Bitter Creek (20 page)

Chapter 39

“I WONDER EACH TIME I
fly in this crate if I made the right choice,” said La Salle. “The whole game is having the number of takeoffs equal the number of landings.”

“Will one way or the other,” said Du Pré.

They were flying at twelve thousand feet, covering the distance between Washington, DC, and Montana steadily. Below them, the Ohio River wound through a lush landscape.

“I can touch down and you can get a commercial flight back,” said La Salle.

“I have mustache, I am dark,” said Du Pré. “I also have friends, would call the security people, say, he is not Du Pré, he is Mohammed. Fiddle case is full of anthrax. …”

“I have friends like that, too,” said La Salle. “They make life interesting, in a life-threatening sort of way. …”

“If Chappie and that Eleanor get along,” said Du Pré, “Madelaine will be ver' happy.”

“They'll be fine,” said La Salle. “Eleanor has decided they will be fine. If she has decided Chappie will do, what he thinks won't matter one small hill of shit. …” They laughed.

The little plane droned on.

“So,” said La Salle, “Old War Department files open a bit more readily for a retired general than for a mere lieutenant.”

“What you plan tell Eleanor, again?” said Du Pré.

“That the report of the death of Ellis Pardoe, the second of November, says Colonel Pardoe was killed by a sniper, a single shot that went through his head. …”

“Yah,” said Du Pré.

“And there were several people in his brigade,” said La Salle, “who could have killed him. There were two Hoefts. There was a Macatee. So I checked to see what the records showed as cause of death for other men in that sector. All shellfire. It was a quiet sector, otherwise. The brigade itself had been chewed up badly, the Germans across the trenches were starving. The war was almost over. Ellis Pardoe was the only casualty from sniper fire in the entire seven weeks they were there. …”

“So,” said Du Pré. “But we cannot
know.
…”

“People are very mysterious,” said La Salle. “The saintly Elizabeth Rhodes Pardoe …”

“She has an affair, your grandfather,” said Du Pré.

“General Albert, who goes to console the widow, and so forth. He could perhaps have met her in 1910,” said La Salle.

“Maybe,” said Du Pré. “Also Eleanor, she says, it is silly to think that Hoeft got a posse to chase the Métis over a steer. Any steer there would have been missed, the fall roundup, Hoeft would not have known. …”

“Interesting,” said La Salle.

“Ranch house there, studio, were build many years later, 1920s,” said Du Pré. “The old house, miles away from Bitter Creek. They did not move there until they found water, underground, could pump enough. …”

“So it may have been something else,” said La Salle.

“Report of Albert,” said Du Pré, “he rides, says the Métis got away. His journal, he says they are disarmed by Hoeft and his men, waiting for them, a narrow place. Hoeft's posse go on and kill the Métis.”

“Yes,” said La Salle.

They droned on in silence for a while, then La Salle turned north and set a course. He scratched a few numbers on a pad taped to his knee.

“We'll make it in good time,” said La Salle.

They flew along, not speaking.

Du Pré looked down at the ground. He could see the little plane's shadow flit along, very fast.

… so that is how fast we are really going …

“There's Lake Michigan,” said La Salle.

The ground looked blank through a haze.

Twenty minutes later, Du Pré could look down on the water. It was pale gray, and few boats were out on it.

“Storm clouds,” said La Salle, nodding ahead.

Three clouds that looked like huge elongated anvils sat on the horizon like giant ships.

“We can go between those two,” said La Salle, “at least I think that we can. If they close up we turn tail and head for clearer skies.”

Du Pré nodded.

… if I die, I die … ever'body gets to do it, nothing exclusive about it …

The little plane droned on.

Du Pré saw a flash off to the left side of the line of flight.

“Metal, over there,” he said.

La Salle looked. “Another light plane,” he said, “quite a bit lower. Seems headed away. In ten minutes, we may find others, so keep an eye out for them. Most pilots are pretty good, but then so are most drivers. …”

Du Pré laughed.

They went on.

Six separate small aircraft flew ahead, all but one across their flight path, all higher than La Salle and Du Pré.

The huge anvil clouds moved, but very slowly. There was a gap twenty miles wide between them.

“May be wind,” said La Salle, “and it may come on suddenly. …”

They droned on.

Suddenly, the little plane dropped a few hundred feet.

Du Prés stomach rose up under his scalp.

They were shoved violently from the left.

La Salle whistled.

He looked over at Du Pré and he grinned.

The air stayed calm for a moment, then they were lifted up a few hundred feet in seconds.

… stomach now hanging out my asshole … thought Du Pré.

