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Sands of Sedona
Copyright 1982-2003 TrixiePixGraphics
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Sands of Sedona -- Western Fiction
Approx. 67962 Words
Chapter Eight
After his bath John walked down to check on his horse. Chowder wouldn't generally tolerate a stall for more than a couple of days without becoming bothersome. The heat would make him even more antsy. The bronc had come to appreciate a warm, snug stall at times, but those times weren't often, and harsh weather did not seem to be the factor which drove him to shelter. The horse seemed to be charged by strange or violent weather; he often chased wind devils and if he caught them, would spin in circles while they danced on his back. If the whirlwinds moved away, he'd chase them down again and dance in their turbulence. He was never frightened by lightning, but would often rear and whinny in an open field through the most violent of storms, as though daring the bolts to come down and split his head open. And the first snow of winter always saw the horse making a fool of himself as he frolicked in its whiteness.
Chowder sometimes picked up sticks and carried them around like a dog; John had thought this behavior particularly odd. Sometimes, John would find little piles of sticks, neatly arranged, in different spots around the pasture. There he'd find Chowder, carrying more sticks in his mouth to add to the little stack, or perhaps taking some away from it, to other locations. Sometimes the mustang would chase other horses in the pasture, with sticks in his mouth, and would hit them with the sticks as he ran. He did this, when he did it at all, with a single-mindedness that was frankly disconcerting. John had yelled at him on a couple of occasions when he seemed to be getting out of hand with it, and when the victim seemed to be having trouble getting away. Chowder always immediately dropped the stick. Then he would run off to play some other game. But he always gave John a sideways look as he trotted past. John had not worried greatly about the phenomenon until he heard a story about a horse down in Texas who did the same thing. That horse had been unfortunate, however, for its Mexican owner thought it a sign of demonic possession, and had killed the horse outright. John had mentioned Chowder's strange habit to only one or two people in the area, but he found himself vowing to never again bring it up. He hoped those few people he'd told would forget the story, or at least would never hear of the reason for the other horse's untimely demise.
From the boardwalk in front of the Elkhorn he could hear Chowder's telltale kicking against his stall, and he knew the horse was bored.
When he reached the stable, Kelly was just finishing up a buggy rental; she glanced at him coolly as he entered. He suddenly realized that he took her coolness toward him as a challenge. On an impulse he said, "Good morning Kelly. You look beautiful this morning." In reality, he thought she looked only average. After what they'd been through together, he felt she could at least be civil, if not even a little friendly toward him. He asked for no more than that.
Kelly merely stared at him and he continued past her. He was not sure if she purposely ignored his compliment, or if she had been stunned by it. Her expression rather suggested the latter. He noted, however, that she was significantly prettier than she'd been when he first came to town. He didn't know why.
He found Joey in a back stall, playing with a baby donkey. The boy was taking some time off from shoveling shit. As John approached, Joey was happy to show the critter off. "This is my donk," he said, with an emphasis on "my". John was duly impressed.
"He looks like a fine specimen," John said. "What's his name?" John moved up and leaned over the stall, with a foot poking through between two lower slats. The donkey immediately put its head down and nearly bit John's toe off. John yelped and jumped back. Joey laughed.
"His name is Bill," the boy said a little apologetically, "an'.....he don't like feet." John could tell the boy wanted to laugh. Joey was almost proud of that donkey. Perhaps, John thought, he'd trained the donk to do that..
"So I noticed," John replied, rubbing his toes and noting the bite marks in the leather. "Maybe somebody used to kick him," John offered as an explanation.
"Could be," Joey agreed. "He came from Injuns."
"That doesn't necessarily mean he was kicked. --Could have been white folks kicked him, just as likely," John said.
"Yea, but he came from Injuns. Injuns kick everything. Injuns killed my pa."
John was daunted for a moment. "Sorry to hear that," he said. "It was white folks that killed my family."
Joey was genuinely shocked. "Your whole family?" Joey asked.
"All of them," John said flatly, and then changed the subject. "You gonna teach that donk some tricks?"
"Heck, he already knows some tricks. I taught him some. Watch this."
Joey climbed up on the boards of the stall and held his hand high, out over the middle of the stall. The donkey immediately reared up on his hind legs and twirled in a circle, in a little donkey dance. Joey continued for a moment, moving his fingers in barely perceptible circles. Then he stopped and the donkey went back to all fours. "You can't do it too long," Joey said. He gets dizzy and falls down." He tried to say it seriously, but he giggled at the end. Obviously, he had made the donkey dizzy enough to fall down on more than one occasion, in the refining of that particular trick.
