Heaven and Hell: The North and South Trilogy Page 12

  “I’m a fair shot. I practiced a few years with General Wade Hampton’s scouts.”

  Wooden Foot responded with an enthusiastic nod. “Southron cavalry. That’s a tip-top recommendation.”

  “Are you adding a man or replacing one?”

  Again the trader squished his tongue around his teeth. “No sense lyin’ if we’re to ride together, I guess. I lost one last trip. My partner, Dean. He laid hands on a woman. Her husband and some of his Red Shield friends carved Dean up for stew meat.”

  The jerky seemed to perform a leap in Charles’s belly. “What’s a Red Shield?”

  “Cheyenne soldier society. They’s several of ’em. The shields, the Bow Strings, the Dog Men—Dog Soldiers, they’s sometimes called. ’Bout half the braves in the tribe belong to that one. When a young man gets to be fifteen or sixteen winters, he joins a society, and it’s just about the most important thing in his whole life. All the societies started a long time ago. The way the legends tell it, a young Cheyenne brave named Sweet Medicine wandered way up north to the Sacred Mountain, which may be in the Black Hills—nobody’s real sure. They say Sweet Medicine met the Great Spirit on the mountain and they powwowed a while. The Spirit told Sweet Medicine to go back and set up the societies to protect the tribe. Then the Spirit gave him all the society names, the special songs for each one, how each one oughta dress—the entire shebang. The societies are still run the way Sweet Medicine told the people to run ’em. They rule the roost, and you better not forget it. Even the forty-four chiefs in the tribal council don’t fart in the wind ’thout the society men sayin’ all right, go ahead.”

  “What exactly do these society men do besides boss the tribe?”

  “Biggest job’s to police the camp when it’s time for a buffla hunt. They keep the young fellas in line, so nobody jumps suddenlike and scares off a prime herd.”

  “And I’d be replacing a man who got butchered by these people?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Main. I wouldn’t pretend they’s no risk. They’s rewards, though. The sight of some of the cleanest, sweetest country God ever made—and some of the fairest maidens. I get along fine with most of the Cheyennes. They like old Wooden Foot.”

  With a gurgle and a coo, Boy knelt beside his uncle and patted his beard. Jackson took Boy’s hand between his and held it. The youth was calm and happy.

  “Here’s the cut of the cards,” the trader said. “First year, I give you twenty percent of whatever we get for the horses we bring back. You prove out, I raise you ten percent a year till you’re in for a full half-share. Till that time, I own all the goods and stand all the risks. Oh”—he grinned—“I mean excludin’ the risks to your hair and your life. What do you say?”

  Charles sat quietly, unable to say anything just yet. The trader proposed a change both large and profound. The presence of Boy made him think of his son. If he joined Jackson, he wouldn’t see little Gus for months at a time. He didn’t like that. But he needed work; he needed an income. And before the war, serving in Texas, he’d vowed that he would return and settle there. He’d loved the beauty of the West.

  “Well, Mr. Main?”

  “I’d like to sleep on it.” He smiled. “I don’t honestly know if I could get used to calling a man Wooden Foot.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that if you shoot straight.”

  Shortly after, Charles rolled up in a warm buffalo robe by the dying fire. He squirmed until he found the position in which his bruises hurt him least, and fell asleep.

  Instead of enormous prairie vistas or fierce Indians, he dreamed of Augusta Barclay. In the gray and featureless landscapes of sleep he had his hands on her warm bare body. Then other women slipped in, taking her place. He woke to stiffness, and guilt, then the burned-out feeling of homelessness, made all the more painful because of his aborted Army career.

  He still had doubts about Jackson’s offer. It was better than some dull, monotonous job, but it was also plainly dangerous.

  Thinking on it, he turned over. His ribs ached; he groaned. The sound produced another, which he identified as Fen waking up and padding across the tipi to stand beside his head. Charles lay rigid. Would the dog bite him?

  Fen’s head bobbed down. His raspy warm tongue licked Charles’s bruised face three times.

  On such small affections do large decisions turn.

  “Fine, damn fine,” Wooden Foot exclaimed when Charles said yes in the morning. The trader rummaged in a heap of blankets and canvas-wrapped bales, found two supple objects that he pressed into his new partner’s hands.

