Ramon, the tall, skinny pistolero, cackled at this remark. If one worked with Obregon it helped to have a sense of humor. Obregon wasn’t merely afraid of having arrows stuck in him, he was afraid of everything: lightning, grizzly bears, Sioux Indians, snakes that lived in water, scorpions—the list was long. He was even afraid of women with sharp fingernails—a captive girl from one of the pueblos whom he had been raping jabbed her fingernail into his eye. Now the eye, his left eye, refused to look straight ahead, as an eye should—his left eye looked off at an angle, a disconcerting thing. Eyes should be set straight ahead, not angled off to the left.
The injury had much reduced Obregon’s appetite for rape, too. He didn’t rape girls anymore unless they were securely held down by at least four men—if a girl managed to get a hand free, he might suffer damage to his good eye, which would mean that his career as a slaver was over.
It was a wonder to Ramon, and to Malgres also, that a man as cowardly as Obregon had managed to prosper in the dangerous business of slave trading. Obregon didn’t even pretend to bravado, yet he had a sure touch with the Indians, who were so amused by his ineptness that they were eager to sell him captives.
To the Indians Obregon was a great clown, a man who sometimes simply rolled off his horse because he had neglected to pull his girths tight enough. When Obregon arrived in a village or intercepted a hunting band, the Indians got ready to laugh, and sometimes they laughed so much that they practically gave their captives away. Obregon succeeded in a hard business by being foolish, cowardly, and clumsy. Other slavers were bitterly jealous of Obregon’s absurd success. They knew that if they made the kind of mistakes Obregon made, they would be killed immediately— some did make such mistakes and were killed. Yet Obregon slouched on, riding his old black mules, tolerated and even welcomed by his prairie customers.
Sometimes, cautiously, the pistoleros argued about Obregon. Some maintained that he just put on a good act to disarm his customers. Nobody could really be that clumsy, that stupid, that cowardly and survive in such a hard place. Ramon argued the other position. Ramon believed that Obregon really was that cowardly, really was that clumsy. But some of the men remained unconvinced.
“So what are we going to do?” Malgres asked sullenly. He had only joined Obregon’s renegades after the death of John Skraeling, the trader he had worked with for some months. In Malgres’s opinion they should have charged the English group before the trappers had time to get organized. They might have lost a pistolero or two but they might have been able to carry off two or three white girls, captives who would bring huge prices in Mexico, where there were many rich hidalgos. But instead of charging, Obregon had allowed himself to start thinking about how much he disliked having arrows stuck in his fat body; instead of charging, he stopped. The trappers, who had been scattered and disorganized at first, were now concealed, concentrated, and ready for battle. A big profit had been there for the taking, but Obregon had been too cowardly to seize it.
“Hombres, go around that way and stay out of range,” Obregon ordered, sweeping his arm toward the east. “Get across that gully and wait for me.”
“Wait for you—where are you going?” Malgres asked.
“To talk to the English—why not?” Obregon said. “You can come if you like—Ramon can stay with the hombres.”
Then Obregon waved his hands, to indicate to the English that no hostilities were intended. He clucked at his mule and proceeded at a slow walk toward the English group. Malgres hesitated for a moment, and then joined him.
“We can get a good, close look at the women,” Obregon said. “It doesn’t hurt to have a count. We might meet these English again someday, when they don’t have so many good shots to help them. Then we can catch a few women and have ourselves a little fiesta.”
When they were halfway to the English company, Malgres suddenly changed his mind. He remembered that he had killed the old Mandan chieftain Big White, who had been with the English for a time. Big White had left the steamer and was on his way home when Malgres and two Poncas ran into him. The old chief spoke rudely to them and a fight ensued. Big White killed one Ponca with his great war club, but before he could catch the other Ponca, Malgres slipped in and stabbed him in the liver with his thin knife. The old man cursed him and died.
That had occurred the previous winter—few knew that he had killed Big White, but the Sin Killer might know it, or one of the other trappers. One or two of them might have been friends of Big White; the sight of Malgres might provoke them to seek revenge.
“I’ll go with Ramon—you count those women yourself,” Malgres said, turning toward the gully.
