Zeke and Ned

by Larry McMurtry

  When they felt safe enough to stop, they looked back for their sister Linnie, and saw that she was still standing by the seeping spring.

  “What if the bogeyman gets Linnie?” Willie wondered. “He’ll take her to his cave, and eat her!”

  It occurred to Minnie that if the bogeyman did eat Linnie, her ma would probably let her keep all of Linnie’s things, including a rag doll that was better than Minnie’s own rag doll.

  “Go back and get her, Willie,” she suggested. “Hurry and get her before the bogeyman gets her.”

  “I ain’t going, he might get me,” Willie protested.

  Privately, he thought that if Linnie was not smart enough to run, it would serve her right to be taken to a cave and eaten by the bogeyman.

  “No, he won’t, he only eats little girls—Sully said so,” Minnie lied. The fact was, Willie had a slingshot and a stick horse she wanted—if the bogeyman ate Linnie and Willie, she might get the stick horse and the slingshot and the rag doll.

  “You go,” Willie ordered.

  Minnie just ignored him. She crawled under the porch to a secret hideout she had made for herself. From her hideout, she could watch everything that was happening in the meadow and by the barn.

  Willie ran inside the house. The more he thought about the big, hairy bogeyman, the closer he wanted to be to his ma.

  From her hideout, Minnie watched, hoping to see the giant bogeyman run out and grab Linnie, who was poking at the skunk’s remains with a stick.

  Minnie could not figure out why her sister would want to take a stick and poke at a dead skunk with it, particularly a dead skunk that was covered with green blowflies.

  Then, to her disappointment, she saw Linnie walking slowly back toward the house. Minnie waited breathlessly, hoping at any moment to see the big, hairy bogeyman run up and grab her sister. But alas, no bogeyman appeared.

  When Linnie was nearly to the barn, Minnie suddenly scrambled out of her hideout and raced into the house. She meant to get Linnie’s good rag doll and hide it in the smoke-house. That way, even if the bogeyman did not get her sister, Minnie could keep the rag doll hidden for a few days and play with it herself.

  23

  JUDGE ISAAC PARKER DISLIKED VARYING HIS HABITS. VARIATION WAS unwelcome at any time of day, but particularly unwelcome in the morning, when his pleasure was to take a leisurely stroll by the river on his way to work. In sunlight or cloud, the river was always interesting. He had been born and raised on the Ohio, and since childhood had never liked to live far from moving water.

  Once in his office, the Judge invariably took a small tumbler of whiskey, to limber his brain. Then he read a few lines of Milton, from a small volume of poetry he kept in a drawer with his six-shooter.

  After his brain was thoroughly limbered, he would prop his feet up and look out the window for twenty minutes or so, surveying the broad street to see if there were any miscreants in sight that needed arresting.

  The morning after the Judge returned to Fort Smith with Wilma Maples, he had scarcely got to his chambers, downed his whiskey, browsed through his Milton, and propped his feet, when disruption struck. The first thing he saw when he looked out the window was Emil, the telegraph operator, hurrying up the street at a speed he would have been hard put to match if a bear had been chasing him. In his hand was a telegram, and he was headed straight for the courthouse.

  Old Emil had delivered many telegrams to the courthouse, but always at his own pace—a pace which meant that he was apt to take anywhere between two hours and a half day to make the delivery.

  Now he was jerking along at a gait that resembled a trot, or else a man afflicted with St. Vitus’s Dance.

  “Uh-oh,” the Judge said to Chilly who had stepped in for a moment, to return a law book he had borrowed overnight.

  “Why, it’s Emil, what’s his hurry?” Chilly asked.

  “It’s that business in Tahlequah,” the Judge said. “I expect the big court’s heard about it . . . or maybe the President.”

  “What big court?” Chilly asked. He had heard about Washington, D.C., but had only a vague notion of what went on there. He knew the President lived there, but could not recall the Judge ever mentioning a big court.

  “The Supreme Court, Chilly!” the Judge said, impatient. “It’s the highest court in the land.”

