by Jory Sherman
Now he paced the front room, watching the dawn break over the eastern horizon. He thought of Juanito out there somewhere asleep, or riding into the sunrise. He had trusted Juanito all these years, and now he hated him for what he had done. He probably should have just killed him so he would not have to think about him anymore. But that would have been too good for him. Let him suffer. Let him think about what he had lost and know that if he ever set foot on the Box B, he would be shot down like the dog that he was.
Martin heard a sound. He turned from the window and saw Caroline standing at the edge of the room. She was in a nightgown, and the two women were holding her up. She looked pale and thin, her face a ghastly shade of white. “Martin, what did you do?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked curtly.
“Consuela and Raquel said that Juanito rode away during the night. They said you made him go.”
“That’s damned right.”
“Why? Have you gone mad?”
“I saw the baby. It looks just like him.”
“Juanito?”
“Same skin color, same face, same hair.”
Caroline sagged and the two women had to prop her up. She started to walk toward Martin, but did not have the strength.
“You fool, Martin. Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve sent your best friend away, all for nothing.”
“You bitch. You slept with that bastard behind my back and you had his baby. What did you want me to do? Welcome him into the household?”
“Didn’t you ask him about it? Didn’t you listen to him?”
“He didn’t have a word to say,” Martin replied.
“No, he wouldn’t. It’s true that the baby was not yours. But it wasn’t Juanito’s either.”
Martin stared at Caroline in disbelief. “What are you saying?” he croaked.
“You were gone so much. I was so lonely. One day I made a big mistake. But not with Juanito.”
“Then who in hell was it?” Martin suddenly felt giddy, light-headed. “One of the Mexican hands?”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why Mickey Bone left in the middle of the night? Didn’t you ever think about him being here all the time you and Juanito were in New Orleans or out on the range? Didn’t you ever suspect that I might be lonely enough to ask Mickey to take me to bed? No, I suppose not. Well, it was Mickey Bone who fathered that poor dead child. Mickey Bone, damn you! Mickey Bone!”
Caroline collapsed in a faint and the two women grabbed her before she hit the floor. Her eyelids fluttered and her arms went limp. The two women quickly carried her away, back to the bedroom, leaving Martin standing there, his mouth open and his stomach all torn inside as if he had been stabbed a dozen times.
Martin swore and staggered to the window. He stared at the glowing ball of sun wrapped dark in haze. The eastern sky was all red, a broad smear of blood blazing like some hideous rash on the horizon.
“Red sky at morning,” Martin muttered. “Sailor take warning.” Then he began to weep softly and curse himself for what he had done.
And suddenly he grew cold inside and longed for the merciless sea, where he could be swallowed up, out of time, where he could roam the vast deeps on a close reach and hear only the wind in the rigging, instead of the beat of his heart.
48
ANSON BARON LOOKED over the assembled vaqueros. They sat in a circle around him, just inside the shade from the barn, their stoic, leathery faces impassive as wooden carvings. Most of them were older than he was. Some of them he had known for a long time, others he had just hired a few days before.
For the past year he had been riding with many of them, learning to handle cattle with the best of them, learning their language. He had managed to drive a few head of cattle to New Orleans and to bring in some money to keep the ranch going without his father, who was at sea, carrying freight along the coast, fishing for a livelihood.
He crossed his father’s path now and again, heard word of him in New Orleans, Galveston and Corpus Christi. But he had not seen his father in over a year, and his mother never asked after him, only cleaned the house and tended to the outside chores without complaint or comment, a shadow who sat silently at the supper table and scarcely touched her food.
“Friends,” Anson said in perfect Spanish, “we are going to build up the herds on the Box B and make some money.”
The vaqueros let out a huge cheer.
“It is going to be hard work, but I know you will help me.”
A chorus of sí’s.
“We are going to beat the brush in the brasada and drive the longhorns onto the fenced pastures with the good grass. We are going to breed these cattle with the Argentine bulls and the cows. Then we are going to drive these cattle to a market up north, where we will sell them for much money. Are you ready to go to work?”
“Sí, sí,” the vaqueros yelled and leaped to their feet.
For months the Mexicans had been digging wells, building fences, fighting off Comanches and Apaches. Many of them were like brothers to Anson. But they had not replenished the herds and the good stock was thinned down. Anson knew that there was now competition and that he must bring the biggest and fattest cattle to market if he was to survive.
The Mexicans crowded around Anson and he gave them orders. Some were to stay behind and see to the cattle on La Golondrina, the huge grassland that Anson had nurtured until it was lush and ripe for grazing. Some were to ride south with him to the brasada, where they would gather as many longhorns as they could and drive them back to the breeding pens. It was a vision Anson had sustained for months.
“We will leave in two hours,” Anson said. “We will drive ten head of our most docile domestic cows down there to tease the longhorns out of the brush. We will cut the nuts off every bull and make them tame as housecats before we drive them back. We’ll gather all the calves, yearlings and full grown, and brand every head we take out of the brush. Say good-bye to your wives and children and tell them you will be gone at least two months. I hope all of you men were stallions last night because it will be a long time before you dip your poles in those warm wells again.” The Mexicans laughed uneasily before Anson continued. “Bring your bedrolls and the hard biscuits, the beans. We will live like rabbits and hunt like wolves.”
