Who should I dress like today? he thought. Nermernuh or Pale Eyes? He grinned. Or Mescalero?
In the end, he went as he usually dressed, part The People (from the waist down), part taibo (waist up): moccasins and buckskin britches, red calico shirt, and the gray coat he had turned into a vest. He grabbed the wide-brimmed, open-crowned black hat and his room key, and hurried out the door.
What he saw across the hall stopped him. The door was cracked open, but the clerk at the Pickwick Hotel had said nobody was staying there. Curious, maybe even suspicious, Daniel stepped to the door and listened. The hinges creaked as he pushed it open. The covers were pushed back, the window open, and the room smelled of pipe smoke, but nobody was in. No grip. Nothing.
Feeling silly, he shook his head. Likely somebody checked in late in the night, and the clerk had sent him here. A drummer, already gone. Up early to make his sales.
Up early, Daniel thought, and I’m late.
He raced to the stairwell.
* * * * *
“I thought you Comanches got up with the sun,” Burk Burnett said lightly, and extended his hand to Daniel.
“Only during a raidin’ moon,” the cowhand, George Briggs, said, chuckling, then spit tobacco juice into the street as Daniel shook hands with the rancher.
They had gathered in front of a coffee house on Houston Street—Burnett, Briggs, Waggoner, Charles Flint, and Nagwee. Isa-tai sat cross-legged near a hitching rail, away from the others. Moments later School Father Pratt and Captain Hall stepped through the doorway of the coffee house, holding steaming cups.
After Daniel shook hands with Pratt, he stepped off the boardwalk, and looked toward the Taylor & Barr building.
“Nobody gets up early in Hell’s Half Acre,” Pratt said.
He was right. Last night, or rather early this morning, the streets had been bustling with activity. Daniel remembered the drunken cowboy stumbling out of the alley toward the Tivoli Hall. He could still hear the cacophony of voices, the music, the laughter, the horses, the curses of the policeman. Now, as he looked across the street, the Tivoli looked worn-out, deserted. The hitching rails were all empty. So was Houston Street, except for a lone man with a broom, sweeping up broken glass in front of some beer hall far down the street.
“What’s keeping Quanah?” Flint asked in English.
“Maybe ol’ Yellow Bear,” George Briggs said, shifting the quid from his left cheek to his right.
“Y’all tree the town, George?” Captain Hall blew over the rim of his coffee mug.
“Just wandered from the Club Room to the Bismarck to the El Paso and Occidental.”
“You didn’t get him roostered?” Waggoner asked facetiously.
“They don’t serve Injuns, boss,” Briggs said, and took off his hat. “And this morn’, I wish they hadn’t served me.”
Every Pale Eyes chuckled.
“What time did you finish?” Daniel asked.
Briggs pushed his hat back. “Midnight. Early night for this ol’ hoss.”
Charles Flint laughed. “I was in bed long before that.”
“I know,” Briggs said. “You flew the coop about ten.”
An hour and change after I left with Quanah, Daniel remembered. He thought again, remembering last night. He had heard a door shut down the hall, what sounded like the one to the room Quanah shared with his father-in-law, yet that had been 3:17 a.m. It had not been midnight. He studied George Briggs and decided that, from the look of the taibo’s eyes, his memory, his concept of time, might not be trusted.
“Well, I had work to do,” Flint was saying, and Daniel cut him off.
“Are you sure it was midnight?”
Briggs pushed his hat back. His bloodshot eyes locked hard on Daniel, and he reached into his vest, and withdrew a silver watch. “You see this here thing?” he said. He pressed on the stem, and the case opened. The hands were large enough that Daniel could read the time, 7:48, and the second hand was moving. “This here’s an Illinois railroad watch. Ain’t but ten years old, if that. It wasn’t quite midnight when I taken Yellow Bear to that buildin’ yonder and bid him a fine fare-thee-well. Then I wandered over to the Empress”—jutting his jaw down the street toward the man with the saloon—“for me nightcap.”
“How many nightcaps, George?” Waggoner asked lightly.
“Daniel, Charles,” School Father Pratt said, changing the subject, “would either of you care for coffee?”
That sounded good, but Nagwee spoke in the language of The People. “It is not like Quanah or Yellow Bear to sleep after the sun has risen.”
