Death Where the Bad Rocks Live

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Where the hell am I?”

  Moses ignored him and sipped the water

  “Hey, I’m thirsty as hell, too.”

  Moses handed Clayton the bladder.

  “Where the hell am I? And who the hell are you?”

  “Moses Ten Bears.”

  Clayton drank long and started to tip the water bladder over his head when Moses snatched it away.

  “Water is scarce in the Badlands this time of year. We will need some for the rest of the trip.”

  Clayton started to argue and winced in pain. He gingerly dabbed at his head, his fingertips stained with dried blood. “What happened to me?”

  “Me.”

  “What?”

  Moses’s laugh shook his great bulk. “I did not think that you would remember last night.”

  “Last night? Last night I was at the Fourth of July Dance in Imlay and having a damned good time, but that doesn’t explain this.” He probed his head and jerked his hand away. “Damn this hurts. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone stomped the dog shit out of me.”

  Moses took a last short pull from the water bladder and stashed it back under the wagon seat. “You remember picking a fight with two Lakota boys at that dance?”

  “No.”

  “About half your size?”

  “No.”

  “And putting the boots to them after you knocked them to the dance floor?”

  “No, damn it, I don’t remember anything past that first jar of moonshine.” Clayton stood and teetered on rubbery legs, then fell back onto the wagon tongue and held his head with both hands. “You didn’t answer me—who the hell are you?”

  “I am the one that stopped you from killing those two Indian boys. I pulled you off them.”

  He pointed to his head, careful not to touch where it hurt. “That still doesn’t explain this.”

  Moses smiled. “Sure it does.” He leaned against the wagon and pulled a red stone pipe from his pocket. He began filling the bowl from a Bull Durham pouch he’d grabbed from the pocket of his patched brown muslin shirt. “When I pulled you off them, you came after me.”

  Clayton groaned and his hands came away from his head. He looked up at Moses. “You telling me I was drunk enough to want to fight someone your size?”

  Moses nodded and lit his pipe, watching smoke rings float higher until they were as nebulous as the sparse afternoon clouds. He sat on the wagon beside Clayton, the springs creaking under the weight of both men, and one horse looked over its shoulder and nickered in protest. “You gave me no choice, what with you being so drunk and the crowd egging you on. They wanted to see those boys take a beating—or worse. A cowboy warned me to stay out of it, said that you were a mean drunk and would be more than a handful, you being as big as you are.”

  Clayton looked up at Moses seated beside him. “I take it I wasn’t quite the handful they thought I’d be?” Clayton probed his face. Dried mud caked with blood crusted his cheeks and scalp. “I think I lost a couple teeth.”

  Moses reached into his shirt pocket and handed Clayton a pair of pearlies. “Like I said, I could not allow you to kill those boys. When I pulled you off them, you sucker punched me.” He rubbed an eye that would be closed and blackened by tonight.

  “And that was all she wrote?”

  Moses smiled. “That was all she wrote. I will hand it to you—you did not give up easily. But when it was all over, no one came to help you—they just let you lie there while they went back to the party. I had to carry you away and patch you up. No one else would.”

  “You did this? You some kind of doctor? Never knew there was a Sioux sawbones around here. You one of those medicine men my dad talks about?”

  Moses tamped his pipe on the heel of his moccasins and pocketed it. “My mother was a waphiya winyan, a medicine woman, and she taught me some of the ways of the Old Ones. But I am not a medicine man. People say I am wicasa wakan. A sacred man.”

  “You’re my age—you aren’t old enough to be a holy man.”

  “Suit yourself, but I do know a little of Indian healing. Now do not pick at that poultice or you will infect those wounds.”

  Clayton jerked his hand away. “You said we were in the Badlands?”

  “Northern part of the reservation. About five miles from your father’s ranch. Be there by sundown.”

  “You know my father?”

  Moses shook his head. “Never met him, but everyone knows about Randolff Charles.”

