Redeye (24 page)

The woman came back outen the kitchen pushing the rolling chair but without the old lady. She was a good-looking woman and I wished I was the Copeland man for the night.

“Where are the rest of the dogs, Brother?” she hollered.

“In the cooler.”

“What in the world for?”

“He's training his dog.”

She came pushing the rolling chair over to where we were standing.

“How do you do, ma'am,” I said. Tipped my hat.

“Oh,” she said when she seen Redeye's head sticking out of the bag. “He's the one I heard about. What kind of dog is that?”

“A mix, with some bulldog mainly—a catch dog.”

“What happened to his eye?”

“Well, ma'am, he was borned that way. Some Indians up in Utah had him, and they made a lot out of him. He was something special. Then they all had a sick spell, the Indians, and blamed it on the dog, and they wanted to kill him. I saved him. He already had the name of Redeye. Except it didn't sound the same in Papitaw.”

She was a pretty woman and I was hoping she might ask me to supper, but she didn't. You never know when a woman might want to talk to you, get to know you.

The boy asked me if I wanted to see a baby mummy.
Baby
mummy? The mama went back in the house and the boy led me out to the kitchen house—the room what they did their embalming in, and the next room was where the grandma lived.
She was sitting next to the bed in a rocking chair and in the bed was a little casket, walnut it looked like, with silver corners, and a glass top, and inside was this mummy, a baby, with a sort of yellow head, holes for eyes, and a faint little red cross on its forehead. Probably from the cliff dwellings. I would see that Thorpe knew about that. He would like that cross. It was a mighty well-preserved mummy.

“She used to wouldn't sit in no chair except her rolling chair,” said the boy, “but now she won't sit nowhere but in that rocking chair by the mummy.”

“Can't she hear?”

“Yessir. She can hear good, but she can't talk.”

“God works in mysterious ways, don't He?”

“Yessir, I guess He does.”

“Where did that mummy come from—the cliff dwellings?”

“Yessir.”

“Is that your baby?” I asked the little old thing. She rolled her eyes up at me, kept chewing her cud, or whatever it was. She was old
and
ugly.

Little later, I rode on to the Merriwether Ranch and came up on two children and their governess—Copeland's niece—under the cottonwood trees.

“Howdy. I'm wondering if you might be able to tell me where I could find Abel. I seen you at the train station, didn't I?”

“Yessir. I arrived on the train the day you-all tried to blow up the Chinaman.”

“I remember that. I'm Cobb Pittman.” Tipped my hat.

“How do you do. I'm Star Copeland. Mr. Merriwether's in to town right now and should be back tomorrow.”

“I see. Well, I'm looking to ride into Beacon City. And so I just wanted to say howdy to Abel. Honey,” I said to the biggest little girl, “I wouldn't get too close to that dog. He might bite your arm off.” She moved back pretty quick. “I just stopped at the saddle shop and talked to the lady there, Copeland's wife. I'm interested in joining up with the Beacon City Mormons, maybe bringing my family out from Georgia.” God brings words to me, natural.

“Well,” said Miss Copeland, “I'm sure Mrs. Merriwether would say you can stay in that tent down there if you'd like to wait for Mr. Merriwether to come back tomorrow. And could I get something for your eyes?”

I'd taken off my specs. “No, ma'am. They're like this all the time. Redeye, you
stop
that growling. I'll stay in the tent, ma'am—I'm much obliged—and I'll speak to Mr. Merriwether when he comes back tomorrow.” And you could come out tonight and relieve me of my burden.

I got settled in and staked Redeye out on a leash. I hate to do that, but it's necessary. He's a good dog. He licks my eyes open when they get dried shut of a night. Didn't take but a couple of times rubbing some cold gravy on them, and saying, “Eyes, Redeye. Eyes.” I don't have to use the gravy more than once a year now. Redeye gravy.

Sometimes I wonder had I stayed in the fur trapping, but then that great big hole would have been left in my knowledge. Now, I'm able to walk into the hole, to go after them that let the worse-than-animal
come into their souls; I'm able to fill out the whole pattern, to sew in the stitches, to make everything complete by killing all the leaders that allowed it to happen while they had such a lack of heart they had to say they was doing God's holy will.

It makes me feel good to do it—and know that I'm a part of making things right and balanced. God's hand is in it. How can a man feel his mission on earth, feel it said into his heart and bones but still not follow, act out, that mission? No matter what his mission was before, no matter what he's done before. That is the man who dies before he dies, who simply takes up space and food and air on earth, who is a
bother
to those of us who walk into our holes following God's almighty voice, that voice saying
make the world even
. Because if there is sons of bitches roaming the world playing their power on the innocence of innocents, then there by God has to be somebody listening for orders on how to track the cowards down and give to them their due and overdue justice. God can't act except through a man. This earth is the only one we got. If you sit by, it don't get it right. If nobody done nothing, it would get completely wrong and evil. God is justice. I'm just doing what I got to do.

“Redeye. You ready to turn in, boy? You think I might be able to turn you loose in a herd of sheep tomorrow? Say, boy. Come over here.”

