Brimstone

32

AT THE TOP OF THE HILL, they were both silent as we built up the campfire and gave them some blankets. Pony made fresh coffee. I got out some cups and the whiskey jug.

It was hard to tell what they might have looked like when they were living on the farm. What was left of them was pretty straggly. The older one had red hair, and some freckles. There was the hint of plumpness vanished about her. As if she had been full-figured and lost weight during her ordeal. The girl was blonde and smaller. Half developed. More than a girl, still less than a woman. They were dirty. Their clothes were barely clothes. And they were enveloped in a glaze of terror, which made them almost unrecognizable.

“Would you like some coffee?” I said to the older woman.

She nodded.

“Whiskey in it?” I said.

She nodded again.

“How ’bout the young lady?” I said.

The young lady had no reaction. The older woman nodded. I poured coffee and whiskey into both cups and handed one to each of them. The older woman blew on the surface of the coffee, and drank some. The young woman took a careful sip, and showed no reaction.

After her second cup, the older woman began to speak. Her voice was half swallowed, and she spoke very fast. They were mother and daughter. The mother’s name was Mary Beth. The kid was Laurel. Mary Beth was thirty-seven. Laurel was fifteen. They both looked a lot older.

“My husband walked out the front door and the Indian shot him,” Mary Beth said. “Didn’t say anything, just shot him and stuck that arrow in him, then he made Laurel and me get on our horses and go with him, never even looked at my husband again, just made us ride away with him. At night he made us… do things with him… both of us right in front of each other, and he said we should get used to it because he was going to sell us to some men who would take us to Mexico…”

She stopped and drank from her cup. Laurel said nothing; she sipped at her coffee. The two women were wrapped in blankets. They sat close to the fire, more, I thought, for light than warmth. Virgil still sat on his heels beside them. Neither woman ever took her eyes off him.

“And then they came and took us and…”

She looked at her daughter. Her daughter’s face was blank, her eyes fixed on Virgil. She drank more.

“You don’t need to talk about it,” Virgil said.

She nodded.

“Anything you can tell me ’bout this Indian?” Virgil said.

“He…” She drank again. “English. He talked good English.”

Virgil nodded.

“And he was big; he was a very big Indian,” Mary Beth said.

“What did he wear,” Virgil said.

“Black coat,” Mary Beth said. “Long. And a funny hat.” Virgil nodded. Mary Beth was drunk. Laurel seemed unchanged.

“Buffalo Calf,” Mary Beth said.

“Buffalo Calf?” Virgil said.

“He said name Buffalo Calf.”

Virgil nodded again. He glanced at Pony; Pony shrugged and shook his head.

We were quiet for a time. Outside the circle of firelight, one of the horses stirred.

“Oh, God,” Mary Beth said.

“Just one of the horses,” Virgil said.

“But what if they come back?”

“Can’t,” Virgil said. “They’re all dead.”

“You kill them,” Mary Beth said.

“We did.”

“What if the Indian comes back?”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does?”

“We’ll kill him, too,” Virgil said.

“You don’t know what he’s like,” Mary Beth said.

“No,” Virgil said.

He smiled at her.

“But I know what I’m like,” Virgil said.