"You want to try it?" Joey offered.
"Well, let's let him get a rest before we try it again. He might get dizzy if we do it again too soon. He looks kind of cross-eye'd."
Joey looked to see if the donkey was really cross-eye'd. He didn't seem cross-eye'd to Joey. Joey started to object, but thought better of it. Perhaps making the donkey dizzy was something that John frowned upon.
"What else does he know?"
"Oh--" Joey said, interested again. "I can make him lay down." Joey climbed into the stall and pinched Bill gently in the girth. The animal hesitated only a moment, and then, without further cueing, lay down. Joey promptly climbed on his back. He waited a moment for effect, then snapped his fingers. Bill struggled to get up with the weight of the boy on his back. He made it, but not without difficulty. John thought of advising that the donkey be allowed to get a little older before making him get up like that, but he thought better of it. Joey couldn't weigh more than fifty pounds, and it wasn't hurting the donkey. It would help him to become strong enough to do it without struggling.
"That's a great trick," John said. "Did you know that Chowder can do the same thing?"
Joey was astounded, and wanted to see it right away, but John suggested he give the boy a full demonstration of all Chowder's tricks after he'd had a good ride, and had some of the soup worked out of the horse. Then he found himself hoping Chowder had not been doing anything too strange while in Kelly's care. God forbid, John thought, that he should be caught chasing the other horses with sticks. He firmed up his plans to get the horse out and run him down a bit, so he wouldn't be so bored and mischievous, and so he wouldn't be as likely to do something which John would find awkward to explain.
"Does your donk know any other tricks?" John asked.
Joey thought for a moment, then replied, simply, "Nope."
For several minutes that seemed to be the end of the conversation. They both stood in silence, just looking at that donkey, who spent his time mouthing John's hand, looking for treats, or just out of boredom himself.
A thought stuck in John's mind and he'd been unable to dismiss it: "So you hate Injuns," he commented idly.
"Yes sir," Joey replied without hesitation. "I ain't got no use for them at all."
That struck another nerve in John's mind. He had heard Joey make derogatory comments about other people before, and it irked him slightly.
"Well, if we have to hate anybody at all, how about if we just hate bad folks, regardless of where they come from or what they look like?" John offered as an alternative.
"Injuns is all bad," Joey retorted matter of factly.
"My wife was Indian." John hoped that would startle him.
"Thet's too bad," Joey fired back.
The comment finally rankled John. He was tempted to launch into a lecture on the boy, but too many years gentling wild horses had retrained his impulsive reflexes. He gave himself a moment to cool, then asked Joey if he wanted to play a game. Joey had sensed that his friend was going to be mad at him for his obstinacy, but was happy when John still wanted to play a game with him.
"Shore," the boy said. "What kind of game?"
"Here," John said. "We need some things-- find me about a dozen different things we can use for men."
The idea of men in a game sounded good to Joey; it sounded like a kind of war game, and he began to look around the floor.
"It doesn't matter what they are," John advised. "Here. Here's a coffee cup, and here's a stick. Just different things. It doesn't matter."
While Joey was busy collecting various items, John cleared a spot in the dirt on the floor of the barn. When Joey returned with an armful of items John had him lay them out in a pile.
"What's the name of the game?" Joey wanted to know.
"God." Said John. "This game is called 'God'", and he continued clearing a spot for them to sit down on.
"What nationality are you, Joey?" John asked innocently. Joey was proud of the fact that his mother had told him he had some French in him. She also said he had some German, and some Irish, a good deal of Scotch, some English, Welsh-- Joey couldn't remember what all he had in him. It was a wide variety, however, and it was all white. John recollected that he'd known some Scotsmen. Sid had been Scottish. Scotsmen, it seemed to John, were prone to stubbornness.
"These are all your men," John said to Joey, and he shoved the pile of items over to the boy as they sat down on the barn floor. Joey was impressed to be given all the men in the game.
"Now," said John. "You are God."
Joey was also impressed with his easily attained, high level of stature in the game. Joey continued to arrange his little items as he felt he might need them during the game.
John then slid his Walker from his holster and with a flick of his thumbnail, removed the caps from the nipples on the cylinder. He handed the gun to Joey. Joey took it hesitantly. It was heavy and he almost dropped it in the dirt. The boy apologized, and then got a better grip on the massive Colt with both hands. Now he was positively enthralled. "I get to use this?" Joey asked John, amazed.
