Sawbones (34 page)

A Laura Elliston Novel

by Melissa Lenhardt

We smelled him first.

“Hail the camp!”

His appearance was no more or less disheveled and dirty than the other men who happened upon us, but his stench was astonishing, stronger than the smoke from the fire which lit his grimy features. His was not a countenance to inspire confidence in innocent travelers, let alone us. The left side of his face seemed to be sliding down, away from a jutting cheekbone and a brown leather eye patch. When he spoke, only the right side of his mouth moved. Though brief, I saw recognition in his right eye before he assumed the mien of a lonely traveler begging for frontier hospitality always given, often regretted.

“Saw your fire 'n hoped to share it with you, if I might.”

“Of course, and welcome,” Kindle said.

“Enloe's the name. Oscar Enloe.”

“Picket your horse, and join us.”

“Already done. Picketed him back there with yours. Nice gray you got there. Don't suppose he's for sale.”

“Not today.”

Enloe glanced around the camp, a dry, wide creek bed with steep banks, which offered a modicum of protection from the southern wind gusting across the plains. Our fire flickered and guttered as Enloe sat on the hard, cracked ground with exaggerated difficulty and a great sigh. He placed his rifle across his lap and nestled his saddlebags between his bowed legs.

“Well, it figures. Every time I see a good piece of horseflesh he's either not for sale or I don't have the money. Turns out it's both in this case.” Enloe's laugh went up and down the scale before dying away in a little hum. His crooked smile revealed a small set of rotten teeth, which ended at the incisor on the left side. He removed his hat and bent his head to rustle in his saddlebag, giving us a clear view of his scarred, hairless scalp. I cut my eyes to Kindle, and saw the barest of acknowledgments in the dip of his chin. His gaze never left our guest.

Enloe lifted his head, expecting a reaction, and was disappointed he did not receive one. I imagine he enjoyed telling the story of how he survived a scalping, since so few men did so. I was curious, but held my tongue, as I had every time we met a stranger. Tonight silence was a tax on my willpower, the strongest indication yet that I was slowly coming out of the fog I'd been in for weeks.

Enloe pulled a jar out of his bag. “Boiled eggs. Bought 'em in Sherman two days ago. Like one?” He motioned to me with the jar. I shook my head no.

“Doncha speak?”

“No, he doesn't,” Kindle said.

“Why not?”

“He's deaf.”

Enloe's head jerked back. “Looked like he understood me well enough.”

“He reads lips.”

“You don't say?” Enloe shrugged, as if it wasn't any business of his. “Want one?”

“Thank you.”

Enloe opened the jar, fished out a pickled egg with his dirty hands, and handed it to Kindle, along with the tangy scent of vinegar. Kindle thanked him and ate half in one bite. “What's the news in Sherman?”

“Where'd you come from?” Enloe shoved an entire egg in his mouth. I watched in fascination as he ate on one side and somehow managed to keep the egg from falling out of the gaping, unmovable left side.

“Arkansas. Heading to Fort Worth.”

“Fort Worth?” He spewed bits of egg out of his mouth; some hung in his beard. “Ain't nothing worth doing or seeing in Fort Worth. Montana's where the action is.”

“I'm not much for prospecting. Looking to get a plot of land and make a go of it.”

“This here your son?” Enloe's eye narrowed at me.

“Brother.”

“Well, bringing an idiot to the frontier ain't the smartest thing I ever heard. He won't be able to hear when the Kioway come raiding, now will he?”

“I've heard tell the Army protects the settlers.”

Enloe laughed derisively. “Fucking Army ain't worth a tinker's damn. Except those niggers. Now, there's the perfect soldier. Those white officers order them to charge and they do 'cause they're too stupid to do anything but follow orders blindly. Can't think for themselves. Redskins mistake it for bravery and won't go up against them.” The corner of Kindle's eye twitched and I knew it took all of his willpower to not contradict Enloe.

Enloe brought out a bottle of whisky, pulled the cork and drank deeply from the corner of his mouth. “If you're expectin' the Army to protect you, better turn right around and go back to Arkansas.” He narrowed his eyes. “You're awfully well-spoken for an Arkansan.”

“Our mother was a teacher.”

He nodded slowly. “Suppose you've heard about the excitement in Fort Richardson.”

“No.”

