I said, ‘I should think some farmer would be happy to pay for Tub’s services. He has a few good years left yet.’
‘I wouldn’t get his hopes up.’ He turned to Tub and said, ‘Stew meat? Or pretty pasture, with the farmer’s soft-bottomed daughter?’ To me he whispered, ‘Stew meat.’
The black horse accepted the bit and saddle without incident. Tub hung his head when I slung a rope around his neck and I could not meet his eyes. We were two miles out when we found the dead Indian on the ground. ‘This will be the previous owner,’ Charlie said. We rolled him over to get a look. His body was stiff and distorted, his neck snapped back and his mouth open wide in an expression of absolute suffering.
‘Strange, though, that an Indian horse would take a bit and saddle,’ I said.
‘Must’ve been that he stole it from a white man,’ said Charlie.
‘But the horse has no shoes or brand?’
‘It’s a conundrum,’ he admitted. Pointing to the Indian, he said, ‘Ask him.’
The Indian had no wounds to explain his death but was extremely heavyset and we thought perhaps he had suffered an attack of organ failure, then fell from the horse and broke his neck. ‘Horse just kept on going,’ Charlie said. ‘Likely they were headed to the cave. I wonder what he’d have done, the two of us sleeping in his spot like that.’ The black horse lowered his head to the Indian, smelling and nudging him. At this same time I could feel Tub looking at me. I decided to return to our travels. At first the black horse didn’t want to leave but once we were clear he ran very nicely despite the rough terrain, and having Tub in tow behind us. A heavy rain began to fall but the chill was gone from the air; I was sweating, as was the new horse, and his smell and warmth were agreeable to me. His every move was sharp and graceful and I found him to be an altogether gifted runner, and though it did not feel good to think of it, I knew it would be a great relief to be free of Tub. I looked back at him and watched as he did his best to keep up. His eye was watering and bloodshot and he held his head up and to the side, as if to avoid drowning.
Chapter 21
When we arrived in Jacksonville, I wondered if Charlie would honor his vow to sleep out of doors; I knew he would not when I saw his face look searchingly into the glowing windows of the first saloon we passed. We stabled the horses for the night. I told the hand to shoe the black horse and asked him for a price on Tub. The man held his lantern next to Tub’s injured eye and said he would tell me in the morning, when he might get a better look at him. Charlie and I parted ways in the center of town. He wished to drink and I to eat. He pointed to a hotel as our eventual meeting place, and I nodded.
The rainstorm had passed; now the moon was full and low and the stars were bright. I entered a modest restaurant and took a seat by the window, watching my hands on the bare table. They were still and ivory looking in the light of the planets, and I felt no particular personal attachment to them. A boy came by and placed a candle on the table, ruining the effect, and I studied the bill of fare posted on the wall. I had eaten little at breakfast, despite having gone to sleep with an empty stomach, and my insides were squirming with hunger. But I found the food to be of the most fattening sort, and when the waiter arrived at my side, half bowing with a pencil at the ready, I asked him if he had anything to offer that was not quite so rich.
‘Not hungry tonight, sir?’
‘I am weak with hunger,’ I told him. ‘But I am looking for something less filling than beer, beef, and buttered spuds.’
The waiter tapped his pencil on his pad. ‘You want to eat but you don’t want to become full?’
‘I want to be unhungry,’ I said.
‘And what is the difference?’
‘I want to eat, only I don’t want to eat such heavy foods, don’t you see?’
He said, ‘To me, the whole point of eating is to get full.’
‘Are you telling me there are no options other than what’s listed?’
The waiter was baffled. He excused himself to fetch the cook from the kitchen; she was overworked and annoyed at the inconvenience.
‘What’s the problem, sir?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her sleeves.
‘I never said there was a problem. I only wonder if there’s a lighter option than the meals listed on the bill of fare.’
The cook looked at the waiter and back to me. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘We could give you a half portion, if you’re not hungry,’ said the waiter.