  Though usually brisk in spirit, the Judge felt a sag hit him. It was depressing, in the first instance, to have a bailiff so inattentive that he had never heard of the Supreme Court. Second, it was even more depressing to see old Emil jigging along with a telegram clutched in his fist. A telegram so important that old Emil felt he had to deliver it at a trot was not likely to contain news that was peaceful. Judge Parker had endured much conflict in his life—the long agony of the Civil War, for one thing—and he was more and more appreciative of the peaceful life, a life that would allow him time to walk the shady banks of the Arkansas River, or even permit him a few minutes now and then to tip back his chair and sample the great poet Milton.

  The telegram that was on its way to him would more than likely confirm that which he already knew: substantial force would have to be used against the man or men who killed Marshal Dan Maples. The federal government did not ignore the wanton killing of its marshals, nor should it. And if it was proven likely that the killer of Dan Maples was a Cherokee, then nation would be pitted against nation—the small nation of the Cherokee Indians versus the large nation whose judicial representative was Judge Isaac Parker.

  “Reach out that window and have him hand you the telegram,” the Judge directed. “Emil don’t need to climb them courthouse steps.”

  Chilly complied, though to effect the transfer Emil had to strain to hand the telegram up high enough so that Chilly could reach it. Chilly immediately handed the telegram to the Judge, who saw that it was from none other than Ulysses S. Grant, the President of the United States.

  “You ought to have looked at that telegram before you handed it over,” the Judge said.

  “Why?” Chilly asked. “I figured you’d be in a hurry to read it, Judge.”

  “It’s from the President of the United States,” the Judge informed him. “It ain’t every day you stick your hand out a window and come up with a telegram from the President of the United States.”

  “My Lord,” Chilly blurted—for a moment, he felt so faint that he thought he might need to ask the Judge if he could sit down. He knew enough of politics to understand that General Grant had become President Grant, and as such was the highest officer in the land. That he had himself touched a piece of paper that contained the words of the President made him weak in the knees with awe.

  “What does it say, Judge?” Chilly inquired.

  The Judge looked at the telegram, which was succinct:

  THE HONOURABLE ISAAC PARKER

  FEDERAL COURTHOUSE

  FORT SMITH, ARKANSAS

  I HAVE REPORTS OF VIOLENCE IN THE CHEROKEE NATION. A COURT PROCEEDING WAS INTERRUPTED AND A FEDERAL MARSHAL MURDERED. THIS CANNOT BE TOLERATED. I INSTRUCT YOU TO SEND AN ADEQUATE FORCE INTO THE GOING SNAKE DISTRICT IMMEDIATELY TO ARREST ALL PARTICIPANTS IN THESE DASTARDLY DEEDS. I RECOMMEND TEN MARSHALS, WELL ARMED. SEE THAT THERE IS NO SHORTAGE OF HANG ROPES MADE AVAILABLE. THIS RASCALITY MUST BE DEALT WITH SHARPLY, ELSE IT WILL SPREAD. THE TREASURY WILL SEE ABOUT YOUR EXPENSES. YOURS,

  ULYSSES S. GRANT, PRESIDENT

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  The Judge reflected on the telegram before formulating an answer to his young bailiff. Though President Grant was known for his directness, he had not been overly direct about the aspect of the matter that concerned Judge Parker the most: that is, his expenses. Ten marshals would cost the court a handsome sum, and a sum not immediately available. It was all very well for the President to say that the Treasury would “see” about his expenses—but when would they see, and how much would they allocate?

  “I expect I’ll have to deputize Tailcoat Jones,” the Judge said.

  �
�Tailcoat Jones?” Chilly responded, in surprise. He had heard that Tailcoat Jones, a tall, grizzled fellow who had once ridden with Quantrill’s marauders up in Kansas, had done a little marshaling. But Judge Parker had refrained from employing him, at least during Chilly’s time with the court.

  “I heard Mr. Jones is mean,” Chilly added.

  “You heard right, then—he’s mean,” the Judge said. “He’s also expensive. But what’s my choice? Dan Maples was my best man, and he’s dead. I’d send Bass Reeves, but I’ve already sent him after the Starr brothers.”

  Judge Parker was referring to the famous black deputy marshal who had few rivals in his ability to catch and bring in desperadoes anywhere in the Territory.

  “Maybe Bass will catch the Starrs and get home quick,” Chilly opined.

  “I doubt it. The Starrs had too good a lead. Bass will catch them; Bass always catches them. But it won’t be quick enough for my purposes over in Tahlequah,” Judge Parker said.

