Paradise Sky

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “What about Indians?” Rutherford said.

  “You seen any Indians?” the lieutenant said.

  “No, sir,” said Rutherford.

  “Then there are no Indians,” the lieutenant said.

  “You ever seen any?” Rutherford asked the lieutenant.

  “Oh, hell, yeah. Been attacked by them, and I’ve attacked them. There’s every kind of Indian you can imagine out here from time to time. Kiowa. Apache. Comanche, a stray Kickapoo, and some kind of Indian always looks like he’s got dog shit smeared on his face or some such. And there isn’t a thing they’d like better than to have your prickly black scalps on their belts, cause they find your hair funny. They think it’s like the buffalo. They call you buffalo soldiers on account of it.”

  “I thought it was because we’re brave like buffalo,” I said.

  “No, that isn’t it,” he said. “It’s the hair.”

  “That’s kind of disappointing,” the Former House Nigger said.

  “You haven’t seen any action for any kind of Indian or anyone else to have an opinion of your bravery,” the lieutenant said. “None of us have seen an Indian in ages, and we haven’t seen sign of them, either. Not yesterday, not today. I’m starting to think they’ve all caught a boat to China, and I do suspicion them of Chinese heritage, but that’s just my thinking. Someday I want to write a treatise on it. But as for thinking they’re all gone, I’ve thought that before. Indians, especially the Apache and Comanche, they’re hard to get a handle on. They’ll get after something or someone like it matters more than anything in the world, then they’ll wander off if a bird flies over and they make an omen of it. They find omens in squirrel shit, they take a mind to.”

  Leaving us with those mixed thoughts on Indians, buffalo, and squirrel shit, the lieutenant, Tornado, and the rest of the men rode off, leaving us standing in the shade and me as the leader over a small band of men. I had never given an order in my life, so I didn’t know how to start.

  First thing we did when the lieutenant and his men was out of sight was throw off our boots and get in the creek. I had been carrying my army Spencer around with me, and I laid it up on the bank with the cavalry pistol. My other guns, Winchester and such, was with my bedroll, which I had fastened up and put near the remuda, near my mount, Satan.

  I finally decided to take off my clothes, get a bar of lye soap, and slip back down in the water and scrub myself with it until I didn’t smell like my horse. After I was clean as an eastern society lady on her way to church, me and the others, all of us about as carefree as tramps, dressed, went up, and got the wagon hitched to the mules. I left Prickly Pear and another soldier to guard the goods and horses. I had everyone else get in the back of the wagon except for Rice, who I put on a horse to serve as a kind of range rider alongside of us. We traveled wide of the grove of trees, around to where there was just a trickle of creek water and nothing but hot sunlight overhead. We crossed there and made our way to where there was a scattering of miserable-looking oaks, spaced out a few feet apart, with drying leaves. We set to sawing them down with a cross-cut, and then two men using axes took to trimming the limbs. When we finished, we loaded the wagon with the wood.

  As we was preparing to go back to camp, Rutherford said, “You know, I hear them Apache will cut off your eyelids and stake you out in the sun or split your pecker and put ants in it.”

  “I know there’s things like that have been done, but I don’t know we need to hear about them,” Rice said.

  Bill put a last chunk of oak in the back of the wagon and said, “Them Indians. Ain’t no use hating them for being what they is. Like hating a bush cause it’s got thorns on it. Hatin’ a snake for biting you. They is what they is, same as us.”

  “And what are we?” the Former House Nigger said.

  Before that question could be answered, Rice, who was in the wagon rearranging some wood, said, “I think we got a problem.”

  8

  It was a white man without any drawers, just wearing a red-and-white-striped shirt and a red neckerchief, and he was running down a little rise of dried grass, going fast as a jackrabbit, and in a moment we seen what had given him his inspiration.

