Paradise Sky

They gandered on me all together, and pretty soon all them that was on horses in front of me climbed off, and then them behind me did the same. There was eight altogether, and they gathered around me and studied me like I was a cipher problem. They bent down and took turns rubbing my forehead, which was painful, as they damn near chafed it raw.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t know what to say. And whatever I would have said, I figured they wouldn’t have understood it. They, on the other hand, was chattering about, and one brought over a skin of water and poured it on my face and went to rubbing with his breechcloth. After a bit they decided my hide was indeed black and there to stay. The Indian who had started to scalp me picked up his knife, and I figured, well, here it comes. I hoped if he did it he went on and killed me, because I was growing mighty uncomfortable in that warming skin.

He put the knife away and gave a chuckle. The other Indians started to laugh. They got so tickled and guffawed so long I almost laughed with them.

I don’t know why they didn’t scalp me, as I had a really full head of long hair back then, and it would have been a prize. But instead, that same Indian, one with the scalping knife, got a smaller leather bag out of a large one on his hip, opened it, and dipped his fingers in. They came out white-tipped. I figure it was some kind of clay, but whatever it was he bent down and went to work on my face with it. As he rubbed it on me, all the others laughed, and one even giggled like a little girl. I was a little embarrassed for him.

After a time my painter got done with his intentions, stood up, turned his head first to one side then the other, and practically hooted he was so happy with his work. They all started laughing about it, and then the laughter died out easy as it had started. They got on their ponies, and each of them rode around me, leaning off their horses and touching me with their bows or rifles. Then, hollering it up, they rode off.

Why they left me like that I don’t know. I guess they decided I was a curiosity, one that deserved whatever fate had been given to me. After that little lapse in boredom for me and the Indians, they abandoned me.

The sun rose up high and turned hot as hell’s oven. That hide began to clench me something terrible. Steam come off the hide and rose up in slow wads of white, and the stink of it was so thick in my nose it was like plugs of rotting meat had been shoved in there. I was starting to have trouble breathing as that skin tightened. I wouldn’t have been no more uncomfortable if a blacksmith had come in and laid an anvil on my chest and then sat on it, and I was messing myself in that damn cow skin. I could feel it squirting down my legs. It wasn’t just painful, it was humiliating.

A slight shower came up, and though it wet the hide again, which wasn’t a good thing in the long run, in the short run it actually caused it to loosen a smidgen. The shower went on for hours. I could feel the paint on my face cracking and crusting up, but it was a rough sort of paint and wouldn’t wash away easily.

When the sun was back out, I began to stew again. But the day was near an end, and I had been given some breathing room. The hide, though still tightening, had loosened just enough to allow me a long night and another miserable day tomorrow that would end as it might have ended if not for that rainstorm.

That’s when I heard horses behind me. I figured the Indians was back and had thought it over and decided to come and scalp me after all. But I paused that thought. I could hear these horses, where I didn’t hear them Sioux until they was right up on me. That was because these here horses was shod and coming from a distance.

I waited, listening.

It was two horses. They rode up in front of me.

The riders got off their mounts.

I began to weep silently.

It was Cullen and Bronco Bob.

23

There is no way I can express the gratitude I felt as Cullen cut me free of that skin with a hunting knife, folded it back, and clipped them ropes that held me.

Bronco Bob had squatted down to watch Cullen work, and when the cowhide was folded back, he stood up and stepped back a pace, which, due to the stink, was understandable.

“You got white stuff on your face,” Cullen said.

“Some Indians thought I needed painting.” My words was as dry as the dust in a summer street, hardly understandable.

“It’s clay and ashes mixed with animal fat,” Bronco Bob said. “They’ve made of you a white man. I suppose it is from their point of view an insult.”

I tried to stand up but couldn’t. Cullen got his canteen and gave me a good swig, said, “Just a little right now.”

“Thank goodness you come,” I said. “But why are you here?”

“Bronco Bob here was in the Gem, and it was mentioned by a fellow there that some men pla

“He seemed quite happy about it,” Bronco Bob said. “I overheard him speaking to a young gentleman, and when the speaker went outside, I went, too. I spoke with him. We had a very enlightening conversation.”

“Bob means he beat the hell out of him,” Cullen said.

“It was a mild beating, though it made a wound or two over his eyes. While lying on his back in the dirt, he spoke to me at my urging, which means I kicked him a lot with the toe of my right boot. Said he had been paid to be one of the bunch to follow you out, but had gotten drunk instead. He had his money already, an error on the part of his employer, so he decided to spend it and not follow you. That was your good fortune, for I heard word from him, and me and Cullen followed you. Or rather we took the obvious route you would take with a wagon.”

“How come you’re here, Cullen?” I asked.

“My doing,” Bronco Bob said. “I had seen this gentleman with you. When I saw him in the street, I told what I had overheard, and what I had been able to get out of the loudmouth. Though too late to keep you from suffering. We came when we knew the situation.”

“All that matters is you came,” I said.

I was on my feet now, but still having trouble.

“They got Win and Madame.”

“I feared as much,” Cullen said. I knew what he was thinking. Men who would do what they had done to me might do the same or worse to women. I didn’t mention that they already had.

The barrel they had poured the water from lay on its side in the grass. I hadn’t seen it until now, as it was behind me. The lip of it was slightly raised on a rise of ground. I waddled over naked to the barrel and tipped it up. There was some water in it.

To make it short, Cullen and Bronco Bob helped me gather up the pieces of my shirt, and I used them and the water to clean myself, wiping the paint off my face best I could, cleaning the shit from my body. Then I put on my pants and boots and socks.

I pointed. “That’s the direction they took,” I said, “and if you don’t want any part of it, loan me a gun and a horse, and I’ll take care of it. You two have done more than anyone could ask.”

“Hell, I’m already out here,” Cullen said.

“I’ll come along,” Bronco Bob said. “Though I have had a few adventures, I admit readily that I have never fired a shot at a human being. Not that I want to do that now, but I might write better about such things if I experienced them.”

“Close enough,” I said.

I rode on the back of Cullen’s horse, him complaining about my stink all the way. Wiping myself down had only gotten rid of the main of it. We rode through the night. The moon was still rich, so the seeing was good. My head ached, and I felt weak. Part of it was lack of having eaten.

We rode for a couple of hours, following the moonlit wagon tracks. Then I seen Satan standing in the grass, head dipped, chomping. He raised his noggin as we came, and damn if he didn’t start trotting over. He still had his saddle on, and the rifle was in the pouch. I slid off Cullen’s horse, held out my hand, and made clicking sounds until he come up. I petted his nose.