Killing Mr. Sunday

by Bill Brooks

that’s what those horses did, ran away from whoever

  owned them and hadn’t yet been found. Well, it was

  his good fortune the way he looked at it. Finders

  keepers.

  He had come a long way since leaving Texas. He

  was of the Naconi Tribe—the Wanderers. That was

  the trait of his people: to wander the land. Only in his

  case, he had wandered very far indeed. Texas wasn’t

  worth a shit since the Texas Rangers rubbed out most

  of the Comanche.

  He looked at those horses standing by themselves,

  knowing that the horse was the true brother to the

  Comanche.

  He said down under his breath: “Hello, brothers.”

  It had been a long time since he had a horse, now

  there were three of them just waiting for him to take

  them. The last horse he had, he ended up eating after

  it became lame. He wouldn’t have eaten his horse

  even then, but the Rangers were on his heels and he

  was way out in the dry country and there wasn’t any-

  thing else to eat. Damn good horse, too, both ways.

  He squatted there waiting to see if the three horses

  had owners around anywhere. He didn’t see anybody.

  He rose and walked slowly toward the animals that

  were grazing and swishing the flies off them with

  their tails. One was a roan, one a bay, and the other a

  buckskin. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.

  Thank you, he said in his head to the Creator. Thank

  you for these goddamn horses.

  He approached them carefully, like he was just an-

  other animal, an antelope or deer out there on the

  grass with them. They didn’t even raise their heads

  until he got pretty close, then the roan raised its head

  and looked at him.

  He said, “That’s okay, no problem,” and held out

  his hand as though he had something in it, an apple,

  maybe. The roan kept looking at him while the other

  two continued to graze. He spoke to them in Co-

  manche because the Creator gave the horse the ability

  to understand his brother Comanche.

  The roan snuffled and let him approach and in a

  moment he was rubbing his hand along its neck and

  stroking its mane, saying, “You look like a real good

  horse,” and, “I bet whoever lost you is pretty sorry,

  ain’t they, nice big old horse like you?”

  The horse dropped its head and cropped grass

  without answering.

  “Well, I guess you belong to me now, eh? You and

  your brothers here.”

  He stepped into the saddle. The roan was nice and

  tall, fifteen, sixteen hands, maybe. He liked the view

  from up on its back a lot better than he liked the view

  from walking. He gathered up the reins of the other

  two horses and said, “I guess we better go before

  somebody else comes along and wants to fight me for

  you.”

  He walked the roan off toward where the sun was

  standing just above the land, leading the others by

  their reins. It seemed as good a direction to go as any.

  He hadn’t gone very far when he heard someone

  shouting.

  He looked back over his shoulder and three men

  had risen out of the grass and were yelling something

  at him and shaking their fists, and he saw one of them

  draw his six-gun.

  “I guess they must be the ones who used to own

  you,” he said to the roan, knocking his heels against

  its ribs. “We better get the hell out of here.”

  The bullets came close enough he could hear them.

  They sounded like angry bees buzzing around his

  head. He stayed low over the roan’s neck hoping he

  wouldn’t get shot in the ass or nowhere else as he

  heeled the horse into a full-out gallop.

  The Stone brothers had fallen into a nice lazy

  drowse after having their pleasure with the women.

  That sort of thing always made men sleepy afterward.

  They weren’t in any hurry to be anywhere in particu-

  lar since they weren’t sure exactly when or where

  they’d catch up with the man they were after. And it

  had been quite a long time since they’d had the plea-

  sure of a woman. And the weather was decently

  pleasant and the grass nice and thick and inviting. So

  they’d lain down thinking to just catch a little siesta

  under their hats till they got their energy back.

  Trouble was they never counted on some big fat In-

  dian coming along and stealing their goddamn

  horses. And by the time they discovered their mistake,

  that big fat Indian was too far out of range—though

  they hoped they might get lucky and shoot him, any-

  way. But when that failed, all they could do was

  stomp and cuss and watch him ride off with their

  horses toward the horizon, and that’s exactly what

  they did.

  The night came on early, rolled with thunder in it,

  lightning dancing off behind the dark sky. The storm

  had been brewing for hours and now swept along the

  dark horizon. Martha thought she saw a light, per-

  haps the town, she thought, and ran toward it. But it

  wasn’t a light from the town at all, but rather a small

  fire someone had built. She was cautious in her ap-

  proach. But the sky threatened to burst open at any

  moment and a few drops of rain fell as a prelude,

  striking her as hard and cold as nickels.

  “ ’S’cuse me,” she called.

  The man sitting cross-legged at the fire looked up.

  He had something cooking on a stick thrust into the

  fire—some small game creature—prairie dog or rab-

  bit. The fire’s light glittered in his dark eyes.

