“Why don’t you come up and eat?”
His eyes came off the track in front of him and saw the woman who stood with her hands resting on the top strand of barbedwire fence that stretched in front of his house dividing it from the road. The darkness of her face held no expression; it was shaped like the moon with a wisp of hair in front obscuring eyes deep in shadows.
“It’s noon.”
The sun was over his head, the slivers of clouds had grown thick, pushing halfway out across the valley, almost touching the pale disc of winter light. His horse let out a snort and nudged his back, trying to make him move once more around the footdeep circle their feet had beaten darkly into the snow. He led her back in the shed, slipped the bridle off and hung it on the peg over the silver inlaid saddle, then joined the woman waiting on the other side of the fence. Together they walked down the slit of wire bordered road that pierced straight through the emptiness of the cattle fields.
“I brought him,” the woman announced, shutting the door behind them.
“Joe,” the man sitting deep in a gray chair pulled close in front of the flames wrapping around the logs stacked neatly in the fireplace greeted him without getting up. “Sit down, sit down,” he slapped a chair beside him and pulled it in closer to the fire, his face stretched in a smile. “Good you come, Joe, awful good.”
“Good you come, Joe, good,” the small girl sitting at the man’s feet repeated, her face flushed from the warmth of fire.
Birdsong stood by the door looking at his brother-in-law and his young niece. He moved over in front of the fire, his hands held stiffly at his sides, then sat in the chair offered. “Felix,” he nodded his head in a short jerk.
“We was expectin’ you earlier, Joe, Sunday dinner just like always,” the man turned in his chair, a note of hurt in his voice. “We been waitin’ on you, but you never showed. So finally I told Sarah Dick, Sarah, you better get yourself on down the road and find out what’s holdin’ up that brother of yours.”
“She was,” the woman’s voice came in sharply from the kitchen.
“Sarah Dick,” the man moved his body in the chair towards the door from where the crackling of frying chicken came. “Why don’t you just leave Joe be about that horse.”
“He was with her as usual, walkin’ round and round in their own rut, lookin’ down at his feet, just circlin.”
The man turned his back to the voice as if the action refuted her existence and gave Birdsong a look of one just caught with five deuces in his hand. “Joe, I’m glad you could make it on over today for dinner.” He settled deeper in his chair, waiting to hear his hospitality given thanks. It did not come. He stared into the fire waiting for it, but it still did not come. “Joe,” he spoke again as if it were the first time since the man arrived. “I want to thank you for tightnin up that stretch of fence for me back last week. It’s hard to keep a piece of ranch going and runnin a gas station at the same time, but I’m sure you know that, maybe you don’t, I don’t know anyway, but I appreciate what you did for me just the same.”
“I can count to six, Joe.”
“Not now, Sue Dick,” the man touched the girl’s shoulder. “Me an your uncle is talkin.”
“I don’t believe it,” Birdsong pushed his legs out, resting his boots on the stone hearth.
“That we was talkin,” the man almost shouted.
“No, that the girl can count to eight”
“Six, I said six.”
“That’s right,” the man confirmed. “It was six she said.”
“Don’t believe it even so.”
“I could do it”
“Six ain’t no good, you got two numbers after six, and that’s just to make eight.”
“Well I can go all the way up to six anyways.”
“Joe believes you,” the man touched the girl again. “It’s just that he thinks eight is more important than six.”
“No I don’t, how can eight be more important than six if she can’t go all the way up to six,”
“Yes I could, to six anyways.”
“Easy thing to say, different to prove.”
“Well I could. I could do it the way you showed me.”
“Ain’t nothin wrong with that, long as you can do it, that’s the main thing, doesn’t make any difference how you get there.”
“Just you listen then,” the girl stood up, one side of her body glowing yellow from the fire. “One little, two little, three little Indians, fi…, no, I mean four, four little, five little, six little, six little Indian girls.”
“Never would of believed you had it in you. You come around tomorrow about dark and I’ll boost you up on Shasta.”
“Tomorrow!”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I.”
The girl sat down, faced toward the fire’s warm glow.
“It’s hard work, Joe,” the man spoke again as if he had never been interrupted. “It’s hard runnin a gas station and a piece of ranch at the same time.”
“Chicken.”
“Chicken, what do you mean chicken? I didn’t say anythin about chickens.”
“Chicken is what I smell.”
“Sure you do, Sarah Dick makes it every …”
“Chicken, now let me figure this, the last time I ever had any chicken was, yes, that was it, why just the Sunday past, last time I was here.”
“And I ate four pieces,” the girl announced.
“Like I was explainin, Joe …”
“No you didn’t eat four pieces, you only ate two.”
“It was four, I counted them, I could count to four then.”
“Must of made a mistake somewhere.”
“Four. Three wings and a leg.”
“Don’t seem right, chicken’s only got two wings.”
