The Son by Philipp Meyer Read Free Book Online

He lay there with his hands cupping his privates. The Indians jerked us up.
    “Next time,” I said.
    “I was thinking how nice it was that I didn’t have to get up again. Then I realized they hadn’t killed me. Now I’m annoyed.”
    “It wouldn’t be any better.”
    He shrugged.
     
    W E CONTINUED TO ride at a good pace and if the Indians were tired they didn’t show it and if they were hungry they didn’t show it, either. They were alert but not nervous. Every now and then I’d get a glimpse of the entire remuda trailing behind us in the canyon. My brother would not stop talking.
    “You know I was watching Mother and Lizzie,” he said. “I had always thought about where the soul might be, near to the heart or maybe along the bones, I’d always figured you’d have to cut for it. But there was a lot of cutting and I didn’t see anything come out. I’m certain I would have seen it.”
    I ignored him.
    A while later he said: “Can you imagine any white man, even a thousand white men, riding this easy in Indian country?”
    “No.”
    “It’s funny because everyone calls them heathens and red devils, but now that we’ve seen them, I think it’s the opposite. They act like the gods were supposed to act. Though I guess I mean heroes or demigods because as you have certainly helped demonstrate, though not without a certain cost, these Indians are indeed mortal.”
    “Please stop.”
    “It does make you wonder about the Negro problem, doesn’t it?”
     
    A T MIDDAY WE climbed out of the canyon. We were on a rolling grassland thick with asters and primrose, ironweed and red poppy. Some bobwhites scuttled into the brush. The prairie went on forever; there were herds of antelope and deer and a few stray buffalo in the distance. The Indians checked their pace to look around and then we were off.
    There was nothing to protect us from the sun and by afternoon I could smell my own burning skin and was going in and out of sleep. We continued through the high grass, over limestone breaks, briefly into the shade along streams—though never stopping to drink—and then back into the sun.
    Then the Comanches all reined up and after some chatter my brother and I were led back to a stream we’d just crossed. We were pulled roughly off the horses and tied to each other back to back and put in the shade. A teenager was left to guard us.
    “Rangers?”
    “This one doesn’t look too nervous,” said my brother.
    We were facing opposite directions and it was strange not seeing his face.
    “Maybe it’s Daddy and the others.”
    “I think they would be behind us,” he said.
    After a while I decided he was right. I called the young Indian over. There were grapes hanging all along the stream.
    He shook his head. Itsa ait u . Then he added itsa keta kwas u p u and when he still wasn’t satisfied I understood, he said in Spanish, no en sazón .
    “He’s saying they’re not ripe.”
    “I know that.”
    I wanted them anyway and I was so hungry I didn’t care. The Indian cut a section of vine and dropped it into my lap. Then he rinsed his hands in the stream. The grapes were so bitter I nearly aired my paunch. I thought they would help my fever. My lips were itching.
    “They’re good,” I said.
    “For tanning hides, maybe.”
    “You should eat.”
    “You are not making any sense,” he told me.
    I ate more of the grapes. It felt like I’d swallowed boiling water.
    I said, “Scoot over to that stream and lean over it,” and we did. My brother let his head rest in the water, as sunburned as I was, but I could tell he wasn’t drinking. Something about this made me want to puddle up but I kept drinking instead. The young Indian stood on a rock and watched. We sat up again. It seemed like my fever was going down and I could stretch my legs.
    “What’s your name,” I said to our guard. “Cómo te llamas?”
    He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said: “N uu karu.” He looked around nervously and then