The Chisholms (23 page)

She nodded again.

“You understand English, huh?” he said. “How many white men you fucked in your life, huh? You get that sore from a white man?”

She touched her lip, shook her head.

“What
is
that sore there?”

She held up her hands, the fingers widespread, and shook them back and forth, shaking her head at the same time.

“I don’t have to worry, right?” he said. “Never met a whore
yet
I didn’t have to worry. Where’d I put that goddamn...?” He was digging in his pocket for a fifty-cent piece, couldn’t find one by just the feel of it, and pulled out a handful of coins. Opening his palm, he held out the coins to her and said, “Take a half dollar, go ahead.”

She lifted a coin from his palm.

“That’s right,” he said, and put the other coins back in his pocket. “What’s your name?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“If you don’t know it in English, say it in Indian.”

She shook her head again.

He shrugged. First time he’d ever in his life asked a whore her name, and she wouldn’t tell him. He shrugged again. Hell with her, he thought.

“I’m Will Chisholm,” he said. “Hell with you. You happen to see a man ridin through here on an Appaloosa?” He burst out laughing, and fell onto one of the buffalo robes near the fire. “Ahh,” he said, “nice,” and closed his eyes. “Chased him all over creation,” he said. “Carthage alone three times in June.
Three
times,” he said, and opened his eyes and held up three fingers to her. She was standing by the fire. She had taken off the dress. Her face and throat, her arms where the sleeves ended seemed darker than the rest of her body. Her belly, breasts, and legs looked almost white there in the firelight. “Man who stole my horse,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows, puzzled.

“Looking for him,” he said.

She nodded and came to the robe. There were bruises on her legs, dried scabs. She was a filthy Indian whore; what the hell was he doing in a tent stank of dog shit and Indian grease? Smell of the fat squaw here on the robe, smell of
this
one too, whore’s smile on her face, fixed, frozen; he’d never known a whore didn’t have that same smile on her face.

“You don’t even
know
me,” he said.

She looked at him curiously.

“What’re you wearin
paint
for?” he said. “Jesus!”

She got to her feet instantly, and walked across the tent to a pile of rags near an upended travois. Vigorously, she began rubbing at the paint. Will fell back on the robe, sighed heavily, put the back of his hand over his closed eyes. “Always gone,” he said. “Told his mother we had money to give him, owed him money. She knew we was lying. Gideon’s got a face like an angel, but he couldn’t fool the widder Hackett, nossir. Said, ‘We owe him money, ma’am,’ blue eyes open wide, good ole Gideon, that ole liar,” he said, and burst out laughing. “My brother Gideon. What’re you
doin
there? You takin off that paint there? What the hell...?”

He raised himself on one elbow and looked across the tent to where she was scrubbing at her face with one of the dry rags. “Takin off the paint,” he said in surprise, and fell back on the robe again. “Canny as a weasel, that old lady. You just missed him, boys. Was here a day or so ago, and’s plumb gone now. Canny. We followed him that first time deep in Iowa territory — you know where that is? Iowa? Hey, you! Hey, beautiful!” he called, and laughed. “You know where Iowa territory is?”

She turned to him, puzzled. The rag in her hand was covered with paint as bright as blood.

“Yeah, sure you do,” he said, and laughed again. “Lost him there, too, went back to Carthage again. There’s old mother Hubbard —
Hackett,”
he said, and laughed, “old mother Hackett standing on the porch, hands on her hips. Why, boys, I
do
declare, you just missed him again. He’s
been
and is gone. Whyn’t you just let me have that cash you owes him, I’ll see he gets it. Sure. Oh, sure. Left
again
— gettin to be a reglar thing we did, like going to church on Sunday.
Leave
Carthage, go
back
to Carthage. Went west this time. You know the Mississippi? River. You know
river?
Water?
Canoe
— you know canoe? Shit, you don’t know nothin....”

