Chapter III
Our Town
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Chapter III
Our Town
Now let me tell you a little about the town Asiago stumbled into. It ain't much, a few planks and shingles spread on the high flat plains of the eastr'n part of Wyoming Territory, with the Rockies close enough to see but too far for travelin'--something pretty but beyond reach. Looks a little bit like the mountains just coughed up the flat land, the dusty dry land they didn't want. Why any human person wants the land, God knows.
The locals call the town Keenan's. It had been a trading post owned by a man of that name many years ago. Keenan was long passed but the town that grew up around him kept the name. Probably was Keenan's Town, or Keenan's Gulch, Keenan's Post, or Keenan's Asshole, or some such, but one more word just seems unnecessary.
Weeks passed and Asiago settled into a routine. He would visit the Rusty Nail on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday mornings for breakfast. "Eggs?" he would ask as he came in. "Fresh from the hen's ass" I would yell back. Then he would cackle, and pull up to the bar. He also would stop by on Thursday evening after his regular manicure appointment with Crystal, and have a glass of wine and sneak a few of the olives I had stuffed. I don't know what he did with the rest of his time, what he did to earn money, or even where he lived.
One Thursday evening I just asked him. "Asiago, whatsit you do with your time?"
"Well," he said, "I pick up work here and there, done some cow punching or odd chores on some of the ranches around here. I have been helping Iron Mike with the blacksmithing from time to time. "
"Where do you live? You don't have a room anyplace."
"I spent a few nights at the Happy Clapper. The ladies were nice enough, but I was just paying rent for a room, and they could put the space to better use. I looked around some, but I never much liked walls. Bed roll and camp fire are fine with me. I found a nice little place on the rise above the cemetery. My horse likes the grass, and we both like the quiet."
His choice of boarding chilled me. "That's pretty creepy, sleeping near graves, ain't it? We'll all have time enough there."
"I find it kind of peaceful; doesn't bother me at all. I figure I am the only company those folks have, and they are certainly polite enough. The way I figure it, everyone is born, lives, then dies. Those folks finished their tour and I like to think about their stories. Then I can look down the hill, to the lights of the town, and think about all the folks who are just in the middle part of the journey. I find comfort in the cycle.
"One thing does trouble me though. I have gotten pretty familiar with the spirits up there. But there are more spirits than there are graves. Seems like a lot of people not accounted for by the grave stones."
I stared at him. The man was babbling about spirits as if they was neighbors or something.
"I think you are spending too much time alone, Asiago, and too much time with the dead. Spirits and ghosts and such are signs that a man's mind is wandering beyond where it should go. You need to shake some of those thoughts out of your head, maybe spend a little time with Crystal doing something beyond getting your nails done. From what I have seen, a good poke can cure many a man's ills; woman's too."
"A good poke is like a good cigar; you don't have to inhale to enjoy. But such things should be discussed over a quiet dinner and I hope at some point you will oblige me with the one if not the other."
"Why, Asiago, you invitin' me?"
"Yes I am. Mrs. Muldoon, would you have dinner with me sometime."
"I don't know. Them spirits going to be there."
"Don't make fun of me Lilly. The spirits are my company, even the ones that are strangers."
"Stranger than being dead."
"No. Strangers because they ain't remembered. They wander up there looking for something familiar, but they are lost."
"Asiago, we've given everyone who has died in this town a Christian burial; black, white, Indian or whatever. No matter how they lived, or what they were, anyone who died in this town got buried and got a marker."
"I don't know how to explain it, Lilly. And they hurt, even in death."
"You don't know ..."
"He's right!" boomed a voice from a dark corner of the saloon. I 'bout twisted my neck snappin' round because the voice was unfamiliar.
"He's right!" said the voice again. This time I could see the source; a shabby, weathered character bent over a coffee cup at a small table in the far corner. He was one we called "Old Injun"; we didn't know his name, but everyone just called him what he seemed to be. Since he don't talk or nothin, we only knew what we saw, and what we saw was an old injun.
Old Injun straightened up and looked at me and Asiago. "This town, these buildings, that graveyard, are all built on the land of my people. We lived here for many years, trading with the other tribes, raising our families. The French and the English traders were the first whites to come. They brought trade, their Jesus, but also their pox. Most of my people died. The rest went to the Western Mountains. I stayed."
"Who are your people," asked Asiago.
"Whites know them as Cheyenne. You would know us as Só'taa'e."
Asiago nodded. Old Injun's distinction between "whites" and "you" took a minute to sink in. I looked at Asiago, trying to figure out what Old Injun meant.
"The spirits that are unknown to you are my ancestors wandering about the place that was taken from them."
"And who are you, my friend," asked Asiago.
Old Injun stared into the distance. "I have no name now. My people are gone and I have no one to call me. The missionaries named me John. If you want to call me anything, call me that."
Asiago, walked over to Old Injun, who was by now looking down at his coffee. "John," Asiago whispered. Old Injun looked up and Asiago made some movements with his hands. Old Injun nodded slightly. Asiago walked back to the bar.
"What was all that about," I asked.
"A sign of gratitude and respect."
"Oh."
Asiago stared at me for a minute. "What do you know of this town, Lilly?"
Well Mr. Muldoon and I came here about 7 years ago. Weren't much. Still ain't. There was the Happy Clapper to serve some of the traders, a few shacks and the street. Mr. Muldoon and me was just passing through, plannin' on Oregon, but this Methodist couple that ran the Happy Clapper got friendly with us. They said whoring without liquor wasn't a money making proposition but they weren't gonna to serve liquor, as it was unChristian. Wondered if we would partner up with them and do the saloonin'. Mr. Muldoon and I didn't have such scruples, saw an opportunity and opened up the Rusty Nail. The whoring helps the liquor and the liquor helps the whoring. When the Methodists died, the wife's sister took over the Clapper. Together we built a church. We got ourselves a real economy in this town."
"It doesn't seem much of a going enterprise."
"Well, whats you going to do," says I. "Town is in the middle of nowhere; no river; no roads. Just a bunch of cowboys and trappers passing through. Other than whiskey and women and religion, not much else to sell. Tried the stuffed olives, but they ain't goin' over too well."
"I like 'em," and reached over, plucked one out of the bin, and kind of shot it into his mouth by squeezing the sides.
{{{{{To be continued}}}}}