  “What are these?”

  “Buffla-hide moccasins. From a winter kill. You get the thickest coat on the buffla then. You turn it inside, see? These’ll keep you warm where we’re goin’.”

  The tipi filled with the rich smells of coffee boiling and sowbelly frying in a cast-iron skillet. With a mitten on his right hand, Boy squatted and held the skillet over the fire, an almost demented concentration on his face.

  “I’ll need a horse,” Charles said.

  “I got an extra I brought back from the Indian Territory. A four-legged jug-headed whelp of Satan nobody would buy. If you can ride him, you can have him.”

  “I have to qualify to be your partner?”

  The trader squinted at him. “That’s the size of it.”

  “I’m still pretty sore. Riding some wild horse won’t help that any.”

  Wooden Foot shrugged to acknowledge the point. “I s’pose we could wait a day or so—”

  Charles rubbed his aching ribs and thought about it. “No. Let’s get it over with.”

  Heavy fog hid most of the ground around Wooden Foot’s tipi, which he’d erected west of the tent town near Jefferson Barracks. The trader led Charles to the horse, tethered some distance from his other saddle animals and pack mules. The small, rangy piebald was black and white, with a broad face blaze.

  “I think he’s a killer,” Wooden Foot said, reaching for the low tree branch to which he’d tied a rope fastened to the headstall. “I prob’ly oughta shoot him.”

  “Watch out,” Charles yelled, pushing Jackson as the horse reared. Front hooves slashed the mist where the trader had stood a moment before.

  “See?” he said, from where the push had spilled him. “I broke him, but nobody can ride him. I come close to puttin’ a bullet in him twice already.”

  Charles felt tense, uneasy. He was remembering his last, and fatal, ride on Sport in Virginia. Sport, an enemy bullet in him, had carried Charles to safety with speed and great heart while his lifeblood pumped away behind, splashing the snow. Sport had been a horse nobody had wanted.

  “Don’t try killing him in front of me,” he said. “I lost a fine gray charger in the war. I can’t tolerate anyone hurting a horse.”

  Still, he understood the trader’s apprehension. The piebald had murder in his eye. Charles saw some virtues, though. Lightness—he estimated the horse at about a thousand pounds—a fine neck, and the smaller hooves and head typical of a Southern saddler.

  “Indian pony, you said?”

  “Yep. The Army ruins ’em. Chokes ’em with grain so they forget livin’ on grass. Makes ’em weak and slow. Won’t happen to this one. He won’t live that long.”

  “Let’s find out. Where’s that blanket and saddle?”

  The mist rolled thick around them. Wooden Foot tied the rope to the tree again. With a listing gait, Charles walked to the piebald. “It’s all right,” he said, putting the blanket on. “It’s all right.”

  The piebald lifted his right foreleg. Charles’s belly tightened up. Down went the hoof again, plop, and the piebald exhaled. Charles saddled him with care, tossing Wooden Foot a surprised look when the saddle’s weight caused no problem. He didn’t understand. Maybe there was some unfathomable streak of madness in that beautiful head.

  He dropped the stirrups down and mounted slowly, as much from pain as caution. The piebald stayed still, though he turned his head, trying to see his rider. The m
ist rolled, the centaur figure rising from it. On the distant Army post, bugles sounded a morning call.

  Quietly, Charles said, “Untie the rope.”

  Wooden Foot darted in and did it fast. Charles took the rope, wrapped it around one hand, gave an easy tug.

  Shooting skyward, his left leg wrenched by jerking out of the stirrup, Charles thought, Jackson will have to kill him. He struck the piebald’s croup as he came down, then hit the dirt, while the horse bellowed and kicked. The impact made him feel like torches had been lit in his body. A hoof gashed his forehead before he rolled clear and snatched out his Army Colt. Kneeling, in excruciating pain, he steadied the revolver with both hands, waiting for the horse to come after him.

  The piebald snorted, stamped, but stood still. Boy hugged his uncle’s waist from behind, peeking at the horse and the man aiming the gun.

  “Better do it, Main.”

