Dark Pagan Eyes

Dark Pagan Eyes

In the style of Cormac McCarthy

The log was damp and rotten but the kid sat on it anyway. He looked across at the men opposite. There was a Mexican and an old timer from back east out here hunting buck. The Mexican stared sullenly at the kid. The hunter looked up slowly and then asked him a question.

What way do you intend to be headed.

The kid regarded him. Not specifically headed no place, he replied, jus away from here is all.

The man nodded once. He drew on a clay Apache pipe and exhaled deeply across the fire. The kid stared into the fire as he spoke.

What brought you here.

Missouri aint got much buck to be taken so I came to make a better takin in these parts, do you know how many deer there are in this state. Theres the most in the whola the west, thats Gods own truth that is.

Aint none in Oklahoma, I know that to be a fact. Comin here wont get you no more buck than back there, sir.

Don’t be goin mouthin about things you caint understand, boy. I got good reports from an associate who was passin back from this aways last month that there was a good takin to be had in the state.

Perhaps, replied the kid.

After a minute the old timer looked up at the deep grey sky overhead and said might be in for rain. He drew on the tobacco again.

The kid agreed. I expect so before dawn breaks. By mid mornin for sure.

They sat in silence, the hunter drawing away and the Mexican making no sign of noticing the kid and the kid looking deep into the amber glow of the ash and occasionally poking it with a short stick until the old timer said dont do that, it aint gonna help it none then the kid stopped and looked in the fire again. There was a sound of hooves on the road nearby and they all three of them looked up but the hooves passed through and died out. Then the old timer took more weed from his pack and put it in the clay pipe and burned it and puffed away some more. All around the straight forms of dead black pines enclosed them and the pine needles shrivelled in the close heat of the flames. The kid felt the wet log through his pants but didn’t move and instead he took out biscuits and cold meat and thick cold potato tortilla and ate some then put it back in his pack. The other man watched him in silence.

After eating the kid continued looking into the fire and so did the buck hunter and the Mexican. Then the kid looked at the Mexican. The Mexican had no weapon on his belt and no hat beside him. He had oiled black hair like Mexicans did and he had good boots that were dark from rainwater that he had stepped in but he didn’t have a piece like the buck hunter did have, and old colt single action 45. The kid hadn’t noticed but in his hands he now saw the Mexican had a piece of wood which he was whittling with a skinning knife and as the kid watched he made the end rounded and began cutting into the side about two-thirds down and then shaved off more of  the middle above where he had made the cuts to make the wood thinner and soon there was the form of an animal in the wood in the Mexican’s hands and he turned the wood over and began to do the same process on the other side of the wood.

Then the hunter sighed loudly and the kid looked at him and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something to break the silence but before he could there was the sound of footsteps behind him and he put his hand to the piece on his belt. The kid twisted around on the damp log to see who was behind him and a man in a wide Stetson with a moustache and a dark face stepped into the glow of the embers. The man had raised scars on his face which stretched from his mouth up to the corner of his eye and from the bottom of his lip down to his chin. The hair of his moustache didn’t grow where the scar tissue was ridged. The man had cropped hair and a smile on his face. His eyes went from the hunter to the Mexican and then to the kid and then he looked closely at the Mexican again and sat down on an empty log to complete the square.

Glanton, he said. Howdy.

Howdy, said the hunter. The Mexican was silent. Howdy, said the kid.

The scarred man scratched his jaw and yawned, stretching his skin so the marks were more visible and the kid tried not to stare but he still did and then he saw the man had watery pale blue eyes and they were the opposite of the deep black Mexican eyes that were looking at him across the shimmering heat.

Dont believe I have seen yall in these woods before, have I? I done been through many years before this one and I aint never come across many Mexicans neither. He looked at the man on his left. Como esta, he said. The Mexican nodded. The new arrival turned back to the hunter. Yall aint on no holiday. What if I may ask brings you to these parts.

