Eye for an Eye

by Mark C. Jackson

  The woman turned away from the window. My heart skipped a beat or two. Framed by the sun, with curly, blonde hair hung to her shoulders, I thought she was Anna.

  “You sleep long.”

  She leaned forward, enough for me to see her face and to know she was not Anna. Her accented voice sounded hollow, toneless because of her broken nose. She had no bandages and no one had set the break. The two black eyes and bruises would eventually disappear, but her nose would always be crooked to the left. I tried not to show my disappointment and distrust upon recognizing her as the woman from the evening before.

  “Frenchy says, ‘My new friend, take good care of him, eh, Christine?’ I say to Frenchy, he is beat to shit pretty good.” She laughed, high and whiny. “But I know the man who hit my nose, and much worse is he than you!” I did not flinch as she reached over and gently touched my right shoulder where the hole used to be. She traced a finger along the scars on my chest, barely visible now because of the small welts and bruises that peppered my upper body. Whatever Grizzly shot me with certainly did not kill me, but it hurt, as if being hit by a raging hailstorm. I still smelled burnt acorns.

  “Frenchy says you are one lucky buck you ain’t dead.” She paused to glance back out the window. The children had gone elsewhere to play. “He must like you. Most folks he don’t like, ’round here anyhow.”

  “Where are my clothes?” I covered up to my waist with the sheet.

  “Your clothes are no good after you been shot. I will fetch others.”

  “I had a travel case . . .”

  She turned back to me, then glanced away again without looking me in the eye. “I know nothing ’bout a case.”

  She reached over and, with a finger, touched the scar on my left cheek, then jerked away and stuck the finger in her mouth, as if to cool it from a burn. She strode to the door and opened it. I heard a chair scrape the floor. Grizzly poked his head into the room. He gazed at his handiwork on my chest and arms, grinned, and stepped back.

  “Frenchy says, ‘Christine, you ain’t no good for whorin’ now, with a broke nose. You keep my new friend comp’ny,’ ’n he gives me a wink.” She glanced down at the outline of my pecker under the sheet and smiled. “Later, I come back with clothes. But you don’t be too hasty gettin’ into yer britches, eh?”

  “How ’bout some food?” I had not eaten since leaving Diana the evening before.

  “Sapphire will bring your supper,” Christine said and walked out, leaving a lingering smell of perfume. The door locked behind her.

  I needed to piss badly and searched for a chamber pot. Finding none, I pissed out the window onto the now busy street. I did not much care if anyone below me was soiled.

  I lay back for a long while, watching the flutter of the curtains. Though I was obviously being held prisoner, I was glad to be alive. If I was shot at any closer range, no matter what filled the barrel of the gun, I would be dead. I thought of John Brigham. A man with much to lose died by his own willful conceit and pride, at the play of another man’s stronger conceit and power. The stark brutality of the situation did not surprise me for I had experienced this many times on the north plains. Folks died for all kinds of reasons, some deserving and some not. I was not sure why I jumped. Brigham was on his way to being dead as soon as the second wolverine attacked. The truth was, I could not help myself. Anna was right, I stood down in that pit as genuine as ever, no matter the clothes I wore.

  I felt bad for losing the doctor’s travel case; inside were my buckskins and pistol. Right then, I wished to be wearing them.

  The lock turned and in through the door stepped the young, nappy-haired Negress. She placed a plate of carrots and potatoes mixed with thick strips of venison and gravy onto a table at the foot of the bed. Alongside supper, she set a glass of beer and a knife and fork.

  “Thank you,” I said and got out of bed, letting the sheet fall to the floor. Sapphire turned away as if embarrassed. She must have been all of twelve or thirteen years old.

  I wrapped the sheet around me, went to the door, and opened it wider. Grizzly immediately stood and blocked my way out of the room. The narrow hall was already lit with candles for the evening. Again, I smelled lavender perfume.

  “Mr. Frenchy has invited you to a drink in his private sitting room.” Grizzly sounded as if he was a man of distinction and not a mudsill as he represented himself with his common dress. “Of course, after your supper, sir. Miss Christine will return with suitable clothing for you.”

