The Sisters Brothers (8 page)

Chapter 26

We dunked the boy in the stream and he awoke with a start. He was happy to see us, amused as he sat up. ‘I have never come to in running water before.’ He clapped the surface with his palm. ‘My
God,
it’s cold.’

‘What happened to you?’ I asked.

‘At the start of the woods I met a group of trappers on horseback, four of them, said they were looking for a red-colored bear. When I told them I hadn’t seen the bear they hit me on the head with a club. I dropped to the dirt and they rode off laughing. After I got my bearings I climbed back on old Paul and he led me here, to you all.’

‘He led himself to water, is what he did,’ said Charlie.

‘No,’ said the boy, patting and stroking Lucky Paul’s face. ‘His thoughts were with me, and he did what was needed.’

Charlie said, ‘You sound like my brother and his horse, Tub.’ He turned to me. ‘You and this boy should come together and form a committee or association of some kind.’

‘Which way did these men go?’ I asked the boy.

‘The Protectors of Moronic Beasts,’ said Charlie.

The boy said, ‘I heard them say they were heading back to Mayfield. Is that a town? I wonder if that’s where my father is.’

‘Mayfield is the boss man around here,’ I explained, relaying to Charlie what the prospector had said about the hundred-dollar tariff for the elusive bear’s pelt. Charlie said any man who would pay that much for a bear skin was a fool. The boy, washing the blood from his face and hair, said a hundred dollars would buy him all he needed in a lifetime. I pointed out the camp across the stream and told him he might make use of the fire and find temporary shelter there. At this, he appeared confused. ‘I thought I would come along with you two.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Charlie. ‘It was humorous the one time, but that’s the end of that.’

‘Now that we are clear of the pass, Lucky Paul will show you his stuff.’

‘Last you said he was one for the hills.’

‘He is slick as grease on the flats.’

‘No and no again,’ Charlie said.

The boy appealed to me with a sorrowful look but I told him he was on his own. He started crying and Charlie moved to strike him; I held my brother back and he broke off, returning to the camp to pack. I do not know what it was about that boy but just looking at him, even I wanted to clout him on the head. It was a head that invited violence. Now he was weeping in earnest, with bubbles of mucus blooming from his nostrils, and no sooner had the right nostril’s bubble exploded than another took shape in the left. I explained we were in no position to care for children, that our way was a swift and dangerous one, a speech likely made for nothing, the boy being so engrossed with his own sadness I do not think he heard my words. At last, fearful I might hurt him if he did not cease his mewling, I walked the boy across the stream to the prospector’s camp and pulled the tobacco pouch from my saddlebag. Showing him the gold, I told him, ‘This will get you back to your home, and your girl, if you can avoid having your skull knocked from your shoulders. There is horse meat in that shelter. I suggest you feed yourself and Lucky Paul and rest for the night. At first light I want you to backtrack, just the same way you came.’ I handed him the pouch and he stood there staring at it in his palm. Charlie had seen the transaction out of the corner of his eye and he moved to stand beside us.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked me.

‘You are giving me this?’ said the boy.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Charlie asked.

I told the boy, ‘Return over the pass and keep to the north. When you arrive in Jacksonville, find the sheriff there and explain your situation. If you think him trustworthy, ask him to exchange your dust for hard cash.’

‘Ho-ho!’ said the boy, bouncing the pouch in his hand.

‘I am against this,’ Charlie said. ‘You are throwing that money away.’

I said, ‘That was money pulled from the ground, when neither one of us needs it.’

‘Simply dug up from the ground, is that all? But I seem to recall some element of work involved outside of wholesomely burrowing in the soil.’

‘Well, the boy has my share, if not yours.’

‘When did my share enter into the conversation, even?’

‘Never mind then.’

‘Who ever said anything about it?’

‘Never mind.’ Refocusing on the boy, I said, ‘Once the sheriff sets you right with the dust I want you to outfit yourself with some new clothes, ones that make you look older. I should think it wise to buy yourself the largest hat you can find, that it might cover up your head. Also you will need a new horse.’

‘What about Lucky Paul?’ asked the boy.

‘You should sell him for whatever price you can get. If you cannot find a buyer I would advise abandoning him.’

The boy shook his head. ‘I will never part with him.’

‘Then you will never get home. He will hold you up until your money’s gone and you’re both starved. I am trying to help you, do you understand? If you don’t listen to me I will take that gold dust back from you.’

The boy withdrew into silence. I threw some wood on the fire and instructed him to dry his clothes well before sunset. He stripped down but did not hang his clothing; it lay in a heap in the mud and sand and he stood before us, lumpily naked and full of petulance and defeat. He was an unattractive creature with his clothes on; in the nude I thought he looked something like a goat. He began once more to cry, which I took as my cue to sever our ties. As I climbed onto Tub I wished the boy safe travels, but these were empty words, for he was clearly doomed, and it was a mistake to have given him that gold but it was not as though I could take it back now. He stood there weeping and watching us go, while behind him Lucky Paul entered and collapsed the prospector’s tent, and I thought, Here is another miserable mental image I will have to catalog and make room for.

