Black Stump Ridge

by John Manning; Forrest Hedrick

  “Right. They’re very happy to direct us to the casinos or the bars or the shows. Any place where they can separate us from our money.”

  “You’re not being very fair.”

  “Tell me I’ m wrong.”

  “That’s easy. You’re wrong.” He looked back at the TV for a moment, and then turned to her again. “Remember, I tried to talk you out of this expedition. Just how do you expect them to be?”

  “How about cooperative?”

  “How cooperative would you be if every time you tried to help in the last two centuries you ended up getting royally, anally screwed by the people you were trying to help?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Not you, personally. But, it was always people with our faces, our skin color, who did it to them. After awhile you get the attitude that if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…”

  “That’s not…”

  “…fair?” he finished for her. “Honey, in case you haven’t noticed by now, life ain’t fair. But, you can’t win if you don’t play. So, pick up your cards and make the best hand you can.”

  She turned toward the window with its heavy, ugly orange and brown curtains and seethed. He didn’t understand. She was a good person. Anyone could see that.

  Something landed hard on the bed next to her. It was the remote control. She looked up as Fred slipped his wallet into his hip pocket and the keys into his front one.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Wait! Let me get my shoes and my purse.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I said no.”

  “I heard you, I’m just not sure what you mean by it.”

  “What part of no didn’t you understand?” he snapped. “The N? The O? The space in between? I mean that I want you to stay here. I want to try something different. You might get in the way.” He paused and looked down at her. “You might even get hurt.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. I saw a couple of places that, well, let’s just say they’re not where tourists would normally go. At least, not tourists like us.”

  “I can’t let you go alone. What if something happens to you?”

  “It might. It might open a couple of doors for us, too. That can’t happen if you’re with me.”

  “You’re going to do this even though you know you might get hurt.”

  “Well, I’m hoping that won’t happen. I’m not fond of pain.”

  “What if you get killed?”

  “Then, it’ll be up to you to finish. I don’t plan on getting killed, though.”

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  “You can’t stop me. We’ve tried it your way. All we’ve got to show for it is eight days of motel bills. It’s time to try a more direct approach. I think I know the best way to do it.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t really know. However long it takes, I guess. This kind of thing is new to me. I’ve only seen it done on TV.”

  She sighed. Without thinking about it she sprang upward, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

  “You be careful,” she whispered as she pulled away. “I want you back in one piece.”

  He stared at her, stunned, as she sat back on the edge of the bed. At last he shook his head, turned, and went out the door into the hot Oklahoma night.

  •

  Fred stood in the parking lot. The bar was the right combination of sleazy, sexy come on and bravura he’d hoped to find. Motorcycles – some dressed, some chopped, some just big – formed a chromed, canted line as they all leaned on their kickstands. Orange, red, and yellow neon lights formed an Indian headdress with two feathers burned out.

  THE WARBONNET

  The words screamed at the highway in three-foot high red piping from just below the headband. Several pick up trucks, a couple of SUV’s, a fairly new BMW, and a few older cars were scattered over the gravel lot. Bright lamps on tall steel poles threw the parking lot into sharp relief.

  A young man wearing faded blue jeans and a gray tee shirt with cut-off sleeves studied Fred from where he leaned against the fender of a white Ford pickup truck. His left arm was wrapped possessively around the waist of a dark-haired girl wearing a white sleeveless shirt and red Daisy Dukes. Fred tried his best not to notice the girl’s long, shapely legs.

  He took a deep breath. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he walked to the front door, nodding to the couple as he passed. When he reached the door he hesitated, his palm against the glossy black wood, while he read the words printed there. He expected to see something like “You must be 21 to enter” but instead, white letters proclaimed:

  IF YOU AIN’T CHEROKEE THEN YOU AIN’T

  Beneath that statement of pride someone had carved a single word:

  WELCOME

  I guess equal rights aren’t at the top of the list here, Fred thought. He pushed open the door and stepped into the darkened room. Music hammered him as he let his eyes adjust to the smoke and dim light.

  Oh, whiskey gin and brandy,

  with a glass I’m pretty handy,

  I’m tryin’ to walk a straight line

  on sour mash and cheap wine.

  Yeah, so join me for a drink, boys,

  ah, we’re gonna make a big noise.

  Bon Scott’s gravelly voice blasted from the jukebox standing on the far side of the room. Three crowded pool tables stood in line on Fred’s left. The clink of balls knocking about on the tables died out as one by one the players turned to stare at him. It would have been funny were it not for the stony and hostile expressions on their faces. Knots of people sat clustered around small tables scattered through the room. Conversation faded.

  Fred turned to his right and walked to the bar. “Jim Beam. Neat.”

  The bartender, a wiry man with long black hair and high cheekbones and his face pitted with old acne scars, merely shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you refusing me service?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then, why won’t you serve me a drink?”

  “Because I don’t want any fights in here.”

  “I don’t want any fights either.”

  “Good.” The bartender leaned forward, his palms on the bar. “Then leave and there won’t be any.”

  “Not ’til I’ve had my drink.”

  “Look, man, I’m trying to save your life.”

  “Oh? From what?”

