by Jim Thompson
They had crossed Red River, the boundary between Oklahoma and Texas, that morning; losing their pack-horses and supplies to the river's quicksands, almost losing their lives as they fruitlessly tried to free the screaming animals. By luck and by God, as the saying was, they had somehow managed to get their mounts into deep water and swim them to the north shore. But their powder was a muddy mess, useless for their long Sharps rifles. And it was snowing; and the frozen short-grassed prairie was barren of game.
Tepaha dug into the dry center of an ancient buffalo turd, and got it lighted with his steel and flint. They fed the flame with more dung, and dried their clothes enough to keep them from freezing. Then, they headed north again, unarmed save for their knives, their heads ducked against the blowing snow.
By night the storm had become a blizzard. But there was the faint smell of smoke ahead of them, the scent of cooking food; and rocking in their high-pommeled saddles, they urged their trembling horses onward. An hour passed. The smell of food and smoke was still ahead of them. And around them, all-but-inaudible in the howling wind, were sounds. Sounds that were felt rather than heard. Shallow breaks in silence which Ike and Tepaha had trained themselves to become aware of and to interpret for what they were, as requisite to life.
Silently, they drew their knives. At virtually the same instant their horses reared upward, startled as their bridles were suddenly grabbed by unseen hands. Then—Well, nothing, then. Nothing more than a couple of butted lances, which connected solidly with the skulls of Tepaha and Ike King and knocked them senseless from their saddles.
They were prodded and kicked to their feet.
The lance-points pricking incessantly at their rumps, they were run into the village of the Apache leader, Geronimo, and on to the great lodge of Geronimo himself.
The Indian chief at that time was probably in his middle forties, or approximately twice the age of Ike and Tepaha. He was thus, by the standards of the time, an old man, just as Ike and Tepaha were regarded as standing on the verge of middle-age. Yet Geronimo carried the years of his hard life well, being lean and wiry of body, and his expression was not so much savage as sardonically amused. He chose to ignore Ike, addressing himself instead to Tepaha in a tone of musing wonderment.
"And what have we here?" he inquired. "What is this strange creature who appears to be Indian, an Apache, no less, yet who is obviously a white man's dog, licking at his master's ass and balls lest he be struck with a small stick?"
"You smell your own breath, old man," Tepaha told him haughtily. "To one who feeds on dog shit, all others are dogs."
A lance-point jabbed him reprovingly. Tepaha's darting hand caught it at the haft, snapping it off with one seemingly effortless movement of his wrist. It was a tremendous feat of strength. Geronimo rewarded it by shaking his head at the brave who was about to club Tepaha.
"So," Geronimo said, "perhaps you are not a dog. Perhaps. So you will explain your presence with this white man, and you will tell us who he is and what he is if not your master."
Tepaha said proudly that Ike was his friend and brother. They had been so almost before manhood, since the time when they were both prisoners in a Mexican jail under sentence of death as 'bandidos.' They had broken jail together, Tepaha becoming seriously wounded as they escaped. And Ike had gotten him to a 'ranchero' across the Rio Grande. The owner of the ranch, a Spanish grandee, had offered them sanctuary, then treacherously sent one of his Aztec 'peons' to summon the 'carbineros.' The man had reported to Ike instead, so Ike had slain the Spaniard, and as soon as Tepaha was well enough to travel, they had burned the 'ranchero' buildings, and driven off the livestock; and those 'peons' who cared to do so were allowed to come with them.
"We settled well back from the 'Rio,'' Tepaha continued, "in a valley some two hundred miles distant. We built a lodge there, and outbuildings. But there were many Apache in the area, and the 'peons' soon left us in fear, having been slaves so long they had lost the will to fight. I would have fought, of course, Old Ike being my friend and brother. But Ike said it was not necessary. Instead, he went unarmed amongst the Apaches, and he called them brother, and he told them that they were to come to his lodge as guests and take whatever they needed. And—"
"And—" Geronimo's eyes gleamed with ironic appreciation. "And so they came, eh? As guests. And being such, they did not rob him of his all and kill him as they otherwise would have."
"Why should they?" Tepaha frowned. "Do Apaches abuse friendship? Do they mistreat a brother? Or perhaps," he added insinuatingly, "such is the custom of the Oklahoma Apache."
