Redeye by Clyde Edgerton Page A

oatmeal, and canned peaches. After cleaning up we laid on our backs with the campfire dying. Zack and Mr. Pittman had been talking about the railroads, and this whore named Vida Lou in Leesville—where we were going—and a Indian woman that Zack’s great-uncle married. This Indian woman would jump off the back of a horse, onto the back of a running buffalo, ride him for a mile or two, then stab him to death. They like to talk about stuff like that.
    Mr. Pittman had his saddlebags on the ground beside him while they talked. He reached into a pouch and pulled out a tiny bottle of oil, reached into this little hidden pocket on the inside of the flap on his chaps and pulled out a sort of dagger with some kind of flip blade, oiled it, and stuck it back in the pocket. Then he started picking fleas off Redeye. One of the funny things he did. That was the meanest-looking dog I ever seen. He was made real tight and had bunches of muscles and walked around like hecould all of a sudden jump in every direction at once. His left eye was all solid red and he had this look on his face like he was right out of hell and hadn’t ever gone to sleep.
    He lifted his head up off Mr. Pittman’s lap and started growling and looking out into the dark.
    â€œWhoa, Redeye,” said Mr. Pittman.
    I heard a little tinkling noise and two Indians walked just in the circle of light from the fire, a good ways out, and stopped.
    â€œThat’s Mudfoot and Lobo,” said Zack. “They want whiskey and candy.” Then he said this—I remember exactly what it was—he said, “By God, I hate the stink of an Indian, but it’s sweet compared to a railroad man.”
    The Indians raised their hands and smiled. I raised my hand. Zack went over to the wagon, poured some whiskey into a jar, put the lid on, and gave it to the Indians and said, “No candy, no more whiskey,” a few times, shaking his head. They walked off into the dark, happy, I guess. They was the first Indians I’d seen across the river.
    â€œWas they Mescadeys?” I asked Zack.
    â€œYeah. They wear them leggings. Them two live about a mile north of here. Trade with the Mormons in Beacon City. Most of them
are
Mormons. That’s one of the things I can’t quite see, and I guess it’s part of why I ain’t all that welcomed over in Beacon City. The Mormons I come from didn’t take a lot of stock in redskin trade.” Zack reached under his saddle and got another drink, then passed the bottle to me. I took a little.
    â€œThey don’t take stock in that redeye, either,” said Mr. Pittman.
    â€œBack when they were wild,” Zack said to me, “the government would chase Indians a month or so then forget it. Like when they caught Geronimo—they put him in a show somewheres. Had a servant waiting on him. Still does, I guess.”
    My war sack was under my head with a blanket around it for softness and I was on top of my soogans except for one fold up to my knees, because it wadn’t cold yet. I guess I felt pretty growed up, laying there on my back with the sparks drifting up in the black sky, the moon up, and the cool night air coming in, and the horses hobbled off in the dark, and real live Indians out there somewhere, though they was tame. But I could pretend to be back before the war when there was real cattle drives and wild Indians.

MUDFOOT
    We follow our path back home in the light of the moon. Lobo wants to drink before we get home and I say no, wait, so that we will be somewhere safe when we drink. He likes to get drunk in a bad fashion where there is no protection of shelter and he is left open to bad spirits.
    If we would be found drunk in the mesa by the Mormons we would lose our Mormon supplies for a time. Bishop Thorpe, of the ferry, has declared this.
    Lobo wants to sit on a big rock and drink. We could not get into his shelter because his woman has bolted the door frominside. When he