Zeke rode over to the Cave only to find it so crowded with ruffians that he could scarcely find a dry spot large enough to allow him to spread his bedroll. A sizeable gang of bank robbers were there, led by a noted killer named Slick Tom. Slick Tom boasted a scar that ran from the bridge of his nose straight up the center of his forehead, and into his hair. The scar was as red as a centipede; it throbbed when Slick Tom grew agitated, which was often. The rest of the bank robbers were mild, by comparison, except for a huge fellow named Doak, who wore only an undershirt, pants, and brogan shoes. Doak had once been shot in the stomach, the result being that his innards rumbled continually, like low thunder in July.
The only fugitive in the cave whom Zeke knew well was a local named Raw Sheed, a once-respected farmer who had first disgraced and then bankrupted himself by his wild passion for Belle Blue, the madam in Dog Town. Belle’s power over Raw Sheed was so complete that she had begun to send him off on robberies, a task for which he was ill suited. He had recently botched a robbery in a little town near Fort Smith, and had been wounded in both legs by a shotgun blast from the storekeeper.
Zeke spent his first drizzly day in the Cave digging #2 shot out of the backs of Raw Sheed’s legs. He even had one or two pellets in his backside, and a few as low as his heels. Zeke had to work with a penknife, his bowie knife being another one of the useful items he had left at home during his flight from Becca. The extractions took four hours, and resulted in a total of sixty-three pellets of #2 shot being gouged out of Sheed. Raw was a stoic fellow; he chewed tobacco and read his Bible during the whole operation, emitting only an occasional snort when Zeke dug particularly deep into his backside.
Raw’s devotion to scripture reminded Zeke that he had recently been presented with a Bible by the woman who was now refusing to be with him as a wife.
“If you believe the Bible, why would you let a whore send you off to rob stores?” Zeke asked, while digging pellets out of Raw’s left calf.
Raw considered the question, but did not answer immediately. It was his mother’s Bible he was reading. She had been a religious woman, and his own pa had even preached occasionally when a regular preacher was unavailable. Raw had read the Bible, day by day, throughout his life. It relaxed him as nothing else did. Beyond that, though, Zeke’s question seemed beside the point. Reading the Bible was reading; being with Belle Blue was living. If Belle Blue wanted him to rob a store, then he had best try and do it. To him it seemed simple—he could not quite figure out why Zeke Proctor was pestering him about it.
“The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ ” Zeke quoted. “It also says you ain’t to traffic with harlots. Now you’ve stolen, and you’ve trafficked with harlots, too. I expect it’s the Hot Place for you, Raw, when you die.”
“That’ll be all right, then,” Raw said, pulling up his pants. He meant to go back to Belle Blue as soon as his wounds scabbed over, and was not much interested in the theological points Zeke was trying to make.
The bank robbers from Kansas had been watching closely the operation Zeke was performing. Every time he extracted a pellet, he would dip it in water and lay it on a piece of buckskin. Big Doak, particularly, regarded the growing pile of pellets with interest.
“Are you plannin’ to keep them pellets?” he asked Zeke finally. “If you ain’t, I’d be obliged if I could have them.”
Doak seemed a mild fellow. On the other hand, he was awfully large. Zeke felt it wise to be polite.
“Why, yes, I dug ’em out of Mr. Sheed here. I believe it’s finders keepers,” he said. “I might load them pellets in my shotgun and shoot a fat goose. A nice fat goose would be tasty.”
Slick Tom had a laugh that sounded a good deal like a caw. The red scar lit up along the bridge of his nose.
“I think Doak wants them pellets,” he said, with a hint of threat.
“He’s a big ’un. He might twist your head off, if he don’t get what he wants.”
“I doubt it,” Zeke said. “The fact is, if he approached me right, he could arrange to purchase the pellets. I ain’t seen a goose recently, anyway.”
“Doak don’t have a cent,” Slick Tom observed.
“I thought you boys robbed several banks,” Zeke said. “Why’s he so broke?”