Chapter 27

We headed south. The banks were sandy but hard packed and we rode at an easy pace on opposite sides of the stream. The sun pushed through the tops of the trees and warmed our faces; the water was translucent and three-foot trout strolled upriver, or hung in the current, lazy and fat. Charlie called over to say he was impressed with California, that there was something in the air, a fortuitous energy, was the phrase he used. I did not feel this but understood what he meant. It was the thought that something as scenic as this running water might offer you not only aesthetic solace but also golden riches; the thought that the earth itself was taking care of you, was in favor of you. This perhaps was what lay at the very root of the hysteria surrounding what came to be known as the Gold Rush: Men desiring a feeling of fortune; the unlucky masses hoping to skin or borrow the luck of others, or the luck of a destination. A seductive notion, and one I thought to be wary of. To me, luck was something you either earned or invented through strength of character. You had to come by it honestly; you could not trick or bluff your way into it.

But then, as if California wished to prove me wrong on this point, we had stopped for a drink of water when the red-haired she-bear emerged from the forest and walked across the stream not thirty yards in front of us. She was fully grown and her pelt, which I had imagined might be blond-ginger, was in fact apple red. She looked at us cursorily and lumbered away into the woods. Charlie checked his pistols and made to follow after her; when I stood by he asked what I was waiting for.

‘We don’t even know where this Mayfield lives,’ I said.

‘We know he lives downriver.’

‘We have been riding downriver all morning. What if we passed him by? I don’t like the idea of climbing hills and mountains with a dead bear tied to my horse.’

‘Mayfield is only after the pelt.’

‘And which of us will skin her?’

‘Whoever shoots her, the other will skin her.’ Now he stepped away from Nimble. ‘You’re really not coming with me?’

‘There is no reason for it.’

‘Best get your knife ready then,’ he said, dashing away into the woods. I stood awhile, watching the passing trout and inspecting Tub’s worsening eye and hoping against hope I would not hear the report from Charlie’s gun. But he was a keen tracker and dead shot, and when his pistol sounded five minutes later I accepted my fate and moved toward the noise with my knife. I found Charlie sitting next to the fallen animal. He was panting and laughing, and he nudged the she-bear’s belly with his boot.

‘Do you know how much a hundred dollars is?’ he asked. I said that I did not and he answered, ‘It is a hundred dollars.’

I rolled the bear onto her back and plunged my knife in the center of her chest. I have always had a feeling that an animal’s insides are unclean, more so than a man’s, which I know does not make sense when you consider what poisons we put into our bodies, but the feeling was one I could not escape, and so I loathed and was resentful about having to skin the bear. After Charlie caught his breath he left to search out the boss-man Mayfield’s encampment, saying he had seen a series of trails some miles back, these leading away from the stream and to the west. Three-quarters of an hour later I was washing the she-bear’s fur and sticky blood from my hands and forearms, and the black-eyed pelt was lain out over some fern plants. The carcass lay on its side before me, no longer male or female, only a pile of ribboned meat, alive with an ecstatic and ever-growing community of fat-bottomed flies. Their number grew so that I could hardly see the bear’s flesh, and I could not hear myself thinking, so clamorous was their buzzing. Why and how do flies make this noise? Does it not sound like shouting to them? When the buzzing suddenly and completely ceased I looked up from my washing, expecting to find the flies gone and some larger predator close by, but the insects had remained atop the she-bear, all of them quiet and still save for their wings, which folded and unfolded as they pleased. What caused this uniform silence? I will never know. Their buzzing had returned in full when Charlie, back from his patrol, let out a shrill whistle. At this, the flies rose away from the bear in a black mass. Upon seeing the carcass my brother called out his happy greeting: ‘God’s little butcher. God’s own knife and conscience, too.’

Chapter 28

I had never before seen so many pelts and heads and cotton-stuffed hawks and owls in one place as in Mister Mayfield’s well-equipped parlor, located in the town of Mayfield’s one hotel, which I was unsurprised to learn was named: Mayfield’s. The man himself sat at a desk, behind a curtain of cigar smoke. Not knowing our business, neither who we were nor why we had come, he did not rise to shake our hands or greet us verbally. Four trappers matching the description given by the hit-on-the-head boy stood two on either side of him. These enormous men looked down on us with full confidence and no trace of concern. They struck me as fearless but mindless, and their outfits were exaggerated to the point of ridiculousness, being so heavily covered in furs and leather and straps and pistols and knives that I wondered how they stood upright to carry these burdens. Their hair was long and stringy and their hats were each matching but of a kind I had not seen before: Wide, floppy brims, with tall, pointy tops. How is it, I wondered, that they all look so similar to one another when the dress is so eccentric? Surely there was one among them who had been first to outfit himself in such a way. Had this man been pleased when the others imitated him, or annoyed, his individual sense of flair devalued by their emulation?