He looked over at one of the huge malevolent clouds.

Lightning played inside it. The black heart of the cloud pulsed with pale light.

Then they were past the giant clouds, and ahead shafts of sunlight stabbed down through holes in the overcast.

La Salle whistled.

Du Pré fished a pouch of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and he tucked some behind his lower lip. He offered some to La Salle, who shook his head.

“You can drink whiskey, if you like,” said La Salle. “I can't but you could. …”

Du Pré laughed. He reached into his bag, got his flask, had a swallow.

“Thank you,” he said.

La Salle's head turned constantly.

Du Pré saw a flash off to his right. “Over there, seventy-five degrees,” he said.

La Salle looked.

A plane was headed toward them and seemed to be about the same altitude.

“I'm going down,” said La Salle. He flicked some levers, pointed the nose of the little plane down.

Du Pré looked at the other airplane. A jet, a small one. It passed overhead, heading south.

“Odd,” said La Salle. “I had a transponder on, but they didn't acknowledge. …”

He shrugged.

They went on.

In another hour, they saw the patched forest and grasslands that marked the place where the Great Plains began.

Du Pré looked down. “That is the Red River,” he said, “down there ahead.”

“We should arrive in an hour,” said La Salle, looking at some figures on his kneepad.

“That is Devil's Lake,” said Du Pré, pointing down. The deep lake looked malevolent. The water was black.

“What have we found?” said La Salle. “Bits and pieces. I wonder if we'll ever know what happened on that January day so long ago.”

“These things are not forgotten,” said Du Pré. “There was a song. …”

“Ah, yes,” said La Salle.

“It is over there,” said Du Pré, pointing.

“Right you are,” said La Salle, looking at a map.

He took the plane down.

They flew over the land at a thousand feet.

Du Pré pointed.

There was a runway in a grassy field, a bright orange sock on a pole.

An old van parked off near the county road.

They flew over the van.

Kim and Bassman waved.

“Your friends,” said La Salle.

“Bassman smokes, lot of marijuana,” said Du Pré.

“So do soldiers,” said La Salle.

They laughed, and La Salle banked the plane and set it to land.

Chapter 40

THERE WEE TWO TRAILERS
set in a small grove of Siberian elms, and tents and teepees here and there. A big awning over a cooking area and three huge fire pits.

Du Pré kissed Madelaine when he saw her. She came out of the crowd, moving quickly on her feet, a dancer in all she did.

There was music everywhere, little knots of people standing holding instruments or sitting on folding stools.

“So Du Pré,” said Madelaine, “you have been running around, been lots of places. Do you know the story yet?”

Du Pré shook his head.

“Might not ever know it,” he said. “It is not what I thought anyway.”

A knot of Jacqueline's kids ran up, Marisa and Berne, Hervé, Nepthele, Marie and Barbara, all laughing.

Nepthele had a fiddle. One string was broken. He held out a packet to Du Pré, “Keeps breaking,” he said.

Du Pré looked at the fiddle, took out his pocketknife. He touched the bridge.

“There,” he said. “Little sharp place, you chipped it. You don' beat on Hervé with it. …”

Nepthele blushed.

“Use a rock,” said Du Pré. He scraped a little with his knife, pulled out a new string, mounted and tightened it.

He pulled on the new string, finger and thumb in the center, stretching it. It was a flat note, he twisted the peg and brought it up. “Here,” he said to Nepthele. “Go steal tunes, you can. …”

The boy trotted off.

“La Salle, he is a nice man,” said Madelaine.

Du Pré nodded.

They stopped by a crowd of guitar players, young white kids with tattoos and earrings.

The kids were picking off, one doing a run and riff, the next trying to top it.

Du Pré listened for a while, nodding. They walked on.

“I am hungry,” said Du Pré. They went to the kitchen tent and got some buffalo stew, frybread and chokecherry jam, coleslaw, apple pie.

They were just finishing when Michel DuHoux came up. He nodded to a chair.

“Sure,” said Du Pré.

DuHoux sat, laced his fingers together, and pushed them outward. He yawned. “Reminds me of Cajun music a little,” he said.

“Celtic,” said Du Pré. “Gaelic, maybe better. …”

“I love the stuff,” said DuHoux.

“Your book, how is it coming?” said Madelaine.

“Well,” said DuHoux. “But I think I wish I hadn't got into it. …”

Du Pré nodded.

“It is all so very sad,” said DuHoux.

“Old bastard!” someone screamed.

Du Pré looked toward the shriek.

Père Godin was running toward them.

He had his accordion up on his right shoulder.

He saw Du Pré, ran over, dumped the accordion on the table, looked back.