  Behind him, whooping and having as good a time as kids at a birthday party, was Indians. Apache, to be right on the money, dressed in little to nothing but sunshine and headbands. Four of them was on horseback, six of them was on foot, and for a moment I thought that naked man, his johnson slapping about, was going to outrun them horses. Closer he got I saw that the stripes on his shirt was crawling and running together, and I realized it wasn’t no shirt at all but that his chest was all cut up and his throat was cut bad, too, but still he was up and running.

  Them Apaches was so interested in chasing him down they didn’t even see us. He had either escaped them or they had let him go to have a game, cause I guess living out there with nothing but mesquite berries and some bushes you had to find your fun where you could get it.

  The white man, though we was still a considerable distance away, had seen us by this time, and he started yelling at us and waving his hands as he run, flicking them left and right like birds taking flight.

  “They’re funning him,” Rice said, figuring same as me.

  It was then that I remembered we was soldiers. I climbed up in the wagon and pulled that government-issue Spencer out of it, got down, and took me a spot standing, prepared to fire at the Apache that was closing in on the white man.

  Rice said, “Hell, you can’t hit them from here, and neither can they bead in on you. We’re out of range, and I heard Indians ain’t good shots at all.”

  One of the running Apaches had spotted us, dropped to one knee, and pointed his rifle. When he did, Rice flung his arms wide, said, “Go on, shoot, you crooked-shooting heathen.”

  Rice was wrong about the distance and Apache marksmanship. That Indian had beaded him down good with what appeared to be a Henry rifle. Rice got it right on top of the nose and fell over with his arms spread and thumped against the ground on his back, dead.

  The Former House Nigger said, “I reckon they been practicing.”

  It was in that moment that I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t never wait on shooting at something if you’re going to shoot. Had I not hesitated my shot would have most likely covered the distance and stopped that Indian from firing.

  The Apaches that was on foot came down on that running white man then, and they was close enough now I knew I recognized that white fellow. He was none other than the one who had been the town drunk until he became a store owner and field wrangler. He was of course the same that had helped Ruggert kill my pa. It was Hubert. I couldn’t decide if I should shoot him or the Apache, and cause I was stunned by these developments, I didn’t shoot neither. The Apache took him to the ground, and we could see knives and rifle butts flying up in the air, coming down, and we could hear that poor bastard’s head and bones cracking like someone was crushing walnuts in his fists. We opened up on them with our weapons, and it sounded like whips snapping. I fired, and it was a good distance of a shot, but I was square on aim. My Apache target was dead before he hit the ground.

  One of the Apaches on horseback rode right at us. Someone in our group fired, and the horse took the shot. The Indian toppled to the ground, rolled, and came up on his feet, his horse having turned completely over on its back with its four legs in the air, like someone had upended a table.

  All the other Indians had scampered back behind the rise, and the riding Indians had dismounted and pulled their horses down to the ground, out of sight. But that one Apache, he didn’t go nowhere. You can say what you want about the Apache, but they are about the bravest thing that ever lived—outside of a drunk preacher who thinks God is on his side and when deep in his cups thinks he is God.

  This brave come running right at us, all of us having gone to our knees and firing away at him fast as we could. I had excellent training with guns, but my long-gun shooting was a mite off with that
Spencer, having done most of my education with a Winchester. I was used to firing rapidly and not reloading after each shot.

  I figure that Apache notioned he had some big medicine, cause not a one of our shots hit him. He run right through that hail of bullets in haint-like fashion. As he got closer, I could see he had some kind of muddy paint on his chest and face, or maybe he was just filthy. He had a big grin, too, like he knew he was beyond the powers of our hot lead. He even paused—and I swear if I’m lying I’m dying—then he started to prance sideways, first to the left, then to the right. Our bullet-bees hummed around him, but none of them landed for the sting. With that big grin still on his face, he stepped in a hole and went down. Even from where we were, we could hear his ankle snap like a yanked suspender. Without meaning to, every one of us troopers went “Ooh.” It was so nasty-sounding it made us hurt.

  That fall must have caused that Apache’s magic to fly right out of his ass, cause we all started firing at him again, and this time he collected all our bullets. He was deader than a government promise before the smoke cleared.

