The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  Maria rarely shared her thoughts with her sister, Josefina, a pure girl so small and dark that, so far, she had only attracted one suitor, Kit Carson, a wandering americano who had not been seen in Santa Fe for over a year. No one in Santa Fe liked having too many americanos around. The Bents had been allowed to build their trading post, but far off, on the Arkansas; that way the grandees of Santa Fe would not always be having to put up with a lot of smelly americanos at their dances and fiestas. Some among the older families looked with disapproval on the fact that Maria Jaramillo, one of their greatest beauties, should be wed to an americano, a newcomer. Maria herself had been of two minds at first, but, bored with the formalities of the capital, she finally said yes to Charles Bent.

  “I dreamed of Kit Carson last night,” Josefina confessed. “Maybe that means he’ll be coming back soon.”

  It was rare that Josefina voiced her shy hopes about Kit, since Maria would be sure to trample on them. She thought Josefina too young to have beaux. Josefina had never told her about her most exciting experience: several kisses, exchanged just before Kit went north with the trappers. They had also held hands, but holding hands did not feel as important as kissing. There had even been some whispery talk of marriage, which of course could not take place until Kit felt rich enough to support her. In her dream Kit had ridden into the post on a prancing horse. It seemed a good omen. When Maria wanted to tease Josefina she tried to make her believe that Kit had probably long since taken an Indian wife, as Willy Bent had done. Willy’s wife was a Cheyenne girl named Owl Woman, an independent girl who only rarely stayed at the post with Willy. Mostly Owl Woman preferred to wander with her people—if Willy Bent wanted to see her, he had to search for her on the plains, a fact that led to many quarrels between the brothers. Charles Bent was reluctant to let his little brother miss many days’ work—the fact that he wanted to go see his wife, Owl Woman, was not a sufficient excuse.

  Maria didn’t bother asking Josefina for details of her dream about Kit Carson. She had been watching the muleteers unload the big wagons with the goods they had brought from Saint Louis. Several large trunks were being unloaded—it was exciting.

  “Let’s go look in those trunks,” she said. There might be ivory combs, or silver-backed hairbrushes in those trunks. Maria wanted to look in them right away—it was far more exciting than listening to her little sister indulge in pretty daydreams about Kit Carson, an unprepossessing americano who had been gone for more than a year. Of course, some people considered her Charlie unprepossessing too—and he too made long trips. But at least when Charlie got back he brought wagons full of exciting goods.

  “If we see something we want, maybe Charlie will give it to us as a present,” Maria suggested.

  “He might give you a present, you mean,” Josefina corrected. Maria was the only person Charles Bent was ever generous with—he had never given Josefina so much as a thimble or a ribbon. Still, even if she didn’t get anything, it might be exciting to look. Josefina stubbed out her little cigar and followed her sister down the stairs.

  42

  He had spotted the dust cloud . . .

  “LET’S get in the gully quick, and hope those soldiers don’t have eyesight as good as yours,” Jim Snow told Kit.

  “Well, they wouldn’t have to—they could just have a spyglass,” Kit remarked. He had spotted the dust cloud in the east while he and Jim were trying to stalk an antelope. They were on horseback, about half a mile ahead of the company. Jim Bridger, afoot, was also hunting, a mile or two to the west. Jim Snow’s plan was to get the antelope in bow range, but if he failed, maybe the beast would go in Jim Bridger’s direction—Jim Bridger was the best rifle shot in the company; with any luck he would bring in meat, and meat was needed.

  The distant dust cloud, visible to the keen-eyed Kit, caused the immediate abandonment of the antelope hunt.

  “I bet it’s Mexican soldiers—just what I was afraid of,” Jim said. “It’s lucky we have this gully to hide in— I doubt they spotted us yet.”

  “Damn the luck—seems like every time I get close to Santa Fe, I get arrested,” Kit complained.

  “You ain’t arrested yet, and neither am I,” Jim pointed out. “I think we can skirt ’em if we’re sly.”

  “We can, but what about the rest?” Kit asked. “What about your wife?”

  “Oh, they’ll arrest the main party—we can’t stop that. Maybe Jimmy Bridger will skirt ’em too—he’s pretty quick on his feet.”

