Cherokee America, page 15
Puny and Jake both looked at the ground. Didn’t know whether to laugh or not. Puny spoke first. “Well, sir, we waz all afraid Colbert would shoot Hugh Singer if anybody moved.”
Bell looked off into the trees. He studied them like he was preparing for a test. Then he looked at his suspects. “Well, I can feature that . . . if Colbert caught Singer fucking his woman.”
“Weren’t his woman,” Jake quickly interjected. He spat again.
“She were the woman of the house. That right, Jake?” Bell cleaned under his thumbnail with his knife.
“Yeah. Claudette. You knowed her.”
Bell shook his head. “Well, I don’t rightly know her. I’m a little old for that. But I heared tell of her.” Bell cleaned another nail. “So Singer was giving her the bizness?”
Puny and Jake looked at each other again. Puny said, “Yes, sir.” Jake coughed and spat.
Bell looked up. “Yer sure? I got other sources I can ask.”
Puny said, “Yes, sir. I’m sure.” He jutted his jaw.
Bell looked towards Jake. Jake swung his leg back and kicked a small rock into the air. He said, “Damn it all to hell.”
Bell stuck his knife in a sheath on his belt, put both hands on his knees, and stood up. He sighed, took off his hat, and tapped his thigh with it. He looked at Puny. “Where’d Cordery go with Colbert’s body?”
Puny jerked his head. “Over to the Creek Nation.”
“To the Berryhills?” Bell asked.
Puny frowned. He looked to Jake. Jake said, “I don’t know what he done. I stayed here, by myself, with Claudette’s body. I couldn’t have did it without liquor.” He flapped a hand in the air. “They all went away.”
Puny shook his head. When Jake was sober enough to talk, he whined about being left with Claudette’s body. Puny was tired of hearing it, but didn’t think he could get Jake to stop. He was hoping to get away from him. Puny said to Bell, “Mr. Cordery didn’t say where he waz going. He ain’t high on explaining hisself.”
Bell looked off towards the bayou and nodded. He tapped his thigh with his hat again. Then he said, “Either one of you suckers got a drop of Cherokee blood in ya?”
They both shook their heads.
Bell looked at Puny. “You ain’t even a Freedman, are ya?” The freed slaves of the Cherokees were officially citizens of the Nation.
Puny said, “I ain’t never been a slave.”
“Ya work fer the Singers, that right?”
“Yes, sir. I come here with them.”
Bell looked at Jake. “And you, Mr. Perkins, are trespassing here, and selling illegal liquor to Indians?”
Jake shifted his weight from one scrawny leg to the other. He opened his mouth, then clamped his teeth tight.
Bell put his hat on with one hand and pulled his gun out with the other. He drew its hammer back slowly. “Both of ya. Put yer hands up. Let’s go.” He jerked his head towards the bawdy house.
Puny had figured he’d get arrested before the questioning was over. He just hoped he wouldn’t be thrown in jail with Jake. His employer’s character, which had been middling mean, had taken a turn for the worse since the shootings. Puny had seen some goodness in Jake, and he hoped it would come back; but he didn’t want to still be around when it did. He was filled to the gills with the whole situation. If he had anywhere to go, he’d be headed in that direction. As it was, it looked like he’d be spending time in jail. He hoped he’d have a decent bed. One night of sleeping in the dogtrot, bitten by mosquitoes and looking out at wolves, was enough. He raised his hands, and so did Jake.
Bell marched them up the bawdy house steps onto the porch. Both doors to the left room were open. When Puny and Jake got to the front one, Bell said, “Hold her right’cher.” He came up behind them and took their guns. He put Puny’s in the front of his pants, holstered his own, and held Jake’s. He said, “Move over there towards the trot. If ya so much as scratch yer balls, I’ll shoot ya. Indians watch out of the sides of their eyes. Don’t ferget that.”
Puny and Jake stepped towards the trot, and Bell looked into the room. He counted fifteen barrels, some stacked on top of others. He said, “Are they all full?”
Jake said, “I can tell ya, if ya let me come closer.”
Bell jerked his gun, turned its nose to the spot he’d let Jake move to. When Jake could see into the room, he lowered one of his hands and pointed. “They’s full, except fer that one, and that one, and that one.” He pointed to another. “That’un’s about half full.”
