Stories (2011) (118 page)

Anyway, the months passed, and we drilled, and my buddy
cooked, and though what he cooked wasn’t any good, it was better than nothin’.
It was a good life as compared to being hung, and there was some real freedom
to it and some respect. I wore my uniform proud, set my horse like I thought I
was somethin’ special with a stick up its ass.

We mostly did a little patrollin’, and wasn’t much to it
except ridin’ around lookin’ for wild Indians we never did see, collectin’ our
thirteen dollars at the end of the month, which was just so much paper ‘cause
there wasn’t no place to spend it. And then, one mornin’, things changed, and
wasn’t none of it for the better, except The Former House Nigger managed to
cook a pretty good breakfast with perfect fat biscuits and eggs with the yolks
not broke and some bacon that wasn’t burned and nobody got sick this time.

On that day, Hatch mostly rode around with us, ‘cause at the
bottom of it all, I reckon the government figured we was just a bunch of
ignorant niggers who might at any moment have a watermelon relapse and take to
gettin’ drunk and shootin’ each other and maybe trying to sing a spiritual
while we diddled the horses, though I had sort of been responsible for
spreadin’ the last part of that rumor on my first day at the fort. We was all
itchin’ to show we had somethin’ to us that didn’t have nothin’ to do with no
white fella ridin’ around in front of us, though I’ll say right up front, Hatch
was a good soldier who led and didn’t follow, and he was polite too. I had seen
him leave the circle of the fire to walk off in the dark to fart. You can’t say
that about just anyone. Manners out on the frontier was rare.

* * * *

You’ll hear from the army how we was all a crack team, but this wasn’t so, at
least not when they was first sayin’ it. Most of the army at any time, bein’
they the ridin’ kind or the walkin’ kind, ain’t all that crack. Some of them
fellas didn’t know a horse’s ass end from the front end, and this was pretty
certain when you seen how they mounted, swinging into the stirrups, finding
themselves looking at the horse’s tail instead of his ears. But in time
everyone got better, though I’d like to toss in, without too much immodesty,
that I was the best rider of the whole damn lot. Since he’d had a good bit of
experience, The Former House Nigger was the second. Hell, he’d done been in war
and all, so in ways, he had more experience than any of us, and he cut a fine
figure on a horse, being tall and always alert, like he might have to bring
somebody a plate of something or hold a coat.

Only action we’d seen was when one of the men, named
Rutherford, got into it with Prickly Pear—I didn’t name him, that come from his
mother—and they fought over a biscuit. While they was fightin’, Colonel Hatch
come over and ate it, so it was a wasted bout.

But this time I’m tellin’ you about, we rode out lookin’ for
Indians to scare, and not seein’ any, we quit lookin’ for what we couldn’t
find, and come to a little place down by a creek where it was wooded and there
was a shade from a whole bunch of trees that in that part of the country was
thought of as being big, and in my part of the country would have been
considered scrubby. I was glad when we stopped to water the horses and take a
little time to just wait. Colonel Hatch, I think truth be told, was glad to get
out of that sun much as the rest of us. I don’t know how he felt, being a white
man and having to command a bunch of colored, but he didn’t seem bothered by it
a’tall, and seemed proud of us and himself, which, of course, made us all feel
mighty good.

So we waited out there on the creek, and Hatch, he come over
to where me and The Former House Nigger were sitting by the water, and we
jumped to attention, and he said, “There’s a patch of scrub oaks off the creek,
scattering out there across the grass, and they ain’t growin’ worth a damn.
Them’s gonna be your concern. I’m gonna take the rest of the troop out across
the ground there, see if we can pick up some deer trails. I figure ain’t no one
gonna mind if we pot a few and bring them back to camp. And besides, I’m bored.
But we could use some firewood, and I was wantin’ you fellas to get them scrubs
cut down and sawed up and ready to take back to the fort. Stack them in here
amongst the trees, and I’ll send out some men with a wagon when we get back,
and have that wood hauled back before it’s good and dark. I thought we could
use some oak to smoke the meat I’m plannin’ on gettin’. That’s why I’m the
goddamn colonel. Always thinkin’.”

“What if you don’t get no meat?” one of the men with us
said.

