Chapter 2: Hail the Hero
I quickly went about building a fire and as I crouched before it while the coffee boiled and the thick bacon slices sizzled, I noticed the wetness from melting frost on my moustache and beard – the moisture in my breath, my head bowing as I slept, had caused the crystals to form. I had brought along my shaving kit but had yet to use it so you can well imagine how I looked with a three weeks' growth of beard. I also needed a haircut; I was looking, as my father often put it, like some cheap riverboat gambler with "fancy" curls over my collar. Had I known what was going to happen, I would have shaved my face and maybe even my whole head. It would have spared much pain.
I woke my Indian "friend" and offered him bacon and coffee. He spat out the coffee but greedily ate the bacon, licking the grease off his fingers. I fried some stale sourdough bread in the bacon grease while he watched and we shared it. I couldn't help but think of Hoss. When he was a child, he loved when we had bacon or sausage as Hop Sing would take the saved stale pieces of bread and pan-fry them in the grease, shaking some salt on them. Hoss loved that even more than biscuits and gravy. When he and I are traveling or on a drive, he still loves to wipe the hot grease from the pan with a slice of bread. I swear he'd lick it clean if he wouldn't fry his tongue – he'd then be tempted to eat it as well.
I saddled my horse, cleaned up the camp site, and between my efforts and his – once the Indian understood what I intended - we managed to get him up and into the saddle. But I held the reins. Tightly, wrapping them about my fingers. Now, it's not that I didn't trust him merely because he was an Indian although, once you've seen what Indians can do to a white man, it kinda sticks in your mind. I didn't want to be the one staked out in the sun with my eyelids sliced off or have my gut sliced open and suffer a slow death with the black flies swarming about me and crawling inside my insides to lay eggs. But he was an Indian and I was a white man and he might just kick my horse with his one good leg and take off.
I had taken the cartridges out of my rifle in case he was inspired to pull it from its scabbard and blast off the back of my head. So, I walked and he rode, heading in the direction he had been going. On occasion he called out and would point to veer left or right and bark out something in his dialect. I followed his orders although I found myself resenting him.
We were going along when the horse stopped, tried to back up and began to dance about, tossing its head and snuffing and pulling away.
"Whoa, boy," I said as I tried to settle down the animal. And then I heard it – the bear. I froze. A few yards ahead, smack dab in our path stood a black bear rearing on its hind legs. It roared and shook its head. If you've ever come upon a bear, heard its sound, smelled it, and seen it's maw, large, like a black cave, and edged with sharp teeth, you'll swear that you'd rather face the devil himself. A chill ran up my back and gripped my neck; my bowels turned to water. My thoughts went to my rifle but then, I remembered, it wasn't loaded. "Shit." I pulled my six-shooter and held desperately on to my horse with my other hand; the horse strained to break away, threatening to unseat the Indian who gripped the mane and saddle horn for his life. But I knew that if I released the reins, the horse would take off and I'd be left out there alone; soon, that bear would be using one of his claws to pick me out of his teeth and shitting me out in his scat. If worse came to worse, I'd sacrifice the horse but with the Indian in the saddle, that wasn't possible. I considered my hand gun but I'd be just as effective using a peashooter. I decided I had nothing to lose.
"Ho!" I bellowed, wildly waving my free hand. "Git! Git! Ho, bear! Git, you ugly sonovabitch! Git before I shoot your eyes out of your goddamn ugly head!"
Much to my amazement, the bear dropped to all fours, snuffed, seemed indecisive, swinging its head back and forth but waddled away into the trees, its fur sleek, shiny and rippling. Obviously, a well-fed bear. My horse slowly settled down and I patted its shoulder, speaking soothingly. The Indian raised one hand and nodded his head at me and made some pronouncement. I thought it might be some sort of benediction. And we continued on our way, the day warming up nicely.
Another few hours passed and I was about to take a rest and a piss, then catch lunch of hard tack and jerky when suddenly, we were surrounded by five Indian braves, all holding rifles on me. I dropped the reins and raised my hands to shoulder height. I considered my situation. Many Indians had rifles given to them in trades with trappers or stolen in raids on settlements. Nevertheless, ammunition is quickly exhausted. For all I could tell, all the rifles pointed at me were a bluff but I didn't think this was the time to gamble. And then the Indian sitting comfortably on my horse, took up the reins I had dropped and spoke to the others. One gingerly approached me, pushed back my trail jacket and struggled with removing my gun from the holster. He kept his eyes on me – as if I was foolish enough to try anything. But considering the possible consequence of being taken into their camp, lengthy torture by the squaws – being poked with sharp sticks, having my balls sliced off and tossed to the dogs – just little things for amusement's sake - I considered it might be better to have my chest blown open with a rifle shot right then and there.