Bell said, “That’s good to know. Step back.” He raised Jake’s gun, aimed towards the bottom of one of the barrels, and shot. Liquor spurted out. He aimed at another, and another. The shots were loud and bounced off the walls. The smell of burnt lead and whiskey drifted out onto the porch. Bell changed guns and shot some more. Jake squatted and put his hands over his ears. He jerked with each shot. Finally, he lowered his butt to the boards, hunkered into a ball, and whimpered.
Hugh Revives
When Check returned from Alabama’s, she unhooked ’Wassee from the buggy, slapped her flank, and sent her to the field. She walked to the house itching to slap Hugh’s flank as well. She would’ve slammed the front door if Andrew hadn’t been ill. Would’ve yelled “Hugh Morgan Singer!” at the top of her lungs. Instead, she peeked in the sickroom and got quite a shock. Hugh was in bed next to his father. His back was against the headboard, his legs over the covers. He was holding the Bible. Check sputtered.
Hugh said, “Good morning, Mama. It’s still morning, isn’t it?”
Andrew said, “Hugh’s voice is strong, but he’s hurt his leg.” His fingers flickered over Hugh’s thigh.
Check huffed three times. Then she said, “Don’t tire your father.”
“I won’t, Mama. He has a longing to hear the Bible. It’s pretty good, too, isn’t it, Papa? Listen to this: ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels . . .’”
Check reached far enough into the room to grab the doorknob. She shut the door. She was even more infuriated than she’d been before. She went to the study. Shut that door, too. She hoped deep breaths would help her regain her composure. She tried not to think about what she wanted to do to Hugh. She focused on Connell instead. Hoped he’d get home from the Benges’ so she could hear what he’d learned.
She thumbed through ledgers while she waited. But Connell didn’t show. So she steeled herself, turned the knob, and looked out. Almost directly across the hall, the door to the winter kitchen was open. Ezell was bent over a washtub. Her arms were soapy to the elbows. Lizzie was lifting a sheet from the rinsing tub. Steering it through a wringer. Check stopped in the doorway. “When did Hugh Singer get so perky?”
Ezell said, “Waked up thaterway. Ate six eggs fer breakfast. Begged extra biscuits outta me.” She ran a forearm across her forehead. It left a white track.
“When is Connell coming back?”
Ezell found that question odd. Everybody knew Connell didn’t report to her. But she saw Check was upset. She wished she could help. She said, “It oughta be soon.”
Connell’s Scouting
Connell was on his way home. By the crow, the Benges lived less than six miles from the Singers, and not much more by the road. But Connell had heard things from Cowboy that had embarrassed and infuriated him in equal measure. So he was riding slow. For the first half of the trip, he pictured Hugh with his pants down around his boots, his penis in his hand, crying in front of a room of men. That sickened Connell to his core. He wouldn’t be able to look any man in the face without wondering if he’d seen Hugh’s floppy dick, heard him wail like a baby.
Then another image invaded: Claudette unbuttoning Hugh’s pants, slipping her hand in, her fingertips touching his skin. Her palm closing around his shaft, squeezing and pulling, squeezing and pulling, squeezing and pulling. Connell’s own penis started to pulse. It wiggled. Bulged against his buttons. Bumped his saddle horn. That infuriated him more. He focused on Florence; she wouldn’t help him out, wouldn’t touch him at all, barely pressed up against him. But she expected him to stay as pure as newly churned butter. The whole situation made Connell crazy, and miserable in his saddle.
He jerked his reins and rode off the road to behind a tree. He looked up and down the highway. He was alone out there. He stood in his stirrups, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled out his member. It was straight up. But he couldn’t point it to where he wouldn’t mess on himself or his saddle. And his pants were down around his hips. He tried stuffing his tool back in. But he was well hung and, by then, huge; he couldn’t get it to fit. And he was in such a state of excitement, he was afraid, if he touched himself much more, he’d shoot off accidentally. He cupped his hand over his dick’s head and tried picturing Nash Taylor’s face. It usually dissolved his desire. But instead, an image of lace on a dress’s sleeve invaded Connell’s mind. The lace was delicate and delicious. Connell licked his lips. He licked them again. He couldn’t stop licking. And he could feel the effect it was having. But by then, he didn’t have control over his imagination, his lips, or his dick. He came quite fast in the cup of his hand.
