Bitter Creek (10 page)

Chapter 19

BASSMAN GOT OUT OF HIS
van and he walked round to the passenger door and he opened it and Kim got out.
Père Godin got out of the sliding door on the side.

“He is coming along,” said Madelaine. “Opens your door for you.”

“He always did,” said Kim. “It was a couple other things we had to work on. …”

“Du Pré,” said Bassman, “I got to get a beer. These woman, they kill me and skin me, I don't got to stand here and watch. …”

Du Pré laughed. He led Père Godin and Bassman into the Toussaint Saloon.

Susan Klein was behind the bar. It was midafternoon and there was no one else in the place.

“Beers,” said Du Pré. “Whiskey ditch, me.” Susan pulled beers, mixed a stiff one for Du Pré.

“Women are out there ruining my good reputation,” said Bassman.

“That,” said Susan Klein, “would take some doing. So Kim came?”

Bassman nodded.

“She's awfully nice,” said Susan Klein. “Better'n you deserve.”

Bassman looked hurt.

“I come in here, safety,” he said. “Now look what happens.”

Susan reached over the bar and patted his hand.

“It'd been me,” she said, “your fat ass would be so full of buckshot you'd sound like a gravel crusher when you walked.”

Bassman grinned. “Good to see you,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” said Susan, “and here is the redoubtable Père Godin. Who should have been shot years ago.”

“Have beer,” said Père Godin, “then you be nicer.”

“You haven't played here for a while,” said Susan. “Maybe you'll get lucky tonight.”

Madelaine and Kim came in laughing.

Bassman looked at them, his face very long. “There is no escape,” he said.

“Quit whining,” said Père Godin, “Help me bring in the stuff, I am old and weak. …”

Du Pré and Bassman and Père Godin went out to the van.

“I am going Bolivia and change my name,” said Bassman. “They need bass players, Bolivia. I hear that. …”

“Not far enough,” said Du Pré. He picked up Père Godin's two accordion cases and he walked toward the back door of the saloon.

When they had set up the equipment, Du Pré went to the bar and he yawned.

“I got to sleep,” he said, “I am too tired, play tonight.”

Madelaine nodded. “You go to my place, I get you up, time for supper, get ready to play.”

Du Pré nodded. He went out and he drove to Madeline's and he went in and took off his clothes and he crawled into the bed and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Du Pré woke to the sounds of cooking, oil bubbling, good smells. Chicken.

He yawned and he went to the bathroom and he showered and he came out rubbing his hair with a towel.

Madelaine had laid out his clothes, a new shirt she had made, Red River shirt with brass buttons and white piping.

“It is a nice shirt,” he said, when he came into the kitchen. “I put it on after dinner, so I don't drip on it.”

Madelaine nodded.

Du Pré fished his watch out of his pocket.

Seven o'clock.

“Play at nine thirty,” he said. “ I slept a long time.”

“Come and eat, Du Pré,” said Madelaine. “I have to go, help Susan. You don't lie down again. …”

They laughed.

“I am late,” said Madelaine, half an hour later. She slipped out of the bed and she dressed in a hurry and she went out buttoning her shirt and then tucking it in.

Du Pré heard the jingle of the silver and turquoise she wore as she put on rings and bracelets and the squash-blossom necklace he had found in a pawnshop in Spokane. An old one, faint hammer marks from the smith's peen in the silver.

She went out.

Du Pré ate chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy and home-canned long beans and he washed the dishes, then cursed.

… damn fingers be soft, they hurt end of the night …

But he didn't like leaving a mess.

He put on the new Red River shirt and buttoned it; he had a little trouble with the cuffs, set tight so they wouldn't get in the way of his playing.

He put his fiddle in the old rawhide case and he went out and he walked up the street toward the saloon. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile from Madelaine's.

There was already a crowd there when he came in, people eating and laughing.

Many hollered at him and a couple of people got up to come over and ask for favorite tunes.

Du Pré nodded at the requests and then he forgot them.

Père Godin was fooling with one of his accordions; he had a small screwdriver in his hand and he was peering at something and muttering.

“Goddamn thing,” he said. “I wish, me sing better, I don't have to play no damn accordion. …”

Du Pré laughed.

He waved at Madelaine, who was busy mixing drinks and ferrying food to the tables.

Du Pré set his fiddle out on top of the old piano so it would be the same temperature as the room when he tuned it.

He went outside, saw Bassman and Kim sitting on folding camp chairs back by the trailers that Susan Klein rented as motel rooms. Bassman had a spliff as thick as a broomstick, half a foot long, and he was drawing the sweet smoke deep into his lungs.