Weeks of rain there along the Mississippi, insides of cabins thick with mud, others completely washed away, furniture smashed, river clogged with floating tangles of logs. Couldn’t find him on the Illinois side nohow, crossed the river into Iowa again, searched for him there. Spent weeks traveling through towns looked like they was thrown up in ten minutes. Oh, yeah, man on an Appaloosa passed this way, sure enough. Yep, black hair and brown eyes, dressed entire in blue, that’s the fella. Too late. Been and was gone. Gideon wanted to try Carthage again, rode back up there through towns looked all alike; one thing about this here America is you can’t fault it for being different one place from another. This time she’s waitin’ on the porch with a shotgun in her hands. Your son been back, ma’m? I ask her, and she says
Git,
and shakes the gun at us....

The Indian woman was beside him.

She had scrubbed the paint from her cheeks, and she stretched beside him now, and he took her in his arms. He wouldn’t kiss her, the sore on her mouth; he’d never kissed a whore. He touched her face. Stroked her face. Her eyes were closed. The sore was just at the corner of her mouth on the right side of her face. Said he didn’t have to worry about it Wouldn’t kiss her, though. Touched her nipples, touched her below. Bed of fuckin straw, dry as any whore’s. No feeling, whores. Did it for money, that was all. Touched her jaw again. Ran his hands over her back. Felt—

Touched her back again, puzzled.

Moved her away from him, rolled her on her belly.

Her back was covered with healed welts thick as ropes. The scars were twisted and brown. The skin around them was as white as his own.

In the morning, he looked for Orliac and could find him nowhere in the fort or around it. He talked instead to Orliac’s first clerk, a man named Schwarzenbacher, little blond man with a twitchy blond mustache, blue eyes constantly roaming, alert, watching as if he expected Indians to attack the fort any minute. Will guessed he was about Gideon’s age, twenty-three, maybe a bit older. He was at his desk putting figures in a ledger, and he looked up when Will approached.

“Don’t want to bother you,” Will said.

“No bother,” Schwarzenbacher said, and smiled.

“Just wanted to know if there was somebody here spoke both English
and
Indian.”

“What
kind
of Indian did you have in mind?” Schwarzenbacher asked, still smiling.

“Well... what do you mean?”

“There are different languages.”

“Oh,” Will said. The thought had never occurred to him. He’d figured Indian was Indian and
all
of them understood it. “What are they talking out
there?”
he asked. “The ones outside the fort.”

“Different tribes out there,” Schwarzenbacher said. “Was there someone in particular you wanted to talk to?”

“Well... yes.”

“I speak some Algonquian and Siouan; perhaps I can help. Is this person...?”

“I don’t know
what
she is.”

“A woman. Ah.”

“In fact, I think she’s white,” Will said. “She’s dressed like an Indian, and her face and arms are brown, but underneath she’s...”

“Catherine, do you mean?” Schwarzenbacher asked.

“Is that her name?”

“The whore?”

“Well... yes.”

“Catherine’s her name.”

“
Is
she white?”

“She’s white, yes.”

“I thought so, but...” He gestured vaguely. He’d woke up this morning, nobody in the tipi but the fat squaw poking him off the buffalo robe. Mean old yellow dog growling at him while he put on his boots. Couldn’t remember whether he’d even
fucked
the whore, but began worrying right off about that sore on her lip. That’s why he was here now talking to this twitchy Schwarzenbacher, mustache going a mile a minute, eyes looking all around, sunlight hitting his head like God was singling him out for a miracle.
Thought
she was white, but hadn’t even been sure of his own
name
last night, no less the whore’s color. If she
was
white, though... if she understood what he was
saying
...

“Didn’t answer me,” he said, puzzled. “Didn’t say a word.” He looked into Schwarzenbacher’s face. “Why’s that?”

“She has no tongue,” Schwarzenbacher said. “They cut out her tongue.”

“Who did?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps the Ojibwa. She’s supposed to have lived with them for a while. I know she understands Algonquian. Why are you interested?”

“I ain’t,” Will said. “I just wanted to find out about that sore on her lip. She’s got a sore on her lip.”

“Probably the Spanish disease,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“You think so?” Will said.

“She sleeps with Indians, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a common whore.”

