by Jory Sherman
The Hopi began to work on the set of rattles. The Arapaho scooted over to the dead snake, laid it on a flat rock, took his knife out, and began to skin it. He put the meat into a clay bowl as he scraped it away from the inner side of the skin. The two worked in silence as the fire began to glow with just enough light to see. Stars appeared over the smoke hole, winking through the gauze of smoke like diamonds in a murky stream.
The two men cooked the snake meat and ate it slowly, chewing on each roasted piece and rubbing their bellies when they were through.
“The white man awakens,” the Hopi said when he got up to go outside and relieve himself.
The Arapaho looked at Brad and saw his eyelids quiver.
“He still sleeps,” he said.
But by the time the Hopi came back inside, Brad’s eyes were blinking and he had raised one hand over his face.
“He sleeps with his eyes open,” the Hopi said.
The Arapaho laughed. “Huh,” he grunted. “Most white men sleep with their eyes open. They have much fear of the red man.”
The Hopi laughed at that and sat down next to Brad, looking at him with interest.
The Arapaho moved over on the other side of the white man and watched him awaken.
“He looks at his hand,” the Hopi said. “He wonders if the biting snake was a dream.”
“Let us speak in his tongue, Gray Owl,” the Arapaho said in English. “Maybe he will make talk with us.”
“You are very wise, Wading Crow. But what if he is French? Do you speak that tongue?”
“I speak the bad words in that tongue, Gray Owl.”
“I speak some of the good words of the French.”
“Ho, you brag, Gray Owl. You thump your chest but I hear only the English.”
“Where am I?” Brad asked, sitting up. He touched his head gingerly, winced at the sudden sharp pain. He seemed to have difficulty focusing on the two men on either side of him, and the fire had burned down so much he could not see their faces clearly.
“You are here, white man,” Wading Crow said. “What are you called?”
“Oh, my name. I am called Brad Storm. Last thing I remember was getting bit by a rattlesnake.”
“You do not know the mountain fell on you?” Wading Crow smiled at Gray Owl.
“My head hurts like hell,” Brad said. Then he held up his hand and looked at it, saw the cuts and the two holes.
“Let us name him Sidewinder,” Gray Owl said. “The white man’s name is like dry corn in my mouth.”
Wading Crow pointed a finger at Brad.
“We call you Sidewinder,” he said in his guttural English.
Brad pointed to the Arapaho.
“You Wading Crow,” he said. “Me Sidewinder. Good enough?”
“And I am called Gray Owl,” the Hopi said. “You Sidewinder.”
Brad felt dizzy, but he also felt as if he had made two friends. He did not ask about the snakes he heard buzzing in their baskets, and he did not ask about his horse. He thought of Felicity just before he fell asleep. The night was so dark he knew he could not find his way home.
He dreamed of tracking a large white cow that walked through a field of snakes, and his head throbbed like a drummer’s tambour as he sank deeper into slumber.
One of the Indians snored, but Brad didn’t know which one.
FIVE
Felicity felt as if she had slept on a pile of boards during the night. She awoke with stiffness in her joints, small stabbing pains in her back and neck, and a slight headache. She hadn’t had much sleep, and the little she got was shallow and disturbed by wild dreams about looking for Brad in endless canyons that were like a maze.
Neither of their hands had seen anything the night before, nor had she. Perhaps she was making a mountain out of a molehill, she thought, as she boiled a pot of Arbuckles coffee and water. She looked out the kitchen window to see the light of dawn crack the eastern horizon, and later, when she sat on the back porch sipping the coffee, the sky was scarlet, a raging portent of bad weather to come.
The morning air was sweet and clean. The few head of cattle around the house were just rising from their beds, and Felicity could smell their scent wafting her way on the morning breeze, a pungent aroma of hide and cow pies, earth and crushed vegetation. She wished Brad were sitting beside her, sipping coffee, describing what he saw with those piercing eyes of his. She missed him terribly and was worried that he might be injured. Or dead.
