The girl again came from the shadows, poured the liquor into a glass, and gently placed it in front of me. For the first time we met eye to eye. Her glance was quick, with a smile even quicker.
“Drink up, now,” Murrell said.
“Ain’t thirsty.”
“Don’t much care, drink up I said.” He picked up the pistol and stared at me from across the table.
If I were to stand, pick up my weapons, and simply walk away, I might have made it to the double doors, but not beyond. Instead, I lifted the glass to my lips and drank.
“All of it,” he said.
I drank it and she poured me another. I did not know what the smooth liquor was; it tasted like berries but was not wine. I liked it and drank the second glass down.
“Why are ya goin’ to New Orleans?”
“Kill two men.”
“Who?”
“Is that your second question?” I gave him a slight smile.
“Still part a’ the first.” He looked away, into the shadows. Again, a couple of his men chuckled. He did not react and turned back to me for my answer.
“Don’t seem fair,” I said.
“Fair’s what I say’s fair.”
I did not hesitate. “Man named Baumgartner and Benjamin Brody.”
My answer set off his clan to murmuring among themselves. He could not conceal his surprise. He leaned forward and stroked his pistol. “Hmmm . . .” was all he said for a few long seconds.
“Why in hell are you goin’ to kill those two?” he asked as if he knew them both.
“Because one killed my brother an’ the other put him up to it.”
Murrell continued to stroke the pistol. Though it lay on the table, it was aimed right at me.
“The big man in New Orleans an’ his second? Now, sir, I ain’t no society, an’ the more you an’ I talk, more I realize you ain’t, either. So you goin’ ta waltz right on down there an’ kill ’em both?”
“That’s your third question?”
He slammed the butt end of the pistol down on the table. “No, damn you!”
I cracked a smile, then calmly said, “My intentions are to find them both unattended and put a ball ’tween their eyes, just like Baumgartner shot my brother, right ’tween the eyes.”
Murrell laughed again. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. Then I’m gonna scalp ’em both.”
Without a pause, he asked, “So . . . that’s how ya found Rudy, just like that?”
“Scalped? No, sir, first I laid eyes on him in St. Louis he had his scalp, was strapped to the guillotine. Wasn’t a few minutes later, he lost his whole head.”
“No, no, how’d ya find where he was in St. Louie? Ya didn’t just stumble on him, did ya?”
“Oh, no, sir, Frenchy led me to his special sittin’ room where he kept all his weapons, is where I found Rudy.”
The briefest look of jealousy crossed Murrell’s face. “I’ve only heard of such a place,” he said, more to himself. “By your hand?”
“No, sir, Frenchy let go the rope.”
He sat back in his chair and looked straight up to the darkness of the sanctuary’s broken ceiling. When he lowered his eyes back to me, they glistened. “How’d he cut’cha?”
“Who?”
“Rudy, goddamn it!” he shouted.
“After I shot Baumgartner’s hat off his head, Rudy came at me, cut my cheek, an’ was to run me through. Baumgartner stopped him.”
“Hmmm . . . why’d he stop him, do ya think?” Murrell’s tone softened, as if he was surprised that Baumgartner would do such a thing as save another man from getting his throat cut.
“After Jeffery gettin’ his face split open by my brother’s tomahawk an’ us both gettin’ shot, I guess it didn’t much matter, we was goin’ to die anyway.” The drink was getting to me for I felt sad, for the way I lost Jonathan and for the whole damn situation I found myself in.
Murrell again looked confused. “So, they left ya to die?”
“Yes, sir, ’course after shootin’ a ball through my brother’s head, kinda like you done with Wilkey here, an’ Rudy knockin’ me in the head with my brother’s tomahawk, the same one that killed Jeffery.”
“Where’d all this take place, St. Louie?”
“No, sir, way up near Arrow Rock, on the Missouri.”
“What the hell were ya doin’ way up there?”
“That’s ’bout fifteen goddamn questions, should we stop an’ count the lies?”
Without hesitating, he picked up the pistol and pointed it at me. “Ya keep talkin’, sir, an’ I’ll let ya know when we start countin’.”