There aint no buck left up in Missouri, the hunter said for a second time. I heard from an Indian associate of mine that there was a good takin down here which could be had by a intrepid man.

The scarred man thought for a moment. Downriver at Muskogee theres often a good number to be had with fine hides and I believe that would be a wise place to begin.

That was where I had originally intended to begin.

Then your Indian seems to be a good man. The man spat into the fire. But that caint be said for many of em, thats for sure.

Silence descended once again. The Mexican continued whittling the figure, which now took the form of the horse, and the kid watched as he cut a groove between the ears and carved shallow lines into the top half of the neck to resemble a mane and then turned the softwood over and cut more grooves to be hooves. When he had done so he placed the horse on the dark log beside him and took up another piece of wood to which he began to apply the same process of thinning the middle and rounding one end and then cutting places to be legs and going on to carve a face and a mane. The scarred man watched the Mexican carve too and then spoke once more.

Im a hunter myself, one might say, and I know these woods like no other. In fact, I was hopin one of you gentlemen could possibly help me out in trackin down certain elusive game Im seekin.

We could try, offered the hunter.

The scarred man smiled and his scars twisted into a knot on his chin. I would appreciate it greatly.

There was a moment’s pause as a gust of heavy wind swept through the trees above their heads. The kid looked up. He would definitely feel rain before the night was through, and it would be cold and it would be wet.

Aint none of you seen a Lipan girl coming through these parts of late have you.

Silence. Then the hunter said, aint no Apache tribes round here, mister. You must be mistaken. Nearer Odessa is where their land used to be. If youre seekin a particular girl then…

She aint with a tribe.

There was a pause.

Why would that be, mister.

The flames licked the pine needles desperately. The moisture on the log felt warm through the kid’s pants now, and he sat still and looked into the face of the scarred man.

Squaw bitch done killed my fiancée a month back.

The hunter put down his pipe. The Mexican carried on carving.

She done what.

Murdered my Mayella. Bitch went down from Wichita, then out through San Antonio on the run to the border, but last I heard she came back up north to Lipan territory and was headin through these parts.

There was silence over the fire as the hunter thought about what to say but instead the scarred man continued talking.

As a youth I was enlisted into the United States military. Made my name fightin Sioux, Santee, upstate in the Dakotas. It was the summer of ’62 that the Santee were pillagin whites, women and children. Rapers gone killed near a whole town of em down on the Minnesota river an we took a company along the river an hunted them down. It was a good time for a man an his carbine. I made a livin off of it, but it was no existence to have for too long a period, and it was on my way back south that I come across a young woman an her elderly mother.

My Mayella, she was the sweetest darned girl you ever did wish you laid eyes on, an I thanked God for sendin her to me, such a man as I was, in need of salvation and absolution. I could tell from the first that she was gonna save me. She didnt have no money, no wagon or beasts, jus the clothes on her back an the ole lady for company. The night I met her, I says to the old woman now, I says, look here now, ma’am, I aint got the most to offer for your daughter right now, but she sure aint never gonna find a man with more faith in her than I do feel myself, an thats the most important thing a man needs in his wife, if you ask me. Naturally the ole lady was in agreement, and for better or for worse I was married to Mayella by the end of the month.

I say for better or worse, but there werent no worse about it. Aint no questionin that from then on, she was my pride an joy, so to speak. My love. We took a small stead out near Wichita, a lil cabin and garden in a valley an fore long was raisin chickens an goats an all the rest of it. The Lord never did bless us with no children in the five years of our marriage, but we was happy an I didnt have to kill no more. There was other whites nearby, too, an a small church an general store in Wichita we could buy seed from. The hills around was rich with game to be had, an I would hunt and tend the beasts, Mayella would keep the stead in order. The ole lady died soon after but we had each other an it was her time, so we werent touched hard by the loss. Wasnt nobody could touch our life, so I thought.

