Sidewinder

by Jory Sherman

  His hand stung now, and he felt a numbness in his fingers. The sun was dipping ever lower behind the distant mountain peaks, the sky a pagan blaze of bronze and steel, flaring rays that torched the clouds as others turned to ocher dust and mourning ashes.

  The boulders shifted and jostled against one another. The pebbles beneath him, caught by falling dirt and sand, slid down toward the depression in the earth. The first trickle became a torrent, and the boulders lost their footing and toppled. Gravity pulled at them, and they rumbled down, rolled and jumped like objects suddenly freed. The rocks crackled and boomed. A medium-sized boulder leaped into the air and came crashing down on Brad’s head.

  He felt the blow, the sharp sting as his scalp opened up, and then he saw an explosion of bright stars and the sunset smearing into a gaudy blur. He sank from consciousness like the very stone that struck him and descended into an obsidian abyss, a darkness so black it wrenched the stars from the sky and oblitered all light and color.

  Brad floated in that fathomless deep of sleep, sinking ever downward into a peaceful sea of oblivion while the boulders rumbled into the small gully and came to rest under mangled branches, releasing the fragrance of crushed leaves and dank soil as the sun slid behind a distant snowcapped peak and the shadow of dusk spread across the land.

  The brindle cow broke into a trot at the noise and stopped when it was over, panting, sides heaving, rubbery nose twitching. Alone in the spreading darkness, it lifted its head and bawled at the sky until nothing was left of its bellow but a low grunt of despair.

  The cow was alone, and its taste for grass left somewhere on the hillside, far from its home.

  THREE

  Felicity Storm stood on the front porch of the log house, staring up at the hills, the lowering sun. She was a firm, wiry woman with raven hair and hazel eyes, a patrician nose, the sculpted features of a Grecian goddess. But, there was a worried shadow flickering in her eyes as she spotted Julio driving cattle down to the pasture already filled with the grazing herd standing like statues in an ocean of grama grass. She wondered why Brad wasn’t with Julio, and the worry lines around her eyes deepened as she squinted into the falling sun.

  She stooped over, her simple cotton dress flowing with the bending of her knees, clinging to her girlish form like running water. She picked up the wicker basket and tucked it under one arm, glided down the steps until her sandals touched ground. She walked to the side of the house where the clothesline danced with the dried parchments of her washing: sheets, underclothes, shirts and blouses, linens, all white, like unmarred documents. She kept her eyes on the hillside beyond the driven cattle, searching for Brad. She thought he might be chasing in a stray and would appear at any moment, framed against the pines and spruce like a conquering warrior returning from a long journey.

  Carlos Renaldo came around the side of the house lugging a burlap bag over one shoulder. He, too, was looking in Julio’s direction, a worried frown on his face. He passed close to Felicity and stopped.

  “I dug some potatoes for you,” he said. “I will put them in the house.”

  “Just set them on the porch, Carlos. Did you get some for yourself?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Where is Brad? He is not with Julio, and Julio has the cows that ran away.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, lifting a pair of long johns from the line, folding them before putting them in the basket. “Maybe . . .”

  She did not finish her thought because she saw the worry in Carlos’s face. He worshipped her husband, she knew, and his concern was genuine. She bit her lip and scrunched up her face, wondering if she even had an idea of where Brad could be. If one of the cows strayed, she thought that he would surely send Julio to chase it down. That should be Brad driving the cows back to pasture, not Julio.

  “I will take the potatoes,” Carlos said, and went on his way toward the front porch.

  Julio took off his hat and waved the cattle down into the pasture. The cows took off at a run and joined the grazing herd as if they were long-lost relatives returning to home and family.

  The breeze stiffened, and Felicity saw the leaves on the birch trees jiggle and flash various shades of green down by the creek. The clothes flapped mindlessly on the line, sounding like a chorus of whips, and she grabbed a sheet that was beginning to slide off, rolled it into a ball, and dropped it into the basket. The breeze was warm at first, then began to cool as the sun’s rim glowed fiery orange just above the mountain skyline to the west, painting the long stretch of clouds a pastel pink on their underbellies while their tops faded to an ashen gray. Shadows crawled along the valley, and the canyons blackened into deep repositories of soft coal.