"Yep", John answered. "It won't really shoot now with the caps off, but it's still a dangerous weapon."
"Yeah...." Joey breathed as he examined it and turned it over in his hands. He almost asked John if he had ever killed anyone with it, but thought better of it. He didn't know John that well.
Finally, when John was ready, he said, "You hate Injuns the most, is that right?"
Joey looked puzzled, but nodded. John picked up a tin cup that the cats had been drinking milk out of, and said, "Okay then, this is your Injun man." Joey understood the idea.
"This here," John said, as he picked up a weather-checked wooden bowl, "This is your Niggar man. You don't like Niggars, do you Joey?" Joey shook his head. No one, in his recollection, liked Niggars any more than they liked Injuns.
"This stick is your Mexican man," John continued. And for each race that he could get Joey to admit that he hated, he assigned an object. He also left one object, a broken spatula handle that Joey had found out back of the barn near where the town dumped its trash into the arroyo, until last. The spatula he assigned to Joey. "This is your own man," John said as he looked the boy in the eye. "This is you."
"Where should I put my man?" Joey asked.
John answered off the cuff, "Oh, just throw him in with the rest."
Joey hesitated a second but did as he was told. He'd thought his own man might enjoy some special place on the game board.
Within a couple of minutes all the objects were arranged around Joey, as he sat on the floor in the back of the barn. A couple more times John quizzed him to make sure he remembered which object represented which race. "It's very important," John said, "that we not forget which ones we hate."
When all the objects were arranged and John was sure Joey knew which was which, he asked him again which one he hated the most. Joey had become somewhat solemn. He didn't quite understand how the game was going to be played, but he pointed to his Injun man and said, "That one."
"Fine," said John. "Now are you sure that out of all these men, the Injun man is the one you hate the very most?"
Joey answered yes.
"Good," John said. "Now kill him."
Joey was puzzled. "What do you mean, kill him?"
"Well, it's just a game and it's just a tin cup. You shoot it with my gun. Then it has to go over there in the killed pile," John motioned toward the window. "Then we'll know it's been killed and is out of our way forever. This cup represents all the Injuns everywhere," John said. "Now, once we've killed it, we won't have to ever worry about Injuns again. Not one of them. Not ever."
Joey was beginning to see how the game was played. He looked at the revolver in his lap and then at John.
"Go ahead," John encouraged him. "Shoot the Injun."
Joey struggled to bring the big gun to bear on the small object that lay on the floor. "You want me to cock it, John?"
John figured he may as well go all the way. "Sure. Pull it back 'till it clicks."
Joey struggled with the hammer but finally got it cocked.
"Now aim carefully," John advised. "Look right through that little notch on the tip of the hammer...." He showed Joey how to aim.
Joey's hands trembled with the weight and the gun's muzzle wavered all over the place. "Whenever you're ready, "John said, "just squeeze the trigger." John changed position slightly, just in case a stray spark from the hammer face ignited the chamber through the open nipple.
Joey squeezed and the hammer clicked. The boy jumped.
"Got 'im!" John said. John picked up the cup and tossed it out the window of the barn, where they could hear it clink down into the arroyo with the other garbage that people dumped there. Joey watched it go and felt a secret relief that John wasn't going to make him play with the Injun man, or make him be nice to it.
"Now you've got eleven men left," John told Joey. "You've killed off the worst one, the Injun man, but you've still got eleven left. You think you can hit 'em all with that hog leg?"
Joey giggled. "Okay," Joey said. He understood that he had killed off his most hated enemy, and had eleven men left. He liked playing with the heavy pistol.
"Now, Joey," John said. "You've got to look at all of these eleven men-- Remember that this one is the niggar man, and this one is the Mexican man, and this one is the Chinaman--" Joey nodded that he still remembered which man was which. "Okay then, what you've got to do is pick the man you hate the most out of all these eleven men, out of all the ones that are left."
Joey looked up at John to see if there were any further instructions. He understood so far. John motioned for him to go ahead and pick a new man. Joey picked up a broken saucer, which was his Mexican man. John took the saucer and held it up. He moved it slowly back and forth in front of Joey. "This one's a moving target." John said. "Think you can still get 'im?"