It was a fine cold day and I was out shootin hares in the woods, much like these around us right now. I jus shot a brace, beauties that was ruttin right like dogs out in the open. I strung em up and was preparin to return to the stead when I heard a shot from the cabin an froze up all shocked-like. Then getting ahold of my senses I turned to the sound an ran back down to the stead to find Mayella. It were a good two or three minute run but when I did arrive what should I find but a squaw bitch standing over my wife of five years holdin a smoking carbine an the gold chain that Mayella’s dear mother given us on her deathbed, so she did. Squaw gone looked at me, deep with them pagan Lipan eyes of fire an narrow face an I stared back at her fo a second. We jus stood right there. Starin. An then she smiled. Then I done raised both my barrels at her an would have discharged but for the brace I jus took, an so there werent no shot left to punish the bitch with or I swear I woulda painted her red an black as the rotted heart inside of her. As it was, at that she turned an ran for her mare an disappeared into the woods.

Naturally I gone checked on Mayella straight as soon as the Lipan was gone. I ran an looked at her there on the dead leaves by the cabin. It werent no pretty sight for a man to see of his wife, I cain tell you. There she was, beautiful as the spring an bleedin from the stomach. I tried tellin her to hold on, that I would get the doctor and that everything was gonna be ok but there werent nothin I could do. I knowed that since I first saw her there on them leaves, I knowed that she were gone to the good Lord. And as I knelt by the side of my girl an cradled her in my own two hands, these hands yall see before you an the hoofbeats got quieter into the distance an the wind blew in the trees an she died quiet an nothin more was to be heard for miles round, I knowed I would hunt that squaw bitch into the dirt an wet the whitegrass with red if I was to lay down an die a satiated man. Werent nothin gonna stop me in my lustin for blood.

That night I slept out under the pines. I felt the hard ground under my head an the cold air bitin on my cheeks. It was the first day of my new existence. I slept with the cold an the varmints for company an when the new day came an the sun rose I was a new man.

I went into town an with no mention of the past day an events I enquired as to where there might be found a tribe of Lipan nearby. I heard mention of a band twenty miles out in Clearwater an I knowed immediately it were them. It was at this here point that I told them of my bereavement an the gentlemen in the town didn’t hold no Lipan near close to their hearts so we got a posse together, good strong men an horses, an guns cleaned an primed, an we rode to find the aforementioned band.

We came upon them not far off of the route south, in a clearin in the woods where theyd pitched camp for the night. Werent nothing short of hellfire, what we gave the scum. Wiped em clean out to the last kid, an with not a single complaint done to any man ridin with us. Must have been almost fifty of em includin their young an suchlike, an we fourteen of us took them, then burned the dirty tents theyd pitched an took what was left to sell. Thats how a posse works, see. Anythin a man can carry on his horse, he takes as payment. But I werent after no payment, least not of that sort. I checked the bodies. Werent none of them the girl, I knowed that for sure. Nor was her white horse to be found.

I told the good men of Wichita this fact but theyd got their due an in their eyes, respect and blood payment had been fulfilled. They were understandin but it werent up to them no longer. An I dont hold it against them. They was fine soldiers in what was a war. Still is a war. Anyway, so it was that I came to turn south in pursuit of my darlin wifes killer, alone but for my steed an my rifle as company. It werent hard for a man of skills such as myself to track her south as she fled. There was no longer no thought of hidin for her, no hope that she could lose me, I could tell that much. She was goin full pelt an I reckon she knew sure as Hell that I was comin. I reckon she could taste it on the wind, feel it in the beast under her. We had made sure she had nowhere left to turn, that was for sure. None of them dirt left to help her. There was only one place left she could try to flee to outside of the jurisdiction of this great nation.

Mexico, said the buck hunter.

