Fair Land Fair Land - A B Guthrie Read online

  "Tidy job," Summers said.

  "Mack seen to that."

  "Good man, Mack is."

  "Right. But goddamn sober-sided. We wouldn't have got this far, though, but for him."

  They moved on.

  The sun was warm now, and the sky clear, though he had to look up to see it on account of the trees. Not like the plains where the eye could look at the far edges of the world, where distance danced on the slopes of buttes that might live just in the mind, where wild grasses waved in the wind. Mountains were all right unless they shouldered a man. Trees were all right unless they crowded him.

  At early dusk they made camp where water was. Summers put rope hobbles on Feather, knowing if any of the horses tried to backtrack Feather would lead them. For good measure he hung a bell around Feather's neck.

  He built a fire then, while Higgins chunked up the meat and threw it in a pot half-filled with water.

  "Them steaks got pretty dry," he explained. "Hope you don't mind a stew? I sneaked away with some salt."

  "Nope," Summers answered. "Takes longer, though."

  "What have we got but time?"

  Sure. They had time, all the time that was granted them, which no man could tally ahead. So take it easy. Quit fretting. One day he would meet up with Boone Caudill, who had been his friend. What then? Something. Nothing. What the hell? At least he didn't have to worry about money, success and how the crop grew. Just watch the pot.

  Higgins put the pot on the fire and sat down. He was trying to get used to a seat on the ground, Summers knew. "We goin' to climb up into the Blue Mountains, Dick?"

  "Don't figure on it. At the Blues we leave the Oregon Trail, bound north of it."

  "Then where?"

  "Over the Bitter Roots, over the Rockies and so to the plains."

  "Way I've heerd it, that would put us in Blackfoot country."

  "Yup."

  "Whatever you say," Higgins said. He stirred the pot with a stick. "I got it in my head you're fightin' shy of people. Ain't it so?"

  "For now, anyhow."

  "You got somethin' against "em?"

  "Just get tired of 'em in time. They spoil things."

  "Like what?"

  "Like ways of livin'. Look. The Indians had fixed things pretty nice. They killed just what they had to. They didn't count up what they had unless it was stole horses, which all of them stole when they could. They didn't have any idea of markin' off a piece of ground and sayin', ‘This is mine.' The land belonged to all of 'em."

  "Yeah?"

  "Then along came the white man. He wanted furs. He wanted land. And for trade he brought along whiskey or what passed for it."

  "I guess you couldn't blame him, except for the firewater."

  The pot was beginning to boil.

  "It's a way of things, and I was some part of it, trappin' beavers, findin' trails for others to follow, havin' one hell of a time without thinkin'."

  Summers went silent, not knowing how to go on, feeling guilt in him. Higgins got up and poked at the fire, putting some fresh wood on.

  "That don't argue that you got much against people," Higgins said.

  "No. It's natural. What gets me is there's so many white people, more and more all the time. And the more there are, the pushier they get."

  "You ain't goin' to change that, long as fuckin's so popular."

  "I got nothin' against it."

  "Me, neither, but it's what it leads to, what comes after. That's what you're sayin'."

  "I reckon so."

  They fell silent. Summers was just as glad to let the matter lie there. He wasn't good at explaining things, even to himself, he thought. It was the goodbyes that ate at him, the goodbyes to what was, the coming goodbyes to even what now was. They ate before the stew was tender, gobbling it down nonetheless, and sat down by what was left of the fire.

  By and by Higgins asked, "Dick, you been around. None of my business, but did you leave any young'ns around?"

  "Not to my knowin'."

  "I sired me a woods colt once, but it died bein' born. I wanted to marry that girl. I did for a fact. But she took up with a circuit-ridin' preacher. Pleased my maw all to hell. Out of sin into the arms of the Lord. That's what she said, not knowin' that the preacher was a bed-pounder, too."

  "A heap of 'em are."

  "Like you maybe made out, my maw was hell on religion. That's how come I got my first name."

  "I never heerd it."

  "I never tolt you, but, by God, if it ain't Hezekiah."

  Summers had to laugh. "Hezekiah Higgins. Takes some breath to say."

  "Now just forgit it, huh?"

  "Sure, Hig."

