by John Jakes
The campfire rippled silver flashes along the blade. Gus cringed back another foot or so, scooting on his bottom. Bent smiled again. “You know what my friend does to bad boys, don’t you? He hurts them.”
Bent got to his knees with great speed and flung his arms out above the fire. The edge of the razor sped toward Gus’s throat. Gus screamed and fell on his side, covering his face. Bent had pulled his thrust at the last moment, stopping the blade six inches from the boy’s neck.
Gus’s scream was so piercing, it ruined the sport somehow. In his head Bent heard strange echoes of the cry, punctuated by a weird pinging. He dropped the razor, ran around the fire, and shook the boy by the shoulders. “You are a really bad boy. I told you never to make noise. If you make noise again, I’ll let my friend bite you. You know how it feels when he bites you.”
Gus began to whimper, wet sounds. Bent took off his plug hat and swabbed his shiny forehead with his sleeve, leaving streaks of dirt. “That’s better. Pull up your blanket and go to sleep before I ask my friend to punish you for being so bad.”
Carefully, silently, Gus hitched across the ground to a filthy saddle blanket. Lice had long ago migrated from the blanket to his body and hair. His eyes showed over the edge of the blanket after he pulled it up. Bent cleaned some dirt from the razor blade with the ball of his thumb. At certain angles the blade caught the firelight, throwing a scarlet-white reflection into Gus’s eyes. The third time it happened, the boy hid beneath the blanket.
It was satisfying to hurt the boy. Each time he did, Bent felt he was hurting Charles Main too. Hurting Gus also had a practical benefit. It forestalled attempts to run. Gus was thoroughly cowed; he didn’t chatter or display the energy typical of a four-year-old. When he was awake, he was as silent as a sick old man. Bent had broken him like a horse. He surveyed the huddled shape covered by the blanket. “Good,” he said under his breath. “Good.”
The picketed dapple gray had lain down on the ground for a roll almost half an hour ago and still hadn’t gotten up. The horse looked at Bent with eyes that reminded him of the boy’s. He was worn out. His ribs showed and he had sores in his mouth. Bent would have to shoot him in a day or two, and then they would have to travel on foot. At least they could eat the meat.
He put his hat on, folded up his razor, and sat with his back against an uncomfortable granite outcrop. He drew his revolver and laid it beside him, then pulled his own blanket over his legs. He listened for a while to the sullen whine of the wind across the treeless slope. Here and there some stunted brush swayed in a strong gust. It was time to give some thought to the future. He needed a refuge for the summer months. Food was running low, and he faced the constant threat of an Army patrol catching him in the Territory, where he wasn’t supposed to be.
For a time, chasing across Kansas, deliberately leaving clues to his whereabouts to torment Gus’s father, he hadn’t worried about personal safety. Then he’d been forced to brain that storekeeper in Abilene, and soon after he’d aroused the suspicion of the fat slut who ran the rooming house in Ellsworth City. At that point he’d decided the game was no longer worth the risk. Charles Main knew he had the boy, which was good enough for the time being. He cut off his trail by turning south to the Territory, where he felt he could hide safely for an indefinite period. Because of the inherent danger, he was convinced Charles would never follow him.
With his shoulders painfully braced against the granite, he stared down at the dark distances of the lightless plain, thinking of Charles as he’d looked when they served in the Second Cavalry before the war. He was a handsome big lout, with the smarmy good manners typical of Southrons. Bent had found him sufficiently attractive to make an advance, which Charles rebuffed. Bent hated him all the more for that. His eyes shifted to the motionless lump of blanket. He wasn’t finished with Gus, or his father, either.
Next day he shot the dapple gray and cut him up. When he insisted that Gus eat half-cooked horse meat, the boy resisted. Bent forced meat into his mouth and Gus vomited all over Bent’s boots. He had the sharp edge of the razor against Gus’s throat before good sense asserted itself. He needed the boy to fulfill his plan later.
Trembling with an excitement much like that produced by sex, he put the razor away and forced the boy to clean the vomit off his boots with small dry branches broken from the shrubs that clung to the slopes.
