Hell Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  “Yes, sir,” Folsom said impassively. He took the gun belt and buckled it around his waist. There were leather straps dangling from the holster and the sheath and he tied them around his thighs.

  “He was one of the Lighthorsemen who was killed, if I recall,” Pepper said. “Sissy-something.”

  Folsom took out the pistol and checked the cylinder. It was loaded. He spun the cylinder once and closed it again. “Siisiiyei,” he said.

  “Right. Of course. Cherokee,” Pepper mumbled.

  Idiot, Folsom thought. He holstered the pistol and said, “It means snake.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Edwin Folsom rode past the people in their tepees, wearing his badge and gun, sitting high above them on the back of a strong United States Army gelding, and this time they did look at him. He had spoken truly to Agent Pepper. There were squatters living in the settlement. Some who were too sick to work. Some who were too angry at what they had given up in order to come there, only to find that all that had been promised was a lie. They looked at Folsom as he rode past and they were afraid.

  He nodded at them anyway. He tried to let them see that he was not there for them. It did not matter. They slunk away from him and pulled their children close and pressed their heads down the same way they did when the white soldiers passed through. With no way to put them at ease, he did his best to go past them as fast as he could. There were men in this world, he knew, who took pleasure in making women and children afraid with their very appearance. It made him heartsick to be looked at that way.

  Smoke billowed across the bare fields of the settlement. It came up from the center of the tepees where the people built fires to warm themselves against the chill air. Smoke rose off the ground and stung his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand and found them wet. He dried them against his pants and when he looked up, he saw the old woman, Winema, standing in the smoke with her blanket tight around her shoulders, waiting.

  He brought his horse to a stop in front of her.

  “You came,” she said.

  “Where are the girl’s parents?”

  “Inside, waiting,” she said. “You must leave your horse and go in.”

  “It is not my horse,” he said. He looked around and saw nothing to tie it to. “If I leave it, it will return to the stable.”

  Winema reached for the horse’s muzzle and let it sniff her hand with its wide, black nostrils. She spoke gently to it and rubbed her hand down the length of its snout and the horse lowered its head to her. “Leave him with me,” she said.

  Folsom dismounted and went around her to go inside the tepee. The fire inside was scant and made little smoke. Sitting across from him were a man and woman Folsom had seen in the food lines. He realized he’d seen their daughter before as well. A girl, not even old enough to marry.

  The man’s right arm was withered and limp within the sleeve of his shirt. Folsom had seen it out of its sleeve before and was unsure if it had been ruined by an injury or a defect from birth, but either way, it was of no use. He had short black hair that had not yet grown in at the places where the soldiers had cut off his braids when he arrived.

  The woman next to him had a fat face and her eyes were swollen from crying. She rocked back and forth and muttered in a language Folsom did not understand. The man said, “Stìnta, tchèlza.”

  Folsom shook his head in confusion.

  “Tchèlza,” the man repeated, and gestured with his good hand for Folsom to sit.

  Folsom sat down across from them. “Do either of you speak English?” he asked.

  “I speak some,” the man said. “My wife, no.”

  “We will talk and you will tell her what I say. What are your names?”

  “I am Tuìksh,” he said. “This is Lèdsha.”

  Folsom nodded at the woman. “I am Edwin Folsom. The woman outside tells me your daughter is missing.”

  “Yes,” Tuìksh said. “Kakìdsha.”

  At the sound of the girl’s name, the mother moaned and squeezed her eyes shut and wept. Tuìksh put his good arm around her and held her until she was still.

  “When did Kakìdsha go missing?” Folsom asked.

  “Four days ago. Kakìdsha and I fish, then white men came along the river with many horses.”

  “Many horses,” Folsom said. “They were soldiers?”

  “No,” Tuìksh said. “Cloth for clothes.”

  “Cloth? What kind of cloth?”

  Tuìksh struggled to find the right word. His wife spoke to him rapidly, trying to prompt him, and they argued. Finally, he used his left hand to indicate from the bottom of his chin down his body to below his knees and said, “Cloth.”

  “Robes,” Folsom said. “Is that what you mean? One piece of cloth that covered their entire body?”

  “Yes,” Tuìksh said, and his wife nodded with him.

  Folsom set that aside in his mind for the moment and tried to focus. “So how did they take your daughter?”

  “They asked for guide,” Tuìksh said.

  “A guide to go where?”

  “Through the woods, was all they said,” Tuìksh said.

  “And they wanted Kakìdsha to take them?”

  Both Tuìksh and Lèdsha nodded. “They asked for her, but I said no,” Tuìksh said. His wife patted his good arm. “Their leader offered me money, but I said no. Kakìdsha begged to go with them. I told her no! We fished ever since she was old enough to stand in water next to me. She was gentle—” The words caught in Tuìksh’s throat. “She could put her hands around the fish as it swam past and pick it up and it would not struggle.”

  He pressed his hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. “I am to blame,” he groaned. Lèdsha stroked his good arm. “I told her I could no longer live in this place and she wanted money for us so we could leave.”

