Rabbit Boss

by Thomas Sanchez

  “I do not drink Musege,” the brother leaned back, his hand pressed hard against the dirt floor.

  “Might do you some good.”

  “I have been done all the good I ever want from you and your kind, madman.”

  “They stole away most of what we had when they came, at least they brought something along to make us forget.”

  “Hah! Listen to the Musege. Forget, hah! He thinks he’s Washo, thinks he has something to forget. Remember this, Musege, remember this always, you are white, your heart pumps white, not Washo.”

  “I am a Washo son,” he spoke the words calmly through wet lips. “I am born Washo. I die Washo.”

  “You are already a dead Washo.”

  “I am respected by the people.”

  “Hah! Listen to the wild Bear. You are not respected, you are feared.”

  “The people do not have to stay around me, they can move away, such is the path of our fathers.”

  “The people do not stay because of you, they stay because of the dump.”

  “Many others still gather and hunt on the land, the mountains are many and large, there is room for all who want.”

  “Many others die in the mountains, are run away, you know this, you do not fool me, sly, mad Bear. They call you Captain, Captain Rex, because you get the people to do what they want. You can keep the people away from them.”

  “I keep them away from the people.”

  “Yes! That is true. You keep them away from the people so you are the only one they go to when they need favors. Many favors you have to give of the people’s land.”

  “I give, not take favors, only money.”

  “You take only money. Only money while they take the land! Rip open its skin, plunge huge wooden holes into its heart, slaughter its trees!”

  “You are the fool, Brother,” he took another drink, sloshing the warm liquid around his mouth, swallowing it with a gulp. “Foolish because you sit and hate me and talk about what they do; if you are so brave you should join the Shoshone, take what you think was taken from you.”

  “With one arm!”

  He could see his brother lean sharply forward in the shadow.

  “One arm I have! What is a man with one arm! You—you chopped my arm off!”

  “You went of your own choosing.”

  “I was a fool. I did not know their ways. You knew! You knew from the beginning. You could have stopped me!”

  “I knew no more than you.”

  “Liar! Lying Bear. You are the one that took the paper and money from the man with the shiny hat. You are the one who put your sign on the paper. Then you gave me the paper and half the money and told me to go with them, that I would learn their ways. That I could come back and teach the people much. And they sent me across the desert and over the mountains of rock to a strange land where men were killing. They tried to kill me. But I fooled them. I fooled you. They only got my arm. My arm! Do you hear. I am still alive!” His body rose, the head bumping the ceiling. “Hah! Only my arm!” The words rushed before him as he sliced across the room, slapping the bottle from his brothers hand, the glass slamming against the wood wall, the liquid oozing out, sinking into the earth. “You chopped it off! Blew it off with a cannon!” He grabbed his brother with his one hand, pulling him up by the jacket and throwing him against the wall, the back of his hand whipping through the shadows, slapping into the face. “Coward! Musege!” He spat the words. “White killer!” The words followed behind the others, crashing into them as his brother grabbed the hard stump, twisted and spun him around in the shadows, knocking him flat on his back and stomping in two steps from the room.

  “Oh, Cappin, we have been waiting for you. We don’t like to intrude on family get togethers. We just been waitin here for you to finish.”

  He looked up at the Paiute sitting on the spotted horse, the leather of the saddle creaking as his light body swayed gently.

  “What do you want?” He asked the question of the other two Indians, one holding a rope to a horse behind his own.

  “Biz-niz, Cappin, only biz-niz,” the first answered, adjusting the three long feathers under his headband.

  “I don’t want any business with you. The last time we went out I nearly got shot. What kind of business is this?”

  “John. Same as last,” the first gave a short chuckle. “Only this time we been watchin long enough to determine just how many there be.”

  “Twenty,” one of the others added.

  “Twenty, Max Squirrel. I knew Paiutes was slow thinkin, but not two weeks slow.”

  “They got no gun, Cappin.”

  “None that you can see you mean.”

  “None.”

  “How long you been watchin?”

  “Almost a week.”

  “An they ain’t seen you in a week of days?”

  “Nope, we stayed low on our bellies.”