Suzette was coming, more slowly. She was fat, but she had a hefty stick.

“I see you sometime,” said Père Godin.

He ran on.

Suzette passed them, puffing.

“Ever' time we come, one of these things,” said Madelaine. “There is always somebody, try to kill Père Godin. …”

“Why does he come?” said DuHoux.

“Lots of women here he has not fucked yet,” said Du Pré. “Père Godin, he is on a mission from God. …”

“Wonderful,” said DuHoux.

“Bastard,” shrieked Suzette.

Père Godin loped past again. “I am too old, this,” he said as he went by.

Suzette puffed past. She had a friend with her now, who had a rolling pin in one hand.

“They wear out, start laughing soon,” said Madelaine. “Poor Père Godin, him get caught one day.”

DuHoux looked at Du Pré. “Did you find out anything interesting since I last saw you?”

“Some,” said Du Pré.

“This is one of those stories,” said DuHoux, “that I know I will never know completely. Not that you ever do. …”

“No,” said Du Pré.

He looked up then and saw Benetsee standing at the edge of the crowd. The little old man grinned at Du Pré.

“There is Benetsee,” said Du Pré. “That is him there. Here, I go get my gun, you kill him please. …”

DuHoux looked across to the crowd.

Benetsee grinned.

“That's him?” said DuHoux.

“Yes,” said Madelaine.

Du Houx got up and he walked quickly toward the old man.

Benetsee stepped behind a couple of fiddlers.

“Poor DuHoux,” said Madelaine. “Benetsee does not come to these things. …”

“No,” said Du Pré.

Jack La Salle stepped past the last of the crowd that had screened him from view. He had a big plastic cup of something and a small cigar in his teeth.

He came toward them.

“I bring sleeping bags,” said Madelaine. “I got one for you.”

“Thank you much,” said La Salle. “I should have brought one.”

“Have to sleep on the ground,” said Du Pré. “It helps if you are ver' drunk. …”

“I'll see what I can do about that,” said La Salle, “and the ground will be fine. …”

“Pret' tough for a general,” said Madelaine.

La Salle smiled a little.

“I was a POW for a while,” he said. “After that I don't have much to complain about. …”

“Vietnam?” asked Du Pré.

“Yes,” said La Salle. “I was just there recently. …”

“You go back?” said Madelaine.

La Salle nodded.

“I was invited,” he said, “so I went. The war was a long time ago. Some of the people I fought with were there and some of the people that I fought against were as well.”

“Do you like them?” said Madelaine. “The people you fought against?”

La Salle laughed.

“Some of them,” he said. “Others I don't much care for. Like any bunch of people.”

Père Godin trotted past again.

“Your wind is good,” said Madelaine.

He nodded, panting a bit.

“I love this music,” said La Salle.

“Ver' old,” said Du Pré.

Bassman and Kim came out of a crowd of people who had formed to watch the Père Godin/Suzette match. They wandered over.

“Them women,” said Bassman, “they say ‘kill him' ever' time Suzette goes past. …”

“And the guys say ‘keep movin' Godin,'” said Kim.

“Speaking of the oldest of all wars,” said La Salle.

“We 'sposed to play,” said Bassman. “Père Godin will not join us I think but there are other people, come, sit in. …”

Du Pré nodded.

He reached down for the old rawhide fiddle case Catfoot had made so long ago.

They got up and walked to the place where Bassman had set up his amplifier, soundboard, and speakers.

Du Pré drew the bow over the strings. He filled his bow with rosin. Bassman thumped his bass a few times.

A very large young man with a blue accordion sidled up to Du Pré. “I know your stuff,” he said. “Practice with your music a lot. I keep pretty quiet, I join you?”

“You do a good job,” rumbled Bassman, “you work with us. Accordion player we had, will be killed and scalped, tonight. …”

“Yeah,” said the kid, “Him, I heard about. …”

Du Pré stood at the twin microphones.

“Du Pré!” someone yelled. “Do ‘Baptiste's Lament.' …”

“‘Drops of Brandy'!”

“‘Boiling Cabbage'!”

“OK,” said Du Pré.

He turned, looked at Bassman. “New one maybe,” he said. Bassman nodded.

Du Pré riffed a few notes, warming his fingers. The melody twirled and rose like smoke.

Infinitely sad, patient, full of tears. Du Pré played for ten minutes. Bassman came in, but very softly. The accordion player didn't add even one note.

“Jesus,” said the kid, “what was that?”

“‘Bitter Creek,'” said Du Pré.

“Not one I know,” said the kid.

“No,” said Du Pré, “it is not. …”