  “He’s not as quick as a soldier on horseback,” Kit objected. “I expect they’ll soon run him down.”

  He never enjoyed hearing Jim Bridger complimented.

  “You and I have to split up,” Jim Snow told Kit. “This gully runs southeast. Stay in it as long as it lasts, and then go lickety-split for the Bents’. You can probably be there tomorrow if you ride all night.”

  “I guess I’ll do it if I ain’t shot,” Kit agreed.

  “Stay low and lead your horse until you’re past the soldiers,” Jim instructed. “Go on. Find the Bents and tell them to send someone to Santa Fe who the Mexicans will listen to. Tasmin’s not going to like being in jail.”

  “I hope that dern Charlie Bent ain’t home,” Kit said. “I like Willy, but Charlie Bent is not an easy man to hurry. All that money he’s got has made him cranky. Last time I saw him he was full of sass.”

  “You can lecture me about Charlie some other time,” Jim said. “Skedaddle.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll just follow along and keep out of sight,” Jim said. “Tom and Pomp can talk to the Mexicans—maybe some Indians ran off some horses and they’re out looking for them. I imagine they’ll just lead the folks to Santa Fe and demand a ransom—that’s what usually happens.”

  “I hope Charlie Bent don’t sass me,” Kit repeated. He began to lead his horse along the rocky gully. When he looked back Jim Snow was gone.

  43

  . . . a serious disability . . .

  JIM SNOW had never been able to imitate bird-songs—a serious disability in the situation he found himself in. Pomp Charbonneau could reproduce almost flawlessly more than a dozen birdcalls, and Jim Bridger was almost as proficient. Pomp would hear a birdcall and mimic it immediately. Jim Bridger, a little jealous of Pomp’s ability, attributed it to the fact that Pomp was half Indian. Jim Snow had no opinion on that question. All he knew was that Pomp’s bird calling was so good it fooled the birds themselves.

  Now, with what seemed to be a patrol of Mexican soldiers proceeding across flat country, Jim knew he had to move quickly if he didn’t want to be arrested with the rest. For the moment he was safely concealed in the gully. His first problem was to get rid of the horse. Most of the soldiers would just be young Mexican boys, very unskilled in pursuit. Even on the flat prairie Jim felt confident that he could hide successfully, but he couldn’t conceal the horse. Pomp was standing with Tasmin, not far from the gully. It was morning—there was little wind. Jim tried the one birdcall he was good at, a quail call—then he repeated it three times. Jim’s imitation was so bad that Pomp immediately looked toward the gully.

  “Your husband’s trying to sound like a quail,” Pomp told Tasmin. He had just seen the dust cloud to the east—he too supposed it was soldiers. Pomp turned toward the gully—as soon as he did, Jim popped the horse on the rump, sending it over to Pomp, who at once caught it and mounted. He saw Jim Snow in the gully—Jim made a quick sign and then crept away.

  Tasmin was puzzled—where was Jimmy, and what was going on?

  “I think there’s a company of soldiers coming this way,” Pomp told her. “I suppose we’ll be arrested—it’s mostly just a formality. Jimmy probably thinks he can be more useful if he’s not arrested.”

  Tasmin just saw a dust cloud—if there were soldiers in it, she couldn’t yet see them. She looked around for Kit and didn’t see him, either. After promising her he wouldn’t run off, Kit had done exactly that.

  “Kit may have headed
for the Bents’,” Pomp said. “They’ll soon send someone to help us out with the authorities.”

  “But isn’t this America?” Tasmin asked. “Don’t we have a right to be here?”

  “It’s subject to interpretation,” Pomp told her. “No boundaries have been drawn yet. We think it’s America but they think it’s Mexico. There’s a contest going on.”

  � peculiar contest, if you ask me,” Tasmin said. “There’s nothing here to want. What are we being arrested for? We’re merely wandering.”

  “Spies—they think all Americans are spies,” Pomp explained. “The Mexicans think the Americans mean to drive them out and take their land. I suppose they’re right. The Americans probably will drive them out, eventually.”