  Looking up, Summers could see stars, but not at the sides, at the sides only tall trees, the trees boxing him in. Not too long, though. Not forever. "Hig," he said, "you feel like playin' your fiddle a little?"

  "Sure thing."

  Higgins went to a pack and got it and the bow out. He had to tune up and rosin the bow before playing.

  "No jiggety stuff, please, Hig, and no holler music. Just somethin' easy."

  With the fiddle under his chin Higgins said, "Call me crazy, Dick, but I make up songs for myself. Ridin' along I thought up one that fits you and maybe me, too. Want to hear it?"

  "Play away."

  The country's my mistress.

  Why need me a wife?

  My country's my mistress.

  I lead a free life.

  The music waved to the edge of silence. Out of Hig's broken mouth came a voice that was clean and pure and fetching.

  No one to nag me.

  I just go along.

  No one to nag me

  So join me in song.

  O-do-lee, o-do-lay, o-do-lee, o-do-lay.

  My country's my mistress.

  Why need me a wife?

  6

  TWAS THE EDGE of dusk when they rode down to the smoother water of the Dalles and the Deschutes River. Where all had been bustle and worry and wagons just a spell ago, there were now only a few cast-off wagons, some past repair, and the odds-and-ends leavings of travelers bound down the river. There were, to boot, a canoe and a couple of rowboats, one water-logged, on the river's lip and a couple of cabins on the bank.

  It beat hell, Higgins thought, how things could change, how folks could come and go, leaving behind them as junk what they had prized once, like a cherry chest there was no cargo space for, like a rusted anvil not worth more sweat. And where were the horses and cattle that the owners had worried about? One cabin looked empty and deserted, but the other might have something in it besides mice. It had a hitch rack in front of it and a slab lean-to at one side. They tied up.

  "My butt's bounced enough for one day," Higgins said, getting off his horse. He had to hang on to the saddle horn for a minute to ease his legs.

  "We'll see what's inside," Summers answered. "A drink would go good." But for an instant he stood there, considering. "Seems to me these cabins was just going up when we took off."

  "I didn't take notice."

  The door opened before they reached it, and a voice said, "Welcome, y'all." Dark as it was getting to be, Higgins could still see a chesty man, half bald, who wore an unbuttoned town vest. He showed them in, saying, "Best hold up until I can make some light." His shape moved to a mud-and-stick fireplace where a fire flickered. He put a twig in it until it caught and then lighted the wicks of a couple of oil lamps without chimneys.

  "Now move up, gents. Place ain't too tidy, you can see. I was just fixin' to neat up when you showed."

  As Higgins" eyes adjusted, he saw that the cabin had been divided. In the half they entered there was a bar made out of half a log with three stools in front of it. The floor was dirt.

  "Stand up or sit down, whichever pleases you," the man said.

  "Nice day today. Faired off good. But I look for it to rain tomorrow. Somethin' tells me it's fixin' to."

  "First time I've heerd your kind of talk in a coon's age," Higgins said, me
aning to be pleasant.

  "Southern mountains, ain't it?

  That where you hail from?"

  The man stiffened and gave him a long look. "What business is it of yours?"

  "Can't a man ask a question?"

  The man pushed up against the bar, his face set. "Makin' fun, huh? I'll tell you no one puts Joe Newton down."

  Higgins cussed himself. He knew as well as anybody that mountaineers took offense when no offense was meant, they were so goddamn face-proud.

  Before he could reply, Summers said, "Mister, we don't care shit where you're from or how you palaver. That don't matter one good goddamn. You got any whiskey? Just tell me that."

  Summers hadn't raised his voice, but there was a tone in it that set the man back. So did his eyes.

  The man said, "It's just, well, I got my pride."

  "Good for you. My pardner was just tryin' to be friendly. No cause to get your dander up."

  "All right. I got whiskey. Comes high, so I warn you."

  Summers put a gold piece on the bar. It came, Higgins knew, from his pay as a guide. No greenbacks. Just honest coin.

  Newton reached behind him and got two mugs and a jug.

  "This is s'posed to come from Kentucky, but you never know. It's prime stuff, I swear." He poured good measure. It was then he took note of the gold piece. He looked at it, hefted it. "Jesus Christopher," he said, "you expect me to make change for that?"

  "Could be you got some fixin's we want."

  "Could be. Like what?"

  "No business talk till the liquor says yes."

