THE NIGHT OF THE DEADLY SHOWBOAT
By Andamogirl
WWW
ACT TWO
Much later
The night was cool and damp.
Sitting on the muddy ground, leaning against the base of a bald cypress, Jim wasn't cold but very hot, feeling warmth radiating from Artie's overheated body. He was cradling the older man in his arms, holding him tightly on his lap.
He was on guard because the swamps bordering the Mississippi River were infested with dangerous creatures like poisonous snakes and alligators.
Moaning, Artie stirred from his fevered sleep and opened his eyes, slowly, groggily. "So, that wasn't a dream," he said, glancing around him, his voice expressionless with fatigue.
Jim shook his head. "No, we're still stuck on that bank. It's night now. You slept for almost two hours, Artie." He felt for a pulse. He found it weak and rapid. He blanched with worry. Artie was very sick, he mused. "How are you feeling?"
Covered in sweat, shaken by chills, Artie mumbled, "I don't feel good." His head was pounding something fierce, and his body ached all over. "I won't make it, Jim." His voice was thick and nasal with his stuffy nose. He was gasping for breath. "I'm very ill. My fever is rising, and soon I'll have seizures and even brain damage – and then I'll probably die from acute pneumonia. I have all the symptoms Jim: high fever, shaking chills, shortness of breath, stabbing chest pain…" He coughed, deep chest rattling coughs and grimaced in pain, his hand placed on his painful chest. "Leave me here and carry on the mission."
Hearing that, Jim pressed Artie's frame against his own body. "Never. I'm not leaving you behind, Artie. Forget about it. I'm not leaving you. We're stuck together, partner."
Smiling Artie whispered, "Till death do us part – but without the marriage part." He smiled as more chills wracked his body. "I'm so-so c-cold. " He is hit by another coughing fit, this one lasting longer than the previous one. He curled in on himself and he winced. "I'm going to die, Jim."
He began stroking his partner's back in soothing circles. "No, you're not. You have found yourself in more dire situations buddy and you survived each time – and you will survive this one too. We'll leave at dawn and if I have to carry you over my shoulder, I will."
Smiling weakly Artie limply saluted. "Yes Sir." His vision was fuzzy and he closed his eyes. "M' sorry, you're going to be sick too, because of me…"
Jim shook his head. "Impossible, I never get sick."
Nesting against Jim, Artemus mumbled, "Thank you," he said, then his body went slack as he lapsed back into a hazy sleep.
Jim didn't sleep, keeping Artemus against him all night long, running a hand through Artie's sweaty hair feeling the other man's fever increase even more. He was burning up – almost literally. His concern grew too at the same time.
It was dawn when he saw a man – an old Indian, sitting in a canoe paddling in their direction. He raised his hand and waved it. "Help!"
WWW
Much later
The next time Artemus Gordon opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a soft and comfy bed of black bear furs. He blinked twice and glanced around him. He was laid on a bed, inside a small window-less house made of plaster and rivercane walls with a thatched roof. He was obviously not on the bank of the Mississippi River anymore, but he was still chilled to the bone, he mused.
He finally saw an old Indian sitting on a stool at his bedside. He then noticed Jim standing behind the old man. He blinked twice, surprised. "Jim? What's happening?" he rasped.
He struggled up but the old man put a surprisingly strong hand square on the center of his chest, pushing him back down. "Stay down", he croaked.
Smiling, Jim moved to the edge of the bed. "Don't move Artie, we're safe here. Black Crow here found us at dawn, on his way fishing. He offered us hospitality. He's a Chickasaw and the Medicine Man of his band. There are about sixty Chickasaw here, in the village. They came back here, to their former territory, during the war. They live in peace on a large island in the middle of the bayous, away from people and away from trouble. They are friendly Indians. He's going to heal you Artie, with prayers and potions… You're going to be alright."
Unable to speak anymore, as his throat was hurting, Artemus simply nodded. He was exhausted. His head slumped to the side and his eyes closed.
Black Crow began to strip Artemus of his damp clothes.
Sleeping like a log he didn't react when the Indian poured herbal oil on his bare chest and then taped it with a bouquet of medicinal plants – while chanting prayers.
Black Crow finally removed Artie's short underwear, and once his 'patient' was completely naked, he plunged his hand into a large terracotta pot and began spreading a thick brown, stinking, ointment on the other man's reddened skin, covered with goose bumps. Front and back, from head to toe.