  “Where?”

  “Bout four hours in from Emigrant Gap.”

  “That’s a day and a half.”

  “At least.”

  “Do they got anything?”

  “We seen it.”

  “John sure knows where to hunt it, any place there ain’t no Whites.”

  “Not too many Whites looking after it for miles in any direction, gave up on it long ago.”

  “You think we can pull it up on twenty, Squirrel?”

  Squirrel snorted through his flat broad nose, making a sound like a beaver slapping his tail on the water. “John ain’t nothin but a squaw, don’t have nothin in him but rice. Don’t have to worry none about twenty Johns, they never kill an Indian like a White would.”

  “I know that.” Captain Rex jammed his hands in his pockets. “But is the camp laid out so that four of us can take it?”

  “Just as if we planned it,” he leaned over in his saddle. “You cashin in Cappin?”

  Captain Rex took a step forward, put a finger on the throat of the spotted horse, “Where did you steal these?”

  “Carson Meadows.”

  “How long?”

  “Three days. We figured we’d maybe leave them for John if we weren’t in too much of a hurry, make him a trade.”

  “Better trade fast,” Captain Rex grabbed a handful of mane on the spare horse and swung himself up, “or we’re going to be four dead Indians.”

  They rode out of the camp along the river, up and across the tracks, out of the canyon, keeping to the ridge, dropping into a valley, heading northwest along a small stream. They went straight through the night, working the horses in between the trees from the light of the moon, stopping only when the horses demanded. As morning broke they crossed the dirt road that cut between the high mountains into the place called Emigrant Gap. It was late afternoon when they came into the Chinese camp, jumped from their horses, Captain Rex and Squirrel moving forward, the two Paiutes behind with drawn bows.

  “John!” Squirrel shouted out in the clearing of the trees at the six Chinese who froze in their bent positions.

  “Ah, welcome, welcome Indian mans,” one of the Chinese stood, his face opening in a smile, holding the pick with which he had been hacking the rock. “Welcome to our camp Indian mans,” he bowed, two, three, six times, almost touching his forehead to the stony ground, his waistlength braided hair swinging in front of him, swishing back and forth. “You want Melican coffee? We got plenty Melican coffee.” He stood up again, his thin shoulders folded in like paper, the tiny hands knotted together in a pale ball.

  “Hey John! What you doin on Paiute land? This all Paiute land and I’m the one Paiute Cappin Chief !”

  “Me workin. Workin hard. Have deed to claim this land now belong to us who workin hard on it Who you say you are? Show-shone? This no Show-shone land, they land far away,” he pointed a bony finger behind him. “Far, far away, Show-shone land,” he jabbed the finger at the air to show just how great a distance it was. “Far away.”

  “Paiute Cappin Chief, John, I said I was the one Paiute Cappin. How you fi
le claim over this land if you got no ears, John? No ears, no man. This my land,” he made a large circle with his hand. “All of it, John.”

  “Melican Cappin come by one, two day ago. He say, John, this my land, me collect tax from you. Twenty dollah, John give twenty dollah for one thirty days.”

  “Damn Merican man,” Squirrel stamped the heel of his moccasined foot at the ground. “Damn, damn, damn,” he kicked at a stone. “Me the Cappin John, the one Paiute Cappin. Merican man trick you. Me kill Merican man, me kill plenty Merican man in only one day. Me want tax from you. It ain’t Cappin’s fault if you stupid and pay out to the wrong one.”

  The Chinese bowed his head, rubbed hard at his chin, closed his eyes tight as if he were concentrating on the birds singing in the trees. “How much you want?” He quickly looked up, the hands disappearing into the sides of his tattered silk smock.

  “Fifty-five dollars for one fifteen days.”

  “You got wrong Chinaman, Cappin. Me no got fifty-five. Me poor, make no dollah chippin all day at rock Sorry alot Cappin, poor Chinaman, Melican man he catch him and tax all his dollah, no leave none. Chinaman no got fifty-five,” he bowed slow and deep.

  “John!” Squirrel screamed, the word jerking the bowed Chinese up as if he were on a string. “You pay to me the one Paiute Cappin, fifty-five dollars or me study on killing all you right now on my land. Sabe!”

