Woe to Live On - By Daniel Woodrell Page 0,1

him wailing, he sunk to his knees. His head lolled back on his neck and his face went white. He began mumbling about his god, and I was thinking how his god must’ve missed the boat from Hamburg, for he was not near handy enough to be of use in this land.

Mackeson goaded me. “What’s he babblin’?”

“He is praying to Abe Lincoln,” I answered.

A rope was needed. Coleman Younger had a good one but would not lend it as it was new, so we used mine. Mackeson formed it into a noose with seven coils rather than thirteen, for he had no inclination to bring bad luck onto himself. Thirteen is proper, though, and some things ought to be done right. I raised this issue.

“You do it then, Dutchy,” Mackeson said, tossing the seven-coiled rope to me. “Bad luck’ll not change your course anyhow.”

The rope burned between my fingers as I worked to make the Dutchman’s end a proper one. The situation had sunk in on the family and they had become dull. The Dutchman saw something in me and began to speak. He leaned toward me and wiggle-waggled in that alien tongue of ours. I acted put upon by having thus to illustrate my skill in oddball dialects, lest I be watched for signs of pride in the use of my parents’ language.

“We care nothing for the war,” the Dutchman said. He had lost his hysterics for the moment and seemed nearly sensible. I respected that, but fitted the noose with thirteen coils around his neck. “We are for Utah Territory. Utah. This is not a war in Utah, we learn.”

“This war is everywhere,” I said.

“I am no Negro-stealer. I am barrel maker.”

“You are Union.”

“Nein. I am for Utah Territory.”

I gave the long end of the rope to Mackeson, as I knew he wanted it. He threw it high up over a cottonwood branch, then tied it to the trunk.

Jack Bull Chiles was standing between Mackeson and the water; and as he was my near brother, raised on the same bit of earth, he hustled the Dutchman toward the wagon for me. Some of the other boys joined him, and they lifted the center of attention to the seat of the wagon, startling the team, and setting off screeches of metal on wood, mules and women.

I stepped back from the wagon’s path, then turned to Black John.

“He says he is not a Union man,” I told him. I was flat with my voice, giving the comment no more weight than a remark on the weather. “He was codded by our costumes.”

“Sure he says that,” Mackeson said. “Dutchman don’t mean ‘fool.’ ”

“Now he says he is sympathetic to our cause, does he?” Black John said. He was remounted and others were following suit. “Well, he should’ve hung by his convictions rather than live by the lie.” Black John swelled himself with a heavy breath, then nodded to Mackeson. “He’s just a goddamn Dutchman anyhow, and I don’t much care.”

Mackeson winked meanly at Schnellenberger, then stepped past him and slapped the mules on the rump.

The immigrant swung, and not summer-evening peaceful, but frantic.

“One less Dutchman,” Coleman Younger said.

They all watched me, as they always did when wrong-hearted Dutchmen were converted by us. They were watching me even as they faced away, or giggled. Such an audience compelled me to act, so I mounted my big bay slowly, elaborately cool about the affair.

The woman was grieved beyond utterance, her eyes wide and her mouth open and trembling, as if she would scream but could not. The little girl was curled in behind Mutter’s big skirts, whimpering.

The boy I watched, as I’d pegged him for smart. With his hands hanging limp at his sides he walked beneath his father’s dancing boots, then gave a cry and made a move to loosen the rope about the cottonwood trunk. He was close to fourteen and still foreign to his toes.

I gave no warning but the cocking of my Navy Colt and booked the boy passage with his father. He did not turn, and the ball tore him between the blades. His death was instant.

My face was profound, I hoped, when I faced Black John.

“Pups make hounds,” I said. “And there are hounds enough.”

Black John nodded, then said solemnly, “Jake Roedel, you are a rare Dutchman.”

Pitt Mackeson glared at me wrinkle-nosed, as if I were something hogs had vomited.

“Did you see that?” he asked. “Shot the boy in the back! Couldn’t shoot him face-to-face. Goddamn Dutchman!