Саймон Бествик - The Devil and the Deep - Horror Stories of the Sea

“That depends. What’s that weapon behind your saddle?”

“It is a shotgun. Two-barrel.”

“As I thought,” Black-beard said. “Am I correct to assume it’s well past its prime? It isn’t one of those fancy new breech-loaders, is it?”

“No, it loads the old way,” Uncle JoJim said. “And I’ve used all the powder and shot I brought with me today. But I have a few percussion caps. I could trade for those, if you wish.”

Black-beard waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. “No, we need pistol and rifle cartridges. And sugar, flour, and salt pork. Might you have any of those?”

“No. But those things may all be found in Council Grove. Six miles north.”

Black-beard gave a snaggletoothed grin. “Sadly, we find that many citizens of Kansas towns harbor resentment against Missouri men who served with Colonel Quantrill. They don’t seem to care that our punitive mission against Lawrence took place almost five years ago. Nor, for that matter, that the war has been over for three.”

Red-beard spat again. “Kansas people are not reasonable.”

“Indeed not,” Black-beard said. “So the three of us have decided to move on to New Mexico. But we need provisions.”

“New Mexico is a fine destination,” Uncle JoJim said. “And the tribes along the way are friendly. I’m sure they will give you what you need.”

Black-beard stopped grinning. He placed his right hand on the stock of his Spencer.

“We cannot depend on that,” he said. Then he tilted his head upward, using his chin to point over Uncle JoJim’s shoulder. “What’s that smoke yonder? Might that be someplace we could bargain for goods?”

Uncle JoJim gave Charley a quick glance. Charley wasn’t sure what it meant.

“I believe it is the camp of a solitary man,” Uncle JoJim said to Black-beard. “But I can’t say what goods he might possess. Or what sort of bargain he might make you.”

“You can’t say?” Black-beard’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? You sound as if you know him.”

Uncle JoJim’s mouth became a thin line.

“A white man has asked you a question, Injun,” Red-beard said. “And this particular white man does not appreciate a lack of respect. Some of the denizens of Lawrence might confirm that, were they still alive.”

At that, Charley heard Uncle JoJim let out a long breath.

“I have met the man who is making the smoke,” Uncle JoJim said then. “But it was many years ago, and I can’t say that I know him now. He might not remember me.”

“But you remember him , I take it,” Black-beard said. “Is he white?”

“Yes.”

Black-beard shifted the Spencer so that it pointed at Uncle JoJim. “Then you will take us to him. You may say that our names are Jim Barnett and Sam Clark, and that we’ll pay him well for any goods he might provide.” He gestured with the Spencer. “A brisk walk will be fine. If either your horse or your boy’s starts to run, I might be startled.”

Uncle JoJim clicked his tongue, and Calico Girl turned toward the smoke. For an instant, Uncle JoJim’s eyes met Charley’s, and Charley hoped he didn’t look as afraid as he felt.

“Remember the Comanches,” Uncle JoJim whispered.

But Charley didn’t know how he could do that. He hadn’t even been alive then.

A minute later, Black-beard said, “Get behind me, boy. I don’t want you Injuns whispering. It ain’t friendly to keep secrets.”

Uncle JoJim gave Charley a nod, so Charley tugged on Bird King’s mane to stop him. Once Black-beard passed by, Charley let Bird King move again, and they fell in beside the freckled boy’s roan. Red-beard rode behind them.

Black-beard took the strap of his Spencer from around his neck, then slid the rifle into a scabbard behind his saddle. But Charley knew Black-beard’s pistol was still handy in his belt, as was Red-beard’s. Both he and Uncle JoJim could be shot in the back at any moment.

The freckled boy looked at Charley. His gaze was hot on Charley’s face, and Charley told himself it was just the sun. But the sun had never made his skin itch before.

“My name is Joshua,” the freckled boy said in his nasal voice.

Charley didn’t answer right away. Beads of sweat were sliding down from his hair, and they tickled. Between the tickle and the itch, he was going to have to rub his face soon. But he was afraid to raise his hand for fear of how Red-beard might react. He might think Charley was about to reach out and strike the freckled boy.

“I said, my name is Joshua.” The boy’s voice pitched even higher.

“My son’s trying to be sociable,” Red-beard said behind Charley. “You should, too.”

Charley tried to breathe in enough air to speak, and he just managed. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Joshua,” he said. “As my uncle said, my name is Charles. I go by Charley. But people in Council Grove call me ‘Indian Charley.’ I suppose so no one will think they mean some other Charley.”

Joshua cocked his head. “That should work. But do you think of yourself as Injun? I mean, you ain’t really any one thing, with all those different kinds of blood. I’d think you’d get mighty confused, especially about how to talk to folks.”

“I guess I don’t think of myself as anything except Charley,” Charley said. “And I just change how I talk depending on where I am. When I’m with the Kaw, I speak Kanza. And when I’m with white people, I speak English. My mother also taught me some French, but I don’t remember much of it. No one here speaks French now, anyway.”

“Do you speak Kanza well?” Joshua asked.

“Well enough. My grandmother says the first words I ever spoke were in Kanza. Taught to me by my mother, like the French. But I don’t remember which words. And I don’t remember my mother too much, either. She died when I was three years old.”

In the past, whenever Charley had spoken of his mother to others, those others had always said, “I’m sorry she passed on,” or something similar. But what Joshua said was, “Tell me some Kanza words.”

Charley was puzzled. “What words do you want to know?”

“Well, what’s the meaning of ‘Kanza,’ anyway? Is it just a word the Injuns made up for themselves?”

“My grandmother says it’s an old word,” Charley said. “Maybe even as old as when these hills were under the sea. It means ‘south wind.’ So what the Kaw call themselves in English is ‘People of the South Wind.’”

As if in response, a gust from the south set the grass undulating in waves. The freckled boy’s hat almost blew off, and Charley’s sweat-damp hair came unstuck from his forehead. But he still itched, and he was still too afraid to raise his hand to scratch.

Joshua pointed at a red-tailed hawk flying past them to the east. “What’s the Kanza word for ‘bird’?”

“ Wazhinga .” The word for “hawk” wasn’t the same at all. But Joshua had asked for “bird.”

“What about ‘buffalo’?” Joshua asked.

“ Cedónga ,” Charley said.

Joshua looked back at Red-beard. “Hey, Pa. I’m gonna join the Injuns and hunt cedónga . What do you think of that?”

When Red-beard answered, his thin voice sounded deeper and thicker than before.

“Ask him the word for ‘blood,’” Red-beard said. “And ‘scalp.’”

Joshua looked at Charley. “Didja hear?”

Charley’s hands, clenching Bird King’s mane, began to tremble. Bird King snorted and tossed his head.

“‘Blood’ is wabí ,” Charley said. Then he realized he didn’t know the exact word for “scalp.” But he knew the word for “hair.” “‘Scalp’ is… pahú .”