Philipp Meyer - The Son

Our clothes were thrown into the fire along with everything else and we were walked naked out of our gate, across the road, and into our field. A big remuda had been driven up, Cayuse ponies mixed with larger American horses. The Indians were ignoring us and talking among themselves, um s and ugh s, grunts, no language at all, though they had words that sounded Spanish, and one word, taibo, they said to us often, taibo this and taibo that. We were barefoot and it was dark and I tried not to kick a prickly pear or be tromped on by the horses stamping and pacing. I felt better that at least something was happening, then I reminded myself that made no sense.

We were lifted up and our legs tied to the animals’ bare backs with our hands tied in front of us. It could have been worse as sometimes they just tied you over the horse like a sack of flour. My pony was skittering; he didn’t like the way I smelled.

The other horses were stamping and snorting and the Indians were calling back and forth across our field and my brother began to cry and I was mad at him for crying in front of the Indians. Then I began to blubber as well. We trotted out through our lower pasture, three months of grubbing stumps; we passed a stand of walnut I had picked for board trees. I thought about the men who had pushed us out of Bastrop, calling my mother a nigger and suing for our title. Once I had killed all the Indians I would go back and kill all the new settlers; I would burn the town to the bedrock. I wondered where my father was and I hoped he would come and then I felt guilty for hoping that.

Then we were going at a lope with the bluestem whipping our legs. We stretched into a column and I watched as the Indians disappeared into the woods ahead and then my horse passed into the darkness as well.

WE CROSSED GRAPE Creek at the only spot you didn’t have to jump, took a path through the bogs I had not known was there, came out at a gallop at the base of Cedar Mountain. Our cattle were white spots on the hillside. We were making ground in a long flat bottom with the hills all around, into the trees and out again, darkness to moonlight and back to darkness, the Indians trusting the horses to see, driving every animal in the forest in front of us. I looked for my brother. Behind me the riders were suddening out of the trees as if they’d been called out of the blackness itself.

Despite the dark and the uneven ground my horse hadn’t slipped and had plenty of wind. We were coming to the base of Packsaddle Mountain. It was the last piece of land I knew well. I could turn the horse into the woods, but I doubted I would make it and my brother had no chance alone. Farther up the white hillside, I caught sight of the mustang pack I had intended to rope and break. They stood watching as we passed.

TWO HOURS LATER we changed horses. My legs and backside were already raw and I’d been whipped by branches across the face and chest and arms. My brother was cut even worse; his entire body was caked with blood and dirt. We remounted and took up the same hard tempo. Later we came on a river that had to be the Llano. It didn’t seem possible we’d made it that far.

“Is this what I think?” said my brother.

I nodded.

We waited for the horses to cross in the dark.

“We are fucked,” he said. “This is a whole day’s ride.”

Sometime later we hit another river, probably the Colorado, after which we stopped to change horses again. I could smell that my brother had shat himself. When they stood me on the ground I squatted with my hands tied in front of me and the water dripping off and the horses pacing all around. My legs were cramped and I could barely hold a squat. Someone kicked me but I did not want to be riding in my own mess so I finished shitting and they stood me up by the hair. I doubted there was any skin left anywhere below my waist. I was put on another pony. The Comanches didn’t trust the horses raised by whites.

SOMETIME AFTER FIRST light we stopped to change horses a third time, but instead of remounting we stood around at the edge of a river. We were in a deep canyon, I guessed it was still the Colorado but not even the army ever went this far up. The sun hadn’t risen but it was bright enough to see color, and the Indians were standing around waiting for something. They were drinking from the river or leaning and stretching their backs, packing and repacking their saddlebags. It was the first time I’d seen them in the light.

They carried bows and quivers and lances, short-barreled muskets and war axes and butcher knives, their faces were painted with arrows and blooming suns and their skin was completely smooth, their eyebrows and beards all plucked. They all wore their hair as a Dutch girl might, two long braids on either side, but these Indians had woven in bits of copper and silver and colored beads.

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” said my brother.

“They look like a pack of mollies,” I said, though I didn’t really believe it.

“They look more like actors on a stage.” Then he added: “Don’t get us in any more trouble.”

Then a stocky brave walked over and pushed us apart with his lance. There was a dried bloody handprint on his back and a long dark smear down the front of his leggings. What I had thought were pieces of calfskin on his waist turned out to be scalps. I looked up the river.

Ahead of us was a high overlook and behind us the Indians were rotating the horses in and out of the grass along the banks. There was a discussion and then most of the Comanches made their way on foot toward the overlook. One of them was leading a horse and tied to the horse was the body of the man I’d shot. I hadn’t known he’d died and I got a cold feeling. My brother waded out into the river. The two Indians guarding us drew their bows but when I opened my eyes my brother was still in one piece, standing splashing himself — he was covered in his own waste. The Indians watched him, shriveled and pale and shivering, his chest caved from reading too many books.

When he was clean he came back and sat next to me.

“I hope it was worth getting shot just to wipe your ass,” I said.

He patted my leg. “I want you to know what happened last night.”

I didn’t want to know any more than I already did but I couldn’t tell him that so I stayed quiet.

“Momma wasn’t going to make it but I don’t think they meant to kill Lizzie. When they saw she was wounded they took off her shirt and looked over her gunshot pretty carefully; they even rigged up a sort of torch so this old Indian could give his opinion. They must have decided it was bad because they all went and talked for a while and then they came back and pulled off the rest of her clothes and raped her.” He looked upriver where the Indians were climbing up the canyon. “Lizzie Lizzie Lizzie.”

“She’s in a better place.”

He shrugged. “She’s in no place.”

“There is still Daddy,” I said.

He snorted. “When Daddy finds out he will likely ride straight for that woman he keeps in Austin.”

“That is low. Even for you.”

“People don’t go around saying a thing unless it’s true, Eli. That’s another thing you ought to know.”

The guards looked back. I wanted them to stop our talking but now they didn’t care.

“Momma knew she could save you,” he said. He shrugged. “Lizzie and I… I dunno. But you’re a different story.”

I pretended not to understand him and looked around. The canyon walls went up a few hundred feet and there was bear grass and agarito spilling out of the cracks. A gnarled old cedar stuck out of the face; it looked like a stovepipe and there was an eagle’s nest in it. Upriver were big cypresses with knock-kneed roots. Five hundred years was nothing for them.