“Yeah. You see... I was thinkin if I could
talk
to her, I could ask her about the sore.”

“Well, she understands hands. I’ve seen her conversing with—”

“Cause I sure would like to find out if she’s got anything.”

“I understand.”

“I have some medicine I bought in Texas...”

“I’d suggest you use it,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Well, it ain’t to be used lightly,” Will said. “Burns like hell, worse’n the disease, you want to know. So I thought if I could
talk
to her, she’d be able...”

“You’ll find out soon enough anyway, won’t you?” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Well... sure. Sure I will. If... sure.”

“When you begin dripping,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Sure. I just thought...” Will shrugged.

“Of course, if it would set your mind at ease...”

“Yeah?”

“I
do
understand the gestures that are common linguistic currency among the various tribes on the plains...

“Yeah?”

“And if you’d like me to...”

“I would,” Will said. “Yes. Yes, I would. Thank you. I would.”

They found her squatting cross-legged outside the tipi. The fat squaw was tossing scraps of meat to half a dozen dogs, who leaped into the air each time another morsel was thrown. The squaw spotted Will first. She called something to Catherine, who looked up immediately and smiled. Looked more like an Indian than the goddamn squaw did. Hair shiny and black, eyes almost as black as the hair. Red paint on her cheeks again; was she going out to war someplace? Black stockings hanging down around her knees; probably hadn’t washed them or herself in months. Jesus, had he really stuck his pecker into
that?

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

The squaw put down the empty bucket. Hands on her hips, she watched. All around them, the dogs were eating, growling when another came too close. Flies buzzed about the bucket. Catherine was still smiling the fixed smile. The squaw nodded encouragement to her. Will suddenly wondered how much of that fifty cents Catherine had got to keep last night.

“I want to know about the sore on your lip,” he said. “Is it...?”

She shook her head.

“This man here knows how to read hands. I’d appreciate it if you told him just where you got it and how long it’s been there.”

Catherine nodded. The squaw was still watching, hands on her hips. Catherine’s hands began moving.

“That’s the sign for fire,” Schwarzenbacher said. “Ah,” he said, nodding. “Ah. She says it’s a burn.”

Uninvited, the squaw began explaining to Schwarzenbacher in a language he presumably understood. Catherine’s hands were still moving. Schwarzenbacher kept watching her hands and listening to the squaw at the same time.

“Yes, it seems to be true,” he said. “Hot grease from a kettle. That’s a burn on her lip.”

“Well, that’s good,” Will said. “I’m sure glad to—”

“Of course, the squaw may be lying,” Schwarzenbacher said at once.

“Yeah, but—”

“They lie a great deal.”

“Yeah.”

“But perhaps she’s telling the truth.”

“Yeah,” Will said, and sighed heavily.

“I suppose she’s telling the truth,” Schwarzenbacher said.

Catherine nodded. She nodded at Will, she nodded at Schwarzenbacher. The squaw nodded, too. They were both nodding now. Catherine smiled her whore’s smile. The squaw looked to Will for his approval.

“Ask her what’s her last name,” Will said.

“She can hear perfectly well, you know,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“What’s your last name?”

There was no word for it in her hands. She raised them, and then realized this, and looked at Schwarzenbacher helplessly.

“Where are you from?” Will asked.

Her hands began moving. Fingertips together to form a triangle...

“Tipi,” Schwarzenbacher said.

A circle of her arms...

“No,
camp.
Ah, village. Yes, village.”

Watching her hands. A village in the north. The squaw said something. Schwarzenbacher turned his head momentarily. “An Ojibwa village in the north,” he said to Will, and nodded, and looked back to Catherine’s hands again. She was making the sign for springtime now, literally “little grass,” hands out with the palms up, right hand moving in front of her body, fingers closing slowly till only the index finger was slightly higher than the others.

“She’s saying she left there in the spring, which I suppose is true enough,” Schwarzenbacher said. “She arrived here sometime in May.” He looked at her hands again. She crossed her arms over her breasts, the sign for love. She clasped her hands in front of her body, the sign for peace. She made the combination of gestures meaning sunshine in the heart.