Aint that where all the undesirables flee to, and aint the south of this dear country where we take theirs. I knowed the squaw bitch would head there, an sure as a dime she did so. Straight as an arrow south, day an night headin for the border. Now I must confess that I consider myself a premier horseman, an I aint no greenhorn when it comes to ridin. Hell, I been in the saddle since almost I was big enough to sit on my daddys lap an not fall off. I was racin by the time I was fourteen, an breedin them two years later. Or perhaps three. Point is, I am a man who can ride. This damned Lipan bitch though, she was somethin else. She was the wind, she was like no one I had come across. When we reached the great plains, I could even see the dust kicked up by her beast, an I thought for certain I would catch her, but every mornin she was as far ahead as that previous. She knowed the land. As yall doubtless know, the Apache aint usually as far north as Oklahoma, an we was headin further an further into Indian territory. She couldnt take up with no more bands cos she didnt know how many men I had with me an so she werent sure if we could kill a band, an I guess after the previous encounter she didnt want to risk it. But she hella knowed the land.

We was nearin San Antonio when I finally caught up with her. Out in the desert rocks, her mount had lamed an she was tryin to get it hid when I rode into sight. She had a rifle an werent a bad shot. We burned it out on the rocks in the sun, but one on one neither of us could flank an she had a superior position. We exchanged fire but after about what I guess was an hour she didnt fire no more. I reckoned she was out of rounds an I checked myself. I had spent a large number of cartridges, an it was almost sundown. I knowed that she could escape in the dark an after weeks of pursuit I wasnt gonna let her get away with it. I had me two shells left in the rifle. Pokin my head up above the rocks, I heard steps poundin toward me. Comin over the boulders in front was the bitch herself, sprintin and powerin straight for me holdin two of them evil-lookin Lipan knives. I sighted her an took a shot, but it was rushed an cracked over her shoulder. She was gettin closer. The next shot was less rushed an I sighted an held my breath an looked down at her an squeezed the trigger but jus as I did, I caught sight of those black pagan eyes again, afire with bloodlust an hate. I tell you, Im an experienced shot an under usual circumstances would have peppered the damn Lipan there an then but when you saw those eyes, intent under the red sun, those narrow dark slits that dont know nothin of the Lord but blood an death, its enough to make a man lose his nerve. I will tell yall that for a fact.

I shot wide. Went in her shoulder jus near the joint, on the left shoulder. Then next I know shes there on me. Slashin. I put my arm up in time to take the blow meant for my throat but she opened my elbow up good an deep. Then I stumble back, like so, an try an kick out at her but shes on me, again an slashin like hellfire an she cuts up my face real hard. I werent never much of a looker, cain tell you that now, but she sure tried to make some improvements. An inch or two more an I would be sittin here right now speakin to yall with no nose. Anyway, I managed to get ahold of a rock from beneath me an I gave her some of my own improvements to try out. I smashed her face in as hard an as accurately as I could with blood in my eyes an mouth an nose, an when I cleared my vision she werent comin at me no more, an instead there were a smear of red on the rock in my hand an chunks of it left lyin around nearby, too. She was gone, an I did myself up as best as I could in my condition. I didnt spend no more time there in that godforsaken sand than I had to, an believe me when I say it was hard gettin back onto the road in pursuit of the girl. But I was tough, she was injured an I didnt need my face to look no good to chase her down an send her to the devil.

The next thing dont make no sense, though, an heres what I want to ask yall about. When we got to the road, an I would say I must have been only an hour or two behind her, she turned north again. I saw it with my own two eyes. Werent no explanation for it. She came back north by a similar way as she had gone south in the first instance, an at slower pace we eventually got back to hereabouts. Travellin slow but sure, on foot an through the same territory. Hey, Oklahoma aint a big place. So I ask yall, aint none of you seen my wifes murderer. It sounds crazy, but I reckon she must be somewhere round these parts.

The wind sounded again, and the kid swallowed. He regarded the scarred man in front of him, and looked at his wide Stetson and boots and the cropped hair and the moustache which didn’t cover the place where he was scarred and the smile that wasn’t there any more. The Mexican had looked up during the story and was rubbing the growth on his beard. The kid didn’t know if he’d understood any of it, or all of it, or part of it. The buck hunter was staring directly at the scarred man. The log now felt damp but warm under his pants. All around the woods were dark.

