DESERT BOY
(From Dull Knife's Story)
He kicked at the corpse at his
feet, flies shooed from its bloated face, but returned once again settling on
its swollen tongue which extended from its bruised lips. All were like this,
laying here or there, none showing signs of pain, only the drunken sleep that
took them when their jugs of whiskey were emptied. None survived.
Desert boy knew that he should have left the
valley, but he felt the draw to return when the sun arose. The sight that met
him when he looked down into the valley did not measure with his expectations.
No smoking camp fires, no bustle of activity, no horses. Just, this. Dead men,
dead fires. Horses tethered, but thirsting.
Desert Boy brought the horses to the nearest
coral whose fences still stood, and two by two set them to graze on the wild
grasses. Now, what of the men? The corpses were stiff and swollen, their once
proud muscles now tight and bloating. These were men whose study was the blade
and the gun. Twenty five men, he counted, and twenty five swords, sixty knives,
and thirty guns of various sizes, all of them flintlock pistols or rifles.
Enough powder and lead to hunt for ten years, if that were a man’s inclination.
Desert Boy wrapped them neatly in what cloth he could steal from the tents, and
buried them in the dry ground under his father’s cabin, tamping the dirt with
his feet, covering the hardened ground with a spray of dust and dried leaves.
He took down the tents and stored the bundles
and blankets, saddles and gear into a hastily built lean-to beside the coral.
Sooner than later these may be of some use.
Desert boy knew of the ways of
his people. They did not bury their dead like some of the neighboring tribes,
they burned them on a pyre of brush and bush, piled high, each body wrapped
tightly with sweet smelling herbs and letters from loved ones while prayer
drums beat and family danced around the fire, long circles and songs of their
life sung around them. If there were a world beyond, There were no herbs, and there were no loved
ones here for these men. Desert Boy knew, though that leaving the bodies here
would mean a much bigger mess, and carrion birds circling could only mean
coyotes coming soon, as well. But to dig thirty graves would be more work than
he was able to manage on his own. He could leave them to the crows and rats and
dogs – that would be a more fitting end to these devils, he thought.
Then the idea, borne of his frustration, grew
like a fire inside of his belly. He found a hefty machete in the stash of
weapons, and began the gruesome task of cutting off the heads at the neck,
swinging the heavy blade as hard as he might, taking off the heads one at a
time, in two or three strokes. None came cleanly. The smell was excruciating.
The dirty work done, he tied the severed heads
by their long hair to the saddle of one of the horses, securing them tightly,
and slapped the horse on the hind-quarters yelling, “HOME!!” The horse galloped
away, over the hill, and back towards the East.
As soon as the horse was away,
Desert Boy began piling wood into a pyre, as high as he could manage on his
own, and piled the bodies high upon it. He wrapped them in the tents and
nearing dusk, he lit the whole of it aflame, and stood back, watching as the
flames crept higher and higher against the purple and pink sunset.
He watched as the bodies popped and sizzled,
the greasy fat exploding here and there, sending the flames out in strange
directions when a man caught afire. In a couple of hours, nothing was left save
the red coals, and these consumed the bones, leaving nothing behind of the
men.
Desert boy looked up into the night sky, the
stars glittering brightly, the moon riding high overhead. He took a deep
breath, and cried out his prayer to the night sky that the souls of the men
might find their way home. None were here to mourn, and perhaps the men left
behind family, children, wives and loved ones. Perhaps. They were men, after
all, even if they were the enemy. His song echoed on the hills and was lost
against the sad wind. No one else heard him, save the coyotes and the sleeping
birds roosting in the scrub bush.