Dances Naked (13 page)

Then
,
Red Shirt did something odd. At first Marty didn’t know if it was cruel or kind. The chief dribbled water into Grant’s mouth. The wetness revived him and probably slaked his thirst a bit. His mouth started to work right; he could smack his lips, so Red Shirt poured some more down his gullet. Yes, it was cruel. Now Grant was alert and probably had an extra twenty-four hours of torment before he passed out from thirst or died. It was midmorning and not too hot
,
but there were lots of daylight hours left.

The Young One and Number Two were already mounted and waiting for orders. Red Shirt looked to Rachel; made sure he had her attention, and then lifted the makeshift shovel, offering her a chance to throw on the last bit of dirt and gravel. Rachel frowned
,
shook her head
,
and then turned her back on her brother. She was done with Grant and didn’t want anything more to do with him, either in anger or in kindness. He was nothing to her now.

“Well,” Marty started, not really knowing what he was going to say. He had to think of something though. He didn’t want to stay where he was and had already been lost when the Indians found him. “Which way are we going?” he asked, finding a neutral, he hoped, topic.

Red Shirt looked him in the eye then cante
d his head toward the others: ‘Y
ou’re welcome to join us,’ he said with his easy to understand body language.

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do,” Marty said loudly
,
trying
to drown out the protests coming from the misaligned mouth of the newly interred.

“Wait..oo canna gaw wid aut me,” Grant mumbled.

“You can’t go without me?” Marty translated. “Oh,
but I can. Oh, a
nd I gave
the
horse you stole
from me
to my new friends here
and
manage
d
to get my boots back. Paybacks a bitch, dude!” Marty crowed then looked to the others.

Red Shirt was lifting Rachel and the baby onto Marty’s former mare and the others were already riding away.
Marty
bent down, picked up a piece of the wood cut from the improvised shovel
,
and stuck it in Grant’s mouth. “Use it well and you might get yourself out,” he instructed. “Worked for Owen Wilson in ‘Shanghai Noon
.
’
It might work for you,
too, if you use your lips for something besides complaining.”

T

hey still h
adn’t traveled far enough away—
she could still hear him. “Hmm
, hmm, hmm, hmm,” Rachel hummed,
her tune with no name getting louder as her broth
er’s pathetic begging increased,
his pleas more annoying than entreating. He’d had many chances over the years to be a good person. Every time they got food, he’d only give her his leftovers. If there was a blanket, he’d take it, not even letting her lie near him to benefit from his warmth. He’d whip her for not walking fast enough, talking too much, not cooking dinner to his satisfaction
,
or just because, he said, ‘he felt like it.’ No, Grant was nothing to her now.

Red Shirt had let her and the baby ride the horse. She knew
she
was
on
the mare Grant
stole
from the man who was now walking behind her. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was afoot while she was riding his horse though. She smiled as she recalled how he had made the joke about eating fish for breakfast, lunch, dinner
,
and dessert. Too bad she couldn’t give him back his hat
,
and the hook and line. Grant had thrown them in the fire, saying he was cold and didn’t want to get up for more wood. Besides, he complained, it looked stupid on her. But
,
she knew the real reason: he didn’t want her to have anything, even a man’s hat that was too big for her head.

As if he had been reading her mind, the man trotted up beside her. “What happened to your hat? It sure looked cute on you,” Marty said, feeling braver now that her brother’s knife wasn’t flashing in his face.

Rachel shrugged and said much with her one word, “Grant,” then rolled her eyes with disgust. She didn’t want to recall anything about him. He was from her past life.

“Well, Rachel, it seems we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Marty Melbourne and I was trying to find my way home when I got, um, disoriented.” Marty could tell she didn’t want to remember events that pertained to her dastardly brother
,
so he skipped the episode that referred to his being robbed. She already knew that part anyhow. “These kind men and I did some trading
,
then they fed me, gave me water to drink
,
and we did a bit of talking, sort of. I think Red Shirt knows where I need to go
,
but I’m not too sure he wants to lead me there. Did he say anything to you?”

Rachel shook her head. She liked Marty but really didn’t have any news for him.

“Did he tell you where we were headed?” he asked. She shook her head again. He should know that she didn’t speak Indian and Red Shirt didn’t speak English.

“Well, at least I’ll have you to talk to,” Marty said then chuckled. In the course of their short conversation, she had only
said one word, “Grant,”
and he knew she didn’t want to say that again. For right now though, he didn’t have anything else to say. Time would tell where they were headed. At least they were traveling as a little tribe and not as conquerors and hostages.

After a couple of hours
,
Red Shirt raised his arm to signal that they would stop for a break. The Young One handed out more jerky and the canteen was passed around afterwards. One at a time
,
the men walked away from the group then came back. Well, Marty decided he needed a potty break, too. When he returned
,
he realized that Rachel was still standing, rocking her baby back and forth in her arms. “If you’d like to, um, take a break, I’ll hold the baby for you,” Marty offered then canted his head over to a stand of bushes that would afford her some privacy for her toilet.

Rachel took him up on the offer, ceding her progeny to the silly man dressed in a long blue shirt, leather breechclout
,
and boots that came half way up his shins. “Thanks,” she said
,
then scurried away to do her business.