The thought froze her face and hollowed out her insides. She suddenly felt queasy and fought to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes. It was early, but in that moment she knew what she must do and she made her decision. Soon, she knew, Julio would walk down to the back porch and ask her what she wanted him to do that day. Nothing was as urgent, in her mind, as the task of finding Brad and bringing him back home.
The eastern sky blazed in the morning stillness, and her coffee was cooling. She drank the last in her cup and stood up, stretched. She was dressed for the day and wore her pistol in its leather holster. Her rifle was just inside the back door, but as she looked across the field to the timber, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few minutes later, she heard the crunch of Julio’s boots as he walked down from the bunkhouse along a narrow path filled with loose pebbles. It was a comforting sound, and she set her empty cup on the railing and waited for him to turn the corner and come into view.
“Buenos días, Felicity,” Julio said, as he walked around the corner of the house.
“Had breakfast, Julio?”
“Yes. I have already saddled the horses.”
“Mine, too?”
“Yes. I think you will want to come with me to find Brad.”
“You read my mind, Julio.”
He laughed and put a booted foot on the bottom step of the porch stairs.
“I’ll put my cup away, and we’ll go look for Brad.”
“I will wait,” he said.
She returned in a few moments, carrying her rifle and a box of .44 cartridges. She also carried a wrapped bundle under her arm. She handed this to Julio.
“Sandwiches,” she said.
“You come prepared,” Julio said.
“We might get hungry,” she said.
“I mean the cartuchos,” he said, pointing to the cartridges in her hand.
“There are cougars up there, and bears.”
“The wolves, too.”
“I doubt if we’ll see any wolves this morning.”
They walked to the barn. Carlos came out to meet them, leading their horses.
“Did you see or hear anything last night, Carlos?” Felicity asked.
“No, I hear nothing,” he said in his thick Mexican accent. “The cows, they sleep good, I think. It was very quiet. I sleep with one ear open.”
He grinned and Felicity grinned back at him. She took the reins and mounted her horse, a bay mare she called Rose. Julio climbed aboard his horse, Chato. She noticed that Julio’s rifle was in its saddle scabbard.
“Canteens full, Julio?” she asked.
“Yes. From the spring.”
“Let’s go,” she said. “Carlos, keep on eye on the cattle.”
“Seguro,” Carlos said.
Julio and Felicity rode toward the hills bordering the valley. He was looking to his left at the clumps of cattle heading toward the grasses in the sunlight, those with the dew burned off by the morning sun. He stopped and pointed to a lone cow walking briskly toward some others.
“What is it?” she said, pulling up alongside him.
“There is the brindle cow,” he said.
“The brindle cow?”
“That is the one Brad was finding.”
“Are you sure?” She shaded her eyes so that she could see the cow more clearly.
“Yes. I am sure.”
“Then, maybe Brad is right behind her. It looks as if she is just now getting back from wherever she’s been.”
Julio looked up toward the trees, the top of the
hill they had to climb. Felicity looked up there, too. They were silent for several moments.
“I do not see him,” he said.
“Well, maybe we’ll see him when we get up there.”
“Maybe,” he said, but his voice held no conviction.
They rode into the timber, following the path Julio and Brad had ridden the day before, a path still littered with cow tracks, a maze of cuneiform wedges in the soft spring earth. Felicity could see that the tracks went both ways.
Brad had taught her to track, and she studied the hoof marks as they rode through thin timber, climbing ever so slowly. She saw two sets of horseshoe tracks heading up and one set heading back down toward the ranch. Julio, she knew, had made those when he drove the strays back onto the ranch pasture. Her heart felt squeezed when she saw them, deciphered their meaning.
