After Robarts and the others had gone off Morton set to and began disguising his van. It seemed the least that he could do, when those fellows had been decent enough to rescue him in that way. He surely would not like to put them in hazard as a reward for their kind actions. He moved the van closer to the wall of boulders and rocks, unharnessed the horse and then began gathering material to cover at least that absurd painted advertisement on the side of his vehicle.
As he worked, picking up lengths of brushwood and propping them against the side of the wooden contraption that had been his home for almost two years, Morton was filled suddenly with a sense of loathing for this way of earning a living. Even those like Emile Robarts and his partners, who lived on the edge of the law, could still find companionship with other like-minded men and feel some satisfaction in what he was doing.
Was it his imagination, or had Robarts looked surprised, even a little disgusted, when he saw that his former comrade was peddling snake oil for a living?
Morton was not in general given to introspection, so after he had made a good effort at concealing the identity of his van he decided to take Robert for a walk about the place. The meagre supply of diapers were all soiled and wet and he needed to find a river or pool in which to wash them.
Although the comancheros kept themselves a little apart from the Indian villages, there was no strict separation between them and their customers. There were Indians, chiefly Comanches, hanging round the camp and the comancheros themselves went often to the Comanche and Kiowa villages on various business.
So it was that, almost as soon as he had picked up the baby and set out for a stroll, Morton found that he somehow picked up a straggling band of children who followed him, vastly entertained at the sight of a grown man cradling an infant in his arms.
‘You children cut along now,’ growled Morton. ‘You never see a baby before?’
Despite the gruffness of his mannner the children, mainly girls, did not run away but instead began giggling and imitating the way that he was holding the baby close to his body. His escort of young children were still with Morton when he came upon a group of women washing various articles in a stream.
The women watched the approach of this strange figure: a tough, capable-looking young man carrying a baby. It was a novelty in their lives; not one of their own men would have consented to appear in public in such a character. Nursing a baby like that would have been see as a sign of rank effeminacy in any Comanche warrior. The white man, though, seemed oblivious to the stigma, merely nodding politely and saying a few brief words that they interpreted to be a friendly greeting of some sort.
He set Robert down near by and then proceeded to rinse out the diapers in the running water. The Indian women watched, lost for words. It was apparent that the sight of a man caring for a baby and washing out his clothes was not a common one around those parts.
Being the object of such attention was not really something that Morton relished. He was about to turn and walk in another direction entirely, when the focus of attention shifted abruptly away from him.
The stream from which water was fetched for the Comanche village was fed by mountain springs. It emptied into a large pool, perhaps fifty yards across, which formed a natural-rock cistern. It was here that horses were led to water, to avoid contaminating the stream.
Playing on the edge of this pool was a popular pastime for the children, who made little boats of wood, skimmed stones across its surface and told each other stories of the monster who lurked within its watery depths. The danger of the water margin was that there were no gently sloping shallows leading to the deep water. The rock fell sharply away within inches of the edge of the pool and the central portion was, at least according to legend, bottomless. If not strictly speaking bottomless, the greater part of the pool was certainly deeper than the five or six feet that would have enabled a person to wade across to the other side of the little lake.
On that particular day one of the children playing by the water’s edge, a little girl aged perhaps three or four, had somehow tumbled into the water. Her frantic struggling had had the effect of carrying her away from the rocky bank and now she was floundering about twenty feet out of reach of those standing on the margin of the pool.
The child’s mother, hearing the commotion of the panicking children, had rushed to the scene and was now keening and wailing in a high, unearthly lament, as though her daughter were already dead.
Along with the women who had been washing at the stream, Morton ran to the pool. He sized up the situation in a moment and realized at once that, for whatever reason, the woman screaming and tearing her hair out in distress, had no intention of jumping into the water and actually helping the drowning child.
The other women had caught up with him and were also beginning to wail and bemoan the tragedy that had befallen the helpless little girl. Yet still, not a one of them showed any sign of getting ready to rescue the child, who was now dipping below the surface.
Morton thrust Robert into the arms of one of the women and then kicked off his boots. He placed his pistol in one of the boots and then, without further ado, dived into the icy clear water of the pool.
The child had disappeared now below its placid surface and Morton knew that unless he was exceedingly swift she would sink out of reach of his help. He took a gulp of air and then went under himself. At first, he could see nothing, but then he glimpsed a shadowy disturbance ahead of him.
Morton surfaced for air and then went down again; this time seeing the child at once. She was thrashing about less now and a fear gripped his heart that unless he got her up into the air soon, she would be dead. His own lungs were bursting, but there was not a second to lose. With one last effort he lunged forward, grabbed the now limp figure and kicked his way up again into the sunlight.
The child he was grasping was as lifeless and floppy as a rag doll, but there was no time to think of that now. The only thing to be done was to get her ashore. Swimming in waterlogged clothes is a tricky enough undertaking at the best of times, but being additionally burdened with a helpless child made the whole business of reaching dry land even more arduous. When at last he made it ashore, Morton succeeded in hauling the little girl from the water, before getting out himself. The child showed not the slightest sign of life and he began to think that his efforts had all been in vain.
