Tim Gautreaux: The Missing

Sam briefly raised an arm. “I’m looking out at this chopped-up place they sent us. I’m glad I don’t know anybody that got killed here, because I’d feel like I was walking on his grave.” He stood up and gathered his blanket from the truck, then knocked the dried mud off his boots and climbed onto the front seat. He wondered briefly how much of the mud was composed of atomized blood and shell-fractured bone, how much was relic of a cause made sacred for no reason other than the sacrifice itself. He thought of how the dead men’s families were maimed by the loss that for some would surely grow larger over time, the absence more palpable than the presence. He remembered his dead child and cast a long look over the dim killing fields.

He began to think of his uncle Claude back on the sweet-potato-and-sugar-cane farm, promising himself he’d go way out in the country to see him when he returned. It was a long trip over swampy roads, but he would make it to sit in the kerosene-smelling kitchen and tell him how it was over here, how it wasn’t like they’d expected, that the dead men were heroes but also pieces cut forever out of the lives of their families. He thought of his uncle’s simple kitchen table, purchased along with six chairs, how he’d moved one chair out to the back porch when Sam had left the farm so they could remember him by its absence.

He settled across the seat, closed his eyes, and began to piece together the many missing parts of his childhood-father, mother, brother, and sister. The details of stories he’d heard whispered around him since infancy formed a whole mural in his mind, a speaking picture-words above everyone’s head. His people were from southwest Louisiana and had run cattle there since the 1700s, after the Attakapas cannibals had been civilized. These Acadian vachers knew animals well and valued trained beasts as minor souls among them. Sam’s father raised and trained oxen and leased the teams to lumber companies in Texas that were beginning to clear out the big stands of longleaf pines in the low country where only an animal could go. One day, this father he never met was waiting outside a saloon in the village of Troumal on the Texas border with his cousins the Ongerons, waiting with two teams he would turn over to lumbermen. They were smoking, sitting on a mud sled, their willow ox whips wedged upright in the box, chatting in French and waiting for drovers to show up, when a drunk little timber-lease buyer came out through the swinging doors and stood staring at them. A week of black stubble ran up to his eye sockets, and his teeth were little yellow stones. An ox shifted his head toward his greasy trousers, took a sniff, and turned away, blowing the stink out of his snout. The man leaned against a porch post and scratched his rear with his gun hand. After a moment he spat on the nearest ox and snapped, “Why don’t you mushmouths talk American? You sound like a bunch of pigeons in a tub.”

The Ongerons had seen him once before and were too smart to fight him. Sam’s father had no interest in the bluster of an Arkansas drunk, yet he was the one to answer. “What you want to know, you?”

“I want some sharp spurs with big rowels. Where do they sell such as that in this shithole town?”

The father’s eyes went to the flanks of the drunk’s horse, which were scuffed raw and hairless. Around Troumal no one made spurs or anything else. The general store sold what a man could put in his stomach or under a plowshare, but little else. Ten miles away was a poor excuse for a railroad that could take him somewhere, but none of them had ever seen it, though they’d heard the whistle when the wind was out of the south. “Maybe in Beaumont.”

“That’s a forty-mile ride, you idjet.”

The Ongerons were looking at the drunk’s horse, which was well formed and bright eyed, though muddy and cut in several places as if forced to jump barbed wire. One of them said, “Sharp spurs won’t work on a smart horse, no.”

The Arkansas man stepped down into the ankle-deep slop surrounding the porch and untied his animal. Sam’s father saw the rusty, long-spined Mexican rowels, and he watched the horse’s eyes roll in expectation. The man got up and doubled the reins in a gloved fist. The oxmen regarded his movements closely, waiting for him to lean rearward in the saddle and back the animal away from the porch. What he did instead was to give a neck-twisting haul on the reins, bringing the horse’s head all the way up, and the backwards stumbling and rearing was hard for them to tolerate. The drunk cursed and rattled the bit in the horse’s mouth, jerking the reins high again and again, and the animal began to whinny and lower its hindquarters like a whipped dog. At this point Sam’s father reached out with his ox twitch and stung the Arkansas man on the back of his crosshatched neck for being the dumb brute he was. The drunk dropped the reins in surprise, lost his balance as the horse gave a leap, and tumbled backwards out of the saddle, doubling his neck on the edge of the porch.

The saloonkeeper had seen what happened and pushed through the door. Sam’s father and the Ongerons, five brothers, joined in a circle and bent down to where the man was quivering toward death. One of them pinched the mud out of the drunk’s nose, and two others jiggled his shoulders with their open palms, as if he were hot to the touch. Finally the saloonkeeper jerked down the drunk’s collar for a look, and they all straightened up.

“Eh bien,” one of the Ongerons said.

“Quel est son nom?” Sam’s father asked.

“I don’t know,” said the saloonkeeper, who understood but didn’t speak the local dialect. “I think he was buying timber rights for some people in Arkansas. But his business ain’t around here. I guess he was just passing through.”

The Ongeron brothers were indistinguishable except by age. Their mother made their clothes on a house loom, and they wove their own hats out of palmetto leaves. The youngest asked if someone should go for the sheriff. They all agreed it would be a good idea, but the sheriff was a day’s ride and the messenger would have to swim his animal across three bayous. Another Ongeron pointed out that the sheriff wouldn’t give a damn since the drunk wasn’t from the parish.

Just then five men rode out of the woods on mules, not arriving on the road but struggling out of the tallow trees and stickers on the west side of the saloon. These were the Texans coming for the eight oxen.

One wore store-bought clothes and was obviously in charge. He glanced at the dead man, then up at the saloon. “Is these ox ready to be bought?”

Sam’s father walked over and cast his gray eyes up to him. “I’m Simoneaux.”

“Here.” The man tossed down a tobacco sack. “Count your money. Just lookin’, I can see these animals is made right. They look like they could pull down a courthouse. Can I have your twitch?”

Sam’s father looked at the slender rod in his hand for a moment and then handed it up. The man tapped the left ear of the near ox yoked in a pair, and the animal stepped left. “All right.”

The Texans got down, mounted the porch, and sat on the bench. They were all the color of schoolhouse brick. The head man looked over the hitch rail. “Why’s he sleepin’ in the road?”

“He fell off his horse and died,” the saloonkeeper told him. “You know him?”

The man turned his head sideways and studied the body’s face. “Naw. And I’m glad of it. You got beer?”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s still beer, ain’t it?”

After the men went inside, the Ongerons and Sam’s father stood talking above the dead man and decided they should ride to the priest’s house and ask him what to do. They all got in the traneau, and the two dark mules lunged into their collars to free the runners and began pulling down the mud path to the south.