“I don’t let him keep money, that’s why,” Slick Tom informed him. “He’s too dumb to be trusted with money. Why don’t you just give him the pellets—they’ve done been used already.”
Zeke reached over with his knife and scraped the pellets into a neat pile. Then he folded the buckskin into a pouch, and tied the pouch with a little piece of rawhide string.
“I dug ’em out, why should I give them to anybody?” Zeke said blunty. “It’s not my fault you don’t trust this gentleman with money.”
“You could consider them rent,” Slick Tom said, his scar beginning to throb noticeably.
“Rent?” Zeke said, puzzled. “What would I be renting?”
“This here place you spread your pallet,” Slick Tom said, gesturing at Zeke’s spot. “We was here first. We don’t have to share this nice dry cave with just anybody that happens along—particularly an Indian.”
Zeke stood up, and casually stuffed the little pouch of #2 shot in his hip pocket.
“I’ve been staying in this cave now and then for twenty-five years,” he told Slick Tom. “I won’t be paying no rent on it to a bunch of travelers from Kansas. This cave’s for the use of anybody who’s on the scout. You’re a goddamn impudent fool to try and impose yourself, sir.”
Slick Tom looked a little startled, when Zeke addressed him in such a tone. He had six boys with him; most of them looked startled, too.
Zeke then looked at Doak, who seemed slightly puzzled by all the talk.
“I’ll sell you the pellets for five cents,” he informed the large man. “I think that’s a fair price. You could kill a fat deer with that many pellets, if you get close enough and aim good.”
“What if he’d rather twist your Cherokee head off than pay?” Slick Tom inquired.
Zeke immediately came out with both his pistols. He pointed one at Doak, and the other at Slick Tom.
“If he wants to twist my head off, he’s welcome to get to twisting,” he said. “I’ll give him something worse than a thundering stomach, if he tries it. And I’ll give you something worse than a red scar, if you don’t shut your damn trap. This cave ain’t yours, and I won’t be paying rent.”
“Why, the man’s brash,” Slick Tom said, reaching into his pocket. “I guess I’ll pay your nickel for you, Doak.” He handed Zeke the coin.
There was no more comment. Zeke put away his guns, and spent the afternoon playing cards with Raw Sheed, who had to squat most of the time because of his injuries.
Even so, the atmosphere was tense in the Cave. Zeke did not trust the Kansas company, and it was still drizzling, too. Being on the scout was a damn nuisance, he felt; he was bitter at Becca for forcing him out with her standoffish attitude. Besides, he was too old to be forced to endure such hardships as sleeping out every night, and cooking his own meals. When he was a young man, it had been more of a high adventure. Now, it was just a damn nuisance.
The next morning, he saddled up early and left. Ned Christie had a nice, dry house, and Jewel, his daughter, was a fine cook. He thought he would go visit the Christies for a bit. Maybe Jewel would cook another possum. This time, without the trial hanging over him, he could eat with a more hearty appetite.
15
NED SAW SMOKE RISING ABOVE THE TREETOPS WHEN HE WAS STILL two miles from Tahlequah. Not long after he saw it, he smelled it. Something was burning in town, and from the size of the smoke cloud, he judged it to be something big.
He urged his horse down the twisty trail off the Mountain as fast as he thought prudent. The old trail was not much used now, and vines and dense underbrush had grown across parts of it, necessitating frequent detours. Ned proceeded rapidly but cautiously, for he did not want to risk crippling his best horse—no
t with the white marshals on the roads. Whatever it was that burned in Tahlequah would probably be pretty well burned up by the time he got to town.
The largest frame building in Tahlequah was the building where the Senate met. Ned had the fear that some rascal who did not like the way a vote had gone might have set fire to the structure as an act of spite. But when he raced into town, he discovered that the explanation was simpler. It was the Senate building that had caught on fire, but the cause of the fire was a whirly little dust devil which had somehow whirled up sparks from the blacksmith’s forge and dropped them on the shingled roof of the Senate House, igniting a couple of the old, dry shingles. Fortunately, a bucket brigade had formed quickly; even more fortunate was the fact that a good well stood not twenty feet from the back door of the building. By the time Ned raced up and dismounted, the fire was mostly out, although several men were still passing oak buckets of water up a ladder to the men on the roof, who doused the water on the smouldering spots.
