awaken that same unsettling sensation of pleasure again. She embraces her pot once more and runs off down the street.
The Lipans have injured each other. Strong Waters has a cut across his cheek that hurts but doesn’t bleed much; Blue Falls has been cut across three of his fingertips, barely a scratch but they’re bleeding profusely. They embrace, contrite and ashamed. They mount their horses and head out of town at a vigorous trot, packhorse in tow.
Blue Falls’ fingers drip blood on the cobblestones. After passing the Bruneville dock, it becomes more noticeable, drops of red ink on the dry earth.
By detouring to avoid Main Street on his way to the market, Nat, the messenger, almost bumps into the fighting Indians; he sees one of them drop his dagger. He doesn’t take his eyes off it for a second, disregarding all else; he doesn’t even see what the Lipans are doing, he only has eyes for the knife.
Nat glances around. There’s not a soul in sight. He looks around nervously again. The coast is clear. He bends down, picks up the dagger, and shoves it into his waistband. He feels the knifepoint against his belly and contracts his stomach muscles, hotfooting it down to the river. He can’t run at top speed with the knife where it is, but he goes as fast as he can, walking with long strides, his shoulders hunched.
Olga watches him pick up the knife and goes to tell Judge Gold, he’ll pay attention to this news for sure.
In the Market Square, Sandy stands rooted in place for ten seconds. Then she takes flight; where she’s headed it’s not clear. Standing on the other side of the market, Father Rigoberto would like to call her over and admonish her for her neckline—she always looks like this—but he begins to stutter and can’t get his words out. It’s her décolletage’s fault, it does funny things to his blood. Damned woman. She comes closer and he catches a glimpse of what her dress leaves uncovered. An overwhelming desire for sleep overcomes him. There’s a crate of alfalfa at his feet; he squats and lies down—that’s how he’s dealt with nervousness since he was a kid—he lies down and goes to sleep, he’s not the type to go racing away.
Sandy keeps on running. (They didn’t make her Eagle Zero for nothing; while she runs she takes in everything she sees.) She detours inland, to go check out what’s happening on the outskirts of Fort Brune.
(An aside about Fort Brune: its moment of glory is long past. Nowadays there’s only half a dozen lazy soldiers that live there, and they spend more time at Mrs. Big’s than standing guard. It’s been so long since King and Stealman got sick and tired of requesting military reinforcements that now they each have their own gunmen. King’s are the most famous—and the toughest—especially with Mexicans; people call them kiñeros or reyeros [since King in Spanish is rey].)
Fernando, the servant, runs and dives between the hides in the buffalo-hunter’s cart; you’d have to be desperate to put up with that stench.
No sooner has he hidden himself between the hides and the carcasses than he begins rebuking himself. “I’m a coward, I should never have buried myself here among dead buffalo.” But he doesn’t dare come out. “They’ll kill me! They’ll say I’m one of Nepomuceno’s men and not even God could protect me.” He repeats, “I’m a coward, a pathetic coward!”
Patrick, who sells persimmons (he arrived in Matasánchez from Ireland as a kid, and has earned enough to afford his own horse and pistol) clearly hears Shears call Don Nepomuceno a “greaser.” His eyes glaze over, like some of the customers tempted by the fruit he sells, he’s trying to make sense of what just happened—it’s not that easy for him, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed—until he announces in a loud, serious voice, “It’s John Tanner, the White Indian. He’s back! We’re screwed!” in a tone that instills fear in all who hear him. Especially Toothless, the old beggar, because he knows what Patrick’s talking about.
Luis, the boy who was looking at rubber bands for his slingshot in the market, the one who was carrying things for Miss Lace (Judge Gold’s housekeeper), realizes his bosslady has left. And then he remembers that he’s supposed to go pick up his sister before his aunt leaves for you-know-where. He’d better hustle down to the riverbank or else he’ll get a whipping. He runs to deliver the shopping baskets, certain they won’t give him a tip; his aunt will slap his neck: You were standing around with your head in the clouds like you always do, you good-for-nothing boy. The thought torments him as he stands before Judge Gold’s door.
Luis knows he’s not a good-for-nothing, it’s just that sometimes he gets distracted. It’s like time stops for him; what seems like half a second to Luis is an hour for normal folks. And sometimes it’s the reverse: one second seems like it lasts hours to Luis. He loses all concept of time.
The door opens. “The shopping baskets?” Thump, thump. Luis sets them down and shoots off like a firework, thinking it’s getting late.
The woman who sells fresh tortillas (she has them wrapped up in her shawl) sees him coming and calls, “Luis! Luis!” She’s fond of him, he works so hard and he’s always hungry. She puts a rolled-up, salted tortilla in each of his hands, “Here, sonny, your tacos.”
Toothless, the old beggar who’s more wrinkled than Methuselah, sidles over to see if there’s a handout for him, too. The tortilla-seller pretends she doesn’t see him—she can’t stand him, she knows him from back when he used to say he was a monk and chased anything in a skirt; then word came out that he wasn’t a monk at all; he had tried to become a priest but they kicked him out of the seminary. She goes on her way.
Luis stands, chewing his warm tortillas, no longer lost in time, just savoring his food. Toothless wants to speak to him:
“John Tanner, the White Indian, is back, his ghost has arisen from the swamp … He’s looking for his last wife, Alice, she was his only white wife. I knew her but I won’t say why she left him, took their children, and got a divorce. Imagine that! Even the Law has a screw loose; whomsoever God brings together let no man put asunder! It’s those gringos, they’re heretics … John Tanner lived with the Ojibwa for thirty-one years. There’s no mistaking that. Returning to the south? Seems like his stay in hell screwed up his sense of direction …”
The toothless beggar squats down and grabs poor Luis by the shins, continuing:
“He’d be better off going after his second wife, that floozy tried to kill ’im. As bad as she was, Alice never sank a knife into him. She even made him a little bit happy … Don’t misunderstand me! John Tanner wasn’t passionate about her, he only loved her a little, like an old man who spits on his dick and yanks it up and down to no effect. And that’s all I’m gonna say because there are kids around—I’m not talking about you, you’ve been a midget since you were born … but you’ll grow out of it.”
Luis offers Toothless his second tortilla, which has gotten cold and broken into pieces. But Toothless doesn’t let him go. He has a hold of him by the shins and keeps on talking:
“John Tanner is in these parts … After Alice left him, they accused him of killing young Schoolcraft, the brother of the guy who was driving the Indians down south. Old Schoolcraft was a bastard, he burned their teepees, stole their women and let his troops abuse them, and then returned them to the Indians after, so they could see what had become of them; he blocked their wells, he drove them into rocky territory where it never, ever rained, and of course he stole their livestock and horses, but I guess everyone does that nowadays. But money doesn’t grow on trees anymore and people have started stealing everything from one another … Yeah, the White Indian used to fly into rages, but he’s not the one who killed young Schoolcraft. They strung him up on the gallows all the same, the crooked Law got its hands on him. You know where
