Sidewinder

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Sidewinder Page 4

by Jory Sherman


  Brad put it on.

  “You get in trouble, you shake rattle. Good luck.”

  He felt funny wearing the rattles, but Gray Owl had saved his life, most probably. Brad would wear the necklace as long as he was there.

  “Why do you have all these snakes in baskets, Gray Owl?”

  “Sit,” Gray Owl said. “I tell Sidewinder a story.”

  They sat opposite each other, the fire ring between them. Gray Owl put some kindling on the coals and stirred them with another stick. He blew into the coals. They flared and ignited the kindling. As he talked, he added more sticks to the fire.

  “Snakes for Snake Dance,” Gray Owl said. “Wading Crow good friend. I bring sidewinder from my hunting grounds. We catch snakes in mountains. Take to village, dance the Snake Dance of my people.”

  “Who are your people?”

  “I am Hopi. My people the Summer People of the Hopi.”

  “You dance with live snakes?” Brad was dumbfounded. He had never heard of such a thing.

  “Big medicine,” Gray Owl said.

  “Why?”

  “Tell story. You listen.”

  “I’m listening,” Brad said. His hand and his arm had stopped hurting, and his stomach was no longer roiling. He fingered the rattles around his neck. He liked the smooth bony feel of them. They seemed to have a calming effect on him.

  Gray Owl’s face danced with fire and shadow as he spoke, and his eyes looked like polished black agates.

  “Many robe seasons ago, a father of the Summer People and his son had bad words about the offerings made for our gods. The son told his father that he did not believe there were any gods. He did not believe the gods took the offerings and ate them. He said the offerings just rotted away. The father said that there were gods and that they ate the offerings.

  “The son said he would go to the Lower Place and find out for himself if there were any gods. The father and the Wise Ones told the boy that the gods did not actually eat the food offerings. They took from them the core, what is the heart-meaning of the offering.”

  “The essence,” Brad murmured, caught up in the story.

  Gray Owl nodded.

  “The boy did not believe his father or the Wise Ones, and he left the village. As he was walking along, he met the Silent One, a Tewa rain god. The Silent One said to the boy: ‘Where are you going?’ The boy answered, ‘I am going to the Lower Place to look for the gods.’ The Silent One told the boy, ‘You cannot go there. Even if you walk until your hair is white as the snows and your teeth fall out, you will never get there. It is too far. Go back to your village. The gods are real. Do not have doubt that there are gods.’

  “After telling the boy this, the Silent One changed himself into a god. He was like smoke and mist and cloud. The boy looked at the Silent One in his god form with wonder and fear. Then the Silent One made himself into a man once again, eh? And the boy was even more shaken. He was like a little tree in the wind. He shook and shook.”

  Gray Owl paused and stirred the fire. It was now warm inside the rustic hut, even as the cool breeze of morning breathed a chill into the air.

  “Did the boy go back to his village?” Brad asked.

  “No. He had a stiff backbone. He went on. He wanted to find out if there were truly gods. He did not believe there were any gods.”

  “Stubborn,” Brad said.

  Gray Owl made no comment. Instead, he continued with his story.

  “So, the boy continued his journey to the Lower Place. He met Deer-Kachina-Cloud, another god who was in human form. Gods could do that. The god scolded the boy, and told him to turn around and go back home. The boy would not and Deer-Kachina-Cloud became angry. ‘I have horns,’ the god said. ‘I am the gamekeeper for your people. ’ Then Deer-Kachina-Cloud changed into his god form and the boy saw the horns and the deer hooves and the face with much hair, and he had much fear from the snorting and the scraping of hooves on the ground. Then the god changed back into man form. The boy said he was going on to the Lower Place. Deer-Kachina-Cloud told him that he was near Snake Village. ‘Go there,’ Deer-Kachina-Cloud told the boy, ‘after you go there, you go back home.’ ”

  Gray Cloud stopped and took a deep breath. He looked up through the smoke hole and closed his eyes.

  “Did the boy do what he promised?” Brad asked.

  “Ah, do you think a boy like that would give up the hunt?”