“Suit yourself, amigo,” Obregon said.
45
When the fat man, still smiling . . .
WHEN Malgres turned away from Obregon and loped over to join the other renegades, Jim Snow was more than a little suspicious. The renegades disappeared into the gully where he and Kit had hidden— Jim thought they might be planning to race through the gully and make a flanking attack.
“That was Malgres—he killed Big White,” Jim told them. “Be watchful.”
Even as he said it, the ragtag group of slavers trotted up the east side of the gully and stopped. They did not look in the mood to charge. They merely sat on their horses, waiting for their jefe to return.
“Hello, my friends, don’t shoot!” Obregon yelled, as he plodded toward the waiting company.
“Why, the fellow looks like a dunce,” Lord Berrybender said.
’Agreed,” Tom Fitzpatrick remarked. ‘Are you sure this is the slaver, Zeke? He looks like a fool to me.”
Zeke Williams did not appreciate having his information challenged by men of small experience, and he considered that most men younger than himself were men of small experience.
“Did I say he was a professor?” Zeke inquired. “He’s a slaver. He trades in boys and girls, when he can get them.”
“Oh, what we’d call a pimp,” Lord B. remarked. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere . . . old rich men like virgins.”
When the fat man, still smiling, rode up to them on his scabby mule, Tasmin moved closer to her husband, for there was something peculiarly repulsive about the man, something that suggested rot, decay, an unwholesome softness—all the women felt like shuddering, and yet none of them could say quite why they were so repulsed.
“Don’t shoot, let’s all be friends,” Obregon said, in his shrill voice. “You don’t need to point your guns at me, seftores. Let’s all be peaceful together.”
“We took you for soldiers, at first,” Tom Fitzpatrick said.
Obregon wore a filthy straw hat—he removed it and made a small bow to the women, his eyes lazily assessing them even as he practiced this courtesy.
“Oh no, there are no patrols out here today,” Obregon assured them. “They are all out hunting the Ear Taker—he has come back to Santa Fe. You know of him, I suppose.
“I see you do know of him,” he went on, looking directly at Amboise d’Avigdor. “Last week he took an ear from the governor’s nephew—I wouldn’t want to be the Ear Taker, if they catch him.”
Tasmin had picked up Monty—she held him close, her arms wrapped around him. She had never seen a man as disgusting as Obregon. She felt almost queasy, and not from morning sickness, either.
“Do you suppose that’s how eunuchs look, in harems?” Mary asked.
“Hush, he might hear you,” Tasmin warned— though she thought Mary might be right.
“I’m sorry if my caballeros frightened the ladies,” Obregon went on. “We are kindly fellows—we didn’t come to harm anyone.”
“I suppose you’re looking for those thieving Pawnees,” Zeke Williams told him. “You were mighty friendly with ’em when they had me captive.”
Obregon smiled again—he allowed his gaze to drift over the women, especially Tasmin and Vicky. He remembered that the old fellow who spoke had been a prisoner of the Pawnees on one occasion when he had visited.
>
“No, we are merely going to visit some Cheyenne who are hunting nearby,” Obregon said. “Would you gentlemen have any coffee or tobacco to spare—we are running low ourselves or I wouldn’t ask.”
“Do we look rich to you?” Zeke piped up at him. “We’ve got nothing to spare.”
“Why, I see the English gentleman has an excellent gun,” Obregon said. “Such a gun must be very expensive—all we seek is a little coffee.”
Tom Fitzpatrick found the man irritating.
“Zeke’s right, we’ve nothing to spare,” he said firmly.
“Where’s Skraeling—the man Malgres rides with?” Jim asked.
Obregon smiled again, looking not at Jim but at Tasmin.
“Senor Skraeling, he died,” Obregon informed them. “He was not a healthy man. Malgres rides with me now.”
There was a nervous silence. The men had become as uncomfortable with Obregon as the women. Yet Obregon continued to sit, smiling blandly, as he let his eyes dwell on this woman and that.
“Could I buy this girl?” he asked, pointing at Mary. A small quirt dangled from his wrist—he used it to point.
