One arm forward and then the next, swimming with the current as his heart skipped unsteadily in his chest. No feeling in his hands or feet.
Will not die.
If they aren’t there. If they moved the tent. Then I will.
No. It will be there. I am forcing the tent to be there, Winter thought as he swam, his breath moving through the ice around his mouth. It is there.
The muscles in his legs spasmed but there it was, the big tree, leaning out over the water. It was difficult to steer against the current but he tried to lift his arms out of the water to catch hold of a branch. They betrayed him, stiff and numb, and the current swept him past.
Winter flailed like a madman and turned toward the riverbank. His nerveless feet banged against the rocky bottom of the riverbed and then he was floundering to the shore, the water only to his waist and the wind scalding his upper body.
“Oh God!” he screamed. “Oh Jesus! Ah God.”
Now he was in the woods, the snow and ice cutting his bare feet, his arms wrapped around his chest to keep some warmth in him. He stumbled and for a moment he was sure the tent was not there, he looked at the place where it was supposed to be, and it was just not there, but he kept moving forward like an automaton, and eventually he smelled the smoke and saw that the tent was only camouflaged by a layer of snow.
There was no time to find the entrance. Winter dropped to his hands and knees and crawled under the canvas and came up into the oppressive heat and stink. The contrast went to his head and he almost blacked out.
“Help me,” he said in the language of the Cherokee. “Help me.”
Joseph Bird was lying with his old wife at one end of the tent while his children slept at the other. All of them woke up and looked at Winter.
“The fire,” Winter said, clenching his teeth so they didn’t chatter, stumbling closer toward the fire on his dead hands and his knees. “Build up the fire. Come close to me.”
“Winter?” Bird asked. “What has happened?”
“Come close to me,” Winter said to Bird’s wife. “Get close to me, or I’ll die.”
She was draping a blanket over him. Winter impatiently threw it away.
“Get down here you stupid hag,” Winter said. “Blankets will only keep the fire away.”
“Lie with him,” Bird said. “Do as he says. Gray, get more wood for the fire.”
The old woman leaned down reluctantly. Winter caught her wrist and pulled her to him.
“Ay ay ay! He’s too cold!”
“Shut up,” Winter said. He clutched her tight as if he would suck the heat right out of her in his overwhelming desire to live.
One of the boys threw more wood on the fire and it leapt up higher. A young girl lay down behind Winter and rubbed his extremities. He was shaking now, convulsing uncontrollably, but his golden eyes were fixed on the flames and never wavered, never weakened. He was going to live.
“They killed them, Bird,” Winter said.
“They killed who?”
“All of them. All of the people.”
“Who killed them?”
Winter shook and as the feeling came back into one of his hands he screamed.
“Who killed them?”
“Men looking for me. They killed them all.”
Bird’s wife began to weep.
“My sister,” she wailed.
Bird stood naked next to the fire, fat and calm and almost hairless.
“All of them?”
“They were looking for me.”
“Then why did they kill all of them?”
All of a sudden Winter felt very sick, and he threw up. The old woman he was holding in his arms cried out and struggled free. It felt as if the tent were spinning, the ground rising and falling, everything changing place. Winter dug his fingers into the ground and stared into the fire.
“For justice.”
The heat was beating into Winter in waves. I won’t die, he thought, but everything was moving around so much, and the pain was so overwhelming, he couldn’t stay awake.
86
O’Shea and the other men on horseback rode ahead. Those left behind were mostly hands or the sons of farmers, all charged with the thrill at having fought and lived. They were laughing and talking and passing a bottle back and forth. They knew that Winter had gone naked into the river and they were sure he must be dead.
The sun rose behind them in the east, lighting up the snow, making everything glow.
The party kept losing men to the farms as they made their way to the town. Hearty farewells, waving. Toasts. Bill smiled but did not wave or speak. Just smiled.
The town O’Shea had built with his money was laid out neatly. One road ran straight north and south while the other ran from the west to east and ended a few miles outside of town in token deference to the sovereignty of the Indians. To the north lay a tall dark forest of pines, running next to the road for miles.
The buildings were all so new they smelled of sap. The bank, the general store, the law office. Churches, Methodist and Catholic. Bill lived on the west side of town, just south of the Methodist church.
A few years ago, when O’Shea had arrived with his troop of followers and his sacks of carpetbagger money, before the land runs had even officially begun, there had been nothing here. It was worth remembering. Men like O’Shea made something out of nothing, the same way that men like Winter turned something back into nothing at all. Whatever you thought of O’Shea, his way had to be better in the long run. But the contest between him and men like Winter was, to Bill’s mind, still very much in doubt. Maybe it always would be.
Bill opened the door to his little house and then closed it behind him. He hung up his rifle and his knife, pulled his boots off with the jack, and then sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed his eyes. It was very close inside, but scrupulously clean. The windows were small and cloudy, so they only just let the light through. No decoration except for the plain cross over the woodstove. The tub sat in the middle of the kitchen.
