Hunger on the Chisholm Trail

by M Ennenbach

  Then a hissing cackle came out of the shaking brush. “Ruuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnn . . . ”

  Chris stared at the brush, his mouth moving silently, but no sound escaping from his quivering lips. The brush swayed and he felt a warm trickle of piss run down his leg.

  Then from the tall grass behind him he heard, “I said, ruuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

  His body acted as his mind roiled in fear. He took off. Ignoring the blistered feet and cramping calves, he ran as fast as he could, born on pure terror. No thought penetrated the sheer animalistic nature. As he ran the grass around him shook and swayed. He couldn’t be sure if it was from the wind or the Devil chasing him. It didn’t matter at all. His lungs burned with every wheeze, his body ached. But he knew to stop meant to die. And part of him, the part in control, was not ready for death. As black spots danced around the edge of his vision he kept the cairn in focus.

  ***

  The Tribes—once many and separate, now few and forced into a small coexistence—sat spread out along the plains. Hides draped over wooden frames dotted the land. Easily dismantled to follow food, they were not sedentary like the Europeans. They had no need for permanent cities. They were like the wind, always moving toward a new destination. But the White man had slowly tied a noose around their necks, made their world smaller and smaller by the day.

  Now they roamed the plains of what the Whites called the Indian Region. It was as much prison as open plains. The hardships of The Trail of Tears were still fresh in the elders’ minds. Day by day, the old ways were dying off as civilization spreads its hands of death across the land. The trains, belching black smoke, riding on iron rails scared the wildlife. The pitch covered poles strung with thick braided wire for telegraphs traveled from end to end. It looked less like progress, and more the skeletons of the past frozen against once scenic landscapes.

  The camp was quiet. Most of the hunters were chasing the herds before the final winter weight was off them. The women sewed hides into clothing with the help of nimble fingered children. In the center, a group of elders gathered around a large dwelling. Each tribe had unique designs painted upon their skin and entered two by two. Inside, the air was smoky from a large fire pit raging in the middle. When all had entered and seated themselves around the fire, they began to pass small leather bags of tobacco. Silence hung as heavy as the smoke in the air as they puffed on their long, intricately carved pipes.

  Finally, the silence was broken. The chief of the Muscogee Tribe spoke. “The boy still dreams of the Wendigo. We must prepare for the ceremony before it is too late.”

  Half the group nodded sagely, while the other half grumbled in discontent. One of the dissenting voices raised. “We should have slain him immediately after River brought him to us. The curse is part of him. None survive a Wendigo unmarked.”

  “He has shown no signs of the hunger. River watches him. He would not hesitate to take him down like a rabid wolf pup. If we commit to the ceremony, he shall never have to.”

  “We argue this as foolishly as the boy that stands in the river thinking to stop the flow. Either we do it, or we kill the boy. Enough talk.”

  “And if it is too late? If he turns?”

  “The spirits of the dead shall weep for us if it is too late. We failed to act once, and all remember the price we paid. To let tragedy befall us again due to petty squabbles damns us all.”

  “Agreed. The moon begins to wane in three days. That is the time for the ritual. We must prepare the inks and purify ourselves first.”

  All heads nodded around the great fire. Solemn faces streaked with sweat staring into the flames.

  ***

  Chris eyed the land warily. He had found open land, with no vegetation. Just the occasional stunted tree stood against the setting sun to his left. He fell to his knees as the last of his strength failed him. He was exhausted. The thirst had grown so that he had no sweat, no tears, his mouth was as dry as the land around him. He needed to keep moving but his legs would not respond. His arms shook as he tried to keep at least on his knees.

  Above him, the buzzard still circled, but it had seemed to sense his weakness and come lower to watch closer. He watched it land in the branches of one of the trees. He eyed it as it glared balefully back. He wondered what it would taste like, well aware the big black feathered bastard would have no qualms eating him as well. He found a rock by his hands and threw it at the damned thing.

  “Find another meal! I ain’t dying here.”

  It didn’t budge at his ineffectual throw. The rock thumped to the ground feet in front of it, limply bouncing near the trunk of the tree. It cocked its head, he swore mockingly, at him and let out an angry screech as if telling him to just curl up and die already.

