Redeye (23 page)

“Mr. Collier, come up and sit on the porch for a while,” I said. “You look thirsty. I'll fix you a drink of water.”

“Oh, no, thank you, I feel as though I should perhaps ask permission of your uncle before I—”

“Mr. Collier. We are in the West—the United States. You are
not in England, and I am twenty-four years old.” I felt compelled to be as forward as etiquette permitted.

He smiled and dismounted.

I held the gate open for him. “You sit on the porch and catch your breath,” I said, “and I'll put on some water for tea.”

“Tea? Ah, a real treat.”

“My aunt Ann and uncle P.J. stocked my cabin for me when I came out here—from furniture to food to tea, so I'm very lucky.”

I put on the water and returned to sit beside Andrew on the porch. He had moved the rocking chairs apart.

“How was your trip?” I asked.

“Quite interesting. Quite interesting. But I'm afraid that in part it was a failure. Mr. Merriwether had arranged a meeting for me with a representative of the Denver Historical Society, hoping for their offer of financial support for his explorations. But I was unsuccessful in that regard. There are, however, several members of the historical society who expressed interest in visiting the ruins.”

“Well, that would fit in with Mr. Blankenship's plans. He wants to set up a tourist company of sorts.”

“I've heard, and I hope it doesn't come to that, but it is happening over at the Grand Canyon, you know. Miss Copeland . . .” His demeanor changed. “I almost wrote you a letter.”

“Oh, Mr. Collier. That would have been . . . just fine. What stopped you?”

“Please call me Andrew.” A twinkle appeared in his blue eyes. He has sandy hair and freckles.

“Andrew, yes. And you call me Star. Well, what stopped you,
Andrew, from writing me a letter?” I actually said it—“writing me a letter.” This
was
happening.

“I felt it would be too . . . I suppose too forward.”

“But we're in the West. Remember? . . . I think the water is boiling.”

I brought out a tray with my tea set and asked him again about the letter, what he had planned to write. I was so excited I could hardly breathe, and trying not to show it.

“I was going to tell you about Denver, what I was seeing, and perhaps some more about the cliff dwellings. But I've gone on and on about them already.”

“I don't think you've gone on and on at all. It's very interesting, and Mr. Blankenship has asked me to go on the first tourist expedition—to show that a woman can do it.”

“Really? Oh, jolly good.” He reached into his pocket and pulled a thin short stick with something wound tightly on the end. “Look at this,” he said.

“What in the world is that?”

He touched the tip. “A rat's claw. It was used for some kind of scraping.”

“Goodness.” It was so strange and so, so . . . prehistoric.

“And I've also got”—he reached into his pocket and pulled out another short stick with a small rock point attached—“a jasper drill. And, Star, there are no traces of metal up there,
no
metal from the Spanish. This all happened before the Spanish came.”

“When was that?”

“Fifteen-forty.”

“I do hope I have an opportunity to go up there.”

“It's simply . . . we . . . that would be grand.”

He put the little drill and claw away. “I spoke with a U.S. marshal in Denver—a student of history. He gave me some interesting information. Someone has killed several Mormons who were rumored to have participated in the Mountain Meadows Massacre, and might kill others. The reason—”

“Mormons?” I felt that I had to tell him, “Andrew, the ferry operator, Bishop Thorpe, has asked me to marry him.” It just popped out.

“He asked you to
marry
him?”

“Yes.”

“I thought . . . he's already married, isn't he? Several times over.”

“Not any more—not since the last of the polygamy laws last year. I think he
was
married. I'm sure he was. They have visions that guide them in their daily behavior.”

“So are you . . . are you going to
marry
him?”

“I really can't . . . I don't . . . I can't say for sure, but he is such a formidable man, and they are so . . . I respect them. The way they are today—what I've seen. Their Saints, many of their Saints, are actually
alive
. And Joseph Smith—”

“Do you know anything about Joseph Smith?”

“Well, I . . .”

“And do you know about the Mountain Meadows Massacre?”

“I've heard about it, yes. I know it happened a long time ago.”

“Not all that long ago, really. But as I was saying, in Denver I had an opportunity to learn more about it and . . .” He suddenly
looked sad, as if a cloud had fallen over his countenance. “I didn't realize you had been spoken for,” he said.

