“I’m Will Chisholm,” he said. “Hell with you. You happen to see a man ridin through here on an Appaloosa?” He burst out laughing, and fell onto one of the buffalo robes near the fire. “Ahh,” he said, “nice,” and closed his eyes. “Chased him all over creation,” he said. “Carthage alone three times in June. Three times,” he said, and opened his eyes and held up three fingers to her. She was standing by the fire. She had taken off the dress. Her face and throat, her arms where the sleeves ended seemed darker than the rest of her body. Her belly, breasts, and legs looked almost white there in the firelight. “Man who stole my horse,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows, puzzled.
“Looking for him,” he said.
She nodded and came to the robe. There were bruises on her legs, dried scabs. She was a filthy Indian whore; what the hell was he doing in a tent stank of dog shit and Indian grease? Smell of the fat squaw here on the robe, smell of this one too, whore’s smile on her face, fixed, frozen; he’d never known a whore didn’t have that same smile on her face.
“You don’t even know me,” he said.
She looked at him curiously.
“What’re you wearin paint for?” he said. “Jesus!”
She got to her feet instantly, and walked across the tent to a pile of rags near an upended travois. Vigorously, she began rubbing at the paint. Will fell back on the robe, sighed heavily, put the back of his hand over his closed eyes. “Always gone,” he said. “Told his mother we had money to give him, owed him money. She knew we was lying. Gideon’s got a face like an angel, but he couldn’t fool the widder Hackett, nossir. Said, ‘We owe him money, ma’am,’ blue eyes open wide, good ole Gideon, that ole liar,” he said, and burst out laughing. “My brother Gideon. What’re you doin there? You takin off that paint there? What the hell...?”
He raised himself on one elbow and looked across the tent to where she was scrubbing at her face with one of the dry rags. “Takin off the paint,” he said in surprise, and fell back on the robe again. “Canny as a weasel, that old lady. You just missed him, boys. Was here a day or so ago, and’s plumb gone now. Canny. We followed him that first time deep in Iowa territory — you know where that is? Iowa? Hey, you! Hey, beautiful!” he called, and laughed. “You know where Iowa territory is?”
She turned to him, puzzled. The rag in her hand was covered with paint as bright as blood.
“Yeah, sure you do,” he said, and laughed again. “Lost him there, too, went back to Carthage again. There’s old mother Hubbard — Hackett,” he said, and laughed, “old mother Hackett standing on the porch, hands on her hips. Why, boys, I do declare, you just missed him again. He’s been and is gone. Whyn’t you just let me have that cash you owes him, I’ll see he gets it. Sure. Oh, sure. Left again — gettin to be a reglar thing we did, like going to church on Sunday. Leave Carthage, go back to Carthage. Went west this time. You know the Mississippi? River. You know river? Water? Canoe — you know canoe? Shit, you don’t know nothin....”
Weeks of rain there along the Mississippi, insides of cabins thick with mud, others completely washed away, furniture smashed, river clogged with floating tangles of logs. Couldn’t find him on the Illinois side nohow, crossed the river into Iowa again, searched for him there. Spent weeks traveling through towns looked like they was thrown up in ten minutes. Oh, yeah, man on an Appaloosa passed this way, sure enough. Yep, black hair and brown eyes, dressed entire in blue, that’s the fella. Too late. Been and was gone. Gideon wanted to try Carthage again, rode back up there through towns looked all alike; one thing about this here America is you can’t fault it for being different one place from another. This time she’s waitin’ on the porch with a shotgun in her hands. Your son been back, ma’m? I ask her, and she says Git, and shakes the gun at us....
The Indian woman was beside him.
She had scrubbed the paint from her cheeks, and she stretched beside him now, and he took her in his arms. He wouldn’t kiss her, the sore on her mouth; he’d never kissed a whore. He touched her face. Stroked her face. Her eyes were closed. The sore was just at the corner of her mouth on the right side of her face. Said he didn’t have to worry about it Wouldn’t kiss her, though. Touched her nipples, touched her below. Bed of fuckin straw, dry as any whore’s. No feeling, whores. Did it for money, that was all. Touched her jaw again. Ran his hands over her back. Felt—
Touched her back again, puzzled.
Moved her away from him, rolled her on her belly.
Her back was covered with healed welts thick as ropes. The scars were twisted and brown. The skin around them was as white as his own.
In the morning, he looked for Orliac and could find him nowhere in the fort or around it. He talked instead to Orliac’s first clerk, a man named Schwarzenbacher, little blond man with a twitchy blond mustache, blue eyes constantly roaming, alert, watching as if he expected Indians to attack the fort any minute. Will guessed he was about Gideon’s age, twenty-three, maybe a bit older. He was at his desk putting figures in a ledger, and he looked up when Will approached.
“Don’t want to bother you,” Will said.
“No bother,” Schwarzenbacher said, and smiled.
“Just wanted to know if there was somebody here spoke both English and Indian.”
“What kind of Indian did you have in mind?” Schwarzenbacher asked, still smiling.
“Well... what do you mean?”
“There are different languages.”
“Oh,” Will said. The thought had never occurred to him. He’d figured Indian was Indian and all of them understood it. “What are they talking out there?” he asked. “The ones outside the fort.”
“Different tribes out there,” Schwarzenbacher said. “Was there someone in particular you wanted to talk to?”
“Well... yes.”
“I speak some Algonquian and Siouan; perhaps I can help. Is this person...?”
“I don’t know what she is.”
“A woman. Ah.”
“In fact, I think she’s white,” Will said. “She’s dressed like an Indian, and her face and arms are brown, but underneath she’s...”
“Catherine, do you mean?” Schwarzenbacher asked.
“Is that her name?”
“The whore?”
“Well... yes.”
“Catherine’s her name.”
“Is she white?”
“She’s white, yes.”
“I thought so, but...” He gestured vaguely. He’d woke up this morning, nobody in the tipi but the fat squaw poking him off the buffalo robe. Mean old yellow dog growling at him while he put on his boots. Couldn’t remember whether he’d even fucked the whore, but began worrying right off about that sore on her lip. That’s why he was here now talking to this twitchy Schwarzenbacher, mustache going a mile a minute, eyes looking all around, sunlight hitting his head like God was singling him out for a miracle. Thought she was white, but hadn’t even been sure of his own name last night, no less the whore’s color. If she was white, though... if she understood what he was saying...
“Didn’t answer me,” he said, puzzled. “Didn’t say a word.” He looked into Schwarzenbacher’s face. “Why’s that?”
“She has no tongue,” Schwarzenbacher said. “They cut out her tongue.”