O Lord Jesus Christ comfort me in my prison of pain!
He shut his eyes and prayed that he would be miraculously transported to another location, as when God had miraculously transported Lot and his family from the doomed sodomites in the cities of the plain. But opening his eyes he could still see the harlot out the window across the street wiggling her hips like an effigy of sin itself. Right there. In the doorway. Dressed as a squaw this time. A drunk sidled up to her and stared openly. He appraised a hand along her hip. She turned around at his behest and raised her leather skirt. O her bottom! Walton jerked his head hither and yon, discombobulating the things on his desk, but the man’s own wide buttocks blocked the view of hers.
The Christian Deputy leader fell back onto his bed, sobbing and pinching himself.
In a flash he was at the window again.
Beneath the awning the drunk man was whispering in the girl’s ear, braced on her shoulder to stay afoot. She nodded and they went inside. Walton watched, his breath fogging the glass, his heart an overheated toad frying in the cauldron of his ribs. Upstairs, across the street, the harlot appeared in a window to pull down the shades. Before she did, though, he saw her lick out her tongue at him.
Serpent!
He tried to fill a cup with urine so he might drink it, but his turgid member refused to cooperate, the down-bending so pleasurable in itself that it nearly betrayed him.
He had rushed downstairs right then, pants abulge, ascot atangle, and burst into the deputies’ room, where the men were supposed to be engaged in an exercise about the sucking out of snake venom. There were several empty liquor bottles scattered about the floor that, without being asked, Loon testified had been left there by the room’s previous tenants. He hiccupped.
Men, Walton cried. Sin! He pointed upstairs.
Thus rallied (Ambrose rounded up from witnessing to a group of degenerates playing “craps” in the alley), the entire troop lurched across the street in full uniform, several adjusting the things in their pockets, their leader seen by some to be pinching his male member through his tight pants. They entered the saloon, Red Man lowering his bow, an arrow notched, to fit inside. They bounded up the stairs, behind Walton. Red-faced, he had kicked down the door and burst in the room and away she’d flown out the window like a shade flapping up.
Meanwhile, on the boat, Red Man had recovered from his bout of thinking. No sir, he said. Regarding your question of abandoning ship for hot, dusty horse travel overland.
Why?
Because to track a man is to know him. To track a man is to honor him.
Pardon?
Knowing and honoring a man are aspects of tracking him. In my tribe before the Wars and dark years of reservation life, before I fled east to escape the Apache and Comanche and the Pawnee and the Rangers and revenuers and cavalry men and bounty hunters, I, like you, also was a teacher. Of young braves. Sometimes the other warriors called me coward for choosing to be with the little ones instead of out earning feathers and ribbons and pieces of clothing taken from massacred white men and women and children and kept and passed father to son in a family for as many generations as the piece of clothing lasted—sometimes just a scrap, the cuff from a shirt, or only a button—
What in the world are you talking about? Walton asked.
To track a man is to know him. To know him is to honor him. And to truly honor him (which is part of tracking him) you have to go exactly where he went, suffer his very path, riding when he rode, walking when he walked, as close as you can get, stepping when possible in his very footsteps. You finger every broken branch, touch each smudge of dirt with your eager tongue, you work at becoming him—
Wrong, said Walton. Why would I want to become a sodomite? Captain! he called.
A dour, scruffy man shuffled forward. Aye?
Steer us over to the bank, sir, hard aft. The leader clapped his hands. “Pronto!”
At this speed? We’ll run aground.
Speed, sir? My gracious! You call this speed? Walton threw open his arms. Evolution is moving faster than we are!
Meanwhile, the deputies learning to write had been smudging “Walton” in asbestos on the side of the boat. While they worked, chewing their lips like giant, frightening children, Ambrose plucked a pencil from his Afro and saw how many littler words he could make from “Walton.” He listed “wal,” “ona,” “alton” and “walto” (except for “w” and “l,” he drew the line at single-letter words). He added “lto” to his list then looked up and noticed that Loon seemed to have a condition where he spelled all his words backward; so when he copied the Christian Deputy leader’s name in his large, uneven characters, it caught Ambrose’s attention.
Mister Walton, he said to his commander. You ever noticed what ye name is wrote backerds?
Great Scott. It’s “not law.”
The men, keen of ear, began to watch him murderously. They clattered to their feet in an asbestos cloud. Since the reading lesson, a plot of mutiny had circulated among their number. They’d decided that to earn any respect as a gang they had to kill somebody, Walton the logical choice. Ambrose next.
Not law, they chanted, coming forward drawing out their swords. Not law, not law, not law.
Deputy Ambrose! Walton whispered. Do something. That’s an order.
Not law, not law, not law…
Red Man! the Negro called.
Everyone stopped saying “Not law” and looked at the tall Indian.
Ambrose jabbed his finger up in Red Man’s face. Didn’t you say ye Injun family and other ones like it ’d keep as keepsakes the clothes of—yer own words here—of “massacred white mens and womens and childrens”?
Yes, Red Man said. Why? Then his face sagged. Oh shit, he said.
Mister Walton done tole you bout cussing, Ambrose said, and without a moment’s hesitation the stocky second-in-command drew his long-barreled revolver and shot the Indian in the forehead. Red Man stood for a moment, cross-eyed, then fell straight back, his bow toppling after. A plug of his head splashed in the water barrel.
Oh, Walton said. I may faint.
Yet the deflecting tactic worked, and as the blood pooled about the dead Indian’s neck the remaining deputies forgot about Walton’s backward-spelled name and the plot to murder him and, to a man, except Red Man, went back to their reading lesson, though visibly distracted.
That nigger better not kill me, a deputy said.
Nice work, Walton whispered to his second, once it was clear the danger had passed.
Ambrose eyed the men as they bent over their work. Can I shoot me a white ’n next?
Certainly not, said the leader. But you can “cover” yon captain so that he complies with my order.
Right, boss. Ambrose crossed to the steering platform and jammed his revolver in the man’s ribs. Nigger with a gun, he whispered. Only thing missing is a reason.
There, called Walton, pointing to a small peninsula overhung with trees, jutting out into the river at a bend. Bank us there!
Kiss now, boys! the captain shouted. Here comes the end!
They exploded onto land. Ambrose flew overboard. Timbers splintered like gunshots. Bleating livestock flew past. The heavily packed mule crashed braying into the river, pulling a pair of horses with it. The men on the ship were too busy to watch, scrambling out of the way of sliding ponies and airborne barrels.
Walton used the forward momentum to his advantage, however, and, arms akimbo, pirouetted from the deck and grabbed a lowhanging limb. Those ballet lessons had done a bit of good, after all.
From the tree, he called out instructions. Deputies staggered about rubbing their heads, removing splinters. Two were swimming for the other side of the river. Deserters. If he could’ve spared the manpower, Walton would have sent after them. Meanwhile, a soggy Ambrose dragged ashore picking leeches off his arms and neck. The horses and pack mule at the bottom of the river were dead.