mister was close to three hundred pounds—he heaved the man up into the wagon. Bass threw the mister’s old felt hat on top of him, then his own blanket roll, and climbed up into the wagon seat.
Back at the ranch, he had driven the mules to skid logs, so they knew him and settled into the harness when he slapped their rumps with the reins.
The ground was hard, and the wagon rolled easily. Roosters were crowing and dogs barked at the wagon, but little else seemed to be moving in the town. There were horses still tied at hitch rails in front of the saloons, but no other wagons on the road and, except for an old black swamper at a saloon emptying spittoons into the roadway, they were alone.
The mister grumbled and swore but then finally slept, and Bass was alone with the mules and his thoughts. The road led straight west through a treeless plain and it was nearly impossible to get lost since the mules knew theway. Bass was content to let them walk and find their own speed, clucking his tongue and flipping the reins that crossed their rumps now and then to keep their attention.
The dogs barking made him think of the witch-dog coyote that had spoken to him—was the Mexican war what the coyote had been talking about? That might bring a change. Or the Comanche raid on the Garnetts. A terrible change. Or even coming to Paris and seeing a town for the first time, or shooting the rifle and killing a wild pig, or eating hard candy.
That reminded him that he had the paper sack in his blanket under the seat.
There were four pieces left. Two greens, a red and an orange. He took one of the greens and held it up to his eye and looked at the rising sun through the candy. Once he had done the same thing with a green bottle, but this green was much more intense, almost alive, and he smiled at how pretty it was; then he popped the green piece in his mouth, since he had two of them, and looked through the red and then tried to look through the red and the orange, holding one against the other. He was turned backward in the seat because the sun was coming up in the east and he was heading west when he heard a sound in front; he wheeled around and his heart froze.
Off to the side, a small band of mounted Indians was coming out of a gully. In the first instant, the old fear came back, but he saw that something was different about these people.
They were not all mounted. There were five or six men on horses, and walking in back of them were women and children, a dozen or so. None of them were painted andthey had no visible lances or bows. The horses weren’t painted. Each horse was dragging a pair of skid poles with crosspieces of willow tied in back and bundles wrapped in hide tied on top of the skids.
The horses looked poorly, as did the people. The children especially were very thin, except that their bellies bulged from hunger and many of them, as well as the women, had open sores on their faces and arms. Some held out their hands, begging, and Bass thought briefly of taking some flour and giving it to them. But if the mister awakened while he was doing it, he’d be in trouble, so he looked away.
He hadn’t seen them on the road because they had camped in the gully—now he could see smoke from fires they’d put out. After he’d passed, they pulled onto the road going in the same general direction.
The mules were slow, so that the small band almost kept up with him. After another two hours they were still only a quarter mile in back of the wagon and Bass had stopped watching them—they made him sad—and he was looking ahead, thinking if those Indians could be hidden in a gully, then other Indians could be hidden, when he heard the mister wake up.
“Damn rotgut whiskey,” the mister said, still slightly drunk although sobering fast. “Had everything in it plus rattlesnake heads … who are they?” He had seen the band of Indians back of the wagon.
“I don’t know. They came out of a ditch. They’re starving hungry and
Back at the ranch, he had driven the mules to skid logs, so they knew him and settled into the harness when he slapped their rumps with the reins.
The ground was hard, and the wagon rolled easily. Roosters were crowing and dogs barked at the wagon, but little else seemed to be moving in the town. There were horses still tied at hitch rails in front of the saloons, but no other wagons on the road and, except for an old black swamper at a saloon emptying spittoons into the roadway, they were alone.
The mister grumbled and swore but then finally slept, and Bass was alone with the mules and his thoughts. The road led straight west through a treeless plain and it was nearly impossible to get lost since the mules knew theway. Bass was content to let them walk and find their own speed, clucking his tongue and flipping the reins that crossed their rumps now and then to keep their attention.
The dogs barking made him think of the witch-dog coyote that had spoken to him—was the Mexican war what the coyote had been talking about? That might bring a change. Or the Comanche raid on the Garnetts. A terrible change. Or even coming to Paris and seeing a town for the first time, or shooting the rifle and killing a wild pig, or eating hard candy.
That reminded him that he had the paper sack in his blanket under the seat.
There were four pieces left. Two greens, a red and an orange. He took one of the greens and held it up to his eye and looked at the rising sun through the candy. Once he had done the same thing with a green bottle, but this green was much more intense, almost alive, and he smiled at how pretty it was; then he popped the green piece in his mouth, since he had two of them, and looked through the red and then tried to look through the red and the orange, holding one against the other. He was turned backward in the seat because the sun was coming up in the east and he was heading west when he heard a sound in front; he wheeled around and his heart froze.
Off to the side, a small band of mounted Indians was coming out of a gully. In the first instant, the old fear came back, but he saw that something was different about these people.
They were not all mounted. There were five or six men on horses, and walking in back of them were women and children, a dozen or so. None of them were painted andthey had no visible lances or bows. The horses weren’t painted. Each horse was dragging a pair of skid poles with crosspieces of willow tied in back and bundles wrapped in hide tied on top of the skids.
The horses looked poorly, as did the people. The children especially were very thin, except that their bellies bulged from hunger and many of them, as well as the women, had open sores on their faces and arms. Some held out their hands, begging, and Bass thought briefly of taking some flour and giving it to them. But if the mister awakened while he was doing it, he’d be in trouble, so he looked away.
He hadn’t seen them on the road because they had camped in the gully—now he could see smoke from fires they’d put out. After he’d passed, they pulled onto the road going in the same general direction.
The mules were slow, so that the small band almost kept up with him. After another two hours they were still only a quarter mile in back of the wagon and Bass had stopped watching them—they made him sad—and he was looking ahead, thinking if those Indians could be hidden in a gully, then other Indians could be hidden, when he heard the mister wake up.
“Damn rotgut whiskey,” the mister said, still slightly drunk although sobering fast. “Had everything in it plus rattlesnake heads … who are they?” He had seen the band of Indians back of the wagon.
“I don’t know. They came out of a ditch. They’re starving hungry and
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