Jim wrinkled his nose. The smell was horrible.
Fascinated, he traced Artemus's Comanche tattoo placed on his lower back and said, "Osi', eagle."
Jim nodded. "Yes, it's a Comanche tattoo."
Then, the Chickasaw rolled Artie on his back. Chanting prayers and using his bouquet of medicinal plants the Medicine Man taped Artie's head, throat, chest (again), stomach and then his joints.
That done, the Medicine Man wrapped Artemus in a warm blanket, shook his shoulder to wake him and brought a bowl to his lips. "Drink! Little sips," he ordered.
Opening one bleary eye, Artie complied and regretted it already. He grimaced and let out a raspy "Gaaaah!" before gritting his teeth and clenching his jaws.
It smelled like vomit, tasted like vomit and the beverage was burning its way down to his stomach like a line of fire. He coughed and shivered. "Oh boy…" he croaked before clapping a heavy hand over his mouth, breathing rapidly with his nose, fighting the bile rising in his throat. Then, after a minute or so, when he was sure he wasn't going to retch, He whimpered, "I hate being sick."
Black crow brought another bowl of unnamable stinky and revolting potion and grunted, "Drink," before bringing it ito his patient's lips. "Little sips."
Hesitating first, because it smelled like sewage water, Artie finally opened his mouth. "Oh god! It's disgusting!" he let out; nasally, before a long coughing fit, causing his whole body to spasm. Then, as he had no choice, he swallowed the putrid and thick liquid.
He rolled on his side and curled up on himself as an intense heat propagated in an instant to his whole body. He gripped the blanket until his knuckles were white and he cried out. "Owwww!"
Frowning in worry Jim asked Black Crow, "Are you sure those potions are going to help him? Because he's in a lot of pain. They seem to do more harm than good."
Black Crow nodded. "The potions will heal his body and I will chase the bad spirits hovering over his body with my prayers." Then he re-started his chanting.
Crouching beside Artie, now panting and thrashing, and periodically coughing, Jim said, "It's going to be okay, Artemus. It's just a bad moment. It won't last." He placed his hand on Artie's head, who was gasping for breath like a fish out of water, still feeling like he was never drawing enough oxygen into his lungs, no matter how deeply he breathed. Jim could read panic in his brother's chocolate eyes, dulled with pain. "Don't panic. Slow breaths. Nice and easy," he said, his voice soft, pushing away the hair sticking to his clammy forehead.
Progressively Artie regained control of his breathing as the heat and the pain gradually vanished – replaced by a general bearable ache.
Artemus rolled onto his back, groaning. He closed his eyes and was falling asleep again when the old Indian brought another bowl of potion to his lips and said, "Drink. Little sips."
Looking at Black Crow through half-lidded eyes, He complied reluctantly and it was so disgusting that he sputtered the vile liquid in Black Crow's face. The Indian didn't mind and forced the white man to drink half of the potion. "Enough, please," Artie rasped, grimacing, tears flooding his face. "I want to sleep… "He gazed blearily at the ceiling, his eyes kept fading in and out of focus. "Slee-eep 'ow," he breathed, before closing his eyes. He muttered something unintelligible and he drifted off.
Black Crow nodded. "That was the last one. He will sleep now." He looked at Jim and added, "Come with me, you must be hungry." Seeing that Jim hesitated he said, "He's going to sleep for hours. The potions need to take effect."
Finally Jim nodded. "Alright."
WWW
Much later
Five hours later, Artie was thrashing on his bed of furs, sweating profusely, blanket kicked around his ankles and still completely nude.
He was dreaming, speaking in his fevered sleep. It was at first unintelligible, just disconnected words, but then intelligible phrases slipped away from his lips.
Black Crow crouched beside his patient. "Evil spirits don't want to go. They…" he suddenly stopped mid-sentence as he recognized Artie's words and sentences. He looked up at Jim in surprise. "I recognize that language, it's Cheyenne language. I met Cheyenne people when I was exiled in Oklahoma with my band. But we managed to come back here, to our ancestral ground during the war. We hid there, in the bayous."
Jim nodded. "I promise not to tell anyone where you're hiding. Artemus will do the same." He knelt beside his partner, who was shaken with tiny spasms, and covered his middle with the blanket. "Artie and I we have a friend, American Knife. He's a Cheyenne, a medicine man like you. Artie visited him several times. You see, Artie loves knowledge, and he spent some time in American Knife's band learning the Cheyenne language, living like a Cheyenne." Fetching a bowl of water and a towel, he laid the wet cloth across his warm face gently. "What does he say?"