Kim took a dainty puff and she choked. “I don't know how that man can walk with that in him,” she said to Du Pré. Her eyes glittered a little.

“Good for lungs,” said Bassman. “Like gravel in a bird gizzard, good smoke chews up the air, makes it easier to breathe. …”

Du Pré laughed. He took his flask from his hip pocket and he had some whiskey.

“Could I see that?” said Kim. Du Pré handed it to her. It was worn, pale gray, covered in rawhide, with a steel cap that unscrewed.

“My father give that to me,” said Du Pré. “Catfoot made the flask, put the rawhide on it. …”

Kim nodded and she handed it back.

Du Pré waited while Bassman finished as much of his dope as he wanted. He carefully pared the burning coal from the end with his pocketknife and he put the huge joint in a cigar case, a single one meant for a panetela.

When they went in, they found the place was packed, save for the little dance floor out in front of the bandstand.

The crowd whooped when the three got up on the little stage. Du Pré turned on his amplifier and so did Bassman, and Père Godin jiggled his microphone, which made thudding pops.

Du Pré started with a two-step, and Bassman joined him, lazily thumping, and Père Godin nodded through one full round of the song and then he joined in, too.

People got up to dance.

Du Pré looked out at the crowd.

He saw DuHoux standing at the back, near the front door. He had on a leather jacket and the sunglasses, even though the bar was dim.

They played for an hour, people coming on to the dance floor and going off.

They finished with a fast jig, and Père Godin went out on the dance floor and danced while he played; people backed away, clapping.

The set done, Du Pré shut off his amplifier and he put the fiddle up on the piano.

He got a tall drink from the bar and he went out the back door for some air. It was still a little light, still dusk even though it was ten thirty.

“Du Pré?” said a voice.

Du Pré turned.

A man stood there, a big man in his thirties. The man smiled. He stepped forward and without warning he swung and hit Du Pré full on the chin. The glass flew out of Du Pré's hand and he fell back.

“Don't ever come to Pardoe again,” said the man, who was walking away.

Du Pré shook his head. He had seen stars.

An engine started and a truck drove off. Du Pré got up and he staggered out past the saloon to see what it was. But the truck was gone. Du Pré fell to his knees, puking. He felt hands on his shoulders.

“Du Pré!” said a voice. He turned and looked. DuHoux.

“Somebody hit me,” said Du Pré.

DuHoux helped him up. “I bet I know who,” he said. “Bonner Macatee, he tried to pick a fight with me earlier, I don't know why. …” People were coming outside now.

Du Pré rubbed his jaw. “I am OK,” he said.

“Did he say anything?” said DuHoux.

Du Pré nodded. “Stay away from Pardoe.”

“That son of a bitch,” said DuHoux.

Chapter 20

JACKSON PARDOE WAS WAITING
at the gate that opened on to the track that led to the place Amalie had sworn was the place where the massacre had happened.

Du Pré was in the first SUV; there were three more behind him and then three other cars.

The gray-haired rancher waved them through. Du Pré stopped and he rolled down his window.

“Somebody don't like you,” said Pardoe, looking at the bruise on Du Pré's jaw.

“I am sorry I don't give more notice,” said Du Pré, “but he hit me last night so I got to be here today. …”

Pardoe smiled.

“My son-in-law,” he said. “Bad temper and he don't like this. I don't like it either. …”

“Nobody like it,” said Du Pré.

“You know how to get there?” said Pardoe.

“Straight ahead, then left fork after the next gate,” said Du Pré.

“Put you right there,” said Pardoe. “I will be down in a while.”

Du Pré drove off and the others followed.

The pasture was huge, four or five square miles, and at the south end it tapered to a point fifty yards across, set between two hills cramping together.

Du Pré opened the gate. A few Herefords looked idly at him but they were far away and made no signs of moving. Du Pré drove on, stopping far enough away so the last person could shut the gate.

It was DuHoux, who had some trouble with the wire-and-post set. But he got it in time.

Du Pré got back in the big SUV and he drove on, up a long grade to a ridge and over it.

The butte was south and west a couple of miles. Du Pré could see the track.

He looked off to the northeast.

… good grass, water, they would come through here …

He drove on, bumping down a switchback on a road that stones had worked up through. He had to drive at a very low speed, the SUV lurching this way and that as it went over the rocks.

At the bottom he pulled away, leaving room for the others. Only the SUVs came down the hill, the drivers of the cars had left them up on top.

Du Pré waited until they were all down. Then he drove on, over the ancient riverbed, the ghost river that had flowed to the north in the time of the ice.