“Then you did some work for nothin’, and I went huntin’ for
nothin’. But, hell, I seen them deer with my binoculars no less than five
minutes ago. Big fat deer, about a half dozen of them running along. They went
over the hill. I’m gonna take the rest of the troops with me in case I run into
hostiles, and because I don’t like to do no skinnin’ of dead deer myself.”

“I like to hunt,” I said.

“That’s some disappointin’ shit for you,” Colonel Hatch said.
“I need you here. In fact, I put you in charge. You get bit by a snake and die,
then, you, The Former House Nigger, take over. I’m also gonna put Rutherford,
Bill, and Rice in your charge...some others. I’ll take the rest of them. You
get that wood cut up, you start on back to the fort and we’ll send out a
wagon.”

“What about Indians?” Rutherford, who was nearby, said.

“You seen any Indians since you been here?” Hatch said.

“No, sir.”

“Then there ain’t no Indians.”

“You ever see any?” Rutherford asked Hatch.

“Oh, hell yeah. Been attacked by them, and I’ve attacked
them. There’s every kind of Indian you can imagine out here from time to time.
Kiowa. Apache. Comanche. And there ain’t nothin’ they’d like better than to
have your prickly black scalps on their belts, ‘cause they find your hair
funny. They think it’s like the buffalo. They call you buffalo soldiers on
account of it.”

“I thought it was because they thought we was brave like the
buffalo,” I said.

“That figures,” Hatch said. “You ain’t seen no action for
nobody to have no opinion of you. But, we ain’t seen an Indian in ages, and
ain’t seen no sign of them today. I’m startin’ to think they’ve done run out of
this area. But, I’ve thought that before. And Indian, especially a Comanche or
an Apache, they’re hard to get a handle on. They’ll get after somethin’ or
someone like it matters more than anything in the world, and then they’ll
wander off if a bird flies over and they make an omen of it.”

Leaving us with them mixed thoughts on Indians and buffalo,
Hatch and the rest of the men rode off, left us standing in the shade, which
wasn’t no bad place to be. First thing we did when they was out of sight was
throw off our boots and get in the water. I finally just took all my clothes
off and cleaned up pretty good with a bar of lye soap and got dressed. Then
leaving the horses tied up in the trees near the creek, we took the mule and
the equipment strapped on his back, carried our rifles, and went out to where
them scrubs was. On the way, we cut down a couple of saplings and trimmed some
limbs, and made us a kind of pull that we could fasten on to the mule. We
figured we’d fill it up with wood and get the mule to drag it back to the
creek, pile it and have it ready for the wagon.

Rigged up, we went to work, taking turns with the saw, two
other men working hacking off limbs, one man axing the trimmed wood up so it
fit good enough to load. We talked while we worked, and Rutherford said, “Them
Indians, some of them is as mean as snakes. They do all kind of things to
folks. Cut their eyelids off, cook them over fires, cut off their nut sacks and
such. They’re just awful.”

“Sounds like some Southerners I know,” I said.

“My master and his family was darn good to me,” The Former
House Nigger said.

“They might have been good to you,” Rice said, pausing at
the saw, “but that still don’t make you no horse, no piece of property. You a
man been treated like a horse, and you too dumb to know it.”

The Former House Nigger bowed up like he was about to fight.
I said, “Now, don’t do it. He’s just talkin’. I’m in charge here, and you two
get into it, I’ll get it from Hatch, and I don’t want that, and won’t have it.”

Rice tilted his hat back. His face looked dark as coffee.
“I’m gonna tell you true. When I was sixteen, I cut my master’s throat and
raped his wife and run off to the North.”

“My God,” The Former House Nigger said. “That’s awful.”

“And I made the dog suck my dick,” Rice said.

“What?” The Former House Nigger said.

“He’s funnin’ you,” I said.

“That part about the master’s throat,” Rice said, “and
runnin’ off to the North. I really did that. I would have raped his wife, but
there wasn’t any time. His dog didn’t excite me none.”

“You are disgustin’,” The Former House Nigger said, pausing
from his job of trimming limbs with a hatchet.

“Agreed,” I said.

Rice chuckled, and went back to sawin’ with Rutherford. He
had his shirt off, and the muscles in his back bunched up like prairie dogs
tunnelin’, and over them mounds was long, thick scars. I knew them scars. I had
a few. They had been made with a whip.

