Rabbit Boss

by Thomas Sanchez

  After the snow had covered everything it left the Earth quiet. The Moon cut open the darkness, the slap of canvas over the shack’s opening was pushed back. His mother came into the hut. She sat herself on the skinworn Rabbit-blanket and knotted rags of her bed. The cold that she brought with her woke him. He reached out for the bottle that earlier dropped to the dirt floor when his hand had become too shaky to hold it. He quickly raised the bottle to his lips, it was empty. His mouth sucked out the fumes of whiskey from the glass hollow before he let the bottle slip from his grasp to the floor. The woman said nothing. The wind blowing outside in the clear night flapped the loose pieces of canvas stretched over the boarded frame of the hut. He had lost in his memory the day when the woman stopped her talking. She had once been full of words, they had come quickly and often to her lips. The world before the Whites was always in her brown eyes. She ceased to see the new world she had been forced into. She had gone blind to the places her body took her throughout the days. She had long since stopped seeing the man her son had become. There were no words for him. Once she had much talk about the man who put three babies into her body. When she spoke about this husband of her heart called Gayabuc all the happiness out of a time long since gone dead caught on her face and turned it young. She told of the watercress that grew from the shallow streams and how he would go into the water for her, standing brown as a buck, gently pulling the shoots from their bed of water. He would bring them dripping to her so she could suck the green taste from the damp white roots. She told of the small Rabbits he would trap in the snow and bring to her, the bodies still warm as she stripped their fur and staked them over the coals, the hot rising smell of wild flesh swelling in the hut as the husband of her heart lay next to her with his want, his hand tracing the high brown curve of her hip and between her legs to force her open to the thickness of his body. Her face fired as she would talk of her Girl’s Dance and how on the mountaintop Gayabuc wrestled with the smoke, forcing its white tongue into the night Sky, forcing it to give its sign to the people gathered below, to write in the Sky that she had acted true and according to the ways of a girl going into a Woman, that her life would be long and straight. She was proud that he had fought the power of the smoke, but to force the sign was against the ways of the past, it was an act that made the animals flee his bow. It was an act that would kill his days short. But that was before they came. Before the fences of sharp wire went up and the husband of her heart was shot down. The Ancestors did not forget. It was because Gayabuc had violated the way of the Girl’s Dance and forced the smoke to give up a false sign for her that the ancestors punished all the people and brought out of the burntlands those with skin the color of snow. The day of the people was ended, buried beneath a white burden. And Gayabuc had been the first to see them. He had watched through the trees. He had watched down to the high snow on the frozen shore of the yonder lake. He watched them moving slowly on the snow, clumsy, like Bears in water. He had been watching silently all that morning, had seen, had seen them hunched, away from each other, mouths tearing at knots of flesh, faces smeared the color of a dying Sun. He watched through the trees as they ate themselves. It was as if he had found them in dream and they had followed him into life. Coming one after the other, first in small tired groups, pushing the weight of their heavy bodies up and over the barrier of mountains reaching to the Sky, then in long sluggish lines with hunger burning in their eyes and their great tamed beasts pulling whole billowing tent houses behind on high wooden wheels that creaked in the mountain air, breaking the stones beneath their immense burden to powder. Leaving the Earth behind rutted and used. And still they came, up out of the burntlands, down along the spine of the mountains from the north, up from the hidden valleys of the south. They came closer one upon the other until their line was unbroken and flowed steadily like the sap from a fatal wound in the heart of a great tree. And the man Gayabuc had brought them. They were born in his eyes as he saw them eat of their own flesh. They were born from his violation of the clear path cut by the Ancestors. The smoke in the Sky at the Girl’s Dance died, and he had made it into a false sign for all the people below to see. It began with this lie on the mountaintop, the end of her people. The bones of her people would be crushed like powder beneath the bulk of the iron wheels of those who ate of their own flesh.