They reached the small mesa where the cows had first strayed. Julio pointed out where the cattle had been, and the direction in which the brindle cow had gone when Brad began tracking it. She also noticed the burned ruins of the house that had once stood there. Julio told her the same story he had related to Brad and she sighed at the images she saw in her mind. The ruins looked so forlorn, and she found it hard to imagine how anyone could be so cruel as to kill an entire family over a few head of cattle.
Julio rode off as she sat there on her horse, lost in thought.
“The tracks are still here,” he said, and Felicity turned to look at him, jarred out of her solemn reverie.
“Wait,” she called. “I’m coming.”
Julio pointed to the tracks of the brindle cow and the hoof marks of Brad’s horse. He pointed in the direction where the cow had gone.
A few minutes later, she saw the wolf tracks and halted Julio.
“Were those made yesterday?” she said, pointing to the wolf tracks.
“I think so. Brad he no say anything.”
“Well, if the wolf was following that cow, Brad must have seen it.”
“Maybe,” he said, and she felt like slapping Julio.
“He didn’t say anything to you about the wolf?”
“No, he don’t say nothing,” Julio said, in his broken English.
“Brad could be hurt,” she said, an urgency in her voice.
The two followed the tracks off the shelf and along the path the cow had taken. The horses had trouble following the sidehill. The trail had dried since the day before, but there were places where the trail was slippery. Felicity silently cursed the slowness of the horses, but thought about Brad and wondered if his horse might have fallen. She scanned the slope ahead and down into the steep canyon, looking for any sign of her husband.
The sun was well up when they came to the thicket where the brindle had gone. Both of them saw the jumble of rocks, the treacherous lay of the land in that spot.
“Maybe we should walk over there,” Julio said. “Maybe we can read the tracks.”
“Where is he?” Felicity cried out in frustration.
Julio did not answer.
They dismounted and ground-tied their horses to small bushes. They walked over to the thicket where the cow tracks disappeared. There was a maze of prints in the soft ground, including the wolf’s, Brad’s horse. As they walked around it, Felicity squatted down.
“Look here, Julio,” she said. “What is this?” She pointed to a smeared track the size of a man’s foot.
Julio squatted beside her and studied the track.
“Indio,” he said.
“An Indian? What’s an Indian doing up here?”
Julio said nothing. She could see that he was uncomfortable. He looked scared. And now that she thought about it, she felt scared, too.
“There is blood on the rocks,” he said.
The two walked above the site, studying the ground. Felicity was trying to form a picture in her mind. She saw drag marks that might have been made by Brad’s body. It appeared the Indian had found him, pulled him out of the depression, and then lifted him onto his back. There were no drag marks above the small landslide and the moccasin tracks were deeper, more defined.
“That Indian carried him off, Julio,” she said. “That’s what I think.”
“Maybe. I do not read the tracks so good.”
“Yes, you do. I don’t need to be mollycoddled. If Brad was hurt, maybe—”
Julio said something under his breath. Felicity was sure he said “Indios.” She knew he had a fear of them. Past memories, she supposed.
“Let’s get back on our horses and follow those tracks,” she said. “They go right up into the timber.”
Julio hesitated. She gave him a sharp look.
Felicity bristled at his apparent cowardice.
“Tienes miedo?” she said in Spanish. “Are you afraid?”
“Maybe we should get help.”
“Where? There’s no help anywhere near here. Brad may need us. If you’re afraid, go on back to the ranch. I’ll find him, wherever he is.”
“I do not have fear,” he said. “But it could be dangerous.”
“Living is dangerous, Julio. I don’t give a hoot. I’m going to find Brad if it takes me a week.”
They got on their horses and were starting to ride up into the timber when they both saw movement off to their left. They both stopped and looked at the small shape coming from a long way off. As it drew nearer, they both could see that it was a horse and rider.
“Isn’t that Brad’s horse?” Felicity whispered, hardly daring to breathe.
“Yes, I think that is Brad’s horse.”
“Is that Brad?”
She stood up in the stirrups and waved her hand at the figure on the horse. On Brad’s horse.