Bill wanted to take a bath, but he was far too tired. Instead he went into the bedroom and lay down and slept. After he woke up, he began heating water over the stove for the bath when the knock came at the front door.
Outside O’Shea stood with his hat in his hand. Bill saw that it was snowing and said, “Jesus, don’t it ever take a break.”
“Hello, Bill,” O’Shea said.
“Hello, Mister O’Shea.”
“Come take a walk with me.”
“All right.”
Bill found his coat and followed O’Shea.
“I’ve got some boys checking the river,” O’Shea said.
“That’s good.”
“They haven’t found anything yet.”
“Hmm.”
“They did come across a hunting camp. Looks like some Indians stayed there the night before. They were gone, though. Snow covered the tracks.”
The two of them walked across the muddy road toward the Methodist church. It was a good deal smaller than the Catholic one to the south, but well built. Solid.
“You ever seen a winter like this in Oklahoma?” Bill asked.
O’Shea shook his head.
“I don’t suppose you think it means anything.”
“Superstition brings bad luck,” O’Shea said. “Don’t you think Winter’s got to be dead?”
Bill shrugged.
“How could he possibly survive getting shot and swimming in a freezing river?”
“I knew a man once that got knocked out by his brother. He woke up and laughed about it. That night he died in his sleep. His brother was near inconsolable. On the other hand I knew a man that had a piece of his head shot off. I mean it. Clean shot off. There was a trench in the man’s head. He was fine. Only worried about how it looked. Wouldn’t take off his hat indoors. Could Winter have lived? I ain’t saying it’s likely. He wouldn’t have had much time after he hit the water. But if there was a camp somewhere along the river, he could h
ave made it that far. If he got to a fire he could still be alive.”
O’Shea rubbed his mustache with a thick index finger.
“There were a lot of times Augustus Winter ought to have died,” Bill continued.
“The cavalry let us down,” O’Shea said abruptly. “They were supposed to cut off the retreat. They just went in for the kill as soon as they heard the first shot, like they were worried there wouldn’t be any left for them. I don’t know what I was paying them for.”
“Well, I guess they’ll make sure the investigation doesn’t work its way over to us.”
“There’s that, isn’t there?”
Bill smiled apologetically.
“You don’t think we should have gone after him,” O’Shea said.
“Well,” Bill said. “He wasn’t hurting anyone anymore.”
“Don’t you think he should be brought to justice? For what he did to this town two years ago, if nothing else?”
Bill had the sense not to say that plenty of people ought to be brought to justice for what happened two years ago. Instead he said, “Well, yeah, in a perfect world. I just don’t know that it was worth it. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it. But just because he deserved it doesn’t mean we had to go out there and do it to him.”
“That’s where you and I differ.”
“I guess.” And then, because Bill couldn’t help himself: “And a whole bunch of land has opened up, on account of its previous occupants having died.”
“Those weren’t even proper Indians,” O’Shea said. “You know that most of the Cherokee around here live on farms like civilized people. The Indians Winter was hiding with were nothing but trash.”
Bill was getting cold. He thought of the water on his stove for the bath.
“If he lived,” O’Shea said. “Then what?”
“If he’s alive he’s going to get the gang back together,” Bill said.
“Do you know where they are?” O’Shea asked.
“Well,” Bill said. “Quentin Ross is in federal custody.”
“The others?” O’Shea asked.
Bill watched his breath freeze in front of his face. He finally said, “I’ve got a line on Johnson.”
“The Negro?”
“I might be able to talk to him,” Bill said.
“And if you can’t?” O’Shea asked.
“Don’t worry, Mister O’Shea,” Bill said. “I’ll always do what I’ve got to do. What about Quentin? If Winter’s alive, he’s going to try to spring him.”
“What are we supposed to do, Bill? Tell the army that an angry gang is going to try to free Quentin, because we shot up a few dozen Indians? Illegally?” O’Shea regarded Bill coldly. “You should think carefully about our position here. I mean yours and mine. Both of us stand to lose if any of those lunatics start talking about the past.”
“Everyone already knows about me,” Bill said.
O’Shea took this the wrong way.
“And you think you will just keep living in this town if I’m not here to protect you?” he shouted.
“Mister O’Shea, that’s not what I mean. I know how much I owe you.”
“Well, don’t you forget it,” O’Shea said. “I’m beginning to think it was a mistake not to simply bring in the Pinkertons. They handled the James-Younger Gang. Hell, this fellow Shakespeare seems to have killed most of the Winter Family by himself. But you’re still a wanted man, and we both know what Shakespeare would do to you if he found you. I trusted that you could handle this!”
“I know, sir,” Bill said. “No one is sorrier about this than me.”
O’Shea mastered his emotions.
“People remember what Augustus Winter did two years ago. If they think he’s coming back it would destroy this town. I won’t let that happen. I’ve done too much. I’ve put too much of myself into this place to run from him. I won’t let him win.”
“All right, sir,” Bill said.
“Take whatever you need. Men, horses, guns.”
“Yes sir,” Bill said. “I will.”
“He’s just a man,” O’Shea said. “That’s all he is.”
