The Son by Philipp Meyer Read Free Book Online Page B

protest as someone cut their throats; by then the rest of the blood in the road had turned black and the bodies covered over with dust. They looked like they’d always been there.
    The Indians split into three groups and left a wide set of tracks leading toward civilization, opposite the direction we were actually headed. Everyone was in a good mood. One of the braves rode up and slapped a fresh scalp on my head, the stringy gray hair hanging down. A man’s bloody hat was crushed down on top of it, which the Indians found hilarious. We continued northwest, the grass tall with scattered thick motts of oak and the mesquites with their flickering leaves and the yuccas in bloom with their white flowers.
    After a few hours the brave decided he didn’t want to soil his trophy any further and took it off my head, tying it to his belt and throwing the dead man’s hat into the bushes. The scalp and hat had been keeping the sun off and I asked for the hat back but we rode on. By then the other groups had rejoined us.
    At the next change of horses, the Indians passed around some jerky they’d taken off the teamsters. My brother and I were offered a few bites. It was still hot but the Indians didn’t care about drinking water, and when one of them offered me tobacco I was so thirsty I couldn’t take it. My brother was not offered tobacco. He stood with his legs in a straddle and looked miserable.
    When the sun finally went down my mouth was so dry I thought I would choke. I reminded myself to pick up a pebble to suck but then I was thinking about the spring near our house, of sitting and letting the water rush over as I looked out past the river. I began to feel better.
    It was dark and at some point we stopped at a muddy hole and the horses were held back while the Indians tore up grass and piled it on the mud and took about two swallows each. My brother and I stuck our whole faces in and drank our fill. It tasted like frogs and smelled like animals had been wallowing but we didn’t care. After he’d swallowed enough my brother started to cry, and then the Indians were kicking him in the belly and giving him the knife at the throat. W u yupa?nit u , quiet down. Nihp u ?ait u , stop talking.
    They were planning something. They changed their mounts but we were kept back with the horse herd.
    “I think we’ve come a hundred miles. We must be right below the San Saba.”
    “Do you think they’ll let me drink again?”
    “Sure,” I said.
    He put his face back in the muddy water. I tried again but now I couldn’t stand the smell. My brother drank and drank. It hurt even just to sit in the dirt now. I wondered how long it would take to heal; weeks maybe. We huddled together as best as possible. There was a bad odor and I realized my brother had shat himself.
    “I can’t stop.”
    “It’s all right.”
    “There’s no point,” he said.
    “All we have to do is keep going,” I told him. “It is not that much when you think about it.”
    “And then what? What happens when we get where they’re taking us?”
    I was quiet.
    “I don’t want to find out,” he said.
    “There was John Tanner,” I said, “Charles Johnston, you yourself have read those books.”
    “I am not the type to live on bark and gooseberries.”
    “You’ll be a legend,” I said. “I’ll visit you in Boston and tell your friend Emerson that you’re a real man and not just some cockchafing poet.”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “You could try a little harder,” I told him. “You’re risking our hair every time you piss them off.”
    “I’m doing the best I can.”
    “That is not true at all.”
    “Well, I’m glad you know.”
    He started to cry again. Then he was snoring. I was mad because he was just being lazy. We were not being fed any less, or driven any harder, than the Indians were driving themselves; we’d both had a lot more water than they had and who knew how long they’d been going like this? There was a logic but my brother