“Buy her? Certainly not, sir,” Lord Berrybender told him. “She happens to be my daughter, and a very skilled girl she is. Knows a good deal about the sciences. I can’t properly be said to own her, but if I did I’d certainly not sell her to a ruffian like yourself. Doubt her chastity would be worth a fig, if you had her.”
“Is chastity worth a fig, Your Lordship?” Obregon asked. “She is a fierce one, the young miss. She snarls at me like a wildcat.”
Indeed, Mary had bared her teeth at the man.
“I don’t like him, Tassie—I think he is very bad,” Mary whispered, too loudly. Obregon heard.
“Oh, not very bad, young miss,” he said. “I suppose all men are a little bad, sometimes.”
He pursed his lips and looked around at the men nervously waiting across the gully.
“Perhaps you’ll sell me the servant girl, then,” Obregon said, pointing his quirt at Eliza, who blanched in shock.
“I buy people—you have no coffee and no tobacco—surely you can spare a servant girl,” he said. “Top prices paid, as the americanos say.”
Tasmin, who had grasped Jim’s arm, felt him stiffen suddenly—his face became dark with anger and he moved so quickly that no one, later, could remember the exact sequence of his actions. Suddenly the pole was in his hands—a pole that they had sharpened to make a goad for their slow and sleepy ox. The pole was Signor Claricia’s. He used it to jab the ox, when the ox seemed about to stop altogether. He had been holding the pole nervously when Obregon approached. But suddenly the Sin Killer had it; Obregon could do no more than open his mouth in shock when Jim hit him in the face with the pole so hard that he was knocked completely off his mule. The pole broke. Jim threw it aside, caught Obregon by his feet, and dragged him to the gully, across from where the renegades waited. Blood poured from the unconscious man’s broken mouth. None of the renegades moved a muscle. Jim pushed Obregon over the edge—he tumbled a few times and lay flat on his back, at the bottom of the gully.
“It’s a bad sin, selling people!” Jim yelled. “Tell him that when he wakes up.”
Then he came back to the group, such a dark fury in his face that no one, not even Tasmin, dared speak to him as he strode through them. He stood by the horse he had been riding until his face, which had been dark red, became white again.
It took six of the renegades to lift Obregon out of the gully. Once they had him, the youngest of the renegades, a frightened boy rode across the gully and approached the party.
“Seftores, may we take his mule?” he asked. “None of our horses can carry him—he is too large.”
“Take the mule,” Jim yelled. ‘And tell that man I’ll do worse if I see him again.”
“Si, seftor, I’ll tell him,” the boy said. He led the mule back across the gully. Obregon had regained consciousness but could not stand unassisted. His whole front was drenched in his blood. Half the company struggled to lift him onto his mule—as soon as he was settled, the renegades rode away.
Jim still stood by his horse. The men were determined to give him time to cool, but Eliza, who had been more frightened than she had ever been in her life, could not wait to express her gratitude. Trembling and tearful, she stumbled over to Jim.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Snow,” Eliza said. “I didn’t care for those fellows. I fear they would have misused me, had you let me go.”
Jim nodded. “We won’t be letting nobody go,” he assured her.
Monty had lately acquired the habit of thumb sucking. As Tasmin held him he stared at his father, thumb firmly planted in his mouth.
46
A cold, cutting wind . . .
“QUITE a morning,” Father Geoffrin remarked, as he walked along with Tasmin. “It’s given me a new aim in life—quite the most distinct aim I’ve ever been able to formulate.”
“Nothing salacious, I hope,” Tasmin said. “We’ve had enough of that for one day. What’s your new aim?”
“To never make your husband mad, that’s it,” Geoff told her. “I think Senor Obregon is lucky to be alive. We’ve seen a good deal of violence on this trek, but that was different, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, only I wish Jimmy had killed him,” Tasmin said. “Then there’d be no chance that we’d encounter him again. I’d rather face Pawnees or Utes than meet that man again. He didn’t touch me but his look made me feel that there’d been an obscene exchange.”
“You have the Sin Killer to protect you,” Father Geoff pointed out. “I shouldn’t think you’d need to worry, as long as you behave.”
