Rabbit Boss

by Thomas Sanchez

  “Give the Captain some!” The Bummer tipped his stovepipe hat back on his head, “Captain Rex can’t hold his liquor two minutes before he begins singing like a bird. Honest to John it’s the damndest thing you’ve ever heard. Go on Captain, sing for us!”

  The Indian took the bottle and sucked its fluid into his body, it fired his throat and leaped in his chest.

  “Don’t hog it! You swallowed at least half Injun boy,” the Colonel ripped the bottle from the Indian’s grasp and took a swig.

  The Indian looked around him with the liquor in his body, the faces in the crowded room burned in the kerosene light. He saw the Reverend across the cabin, the intense blue of his eyes glaring amidst all the lantern wicks flaming through glass. He could feel the fierce light of the Reverend going past him to the woman at his side. He saw the Bummer laughing, his gold teeth flashing in the room. He turned his eyes straight into the flaming wicks in the lanterns and was blinded by white light as the wings in his head burst out his mouth and fanned a feathered song in the flame of the room. He heard his loud voice singing the songs birds sang long ago that he had learned in dreams. All the ancient fury welled up from him and its feathered sound conquered the room.

  “Listen to that!”

  “Whooop–peeeeeeeiiiii!”

  “He’s singing like a BIRD!”

  “Honest to John!” the Bummer called out to the song. “Aint that the damndest!”

  Poker Charlie smiled as he stroked the bullet head of his dog.

  “Hey! Poker Charlie, listen to that! Your dog is singing too, listen to him whine. He’s loco too!”

  Poker Charlie stroked under the dog’s drooling chin, then looked up. The Indian stopped singing, for the moment only the dog’s whining could be heard, then it ceased, leaving the room empty.

  “Honest to John, aint it the damndest!” The Bummer grabbed the bottle back from the Colonel and took a drink.

  Poker Charlie gazed over at the Bummer as his band caressed the short fur of the muscled neck beneath him, “Bummer, how about you and me start up a game of Monte while we’re waiting for sunup?”

  The Bummer looked down at the dog, then across to Reverend Jake with his burning light fixed on the Indian woman. “I’ve got a better idea gent,” he tapped his cane against his high hat and clicked his tongue like two stones being rapped together. “I’ve got a fondness for squaws.” All the men turned their eyes on him. “And if I know gents, I know they all have a fondness for squaw meat.” The men turned their eyes to the woman standing close to Captain Rex, the sway of the leather fringe draped down her long dress. The Bummer turned his eyes on her too, “I always knew when I bought her this squaw would come in handy.” He waved the gold tip of his cane and pointed it at the woman, “This squaw is a whole show to herself gents. She’ll run herself to death under you. Honest to John gents, this long tall breasted squaw is just what the doctor ordered. Think of her for yourself, gents. Honest to John, I know her body better than the insides of my own pockets and I can tell you she’s the finest squaw meat west of the Dakotas. She’s the sweetest two-breasted, sweet-breasted creature man was ever privileged to slumber on the fine ass of. Think of her for yourself. Gents. Think of her. Don’t it make your tongue hard. Think of her. Don’t it arouse the meat in you. I can tell you, gents, when you do your stuff on her her whole body starts smoking like hot bread.” The Bummer looked around at all the mouths hanging open in the silent faces as they stared at the woman. “Well gents,” his voice became a close whisper that filled the room. “Don’t we have any takers? Are you all ashamed of eating a little squaw meat?”

  “My asshole should be ashamed of shitting!!!” The scream blasted the canvas sides of the cabin back as the men shoved and knocked in every direction trying to make their way to the woman.

  The Bummer beat his cane on their heads. “Gents! Gents!”

  The men stopped where they were and waited for the Bummer to instruct them; he let out a deep sigh, “Now then gents, let’s be civilized. We’re just slapping water as long as we don’t have some order, even in the wilderness we must live by Law. Now I calculate this longbreasted squaw to be about eight-bits out of your jeans. She’s going to cost you, I didn’t win her myself off some Mexican in a card game. She was expensive. Now I want everybody outside the tent.” He grabbed his cane in both hands and shoved the bulk of bodies out into the mud. He could see men coming from the rows of other tents, shouting and swinging their lanterns as they came running through the deep mud and got in the long line. He held his cane high and shouted, “Let’s make this a real BOOMtown gents! There’s more than one way to make a strike off this country! She’ll be laid out on the table inside for you just like Mama’s pie! Stop your shoving! I want two lines here!” He drew the pendant of his gold watch from the deep pocket of his checkered pants. “Each man has four minutes to get his shot off!” He flipped off his hat. “Now those gents that have their eight-bits stay in one line! Those gents that have seven-bits or less, get in the other line because I’m a democrat, I believe every man should get a fair shake, so you with seven-bits or less can go in and watch. If you can’t have the steak at least you can smell it cooking!” He stuck his empty hat out between the two lines, the first two men paid the price and went inside.