The women, who had fallen silent when they saw Morton hurl himself into the water, now set up another concerted wail bemoaning the death of the girl. None of them checked to see what, if anything, could be done to revive her.
Morton grabbed the lifeless body roughly and turned it over so that the face was downwards. Then he pounded hard on the tiny back and began moving the arms up and down. The women watched him as though he had taken leave of his senses. Then, to Morton’s astonishment as much as theirs, the frail figure gave a convulsive jerk and gouts of water erupted from her mouth. She coughed and shuddered and then cried aloud.
She was not dead after all.
Chapter 8
After he had retrieved his baby, all that Morton wished to do was go back to the van and change into dry clothes. This he was by no means permitted to do. The women shepherded him towards the village, keeping up an unintelligible commentary the whole while.
For his part, Morton made remarks such as, ‘It was nothing at all!’ and ‘Please don’t mention it.’ In this way the little group arrived at the Comanche village and soon a large audience gathered, to which they related the recent and amazing events.
Morton later heard that he had been credited with raising the child from the dead and that this, together with the fact that he had first been seen carrying a baby, had raised him in the eyes of many to the position of part medicine man and part heroic warrior.
When they got to the centre of the village the woman whose child he had rescued called aloud to those present. Morton figured that she was saying something along the lines of, ‘Where’s that husband of mine? He has to hear t
his!’ That he was right in his guess was confirmed when a tall, stately looking man came walking unhurriedly towards them.
The child’s mother babbled a lot to this man when he arrived and he listened impassively. When she came to a halt, he looked over to where Morton was standing. Then he walked slowly over to Morton and placed his arms around his shoulders. Having done this, he raised his voice and gave a brief speech, of which Jack Morton understood not a single word.
Although he could not make out what the Indian was saying, Morton was nevertheless sensible of being praised and applauded for his actions in saving the life of the child. He shrugged when the man had finished speaking.
‘It’s nothing to mention,’ he said. ‘I just happened to have been there and I’m glad I could be of service.’
The Indian stared intently into Morton’s face and then, evidently satisfied with what he saw there, he struck his own chest and rattled out a string of incomprehensible syllables, which were clearly his name. Feeling that something was expected of him in return, Morton touched his breast lightly and said: ‘Morton. Glad to know you, sir.’
The Indian said, ‘Moreton.’
‘That’s my name. If it’s all the same with you, I’ll be getting along now to change out of these wet things.’
The man said again, ‘More-ton’ and then, without any more ado, turned and walked off.
Morton felt a little more human once he’d put on dry clothes and tended to the baby. After Robert fell asleep Morton simply sat there, leaning against the van and thinking. The chief burden of his ruminations was that he’d more or less had enough of this racket, which was to say selling snake oil. He had something like $600 saved up, which would be enough to set him up somewhere for a while. This game had been well enough to begin with and there was no denying it paid well enough, but lately he’d begun to find a strange distaste for the trade creeping over him.
A thought came to him. An hour later, when Robarts appeared, he stood up and went over to him with the intention of broaching the subject. Before he was able to open a conversation though, Robarts spoke.
‘You’re the one, Morton,’ he said. ‘I been hearing about your exploits.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Rescuing Stormcloud’s daughter from a watery grave. Everybody’s talking about Morton in that village, I tell you.’
‘That’s a piece of foolishness. They’d do better to learn how to swim rather than trust on some foolhardy stranger being on the scene. But listen, Robarts, I got something to ask you.’
‘Go on then. Out with it.’
‘It’s easy enough. You looking for any new men to join your crew here?’
‘You, Morton? You want to ride with us?’
‘I’ll lay down, so you can see how the case stands. I’ve had my fill of rooking hicks of their nickels and dimes for the stuff I boil up in back of my van. I’ve a mind to ride free again for a while.’
Emile Robart’s face split into a wide grin. ‘It’ll be like the old days again, you and me harrying the Union forces. Of course you’re welcome to join us. I was hoping you’d ask.’ He stretched out his hand and Morton took it in his own firm clasp. ‘Only one thing, though. What are you fixing to do with that child?’
‘I’m going to run down to Claremont, hand him over to his kin, sell my van and stock and then come straight back. That all right with you?’
‘Sure it is.’
Next morning there was news that surprised both Morton and Robarts. A messenger from the Comanche village brought word that Stormcloud would consider it a great honour if Morton would attend a feast that evening. The man who brought the message spoke passable English and Morton thanked him, saying that he would be there at dusk. After the messenger had departed Morton spoke to Robarts.
‘This is a damned nuisance,’ he said. ‘I suppose it would be noticed if I didn’t attend?’
‘You mustn’t even think of it. Stormcloud is one of my staunchest allies. Don’t you start putting him out of countenance by snubbing him. You’ll be there all right.’