  “Get a move on, Chilly,” the Judge added. “The President wants results, and he wants them quick. Do you know Beezle?”

  “Who?” Chilly asked.

  “Beezle. He’s Tailcoat’s man,” Judge Parker said.

  “I ain’t acquainted with him, Judge,” Chilly said.

  “You soon will be,” the Judge informed him. “I just saw him go in the saloon. He’s a short stump with red hair, and he wears his pistol with the handle pointed forward. Go stop him and tell him I need to see his captain.”

  Chilly was not eager to come within speaking distance of Tailcoat Jones, or his red-headed underling.

  “Tailcoat Jones prefers to lay up with whores. He has his whiskey brought to him,” the Judge added. “I expect he sent Beezle to fetch him some, which is why Beezle’s in the saloon. If you hurry, you might be able to catch the man in the street.”

  Something was nagging at Chilly’s mind. Despite his awe at having handled a telegram from the President of the United States, Chilly had remembered that he himself had a dislike of General Grant.

  “Wasn’t it President Grant that helped the Yankees beat us?” Chilly ventured. “I remember he was their best general.”

  “One of the best, yes,” the Judge conceded. “He had a fair hand in the outcome, but that war’s over, Chilly. General Grant is President now. You need to be letting all that war stuff drain out of your mind.”

  “What if it won’t drain?” Chilly said. “I knew there was something I didn’t like about the President. He helped the Yankees win the War.”

  The Judge sighed. Some days, it was hard to get the simplest request acted upon. Chilly, who should have been fifty yards down the street by then, was still standing in his office, upset about the Civil War.

  “Chilly, I asked you to go do an errand,” the Judge reminded him. “I have to see Tailcoat Jones, and I have to see him now. I ain’t got time to fight the Civil War all over again, just because you’re aggrieved.”

  Chilly saw the crease between Judge Isaac Parker’s eyes deepen. He knew it was time to get a move on.

  “I’m going, Judge, right this minute—didn’t you say his man was red-headed?” Chilly asked, as he went out the door.

  24

  NED RODE MOST OF THE NIGHT GETTING HOME.

  All night, riding homeward, Jewel was the only thing on his mind. He wanted to slip in the door and slide under the covers with Jewel before she got out of bed. He could imagine how warm her body would feel, and how soft her skin. Her breath on his lips would be sweet, when he kissed her to let her know he was home.

  That plan was spoiled, although Ned rode in well before dawn and quietly put his horse in the barn. Even before he got in the door, he heard coughing—it did not sound like Jewel’s coughing, or Liza’s, either.

  When he stepped in the house, Jewel looked at him with worried eyes. He only caught a glimpse of a smile, in the light of the lantern. She was bending over Zeke Proctor, who lay on a pallet by the fireplace, coughing hard, clearly sick. Jewel was putting a mustard plaster against her father’s chest.

  “Hello, Zeke . . . I guess you’re poorly,” Ned remarked. “At least you got a pretty nurse.”

  Jewel raised up, hugged Ned, and let him kiss her. Then she made him feel her father’s forehead.

  “Zeke, you’re hot with fever,” Ned said, concern in his voice. “You sound kind of wet in your lungs, too. Where have you been to get so poorly?”

  “On the scout,” Zeke said, his voice weak. “I stayed too long in that dern drippy cave. If it ain’t the pneumonia, I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “I’ll make you coffee, Ned,” Jewel said. She went off to the stove to heat the water, leaving Ned by her father’s side.

  “It scares me when you ride at night,” she whispered a little later, when Ned came over to get his coffee. He felt her belly, to see how much the baby had grown.

  “I meant to get here in time to slip in with you,” Ned whispered back. “I didn’t know Zeke was visiting.”

  Jewel smiled when he said it. Earlier in the night, she had a dream in which Ned came home and slipped in with her. In the dream, she rolled over, and there he was, warm beside her. Then her father’s coughing woke her, just when the dream was sweetest.

  “What’s the news from town, Ned?” Zeke asked, in a weak voice.

  “Bad news,” Ned admitted. “Marshal Dan Maples got murdered— another marshal, too. They say Dan Maples killed the first marshal himself in an argument, but the white law may not believe that. All they’ll believe is that two marshals are dead in an Indian town.”

