‘Maryposa can bathe in it!’ Louisa dipped her swimmer in and out of the imagined river. Mr. Buell retrieved a chair from the other side of the salle and set it next to the western landscape. He sat in silence for a long moment and watched Louisa crawl along the floor, her skirts in disarray.
Presently she stopped and looked back at him. ‘Are you going to court my sister? Mr. Thomas is gone.’
‘I’m not sure she’ll have me.’ Mr. Buell paused. ‘Sadly. I courted her for a long while, and she spurned me. I don’t think she cares for me. I don’t know who will have me now…’
‘She doesn’t care for any men. Only sewing. And books.’
‘So she says. I’d venture she cared for Mr. Thomas, though she spurned him as well. Quite surprising.’
‘She didn’t care for him until he was gone.’ Mr. Buell seemed very far away. ‘Another story,’ Louisa demanded.
‘Very well.’ Mr. Buell crossed his legs. ‘What will it be? How Zed Blackfoot defeated the rolling hoopsnake? Or how he wrote on the sky with lightning? Or painted all the giant moths, and thus invented butterflies?’
‘Yes! I love butterflies!’
‘Or how his feet became black, and he earned his name?’
‘Oh yes! That one!’ Louisa was rapturous.
‘Very well, come here then, sit on my lap, and I shall tell you the story.’ Louisa stood, but looked back at the play set. ‘Come dear, it’s a long story and I need your close company. You may bring Maryposa.
Louisa hesitated, then sat cautiously on his lap. He shifted about a great deal, and she picked at her doll’s hair.
‘There, that’s better, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘Now then, the Story of How Zed Blackfoot Came to be Called Blackfoot.’
‘The Indians called him that.’
‘That’s true, they gave him the name, but not for just any reason. There is logic yet in the savage mind. I’ll tell you how he came to have those black feet. It all started with the sun.’
‘I’m rather too warm myself.’
‘Just listen.’ He patted her knee. ‘The sun in Texas is so hot, a terrible giant sun, unlike the one above Illinois. Zed had been under it for many days, because he was out in the great white desert where the trees are few, and he had no hollow log to sleep in, as was his custom.
‘He had chased the evil hoopsnakes to the very edge of the desert, but as you know, the hoopsnake rolls very quickly, and he had mounted Dexter, his greyhound, in pursuit.’
‘A greyhound like Grapes?’
‘Yes, except much larger than any hound before or after, and only Zed could ride him. But they were both thirsty and tired from being out in the desert so long, and the heat was oppressive, and Zed could not find his way back. But Zed was clever. He was a naturalist, like I am, a friend to animals.’
‘Like me.’ Louisa twirled her doll’s bathing cap on her finger.
‘That is how I first met him, and heard his tales. Like any good naturalist, he had his specimen kit with him. So he took his glass slides one night, when he was almost spent, and he captured a scrap of the night sky between them. He held fast all night to a tiny bit of the black sky pressed between two pieces of glass. And then, when he saw the dawn approaching over the horizon, he buried it in the ground. The sun would not be able to erase his captured bit of nighttime with its bright rays.
‘As specimens sometimes do, that little bit of night sky took hold in the ground. Just like the burrowing shrews there, it grew and grew, so quickly that Dexter almost fell in, for it was becoming a great black hole. Presently, it was large enough for Zed to go inside, and he walked into the great hole under the Earth and realized that he had created the world’s first cavern. It was a perfect hiding place from the wicked desert sun. It was dark and quiet inside, and pools of clear water could be readily found.
‘However, his problems were not through. He couldn’t see to drink the water or to make a bed. He had carved out a little piece of night, it was true, but a night without stars was akin to blindness. So, being the clever naturalist he was, and deeply in touch with the creatures of the world, he took the shrews with their glinting eyes and hung them from the roof of the cave, intending to use their bright eyes for his stars. They were as pets to him and did his bidding, clinging to the roof of the cave in a cluster, as to paint the nighttime sky with starry eyes. However, once the shrews’ eyes were used for lights they could no longer see, and they became blind. They couldn’t find their way down from the roof again, and so had to grow wings that they might travel through the darkness. With this, the lot of them turned into bats. And that is where the bat comes from.’