Mayfield’s desktop was the base segment of a moderately sized pine tree, perhaps five feet across and four or five inches thick, with the bark intact. When I reached up to touch the chunky outer ring Mayfield spoke his first words: ‘Don’t pick at it, son.’ At this I jerked my hand back, and experienced a flash of shame at succumbing to the reprimand. To Charlie, he explained, ‘People love to pick the bark. Drives me crazy.’

‘I wasn’t going to pick it, just touch it,’ I said, a statement that effectively doubled my discomfort with its wounded tone. I decided the table was the stupidest piece of furniture I had ever laid eyes on.

Charlie handed over the she-bear’s pelt and Mayfield’s face transformed from its expression of apparent indigestion to that of a lad gazing upon his first set of naked breasts. ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘Aha!’ There were three brass handbells on his desk, identical save for their sizes, small, medium, and large; he rang the smallest bell, which summoned an old hotel crone. She was told the pelt should be hung on the wall behind him and she unfurled it with a snap. But as I had failed to scrape the skin, this sent red globules of fat and blood flying across the room. These clung to the windowpane and Mayfield, scowling distastefully, called for the pelt to be cleaned. The woman rerolled it and left, her eyes on the ground as she walked.

The trappers, meanwhile, were unhappy we had usurped their glory with the she-bear and were, I felt, preparing to exhibit rudeness. To thwart this I introduced Charlie and myself, our full names, which silenced them. Now they will hate us ever more virulently, but secretly, I thought. Charlie found these men amusing, and could not help but make a comment. ‘It seems you four are involved in a kind of contest to become totally circular, is that it?’

Mayfield laughed about this. The trappers looked at one another uneasily. The largest one of the group said, ‘You do not know the customs here.’

‘If I were to linger, do you suppose I too would take on the physical proportions of the buffalo?’

‘Do you plan to linger?’

‘We are only passing through, for now. But I am for getting to know a place intimately, so do not be surprised if you see me on my return trip.’

‘Nothing in this world could surprise me,’ said the trapper.

‘Nothing?’ Charlie wondered, and he winked at me.

Mayfield sent these men away. As the evening came upon us, he called for the room to be lit. This was accomplished by ringing the medium-sized bell, which produced a different tone and thus summoned a different human, a Chinese boy of eleven or twelve; we watched as he flitted from candle to candle with admirable precision and not a half second wasted. Charlie said, ‘He moves like his life depends on it.’

‘It’s not his life, it’s his family’s,’ said Mayfield. ‘He’s saving to bring them over from China. Sister and mother and father—a cripple, from what I gather, though to tell you the truth I don’t know what he’s talking about half the time. Little bastard might see his mission through, though, the way he hops to.’ When the young fellow had finished, the room was bathed in light, and he stood before Mayfield, removing his silken hat and bowing. Mayfield clapped and said, ‘Now, you dance, chink!’ With these words the boy began dancing wildly and without grace, looking much like someone forced to stand barefoot over hot coals. It was an ugly thing to witness, and if I had not before this point made my decision about Mayfield, the matter was now settled in my mind. When he clapped a second time the boy dropped to his hands and knees, panting and spent. A handful of coins were tossed to the ground and the boy scooped these into his hat. He stood and bowed, and as he left his footsteps made no noise whatsoever.

The crone soon returned with the red pelt, now scraped and set on a kind of display to stretch it taut, something like a large drum lain on edge. She pulled this cumbersome apparatus across the threshold; I stood to assist her and Mayfield ordered me, a little too curtly I felt, to sit. ‘Let her do it,’ he said. She dragged the display to a far corner where we all might study the strange coloring of the she-bear. The crone wiped her brow and walked heavily from the room.

I said, ‘The woman is too old for such tasks.’

Mayfield shook his head. ‘She is a dynamo. I have tried to assign her simpler, lighter work, but she won’t hear of it. She enjoys industry, is the long and short of it.’

‘I could not see the joy. But perhaps it is the inward kind that strangers can never read.’

‘My advice is to not bother yourself about it any longer.’

‘I would not say I am bothered, exactly.’

‘You are bothering me.’

Charlie said, ‘About our payment for this pelt.’

Mayfield watched me a moment, then turned to Charlie. He tossed five double eagles across the table and Charlie dragged them into his palm. He handed me two coins and I took them. I decided I would spend the money even more carelessly than usual. What would the world be, I thought, without money hung around our necks, hung around our very souls?