  Moses stood from the wagon, and Clayton grabbed his arm. “I know you said you’re Moses Ten Bears. But what were we doing at the dance together?”

  “It was not like we were there as a couple.” He grinned as he grabbed the bladder and poured water into his massive hand for the horses. They slurped the water up and Moses refilled his hand. “I hired out to the McMaster Ranch west of Conata. Been there since planting time, and the dance was the first relief I had for months.”

  “And I spoiled it.” He stood and doubled over in pain.

  Moses shrugged. “Your ribs are bruised. I tried not to hurt you more than necessary, but things happen in a fight.”

  Clayton grabbed on to the side of the wagon. “Can I ride up there with you?” he gasped. “I don’t know how much more of your hospitality in the back of this wagon I can stand.”

  The road smoothed as they neared the Charles Ranch. Wagon ruts and gouges made by those new rubber-tired machines had been bladed over, with fresh pea gravel having been laid down to soak up water and allow passage over the slippery gumbo underneath. Clayton reached under the seat for the water bladder and took a long pull before handing it to Moses. “My father is going to be furious that I got into another fight. You’re not going to tell him about the dance?”

  Moses spit dust that had blown into his mouth and gritted his teeth. When he grinned, those teeth were as white as any sun-bleached cow or buffalo bones on the prairie. “I am not going to tell him anything.”

  Clayton sighed. “Thanks.”

  “You will tell him.”

  “What?”

  “You will tell him how close you came to killing those two boys at that dance, and why I had to beat you.”

  “I am not.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “My father will have a fit. He hates it when I drink. What makes you think I would cut my own throat?”

  “You will,” Moses laughed. “Trust me. Eventually, someone at that dance will mention to one of your father’s hands, who will embellish it by the time he tells your father. You will want him to hear it straight from you. Besides”—Moses tapped Clayton’s cheek, and he drew back—“he will know you did not come by this from dancing with some pretty lady.”

  They drove the last mile along the winding road that snaked around to the west and passed through a huge log entryway proclaiming this as Charles Town. Moses nodded to the sign. “Little pretentious, isn’t it?”

  Clayton leaned back. “Big word for…”

  “An Indian. Just because I am Lakota does not mean I am stupid.”

  “Sorry.” Clayton dropped his head for a moment. “Didn’t mean…”

  Moses waved it away. “Of course not. But tell me about this place.”

  Clayton sat straighter in the seat. “My father worked his tail off to make a go of this ranch. Even though we’re in the middle of hard times, he still turns a profit, what with his government beef contracts.”

  “I see he is doing well.” Moses nodded to a large corral a quarter mile ahead. A dozen ranch hands leaned over the railing watching two others trying to get a halter on a bucking, kicking, sundancing sorrel kicking up a cloud of dust over the hands. A few cowboys glanced over their shoulders at the approaching wagon before returning their attention to the entertainment in the square pen. One man looked up a second time as the wagon was within earshot of the screaming ranch hands whooping and waving their hats at the rider glued to the bronc. He nudged the man beside him and whispered. Soon, ranch hands peeled the
mselves off the railing and stood watching the wagon as it passed, oblivious to the two men wrestling the horse in the corral.

  One of the hands broke away and ran to the two-story ranch house. Within minutes, a large man that looked to be an older Clayton Charles appeared on the veranda. He ran his fingers through thick, gray hair before setting his Stetson at a rakish angle and stepping off the porch toward where the wagon rocked to a stop.

  Moses set the brake and counted the ranch hands as they surrounded the wagon. The gray-haired man peered up and cocked his head, stepping around to look closer at Clayton’s injuries. “Looks like you been on the bad side of a rough bronc, Clay. From the rodeo in Imlay yesterday?”

  Clayton shook his head. “Got into a fight, Dad.” He looked at Moses with surprise in his eyes that he had admitted to the fight.

  “What kind of fight?”

  Clayton grabbed onto the wagon brake and eased himself to the ground, holding his ribs and wiping sweat from his face and neck with a snotty bandanna. “Got stomped at that dance.”