  To Tasmin it seemed absurd. They were a hunting party, exhausted, scratched, sunburned—they had little to eat and were just stumbling along behind their one ox. What threat could they pose?

  Her father was talking with Tom Fitzpatrick, who found this new challenge annoying.

  “Damn it, we’d have been at the Bents’ in two more days,” the Broken Hand said. “They could have arranged matters for us.”

  “Oh, I suspect this will just come down to bribery,” Lord Berrybender said. “I suppose we’ll have to chivvy up—won’t mind so much if I can get a change of clothes.”

  “That’s right, we’re in rags and I’m hungry,” Tasmin remarked. “Will our captors feed us, at least?”

  “Frijoles, maybe. Beans,” Pomp told her.

  Tom Fitzpatrick, watching the riders approach, had stopped looking indignant. His look had become somber. Pomp too stiffened.

  “They ain’t soldiers—Jim and Kit made a mistake,” Tom said. “They ain’t soldiers—or am I wrong, Pomp?”

  Pomp studied the approaching riders with more care. A few of them seemed to be in military coats, and carried military muskets, with bayonets. The sun glinted off the bayonets, and off the brass buttons on the coats. But they were not riding in a military formation. He had supposed they were going to be faced with the inconvenience of a polite arrest. But now he wasn’t so sure.

  “But gentlemen, if they aren’t soldiers, who are they?” Lord Berrybender asked.

  “Renegades!” Zeke Williams suddenly announced, peering at the company with his hard, blue stare. “They’re slavers, I expect. I know that big fellow on the black mule. That’s Obregon.”

  “You know him?” Pomp asked, surprised.

  “It’s Obregon,” Zeke repeated. “He came trading for slaves when the Pawnees had me. Didn’t want me, though. Wanted women, when he could get them. Or boys, if he couldn’t get women.”

  Tasmin’s mild apprehension turned to a chill of fear. Here was the threat that all the women had talked about when they were still safe on the steamer Rocky Mount: abduction, rape, slavery. Even Jim Snow, in the first days of their acquaintance, had warned her about slavers. Now the frightening prospect, which they had once talked about in the safety of their staterooms, had become real.

  “I count fourteen of them,” Tom told Pomp.

  “That’s what I make it,” Pomp said. “We need the two Jimmys back—with them I think we could put up a good fight.”

  “I’m sure if they hear shooting they’ll come running—Jim Snow’s just back in the gully,” Tom said.

  “Maybe I should try to parley with them,” Pomp told the group.

  “No parleys!” old Zeke piped up. “Parleys don’t interest Obregon—not when he figures he has the advantage. He’s gonna see all these pretty women, and he’ll be thinking of all the money he could get for them down in Chihuahua.”

  Pomp considered the advice but felt inclined to disregard it.

  “I’ll be watchful,” he said. “It’d be best if all the women hunker down behind the wagon. We don’t want to whet Seftor Obregon’s appetite.”

  When Tasmin saw that Pomp meant to ride out and talk to the slavers, she walked over and grabbed his rein, a thing she would not have done had she not felt such deep apprehension.

  “Mr. Williams knows these men—why won’t you listen to him?” she asked. “They might just shoot you down and overrun us.”

  “Here, signor, hand me my fine Belgian gun,” Lord Berrybender said. ‘At least we have time to prepare for this fight—not like those impetuous Pawnees.”

  High Shoulders, alerted to the danger, came running to the wagon with his lance, ready for battle. Just as he arrived, Pomp saw Jim Bridger returning to camp at a casual pace. He carried a prairie chicken and a jackrabbit. Though Jim had clearly seen the advancing party he showed no particular concern—in fact, he was whistling, a practice he was much prone to.

  Jim Snow, too, was walking back toward the group. It had not taken him long to revise his first estimate of the situation.

  When he arrived Pomp dismounted.

  “That changes the odds, pretty considerably,” he said. “We’ll let them send someone to parley if they want to talk. Maybe Kit will come back, too.”

  “Nope, Kit’s bound for the Bents’—I sent him,” Jim Snow told Pomp. “If those fellows aren’t soldiers, who are they?”

  “Slavers, Zeke says,” Tom Fitzpatrick told him. “Ever hear of a fellow named Obregon?”