“Yeah,” Bill said. “That’s it.”
87
In southeast Colorado the snow was like an untamed thing. It seemed to fall sideways and it was harder, like ice. The town was small but its lights were blazing against the pitch and starless night. Bustling with miners and peddlers and gamblers and whores and thieves and preachers.
Winter’s horse was breathing hard from plowing through the deep snow. Its thighs were covered with foam and its flanks were falling in and pressing out shallow and hard. Possibly it would die. Winter himself did not look much better. He was still bundled in the Indian robes but now they were stained with dirt and ice.
The main street was frozen mud chopped up with hoofprints. Winter led his horse up to the boardwalk in front of the inn and dismounted. The animal stood miserably in the wind. Eventually it knelt down. Winter put his shoulder to the door and pushed it open.
Inside it was uncomfortably warm. An old man, dusty and disheveled, stood behind the counter. A few men were drinking and playing cards around a table. They were carrying guns and they didn’t look drunk.
Winter walked up to the counter, his moccasins making no noise on the floorboards.
“Evening,” the clerk said.
“I’m looking for two big fellas,” Winter said. “Brothers.”
“You mean the Empire brothers? You’re a bounty hunter, you need to get in line.”
“Yeah?”
The clerk motioned to the men drinking not ten yards away. Winter didn’t look over at them. “A whole posse come up from Texas.”
“Just waiting for them to get drunk, then, are they?”
The clerk looked at Winter, really looked at him. Winter was wearing a hat so the clerk couldn’t see his hair, but now he took in his eyes.
“You ain’t no bounty hunter,” the clerk said.
“Keep your fucking voice down. And don’t you look over there.”
The clerk’s eyes got wider and began to shimmer with tears.
“Mister Winter, I got a family.”
“Fuck your family, needle-dick.”
Winter never changed his tone of voice.
“Where are they at?” Winter asked.
“Whorehouse.”
“Where?”
“Out the door. To your right. Three doors down. Red lamp in the window.”
“Do I have to tell you what I’m gonna do if you make so much as a fucking peep?”
“No sir. No you don’t.”
“Now give me a room key,” Winter said. “It don’t matter which one. You got a back door, don’t you?”
“Yes sir. We do. It’s right on through the kitchen.”
“Give me the key then.”
The clerk turned to get the key and Winter glanced over at the bounty hunters around the table. One of them, a Mexican, lean as a whip, was watching. Winter looked down.
The clerk handed over the key with shaking hands. Winter took it and walked to the stairs at the back of the room. The men sitting at the table glanced up at him but turned back to their cards. Except for the Mexican, who eyed him steadily.
The foot of the stairs was right next to the door to the kitchen. Winter jogged up the stairs, making a fair bit of noise, carefully noting which steps creaked and which didn’t. He looked at the number on his key and used it to unlock the door to his room and went inside.
Almost immediately he came back out and quickly and silently made his way down the stairs. The Mexican was talking to the clerk. The other men were watching them speak. No one noticed as Winter slipped through the door to the kitchen. He walked past an old woman frying tortillas and then went out the back door into the snow and the dark.
There was not much time. Winter jogged back to the main street and made his way past drunks swaying like sailors in a storm. A man was waiting outside the whorehouse. One of the bount
y hunters.
“Maybe you want to move along, friend,” the bounty hunter said. “There’s another cathouse just round the way.”
“There’s going to be some trouble, huh?” Winter said.
“That’s right.”
“You mind if I get my friends out then?”
“Who are your friends?”
“The fuck do you think?”
The man moved for his gun. Winter let him get it out halfway and then seized the man’s wrist and twisted the gun around and pulled the trigger. The sound was not very loud but the man screamed and dropped to his knees. Winter wrenched the gun out of the man’s hand and put the barrel up against the man’s forehead and fired again.
The madam was waiting just inside the front door. When she saw Winter she was at first puzzled, then horrified. She fell on her knees.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “They said you were dead.”
“The fuck are my boys?”
“The piano room, Mister Winter, Jesus, you have to believe me—”
He hit her once across the mouth with the back of his right hand. The gesture was more bored than anything else. The girls lounging up along the walls and the few customers who remained watched with surprise. A fat whore recognized Winter and started to scream.
“Oh god,” she screamed, “oh gaaaaaaaawwwwwd, no, no, oh god.”
Winter went up the stairs as fast as he could and walked down the hallway until he came to the door from which the sounds of Charlie banging away on the piano and Johnny bellowing his dumb ox laughter spilled out. That door he opened.
They were both naked of course. The Empire brothers never needed much excuse to take their clothes off. Charlie was sitting at the piano. Johnny was lying on his back on the bed with a bottle of something in his hand and his pants around his ankles, laughing insanely at nothing. The two girls, young, were huddled bruised and weeping in the corner.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said to the women.
The Empire brothers reacted like dogs to the sound of his voice.
“Auggie?” Johnny said.
“Jesus, Winter, is that you?” Charlie said, his fingers dead against the piano keys.
The Winter Family Page 31