  Felicity quickly pulled all the dry clothes from the line and stuffed them in her basket as Julio rode up to her, his face gray with shadow, the blazing sunset at his back.

  “Where’s Brad?” she asked, a chunk of her heart caught in her throat, the remains pumping like a trip-hammer in her chest.

  “He was following the track of the brindle cow. The cow, she strayed, and he went to get her.” He looked back over his shoulder at the dark pines on the hilltop and beyond, into the unknown. “I think he will come back soon.”

  “How soon, Julio?”

  “Very soon, I think. The cow could not have gone far.”

  “Why didn’t you stay with him?”

  “He told me to come on back.”

  He slid from the saddle and looked longingly toward the barn and the horse stalls.

  “It’s getting dark up there,” she said.

  “Brad can find his way.”

  “I know he can, and he always said the cows could find their way back home, too.”

  “Do not worry, Felicitas. Brad will be home soon. I will put the horse up, give him some water and grain.”

  “You don’t think Brad ran into trouble up there?”

  “There was nobody there but us. Why do you worry?”

  “I worry because when Pilar went to fetch water from the creek this morning, she saw fresh horse tracks.”

  Pilar was Julio’s wife. A look of startled surprise spread across his face as if he had been slapped with wet raw-hide.

  “Somebody was watching the house last night. Curly barked, but we didn’t let him out.”

  Curly was the Storms’ dog, part Irish setter, part mongrel of some unknown breed.

  “That dog barks at everything.”

  “Brad went to the front window and looked outside for a long time. He didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “He did not say nothing to me,” Julio said.

  “He wouldn’t. When I asked him what Curly was barking at, he just said ‘the moon.’ But he got Curly to shut up.”

  “Did Brad see the horse tracks?”

  “No.”

  “Did he go down to the creek?”

  “As soon as he got up.”

  “And, he did not see them?”

  “No, because the tracks were not there. I said they were fresh. Someone was watching the house after you and Brad went to find those strays.”

  “Maybe Indians giving their horses water to drink.”

  “These horses were shod, Julio.”

  “How many horses?”

  “Only two that I could see.”

  She picked up the basket and started walking toward the front porch. Julio tied his reins to one of the clothesline poles and walked with her.

  “Julio, I want you and Carlos to pack iron from now on.”

  “What do you say, Felicity?”

  “Carry your pistol and a rifle. Both of you ride the tree line above and to the side of the house before dark. If you find any horse tracks, you come back and tell me.”

  “You think there will be trouble?”

  “Friendly folk riding up here would have stopped to say howdy. Those tracks mean something. Something I don’t like.”

  As she neared the porch, Curly began barking inside the house.

  “People pass by,” Juli
o said. Lamely.

  “Not up here, they don’t. Do what I say. I’m going to sit outside until it’s dark and wait for Brad. If he doesn’t come back tonight, we’ll ride out in the morning and look for him.”

  “He will be here soon, I think.”

  When Felicity reached the porch, she stopped and turned around. Julio was still standing there.

  “There’s not much daylight left, Julio. I want to know what I’m facing here with Brad gone.”

  “Yes,” Julio said, and turned to leave. “Do not worry, eh?”

  “I won’t worry. But I sure as shootin’ want to be ready for anybody up to no good.”

  Julio left and Felicity went inside the house. Curly jumped up to greet her, and she motioned for him to sit. The dog sat, wagging its tail.

  “You’re not going to go out right now, Curly,” she said, and walked past him into the bedroom. She set the basket of clothes on the floor, drew in a deep breath, and walked to the wardrobe. She opened the doors, reached up to the top shelf, and pulled down her pistol and holster. The belt, glistening with cartridges, was wrapped around the holster. She strapped on the pistol, drew it, and cocked it. She held her thumb on the hammer and spun the cylinder. It was full of unfired rounds. She squeezed the trigger and eased the hammer back down, seating it at half cock. Then she reached into the corner of the wardrobe and pulled out a Henry repeating rifle. She levered a shell into the chamber, hefted it. The magazine was full. She had thirteen cartridges ready to fire.