  The whistle went off, the sound of its sharp metal barb cutting the air thick with the clang of pounding steel. The yellowmen sat down along the track. The goldsweat of their backs gleaming in the sudden silence. The damp strange smell of their braided hair hung in the heat of the Sun like the slow smoke of smouldering green wood. Walking quickly down between the two iron tracks the yellowmen had just laid was a man with a blue-billed cap on his bald head and a gold numbered badge on the collar of his blue shirt. He stopped and spit a thick brown juice in the direction the Sun was beginning to slide, clearing his mouth of all obstacles but words, “Old John Chinaman don’t want to work his tail nohow, noway, do he Cap’n Rex. It’s all a body could do whipjackin John’s yellow tail so’s he’ll put in an honest day for the Comp’ny. The Comp’ny don’t pay John six-bits and beans every day just to have hisself a pic-a-nic in this nice fine resort weather we have out here. But this weather don’t bother you Injun bucks atall, do it Cap’n. You bucks got ice in your veins just like snakes. Why hell Cap’n, look to yourself, buttoned up in that thick checkered jacket like you was standing in the center of a blizzard instead of in the middle of noonday Desert sun. I got somethin to warm your insides if this Desert heat don’t.” He pulled a small bottle from his hip pocket and handed it over. “Here take a shot off this pistol. Now hold on,” he grabbed it back. “I said a shot, I didn’t invite you to swallow the bottle. You bucks got the manners of Russians. You ain’t never goin to learnt civilized politeness.” He took a short gulp and rubbed the red pucker of his lips, slipping the glass back into his pocket. “Damned if a man don’t have to drink himself half to death just to keep ol John’s tail waggin. I wish to the President I was back at the yard in Truckee stead of out here sweatin with the coolies. The Comp’ny pays good though and I don’t have to go home at night to a house full of women. But it don’t do my heart any good Cap’n, the way we’re comin up close to Mormon country. It took the Comp’ny the whole of the year, one thousand coolies, and a ton of nitroglycerin to blast its railroad through twenty miles of granite over the Donner Summit, and now, hell, they’re spikin down ten miles of rail in a day across this here flatland. Before you know it we’re goin to be clean into Utah, racing tail across the Salt Lake Ocean itself. Damn Cap’n, it scares the spiders out of me to think of going back into Mormon country, they’ll tan my hide good for me this time out. I just pray to the hohes that Major Dodge is pushin his Irish Terriers as hard as I’m pushin these coolies. But I got a hard faith in Major Dodge, he put two-hundred and sixty-six mile of track between him and Omaha in the first year, then spiked down another two-hundred forty mile in ’67. He would of done better if some of you painted bucks hadn’t put some arrows into a few of his Irish boys. I heered one of Dodge’s linemen got shot, he was stunned and scalped, but got ahold of hisself just in time to see the buck what done it running off, so’s he plugs the buck right through the back, plunks the scalp in a cold bucket of water and hightails it back to Omaha to hunt up some Doc to sew it back on his bloody head, but no Doc could succeed at it so’s he had the scalp tanned and pickled in alcohol and sold it into a museum back east. Last year Dodge up and laid down four-hundred and twenty-five mile of track. I’m just prayin the holies he beats us across the Salt Lake so I don’t have to step one foot into Mormon country. Before you know it they’ll have ol Arthur Dolay hogtied down to the back of another one of their Mormon women, it’s all legal to them if you’re hitched to more’n one of their potato eaters, matter of fact they got so many women in that country it’s what they ad-vise out of natural selfdefense. Sometimes I wonder if Dodge is goin to beat us through that country or not, those Mormons are likely to
make him lay a mile of potatoes to every mile of track, and sides, the Comp’ny on this end’s pushin hellfire, got more’n fifteen hundred coolies spikin steel out here, course it takes eight Johns to do the work of one white man, and that’s with a whipjack ridin every three hundred of them, still, they put in their sixteen hour day before bean time. Hey now, yonder comes the waterwagon. Step aside now Cap’n or they’ll run you into the earth.” He put a hand on the Indian’s chest and pushed him back as the mules came at them, the bulk of their weight strained in the creaking leather harness slapping against the sweat of their backs. Storming behind the mules in the spray of white dust the highboarded wagon sagged under the load of broad barrels sloshing their hold of water over the top of the bowed rims, dripping a wet path in the dusty wake. The mules hammered to a stop, their breath bellowing a steady hiss through flared nostrils. The shouting of the yellowmen was strange and high like a flock of seabirds caught too far inland, the distant sing-song of their voices was meant for no individual ears, addressing only ignorant space as they jostled in the center of the mule heat where wooden ladles filled with still cool river water were furiously being passed down from the barrels into the waiting mouths, “Well Cap’n,” the man removed his blue-billed cap and smoothed the sweat off the exposed egg of his skull. “That ought to wet ol John down for another five hours.” He hooked the cap back on his head and craned his neck toward the man stepping a wide distance around the waterwagon’s swirl of yellow bodies. When the man was close enough so the gold ring on the fist of his hand clutching the lapel of his blue frock coat could be seen the words from his mouth slipped ahead and directly in front of him.

  “Mister Dolay, blow your whistle and get John up off his skinny tail. We have a schedule to keep. Ten minutes water time Mister Dolay. Ten minutes and no more. Get this trackgang back in the saddle.”

  “Yes sir Mister Pourth. I was just gettin set to do just that sir, before I seen you comin round the wagon. The Comp’ny’s schedule is safe with Arthur Dolay.”

  “Then blow your damn whistle and stop all this jawing!”

  “Yes sir, Mister Pourth,” he raised the whistle secured around his neck on a silver chain and blew it until the blood swelled up in his head. The sound scattered the yellowmen away from the wagon and before it died in the flat air the sweating gold backs were again lined up, the first heavy thud of their sledges struck the earth, bringing the heat down hard on their bare backs.

  “You keep this gang lined Mister Dolay. You keep this gang lined and in time. You do that and the Company is on schedule. You stand about passing lies with Captain Rex here and Major Dodge is certain to beat us across the Salt Lake. You’ve got five hours of whipjack with this gang until beans and a new shift. That’s five hours that started two minutes ago. You should, Mister Dolay, get your ass in the saddle.”

