Sidewinder (7 page)

Gray Owl finished his food, burped loudly, then resumed the telling of the Snake Dance story.

“The boy and his woman come to the mountain where Hopi village sits on top of mesa. Woman tells boy to climb up. She will wait at bottom. The boy climbs to top of mesa, to village. People ask him about the Lower World. He say to give him a kiva, and he build fire, tell story. Story take all night to tell. Boy tells his journey to all the people.

“In morning, boy walks down to take wife some food. On his way, he meet woman carrying jar of water. She walks back up the mountain. Boy knows this woman. She was in his blankets when he was younger. She puts her arms around him. He walks down and wife knows about other woman. She has the tears in her eyes. She says she will go home but leave him their child. She changes into a snake after her son sees light and goes back to her home. Son lives with father, but he is part snake. That is why the Hopi dance the Snake Dance: to honor that snake son and bring good things to the people.”

Brad let out a breath.

“That’s a hell of a story, Gray Owl,” he said, then asked,

“So, why do you come here? This is Ute and Arapaho country. Did you run out of snakes where you live?”

“No, I bring sidewinder to Wading Crow. My people join with his people. Hopi say little snake boy come to Arapaho when he grew to a man. I find Wading Crow and tell him story. He say his people talk about Snake Dance. He want me to teach Arapaho people. We catch snakes. We go to his village. I teach Snake Dance.”

“And I killed the sidewinder,” Brad said. “Does that wreck your Snake Dance?”

He finished eating and handed the empty bowl back to Gray Owl. Gray Owl set it next to his.

“I do not know. Maybe you come to Snake Dance. You have snake spirit now.”

“Where is this Arapaho village?” Brad asked.

“Many sleeps from this place. High in mountains. Place like Hopi mesa. Big, long, flat mountain.”

“Maybe a butte,” Brad said, but Gray Owl did not know the word.

“I do not know,” he said. “Big, long, flat mountain.”

“A butte, we call it in English.”

“It is good place. Strong with good spirits. You come. We make the Snake Dance.”

“I can’t, Gray Owl. I have a little ranch to run. I raise cattle.”

“Ah, that is good. Much food.”

“Yes,” Brad said. He flexed his left hand slightly, just to see if it still worked. There was only a little pain, more like stings where Gray Owl had made the cuts. He looked at it and saw that it was only slightly swollen. The food felt good in his stomach. He stood up and asked Gray Owl for water. Gray Owl gave him an earthen vessel. Brad brought it to his lips, tipped it, and drank.

“Good, good,” Gray Owl said. “You drink. Make blood pure.”

“I hope you’re right. Thank you for saving my life.”

“No save Sidewinder’s life. The Great Spirit watches you. He gives favor. Maybe you now Snake Man.”

Brad laughed, but he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t believe in spirits, and he did not know the Hopi or the Arapaho people. They had their ways, and he had his. It was odd that a Hopi would come to Colorado and live with the Arapaho. He thought all Indians were on reservations. Maybe this tribe had escaped the army’s roundup and were hiding out. As long as they weren’t attacking settlers, taking scalps, their secret was safe with him.

But now, after thinking about the story Gray Owl had told him, he wondered if Gray Owl didn’t have a hidden purpose in telling him that story. And he had invited him to join in the Snake Dance. That just didn’t sound right to him.

Visions of human sacrifice sprung up in Brad’s mind. He wondered if he went to the Arapaho village, if they would kill him because he had killed the snake that Gray Owl had brought from his Hopi tribe’s village. He looked at the Hopi as if he could read the man’s mind by his actions. Gray Owl was paying no attention to him and seemed as normal as any man, red or white.

“Storm’s coming,” Brad said to Gray Owl as he stepped outside and saw the clouds building in the sky.

“Much rain,” Gray Owl said.

The Hopi seemed to taste the air as he gazed upward at the sky. In the distance, both men heard the faint rum blings of thunder, and when they looked to the north, they could see the elephantine undersides of dark thunderclouds.

“Heap rain,” Gray Owl said again, his tongue flicking over his lips as if he had tasted the coming rain.

An hour later, when Brad was dozing on a buffalo robe inside the shelter, he heard the whicker of a horse. He knew that the Indians had no horses with them. Gray Owl told him they had walked from the far butte somewhere deep in the mountains. He sat up and saw that Gray Owl was already outside, and the sky had darkened considerably. In a few minutes, the sun would be blotted out. As he got to his feet, he heard the sound of thunder again, closer this time, and he thought he saw a flicker of light in the distant sky, silver light, quick and elusive, as bright as quicksilver.

He walked outside.

“Wading Crow come,” Gray Owl said. “And two others. Three horses.”

Brad’s heart quickened.

“I don’t see them,” he said.

“Listen. They come soon.”

Brad listened. He heard dry tree branch crunch and a crackle of leaves, the ring of a horseshoe on stone. What? Half a mile? Quarter of a mile? Close, but he knew that sound carried far in the thin air of the mountains. They were at a higher elevation than his ranch, he knew, but not even close to timberline.

Then he saw Wading Crow. The Arapaho was riding Ginger. And behind him, two more riders. He saw a flash of shiny burgundy and knew that was Julio’s horse, Chato.

He could not see the other rider clearly, but his heart was racing.

“Woman come,” Gray Owl said softly.

“I can’t see her.”

“Wait. You see.”

And he did a few seconds later. His heart soared as he recognized Felicity. Just the jaunty angle of her hat and the way she sat her saddle told him that she was there, with Julio and Wading Crow. His throat tightened as he felt a rush of emotion.