  “No, not unless—wait. I didn’t notice before. Do you see that red bubble on his mouth?”

  Peevish, Jackson said he surely didn’t. Charles knew that men the trader’s age often had trouble with their eyes. He shoved the Colt away and approached the horse cautiously. “Let me see,” he said in a soothing voice. “Just keep quiet and let me see.” His heart hammered; the piebald’s eyes held that raging look again.

  But he let Charles gently pry his jaws apart, revealing the blood-slimed bit. Charles exploded with laughter born of relief. “Come see this. Not too fast.” Wooden Foot sidled in behind him. “There’s your killer streak. An abscessed molar. Leave the reins alone, and he’s fine. Pull them, he goes crazy.”

  “I missed it,” Wooden Foot said. “Just damn completely missed it.”

  “Easy enough to do.” Charles shrugged, unwilling to tell the older man he should buy a pair of spectacles. He reached under to rub the piebald’s chest. “Soon as we find a horse doctor to nick that tooth and drain and poultice it, he’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll keep him?”

  “That was the deal, wasn’t it? You want to pat him, Boy? It’s all right.”

  Wooden Foot’s nephew scuttled forward, a heartbreaking elation on his white face. He touched the piebald and smiled. The trader sighed, his tension gone.

  “Then he’s yours to name, Charlie.”

  Charles thought a bit, joining Boy in patting the horse. “Let’s see. It should be a name to make people respect him, and not fool with him. They don’t need to know he’s gentle.” He patted the horse again. “You said the devil whelped him. I’ll name him for his papa. Satan.”

  “Hot damn,” the trader cried, starting a little jig, bouncing from his good foot to the artificial one with amazing agility. “Hot damn, oh, hot damn. This here outfit’s back in business.”

  _____________

  TRUMP’S

  ST. LOUIS PLAYHOUSE

  Opening Soon in Repertory!

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  “America’s Ace of Players”

  —and—

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  starring in

  “STREETS OF SHAME”

  an ENTIRELY NEW Melo-Drama of

  New York HIGH and LOW Life

  by H. T. Samuels from a conception by

  MR. TRUMP

  —alternating with—

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  Numerous Seats at 50¢

  NONE HIGHER THAN $1.50 ! ! !

  9

  THE DAY AFTER CHARLES said yes to Wooden Foot Jackson’s proposition, the trader took the piebald to a veterinarian. Leaving Boy with the horse doctor, he and Charles set off for the city. To avoid soldiers from Jefferson Barracks who might recognize Charles, they circled around and rode in from the west. The border collie ran along behind them.

  Early Creole settlers had nicknamed the place Pain Court—Short of Bread—because so little of its commerce had anything to do with agriculture; it was then the fur-trade center.

  Times had changed. On the road bordered by sycamores and lindens, milkweed and climbing bittersweet, they passed farm wagons piled with apples or sacks of grain. They rode around two farmers driving pigs that filled the air with squealing and a characteristic stink.

  Presently, rooftops appeared down the road and, above them, a hovering gray cloud. “Don’t breathe too much in St. Lou,” Wooden Foot advised. “They’s buildin’ more foundries and tanneries and flour mills and sheet-lead works than I can rightly keep track of. I guess ’Mericans don’t care if they choke to death on fact’ry smoke so long as they go out rich.”

  The day was bright and nippy. Charles felt good. The effects of the beating were wearing off, and the gypsy robe kept him warm. His first impression of Wooden Foot had been right; the trader was a man to like and trust. Maybe his spirits would lighten in the weeks ahead, even if he did have to ride all the way to the Indian Territory to make it happen.

  They rode toward the busy heart of town, passing old Creole homes of stone, frontier cabins of hand-hewn logs, and newer, half-timbered houses with Dutch doors built by members of the large German population. Around one hundred fifty thousand people lived in St. Louis, Wooden Foot said.

  Reaching Third Street, they could already hear the wagon traffic and shouting stevedores on the mile-and-a-half-long levee ahead of them. A riverboat’s whistle blew as Wooden Foot handed Charles a roll of notes.