  “I don’t reckon,” Brad said. “But he did promise, didn’t he?”

  “Ah, yes, the boy did promise the god that he would visit Snake Village and then go back to his village.”

  “So, what did the boy do?”

  “As he was walking toward Snake Village, another god in man form stopped him. This was Star-Flickering-Glossy Man. He was dressed in a coat made of many bird feathers. He warned the boy again and told him he could go only to Snake Village. ‘Go no farther,’ he said, and gave the boy a little twig with leaves. ‘The snakes will try to bite you because you are a doubter. This herb will protect you. Shake it, show it to the snakes. In the center of the village there is the head man. Go to him. Go to him quick. The snakes are also spirits, and they can change into men. You will be in much danger.’ ”

  Gray Owl stopped, and looked long and hard at Brad.

  “This is a long story,” Gray Owl said. “You may not be ready to hear the rest of it.”

  “I would like to hear it all, but I’m thinking I’d better get on home. My wife will be worried.”

  “Maybe she looks for you,” Gray Owl said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Wading Crow will return soon. I will tell you the rest of the story another time.”

  “How long will you be here? Have you got enough snakes?”

  “We need thirty,” Gray Owl said, and he made the sign, opening and closing his hands three times, extending his fingers when hands were open. “We only have twenty. No, one less, now that the sidewinder is in the spirit world.”

  “I’m sorry I killed your snake,” Brad said.

  “You killed so you would not be killed. That is all a man can do.”

  “I am not as sick as I should be. You got much of the poison out, I think.”

  “The poison was not much. Only a little got into your body.”

  “I am grateful. Thank you.”

  “That sidewinder was not meant for the dance. It made a journey to you, and you killed it. You took its medicine and now you have it in you. The rattles will help you overcome your enemies. They are good medicine.”

  “I believe they just might be,” Brad said.

  Gray Owl got to his feet.

  “Believe,” he said in a solemn tone. “Believe and the gods will watch over you.”

  Brad said nothing, but he felt the weight of the Hopi’s words. A man could be what he wanted to be. Doubt was the enemy. He wondered if the Hopi boy, the doubter, would come to a bad end.

  He could hardly wait to hear the rest of Gray Owl’s story. He stood up and walked outside, breathing in the air, the scent of spruce and pine. Jays squabbled in the trees and chipmunks darted away from him, tails quivering, tiny squeakings issuing from their mouths. The snakes had stopped rattling, and the sun was rising still higher in the sky.

  He flexed the snakebit hand. It worked just fine, he thought, and his head was returning to normal. He walked back inside and picked up his holstered pistol, strapped it on.

  “I’m almost dressed,” he told Gray Owl, who was cutting up meat for stew. “I might have to buy a new hat is all.”

  “Let your hair grow long, Sidewinder,” Gray Owl said.

  “That is all the hat you need.”

  Gray Owl flicked his braids at Brad and grinned.

  SEVEN

  Felicity’s eyes narrowed to twin slits as she stared hard at the approaching rider.

  “Are you sure that’s not Brad?” she said to Julio. “That’s Brad’s roan, Ginger, sure as I’m looking at him. See that blaze on Ginger’s forehead?”
/>   “I see it,” Julio said. “It looks like the roan gelding.”

  “And it looks like Brad’s hat. He must be hurt. He looks so . . . so small.”

  “He is small,” Julio said. “That is not Brad. That is an indio.”

  In the clear mountain air, Felicity could see a long way, but it was difficult to judge distances. The rider was still almost a mile away, maybe half a mile, and when he turned his head, she could plainly see Brad’s grease- and sweat-mottled gray Stetson on the man’s head. But, was it Brad? Her heart was starting to plummet in her chest as the rider slowly came closer.

  She stood up in her stirrups and waved again.

  “Brad, Brad,” she shouted at the top of her voice. “Over here. Over here.”

  She waved and the rider raised an arm. Just raised it. The rider did not wave. Brad would have waved. He would have called to her. Her heart finished its plunge, and she could hear its rapid beating in her eardrum.

  “That is not Brad,” Julio said, and gripped the stock of his rifle as if to pull it from its boot.