Joey nodded. Without hesitation he leveled the gun and cocked it. Then he aimed and jerked the trigger. The barrel of the Walker was twenty degrees off target when the hammer fell, but John shouted, "Got 'im again!" Then he tossed the saucer also out the back window, where it clinked and broke on a rock, on the side of the arroyo where the town dumped its garbage.
"You've killed your Mexican man," said John. "You've killed all the Mexican men everywhere, and you'll never have to worry about them again. Do you understand?"
Joey nodded.
"Now," John went on. "You've got ten men left. You've got to pick the one man, out of all these that are left, that you hate the most. When you've decided, then you kill him." John looked away to give Joey time to ponder the dilemma.
Joey picked idly through the remaining men. He was not sure which he hated the most, but John had been explicit in his instructions. Finally, Joey picked up a pebble that was his Chinaman.
"Ma says she hates Chinamen," Joey said. He felt comfortable picking the Chinaman, because his mother disliked them. He himself had run out of men that he had any personal quarrel with, so he picked the one his ma disliked. He held the pebble up for John to see it. John nodded approval.
"This one will be harder to hit," John said. "But you can do it, Dead Eye." John encouraged him.
Joey chuckled.
John motioned as though he was going to toss the pebble in the air for Joey to shoot. Joey looked doubtful, but got the hammer cocked anyway.
"Ready?" John asked.
"Ready." Answered Joey.
John threw the pebble up. The hammer clacked down. John breathed another sigh of relief that the chamber hadn't fired. He didn't want to fix a hole in the roof of Kelly's barn-- he couldn't imagine how he'd explain it.
"Looks like you got the Chinaman," John told the boy. Joey picked it up and tossed it out the back window with the rest of the trash.
They repeated the procedure until there were only two men left, a piece of splintered, painted wood, and the broken spatula handle which represented Joey himself.
"What's this one?" Joey asked, holding up the piece of splintered, painted wood. "I forgot who it was."
"Oh," John said, taking the piece from Joey and examining it. "That one's me."
Joey was appalled, for he knew the procedure of the game well enough by now to understand that it was the only piece left that had to be killed and thrown out the window. The only other man was Joey himself. Joey looked puzzled. He was unsure what to do.
"How come this is you?" Joey asked John. "You're a white man, ain't you John?" John thought the boy was going to tear up.
"That piece is for part Injuns," John told him. "I'm not completely sure," he continued, "but I think I've got a little Injun blood buried way back in my ancestors somewhere. Since your man is completely white, and my man is only mostly white, then my man has to come second."
Joey looked at him numbly. John let the matter digest itself for a moment. Then he said, "Okay Joey. Time's up. Here's the big one. This is the move that will win or lose the game for you. Out of all the men you have left, you have to choose the one you hate the most and kill him. You certainly can't let any Injuns live."
Joey did tear up then. The game had become too serious. He sat with his hands in his lap and refused to pick up the piece of splintered, painted wood that represented John's genetic impurities. John picked it up and put it in the boy's hand and told him gently that he had to kill the partly Injun man or lose the game. Joey turned his hand over and caused the piece to fall out of it, onto the floor. John picked it up and held it in front of Joey's face, then threw it out the window with all the rest.
"Now you're alone, Joey," John said, picking up the piece of broken spatula handle, the last man on the game board, and fondling it absentmindedly. "You've killed all the bad men. You've won the game."
A tear ran down Joey's cheek. He looked at John, then looked at the floor again, but did not move. He wasn't sure of all John was trying to teach him. He knew he didn't want to kill his friend John, not even in a game, but somehow he had. This had not been a fun game at all.
John knew that Joey didn't understand as completely as he should. He also knew the boy would, over the years, worry the events of the day like a dog worried a bone, and sooner or later it would all be digested.
John got up without another word and walked back to Chowder's stall, leaving Joey by himself on the floor. The afternoon shadows were growing long. The barn was gloomy and quiet. Joey sat by himself and stared numbly at the wooden handle that represented his own man. Once he looked around behind him, for he was sure there was one last piece that had not been thrown out the window. But there was nothing.
The sun went down. The barn grew dark. Joey sat utterly alone and did not move. He fidgeted with the broken spatula handle until he knew it intimately. His eyes grew wetter. He had never imagined it was possible to be so alone...
Finally a voice spoke from behind him. It made him jump. It was Joey's mother, Kelly. She had been standing in the shadows a long time, waiting, watching. "You threw out the wrong piece," she said gravely as she moved closer to the child. The tone of her voice commanded attention. Then she stepped forward and knelt down so Joey could see her face and her eyes clearly. There was no humor in them at all.