"You," Geronimo advised him, "are very close to death, O, Tepaha. You will be wise to offer no insults, and to answer questions, not ask them. Even now there is an Osage prisoner in this camp whose big mouth and small brain will cost him his life in the morning."
Tepaha drew himself erect, and emitted a scornful, "Ho! Heed me, O, Geronimo," he continued. "This is Old Ike King! When he shits, great mountain ranges are formed of his turds, and fearful floods are caused by his pissing, and when he farts whole deserts are blown into the sky. This I have seen. I, his chief 'vaquero.' And following us come three hundred more Apache braves, 'vaqueros' like myself, and their families. All are sworn brothers of Old Ike, all enemies of his enemies. So do not threaten us with the fate of your miserable Osage, for you are tempting fate even to speak of Osages and my brother, Old Ike, in the same breath!"
The other old men in the lodge exchanged secretively approving glances; for this was good talk. But Geronimo was not easily impressed.
"You talk great shit, Apache dog," he said. "Nothing follows you but your shriveled asses, unless it is the 'carbineros' who have chased you out of 'Tejas.''
Tepaha promised that he would soon see for himself. "No one runs Old Ike anywhere. Neither the 'carbineros' nor the 'soldados' of Maximilian, nor anyone else. Old Ike has a friend, Sam Houston. Our presence in 'Tejas' is an embarrassment to him, so we leave at his request."
"And you think to establish a 'ranchero' here? The bluecoats will never allow it!"
"You do not know Old Ike," Tepaha said. "He has a way with 'soldados.' He will smile and burden them with gifts. He will agree to do as they say; and even make motions of so doing. When he does not do so, and the 'soldados' return, he will again smile and give them gifts and agree to their will. Yet still he will stay where he is. They will become firm with him. Still smiling, Ike will become firm with them, but never in a way to be detected. Bullets will come out of nowhere to find their hearts, and their horses will be hamstrung and their lodges will catch fire. So after a time, the 'soldados' will go hence and return no more, realizing that what cannot be changed must be accepted. This I have seen.'
Geronimo said he had seen shit, too, and also smelled it. "This is a god?" he jeered, jerking his head at Ike. "You will be telling us next that he can cure the pox!"
"Even so," Tepaha said. "Look you, old man!"
He bared his left wrist, extended it into the dim light from the fire. There was a minute patch of smallpox pits on the wrist—but only there. The deadly pox, the chronic scourge of the red men, had merely touched his flesh and gone away.
The old men were wordless with astonishment. Geronimo raised his eyes wonderingly, the sardonic expression wiped from his face.
"How?" He stared at Tepaha. "How could this be?"
"Magic. How else?"
"Obviously. But what kind of magic?"
"With magic that only Old Ike can perform. First he casts a spell over a cow—a 'cow,' yes—and the blood of that cow becomes flecked with gold. Then he takes those flecks, and smears them into the blood of the person who has been exposed to the pox. The disease tastes the blood of that person, and flees in terror, leaving only the smallest mark of its bite."
"And it is always the same? The victim is always cured?"
"Certainly not," Tepaha said loftily. "Evil men, including those who are Ike's enemies, die in itching torment."
Geronimo stood
up and took Ike's hand. "Old Ike King," he said, "you and Tepaha are welcome at my fire, and we will eat and drink together, and I, Geronimo, will call you brother."
The food was 'pashofa,' a kind of gruel made of hominy. Flavored with nettles, it seemed quite tasty to Ike. Yet it was somewhat on the watery side, cooked without so much as a small snake to give it body. And Tepaha, still smarting under Geronimo's recent insults, made hideous faces of displeasure as he ate.
The potent brew served them was also a corn product. When the corn was green, squaws chewed it from the cob and spat their chewings into a large pot. To this—the rough equivalent of a distiller's mash—water was added, and after a certain number of skimmings the pot was sealed, and the contents allowed to ferment.
It was very powerful stuff. As with the food, Ike found it reasonably tasty. Tepaha, of course, did not—or, at least, he appeared not to.