Black Crow was impressed and translated what Artie was mumbling. "He's telling the evil spirits that brought sickness to him to go away."
Suddenly Artie stopped talking in his sleep and he went slack. He opened his eyes a couple of seconds later, feeling groggy. "Oooooh…" He turned his head to the right and saw Black Crow and Jim crouched there. "Hi!" he said. "M' not dead?" he whispered very surprised to be still alive.
Black Crow was amazed. "It worked!"
Outside an eagle let out his call: kleek kik ik ik ik.At the same time, Artie's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he passed out.
WWW
Later
Sitting on a nest of blankets and furs, dressed in his now dry clothes, Artie gratefully took the bowl of water Jim was handing him. "Thank you, I'm thirsty." He touched his forehead. No fever. "If Black Crow hadn't healed me, I'd be dead by now. I owe him a huge debt of gratitude." Then he took a sip of fresh water and let out a moan of pleasure. "That's so good!"
Smiling, Jim sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his partner. "I told you that you would survive. How are you feeling this morning?"
The older man took another sip of water. "Alive. Achy-all-over, like the 7th Cavalry had galloped over me, twice. I'm all sticky and…" He sniffed at one hand then at the other and wrinkled his nose. "And smelly – Ugh! Oh! And I'm very hungry, too. I could eat a horse!"
Jim chuckled. "Then you're fine, it's official. A hungry Artie is a healthy Artie."
The flap which served as a door opened and Black Crow entered followed by another Chickasaw, younger, taller, and stronger. His upper body was tattooed with geometrical patterns. He was wearing a breechcloth and moccasins and his head was shaved except for a single scalp lock.
Black Crow said, "This is Red Fox, our Chief. He came here to see the white man who Speaks Cheyenne with an eagle tattooed on his back. The man who chased the evil spirits. He's very curious."
Blinking in surprise Artie looked at Jim. "I spoke Cheyenne? When?"
Jim nodded. "You were dreaming, had a fever… You apparently chased away the evil spirits that had brought sickness on you."
Slowly, painfully, Artie stood and swayed on unsteady legs for a few seconds. He raised his chin proudly as Red Fox moved toward him. The Chief was a warrior and he only respected strong people, he mused. He lifted his hand, palm open and in Cheyenne said, "Pévevóona'o, good morning."
Red Fox lifted his hand, palm open too. "Chokma", he said in his own language.
Black Crow translated, "Greeting."
Red Fox placed a hand on Artie's shoulder, pressing it and said, "It's a great honor to meet you, Osi'. Osi' means eagle in my language."
Puzzled Artie frowned. "You call me Osi'? Eagle? Why?"
The Chief raised his hand toward the ceiling of the hut. "You chased away the evil spirits as the same time an eagle circled above the hut. That's why I call you Osi'."
Artie smiled. "Wherever I will go an eagle will protect me…" He said. "One day, an eagle marked me when I was prison… when I was with Comanche. I have scars he left with his talons in my back. It opened its broad wings above me, signaling that it was protecting me – and that wherever I go, now that I'm marked, all the eagles will protect me. Then I was given a Comanche tattoo representing an eagle. It's linked to religious beliefs. It's a mark of distinction and honor too."
The Chief was impressed. "In many tribes Eagles are highly revered and particularly associated with warriors and courage in battle. You are blessed to have such a powerful animal protector – and that tattoo on your back indicates that you are a brave warrior." He smiled and added, "My mother gave me my name Chola, Red Fox, when a fox entered the hut after I was born." He placed a second hand on Artie's free shoulder. "You're a strong man, Osi'. No other man has done what you did before. Only medicine men chase evil spirits away. Maybe you were one, in another existence, Osi'."
Smiling broadly, Artie nodded. "Maybe, who knows? He placed both his hands on the Chickasaw Chief. "Néá'eše, thank you."
Bowing with respect, the two men nodded and parted. Artie spoke first. "We have to leave now. Jim and I have an important mission to accomplish."
Chola nodded. "I will give you a canoe and paddles and show you the way to leave the bayou. You should reach the nearest city by mid-afternoon. But don't tell anyone about our secret place."
Raising his hand again Artie said, "We promise."
Red Fox nodded. "I believe you."
Tbc.