‘I’ve already told you I’m hungry. I’m famished. But I’m looking for something that isn’t so filling, do you see?’
‘When I eat a meal, I want to get full,’ said the cook.
‘That’s the object of eating!’ said the waiter.
‘And then, when you finish, you pat your belly and say, “I’m full.” ’
‘Everybody does that.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a half portion of beef, no spuds, with wine. Do you have any vegetables? Any greens?’
I thought the cook would laugh in my face. ‘I believe there are some carrots out by the hutches.’
‘Bring me a handful of carrots, opposite the beef, peeled and boiled. You can charge me the price of a full plate for the trouble, is that all right?’
‘Whatever you say,’ said the cook.
‘I’ll bring the wine out now,’ said the waiter.
When they brought me my plate it was heaped with limp, hot carrots. The cook had skinned the stalks but left the green tops attached, a malicious oversight, I felt. I choked down half a dozen of these but it was as though they disappeared before arriving in my stomach, and I began somewhat despairingly to root for the beef. I found this at the bottom of the pile and savored every bite, but it was gone far too quickly, and I became depressed. I blew out the candle and stared once more at my ghostly hands. When they began to tingle, I wondered about the curse from the gypsy-witch’s shack. When would it come to bloom, if ever? What form would it take? The waiter returned to clear the table and pointed at the remaining carrots. ‘Didn’t you care for the vegetables?’ he asked naively.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Take it away.’
‘More wine?’
‘One more glass.’
‘Would you like any dessert?’
‘No! Goddamnit!’
The tormented waiter hurried away from me.
Chapter 22
In the morning I checked on Charlie and was unsurprised to find him sick and disinclined to travel. I started in with my halfhearted reprimand, but it was not necessary; he knew as well as I we could not pass another day without hard riding and he promised to be ready in one hour. I did not know what magic he thought to conjure that might bring his suffering to an end in so short a time but I did not engage him on this topic, leaving him instead to his vapors and pains and returning to the restaurant from the night previous for my much needed breakfast. The waiter was not there but in his place was a lad who resembled him and whom I assumed was his son; however, when I asked, ‘Where is your father?’ the boy gripped his hands and said, ‘Heaven.’ I ate a small portion of eggs and beans and was still very hungry when I was finished. I sat looking at the greasy plate, wishing, frankly, to lick it, but decorum kept me from doing so. When the lad came by and picked the plate up I watched it hovering across the dining room and into the kitchen, out of my field of vision. The boy returned and asked if I wanted anything more before paying up. ‘Fresh pie this morning,’ he said.
‘What kind of pie?’ I demanded. I thought, Don’t let it be cherry.
‘Cherry,’ said the boy. ‘Just out of the oven. They go fast around here. Kind of famous, really.’ I must have been making a face, for he asked me, ‘You okay, mister? You look hurt.’
Beads of sweat grew from my forehead, and my hands were trembling. My very blood wanted that cherry pie. Dabbing my face with the napkin, I told the lad I was fine, only tired.
‘Pie or no pie?’ he asked.
‘No pie!’ I said. He
laid down the bill and returned to the kitchen. After paying up I set out to replenish my and Charlie’s stock of food, humming my tune of virtue. A rooster stood before me in the road, looking for a fight; I tipped my hat to him and he scooted away over the puddles, all brawn and feathers and brainlessness.
With my tooth powder dwindling, I asked the proprietor at the trading post if he carried any and he pointed to a short row of boxes, each of these advertising a different scent or flavor: Sage, pine, mint, and fennel. When he asked which flavor I was after I told him I might stick to mint, as I had been happy with its taste up to then, but the man, a pigeon-in-a-vest type, insisted I sample the others. ‘The spice of life,’ he said, and though I did not care for his satisfied attitude, I was curious about these others and carried them to a washbasin in the back room, careful not to bend or damage the boxes lest I be forced to purchase one I did not care for. I sampled them one after the other. Returning to the front room I told the proprietor, ‘The pine is all right. It offers a fine, clean feeling on the tongue. The sage burns my throat; I did not like it much. The fennel is downright foul. I will take this mint one, as I said before.’