He raised his right arm to wave.

Then the dark clouds hid the sun and it grew dark. The wind rose in high gusts, streaming powerful jets across the ridge. The shelter shook and rattled like a giant bird ruffling its feathers.

And there, on top of Wading Crow’s head, was his hat. Brad’s eyes shone at the sight. Involuntarily he touched his hand to his head. It felt naked and was still tender. He smiled.

A damned hat, he thought.

Not my horse or my wife but my damned hat.

And he felt very rich at that moment, as if he owned all the treasures of the world.

Felicity waved, and something melted inside his chest. His knees turned to jelly, and his insides quivered and warmed.

He waved back and choked up, unable to speak.

Gray Owl looked at him and smiled.

“Your heart soars,” Gray Owl said, and that was all.

It was enough.

And, it was true.

Pilar gasped in horror as she watched Cholo chase his own tail, his foamy jaws snapping, teeth clacking. The dog was growling and howling at the same time.

“
Loco perro
,” she shouted and grabbed her broom from beside the door. She ran outside, chasing Cholo, shouting and screaming, her calico skirt whipping about her legs, her sandals flopping with each leaping step.

The dog saw Pilar and snarled at her, shrinking away like a shadow retreating under the sun.

“Cholo,” she said, in Spanish, “what passes with you? Are you sick?”

The dog snarled and charged at Pilar. She swung the broom and batted Cholo in the head. The dog yelped and cringed once again, glaring at her with feverish eyes.

Frightened now, Pilar called out.

“Carlos. Carlos. Come quick. The dog is crazy.”

Carlos was behind his bunkhouse at the well, staring down at two other dogs, Pepe and Pelon. Pelon was already dead, and Pepe was dying, writhing next to the well, his yellowish coat filled with briars and all matted up from wallowing in mud down by the creek. He heard Pilar’s call and backed away from Pepe. He ran down in front of the other bunkhouse, which Pilar had made into a fairly large and comfortable house with a Franklin cook-stove, curtains, chairs, a bedroom with a large bed, and a large, comfortable living room. They still called it “the bunkhouse,” but it was that no longer.

Carlos had his hand on his pistol grip, ready to draw it from his holster when he heard Pilar call his name.

“It is Cholo,” Pilar cried, pointing to the dog, who was now crouched and snarling at her, foam flecking its mouth as if it had dipped into Julio’s shaving mug.

“Stay away from Cholo, Pilar,” he said, waving his arms. “He is sick.”

Then, to Pilar’s surprise, Carlos ran up to Cholo and drew his six-gun. He aimed it at the dog’s head and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening. Orange sparks and smoke belched from the Remington’s snout. The bullet struck Cholo in his jaw, blew out his brains. Teeth and tongue flew away like meat scraps, and brain matter plowed into the ground like cast-off bits of pudding.

Pilar screamed and covered her face.

Cholo stiffened and was still.

“I have another one, Pilar. Wait here.”

She took her hands away from her face and stared at Carlos without comprehension. He ran back to the well, and she turned her back on the dead dog after one last quick look.

She heard the pistol shot and jumped at the report. It seemed to her that she jumped inside her skin. She slowly walked back to the bunkhouse she had converted into a home for her and Julio, stood next to the door, looking down at the flowers growing in empty Arbuckles coffee tins. Pansies and petunias, red and white gardenias, butter-cups, and morning glories. By the time Carlos returned, she was trembling, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

“What did you do, Carlos?”

“Pepe was suffering. Pelon was already dead.”

“All the dogs? All three?”

“Yes. The hydrophobia.”

“Ah. Poisoned,” she said.

“Yes. It is a bad way to die. I will bury the dogs.”

“Who could have done such a thing?” She asked, her voice a querulous spiral that rose to an almost hysterical pitch.

“Bad men,” he said. “Did not Julio tell you about the horse tracks down near the creek?”

“No. He said nothing.”

“Well, maybe he did not want to worry you.”

“What about the horse tracks?”

“It is nothing. Riders passing by, perhaps.”

“It is more than that, Carlos.” She had stopped shaking now that she had a new worry to make her fret.

“Maybe,” he said. “I go now. I must clean my pistol and put more bullets in the cylinder.”

“You are worried, is it not so?” she said.

“Worried? About what?”

“Those men. Maybe they are the ones who—who poisoned the dogs.”

“I do not know.”

She grabbed Carlos by the shoulder and whirled him around to face her.

“You do know,” she said. “Men on horseback. Passing by? Men do not pass by without speaking. Unless they are . . .” She paused, searching for the word. “Spying,” she finished.

“Maybe they rode by at night when we were all sleeping, so they did not stop and give a greeting. Who knows?”

She glared at him but softened her gaze. Carlos was not at fault. He had done nothing. But she wondered why Julio had not told her about the men, the tracks of the horses. He was the one she should have anger for, her own husband. Keeping secrets. Oh, she could shake him for not telling her.

Well, she thought, she would have much to say to Julio when he returned.

“Go and bury the dogs, Carlos,” she said. “Clean your pistol. Put fresh cartridges in it. Bury them deep and put stones on their graves or the wolves will feast on them.”

“I will do this, Pilar.”

He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and headed for his own bunkhouse. He would get a shovel from the barn and bury the dogs up in the timber where the ground was not so rocky. He would bury them deep and cover them with stones.

Then, he would ride around the valley looking for horse tracks. He would look, too, for the meat that was contaminated with strychnine.

That was a horrible way for a dog to die.

Or a man.