Read Online Winter Rain by Terry C. Johnston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry C. Johnston
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pulled behind his lagging oxen and mules as he yelled out, “Goddamn!”
Two Sleep guessed it meant something else too, for the white man used the word a lot at the card table.
Sumbitch
, too. What the white man called himself, or some of his bad cards, or a balky mule. Or one another.
Two Sleep liked the way that Brid-ger and Sweete eloquently strung those flavorful words together when they talked among themselves, especially when excited or under the spell of whiskey. How Sweete especially put a lot of them together as he signed and spoke what little Shoshone he had learned from Two Sleep. Sweete knew Shahiyena; the white man’s wife was born to that tribe. Nonetheless, he tried to learn Shoshone at the card table.
Among white men there were a confusing number of words for one thing, Two Sleep thought as he saw the white man stop at the edge of the willow, unbutton his fly, and water the rain-soaked ground.
Especially that—all the words the white man had for his manhood. The warrior had learned from the best to call it many things: his cock, his dick, his peeder, his prick, and the funniest to his tongue, his love-stinger.
Why the white man did that, Two Sleep had decidedhe would never find out. Maybeso it was only to make his language seem all the harder to learn.
By now the lone white man was getting smarter, looking for dry wood beneath a tree thick with foliage. He started a small fire as Two Sleep watched, then stood long enough to take off all his clothing and drape his garments over low branches. The leaves of the tree suspended over his fire, and the heavy, wet air of the passing storm, muted the rising smoke.
With water on to boil, the white man rummaged through his packs until he found what he was looking for. He settled back against his saddle to drink, naked.
From the looks of the way the man drank, Two Sleep guessed the white man had some whiskey along. A bottle of it, perhaps more than one bottle—but at least the one the white man was sucking at with no small degree of satisfaction.
Frowning, Two Sleep brooded on how he would approach the camp—certain of only one thing. He would have to show himself before the white man got too much in the drinking way, or he might shoot a strange Indian—out of fear, or devilment.
Best to show himself and soon. Or, Two Sleep figured, he would simply have to do without any of that stranger’s whiskey.
Still, perhaps the white man would be willing to gamble away even more of his whiskey.
The Shoshone smiled.
Besides whiskey, maybe the white man had some cards too.
No reason either one of them had to be lonely ever again.
Not with a deck of cards, and enough whiskey.
5
September 1868
J ONAH HOOK SENSED it, felt it to his marrow. Someone was watching him. But who, and why, his hunger-numbed mind refused to sort out.
For the better part of a day now he had known. There were subtle signs that only time in the wilderness can teach a man. Something nagging made him more than a little concerned that it might be one of Jubilee Usher’s men who had doubled back, coming wide around to see about rubbing out the man stalking the Danite trail.
Then the rain had come, sooner than expected, the storm racing faster than even Jonah could have figured it would. Caught out in the open when its first explosive dance started over the sun-baked plains, he shuddered beneath the thunderous cacophony of raindrops hammering the hardened ground like the echo of a thousand lead balls rattling inside a steel drum. It seemed as if the sky itself reverberated with the chorus of that driving rain,mirroring its pounding of the thirsty land and that single man struggling along beneath the onslaught of the skies.
Forcing himself to push on until he finally gave up, Jonah pulled his two horses into the willows beside the Sweetwater. He remembered the Sweetwater, with thoughts cured three winters over, time served in the Yankee army, protecting that telegraph wire from the Sioux and
Two Sleep guessed it meant something else too, for the white man used the word a lot at the card table.
Sumbitch
, too. What the white man called himself, or some of his bad cards, or a balky mule. Or one another.
Two Sleep liked the way that Brid-ger and Sweete eloquently strung those flavorful words together when they talked among themselves, especially when excited or under the spell of whiskey. How Sweete especially put a lot of them together as he signed and spoke what little Shoshone he had learned from Two Sleep. Sweete knew Shahiyena; the white man’s wife was born to that tribe. Nonetheless, he tried to learn Shoshone at the card table.
Among white men there were a confusing number of words for one thing, Two Sleep thought as he saw the white man stop at the edge of the willow, unbutton his fly, and water the rain-soaked ground.
Especially that—all the words the white man had for his manhood. The warrior had learned from the best to call it many things: his cock, his dick, his peeder, his prick, and the funniest to his tongue, his love-stinger.
Why the white man did that, Two Sleep had decidedhe would never find out. Maybeso it was only to make his language seem all the harder to learn.
By now the lone white man was getting smarter, looking for dry wood beneath a tree thick with foliage. He started a small fire as Two Sleep watched, then stood long enough to take off all his clothing and drape his garments over low branches. The leaves of the tree suspended over his fire, and the heavy, wet air of the passing storm, muted the rising smoke.
With water on to boil, the white man rummaged through his packs until he found what he was looking for. He settled back against his saddle to drink, naked.
From the looks of the way the man drank, Two Sleep guessed the white man had some whiskey along. A bottle of it, perhaps more than one bottle—but at least the one the white man was sucking at with no small degree of satisfaction.
Frowning, Two Sleep brooded on how he would approach the camp—certain of only one thing. He would have to show himself before the white man got too much in the drinking way, or he might shoot a strange Indian—out of fear, or devilment.
Best to show himself and soon. Or, Two Sleep figured, he would simply have to do without any of that stranger’s whiskey.
Still, perhaps the white man would be willing to gamble away even more of his whiskey.
The Shoshone smiled.
Besides whiskey, maybe the white man had some cards too.
No reason either one of them had to be lonely ever again.
Not with a deck of cards, and enough whiskey.
5
September 1868
J ONAH HOOK SENSED it, felt it to his marrow. Someone was watching him. But who, and why, his hunger-numbed mind refused to sort out.
For the better part of a day now he had known. There were subtle signs that only time in the wilderness can teach a man. Something nagging made him more than a little concerned that it might be one of Jubilee Usher’s men who had doubled back, coming wide around to see about rubbing out the man stalking the Danite trail.
Then the rain had come, sooner than expected, the storm racing faster than even Jonah could have figured it would. Caught out in the open when its first explosive dance started over the sun-baked plains, he shuddered beneath the thunderous cacophony of raindrops hammering the hardened ground like the echo of a thousand lead balls rattling inside a steel drum. It seemed as if the sky itself reverberated with the chorus of that driving rain,mirroring its pounding of the thirsty land and that single man struggling along beneath the onslaught of the skies.
Forcing himself to push on until he finally gave up, Jonah pulled his two horses into the willows beside the Sweetwater. He remembered the Sweetwater, with thoughts cured three winters over, time served in the Yankee army, protecting that telegraph wire from the Sioux and
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