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Bait
by D. Kirts Lewis
Edwin Allan put his .44 back in its holster and turned to his daughter. With no remorse in her heart, Gracie waited patiently as the man’s chest fell and his eyes rolled from brown to white. She picked up his pistol and carefully laid it on the edge of the shattered display case.
“I suppose I oughta go get Uncle Walt.” She kissed her father, hung the closed sign in the window and stepped out onto the boardwalk. Placing the key in the lock she looked up the street toward the bank and down the street toward the train station then caught her own image in the glass. She stepped back and thought about the first time she’d ever laid eyes on the San Pedro Mercantile just a little more than five years ago.
* * *
“What do you think, Gracie?”
“Well, Papa, I think it needs a good cleanin’.”
Edwin laughed as he pulled cobwebs from the corner of the recessed doorway. “Nothin’ a broom and a rag can’t handle.”
Gracie wiggled her nose and turned her attention to the rotting, water-stained wooden awning that hung just above the arched clerestory window. She focused on a rusty brown streak that stained the faded blue dentil molding as it made its way over the side window, past the broken sill, then through a crack in the boardwalk.
“Grit and a hammer is more like it, Papa.”
Edwin smiled as he pulled Gracie close and pointed to the broken glass that made up the top half of the door. “Now that’s a pretty picture if I ever did see one. Those two people staring back at us are gonna have a good life, startin’ right now.”
Gracie squinted at their reflection, wiggled her nose again and when that didn’t solve the problem she reached up with one finger and pushed her glasses into place.
“He was a bad man, wasn’t he Papa?”
Edwin turned his daughter to face him. “I dealt with a lot of bad men when I was a bounty hunter, Gracie, but he was the worst. It was pull the trigger or die. You understand that don’t you?”
Gracie smiled. “I’ve got the grit. You best know how to use a hammer. Let’s go inside and see what we got ourselves into.”
* * *
As Gracie retrieved the key from the lock she caught the reflection of Marshal Frye running toward her and her thoughts drifted to their first meeting and the years that had passed between then and now.
* * *
The bell rang and the pig-tailed teenager looked down from the ladder to see a gentleman of about forty years peering over the top of a stack of crates.
“We’re not open yet, sir, but if you can tell me what it is you’re lookin’ for I’ll see if I can find it.”
The fellow chuckled as he looked around at the multitude of crates and barrels. “I think I can wait until you’re open but I would like to speak to the owner.”
Gracie smiled. “That’d be me and my Papa. He’s in the back room. I’ll get him in case it’s somethin’ he needs to hear.”
Her father stepped out from the back room doorway. “Afternoon. I’m Edwin Allan and you’ve already meet my partner, Gracie. What can we do for you today, sir?”
“I’m . . . ” The man looked down, ran his hands across his chest, then chuckled and pulled his coat aside to reveal a silver star. “It’s a little chilly out today. I’m Marshal Frye. Just wanted to come by and welcome you to town and let you know I got that letter from Sheriff Statler from over in Sweetwater.”
“Hess is a good friend of mine. He thought you should know the reason behind us bein’ here.”
“I have a few questions, but I’ll save them for another time.”
“Gracie and I don’t have any secrets, Marshal. You can ask.”
Marshal Frye shook his head. “He had a bounty on his head for three years and nobody ever even got a look at him. How did you get close enough to shoot him?”
The girl looked down from the ladder. “Papa —”
Edwin put his hand up to stop her. “He came to me. I guess I must have gotten too close for comfort and he figured on takin’ me out to get rid of the threat. Gracie and I had just set down to supper. Needless to say, we didn’t eat until breakfast the next mornin’.”
Frye looked up at the girl, then back to Edwin. “She was there when you shot him?”
Edwin motioned for her to join him. “She was there.” He put his arm around her. “We’re dealin’ with it together.”
“I guess my only other question for now is can I call on you if I need to?”
“Like Hess’s letter said, I’m not a bounty hunter anymore, Marshal.” Edwin pulled his daughter closer. “It brings danger too close to home. This town is a new start for Gracie and me and I’d prefer that no one here knows me as anything other than the proprietor of the mercantile.”
“I can respect that. But if something comes along that I can’t handle I just want you to know that I will ask again.”
“I won’t just stand back and watch if I’m needed but I’ll make that distinction when it becomes necessary.”
“Carter had a couple of brothers, you know. They weren’t anything like him but you know how family can be.”
“That’s one of the reasons I wanted a little distance between us and Sweetwater. I’ll have some warnin’ if any of Carter’s family is headed this way.”
“Fair enough. I’ll let the two of you get back to work. Welcome to Benson.”
* * *
Edwin dried his face. “Well, Gracie, we open the doors tomorrow. Are you ready for our first day?”
“Put it on, Papa. And yes, I’m ready.” Edwin smiled as he took the gun belt she offered, wrapped it around his waist, buckled it, and tied the holster down.