“We was bringin’ our beaver pelts to market.”
“From Rendezvous? Why not sell ’em to the fur comp’ny?”
I drained my glass and raised it for more liquor. The girl again came from the shadows and filled the glass to the brim. I could hear the restless feet of Murrell’s men surrounding us, though I could not see their faces. I felt that our conversation was about to end.
“Thought we’d get a better deal on our own,” I said.
“Whew wee! You went against them bastards?”
“Yep.”
“An’ Rudy an’ that cocksucker Baumgartner came after an stole all yer furs, didn’t they?”
“Yep.”
Murrell sat in silence for a few long seconds with a look of surprise, then amusement. He smiled and slapped his hand down on the table. “Rudy workin’ fer the fur comp’ny, I’ll be a son-bitch! Hell, man, he deserved to die, the . . . the . . . the fuckin’ traitor.”
He leaned forward and a shadow fell across half his face. “An’ what of yer friend Frenchy, aye? What of his place in this . . . mess with Rudy?”
I shrugged and took another drink. “Don’t know, ’cept they seemed to know each other. Frenchy mentioned goin’ back to Terre Bonne. Don’t know what or where that is. Do you?” The drink was making me bold.
“Barataria . . .” he simply said.
The sanctuary began to swirl around me. I set the glass down and took hold of both arms of the chair.
Murrell drummed his fingers on the table. “Sir, ya appear to be a bit wrung out. Hold together a while more, we ain’t done yet.”
“Why’s Rudy so important to ya?” I slurred.
Without hesitation, Murrell answered, “He was once one of us, long time ago.” His eyes swelled, as if he would cry.
“Oh . . .” was all I could say.
He motioned me to lean across the table, to get closer to him. With his eyes shining, the half-shadow on his face made him appear to be quite mad. “Frenchy killed Rudy same reason I killed Wilkey,” he whispered.
“An’ why is that?” I whispered back.
He glanced around, to his men standing beyond the candlelight and turned back to me. “Secrets, Mr. Creed, they died full a secrets.”
My confusion must have shown on my face.
“They’re all in league with one ’nother,” he exclaimed. “Baumgartner an’ Rudy, Frenchy an’ the goddamn fur comp’ny. They’re all in cahoots, don’t ya see?”
Billy was right, he must’ve been, the son-of-a-bitch! Thinking back to what he claimed about Frenchy becoming a silent owner in the American Fur Company. I did not want to believe it to be true.
“Thoughtless violence, sir,” I stated aloud.
Murrell gave me a look of disbelief and then pity. “Ain’t no such thing,” he said. Then, “I can’t help ya to understand anymore’n I have helped ya already.” He seemed frustrated that I did not agree with his sense of things.
“Can I go now? I answered yer goddamn questions, more than three to be sure an’ I don’t want to miss my boat to New Orleans.” In my mind, I had enough and was already preparing myself to walk my way through the woods by moonlight, back to my cabin and to bed.
“Oh, no, we ain’t done yet. I have one more question, probably the most important, more personal.”
I heard groans from the shadows, as if his men were
ready for something a little more exciting than talk.
“What makes ya think yer a savage?” He smiled. “Now, don’t lie, I’ll catch ya.”
I thought for a second and with a sense of clarity, I said, “Let me tell you a story.”
“You go right ahead,” Murrell said, crossing his arms.
“Well, sir, we was way up near Pierre’s hole, back earlier in the year, durin’ spring. My brother an’ me. We weren’t so much trappin’ our beaver as usin’ nets. The way we was shown.”
“Showed by who?”
“Our folks, our kin. From early on, we was raised by Lakota.”
Murrell whistled again, smiled, and slapped his hand on the table. “I knew there was somethin’ ’bout you! Hell, are ya one a them sun dance warriors?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Show me.”
I slowly lifted up my shirt. The scars on my chest seemed to shine in the lamp light.
“I’ll be goddamned! How long did ya hang for?”
I pulled me shirt down and took another long drink. “Three days an’ nights.”
“Whew weee . . . hangin’ from the sky.” He turned around to face the shadows and his men. “Now there’s somethin’ to live up to!” No one responded.
