“I have already pointed out my obligation to the boy,” says Andrew. “If he has murdered, and I don’t for one minute believe him capable of such a deed, he has set the balance straight by saving not only myself but three others from certain death at the hands of the Sioux. Does this not affect your position? ‘The quality of mercy is not strained, but droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.’”
“The Bard was never in Missouri, sir. The state demands its pound of flesh and will get it.”
“You do not represent the state,” says Lydia. “You are a private operative without the weight of elected office behind you. I demand that you release Huckleberry immediately.”
“Aha! You confirm my suspicions. Your readiness to use his true name reveals acquaintance with his history. Be thankful, ma’am, that I do not report your name to the military authorities at Fort Laramie as an accessory in crime. I’m sure Colonel Beckwith would appreciate such information.”
Bulldog passed through Fort Laramie so fast he never got to meet the colonel’s wife, so now he can’t understand why everyone started laughing. It’s the catching kind that builds and builds till folks fall off chairs and get pained in the chest from cackling so. He just stared at them in puzzlement, and when they kept it up he got mad all over again.
“What is the meaning of this?” he says, getting red in the face.
That just made things worse. Even the Injuns was laughing now. Bulldog practickly twitched his mustache off his lips he’s squirming so much with the insultingness of it all.
“Be quiet!” he roars. “Are you human beings or hyenas?”
They set out to prove they’re hyenas, and sure enough, down went a couple of Injuns off their chairs. Even Lydia was giving out a real unladylike noise. The pistol barrel got pulled out of my ear and fired into the roof, then there’s a thump behind me and Chauncey Thermopylae Barrett slid to the floor like a sack of grain. I turned around and seen Mr. Walker has snuck up behind the bulldog while he’s watching everyone laugh and brained him with a whiskey jug.
“Never liked him from the time he walked in,” he says. “I figured he’s somethin’ strange when he wanted his horse stabled separate from the rest. I reckon it’s so the boy here never suspicioned it when he got to stabling his own.”
“Thank you, Mr. Walker,” says Andrew. “You have prevented a gross injustice from taking place.”
“My pleasure. What do you figure on doing with him now?”
“Put a ball in the sonovabitch’s head,” says Bob, hiccuping from laughing too much.
“A more practical step would be to tie him up before he revives,” says Randolph. “Mr. Walker, do you have a rope?”
“I surely do,” he says, and went to fetch it.
When Bulldog was all trussed up we propped him over by the fire next to Remus, who laid his head on his lap real comfortable. Then we figured on what to do next. I warn’t about to put no ball in his head, which Bob and Jesse reckon is the only permanent way out, then Lydia says:
“We will leave tomorrow morning, but Mr. Barrett must be delayed for as long as possible. We must have ample time to place distance between our party and him.”
“Good thinkin’ there, Mrs. Beckwith,” says Jesse. “The best way to give a man delayment is break his leg I reckon.”
“I would prefer that we do him no physical injury.”
“How about a broke foot? That ain’t much.”
“He could still ride,” puts in Bob. “Boy, you got to steal his horse so’s he can’t foller on, not without he wants to leg it to California.”
Everyone give out an idea on what to do, and it was gratifying the way they was all on my side, just as different as can be from the way folks in a town would of acted. It seems like out here you get judged by the way people take a shine to you, not by who and what you was back east. It made a difference to Bob and Jesse now they knowed I ain’t no Injun, not even a halfbreed, which is kind of two-faced and one-eyed, but better than having them for enemies.
Finally we come up with a plan, and it’s this: Mr. Walker is going to keep the bulldog tied up, but he’ll keep him drunk too so’s he won’t get discomforted, and he’ll keep him that way till the next wagon train comes through then turn him loose. If the bulldog is sober enough to start accusing him in front of folks he’ll just deny all of it and say Bulldog ain’t nothing but a pathetical drunk, and would the train kindly take him away with them on account of he’s just a blamed nuisance around the fort. If the wagonmaster says yes he’ll have to travel along slow with them because I aim to take Bob’s advice and steal his horse. It’s a crime, but I ain’t got no choice. The others reckoned it’s only a little crime anyway, and we started the plan there and then by pouring whiskey down the bulldog’s throat before he come to and pretty soon he commenced to snore.
The card players went back to their game and Jim went outside and come back dressed in his usual shirt and britches. Everyone give him a cheer and Jesse says he ain’t going to give him no trouble over the way Jim bloodied his nose that time, and even says Jim’s a good nigger, which shows how drunk he is because nobody changes their mind on Injuns and niggers that quick, not unless they been sucking goodwill out of a jug. But, like I say, it’s better than being enemies.
Mr. Walker give Andrew and Lydia a little cabin outside to bed down in and when they went out the door Bob and Jesse give them a serenade of whistles and off-color remarks, but they never minded. I seen Randolph looking kind of sour and I figure he’s jealous at the way the lovebirds has made up together. After that he gambled fast and grim and took a heap of money off the others, but when he seen they warn’t too happy about losing to a gambler by trade he let them win it all back again. It was the gambling for itself he wanted that night, not cash profit. After that him and Mr. Walker put their heads together over a map Randolph has got and talked awhile. Randolph drawed some lines on it but I never took all that much notice, being halfway drunk myself. When they finished we was all tired from the long day. The Injuns left and we bedded down beside the fire, but not before Bulldog Barrett got give another slug of whiskey. His face is smiling now, but it never made him look more pleasant.