A couple of miles later Du Pré went round a huge boulder and he stopped.

… there it is … the creek, the willows …

A hidden dell, thick with grass, willows with their bright green leaves shaking in the little breeze.

Du Pré pulled farther on and he stopped. He got out and he walked down toward the willows.

He turned round and looked back.

Chappie and Patchen, DuHoux, Bart, Pidgeon, and most of Jacqueline's kids were standing together, quietly.

Lourdes ran over to her grandfather.

“So, did you hear the music, Granpère?” she said.

Du Pré shook his head.

“We leave you alone to hear the music and you don't,” said Lourdes. “That is not too good. …”

“It might not be here,” said Du Pré. “Maybe getting hit, spoiled my hearing.”

The sun was very hot now, the morning cool had gone.

The others walked down to Lourdes and Du Pré.

Chappie and Patchen had the metal detectors out, and they were putting on the backpacks and earphones.

“What are we looking for?” said Lourdes.

“Old cartridges,” said Du Pré.

She nodded.

Pallas was over by the willows.

She waved at Du Pré.

He walked over to her, Lourdes close behind him.

She pointed.

There was a flat dell below, a couple of hundred feet long and half as wide, set in against the prairie. It could not be seen until you were right up on it.

The willows grew very thick, and Du Pré could see the glint of running water.

There did not seem to be a good way down. The bank was about ten feet high and sheer.

Pallas wandered back, put her arm around her grandfather. “Music, my ass,” she said. “You want to see if somebody shoot, it will be you and not one of us.”

“You are ver' smart,” said Du Pré. “You marry that Ripper, he has my sympathy.”

“Maybe I don't,” said Pallas.

Du Pré looked at her.

But she walked away then, looking very sad.

Du Pré waited for Madelaine and the others to catch up and then they all walked along above the dell, looking for a place to get down to it easily.

Lourdes got impatient. She dropped over the edge and slid down in a shower of earth and stones. She laughed and she ran out into the dell. Then she stopped and looked round.

Du Pré and Madelaine had found a path finally, almost at the south end of the dell, where it was easy to step down. Du Pré went down first. He offered Madelaine his hand and she took it and stepped down. They walked toward Lourdes.

Pallas had gone over the edge, too, and she was waiting with her sister.

“Jesus, Du Pré,” said Madelaine, “it is cold down here.”

Du Pré nodded.

The day was hot but the air was chilly in the dell. Madelaine shivered and she grasped her upper arms with her hands. The girls were shivering, too. Du Pré felt icy sweat on his spine. He walked round, looking.

It seemed ordinary, a place for a camp for a few days, with grass and water and dead willows for fires. He looked up at the butte, rising sheer two miles or so away.

The rock layers were uneven, broad cream bands, narrower red or green ones, a few thin dark lines.

The four of them met in the center of the dell.

The air was very cold, seemed to be coming up out of the earth. Du Pré could feel the flow. Then the cold air stopped suddenly and it was as hot as it had been when they were up above.

“This is it,” said Madelaine. “Place gives me the creeps.”

… long time ago I am in Idaho, go across a little pass, my tire blows, I stop, change it, it is very cold there in high summer in the desert, middle of the day … feel like someone is watching me all the time … stop at the next bar, ask, they say there was a massacre there …

Long time gone then, more than a hundred years.

The little creek was only a couple of feet wide, narrowing as if it had cut into the earth. Du Pré walked to it and he bent down and dipped a palmful of water.

It was fresh and cold and a little bitter.

He looked round.

Chappie and Patchen were walking along the rim above the dell. They swept the flat round metal plates over the earth.

Chappie stopped.

Alcide knelt and he dug at the ground with a screwdriver.

He picked up something.

Another.

Another.

Two other kids were over with Patchen.

They were finding things, too.

Du Pré and Madelaine walked back to the place they had come down and they climbed up and then back to where the kids and Chappie and Patchen were workng.

Alcide handed Du Pré a dark tube.

A cartridge.

Du Pré scraped the end with his pocketknife.

A .30-40 cartridge.

Bart and Pidgeon were off near a huge rock, Pidgeon pointing to something.

Alcide handed Du Pré another shell.

Du Pré scraped it.

Another .30-40 cartridge.

He looked at the place where Alcide had been digging.

He bent down.

Six old spent cartridges sat there, fused together by water and time. He picked them up. Same as the others.

“Guess we set up camp,” said Chappie. He had taken off the earphones.

Du Pré nodded.

He saw a flash, out of the corner of his eye, up on the butte. He looked for a while but he didn't see another.