September, 2010

Issue #12

The White Oak's Tale
by Nancy Hartney

The white oak tree had grown on a sweet grass knoll at the edge of the plains for more than a hundred years. It stood against endless wind, grew great and unbending through drought-brown summers and savage, slashing winters. It tolerated these hardships. But, the ancient grandmother suffered mightily under the meanness fostered on it as a hanging tree.

Elijah Red Horse found his brother Micah Little Fox hanging from a stout limb late in the afternoon, two days after the noose tightened around his neck, choking off life. Crows plucked out blood-filled eyeballs leaving empty sockets staring sightless across the grass sea. These and other scavengers gnawed on the man, ravishing his humanness, leaving only ripped clothes and the medicine bag to identify the earth-red body.

Elijah did not fault the crows or other creatures picking morsels from his brother. They were part of the greater ebb and flow of life around mother earth. The medicine bag held the essence of the dead man.

Nor could Elijah fault the bay mare that bolted away from some cowboy's quirt leaving her rider to strangle blue. He could not even fault the hired-hand from whose wrist that same quirt might still dangle. The fault lay between Micah and the man that commanded the riders.

Elijah legged his horse toward the dangling corpse. The dun gelding snorted and whirled away from the death scent several times before he could be maneuvered close enough for the hanging rope to be cut. The man carefully lowered his brother back to earth, although there was no longer a need for gentleness.

A half-breed, he honored his Indian blood by wrapping the dead body in a saddle blanket and placing him high in the grandmother's arms. Dry, hot wind whispered a death song. It curled around the grandmother oak with her burden, spilled down the knoll and sank into the rolling waves of grass.

Elijah found a trail of unshod horses herding cattle accompanied by a wagon with a bent wheel. He saw that, for two days, Micah had ridden point for the wagon and riders. He had helped butcher a cow. The group divided the cattle and splintered into several small groups, moving west and north into Indian Territory. Micah took nothing when he rode alone toward the southeast and Ft. Smith.

Sign told a tale of shod horses striking Micah's track and a running struggle ending at the ancient tree. Elijah's white blood curdled and cried for revenge. His Indian blood understood a story of hunger and desperation.

A day slid past before he tracked Micah's bay and shod horses to a corral at Jess Young's River Y Ranch. A lavender dusk had crept across the hard-pack ranch yard by the time he rode within sight of the buildings. Several cow hands lounged around the well smoking hand rolled cigarettes. A lantern cast a weak light across the clapboard bunk house porch. Dust powder floated around the men's boots as they shuffled to and fro ending their evening chores.

Elijah dismounted and waited in the tree shadows. He stroked the neck of his horse, keeping it quiet and still.

When the last of the lights were extinguished and the yard appeared settled for the night, he slowly circled around the far side of the corral leading the horse, careful to minimize their silhouettes against the dying light. He made a cold camp in a scrub choked dry wash just beyond the ranch yard. There he hobbled the dun on the prairie side, beyond the stunted trees. In the morning he'd have time enough to handle affairs.

Before first light he caught the gelding, saddled quietly, and squatted watching the ranch yard wake. Pink light pried open the morning, turned orange, and promised another hot day. Cloud mountains were already forming across the east with no hint of rain for the parched land.

As the sun began to climb above the ridge, a chuck wagon loaded with extra gear and supplies, moved out with a great clanging of pots and groaning of leather to the summer camp.

Hired hands caught their mounts and threw on heavy saddles. One roan pony crow-hopped across the corral, rebelling against a day of dust and work.

The sun rose to flame red as riders mounted, ambled out and began driving the old cows and bawling calves north across the dry west pasture, away from the outbuildings, toward the high north ridge and richer summer grass.

Elijah waited until they were out of ear-shot before he walked toward the barn corral. The morning air was sodden and already he felt the prickle of rising sweat.

A grizzled foreman, last to ride out, finished cinching up and appeared out of the barn darkness. He looked hard at Elijah, rubbed leather-broken hands down his horse's shoulder, and flicked a quirt against his chaps. Its soft slapping sound belied its cutting sting against living flesh.