  “Who were they? This something we need to follow up on?”

  Clayton nodded to Moses. “He kicked the shit out of me.”

  Two hands stepped closer to the wagon, their fists clenching, their eyes darting to Moses.

  “Step down from there,” the old man ordered.

  Moses wrapped the reins around the brake and stepped down, the wagon creaking and rising several inches. The two men closest to Moses stepped back as they craned their necks up. Another man that had approached from the back of the wagon stopped. Randolff Clayton stepped to Moses and looked up at him. “It’d take some hoss as big as you to get the better of Clay. Thanks for bringing him home, but that don’t mean you’re going to walk away from here in one piece. Grab some ax handles, boys. This big bastard needs special attention.”

  Moses watched as the men circled him. He showed no emotion other than a distant amusement.

  “You don’t seem too worried, hoss.”

  “You will not hurt me.” Moses spoke so softly Randolff had to cock an ear to hear him.

  “You think what you will, but my boys are about to beat the lumps till they’re smooth.”

  “You will not hurt me.”

  “No?”

  “Trust me.”

  The runner returned from the barn with an armload of ax handles. He handed one to each of the three men gathered around Randolff and tossed the others to four hands lingering at the back of the wagon. One man tapped his hand with the ax handle. The one beside him smiled, letting the handle rest on his shoulder like a ball bat. Moses turned to sounds behind him. Two men stepped close. One bladed himself, one leg moving back. A boxer’s stance setting himself to toss a punch. Or swing an ax handle. He spit his chew on the ground.

  Moses faced the men in front of him. The smaller of the three shuffled close as he cocked the ax handle. Bigger moved to Moses’s side.

  Shuffling in back as the men stepped within striking range.

  “Okay, boys,” Randolff said, “get it over with.”

  Clayton stepped between Moses and the men. “Don’t touch him, Dad. I got what I deserved.”

  The men stopped. One breathed a sigh and his ax handle drooped beside his leg, relief etched on his face as he rubbed a misshapen nose that had already taken one for the team sometime before.

  “It was my fault. I got liquored up on some shine someone was foolish enough to bring to the dance. I beat the hell out of two Indian boys from the Rosebud that were unlucky enough to be there, too. Moses here stepped in.”

  “Three Indians against just you?”

  “Not like that. I had the two down on the dance floor putting the boots to them when Moses pulled me off. I came after him. Big mistake. But he could have beat me worse than he did.”

  Randolff turned his attention from his son to Moses. “That so? You could have beat him worse?”

  Moses nodded. “I could not help it. He will need a little rest to nurse himself back into shape. I think the booze hurt him worse than I did.”

  Randolff turned to Clayton. “Like hell you’ll get any rest. First light, you’ll be sitting your sorry ass in a McClellan and joining the line crews mending fences.” Clayton kicked the dirt with his toe, and Randolff turned back to Moses.

  “Getting late. You eat yet?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “We’re fixing to have supper. You can join us if you wash up.”

  “I wash up pretty good.” Moses smiled. “Trust me.”

  Randolff waited until his house woman ladled stew into each bowl before telling her, “Carmel, go see what’s keeping Clay.”

  She set the stewpot on the table and disappeared upstairs without speaking. “Don’t mind her. She’s not rude; she just doesn’t talk much.”

  Randolff poured wine in a glass and handed it to Moses. He waved the wine away. “It would embarrass her.”

  “How that?” Randolff asked.

  “She is Lakota. Standing Rock. I talked with her while I washed my hands. Many Lakota are ashamed to speak English.”

  Randolff laughed. “She’s got nothing to be ashamed of. She’s Hunkpapa, claims to be a descendent of Sitting Bull. But then every Indian from Standing Rock claims that.”

  Moses held his tall crystal glass to the light. Sacred mni. Water bounced around the inside, reflecting light from the window behind him, making odd shapes against the whitewashed walls of the dining room. He swirled the cool liquid around in his mouth, savoring the life-quenching flavor of sacred mni before swallowing. “Sitting Bull had many wives. She could be related.”

