Dust

The dust burns his eyes. The dust burns his skin.

The sun is too hot and too bright. It hammers the sky to brittle, eggshell-thin whiteness. French thinks if you tapped the sky it would break into a maze of fractures, mirroring the crazy crackling of the playa around him.

He's not sure how many hours it's been since the thunderstorm swirled up out of the sagebrush-- out of a cloudless sky-- and came screaming across the Alvord Desert. Ragged forks of lightning smashed down into the flats. The horses spooked. Maybe one of them stepped in a hole, maybe one of the buckboard's wheels broke through the alkali crust into the gluey mud underneath.

Now he's lying with his leg pinned under the overturned wagon. One of the horses got free and bolted. He had to shoot the other to stop it screaming. He can't get loose, can't signal for help. The shallow slick of water left by the storm has dried up, and bitter white dust swirls across the breezeless desert. Pete French is coated in it. He can feel it in his mouth. He can feel it in every fold and crease of his body. He feels flayed alive and dipped in dust. With every shift of his body it works deeper into his flesh, a passionless, impersonal violation.

Every human being in Malheur County hates the alkali dust. Men swear and slap at their grubby clothes, raising stinging grey-white clouds. Pinch-lipped women sweep and wipe and scrub dingy curtains, cursing the wind that undoes their work before it's properly done. Even children, who revel in honest dirt, cry and whine when the dust gets into their clothes and chafes them. The glasses in the Burns Saloon are ringed with minerals.

Pete French lies in the dust and waits to die.

***

"Better stay off the alkali flats, Mr. French. It's dangerous."

"It's twice as far to go round, isn't it? What's the danger?"

The old Basque looked away and refused to answer.

"It must be dry out there. You said it's been months since you've seen rain." French gathered up the team's reins. "I've business in Andrews and I'm not taking the long road to get there. Your sheep might get sunk in a little mud, but this wagon's built to handle it."

He snapped the reins and the horses began to move. The creak of the wagon almost drowned out Azcuenaga's reply: "Not mud. Dust."

***

"Son, you listen to me. All the land worth having in California is owned now. From here on out it will only change hands and the price will go up and up. If you want a spread of your own-- what young man doesn't?-- you'll go north. Oregon, that's where the open country is these days. That's where you want to go for cattle."

"Sir, isn't it mostly desert east of the mountains?" And I've heard the Indians are hostile. French didn't say this aloud. Dr. Hugh Glenn respected caution, but had no patience for fear. French hoped to court Glenn's sweet daughter Ella.

Dr. Glenn sniffed. "An Easterner's opinion. Because there's no trees on the land doesn't make it desert. Do cows eat trees-- eh! Tell me that."

"No, sir. But they do drink water."

"Well then. There's a great mountain, they call it the Steens Mountain, out in the southeastern corner of the state. Where there's a mountain, there's bound to be water. Why, some maps show a lake at the foot of the Steens.

"Now, there's twelve hundred head of shorthorns on my Sacramento holding..."

***

You old fool, thought French. The Alvord Lake was a lake during the winter rains only, and the water would kill you if you could manage to drink it for the bitterness. And as French had now learned, the lake was equally murderous when it was the Alvord Desert.

French had been on his way north to Andrews to try to rent pasture or buy hay. The shorthorn cows he'd brought from California were penned up outside Denio and they'd eaten the grass to the ground in the first day. His vaqueros were good men on the trail, but not to be trusted when idle. French had to find a spread, and quickly.

Now he was dying under a wagon and his cattle would likely be auctioned off to some Oregon cattleman. Or slaughtered outright. French had seen no decent grazing this side of Winnemucca.

Where there's a mountain, there's bound to be water. The Steens's scalloped crest loomed above him. The east face, shadowless in the noonday sun, plunged five thousand feet straight down into the playa. The locals had said there was snow year-round on the Steens. French thought it was a lie. There was no green on that vast cliff, no trace of life or moisture. The alkali desert stretched away to the east, mile after mile after shimmering, glare-white mile. Bitter as sin and poisonous as hate. "I hate you," croaked French, and tried to spit the dust from his lips. "I hate you!"

