Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  The trees grew taller and rounder and softer as the Humans rode deeper into southeast Texas.

  85

  The Humans camped beside the Brazos River, which was little more than a creek. As the campfires burned down to embers, the warriors began settling down for a restful night ofuhu (blanket)kooi (death). But Lifts Something was not sleepy. She told Crying Coyote that blanket-death could wait because she was going to wash her hair in the river. She got up and left. Crying Coyote wasn’t sure what to do. Should he roll up in his buffalo robe and drift away? Or should he go after her? Was she really interested in clean hair, or did she hope for something more?

  After a long debate with himself, Crying Coyote decided that the warpath was no place for a running-heart. He got up quietly and crept nervously in the direction of the river. He heard her bathing and followed the sound. But when he reached the river’s edge, when he saw her, he hesitated. Hiding himself in the shadow of a cottonwood tree, he simply watched.

  But soon Crying Coyote began to grow nervous. What if she should see him seeing her? What if somebody else should spy him spying on her? Losing his nerve, he turned and began beating a silent retreat.

  “Kia!”Lifts Something called out, indicating surprise. “Where are you going?”

  Crying Coyote turned again, surprised, confused, and most of all embarrassed.

  “Hakai?”he called back, making a question sign by rotating an uneasy hand. “What?”

  “Why are you running away?” asked the girl in the river. “Are you a running-heart?”

  The young warrior chose to be insulted.

  “I never . . .”

  “Then do not run away now.”

  Crying Coyote stood paralyzed. He looked so uncomfortable that the young woman laughed.

  “Your hair is dirty,” Lifts Something said.

  He put his hand up and ran it through his hair. Then he scratched his head.

  “Kee,it is not.”

  He didn’t like to wash his hair too often because the dirtier it got, the darker it got, which made him look more Human.

  “Hay,”Lifts Something insisted, “it looks dirty to me. Come down here. Come into the water. Quickly!”

  Crying Coyote disrobed in the shadows and walked backward into the river. The water was shallow, only covering the bathers up to their waists. Lifts Something’s young breasts stood up like pointed Human-houses on her chest. Crying Coyote couldn’t believe he was this close to something so wonderful.

  “Were you going to go back,” Lifts Something asked, “and never let me know you had seen me?”

  “Hay,”he said. Yes.

  “Why?”

  “You know.”

  “Kee,I do not. Tell me. Why were you going to go without saying hello?”

  She dunked him playfully in the shallow river. He came up sputtering, with his mouth and eye wide open. He eventually managed to close his mouth, but his eye remained gaping.

  “Come on.” Lifts Something laughed. “How could you be so rude?”

  “Because . . . because it is not proper,” he sputtered.

  “What is not proper?”

  “For me, the boy, to be the aggressor. The girl must be the aggressor in matters such as these. You know that. You were well brought up.”

  “You are much old-fashioned.”

  “I have to be.”

  “Because you are not really Human?”

  “Iam Human! Do not say that.”

  “I am sorry. I do not mind your being old-fashioned. It is all right.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Actually, I like it. You are a credit to your parents.” She smiled. “And you are a challenge.”

  Lifts Something uncrossed her arms and began washing Crying Coyote’s head. He slowly began to relax. He even started to enjoy the touch of her hands. He felt a little dreamy, so he wasn’t sure he heard her right.

  He thought she said:“Na-su-yake. My mind cries for you. I love you.” But he wasn’t sure and so didn’t say anything.

  He thought he heard it again: “My mind cries for you.”

  But he was shy.

  Lifts Something grabbed hold of his hair and pulled straight up as if she were going to scalp him.

  “My mind cries for you,” she said. “Now you say something.”

  “My mind cries for you, too,” he mumbled.

  She released his hair and threw her arms around him.

  86

  Crying Coyote stared at a miracle: a great plain made of water instead of grass. The waves rolled the way the grass on the plains rolled when the wind stirred it. He felt an urge to ride out across it to the blue horizon. He wished he had two eyes to take in so much beauty, but he also realized that he loved beauty more now that he could see less of it. Surely this watery plain was the most beautiful landscape in the world. Except it wasn’t land.