  The Apache didn’t move from their spot on the hill. I’m sure seeing their partner made into a cheese grater gave them pause, brave or not. We popped off a few shots in their direction, killing one of the horses, whose head had managed to poke over the skyline. But to the best of my knowledge we didn’t hit nary an Apache.

  We hustled up on that wagon and clattered it across that little creek. I crouched in the back, looking for Apache. Sure enough, they had come back down the hill, none of them with horses, having hidden them somewhere. There was more of them than before; it was like they had split into other Indians.

  Firing commenced from within the trees, and I knew Prickly Pear and the other soldier, who I think was called Dash—though the years have clouded my memory of him, as he was the silent type—heard the commotion and was shooting at the Indians, covering what we would later politely call a retreat.

  We come around behind the trees, banged the wagon down a little rise, and fetched up in there among the growth near the creek. Prickly Pear and this other fellow was spread wide of each other on their bellies, aiming their rifles across the creek, firing, reloading, firing. The Apaches was ducking into dips and draws we didn’t know was there until they disappeared into them like rabbits.

  I had the horses unhitched quick-like from the wagon and placed with the remuda, which was between the trees. I made a firing line there at the creek. I put Bill to the rear with a tree at his back and one near his front for protection. I told him to watch for creepers and to yell out if he seen any. As it was, I was hoping we just had a front attack to worry about. The hill was long enough they could go wide on us, but even with them being Apache and the land being a confusion of drop-offs and gullies, I took it in my head that it would be hard for them to flank us. This from an old Apache fighter of about fifteen minutes.

  I dug into my goods, got my Winchester, and strapped on that holster Mr. Loving had made with the LeMat in it. I stuck my Colt in another holster that slid toward my back, jammed the service pistol under the gun belt, then crouched over to the creek and dropped down on the ground flat as a leaf. There was a bush in front of me, and I hoped it might hide me. Someone among them Apache was a pretty good shot, having picked off Rice like that.

  I watched as the Apache come along on their bellies, a head rising now and then to check things out, and then ducking out of sight. They somehow managed to cut the pecker off the dead Apache’s horse without us being any wiser until they shoved it in Hubert’s mouth, then propped him to a sitting position with a stick or something. This was meant to scare us, and it worked.

  I was surprised Hubert had showed up, of course, but had suspected for a while that he and Ruggert and that big colored fellow I had seen was after me, but so much time had passed I thought they might have quit. Still, I figured they had come upon me by accident and might not even know they had found me. Maybe Ruggert and the colored man was lying dead and chopped up on the other side of the hill with a horse dick in their mouths. By the time it came to the Apache shoving one between your teeth, a stick of licorice, a cigar, or a horse dick was all pretty much the same to you.

  I was trying to consider if it was possible for us to make a quick mount and ride off, but I concluded that would be a bad idea. It would put us in a busy way as they rushed down upon us, for surely they would. It seemed wiser to hold our ground, as we had trees for protection from the sun and we had plenty of water, something they might not have. The water might have led them to us in the first place.

  It was then that Hubert reached up, partly pulled and partly spat that horse dick out of his mouth, and started moaning. He rolled off of what was propping him up, which turned out to be a hatchet, the blade of it stuck in his back. He went to crawling into some high grass and out of sight, but a couple of Apache came up on him then. They dragged him back and disappeared behind the grass, and we could hear screams.

  It went on and on, and I began to feel sorry for Hubert. I tried to picture Pa burned up and lying next to the hog, but it wasn’t enough. It was just awful hearing him caterwauling.

  Prickly Pear called out, “I can’t stand it no more. I’m gonna go get him.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Why you?” said the Former House Nigger, bellying over close to me.

  “Cause I’m in charge.”

  “I’m going with you,” he said.

  “Naw, you ain’t,” I said. “I get rubbed out, you’re the one next in charge. Lieutenant said so. You don’t want it to get down to Prickly Pear, do you?”

  “Oh, hell, no,” the Former House Nigger said.

