The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  To a great walker like the Ear Taker no greater humiliation could be imagined—even though the chopping had occurred many grandmothers ago, and the warriors of the People now walked on two legs again, the Ear Taker decided to devote himself to avenging this old cruelty.

  At first he tried to avenge the atrocity precisely in kind, by sneaking up on sleeping traders or soldiers and chopping off one of their feet. It was easy enough, in Santa Fe, to find victims, most of whom had passed out from drunkenness; but the Ear Taker soon discovered that chopping off feet with an axe or a hatchet was not easy to do correctly. Twice he struck too high on the leg and his victims bled to death. Two others he managed to strike cleanly, so that at least two white men had to hobble through their lives as the old warriors had hobbled.

  In time, though, the Ear Taker thought of a better, more easily effected revenge: ears. All white men were vain; they fancied themselves lords of the earth—with an ear missing, a white man’s vanity could never be repaired. In the Ear Taker’s view, the loss of such a prominent feature as an ear would be a humiliation worse than death to many of the proud white traders.

  Once the choice was made, the Ear Taker began to build his reputation. He haunted the caravan routes into and out of Santa Fe to the east or the south, using his great stealth to slip up on unwary traders as they slept and quickly remove an ear—before the victims could even become fully awake, the Ear Taker was gone.

  He soon discovered that the first essential for such work was a knife that could be made as sharp as a razor; and by great good luck, he soon found such a knife. The Ear Taker joined with some Apaches to ambush a little bunch of soldiers bound for the City of Mexico. More than twenty Mexican soldiers were killed, including a captain who possessed a very fine knife. The Ear Taker kept the knife and spent many days sharpening it until the blade was so keen that he could cut flies in two in the air, or bees or other flying insects.

  The Apaches with the Ear Taker had, of course, mutilated the soldiers in the traditional ways, castrating them, poking out their eyes, disemboweling a few of them—but they had no interest in ears, which meant that the Ear Taker had twenty sets of ears to practice removing. And he did practice. Since ears were mostly gristle, it was possible to remove them— if one’s knife was sharp enough—while causing the victims little immediate pain. The pain, for the whites, would come when they awoke and discovered that they had received an injury that was conspicuous and permanent. A man with a leg cut off might get a wooden leg, but no one could get a wooden ear. A man’s humiliation would be there for all to see.

  By the time the Ear Taker had finished with the twenty corpses, his technique was perfect: with his left hand he grasped the ear, stretched it, and with his right hand, cut just at the juncture of ear and scalp. Soon he could perform the motions perfectly, in only a second—then he would be off, into the desert or the prairie, gone before his victims could even figure out why one side of their head was suddenly bloody.

  In two months, by stalking the caravans from the east, the Ear Taker had removed a dozen ears. Soon, horrified trekkers, white, black, or Mexican, began to arrive in Santa Fe lacking an ear. The governor and the military could not fail to take note. This singular but terrifying threat to a man’s appearance would soon begin to act as a brake on the Santa Fe trade. Traders from east or south had always had to contend with droughts, blizzards, or hostile Indians—but now they faced a new threat: an assailant whose pleasure was to cut off ears. This fiend, this Ear Taker, seemed to be able to succeed no matter how many guards were posted. In a few cases he had even taken ears from some undisciplined guards who had nodded off for a moment.

  To the military’s dismay, the Ear Taker had one huge advantage: no one had ever seen him, or had the slightest idea what he looked like. Barefoot, dressed like any other Indian, the Ear Taker could walk around the plaza in Santa Fe in perfect safety— a small man, dark, modest, friendly, never questioned or suspected by any of the soldiers whose ears he might eventually take. Except for old Prickly Pear Woman, none of his own people would ever have supposed that Takes Bones, a modest toolmaker exceptionally skilled at working bones, had become the dread Ear Taker.

  By the time the Ear Taker had wreaked his vengeance for a year, several once-proud traders had given up the trade and sought safety in the East. In Santa Fe the governor became even more alarmed—he even delegated a company of soldiers whose one duty was to hunt down the Ear Taker. The soldiers marched off, first east, then south—they caught no one, but while they were marching, the Ear Taker took three more ears. The soldiers got lost near the Cimarron River and almost starved—six were killed in a brief engagement with the Kiowa. The survivors came back to Santa Fe, having failed completely. How were they to find a man no one had ever seen? The governor then thought of trying to tempt the Ear Taker into committing a rash act. He had three condemned men taken a few miles out of town and left to wander—they were, of course, being watched closely from a distance. The condemned men were not bothered, but one of the soldiers who were supposed to be watching had his ear taken off while drunk. No one saw anything and there were no tracks to follow, but a few days later, a trader named Bates claimed to have seen the Ear Taker fleeing in the dawn, having just taken an ear from a sheepherder. Bates described the Ear Taker as unusually tall, though in fact he was a very short man, not even five feet in height.

  Though confident now of his skill, the Ear Taker knew that all the skill in the world could not prevent accident. Sooner or later, if he continued to take ears near Santa Fe, someone would see him. There were Apache trackers so skilled that they could track anything—one of them might be employed to track him. Old Prickly Pear Woman, whom he visited frequently, often cautioned him about the risks he was taking.