  “What’s your name, mister?” Though I felt uncomfortable standing next to him, I was not going to show any lack of confidence.

  “Gerard, sir, my name is Gerard.”

  “Well, Gerard, I suppose I should thank you for not killin’ me. If I may ask, what shot did ya scatter me with?”

  He smiled, barely showing teeth through his ragged beard. “Acorns, sir. A barrel full of acorns with only twenty-five grains of powder will stop a bear in its tracks, but won’t kill the thing.”

  “I knew it!” I exclaimed, slapping my thigh, genuinely pleased with myself. No matter that he bruised most of my body with his shot and probably nearly killed me, I respected the way he went about it.

  Still standing at the doorway wrapped in a sheet, I looked back at the food on the table. Sapphire had placed a chair and waited with a napkin in her hand staring at me. I sat down and ate. Figuring I would not make a run for it, Gerard left the door open. I had all the luxuries of an honored guest, except for my freedom.

  After sundown, Christine brought me clothes. I was as embarrassed wearing them as I was standing naked. The billowy, white silk shirt fit proper, with the pants feeling a little too tight. A black belt and boots finished me. All I needed was a cutlass hanging from my waist and I might as well have been Frenchy’s brother.

  “Oui, Monsieur, how handsome you look!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  “Why, thank you, my dear.” I attempted to bow and realized how much pain I was in from the acorn shot. I also needed to piss again, and to sit for a while in the privy.

  “Frenchy is waiting, Jebadiah.”

  I gave her a stern glance. “Zebadiah.”

  “Is what I said, Jebadiah. Now you go to Frenchy.”

  I sighed and followed her out of the room. Gerard was not at the door.

  Christine led me through candlelit halls, with closed doors on each side. It being early in the evening, I guessed Frenchy’s whores were not that busy, else there would be more comings and goings with their customers. After the second turn, we came to a dark hall with one door at the end. A string hung out of a tiny hole in the ceiling. Christine pulled on the stick tied to the end and somewhere in a room above us, a bell rang out a single, muffled note. We waited. She reached up, straightened the collar of my shirt, then patted my chest, as Anna had done not a week before.

  The same bell tolled once again.

  “Ready for you, Frenchy is.”

  She pulled the door open, curtsied, and walked back the way we came.

  Before me was a tiny platform, a landing of sorts for the most unusual staircase I had ever seen. The dimly lit room was round, with wood steps built into the wall. Every step to my right led down and curved to the left, into darkness. Every step to my left would take me up and curve to the right to end, I presumed by the location of the ringing bell, at the door of Frenchy’s sitting room. I inched out to the rough edge of the landing and looked up, then down. The whole staircase was a swirl, a thin twig wrapped loosely around a finger from the knuckle to the tip. It reminded me of the insides of snail shells.

  Counting twelve steps up, I came to a door and pressed my ear to the wood. I heard murmurs, spoken in French, then laughter, and then someone speaking English, almost a recitation. I stood very still, my heart pounding.

  I would be dead had Frenchy not seen some favor in me. I killed his wolverine and in St. Louis, they were certainly hard to come by. I stole away the climax of Brigham’s trial in front of his invited gue
sts, yet he spared my life. So what might my sense of justice be to him, insanity? On impulse I jumped to save a dead man, was that not an insane act? I knew all too well that I could surely die by Frenchy’s hand or Gerard’s. Yet, justice and insanity might be one in the same. To clear his name, Brigham survived one wolverine attack, only to be torn apart by a second one. Still, by his last dying breath, he wished to have killed the whore. Back at the tavern, Frenchy seemed to know this about Brigham, even before his cutlass sliced the man’s chest.

  In some strange way, I felt a kin to the man I was about to have a drink with. Or, by his hand, be killed.

  I knocked on the door.

  “Entrer!” Someone called out. The door swung open, as if on its own.