‘Bats are icky.’ Louisa fidgeted. Mr. Buell was damp and sweaty, and his odor mixed with the cologne on his coat was almost as overwhelming as the smell of her father’s bison. It felt as though he were trying to stand. ‘Are you going away?’ Louisa asked.
‘Would you come with me, Louisa, if I were to go away?’
‘I’m to have a new room soon, with a skylight.’
‘Farther than your room. I mean away from Chicago.’
‘To the western wilderness?’
‘If your heart desired.’
‘I’m scared of the bats. Did Zed kill them?’
‘No, no, he didn’t.’ Mr. Buell took up his storytelling voice once again. ‘Zed Blackfoot liked the bats very much, only now he could not keep them, for, being blind, they could no longer tell the day from the night, and all flew from the great cave in the middle of the night, leaving Zed again in the darkness. So he ran out after them, and it was only then that he looked down and discovered that his feet had become gray.’
‘How?’ Louisa asked, anxious for the conclusion of the tale.
‘Well, bats produce droppings. But Zed had not known this, having just created them. The bats had covered the floor of the cave in their droppings, and he had been stepping in it all, graying his feet entirely.’
‘Ew.’ Louisa wrinkled her nose.
‘The smell was quite strong, and it was unfortunate that Zed had brought it outside. To remedy the stench and to guard against the night he decided to build a campfire. Texas is no safe place once darkness has fallen. It was to prove a fateful night indeed. The smoke of his campfire attracted a Black-eyed Shuck.’
‘What’s a Black-eye Shuck?’ Louisa peeped up at Mr. Buell’s unshaven face.
‘Have you never heard of the Black-eyed Shuck? Oh, he is a terrible beast to behold. His hair is made of the thorns of cacti, and his tail is a tumbleweed. His front paws are that of a wicked monkey and the rest of him looks like a beast that came of a fox eaten by a wolf eaten by a buffalo. One of the worst ever seen. Or barely seen, because he only comes out at night, and walks backward with his head between his legs. Few men even glimpse that terrible sight, because before they know the creature is upon them, the Shuck has drunk all their blood from their shadows.’
Louisa was held rapt.
‘He will suck the life from goats, though he most prefers children. He kills them for their hearts, which he uses to line his dirty nest and keep it warm and wet with blood. He hunts alone in the dead of the night and his eyes are bright black like the unlit disc of the moon.’
‘What happened to Zed?’ Louisa blurted out, greatly distressed.
‘They had a great wrestling match, all around the edge of the campfire. Dexter the grayhound was frightened off completely. The Black-eyed Shuck was big and a mighty wrestler. His jaws were powerful, and he had long fingers with claws on the end, like those of a witch. He had Zed pinned down and was sipping blood from his moon-shadow, nearly draining the life from him, when Zed took a chance. Owing to the great stench of the bat droppings, he suspected that they might be flammable, and on this clever thought, he stuck his feet into the roaring campfire. Immediately they flared to life, and he had two great torches at the end of his legs. Though he did not know it, a torch is the best weapon against a Shuck. They are allergic to flames. So Zed kicked the great beast back into th
e night using his feet of flame. He was in a great deal of pain, but managed to run the Black-eyed Shuck off. He buried his feet in the sand just in time to keep them from becoming consumed by flames entirely. However, they were plenty cooked, and their appearance remained as such ever after. Thus when the great chief of the seven tribes saw his fire-blackened feet, he named Zed…’
‘Enough.’ Louisa stood. Mr. Buell saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.
“Did I scare you? I’m sorry, I…’ Mr. Buell began but Louisa walked quickly across the salle and pressed her face against the wooden fencing cabinet where all the sabres were kept.
Mr. Buell got up and hobbled over. He cautiously put a hand on her back.
‘Come now. What’s wrong?’
‘Grapes is gone.’
‘Grapes is gone?’ Mr. Buell thought for a moment. ‘Louisa, he’ll come back. That dog always does. He’s just off on an adventure.’
‘I can’t find him.’ Her voice was barely audible against the thick wooden doors.
