Bitter Creek Read Free Page B

dusk until eleven at night.
    â€œWhy he coming back?” said Madelaine. Chappie was quiet.
    â€œHe don’t say,” he said. “But when we sweat, you know how it is, Benetsee’s lodge there, old voices, dead people maybe, they are singing and he hear a voice, sings ‘bitter creek bitter creek bitter creek.’ When they sing, it gets cold in the lodge, and that lodge is so hot. …”
    â€œI don’t know Bitter Creek,” said Madelaine. “You know, Du Pré? Why it get cold?”
    â€œThey were murdered maybe,” said Du Pré.
    â€œPatchen, he is ver’ smart,” said Chappie. “He show up, we are in Iraq, he looks about fifteen, you know, does the salutes, makes the little speech, asks to speak to me privately, says, at ease, now what the fuck do I do?”
    Du Pré and Madelaine laughed. “I tell him keep his head lower than anybody else’s, we are all trying that, we are in a fucking shooting gallery and are the rubber ducks. …”
    Chappie made more drinks. “He is all right,” he said. The road was deserted.
    â€œDamn,” said Du Pré. “It is like driving a milk truck.”
    â€œYou want your Crown Victoria, the souped-up engine,” said Madelaine.
    â€œIt has center of gravity under my butt,” said Du Pré. “In this thing, it is over my head about ten feet.”
    In time they saw the lights of Havre and they picked up the Hi-Line that went due east. It was two-lane, too, and had heavy trucks lumbering along at sixty miles per hour on it. Du Pré passed when he could.
    They got back to Toussaint at eleven, and Du Pré pulled up to the saloon, which still had lights on. They got out of the truck and went in. Susan Klein was behind the bar, and three men in worn work clothes were drinking draft beers. The men were spackled with bits of hay.
    They had just quit working. This time of the year, when the hay was put up, days were sixteen hours.
    The men finished their beers and walked out, nodding to Du Pré and Madelaine and Chappie as they passed by.
    Susan looked up and smiled when they sat down. She fixed two stiff ditches and some pink wine and she set the drinks on the bar.
    â€œAll done?” she asked Chappie.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œYou did good,” said Susan, patting his mangled hand. Chappie nodded.
    The television behind the bar was showing ambulances and armed men, burned walls, and tables and chairs thrown over.
    The door opened and Bassman and Père Godin came in, bickering about something.
    â€¦ shit, thought Du Pré … we play tomorrow night …
    Bassman and Madelaine hugged. Bassman reeked of marijuana, like always.
    Susan drew two beers and she set them up.
    Père Godin looked round the empty room.
    â€œWe maybe should have left earlier,” he said, looking at Bassman reproachfully.
    â€œOld goat,” said Bassman. “You got enough children. You got about two hundred children, old goat. Should cut your balls off so I don’t have to listen to you bitch—no women you give children to here. …” Du Pré and Madelaine and Chappie­ laughed.
    â€œIt is seventy-three children,” said Père Godin, “that is all.”
    â€œKim come, too?” said Madelaine, looking at Bassman.
    Bassman shook his head. “Come tomorrow,” he said. “She had stuff, do, said I maybe behave so she doesn’t have, shoot me tomorrow.” Madelaine nodded.
    â€œMe, I thought Montana land of fucking opportunity,” said Bassman.
    â€œPère Godin,” said Madelaine, “you know anything, got ‘bitter creek’ in it?”
    â€œSure,” said Père Godin, “know a song anyway.”
    Madelaine nodded.
    Père Godin looked mournfully around the room. “Old horny bastard,” said Madelaine. “What is the song about?”
    â€œLittle girl,” said Père Godin. “Little