At first, he felt enormous relief. But his palm was sticky. He wiped his mess on the horse’s mane. The horse snorted. Connell pulled his trousers up in the back, but he was still too swollen to button them. He awkwardly dismounted, waddled over to a different tree, and pulled off some low-hanging leaves. He cleaned up with them and dropped them to the ground. He watched the road until his dick finally shrunk. He tucked it back in and buttoned up. But a spot on the front of his pants looked obvious. It made Connell mad all over again.
He was examining the spot and cussing his brother when he heard a rumble. He looked towards the road, grabbed his reins, and hid behind the tree. The rumble grew louder and louder, and then it passed. Connell peeked out and saw the stagecoach rolling down the road. Its whip waved in its stand like a banner. The coach receded in the distance, disappeared in a cloud of dust. He took a deep breath and checked his pants again. There was a stream not far away. He could ride over there and douse his whole front with water. He’d need a story. Or maybe a bigger spot would dry in an even, broad way that wouldn’t be noticeable. Connell had never paid much attention to the problem of spots, and didn’t know what his pants would look like when he got through with his plan. But he figured they’d look better with a wide spot than with a little one in its particular position. He remounted and headed towards the stream.
As he rode, his mind went back to the stagecoach’s whip. He’d like to beat Hugh’s back and rear end with it. Not only had his penis been out in public in the hands of a whore, he’d worked it in front of a whole room of men and bawled like an infant. Connell’s mind went to the story being told all over the Nation. His parents—his little brothers—would be laughingstocks. Hugh had violated them all by showing himself like a fullblood who could walk around half naked, cock big, and laugh about it. Only worse, Hugh couldn’t get swollen at the point of a gun. Every man in the Nation would think the Singer men had droopy dicks. Connell thought about the situation over and over. With each repetition, he felt more humiliated.
He hadn’t gotten over his ire by the time he got back to the farm. And after visiting the stream, the spot on his trousers looked like he’d pissed himself. One of the hands gave him a puzzled expression. Connell said, “Turned a dipper of water over on me.” The hand made a sic noise and went back to nailing a new board to a fence. That embarrassed and infuriated Connell even more. He turned back to the barn.
Only his horse, a cow, and a sickly calf were in there. He went to the furthest stall, near the back wall. In it, an old saddle was sitting on a sawhorse. At times, he’d favored in a sexual way. But Connell didn’t feel sexy, just angry. Old reins and bits were hanging on the wall of the stall. He lifted a set from a hook. Unlatched the reins from the bit. He wrapped the ends of the bands around his hand. Took a few steps towards the saddle and swung the reins like a whip. Leather cracked against leather. It sounded good in his ears. He swung the reins again. That crack sounded even better.
Connell wore out his fury on the seat of the saddle, loitered in the barn until after supper, and ate leftovers in the kitchen. All the time, he was working on a story to tell his mother, and on getting his expression to match his words. When he and Check were finally conferring in the study, the house was quiet and Hugh was asleep in the hallway. Connell said, “All I know is that Colbert was drunk. He pointed a gun at Sanders. And that young Indian with Sanders shot the light out. Then Sanders attacked Colbert in the dark.”
Check turned the lamp wick up to see Connell better. “That’s all there was to it?” She’d gotten more information from Alabama.
“Yes, ma’am.” Connell felt like his eyes were wide enough to look innocent.
Check studied his expression. His mouth looked like it had a bit in it. She sipped her brandy, sat the glass down, and drummed her fingers on the desk. There was no use letting Connell think she didn’t know he was lying. On the other hand, she had five boys; she didn’t necessarily want to know all of the truth all of the time. She was torn about how far to pursue the story. She said, “Do you think Cowboy told you everything?”
Connell’s jaw muscles worked at the temples. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
“Well, I don’t.” Check hoped she sounded more suspicious and wise than annoyed and tired.
Connell upended his whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hard to say exactly what happened.”
