- Bringing in the Sheaves . There were horses - I was suddenly hearing them - kicking up the red dust, and men in blue uniforms trying to stay in their saddles. I could see dirt settle and sink into the sweat on the horses and men. There were other men rushing around, off to the sides. And voices, above and through the chaos of the horses. And the louder voice of a man I couldn’t see.
—Hold those fucking horses!
There was a dog asleep, in front of the horses’ angry feet. I waited for the big voice - Move that fucking dog! But it didn’t come. And I realised something: the dog was supposed to be there. The dog was part of the story. The dog was a cavalry dog and someone owned the dog and probably loved the dog. Ford had put the dog there, and I thought that was fuckin’ brilliant. I laughed. The little touch, the bit extra; the horses and men weren’t enough. They were the story but I’d always remember the dog. Because the dog made them human. I knew now why Ford kept digging at me, and I knew I’d come up with my own dogs.
Ford walked up to the lines of horses. He was looking at their feet. He stepped over the dog and kept going. He stopped and patted one of the horses.
—This one, he said.
A lad with a brush and a tin of paint got down on one knee and painted the horse’s feet. They suddenly looked blacker, too black, even from where I sat, through a screen of rolling dust. Ford examined the feet.
—Great, he said.
I couldn’t see him now. I could see no one who wasn’t in uniform. But I heard him.
—This will be picture.
Even the horses were waiting.
—Everybody ready? We are rolling.
It was simple and fast. I heard the accordion under the hooves and voices. The dust was now deliberate.
—AROUND HER NECK—
SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON—
The men on the horses were singing, going past me, with the dog trotting along beside them.
—SHE WORE IT IN THE SPRINGTIME—
AND IN THE MONTH OF MAY—
There were other voices. Everyone, in front of the camera and hidden, was singing.
—AND IF YOU ASKED HER—
WHY THE HECK SHE WORE IT—
SHE’D SAY IT’S FOR MY LOVER—
WHO’S IN THE CAVALRY—
The dust blew over me. I could still hear the horses. They hadn’t gone far. The filming was over. The hidden men were back. shifting the lights, painting, sweeping, making it all new again. And the dog was still lying there.
Ford walked towards me. I picked up my chair, so we both had our backs to the fort.
—The dog on the ground, I said.
—What about him?
—I saw him going off with the horses.
—Different dog. You killed men, right?
I nodded.
—Yeah.
—Tell me about one of them. Ready, Meta?
She was behind us, sitting on an Indian blanket, under her huge hat. I couldn’t see her eyes.
—Ready, she said.
—I shot him in the back of the head, I said.
—Provoked.
—No.
—You had to have a reason for killing the guy.
—I did, I said.—I was told to.
I slept that night in a tepee. There were two of them outside the perimeter fence of the fort. The tepees were real, but just there for background. I crawled into one, with a thin grey blanket I’d found in the back of a truck - it had been folded around a case full of lightbulbs. It was dark now, hours since the last of the film people had gone to their rooms at the trading post, somewhere off on the other side of the dust.
I lay down.
I wasn’t alone. I knew it like I used to know it, with the fast, smooth certainty that had often kept me alive.
I saw eyes. I waited for them to shift or blink. They didn’t. I held my leg beside me, ready.
I whispered.
—Navajo?
—Yes.
—Irish.
—Okay.
I must have slept.
There was a thin pillar of light coming from the hole above me where the prop-sticks met and leaned into each other. My Navajo pal was gone but there was someone else there, sitting back on his blanket.
—You shot the poor fuck in the head, said Ford.
—He wasn’t a poor fuck. He was a cop.
The
—Hold those fucking horses!
There was a dog asleep, in front of the horses’ angry feet. I waited for the big voice - Move that fucking dog! But it didn’t come. And I realised something: the dog was supposed to be there. The dog was part of the story. The dog was a cavalry dog and someone owned the dog and probably loved the dog. Ford had put the dog there, and I thought that was fuckin’ brilliant. I laughed. The little touch, the bit extra; the horses and men weren’t enough. They were the story but I’d always remember the dog. Because the dog made them human. I knew now why Ford kept digging at me, and I knew I’d come up with my own dogs.
Ford walked up to the lines of horses. He was looking at their feet. He stepped over the dog and kept going. He stopped and patted one of the horses.
—This one, he said.
A lad with a brush and a tin of paint got down on one knee and painted the horse’s feet. They suddenly looked blacker, too black, even from where I sat, through a screen of rolling dust. Ford examined the feet.
—Great, he said.
I couldn’t see him now. I could see no one who wasn’t in uniform. But I heard him.
—This will be picture.
Even the horses were waiting.
—Everybody ready? We are rolling.
It was simple and fast. I heard the accordion under the hooves and voices. The dust was now deliberate.
—AROUND HER NECK—
SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON—
The men on the horses were singing, going past me, with the dog trotting along beside them.
—SHE WORE IT IN THE SPRINGTIME—
AND IN THE MONTH OF MAY—
There were other voices. Everyone, in front of the camera and hidden, was singing.
—AND IF YOU ASKED HER—
WHY THE HECK SHE WORE IT—
SHE’D SAY IT’S FOR MY LOVER—
WHO’S IN THE CAVALRY—
The dust blew over me. I could still hear the horses. They hadn’t gone far. The filming was over. The hidden men were back. shifting the lights, painting, sweeping, making it all new again. And the dog was still lying there.
Ford walked towards me. I picked up my chair, so we both had our backs to the fort.
—The dog on the ground, I said.
—What about him?
—I saw him going off with the horses.
—Different dog. You killed men, right?
I nodded.
—Yeah.
—Tell me about one of them. Ready, Meta?
She was behind us, sitting on an Indian blanket, under her huge hat. I couldn’t see her eyes.
—Ready, she said.
—I shot him in the back of the head, I said.
—Provoked.
—No.
—You had to have a reason for killing the guy.
—I did, I said.—I was told to.
I slept that night in a tepee. There were two of them outside the perimeter fence of the fort. The tepees were real, but just there for background. I crawled into one, with a thin grey blanket I’d found in the back of a truck - it had been folded around a case full of lightbulbs. It was dark now, hours since the last of the film people had gone to their rooms at the trading post, somewhere off on the other side of the dust.
I lay down.
I wasn’t alone. I knew it like I used to know it, with the fast, smooth certainty that had often kept me alive.
I saw eyes. I waited for them to shift or blink. They didn’t. I held my leg beside me, ready.
I whispered.
—Navajo?
—Yes.
—Irish.
—Okay.
I must have slept.
There was a thin pillar of light coming from the hole above me where the prop-sticks met and leaned into each other. My Navajo pal was gone but there was someone else there, sitting back on his blanket.
—You shot the poor fuck in the head, said Ford.
—He wasn’t a poor fuck. He was a cop.
The
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