  Crying Coyote and the rest of the Human horde studied the panorama from atop a low green hill that allowed them to see for miles in this low country. At the edge of the blue limpid plain, they saw a tiny settlement that seemed huddled and timid. The town of Linnville was composed of only a few shacks, a couple of stores, a small church, and a huge mountain of a building that dwarfed everything else. He wondered: What in the world could that be?

  Needing a friend to talk to, Crying Coyote leaned forward and spoke soothingly to his Goddog. “Run well today, Old Friend. Do not put your hoof in any prairie dog holes. Do they have prairie dogs here? Be brave, Old Friend. This is our chance to prove that we belong on the warpath.”

  Crying Coyote was as nervous as he had been when he was waiting for the dance to start, as nervous as he had been as he approached Lifts Something for the first time, for he was once again waiting for something to begin, waiting to see what would happen. Soon he would be charging down this bluff toward the town below, would soon be fighting his first battle, but not yet. He couldn’t go until his father the Sun Shaman gave the signal. And his father wouldn’t go until a venerable old warrior named Chief Iron Jacket gave the signal. But the old chief seemed simply to be enjoying the wonderful view. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he go? Didn’t he know they were burning to charge? Was he too old to be eager for battle?

  Crying Coyote thought: Chief Iron Jacket couldn’t be afraid, could he? What did he have to be afraid of? After all, he was immortal, wasn’t he, thanks to his armor? That’s what everybody said. Crying Coyote’s father had told him the story of the iron vest. How one of the chief’s forefathers had taken it from a Spanish enemy much, much years ago. How this enemy had been a soldier in an army that wore not only iron jackets but also iron hats. How these intruders not only wore metal clothes but were looking for metal villages. How they had been crazy enough to believe that the Human Beings would make houses out of gold that would be too heavy to carry when it was time to move on. How many of these silly soldiers had lost their lives on the trackless plains and so lost their armor? The ancient iron jacket was made of overlapping metal plates that jingled merrily when in motion. But his armor was quiet now as the old man sat motionless on the top of the hill. In the bright morning sun, the old jacket gleamed as if it were gold, as if the old soldier had found the cities for which he was searching. If Crying Coyote had such a battle vest, he told himself, he wouldn’t hesitate. He would—

  The attack caught the impatient Crying Coyote in mid-daydream. He wasn’t ready and almost lost his balance. He hoped Lifts Something hadn’t noticed. He looked around for her, but he couldn’t find her in all the confusion. Without warning, Chief Iron Jacket had kicked his Goddog in the ribs and charged. Which caused the Sun Shaman to kick his Goddog. Which started a stampede down the slope. Crying Coyote was caught in a vast Human wave that rolled down the green hill the way waves rolled on the new—at least to him— ocean. The red wave raced south while the blue waves raced north. The opposing waves were on a collision course. Crying Coyote was being carried along by forces beyond his control. He had not anticipated this feeling of helplessness.
It didn’t fit with his idea of being a warrior, for he had always imagined that the warrior dominated the battle rather than the other way around. What was happening to him? What was happening to them all? Where was Lifts Something? He kept looking around for her pale yellow buckskin dress. He longed for her as he bore down upon the inhuman town. Then he realized that he had lost sight of his father, too.

  Crying Coyote rode through grass that was thicker and taller than the grass at home. He rode over ground that was softer than the baked clay at home. He even rode through air that seemed thicker than the arid air at home.

  Crashing through oak limbs, Crying Coyote galloped into the garden of an isolated cabin in time to see a scene that was somehow vaguely familiar. A Writer woman was being dragged from a log cabin. He watched as one of the Human warriors tore her inhuman blouse. Crying Coyote jumped off his horse to help undress the Writer woman, but he couldn’t get close enough to touch her. Stripping enemy females was a popular activity and drew a crowd. Painted warriors threw the naked Writer woman onto the back of a horse, an unwilling Godiva.