  “Not what. Who.” He pointed behind Fred. “Him.”

  Fred felt a heavy hand crush down on his right shoulder. The hand slowly turned him to the right until he found himself eye level to the open collar of a blue and white plaid shirt. A silver tomahawk dangled from a heavy chain in the V. Fred tilted his head back until he could see the man’s eyes. Cruel anger glared back from the stranger’s black orbs. The man was at least six and a half feet tall and massive as a mountain. Alcohol fumes flowed into Fred’s face.

  I should have listened to Amanda. Fred thought. He took a deep breath. This is not going to end well.

  “Are you lost?” the giant shook Fred by the shoulder. “Or, maybe you don’t hear so good?”

  “I’m not lost. I’m trying to find someone.”

  “Well, you look lost. But, you found me. That should be enough for any paleface. Now it’s time for you to leave.”

  “You’re right,” Fred agreed. “I found you. But, are you the right person?”

  “I’m the only person you need and more than you want.”

  “Maybe. Are you, by chance, a medicine man?” Fred took a deep breath. “You see, I’m trying to find a medicine man. A real one, not some costumed dancer out to fleece the tourists.”

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed as anger took over. “Manny, keep my beer cold, will you? This shouldn’t take long. Our friend wants a real Indian medicine man. I’m gonna take him out to the parkin
g lot and give him a dose of some authentic Cherokee medicine.”

  Fred heard the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor as the other patrons made ready to follow them outside. In places like this a parking lot fight was entertainment. Better, it was free entertainment. Someone was probably taking bets. He wondered what his odds were. Not very good. Thirty-to-one? Against?

  “Would it help if I said I was part Cherokee?” Fred was lifted by the front of his shirt until his feet barely caressed the floor. The big man carried him towards the door. “On my mother’s side?”

  “Don’t kill him, Frank!” Manny’s voice floated from behind them. “We don’t need that kind of heat!”

  “Depends on what part of him’s Cherokee and how long he can live without it.” Frank’s grip tightened as his arm pistoned Fred backwards. His back slammed into the thick wooden door. Something snapped (he hoped it wasn’t something inside of him) and then the door swung open. He was propelled, arms pin wheeling, into the parking lot. For a moment he thought he might defy gravity and momentum and stay upright. The moment passed almost as quickly as it came as he felt his feet fly upward and his body fall backward onto the loose gravel. Hundreds of tiny points gouged his back through his shirt as he slid a short distance. The pain was intense. He lay there dazed. Heavy hands gripped the front of his shirt as Frank lifted him from the ground. The man’s face was florid.

  This man really is a redskin, Fred managed to not say out loud.

  “What is it with you whites?” Frank shook Fred like a rag doll.

  “What…do…you…mean?”

  One hand let go and vanished from Fred’s sight.

  “Over three hundred years ago we helped you survive when you came here and didn’t know nothing.”

  The hand reappeared as a fist. Fred barely recognized it before it smashed into his face just below his left cheek. The blow drove him free of the man’s other hand – Fred heard his shirt ripping – and onto the parking lot again. He screamed when he landed on his already shredded back. The world turned gray and began to spin.

  “We helped Stonewall Jackson kick the shit out of the French and then the British.” The huge hand gripped his tattered shirt and lifted him like a sack of flour until Fred once more looked into Frank’s squinted, angry eyes.

  “And, what did you do in return? You paid us by taking our land. You forced us to walk the Trail of Tears.”

  The hand lifted him high and slammed him to the ground. Fred heard something snap but couldn’t tell if it was under or inside him. Either way, it hurt like hell. Points of light danced at the edge of his vision.

  “You’ve broken every promise you ever made to us.”

  A heavy boot crashed into his left side. Air rushed from his lungs. He struggled to inhale but his body was having none of it.

  “You tried to take our beliefs.”

  The boot returned, this time high on his left hip. The force of the blow rolled him onto his stomach. Fred could hear the gravel crunch as the big man walked around him.

  “You tried to take our language.”

  Fred’s right shoulder exploded in white-hot pain.

  “But, we’re still here. The only thing left to take is us – our identity – our soul. So, what do you do? You say, ‘I’m part Cherokee’ as if saying it makes you Tsalagi. You can never be Tsalagi!”

  On the word never the boot drove up between Fred’s splayed legs. The universe exploded in gut-wrenching agony as nausea wrapped him in a black-gloved hand and squeezed his stomach’s contents onto the parking lot. Merciful, magical blackness claimed him as he slid face first onto the gravel.

  •

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  “What’s the matter?” Amanda grumbled as she rose from the bed to answer the door. “Did you forget your key?”

  Bam! Bambambam! Bam!

  “Hold your horses already!”

  Fred hung before the door, supported by two strangers – a man and a woman. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, the man a little older. He wore faded jeans and a gray tee shirt. Dark patches, possibly blood but Amanda couldn’t tell for certain, spattered the garments. His long black hair hung down on either side partially covering his face. The crimson smears and streaks on the girl’s white sleeveless blouse were easier to identify. Her hair, too, was long and straight, although there were blonde streaks scattered through it.

  “Where do you want him?” the man grunted. “He’s kind of heavy.”