Jack Morton had a positive horror of anything that smacked of formality. The idea of being guest of honour at some banquet was not an enticing one. He guessed that it would not differ substantially from such an event laid on by white people. There was apt to be speeches, toasts and all the rest of the nonsense. And all for the sake of his having jumped in the water and dragged out some child.
Still, there it was. Robarts was pleased about the whole episode because he clearly wished to be in with this Stormcloud, so Morton would be advancing his old friend’s interests by attending. For all that, it was still a damned nuisance.
Throughout the day Morton watched Robarts’s band of men coming and going, moving boxes about, talking together in low, urgent voices and checking and loading their weapons. Most of the men were Mexican or swarthy enough to be half Mexican and half white. They were friendly enough to Morton, a couple even condescending to chuck baby Robert under the chin. Morton didn’t know whether or not Robarts had told them yet that he might be joining them soon. The day wore on in this fashion until the sun began sinking towards the horizon in the west.
‘What should I wear for this blamed meal?’ Morton asked his old comrade.
Emile Robarts laughed.
‘What, you think you might need to have a stovepipe hat and a tailcoat?’ he said. ‘Relax, it’s nothing so formal. What you have on now will do very well.’
‘That’s a mercy. I never feel comfortable when I’m decked out in respectable clothes. Makes me feel like a tailor’s dummy. I was working the riverboats before I took up at this present game and I had to look the part there. Then after that, I’ve been posing as a professor and you need to dress up a mite for that, too. It’ll be a relief not to have to worry about my personal appearance when I join you boys.’
‘Yes,’ said Robarts, ‘we’re not great ones for fancy outfits here.’
‘Will you and the others be coming, too?’
‘We ain’t invited. Stormcloud seems to want you there, but not us. I’ll tell you straight, that if you throw in your hand with us, this could work to our advantage. Stormcloud’s a good friend of ours, but he can be the devil to treat with. If he takes to you, that could be handy.’
‘Let’s see how it goes, then.’
When Morton arrived at the Comanche village the children he had seen the previous day ran up and greeted him. He was carrying Robert with him, for he hardly felt able to ask a band of rough comancheros to act as nursemaids for him. The children were still endlessly entertained by the sight of a man holding a baby. The girls came up and touched Robert’s head, while the boys just stared; nothing in their short lives having prepared them for such a spectacle.
When their mothers heard the commotion that signalled Morton’s approach they came and shooed the children away. Word must have spread that here was a man who although behaving in some ways like a woman, being apparently attached to a small child, was also a brave man who had not hesitated to risk his own life for somebody else. As a consequence the women looked to Morton to have something of an ambivalent manner about them in their dealings with him. They honestly could not make him out at all.
Despite their uncertainty, the women sensed that here was a man who would do them no harm and was, moreover, an honoured guest. While he stood among the women, letting them look at Robert, stroke his cheek and smile at him, a man came up to them. Although he looked to be pure Indian, his English was as good as Morton’s own.
‘I am to tell you what is said tonight,’ this man said. ‘To translate, you understand. You wish to say something, you tell me and I will say it for you.’
‘That’s right good of you. What should I do now? I’m not sure that this little one . . .’ Morton indicated the baby, ‘will appreciate staying awake late.’
‘This is not a problem.’ The translator or interpreter spoke rapidly to one of the women and then turned back to Morton. ‘This woman says that she wou
ld be pleased to care for your child tonight. You can trust her, she has had many children of her own.’
Morton felt embarrassed because he was afraid that these people would take his hesitation as a sign that he didn’t trust an Indian to look after the baby well. It was nothing of the kind. Having been tricked once out of the infant, by Lone Wolf’s mother, he did not especially wish to repeat the experience. These people, though, struck him as trustworthy and honest, so he handed Robert over to the woman, saying: ‘Be sure to take good care of him, if you please ma’am.’
After he had handed the child over, his guide led him to the fires that had been kindled for the feast. As they strolled side by side, the Indian said: ‘Not every white man would have called one of our women, ‘“ma’am”’
For a moment, Morton was puzzled.
‘It’s just what you call a lady when you’re talking to her,’ he said. Then he understood what the man was driving at and added, ‘Oh, you mean on account of she’s Indian? Makes no odds to me, the colour of a man or woman’s skin. It’s what they are inside that matters.’
A long, narrow pit had been dug in the dusty soil and a fire kindled in it. As far as Morton could make out they would be sitting around the fire, as though it were a table. It made sense on a chilly evening such as this to have a big fire going; it was also more cheerful.
There was a new moon this night, which meant that apart from the light of the stars the sky was dark. A bright, cheerful fire would be just the thing.
‘Is there anything I should know? Manners and such?’ Morton asked his guide as they came near to the fire.
‘It’s polite not to refuse anything offered,’ said the man. ‘Other than that, no.’
‘Tell me, where did you learn such good English?’
Snake Oil Page 8