The Devil and the Deep

by Ellen Datlow

  “We should run, then,” Charley said.

  “No. The man with the black beard has a Spencer carbine on a strap. He carries it across his chest, so he can aim it quickly. Cavalry soldiers used that gun in the war between the Northern and Southern whites. So if we ran, he could fire at us from his horse if he wished. And he would have seven shots.” Uncle JoJim adjusted his hat again. “We should wait. If they want help, we can offer it. And if they want to steal, we can give them our chickens.”

  Charley’s throat tightened. “What if they want your shotgun? And what if they don’t like mixed-blood people?”

  Uncle JoJim, still looking toward the three riders, gave a slight smile. “A shotgun is good at close range. Even for a man with one arm. And one barrel is still loaded.” Now he looked at Charley, and his smile vanished. “If it leaves its scabbard, you must run for home. Tell Bird King Yicí! And don’t stop until you’ve called the Kaw from their houses. Do you hear?”

  Charley struggled to speak through his tight throat. “I hear,” he said.

  Now Uncle JoJim looked behind them, and Charley’s gaze followed his. The plume of gray smoke was still there.

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky,” Uncle JoJim said. He turned back to squint at the approaching riders again. “Maybe these men won’t be crazy.”

  Charley thought that was a strange thing to say, and he was about to ask Uncle JoJim what he meant. But then he too looked back at the riders, and saw that their horses had started to gallop.

  “Speak only if they speak to you first,” Uncle JoJim said. “And be polite.”

  Charley tried to take a deep breath and found that his chest was as tight as his throat. “I’ll do my best,” he said in a small voice.

  Uncle JoJim adjusted the brim of his hat yet again.

  “Do better than that,” he said.

  The three riders stopped just short of the flat patch of limestone. Their horses, a sorrel gelding for each of the men and a roan mare for the boy, snorted and stamped. The horses were loaded with bulging saddlebags, bedrolls, and coiled ropes.

  The two men were lanky and sun-scorched, and both wore crisp, new, flat-crowned hats. The one on the left had blue eyes and a reddish beard cut short, while the one in the center had dark eyes and a black beard that covered his throat. The man on the left had an expression that Charley guessed indicated amusement. But he couldn’t read the expression of the man in the center.

  The boy, on the right, had eyes the same color of blue as the man on the left. Straight blond hair poked out from under his straw hat. His complexion was paler than the men’s, and his cheeks and nose were freckled. Charley thought he looked about thirteen. His expression suggested both wariness and curiosity.

  All three were dressed in a fashion similar to Charley and Uncle JoJim, in sturdy canvas trousers and linen shirts. But the white men’s clothes, although dusty, looked almost as brand-new as their hats. And in addition to the long rifles in scabbards and the carbine across Black-beard’s chest, each of the men had a Colt pistol jutting from his belt.

  Black-beard spoke first.

  “I see you are Injuns,” he said. “However, since you wear white men’s clothing, I assume you speak English.” His voice had a deep rasp, as if he had swallowed a fistful of dirt.

  “We do,” Uncle JoJim said. “I am Joseph James, Junior, and this is my cousin’s grandson, Charles Curtis. How may we assist you?”

  Black-beard’s eyes widened, and he exchanged a glance with Red-beard.

  “My goodness,” he said. “That was well spoken. And you both have white names, though your skins appear red. What odd sort of Injuns might you be?”

  “I am mixed-blood, Osage and Kaw,” Uncle JoJim said. His voice was calm, and just loud enough to be heard over the wind. “I also possess French blood, but I don’t know those relatives.” He nodded toward Charley. “His blood is similar to mine, on his mother’s side. He has Potawatomi on that side as well. But his father is white. Mister Curtis went to fight in the Northern and Southern war, and though we’ve been told he survived, he has not yet returned.”

  Black-beard gave a low whistle. “Osage, Kaw, Potawatomi, French, and English? That’s about as mixed as mixed can be. No wonder you’re riding the prairie without other companions. You don’t belong anywhere, do you?”

  Uncle JoJim was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “We live among the Kaw.”

  “Yet I don’t imagine they consider you to be of their tribe,” Black-beard said.