  “Into your hands, I commend my spirit. Please, Christ on your throne, hear my words and deliver me from this evil.”

  The hot wind picked up again and shook through the leaves of the tree. The buzzard flew back into the sky with one eye always on him. He smiled and felt his lips crack. He wiped his mouth with the back if his hand to see crimson streaks. He struggled to his feet and began to make painful steps forward again. He had never hurt so badly in his life. In his mind, he could see his wife and children back home, waiting for him. He couldn’t stop moving. Somewhere ahead of him lay the town of Duncan. A doctor and a priest could heal him. And the sheriff could rally the town against the Devil. He just had to make it.

  The wind continued to blow, picking up in intensity. The only good thing was it was blowing at his back and pushing him along. Had it been in his face he would have been powerless against it. He used it to keep moving.

  Carried on the wind behind him he swore he heard laughter. He strained his head to listen. And then he heard the howl of something otherworldly. He looked wide eyed as a flash of gray carrying the stench of death blurred past him, felt hot pain as something tore at his cheek and his head snapped, sending a spray of red across the ground. He tumbled from the force of the hit as that same laughter grew louder and louder. Then he heard another terrifying sound. The low rattle and hiss of a rattler. He turned his head to see a coil of brown with diamond like markings on its scales. He just lay there staring at it as the laughter boomed around him. The snake snapped forward and he felt the fangs sink into his hand. He saw the cursed reptile slither away as two red holes in the back of his hand welled up with blood. He could do nothing but stare at it.

  “Into your hands, I commend my soul. Into your hands, I commend my soul.”

  Over and over he muttered the words as he felt the burning in his hand and across his cheek. Until finally, the wind was knocked from him by the creature as it kicked him in the side. It bent down, the smell worse than anything Chris had smelled since the war when the bodies of the dead and dying were stacked in burial pits by the Negroes and tended to sit bloated in the sun for days before being covered. This thing smelled worse, as if it was born in one of those pits. It was well muscled from the feasting it had over the last few days. But the black eyes showed no compassion, just empty need for more. It bent in close and sniffed at his hand and clucked its tongue in disappointment.

  Then it cocked its head and stared into his eyes. “Innnnntooo your haaaaaaands, innnnntooo yooooooour haaaaaaands!” It made the clucking sound again, before letting out another fit of laughter, like iron nails across a tombstone. Chris stared back at it and watched as it just stood and left. He watched it as it ran toward the cairn in the distance.

  “Ish headed to Duncan,” he slurred before slumping forward to the ground.

  ***

  The sun was slowly setting and the sky looked as though it had been beaten, with purples and greens etched across it. Across the plains, the stagecoach bounced along the uneven ground, sending a cloud of dust flaring out behind it. The coach driver bounced on the hard wood bench and set the whip cracking in the air above the horses. “C’mon, you mangy bastards! Git! Git!”

  A sharp crack rang out into the dusky land. The
horses screamed as the weight of coach dragged across the dirt and the rear wheel splintered. Shocked yells came from inside the cab and luggage bounced behind with a tumble of strewn clothes. Isaac fought the reins and managed to bring it to a controlled stop of sorts before the horses were injured.

  “God damn this entire trip!” Isaac stared at the ruined wheel and spat a thick, ropy strand of brown.

  “My Lord, Isaac! We thoroughly regret the decision of the scenic route. This is twice you’ve nearly killed us!”

  “My apologies, Mr. Harrison, to you and your lovely wife. To you as well, Mr. Barbee, and your missus. It is nothing but a broken wheel. If I could get you gentlemen to help me, we can be on the road in a matter of . . . ”

  Mr. Harrison leaned his head out of the window. “This shall come out of the expenses. We chose to see the country, not be forced into manual labor every other day.”

  The four people gingerly stepped out of the awkwardly leaning coach. The ladies let out yells of displeasure as they saw their fineries dotting the filthy ground. They hurried to gather their things before the wind could blow them further abroad.