  "Sure. Take your time."

  Higgins could feel the warmth of the whiskey in his belly. He wasn't much of a drammer, but once in a while a drink went good. He drained his glass.

  "Fill 'em up again," Summers said. "Have one yourself."

  "That's kindly," Newton said and reached for the jug and another glass.

  Higgins thought he could speak again without roiling the man. "None of my business, but I'm askin' myself how you make out. For grub, I mean. Meat."

  Newton took a swallow of whiskey and licked his lips. "That's a fair question, and I'll tell you it's not as hard as a man might think. Fish, for instance."

  "Salmon, huh?"

  "Durin' the run. But a man gets mighty tired of salmon."

  "Strike up the band. I'll beat the big drum."

  "Amen. I put out set lines for sturgeon. Some of them are Christly big and break my lines. I got one down in brine now that must have weighed nigh onto sixty pounds. Makes a nice change."

  "All the same, it's not red meat."

  "You'd be surprised, now all them pilgrims have left. Once in a while now a mule deer — I call 'em jackass deer on account of the ears — it kind of strolls by. I killed me one yesterday. Reminds me. You men crave some good eats?"

  "I'm thinkin' so," Summers answered. "Pour another, friend, your own self included."

  Before he took hold of the jug, the man added, "I can give you some good stuff, right off the loin. My woman — she's a Cayuse — pounds chokecherries fine, pits and all, and throws in some seasonin', like wild sage, I guess, and makes a sauce that I call mighty fine."

  Touchy or not, Newton was from the Appalachian country, Higgins knew. The words he used and the nosy twang gave him away. Not that it made any difference.

  "Might be you'll have company," Newton went on. "That is if you don't object to some warwhoop."

  "Long as he don't hanker for scalps," Summers told him.

  "Nothin' like that. He's kind of a preacher, I reckon, missionary-like. But his religion ain't wore so sore that he won't take a drink."

  "Preachers I know like a dram so's to put more hell in their warnin's," Higgins said.

  "He's half French to my notion. You know how those Frenchies are, always makin' up to squaws." He grinned suddenly, maybe thinking of himself. "Not that most don't."

  "Comin' today, huh?" Higgins said, just to make talk.

  "Said he would. Been gone two weeks now."

  "So what you got in the tradin' line?" Summers asked. "A good rifle, maybe?"

  "Not like that there cannon of yours. Hawken, ain't it? But I A got a good Kentucky, full stock, sugar wood. Big enough for deer, even elk. It shoots true."

  "Might have a look later. How"s the jug holdin' up?"

  Newton renewed the drinks. "Got here too late for rich pickin's," he said, resting an elbow on the bar. "Started the cabin and then figured what the hell. No goods to sell. I contracted for two wagonsful, and they was long comin'. I'll do me better next season."

  "Bound to be a crowd, I"m thinkin'," Summers said.

  "Bein' green," Newton went on, "I stocked a heap of the wrong things. Powder and ball for one. What did a passel of farmers want with that in peaceable country? Heavy clothes for another. Should have stocked slickers. Live and learn, they say, and I'm learnin'."

  "Yeah. I reckon you might as well tell your woman to be makin' that tasty sauce."

  Newton disappeared through a door, and they heard him giving directions. When he came back, he asked, "Would it be fittin' to ask where you're bound?"

  "East," Summers said and didn't add to it.

  "Well, good luck. I sure hope you make it. It's comin' on to the second half of August, you taken note?"

  "We'll make it."

  Newton didn't hear him, for he was saying as the outer door opened, "How there, stranger? We been talkin' about you."

  The man who entered was short, swarthy and dressed in buckskins. He wore his hair in braids. He answered, "Comment portez-vous?"

  "Cut out the Frenchy act," Newton said. Then to Higgins and Summers, "He means how are you?"

  The man took a seat, and Summers told Newton, "I'll buy a round."

  Before he drank the man said, "Merci. I be Christian."

  "I be Dick. Here's to you, Chris."

  The man sipped at his whiskey, put the mug down and answered, "No. No. My name it is Antoine. Christian my medicine."

  "My mistake." Summers gestured with his left hand. "Whitman Mission?"

  Again the man shook his head. "Not so. True faith for me. Book of Heaven. The big medicine."