His lips were cracked and bleeding. He watched the red drops sink into the dry white dirt.

***

"¡Ay!" Azcuenaga leaped to his feet like a much younger man. "Mr. French! Where is your wagon? Your horses? You are hurt?"

"Never mind," muttered French. He eased himself down on a rock and wiped his face. Azcuenaga hurried to offer him a leather water-flask.

French took a swig and grimaced. Azcuenaga frowned. "It's good water, from the spring here."

"Sorry. Listen, I didn't get to Andrews. I got a tip. Is there a man hereabouts name of Porter? Has some cattle? I heard he wants to sell."

"I know him. In Fields maybe you can find him. Maybe he will sell. Mr. French, who gave you this tip? You met someone on the desert?"

"Yeah. Oh, yeah." French grinned. His teeth were blood-streaked. "Can I rent your mule? I have to get to Fields and find this Porter."

"Take the mule," said Azcuenaga. His hand moved in the sign of the cross, and then in another, far older, sign.

***

There was snow on Steens Mountain, if not year-round, at least most of the year. And even in late summer, when last year's drifts had finally melted out of the hollows in the deep horseshoe valleys, you could get snow up there at any time though it wouldn't last.

You could see it from the Blitzen Valley, at the foot of the mountain's long western slope. You could see it from the former Porter spread, now called the French spread, along the banks of the Blitzen River.

The consensus around the town of Burns was that Porter had been a fool. "Best grass and water for a hundred miles. Why the blazes would he sell?"

"He hated the dust," offered the saloonkeeper.

"Shoo. Don't we all?"

The next man down the bar said, "But it beats me why old Porter would care. That Blitzen Valley, that must be the least dustiest place in three counties. Why, last week when French drove his buckboard up here, there wasn't a speck of dirt on it."

The saloonkeeper frowned. "Don't go talking nonsense. I saw Jim Porter in here many a time, and if he wasn't dusty when he left home he sure was by the time he got here."

"I saw what I saw," said the other stubbornly. He turned to the man next to him. "What you think, Oliver? Your spread borders on his."

Ed Oliver drained his glass and shrugged. "Plenty dust where I am."

The batwing doors banged open, framing a cowboy silhouette against the white glare of the street. A wash of hot air and acrid grit eddied around the inside of the saloon, followed by a string of half-hearted curses.

The newcomer doffed his hat, letting a floury stream of dust spill from the wide brim. His boots left whitish tracks on the splintered floorboards as he crossed the room to the bar. "Friends, you'll never guess the sight I seen just now."

There was some good-natured raillery, which the cowboy ignored. "String of wagons headed down south," he said. "Loaded with barb-wire. Miles and miles of it. Guess where they're headed?" A chorus of demands. "Blitzen River. The Porter place. French place."

A jumble of voices. "He's fixing to fence off the Blitzen? --Where's he get the nerve? --Where's he get the money?"

"California," said the saloonkeeper. "He's engaged to some rich man's daughter, and her pappy's staking him. That's what I heard. Name of Glenn."

More silence. Faces half-turned in the comfortable dimness of the saloon. No-one wanted to see who said, "He's got no right..."

***

Dearest Father,

Now that I have settled into my new Oregon home, it is time to reassure you and Mother that I am happy and comfortable here. The Blitzen Valley is very picturesque and green at all times. The cattle under the French brand are fat and healthy with glossy coats. Indeed, I am struck by the contrast between the lands and stock owned by my dear husband, Mr. Pete French, and those of his-- our-- neighbors. Every other ranch I have seen appears overrun with dust that at times forms marching dunes, like sand dunes but of finer grains, and these dunes can be as high as fifteen or twenty feet. I am assured that the material of which they are composed is most corrosive and unpleasant, being alkaline. I have this by report only, seeing that the "French spread", where I now dwell, is entirely devoid of these curious features.