Marty graciously took the boy,
happy to hold
a
surrogate for the son he hoped to see soon, very soon. “So what’s your name, little boy?” he asked comically, crossing his eyes and speaking in a high voice to get a giggle out of the lad. The little boy, he estimated he was about a year old, chuckled heartily. He had performed the same antics for James when he was a baby and got the same results. “Works every time,” he commented softly.

“Mine,” Red Shirt said gruffly as he strode up purposely and took the boy out of Marty’s arms, holding him possessively, close to his chest.

“Okay,” Marty said with a shadow of fear in his voice. It wasn’t the word
,
but how he had said it. Then he realized that it
was
the word, too. “Mine? You speak English?” Marty asked, stunned as he realized that he must.

Red Shirt didn’t answer but instead turned away from Marty and took over the infantile conversation, babbling incoherently to the
boy
. 

Rachel came back and saw her baby had been exchanged between the two men then saw the shocked look on Marty’s face. “Did I miss something?” she asked sincerely.

Red Shirt ignored her so Marty volunteered the answer. “Red Shirt laid claim to Junior there. He said ‘mine’ and took him. It looks like the lad has a real Pa now.”

Rachel beamed but didn’t say a word. Instead
,
she walked up to Red Shirt; his back was still to her and Marty, and put her arm through his, joining him in holding her son, their son. Red Shirt didn’t say anything but pulled his shoulders back in pride. He had a wife and heir now.

The Indian band with their two new members and one tag-along continued down the unmarked trail to wherever it was they were going. Marty wanted to be on his way to his own home but didn’t want to be lost again. He’d go with the Indians for now. He was sure Red Shirt knew where The Trees were. It may be that he first had to get his men and new family back to his village or settlement or whatever it was called
,
but hopefully, after they were all safely ensconced, he’d see fit to show him the way to The Trees.

The sun was getting low and no village was in sight. Ho
wever, Marty could smell water—
there was a creek nearby. They made the last half-mile at a quickened pace. The horses were trotting and he was jogging
,
but
he knew why. If they got to the creek at the right time, they’d have fresh fish for supper. The jerky provided sustenance but wasn’t a belly filler.

Number Two and The Young One picked up the pace and raced ahead. As they sped ahead, Red Shirt slowed his pace, coming in front of Rachel’s horse to bring her back to an easy walk. He’d let his men catch dinner and start the fire so all was ready for him, his new family
,
and crazy white man friend when they got there.

And
,
so it was. In the half hour that it took for the late shift to catch up with the hospitality crew, dinner and a fire were waiting. Red Shirt took his son from Rachel
,
offering
her his free hand to help her dismount. She accepted it graciously and gave him a sincere smile of gratitude that promised more, hopefully. He wanted to lie with her tonight. It would be best if he sealed the union before
t
he
y
got back to the village.

“That’s some mighty fine fare you fixed there, men,” Marty commented after finishing his filet of trout on a stick. “I’d offer to wash the dishes but since we didn’t have any, I’d like to know if anyone would mind if I went down to the creek and washed myself up a bit.” Marty stuck his nose near his armpit and sniffed, made an ugly face, then grinned at his small audience.

Red Shirt was standing close to Rachel
,
who was seated, feeding little bits of trout to he
r son. He nodded and grinned: ‘T
hat’s
a good idea, stinky white man—
go,’ he said without words.

Marty trundled down to the creek and found a shallow, calm pool. The water wasn’t warm but wasn’t icy like the fast moving stream either. He took off his boots
and
set them on a boulder. He removed his malodorous shirt and tossed it into the still pond. Now
,
his Indian wear: the breechclout. This time he knew what he was doing. He untied the knot and pulled away the thong, bowed his legs like Red Shirt had
,
and let
the leather loincloth drop to the dry ground. It didn’t need cleaning but he did. Marty picked his way over the slippery, moss covered river rocks, sat down in the tepid pool
,
and
employed fistfuls of sand as his soapy washcloth. He scrubbed the stink of two weeks of sweat and dust off his skin, bent his head sideways
,
and sniffed his armpit: fresh as a North Carolina mountain stream. He reached over and rubbed the shirt into the sand at the bottom of the small pond. Fish poop smell would be better than marinated man odor. He finished his primeval bath with a silica face and scalp scrub. “Too bad the whiskers won’t rub off,” he commented as he ran the back of his index finger over his scraggly beard. “But
,
at least there’s no chance of lice now.”

Marty rinsed his shirt a second time, twisted and wrung it out as best he could
,
then shook it briskly a dozen times, flipping out as many of the residual drops of creek water as he could. He threw it over his shoulder and exited his bath, taking deep cleansing breaths
,
trying to
keep his newfound confidence in place. He didn’t know where he was going or what was waiting for him at the end of the journey. He’d have to wait to go home to his own family
,
but at least he now had a better chance of finding the right route; Red Shirt could help him as long as he stayed in his good graces. He bit his bottom lip then bent over and retrieved his thong belt and breechclout, slipping
it on in
, for him
,
record time. ‘I can be a good red white man,’ he thought. ‘At least I don’t have to put on an act. Red Shirt likes me as I am.’

“I think I’ll let you dry out a bit,” he said aloud to his shirt as he spread it out over a bush at the edge of the creek. Marty picked up his boots and walked back slowly toward the campfire, using its glow as his beacon. He carried his boots rather than wear them for the short walk back. His feet were damp and his boots still stank of Grant. He’d bear the discomfort of walking over sharp stones for a few yards in exchange for having dry tootsies and aired out footwear for the morrow.