  He came and squatted by Zeke for a moment, to take a closer look at him. Zeke’s chest was heaving with every breath—he was struggling mightily to get air in his lungs. Then, when he did manage to get a breath, he coughed, a cough from so deep inside him that it seemed to come out of his bowels. Ned had scarcely been home five minutes, yet Zeke already appeared sicker than he had seemed when Ned walked in. It was a worrisome situation, made more so by the knowledge that both of them might need to be seriously on the scout within a day or two.

  “Who kilt him, the Becks?” Zeke asked.

  “I don’t know who killed him,” Ned replied. “I went to your place looking for you. Sully claims the Becks were in town the day the marshal was killed, but I never saw them.”

  “Who’s the suspect, then?” Zeke asked.

  “Why, me, I guess, Zeke,” Ned said, with a quick glance at Jewel.

  He knew his wife would be horrified by that revelation, but she was going to have to hear it sooner or later.

  “Ned . . . you should have come right back home!” Jewel said.

  Ned started to mention the fire in the Senate building, but decided against it. He had already been married to Jewel long enough to know that the more information he gave her, the more she would find to pick about.

  “That’s bad,” Zeke said. “Whoa . . . that’s real bad. They won’t chase you too hard for killing a Beck or a Squirrel, but they’ll chase you to hell and back for killing a lawman.”

  “I expect so,” Ned said quietly.

  “Did you see the marshal?” Zeke asked. It occurred to him that maybe Ned had killed the man, but did not want to alarm Jewel by confessing.

  “I never saw the man,” Ned assured him, glancing at his wife again when he said it. “I did see his horse, though, tied down by the jail-house.”

  “Well, that’s no crime,” Zeke said. Then before he could reflect on the matter further, he fell into a light sleep.

  “Let’s go upstairs while he’s resting,” Ned whispered to Jewel. “It’ll be sunup pretty soon.”

  Now that he had Jewel close where he could touch her, he had a fever in him to equal Zeke’s—only it was a different fever.

  “I’ll make Liza come down and watch Pa,” Jewel said. “She needs to change those mustard plasters every hour.”

  Despite the sweet dream of a few hours earlier, Jewel could not stop being uneasy when she and Ned were under the co
vers. Outside it was pearly grey, mist hiding the treetops. The sun would be up soon, boring holes in the mist; but it was not the coming daylight that kept Jewel uneasy, even as she was in her husband’s embrace. Fear had slipped up the stairs with them and gotten in between her and Ned. The fear made a coldness in her that would not leave, no matter how close her husband held her, or how hard she strained against him.

  Jewel began to cry a little—she could not help herself. She wanted everything to be right for Ned, but the fear would not leave. Then Liza came back up the stairs, half asleep, and asked Jewel something about the mustard plasters. Ned was irritated. He thought Liza ought to have better manners than to interrupt them at such a time, although by then they were simply resting together in the quilts.

  Then the sun bored through the mists, and they could hear Zeke coughing, from below.

  “What if Pa’s bad?” Jewel asked.

  “I might have to find Old Turtle Man,” Ned said. “He ain’t so bad but what the healer can cure him. He cured Tuxie, and Tuxie was so far gone I even started digging his grave—remember?”

  Jewel looked at him with a flash of anger when he said it. Ned remembered a fact he had come to appreciate: women never stopped being mad about things they were really mad about. Every time the subject of Tuxie and the half-dug grave came up, Jewel gave him a hot look.

  Jewel got up then, and went downstairs to help Liza with the mustard plasters. Ned barely had time to yawn and turn over before she was back, a scared look on her face.

  “Pa’s real bad,” she said.

  Ned hurried downstairs. When he got a good look at Zeke, he realized immediately that Jewel had not been exaggerating. Zeke’s eyes scarcely focused, and he had been seized by a deep chill. Ned built up the fire, and the girls piled blankets on their father, but Zeke still trembled with chill.

  Ned accepted some coffee from Jewel, but he felt discouraged. Just when he needed Zeke’s advice, the man had gotten too sick to give it. He had assumed, as he rode home, that the law would be the enemy he and Zeke would have to run from. But now, Zeke had been brought down by a more immediate enemy, an illness so severe that it looked as if it might kill him.