Paradise Sky

“You didn’t no more do that than fly away like a bird,” Tornado said.

“All right, I didn’t go back there, but that’s what I want to do when I hear he good and dead. It heavy wishful thinking, I admit, but I run it through my head so many times, it almost the same as I went and did it.”

After that, there was some throat clearing, and the white lieutenant looked as if he had suddenly come down with the miseries. The silence fell down heavy enough we could hear a night bird breathe. Even as tough as that old boy was, he must have thought it might be a good idea to calm things down, perhaps fearing, heavy as some of us was with our memories, we was about to revolt and beat him to death with a stick. The lieutenant cleared his throat, and to get us on his side went directly into a story about how he had fought for the Union, making sure to mention the bravery of colored troops, then he told a couple of jokes about army folk, and then two or three long, windy ones I didn’t get. Then he commanded everyone to bed, except them he put on watch as replacements for those that had been standing and was now brought in to eat their supper.

He put me and the Former House Nigger on vigil, and then a couple hours later we was replaced and got to go to bed. It seemed as if I had just put my head down, and then the sun was up, and we was, too. The Former House Nigger prepared a breakfast of beans that contained what he said was black pepper nuggets but looked like rat turds to me. Taste was similar, too. I think it was his way of making us all feel better about the dining.

I ate it anyway, and was sopping up with a finger in the bean juice when I seen the lieutenant coming. We jumped to attention along with the other soldiers that was eating there by the creek.

The lieutenant said, “Boys, there’s a patch of scrub oaks off the creek, scattered out there across the grass, and they aren’t growing worth a damn. They’re going to be your concern. I’m going to take some of the troops and see if we can pot us a deer or two to take back to camp. It would beat beans and grits and inconsistent biscuits—no offense, Private House Nigger.”

“None taken, sir,” said the Former House Nigger.

“Besides, I’m bored,” said the lieutenant.

“I’m bored, too,” I said.

“Looks like you’re going to continue to be that way,” he said, “unless cutting scrub oak livens you up. I want you fellows to cut that scrub down and saw it up and load it in the wagon to take back for firewood, so it doesn’t look like we just come out here and rode around and spent the night at the creek, which is pretty much what we did.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I thought we could use that oak to smoke the meat I plan to bring in.”

“That’s a good plan,” I said. “That part I can help with. I can smoke meat.” I didn’t mention, of course, that I was a pretty good cook. That was the Former House Nigger’s job, and it wasn’t one I wanted.

“What if you don’t get no meat?” Prickly Pear said.

“We can still burn the wood, but it won’t be for smoking deer shanks. But hell. I saw those deer with my binoculars no less than five minutes ago. Big, fat deer, about a half dozen of them ru

“I be the best deer ski

“That’s some disappointing shit for you,” the lieutenant said. “I got Tornado with me, and I need you here, Prickly. Nat, I’m putting you in charge. You get bit by a snake and die, then the Former House Nigger takes over. I’m also going to put Rutherford, Bill, and Rice, couple others in your charge, and Prickly Pear. Prickly Pear, you take charge if everyone else is dead, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Prickly Pear said, and he looked right proud to hear this.

“What about Indians?” Rutherford said.

“You seen any Indians?” the lieutenant said.

“No, sir,” said Rutherford.

“Then there are no Indians,” the lieutenant said.

“You ever seen any?” Rutherford asked the lieutenant.

“Oh, hell, yeah. Been attacked by them, and I’ve attacked them. There’s every kind of Indian you can imagine out here from time to time. Kiowa. Apache. Comanche, a stray Kickapoo, and some kind of Indian always looks like he’s got dog shit smeared on his face or some such. And there isn’t a thing they’d like better than to have your prickly black scalps on their belts, cause they find your hair fu

“I thought it was because we’re brave like buffalo,” I said.

“No, that isn’t it,” he said. “It’s the hair.”

“That’s kind of disappointing,” the Former House Nigger said.

“You haven’t seen any action for any kind of Indian or anyone else to have an opinion of your bravery,” the lieutenant said. “None of us have seen an Indian in ages, and we haven’t seen sign of them, either. Not yesterday, not today. I’m starting to think they’ve all caught a boat to China, and I do suspicion them of Chinese heritage, but that’s just my thinking. Someday I want to write a treatise on it. But as for thinking they’re all gone, I’ve thought that before. Indians, especially the Apache and Comanche, they’re hard to get a handle on. They’ll get after something or someone like it matters more than anything in the world, then they’ll wander off if a bird flies over and they make an omen of it. They find omens in squirrel shit, they take a mind to.”

Leaving us with those mixed thoughts on Indians, buffalo, and squirrel shit, the lieutenant, Tornado, and the rest of the men rode off, leaving us standing in the shade and me as the leader over a small band of men. I had never given an order in my life, so I didn’t know how to start.

First thing we did when the lieutenant and his men was out of sight was throw off our boots and get in the creek. I had been carrying my army Spencer around with me, and I laid it up on the bank with the cavalry pistol. My other guns, Winchester and such, was with my bedroll, which I had fastened up and put near the remuda, near my mount, Satan.

I finally decided to take off my clothes, get a bar of lye soap, and slip back down in the water and scrub myself with it until I didn’t smell like my horse. After I was clean as an eastern society lady on her way to church, me and the others, all of us about as carefree as tramps, dressed, went up, and got the wagon hitched to the mules. I left Prickly Pear and another soldier to guard the goods and horses. I had everyone else get in the back of the wagon except for Rice, who I put on a horse to serve as a kind of range rider alongside of us. We traveled wide of the grove of trees, around to where there was just a trickle of creek water and nothing but hot sunlight overhead. We crossed there and made our way to where there was a scattering of miserable-looking oaks, spaced out a few feet apart, with drying leaves. We set to sawing them down with a cross-cut, and then two men using axes took to trimming the limbs. When we finished, we loaded the wagon with the wood.

As we was preparing to go back to camp, Rutherford said, “You know, I hear them Apache will cut off your eyelids and stake you out in the sun or split your pecker and put ants in it.”

“I know there’s things like that have been done, but I don’t know we need to hear about them,” Rice said.

Bill put a last chunk of oak in the back of the wagon and said, “Them Indians. Ain’t no use hating them for being what they is. Like hating a bush cause it’s got thorns on it. Hatin’ a snake for biting you. They is what they is, same as us.”

“And what are we?” the Former House Nigger said.

Before that question could be answered, Rice, who was in the wagon rearranging some wood, said, “I think we got a problem.”