  Brad had taught her to shoot, but she had never shot at a man. She had shot down elk and deer, antelope on the plains, and rabbits. She was pretty good with the scatter-gun, too, and had brought down quail and partridges on the wing.

  Pilar let Curly out when she went outside. She sat in one of the chairs on the porch and watched the blazing sky in the west turn to ashes, the clouds like dusty smoke signals fading against the remnants of a glowing blue tapestry. She saw the first star wink on, Venus, just above the horizon, and the blackness of night came on. She listened, heard the chink of iron hooves on rocks as Carlos and Julio followed the tree line that encircled the ranch. She waited, knowing they would ride back soon, now that it was full dark.

  Julio rode up to the porch, and she heard the muffled sounds of Carlos’s horse as he made his way to the barn and stables.

  His horse snorted as Julio reined up.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Yes, we saw horse tracks up where the trees are thick. Two horses. We saw where they stopped and smoked the cigarettes. Maybe they were looking at the house.”

  “Or counting cattle,” she said.

  “Maybe. Yes.”

  “You and Carlos will have to take turns,” she said.

  “Take turns?”

  “As nighthawks. They might come back and steal some of our cows.”

  “Where? This is a long valley. The cows are many.”

  “I should have both of you out there, but if you see or hear anything, you shoot your rifle, Julio, and we’ll come running. Saddle my horse and leave yours and Carlos’s saddled.”

  “You think the riders are rustlers? We saw only two sets of horse tracks.”

  “Maybe they won’t come tonight, but we can’t take a chance. Brad would have a fit if anyone rustled our cattle.”

  “Perhaps he will ride in soon.”

  “I will wait for him until I get sleepy, Julio. Go and talk to Carlos. Do you want Curly to go with you?”

  “Yes. He has a good nose and good ears. He would bark, I think.”

  “Call him. He’s down in the pasture somewhere, picking up burrs and looking for rabbits.”

  “I will call him after I talk to Carlos and ride out to watch the herd. Ten cuidado, Felicity.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she said.

  And then Julio was gone around the side of the house, heading toward the barn.

  She sat and listened, wondering where Curly was, and then she looked up at the dark hills and her eyes misted.

  Brad was out there somewhere, all alone, or hurt, perhaps, and . . .

  She didn’t want to think of anything else that might have happened to her husband. He was a careful man, but . . .

  She listened to the silence, and it was a deep silence.

  It was a lonesome silence that she had not felt in a long, long time.

  FOUR

  The wiry Arapaho reached down and picked up the headless snake. He shook the tail, heard the rattles clack together. He slid the snake through his belt and let it dangle against the left leg of his trousers. Then he rolled the boulder off the white man’s head and leaned down, putting his ear to the unconscious man’s mouth. He felt the faint puffs of air against his ear and grunted. He grabbed the man’s shoulders and pulled him away from the rock slide, laid him flat on stationary ground.

  The sky was turning to dust over the western snowcaps, but there was a glimmer of salmon light still clinging to the horizon. He lifted the limp man by the shoulders and slung him over his back and walked up the slope to the fringe of pine trees. He entered the woods on silent moccasins, carrying the white man with ease. His legs were strong and his shoulders broad. His black hair hung in a pigtail down his shirted back. He followed a game trail to a hut where another man, a Hopi with graying black hair, stood like a sentinel outside the shelter, his dark eyes shimmering with the last of the day’s light.

  “Did you catch the snake?” the Hopi asked.

  The Arapaho reached down and jiggled the dead rattler. It made a brrr sound like tiny bones shaking in an iron kettle.

  “That is the one?”

  “That is the one that ran away when I opened the basket.”

  “Too bad. It was the sidewinder I brought to you.”

  “I know. It was good medicine.”