“I’d lay money on that.”
Connell cocked his head. He turned towards the door. Check said, “What is it?” Connell turned back and whispered, “I thought I heard Hugh stirring, that’s all.” He frowned. “Maybe we should continue this conversation on another occasion.” He rose from his chair. “I’m tired, anyway.”
Check didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t heard a noise, and suspected Connell hadn’t either. However, he was probably right about needing more privacy. Not that it seemed he was going to tell her anything. Check closed a ledger on the desk. It was just as well that they all went to bed. What she might hear that late could keep her awake. She was up four or five times a night as it was. She was tired in her bones. Tired in her heart.
Some Comfort
As conversation in the big house’s study concluded, in Ezell’s cabin another continued. The lamp by the bed was lit. Ezell was in her nightgown. Lizzie in one of Ezell’s that swallowed her. They were on the bed, and Lizzie’s head was on Ezell’s shoulder, nestled on her tresses. Ezell’s arms encircled the girl. Lizzie whimpered and sniffled. Ezell said, “Hush now, ya hear? It’s gonna be all right. Lots of women bleeds for a while. It’s the Lord’s way of protecting ya.”
Lizzie raised her head. “Protecting me from what?”
“From men poking ya after ya give birth.”
Lizzie shifted her weight. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “Ain’t never thought ’bout that.”
Neither had Ezell. But it made sense as soon as she said it. Men couldn’t think about anything but poking. Surely God had figured out a way to give women some relief. Ezell had faith in the Lord’s goodness. Nevertheless, rather than pray over it, she resolved to ask Check how to stop the bleeding. “It’s the truth,” she said.
Lizzie slid off the bed and blew her nose on a rag. “Well, when it stops, I’z going to the Canadian District.”
Ezell studied the young woman. Then put a hand to her head and gathered up her hair. She pulled a ribbon from the bedside table and bound her tresses back. She didn’t like the idea of Lizzie leaving, but would feel odd saying so. She said, “What’s so special ’bout that district?”
Lizzie flopped down on the foot of the bed. Tucked her toes under her gown. Her eyes looked less miserable. Crinkles of smile crept into her cheeks. “My fambly’s got a farm down there. We work fer ourselves. My mama’s there. And my daddy. And my little sister and brother.”
Ezell frowned. “Well, if it’s so special, why’d ya leave?”
Lizzie rubbed the tip of her nose with her palm. She shook her head. “’Cause I waz young and stupid.”
“Well, girl, you can say that again. What’s his name?”
Lizzie’s chin went in. “How’d ya knowed it waz a man?”
“Couldn’t be nothing else. Girls don’t leave their families to follow the cows. Only boys is dumb enough fer that.”
Both women giggled. Lizzie fingered a button. “His name waz Ferdinand.”
“Oh, girl, you’re lying.” Ezell giggled again and waved her hand. “Nobody’s got that kinda name.”
“He did, I’m telling ya.” Lizzie sat up straight and tried to look proper. “He waz a Portuguese.”
“A white man?” Ezell rolled her eyes.
“No!” Lizzie frowned. “A Portuguese from Africa.”
“Portugal ain’t in Africa. It’s in Europe. That’s where them white explorers came from. I learnt it in school.”
“Well, he said he waz from Portugal.”
Ezell felt sorry for the girl. But also felt relieved. At least Puny hadn’t been her first. “Well, maybe they’s Negro men in Portugal. We didn’t read too much ’bout ’em.”
Lizzie’s eyes brightened. “Let’s go to Portugal and find out.”
Ezell laughed. “How we gonna get to Portugal, girl? That’s crazy.”
Lizzie laughed, too. “We’ll find the gold at the fort. We’ll go together. Dress in fine clothes. Have Indians wait on us.”
Ezell leaned against the headboard and smiled. She saw what attracted Puny to Lizzie. She reminded her of herself, but younger. She wondered how Lizzie had gotten off to such a bad start. But decided that was none of her business. And asking would just open sores. The future was important, not the past. Ezell said, “We ain’t going nowhere but to bed. We gotta get up with the dang rooster. Dampen that light and lie down. And don’t be rolling to my side in yer sleep.”