  The sun was rising fast in the east, spreading its gold light down on the lake. The Colonel and Poker Charlie walked down a long row of tents, their boots sucking through mud as other men came out of their tents and marched behind. They stopped before the canvas cabin. “Bummer!” All along the shore and up the slope in the gold light the crowd of men stood waiting in boot deep mud. “Bummer!” The Colonel shouted again. “Bring your Injun out here!”

  The flap of the tent flew back, “Good morning gents.” The Bummer’s face stuck out and he stepped off into the mud. “Come on out Captain, these gents are impatient to go get rich!”

  The Indian stepped through the flap and faced the men.

  “Ask him where the Gold is Bummer,” the Colonel leaned forward in the mud.

  “Captain, tell these gents where the Gold is.”

  The Indian looked down at the gold light spreading over the heads of the crowd.

  “Where is it Captain?” The delicate curve of the Bummer’s mouth pushed along his face and died at the corners.

  “He aint gonna talk!”

  “Honest to John Captain, these gents are hanging on your words.”

  “Look at that! He won’t say nothin!”

  “Speak up Captain, don’t keep the gents waiting for their pay day.”

  “He’s closed up tighter than a drum!”

  “The Bummer caint make him talk!”

  “I’ll make him talk by Jesus,” the Colonel’s boots sucked out of the mud and he pulled the Indian down from the cabin and threw him up against the tall tree. “Rope him up with his hands stretched high!”

  The ropes whipped around the Indian’s body and cinched him to the broad trunk with his hands tied straight up over his head.

  The Colonel leaned close to the Indian until the red point of his beard stabbed him in the face, “Where’s the riches Injun?”

  “He aint talkin!”

  The Colonel strode back twelve paces and whipped around pulling a pistol from his coat. “Where’s the Gold!”

  “He won’t say nothin, he wants it for himself!”

  The Colonel drew the pistol up and aimed, “Where’s the wealth!”

  “He aint talkin Colonel!”

  The gun fired, ripping a chunk of bark out over the Indian’s head. The Colonel blew the smoke off the barrel tip, “Have you ever noticed how all Injuns look alike? I can’t tell one from the other. They all look the same to me. Let’s make this one look a little different so we’ll always be able to tell him apart from the others.” He drew the gun up and squeezed the trigger, the slug tore the top of the Indian’s thumb off as it shot into the meat of the tree. “Where’s the Gold, Injun!”

  Captain Rex looked straight
across the mud at the man with the gun. The blood trickling out of his thumb and down his wrists.

  “He’ll never talk!”

  “Let’s make this Injun prettier than all the rest and match his other thumb up even.” The Colonel sighted the pistol and it banged its lead ball through the air and blew the other thumb off so the blood shot out of it and ran down the whole arm. The gun came up again and pointed dead on the Indian’s head. “This is it Injun!” The Colonel’s red beard flared in the sunlight, “This one is for your brain!”

  “The Gold is in the footprint of the small bear.”

  “That’s Little Bear Lake!” The Bummer shouted. “That’s where it must be! Little Bear Lake!”

  The men were already running through the mud, slipping and sliding through it as they scrambled to their horses.

  The Bummer ran up to the Indian and grabbed him by the throat, his hot breath slapping in the Indian’s face as the words burned from his delicate lips, “You know what the Roman gents always used to say Captain. Every hour wounds, the last one kills. I’m coming back to blast your heart out!” And he was gone, fighting his way across the mud to the horses.

  The thudding sound of horses’ hooves beating in the mud died off across the lake. No one stood before the Indian except Poker Charlie, stroking the bullet head of the dog. “Well my Captain, I imagine Mister Bummer will be wanting to get right back to you. As for me, the Colonel and I are partners in everything we touch. I intend to spend the entire day with your little lady in the tent. I’m not the kind that likes to be rushed. Mister Bummer was right, we all do have a fondness for squaws.” He smiled and rubbed the dog uner the chin, his boots taking long sucks out of the mud as he walked over and disappeared in the tent.