He left the old stolen saddle with the corpse of the horse, taking only the saddlebags. As he walked in a westerly direction, away from the mountain where they’d camped, little Gus followed one step behind and one step to his left, like a well-trained pet.
Vermillion Creek fed into the Elm Fork, sometimes called the Middle Fork. The creek ran into the river from the north, somewhat west of the Fork’s confluence with the North Fork of the Red. It was a lonely region west-northwest of Fort Cobb, and by Bent’s reckoning not far from the Texas border.
The barren Wichitas lay behind them in the east. This land was prairie with a lot of shale showing along the waterways, and thick growths of stunted-looking jack oak and post oak to break the horizon. There was abundant wildlife—plump jackrabbits, prairie chickens, even a deer Bent fired at and missed. They didn’t starve; generally he was an excellent shot.
Bent began to feel the restorative effect of the spring weather as he and the boy trudged up Vermillion Creek, exploring. An almost constant wind swayed the patches of wild violet and blue indigo, and brought a pink rain of blossoms from a stand of flowering Judas trees. High overhead, wedges of geese flew north.
One moment Bent heard Gus’s split-open shoes rattling the shale, and the next moment there was silence. He turned to discipline the boy but he didn’t because of the boy’s expression. Gus was looking farther along the creek. His eyes were momentarily free of fear and full of curiosity.
Bent turned around again and caught his breath. A fire hidden below the horizon was sending a thin gray column into the clear sky.
Indians? Quite possible. It could also be something like the camp of buffalo hunters. Bent pushed Gus into the ankle-deep water. “Wash your face and hands. We must look presentable in case we meet white men.”
Water flowed through Bent’s fingers, darkened by dirt. Gus imitated him, watching him constantly for signs of displeasure. The dirt slowly vanished from the boy’s face but the marks of punishment remained.
It was not merely a camp, it was a civilized outpost on the bank of the creek. Completely unexpected, remarkably substantial. The main building, from which the smoke rose, was rectangular, constructed of mud brick with a dirt roof the builder had given a slight pitch for drainage. From concealment in some post oaks. Bent look with astonishment at two Indian ponies tied at the front door, which faced the bright creek. A side door opened into a small corral holding a big chestnut and two mules. A small outbuilding, a primitive stable, was half hidden by the main place.
Gus suddenly cried, “Look,” and pointed. Bent slapped a hand over Gus’s mouth and twisted the boy’s head until he made a hurt sound. Only then did Bent take his hand away.
He was intensely curious about the animal that had excited Gus. It was a raccoon, very well fed. Its furry belly dragged the ground as it loped along the front of the main building. Someone’s pet?
Bent slipped the saddlebags off his shoulder and unbuttoned his old coat. He brushed the butt of his tied-down revolver to be sure it was clear, then snapped his fingers. Instantly, Gus grasped his hand.
Man and boy approached the building on the rocky shore of the creek. The raccoon spied them and ran off toward the stable. Bent paused near the front door. He heard voices in conversation. He didn’t want to be shot as a prowler and yelled, “Hello in there.”
“Hello. Who’s that?”
The door squeaked open. First out were the muzzles of a shotgun. Then the man holding it appeared. He was poorly dressed, swag-bellied, and had a face that reminded Bent of a flushed Father Christmas. The man’s hair, more gray than white, was center-parted and w
orn in long braids. A beaded band wrapped the end of each braid. Small trade bells tied in the right braid jingled.
“Captain Dayton’s my name. My nephew and I are lost. We’re bound west.”
“Not through the Indian Territory if you know the law,” the man said, implying doubt of Bent’s honesty.
“We’re not in Texas?”
“Not for a few miles yet.” The man searched behind Bent, as if looking for soldiers who might entrap him. He scrutinized Bent again. He decided the tall plug-hatted stranger must be just as close to the edge of the law as he was.
Color returned to the man’s hands as he relaxed his hold on the shotgun. “I’m Septimus Glyn. This is my ranch.”
Not much of a ranch, Bent thought. “What do you raise, Glyn?”