  “It is still good medicine,” the Hopi said.

  The Arapaho walked past the Hopi and laid the white man on a buffalo robe, then stepped back outside into the twilight. He pulled the dead snake from his belt and held it up for the Hopi to see.

  “Why did you kill the snake?”

  “I did not kill the snake. The white man bit its head off.”saw him do this?“

  “You saw him do this?”

  “No. But, the head is gone. Maybe the white eyes swallowed it.”

  “Let us see,” the Hopi said.

  The two entered the shelter. They had woven stripped saplings together and used spruce bows to shed the rain. There was a smoke hole in the top of the dome, and a ring of stones in the center, with hot coals and kindling stacked nearby. The shelter was full of woven baskets, and from some of them, sounds of slithering seeped out, the rustle of scales and soft hisses. The Hopi squatted down and lifted the white man’s hands. He rubbed his hand over the backs of them and then turned them over, touching the palms with his fingertips.

  “He has been bitten by the snake,” the Hopi said. He drew his knife from its antelope skin sheath and began to slice across the holes made by the snake’s fangs. Blood and creamy venom oozed from the fresh wounds.

  The Hopi lifted the wounded man’s hand to his face and opened his mouth. He put his lips over the two holes and the cuts he had made in the flesh and sucked hard, his ruddy cheeks collapsing as he drew out the poison. He spat to the side and sucked the wounds again. He spit out the venom and blood.

  “Make fire,” the Hopi said to the Arapaho.

  The Arapaho grunted in assent. He pulled a box of lucifers from his leather pouch, struck one of the matches on a stone. He held the lighted match to the shavings beneath a small pyramid of shaved sticks and the shavings began to smoke. A tiny flame appeared and the Arapaho fanned it gently with one hand. The fire erupted from the kindling and the blaze spread. He put sticks on the fire and the shelter glowed a soft orange as the fresh wood caught fire.

  “Now we can see,” the Hopi said, “and we will be warm in the night.”

  “Yes,” the Arapaho said, and sat next to the white man, studying his face. H
e passed a hand over Brad’s closed eyelids, and they seemed to flutter in the firelight.

  He touched the top of Brad’s head where the falling rock had struck him. He felt the wetness and the stickiness of blood. He put the finger to his lips and tasted the blood. There was a lump on the white man’s head, and it was soft and sticky with oozing blood.

  He pulled Brad’s pistol from his holster, felt its heft. He lifted it up so that the blued barrel gleamed in the firelight. He turned it around in his hand.

  “Do you take his little firestick?” the Hopi asked.

  “No. I just like to see it and feel it in my hand. It is a very fine little firestick.”

  “It has six killer bees in it,” the Hopi said.

  “Yes. I know. I have seen many in the hands of white men.”

  He slid the pistol back in its holster and picked up a wooden canteen. He poured water over the lump on Brad’s head and rubbed the blood away and into his scalp. Then he poked Brad in the side to see if he could rouse him from his sleep.

  Brad did not stir, but a small moan escaped from his lips.

  “He sleeps much,” the Arapaho said. “Maybe he will die from the snake’s spit.”

  “No, he will not die,” the Hopi said. “The poison will make him strong. He will be like the snake.”

  The Hopi cut the rattles from the snake’s tail. He shook them and smiled into the firelight.

  “Strong medicine,” he said.

  The Arapaho grunted. “What do you do?” he asked the Hopi.

  “I will make a little hole in the rattle and put a leather string through it so the white man can wear it around his neck.”

  “He will not like it.”

  “It will make him strong,” the Hopi said.

  “My heart is bad because I let the snake get away. It just crawled from the basket and did not rattle. By the time I looked inside, he was gone from the hut. I hunted him, but he found the white man before I could catch him.”

  “We can still take the other snakes back to your village and make the ground shake with our feet.”

  “You carried the snake that crawls sideways, the one the white man calls the sidewinder, from far away. My heart is on the ground because he got away.” The Arapaho’s forehead wrinkled, and he squinted through a taciturn scowl.