  “No got tax money, Cappin, so sad,” he bowed again, moving backwards as he bobbed up and down. The two Paiutes stepped forward, bows pulled, an extra arrow clenched tight between their teeth. “So sad, Cappin, feel so sad,” he kept bobbing, backed into the other Chinese clumped together like cloth covered sticks. He scattered them apart, they raised their picks and shovels high overhead, furious sounds leaping from their throats, then charged the intruders behind a shield of sound, the bombardment of shouts released more Chinese slipping from behind rocks and trees, beating gongs, clanking stones against kettles, some with faces puffed up full of air like yellow balloons as they shrieked one note of battle on wooden flutes, others setting their faces in fearful attitudes, howling like wounded dogs, throwing their bodies about as if an invisible foe was punching their bodies about like bags of straw. Darting red tongues in and out between their thin lips like snakes, hunching on the ground like whistling skinny frogs, waddling like ducks, arms stretched out and flapping, turning somersaults, their braided hair slashing about like tails, attacking, circling, revealing to the attackers their front line of defense, they pushed the enemy into a tight knot, surrounded by hideous howls, drawing menacingly close, close enough for Squirrel to reach out and punch a twirling shrieking figure behind the neck, sprawling him across the clearing. Ending all cry of battle the warriors dropped their implements of terror, retreated into a cowering mass, balled up with hands behind their heads.

  “Hah!” Squirrel’s laugh ripped out at the whimpering pile of bodies. H … h… hey John,” he tried to catch his breath. “You shore make one scary killer—Hah! John!” His face turned hard, the sharp black eyes growing tight and mean, “Paiute Cappin wants one fifty-five dollars, pronto!” He moved forward.

  “Not so fast Captain,” the voice came from a boulder, a tall Chinese stepped around the side, a black cap pulled hard on his head, a red silk robe flowing to the ground, a rifle pointed at the Indians. “Don’t try to jump this gun, Captain. It’s got enough to drive a six inch hole through all four of you,” he raised the rifle higher, a finger on the trigger. “We’ve had enough of your kind, tax collectors, red or white, it makes no difference, you think you can just walk in and take from the Chinaman Squaw anytime you get the taste for it but—”

  The arrow stuck in his heart, the snap of the Paiute’s bow string vibrating in the silence of the clearing, the Chinese man falling like a red tower. The Indians watched the body. The sun had leveled with the trees, the clearing streaked with rays of gold.

  “Time’s up now John,” Captain Rex strode over to the whimpering men. “You,” he poked a finger into the quivering back of the one who talked in the beginning. “One fifty-five dollars, Merican, no tricks.” The man did not move. “Now!” He jabbed the back harder, it did not straighten. He pulled the smock up, unstrapping the money belt wrapped around the tiny exposed waist and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Mister Indian Man,” the Chinese turned his head up, tears rolling from the slits of his eyes down the smooth face. “He no have bullet, he no shoot Indian Man.”

  Captain Rex went back to the horses; the others were mounted. “You shoot straight,” he said to one of the Paiutes, and they rode off.

  “It’s five gold dollars to drink at this here stablishment for Injuns.”

  “We got five times ten a that and then some,” Squirrel leaned over the polished oak counter and stared into the face that had half an unlit cigar clamped between its teeth.

  “Put it up then,” the bartender’s words came around the cigar in a blurred lump.

  The two Indians laid their money down, got their drinks and made their way through the crowded room, straining their eyes in the smoke blue air searching for some spare space. The tables jammed with men, elbows cocking and uncocking as they drained the glasses clutched tight in blistered fists. Not all were blistered, one pair was gloved, raising the glass daintily to pursed lips, taking the liquid in, meditatively, the man pushed back in the chair, eyes drifting in and out through the thick redwood raftered ceiling, wandering over the elk head that grew from the main wall, monstrous, glaring down through lucid amberglass eyes. The man fastened on the eyes, raised a finger to his thin nose and stroked it, let the finger run off the smooth bridge, touch the moustache, lips, caress the trim lines of the beard. He turned, looked straight at the two Indians, the one light on his feet, cased in stained leather shirt and pants, beaded sash around the waist, tight mean eyes. The other dressed heavier, large body, not quite fat, but you can’t tell with an Indian, scar on the left cheek, eyes shot full of red. “You boys,” the man raised a gloved finger in the air. “You boys,” he shouted into the thick roar over the piano that pounded out songs by itself.

