Read Online The Color of Lightning by Paulette Jiles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paulette Jiles
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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November of 1864, it was the fourth time they had shifted. Elizabeth was tiring day by day and hour by hour. She ate anything; meat scraps from skins and broth found at the bottoms of kettles. If she could stay strong and work she would live, and perhaps Lottie would live as well.
Elizabeth carried wood to the tipi and sharpened the frail old fleshing knife she had been given. She wondered how she could manage to have Lottie taken in and adopted by the Happy Wife. Even if she were adopted and learned Comanche and were tattooed, Elizabeth did not care, only that the child would live, under this cold, remote sun that seemed to burn the trail before them, mile after mile of open rolling plains and the tangled vines of buffalo gourd at her feet. They walked on from one river bottom to another, the ribbons of timber lacing the plains. Elizabeth walked resolutely with Lottie in her arms. When Lottie cried, she held her hand over the girl’s mouth. She will live, she will, thought Elizabeth as she walked.
The second buffalo kill was on the north bank of the Wichita River, at the falls. Elizabeth knew they would not be rescued. They were too far north, out in the plains, and any party that came after them would be outnumbered and outgunned. The Indian men had repeating rifles and bandoliers of ammunition, lances with foot-long steel heads, and every man was a warrior.
At the falls of the Wichita River where the water spilled five feet over a lip of red stone, Elizabeth slid into a pool to cool her injured breasts. Cottonwood leaves drifted from the great, calm trees. The leaves were the color of primroses and butter. They fell like rain and dotted the red water that boiled up at the foot of the falls in rusty foam. She left Lottie on the bank on the stinking greasy shawl. The girl’s face was skeletal. Her nose holes were as big as eyes and her gray eyes were sunk back into her skull to gaze out from the very
center of the child’s self, that which is otherworldly and hard and bright and indifferent.
Elizabeth stood up and the red water cascaded down her spare body.
“Lottie darling,” she said. “Don’t leave us.”
“All right, Grandma,” Lottie said. “Grandma, you wet.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. She looked up. The skinny wife she called the Dismal Bitch came running down the sloping bank with her lips drawn back. She raised a heavy digging stick of bois d’arc in one hand and she had the handle of a fleshing-knife in the other. It was of soft cast iron and very old and it had broken off in Elizabeth’s hand two hours ago. The Dismal Bitch was shouting with rage. She kicked Lottie aside and strode toward Elizabeth and then waded into the water.
The Dismal Bitch kept on crying out in Comanche as she sloshed through the water and waved the broken handle in Elizabeth’s face. Then she struck Elizabeth over the head with the digging stick. Bois d’arc is a yellow, dense wood, hard as iron. Lottie put both hands flat over her eyes.
Elizabeth had taken her beatings without a word all the long walk from the Brazos to the Wichita River. Now she threw up both her hands. The Dismal Bitch smashed the stick onto her palms with such force that rays of fire burned from Elizabeth’s finger joints to her shoulders. Elizabeth shut her hands in a tight grip around the stick, and turned both wrists and jerked the stick toward herself, onto her own collarbones. She snatched the Dismal Bitch off bal- ance. Then Elizabeth twisted to the right and tipped the stick over and threw the woman on her back into the shallow water. Elizabeth bore down. She fell to her knees on underwater stones and crushed the stick across the woman’s throat. The Dismal Bitch would not let go the stick. But you will soon enough, Elizabeth thought, when you are drowning you witch of hell.
The Comanche woman’s hands jerked loose and she reached
up out of the foaming water for Elizabeth’s hair. Elizabeth heard a
light voice calling “Grandma,
Elizabeth carried wood to the tipi and sharpened the frail old fleshing knife she had been given. She wondered how she could manage to have Lottie taken in and adopted by the Happy Wife. Even if she were adopted and learned Comanche and were tattooed, Elizabeth did not care, only that the child would live, under this cold, remote sun that seemed to burn the trail before them, mile after mile of open rolling plains and the tangled vines of buffalo gourd at her feet. They walked on from one river bottom to another, the ribbons of timber lacing the plains. Elizabeth walked resolutely with Lottie in her arms. When Lottie cried, she held her hand over the girl’s mouth. She will live, she will, thought Elizabeth as she walked.
The second buffalo kill was on the north bank of the Wichita River, at the falls. Elizabeth knew they would not be rescued. They were too far north, out in the plains, and any party that came after them would be outnumbered and outgunned. The Indian men had repeating rifles and bandoliers of ammunition, lances with foot-long steel heads, and every man was a warrior.
At the falls of the Wichita River where the water spilled five feet over a lip of red stone, Elizabeth slid into a pool to cool her injured breasts. Cottonwood leaves drifted from the great, calm trees. The leaves were the color of primroses and butter. They fell like rain and dotted the red water that boiled up at the foot of the falls in rusty foam. She left Lottie on the bank on the stinking greasy shawl. The girl’s face was skeletal. Her nose holes were as big as eyes and her gray eyes were sunk back into her skull to gaze out from the very
center of the child’s self, that which is otherworldly and hard and bright and indifferent.
Elizabeth stood up and the red water cascaded down her spare body.
“Lottie darling,” she said. “Don’t leave us.”
“All right, Grandma,” Lottie said. “Grandma, you wet.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. She looked up. The skinny wife she called the Dismal Bitch came running down the sloping bank with her lips drawn back. She raised a heavy digging stick of bois d’arc in one hand and she had the handle of a fleshing-knife in the other. It was of soft cast iron and very old and it had broken off in Elizabeth’s hand two hours ago. The Dismal Bitch was shouting with rage. She kicked Lottie aside and strode toward Elizabeth and then waded into the water.
The Dismal Bitch kept on crying out in Comanche as she sloshed through the water and waved the broken handle in Elizabeth’s face. Then she struck Elizabeth over the head with the digging stick. Bois d’arc is a yellow, dense wood, hard as iron. Lottie put both hands flat over her eyes.
Elizabeth had taken her beatings without a word all the long walk from the Brazos to the Wichita River. Now she threw up both her hands. The Dismal Bitch smashed the stick onto her palms with such force that rays of fire burned from Elizabeth’s finger joints to her shoulders. Elizabeth shut her hands in a tight grip around the stick, and turned both wrists and jerked the stick toward herself, onto her own collarbones. She snatched the Dismal Bitch off bal- ance. Then Elizabeth twisted to the right and tipped the stick over and threw the woman on her back into the shallow water. Elizabeth bore down. She fell to her knees on underwater stones and crushed the stick across the woman’s throat. The Dismal Bitch would not let go the stick. But you will soon enough, Elizabeth thought, when you are drowning you witch of hell.
The Comanche woman’s hands jerked loose and she reached
up out of the foaming water for Elizabeth’s hair. Elizabeth heard a
light voice calling “Grandma,
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