  “No, Julio,” Felicity said, “don’t you dare shoot that man.”

  “I will not shoot,” he said, letting the rifle slide back a few inches. “I will be ready to shoot.”

  “Did you see him wave back at me?” she asked.

  “He raised his arm.”

  “Maybe he’s hurt.”

  Julio said nothing. He continued to stare at the rider, and he kept his hand on the stock of his rifle.

  Brad’s horse was picking its way along an ill-defined game trail that was rocky and treacherous. The gelding tossed its head every few steps, flaring its mane, its tail switching at deer flies, its steps careful and, to Felicity, painfully slow.

  “Brad,” she called again.

  The rider did not answer, and with her heart sinking even more into that netherworld of fear and anxiety, she knew the rider was not her husband.

  As Ginger came closer, Felicity saw the rider’s face. It was a dark face, and the sun glinted off polished leather the color of burgundy. High cheekbones, straight black hair, a deerskin tunic, elk-hide trousers. Moccasins in the stirrups. Beaded moccasins. A knife at his belt. There was also something tucked into his belt about belly button high, some kind of leather pouch, she thought. It had loops in it and a leather drawstring. She supposed it was a kind of possibles pouch carried inside his trousers. She had never seen a full-blood Indian this close before. He looked fearsome, and she was still not sure if he could be trusted.

  “His face is not painted,” Julio breathed in what sounded to Felicity like a sigh of relief.

  “No,” she said tightly.

  The Arapaho reined Ginger in some ten yards from where Felicity and Julio sat their horses.

  “Where is my husband?” Felicity asked.

  “You are the woman of Brad Storm?” Wading Crow asked.

  “I am his wife, yes.”

  “I catch his horse.”

  “I can see that. What have you done with my husband? With Brad?”

  “You come. You follow.”

  Wading Crow turned Ginger off the trail and headed for higher ground.

  “Where are you taking us?” Felicity demanded, spurring her horse to catch up with the Arapaho.

  “Take to Brad,” Wading Crow answered.

  Felicity looked over at Julio, who was trying to flank Wading Crow. He shrugged.

  “Is it far?” Felicity asked, an anxiousness in her voice that betrayed her doubts.

  “No far,” Wading Crow answered.

  She looked at Brad’s hat on Wading Crow’s head. It was battered and scuffed, and she thought she saw red stains on the underside of the brim. Blood, she thought. Brad’s blood.

  “Is . . . is my husband hurt?” she asked. She could see the Arapaho up close now. His expression was taciturn. Like the iron in the mountains, it was reddish and brown at the same time, an ancient mask that brought up stories she had heard as a girl about the savage behavior of the Indian. An involuntary shudder coursed through her, and she fought to keep her emotions from showing.

  Wading Crow did not answer right away, and Felicity resisted the urge to pound on her saddle horn with a balled-up fist.

  “Husband good,” he said. “Rattlesnake bite him. Gray Owl suck out poison.”

  “Are you Gray Owl?” she said.

  “Me Wading Crow.”

  She had the feeling that Wading Crow was deliberately talking to her as if he knew only a few words of English. She suspected he could talk better than he did.

  “Is that blood on Brad’s hat?” she asked, pointing to her own brim.

  “Blood yes. Rock fall on Brad. Break head.”

  “His head is broken?”

  “Little broke,” Wading Crow said in that same, exasperating laconic tone of voice. She wanted to shake him, make him open up and tell her everything that had happened to Brad.

  Wading Crow rode Brad’s horse zigzag up the steep slope, avoiding the rocky, unstable area where the landslide had occurred. There were deep fissures all along the slope, gouged out by the melting snows, the spring runoff, and recent rains. Wisely, he let Ginger pick his way, find his footing, only using the reins to turn him back away from the more treacherous footing.

  Clouds billowed out from behind the range to the north and west, great white thunderheads that blew slowly in their direction. Julio caught Felicity’s attention and pointed to them.

  “Va a llover,” he said. “Much rain soon.”

  “Oh, I do hope we get back home with Brad before that storm catches us up here. Do you know where he’s taking us?”