The girl stopped, her gaze caught on her uncle’s face, the face the color of blowing dust on a summer day, the face like her mother’s, expressionless. “Maybe that’s so,” she finally answered. “Maybe a chicken’s only got two wings, but I had four pieces anyways. You just watch me this time, I’ll show you I can. Just you be watching.”
“I will be.”
“As I was saying, Joe, it’s rough for a man to …”
“It’s on the table if you’re for eatin it.”
“Thanks, Sarah Dick,” the man turned in his chair and gave her his stretched smile. “Me an’ Joe’ll be there in a minute or two.”
“Sue,” Birdsong stood up and looked down at the small girl. “Let’s see if you can find three wings on this chicken.”
They ate the chicken in silence. Felix took an almost empty pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, put one in his mouth and lit it, then threw the pack to the other end of the table.
“Don’t smoke, Felix,” Birdsong pushed the paper package that landed next to his plate away with a thick finger.
“Sorry, Joe, keep forgettin.”
“Felix maybe gonna buy us a TV, Joe. What do you think of that?”
He looked in his sister’s face and said nothing.
“Not a new one, of course,” Felix informed, puffs of smoke escaping from his mouth with each word. “Not too old either, of course.”
“Course,” Sarah Dick added. “We won’t be able to get as many channels as folks in Reno or Sacramento. But we can get one real good one, and the other about half as good.”
“Jonny and Minnie Scisson’s got it. You know them Joe, live over ’cross the valley in Loyalton. Jonny’s been going to the meetin’s with me over to Truckee. Thirty people they had there last month, be bigger next time, gettin bigger all the time. All tribes comin, Washo, Paiute, Mono, Maidu, why even four Shoshone come in all the way from Utah.”
“He doesn’t want to hear about it.”
“Sure he does, don’t you Joe.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Four, I ate four,” the girl dropped the bones in her uncle’s plate.
“Joe likes to hear what us Indians are doin for ourselves.”
&nb
sp; “No he doesn’t.”
“Count ’em, that’s four”
“Don’t you, Joe.”
“That’s only three and a half.”
“What, three and a half what?” Felix questioned his brother-in-law, the smile on his face stretching out in all directions.
“Three and a half chicken bones.”
“So what has that got to do with what we was talkin about?”
“Everything, one’s a neck. She said she ate four and everybody knows there ain’t hardly no meat on a neck. It only counts for half.”
“That was a fat chicken,” the girl insisted.
“What’s this got to do with what I was talkin about,” Felix repeated, his smile stretched so far it was about to snap.
“Everything, Indians only count for half, half man, they ain’t white.”
“I don’t think that’s fair, Joe. Every time we talk you find some way to bring the conversation around to the fact that I’m only half Paiute.”
“I wasn’t talkin about you, Felix, I was talkin about chicken necks and Indians.”
“Well, I’m an Indian.”
“Then you’re only half. Best you can ever be is half.”
“That’s just why we have meetin’s. That’s just the reason.”
“You won’t find the other half there.”
“How do you know, you never been to none. Why don’t you come and find out”
“Don’t have to, I already know.”
“How do you already know?”
“Because every Sunday I come over here you start in talkin about those meetin’s for the Indian to better himself and you ask me to go.”
“So how do you know they don’t do any good?”
“Cause you’re still only half.”
Felix pressed his cigarette butt in the slime of gravy on his plate, it made a small hiss and he spoke, “What do you think you are, whole, one hundred percent?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You can’t, that’s why. You don’t have the nerve. You don’t do anything for yourself. You hire on for a day or two whenever some rancher in the valley needs fencin or buckin hay or an extra hand with the cattle.”
“I am the Rabbit Boss.”
“But you’re not a Washo Rabbit Boss, you’re a strawhat, a hired whiteman Rabbit Boss.”
“Ain’t no difference as I see it, Rabbit Boss is Rabbit Boss no matter what time he’s living in, any end you look through it’s all the same.”
“The same,” Felix leaned across his plate, his smile stretched so tight it was twitching. “How can you sit at my table, in my house, and tell me it means the same where I know it don’t. How can you abuse your own people who were real Rabbit Bosses, respected men that were needed for all to survive. How can you compare yourself to them that did something, something noble. You! You’re nothing but a strawhat, a hired Indian with a rifle, hired by a whiteman to keep the rabbits from chomping up all his range grass or his stupid cattle from fallin into their holes and breakin a leg that holds up all those pounds of money meat. You’re a hired game warden, you ain’t even that, you’re just an exterminator. That’s it, an exterminator, like one of them guys you get when the termites is eatin your house and you get him quick so’s he can exterminate before the house comes fallin down round your ears.”
“Ain’t no termites in this valley, too cold.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Well that’s what you said.”
“Example, Joe,” Felix let out a sigh and sat back in his chair, lighting another cigarette. “Just an example. Can’t you understand what an example is?”
“No, it ain’t got nothin to do with me.”
“Why do you do what you do Joe?”
“It’s the only thing for an Indian to do.”
“It isn’t, that’s just the point,” Felix was leaning over his plate again. “There ain’t too many Indians left in this valley anymore, and those that are all have some kind of job.”