The men scattered and Anson strode back to the house, the big empty house that still echoed with his father’s footsteps. He knew his mother would be churning in the kitchen that afternoon. He wanted to say good-bye.
“Mother,” Anson called when he entered the back door.
She looked up from the churn between her legs, but said nothing. She continued to work the butter, her hair swept back away from her face and tied at the back. Her apron dropped between her legs. Anson did not speak to her much. There was still something between them, although he had tried to put it out of his mind. He could not forget that she had let Mickey Bone into her bed, that she had been unfaithful to his father and had driven him away. Still, he loved her, but he no longer saw her in the same way. He did not understand this thing between man and woman yet, but he knew that his father had been hurt deep, like a man gored by a bull, and that his mother had somehow betrayed both father and son.
“I am leaving with some of the men. I will be gone for a couple of months. Carlos will be here and several of the women will look in on you. Consuela, Luisa, Carmen, and some others.”
“Where are you going?” She tried to make eye contact with her son, but he avoided her gaze as he had on every occasion since his father had left their home.
“To get some longhorns up to La Golondrina.”
“Oh, Anson, why?”
“We need to breed stock for market.” He still could not look his mother in the eye. He was afraid of what he might see there, afraid he would see that ugly thing that made her do what she had done. Afraid that he might see something forbidden and shameful.
“What market?”
“There are some new ones up north, I think. I met a man named C
harlie Goodnight a couple of months ago.”
“Who is this Charlie Goodnight? I never heard of him.” She continued to stare at her son, who would not look at her. Anson was aware of her eyes fixed on him, but he could not bring himself to look at her face unless she was looking away.
“He rode out here about two months ago, wanting to look at some land. I rode around with him, showed him the ranches we own. Ken Richman brought him over from Baronsville.”
Caroline stopped churning and brushed sweat-sogged hair off her forehead.
“Why, I haven’t seen Ken in months. When did he come here?”
“Mother,” Anson said, looking at the churn, but not at her, “I haven’t got time to explain everything to you. Ken just rode out here with Charlie one day and then he went back to town.”
“I haven’t been to town in a long time.”
“I’ve asked you, Mother. You never want to go.”
“I don’t know any of those people. They are all your father’s friends.”
“No, they’re not. He would hardly know any of them.”
“Still, I don’t feel comfortable in Baronsville. People stare, and there is so much talk.”
Anson bit his lip. He did not want to argue with his mother. She lived in a world of her own and he penetrated it only on the shallowest level. It was as if she had been frozen at a particular moment in time. Her mind did not go back into the past very far. Ever since that night when her baby had been born dead, she had been confused and subdued, the life gone out of her, a woman whose complexion had lost its bloom, whose eyes had dulled over, whose hair had started turning gray. Her parents had come to the ranch once and left without speaking to him at all. They had left with angry expressions on their faces and since then had not so much as written a letter to their daughter. She had not written them or anyone else. And she never asked about Anson’s father. But he knew that people did stare at her. He had heard some talk, but it died out when he drew near. It angered him that people spoke of his mother in derogatory terms, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help her, either.
“Well, I would like to have spoken with Ken. He’s a nice man and I like him.”
“He said to give you his best, Mother.” That was true. Ken was about the only one who asked how his mother was doing. Nobody else even mentioned her name.
“What about this Charlie Goodright?”
“Goodnight, Mother. He came here and I rode him around the Box B. Charlie’s plenty smart, was my impression, and he wants to make a good living in the cattle business.”
“What’s he poking around here for?”
“He just wanted to know how we were doing with our cattle.”
Caroline started churning again, cranking the stick in a circular motion, struggling against the thickening cream inside the small barrel.
“So is he going to build a ranch out here?”
“I don’t think so. He thought this country was about as bad as it gets, no more’n a yard from the gates of hell itself. But he said he would see me again sometime.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, no, Mother.” Anson was becoming irritated. He really didn’t want to talk to his mother about things she didn’t understand. It was as if she had lost part of her mind. Sometimes, he thought, she acted like a child or an idiot. “He told me I ought to build up my stock and be ready for some good markets up north. He said he was going to look into that for all of us. He said beef was going to be the king crop some day and he said I had a pretty good start on being one of the lucky ones to cash in on it.”
“Talk, Anson. Just talk.”
“Mother, I have to go, damn it. I just wanted to say good-bye and let you know that you’ll be looked after.”
“Why, I’m just fine, Anson. You shouldn’t swear, though. You’re still just a boy. Did you see the garden? It’s going to be the best one ever, with squash and pumpkin, string beans and corn and cabbage. I’m growing chamomile and pansies too, and violets and morning glories. And look at the milk the cows are giving.”