“Oh, that's not the way it is at all. He's given me a year and I feel that I shouldn't just up and say no without reasonable—”

“That doesn't mean you must
take
a year, does it?”

“Well, no. But I don't want to be impolite. And I think maybe I shouldn't have told you all this.” I was surprised by my own behavior.

“Why
did
you tell me, then?”

“I don't know.” I looked around—for something to talk about. “Would you like some more tea?”

“No, I'd best be going. I need to report to Mr. Merriwether.” He placed his cup on the porch railing, stood, picked it up again, looked around.

I reached for it and said, “I hope you will consider stopping by again.”

“Why, yes, certainly.”

Somehow, tea on the porch had turned into a less uplifting event than I had hoped for. Why had I blabbed so?

  THE MESA  

 

Whereas your Monday-night camp was a “trail camp,” your Tuesday-night camp will be permanent campsite, White Rock Campsite near the longitudinal center of Mesa Largo. This spacious and comfortable camp has been the center of operations for all excavations into lofty Eagle City.

At White Rock we will unload our tour wagons and “settle in.” Tarps will be spread throughout the camp at head height. (April snow on Mesa Largo is not unheard of! August rains are frequent.) Pine and cedar tables and bed frames built by Merriwether and his crews are sturdy permanent fixtures. Bed frames enable tourists to stay comfortably up off the ground away from those pesty “polecats” who call this area home.

High above you, along the canyon wall, winds the trail up to the top of Mesa Largo. It has been widened by Chinamen road gangs since those days back in '92 when a pack mule was lost from the heights along the then narrow and dangerous (now 100-percent safe) trail.

How secluded the cliff dwellers were! What did they fear? Wild animals? Savage marauding enemy tribes? The Spanish? Sabre-toothed tigers? Such questions will no doubt plague the best minds that the fields of archaeology and anthropology offer well into our present century—and perhaps the next . . .

It was hot and dry, and dusty, but I decided to make the rounds, see could I get a feel for what might be going on. Let Thorpe know about what they're finding up there. See if he might bite. Something about the cliff dwellings are calling me to do my duty up there.

There is a higher power and with it comes the whole order of justice, which means making the big people little and the little people big. The Gentiles were innocent. I got to level it out.

I stopped by Copeland's saddle shop, the place I'd stayed, asked the little boy there, “Where're your dogs?”

“They been taking a notion to go down to the creek about every day lately.”

“Then I'll let my dog down to take a shit. By the way, was that a sheep crossing I saw back up the road a piece?” Boy looked to be about seven years old. One of Copeland's.

“Yessir. Probably so. There's one back there. A Navajo lives back there.”

“That your dogs coming?”

“Yessir.”

“Redeye.
Redeye
. Come here to me. Get in there, boy. We'll take a shit down the road.” I got him in the bag and he growled at the dogs coming in the yard. “Hush up.” Dogs had their fur up, growling and barking. “You got anywhere you can put them up?” I said to the little boy. “All but one?”

“I can put them in the cooler if there ain't no meat in there—or Grandma.”

“How about checking for me—if you can spare a few minutes. Help me with my dog a little bit.”

A woman came outen the house pushing a old woman in a rolling chair. I walked to the cooler room with the boy—a down-under room rigged with a barrel of water for cooling. No meat in there so the boy put the dogs in, all but one, and I asked him to rope that one and take him across the road. He did and I reached down in the bag, put my lasso around Redeye's neck, then dropped him out of the bag. He spied the boy's dog and squatted like a sheep dog and started moving toward him with this quiet growl and then picked up speed and when he was just about wide-open running I yelled, “Halt, Redeye,” and he didn't of course, cause of his queer notions, so I jerked on the rope as hard as I could. He was about ten paces from the boy's dog and it turned him for a good flip. “You son of a bitch,” I yelled and jerked again. He got up and tucked his tail between his legs and looked over his shoulder at me, with that red eye pumping blood cause it had about gone white, I'd jerked the rope so tight. “Now, you come here to me,” I said, and he slid back to me on his belly, like a snake, his tail tucked and twitching. “Redeye, you don't learn to mind, I'm gone kill you.”

That was the fourth time in a row I'd done it. I figured maybe four more times and he'd get the idea, and then I'd just keep quiet when I wanted him to go on and hit, and let him know when I didn't—that's the way it was supposed to work. I didn't much think I was going to ever have to say “Hold fast” again.