The fencing project proceeds apace, but I must report that it has met with some resistance from the aforementioned neighbors. Parties have been observed riding the edges of French land by night, and in the morning many stretches of fence are found to have been cut, each wire being severed between each post. Our men must stretch the wires tight and splice them, for it would cost too much to replace them. Some pieces have been repaired three and four times. Mr. French complains to the local marshal, but no action has yet resulted.

I lay to this trouble the responsibility for my husband's behavior, which has, I must say, been at times erratic. He complains of dust in his clothes and bedding, yet I see none. I am sure, Father, you know that Mother brought me and my sisters up to know when a house is clean. I am sure you also know the quality of my cooking, which Mr. French consumes with but poor grace. I must say in his favor that he is very clean in his personal habits.

Please give my love to Jane and Anna, and of course as always to yourself and Mother. You will be always in my thoughts as I make my new life here at the foot of the Steens Mountain.

Your affectionate Daughter,
Ella French

***

The Blitzen Valley lay brown and bare, speckled with snow. Ed Oliver's spit froze and crackled when it hit the ground.

Christmas Day, he thought, a man ought to be home with his family. But cows have to drink on Christmas just like any other day, and Ed's tanks were frozen solid clear to the bottom.

His cows lowed, tossing their heads. They could smell water, Ed guessed, smell the Blitzen River still flowing under ice that wasn't too thick for them to crack with their hooves. They were picking up speed, too; he broke into a run to keep up with them.

Suddenly there were riders bearing down on him. Three plunged past him, turning the herd away from the water with slaps of their rawhide ropes. The thirsty cows bawled in protest, almost drowning out an angry shout.

"Oliver! Oliver, I told you before, you keep your goddamn cows off my land!"

Ed Oliver looked up. "Mr. French, I got a right-of-way. Remember? The judge said I could drive my cows to the water."

Pete French swung down from his saddle and stalked up to Oliver. "Judge? You see a judge out here? I tell you this is my land and you stay off it."

Ed glanced around desperately. There were at least half a dozen of French's men in sight and who knew how many more harrying his poor cows. "What else can I do, Mr. French? You bought up the land on all four sides of me. My cows need to drink."

"You should have sold out to me. I offered you fair price."

"You offered me chicken-feed!"

"It's more than your spread's worth."

"You never offered any man a fair price since you came in this valley," said Ed Oliver. "You bought and you bought and you fenced off the sweet water and drove the rest of us into debt digging wells that turned up bitter. I believe you'd stand there and watch my cows die of thirst, like you didn't have a heart in you. What kind of man are you, Pete French?"

The words crowded to his tongue, unstoppable as a stampede. "How come a man's fields dry up and blow away and as soon as you lay hand on them they turn green again? I've seen dust storms roll across my land and hit your fence line and stop! Look at you!" He pointed at French's immaculate shirtfront with a trembling hand. "Dust doesn't stick to you! You ain't no natural man. It's not right, and someone's going to pay!"

French threw back his head and laughed wildly. "Pay? Pay? Look, you damned fool, look!"

He spat twice in his palm and shoved his hand under Ed's nose. Ed recoiled violently. On Pete French's leathered palm rested two little mounds of white powder.

"You don't think I've paid? I don't eat or drink but it tastes like dust. Everything I touch feels like dust. My wife's hair. My children's faces. It doesn't touch my land, my stock, my kin. But me-- me, Pete French-- me it claims complete." His finger pointed between Ed Oliver's wide eyes. "I am dust! So are you, Oliver, you and the whole damn Blitzen Valley-- Dust damn you! Dust take you all!"

Sobbing with panic, Ed Oliver stumbled back and clawed out his gun. Pete French stood and watched him pull the trigger once, twice, three times. With each bullet, dust gouted from the front of French's shirt. He sank to his knees, coughing. Dust spurted from his lips and whitened the ground in front of him.

A hot acrid wind boomed down the Blitzen. Ed threw up an arm to protect his face, feeling grit sear his skin. Frightened horses whinnied and he heard one of the vaqueros curse.

Slowly Ed Oliver opened his eyes. In front of him lay Pete French's empty clothes, embedded in a heap of alkali dust.

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