  “Yes sir Mister Pourth, that’s what I was going to do, and I’m going now to do it.” He hooked the bluebilled cap lower on his head and set off at a trot as the mules jolted in their harness and swung around, the muscle of their backs driving the empty weight of the wagon back along the track, knocking the water barrels into one another as their hooves pounded up a trail of white dust behind them.

  “We’re about out of your territory, aren’t we Captain?” Mister Pourth put his gaze on the Indian, his fist still locked on the lapel of his shiny coat.

  “Maybe so.”

  “Maybe so what, Captain?” The lips ripped across his face in a scowl. “Just what is it your territory depends on?”

  “It depends on where you say it ends and begins.”

  The man’s mouth unlocked and the lips sank into a grin, “The Central Pacific Railroad has legal, deeded title to this land, but the Central Pacific is not some ride by night outfit, we recognize a certain sense, a certain duty, obligation you might say, selfassumed of course, but nevertheless obligation to those who once owned these lands. The Central Pacific is not in the business of closing a whole way of life down, it is in the business of growth. The Company has a good record with you people, as you yourself are first in line to recognize. The Company has right from the start extended a friendly hand wherever it could. When we first got the Road up to Truckee we offered the use of a boxcar to haul you people back down over to the foothills to pick pigweed along the Railroad’s right of way. Now there are some among you who say the Company is not doing a service, that if the pigweed wasn’t cut we’d have to go to the expense of burning it out, but you and I know that isn’t true Captain, you an I know the pigweed is important to you people, it’s a lucrative harvest. You and I know the Company is doing a service. Growth is what the Company’s main interests are Captain, and growth depends upon goodwill, honest relations, that’s why the Company hired you on this time out, to insure the growth of all parties concerned. Your job was to inform any of your people who thought the Railroad was somehow violating their land, their ancient hunting and gathering grounds, that the Railroad was just going through a small strip, and besides, we own it. The Railroad isn’t like the ranchers. We don’t have cattle and horses and sheep and hogs to tromp down all the plants and kill the grass, ruining your best gathering grounds and running off the game. The Railroad is your partner in growth. But you Washos haven’t made any trouble have you Captain. You Washos recognize the Railroad means growth for you as well as us. I have a great admiration for you Washos. You have a sense of foresight, a commonsense not to raise an angry hand against growth. You’re not like the Paiute, you don’t fight growth. It’s the Paiute the Company’s most ashamed of Captain. Those Paiutes just can’t seem to settle down. You would think the war up at Pyramid Lake back a few years ago would have taught them not to stand in front of growth, most of their kind don’t, thanks to the wisdom of the great Chief Winnemucca joining our side and routing those of his kind who lack a decent sense of organization and law. But there are still a lot of Paiute bucks who think this country out here is their private hunting reserve. Up ahead of the line they’ve been yanking out surveyors’ markers and even shot down a couple of our spikers and bolters. I got word brought into me just this morning that some of our coolies in the staking gang were found dead at sunup with their throats slit. The Company’s going through land that hasn’t belonged to the Paiute for ten year and more. Greed it is Captain. Greed and ’onry Injun blood is what makes those bucks want to keep ahold of all God’s country, when all the Company wants is a narrow right of way to run its train through. But like I said Captain, we’re about out of your territory, haven’t seen the hide of one Washo in days, and the only ones we did see were that half naked family who were only begging for a basketful of water. It’s Paiute territory we’re coming up to now Captain, and the Company doesn’t want to have to fight Injuns with one hand on a railspike and the other on a rifle the way Major Dodge has been doing. The Company can’t afford that Captain. Tomorrow two Paiute Captains will be taking your place. They’re coming up from the Carson River, handpicked by the great Chief Winnemucca himself. They’ll know how to deal against any trouble that comes up ahead, and deal it quick too. After beans tonight you can hitch a ride with the supply wagon, they’ll take you back as far as Fallon, but they have to swing through Genoa first. Take my word on it Captain, don’t get yourself fired up in Genoa. They’re a little jumpy about drunk Injuns after that Shoshone put a cowboy’s eyes out with the cut end of a whiskey bottle. Like most civilized towns out here they have an Injun curfew that begins at dusk, but now they’ve gone beyond that and passed a law that they’ve nailed above the door of every saloon that says ILLEGAL FOR INJUNS TO PURCHASE AND CONSUME HARD SPIRITS ON THESE PREMISES. I thought I’d give you my word on it Captain, in case the supply wagon puts up there and you get one of your Injun thirsts up.” He loosened the fist clutching his lapel and pulled a fat cowhide pouch from his coat, “You been with this forward trackgang since it left Verde, that’s eight-bits and beans a day for sixteen weeks, that’s forty-two bucks American for four months.” He balanced the weight o
f the metal coins in his hand like an assayer weighing out gold dust. “I think you’ll find it all here Captain,” he tossed the sack of money over and turned to walk back along the track, then stopped. “One thing more, if the Company has need for you it will tell you of it, don’t go camping in front of the office door up at the Truckee yard waiting for a job. In a few months, if you can get up enough of your people to fill a boxcar, we’ll haul you over the mountains to the foothills, there’s a lot of pigweed coming up between the ties again, you people might as well pick it or we’ll burn it out.”