Redeye (18 page)

“Lobo,” I say, “the dog with the red eye has stalked my horse.”

“He stalks you, not your horse.”

“If he stalks me, then he has more in him than the dog spirit.”

“He has in him the sun and the moon and the black of all nights.”

“Have you been drinking the whiskey?”

“I had only enough for a red ant. No more.”

“I believe you have had more and I believe it has gotten into your head.”

“Which head?”

“The head on your shoulders. The other head is no bigger than the head of the red ant.”

“Ha. You lack all sense of proportion. You suffer from a mixed-up lineage. Your father was the father of your mother who was your grandmother.”

“Your tongue is loose. Be glad my fist is not loose.”

Lobo wants to drink more whiskey but I tell him that Merriwether will not like it. Merriwether has a god that is different from the god of Thorpe and the Mormons. The god of Merriwether has not talked to the white man in the settlement New York in the same way that the Mormon god has talked with the prophet Joseph Smith at that place. The god of Merriwether is called a Quaker god. The Quaker god is more distant away than the Mormon god and does not say to Merriwether what is true with the force of the Mormon god. But neither did the spirit who spoke to our forefathers. I ask Lobo, “Do you believe the old gods of the white man know the old gods of the red man?”

“Why do you wish to be so serious? Have a small drink of whiskey and relieve your straight and stiff spirit. The god of the white man is the son of the mother of the father who is also the daughter of the father. Who cares to answer your questions. Ask the dog. Ask the wind. I do not believe anything but that the earth and the hills and the sun and moon are all as alive as we are and stronger than all men and women and animals put together. That is all I know to believe until Joseph Smith comes to see me in a dream. Should I tell you what else I believe in my heart?”

“Of course. You are my friend. Even if you are red in the eye from the whiskey.”

“I believe the Mormons are so stiff that the blood cannot get to all their parts. They suffer because of this, but they never know they suffer.”

“It is hard for me to pass judgment,” I said.

“You are too much the Mescadey,” said Lobo.

Later, the young man from across the waters came to our fire with the man with the bad eyes, dressed in black, and talked through him. He in black speaks the language of us. I told them a story—about Clear Water and Stone Shirt, and the Twins, and the death of Clear Water's father whose bones had been left on open ground by a river. And the great war when we were with our god.

Stone Shirt had killed Clear Water's father, left his bones on the ground for the wolves to eat, and then had taken away his
mother to a far land. Clear Water slept for three days and nights after he was told this by a man who sat under a tree. In his sleep the spirit of the Mescadey told Clear Water what to do. Clear Water asked his grandmother to cut him in half, but she was afraid. He then ordered in strong language. With great sorrow she lifted the axe and cut him in two. He became two men, then called One-Two, or the Twins. They gathered nations to hunt for Stone Shirt who had killed his father and stolen his mother.

The nations followed him into the desert carrying a jar filled with water, and the nations were so great that from the front of them to the rear of them was one day's journey.

In the desert they became thirsty and worried and impatient, and they drank, each person of the nations, and the jar remained full until the Twins drank last and then it was empty. The Twins said: Do not be restless and impatient when following the command of the spirits, for water will be provided.

The next day they were all hungry and they saw on a raised place in the ground the great antelope of Stone Shirt. The great antelope had many eyes and could see in all directions at once, but there was a warrior among the nations of the Twins whose name was Rattlesnake and he could not be seen with the eyes of the antelope. But other warriors wanted to kill the antelope. The Twins ordered the other warriors to be quiet and remain in their places. Rattlesnake went and killed the antelope and all the nations cooked the antelope and ate it. It lasted until all were full. Many warriors were unhappy because they wanted to be the ones who had killed the mighty antelope. The Twins said: It does not
matter who killed the antelope when we all eat together.

Stone Shirt lived with his wife, the mother of the Twins, and two daughters. The bows and arrows of the daughters were magical. The daughters could think the arrows to the heart of the enemy, more swiftly than could be seen. In the night the Twins changed themselves into mice and chewed the bowstrings almost in two so that they would break when pulled tight.

The next morning the Twins and the nations saved the Twins' mother in battle. The bowstrings of the daughters broke. Stone Shirt was slain and his daughters died while dancing the death dance. The daughters were buried, but the father's bones were left above the ground to dry in the sun.

The Twins explained their history to their mother, who rejoiced.

The story shows that water will be provided to those who follow the spirit of the Mescadey and that it does not matter who kills the meat when it can be eaten by all together.

That first night on the trail before we went to sleep, the Englishman got to talking to Mr. Pittman about Indians and wanted to know if he could hear some of the Mescadey language, so Mr. Pittman took him over to their fire. I went too. Mudfoot told this long story that had these lessons about water and meat or something.
It was a little spooky sitting around their fire listening. The story had ghosts in it and people changing into mice. Sometimes Lobo would interrupt and him and Mudfoot would argue in Mescadey about something.

I heard Pete grinding coffee the next morning before light but I drifted back to sleep, then woke up smelling bacon cooking, and was about to drift off again when Pete hit two pans together and started hollering, “Roll 'em out. Roll 'em out. Bull's in the corral. Close up the gaps.”