When I entered the house after seeing Mr. Pittman, Libby was facing the collar on a new blouse for Elisabeth. “Mr. Pittman—the man with the dog—wants to talk to Mr. Merriwether,” I said, “so I told him he could stay in one of the tents all night. I hope that was all right. He seemed sick, somehow.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine. He was by himself?”

“Yes'um. Except for the dog.”

“Should we ask him in for supper?”

“It's fine with me. He's a little bit odd, but seems perfectly nice.”

“Go ask him.”

“Come on, girls,” I said, “let's go ask the man in for supper.”

He was not a big man, but he looked wiry, and strong. He'd left off his smoked spectacles, and his eyelids were red and the bags underneath his eyes were red and tears were constantly rolling down his cheeks into his bushy beard. He agreed to come in and eat. I showed him to the washbowl on the porch.

At the table he had his hat off and his hair all around was combed straight back, except that it was thin on top. It was smoothed back as if with a washcloth.

We started eating and sat in silence for a while. I couldn't remember if I knew where Mr. Pittman lived. Finally I could think of nothing else, so I asked him, “How do you like where you live?”

“Oh, I don't like anywhere very much,” he said.

“Where
do
you live?”

“On the trail, mostly. At the hotel sometimes. At your uncle's once or twice—in his saddle shop.”

Juanita and her little boy, Jose Hombre, were having supper with us and Libby allowed him and Elisabeth and Melinda to eat by themselves at a small table in the corner. The Merriwethers ask their servants to eat with them, another unusual western custom. Though, come to think of it, I don't know of anyone around, besides the Merriwethers, who has servants. When Mr. Merriwether is at home we eat in complete silence, but not when he's away.

Mr. Pittman finally talked a little—I got him to talking—told us that he worked for the government doing land surveys and that his family and children were in Georgia. He also said he was interested in archaeology.

“Mr. Merriwether is very interested in archaeology,” I said. “He's brought back two mummies from up on the mesa.”

“The word has pretty much got out,” said Libby.

“The big mummy es bery ugly,” said Juanita, “and the baby es bery
bonita
.”

Here Mr. Pittman takes in to talking Spanish with Juanita. He said something that Jose Hombre laughed at and then he said, “God works in mysterious ways.” He took a big spoon of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Water ran from his eyes. We were finishing up supper and the conversation turned to sheep and cattle. He was curious about who owned sheep and cattle in the area.

Before he left to go back to his tent, I told him about Mr.
Blankenship's ideas about tourists and the possibility of my going on a tourist expedition into the mountains. He seemed interested in perhaps going himself.

I got up to the ferry about dinnertime, after I'd talked with Merriwether. Merriwether's not interested in much except exploring in the cliff dwellings. One of Thorpe's wives runs the house with the
MEALS
sign on a front porch post. That's where I stopped. Another wife runs the trading post across the river.

Redeye was hungry. I was too.

There was a buggy out front. Up on the porch I looked in through the window before I knocked. A big fire was going and two men and a little lady were seated at the table. It was still chilly from a cool night. They hadn't heard me ride up. She come to the door and was as lively as a little bird; took my hat and coat and took me to a seat. It was a long table and pretty near filled up the room.

The two fellows were eating hard and keeping their eyes down. The little miss asked which way I'd come and I told her by the Copelands' and Merriwethers'. She talked some about the new mortuary business at the Copelands'. She'd heard that Copeland had learned it in Denver and then come home and sewed up the hole in his mama's cheek.

“Did you know she's sleeping with a baby mummy?” I said.

That got the fellows' attention.

“Gracious, no,” she said.

“Yep. Seems she thinks it's one of her long-lost children.”

“No, I hadn't heard about that. Did they get the mummy from up on the mesa?”

“They did. Seems to be a whole lot of Mormon signs up in there. Signs of Jesus. Just for one, the baby mummy's got a cross on its forehead. And I hear tell there's robes from Israel up in there.”

“Bishop Thorpe has been up in the mesa,” she said, “but he's not found any of that.”

“Is he your husband?” I asked her.

“No. He's a good friend—and a provider.”

“Maybe he wants to go on the next expedition. They're planning one I think, and if it all works out it might mean good business for the ferry, seeing as they might get tourists going in there. Especially people that might want to see proof of the
Book of Mormon
. And they're trying to get all kinds of people to go. Blankenship, out of Mumford Rock, is heading it up.”

“You talking about Mesa Largo?” said one of the fellows.

“That's what I understand. Seems there's some cliff dwellings in there drawing some interest.”

“There's cliff dwellings everywhere,” said the ugly one.

“The whole country is going to hell,” said the first one. “That's all they need now—pulling more foreigners in here.”

“Ain't it the truth,” I said.

“Bishop Thorpe would like to know about that cross,” said the little woman.

“I bet he would. He ought to know about it,” I said. I thought about him making his rounds to all his wives. I'd seen a picture drawing in a Denver newspaper of a Mormon in bed with six or eight wives.

“There's coming a time,” said the one straight across from me, the ugly one, “within not too many years when you ain't gone to be able to ride ten mile without having to cross a railroad track. And they'll put a telegraph in ever house that's built.”

“Ain't it the truth,” I said.