Joey looked up to his mother's face.
"Joey," she said, and she looked upon her son with all the love in a mother's heart. She took his hand and said softly, "I am half Apache."
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John heard what Kelly told Joey. He felt he'd had enough of the stable for one day. He decided to work his horse some other time. He was halfway back to the Mermaid Hotel to try again for a room when it hit him. He stopped in the middle of the boardwalk like he'd been gut-shot. Folks had to walk around him. He still didn't move. Some cursed him. The words raced around the inside of his head like a freight train: "I got a son, John. And an Apache woman. They need me, John."
John turned and made his way back to the stable in a daze. He found Kelly back at her chores. Joey was no where in sight. He stumbled up to the woman. His manner alarmed her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and demanded, "For God's sake, why didn't you tell me?"
Kelly shook out of his grasp. She looked at him intently. "Tell you what?" She demanded.
John's mind reeled again. He stumbled back and almost fell. He caught himself on a rail and steadied himself, then looked at Kelly again. "My God," he whispered. "How could you know? I killed Joey's father."
Kelly seemed to melt before his eyes. She stood still. Her face was stone. John hoped she would pull a gun and kill him. "Joe....?" She said weakly. "You killed Joe?"
"A week ago," John replied. "I'd been tracking him. I caught him on the razorback. He--" John stopped. How could he tell the woman he'd just killed her man and the father of her child, and then also tell her the man was a murderer, a killer of women, and a rapist of small girls. It would be too much for the woman.
There was a silence between them. Kelly sensed that he had more to tell. "I knew what the man was," she said. "I knew what he was after a while."
"He killed my wife," John said shakily. "At least he helped. He-- My wife was raped. My daughters were raped and killed. My ranch was--- I tracked him for five months. He wouldn't deny he'd been with my girls." John's voice cracked. He could say no more for a moment. Then he continued, "He was seen near my ranch when it was burnin'; it was Joe and Erin and two others. I found a chip from an Ivory pistol grip at my house. It was in the ashes. It was from Erin's own gun."
Kelly leaned back against a feed bin. "My God..." She said, then her voice trailed off. She shook her head in disbelief. "My God."
John expected a more violent reaction from the woman. Instead, she motioned for him to sit down on a bench.
"I knew what Joe was," she said. "I didn't at first. I was young. I thought I loved him. He was exciting to me. He seemed handsome at the time, too. The trouble started just after he brought me here. Little Joey was just born. We had no money. Joe got a job right here at this stable. The old man who owned it was good to us. It would have been enough for us to keep eating through the winter." She paused a moment, then her voice lowered, "But Joe, he couldn't stick to anything. He stole from the old man. He was always messing with someone else's woman. Half the town wanted to kill him. He was even after my half sister, down by Silver City. He used to go down there all the time, bothering her and other Apache women. Some said he even bothered the children. My father cut him once and chased him away. I didn't see him for awhile after that. When he finally came back I made him go away. Some Apaches were killed up in the red rocks a few months after that. The women were all raped and butchered. Even the little kids had been cut up and left to die. Two of my sisters were among them." John watched her closely but she didn't flinch. "Some of the men from our village went crazy," she went on, "and tracked the men who did it. I don't know if they caught them or not. I had a feeling Joe was one of the bad men. When Joey got older, I told him that Indians had killed his father. I never told him more than that."
John tried to digest all he heard. Kelly didn't seem bitter that he had killed Joe. She'd known Joe was destined for such an end. Many men are-- it's just a matter of who finally gets them, and why, and where. Perhaps that much doesn't even matter; all that matters is that someone finally gets them.
John felt that he wanted to be away from the stable. He sensed that Kelly wanted him away as well. They talked for another few minutes; Kelly explained how she came to own the stable when the kindly old man she worked for passed away and left it to her. She thanked John for the lesson he'd given Joey earlier in the day. Then she got up slowly, as though she were tired and old, and she disappeared into her quarters. She closed the door behind her without another word.
Next Chapter
Sands of Sedona, Chap 1
Sands of Sedona, Chap 2
Sands of Sedona, Chap 3
Sands of Sedona, Chap 4
Sands of Sedona, Chap 5
Sands of Sedona, Chap 6
Sands of Sedona, Chap 7
Sands of Sedona, Chap 8
Sands of Sedona, Chap 9
Sands of Sedona, Chap 10
Sands of Sedona, Chap 11
Sands of Sedona, Chap 12