dontravis.com blog post #610
Last week, Don
Morgan, a fellow Okie, posted Chapter 3 of his novel The Eagle’s Claw. Today,
we’ll see part of Chapter 4. The narrative is rather long, but I hope you’ll
stay with it to the end.
****
THE
EAGLE’S CLAW
By
Donald T. Morgan
Chapter 4
Blood and gore from the Chandler boy’s dead horse gunked Román’s arms all the way to the elbows. His grandmother had roused him early to beat the sun to Blind Man’s Arroyo, hoping to reach Pedro before predators did. Once the horse was butchered, they hauled heavy chunks of meat on a travois back to the gowa where they jerked what they couldn’t eat right away.
The sun was at its high
point before his grandmother got around to cooking a meal. As soon as they
finished eating, she told him to wash up and go to the white man’s ranch.
He
bolted outside, claiming he had to go for his run. She couldn’t object to that.
She was the one who insisted he “train” every morning. Nobody else did, but
then no one else had a grandmother who lived in the past.
At
the base of the yellow-hued bluff that gave Rising Rock its name, he went into
a loose-limbed trot to warm his muscles before breaking into a run. In his
mind’s eye, others raced alongside him on this steep path where he imagined the
Ancients had ascended from the underworld. They’d fought the Indah in these mountains. Indah—the
outsider, the enemy. Once, that was anybody who wasn’t one of the People. Now
it meant the white man.
The
trail reached a hogback and dropped into a shallow canyon before looping back
to the south. Pride demanded his ragged, rubber-soled sneakers beat the same
steady rhythm at the end of his race with the sun as at the beginning. Upon
re-entering the glade, he paused to peek through the door of the wickiup.
His grandmother was gone.
Still huffing slightly,
Román considered hiding out instead of going to the ranch house. He could claim
the man hadn’t given him anything. That was no good. He had a strong
hide-behind-face, but she could see through it every time. Surrendering, he
rinsed away sweat and blood with water from a pot and walked down the rutted
wagon road to the small meadow where he’d hobbled the mare last night.
Great piles of eiderdown
clouds mushroomed high over the Chacons, an uncertain promise of a break in the
weather, as the paint slipped into her easiest gait. Román placed a hand over
his flat belly, exploring the hard knot that grew with each step. Yesterday
there’d been a need. Today he could think of a hundred reasons not to go to the
white man’s house.
Once he turned off the
highway onto the gravel road, the ranch headquarters loomed before him. He
reined in and stared. The big, white building must be like living in the
Reformed Church down in the settlement. He tried to match the house to the man
he’d seen yesterday. That hadn’t been a hiding man. Must be the woman who
wanted to live in a fortress.
If the rancher didn’t
give him a trinket, he’d have to swipe something for Cane-Woman. And if the man
wanted his flashlight back, he’d have to steal it from his grandmother. They
were turning him into a thief. He made his lips a firm, straight line and set
his expression. Ready now, he kicked the paint into a walk.
A clock chimed from
somewhere inside the house as he dismounted and dusted his jeans. A sly glance
at the big, black car in the drive revealed the skinny, dark-haired girl he’d
noticed yesterday perched on one sleek fender watching him intently.
“I saw you yesterday.
You’re Román aren’t you? My name’s Teresa. Why did you just sit there on your
horse? Took you forever to come down the drive. Doesn’t your horse know how to
trot? Princess does. Princess is my pony. She’s a buckskin.”
Didn’t the girl ever
take a breath?
“You don’t talk much.
You talk American?”
Her monologue left him
flustered, but he wasn’t about to let her see. She was an addle-brain who
didn’t know any better than to chatter at strangers.
“I’ve been waiting for
you for simply hours. Daddy said to bring you inside when you showed up, so
come on.”
“Inside?” His gut
churned like a mare in foal.
“Course. You don’t
expect them to come out here, do you?” She dashed away, banging the screen
behind her. Román staggered up the steps but ran out of steam at the door. She
reappeared, an impatient look on her angular face. “Come on! What’s the matter with you?”