  That crying out hadn’t ceased. It carried on and on. The sound of it was starting to make me sick to my stomach. It was like they was peeling his skin off an inch at a time, and for all I knew they was.

  I turned to the Former House Nigger.

  “When I get out there a ways, you and the others keep them busy as a hive of bees, but don’t send a blue-whistler up my ass. I’m going to see I can get to him, pull him out of there, or if I have to, finish him off.”

  “Hell, we can’t even see them,” the Former House Nigger said.

  “Then you got to shoot where you think they are, make them keep their heads down, or clip the top off one if it pokes up.”

  I laid the Winchester on the ground next to my Spencer, deciding it was too burdensome to crawl about with. I had the two pistols from Mr. Loving, which I was highly familiar with, so I laid the service pistol on the ground with the rifles. Pulling my big knife, I put it between my teeth.

  I waited a moment to listen and hope Hubert had quit crying out, but he hadn’t. He was still at it, louder than before. In that moment I couldn’t think of him as no one other than a poor man in a horrible situation.

  I slithered alongside the creek as the men put up a line of fire, and then slipped into the creek bed. I was able to stoop and stay hid because the bank was high on the Apache side. I hunched down and ran along that way until I made it to where there was a wide swath of grass and the creek bank broke open in a sandy V. The wind was moving the grass. I stuck my face in it and parted it just enough for a line of sight, hoping I wouldn’t be seen and that the movement would be mistaken for the breeze at work.

  There wasn’t anything to see but more grass. I bellied up in it like a snake and began to slide along, going quiet as the guest of honor at a funeral. Finally I come upon a drop-off, a gulley, actually, and by moving the grass slightly with my fingers, I could look down the length of it and see two Apache down there with the body of Hubert. He was good and dead, his throat slit, and them two Apache was trading out with the moans and cries and such, doing all they could not to laugh about it. The sneaky bastards; if that didn’t beat all. I was mighty impressed.

  It was then one of them seen me.

  They jumped up and come running at me, one with a knife, though he had a cap and ball pistol
stuck in a sash around his waist. The other was toting the hatchet he’d pulled from Hubert’s back.

  I didn’t have no other course than to pull the knife from my teeth and jump down in that gulley with them. I didn’t want to shoot a pistol and make noise and bring the whole batch of them down on me. The one carrying the knife lunged at me with it, and though I was able to avoid his strike, his body hit me like a cannonball, and away we went a’rolling.

  The other was almost on me with that hatchet. I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye as I struggled with the other, but that buck had made a mistake by raising his head above the gulley line. One of the troopers got off a shot that knocked his noggin apart. His hatchet went flying, and he went tumbling.

  Now it was just me and the one with the knife. I was trying to cut him, and he was trying to cut me. We was using our free hands to hold each other’s knife hand at the wrist. I managed to squeeze his wrist enough he let go of his knife, but he jerked his hand loose and went for the gun in his sash, got it pulled, fired at me point-blank. I was moving, though, so the shot only singed my hair and made my ears ring like a church bell.

  I got hold of his gun hand, partly covering the gun with my fingers, slipping one of them down on the hammer so he couldn’t pull the trigger. This didn’t work long. He yanked his hand free and stuck the gun in my face and squeezed the trigger again.

  The pistol misfired. He was so startled by its failure he let go of my wrist with the knife in it, and that’s what cooked his goose. I stabbed him in the chest, kicked him off of me, leaped on top of him before he could shoot again, and went to stabbing wildly. Finally I put the edge of the knife to his throat and pulled it across. He gave me a look of disappointment, like maybe he’d just discovered I had my finger up his ass. He gurgled blood out of his mouth and nose, kicked once like he was stepping down on a bug, and went still.

  Wasn’t nothing to be done for Hubert, so I put the knife away, pulled the Colt, and started crawling back to the creek the way I had come. The Apache saw me this time, as I had raised quite a ruckus in the gulley. Now I was making haste where before I had been trying to sneak. A bullet singed the butt of my trousers, but other than that I got back to the creek bed, and finally back to the soldiers, without any real wound.