  Clayton stumbled down the stairs, holding onto the railing for support, and disappeared into the kitchen. Randolff looked after his son and shook his head. “Looks like he’s suffering for squeezing that rotgut jar, but then Clay always was wild. He’s been especially restless since returning from the war.”

  “Army?”

  Randolff nodded. “He wanted to go into aviation. I got some connections in the War Department from these beef sales, and thought it’d be better for him if he flew. But his eyes weren’t good enough, so they stuffed him into an infantry uniform and sent him to the front.”

  “That where he picked up that wound in his leg?”

  Randolff put his wineglass down and leaned closer. “You don’t miss much. He’s still got shrapnel from an artillery shell that gives him trouble now and again.”

  “And he drinks to forget.”

  “That and fighting when the effects of the drink kick in. You ever serve?”

  “No.”

  “You’re about Clay’s age. How is it that you never went?”

  “I am not fee patented. I do not own land. Like many Indians, I am not even a citizen of this country. They told me this at the Induction Center right before they sent me home. Besides”—Moses smiled—“the induction officer said they did not have uniforms my size.”

  Carmel backed through the door carrying a tray. She set fresh bread and butter in a crystal dish in the middle of the table.

  “Where the hell’s Clay?”

  Carmel spoke to Moses in Lakota before disappearing back into the kitchen. “She is putting fresh tape on his ribs.”

  “You must have given him a real thrashing.” Randolff laughed. “But it looks like he might have gotten a lucky shot in.”

  Moses rubbed his eye that was swelling, making it harder to see out of that side as he eyed the butter bowl. Clayton pushed it closer and handed him a butter knife. “Help yourself.”

  Moses sliced through crust, the aroma of fresh pumpernickel drifting past his nose. The butter slid off the bread and pooled on the tiny plate as Moses took his first nibble, then a full bite. He closed his eyes, savoring the brown bread, the fennel seeds crunching, sliding down his throat greased by the melted butter. “What was Clayton like before the war?” he asked after he’d swallowed the first piece. “What did he enjoy doing?”

  Randolff cut his own slice of bread. “He us
ed to live to hunt, back when there was actually game hereabouts. That’s another thing he drinks to forget, his mother.”

  Moses remained respectful of Randolff’s silence until he was ready to continue.

  “Sylvia and Clay were out scouting for a trophy mule deer they’d spotted the day before. Sylvia’s horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and threw her. Broke her neck. Once in a half-moon Clay talks of going out and finding that mulie, though he’s never gone hunting again.”

  “That fence detail—how bad do you want to teach him a lesson?”

  Randolff dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “He needs to be taught a man can’t just beat two helpless boys, Indian or no. No offense.”

  Moses waved it away. “Does he need healing more than he needs to be taught that lesson?”

  “What you getting at?”

  “Hunting. Game is plentiful on the reservation, if one knows where to look. If you can spare him for four or five days, I’ll find that trophy mulie for him.”

  “What about your job? I thought you were ranching for Sal McMaster.”

  The corners of Moses’s mouth drooped and he looked away. “After the fight with Clayton last night, McMaster’s foreman fired me.”

  “But why?”

  “He said he did not want Randolff Charles as an enemy once you found out one of his hands beat Clayton.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Moses shrugged. “It is all right. We Indians are used to it.”

  “You want your job back, I’ll talk to Sal.”

  Moses shook his head.

  “Then why don’t you come work for me?”

  Moses took a respectful time before declining the offer. “I need to get back to the reservation anyway. People need my help, but I thank you for the offer.” I have to get back to the Stronghold. Dance in the sun. Get pierced. Sacrifice for Wakan Tanka. If I could explain this to all wasicu, perhaps they wouldn’t be so fearful of the Sun Dance. And perhaps they would make it legal to dance in the sun as did our ancestors.