The room was big and
airy, not dark and dank like he’d figured. Pictures hung on the walls. The rug,
as thick and soft as a buffalo robe, would make a good place to sleep. He
stayed on the girl’s heels until she skipped through an open door and announced
he was here.
Rigor mortis attacked
his muscles; stupefaction, his brain. The impulse to run came too late. Mr.
Chandler loomed before him.
“Hello, Román. We’re
glad you came by.”
He doesn’t talk, Daddy.”
She turned to her yellow-haired mother. “Really, Mommy.”
“Hush, child.” The woman
sat in what must have been the biggest chair in the world with an open book on
her lap. She was awful old to be studying like some school kid.
The girl stared at him
rudely. “You act like a foreigner.”
“You’ll have to excuse
her,” the rancher said. “She’s forgotten her manners.”
He already knew that.
Román was glad he didn’t have a candy-stick sister like this one. She yammered
like a cross squirrel as they followed her parents upstairs.
The white boy sprawled
on a huge bed in a room bigger than Cane-Woman’s wickiup. The injured boy had
thrown the covers back to reveal trousers that looked so soft and flimsy they’d
rip if he tried to sit saddle. The right pant leg had been hacked off to
accommodate a big cast. Román nearly giggled at the sight of five pink toes
poking out of white plaster.
“This is the rascal who
caused all the commotion last night,” Mr. Chandler said. “Román, meet Paul.”
The boy on the bed
grinned despite pain lines framing his broad mouth. “Thanks for coming to the
rescue.” Paul shot a hooded glance at his father. “Wasn’t supposed to be over
there, so they wouldn’t have found me till buzzards started circling.” The
white boy gave him a look. “How come you didn’t say anything when I saw you up
on the bank of the arroyo?”
“He still doesn’t,”
Teresa said.
Her brother ignored her.
“Why didn’t you let me know you were going for help?”
When Román answered with
a shrug, the little girl simpered. “See, what did I tell you?”
Mr. Chandler cut in.
“Well, everything came out all right. Paul, don’t you have something…?”
Paul burrowed under his
pillow and pulled out a small box. “Here, this is for you.”
The reward he had come
for. But he was struck dumb. He couldn’t move. Teresa shoved his arm. “Go on,
open it. It’s real neat. Wish I had one.”
Román lifted the lid on
the box holding a gleaming band of silver inlaid with sky blue turquoise,
faultless except for a delicate copper webbing.
“It’s a friendship ring.” Paul lifted a silver
chain hanging around his neck. “There’s
only two of them just alike. And see, I’ve got the other one. Means we’re
friends.”
The blonde woman spoke
up. “There’s a chain in the box so you can wear it around your neck until it
fits.”
Teresa went into a pout.
“How come I can’t have one? Can’t I be friends too, Daddy?”
“We’ll see, honey.”
Román turned his new
treasure over in his hand. For sure, Cane-Woman would take it long before the
ring fit his finger. Mrs. Chandler looped the gleaming circlet through the
chain. Her fingernails—red as wild strawberries—tickled his neck as she
fastened the clasp.
“It sure is pretty.” He
knew from teachers at school the whites liked you to take on over their things.
“Aw, it’s nothing,” Paul
said. “Sit down and talk to me. I get bored doing nothing all day.”
“I come play with you,”
Teresa said.
“Big deal. Paper dolls
yet. Come on, sit down.”
All Román wanted was
escape, but he collapsed on the nearest chair when Mr. Chandler applied
pressure to his shoulder. As the others drifted out of the room, Paul settled
back on his pillows and indicated a plate on a bedside table.
“Have a cookie.” He made
a face. “Mom makes good ones, but she still has trouble getting sugar, so
they’re not as sweet as I like them.”