“So do I.”
“But it’s not a respectful job.”
“Is to me.”
“But it isn’t to them.”
“It’s not their job, it’s mine.”
“Your job is outdated, Joe. They have no need for you. You’re just cheaper than poison.”
“It would kill the cattle, they tried it once.”
“The whole idea of what you’re doin is out of time. You’re the last livin Rabbit Boss there is, I haven’t heard of any others in the complete State of California, and there’s certainly none over the hill in Nevada. When you die it’s over. No one will care, let alone notice.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“It’s got everything to do with you, you’re an Indian.”
“But you’re talkin about a dead Indian, makes no difference to a dead Indian if it’s over when he dies.”
“You’re not dead yet.”
“So what are you going on about Felix?”
“Joe, I’m talkin about you, your past and your future. Before they came a little over a hundred years ago there were over three thousand of your people, now you’re lucky if you can scare up three hundred Washo. The Washo, the Paiute, all the Indians got to get together and join with the whiteman before we don’t have anything to join with. They made a mess of this country of ours and this is the Indian’s last chance to straighten them out. If we get organized and join them as an organization of people then we can point to a nobler way of life through example. Examples of art and nature and brotherhood and …”
“Felix,” Birdsong interrupted. “Why is it every Sunday you go on about how Indians are the last hope. You tell me the same thing week after week, year after year, you never even bother to change the words around a little, and you go over to Truckee and tell it to those people at the meetin’s and then they tell it back to you again and back and forth it goes, you all tellin each other how if they don’t recognize you as an organization they will come to ruin just like that place in history called Rome, because you’re the last hope. You keep pumping yourselves up about bein the last hope and all the while they keep going on like they always been, without you, and all the time no closer to that Rome place than when they was tearin the mountains down for gold and silver or rippin the trees from everywhere to put up houses. They didn’t need you then and they don’t need you now, and if they do reach that place like Rome there won’t be no redman alive to see it.”
“Joe, you’re an ignorant man and a twice as ignorant Indian.”
“Goodbye,” Birdsong stood up quickly, the chair falling to the floor behind him.
“Joe!” The word sprung in the room and before its sound died out Felix had been around the table, righted the chair, and pushed his brother-in-law back down. “Joe,” he returned to the spot where he had spoken the word the first time. “How would you like to better yourself real good? What do you say, real good?” He watched the dark eyes, the eyes that sat the same way in his wife’s face. He tried to search in them, get around behind them, finally, knowing it was impossible, he spoke in a low voice, but swiftly, trying to catch the eyes by surprise. “How would you like to sell your place down the road,” he threw the words at the eyes like a bucket of cold water. “How would you like to sell that twenty acres of nowhere land to me and make yourself a load of real good money? He waited to see what damage the words would do to the eyes, they did none.
Birdsong got out of his chair and opened the door, then turned to the man seated at the head of the table. “Felix, you’re more crazy than I ever thought of you bein.” The door shut behind him, leaving the man alone in his house, with his daughter and wife.
The knock came again but he did not answer. He squatted on the stone hearth in front of the fire, holding the rabbit in one large hand, listening to the whining sound it made as it sucked at the twisted milk soaked rag in its mouth. When he finished he laid the animal back in its place and opened the door.
“Birdsong,�
�� the man who was walking back to his parked jeep turned in the snow and greeted.
“Come in.”
“Damn if this ain’t the coldest winter I can remember since I come up to the Sierra,” he declared from beneath the broad rim of a beige felt hat as he hunched before the fire, rubbing gloved hands together with quick hard jerks.
“It could be colder.”
“Well if it could,” he gave a short laugh and began massaging his shoulders beneath the green jacket. “You’d be damn sure I wouldn’t stick around to freeze in it. Your kind can stand it, you’ve got cold blood. But us California Fish and Game people, now, we’re about the warmest blooded creatures that God ever had hike around the High Sierra.”
“What is it you want, Ralph?”
“By God Birdsong, what on God’s earth do you have there on that rag, is it alive?”
“It’s alive.”
“It can’t be a rabbit, can it?”
“You can see it is.”
“Good Holy Mother, how can a tiny thing like that live in the winter, let alone without its mother? Birdsong, you must have some extra talents you been hiding on everyone, you’re a sly one you are. Damn, I wonder how that thing lives?”
“It lives because I …”
“Never mind, I understand all about rabbits. You know, Birdsong,” his voice was loud over the thumping sound his clapped gloved hands made. “Instead of taking in stray rabbits you ought to get yourself some furniture. My God, this place is a shambles.” He let his eyes roam around the room in silent testimony to his statement. It didn’t take long, he cast a disapproving gaze at the brass bed, pot belly stove and one highback chair, the middle of its seat knocked out; balanced over the remaining wood sides as if it were growing out of the hole like some strange flower was a black leather accordion, the cracked pearl on the keys a worn glimmer of the sparkle they once held.
Rabbit Boss Page 3