He turned back, shaking his head, and waved for me to continue.
“My brother an’ me, we came up Spindly Creek to check our nets. As soon as we got close, we smelled smoke. We loaded our rifles an’ crept close to a camp set a ways off the shoreline. There were two of them, same as us. It was early afternoon an’ we musta spooked ’em. Or since they were stealin’ our beaver, they knew to be ready for us. Before we could holler who we were, one of ’em stood an’ took a shot at us. Well, my brother Jonathan wasn’t too keen on getting’ shot at, especially when the one doin’ the shootin’ was stealin’ our beaver. He took aim and shot the man down.”
Murrell was grinning like a coon. “I like who yer brother is! He don’t hesitate, now does he?”
“Was sir, I told you, he’s dead.”
“Well shit, I’m sorry. Was, I like who he was!”
My glass was empty so I reached for the bottle. It was then I realized that Murrell had not drunk a drop of the liquor. I was getting woozy again but could not stop myself from filling my glass.
“When we reached their camp, the one man lay dying on the ground. The other thief was nowhere to be seen. Jonathan placed the butt end of his rifle onto the man’s gut wound and kindly asked where his partner had run off to. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t ’cause he died right then, there in his own camp.”
“That ain’t nothin’. Hell, he deserved to die, the goddamn thief.” He leaned over the table again. “So what makes you more savage then me?”
I leaned in and met him eye to eye. “I ain’t finished with my story yet. We knew the other fella couldn’t be far, so went lookin’ for him. We searched an’ searched an’ nothin’. We was standin’ on the shore of the creek, overlookin’ the beaver lodge, when we heard somethin’ like a stick break. Then the whole damn lodge shook, like there was somethin’ inside. Now, we knew it wasn’t no beaver, they had already been skinned an’ stretched out as plews an’ laid out to dry back at their camp. I went an’ got me a piece a’ burnin’ wood an’ some dried brush an’ climbed down on the lodge. I lit the brush an’ dropped it into the air hole on top figurin’ I’ll smoke the bastard out.” I paused and lowered my head. I could not look Murrell in the eye any longer. “Hell, I didn’t know the whole goddamn lodge would catch fire as quick as it did, in springtime, with the snowmelt an’ all.”
The sanctuary was quiet. I thought his men to be more restless for standing still almost an hour, but not a boot scuffed the floor.
“So, how’d ya know he was in there?”
“We heard his screamin’.”
“Hmmm . . .” Murrell sat still and stared at me.
The inside of the church went to swirling again and the men in the shadows began to file out, except for two. They stayed to throw a rope around my upper arms and chest. I struggled but was too drunk to fight them. They left me tied to the chair. Murrell continued to sit across the table and stare at me.
“You, sir, are indeed a savage burnin’ that man alive.” He did not give up his stare. “Yet, you did lie to me, an’ I can’t have that.”
“When the hell did I lie, ever thing I said was true!”
“Not ever thing,” he said, mocking me. “Ya claimed to be friends with Frenchy. Well, ain’t nobody friends with him.”
He stood, leaned over the table one last time, and blew the lamp out.
CHAPTER 18
The church is new and filled with light, not sunlight, another kind that only shines in dreams. The pews line up facing front and are filled with folks, a mix of Negroes, Indians, and whites, folks that seem both familiar and strange at the same time. The table and my chair sit right in the middle of the church, as if the pews had been cut around. Murrell is at the pulpit preaching, though I do not hear a word, for behind him, the cross on the wall is black, a deep shadow hung against pure white paint, and all I can think of is how a shadow can hang there on a wall. The young girl stands by my side, smiling down at me, holding my hand. She gives a tug and slowly unbuttons my britches, pulls them down a ways and with her plain dress lifted up, straddles me. I know this is wrong and try to stop her but with my arms tied to the chair, I cannot resist. I close my eyes and let her heat seep into my skin. I have not felt such pleasure since my wedding night years before, in my own teepee, with my wife. I strain the ropes to reach out and hold her. All I can do is caress her thighs with my hands as she rises up and thrusts down. Murrell stops preaching and all the congregation is watching. The first I recognize is William Wilkey. Sitting next to him is the man I burned alive in the beaver lodge. Behind him sits my brother. On the other side of Jonathan sits Rudy. I do not care if they watch us. We finish and I am drained, yet I feel the most fearless that I have ever felt. She lets her thin dress fall back into place and with a dirty finger brushes my cheek and scar. A scream pierces the silence, a scream I have heard before, buried deep beneath burning sticks and mud. He stares at me, the man I burned up. He stares at me and screams . . .