Nobody said anything while we took a piss out in the dark, then rolled up and stashed our bedrolls, got a plate, and helped ourselves from the pots and pans around the fire—baked bread, bacon, porridge, coffee, and canned tomatoes. Mr. Pittman got extra on his plate, let it cool, then dropped it on the ground for Redeye. Redeye woofed it up.

I was tired. My eyes felt like they had bags under them. I didn't see the Englishman. Then I saw him still asleep in his sack. Zack nudged him pretty hard with his foot and woke him up.

That day was like the day before, except late in the afternoon we reached the White Rock Campsite, our camp for excavating Eagle City. It was up against the north wall of the mesa in some woods of low pines and cedars—near a spring. The ruin was one canyon over, in the mesa. You could see the trail to the mesa top winding up the cliff above us if you looked careful.

Mr. Merriwether directed camp setup. I went out and cut down some little cedars for posts and poles. We had canvas tarps
stretched between trees and poles to sleep under, us under one, the Indians under one, and the Mexicans under one. There was a tarp for the kitchen and one for saddles, bridles, saddle blankets, and such.

A rope corral was fixed for the horses and Mr. Merriwether built a bed out of cedar for us, showing the Indians and Mexicans how to build the others. He said we'd need the beds to stay up off the ground—away from the skunks.

We had a folding table for the dining room, more or less. Underneath that was a couple of trunks where we could lock up food so the skunks couldn't get at it.

Between the table and the spring was the kitchen—which won't nothing but the chuck wagon and a place for a fire. All in all, it was a right agreeable camp.

Mr. Merriwether got the Mexicans collecting firewood. After they brought in a few loads he made them dig holes down the hill to crap in. He didn't tell the Indians anything about that. Nobody knew where they crapped.

Then Mr. Merriwether examined the horses and found out that one had got saddle-galled. He got the Mexican that had rode him and took him a ways off from camp and we could hear him ranting. Zack had told me at the beginning of the trip to check under my saddle every two or three hours or I could get in big trouble.

It was cool enough that we all sat close to our fire eating supper. The Indians sat around theirs and the Mexicans, theirs. I just listened to the talk, mainly, which was first about why it was so cool and then they all got in on how to guess the weather.
Some of it I'd heard but I don't think the Englishman—Andrew is his name—had heard any of it. Judging from his hat and shoes he's been brought up pretty soft. Zack keeps telling him to get a cowboy hat instead of the little short-brimmed thing he's wearing, so somebody won't shoot him. “Buy yourself a goddamned cowboy hat, Limey,” he keeps saying. Andrew takes it all right. I don't think Zack means no harm.

“Where I grew up,” said Zack, “if the pigs laid down for the night and put on their little hats, like Andrew, then you could count on damn good weather.”

“I'll get a new hat when we return. This one has served me well for several thousand miles.”

“If cattle lay out you can count on the weather staying fair,” said Pete.

“I know there used to be ways back home,” said Andrew. “I just never . . .”

“If sheep run around,” said Mr. Merriwether, “then—”

“Sheep is bad medicine,” said Zack. “That's what's made all these dust bowls out here.”

“I don't think so,” said Mr. Merriwether. He was on his back with his head resting on his saddle and his hands behind his head. “I've—”

“The hell they don't. Sheep and the railroads have ruined the whole territory.”

Later on, I couldn't sleep. Finally pretty late I drifted off and it seemed like I'd only been asleep about five minutes when I heard the coffee grinder. I drifted back off and then the pots were
banged and Pete was yelling, “Roll 'em out, roll 'em out. Bull's in the corral. Close up the gaps.”

Mesa Largo
Anasazi County
Colorado, USA
in the wilderness
October 1, 1891

Dear Father,

I am at the moment sitting at, and writing from, our newly constructed dining table at White Rock Campsite, in the wilderness at the base of a cliff. Above us, in the magnificent Mesa Largo, lie the cliff dwellings. I write now, even though I await your reply to my earlier Colorado correspondence. First, I will present a general survey, followed by a report on the most profitable of our excavations thus far.

Imagine a dining table with a tablecloth reaching and resting on the floor. At floor level, pull the cloth out and away from the table a short distance. The walls of the mesa canyons are thus formed—at the bottom, slanted for a ways at an angle greater than forty-five degrees and then standing vertically so that access to the heights seems impossible. The canyons run throughout the mesa, generally northwest to
southeast. A casual explorer would find himself in an apparent labyrinth.

When I saw our first ruin, I gasped in amazement. We were across a canyon—a relatively small one (though large by English scales) looking at the face of a sandstone cliff. Resting in a great open eye socket in the face of that cliff was a small city of apartments, standing largely intact after long centuries of quiet rest in the desert, disturbed only by birds, bats, rats, and insects, none able to whittle away the magnificent little city. My estimate is that two to four hundred people inhabited this dwelling.

Our schedule: At daybreak we set about work. I'm permitted to remain in my sleeping bag for a bit while the cowboys get things under way. For breakfast we have “kettle bread,” bacon, oatmeal, coffee, canned tomatoes, and sometimes rice and cooked apples. We dine from the rough table at which I now write, and are finished in less than ten minutes. We fill our canteens, saddle our horses, and “head out” up a rather treacherous trail to the top of the mesa, where we unsaddle our horses, fetter their front legs, and then descend into our cliff dwelling ruin by way of a makeshift ladder formed by binding two tree trunks together with cowboy rope.