallie to tell him. And I would see how Andrew Collier and I got along until then. I didn’t want to lose them both. April was only a few months away. I’d be a good ways ahead of the year Bishop Thorpe had given me.

  ATOP THE MESA

  It was from atop Mesa Largo that Abel Merriwether first beheld Eagle City in the year 1888. Cobb Pittman, Zack Paulson, Bumpy Copeland, and Andrew Collier first beheld it in 1891, and Star Copeland in 1892—she, along with those very first tourists to make the trek. There were twelve of them in all. But alas, NOT ALL WOULD RETURN! And therein lies the story of

  THE EAGLE CITY SHOOTOUT OF ’92

  Those fair tourists came from various and varied aspects of life. There were among them, departing on the morning of Monday, April 18th,1892, several gentle ladies, a Negress, a blind man, two Mormons, an Englishman, plus qualified guides, and a cook. They were headed toward their destiny of destinies along the Bright Owl River on up toward the Mormon ferry, where they were joined by said Bishop Thorpe and son, Hiram Thorpe, both having signed up as tourists. Unbeknownst to all except Bishop Thorpe and a group of savage Indians, Thorpe had contrived an evil plot (unknown even to the Bishop’s own son) . . .

  STAR

  As we move out, the mighty and proud Mesa Largo appears before us in the first morning light, and the sunlight touches the top of the mighty bulwark and then slowly descends—crawls its way down the mesa wall to the floor of this golden red western landscape. It is a glorious and fine April day that we have set out for the first trip of the Blankenship-Merriwether Exploring Expedition. I am so happy to be a part of this adventurous experiment.

  We so tried to get Mr. Merriwether to come with us, but he has declared that he will not support any “tourist business” except in name only. He has allowed use of his name (Blankenship-Merriwether Tourist Company) and wagons and equipment in exchange for a portion of profits from this venture. Libby encouraged him to join forces with Mr. Blankenship for purposes of covering ranch expenses. Time will tell if this venture pays off.

  Andrew is soon to write a book about the cliff dwellers of Mesa Largo, also called the Anasazi, or Ancient Ones, who inhabited this mighty mesa perhaps a thousand years ago, at least four or five hundred years ago (tree-ring technique).

  We have along with us, by the way, a bathtub, carried in the first wagon, along on this trip for the benefit of one Mrs. Thurgood D. Clarkston, a wealthy woman with the Denver Historical Society. I am most interested to see how the cowboys on the trip respond to her need for hot water. She has joined us of course to demonstrate to any future prospects the ease with which one may take this trip onto the mesa. Business. Her own reasons include the need to collect some data to carry back to the Denver Historical Society, which is a potential donor to Mr. Merriwether.

  ———

  When we reached the ferry I told Bishop Thorpe that I have corresponded with my aunt Sallie and discussed the issue with my uncle P.J. and aunt Ann. “Consequently, sir,” I said, “I am unable to accept your proposal of marriage.” That’s what Aunt Sallie said to say, those exact words, “I am unable,” and to stick with those words. My mind was firm and Bishop Thorpe seemed far less agitated than I had expected he might. In fact, he seemed preoccupied with the trip onto the mesa. Someone even said he’d had a vision and Jesus told him to go to Eagle City. During the trip from the ferry to our first overnight camp he spoke to me not once, and around the big campfire, singing cowboy songs with the others, I sat beside dear Andrew.

  ———

  We have now arrived at our base camp, a place called White Rock Campsite, a gently sloping hill near the base of the mesa wall with large trees all about for shelter and for anchors for our tarps and tents. My Andrew helped us set up camp. He is a true cowboy. He has been transformed from an English gentleman to a rough-neck cowboy, but, I hasten to add, in appearance only, for in manners he is still gentle and ever courteous. He and Bumpy now get along better than they did.

  Zack pays little attention to the tourists. He is busy giving orders to the Mexicans and helping Pete set up the kitchen, which I gather will consist of nothing more than a table with canvas tarp above, a fire, box of cooking ware, some fire hooks, and the very handsome chuck wagon Uncle P.J. built, with its numerous pots, pans, and Dutch ovens.

  The women are allowed to rest. Mrs. Clarkston has had her Negress set up a room made of four walls of canvas from the ground to head height around her bathtub—with wardrobe trunk, folding table, and chair also inside. Andrew helped erect this bath enclosure, and has secured for himself the role of host for the tourists, explaining whats, hows, and whys of camping and excavating. Mrs. Clarkston seems interested in nothing more than a bath and has dispatched Bumpy with a wagon, barrel, and bucket to the spring for bath water. She was prepared to use drinking water from one of the barrels we brought in a wagon, but Zack, using his prerogative as leader, established drinking water as off-limits for bathwater. As for her part, Mrs. Clarkston simply ordered Bumpy to the spring.

  I must not let Andrew know how forward I am inwardly, when we have yet to kiss or even hold hands, something that I can only hope will occur during this adventure so that my life will be more complete, more “western,” more “wild” than ever. I wonder if this can be happening to me.

  I am now in my one-man army tent. I have just blown out my candle. I rest peacefully on my back, my eyes closed, sounds and sights drifting through my consciousness—sounds of a distant wolf howling, of Pete cleaning up our “kitchen,” and sights of mile upon mile of purple sage.

  COBB PITTMAN

  First day the tourists went up top, I stayed down bottom with the cook, Pete, to keep skunks and bears out of the food and to help fix a supper for when everybody got back at sundown. And to think. I wouldn’t get near Thorpe until it was time. I would wait until it was time.

  Night before, the Englishman and Thorpe had been arguing about Mountain Meadows. I didn’t say nothing. I could wait.

  We’d straightened up and settled down, Pete and me, after the tourists left that morning. I’d found a big rock, laid down on my back. It had chilled up some, so I had on my coat. I rolled me a smoke. Pete had just sat down beside me when we seen the little train of tourists finally moving along way up there above us, the whole crowd of them strung out along the canyon-wall trail which, judging from the speed they was going, was pretty narrow. The horses were pulling sleds up front, then some tourists were walking, then the pack mules with Jake bringing up their rear which he always does. Then some more tourists.

  There’d been a slide at the main bend up there. The first of them stopped, and then the whole train of them stopped when the last ones finally caught up. The first few—one was Thorpe I think, Boyle—threw over some rocks that had been along the up side of the trail, stood there inspecting, and then threw over some more. Then they went ahead, and when it come Jake�
�s time—and see, I’m laying down there on my back watching, and they’re way up there moving slow with the sun shining on that white-orange sandstone—old Jake takes a step to the side and back, right at that bend, like maybe his pack had scraped the rock, and both his hind feet come over the edge. He hung on with his front legs, but not long. Here he comes, all silent, hit the wall, knocked up dust and rocks, and when he was about halfway down this woman’s little scream drifts down, and he hit the wall again, and then went right on out of sight with some rocks and stuff falling along beside him and behind him, on out of sight into the green cedars at the bottom where the canyon wall starts sloping outward.

  I knew it was old Jake, and that if Merriwether’d been along he’d a wanted us to go over and put him out of his pain by some slim chance he’d been cushioned by a tree and won’t all the way dead, and get the pack saddle and bring it back. So Pete shot his rifle twice to let Zack know we’d seen Jake fall and we’d take care of it.

  We took out and found him. He was dead. Redeye bristled up at him like he was going to jump him. I told him to nevermind.

  We had a hard time getting Jake’s pack saddle off, but finally did. He’d been carrying shovels and empty crates—but they had divided everything up between mules and sleds so they wouldn’t lose all of any one thing in case something dropped off. Zack did have that much sense.

  STAR