21
Westward Again—The Dread Disease—A Band Divided—Bravery and Sacrifice—The Nature of Reality
The horses was saddled up at first light and I got on board Barrett’s gelding, a mighty tall horse almost as good as Jupiter. The bulldog was snoring the last I seen and Mr. Walker says he’ll feed him some so he don’t die, but mainly he’ll get whiskey till a train comes along. I give him a handshake and we started off. The lovebirds was kind of peaky looking from not enough sleep and the rest of us hung over from liquor, but me and Jim felt spry in spite of it, me with my tall horse and him with his britches.
The mist was thinner and finally got burned away by the sun around noon so we can see the mountains again. We followed the trail southwest for two days without nothing happening that’s worth setting down except maybe about Randolph being real quiet on account of watching Andrew and Lydia riding side by side all the time. We never seen no more Injuns and the land started downhill again, still rough but easier on wagons I reckon, and by and by we come to a canyon with steep walls that give off an echo for every sound you made. We had a fine old time the first hour, singing and shouting and poetrying and hearing it all come back to us four and five times over, all excepting for Randolph who’s quiet like I say.
Bob was singing “Oh! Susanna” when I heard another voice mixing in with his that warn’t none of us, and when Lydia heard it too she told Bob to hush. We could all hear the other voice plain now, and it’s weak and calling for help, only we can’t tell where it’s coming from so we split up to search among the rocks. Sometimes it was stronger, then it got weak again, maybe a trick of the echo or else the person that’s doing it is tired. We searched an hour and more before Jim give a shout and we all come over to him, and there’s a woman lying between some rocks in a little shallow space w
ith a dead man and boy beside her. She’s skinny and her clothes all covered in dust and she never even had the strength to sit up, so Andrew got down and lifted her and give her water from his canteen, but she never drunk it, just looked in his face and slumped back, dead right there in his arms.
Randolph looked the other two over and says:
“There are no wounds.”
“Must of been thirst,” says Jesse.
“No it warn’t,” says Bob, and picked up a water flask and sloshed it to show it ain’t empty, then he pulls a few cans and sacks out of a cleft in the rock. “There’s food here too, so they never starved.”
The same idea hit us all at once.
“Cholera,” says Randolph, and everyone took a step back. Andrew had the decentness not to just drop the woman and laid her down gentle, but he backed off sharp after he done it. He says:
“Poor souls, abandoned by a train to spend their last days alone. Man’s inhumanity to man is boundless.”
“We got to get away from here right now,” says Bob, sounding shaky.
“He’s right,” says Randolph. “We can’t risk contagion by even stopping to bury them.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” asks Lydia, real upset. “It seems so heartless, simply leaving them for the vultures.”
“They will feel nothing,” says Andrew, and went over to put an arm around her for comfort.
“Get away from her!” yells Randolph. “That woman breathed directly into your face. You may already have been contaminated.”
All eyes was on the lovebirds. Lydia never stepped away from Andrew, just stayed right where she was to show she ain’t afraid, which is brave or foolish depending on how you look at it. Randolph and the others headed for their horses and mounted up.
“Come, my dear,” says Andrew. “There is nothing we can do here.”
So we all moved on, and further along the canyon we seen abandoned wagons but never dared look in them for fear of what’s inside. There was a smell on the breeze that filled our noses, partly dead men and women and partly burnt wood, because some of the wagons was set alight to burn out the cholera the owners fell sick to. The wrecks was cold ashes now with just the iron hoops and wheel rims left in the piles of dead embers, which ain’t a cheerful sight. The whole canyon was littered with wagons burned or still standing with their canvas flapping gentle in the breeze. Twenty-three I counted, and there’s proberly more I never seen, burned down behind boulders and hid from sight unless you looked, but we never felt like looking.
It took all that day and part of the night to get out of that place. We never stopped to make camp till them echoing walls flattened out into open country, and even here there’s a wagon now and then, but the horses was tired so we had to stop.
Bob and Jesse set up their own campfire away from us and never come near Andrew, who done a poem about it.
There once were two men from the east
Afraid of not man or beast
But when they espied
A woman who died
They moved like lightning that’s greased.
Lydia laughed, but it sounded kind of hollow. Randolph excused himself after we et and went over to join Bob and Jesse, but they never let him near now that he’s been with us and even aimed their guns at him to make him get away, so he had to come back to us and looked considerable annoyed over it. There warn’t no friendly talk and we bedded down.
It was a short night for sleeping on account of traveling partway through the dark, but we got fed and mounted up soon as it was light, wanting to put distance between us and that canyon, and when the range it’s in was miles behind things got relaxed a little, but Bob and Jesse rode way ahead still. Then in the afternoon Andrew started to sweat even if we’re too high up in the mountains still for the air to be warm. He sweated a river and drenched his clothes and went red in the face. Lydia made him get off his horse and lie down, and Bob and Jesse come back to see what’s wrong. Andrew brung up his breakfast and they took one look and Bob says:
“We’ll be taking our share of the supplies and moving ahead.”
