Redeye (8 page)

At dinner, I fed myself and the children on the porch. A family with a library, I expected, would not allow eating on the porch. But such are the altered customs of the West, after all. The dinner was elk steaks, corn on the cob, string beans, butterbeans, and biscuits, while through the open window from the porch into the dining room I watched as about twelve people, including Mr. and Mrs. Merriwether—Libby—ate dinner in complete silence.

But oh, what a friendly and warm ranch it is—little Jose Hombre sang to us after supper—so much more . . . more vibrant than any place I remember back home, where our entire way of life
still
suffers the ravages of the sad, terrible, earth-and-life destroying war that none of us asked for, none of us wanted.

———

After dinner, while the children played on blankets under the cottonwoods, Mr. Merriwether strolled out on the porch and sat down. Staring out into the distance and talking almost as if to himself, he said, “Most locals believe the cliff dwellings hold only old Aztec potsherds and other worthless tidbits so for a few years at least, I'll have the mesa to myself.” He turned to me then and he told me the story of how he'd gone up on the mesa looking for missing cattle and discovered a cliff dwelling. Some Indians told him how to get up there, so he went up with his brother, Luke, looking.

“On the second afternoon,” he said, “a gray day, late, we were on top, had not seen a single cow, and it started snowing. We decided to camp instead of go back down.”

He started talking, looking off at the mesa, rocking in his chair, almost as if he were in a trance. He spoke about the quiet snow, great big flakes, the sun, just before setting beneath a blanket of gray clouds, shining onto the falling snow, making the flakes golden.

He said he hurried over to a ridge opposite his camp to look for cattle, and when he looked back at the cliff wall he saw a little city of stone carved into a long, shallow cave, up towards the top of the cliff. An entire lost city that nobody knew about, hidden away for hundreds of years. He said he'd never experienced anything like the feeling he had when he saw it.

“Next morning, we got down into the little city by dropping two tall dead pinon trees lashed together over the ledge and using them as a ladder. The place had not been bothered
at all
since it was deserted. We found pots, bowls, ladles, bows and arrows, some animal skins almost completely dried up, some well preserved. Those remains must be hundreds and hundreds of years old. You can tell by the way the pottery is painted.

“I've tried to get funds for expeditions from the Denver Historical Society and the Smithsonian, but so far all I've gotten is a letter of introduction to a young Englishman, a fellow named Collier. An explorer of sorts, I take it. We're expecting him any day.”

At that, he seemed to remember my presence once more.
“Having you here will be a big help to us,” he said. “Welcome.” And just like that he was gone.

I anticipate meeting the young Englishman. I've never met an Englishman—old or young.

As a backdrop to the savage elements that would unfold on Mesa Largo at the famous Eagle City Shootout in the spring of '92, there were scientific and humanitarian advancements being made in the little mining town of Mumford Rock, ushered in by pioneers of the new age, as exemplified by William Blankenship. Almost single-handedly, Blankenship was bringing Progress, Profit, Sane Business, Capitalism, and a deep and abiding appreciation of Mother Nature to Mumford Rock . . .

AUGUST
13, 1891

MUMFORD ROCK—A Chinese road builder exploded in his coffin on Saturday afternoon at the train station at approximately 3:00
P.M
. shortly after the 2:45 train arrived from Denver. The force of the explosion destroyed the coffin and the wagon the coffin was resting in, and broke a window at the train station. The road builder, who is unidentified at this time, and probably will remain so, was apparently awaiting shipment to Denver. No information was available as to the corpse's intended earthly destination.

Mr. William Blankenship, summoned to the scene by a by-stander,
explained that the situation was not unusual in warm climates when a corpse is removed from ice and placed in a coffin, if that coffin is airtight and the weather is hot. The local temperature reached ninety-seven degrees Saturday.

Mr. Blankenship also explained that with modern methods, a kind of chemical drying can be effected with a corpse to prevent any such occurrences. Mr. Blankenship is part owner of Modern Mortuary Science Services, Inc. The so-called drying method he described is also known as embalming and reached widespread use among the armies during the War Between the States as well as during the time of ancient Egypt among the general population.

Mr. Blankenship noted that this incident underscores the need for modern funeral methods in Mumford Rock. Mr. Blankenship further noted that Mumford Rock, with the help of his company, will become known as the Home of the Modern Method.

