King Blood by Jim Thompson Page A

his pissing, and when he farts whole deserts are blown into the sky. This I have seen. I, his chief vaquero. And following us come three hundred more Apache braves, vaqueros like myself, and their families. All are sworn brothers of Old Ike, all enemies of his enemies. So do not threaten us with the fate of your miserable Osage, for you are tempting fate even to speak of Osages and my brother, Old Ike, in the same breath!'
    The other old men in the lodge exchanged secretively approving glances; for this was good talk. But Geronimo was not easily impressed.
    'You talk great shit, Apache dog,' he said. 'Nothing follows you but your shriveled asses, unless it is the carbineros who have chased you out of Tejas.' _
    Tepaha promised that he would soon see for himself. 'No one runs Old Ike anywhere. Neither the carbineros nor the soldados of Maximilian, nor anyone else. Old Ike has a friend, Sam Houston. Our presence in Tejas is an embarrassment to him, so we leave at his request.'
    'And you think to establish a ranchero here? The bluecoats will never allow it!'
    'You do not know Old Ike,' Tepaha said. 'He has a way with soldados. He will smile and burden them with gifts. He will agree to do as they say; and even make motions of so doing. When he does not do so, and the soldados return, he will again smile and give them gifts and agree to their will. Yet still he will stay where he is. They will become firm with him. Still smiling, Ike will become firm with them, but never in a way to be detected. Bullets will come out of nowhere to find their hearts, and their horses will be hamstrung and their lodges will catch fire. So after a time, the soldados will go hence and return no more, realizing that what cannot be changed must be accepted. This I have seen.'
    Geronimo said he had seen shit, too, and also smelled it. 'This is a god?' he jeered, jerking his head at Ike. 'You will be telling us next that he can cure the pox!'
    'Even so,' Tepaha said. 'Look you, old man!'
    He bared his left wrist, extended it into the dim light from the fire. There was a minute patch of smallpox pits on the wrist – but only there. The deadly pox, the chronic scourge of the red men, had merely touched his flesh and gone away.
    The old men were wordless with astonishment. Geronimo raised his eyes wonderingly, the sardonic expression wiped from his face.
    'How?' He stared at Tepaha. 'How could this be?'
    'Magic. How else?'
    'Obviously. But what kind of magic?'
    'With magic that only Old Ike can perform. First he casts a spell over a cow – a cow, yes – and the blood of that cow becomes flecked with gold. Then he takes those flecks, and smears them into the blood of the person who has been exposed to the pox. The disease tastes the blood of that person, and flees in terror, leaving only the smallest mark of its bite.'
    'And it is always the same? The victim is always cured?'
    'Certainly not,' Tepaha said loftily. 'Evil men, including those who are Ike's enemies, die in itching torment.'
    Geronimo stood up and took Ike's hand. 'Old Ike King,' he said, 'you and Tepaha are welcome at my fire, and we will eat and drink together, and I, Geronimo, will call you brother.'
    The food was pashofa, a kind of gruel made of hominy. Flavored with nettles, it seemed quite tasty to Ike. Yet it was somewhat on the watery side, cooked without so much as a small snake to give it body. And Tepaha, still smarting under Geronimo's recent insults, made hideous faces of displeasure as he ate.
    The potent brew served them was also a corn product. When the corn was green, squaws chewed it from the cob and spat their chewings into a large pot. To this – the rough equivalent of a distiller's mash – water was added, and after a certain number of skimmings the pot was sealed, and the contents allowed to ferment.
    It was very powerful stuff. As with the food, Ike found it reasonably tasty. Tepaha, of course, did not – or, at least, he appeared not to.
    Such a drink, he declared