  Jim shook his head.

  Tasmin walked off—she wanted to be alone. Now that her husband was back she had lost her fear. Jim would see that they weren’t harmed—and yet she was shaking because it had been such a close thing with Pomp. If she hadn’t grabbed his rein she felt sure he would have loped off and been killed. In her mind she saw the bullet strike him, saw him fall off his horse and lie dead. And yet Pomp must have engaged in many such parleys—why was she so fearful on his behalf? He was a grown man, a famous guide, skilled, alert—she could not say why she harbored such a deep fear of his death. She still believed she would lose him if she didn’t watch him close. It wasn’t that he was weak— Pomp wasn’t weak—and yet neither was he hard, as Jim Snow was hard. Even her selfish old father was harder in some essential way. Was it that Pomp didn’t seem particularly interested in preserving himself? In the tent, after he was wounded, when she was trying so hard to keep him alive, she felt that he wouldn’t have minded dying then—he even seemed a little resentful that she wouldn’t let him. She had forced him to live, when his own inclination was for the shade. Pomp had grace, he had sweetness—yet the harsh plains they were crossing hardly rewarded either virtue. It was not for grace and sweetness that she looked to Jim Snow. Jim could be sweet, he could be amused—but by nature he was suspicious. Before he rode off to parley he would have made very sure of the field, the odds, his chances. When Jim left her, as he had several times, she didn’t worry about him in the way she worried about Pomp. Her mind made no pictures of Jim Snow lying dead. Jim might exasperate her; he often did. He might pester her into lovemaking when she was only half inclined; he did that too. But she didn’t worry about him and at times felt so distant from him that their union seemed very odd. Why had she married this man whom she didn’t know, except physically? She sometimes found herself forgetting him, even when he was around—but she never forgot Pomp.

  As usual Tasmin’s perplexity of spirit was missed by everyone but Mary.

  “So is our lot to be slavery?” Mary asked.

  “Of course not—both Jims came back—there’s now not much likelihood of an attack,” Tasmin said. “Won’t you just go away? Why must I always have to deal with you when I’m upset about something?”

  “Because I know what you’re upset about,” Mary said, although she abandoned her superior tone. “It’s Pomp—you’re too in love with him.”

  Tasmin didn’t answer.

  “I believe you’d make a great fool of yourself, if Pomp would cooperate,” Mary continued. “But I don’t think he will cooperate—he’s only a bit in love, not wild with it, like you, Tassie.”

  “Mary if there was a slaver here right now I’d sell you to him,” Tasmin said.

  “Of course—you don’t lik
e to hear the truth,” Mary said. “You don’t respect it, either. I expect you’d ruin us all, if it meant you could have Pomp.”

  Mary gave her a pat on the shoulder and went back to her Piet.

  44

  In the dark, with his thin knife . . .

  “IT’S those English people who were on the steamboat that got stuck in the ice,” Malgres explained to Obregon. “The old man is very rich.”

  Malgres thought that was the kind of news that might stir Obregon to action. The English party was only two hundred yards away—instead of charging, as Malgres had urged, Obregon had stopped the column. Now he sat on his large black mule, musing about what he wanted to do next.

  “I see some white women,” Obregon said. “But I see some trappers too—you know how those trappers fight.”

  Malgres had to admit that Obregon had a point. In the dark, with his thin knife, he thought he could kill any of the trappers—but it was not dark, and except for himself, the men with Obregon were just a ragtag bunch of renegades. The mountain men were formidable; if there was a battle, few of the renegades would survive. Obregon hadn’t survived as a slaver for twenty years by rashly pitting himself against well-armed and determined opposition. It was beginning to look as if there would be no battle.

  “I’m afraid of the Sin Killer,” Obregon admitted casually. He was prone to making frank admissions of that sort, admissions that did nothing to boost the morale of the bandits who were supposed to do the fighting.

  “If I were small, like you, I wouldn’t be such a good target,” Obregon said. “But I’m a very big target, and the Sin Killer is supposed to be good at shooting arrows. Since I’m the biggest target he might shoot some into me. I had two arrows stuck in me by the Sioux and I didn’t like it. I’m not a man who likes to be punctured.”