  “The spirits don’t like it when we learn to do things too good,” she reminded him. “They set traps—good traps—it’s to remind us that we are only people. You have taken enough of these ears around here—I think the spirits are getting ready to trick you. You better go somewhere else, if you want to keep taking people’s ears.”

  The Ear Taker knew she was right. Lately he had had the feeling that someone clever was watching him. Often he caught rabbits looking at him steadily, which was disconcerting. Sometimes he came quite close to the steady-looking rabbits, but they didn’t flee. They merely hopped a few steps and resumed their steady looking.

  The next day he spent several hours in the plaza, just walking around, chatting with a few people. No one bothered him, or even seemed to notice him, but when he left Santa Fe and walked out into the country, the first thing he saw was a big jackrabbit, watching him. The traders had no interest in him, nor the soldiers, but every rabbit he saw seemed to be looking at him. This was a worrisome thing.

  The next day the Ear Taker climbed to the top of a butte several miles from town. The butte was a holy place; men came there seeking visions. The Ear Taker waited all day but only near dusk did he see anything that might give him a clue about what the spirits might be planning. As the sun was sinking a great dust devil blew up, far to the north, the dust swirling high in the air. Then the sun struck the dust in such a way as to make a kind of dust rainbow, a thing the Ear Taker had never seen. The dust devil headed in a northerly direction and finally dissolved. The Ear Taker believed he had been given a sign, and what the sign suggested was that he go north. Perhaps if he went north, where there were also said to be careless whites—trappers, hunters, families traveling west—the spirits who were annoyed with him for being so good at cutting off ears would leave him in peace for a while.

  The minute the Ear Taker made his decision and started north, the rabbits began to run away from him again.

  The Ear Taker walked from moonrise to moonrise. At dawn he walked through a large prairie dog town and was pleased to note that there were no small owls to be seen, although owls often occupied the dens of prairie dogs. The presence of owls always indicated that death was near—the fact that he didn’t see a si
ngle owl gave him confidence that he had made the right decision.

  Two weeks of strong walking brought the Ear Taker into the Sioux country, near the Platte River. On his walk he had not seen a single soul, neither white man nor red man, but he knew that when he crossed the brown river and traveled along the Holy Road, he would soon find humans again. On his walk he had mostly eaten wild onions, plus one porcupine. When he came to the Platte River he was hoping to find some berry bushes, but just as he saw the curve of the river he also spotted two antelope. At once he lay down and made himself part of the ground, for the antelope were grazing right toward him. He had his light spear with him, whose poison should be fresh enough to kill. The antelope had no inkling of the Ear Taker’s presence, of that he was sure, and yet only a moment later they both raised their heads and at once took flight to the west. He had been flattened against the ground when the antelope ran—soon he began to pick up the vibrations made by a number of horses. As the Ear Taker watched, about twenty Indians came loping out of the south, their object being to capture three white men, two of them mounted on small horses, the third driving a wagon. The Ear Taker assumed that the three whites would either be killed on the spot or else carried off someplace where they would have to suffer the appropriate tortures. Instead, to his surprise, a parley took place— the young white man driving the wagon was obviously making a plea for mercy. The young warriors looked restless; they were clearly eager to hack up the whites, but an old chief, who rode a white horse, restrained them.

  Then two of the white men dismounted and pulled a huge red blanket of some kind out of the wagon; then they built a fire in a bucket and began to pump fire into the blanket, causing it to expand and take on a kind of round shape—it rose from the ground and hung like a red moon over the prairie. This sight startled the young Indians very much—it startled the Ear Taker too. A blanket had turned into a kind of moon, with a basket underneath it, which two of the white men climbed into. To the Ear Taker it all seemed like strange magic; but then, he reminded himself, he was in a new country and should have expected unusual things to happen.

  Then, immediately, something even more unusual took place. The young white man who had been conducting the parley with the Indians loosened some ropes and the big moon rose into the air, with the two white men sitting comfortably beneath it. Soon the two men were high above the river. The old Indian shot an arrow at them, but his arrow merely hit the basket and fell back. A breeze pushed the red moon west—soon the two men were well out of range of any arrow.

  It was all too much for the young warriors, who galloped away, leaving only the two old men and the young white man who had been driving the wagon.

  Seeing the two white men fly was by far the most astonishing piece of magic the Ear Taker had ever witnessed. The north country was clearly where the spirits disposed themselves differently than the spirits of the desert. After a bit the two older Indians rode away, not even bothering to kill the young white man, who caught the two horses and soon proceeded on west along the river in his wagon. The Ear Taker would have liked to discuss what he had just seen with old Prickly Pear Woman, but of course that was impossible—he would have to observe the peoples of this strange country a little longer and then draw his own conclusions.