  For an instant Summers looked puzzled, but only for an instant. "The black robes?"

  "Oui. Oui," Antoine answered, his smile pleased. "On Racine Amére."

  "He means Bitter Root country," Summers said to Higgins.

  "That's over the mountains." He turned back to Antoine.

  "You're a long way from home."

  Antoine nodded. "See my friends. What you call the Umatilla, the Nez Perce, even Cayuse. Ask them come see the black robes. Find out truth."

  "I take it you're a Flathead."

  "White man's talk. We no flatten heads."

  "Heap sorry," Summers answered. "When you go home?"

  "Moon of wild rose, maybe. Many to see."

  "I'm headin' that way myself."

  "Ah, to see black robes?"

  "Find out the truth," Summers answered, not smiling. "Not sure how to go. Think so, but not sure. You tell me?"

  "Oui. Oui. Say you saw Antoine, yes?"

  "Sure. Sure."

  Summers turned his head toward Newton. "Would you ask your woman to please put another name in the pot?"

  "Figured he'd be here. On you?"

  "On me."

  Summers and Antoine began talking sign language. It made no sense to Higgins, that waving and pointing and playing with their fingers. He paid them little mind until Summers said,

  "Hig, get one of them lamps, will you?"

  At Summers' signal Higgins put the lamp on the floor. Summers and Antoine squatted there, and Antoine began drawing lines in the dust, explaining with more sign language. In between gestures Summers called to Newton, "We could stand another dose of that good whiskey."

  "On the house this time," Newton told him.

  Higgins didn't want another drink. He was liquored up plenty as it was. He put one hand over his mug, to be told by Newto
n,

  "When Joe Newton buys, everybody drinks." The damn man was still touchy. Higgins removed his hand.

  Summers and Antoine talked some more, by tongue and hand. By and by Newton said, "You boys want to neaten up, I put a bucket of water and a basin and towel out on the bench. Grub's about ready."

  Higgins hadn't even seen him go out.

  Antoine was the first to go wash. While he was gone, Summers told Higgins, "I figured my nose was pointed right, but now I sure God know how to go."

  "Just so it gets us to yonder."

  7

  TO HIGGANS, looking backward, it seemed the days and nights were all one, each different in the doing and seeing but still, taken together, all the same. Get up before the sun, eat, pack up and saddle up and ride, make camp just before dark, eat again, gab a while, sleep. And ford the rivers, the Deschutes, the John Day, the Umatilla, and maybe take time to wash the dirt off.

  The trail, so far as they followed it, was empty of travelers. The Oregon-bound had passed this way, the men, the women, the children, the wagons and livestock, and had pushed on by water or trail to the promised land that he and Summers were putting behind them.

  They had met some Indians along the Umatilla, a tatter-assed, beggarly bunch to whom Summers paid little attention except to call back, "Watch your outfit, Hig. They got quick hands."

  The days and nights were the same but the country changed, from forest and ferns to pieces of prairie and cottonwood patches. It was good to take note of them all but bad not to know what was seen. What's the name of this plant? What kind of tree's that? A damn shame that a man went through life ignorant of the life around him. Too late, though, to do anything about that.

  At the edge of the Blue Mountains Summers slanted them to the left, to the northeast. He pulled up where water ran from a spring and let the horses drink. He pointed. "Whitman Mission's over there a piece, and, I hear, a fort. Can't see 'em from here."

  "You aim to skip both?"

  "Palaver would just hold us up. Besides, we got what we need."

  True enough, Higgins thought, though they'd have to find game for the pot. The list of things bought at the Dalles ran through his head. Two blankets to add to their bedrolls. A couple of plugs of cheap tobacco. One jug of whiskey. A square of canvas big enough for a tent. Powder and ball. A packet of salt. And for Higgins himself Summers bought a short heavy coat like his own. He called it a capote. He added warm wool pants and the Kentucky rifle. For good measure the man had thrown in a piece of salted deer meat and, at Higgins' hint, some corn meal and a trifle of honey. That wasn't all. "In them old felts you men will freeze your goddamn ears off," the man had said. "Now I got just the right thing. Can't sell 'em to sod-lovers, not in rainy country, so I'm makin' a gift." He poked through a pile of goods and came out with two coonskin caps. And he wasn't from Kentucky or Tennessee, huh?