“It may be something else,” says Lydia.
“Nope. We seen the cholera back in the Berringer train. He’s got it for sure. He’ll last a day or two at most. I’m real sorry, but we ain’t goin’ to stay around and get catched too.”
“I understand.”
They drawed the rations and loaded them on a pack horse and was ready to go right quick. They never went over to say goodbye to Lydia or Andrew, just asked Randolph if he’s coming too.
“No,” he says, “I believe I’ll linger on awhile.”
“She ain’t ever goin’ to be your’n,” says Jesse, “not even when he’s dead.”
It warn’t a tactful thing to say and Randolph knocked him down for it.
“Get out, you gutless scum!” he says, furious, and they never stopped to argue, just clumb aboard and headed west.
“Good riddance,” says Randolph.
Andrew was in terrible pain now, twitching and sweating and shuddering, and just this morning he was fine. Cholera is the suddenest sickness there is, and it was pitiful to see his face all clenched with agony so bad he let out a cry that squeezed your heart to hear. There’s a wind whipping along the ground and Lydia says we got to get Andrew under cover, so I scouted around on horseback and found a wagon a little way along the trail and held my breath and looked inside. There ain’t no dead people, just a few bits and pieces left behind. I went back and told of it and Lydia got Andrew on his horse all by herself, not letting no one else near. When we got to the wagon she got him bedded down inside with a heap of blankets to keep him warm. It took all the water in all our canteens to keep him from catching fire from the fever, so while there’s still light I done some more scouting and come across a little spring a few miles away and refilled all the canteens and brung them back.
It’s night by then and Lydia lit a lamp that’s in the wagon and wetted cloths ripped off her own petticoats and bathed Andrew’s brow to cool it, and when he never had no more to puke up and started running at the other end she ripped off more petticoat and cleaned him, never once letting me or Jim or Randolph near. We built a fire a little way off and every now and then Lydia called and I went over with a long stick and she wrapped the messed cloth around the end, which I took back and dumped in the flames. Andrew cried out regular with the pain inside him and it was awful to hear. Randolph laid out cards on his handkerchief and played a game by himself in the firelight while Jim and me took turns with the stick.
No one got no sleep till near dawn, and then only because Andrew went quiet. I went over to the wagon to see why, hoping he ain’t dead.
“Mrs. Beckwith, is he all right still?”
She never showed her face through the flaps, just spoke to me, and her voice was tired and weary.
“Andrew is alive, Huckleberry, but fading fast. He is unconscious, which may be a blessing. I will not need your help for some little while. You must sleep.”
“I ain’t tired, ma’am, and I reckon you must be awful hungry by now. Can I fix you something?”
“Thank you, but I have no appetite.”
“It ain’t no trouble. Please, Mrs. Beckwith, you done all the hard work.…”
“Very well. Coffee, no more.”
“I’ll fetch it along directly.”
Which I done, and left the cup nearby so she can climb down and get it. She never wanted me to touch no part of the wagon. I seen her face in the early light and she’s a changed woman, her skin pale and her eyes sunk deep with weariness.
“Thank you,” she says, and tried to raise a smile, but it’s crooked and sad. Says I:
“Ain’t there nothing else I can do?”
“I think not. You have been a great help. Now all we can do is pray.”
She clumb back inside and I went over and put more wood on the fire. The sun come up over the mountains and the light was chilly and cold as the wind moaning across the
land. Remus prowled around, restless and whining.
“How is he?” asks Randolph, still slapping down cards.
“Dying, I reckon.”
He just give a nod and kept on playing, never even looked up. He’s got to be the coldest man I ever met. I slept for awhile, then heard Lydia calling my name. I went over and she’s stood on the tailboard and looking like her own mother she’s so wore out.
“Andrew has gone,” she says real soft, and I looked at her and she looked at me and we never spoke for a minute. Jim and Randolph come over and I told them and they took off their hats.
“Mrs. Beckwith,” says Randolph, “you have my deepest sympathy. Mr. Collins was a gifted artist and a man to be admired.”
“Thank you, Mr. Squires,” she says, and he goes on:
“But now you must think of yourself. Allow me to help you down,” he says, and took a step forward and lifted his arms.
“Stop!” she says, and swayed some with the effort of talking so loud, and had to grab the canvas to keep from falling. He stopped and she lifted her chin and says:
“I shall not be leaving the wagon. I have the disease.”
None of us spoke a word. I reckon we all knowed it was bound to happen, her nursing Andrew close that way. She must of knowed it too, but it never stopped her.
“In what way may we assist, you, ma’am?” says Randolph, and his voice was choked, so he ain’t so hardbitten as he likes to give out.
“There is nothing,” she says, and turns to me. “Huckleberry, you and Jim must make all speed. You have lost a day already. Mr. Barrett may already be on your trail. I beg of you, take Jupiter and flee.”
“You can’t be sure you got it, Mrs. Beckwith. Maybe you’re just tired is all.…”