“Nothing. I sell what the Indian Bureau won’t.” The man had an assertive manner but he didn’t strike Bent as dangerous. A renewed sense of personal importance was energizing him. What if this ignorant trader knew he was speaking to the American Bonaparte? Wouldn’t he be amazed?
“I have a little money, Glyn. Do you sell any food?”
Glyn again thought about Bent’s surprise appearance in this wilderness. He didn’t know what the man was really up to, but he decided a profit merited some risk. “Yes, I do. And whiskey, if you’re thirsty. Got something else you might like, too.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”
Bent strode forward, pulling Gus. “Handsome little boy,” Glyn said. “Marked up some.”
“Fell off a horse.”
Glyn didn’t ask questions.
When Bent stepped in, he was startled by the furnishings: two large round pine tables, badly stained; chairs; a wide plank set across nail kegs piled two high with a row of unlabeled bottles on a shelf behind. A red blanket curtained a door, which perhaps led to living quarters.
At one table, two Indians sat with a brown bottle. Both were middle-aged. One was obese. They regarded Bent and the boy with puffy eyes full of suspicion. “They’re Caddoes,” Glyn said, putting the shotgun on his homemade bar. “Harmless. I run off any Comanches who want whiskey. They’re too unpredictable.”
So this was one of the illegal whiskey ranches. Bent had heard there were a number of them operating in the Territory. They purveyed weapons, staples, but mostly the whiskey the government didn’t want the tribes to have.
The red blanket lifted and Bent saw something else that stunned him. A light-brown Indian girl stood there, her deerskin dress much soiled by food and drink. He thought at first that she was in her thirties. Her eyes were slitted from sleep and her black hair hung loose in uncombed tangles. She had a sullen air. She moved toward Glyn, barefoot, pushing hair off her right ear and eyeing Bent in a bold way. He in turn noticed the fullness of her breasts under the hide dress. He felt an unexpected quiver. He hadn’t had a woman, or wanted one, for over a year.
Glyn poured a clear fluid from a bottle. “This is my wife, Green Grass Woman. She’s Cheyenne. I took her from her village a year ago. She wanted to see the world, and I’ve showed her how it looks from flat on her back. She’s but eighteen winters. Got a lively taste for gin, though. I taught her to like it, and certain other things.” Glyn cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is—she’s for sale too.”
Bent bobbed his head. He’d already decided he wanted her. He had no intention of paying.
Septimus Glyn served up some slabs of cold venison and whiskey that tasted like it had been spiked with cayenne. It made Bent’s lips burn. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“Over in Texas. Dunn’s Station. There’s a few Rangers over that way, but I dodge them. Once a month I traipse around to the Indian villages. Not many are left now that the Army’s come in. The rest of the time I make a living here. They threw me out of the Bureau but I liked the country, so I stayed. I especially like screwing Indian women. They’ve got a special musky quality. You can find out for two dollars.”
“Maybe later. Gus, eat something.” The little boy tore up scraps of venison and forced them into his mouth. Looking bilious, he chewed.
Bent decided he’d found his haven. “We really want to make it to California before the winter. But we can pass the night with you if you’ve no objection.”
Glyn shook his head. “Sleep in the stable, or my wagon, parked in back. Cost you a dollar.”
“Fine,” said Bent. He found a paper dollar in his coat and smoothed out the wrinkles. He gave it to Glyn, not really concerned, because the transfer was to be temporary.
The old Caddoes, defeated men who drank till they staggered, left before sunset. Bent and little Gus put their blankets in the old covered wagon, which was snugger than the shed that served as a stable. Bent repeatedly touched himself; he’d been stiff with excitement most of the afternoon.
He waited several hours, until he could stand it no longer, then crept from the wagon without awakening Gus. He opened the front door of the whiskey ranch with only a single telltale squeak, which didn’t matter since there was already a lot of noise, moanings and gruntings, from behind the red-blanketed doorway. Bent drew his revolver.
He crossed the main room, guided by a glow behind the blanket. The Cheyenne girl was uttering deep, loud moans. Bent peeked past the edge of the blanket. A dim lantern showed him the girl’s sweating backside; she was astride the whiskey trader, pumping up and down with her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Glyn was rubbing her breasts. Both hands were in sight, and his shotgun was leaning against the wall, well out of reach. Good. What counted now was speed.