  Big Belly was pleased to see a woman, even if she

  was a white woman. He was relieved, too, that it

  wasn’t the three owners of the horses who’d found

  him. He spoke to her, told her to come to the fire,

  made a motion with his hand.

  Martha said, “Huh?”

  She could see the man was an Indian of some sort,

  dressed in greasy buckskins, his black hair parted

  into long braids, what looked like a ragged old turkey

  feather poking out. He had a broad face and a nose

  shaped like a hawk’s beak. Next to him set a hat that

  looked like horses had stomped, one or two holes in

  its crown as well.

  “I’m nearly froze,” she said, stepping to the fire

  and stretching out her hands toward the flames. “That

  a rabbit you’re cooking?”

  Big Belly knew a little English—mostly cuss

  words—but not enough to know what the woman

  was saying to him. But the way she looked at his

  prairie dog, he surmised she was talking about it,

  probably wanting him to share it with her. It was a

  pretty small prairie dog. How he came across it fell

  right in line with the rest of his luck that day: an eagle

  had dropped it. Big Belly was just riding along when

  all of a sudden this dark shadow floated across his

  path and thunk! the prairie dog fell from the sky and

  landed right in front of him and h
e looked up to see

  an eagle circling and he guessed the eagle had

  dropped it not meaning to, or perhaps the Creator

  was still watching over him and had sent the eagle to

  give him a gift of food to go along with the gift of

  horses. For he had seriously thought about eating one

  of the horses and now he wouldn’t have to.

  Big Belly had made camp early, seeing the storm

  forming off in the distance, he thought it best to make

  a fire and eat his gift of prairie dog before it rained

  and made it too wet for a fire. Now the Creator had

  sent him a woman as well. This is the best damn day

  I’ve had in ten moons, he thought.

  He told her to sit down and he’d share his prairie

  dog with her.

  And when she just looked at him, he motioned for

  her to sit and she did.

  “Fire feels good,” she said.

  Big Belly looked her over pretty good. He never

  had a white woman before. He wondered what it

  would be like to fornicate with one. He said, “You

  like Comanche?”

  Martha had no idea what the fat Indian was saying

  to her, but he seemed friendly enough and she felt a

  little less apprehensive. Still, she knew that men were

  pretty much men, no matter what color their skin

  was. She knew Indians could be dangerous, but then

  so, too, could buffalo hunters and teamsters and min-

  ers and youngsters who robbed banks and were dope

  addicts.

  “My name is Martha,” she said.

  “Marda . . .” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Martha. And what’s yours?”

  She pointed at herself when she said her name and he

  took it to mean she was telling him what her name was.

  He tapped his chest with a thumb and said, “Na-

  han-o-hay.”

  “That’s a real nice name,” she said.

  He asked her if she’d like to fornicate with him af-

  ter they ate.

  She smiled, not understanding a single word of

  what he said. He took that as a good sign.

  She watched as he turned the critter over in the fire,

  its carcass already burnt black. She couldn’t help but

  swallow down her immense hunger.

  “Marda . . .” he said, looking at her.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s my name, don’t wear it

  out.” But she said it with a smile in order that he not

  take it in his head to scalp her or worse, like she’d heard

  Indians did to white women—at least the bad ones that

  used to be around before the army killed most of them.

  He had a face round as a fry pan, and only some

  teeth, and the way his eyes were fixed at a slant made

  him look scary with the fire’s light flickering over his

  features. She’d only seen one other Indian in her

  life—one that traveled with a medicine show that had

  come through Sweet Sorrow two summers previous.

  She remember his name was Chief Rain in the Face

  and he whooped and did a war dance when the Pro-

  fessor of the show gave him a bottle of his special

  elixir to drink in order to demonstrate its curative

  powers, the Professor saying, “Why this poor crea-

  ture was lame with a severe case of lumbago and gout

  when I first found him—near dead of half a dozen

  maladies . . .” and so on and so forth, the Chief sit-

  ting in a stupor the whole while. Then the Professor

  gave him a swallow of the cure-all and the Chief got

  up and did a rambunctious war dance and strutted

  about like a young buck, yelped and shouted! Martha

  wasn’t at all convinced the Chief was a real Indian at

  all, but Otis bought a few bottles of the elixir to sell

  in the store, anyway.

  A few more cold rain drops fell into the fire caus-

  ing it to hiss and pop.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have an extra blanket?” she

  said, wrapping her arms around herself to indicate

  what she meant.

  Big Belly wondered if she was asking him if he

  wanted to get into his blanket with her and fornicate.

  He nodded and said, “Sure, sure, but let’s eat this

  puny little prairie dog first, okay?”