  Folsom closed his eyes and rubbed his temples to try to give the man time to compose himself. “Tell me about their leader. The one who offered you the money.”

  Tuìksh wiped his face with his hand and said, “He is a holy man, they said. His robe was red. It had a picture. He looked like a priest.”

  “What kind of picture?”

  “Drawings,” Tuìksh said. “I could not see them.”

  “What about his face?” Folsom asked.

  “He wore the sun.”

  Folsom shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Over his face,” Tuìksh said, and he drew a circle in the air around the top of his head. “All of this was fire. Over his face,” he said, and leveled his hand over the bridge of his nose. “All I could see was his mouth. That was why I would not let Kakìdsha go with him.”

  “Because of his mask?” Folsom asked.

  “Because of his mouth. His words. He was no holy man. He had darkness of spirit and words. His mouth showed it.”

  “So how did she disappear? Did they take her?”

  “No! I’d have fought them with even one arm!” Tuìksh said.

  “Of course,” Folsom said. “I apologize.”

  Tuìksh looked down at the ground. “I told her we must leave. But as I started up the hill he scooped her up on his horse. I ran after her screaming, but all of the horses started running and I could not stop them.”

  Folsom held up his finger and said, “Tell me, from what direction did they come when you first saw them?”

  “West,” Tuìksh said.

  “And when they took her, which way did they go?”

  “East.”

  “What did you do then?” Folsom asked.

  “I went to the river each day to look for her. I walked as far as I could but there was no sign. Then, yesterday, a white man asked what I was doing so far from the reservation. I told him I was looking for Kakìdsha and he told me he’d found something.”

  “What was it?” Folsom as
ked.

  Tuìksh’s jaw quivered but he managed to control himself long enough to look at his wife and nod. Lèdsha reached over to a pile of their things set beside the fire and she pulled up a white shirt and black skirt, the same kind all of the women and girls inside the settlement were given to wear. Folsom held out his hands and said, “May I see them?”

  Lèdsha looked at her husband. When he nodded she handed them to Folsom. The white shirt was ripped and smeared with dirt. He unfolded the black skirt and saw something dark on it that shimmered in the light and smelled like rusted metal. He bent forward and held its fabric closer to the flames and saw it was soaked in dried blood.

  * * *

  * * *

  Folsom emerged from the tepee and closed the flaps behind him. He walked toward Winema and the horse. She was still stroking the side of its face.

  He grabbed a handful of the reins and pulled himself up into the saddle.

  Winema stepped back from the horse and said, “I think he has a good spirit. Be patient and strong with him and show him the way.”

  “I will need all the help I can get,” Folsom said.

  “I was talking to the horse.”

  Folsom maneuvered the horse around her and past the last row of tepees, and once they were clear, he aimed it toward the river and told it to run.

  * * *

  * * *

  He followed the trail from the settlement to the North Fork Canadian River and got down from the horse to look. He stood in place and scanned the ground. It would do him no good to rush in and walk all over the very things he was trying to find.

  There were footprints and animal tracks all over the riverbank. He found smooth impressions of men’s moccasins, which was not surprising. Many of the men from the settlement came to the North Fork Canadian to fish. Because they were not allowed to have bows or spears, they’d fish with nets woven from whatever materials they could barter for, or they would simply stand in the water and try to catch fish with their hands.

  He pictured Kakìdsha standing in the water next to her father, with his lame arm, as they both waited for a fish to come by. He imagined the girl thrusting her hands into the cold water and grabbing the fish by its sides and gently raising it out of the water, the way Tuìksh had described. How many times had her family eaten well at night due to the girl’s skill?

  There were hoofprints coming west, as Tuìksh had described. He counted at least twenty animals. Many had been carrying two people.

  Twenty or more horses, Folsom thought. There were laws that said three Natives could be arrested just for standing too close to one another. Seven or more was considered a war party and they’d all be killed on sight. What kind of people follow a priest who wore a scarlet robe and a mask of the sun over his face? Folsom wondered. What kind of priest takes young girls and leaves their bloody clothes by the river?

  It had not rained and the North Fork Canadian was low enough for him to cross on his horse. He headed up the northern bank and headed east. Folsom could see where the Red Priest and his group had emerged. He could tell by the distance separating the hoofprints that their horses had come out of the water running into the weeds. The sky ahead was dark. Thick clouds rolled in, black and voluminous. The horse bent forward and sniffed the air. The wind was rising. Folsom patted the gelding on the neck and said, “We have them now. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was raining, cold and hard, by the time they reached the southern bank of the Cimarron. Droplets struck the water so hard the fish thought they were insects and kept leaping up, trying to catch them. As Folsom watched the fish jump, his horse suddenly went sideways.

  “Hey!” he called out. He tightened the reins and tried to steady it. Instead, the horse tucked its head and shook it violently side to side. “Be calm,” Folsom said.

  He tried patting it on the neck and the horse whipped its head back and snapped at him. Folsom yanked his hand back and glanced at it to make sure all of his fingers were intact. Before he could yell again, the horse reared back on its hind legs and scraped the air with its front hooves. It was all Folsom could do to hang on.