  The sun was sinking—it would be night soon, and night was the Ear Taker’s element. It occurred to him that he could test the situation a bit by following the white boy letting him make camp and go to sleep, and then taking one of his ears. He got up from the ground and carefully followed the wagon, though keeping to his side of the river and watching the skies for any sign that the two flying men were returning. He also watched closely for any sign that the young white man had unusual powers—he did not want to allow himself to be tricked, on his first day in the north country. He remembered that he had been tricked, not long before in Santa Fe. He decided to take an ear from the famous white trader John Skraeling, known to Indians as the Twisted Hair. Skraeling was a very light sleeper, thus difficult to rob, as many thieves had discovered to their sorrow. Skraeling slept under his own wagon; the Ear Taker thought it would be a good test of his stealth, to sneak up and take one of Skraeling’s ears. The trader was a sick man, who coughed a lot; some of his helpers were just waiting for him to die, so they could divide up his goods, but none were quite bold enough to attempt to kill him.

  The Ear Taker chose a moonless night on which to make his attempt. He crept up on Skraeling’s wagon and listened carefully for the man’s breathing, which would tell him where the head was. It was then that the gods played their trick: Skraeling wasn’t breathing, though surely he had been when he crawled under the wagon. The Ear Taker crept closer, listening. Thirty yards away some trappers were drinking and carousing, making enough noise that the Ear Taker couldn’t hear the sleeping man’s light breath. Carefully he put his head under the wagon, but still he heard nothing. No living man could breathe that quietly, he thought— and then he realized the truth. Skraeling had crawled under the wagon and died of his own sickness; the Ear Taker had waited one day too long to make his attempt. Since he was there, he took an ear off the dead man anyway, but the mischievous spirits had managed to upset his plans.

  At dark the young white man stopped and made a hasty camp. It was clear to the Ear Taker that he was a clumsy boy—he had no skill in hobbling horses or making camp. No doubt his job was just to follow the fliers around and do chores for them when they came down.

  When dusk deepened, making it easy to move without being observed, the Ear Taker crossed the river, so he could observe the boy more closely. The young man seemed to be a very ordinary fellow. During the hour or more that the Ear Taker watched he became a little annoyed at the thought of old Prickly Pear Woman, who had managed to convince him that the spirits were likely to set traps for him. She liked to stir people up, getting them all worried about disasters that never happened. She told one old man, who had been her lover once, that he had offended the Toad people and would turn black as a result. The old man didn’t turn black, but he worried so much about the Toad people that he stumbled into a gully and broke his neck. That very incident had convinced the Ear Taker that it was not wise to believe everything old Prickly Pear Woman said. Probably she was just bored, and had merely been amusing herself when she told him the spirits might be laying a trap.

  Once he determined to go on and take one of the young white man’s ears, the Ear Taker carefully observed the usual cautions. He waited until the moon was behind a cloud before creeping into the camp. The boy was a loud snorer, making the position of his head easy to determine. Taking the ear took only a second. The young man jerked, but did not wake up. The Ear Taker left immediately, recrossing the river. He walked most of the night and then hid himself in some bushes and slept. The ear taking had gone well, and he felt relieved, but he still had no intention of being careless. After all, he was in new country, where there might be new rules.

  12

  Amboise felt safe where there were trees . . .

  AMBOISE D’AVIGDOR was a deep sleeper, particularly so after a day on which he might have died a terrible death. Since the Partezon, crudest of all Indians, had spared him, Amboise didn’t feel he had much to worry about. Of course, his bosses would be in a terrible fury when he caught up with them the next day; they would have expected him to follow their flight, make their fire, cook their dinner, and lay their beds. The dreadful threat posed by the Partezon had not impressed them; they were safe in their basket, applying themselves to the cognac and cheese. It was irritating, but that was just how his bosses were.

  Amboise himself was from the Chippewa country, his father a voyageur in the land of the mille lacs. Amboise felt safe where there were trees; he did not enjoy being alone on this vast prairie. He could handle a canoe better than a wagon, and he much preferred the company of trappers and river Indians to these two rude Europeans.

  Yawning, Amboise soon stretched out on a blanket between the wagon and the campfire—he at onc
e began to send his rasping snores out into the night. He slept deeply, cooled by the night breezes—for a moment he felt a sting like an insect bite but did not come fully awake. The sun was high before he opened his eyes and looked about him absently. Then he saw, to his surprise, that the grass near where he had just slept seemed to be red. Surely the grass hadn’t been red when he lay down, else he would have chosen a different spot. Then he noticed—what was more puzzling and also more annoying—that his shirt was red too. When he put up a finger to scratch his cheek, his finger came away red. These reddenings of grass, shirt, and finger were quite puzzling to Amboise. He walked off a little distance and relieved himself; time enough to figure out the source of this puzzling redness later. Only when he happened to notice a lot of green flies buzzing over the reddened grass did it occur to him that the redness might be blood. The two palfreys were quarrelsome beasts, always at odds with the sorrel gelding that pulled the wagon. Perhaps while he slept the horses had fought, bitten one another until the blood flowed. But the palfreys were grazing placidly, some distance away, and the gelding didn’t have a mark on him. Besides, his own cheek was bloody, which would be an unlikely result, if the horses had fought.

  As he stood by the river, perplexed by this odd circumstance, it struck Amboise with sudden force that the blood must be his own. At once he raised his hand to his cheek, and it came away bloody.