“No, it isn’t,” Daniel said in English, and moved down the boardwalk, back toward the Taylor & Barr mercantile. Charles Flint caught up with him, and boot steps told Daniel they had pale-eyes company.
“You don’t think anything’s wrong?” Flint asked.
Daniel’s head shook. He didn’t. Oh, maybe Yellow Bear had eaten too much ice cream, or he was plumb tuckered out from wandering the saloons with George Briggs. Yesterday had been a tiring day. Maybe Quanah was exhausted, too. Daniel could have slept another three or four hours himself.
He looked back, found School Father Pratt and Burk Burnett walking behind them, concern disfiguring their faces. Back down the boardwalk, Dan Waggoner stood talking to George Briggs, while Nagwee was standing, arms folded across his chest, staring. Isa-tai remained sitting, face hard, not moving. He hadn’t moved since Daniel had arrived, had barely even blinked.
Daniel and the others reached the outside staircase of the Taylor & Barr building. He took the steps two at a time until he reached the second landing, opened the outer door, and ran down the hallway. Once he had stopped, he could hear footsteps following him up. He knocked gently on the frame.
“Ahó,” he called softly, then louder. His knuckles struck the door, harder. “Ahó! Tsu Kuh Puah!” Now, he struck the door with his fist, and shouted the names of Quanah and Yellow Bear.
Charles Flint stood beside him, echoing his shouts. Gripping the handle, he turned the knob, pressed his weight against the door, pushed. “It is locked,” he said.
He struck the door again.
“Quiet!” Pratt tried the door, but Flint was right. The door was locked. The School Father pressed his ear against the door, and spoke: “Quanah? Yellow Bear?”
Sounds drew his attention. Daniel looked, saw that Briggs, Waggoner, and Nagwee had decided to come, too. Another figure came through the doorway, and Daniel straightened. Isa-tai.
“Could they have gone somewhere?” Pratt asked.
“Where would they go?” Flint replied. He hit the door with his fist.
George Briggs was rolling a cigarette—the chaw of tobacco gone from his cheek.
The men stopped when Pratt kicked the door, screaming Quanah’s name.
“The clerk.” Flint whirled. “The clerk. He will have another key. I will go.”
“No time for that.” Pratt stepped back.
“For the love of God, man,” Burk Burnett said. “What are you doing?”
The School Father did not answer. Bending his leg, he slammed his boot just under the doorknob. Wood splintered and cracked.
“Jesus!” Dan Waggoner shouted down the hallway. “What the hell’s up?”
The door swung into the room, banged against the wall.
Daniel stepped inside, tripped, landed on the rug. He rolled over, and gasped. Next to the bed, Quanah lay face down on the hardwood floor, his head turned toward the door. When School Father Pratt had kicked open the door, the door had just missed striking Quanah’s face. Daniel had tripped over the great warrior’s outstretched left arm.
Already Pratt was kneeling beside Quanah, lifting his wrist, feeling for a pulse. Charles Flint ran to the bed, yelling Yellow Bear’s name. Gripping the footboard of the bed, Daniel pulled himself to his feet.
“Yellow Bear …” Flint tugged at the sleeping puhakat’s sleeve. “It is I, Tetecae. Wake up, Tsu Kuh Puah.” Flint turned his head to t
he side, coughed, turned back, started to say something, but coughed again.
Daniel coughed, too. Suddenly light-headed, he gripped the footboard for support, tried to lean over, tried to say something. He filled his lungs, and the cough doubled him over.
“Criminy.” School Father Pratt went to his feet, whirled. “Burk,” he cried, “tell that cowhand to put out that damned cigarette!”
“What?”
“Now!”
That’s when Daniel understood. Pratt lurched for the lamp on one side of the bed. Putting an arm over his nose, Daniel moved to the other. He found the knob, turned it down, stopping the flow of gas. Across the bed, School Father Pratt nodded, then pointed across the apartment room.
“The window,” Pratt said, then coughed, shook his head. “Open the window. Get some fresh air in here.”
Daniel hurried, almost tripped again on the rug. He found the latch, pulled it, shoved the window open and leaned out, filling his lungs with fresh air. Below, on the streets, he saw Captain Hall chatting with a man in a plaid suit and gray hat, unaware of what was happening upstairs.