  “I’ll stock up on trade goods while you buy some winter clothes. Also a knife. Also a rifle that satisfies you, and plenty of ammunition. Don’t go scant or cheap. They ain’t no general stores out where we’re goin’, and you’d be pretty unhappy to have a dozen hoppin’-mad Cheyennes on your neck and no more cartridges in your pouch ’cause you saved a penny. Oh”—he grinned—“buy some of them cigars you fancy. Man needs a little civilized pleasure on the plains. The winter nights are mighty long.”

  He waved, turned left at the corner in front of an oxcart, and disappeared.

  Ten minutes later, Charles walked out of a tobacco shop on Olive Street with three wooden boxes under his arm. He slipped them in an old saddlebag Wooden Foot had given him.

  He’d kept one cigar out to smoke. As he lit it, he noticed an Army officer striding along the walk on the other side of the street. He didn’t know the officer’s name, but he recognized his face from Jefferson Barracks. He held absolutely still. The match burned down, scorching his fingers.

  The officer went around the corner without seeing him.

  Charles exhaled, flicked the dead match away, and rubbed his stinging fingers on his leg. He relit the cigar as a wagon pulled up at the Olive Street side of a large two-story building on the corner. A second-floor signboard mounted to be readable from both streets said TRUMP’S ST. LOUIS PLAYHOUSE in showy red letters.

  The wagon carried a load of unpainted boards. The teamster, a pot-gut with the front brim of his black hat pinned up, tied the rein to a hitching post and smacked the hip of the old dray horse as he got down—an unnecessary unkindness that made Charles frown. The teamster looked grumpy, but that was no excuse.

  The man entered a door marked stage. He shouted something, then came out and began pulling boards from the wagon. He looked like he hated the work, and the world.

  A black cat strolled out of the theater and approached the dray horse. The horse began to whinny and sidestep. The cat arched its back and hissed. The horse reared, whinnying wildly and lunging toward the street, almost causing a collision with a green-and-white hotel omnibus bringing passengers and luggage from the levee. One of the passengers leaned out to swat the wagon horse away. The horse reared again.

  As the omnibus rattled on, the teamster dropped three boards on the walk and slapped the horse’s hind quarter with his black hat. “Goddamn miserable nag.” He hit again, and again.

  Charles’s face
changed as he watched. The horse tried to nip his tormentor. The teamster reached under the seat and came up with a quirt. He laid it on the old plug’s neck, withers, haunch.

  Charles dashed around his mount’s head and into the street, jumping to avoid being run down by a horseman. The teamster kept striking with the quirt. “Teach you to bite me, you rucking jughead.”

  A gentleman passing with a lady objected to the language. The teamster whirled and threatened him with the bloodied quirt. The man hurried the woman away.

  The feeble prancing of the old horse amused the teamster. He struck the animal again.

  “Hit him once more and I’ll put one between your eyes.”

  The teamster glanced up to see Charles on the sidewalk, both hands extended in front of him, clasping the Army Colt. Charles’s cheeks were deep red. The sight of the quirt marks enraged him. His heart beat at great speed, roaring in his ears. He drew the hammer back.

  “He’s my horse, for Christ’s sake,” the teamster protested.

  “He’s a dumb animal. Take your misery out on a human being.”

  To Charles’s left, in the theater doorway, a woman said, “What is all this about?” Charles mistakenly looked at her, and the teamster laid the quirt across his shoulder.

  Charles staggered back. The teamster knocked the Colt from his hand. Something exploded in Charles’s head.

  He tore the upraised quirt away from the teamster and flung it. Then he jumped the man and bore him down to the wooden walk. His right arm pistoned back and forth. Someone from a gathering crowd grabbed his shoulders. “Get up. Stop it.”

  Charles kept pounding.

  “Get up! You’re killing him.”

  Two men succeeded in pulling him away. The red haze cleared from his mind, and he saw the pulped, dripping face of the teamster, who lay on his back. One of the men from the crowd said to the teamster, “You better unload and get out of here.”

  Charles tossed the teamster a blue bandanna from his back pocket. The man batted it away and called Charles a filthy name. Charles flexed his aching right hand as the teamster struggled up and began to pull boards from the wagon, watching Charles from an eye already showing a purple bruise.