The
Mumford Rock Weekly
is interested in other verifications of exploding corpses. Such may be dropped by this office on Fourth Street, in writing.

Mr. Merriwether hired me, Zack, and Mr. Cobb Pittman, the one with the catch dog, to drive a freight-wagon load of Navajo blankets and eleven head of cattle up to Leesville. He give us two pack mules and two extra horses. Zack has made the run a bunch of times. I ain't, and Mr. Pittman ain't, but him and Zack went together on some of the big cattle drives back when they used to
do that, and so that's how Mr. Pittman got on this little job with us.

The trail goes up to Thorpe's Ferry and then west toward the north side of Mesa Largo before it breaks off north. It was my first real cowboy job.

We followed the river northeast until we got to the ferry, which is run by a Mormon bishop who had three or four wives before the new polygamy laws, but he wadn't there. He's got a Mexican works for him. We got everything across in two trips, and took the trail west then north.

Everything went smooth the first day, and the first night for supper we had cornbread, bacon, oatmeal, and canned peaches. After cleaning up we laid on our backs with the campfire dying. Zack and Mr. Pittman had been talking about the railroads, and this whore named Vida Lou in Leesville—where we were going—and a Indian woman that Zack's great-uncle married. This Indian woman would jump off the back of a horse, onto the back of a running buffalo, ride him for a mile or two, then stab him to death. They like to talk about stuff like that.

Mr. Pittman had his saddlebags on the ground beside him while they talked. He reached into a pouch and pulled out a tiny bottle of oil, reached into this little hidden pocket on the inside of the flap on his chaps and pulled out a sort of dagger with some kind of flip blade, oiled it, and stuck it back in the pocket. Then he started picking fleas off Redeye. One of the funny things he did. That was the meanest-looking dog I ever seen. He was made real tight and had bunches of muscles and walked around like he
could all of a sudden jump in every direction at once. His left eye was all solid red and he had this look on his face like he was right out of hell and hadn't ever gone to sleep.

He lifted his head up off Mr. Pittman's lap and started growling and looking out into the dark.

“Whoa, Redeye,” said Mr. Pittman.

I heard a little tinkling noise and two Indians walked just in the circle of light from the fire, a good ways out, and stopped.

“That's Mudfoot and Lobo,” said Zack. “They want whiskey and candy.” Then he said this—I remember exactly what it was—he said, “By God, I hate the stink of an Indian, but it's sweet compared to a railroad man.”

The Indians raised their hands and smiled. I raised my hand. Zack went over to the wagon, poured some whiskey into a jar, put the lid on, and gave it to the Indians and said, “No candy, no more whiskey,” a few times, shaking his head. They walked off into the dark, happy, I guess. They was the first Indians I'd seen across the river.

“Was they Mescadeys?” I asked Zack.

“Yeah. They wear them leggings. Them two live about a mile north of here. Trade with the Mormons in Beacon City. Most of them
are
Mormons. That's one of the things I can't quite see, and I guess it's part of why I ain't all that welcomed over in Beacon City. The Mormons I come from didn't take a lot of stock in redskin trade.” Zack reached under his saddle and got another drink, then passed the bottle to me. I took a little.

“They don't take stock in that redeye, either,” said Mr. Pittman.

“Back when they were wild,” Zack said to me, “the government would chase Indians a month or so then forget it. Like when they caught Geronimo—they put him in a show somewheres. Had a servant waiting on him. Still does, I guess.”

My war sack was under my head with a blanket around it for softness and I was on top of my soogans except for one fold up to my knees, because it wadn't cold yet. I guess I felt pretty growed up, laying there on my back with the sparks drifting up in the black sky, the moon up, and the cool night air coming in, and the horses hobbled off in the dark, and real live Indians out there somewhere, though they was tame. But I could pretend to be back before the war when there was real cattle drives and wild Indians.

We follow our path back home in the light of the moon. Lobo wants to drink before we get home and I say no, wait, so that we will be somewhere safe when we drink. He likes to get drunk in a bad fashion where there is no protection of shelter and he is left open to bad spirits.

If we would be found drunk in the mesa by the Mormons we would lose our Mormon supplies for a time. Bishop Thorpe, of the ferry, has declared this.

Lobo wants to sit on a big rock and drink. We could not get into his shelter because his woman has bolted the door from
inside. When he comes back late in the night he will break it down and there will be big trouble with his wife's mother.