“Surely you heard about the Warren Wagon Train Massacre. You do got papers in Arkansas, dontchee? Suppose not many a you hillbillies can read it.” I doubted Oscar Enloe knew a
G
from a
C
.

“We heard about it,” Kindle said. “Did they catch the Indians?”

“They did. Sherman himself, though it was pure luck. The redskins were at Sill, bragging about it. Well, Sherman didn't give a damn about the Indian Peace Policy and arrested 'em. Shocked he didn't put 'em on trial right there and tighten the noose himself. They sent them to Jacksboro to stand trial. One of 'em tried to get away and was shot in the back. One less redskin to worry about, I say. Other two were convicted, 'course.” Enloe held out his whisky. “Want some?”

Kindle refused. I held out my hand. Enloe ignored my crooked, knobby fingers, foreign to me even now, weeks later, and turned his attention to Kindle. I drank from the bottle and held the rotgut in my mouth, barely resisting the urge to spit it into the fire. It was whisky in name only. The liquid scorched my throat as I swallowed, burned a hole in my stomach. I held the back of my hand to my mouth and saw Enloe watching me with a knowing smirk. Keeping my eyes on him, I drank another swallow, did not wince as it made its way down, and kept the bottle. I only hoped it would numb the pain before Enloe tried to kill us.

Kindle didn't move, flinch or take his eyes from Enloe. His rifle lay on the ground next to him, barely out of reach. Neither moved. “You'd think the massacre and hanging Injuns would be enough to be going on with, but that ain't even the most interesting story outta Jacksboro,” Enloe said.

“No?”

“Jacksboro was overflowin' with people there celebrating, wanting to see those two redskins hang. Gov'nor killed their fun, staying their execution. I imagine they've turned their attention now to the fugitives.”

“Fugitives?”

“The Murderess and the Major, that's what the newspaper's calling 'em. Catchy name, at that.”

“Never heard of 'em.”

“Woman who survived the massacre, turns out she's out here on the run. Course, she ain't alone in that, is she? Heh-heh. Supposed to have saved the Major right after the massacre, but we have it from his nigger soldiers so it's probably a lie.”

I bristled and drank more of Enloe's whisky to avoid speaking.

“Just like a woman, lured the Major into fallin' in love with her. He threw his career away to go off an save her from the Comanche and then sprung her before the Pinkerton could come take her back to New York.”

Enloe put a finger against one nostril and shot a stream of snot onto the ground. “Some think they headed north to the railroad, or maybe south to Mexico. The Pinkerton thought they stayed in the tent city sprung up outside a Jacksboro for the trial. Tore it to pieces one night, searching. Torched a few nigger tents for the hell of it. He's mad cause he was in town that night.”

“What night?”

“The night they escaped. I heard tell he decided to go whoring instead of taking the Murderess into custody, as he shoulda. He tore through the tent city like the devil. 'Course, nothing came of it. The Major ain't stupid.”

“You know him?” Kindle said.

“Nah, but I heard of him. Has a scar down the side of his face, said to be given to him by his brother in the War.”

“The Pinkerton go back East?”

“Can't very well without his prisoner, now can he?”

I glanced at Kindle, whose expression was closed. Enloe pulled a plug of tobacco from his vest pocket. He tore off a chunk and chewed on it a bit, his gaze never wavering from us. He spit a brown stream into the fire. The spittle sizzled and a log fell. “Wouldya lookit?” He laughed up and down the scale again. “Kinda hot out for a fire.”

“Thought I'd make it easy for you to find us.”

“Didja now?”

“You've been shadowing us for three days. You aren't as good as you think you are.”

“Well, I found you, didn't I?”

“Oh, you weren't the first,” Kindle said. Enloe's smile slipped. “And, you won't be the last.”

In a smooth, easy motion, Enloe leveled his gun at Kindle. “I seem to have caught you without your gun handy.”

“True. What made you come into Indian Territory? Alone.”

“Who said I'm alone?”

“My scout.”

“What scout?”

“The one who's been shadowing you for three days. Where's the Pinkerton?”

“I—”

I heard the tomahawk cut through the air the second before it cleaved Enloe's skull cleanly down the middle. Blood ran crookedly down his scarred head, like a river cutting through a winding canyon. He tipped over onto his side.

I drank his whisky, and watched him die.

Sawbones

Stillwater

Stillwater

The Fisher King

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