  “Mind yourself, My Petal! Watch for snakes!” Mr. Harrison yelled. He looked around for Isaac but didn’t see him by the broken wheel. “Where has that uncouth rapscallion gotten himself off to now?”

  “I told you, repeatedly, we should have taken the train. We could have seen the sights from comfort. My ass is a mass of bruises. If not for the brief respite in Dunkirk, I fear I would have forgotten even a modicum of civilized life in this accursed wagon.” Mr. Barbee stared at the ladies as they gathered up the clothes. He smiled slightly as the wind gusted and blew their skirts up as they frantically chased bloomers and petticoats. But the smile quickly faded as he saw the woman on her horse pull up. The filthy mouthed outlaw woman dared sit astride her horse and laugh at them.

  Mr. Harrison ignore the jabs of his business partner, something he had honed to an art over the years. “Isaac, damn you man, where have you gotten yourself off to?”

  “Over here, sirs! I’ve found something terrible!”

  “What now?” Mr. Barbee cursed under his breath, “Damn fool. We need to be making up time, not exploring this desolate hell.”

  The men carefully navigated a dried stream bed and found Isaac standing over a corpse. Mr. Harrison let out a low whistle and Mr. Barbee took off his top hat and held it over his chest.

  “I seen a vulture sitting in the tree staring mighty hard at the ground. I think he may yet live.”

  Chris lay still on the ground, his chest barely rising in labored breaths. His hand was swollen to near twice the size of normal. Dark blood crusted upon his cheek.

  Isaac bent down and gently shook his chest. “Mister? You alive still, mister?” Chris let out a low moan that caused all three men to jump a little.

  The sound of hooves signaled Mary Jo riding up. “What in tarnation? He still livin?”

  Isaac opened his mouth to answer but Mr. Harrison cut him off before he could. “No. The poor bastard has been bitten and clawed. I fear he must have expired sometime earlier. Isaac saw a vulture about to feast upon his poor bones. No time to dilly-dally, though. Life is short as this poor soul found out. We must fix the wheel and get to moving while we have the little light that remains!”

  Mr. Barbee looked at him shrewdly and nodded. “Yes. I fear the time has passed for him, but not for us. Back to work, gentlemen.”

  Isaac stared hard at them and gave a look to Mary Jo that was plaintive at best. She turned to face the men that were sidling away. “As good Christians, surely you will at least bury the poor bastard, right?”

  They looked at each other with a sour expression. Mr. Barbee sighed, “Madame, clearly we have no shovel. Nor other means to inter a corpse. What we have is a coach with a broken wheel and fading sunlight. While I feel quite sorry for the poor bastard, I fail to see how it is my or my partner’s responsibility. These are perilous times we live in and we cannot be expected to travel the country burying every corpse we stumble upon. Feel free to do it yourself, if you are so inclined. We have other business to attend to.”

  Mr. Harrison looked slightly uncomfortable with the entire situation. But he simply tipped his hat to Mary Jo and gave Isaac the stink eye. As Isaac moved to follow, the hand of the not so deceased snapped up and gripped his pants. Everyone froze.

  “Have to warn them,” Chris slurred.

  “Warn who?” Mary Jo asked.

  “Duncan. It’s headed to Duncan. Killed everyone . . . ” his arm slumped back down to the ground.

  Mary Jo rounded on the two men. “You sacks of shit! You knew! You would have let him die and not thought a damned thing about it!”

  Mr. Barbee held up his hands. “I assure you we did not! Look at him. He seemed obviously dead. I don’t quite care for your tone. Not one bit. Your accusation is an affront to mine and my partner’s honor!”

  He leapt into the air as a bullet hit the ground less than a foot in from of him. He stared wide eyed at Mary Jo who sat with her revolver trained on him. “An affront to your honor? What honor, you lily livered chicken shit? I’m a fair shot and I bet I can shoot you in the honor, or at least in the pecker.”

  Mr. Harrison raised his hand in a placating gesture. “Now ma’am, I’m sure there is no reason for violence. It was a mistake. An honest one. Clearly that man will be among the angels soon. Forgive us for being city folk unaccustomed to the life on the prairie.”