  “Over there,” Amanda pointed to the bed. “What happened?”

  “He got stupid with the wrong biker,” the girl answered as she pushed past Amanda.

  The back of Fred’s shirt was shredded and sodden with blood. His left eye was red, puffy, and swollen shut. Blood trickled from his left nostril and the corner of his mouth. Oozing scratches and cuts criss-crossed his face. As they laid him on his stomach on the bed his body jerked. Bloody vomit shot across the bed and the nightstand and into the space between the beds.

  Amanda reached for the phone on the vanity. The girl knocked it away. The bell tinkled as the instrument tumbled across the carpeted floor.

  “Don’t!”

  “We have to call an ambulance!” Amanda reached for the phone.

  “No!” Strong fingers dug into Amanda’s bicep as the younger woman grabbed her by the arm.

  “He’s hurt.”

  “Yes, he is.” The woman looked at Amanda, her eyes hard as flint chips. “But, he won’t die from his stupidity. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve seen worse and leave it at that.”

  “We can’t stay here, Loni.” The young man said from near the door. “Someone had to see us draggin’ this white fool from the Bonnet to the truck. Most everyone knows my truck. Somebody probably saw us carry him in here. Someone’s bound t’call the cops.”

  “Shut the door, Jimmy,” the girl shot over her shoulder. “Ain’t no one ‘round here callin’ the cops. I just need to get this bitch’s head straight before she calls nine-one-one and has the marshals crawlin’ all over the place. I don’t want Frank to get fucked over just ‘cause some tourist decided to go slummin’ where he didn’t have any business and wasn’t wanted.”

  “Mmmrrrrmmmm,” Fred moaned from the bed.

  “Fred!” Amanda started toward the bed. Loni, still holding Amanda’s arm, used the woman’s momentum to spin her onto the other bed.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere, Snow White,” she said. “Not ‘til we get this sorted out.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened in sudden misunderstanding. They’d already mugged Fred and now they wanted what she had. “Oh. Look. If it’s money…”

  Loni stepped toward the bed. Amanda tried to slide backwards but had no room. Her back was already against the headboard. Loni’s hand snapped out like a striking snake. The smack of her hand on Amanda’s cheek echoed in the motel room. Amanda’s hand slid up to her reddening skin.

  “What is it with you people?” Loni asked, her head slowly shaking from side to side. “It ain’t about money. We don’t want your fuckin’ money.”

  “Then what do you want?” Amanda’s voice trembled. “Why can’t you just leave us alone? We won’t tell anyone you were here.” She glanced at Jimmy and then looked back at Loni. “Honest.”

  “Listen,” Jimmy said from where he stood peeking through the peephole at the parking lot. “Nothing would make us happier. In fact, if you just sit there like a good little girl and listen to Loni, we can all leave here and be none the worse.” He looked down at Fred. “Well, maybe not him, but he brought that on himself.”

  “I’m trying to keep us off the six o’clock news.” Loni looked at Amanda. “An’ I’m especially tryin’ to keep us out of jail.”

  “What are you talking about?” Amanda looked at Fred. He looked terrible, but he seemed to be breathing easier.

  “To you this is just backwater Indian country Oklahoma.” Loni sat on the end of the
bed. “You and your old man, you come up here to drink a little, gamble a little, fuck a little…”

  “He’s not my old man,” Amanda interjected.

  “Yeah, whatever. So you’re his mistress or you’re cheatin’ on your spouses. I don’t really give a rat’s ass.”

  She stopped, took a deep breath, and looked at Jimmy. “You got a smoke? Mine are in the truck.”

  He tossed her a red and white package.

  “Light?” she asked as she tapped a white cylinder out of the pack. “All I brought’s the habit, Babe.”

  A disposable lighter tumbled across the space. She caught it with one hand, thumbed the wheel, and touched the flame to the end of the cigarette. She inhaled deeply as she tossed the lighter back. The cigarette pack followed.

  “Where was I?” she asked as she exhaled.

  “We’re not married,” Amanda replied. “Not to each other. Not to anyone else. We’re not tourists. We’re here trying to find someone.”

  Loni inclined her head slightly as she looked from Amanda to Fred and back. She snorted. “You tryin’ t’ score a little three way action? You don’t look the type, but who knows.”

  Another thought crossed her mind. “You bounty hunters? Like that guy and his old lady on TV? If so, this one needs to learn how to make an arrest. Or, maybe y’all need to find another line of work. His technique really sucks. You couldn’t cuff a Teddy bear.”

  “We’re looking for a medicine man.”

  From the floor came the strident tones of a phone left too long uncradled. Fluid burbled in Fred’s nostrils as he slept face down on the bed. Music and TV dialogue floated through the walls. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance on the dark highway. In the room, no one spoke. Loni and Jimmy exchanged a look and then Loni looked back at Amanda.

  “I think I’ve heard everything, now.” She looked at Jimmy again. “Did you hear what I thought I heard?”

  “Somethin’ about lookin’ for a medicine man?”

  “Yeah. Okay. That’s what I thought I heard.” She looked at Amanda. “I think I liked it better when you were just stupid, lost tourists. Now, I think you’re just stupid.”