"What's a breed like you doing out of the territory?" His voice carried a note of menace. His face, spiderwebbed from harsh years in the sun, gave no quarter.

He did not wait for an answer but mounted and turned his cowpony to face the Indian. "You need to be riding on. Your kind's not wanted around here."

Elijah squinted up at the rider, flicked the reins against his leather leggings, and nodded. "Yep." The two men eyed each other.

"Mind if I water my horse?" He did not wait for a reply but allowed the dun a morning drink from the ranch trough. "I need another horse to take into the territory. You sell me that bay?"

"River Y don't sell to breeds." The voice was hard and steady, the eyes blank, unreadable.

"What about that big grey? He looks like he's got a long stride." Elijah stood next to the rough log corral, leaned slightly on the top rail, and looked over the milling horses. They shuffled, tails swishing against the on-slaught of flies.

"I told you. I don't aim to repeat. Can't sell you nothing. You need to move on. Besides, the grey is Mr. Young's personal horse." He backed his cowpony away from the Indian before slapping it with his quirt, causing the chestnut to jump forward into a canter. Dust swirled up as horse and man followed the bawling herd.

Elijah stood a moment and watched the rider disappear over the ridgeline. He took the rawhide lariat off his saddle, left the dun ground tied, stepped into the corral and put a loop around the bay, fashioning it into a rope halter. He led the horse outside the enclosure and swung onto the dun's back in one smooth motion.

The ranch house door burst open, slapping loud against the wooden frame. A heavy-set man emerged, his belly pushing tight against his shirt. He tied down his pistol, settled it loose in the holster and stalked toward Elijah.

The breed sat his horse quietly. The man's proprietary arrogance oozed around him like yellow fog.

"What the hell you think you doing with that horse?" He spoke with a snarl.

"My brother's horse. She needs to carry him on his spirit journey. I'm taking her to him."

"The devil you say. I took that horse off an Injun cow thief. Caught him red handed."

"Maybe you got the wrong man. Maybe you didn't see true. Maybe the judge in Fort Smith only one can do any hanging." The breed looked down at the rancher. "Taking the horse makes you a thief. Hanging a man outside the law makes you bloody."

"You mangy red scavenger. No one accuses me of anything. I own this ranch and every thing around here—cattle, horses, men—every thing. Even the law."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe there are laws you don't own."

The horses stamped, restless and snorty at the rising hostility. "Brother's already on his journey. He needs his horse. I have to ride."

He legged the dun into a slow walk toward the dark presence of the man. "I tracked this mare here. Someone at the hanging rode a horse that toes out on the left fore, like that grey does."

"You half-breed red dog. I'd hang the preacher himself before I'd let him call me a murderer and thief and try to take one of my horses. I sure as hell can hang another Injun. I'll see you dead before I let you ride out."

Elijah's boot came out of the stirrup before the man's gun cleared leather, kicking the pistol, letting it skitter across the yard. Sun glinted briefly off the knife blade as the breed dropped low out the saddle, and slashed through the man's gut, spilling white-blue entrails into the hard-pack ground.

The smell of blood and steaming innards caused both horses to shy and side-step away from the slumped man. He knelt for long minutes in the dirt, vainly holding his belly with both hands.

Elijah straightened himself on the dun and wiped the blade clean on his pant leg. Without passion, he watched the dying man struggle to hold his innards.

He kicked his horse into a canter, riding west toward the river, leading the bay. He did not look back.

The great oak's arms formed several cradle notches, one of which held Micah. A buffalo knife, simple quirt, medicine bag and crow feather rested on the still form. Near the grandmother, the bay mare lay with her throat gently cut, already racing across time.

Within a year only bleached bones and hair marked the killing ground. It would be another year before late summer lightning struck the majestic oak, burning it and the grass around for miles, releasing its spirit. Finally, winter threw a white blanket across the blackened earth and the season of rest descended.

In the spring, green shoots pushed against the ground, sending up rich sweetness to spread across the knoll, at first timidly, then with growing strength, covering the death scars.

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