  Uncle JoJim was quiet for yet another moment before he said, “That’s true.”

  Charley felt a hot rush behind his eyes. Then he heard himself blurt, “Uncle JoJim and I are both descended from White Plume!”

  The bearded men each gave Charley a cold stare.

  The freckled boy’s nose crinkled. “Who’s White Plume?” he asked in a thin, nasal voice.

  “Hush, Joshua,” Red-beard said. His voice was thin and nasal, too.

  Uncle JoJim leaned toward Charley. “You should hush as well.”

  Charley clenched his jaw. Bird King whickered.

  “I know of the Osage,” Red-beard said then. “But what the hell is a Kaw?”

  “They are also called the Kanza,” Uncle JoJim said. “Their reservation is not far, close by the town of Council Grove.”

  The freckled boy looked across at Red-beard. “Pa, I think the Kanza tribe must be what Kansas is named for.”

  Red-beard leaned over and spat on the ground. “I reckon,” he said. When he looked up again, his upper lip had pulled back from his teeth. “And I told you to hush.”

  “I’ve heard of the Kanza,” Black-beard said. “Folks in St. Joe say the Kanza fought off a Cheyenne war party a few weeks ago. That so?”

  “It is,” Uncle JoJim said.

  The man looked Uncle JoJim up and down, then turned his gaze toward Charley and did the same. Despite the hot afternoon, Charley had to push down a shiver.

  “Hard to believe,” Black-beard said.

  Uncle JoJim’s eyebrows rose. “It was a strange day. But young Charles and I had no part in the fight. The Kaw chief sent us to Topeka to alert the governor, so he could send a militia.”

  Red-beard gave a high laugh that made Charley think of coyotes. “That must have been a sight! A short, one-armed Injun and a half-breed pipsqueak riding into Topeka and yelling for the governor. I’m surprised nobody shot you.”

  Uncle JoJim looked at Red-beard. “It was a strange day,” he said again. Then he looked back at Black-beard. “How may we assist you?”

  “That depends. What’s that weapon behind your saddle?”

  “It is a shotgun. Two-barrel.”

  “As I thought,” Black-beard said. “Am I correct to assume it’s well past its prime? It isn’t one of those fancy new breech-loaders, is it?”

  “No, it loads the old way,” Uncle JoJim said. “And I’ve used all the powder and shot I brought with me today. But I have a few percussion caps. I could trade for those, if you wish.”

  Black-beard waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. “No, we need pistol and rifle cartridges. And sugar, flour, and salt pork. Might you have any of those?”

  “No. But those things may all be found in Council Grove. Six miles north.”

  Black-beard gave a snaggletoothed grin. “Sadly, we find that many citizens of Kansas towns harbor resentment against Missouri men who served with Colonel Quantrill. They don’t seem to care that our punitive mission against Lawrence took place almost five years ago. Nor, for that matter, that the war has been over for three.”

  Red-beard spat again. “Kansas people are not reasonable.”

  “Indeed not,” Black-beard said. “So the three of us have decided to move on to New Mexico. But we need provisions.”

  “New Mexico is a fine destination,” Uncle JoJim said. “And the tribes along the way are friendly. I’m sure they will give you what you need.”

  Black-beard stopped grinning. He placed his right hand on the stock
of his Spencer.

  “We cannot depend on that,” he said. Then he tilted his head upward, using his chin to point over Uncle JoJim’s shoulder. “What’s that smoke yonder? Might that be someplace we could bargain for goods?”

  Uncle JoJim gave Charley a quick glance. Charley wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “I believe it is the camp of a solitary man,” Uncle JoJim said to Black-beard. “But I can’t say what goods he might possess. Or what sort of bargain he might make you.”

  “You can’t say?” Black-beard’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? You sound as if you know him.”

  Uncle JoJim’s mouth became a thin line.

  “A white man has asked you a question, Injun,” Red-beard said. “And this particular white man does not appreciate a lack of respect. Some of the denizens of Lawrence might confirm that, were they still alive.”

  At that, Charley heard Uncle JoJim let out a long breath.

  “I have met the man who is making the smoke,” Uncle JoJim said then. “But it was many years ago, and I can’t say that I know him now. He might not remember me.”