Finally, after my standing still for what seemed an eternity, the brave realized that there was a trigger loop, unhooked it, and pulled out my gun. Then, motioning for me to go, I walked along, all of us following the wounded man on my horse. Now he led. I fancied what the animal would look like with Shoshoni symbols painted on it and a feather braided in its mane. It had served me well and was a damn good cow pony, able to turn so quickly that it's muzzle almost hit its ass.
I trudged along and after another hour or so, tribe members came out to meet us, all raising a hue and cry over the return of the Indian; he was obviously an important man. Finally, with the escort of women, running children and barking dogs, we entered the camp proper and more women and children came to the side of my horse who shied from all the hands that reached up to the rider, welcoming him back. Then they dropped away as the chief – I'm assuming it was the chief due to his dress and how the others deferred to him – approached. They exchanged words, my Indian friend gesturing and speaking as if he was relating some tale of an ancient hero; the people listened, silent. Not even a dog dared to bark. Everyone, Indian, white, Chinese – everyone loves to hear a story. The chief and all the others looked at me with, it seemed, awe. And as the "story" continued, they gasped a few times. My hope was that I was being given a good reckoning by the Indian I had rescued.
Apparently, I was because the chief came over and put out his arm. We grabbed each other's forearms firmly, he said something, and that made us friends – I hoped. I don't know how my Indian friend managed to dismount my horse but he did – no one came forth to help him but I don't think he would have allowed it anyway. Finally, he stood straight, weight on both legs. I suppose it expressed courage to the others, the ignoring of pain. He had fortitude and managed to walk to a tipi although it was awkward with his leg braced, clearing a path through the others like Moses parting the waters. I supposed his leg was going to be tended, as what looked like the shaman and two women entered the tipi after him. And now I became the focus of attention.
My horse was led away, which worried me as I knew how valued horses were, and I was led to the center of the camp where women fussed about me, serving me food – chunks of meat which tasted like venison, in a brown sauce, and corn cakes. As I sat, I was poured cups of some type of fermented liquid which I was loath to drink – but I did and it wasn't bad – a little sweet but it had a kick and burned all the way down my gullet. The women sat about, smiling and talking quietly as they watched me feast. And once I finished, they fussed about me more, talking among themselves, smiling and coyly laughing behind their hands, hesitating to make eye contact. Then one, an older woman with long grey hair, lines crisscrossing her cheeks and brow, deep-set lines beside her mouth, her earlobes elongated from heavy shell and stone earrings, touched my arm and then motioned to follow her. I did and the other women followed as well as did the children now that I was on the move. The men sat nearby, legs crossed, in deep discussion. I'm sure it was about me. The chief sat ram-rod straight and listened. I considered they may be contriving just how to kill me. And my mind started to churn with ideas on how to escape.
The old woman led me to a tipi and ushered me inside; it was a relatively small tipi and had a bed of sorts made of piled skins. A bowl of water was also beside it and a tall earthenware jar. It was, as I found out, full of clear, cool water. I was then left alone. I pulled off my jacket, lay it on the ground and tossed my hat on top of it. I looked about. If I had a knife, I could slit the skins and escape. But the knife was in my saddlebags as were my razor and my gun cleaning kit. I had been basically left helpless as a babe. But I was tired, weary and the drink made me groggy, so I lay down on the furs, and as I drifted off, I thought of how comfortable they were, how soft, how seductive, like pillowing one's head on a woman's breasts. And I considered that if I came out of this alive, I would first go to Virginia City before heading home to the Ponderosa and have a bath. I would sit in that steaming tub and enjoy the hot water, soaking away all the misery of this trip. All I'd need was a woman to scrub my back but I might just be able to manage that as well by pressing a few silver coins into the bucket boy's hand and sending him to fetch Miranda from the Sazerac; she'd come and plying a scrub brush – well, she's scrub me all over. Miranda has many talents. Then I would go to the barber and have a hair cut and a shave and a splash of Bay Rum instead of the usual Witch Hazel. And then, after changing into some clean clothes, I'd go visit Darla McMasters. And with the pleasant picture of a smiling, welcoming Darla, I fell asleep.
TBC