  The gold sun pointed straight across the Indian’s head as it slipped along the high slope of the mountain and splashed its dying color deep beneath the lake’s surface. The Indian was slumped against the ropes that bound his body to the tree, the streams of blood from his thumbs had dried down his wrists and arms, crusting and pulling at his skin. He heard the sound of slapping wind and turned his head to the many wings digging in the air. An arrow of ducks was headed over the lake into the dying sun. He watched them drift out of sight, their far, invisible call echoing back to him. The sun slipped off the high slope of the mountain, sending the last of its blazing fingers over the green landscape. The Indian jerked his head around. He heard the pounding. It came through the trees. It came across the water. The pounding of horses’ hooves. He pushed his back against the tree and strained toward the sound. A horse burst through the trees, galloping down the long muddy row between the tents. The Bummer. He whipped his horse, the heel of his boots slashing the flanks. The Indian strained his body in the ropes, twisting away from the horse flying at him. He heard the loud slap of leather on horse flesh. He felt the wind of the horse, its heat blew over him. Then it was gone. Rode by. He heard the Bummer’s voice coming back to him, “You lying Red Devil!” The ground heaved, the Indian felt the earth shaking and vibrating up through the tree he was lashed to. Beating their horses down the long muddy row between the tents was the Colonel with a block of galloping bumping horses pounding the earth beneath their iron hooves, their riders bent to the chase as they flashed by the Indian. The flap of the tent flung open and the short man ran out in the mud, he looked up at the horses galloping off into the trees, then across to the Indian, “Red Snake!” He threw the dog from his arms, “BULL!” The dog sprung over the mud, a growl tearing from its wide mouth of bladed teeth as its powerful jaws clamped into the Indian’s leg, the short blunt muscle of the body lifting off the ground as it tore into flesh. Molly Moose jumped from the tent, the fringe of her dress streaking behind her as she passed the short man and slashed her knife across the muscle of the dog’s neck. The dog thudded into mud spurting blood. “You’ve killed my dog!” The short man jumped at the woman, his hands clawing for her throat, she whirled around and sunk the knife into his fat belly, letting him fall away from her into the mud next to the dog. She ran to the side of the tent and leaped up on his horse, then reined it over to the Indian and leaned down, cutting the ropes binding his body to the tree. Captain Rex swung up on the horse and threw his bloody hands around the woman and they rode off into the sunset.

  4

  I AM the Antelope Dreamer.

  Listen. The Fawns whistle. Look at the wind coming. Carrying the sound of whistling Fawns through the sleeping hills. The stars shake like silver Fishscales on a quiet lake. I am the Antelope Dreamer. Look at the wind coming. Look at the wind coming with dust. It carries the sound of Blackbirds singing across the river. I can smell the river. I can smell the Antelope in the Sky. I am a wonder hunter. I stalk the Antelope on the mountain. I follow him footless through blossoms of timber. I sing down the stars and gather them into the bowl of the Moon. I suck the fire of stars like juice from berries. I hunt through the tops of trees. I hunt through air. I have a fire in my heart. The flames flapping like wings through the tops of trees. My Ancestors were hunters. My Ancestors were Hunters, Dancers, Dreamers, Walkers. All the Ancestors are dead or dying. I dream the last day. I am the last Dreamer. When my dream dies there will be no more Antelope. Understand my Magic Look to the child sleeping in the mountain. Listen to the last stands of timber breathing. Follow with your eye the Dog Dancer in the Sky. Follow to the Milky Way. It is the Road of the Ghost. It is milk for a Fawn, streaked on a Fawn’s mouth, streaking down the black Sky. Lighting the way over the river. The Blackbirds sing across water where it is always flowing. There is a fire in my heart. It is a Big fire burning under the rock. The high river flows over the rock. Water is in high places everywhere. Washing the white burden from the land. Exposing the red Earth, black roots, brown fruit. Let the people stand in high places everywhere. Let the people see heart to heart. Their souls kiss.

