dontravis.com blog post #643
Did
the first installment grab your attention. If you have any interest in
multicultural tales, I suspect it did.
Here’s
the second part of the story.
****
BEARCLAW
SUMMONS (Part 2)
“He’ll come in the
morning.”
“Maybe it’s not
smart for him to miss work. Might put them on guard. He loses his job, those
two will see the rifles are discovered missing, and he’ll get the blame.”
“That might be,
but anybody can be sick one or two days. He’ll come see you tomorrow.”
“All right. I’ll
be at Snakehead at noon.”
“Thank you,
nephew. Uh ... Willy’s the only one in his family working. He ain’t got much
money. You have any idea what it’ll cost?”
Again Bart was
silent for a few seconds. “You say he paints?”
The man and his
wife both nodded. “Nora,” Big Jack said quietly. The woman went into the other
room and returned with two framed canvases.
One was an Apache
Mountain Spirit Dancer, masked and wearing a headdress. The second was a view
of the Sacred White Mountain from the south. The dancer was done in a primitive
style, in stark, vibrant colors. The landscape was different; it had depth and
perspective and light and shadow. Bart’s eyes shifted back and forth between
the two oils.
He sighed. “It’s
going to be expensive. Lawyers cost money. I’m afraid it will take both of
them.”
Big Jack and his
wife resumed breathing. They were satisfied. Their nephew would pay his own way
without swiping food from the family table.
“But understand, Jack,
I have to feel good about this before I go to my friend. Willy has to talk
straight to me, and I’ll have to test his words. You’re a good judge of men,
Big Jack Bearclaw, but in some matters, a man’s gotta take his own measure.”
“That’s fair. Willy’s
words will sound right to you because they are right. I don’t doubt it, or I
wouldn’t put a strain on our friendship.”
Bart ’fessed up to
his foreman and wrangled a couple of days off. He arrived at his old camp at
Snakehead Spring precisely at noon. A motor died somewhere beyond the trees. A
door slammed. Moments later, a short young man scratched on Bart’s wickiup. The
face was familiar from around the fringes of Big Jack’s camp.
They greeted one
another warily, almost like adversaries entering an arena. Bart ignored his
camp chairs and sank to the rug on the floor he’d dusted a few minutes earlier.
They spoke awhile of people they both knew. Because he was needed for branding,
Bart acted like a white man and cut the polite conversation to a minimum. Willy’s
story was almost identical to the one Big Jack had related the night before
except Willy provided two names, Burke and Avila.
“How long have you
been working there?” Bart asked when the other had finished.
“Three months next
week.”
“When did they ask
you to do them the favor the first time?”
“First week I was there.”
“Next time?”
“Couple of weeks
later.”
“Why did you do
it?”
Willy Saltbush shrugged
eloquently. The young man wore his hair short. His nose and lips were fleshy,
the rest of him plain and dark. The eyes were bright, however. Bright and
constantly roving. It took some time to understand that it was the artist in
the man examining light and shadow and structure. Even when his gaze was on Bart’s
shoulder—never on his eyes—Willy’s pupils flickered as he studied plane and
tone. This was a man who both saw much more and much less than most. He would
spot a highlight others would miss, understand the darkness of a deep cavity,
but he would be less curious about the motives of another human. Others had
seen this in him and used it to advantage.
Abruptly, Bart
stood. “You’ll have to tell all of this to Mr. Charles. He’s an Indah, but he’s
a good man. He won’t know how to behave like you, so you’ll have to behave like
him. Open up to him. When he talks to you, look him in the eye. That’s not the
way you were taught, but it has to be. The whites think you’re not being honest
if you can’t look at them when you talk. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the way
they are. Speak up and don’t mumble. If you have to think about an answer,
that’s okay, but when you’re ready
to give it, be clear and firm.” He saw Willy’s Adam’s apple bob a couple of
times.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Meet me
in front of the Mission Church at nine in the morning. Bring the two pictures
you painted with you.”
“Can’t you do it
for me?” There was a plaintive note in the young man’s voice.