‘I’ll help you look. We can go on a hound hunt. That’s what a naturalist does. He looks for animals. Zed can help us.’
‘He is hurt. Or dead.’ Louisa began to sob, softly.
‘We’ll find him. Don’t let a story upset you. There are no such creatures in Chicago.’ She only sniffled. ‘Remember the story of when Zed ventured forth from Chicago? He had a lady love who had been false with him. He was supposed to be married to her, but she broke their engagement, and he learned that a man might not be wed to the simple girl that he thought was fated him. He was heartbroken and had to leave Chicago for the west, but what did he tell people?’
Mr. Buell waited for her answer, hovering behind her.
‘What did he say to explain away that ungrateful girl?’
Between breaths, Louisa managed to squeak out, ‘I need more elbow room.’
‘That’s right.’ Mr. Buell turned her around slowly. He smiled widely at Louisa. ‘And that’s how Zed met Maryposa, isn’t that right, out in the woods? Now come away from the cabinet, we’ve no need of sharp things.’ He offered his hand and she took it. He wrapped his arms tightly around her though she still shook.
‘We all need stories to tell ourselves. Just like Zed needed Maryposa to keep him warm. They were always together. They sent the Black-eyed Shuck back to Chicago, right to a Zoological Garden, where he might be poked and prodded at for the entertainment of passersby. They were never troubled by him anymore. They found Dexter the greyhound, and he was the best of their friends and a faithful companion from then on.’
Louisa sniffled and rubbed her nose on his shoulder. He kept his arms around her. She slid her hands into the pockets of his black coat. To her surprise, the left pocket contained a letter. Without quite knowing why, she slid it out of his pocket and into hers. Slowly, so that Mr. Buell wouldn’t notice.
He continued to comfort her. ‘The three of them always slept outside afterward, under the stars, or pressed together in one of Zed’s hollow logs, always together, always touching.’
FAM. VIPERIDAE
GEN. CROTALUS
4.8.43, 15:00, 75 deg., 35 knots, heavy rains
Muddy fields, Unorganized Territory approaching Black Pool
Mud Snake, adult. Near the Texas border the rain chased up many snakes. They were coated in mud and difficult to identify. It is strange that life should emerge from the Earth and when this snake meets his end, that his bones return to the same mud he basks in now. I had a moment’s horror at the thought that all the muddied earth around us might be a nest of writhing snakes. I could not see where heads began and tails ended. The processes of nature are cyclical, eternal, and for what end I do not know.
12/8/43
CIMARRON SPRING, TEXAS
Dearest Elswyth,
My apologies for the delay in writing. We are now camping near the waters of the Cimarron River. Much has happened since Westport.
That town was a hive of activity. It felt as though it were being built around us as we slept. The air was full of dust kicked up on the busy streets. The Indians, still following us, would not enter. We were given army quarters: cool log houses, amply long, with capacious fireplaces and plenty of kindling. I thought I longed for these civilized comforts, but I quickly became eager to return to the road and the camp life. Though it could never be said it is without difficulty, I feel quite accustomed to it now and can sit on the ground in “tailor fashion” with my tin plate or drawing board before me. I can partake of fried middling and bread and feel as though I’ve enjoyed a proper dinner.
The Santa Fe Trail has proved a mud slide. The first day we did not get but four miles from town, the wagons becoming mired in devilish mud holes. Rodriguez and McMarrow argued at length about how best to extract a wheel stuck in mud. Then eventide overtook us and with it a thunderstorm the likes of which I’ve never seen. Violent dark clouds approached from a long way off. We prepared for it by tying the wagons and beasts down and wrapping ourselves, but there were no embankments to shelter us. We were caught on the naked prairie and there was nothing to break the rage of the skies.
The clouds flew in from all quarters. They wouldn’t have seemed as black, save for the vivid flashes of lightning that clove them and revealed their density to us, great mountains inverted in the sky. With a sky-splitting crack, lightning struck the ground right behind us. One of Rodriguez’s beasts reared and pulled out his picket. When he bolted, the rest of the pack were driven to stampede. The pickets must have been nearly washed out, because the animals broke away easily, with only the weakest staying tethered.