  Captain Rex saw the gloved hand, the white broadcloth coat, just slightly frayed at the cuff. It was a Bummer. He nudged Squirrel, they shouldered their way through the pack of men separating them from the table.

  “Ahhh,” the Bummer stood, his back straight as a board, his checkered pants showing over the tabletop, tipping his high shiny black hat a fraction above the hairline. “Glad you boys could make it through that gang. Truckee is no place for a soul to be by himself to enjoy the quiet of his own good company with a decanter of excellent Cuban Rum. Cuban, that reminds me,” his hand slipped inside the coat and came out with three thin cigars, “sit down boys, have a Cuban smoke.” He handed them cigars as they sat, sliced off the tip of his own with a slender silver pocketknife, placed it between his lips, struck a match, held it a half inch in front of the tip and sucked the flame into the tobacco. “Hard to come by a good roll like this,” the words glided from his mouth on slivers of smoke. “Light up boys, don’t be bashful. That’s right, smoke them right up, get some of that tropical jungle air in your lungs. What tribe you boys from?” He turned the cigar in his teeth, pointing it toward Captain Rex.

  “Paiute,” Squirrel answered. “I’m a redblooded Paiute.”

  “Is that so,” the Bummer’s eyes opened wide, the thick lashes beating into one another. “I didn’t know there were any left. I thought we nabbed every little squaw between here and Sante Fe.”

  “I was born before you came,” Squirrel lowered his eyes to the liquid in his glass.

  “And you Injun, what tribe you from?”

  “I ain’t.”

  “You ain’t, Ho, you’re the funniest looking Swede I ever laid my eyes on. You got to hail from some tribe boy, all you Injuns do, that’s your way.”

  “Washo. I’m Washo. We have no tribe.”

  “No tribe hell, that’s the damndest thing I ever heard, no tribe, al
l you Injuns got tribes, that’s the way you live. You must take me for green boy. Why an Injun without a tribe is like a bull with brass nipples.”

  “We go now Mister,” Captain Rex pushed his chair out and stood.

  “Hold on one minute boy,” the Bummer reached down beside him, brought up a gold handled cane and stretched it across the table, pushing the tip lightly against the Indian’s neck. “Just hold all your ponies down,” he smiled, the lips pulled back exposing the two front teeth capped with the same metal as the cane handle. “Sit yourself down Injun boy and behave like a Whiteman. You Injuns get more uppity everyday. Think you can come and go as you please. Don’t have a stone’s idea of how much you owe us. Sit down I said,” he poked the cane harder.

  Captain Rex looked at the man with the gold metal shining in his gaping mouth and sat.

  “That’s right, now there’s a good fellow. I see your drink’s up. Tender!” He shouted without taking his eyes off the Indian. “You boys prospectors?”

  “No we ain’t, we just—”

  “Shut up, boy. I was talking to this Injun here. You just keep your trap shut and finish on up your drink. Here comes the tender now.” He settled back as the glasses were refilled, picked up his, holding it in front of Captain Rex. “Here’s to a pleasant friendship Injun.” He drank, watching over the rim of the glass to make certain the Indians followed his example. “Now then, what was it we was discussing? Yes, you was going to tell me if you was a prospector or not.”

  “I aint.”

  “You mean you aint now. All you Injuns are, you just aint saying, just waiting while we run around for years making a fool out of ourselves then you’re going to walk on over and pick it all up, now that we give you something to buy with it and it’s worth it to bend your back just once or twice stooping over to get it.”

  “I aint.”

  The Bummer put the cigar to his mouth again and drew deep, blowing a pile of smoke out, “That’s a pity, you could make a fortune. I bet you know where that Gold Lake is up Downieville way.”

  “Never heard of it.”