  “But you remember him, I take it,” Black-beard said. “Is he white?”

  “Yes.”

  Black-beard shifted the Spencer so that it pointed at Uncle JoJim. “Then you will take us to him. You may say that our names are Jim Barnett and Sam Clark, and that we’ll pay him well for any goods he might provide.” He gestured with the Spencer. “A brisk walk will be fine. If either your horse or your boy’s starts to run, I might be startled.”

  Uncle JoJim clicked his tongue, and Calico Girl turned toward the smoke. For an instant, Uncle JoJim’s eyes met Charley’s, and Charley hoped he didn’t look as afraid as he felt.

  “Remember the Comanches,” Uncle JoJim whispered.

  But Charley didn’t know how he could do that. He hadn’t even been alive then.

  A minute later, Black-beard said, “Get behind me, boy. I don’t want you Injuns whispering. It ain’t friendly to keep secrets.”

  Uncle JoJim gave Charley a nod, so Charley tugged on Bird King’s mane to stop him. Once Black-beard passed by, Charley let Bird King move again, and they fell in beside the freckled boy’s roan. Red-beard rode behind them.

  Black-beard took the strap of his Spencer from around his neck, then slid the rifle into a scabbard behind his saddle. But Charley knew Black-beard’s pistol was still handy in his belt, as was Red-beard’s. Both he and Uncle JoJim could be shot in the back at any moment.

  The freckled boy looked at Charley. His gaze was hot on Charley’s face, and Charley told himself it was just the sun. But the sun had never made his skin itch before.

  “My name is Joshua,” the freckled boy said in his nasal voice.

  Charley didn’t answer right away. Beads of sweat were sliding down from his hair, and they tickled. Between the tickle and the itch, he was going to have to rub his face soon. But he was afraid to raise his hand for fear of how Red-beard might react. He might think Charley was about to reach out and strike the freckled boy.

  “I said, my name is Joshua.” The boy’s voice pitched even higher.

  “My son’s trying to be sociable,” Red-beard said behind Charley. “You should, too.”

  Charley tried to breathe in enough air to speak, and he just managed. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Joshua,” he said. “As my uncle said, my name is Charles. I go by Charley. But people in Council Grove call me ‘Indian Charley.’ I suppose so no one will think they mean some other Charley.”

  Joshua cocked his head. “That should work. But do you think of yourself as Injun? I mean, you ain’t really any one thing, with all those different kinds of blood. I’d think you’d get mighty confused, especially about how to talk to folks.”

  “I guess I don’t think of myself as anything except Charley,” Charley said. “And I just change how I talk depending on where I am. When I’m with the Kaw, I speak Kanza. And when I’m with white people, I speak English. My mother also taught me some French, but I don’t remember much of it. No one here speaks French now, anyway.”

  “Do you speak Kanza well?” Joshua asked.

  “Well enough. My grandmother says the first words I ever spoke were in Kanza. Taught to me by my mother, like the French. But I don’t remember which words. And I don’t remember my mother too much, either. She died when I was three years old.”

  In the past, whenever Charley had spoken of his mother to others, those others had always said, “I’m sorry she passed on,” or something similar. But what Joshua said was, “Tell me some Kanza words.”

  Charley was puzzled. “What words do you want to know?”

  “Well, what’s the meaning of ‘Kanza,’ anyway? Is it just a word the Injuns made up for themselves?”

  “My grandmother says it’s an old word,” Charley said. “Maybe even as old as when these hills were under the sea. It means ‘south wind.’ So what the Kaw call themselves in English is ‘People of the South Wind.’”

  As if in response, a gust from the south set the grass undulating in waves. The freckled boy’s hat almost blew off, and Charley’s sweat-damp hair came unstuck from his forehead. But he still itched, and he was still too afraid to raise his hand to scratch.

  Joshua pointed at a red-tailed hawk flying past them to the east. “What’s the Kanza word for ‘bird’?”

  “Wazhinga.” The word for “hawk” wasn’t the same at all. But Joshua had asked for “bird.”

  “What about ‘buffalo’?” Joshua asked.

  “Cedónga,” Charley said.