“Yes, if I behave—a big question,” Tasmin said. “I wish I knew Jimmy better. To this day I don’t really know what he thinks sin is.”
“Slaving is obvious enough,” the priest said. “He was sold himself, didn’t you tell me?”
“Yes, sold by the Osage to a violent preacher, who was struck by lightning and cooked,” she said. “The old preacher, though a great fornicator, convinced Jim that sin had to be punished, and he punishes it very firmly, once he identifies it.”
“I suppose that could make for a nervous married life,” Geoff said, with a twinkle of amusement. “Spontaneous sin might occur.”
“He considers oaths and curses to be quite sinful,” Tasmin mentioned. “I’ve let slip an oath or two and been slapped for it—nothing like what occurred to Seftor Obregon, but they weren’t love taps, either. For that reason I try not to speak impurely.”
“Or act impurely?” the priest asked. “Doesn’t passion thrive on complications?”
“My own passions are direct, but I’m not thriving on them—starving would be more like it,” Tasmin told him.
“You shouldn’t have fallen in love with a chaste man—I suppose I should have warned you,” Geoff said. “Your husband isn’t chaste, though.”
“No, but that ain’t passion, exactly,” Tasmin said, brooding. “I was much in love with Jimmy once. I wonder where it went.”
A cold, cutting wind was blowing—the days had been growing steadily chillier and the night bitter cold. The two babies were snug in their pouches, with their rabbit-skin caps on. Jim, calm and free of his rage now, strolled along with Pomp. Both were of the opinion that it would likely snow that day. They themselves were indifferent to weather—all the mountain men were, except old Zeke, who claimed that cold made his joints ache.
Jim and Pomp were chatting amiably—it annoyed Tasmin greatly, left her feeling discontent. The two men were old companions—so where did she fit? In better circumstances she would have pressed Pomp Charbonneau harder, thrown herself at the marble of his reserve, tried to smash through it with an irresistible force of feeling—the same force that had kept Pomp alive when he lay badly wounded in the Valley of the Chickens. Alone with him she would have yelled and screamed, kicked, bitten, become a wild thing until he opened up to her. But on this chilly pr
airie, with a tired company plodding along under a slate gray sky, with many watchful gossips in her own family noting her every mood, she didn’t dare produce a sufficient fit. All she could do was plod on herself, feeling sour—waiting for her chance.
47
He was slurping up> the muddy water. . .
THE white man had managed to crawl into a mud puddle in the middle of a shallow lake. He was slurping up the muddy water, cupping his hands, getting almost as much mud as water. Greasy Lake recognized the white man—he was one of those who had been sailing along in a balloon, high above the Platte. Now he was covered with mud. Even a hog who had just wallowed would not be much muddier than this white man. To Greasy Lake it all seemed rather peculiar. Probably the white man had been starving when he crawled into the mud puddle—obviously he did not know that a clear, bubbling spring was about a mile distant. The spring had several cottonwoods growing beside it—the trees would have alerted any experienced prairie traveler that there was water nearby. But perhaps the man in the mud puddle had poor vision; perhaps he couldn’t see the trees.
Greasy Lake, astride the Partezon’s fine white horse, had come loping quickly across the plains. He had news of the English from some Pawnees in whose camp he spent a night. There had been a fight, a great triumph, to hear the Pawnees tell it—four whites had been killed—Greasy Lake was shown the scalps of three of them. As he was only a visitor, Greasy Lake remained noncommittal. He politely refrained from asking whether the Pawnees had lost any men in the battle—later the boy Rattle admitted that they had lost three.
In the Pawnees’ opinion the whites were headed for the big trading post that was being built on the Arkansas—so that was where Greasy Lake decided to go. There was always the likelihood of finding interesting goods around a new trading post. The whites were always inventing useful things. Though Greasy Lake had no money he could sometimes get the whites to exchange goods for prophecies. Usually he just made simple prophecies, informing them of the location of a nice buffalo herd he had happened to pass. This kind of information might even earn him a new gun, if the whites were in a generous mood.
The Berrybender Narratives Page 80