He turned back, saw the other rancher, Waggoner, grabbing Quanah’s bare feet. Burnett had long arms. They lifted, took Quanah. Nagwee barked something in the language of The People, but the two Tejanos could not understand.
“Take him to his room,” Daniel translated. “Across the hall.”
Pratt waved a pillow over the bed, circulating the air, forcing the poisonous gas out. He looked up, found Waggoner’s segundo, George Briggs. Isa-tai was in the room now, too, standing beside the torn door, arms folded, staring, his face a mask of indifference.
“Briggs,” Pratt said. “Fetch a doctor. Quick.”
“What happened?” the cowhand asked.
“Must have …” Pratt had to stop for a breath of air. “Must have blown out the lamps.” He turned back to Yellow Bear.
“Holy Mother of God.” The cowboy took off, running at an awkward gait, spurs singing a song as he raced down the hallway.
“We must get out of this room. Till that gas has cleared.” Pratt sounded like a School Father again.
“Help me then,” Flint said. “Help me with Yellow Bear.”
“There’s no need, son.”
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes had passed, and they had returned to the room Quanah had shared with Yellow Bear. Nagwee remained across the hall with Quanah, and the Pale Eyes waited for their own doctor.
“What’s keeping that damned sawbones?” Pratt said angrily. Daniel could not ever remember hearing the School Father curse.
A song filled the room. Charles Flint looked over at his father, who had closed his eyes, raised his arms to the sky, and began singing.
Daniel looked at Yellow Bear. The old man’s eyes were closed as if sleeping, and Daniel turned away. Again, he leaned out the window, closing his own eyes, trying to shake the image of Yellow Bear. As he ducked back inside, something on the window caught his eye. He peered closer at a reddish smudge on the glass below the latch. Like blood. Saw the lines. Like part of a man’s finger. No, thumb.
Isa-tai sang.
Daniel turned, took a step, stopped, looked back at the window. Something was wrong. But what?
“Yellow Bear! Wake up!” Flint’s voice cracked. Tears streamed down his face. The bookkeeper refused to believe the School Father’s statement that Yellow Bear was dead.
Daniel started for the bed, only to stop again. He looked beyond Isa-tai and at the door, then to the small table next to a parlor chair. Quanah’s coat draped the chair, and the table overflowed with Yellow Bear’s clothes. Quanah’s tie, even his diamond stickpin, lay on the dresser beside the water pitcher. He looked again at the table. There was the brass room key, on top of Yellow Bear’s bone breastplate. Again, he looked at the door, then turned back toward the window.
Isa-tai sang, and soon his voice was answered by the song from across the hall. Nagwee’s voice.
Both puhakats singing a song for the dead.
After shaking his head clear, Daniel walked to the bed, sitting on the edge, avoiding Charles Flint’s face. He reached down until his fingers rested on Yellow Bear’s forehead.
He looked strange, long silver braids matted from sweat, not dressed as Nermernuh, but in a long, bleached muslin nightshirt, the front unbuttoned, damp with sweat. Quanah wasn’t the only one to have bought something downstairs in the mercantile the previous afternoon. Yellow Bear had traded an elk-horn knife for this nightshirt. A taibo shirt of coarse material, now stinking with sweat. It was not what a powerful puhakat of The People should be wearing when he died.
Daniel murmured his farewell.
“What’s going on here?”
Daniel looked up to see a bald, sweating man holding a black hat. Behind him stood a panting George Briggs and a grim-faced Captain Hall.
“Yellow Bear’s dead,” Waggoner said. “Gas killed him.”
“How’s Quanah?” Captain Hall asked.
“I don’t know,” School Father Pratt said softly. “I couldn’t even tell if his heart was beating. He is in the room across the hall with those two Comanche medicine men.”
From the sound of Nagwee’s song, Quanah was also preparing to begin his journey to The Land Beyond The Sun.
Chapter Nine
Asphyxiation.
A taibo word that held no meaning for Daniel, but that is what they said had killed Yellow Bear.
“So, the old medicine man …” said a man in an ill-fitting, frayed, plaid suit, a reporter for Dallas Herald. “Let me get this straight. He comes to the room, in his cups, thinks the lamps are coal oil as they’d likely have up on the reservation. Not knowing they’re gas, he blows them out. Goes to sleep, and the gas does its dirty work. Poor bastard just never woke up.”
