We should’ve took the north fork. I told Braden it was easier riding. Better grass for the horses, flatter land. But no, it was his goddamn way, or no way.
So here we are.
They’re peeling Braden’s scalp off his skull, so I don’t guess I’ll get the chance to tell him “I told you so.” He’s beggin’ for his life. Hell, it’s him they should’ve kilt first. And a man ought not to die like that. A man ought to die fightin’ or die quiet.
I hear the women screamin’ off behind me. And their young’ns crying. It’s almost as bad as the horses. A dyin’ horse makes noises that’ll give a man night terrors. Anyway, the women and little ones’ll either get took or killed. Nothin’ to be done for it now, either way.
I wish I was back in Georgia. What’d I come here for? Momma always said I ought to be a lawyer. Go to Chattanooga and be a lawyer, she’d say. Marry one of them riverboat showgirls. There ain’t nothing for you in Texas but dust and blood, she said. I wish that’s what I would’ve done. I don’t belong here. I ain’t got no quarrel with these red men.
That’s what I wish I could tell this big feller standin’ here. Oh, he’s a dandy. A fine specimen. Coal black hair runnin’ down his red sun-baked back. Red and white war paint on his face and bare chest. Stone axe in his hand as sharp as any steel ever was. Six foot tall, I’d say, but it’s hard to tell for sure, with me sittin’ against this wagon wheel here in the dust. He’s a warrior, this one – no mistaking that. As fine and deadly as any that ever walked this earth.
I know what those are on his rawhide belt, too. Six of ‘em, trailing in the hot August wind. He’ll have him another one, here shortly, I reckon. But it won’t come cheap. I’m out of shells, but I got my Bowie knife that I traded for, back in Nagadoches. It’s cold and sharp and mean.
Wonder what that is he’s yellin’? Red Elk would know. Red Elk told Braden to take the north fork, too. What the hell’s the sense in havin’ a guide if you won’t go where he tells you to? Foolishness and vanity is what it was. Red Elk took an arrow in the eye at the start of this little massacre. So I guess I ain’t never gonna know what this feller was yellin’.
They got the jump on us, or else I think we could’ve maybe drove ‘em off. One minute, there’s sunshine on our backs, the next, there’s an arrow in mine. And then they come boilin’ out of that line of trees, hootin’ and hollerin’ like nothing you ever heard. We didn’t even have time to get the wagons circled. I bet we looked a sight, scramblin’ around like we was.
There’s a warm trickle of blood runnin’ down the corner of my mouth. Must’ve got a lung. Funny thing is, it don’t hurt as much as the one in my knee. Goddamn, that hurts, I tell you. Like it’s gratin’ on bone … which I guess it is, come to think of it. I wish I had some whiskey.
Well, looks like he’s done hollerin’ at me. Reckon it’s time to dance. Come ahead, big feller. Come ahead.
So here we are.
They’re peeling Braden’s scalp off his skull, so I don’t guess I’ll get the chance to tell him “I told you so.” He’s beggin’ for his life. Hell, it’s him they should’ve kilt first. And a man ought not to die like that. A man ought to die fightin’ or die quiet.
I hear the women screamin’ off behind me. And their young’ns crying. It’s almost as bad as the horses. A dyin’ horse makes noises that’ll give a man night terrors. Anyway, the women and little ones’ll either get took or killed. Nothin’ to be done for it now, either way.
I wish I was back in Georgia. What’d I come here for? Momma always said I ought to be a lawyer. Go to Chattanooga and be a lawyer, she’d say. Marry one of them riverboat showgirls. There ain’t nothing for you in Texas but dust and blood, she said. I wish that’s what I would’ve done. I don’t belong here. I ain’t got no quarrel with these red men.
That’s what I wish I could tell this big feller standin’ here. Oh, he’s a dandy. A fine specimen. Coal black hair runnin’ down his red sun-baked back. Red and white war paint on his face and bare chest. Stone axe in his hand as sharp as any steel ever was. Six foot tall, I’d say, but it’s hard to tell for sure, with me sittin’ against this wagon wheel here in the dust. He’s a warrior, this one – no mistaking that. As fine and deadly as any that ever walked this earth.
I know what those are on his rawhide belt, too. Six of ‘em, trailing in the hot August wind. He’ll have him another one, here shortly, I reckon. But it won’t come cheap. I’m out of shells, but I got my Bowie knife that I traded for, back in Nagadoches. It’s cold and sharp and mean.
Wonder what that is he’s yellin’? Red Elk would know. Red Elk told Braden to take the north fork, too. What the hell’s the sense in havin’ a guide if you won’t go where he tells you to? Foolishness and vanity is what it was. Red Elk took an arrow in the eye at the start of this little massacre. So I guess I ain’t never gonna know what this feller was yellin’.
They got the jump on us, or else I think we could’ve maybe drove ‘em off. One minute, there’s sunshine on our backs, the next, there’s an arrow in mine. And then they come boilin’ out of that line of trees, hootin’ and hollerin’ like nothing you ever heard. We didn’t even have time to get the wagons circled. I bet we looked a sight, scramblin’ around like we was.
There’s a warm trickle of blood runnin’ down the corner of my mouth. Must’ve got a lung. Funny thing is, it don’t hurt as much as the one in my knee. Goddamn, that hurts, I tell you. Like it’s gratin’ on bone … which I guess it is, come to think of it. I wish I had some whiskey.
Well, looks like he’s done hollerin’ at me. Reckon it’s time to dance. Come ahead, big feller. Come ahead.