Ned jumped down and ran inside the building. As one of the senators, he felt he should do his best to make a thorough inspection. He knew there would have to be a Senate session called soon to assess the damage and make arrangements for the speedy repair of the roof.
Quick as Ned was, Chief Luke Bushyhead, President of the Senate, was quicker. The Chief was kneeling down under one of the holes in the roof, a yardstick in his hand. He was already measuring the areas where he could see open sky, though some of the shingles around the open patches were still smouldering.
To Ned, the damage did not look too bad. A patch of roof not more than six feet by ten feet seemed to have burned away. A good, stout tarp would stretch over a hole that size. The senators might have to scrunch together a little, if the Senate convened on a rainy day, but to Ned, who had been afraid the whole building had burned to the ground, the damage seemed modest.
Chief Bushyhead thought otherwise. He was annoyed with the elements. The blacksmith’s shop had been just down the street from the Senate House for more than twenty years without anything irregular happening. Now, because a capricious little dust devil had insisted on meandering right down the main street of Tahlequah, picking up sparks from the blacksmith’s forge, he was missing a good many square feet of roof from the building where he worked. It was vexing!
Of course, such things did just happen, knowledge that did not mitigate the Chief’s vexation one bit. Now, to top it off, here was Ned Christie, standing where he had no business standing. The Chief looked up at Ned, and scowled. He had been President of the Senate for fifteen years, a position that had accustomed him to the efficient use of authority. Luke Bushyhead was not slow to express his displeasure when things did not go to suit him.
When Chief Bushyhead looked up and scowled at him, Ned was taken aback. His father and the Chief had been good friends, and he himself had always enjoyed good relations with the old man. When he had been a boy of about six, the Chief had taken him into the woods one day and patiently taught him how to make snares—small, delicate snares, just adequate for the snaring of quail, or squirrels and other small, tasty varmints.
“Where’s your horse, Edward—and is he fit to ride?” the Chief asked, without preamble. Chief Bushyhead did not believe in nicknames or diminutives; he always called every person he dealt with by his correct given name, which was Edward, in Ned’s case. Men and women deserved the dignity of full names, the Chief believed, and he did not truck with jollity or abbreviation where proper names were concerned.
“Why, yes . . . of course he’s fit to ride, I just rode him here,” Ned said, a little hurt by the Chief’s curt approach. Of course, the damage to the roof had probably annoyed the old man considerably, but Ned, after all, had not set the fire. Instead, he had hurried in, ready to do his duty as a senator and help assess the damage.
“Then get back on him, and get back home,” the Chief said. “I don’t want to hear any extra talk about it, either. There’s a white marshal down at the jail right now with a warrant for your arrest. If you don’t get out of here promptly, you’ll be riding off to Fort Smith with a pair of handcuffs for bracelets.”
That said, the Chief knelt down, squinted up at the hole just above him, and carefully took a measurement. As soon as he was convinced he had the measurement accurate, he wrote the figure down on the back of an envelope, taking time to write the figure clearly and legibly. Always a methodical man, he had once possessed a remarkable memory, brilliantly demonstrated by his fluency in both spoken and written Cherokee and English. In 1827, back in the Old Nation, Chief Luke Bushyhead had worked for the Cherokee Phoenix, the first Indian newspaper published in the United States. After a few years, he was finally made editor. Chief Bushyhead had been one of the tribal leaders who voted to adopt the Cherokee syllabary created by Sequoyah— a Cherokee hunter who spoke no English, but who was impressed with the way whites communicated by making tracks on paper, or “talking leaves.” It took Sequoyah a mere twelve years to create the new syllabary. The Phoenix was published in alternating columns of Cherokee and English, the result being that Luke Bushyhead’s memory had stayed sharp as a tack. But that was long ago, and he had been a much younger man. Now that the Chief had entered his eightieth year, his memory was not reliable enough to be trusted with even complex figures—or simple figures, for that matter. He tried never to be without an envelope and a pencil stub, so that he could give his memory a little written support.
