Free At Play in the Fields of the Lord by Peter Matthiessen Page B

Life Force, the Great Mystery, is
wakan
; in certain jungle tribes a word of quite similar meaning is pronounced
waka!
”
    “The Great Mystery, huh?”
    “You probably know much more than I do—”
    “You are trying to tell me that there are similarities between the Plains Indians and these Indians we are going to bomb, isn’t that right? Well, there were much greater similarities between my people and the Crow, between my people and the Shoshone, and even when the one real enemy was the white man, we killed Crows and Shoshones whenever we had the chance.”
    Moon was silent for a time. Then he said suddenly, “I know all about you, Quarrier. You’re a pain-in-the-ass type, a nosy … Listen, we had one just like you when I was a kid, always appealing to our primitive nobility. He was all read up on the proud Cheyenne in paint and eagle feathers, and all he found was a pack of ragged halfbreeds chewing dog meat. ‘Can’t you see we’re trying to
help
you people—?’ Christ! The Indian didn’t
need
help until the white man came along, and here was this poor sonofabitch looking for
gratitude
–”
    Then Wolfie shuffled in, swollen and sobered, one hand scratching his chin bristles, the other still fumbling with his trousers. Behind him marched Mercedes, looking put upon; haughtily, arms still straight at her sides, she went on out the door into the street, like a huge toy. Wolfie glared sheepishly at Moon. “Lousy,” he said, and coughed and spat. “I mean, that was
really
a nowhere hump. Nowhere at all.” To Quarrier he said, “You got a wife upstairs here, right? You people
screw
at least, I hope. So keep your eyes to yourself.”
    Quarrier rose without expression and went out toward the latrine.
    “Well, I’m glad you
got
one, anyway,” Wolfie called. When Quarrier was gone, he said to Moon, “You dig that guy, huh?”
    “He’s all right,” Moon said. “He’s better than most of them; at least he’s not stupid.”
    “He’s not, huh? You mean he just
looks
stupid. He just
acts
stupid.” Wolfie, scratching, sounded like a pig on a dry fence. “So where’s the treacherous greaser?” But even as he spoke the door opened and the Comandante appeared. He too looked angry, and he yelled violently at his son Fausto, “Son of a cow! Close the doors, close the shutters, before the Gran Hotel Dolores is stolen out from under you!” And the boy, jolted from his sleep, dropped down behind the bar in case something was hurled at him, then darted out at the far end and scurried to close the doors.
    The Comandante pitched over to the table, where he drank down a half-bottle of beer at a single draught. When he came up for air he was breathing hoarsely. His color was bad and his fly was open. “We arr es-spik Ingliss,” he gasped finally at Moon, then nodded craftily toward the room in the rear. “
Piloto
, you wan focks woo-man, no?
La chica
Suzie—drunk! Ferry drunk!” He raised both hands to the side of his head to indicate that the girl was unconscious.
“Ahora”
—he pointed at the door—“you focks Indio gurl,
vamos
, no pay
nada
.” He raised two fingers, grinning triumphantly at Moon, his gold tooth gleaming. “Indio boy,” he said, “fock Indio gurl, no pay
nada
.”
    Moon grinned back at him. In a flat voice he said, “The Comandante is a dirty pig.
Un maricón sin vergüenza
.”
    A moment later, he lay flat upon the floor. Guzmán had taken a large beer bottle by the neck and whipped him a backhand blow along the skull; he stood over Moon, holding the bottle by the neck. Quick as a snake, Moon thought, quick as a snake. The bottle was not broken, so at least he was not cut. A fractured skull, maybe. He gazed peacefully at Sheriff Guzmán from the floor. If you don’t kill me now while you have the chance, he thought, you’re going to regret it.
    An arm appeared around the Sheriff’s neck, and a wild hairy face over his shoulder; both disappeared from view. A