Zeke and Ned (32 page)

“You sure it was Ned?” Davie asked, as they rode back toward the mill, the wolf cub whimpering in Willy's saddlebag.

“It was Ned,” Willy said. “He was headed off the Mountain. He don't want to go the regular roads, for fear he'll get arrested, like I done.”

Davie agreed with that assessment.

A mile or two later, they came across White Sut. He was sawing angrily at his saddlehorn with his big bowie knife. White Sut paid no attention to his vagarious descendants. He lived for himself, and rarely responded to human inquiry. He had mashed his balls on the saddlehorn when his horse jumped a creek, at which point he decided
that the saddlehorn was a dangerous obstruction which could not be tolerated. It was a well-set saddle-horn, and was not coming off easily, although he kept the bowie knife sharp as a razor.

“You ought to use my saw knife, White, if you want to get shut of that saddlehorn,” Davie said. “What you need is a saw.”

But the old man muttered at him, and Davie knew he better let matters be. Then Willy and Davie loped off toward the Beck mill.

“Let's round up the boys and go kill that goddamn Ned,” Davie said to Willy, as they rode.

“Why round up the boys? I thought you'd want to kill him yourself,” Willy said.

By way of answer, Davie rode up next to Willy and backhanded him hard, promptly knocking out one of his front teeth. Davie did not like to be asked questions, not by his brothers, or anyone else. He had not forgotten that Willy and Frank had deserted him in his hour of need— that is, when Zeke Proctor had been strangling him—by jumping out the courtroom window, in view of which Willy should not get to keep all his teeth, or any of his teeth, for that matter.

What Davie did not want to say was that he only had two shells for his pistol. Two shells could well be an insufficient number to bring down an opponent as nimble as Ned Christie.

When Davie and Willy reached the mill where most of the Beck clan had been housing themselves since T Spade's death, they noticed that White Sut's bear had returned and was sleeping on the back porch. White Sut was walking toward the porch carrying a thick fence post, and upon reaching the bear immediately began to beat him with it, causing the bear to howl like he was being murdered. White Sut's molty old buzzard sat on the roof of the mill, pulling feathers out of himself. It watched the bear get his beating, as did Frank Beck.

When the prospect of ambushing Ned Christie was presented to Frank and Little Ray Beck, neither brother proved enthusiastic about the opportunity. Little Ray had recently arrived from Dog Town with a slut named Edna, whom he had cajoled away from Belle Blue's establishment. He excused himself from ambush duties, complaining of severe cramps in the legs, the result of too much time spent in lustful exercise with Edna. Frank Beck, for his part, had been promised a turn with Edna, and was looking forward to some lustful exercise of his own.

Even old White Sut might be enlisted in the campaign. The big sorrel horse that Ned had shot eventually died, and now White Sut had nothing but a scrawny black mare to carry him on his wanderings. In his youth, White Sut had done some scalp hunting in the Texas territory. Once, they had all happened on a dead whiskeyseller on the trail to Dog Town, and White Sut had scalped him, on a whim. Perhaps he would scalp Ned Christie, once they killed him.

“Ned Christie's going to town, White,” Davie said. “Now's our chance to kill him.”

He had to repeat the remark three times before White Sut heard him. White Sut was beating the bear for all he was worth, and the bear was howling so loud that no one could hear anything else.

When White Sut finally wore out, the bear crawled under the porch, driving out four hounds that Frank Beck kept.

White Sut Beck normally refused on principle any request from anyone for help of any kind. When Davie mentioned that Ned Christie was in town, White Sut looked at him out of his old, red, demented eyes and did not answer. He had worn himself out beating his bear and did not want to be bothered with errands.

“White, he's the goddamned rascal that shot your horse,” Davie reminded the old man. The sorrel had got them home to the mill, but was dead by morning. “I thought you had in mind to cut his head off.”

“You cut it off. I'm going hunting,” the old man announced. “Pay you a dollar for the head, when you get back with it.”

With no further ado, he picked up a rifle and walked into the woods. A little later, the buzzard rose off the roof and flew away, in the direction his master had gone.

In the end, all Davie managed to get out of his family was six bullets, and he had to steal those. Little Ray Beck had carelessly left his pistol outside the room where he had cramped his legs through lustful exercise with Edna. Davie took the six bullets out of the pistol so that he would have a full gun at least, when he challenged Ned. He gave one of the bullets to Willy, instructing him to shoot Ned Christie in the back if he got the chance. The other five he kept for himself.

On the ride to town, they encountered White Sut, sitting on a stump next to the trail, chewing acorns. White Sut was so wild that Willy sometimes forgot the old man was nearly a hundred years old— or maybe it was only ninety—White Sut had always been vague about
his age. But there he sat, looking mighty old, on a stump eating acorns as if he were a squirrel.

“You ought to have shot that foul old bear, White,” Davie said. “You've whupped it and whupped it till you're worn out.”

White Sut made no reply. He had passed beyond much conversation, years before. He was thinking of a black-skinned girl he had brought over the trail from Mississippi, in the slavery days. She had been slender, with a tight, wiry braid almost as long as she was tall. He had thought at the time that maybe she had been a queen where she had come from, somewhere in Africa; her eyes had been wide set, and slanted up at the corners. She was the most winsome woman he had ever sold, winsome enough that she had stayed in his mind for sixty years.

As Willy and Davie rode on toward Tahlequah, a shadow crossed the road. When they looked up, they saw it was White Sut's molty old buzzard—he landed in a post oak tree nearby.

“If White don't outlive his buzzard, I 'spect the damn bird'll eat him,” Willy said.

Davie looked up at the buzzard, sitting on a limb, its head sunk into its shoulders. It looked like it had no neck.

“I 'spect,” he replied.

Z
EKE HAD FORGOTTEN HOW HARD LIFE WAS, ON THE SCOUT
. I
N HIS
youth, he had gone on the scout several times, to escape legal harassment for little irregularities in his behaviour. He had once been given to much rowdiness and gambling; he had even run with the wild Davie Beck for a short while, pursuing whores they had heard about in remote regions beyond the District. In those days, of course, there were no fences in the District, and disputes over stray livestock were frequent and sometimes reached the courts.

Those times on the scout were not much more than extended picnics. Zeke would ride up to the Cave and carouse for a week or two with whatever ruffians were there. Sometimes, a few of them would ride up to Kansas or over to Arkansas and rip through some little town at night, racing their horses and shooting their guns like real desperadoes. Other times, Zeke and a companion would go deep into the forest
on a big hunt. Several times he had taken a bear, and once had even killed a panther.

Sleeping out had not bothered him then, even if it was wet or sleeting. He would roll up against a big rock with his feet to the fire, sleep a few hours, and wake up ready to hunt.

The day he left his home, stung by Becca's refusal to be a wife to him, a cloud bank settled over the District and a slow, heavy rain began. Zeke had rushed off in such high dudgeon that he had neglected to bring either a slicker or a tarp. He was soon soaked, and he lived soaked for a week, for the rain continued with few breaks for seven days. He sent word to Sully Eagle, asking the old man to bring him the slicker and the tarp, but a week of hard rain followed, and the old man did not appear.

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.”