Such a drink, he declared loudly, would never have been served in the lodge of Old Ike King. The most humble beverage a guest might drink in Old Ike's lodge was 'mescal' or 'tequila,' and for honored guests—the equals of Ike and himself—there was real whiskey.
The old men around the fire squirmed in shame, and Geronimo murmured embarrassed apologies. Still, despite a reproving frown from Ike, Tepaha would not desist.
"In the lodge of Old Ike King," Tepaha said, "there is always meat. A guest may always fill his belly with good fat beef, and take as much with him as he will on departing. Mush is fed only to papooses, and toothless old dogs."
"I am sorry," Geronimo murmured. "It has been a bad winter. There is no meat in camp."
"Very bad planning," Tepaha said reprovingly. "Such could never happen with Old Ike King."
"Sorry," Geronimo repeated stiffly. "If there was meat, you would be more than welcome to it."
Tepaha gave him a jeering stare. He said he was beginning to understand Geronimo's reputation for craftiness.
"Yes, now it is clear to me. You save your meat for yourselves, and serve mush to your guests."
It was the most terrible insult of all. For a moment, Tepaha thought that he might have gone too far. Then, at last Geronimo smiled enigmatically and stood up.
Leaving the tent, he went out into the blizzard, returning after a few moments to announce that meat was indeed available. Not enough for his entire village, but an amount more than adequate for his honored guests.
"And you and Old Ike King shall have it all, O, Tepaha. My people and I will not eat as much as a single bite."
'...So that was when it had happened, Ike thought. That was how it had come about that he and Tepaha had been fed the Osage prisoner.'
"Why, that old son-of-a-bitch!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hotel's bar room. "God damn you to hell, Tepaha—"
"Osage good eating," Tepaha patted his stomach. "All Osage good for, eat and screw."
Then, the doors of the hotel lobby rolled open, and Arlie and Boz entered with their wives.
The two young men were dressed in approximately the same fashion as their father, even to the long knives in their boot-tops. Their squaws, each of whom took up a position behind her husband, wore levis, brightly colored flannel shirts, and buckskin moccasins and jackets.
Joshie was not quite a year older than her sister, Kay, and except for a somewhat more serious expression—a reflection of her life with Boz—might have passed as Kay's twin. Both girls had small full bodies, and were virtually the same height. Both wore their hair long, and so tightly braided as to tauten their faces, giving them a perpetually wide-eyed expression.
As their grandfather stared at them sternly, watchful for any error in deportment, the girls kept their eyes demurely downcast, their lips firmed to erase any semblance of giggling. Satisfied with his inspection, Tepaha rolled open the doors to the dining room and curtly beckoned to his grandson, I.K.
I.K. came in, hands jammed into the pockets of his mail-order suit, his bright yellow shoes tapping the floor in a kind of jaunty swagger. His brightly greased hair was parted in the middle, in the dudish fashion of the day. Despite the ominous air of the bar room, he was smiling. For he could not really believe that anything truly bad would happen to him.
He was Tepaha's youngest grandchild, and Old Ike's favorite. Both had pampered him, laughing at his fop's dress and mannerisms, only scolding him mildly for laziness and general no-accountness. So why, then, should they suddenly turn severe?
"Hi'ya, Gran'pa, Uncle Ike," he said. "How's your hammer hangin'?"
"Silence," Tepaha said. "You are in great disgrace."
"Me? Aw, now, Gran'pa—"
Tepaha suddenly slapped him. As I.K. let out a pained howl, Tepaha slapped him again. The youth clenched his teeth, his eyes tear-filled. Tepaha drew the gleaming knife from his boot-top and handed it to him.
"You will hand this to your Uncle Ike. He will use my knife and his hand. So we both punish you for stealing from him."
'"N-no!"' I.K. gasped. "I—w-what is he gonna—?"
"He will cut off one of your fingers."
"Cut off my—? 'Oh, no!' P-please, Gran'pa. Please, d-don't—"
Tepaha stared at him stonily. Implacably, he repeated his order. One finger would be cut off now. Two, if he delayed. Three if he delayed longer.
"Aw, now, looky," Arlie protested. "This ain't really fair."
"Silence," said Tepaha.