Ned was stunned. On the spur of the moment, he had told his young wife a lie about a preacher and raced to Tahlequah for a short holiday from marital responsibilities, only to be ordered back home by the President of the Senate before he had been in town two minutes—all because a white marshal thought he had the right to arrest him and take him back to Arkansas.
“Can’t I just go talk to the marshal?” Ned asked. “It’s poor behaviour just to run from him.”
The Chief had knelt down to take his next measurement, and did not appreciate young Edward Christie’s interruption.
“Your father is a man of sense. Evidently you ain’t,” he said. “When the white law is after you, the smart thing to do is avoid it. In fact, that’s the only thing to do. Go home now, and look after your wife. If this marshal wants you bad enough to follow you up on the Mountain, then you can try talking to him there.”
Ned looked out the window. Half the citizens of Tahlequah were milling around in the street, talking about the fire. There was lots of company available, which was exactly what he had come to town to enjoy. Week after week on the Mountain, he saw no one but Jewel and her yappy sister. If he did happen to get a guest to chat with, it was invariably Tuxie Miller. Now here he was, being ordered out of town before he had a chance to visit with a single soul.
It purely and simply did not seem fair.
“All I done during that shootout was defend people in the courtroom,” Ned said. “I was a juryman, appointed by Judge Sixkiller. If I hadn’t made a stand, the Becks and those rowdies they hired would have killed practically everyone at the trial.”
Chief Bushyhead ignored him. He carefully took one last measurement, wrote the figure down on the envelope, and stood up. Even standing, the Chief was bent from age.
“Maybe the marshal would change his mind about arresting me if I talked to him honest,” Ned said. “Defending people ain’t a crime. I hate to ride back home without even buying vittles.”
Chief Bushyhead had never enjoyed protracted conversation. Ned Christie had been a good senator, but he was not yet old enough to have particularly good sense where the affairs of the rest of the world were concerned, the world outside of Indian Territory and the Cherokee Nation: the irrational world of the white man. Though the Chief was in a hurry to go down to the lumberyard and order the lumber needed to fix the roof, he paused for a moment longer, and looked up at the tall young man who had shown up in town on the wrong day.
“That marshal that’s down at the jail just killed his own deputy in a dispute,” the Chief
informed him. “He’s here to follow orders, and his orders are to arrest you. He’ll do it or kill you, if he knows you’re in town.”
“I doubt I’d let him kill me,” Ned said, his pride offended.
“Then you’d kill him, and the fat would be in the fire,” the Chief said, blunt. “All the whites would see is two dead marshals. They might send an army in here and move us off, like they done in the Old Place. All you boys need to stay home until this thing cools off. Go home now, like I told you, and look after your wife.”
With that, Chief Bushyhead turned and left.
Before Ned could move, he got drenched. Some fool had heaved a bucketful of cold well water right through the hole in the roof.
“Hold it up there, do you want to drown me?” Ned yelled. “Pour that water on the dern shingles—when I want a bath, I’ll ask for it!”
The response from the roof was not friendly. The local butcher, whose name was Orvel, looked down briefly through the hole in the roof.
“We’re trying to put out a fire,” Orvel responded.
“Well, I ain’t on fire, the roof is!” Ned said.
“Move out from under the hole if you don’t want to get wet, then!” Orvel advised.
“I’m a senator, I’ll stand where I please,” Ned said. “I count five shingles that are still smouldering. Pour that dern water on them.”
He walked over to the chair he usually occupied when the Senate met, sat down in it, and looked out the window again. The crowd was still milling in the street; abundant company was available. But down the street, he could see the marshal’s black horse, hitched in front of the jail. He decided to sit in his chair for a while and wait. Maybe if he waited, the marshal would get on his horse and leave; maybe the man would head out of town and arrest some Becks. They were the people the white law ought to be after, anyway.