Román took one and
thought it tasted great. Then he sat woodenly, his eyes darting around to
inspect model cars and airplanes lining shelves on the walls and hanging from
the ceiling… until the questions started. Whites always asked questions. Where
did he live? Did he have brothers? The white boy was as rude as his sister.
Soon Paul knew he was orphaned and lived with his grandmother in a gowa. Román glanced at the radio beside the
bed when somebody started crooning about a prisoner of love.
“You dig Perry Como?”
“Who?” Did the kid know
he wiggled his toes when he talked?
“Perry Como. The guy
singing. Teresa says she’s gonna marry him someday.”
Then the Indah boy
started in on his name, pronouncing it a couple of times and asking if it was
Spanish. “It’s a killer-diller name, but I’m gonna call you Ro, okay?”
“Guess so.” Could one
person steal another’s soul by changing his name? What would the kid think if
he knew Román was really Roan Orphan, a name no white man would ever hear.
The brown machine on the
table started in on “I Love You for Sentimental Reasons.” He knew that one.
Somebody called Nat King Cole sang it on a portable radio at the schoolyard.
Paul must’ve got tired
of trying to steal his mind and decided to play a game. He hauled out a
checkerboard and started teaching Román something called chess. He had no idea
what the kid was babbling about, but he wasn’t about to sit through it again.
When it was clear he was lost, Paul backed up and went over the rules once
more.
Román grasped the
mechanics of the game but didn’t make much sense of it until he looked upon the
little gadgets as warriors. Even then, the Indah boy ended up winning.
Like in real life.
Finally, Mr. Chandler
came to the doorway. “Can I borrow your guest a minute?”
Román jumped up; Paul
made a face. “Okay, but come right back.”
He trailed the rancher
down the stairs and out to the corral where Mr. Chandler nodded to two ponies.
“Aren’t they beauties? Fine stock, good build, recently broke. The black’s to
replace the pony we had to shoot.”
What would the white man
think if he knew most of Pedro ended up in their wickiup?
“And the chestnut is
yours.”
His hide-behind-face
cracked. “Mine?”
Mr. Chandler indicated
leather hanging over the corral fence. “And there’s a new bridle and saddle.
You can take them with you when you leave.”
This would take some
thinking. Cane-Woman would trade the horse before the next sunset. He stalled,
claiming he’d have to fix a place for the pony. The rancher told him to leave
the horse in the corral until he was ready to take him home.
Román glanced to the
west and was surprised to see the sun about to drop over the horizon. His
grandmother would be fretting over the reward. Besides, he had some planning to
do. The ring was one thing, but he’d put up a fight for the horse.
“I gotta go.” He almost
forgot his manners. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, son.
Why don’t you say goodbye to Paul before you go.”
The white boy wasn’t
willing to let things end that easily. “Come back tomorrow, okay?” Román shook
his head. Paul worried his lower lip between his teeth. “Well, how about the
next day?” When Román stood mute, he frowned. “Well, sometime this week. I’m gonna be stuck here forever.”
A bubble building in
Román’s chest burst in a flurry of words. “Can’t come back. She won’t let me.”
He was doing this wrong. Why wouldn’t they let him work it out for himself?
“But the gelding, son,”
Mr. Chandler said. “What about him?”
His heart stuttered in
his chest. He’d been stupid and lost the big horse.
“Well, let’s see what
tomorrow brings,” the rancher added. “We’ll work something out.”
The room closed around
him. The air thickened. He bolted. Fleeing down the stairs in a headlong rush,
he shot through the front door. Only when he was on the paint did Román glance
back. The rancher and the little girl watched from the porch.
The sun abandoned the
sky, and a single blue-white diamond popped out overhead. The paint pranced
homeward, inspired to a faster pace by the cool air and a second helping of
grass from the white man’s yard. Román fingered the silver and turquoise ring
suspended around his neck on a thin chain.
****
Don’t know about you, but I’m snared. Please let Don know what you
think.
Stay safe and stay strong.
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so
say it!
A link
to The Cutie-Pie Murders:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0
My
personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
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