Sudden Country (19 page)

The sky was cloudless and the landscape was washed in pale light. Remembering a thing that the scoundrel Black Ben Wedlock had told me, I continued in a straight line, picking out such landmarks as a shelf of fallen shale and a deformed young pine and walking from one to the next. The steady rhythm of my footsteps was mesmerizing, sponging disturbing thoughts from my mind. I even managed to forget the pain in my head.

I was planning to turn around and go back when I came out of a copse of seedling spruce and knew that I was not walking at all, and that in fact I had not left my bed beside the Indian and was asleep and dreaming.

The man who lives long enough will see many beautiful sights if he keeps his eyes open, and I imagine that I have seen most of mine. But for sheer soaring joy I cannot recall one to compare with three patched and sagging wagons arranged in a rough triangle at the base of a grassy slope not two hundred yards from the clearing where I had found the two bodies. I stopped walking and rubbed my eyes and blinked, hardly daring to do so for fear the mirage would fade. It did not, and the next thing I knew I was running.

"Mr. Knox!" I shouted, fairly flying as I approached the wagon I knew to be his. "Judge Blod! Deacon!" From that day to this I have never felt so light and unbound by the laws of God and nature.

And then I was bound indeed.

Suddenly I was no longer running. Pain seared me as from a sudden sheet of flame, my legs flew out in front of me, and I sat down hard on the base of my spine, losing my wind and my senses. Then they returned, bringing agony with them. I could not move my arms and looked down blurredly to note that I was wrapped several times around by a strip of rounded leather, at its broadest as thick as my thumb and tapering to a frazzled tip that dangled below my chin like a visible taunt. The other end was clenched in a fist belonging to a lean man standing over me with the moon at his back so that I could not see his face. I did not need to. When he spoke, his nasal whine belonged to the demon of my nightmares.

"Well, hell," said Nazarene Pike. "It sure is scrawny, but ain't it worth keeping?" And over his shoulder: "Beacher! Fetch Black Ben."

RED CLOUD'S MEDICINE

B
riefly I saw the face of the man whom Pike had addressed as Beacher, and recognized the bland features and sandy moustache of the man I had observed boarding our train in Denver. He said something in those melodious tones I had first heard through my window overlooking the scene of Jotham Flynn's death; then he disappeared, to return moments later in the company of that ogre of the branded face and Dresden glass eye, that fair-haired hulk who spoke of grand adventure even as he plotted mean deceit, the proprietor of the Golden Gate and keeper of the Great Lie–thief, mentor, cheat, cook, murderer, storyteller, and hound–Benjamin Franklin Wedlock. He had dressed in haste, pulling braces on over underwear, and despite the gray hairs caught in the vee of the rough cotton, the torso beneath was hard and fit. When he saw me he smiled, showing his fine teeth. It seemed to me that there was great relief in the expression; but I knew of his duplicitous heart and placed no credit in it.

"Davy, lad, we had your scalp gone by this time for sure. How'd you make away?"

"The story is as long as any of yours," I snapped, "but mine is not an insult to truth. Where are Mr. Knox and the others? What have you done with them?"

"Cheeky little bastard." Pike gave his bullwhip a vicious yank. I fell on my side.

"Let him go," ordered Wedlock.

"Little son of a bitch near got me lynched in Armadillo. I'll let him go, all right–with my saddle rope around his neck."

Wedlock drew his big Remington from his trousers and cocked it. "Pike, you're the only man I'd say a thing to more than once."

There was a short silence. Others had joined us, in varying stages of undress, including Christopher Agnes, Blackwater, and the Negro, Eli Freedman. Finally Pike cursed and let the whip go slack. The coils unwound with a hiss. I sat up, putting a hand to my pounding head.

"That's a nasty-looking crack," said Wedlock, putting away his weapon. "I got a Sioux remedy can draw the sting."

The word "Sioux" brought me back to Panther's plight. "The policeman from Standing Rock needs it more than I. I left him in the clearing where the attack took place. He is infected and feverish."

"My snakes are better company," volunteered Christopher Agnes.

Wedlock said, "Your pards was all of a piece last we seen them, Davy. Bald Jim kilt the injuns' chief and they picked up their dead and cleared off. Wasn't a minute later old Deacon Hellfire told us we had to give up our guns if we wanted to stick. Well, we was sort of unbalanced with McPhee cold as wet rock; but then Pike and Beacher showed on the high ground and got the drop on the Deacon. We traded him and the others their scalps for the wagons and supplies. They're out there somewhere. If it means a thing, I don't expect they'd of folded their cards so quick if they didn't think the injuns had kilt you and carried you off to make a soup bowl out of your skull. Took their hearts out, that did; Knox's anyway. It was just a question of odds to Holy Joe, and what guts the Judge has wouldn't fill a shot glass."

"They are all right?" I suspected the old raider of lying even in this.

"Knox nicked a finger and the Judge took a ball through his hat and after that he didn't smell so good, but they both come out ahead of Bald Jim, him with a busted collarbone from when that chief he kilt hit him with a old Henry while he was going down. We buried young Tom. That big Swede Dolly taken one in the meaty part of his leg and I don't know about Will Asper. God-wallopers like the Deacon just shed lead like boiler plate."

"You just turned them out without horses or provisions?"

"Would of, if anyone listened to me." Pike's eyes were evil in his rodent's face.

"We let Knox and the Deacon cut out their mounts and gave them tins and water. Two men to a horse and one walking should slow them down if they're admiring to run for help. I only kill men straight up, Davy."

"Like you killed Elder Sampson?"