  Every drop of rain that touched her skin was so

  cold it felt hot.

  She wondered if she would ever get back to Sweet

  Sorrow alive.

  20

  Otis Dollar sat up and said, “I feel like I been

  beat with a fry pan.” His head hurt something ter-

  rible and all night he’d fallen in and out of a fitful

  sleep, dreaming alternately of Martha and Jesus.

  Only in his dreams Martha had glowing eyes like a

  rabid wolf and laughed at him as she danced with the

  Devil, and Jesus wore a fancy blue shirt with pearl

  buttons and said to him, “I am going to walk across

  that river” and pointed to a river that was wider

  across than the Missouri in spring time. It looked aw-

  ful deep and treacherous and mighty swift.

  “I don’t believe you ought to try it,” Otis warned,

  for he was afraid that even Jesus would drown in a

  river that wild and raging.

  “Him that believeth shall not fear,” Jesus said.

  “Let him who believeth lay down his worldly goods

  and follow me,” then stood up and started walking

  across the river and Otis felt the greatest desire to fol-

  low him, but his own fear of drowning paralyzed him

  and the next thing he knew the Lord was on the far

  side walking up the embankment by himself in that

  nice blue shirt. Otis felt ashamed, for he knew he’d

  been left behind to wallow in his fear and that he’d

  never be anything but a coward when it came down to

  the hard stuff.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Karen said shak-

  ing him by the foot until he came fully to. “You’re

  yammering in your sleep like there was somebody

  chasing you.” That’s when he said how it felt like

  he’d been beat with a fry pan and she said, “The

  marshal said you told him you were beat with a little

  gun.”

  Otis saw that it was sometime in the day, the

  windows to the cabin full of white light. He could

  smell something frying in the black iron skillet atop

  the stove and it smelled good to him but his head

  hurt so terribly that he fell back twice trying to

  stand.

  “I guess I was dreaming,” he said, but he didn’t

  care to mention what his dreams were about, for he

  was ashamed of his cowardice and knew the dream

  that scared him only proved the type of the man he

  truly was, for he’d let that madman steal his Martha

  and hadn’t put up that much of a fight to save her.

  Looking at Karen standing at the stove, he felt the

  love he’d always had for her come to the surface.

  Maybe he hadn’t really wanted to save Martha, he

  thought. Maybe if Martha was to be taken off and he

  became a single man again, Karen might . . . Oh, it’s

  such a damn foolish notion!

  They ate dinner in silence.

  Then Karen said
, “I’ve been watching for that fel-

  low who the marshal said bashed in your head. The

  marshal is after him, but that crazy old Swede could

  still come around here. I told the marshal if he did, I’d

  shoot him.”

  Otis said, “Good. He deserves shooting. He stole

  my wife. I’ll help you shoot him.”

  She looked at him hard across the table.

  “How come you and Martha were out there in the

  first place?” she said.

  Otis was reluctant to say why, but Karen waited

  for an answer.

  “We were on a picnic,” he said.

  “Picnic, huh. Sounds like something lovers would

  do. You back in love with her, Otis, Martha?”

  “I waited a plum long time for you to come

  around, Karen. I waited twenty years and you never

  came around, never so much as gave a hint you’d

  want me . . .”

  She shook her head as she poured them each a cup

  of coffee, then turned the frying meat in the pan with

  a fork.

  “I never wanted you, Otis. I mean you’re a decent

  fellow, more than decent, and what we had that one

  time was just that one time and that’s all water under

  the bridge now and always has been. Sure, I was

  tempted at times to ask you to leave Martha and

  marry me. But it wouldn’t have been love on my part

  if I’d done it. I would have done it for Dex’s sake; so

  he’d have a father.”

  “You saying . . . ?”

  “No, Dex wasn’t yours. Dex was his daddy’s, my

  husband Toussaint’s child. Only he don’t believe it,

  but then Toussaint is a dark trouble who has his own

  mind about things and far be it from me to try and

  convince him otherwise.”

  “I wish it weren’t so, Karen. I wish Dex had been

  mine and that you had asked me to leave Martha—I’d

  done it.”

  “And you’d ended up regretting it, Otis.”

  “Maybe so,” he said. She filled his plate with

  fried slices of ham, and mush from a pot and set a

  plate of warm biscuits on the table to go along with

  the coffee.

  “You kept saying her name in your sleep, Martha’s,”

  Karen said.

  “Did I?”

  They ate for a time without saying anything more,

  then Karen said, “He killed his whole family. All but

  one: a little towhead boy.”

  Then she realized that she probably shouldn’t have

  said anything about the Swede killing his family, that

  it would only cause Otis to fret more, but it was too