  Dozens of candles lit up a narrow room, as bright as if the sun had not yet set. I stood in the darkness of the stairwell adjusting to the light. The only wall adornment was a tapestry hung opposite the door, as intricate as any painting I had ever seen, with two great war ships side-by-side firing upon each other. Only one flew a flag and it was black. Windows built into the right side of the low, vaulted ceiling were propped open to let in the early autumn chill. Frenchy and Gerard sat opposite each other, in the middle of the room, on two halves of a rum barrel turned upside down, on bright, red pillows. Gerard held a book in his hand, reading aloud to Frenchy.

  “. . . The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving that the shawl had already become a prize to another, his bantering but sullen smile changing to a gleam of ferocity, he dashed the head of the infant against a rock, and cast its quivering remains to her feet. For an instant the mother stood, like a statue of despair, looking wildly down at the unseemly object, which had so lately nestled in her bosom and smiled in her face; and then raised her eyes and countenance toward heaven, as if calling on God to curse the perpetrator of the foul deed.”

  Gerard stopped reading and with a finger holding his place, closed the book. Frenchy sat still with his hands in his lap. They both seemed unaware of me standing outside the open door. I cleared my throat, twice.

  “Ah, Monsieur Jebadiah, do come in.” Frenchy rose and offered a handshake. I stepped into the room and extended my hand. Though I felt a true sense of confidence in his firm grip, he held on a little too long. We locked eyes. Again, for an instant, I felt a cold heart dwelling somewhere deep inside him. Then he smiled and the feeling was gone.

  “You are well dressed and bathed I see. Christine, my lovely, broken flower, takes good care of you, no?” Gerard stood and moved away from the half-barrel. Frenchy offered me the seat.

  “Yes, sir. Bruised, but I will heal.” I glanced at Gerard as he rocked back and forth on his heels, holding the book behind his back.

  “Oui, a good shot Gerard is, though an expert at what load will kill a man or only knock him down.”

  Gerard smiled at this.

  “He is a much better reader of English than me. You do read, Monsieur Jebadiah, don’t you?”

  I could not tell if he mispronounced my name on purpose, or he simply could not say it correctly. I decided this was not the time or place to make it a concern.

  “Yes, sir, I do read English . . .” I paused. Then added, “And French.”

  “You know James Fenimore Cooper, then?”

  “No,” I said rather abruptly, as I was not expecting to be quarried about my reading prowess or knowledge of authors.

  “Gerard, allow Monsieur Jebadiah a chance to finish the passage.”

  Gerard handed me the book, open to the page where he left off, and pointed to a paragraph. I turned to the front cover. I did not know the book The Last of the Mohicans. The words on the page spun in circles until I was able to focus.

  I began reading, stuttering. “. . . She was spared the sin of such a prayer; for, maddened at his disappointment, and excited at the sight of blood, the Huron mercifully drove his tomahawk into her own brain. The mother sank under the blow, and fell, grasping at her child, in death, with the same engrossing love that had caused her to cherish it when living.”

  I stopped reading. Gerard continued to rock silently back and forth.

  “Goddamn savages . . .” Frenchy whispered with his eyes closed.

  Two light taps came at the door. He hollered out, “Entrer!” and in walked Sapphire, the young Negress, carrying my travel case. She laid it in my lap and stood next to Frenchy.

  “Merci, ma fille douce,” he said and gave her a gentle hug. She looked down as if embarrassed, smiled and moved closer into his shoulder, then stared at me with her black eyes.

  “Your daughter?” I asked.

  “Oui. Her mother, some say, is a . . .” He turned to Gerard. “Comment dite-vous sorcière?”

  “Witch.”

  “Witch,” Frenchy repeated. “A spell she spins and see what she gives to me!” He pressed his daughter close and kissed her cheek. All the while, she continued to stare at me then the travel case.

  “Père, the contents are his but not the box.”

  “Ah. Shall we see what he has hidden in the box, my dear fille?”

  Sapphire simply nodded.

  “You do like surprises, oui, Monsieur Jebadiah?” They both waited for my answer.

  It seemed Gerard moved toward me but stayed in place, rocking back and forth. I gave him the book. As he again held it behind his back, I suspected the book was not all he had in his hands.