‘It is always better to know for sure,’ he said, an obvious, somewhat idiotic statement to which I did not respond. In addition to the powder I purchased a pound of flour, a pound of coffee, a half pound of sugar, two pounds of beans, two pounds of salted pork, and two pounds of dried fruit, my stomach now actively groaning. I drank a large cup of water and walked to the stable, my insides sloshing with each step.
The stable hand had just finished shoeing the black horse when I entered. ‘I will give you six dollars for the low-backed animal,’ he said. ‘We will call it a dollar for the shoes, so let’s say five dollars.’ I approached Tub and placed a hand on his muzzle. ‘Good morning,’ I told him. I felt he recognized me; he looked at me honestly, and without fear or malice. The stable hand stood at my back. ‘He’ll very probably lose that eye,’ he told me. ‘Will he even pull a cart? I will give you four dollars.’
‘I have decided not to sell him,’ I said.
‘I will give you six dollars, including the shoes.’
‘No, I have changed my mind. Let us discuss the black horse.’
‘Seven dollars is my final offer for the low-backed animal.’
‘What will you give me for the black horse?’
‘I cannot afford the black horse. I will give you eight dollars for the other.’
‘Make me an offer on the black horse,’ I said.
‘Twenty-five dollars.’
‘He is worth fifty dollars.’
‘Thirty dollars with the saddle.’
‘Don’t be ignorant. I will take forty, without the saddle.’
‘I will give you thirty-five dollars.’
‘Thirty-five dollars without the saddle?’
‘Thirty-five, without the saddle, minus a dollar for the shoes.’
‘You expect me to pay for shoes on a horse I’m not keeping?’
‘You asked me to shoe him. Now, you must pay for the service.’
‘You would have shoed him anyway.’
‘That is neither up nor down.’
‘Thirty-four dollars,’ I said.
The hand disappeared into his quarters to fetch his money. I could hear him arguing with a woman about it. He spoke in a hiss, and though I could not grasp the words, I understood the sentiment: Shut up! The man out there is a fool! Charlie entered the stable then, green at the neck but hoping to hide it. When the hand came out with the money, he also brought a bottle of whiskey to toast the deal in good faith. I offered a drink to my brother and he swooned. He was so distracted by his own suffering he did not notice my business dealings until we were ten miles out of town.
Chapter 23
‘Where is the black horse? Why are you still riding Tub?’
‘I had a change of heart and have decided to keep him.’
‘I don’t understand you, brother.’
‘He has been a faithful animal to me.’
‘I don’t understand you. That black horse was one in a million.’
I said, ‘It was a few days ago you were holding me back from selling Tub. You were only converted to my way of thinking when a suitable replacement showed up on the wind, free of charge.’
‘You are always harkening back in arguments, but another time is another time and thus irrelevant. Providence brought you that black horse. And what will become of the man who shuns Providence?’
‘Providence has no place in this discussion. An Indian ate too much and died, that was the source of my good fortune. The point of my argument is that you were only keen on Tub’s departure when it suited you financially.’
‘So I am a drunkard and a miser?’
‘Who is harkening back now?’
‘A drunken miser. There is my sorry fate.’
‘You are a contrarian.’
He lurched, as if hit by a bullet. ‘A drunken, miserly contrarian! The heat of his vicious words!’ He chuckled to himself. In a moment he grew thoughtful and asked, ‘What did we make on the black horse, anyway?’
‘We?’ I said, and I laughed at him.
We quickened the pace of our animals. Charlie’s sickness was stubborn and twice I watched him spit out mouthfuls of bile midstride. Was there any greater agony than riding a horse while brandy-sick? I had to admit my brother took his punishments without complaint, but I knew he could not keep up the pace for longer than a couple of hours, and I believe he was about to call for a rest when we spied a grouping of wagons at the base of a pass in the distance. He headed in their direction, riding purposefully, with an air of dutiful seriousness, but I knew he was only counting the seconds until he could dismount and rest his tortured innards.