Bent tore the blanket aside and took three strides to the bed. In that interval, Green Grass Woman shrieked and Glyn’s eyes popped open. He started to grab for his shotgun but gave up. “What the hell are you doing in here, Dayton?”
“I want this place,” he said, smiling.
“Why, you damn fool, it isn’t for sale.”
Bent reached past the Indian girl’s forearm and shot him above the eyes. He dragged the body to the other room, then went back in, unbuttoned his pants, and rolled her on her back. She took him in, too frightened to do otherwise.
So Bent acquired the whiskey ranch. Two days later three other Caddoes appeared. In broken English they asked about Glyn, whom Bent had buried a half-mile away. “Gone. He sold me the place.” The Caddoes didn’t question that. He made four dollars on whiskey before they left.
Green Grass Woman didn’t seem to care who her man was so long as he permitted her to drink gin. The cheapest, sweetest of gin, Bent discovered after one taste, which he spat out. Septimus Glyn must have been a prime seducer of women to corrupt the young girl so completely. One morning Bent refused her the gin to see what would happen. She begged. He continued to refuse. She wept. He still said no. She fell to her knees and tore at the buttons of his trousers. Astonished, he let her confirm his belief that all women were depraved whores. While she still held his legs, he pushed her head back and poured some gin into her mouth. He didn’t see the boy standing at the door, one hand holding the red blanket aside. His feet were bare, his gray work shirt stiff with dirt, his eyes huge in his blank face.
At sunset of the seventh day, Bent began to feel at home. He’d hung up the frayed, cracked oil painting of Madeline Main’s mother, and cleaned up the place. Just before the light went, he stepped outside with his arm around Green Grass Woman. Her big soft breast pushed against his side and her lip moved against his in an arousing way.
Little Gus, left largely to himself, had gotten acquainted with the tame raccoon. He was chasing it along the creek bank in the reddening light. The creek shone like flowing blood, and in the cool evening air Bent heard a sound he hadn’t heard in a while. Little Gus’s merry laughter.
Well, why not let him laugh? He’d be deprived of the chance soon enough. Bent was now set on his plan. He would wait a few more months; perhaps until the autumn or early winter. By then Charles Main would be trying to accustom himself to the idea that his son was lost. At that time, just when he could be expected to be
learning to deal with his grief, Bent would move to renew it. Send him news that Gus had remained alive most of the year and had only recently been killed. It would be a double-edged death, guilt compounding the pain. All his days, Charles Main would be haunted by the thought that his son might have lived if he hadn’t abandoned the search, as Bent was certain he had by now. Of course he’d have to deliver parts of the boy’s body to prove he was dead. His razor would be helpful.
Little Gus’s laughter rang through the sundown. Green Grass Woman rested her cheek on Bent’s right shoulder. He was happy. The world was good.
58
CHARLES TURNED THE CORNER and flattened against the front of the sod house. He held his revolver chest high, cocked. One of the horses whinnied, a faint sound. Gray Owl was holding them about half a mile away in some cottonwoods.
Charles smelled the odor of fireplace ashes. It leaked from the mud chimney, with no trace of smoke. A fire had been banked carelessly, or in haste. Horse droppings in the corral were at least a day old; shod horses had chopped up the ground. No one would farm here, Charles reasoned. They had found the base of some renegade traders.
A muddy boot toe appeared at the far corner of the house. Magic Magee slid around the corner and crept along with his back to the wall. The afternoon light was dimming fast and changing color, to a strange golden-green. Westward, the clouds of a monster storm came toward the house like a carpet unrolling in the sky. Magee watched Charles for a cue. The black man wore his derby with the wild turkey feather, but nothing to identify him as a soldier.
Charles listened at the plank door. The rumbling of the storm would muffle any but the loudest voice. He heard nothing. The wind picked up dust suddenly. Branches of some cottonwoods behind Magee began to toss and clack together. There was going to be a ferocious blow.