  Julio shook his head. His forehead wrinkled with worry as he kept glancing up at the clouds.

  They neared the top of the ridge, when Wading Crow held up his hand. He reined up and turned the horse to face Julio and Felicity.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked. “Are we close to where Brad is?”

  Wading Crow touched a finger to his lips. He dismounted and handed the reins to Julio.

  “Espérate aquí,” he said to Julio in a low voice.

  Felicity understood him.

  “Why does he want us to wait here?” she asked Julio. “What’s he going to do?”

  Again, Julio shrugged, his face a blank.

  Wading Crow reached into one of Brad’s saddlebags and pulled out a forked stick, less than a foot long. The stick, cut from a juniper limb, was thick, the two ends sharpened to a point. He crouched low and began to stalk something neither Julio or Felicity could see. They both looked at each other in puzzlement.

  Then they both heard the rattle a few yards ahead of Wading Crow. Both stiffened in their saddles. Felicity brought up her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a scream.

  Julio’s eyes widened. Felicity felt a shiver ripple up her spine. She had heard such rattles before, and she had a terrible fear of snakes. Brad had taught her to freeze and make no sudden movements.

  “If you don’t threaten a rattler, he’ll run off eventually. If you get too close, the snake will strike. If you do get bit, just walk away and be calm. Otherwise, you’ll speed up the poison.”

  She had never been bitten, but every time she heard a rattlesnake, she followed Brad’s advice and just froze stock-still. As he had said, the snake would stop rattling, and she would see it slither away. But the fear was there, deep inside her, and she wondered why the Indian was going after one with that forked stick.

  Wading Crow crouched even lower and moved so slowly it seemed to take him hours to make a single step. He paused after each step but moved ever closer. The rattling got louder the closer he got to the snake.

  Finally, he stopped and very slowly straightened up. He raised the forked stick even more slowly and just stood there, staring at the ground. Neither Julio or Felicity could see the snake. But they could hear it.

  Wading Crow inched closer to the spot where he focused his attention. One inch. Two. Then another. Then he drew in a breath and held it. His
arm came down so fast that it was a blur, and he drove the stick into the ground. Then he pounced and the rattling became more frantic. He drove a hand straight down into the grass, his left hand, and knelt down. When his hand reappeared, he was holding a timber rattler, less than a foot long. It was fat and squirmed in Wading Crow’s grip, lashing one way then another. He pulled the forked stick from the ground and began walking back to where Julio and Felicity were waiting, their hearts pounding like trip-hammers.

  Felicity recoiled when Wading Crow got close. She closed her eyes and swallowed a scream. The horses grew nervous and tried to bolt or skitter away from the sound of danger. Julio and Felicity both pulled hard on the reins, the bits cutting into the horses’ mouths and tongues, forcing their heads downward.

  Wading Crow put the stick back in the saddlebag, then pulled the leather pouch out of his belt and worked the opening larger. He held the sack beneath the snake and watched it. He was holding the rattler just behind its head. Its mouth was open, and the fangs dripped venom as it struggled to free itself.

  At the right moment, Wading Crow plunged the snake down into the bag and let the bag droop as he held onto the drawstring. The opening closed, and Wading Crow squeezed the top and pulled the drawstring tight.

  Felicity felt faint. Her heart pounded, and her temples throbbed with rushing blood.

  Julio’s hand shook as he handed the reins to Wading Crow.

  The bag shook with the snake’s thrashings. Wading Crow tied the drawstring into a tight knot, then put it in the saddlebag next to the forked stick.

  He mounted Brad’s horse as if he had just stopped at a spring for a drink of water.

  “We go,” he said, and headed up toward the timber.

  “What does he want with a snake?” Felicity asked Julio. “My god, what if it had gotten loose?”

  Julio shrugged.

  “Maybe he is going to eat it,” he said.

  Felicity shuddered again, then drew in a long breath.

  In the distance, she could hear a faint rumble of thunder.

  And the white clouds moved closer like a fleet of sailing ships. Behind them, more clouds, and their undersides were dark as if they had been dusted with charcoal.

 

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