Read Online A Good Man by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
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shelte“Sun’s up. No likely place in view. I better take a look-see.”
“No. I’ll go. If there’s trouble Hathaway’s better off in your hands.” Case dismounts, draws his shiny new Winchester out of its scabbard. He passes his reins to Hathaway. “Hold my horse.”
“You go afoot and are discovered, you ain’t going to make it back,” says Joe.
“If I ride down and Sioux horses catch scent of mine, they’ll whinny. I like my chances on foot better.”
Case starts down the gentle slope towards the patch of tall grass that circles the dead buffalo. He moves to the beat of his heart, a quick, light stuttering step, listening intently for any suspicious sound, sniffing the wind for the telltale smell of woodsmoke. Drawing closer, his hand tightens on the stock of the rifle and he suddenly realizes he has neglected to chamber a round before setting out. Does he dare lever one into place now, or would the click be audible in the coulee and give him away? He is heading directly into the sun, the buffalo hump swimming black in his squinting eyes.
He freezes dead in his tracks; the grass is shaking; something is stirring there. Case raises his rifle. The seed tassels of the grass convulse. A coyote suddenly appears, a long rope of purple bowel clamped in its jaws. Catching sight of him it goes absolutely still, regarding him with a yellow, fathomless stare. Case stands locked in the animal’s gaze. A whiff of the ripe contents of the glistening intestines reaches his nostrils.
Then, unhurriedly, the coyote turns, and with the buffalo guts slithering wetly between its spindly legs, it carries off its prize.
The buffalo proved to have died of bad teeth and old age, half-starved, its ribs standing gaunt under a mangy hide. There were no Sioux in the coulee. The travellers had found a haven to spend the day.
Hathaway and McMullen lie sprawled on the ground, dead to the world. The horses nod on their feet. Only Case is awake, sitting cross-legged, staring up the long corridor of the declivity. It is noon; the sun, directly overhead, pours heat into the breathless, narrow confine. Its sides are a jaundiced clay, deeply eroded by prairie downpours. Out of the friable earth poke arthritic, grasping fingers, the roots of the brush and trees that skirt the coulee.
Case counts off the hours he hasn’t slept, reckons them at thirty. A short time ago, he felt his body rocking, overcome by heat and fatigue. He had to put both hands to the ground to stop the alarming teetering. He is not a superstitious man but he cannot shake the feeling that what was awaiting him as he traversed the long night was the coyote’s agate-eyed stare, the grinning mouth dangling entrails. When his eyelids fall, this is what he sees. And when his eyes snap back open they are blinded by the sun, bright as that brass button he had once placed on the breast of a corpse.
THREE
IN THE OXBOW RESTAURANT the blinds are drawn and the door is barred. Behind the counter of Fort Benton’s finest eatery, D.B. Dagg is watching the last patron of the night demolish his meal. It’s the same every evening: Mr. Dunne arrives a half an hour before the posted closing time, when the place is deserted, and orders supper. Proprietor Dagg finds this a great annoyance, but he senses it better not to express his aggravation to this particular customer. So Dagg stands, hands folded over his aproned paunch, waiting for Dunne to work his way through a flank steak, creamed onions, fried potatoes, gherkins, and two side plates heaped with biscuits. Dunne consumes his food as if it were a grim duty rather than a pleasure. Some evenings, this lack of appreciation for his restaurant’s cookery prompts the owner of the Oxbow to close his eyes, sending him into a light doze, which he does now until a loud, insistent rapping on the door jerks him back into consciousness.
“We’re closed!” he shouts. “Bugger off!”
A thin, piercing voice cries out, “Mr. Dunne!
“No. I’ll go. If there’s trouble Hathaway’s better off in your hands.” Case dismounts, draws his shiny new Winchester out of its scabbard. He passes his reins to Hathaway. “Hold my horse.”
“You go afoot and are discovered, you ain’t going to make it back,” says Joe.
“If I ride down and Sioux horses catch scent of mine, they’ll whinny. I like my chances on foot better.”
Case starts down the gentle slope towards the patch of tall grass that circles the dead buffalo. He moves to the beat of his heart, a quick, light stuttering step, listening intently for any suspicious sound, sniffing the wind for the telltale smell of woodsmoke. Drawing closer, his hand tightens on the stock of the rifle and he suddenly realizes he has neglected to chamber a round before setting out. Does he dare lever one into place now, or would the click be audible in the coulee and give him away? He is heading directly into the sun, the buffalo hump swimming black in his squinting eyes.
He freezes dead in his tracks; the grass is shaking; something is stirring there. Case raises his rifle. The seed tassels of the grass convulse. A coyote suddenly appears, a long rope of purple bowel clamped in its jaws. Catching sight of him it goes absolutely still, regarding him with a yellow, fathomless stare. Case stands locked in the animal’s gaze. A whiff of the ripe contents of the glistening intestines reaches his nostrils.
Then, unhurriedly, the coyote turns, and with the buffalo guts slithering wetly between its spindly legs, it carries off its prize.
The buffalo proved to have died of bad teeth and old age, half-starved, its ribs standing gaunt under a mangy hide. There were no Sioux in the coulee. The travellers had found a haven to spend the day.
Hathaway and McMullen lie sprawled on the ground, dead to the world. The horses nod on their feet. Only Case is awake, sitting cross-legged, staring up the long corridor of the declivity. It is noon; the sun, directly overhead, pours heat into the breathless, narrow confine. Its sides are a jaundiced clay, deeply eroded by prairie downpours. Out of the friable earth poke arthritic, grasping fingers, the roots of the brush and trees that skirt the coulee.
Case counts off the hours he hasn’t slept, reckons them at thirty. A short time ago, he felt his body rocking, overcome by heat and fatigue. He had to put both hands to the ground to stop the alarming teetering. He is not a superstitious man but he cannot shake the feeling that what was awaiting him as he traversed the long night was the coyote’s agate-eyed stare, the grinning mouth dangling entrails. When his eyelids fall, this is what he sees. And when his eyes snap back open they are blinded by the sun, bright as that brass button he had once placed on the breast of a corpse.
THREE
IN THE OXBOW RESTAURANT the blinds are drawn and the door is barred. Behind the counter of Fort Benton’s finest eatery, D.B. Dagg is watching the last patron of the night demolish his meal. It’s the same every evening: Mr. Dunne arrives a half an hour before the posted closing time, when the place is deserted, and orders supper. Proprietor Dagg finds this a great annoyance, but he senses it better not to express his aggravation to this particular customer. So Dagg stands, hands folded over his aproned paunch, waiting for Dunne to work his way through a flank steak, creamed onions, fried potatoes, gherkins, and two side plates heaped with biscuits. Dunne consumes his food as if it were a grim duty rather than a pleasure. Some evenings, this lack of appreciation for his restaurant’s cookery prompts the owner of the Oxbow to close his eyes, sending him into a light doze, which he does now until a loud, insistent rapping on the door jerks him back into consciousness.
“We’re closed!” he shouts. “Bugger off!”
A thin, piercing voice cries out, “Mr. Dunne!
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