“That’s what it looks like,” Captain Hall said.
“Except,” School Father Pratt added, “Yellow Bear definitely was not in his cups.”
The man in the plaid suit winked. “He will be in our newspaper, Capt’n. Anything the Dallas press can do to make Fort Worth look bad, we’ll do it, sir.” He laughed, but when nobody joined in, he grimaced, swallowed, and said meekly, “’Course, Yellow Bear just made an honest mistake. Pity. I liked the ol’ boy.”
Their talk continued, but Daniel did not, would not listen. They had taken hacks to a restaurant on Bluff Street—Pratt and Hall, Daniel and Flint—to get away from the horde of newspaper reporters who had gathered at the Pickwick Hotel and Taylor & Barr mercantile.
“Gathered,” Burk Burnett had said, “for the deathwatch.”
Burnett had stayed behind. Isa-tai and Nagwee remained upstairs in the Taylor & Barr apartment, attending to Quanah with the Fort Worth doctor, an old man named Stallings whose breath, even at 8:00 a.m., reeked of rye whiskey. Daniel wished the pale-eyes sawbones was Major Becker—he trusted that bluecoat—but Becker was up at Fort Sill in Indian Territory. This reporter—Daniel glanced at the Old Glory writing tablet he had bought at the mercantile, saw where he had scribbled the ink-slinger’s name, Kyne—had been enterprising enough to follow them to the café near the Trinity River.
The food smelled like the river, too.
“Best eat, Daniel.” School Father Pratt’s voice was soothing, not scolding. “You too, Charles. You’ll need your strength.”
Glancing at the bowl of chili, Daniel lifted his spoon and dug into the bowl of brown meat and grease, which reminded him of the mud on the streets at the edge of town. He left the spoon in the bowl, and stared out the window.
That was something he could never get used to, the way these Pale Eyes ate. The People were not used to having a noon meal. They would serve food on the flesh side of a dried hide, eating in the morning, in the evening. Rarely would they eat what the Pale Eyes called dinner. Oh, sure, if one got hungry, he could help himself to food in the day, pemmican maybe, or some dried beef. On the other hand, Daniel had not had breakfast that morning, not even coffee. Yet he couldn
’t eat. Not now. Not with Quanah back in that stifling room above the mercantile. Likely dying.
“Doc Stallings said Quanah Parker was in a coma?” the reporter, Kyne, asked.
No one answered, but that’s what the frowning Dr. Stallings had said. When asked by reporters about Quanah’s chances of recovery, the doctor had slowly, grimly said, “It is not good. Not good at all.”
“What a shame.” Kyne shook his head, pulled a nickel flask from his coat pocket, and began to unscrew the top. “I liked that ol’ boy, too.”
* * * * *
Back in his room above the Taylor & Barr mercantile, Daniel leaned out the window, and drew in a lungful of fresh air. Well, as fresh as air could be in a dirty, cramped, and now noisy taibo city. The Progressor clock told him it was 4:37, and Hell’s Half Acre had begun to come alive again. Above the sonance of Cowtown—clopping of hoofs, jingle of traces, plodding of feet down the boardwalk, the voices, laughter, and beginnings of music—the sound from across the hallway reached Daniel.
A song from Isa-tai. The shaking of a gourd rattle by Nagwee.
Stallings, the drunken doctor, had announced to the newspapermen in the lobby of the Pickwick Hotel that he had done all he could for Quanah Parker, that his recovery or demise lay in the hands of God, not medicine. The taibos had accepted that, but the two puhakats of The People would not give up so easily.
Daniel stepped back toward the pitcher and basin on the dresser, stopped, turned, looked back at the window.
Quickly he picked up his hat, strode through the door, and walked down the hall to the room Quanah and Yellow Bear had shared. He pushed open the door, still broken from School Father Pratt’s kick, and stepped inside.
Pratt and Burk Burnett had arranged for Yellow Bear’s body to be taken to a funeral parlor to be prepared for burial. Daniel hadn’t liked that at all, but he had kept his mouth shut. The Pale Eyes would put Yellow Bear in a wooden box, plant him in a cemetery. Burnett had promised it would be a fine funeral, with the best preacher Fort Worth had to offer. He had said a crowd of mourners would fill the church. They’d give Yellow Bear a great send-off.
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