He looked hurt. I could not help thinking that the stage had lost a consummate actor when Ben Wedlock took to banditry. "I never wanted it that way. Why a man would put gold ahead of his own skin is beyond me."

"What about Corporal Panther? Is he to die too?"

"Injuns got no business living in the first place," said Pike. "Nor fresh-mouth brats neither."

But Wedlock was rubbing his chin. "You say he's infected?"

"He is out of his head with fever."

"I might could help him. But if I do, I'll need your word you won't bolt."

Pike said, "What do we need him for? Slit his throat and let the buzzards have them both."

"The gold, you poor dumb bastard. The boy's Knox's charge. He'll give up Flynn's map to have him back of a piece."

"There ain't no map. Knox swore to it with that hogleg of yours looking him square 'twixt the eyes."

"He knew if he gave it up it was boot hill for the lot of them. The boy's another thing. These brave ones will do for someone else's life what they'd never do for their own. He'll trade."

"That's why you let them go!" I cried. "You thought they'd lead you to Quantrill's gold!"

He fixed me with his good eye. "It's why we're here, Davy. It's what we do. What's your answer? I got no reason to help the injun if it's no."

There was nothing for it. Every second I delayed counted against Panther. I said, "You have my word. I won't try to escape."

"What good's that?" Pike demanded. "He'll be over the hill soon as you turn your back."

"I say he won't. And the last time I looked, what I said was the way things was. How was it the last time you looked, Pike?"

They were standing close now, so that Wedlock was looking almost directly down at the rat-faced man from his superior height. However, his greater size was not what carried the moment. Pike looked away suddenly, and in that instant I felt something of what I had felt in Jotham Flynn's presence when, so long ago, I had heard the name Black Ben for the very first time. There would be no rebellion that day.

Wedlock dispatched Blackwater and Christopher Agnes in one of the wagons to bring back Panther. Rising, I followed him to the chuck wagon; where he filled a tin cup from the water barrel and handed me a hard cake the size of a saucer. It was both grainy and greasy to the touch.

"Pemmican," he explained. "We're keeping a cold camp. Eat it. It tastes a heap better than it feels."

I was too hungry to refuse. It crumbled in my mouth when I bit into it, a surprisingly sweet morsel comprised of animal fat and berries that seemed to melt upon my tongue. I ate the rest of it and drank off the cup's contents. He watched me, wonder in his eye.

"You was a pretty sight sitting there on the ground, Davy. We figured it was just a question of whether they took you back to make medicine bags out of your hide or the coyotes got what was left. Knox, he looked thirty years older. What happened?"

My spirits were brightened somewhat by food and Panther's rescue. In any case, I was bursting to tell the story, even if it was to a brigand. I did so, consuming another pemmican cake and cup of water in the process.

"Mad Alice," he said when I had finished.

"I thought she was bones by now. The injuns said she was here when the Wise One Above built the hills. Even Red Cloud–"

"Can you really help Panther?"

He frowned. "I picked up a thing or two. Depends on how far gone he is and how deep down his guts go. Set some store by him, do you?"

"He is as he represents himself," I said.

The edge in my voice was not lost upon Wedlock. "I near lost my skin for that gold in '63, lad. I paid for it with my eye and eighteen months rotting in Elmira. It's more mine than anybody's and I'll have it if it means a swap with Old Nick."

"That bargain has already been struck."

He seemed about to reply when the wagon clattered into camp bearing its injured cargo. I hurried to meet it, followed closely by Wedlock, who called for a lantern and climbed into the bed. Panther's face was skull-like in the spectral light, his eyes open but uncomprehending. His breathing was shallow. Opening the Indian's shirt, Wedlock grunted approval of my dressing and used a knife to cut it away. For some moments he inspected the wound under the lantern. Then he sat back on his heels.

"Davy, I need juniper. There's a bush on the north edge of camp. Bring me a handful of sprigs."

I did as directed, climbing in beside him to pass them over. While I was gone he had raised the chimney of the lantern, and now he laid some of the green needles in the flame. Soon a sweetish smell filled the wagon. He rubbed his hands in the smoke for some moments, then placed them, palms down, upon the open wound. He repeated this practice several times, adding more juniper to the fire each time until it was gone. Panther groaned once, but otherwise remained oblivious.

"There's a clay jug in the chuck wagon and a hide bag with something in it that looks like a white radish. Get them. Also a bowl."

Locating the items in the dark of the sheeted wagon was difficult, but finally I reported back with them. He set aside the bag and poured liquid from the jug into the bowl. "This here's tea brewed from tree mold. I don't know why it works, but I seen it drag a man from hell more than once." He heated the bowl until the pungent odor of its contents mingled with the juniper still in the air. At his direction I supported the back of Panther's head while he brought the bowl to the Indian's lips and forced him to drink. More liquid spilled over his chin than inside his mouth, but I saw his throat work twice. Finally Wedlock set down the bowl, pulled the pale root out of its bag, and bit off a piece. After chewing it for several minutes he leaned over Panther and spat directly into the wound.

The Indian took in his breath with a whine. His back arched, then settled. He grew quiet. Wedlock put his ear to Panther's chest and listened. I held my breath. After a long time he sat back on his heels again.

"He's resting now. You should too. I'll kick you up if there's a change."

"Aren't you going to dress the wound?"

"Not just yet. It needs draining."

"Will he make it?"

"That's up to him and whoever he says his prayers to."

I did not realize how desperately tired I was until I stepped down from the wagon. Automatically I fell into a habit I had not practiced since before the Indian attack: In a trance I retrieved my blanket roll from the chuck wagon, spread it out on the ground beneath, and was asleep almost before my head touched the blanket.