We rode around the three wagons but saw no sign of life save for the small fire at its center. Charlie called out a greeting but received no response. He dismounted and moved to enter the circle by climbing over the hitches of two adjoining wagons when the barrel of a bulky rifle emerged silently, viperlike from one of the canopies. Charlie stared up at the gun, his eyes slightly crossing. ‘Okay,’ he said. The barrel rose to his forehead, and a boy of fifteen years or less looked upon us. His face was dirt caked, blistered at the nostrils and mouth, his expression a permanent sneer; his hands were steady and his posture was at ease with the weapon—I believed he was well acquainted with it. His eyes were full of mistrust and dislike and he was in short a most unfriendly young man, and I was concerned he would murder my brother if we did not communicate ourselves, and quickly. ‘We don’t mean you any mischief, son,’ I said.
‘That’s what the last ones told me,’ said the boy. ‘Then they hit me on the head and took all my potato cakes.’
‘We don’t want any potato cakes,’ Charlie said.
‘We’re a good match then, because I haven’t got any.’
I could see the boy was near starved, and told him he was welcome to our pork if he was hungry. ‘I bought it just this morning, in town,’ I said. ‘And flour, too. Would you like that, boy? A feast of pork and biscuits?’
‘You are a liar,’ he said. ‘There’s no town near here. My daddy went searching for food a week ago.’
Charlie looked over at me. ‘I wonder if that is the man we met on the trail yesterday. He was in a hurry to get back and feed his son, remember?’
‘That’s right. And he was heading this way, too.’
‘Was he riding a gray mare?’ asked the boy, his expression transformed to one of pitiful hopefulness.
Charlie nodded. ‘A gray mare, yes he was. He told us what a fine boy you were, how proud he was of you. He was worried sick, he said. Couldn’t hardly wait to see you.’
‘Daddy said that?’ the boy asked doubtfully. ‘Did he really?’
‘Yes, he was mighty glad to be heading back. It’s a shame we had to kill him.’
‘W-what?’ Before the boy could recover Charlie snatched the rifle away and jammed him hard on th
e head with the stock. The boy fell back into the canopied wagon and was silent. ‘Let’s get some coffee on that fire,’ Charlie said, jumping over the hitches.
Chapter 24
Charlie had been invigorated by this latest adventure —the blood rush had banished his sickness he said—and he fell to preparing our lunch with an uncommon enthusiasm. He agreed to make enough for the boy, but not until I checked his condition, because for all we knew the blow had killed him. I put my head in the canopy and saw he was alive, sitting up now, and turned away from me. ‘We’re cooking some food out here,’ I told him. ‘You don’t have to eat with us if you don’t want to but my brother’s making you a plateful.’
‘Bastards killed my daddy,’ said the boy, choking on his tears.
‘Oh, that was just a ruse to get clear of your rifle.’
He turned and looked at me. The blow had split his forehead and a trickle of blood was thickening over his eyebrow. ‘You mean it?’ he asked. ‘You put it on God?’
‘That wouldn’t mean anything to me, so I won’t bother with it. I’ll put in on my horse, though, how about that?’
‘You never saw a man on a gray mare?’
‘We never saw him.’
The boy collected himself and began climbing toward me over the wagon benches. I took his arm to help him down; his legs were weak as I walked him to the fire. ‘Look who’s back from the brink of lonely death,’ Charlie said cheerfully.
‘I want my rifle,’ said the boy.
‘Best to brace yourself for disappointment then.’
‘We’ll give it back on our way out,’ I told the boy. I handed him a plate of pork and beans and biscuits but he did not eat, he only stared mournfully at the food, as though the meal itself was somehow melancholy to him. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.