“Good-bye, Mother.” Anson glowered, but his mother did not see his face because he had already turned away. He didn’t want to insult her, but when she questioned him too closely, he felt as if she was invading his privacy. No, it was something more than that. Something impure, something he did not want to face because it was too horrible to imagine. He just felt that she was—was violating him in some way. He could not explain it, did not want to explain it—not to himself, nor to anyone else. She was so cloying at times, and made him feel as if he had done something wrong when he had done nothing at all.
Caroline did not look up as Anson swept past her to his room. A while later she heard the front door slam, but did not connect it with her son. She kept waiting for someone to come into the kitchen and talk to her. When she could no longer swirl the cream, she sighed and removed the churning stick and set the small barrel up on the counter.
She glanced out the window and saw the ashes of Juanito’s casita. Martin had burned it down the night Juanito had left, and she had always wondered why he would do such a thing. It had been a perfectly good house and someone might have wanted to live in it. The following day Martin had left and she had not seen him since. But she knew he had been angry at her. Now she could no longer remember what he had been mad about.
Caroline looked into the churn and thought of the small grave out in back between two box elders. A wooden marker bore the legend BABY BOY BONE. That was all. No date of birth, no date of death. Both the same, and etched eternally in her own mind.
“Whatever am I going to do with all this butter?” she asked no one, and then she looked out the window again at the burned remains of Juanito’s house. A tear flowed from one eye and ran down her cheek, leaving a lone track like a tiny scar.
49
DREAM SPEAKER OFFERED tobacco to the four directions, and then he lit the pipe and smoked, blowing the smoke to the four winds. He then handed the pipe to Bone, who sat opposite him on the mountain where the sun turned the stones to sepia and puddled shadows under the stones.
“So you have taken the Yaqui woman for your wife,” Dream Speaker said, “and you have given her a new name.”
“I call her Dawn,” Bone said.
“That is a good name. I can see that you gave it much thought.”
“I did, Dream Speaker.”
“You have new weapons as well.”
“Yes. They were given to me by a friend.”
“And the horse you traded for your wife.”
“Yes.”
“It would have been better if you had taken these things from an enemy.”
“I do not have an enemy,” Bone said. He blew the smoke from the pipe to the four winds and waited to hear what Dream Speaker had to say. He had brought gifts to the people in the mountains, gifts Matteo had given him, gifts of food and tobacco and knives, blankets.
“You will have enemies wherever you go,” Dream Speaker said. “You have enemies in the camp.”
“I did not know that.”
“Your gifts caused much jealousy. When you give things to the poor, you also give the gift of hate.”
“I meant to help them.”
“You are a stranger to them. They are suspicious of you. You have taken a Yaqui slave as your wife.”
“I do not understand them.”
“You will understand them when you understand yourself.”
“I am going away, Dream Speaker.” Bone handed the pipe back to the old man.
“Yes.”
“You know this?”
“I know that you had to pay something for the horse and the gifts.”
“Yes.”
“You must go down into the white man’s world again.”
“Yes. For a time. A season.”
“The season will stretch into many years, my son. If you can remember that you are a human being, maybe you will live through it.”
“I will remember.”
&nb
sp; “Do you know the story of the Deathless One and the wine?”
“No,” Bone said.
“Do you know why I offer tobacco and smoke to the four directions, to the four winds?”
“No, I do not. I remember my father told us some story, but I have forgotten it.”
“Ah, so you have forgotten one of the things you need to know. One of the things you must teach your son if you have such a one.”
“Yes, I have forgotten.”
“Feel the wind on your face, Counts His Bones. See how it flows from the four corners of the world. Listen to my story, which is a very old story and was not a dream story.”
“I listen,” Bone said.
“This is the story of the Deathless One and his wife. The Deathless One is the son of God and he has much power. One day he went out to cut the nopal while it was young and tender. When he was gone the Hot Wind saw his wife all alone and he swept her up in his warm arms and flew away with her. In those times there was only one wind and it was the Hot Wind.
“When the Deathless One returned he saw Hot Wind’s tracks and knew that Hot Wind had stolen his wife. So he went to see his grandmother, First Woman, and told her: ‘I have seen the tracks of Wind and I am going to follow his trail.’ First Woman told him to go and to be careful.
“So Deathless One followed the Wind’s tracks. He came upon some people who lived beyond the sunset and asked them if they had seen Wind pass by. The people told him they had seen Wind pass by and he was carrying a beautiful woman in his arms. They also told him another thing. They said: ‘Wind is a mighty pole and ring player. He has bested everyone here and has won all the people who waged themselves against him.’
“The people asked Deathless One to stay awhile so they could recount to him how good a pole and ring player Wind was. So he stayed and listened as they told him how they had lost to Wind. ‘If you let him play with the pole he carries, he will always beat you, and when he beats you he will take you with him and the other people he has won. He has won men, women and children.’
“So Deathless One asked them what he should do. They told him they would make him two poles for him to take with him, and a ring. ‘With these,’ they said, ‘you might be able to beat Wind and return our people to us and get back your wife.’ So they made very good poles for him and a good ring of a willow branch and Deathless One left and took up Wind’s trail where he had left off.