  I am alone with you Christ. Our Spirits flow as two Fish in the same river. I have come down from the mountain to search your words. You have ridden the Ghost Pony the day the Sun died. Only you can dance our birth. If you dance the souls will come back. We sit here on this flat land. All around us the flat land goes out a distance further than a man’s life. All around the flat land is covered by the white burden of snow. We sit alone. Two Blackbirds on a Cloud. The fire before you has grown cold. Only you can make the sacred Bird rise from its bed of ashes. Only you can sing the people up. The ring of rocks around the fire is the circle of our Ancestors. Only you can dance up the Sacred Piñon Tree of our family. Your song curling around the Tree. Sing your song oh Christ. I am too cold to die. My ears bleed. My tongue is bruised. Answer my soul. Uncover the sign.

  The Sun was full over the Christ. His body sunk deep within his black clothes. He had no shadow. All around him the snow melted from the clumps of sage as he presented in his palm a black stone smoothed into a bowl. He screwed a hollow wooden stem into the notched stone bowl and made his Pipe. His other hand held the worn skin pouch that was the feed bag taken from the throat of the running Quail. The bag was not stuffed with wild seeds and nuts, it smelled strong of yellow medicine. The Christ filled the bowl with medicine, took off his boots and folded his legs beneath him, holding the Pipe carefully up in both hands as he offered it to my people so they may walk the Oneness Trail. He stretched the Pipe out in each sacred direction. To the north, welmelti, to the east, pauwalu, to the south, haneleti, to the west, tangelelti. To all Washo. He lit the Pipe. His breath sucking the flame through the bowl of tobacco until it glowed one strong bright red ember. The smoke of wildgrass sage came up from his body, its soft blue Spirit rising in the air. Traveling in all sacred directions to cover the Earth. He crossed the Pipe over to his left. I pushed my boots off and accepted, my legs folded beneath me with my head held high as I touched the wooden stem to my lips and filled my soul with sweet smoke. My lips sucked peacefully at the hot stem as my body rose to meet the medicine. I smoked the root of the Earth, it did not go into my belly, it went into my heart, ascending t
o the heavens. The yellow stonebacked ring on my hand holding the sacred Pipe burned bright as a Bird against my flesh. The wind goes by my head. The smoke is swirled over the face of the ring and I see myself walking. I see myself walking way along down the road. My Spirit catches up to my walking body and joins it. I walk with body and soul, flesh and heart, way along down the black road toward the dying Sun. I hear the horn honking behind me and turn to face the squareback car popping and puffing up the hill. The horn honked at my back and I jumped off the road, but the car stopped alongside me, its tin sides shaking and engine steaming.

  “Hey kid where you headed?”

  I could see the driver high up on the seat, the shaking car chattering his teeth away like a boxful of dice. I looked to see if there were any trees I could run off into, but there was nothing, nothing but the bare brown roll of hills. “Frisco Jeens.”

  “You mean San Francisco don’t you kid?” he called out of the clattering machine.

  I looked back over the bald hills, there was everywhere to run, nowhere to hide. “I guess so?”

  He kicked the door open, “Get on in then. This here is Quincy we’re coming into. You’ve got a long haul ahead of you.”

  I jumped in and slammed the metal door shut. The car banged and stuttered, then jolted back onto the road.

  “Where you from kid?”

  “Tahoe.”

  “Lake Tahoe! You mean you walked all the way from Lake Tahoe! That’s more’n one hundred miles of winding mountain road. Don’t you have folks?”

  “They are all dead or dying.”

  He slammed the gear lever forward and put a funny look on me, “I don’t get your meaning.” The funny look began to fade, like it saw something coming in the distance it recognized so he smiled, “Hey, you’re an Indian aint you. You’re so dark when I saw you walking along the road I thought you was a nigger. I like to give a nigger a ride, they know all the best jokes. Walked down from Lake Tahoe huh, that’s something. I used to work up at Lake Tahoe years ago when they had the commercial fishing. I was a seine-rigger. You know what that is? It’s a boatman who goes out setting the long nets. We’d lug in a ton of fish a day. All Whitefish and Tahoe Trout. I seen trout as long as your arm and weighing over fifty pounds, there was no end to the fish in Lake Tahoe in those days, why that lake is so big they still don’t know how deep it really is. We took enough fish out of there to ship them as far east as Kansas City. In one year the company I worked for took seven hundred and forty thousand pounds out of that lake. Funny thing about it though was whenever you’d have a thunderstorm the nets would come up empty.” He slammed the gear lever down again. “Well there aint no big commercial fishing up there no more, been fished out, these days a man needs a license just to throw a line and hook over the side of his boat, hell, they just as well ought to give it back to you Indians is what I say.” He put his look back on me, “What’s your business in San Francisco?”