  Then the warriors swarmed on toward the small town built at the foot of the great mountain of a building. Writer men rushed out to challenge them with long, clumsy rifles. They were better armed than the Human Beings but overwhelmingly outnumbered. The Humans’ problem was that there weren’t enough enemies to go around: only a few braves would be able to count coups because of the shortage.

  Crying Coyote saw a battle that was considerably more blurred and indistinct than he had imagined it would be. He was still living in a box and was forced to look out at the fighting through a knothole. He had trouble with his depth perception, so everything seemed to happen in one plane rather than in layers. Nothing sorted itself out or stood out. He had looked forward to scenes of combat as clear and dramatic as the war stories he had heard around campfires all his Human life. But instead, his first battle was turning into a glimpse here and a glimpse there. War was too many stories happening simultaneously to be comprehended all at once. And none of them was his story because he was more spectator than warrior. He felt more confused than frightened, which surprised him.

  Crying Coyote caught a glimpse of inhumans fleeing crazily toward the water, as if they thought they could run out across the blue plain. He saw them actually running into the ocean. He thought they were going to drown themselves to save themselves from a more painful death, but then he saw them getting into wooden boats. He and a dozen other braves charged after them, galloping right into the churning water, but the boats outran them. These Writers would escape because the Human Beings did not have a navy.

  Crying Coyote sat on his Goddog, which was up to its chest in the heaving water, and stared about him. The ocean came at him in liquid hills, one after the other, an inexhaustible range of water mountains. This water had strong medicine and a strong taste. He was used to gentle, trickling water that made gentle, trickling sounds, but this water roared.

  Crying Coyote was lost in his admiration of the fierce water when his Goddog suddenly shied. The inattentive warrior almost tumbled into the ocean. As he fought to hold on, Crying Coyote looked around and saw Lifts Something. He was startled, embarrassed—and happy. He didn’t see the ocean anymore. So far as he was concerned, it had dried up.

  “Come on,” Lifts Something said. “We are missing the fun.”

  Turning their Goddogs, they rode back toward the beach. When he looked back, Crying Coyote saw the inhumans in the boats shaking their fists at him and his people. The two Goddogs splashed up onto the sand and shook themselves like dogs that weren’t divine.

  Then Lifts Something galloped off with Crying Coyote right behind her. She headed straight for the huge building. Now he noticed a sign on this mountain of wood that said WAREHOUSE. He hadn’t seen writing for so long that he had almost forgotten not only how to read but even that he had ever been able to read—a little. He was surprised that the letters on the building spoke to him, but they did. He wondered what kind of wares were stored behind the sign.

  The front door stood wide open like the front gate of a vaguely remembered family fort a long time ago, but he told himself not to try to bring that memory into focus. Remembering hurt. Keep that door closed. Closed and locked. Crying Coyote was surprised to see Lifts Something ride right through the front door of the warehouse. He rode in after her. Their Goddogs’ hooves were loud on the wooden floor.

  The warehouse was already crowded with Human warriors making war on bolts of red cloth, ladies’ dresses, ladies’ undergarments, umbrellas, and stovepipe hats. Crying Coyote jumped off his Goddog and joined the war against Writer commerce, Writer business, Writer goods. It was fun. Lifts Something joined him. They fought side by side.

  Lifts Something put on a stovepipe hat and then opened a parasol that was red, yellow, and orange. She looked around to see if Crying Coyote was watching her. He was. Then she watched him as he slipped into a swallow-tailed evening coat. He added a bright red bandanna, and then he too put on a stovepipe hat. Admiring each other, Lifts Something and Crying Coyote both laughed. They were children playing dress-up together, and they enjoyed their game with childlike glee. Their laughter mingled with the whoops and yells and terrible war cries that rose from the looting army. But it seemed to them—Lifts Something and Crying Coyote—as if they were alone, playing a private game. He dressed up for her. She dressed for him. He modeled for her. She posed for him. These wild Comanches were children in the attic.