"But it ain't fair, Grandfather Tepaha. You an' Paw taught I.K. all the orneriness he knows. You laughed about his stealing. It ain't his fault—"
"Silence! He stole from his own family, your father. A great crime, and a shame to me."
"But, dang it—!"
Tepaha swung his hand swiftly, slapping Arlie full in the face. Now, he declared, Arlie had best remain silent or he would be slapped again. Boz laughed at his brother's discomfiture.
"Boy, are you gutless! Catch me lettin' him slap 'me' around!"
Arlie ignored the jibe. Tepaha grabbed his grandson by the arm, and hauled him before Old Ike. Trembling, I.K. held out his left hand, and Ike neatly sliced off his third finger and handed it back to him.
I.K. clutched it dully, holding the bleeding stump against his chest. Vacant-eyed, numb with shock, he listened as Tepaha pronounced the remainder of his sentence. He was to leave King's Junction at once. If he ever returned, he would be killed.
"Now, go," Tepaha said, pointing. And I.K. went. And the old Apache rolled the dining room doors shut behind him.
Tepaha turned around again. His eyes found Ike's, and Ike slowly nodded; jerked his head at Boz.
"Stretch yourself out there on the floor," he said. "Your Gran'father Tepaha is gonna kick you."
'"Huh?"' Boz grunted. "What the hell you talkin' about?"
"I said to lay yourself down! Now, do it or I'll lay you!"
"B-but—but—" Boz's eyes darted nervously from his father to Tepaha. "What the shit is this? Why is Tepaha a-wantin' to kick me?"
Ike said that the kicking was his own idea, just as cutting off I.K.'s finger had been Tepaha's. "You kicked Joshie, his kinswoman. Now, he will kick you."
"But, God dammit—!" Boz whirled on his wife. "You've been lyin' about me, ain't you? Now, by Christ, you take it back or I'll—"
"She didn't say nothin'," Arlie said idly. "Got too much pride to admit that her own husband would kick her."
"And I didn't, by God! Anyone that says I did is a fucking liar!"
"I said it," Arlie grinned, "an' I wasn't lying. So you better hump your ass for that kickin'!"
Boz dived for him, his hand darting toward his boot-top. At virtually the same instant, he found the point of Arlie's knife pricking at his throat.
"Now, you lay down, boy," Arlie said softly. "Get yourself down on them planks, or you're gonna be minus an Adam's apple."
Boz lay down, cursing, vowing to get his brother if it took him a hundred years. Arlie laughed that it would take him that long to get a hard-on.
"Enough!" Old Ike growled; and to Tepaha, "Wh
enever you are ready, old friend."
Tepaha stepped forward. He kicked Boz twice, the second kick causing the young man to break wind noisily.
Arlie roared with laughter, as Boz sat up. "Always figured you was full of shit. Reckon there ain't no doubt about it, now!"
His face white with pain and fury, Boz came slowly to his feet. Casually, Arlie turned his back on him, as though to address his wife.
It was a trap, of course. But Boz saw it as opportunity. He sprang, knife drawn. But Arlie was suddenly no longer where he had been, and, as suddenly, Boz was no longer period.
He was back on the floor again, slit from crotch to breastbone, his guts spilled out on the time-stained planks.
Arlie wiped the blood from his knife, giving his father an ostensibly mournful glance. "I had to do it, Paw. Just wasn't no way out."
Old Ike nodded, his face expressionless. "I saw," he said.
Chapter Four
Critchfield King stood on the open platform of the chair-car, watching the gradual pre-dawn lightening of the prairie, nervously flinging his cheroot away from him as he waited for the woman, the supposed soldier's bride.
What the hell had happened, he wondered savagely. What in God's name could be holding her up?
She had missed the money-belt immediately after their love-making, and promptly demanded its return. Teasingly, he had promised to give it back, but only if she joined him on the platform for a few kisses. She had agreed to do so, as soon as she had visited the toilet. That had been more than thirty minutes ago; considerably more, for the train had stopped at two villages since then. Soon it would be broad daylight, too late for a showdown with her without attracting fatal attention to himself. If she didn't show up within another five minutes—
She didn't. Nerves jumping, Critch feverishly sought an answer to the riddle, and quickly settled upon two.