  I reached down and slowly unhooked both latches. I flung open the travel case. Lying on top of folded buckskins was my brother’s elk-handled knife. The same bloody, dust-covered knife I killed the wolverine with the night before. I wanted to pick it up but hesitated. Instead, I lifted the clothes to peek at the bundle Anna had given me, and the pistol with the shooting bag. Seeing them gave me little comfort. I touched the handle of the knife and remembered the dream I had a few hours before, Jonathan rising from the water, but for a nod, not a word said to me.

  “Père, le couteau nèst pas le son,” Sapphire whispered under her breath.

  “What do you say, my sweet?” Her father cocked his head toward her, as if thinking about what she had said. Then, “The knife is someone else’s?”

  “The knife is his brother’s, or was,” she said clearly, in English, continuing to give me her hypnotic stare.

  The travel case nearly slipped from my lap, the knife sliding off the buckskins onto the pistol with a clink. My hands trembled as I laid it back square on the buckskins. I could not conceal my surprise and stark bewilderment. She seemed to know my thoughts and dreams.

  Frenchy laughed, as he had the night before, loud and bold. “I tell you, Monsieur Jebadiah, she is more her mother’s daughter every day.”

  As quick as he began, he stopped laughing. With a finger, he slowly traced the scar on his chin down to the dark red neck tattoo.

  Gerard ceased his rocking. The air in the room dropped several degrees.

  “Who are you, Monsieur Creed?” Frenchy asked.

  I lowered my head. A drop of sweat landed on the knife blade, diluting the wolverines’ dried blood.

  “Sir, I am Zebadiah Creed.”

  “Monsieur, I have a name. This tells me nothing.” He leaned across and placed a boot between mine. “Who are you?”

  “I am Zebadiah Creed, fur trapper.” I took a deep breath and raised my head. With one swipe, I could have easily cut his throat.

  “And Lakota warrior.”

  Frenchy jerked his boot away, slapped his thigh, and shouted, “I knew it! Monsieur Jebadiah, a warrior you are.” He again jammed his boot between mine and with an arm still around Sapphire, leaned forward. “But are you savage?”

  In a daze, I stared at him, then at his black-eyed daughter, and did not answer.

  He glanced at Gerard and said, “We go downstairs now,” then pointed to my left cheek. “Before this evening is finished, you will tell of your scar, oui?” He slowly stroked his chin. “And I will tell of mine.”

  I closed and latched the travel case, leaving the kn
ife be.

  CHAPTER 14

  In the dim light, I saw Billy Frieze’s face turn pale as an old, sun-weathered bone.

  Frenchy gave a slight smile. “I thought he be dead too, mate.” He shrugged and glanced back to Gerard, standing with his back to the door we had walked through. With a wink, he said, “My man’s shot is not as powerful as he would like to believe.”

  I stood next to Frenchy, adjusting to the light of a roaring fire at the opposite end of a cavernous room. A massive stone fireplace stood two stories high, with narrow, open windows on each side. A huge tapestry hung on the wall, similar to the one in the sitting room upstairs. By the flicker of the fire, I saw what appeared to be the same two ships mixed in explosive battle.

  Stepping before us, Billy seemed recovered enough to stretch out a hand. “Mighty damn glad for you to be alive, mate.”

  I shook his hand. “Mighty damn glad myself.”

  To Frenchy he said, “Been waiting down here for an hour or more, mate.” He looked me up and down. “He wears your boots well.”

  Frenchy shrugged again and strolled on into the room. At the fire, he lit several torches and set them in holders scattered about the cluttered floor. With his hands on his hips, he proudly announced, “Monsieur Creed, welcome to my museum.”

  The room lit up, illuminating various large, strange structures made of wood and iron. One of them was a platform with rope strung through iron rings and two large wheels attached. Another contraption, maybe ten feet high and covered with white cloth, stood like a ghost near the right wall. Laid out on three tables were implements of war, everything from bows, arrows, and spears to swords, tomahawks, and knives. Many styles and embellishments I had never seen.

  There were no pistols or rifles.

  “Everyone thinks you are dead, the talk of St. Louis, mate.” Billy stared at me. “You must be hurtin’ by the blast of that gun . . .”