Evan Hunter - The Chisholms - A novel of the journey West

She was coming out of the tipi now. Fat squaw with her. Squaw looked annoyed, like she didn’t want to be chased out here in the cold while the whore entertained a customer. Too bad about you, Will thought, and almost grinned, and remembered the dogs. The dogs were still yapping. Squaw said something to them, didn’t bother them a jot; they just kept at it. She slapped one across the snout. He began whimpering and then shut up. She said something in Indian to the whore then, and the whore nodded. Fat squaw pulled her robe around her, called to the dogs, and went walking over to another tipi. She said something else in Indian and then went inside. The whore was holding open the flap of the tipi here. Will nodded, finished the wine in the bottle, and then crouched and went on in.

There was a fire in the middle; he went to it and held out his hands to the flames. Smoke going up through the hole there in the ceiling or whatever they called it. Painted shield hanging there from one of the poles. Couple of lances. Buffalo robes all over the dirt floor.

“How much’s this gonna cost me?” Will asked.

The woman held up a finger.

“Shit,” he said. “I can get a white woman for that.”

Wasn’t half bad-looking here in the light, though. Wasn’t half good -looking neither. Brown like any other Indian he’d ever seen, lips parched and cracked, sore in the corner of her mouth. Looked like good tits under the elkskin dress.

“I’ll give you half a dollar,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Hell with it then,” he said, and turned to go, and couldn’t find the flap he’d come in by. “Now where...” he said, and realized he was still holding the empty wine bottle, and tossed it aside angrily. Feeling his way around the tipi hand over hand, touching the warm hide walls, he found the opening at last and was crouching to go out when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up. She nodded. “Yeah,” he said, and let the flap fall again. He staggered to his feet and clutched one of the lodge poles for support. “Half a dollar, right?” he said.

She nodded again.

“You understand English, huh?” he said. “How many white men you fucked in your life, huh? You get that sore from a white man?”

She touched her lip, shook her head.

“What is that sore there?”

She held up her hands, the fingers widespread, and shook them back and forth, shaking her head at the same time.

“I don’t have to worry, right?” he said. “Never met a whore yet I didn’t have to worry. Where’d I put that goddamn...?” He was digging in his pocket for a fifty-cent piece, couldn’t find one by just the feel of it, and pulled out a handful of coins. Opening his palm, he held out the coins to her and said, “Take a half dollar, go ahead.”

She lifted a coin from his palm.

“That’s right,” he said, and put the other coins back in his pocket. “What’s your name?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“If you don’t know it in English, say it in Indian.”

She shook her head again.

He shrugged. First time he’d ever in his life asked a whore her name, and she wouldn’t tell him. He shrugged again. Hell with her, he thought.

“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—