A roundup was too dangerous to attempt in the nighttime storm. McMarrow was furious and cursed Rodriguez for his stupidity, the rain sopping from his hair. Rodriguez said that it was McMarrow’s soldiers who had tethered the animals. This hardly tempered his anger.
That morning, the watch gave an alarm cry to the camp. I went out of the wagon, and silhouetted against the horizon’s crack of light were the Indians, all mounted in the mist of morning and deadly still. The troops came to formation frantically, gripping their arms with frozen knuckles. McMarrow was roused, and all anticipated a fight with the Indians.
But McMarrow, in his long underwear and boots, simply strode out to meet them on the ridge. Without saying anything he grabbed the reins of two of the horses and walked them back across the line of wide-eyed soldiers. He handed the reins to one of the traders and went back for another beast. It was then that I realized there were two steeds for every Indian. They had somehow managed to round up all our animals in the night. Even more remarkable, they were returning them, handing them over to McMarrow one by one. They stood motionless, barely seeming to notice us or what was happening at all. McMarrow squished noisily through the mud, bringing the beasts home, glowering at the huddle of his dumbstruck soldiers. The man with the bared teeth looked angry. Drool ran down his chin.
Starting with the beast-masters, McMarrow ordered all the soldiers to strip out of their uniforms, which they did. The men cowered, covering themselves. With a motion of his hand, McMarrow brought the Indians forward. Each picked up a discarded uniform and began to dress themselves. Turning to the traders he declared the Indians our new escort, deeming them more worthy than the men stripped before us. He told the surprised soldiers to follow the river to Fort Gibson in a company of cowardice. They slunk off, heads low.
This development has made Rodriguez livid. The traders whisper rumors of Texian raids on the train—many of them are Mexican nationals and at war with Texas. Rodriguez told me the tale of a fellow countryman who had set out upon this very trail in the spring of this year, at the wrong time with too small a party, and had been captured by a band of Texians. They shot him through the heart. They apparently have no love for the Mexicans and will kill traders or soldiers indiscriminately to interrupt trade on this route.
McMarrow assured the traders that the roads are safer after General Irion disbanded a bloodthirsty group of freebooters
from Texas. He says the chief danger along the trail is snakebite. It is strange to me that instead of the danger of attack from Indians (who are now our silent guards), we must worry about being robbed by men who were so recently citizens of the United States. But such is the state of war. We will soon enter the “disputed territory,” though few call it that, having definite opinions about who Texas should belong to: the U.S., Mexico, or herself. The lawlessness does make me nervous.
Otherwise, we make progress. We feast each day upon buffalo hump ribs and sausages, fish, marrowbones, and beans. At camp, the traders build great frameworks of willow brush and hang the meat to dry upon them. The hunters in the group consider it sporting to ride up alongside galloping buffaloes. This is unnecessary, as the creatures have very poor eyesight. I was able to draw one sitting but a few yards away and indeed I have seen them killed from a rifled musket at point-blank range. It seems unfair. The nightly camps can become boisterous, with the Indians taking their soldier’s ration of whiskey straight to heart and spinning yarns or singing into the night. They speak perfect English. A few are surprisingly affectionate with one another, kissing vigorously and wrestling. You would like them, I think.
Since his assigned soldiers were dismissed, McMarrow seems a good deal less angry, though none could claim he is more controlled in his behaviors. He continues his reveries through the day and has on more than one occasion gone off leaning in his saddle to hunt.
After camp is made he usually wrangles as many of the traders as possible (and sometimes me) into his tricky card games. He has made paupers of half of them. Rodriguez won’t play. While losing their shirts, his opponents must tolerate his grandstanding stories of war.
The stars that inform my map tell me that we are still far from Santa Fe. At the Cimarron canyon the low desert has given way to high piney forests through which the river winds, shadowed by towering sills of sheer rock. The Texians claim this tract of northward land as part of their new nation but can’t control it, so the north and west of Texas are still held by Mexico. Rodriguez thinks it wise to reduce the number of Indians in our company, as not to appear a raiding party entering foreign territory. He speaks endlessly about Nuevo Mexico.
Bats of the Republic Page 10