The buck hunter said, I cannot say for a fact that I heard of any such Lipan girl around here, but then I aint been here all that long.

The scarred man nodded, and looked into the orange fire. The buck hunter drew on his clay pipe. Then he said, what do you intend to do now.

Before the scarred man could reply, the kid spoke up.

I dont mean to presume, sir, but if I may say something.

Go right ahead.

I was jus wonderin is all. I caint believe the men of Wichita would leave a man to fend for himself like that after killin a whole band so easy like. I do believe they would instead complete the purpose for which they set out originally, that is to kill the squaw.

The scarred man shrugged. They upheld their duty in their eyes, aint no more a man can ask than that, don’t you agree.

The kid thought for a second. The he nodded, and said, sir, that may be well, if you pardon me, but this girl, you say she went by San Antonio.

Sure.

Sir, surely then if she was fleein for the border from Wichita as you yourself said, would it not make more sense to flee by San Angelo or even Odessa.

The scarred man looked up at him for the first time, with dark eyes.

I believe she was scared. An anyway, the squaw bitch wouldnt know the country thereabouts, only roughly. Mexicos a big place. Borders big.

And it took how long.

Matter of bout two weeks.

Youre sayin there was a killin of a Lipan band up near Wichita two weeks back.

No, it was two weeks to the plains. More like a month since the killin.

Sir, it dont matter whether it was a month or a season or a year. Aint been no Apaches seen in Kansas nigh on twenty years. 1840s. That was when the Lipan was all driven from that state.

The scarred man stood up.. The buck hunter slowly put his clay pipe down on the log. The kid kept staring at him. Then he laughed.

Youre right, kid. You seem pretty clever. Aint no Lipan in Kansas, especially not near Wichita. Not since the 40s. Not since they was driven out, the scum. Except there was, jus one, one time. That pagan eyed narrow dark smiling squaw bitch an her damn white mare. She was there. She killed my Mayella. An she squealed like a whore when we took her scalp.

The scarred man threw a rough circle of dried leathery skin into the circle onto the ground beside the fire, with long black hair attached and blood encrusted on it. It was a scalp.

The Mexican looked up immediately and grabbed his knife.

Lipan, Santee, Lakota, Cheyenne, you name it, I take em. Aint no money to be made in this dear country like killin the filth that inhabits it in the memory of my dear Mayella. I take em all, an I sometimes regret how a man has to live in these times. I sure as Hell regret this. But I dont regret her. That Lipan girl was a prize, she was an embodiment. She were a beauty. An we hunted her, the boys an I, like back in the good days, an we took her near San Antonio. An she fought like a wildcat, gave me these scars. Werent no band, though, you were true enough there. Jus her. An as I took that there scalp I held her tight in my arms an felt her under my fingertips an remembered sweet innocent Mayella an said, I said, this is all yours. Look at me now, because by tomorrow I will be a changed man. An indeed it was so. An I could feel sweet Mayella watchin me. An then we killed her an killed the horse an took the scalp back north with us. An there it is.

The Mexican had put his knife back down but was staring darkly at the scarred man, who paid him no attention. The kid knew he hadn’t understood what was said. As he looked at the buck hunter, the hunter went for his piece, realising what the kid had realised a second before, and there was a crack and then another soon after and both the buck hunter and the Mexican fell, the Mexican going into the darkness behind him and the buck hunter falling onto the edge of the fire, and he was dead and the kid knew it. The kid looked back at the scarred man. Around him shapes were appearing in the blackness, and he saw that they were men, and they held knives and guns, but he had no gun, and the men were advancing, and the scarred man spoke again, saying I am truly sorry for what we do. I aint sorry for the Lipan girl, but now times are hard an a man dont get paid no more what he used to for scalps. It aint nothin personal.

Taking a long, evil-looking Lipan knife from his belt he said

Its for my Mayella.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Joel_Glanton

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dakota_War_of_1862