“No. If you don’t
talk to him face to face, how can he tell what kind of man you are? Besides,
he’ll have questions that I can’t answer.
“Will you be there
with me?”
“If you want. But
you’ll have to answer him yourself.”
Willy gave a
short, choppy nod. His footsteps as he left seemed heavy.
****
Bart waited in the
church parking lot until ten before admitting that it was not merely a matter
of “Indian time”, Willy was not going to show. He went to Mark Charles’ office
and claimed a chair.
“He chickened
out.”
“Maybe he just
needs more time to screw up his courage,” the lawyer suggested. “You didn’t
give me much when you called. Tell me all you know about it.” Bart complied. Mark
whistled. “You better get your man in here pronto. That’s a federal rap he’s
playing with. He’s not going to be able to shrug it off and hope it goes away.
This Burke and Avila are going to lay the dark deed right on his doorstep when
they’re found out.”
“Uh ... by the way,”
Bart said warily. “This one comes under the heading of gaining experience.”
“You mean it’s a
freebie.”
“Not exactly. The
kid’s an artist. You’re bartering for your fee. Two paintings. They’re good.
I’ve seen them.”
“Oh, well. The
place needs a dab of color. You hogtie him, and I’ll see if I can still lay a
brand.”
Bart
detoured through the reservation, hoping to find Big Jack without having to
drive clear up to Bigrock and encountered the fat man working his way out of
the front door of the trading post outside of White Pine where he’d been trying
to phone him at Mark’s office.
“Just found out he
didn’t show up an hour ago. Tried to catch you at the Charles boy’s place, but
you was gone. Glad you come by.”
Bart followed the
fat man around to the shady side of the building where the mules hauling Big
Jake’s wagon eyed them like they were following the conversation.
“Willy’s mamma
went to old Amadeo yesterday, and that one told her to keep Willy away from the
whites... all of them.” Jack’s tone let it be known that he considered the
shaman to be a fake, but he didn’t voice the words.
“Willy was scared,
and them’s the words he wanted to hear. He lit out for the high country. His
brother went out to find him this morning.”
“They’ll come for
him, Jake. The FBI’ll come right in and flush him out no matter how high up he
goes. This is serious.”
“So what are you
going to do about it, nephew?”
“Me? Hell, how’d
it get to be my problem?”
“By way of knowing
more about the outside than most of us, I guess. Can you just walk away knowing
what’s gonna happen to him?”
“Shit, Jack, don’t
lay that on me! This is branding season. I’m up to my ass in slicks and hot
irons.”
“I guess so,” the
fat man wheezed, “but this is one of the People.”
“All right,” he
sighed. “Send word to me when his brother gets back. I’ll go up early tomorrow
if I hear from you. Is he armed?”
“Yeah, with a handful
of paint brushes.”
****
The call didn’t
come until after eight o’clock that night. Bart picked up the receiver in the
bunkhouse, heard a wheeze, and knew that it was Big Jack. The man did not like
telephones, so he started right in without preamble.
“Willy’s brother
didn’t get back till late, and I had to pry the information out of the son of a
bitch. Damned if he don’t act like I’m in cahoots with the white eyes.”
Indignation oozed over the wire. “Anyhow, he’s at the high end of Lead Scout
Canyon. They’s a balsam—”
Yeah, I know where
it is. Why would he hide out in a box canyon where anybody can trap him?”
“Damn fool’s been
wanting to paint something up there for a long time. Figgers, this is his
chance, I guess. Hell, I don’t know! Must be some Navajo blood in the kid
somewhere.”
“That’s not as far
up or as hard a trip as I thought. I’ll ride up tomorrow and drag him back.”
“Just swipe his paintbrushes,
and he’ll follow you all the way back,” Jack said dryly.
“Okay, I’ll head
out at first light. Should be back by noon. I’ll take an extra horse.”
"No need. He'll be on his old paint. Thank you, nephew. I’ll be in your debt.”
If Willy ever
ends up in the white man’s court, I wonder if the Judge will understand that a
shaman’s advice might cause a young man to simply paint pictures rather than
attend legal matters? Doubt it, don’t you?
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