  “You both speak awfully pretty. I’m sure you’re right. You would do anything to take care of this poor soul had ya known he was still alive. Ain’t that right?”

  They both nodded vigorously.

  “Good ta hear it. Isaac, I’m gonna need one of your horses. I’ll take this poor sonovabitch back to Duncan to the doctor.”

  Mr. Barbee stomped his foot on the hard ground. “Now wait just a good god damned minute! We can’t go a horse short! You’ll trap us out here!”

  “It’ll take me a day to get to Duncan and drop him off. A day back. Then you can take yer yellow ass to wherever chickenshits go to roost.” She raised the gun again. “Or is that an issue you feel the need to argue?”

  “You treacherous who . . . ”

  “I suggest you choose that next word very carefully, boy. My finger’s gettin’ a mite itchy.”

  “Take the damned horse. Fine. It’s extortion under the threat of violence, is what it is.”

  “Fancy word for you’ll get your pecker shot off if’n you don’t do the right thing.”

  Mr. Barbee mumbled to himself but didn’t say anything else. His hands slowly moved down to protect his crotch, though. Isaac ran ahead to free one of the horses. And Mr. Harrison managed to look suitably ashamed of himself.

  “Now, if you gentleman can help Isaac when he returns to get this poor bastard onto the horse. I’ll be off as quickly as I can. Gotta get back quick as lightning so you don’t get scared of the great outdoors.”

  Isaac returned rather swiftly with one of the mares. The three of them managed to get Chris up and over the back of the horse. Isaac used ropes to secure his unconscious body in place.

  Mary Jo grinned and shot the ground by Mr. Barbee who leapt to the side with both hands clutching his family jewels. “Y’all take care and try not to let the coyotes eat ya. I’ll be back in two days or so. And Mr. Barbee?” He glared at her and she laughed to see the front of his pants stained a darker color than the rest. “You may want to tell your wife I saw one of her bustles blowin’ down the Ridgeline.”

  With that, she took the lead of the other horse, clucked her tongue and rode off. A cloud of dust and her laughter rang out as she sped away.

  “Not a word to the ladies, Mr. Harrison.”

  Mr. Harrison looked at him with a grin. “Of course not, Mr. Barbee.”

  11

  Duncan

  “It was the most amazing thing I ever witnessed,” Amber was telling Marie. Marie nodded, having heard the story at leas
t forty times at this point and kept wiping off the tables. “Tate the Great selected me! Said I was the prettiest girl he ever did see. Let me and my brother wrap the chains around his arms. My brother din’t believe the chains was real. But sure as I am sitting here they was!”

  The problem with a brothel in the middle of nowhere was that business was slower than spit in winter. The girls had nothing to do but drink and entertain the locals who mostly were married men and drunkards. But everyone was excited at the prospect of the first drive rolling in any minute. The bar would be lively, and the girls would be using their mouths for things other than talking. Marie couldn’t wait for the last bit. A stop over two summers ago to make some quick cash serving drivers for Kenzie on her way to Texas had turned into a full-time job. Robert at the post office was to blame for that mostly. Even if he was too stupid to realize it.

  “So we locked the four heavy locks . . . ” Amber continued.

  “To put him in a box and toss him into the god damned river. Lord Above, Amber, how many times will you tell us this same cockamamie story? Sixty seconds later, he was on the bank,” Tara finished with a huff.

  “I lost the chain, but I’ll be damned if I was gonna lose the locks as well.” Brad, Kenzie and Marie said in unison. They all began laughing as Amber rolled her eyes.

  Bella sat watching. That is what she did mostly. Her English was not very good, her thick Italian accent and sultry dark looks more than making up for her silence. She smiled as everyone laughed. Watching both Frank and Oliver, the men that came to town late last evening watching her. She found both repugnant, but knew their money spent just as well as anyone else’s. She batted her eyes at them and saw Frank, the overweight one, flush scarlet. She’d hoped for him, the lesser of two evils. Oliver had cold, flat eyes that she didn’t care for. She’d come to recognize those as the type to belong to someone that enjoyed inflicting pain. No, he was more Tara’s type.