  “You are much, much, much pretty,” Crying Coyote complimented.

  Laughing, he dove joyfully back into the goods that were spread all about him. He threw aside a bonnet . . . then wool stockings . . . then something white . . . then something pink . . . as he went on looking for he knew not what. Then his hand closed on a whalebone corset, and he held it up. He didn’t remember ever having seen such an invention before, but he somehow knew it was feminine.

  “Come here,” Crying Coyote said. “Look at this.”

  “What is it?” Lifts Something asked.

  “I do not know,” he said. “I think it is some kind of armor.”

  “Try it on,” she said.

  “No, it is woman armor. You try it on.”

  “All right. Help me.”

  Crying Coyote tried to assist her, but he found the corset a strange and difficult puzzle. Lifts Something tried to put it on upside down, then realized it went the other way. But working together, the two Humans finally figured out how this armor worked, more or less. Lifts Something put the frilly white corset on over her pale yellow buckskin dress. Crying Coyote helped her lace it up. Then she strutted about in her top hat and corset, twirling her parasol, looking lovely and proud.

  Crying Coyote found her so beautiful that he was afraid of her. He had wondered if he would feel fear in his first battle. Now he felt it. He was a coward in the face of beauty.

  87

  After defeating Writer commerce in the battle of the Linnville warehouse, a gaudy Human army rode north, carrying the trophies of their victory with them. They transported their booty on the backs of stolen pack mules and on stolen Goddogs. And they carried it on their own backs. A long line of wild Comanches in top hats and tails rode away from the sea. While the warriors wore Writer clothing mixed with their own, their lone Writer captive wore nothing at all. Her nude body was tied to a Goddog like the rest of the loot.

  Crying Coyote and Lifts Something rode side by side dressed in plunder. He still sported his top hat and swallow-tailed coat to which he had added a necktie flapping against his bare chest. Lifts Something, who was still dressed in her top hat and corset, twirled her parasol as she trotted along. The tails of both their Goddogs were made festive by long, flowing red ribbons.

  Crying Coyote loved the warpath, he loved his new finery, and he was beginning to love Lifts Something very much. So he didn’t mind the hard miles on the too-soft ground. Not even the humid heat could spoil his festive mood, and it began to abate anyway
toward sundown. As it slowly sank beneath the horizon, the sun turned as red as the sunburned body of the unclothed Writer woman tied to a Goddog.

  It was almost midnight when the high-hatted Human army halted to make camp. They were tired but not too tired to build a towering fire and dance around it to celebrate their victory. Crying Coyote in his top hat and tails danced with Lifts Something in her corset and top hat. As he spun and leapt, his tails and breechclout stood out from his body, and her chapeau bounced down over one eye. They danced over to the ground where the female captive was being ritually raped. The Writer woman’s hands were bound behind her. Her ankles were tied to stakes that kept her feet spread wide apart.

  Crying Coyote looked from the naked inhuman woman to his splendidly arrayed dance partner. He felt tempted to take his place in the rape line, but he was worried about how Lifts Something would react if he did. In spite of himself, he kept glancing back and forth from the woman on the ground to the woman dancing in front of him. Lifts Something noticed.

  “Go ahead,” Lifts Something said crossly. “You want to.”

  “Kee, kee,”Crying Coyote protested, “I do not.”

  “You think she’s pretty.”

  “Kee,I do not.”

  “Your mind cries to do it—and your body does, too!”

  “Kee!”

  Crying Coyote and Lifts Something were dancing away from the woman on the ground when a figure wearing nothing but yellow paint loomed up in front of them. The boy was glad to see his father, but at the same time he was embarrassed by his presence.

  “Did you take a turn?” asked the Sun Shaman.

  “What turn?” asked Crying Coyote.

  “With the Writer woman?”

  Now the boy was really embarrassed. He looked down at his moccasins.“Kee,” he said. Why did his father want to make his life so difficult? Couldn’t he see that his son was with a young woman for whom he cared?