The Book of Duels - Michael Garriga

Скачать книгу

chest was big around as a Jameson barrel and he had two hammers for fists and a black hound what would follow him ’round both day and night but was nowheres to be found on that day yer man Henry left us—I was but a boy, as I’ve said, but, by Jeanie Mac, he was swinging those fists so furious that a whirl of wind whipped up and spun from the ground and the earth shook and the sweat rained off him like yer cow pissin on a flat rock but then that rainbow bloomed above his broad shoulders and haloed his head as he beat that machine, which moaned and wheezed about—and when yer man cried out for his dear ma-ma, I swear to the Virgin Herself, that engine whined ma-ma as well—but afore he left us, Mr Henry hisself reached over and took that hard-driving boss man Protestant piece of shit what he was, the kind who scuttles about doing the bidding of the Big Boss—the same man who’d stake claims to half yer wages but keep ya blistered in the sun all day a-dyin—Mr Henry took that same bastard by his ankles, turned him half over and up’ards and drove him as a spike right clean through the line and the skies parted and Mr Henry rose through the clouds, unbeaten even by death, and I seen it I swear with me own two eyes—Mr Henry, he was a deadly sharp man, much more than any single man among us, but if we all band together, brothers, band as one, we could walk off this job and picket this Wheeling Way Line, and even with their strike busters and their Pinkertons, we could shut her down the same as Mr Henry shut down that damn machine and we can hold out till we get what’s right and ours, aye—so I stand afore you now, lads, one machinist among many, so you may see with your own two eyes, me, the man you’ve elected to represent ya, use my very own voice, like Mr Henry’s hammers, to bring down the call for a strike!

       During the Battle of Little Big Horn on the Crow Reservation, the Montana Territory,

       June 25, 1876

      George Armstrong Custer, 36,

      Lieutenant Colonel of the US Seventh Cavalry

      As I drive Victory through the river and urge my men to follow, a whole horde of the heathen rise from the brush of the banks and train their rifles and arrows on us, so I fire my carbine till the barrel tip glows red and my cheek burns and my ear becomes a ringing hollowed bell—one shot hits my trunk and carries me off my mount, and when I hit the water, my breath quits me and all I can see is the face of Grant—his general stars taken out and polished by his black manservant; his swollen fingers wrapped ’round the stem of the champagne flute he hoists, muttering a toast to our nation’s centennial; his yellowed eyes steadfast upon the bottle—I rise from the water, rivulets streaming behind my ears, my twin English Bulldog pistols barking in my hands—I unleash handfuls of shot and I am enshrouded in hot white smoke, thick as the bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace I gave Libbie on our wedding day—I should be the one standing before the assembled Congress, entreating our Lord to protect our nation, my adoring Libbie by my side, silk spilling over her bustle, as an artist makes our portrait for the White House walls—Grant sent me here because of the kickback scandal and to avenge his foolish brother Orville and Secretary Belknap for the truths I spoke of them before Congress, but I always did look good in the press, so I acquiesced, It shall be my honor, Mr. President, to serve at your behest and clear the way for peace and progress, but you, sir, shall know my cavalier genius and pin all four stars to my blue coat, the one Libbie will clean and press with her own hands—now the guns’ ivory handles lie cool against my skin and before me stands my assassin, the man I have missed with each damn shot—he levels his rifle and all I have left is this one prayer: perhaps a single bullet lies hidden in the guts of these guns. So heave-chested and steely-eyed as the morning sun, I aim my sidearms and charge, high-stepping through the water, the wind cooling my skin as I squeeze the triggers on these empty chambers, squeeze them as gentle as if they were Libbie’s pale hands.

      His last bullet, Lord, has found its mark and passes through every folding drape of my brain and I fall back again and see the sky one final time before the cold water clouds my eyes but it does not hurt, Libbie, I swear, not a bit compared to never having you sew epaulettes square on my shoulders again.

      Ptebloka Ska (a.k.a. White Cow Bull), 28,

      Oglala Sioux Warrior

      I had soaped myself in bull lard against the cool waters of the Greasy Grass, where I swam this morning ahead of battle with the bluecoats, and I was lying naked to the loincloth in yucca and sage grasses when like the hawk they bushwhacked us—crossed the coulee upstream unannounced and raided our camp—I crawl behind the rocks where I had stood my weapons, wanting only the head of their leader, Long Locks, who years ago kidnapped fair Mo-nah-se-tah and forced his baby inside her and though I have spoken to her only through the open flaps of her teepee, I love her and have wished in my best heart to walk with her under a courting blanket and make her my wife, but she has rejected me because I said I would even welcome her bastard blond boy, the one they say twins Long Locks’s likeness, so last night I sang the suicide song and I danced till the drums and my heart were one and I came out here to war with no belief I would ever return alive to my tribe, and since I cannot find the man I want, that coward and rapist, I will, in his stead, have the head of another, so I blast from his saddle the first pink man who rides through the cottonwood trees and the water weighs down the buckskin clothes he wears to hide his hairy body but he rises from the river like Great Medicine itself, his voice growling like a wolf as it eats—one brave white man at last—I freeze and let him fire his bullets but they will not have me—they fly by whistling like notes played through an eagle-bone flute—and so he charges and I put my next shot straight through his skull and shrill and take my hatchet for a coup, hoping some Sioux will later tell Mo-nah-se-tah of my courage.

      Like a lover, his half-Sioux traitor collects him in his arms and I drop my rifle and I catch by its mane the dead man’s pinto and spring to its back and heft my hatchet high and holler the war cry Crazy Horse has taught us to live by: Hoka hey, I shout, hoka hey: it is a good day to die, but an even better day to kill.

      Mitch Bouyer, 39,

      Custer’s Chief of Scouts, Half French & Half Sioux

      When Custer went down, I hopped from my rack-of-bones pony and ran in after him, my heart tight as a fist in my throat, yet fore I could reach him he rose and charged into the hornets’ nest and still I followed and the warrior stood awfully still with clumps of earth and prairie grass clinging to his skin like Wakantanka’s own revenge—bullets and dogs are everywhere and Custer’s head explodes against my face, a chip of bone blinding my right eye, and I catch his falling corpse and some bastard calls to me, Let him go, you goddamn half-breed, and kicks me loose and takes him away—the earth under the water trembles as the braves thunder by on horseback, routing the whites who scatter like blackbirds, and I am kneeling half blind in the water when a chill-shadow covers me, a silhouette horse rearing, its stockinged hooves thrashing, and I make out its belly and chest and neck and giant head, and I know I should not be here and I know I should not have befriended Custer. I should not have translated the Blue Coat treaties, which I knew to be lies and, because they came from my lips, became my lies too. I should have stayed with Magpie as she suckled our newborn and I should have chased our children about the teepee, laughing, and I should have roasted them rabbits on spits as the moon crested the hills and the ponies whinnied in the distance. I should have made clear to Custer that Sioux and buffalo are not two but one and that slaughter of the animal is slaughter of the man. I should have killed Custer in his sleep. I should have braided my horse’s mane with feathers and colored twine, put my blue clay handprint on its haunch and ridden alongside this warrior here who now sets his pinto down, the man rising in sight like something come over the horizon, yet he remains only a shadow, a shade, with his hatchet held high.

      I put my arms across my bloody face as if to block a brilliant light but then drop them by my sides and rise to my feet and raise my chin and say in my purest Lakota, Go ahead, tanhanši, and try to cleave me in two any more than I already

Скачать книгу