The man did not wave back. She settled back down in the saddle.
“Who is that?” she murmured, more to herself than to Julio.
“Indio,” Julio said under his breath.
And Felicity felt her blood run cold as a hollow pit opened in her stomach and goose bumps rippled up her arms.
A cloud passed across the sun and she felt a sudden chill.
SIX
The squawk of a jay outside the wickiup roused Brad from his sleep. He opened his eyes to darkness and confusion. He heard the bird as it rustled leaves and pine needles, scratched the ground just outside the opening of the shelter. He felt a weight on his body, a blanket of some kind. He felt the covering with one hand, felt the fur, and wondered where he was for a long moment. His head ached and one of his hands felt as if it had been clawed by a wildcat. It stung, and when he touched it, he felt a sudden sharp pain. The pain made him suddenly sick to his stomach, and he fought to keep down the bile that rose in his throat.
He felt his now-swollen hand and shoots of pain coursed up his arm. He felt woozy and lay there for several moments until he saw a sliver of cream light break to the east, sending in shafts of shadows. Now he could hear the scurrying of chipmunks outside the lodge, and the sky began to take on a crimson hue. He looked around, hoping to discover where he was. His memory was locked somewhere in the dregs of dream and in the pain that gripped his hand and arm, in the boiling gases of his stomach.
Gradually, as the light crept into the shelter, he began to remember. He pulled himself up, pushing down the buffalo robe that covered him. As memory began to return, seeping into his consciousness, he expected to see the two forms of the Indians he had met the night before. He squinted and could make out only one sleeper, and the Indian was stirring, slipping off his buffalo robe, and stretching both arms to the smoke hole and the paling sky.
It was Gray Owl, the Hopi, and before Brad could say anything, the red man was on his feet and standing over Brad, his face in darkness.
“You wake,” Gray Owl said.
“Just barely,” Brad said.
“Huh?”
Brad didn’t know whether the sound was a question or a grunt of assent.
“Bear?” Gray Owl said.
“Un poco,” Brad said in Spanish.
“Ahhh,�
�� Gray Owl said. “Do you have hunger?”
Brad sat up, rubbed his stomach.
“Sick,” he said. “Enfermo. Mi estómago.”
“Ah, it is the bite of the snake,” Gray Owl said in Spanish.
Brad saw his pistol lying next to where he had slept. It was in its holster. He touched the top of his head, very gingerly, looked around again to see if he had missed anything that might be his.
“What you look for?” Gray Owl asked in English.
“My hat. I was wearing a hat.”
“Ah, no hat. You no need hat. Let the sun cure your head, Sidewinder.”
Sidewinder. That was the name the Indians had given him.
“Where is Wading Crow?” he asked.
Gray Owl walked outside, stared at the fiery sky of morning.
“Wading Crow get horse.”
“My horse?”
“Yes. He track horse, bring horse back. Give you horse.”
Brad jumped when he heard a rattle from one of the baskets. At that moment, Gray Owl turned and saw him.
The Hopi grinned.
“Rattlesnakes,” Brad said, and it wasn’t a question. There was no mistaking that sound. Other snakes began to rattle, and Brad scanned the floor to see if any had gotten loose.
“I have gift for Sidewinder,” Gray Owl said as he walked back into the shelter.
“I hope it’s not a rattler,” he said.
Gray Owl walked to his robe and reached underneath it. He pulled out something, wadded it up in his hand, and walked back to Brad, who was still nervous over the snakes. Gray Owl opened his hand.
Brad stared down at a set of rattles. Attached to them was a thin strand of sinew.
“Take,” Gray Owl said. “Wear here.” He raised his hand and pointed to his neck.
“What for?” Brad asked, taking the rattle necklace.
“Bring good luck to Sidewinder. I cut from snake you killed. Snake that bite you.”
“I killed the snake that had these rattles?”
Gray Owl nodded. He signed that Brad should wear the necklace.