I woke to the flapping of birds’ wings above me. I looked up and saw small sparrows swoop down from the rafters and catch tiny morning moths fluttering about in the beginning light of dawn. I was still tied to a chair in the middle of an empty sanctuary, sitting next to a round table covered with dried blood. Outside, the camp of men was waking and soon I knew Murrell would be returning. I glanced down to my lap. I was not surprised to see my britches unbuttoned. I swept the sanctuary looking for the girl. Past the pillars, with the shadows gone, there was nothing more than broken pews strewn along the walls. A single door led into a smaller room where she must have come back and forth through the darkness. I wanted to see her. I strained against the rope and could not budge it. The only hope I had was that both my arms below the elbow were free and they had not tied my feet. I buttoned my britches back up.
I did not remember much from the night before, except Billy leaving, drinking the liquor, and telling stories to keep myself from being killed by a mad man. It seemed even the telling of true tales could not save me. I wondered what Billy was doing, the bastard. Was he up on the veranda desperately awaiting my return or was he laughing with Fontenelle about my impending demise? No matter, I was still alive and I could not concern myself with what went on with him. Though I was sad to miss the Diana’s departure, for I had become rather fond of being onboard the smelly old steamboat.
I recognized Harold’s footsteps on the porch and on into the church. From behind, he leaned down to my ear and said, “If he slits yer throat I’ll do nothin’ but laugh. I wanted to leave yer friend in them woods an’ let the demons get him.” He stepped back, as if he was listening for something, or someone. “One day, that Brit’ll get his. Today, you’ll get yours. William was my friend.”
“
Where’s the girl?” I asked.
“What girl? Ain’t no girl here.”
Boots sounded on the steps and Harold was quiet. I knew it was Murrell among others.
“Well, sir, no time to hesitate. We’re off to our most sacred place on the river,” he stated. “Boys, keep him tied to that chair. Harold, give ’em a hand, will ya?”
Harold and a dark-skinned man with stick hair picked me up, one at each arm, and carried me out the double doors into the sunshine. A rather solemn procession, with Wilkey’s wrapped body raised above everyone’s heads, entered the forest to the north. We followed toward the end with Murrell bringing up the rear. We snaked our way through the trees, with some men humming the same hymn they sang the evening before. For some odd reason, I was soothed by their voices.
We broke through the trees out to what seemed to be a flat, open field, except for the river expanding for a mile beyond where the earth ended. Most of Murrell’s clan stood in a half-circle facing the water. As we got closer to the edge, I saw that we were on a bluff looking south toward Natchez by a couple of miles. I was set down next to Wilkey’s body facing the trees. From downriver, a whistle blew twice then a third time. Murrell motioned for Harold to turn me around. I could see that the Diana was still at the waterfront. With one more whistle blown, the paddles began to move and the steamboat crept backward into the river. Within a minute or so, she was well on her way to New Orleans.
“Lookin’ like ya missed yer boat,” Murrell said. He made a motion and Harold turned me around again to face the forest. The back legs of the chair were right at the edge.
I was beyond angry, or afraid. If I was to die there, on that bluff, so be it. The sun was shining with a nice wind blowing and I would somehow take at least one of those men with me to my death.
Murrell stood with his head down, as if in prayer. Wilkey’s body lay at his feet. Someone had unwrapped it, cut the belly open, and filled it full of hand-sized stones. A rope and a piece of canvas kept the stones from falling out.
“We are gathered here to consummate our dear friend, William Wilkey, back to the all-mighty river from whence he came.” He paused for several long seconds. “Can I hear amen?”
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