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

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.”

“Who did?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps the Ojibwa. She’s supposed to have lived with them for a while. I know she understands Algonquian. Why are you interested?”

“I ain’t,” Will said. “I just wanted to find out about that sore on her lip. She’s got a sore on her lip.”

“Probably the Spanish disease,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“You think so?” Will said.

“She sleeps with Indians, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a common whore.”

“Yeah. You see... I was thinkin if I could talk to her, I could ask her about the sore.”

“Well, she understands hands. I’ve seen her conversing with—”

“Cause I sure would like to find out if she’s got anything.”

“I understand.”

“I have some medicine I bought in Texas...”

“I’d suggest you use it,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Well, it ain’t to be used lightly,” Will said. “Burns like hell, worse’n the disease, you want to know. So I thought if I could talk to her, she’d be able...”

“You’ll find out soon enough anyway, won’t you?” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Well... sure. Sure I will. If... sure.”

“When you begin dripping,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Sure. I just thought...” Will shrugged.

“Of course, if it would set your mind at ease...”

“Yeah?”

“I do understand the gestures that are common linguistic currency among the various tribes on the plains...

“Yeah?”

“And if you’d like me to...”

“I would,” Will said. “Yes. Yes, I would. Thank you. I would.”

They found her squatting cross-legged outside the tipi. The fat squaw was tossing scraps of meat to half a dozen dogs, who leaped into the air each time another morsel was thrown. The squaw spotted Will first. She called something to Catherine, who looked up immediately and smiled. Looked more like an Indian than the goddamn squaw did. Hair shiny and black, eyes almost as black as the hair. Red paint on her cheeks again; was she going out to war someplace? Black stockings hanging down around her knees; probably hadn’t washed them or herself in months. Jesus, had he really stuck his pecker into that?

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

The squaw put down the empty bucket. Hands on her hips, she watched. All around them, the dogs were eating, growling when another came too close. Flies buzzed about the bucket. Catherine was still smiling the fixed smile. The squaw nodded encouragement to her. Will suddenly wondered how much of that fifty cents Catherine had got to keep last night.

“I want to know about the sore on your lip,” he said. “Is it...?”

She shook her head.

“This man here knows how to read hands. I’d appreciate it if you told him just where you got it and how long it’s been there.”

Catherine nodded. The squaw was still watching, hands on her hips. Catherine’s hands began moving.

“That’s the sign for fire,” Schwarzenbacher said. “Ah,” he said, nodding. “Ah. She says it’s a burn.”

Uninvited, the squaw began explaining to Schwarzenbacher in a language he presumably understood. Catherine’s hands were still moving. Schwarzenbacher kept watching her hands and listening to the squaw at the same time.

“Yes, it seems to be true,” he said. “Hot grease from a kettle. That’s a burn on her lip.”

“Well, that’s good,” Will said. “I’m sure glad to—”

“Of course, the squaw may be lying,” Schwarzenbacher said at once.

“Yeah, but—”

“They lie a great deal.”

“Yeah.”

“But perhaps she’s telling the truth.”

“Yeah,” Will said, and sighed heavily.

“I suppose she’s telling the truth,” Schwarzenbacher said.

Catherine nodded. She nodded at Will, she nodded at Schwarzenbacher. The squaw nodded, too. They were both nodding now. Catherine smiled her whore’s smile. The squaw looked to Will for his approval.

“Ask her what’s her last name,” Will said.

“She can hear perfectly well, you know,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“What’s your last name?”

There was no word for it in her hands. She raised them, and then realized this, and looked at Schwarzenbacher helplessly.

“Where are you from?” Will asked.

Her hands began moving. Fingertips together to form a triangle...

“Tipi,” Schwarzenbacher said.

A circle of her arms...

“No, camp. Ah, village. Yes, village.”

Watching her hands. A village in the north. The squaw said something. Schwarzenbacher turned his head momentarily. “An Ojibwa village in the north,” he said to Will, and nodded, and looked back to Catherine’s hands again. She was making the sign for springtime now, literally “little grass,” hands out with the palms up, right hand moving in front of her body, fingers closing slowly till only the index finger was slightly higher than the others.