  Joshua looked back at Red-beard. “Hey, Pa. I’m gonna join the Injuns and hunt cedónga. What do you think of that?”

  When Red-beard answered, his thin voice sounded deeper and thicker than before.

  “Ask him the word for ‘blood,’” Red-beard said. “And ‘scalp.’”

  Joshua looked at Charley. “Didja hear?”

  Charley’s hands, clenching Bird King’s mane, began to tremble. Bird King snorted and tossed his head.

  “‘Blood’ is wabí,” Charley said. Then he realized he didn’t know the exact word for “scalp.” But he knew the word for “hair.” “‘Scalp’ is … pahú.”

  Joshua looked back at Red-beard again. “He says it’s wabí and pahú.”

  Red-beard grunted.

  “Good to know,” he said.

  Joshua twitched his mare’s reins so she moved closer to Bird King.

  “Don’t worry,” Joshua whispered. “They scalped some abolitionists in the war, and then a few Injuns after. But you ain’t an abolitionist, and you ain’t a full-blood Injun. So they ain’t going to kill you.”

  Charley didn’t try to answer. His breath was starting to tremble along with his hands.

  “I’m pretty sure, anyway,” Joshua said.

  As they came over the last hill, heat lightning began to flash in the darkening sky to the south. And now Charley could see the source of the smoke in the gully below. He could smell it, too. It reeked like river mud that had somehow been set ablaze. The gray plume was spewing from a hole at the apex of a hammered-tin dome set over a circular cast-iron grate that, in turn, was set over a bed of hot coals. The grate was five feet wide, and the dome covered all but the outer few inches. The coals underneath were beginning to glow with a red light as the sun dropped behind a hill to the west.

  “Good Lord, that’s odiferous,” Red-beard said.

  But despite the smoke and its stench, Charley’s attention was drawn several yards past the bed of coals to an enormous wooden contraption that sat on a patch of flattened dirt. It was built in the style of a curved-bottom overland wagon, but it had no canopy. And it was larger than any wagon Charley had ever seen. At least thirty feet long and ten feet wide, it sat atop four iron-clad wheels that were each a dozen feet in diameter. The wagon and the spokes of the wheels had been painted ochre, but the paint had flaked and faded with age.

  Charley glimpsed piles of canvas and a few barrels inside the wagon.
But those didn’t seem odd. What did seem odd was a fifteen-foot-tall post rising from the wagon’s center, fitted with a seven-foot crossbeam near the top … and a shorter post-and-crossbeam that rose midway between the center post and the wagon’s narrowed front end. Both posts were strung with a baffling network of ropes. Charley couldn’t tell whether the posts were meant to be Christian crosses or secular gallows.

  As the five riders came down into the gully, a lone figure, stooping, stepped out from the shadow under the high belly of the wagon. When the figure drew near to the glowing coals, Charley saw that he was a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, tangled gray hair and a beard that hung even lower than Black-beard’s. He was wearing a dark blue coat with a double row of brass buttons, closed up tight. Charley thought it must be far too warm inside that coat, but the man didn’t seem to mind. His trousers were dark and heavy, too. But his feet were bare, and they glowed pink in the light from the coals.

  The man held a staff that appeared to be made of ivory affixed to a short length of polished wood capped with brass at its base. Charley thought it must be ivory because it was the same color as the keys of a piano he had seen in Topeka. But this ivory spiraled up around itself like tight coils of rope, tapering tighter and tighter as it rose. It was at least eight feet long, ending in a sharp point.

  For a moment, Charley almost forgot that he and Uncle JoJim were in the company of embittered Missouri bushwhackers. Everything he was looking at now was a fascination and a puzzle. But one thing he was sure of was that the tall man with the wild gray hair and the spiraled ivory staff was the same man Uncle JoJim had told him about less than an hour earlier. This was the man who had appeared on the ridge during the Comanche attack, years ago. And the huge wagon behind him might be the same wagon he had ridden then, too.

  But Charley didn’t see any horses or mules that could be used to pull it. It would have to take ten or twelve. So maybe the man was just using the wagon as his house now, living alone in an isolated gully. With nothing but a bad-smelling fire for company.