Mayfield hefted and rang the third, largest bell. Presently we heard hurried footsteps in the hall and I was half prepared for the trappers to barge through and set upon us. Instead of this, the room filled with painted whores, seven in number, each of them in frills and lace, each of them already drunk. They fell to putting on their playful shows for us, re-creating themselves as curious, doting, loving, lusty. One of them thought it prudent to speak like a baby. I found their presence depressing but Charlie was in highest spirits, and I could see his interest in Mayfield growing before my eyes. I realized that by looking at this boss man I was witnessing the earthly personification of Charlie’s future, or proposed future, for ours was so often in jeopardy; and it was true, just as the dead prospector had said, that Charlie and Mayfield bore a resemblance to each other, though the latter was older and heavier and doubly pickled from alcohol. But yes, just as I longed for the organized solitude of the shopkeeper, so did Charlie wish for the days of continued excitement and violence, except he would no longer engage personally but dictate from behind a wall of well-armed soldiers, while he remained in perfumed rooms where fleshy women poured his drinks and crawled on the ground like hysterical infants, their backsides in the air, shivering with laughter and brandy and deviousness. Mayfield must have thought I was acting without sufficient enthusiasm, for he asked me, in put-upon tone, ‘You don’t like the women?’

‘The women are fine, thank you.’

‘Maybe it is the brandy that makes you curl your lips when you speak?’

‘The brandy is also fine.’

‘It is too smoky in here, is that it? Shall I open a window? Would you like a fan?’

‘Everything is fine.’

‘Perhaps it is the custom where you come from, to squint and glare at your host.’ Turning to Charlie, he said, ‘I must admit I did not care for Oregon City, the one time I visited there.’

‘What was your business in Oregon City?’ Charlie asked.

‘You know, I cannot exactly remember. In those younger days, I followed one mad idea after the other, and my purpose was often blurred. But Oregon City was a dead loss. I was robbed by a man with a limp. Neither of you has a limp, do you?’

‘You saw us come in yourself,’ I said.

‘I was not paying attention then.’ Half seriously he asked, ‘Would you two object to standing and clicking your heels for me?’

‘I would object to that strongly,’ I told him.

‘We are both healthy in our legs,’ Charlie said assuredly.

‘But you would not do it?’ he asked me.

‘I would sooner die than click my heels for you.’

‘He is the unfriendly one,’ Mayfield said to Charlie.

‘We take turns,’ Charlie said.

‘Anyway, I prefer you to him.’

‘What did this limping man get away with?’ Charlie asked.

‘He took a purseful of gold worth twenty-five dollars, and an ivory-handled Paterson Colt revolver that I could not put a price on. The name of the saloon was the Pig-King. Are you boys familiar with it? I would not be surprised if it wasn’t there anymore, the way these towns jump up and down.’

‘It is still there,’ Charlie said.

‘The man who robbed me had a knife with a hooked blade, like a small scythe.’

‘Oh, you are talking about Robinson,’ said Charlie.

Mayfield sat up. ‘What? You know the man? Are you sure?’

‘James Robinson.’ He nodded.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Charlie reached over and pinched my thigh. Mayfield, fumbling with his ink pot, was scribbling the name down.

‘Does he still live in Oregon City?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Yes, he does. And he still carries the same curved blade he used to rob you. His limp was only a temporary injury that has since healed over, but you will find him sitting at the King, just as before, making jokes that no one enjoys and that in fact almost never make sense.’

‘I’ve thought of the man many times, these last years,’ Mayfield said. Returning his pen to its holder, he told us, ‘I will have him gutted with that scythe. I will hang him by his own intestines.’ At this piece of dramatic exposition, I could not help but roll my eyes. A length of intestines would not carry the weight of a child, much less a full grown man. Mayfield excused himself to make water; in the thirty seconds he was away my brother and I had this quickly spoken, whispered discussion:

‘What do you mean, giving Robinson away like that?’

‘Robinson died of typhus half a year ago.’

‘What? You sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. I visited his widow last time we were in town. Did you know she had false teeth? I nearly gagged when she plopped them in her water glass.’ A whore passed him by, tickling his chin; he smiled at her and asked me distractedly, ‘What do you think about staying the night?’

‘I’m for moving on. You’ll just be sick in the morning and we’ll miss another day of travel. Plus, there’ll be trouble with Mayfield.’

‘If there’s trouble, it’ll be trouble for him, not us.’

‘Trouble’s trouble. I’m for moving on.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, brother, but the pipsqueak’s going to war tonight.’

Mayfield emerged from the water closet, buttoning up his pants. ‘What’s this? I would never have pegged the famous Sisters brothers as secret tellers.’

With the whores like cats, circling the room behind us.