Bill, who was stackin’ wood, said, “Them Indians. Ain’t no
use hatin’ them. Hatin’ them for bein’ what they is, is like hatin’ a bush
‘cause it’s got thorns on it. Hatin’ a snake ‘cause it’ll bite you. They is what
they is just like we is what we is.”

“And what is we?” The Former House Nigger said.

“Ain’t none of us human beings no ‘count. The world is just
one big mess of no ‘counts, so there ain’t no use pickin’ one brand of man or
woman over the other. Ain’t none of them worth a whistlin fart.”

“Ain’t had it so good, have you, Bill?” I asked.

“I was a slave.”

“We all was,” I said.

“Yeah, but I didn’t take it so good. Better’n Rutherford,
but not so good. I was in the northern army, right there at the end when they
started lettin’ colored in, and I killed and seen men killed. Ain’t none of my
life experience give me much of a glow about folks of any kind. I even killed
buffalo just for the tongues rich folks wanted to have. We left hides and meat
in the fields to rot. That was to punish the Indians. Damned ole buffalo. Ain’t
nothin’ dumber, and I shot them for dollars and their tongues. What kind of
human beings does that?”

* * * *

We worked for about another hour, and then, Dog Den-—again, I didn’t name
him—one of the other men Hatch left with us, said, “I think we got a problem.”

On the other side of the creek, there was a split in the
trees, and you could see through them out into the plains, and you could see
the hill Hatch had gone over some hours ago, and comin’ down it at a run was a
white man. He was a good distance away, but it didn’t take no eagle eye to see
that he was naked as a skinned rabbit, and runnin’ full out, and behind him,
whoopin’ and having a good time, were Indians. Apache, to be right on the
money, nearly as naked as the runnin’ man. Four of them was on horseback, and
there was six of them I could see on foot runnin’ after him. My guess was they
had done been at him and had set him loose to chase him like a deer for fun. I
guess livin’ out on the plains like they did, with nothin’ but mesquite berries
and what food they could kill, you had to have your fun where you could find
it.

“They’re funnin’ him,” Rutherford said, figurin’ same as me.

We stood there lookin’ for a moment; then I remembered we
was soldiers. I got my rifle and was about to bead down, when Rutherford said,
“Hell, you can’t hit them from here, and neither can they shoot you. We’re out
of range, and Indians ain’t no shots to count for.”

One of the runnin’ Apaches had spotted us, and he dropped to
one knee and pointed his rifle at us, and when he did, Rutherford spread his
arms wide, and said, “Go on, shoot, you heathen.”

The Apache fired.

Rutherford was wrong. He got it right on the top of the nose
and fell over with his arms still spread. When he hit the ground, The Former
House Nigger said, “I reckon they been practicin’.”

* * * *

We was up on a hill, so we left the mule and run down to the creek where the
horses was, and waded across the little water and laid out between the trees
and took aim. We opened up and it sounded like a bunch of mule skinners crackin
their whips. The air filled with smoke and there was some shots fired back at
us. I looked up and seen the runnin’ man was makin’ right smart time, his hair
and johnson flappin’ as he run. But then one of the horseback Apaches rode up
on him, and with this heavy knotted-looking stick he was carrying, swung and
clipped the white fella along the top of the head. I seen blood jump up and the
man go down and I could hear the sound of the blow so well, I winced. The
Apache let out a whoop and rode on past, right toward us. He stopped to beat
his chest with his free hand, and when he did, I took a shot at him. I aimed
for his chest, but I hit the horse square in the head and brought him down. At
least I had the heathen on foot.

Now, you can say what you want about an Apache, but he is
about the bravest thing there is short of a badger. This’n come runnin’ right
at us, all of us firin’ away, and I figure he thought he had him some big
magic, ‘cause not a one of our shots hit him. It was like he come haint-like
right through a wall of bullets. As he got closer, I could see he had some kind
of mud paint on his chest and face, and he was whoopin’ and carryin’ on
somethin’ horrible. And then he stepped in a hole and went down. Though he was
still a goodly distance from us, I could hear his ankle snap like a yanked
suspender. Without meaning to, we all went, “Oooooh.” It hurt us, it was so
nasty soundin’.

That fall must have caused his magic to fly out of his ass,
‘cause we all started firing at him, and this time he collected all our
bullets, and was deader than a guv’ment promise before the smoke cleared.