  “Stop!” he commanded, but the horse went into a spin. It kicked up mud from the riverbank and began to lose its footing. Fearing that he might be thrown or worse, that the animal might get stuck in the mud and snap its leg, he let go of the reins with his right hand and yanked down hard with the one in his left until he was able to force the horse’s head back and around. He kept struggling to keep it tight as the horse did all it could to break free, but he held it, and held it, and the circling began to slow. With a few more wobbling steps, they came to a stop.

  Folsom held the rein down and kept the horse’s head tucked until he was sure it wouldn’t start up again. When it had calmed and began to breathe evenly, he let go and ran his hand down the length of its mane. The gelding leaned forward and sniffed the air again and shook its head. Folsom patted it on the side and said, “Well, at least you have told me your name, now. Let’s find shelter until this passes.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The rain stopped within the hour and Folsom led Hates the Rain east. He saw a flock of birds burst upward from a tree nearby as they approached and he guided the horse toward it. He could smell the rich fragrance of overripened fruit before he could see it. The birds had been nesting in a crabapple tree that was so full, its branches were bent.

  Most of the fruits were beginning to turn, but as Folsom held the branches and picked through them, Hates the Rain raised his head and snatched the rotted ones off with his teeth. The horse chewed and swallowed and kept eating until one whole branch was almost bare. Folsom found a row of them that were still firm and he bit into one. The taste was bitter and sour enough to make him scowl, but he kept chewing. He had not brought any food for his journey. If he was too picky, he would not have the strength to finish it. He stuffed his coat pockets with as many ripe crabapples as he could and waited for the horse to have his fill.

  Folsom picked up the track again and followed it north. To the west, he could see dark gray smoke rising in the air, with an aroma of burning cedarwood. He turned Hates the Rain toward it and soon found a small farm with several goats and a milk cow. There was a woman sitting on the porch holding an infant. Folsom called out so as not to frighten her and looked down to make sure the badge on his coat lapel was visible. “Good afternoon, ma’am!”

  The woman saw him coming and grabbed a blanket from her lap and covered her baby with it to hide it.

  “I am Officer Edwin Folsom,” Folsom said, pointing at his badge again. “I am sorry to bother you.”

  She squinted at him in the sunlight and said, “You’re an Indian Police officer?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “This far off the reservation?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I was wondering if you happened to see a large group of men passing through recently. There would have been about twenty of them? All dressed in robes.”

  “Robes?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Folsom said. “The one leading them had robes that were red. He might have been wearing a mask.”

  Her face twisted into a confused smile. “You’re playing some kind of Indian trick on me, now, ain’t you?”

  Folsom smiled at her. “No, ma’am. I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, I ain’t seen no men in robes and I ain’t seen no men in masks neither. Maybe my husband has, but he’s been gone since this morning and I’m waiting on him to come back so we can have supper.”

  “Of course,” Folsom said. “I understand. What’s your husband’s name? If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re waiting on him and send him home.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate that,” she said. “He’s Mr. Daniel Collins. You know, he told me he ran into one of your kind the other day.
”

  “Is that right?” Folsom asked.

  “He said there was some Indian out here looking for his missing daughter or something.”

  Folsom nodded. “Is that right? Did he say anything else about it?”

  “Just that the Indian was mighty upset and he expected to see him again. Guess I’d be upset too if my little girl went missing. I always wondered if Indian folk loved their children the same way we do. I guess even savages feel some kind of need to protect their young’uns. Is that why you come out this far?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Folsom said.

  “Guess that explains why there’s so many Indians around lately,” she said. “My Daniel said he was going to keep his eye out for that girl if he could find her. He said he’d take her back to you all if he did.”

  “I’m sure her parents would be very grateful to see her again,” Folsom said. “Your husband seems like a kind man.”

  “He’s all right,” she said. “If you see him out there tell him to come home, though. Makes no sense for both of you to be out there looking for one lost Indian girl.”

  “I will tell him,” Folsom said. “Where did he say he was going to look?”

  “Out by the Cimarron,” she said, and pointed north.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Folsom said. He turned his horse around and left.

  * * *

  * * *

  Folsom guided Hates the Rain into the woodlands beyond the Cimarron River. Water spilled off the leaves and the ground was soggy and damp, but the sky above was clear again. He looked over his shoulder and realized the river was too far behind him to see it any longer. “We are out of Oklahoma,” he said. “I’m glad you are calm now.” He thought of the way the horse had spun and tried to throw him, then twisted in the saddle and saw the flap had come loose. He pulled the flap back and was relieved to see the 1888 lawbook still seated inside.

  Anyone who stopped him was going to want to know why an Indian from Oklahoma was running around in another state with a gun, a US Army horse, and nothing but a tin badge. If they happened to telegraph the reservation Indian agent who’d issued Folsom the badge, and asked those same questions, Agent Pepper was going to say he had no idea what the hell was going on. Pepper would probably tell whoever had sent the telegraph to hang Folsom just to be safe. The book was his only option.