“I’ll get the stew and the bread out of the oven while you set the table.”
“Check it first, Papa.”
Edwin drew the .44 and slowly spun the cylinder, checking each chamber. “We’re good.”
“I’d better wash up, too.” Gracie smiled. ”Marshal Frye will be here any minute.”
“Put them on, Gracie.”
She dried her face and accepted her glasses.
* * *
“You’ve got this place fixed up real nice.” Frye patted his belly. “You’re spoiling me, Gracie, Whatever you got cooking smells just as good if not better than last night.”
“It’s one of Papa’s favorites. Rabbit stew. We got a couple while we were out target shootin’.”
The marshal laughed. “I’m glad to hear you’ve got your Papa doing something besides banging nails. He doesn’t make you clean his guns for him does he?”
Edwin smiled. “She only has to clean what she dirties.”
“Well then, Gracie, I’ll help with the eating and then we’ll let your Papa clean his guns while me and you do the dishes. Sound fair?”
“Sounds fair to me.” She pushed her glasses into place and smiled.
The lawman pulled out a chair and grinned. “Are you going to wear that pistol at the table every night? Because I promise I’m not here to start any kind of trouble.”
Edwin laughed. “I’ve seen how much you can eat. I just wanna make sure I get my fair share.”
“I make Papa wear it at the table.” Gracie walked over and locked the door. “We’ve had unwanted visitors before, remember?”
Their guest smiled. “I suppose it’s not a bad idea at that.”
* * *
“That was some mighty fine stew, Gracie.” Frye sat back from the table. “You’ll have to give your papa a day off now and then so he can do something useful like hunting rabbit because I think he’ll just be getting in your way when you open up tomorrow.”
Gracie laughed. “You just want him helpin’ you is all. He’d just be takin’ up space at the jailhouse ‘cause I haven’t heard a single shot since we’ve been here. I’ll keep him around. Some of those crates are a little hard to move all by myself.”
“You two do know I’m sittin’ right here, don’t you?” Edwin grinned.
The marshal chuckled. “Yeah, Ed. We see you. We’re just having a hard time figuring out what you’re good for now that you stopped chasing varmints.”
“I’ve been spendin’ my luxury time tryin’ to figure out how to build a better rat trap. Seems to me if I can figure how to draw the varmints into the jailhouse, you can just turn the key and take the credit.”
“You might just have something there, Ed. We find out what kind of cheese they prefer and bait accordingly.”
Gracie pushed her glasses into place. “It would work, you know.”
“What would, Gracie?” Frye leaned back in his chair.
“Baitin’ the trap. Now I’m not suggestin’ you bait for murderers and such. Just for pests like that elusive chicken thief you’ve been tryin’ to catch.”
“You just might have something there, Gracie. What do you think, Ed?”
“I think if you can catch a few rats, the rest of ‘em will scatter. You just need to figure out a way then plant a rumor.”
Frye laughed. “Tell them where to find the best tasting chickens in Benson?”
“Exactly.” Gracie smiled. ”Now, Marshal, I believe you and me have some dishes to do.”
Edwin took over the table and started cleaning his pistol and rifle. He stopped a few times to listen to the conversation at the sink.
“Did you hear that, Ed?” Frye laughed. “I should be working on getting her to sign on and leaving you with the inventory and sales. She just laid out the whole plan for catching that chicken thief and the joker that keeps stealing laundry off the clothes lines around here.”
Ed chuckled. “Now, Walt, you just keep comin’ around a few nights a week for supper and to get some small-time-thief-catchin’ advice from Gracie and I’ll throw in with you on the big stuff if you ever find yourself in over your head. Only one of us at a time can use this pistol and I’d prefer that’d be me.”
“Are you offering me a deal there Ed?” Frye chuckled.
Ed shook his head and smiled. “Sorta sounded that way, now didn’t it?”
“Shake on it?”
Ed stood and shook Walt’s hand. “Done deal.”
Frye kept a firm grasp. “You were right, Gracie.”
“Gracie Allan! Did you set this up?”
“Just baited the trap is all.” Gracie smiled. “I know you miss enforcing the law. I’m almost fourteen now. If Marshal Frye needs help from time to time I want you to know that I’ve got your back. I can handle the mercantile for the most part and you know I can take care of myself if you’ve gotta be out at night.”
Ed hugged Gracie. “I do miss it, Gracie, but you and me are partners. I won’t take on anything without discussin’ it with you first.”
“That goes both ways, Papa. I promise.”
“I think I’ll escort Marshal Frye back to the jail so I can lay out a few rules for him.” Edwin kissed her on the top of her head. “You know what to do.”
“’Night, Uncle Walt.” Gracie smiled then headed to her room and prepared herself to be alone.
* * *
Her five-year-reverie was broken when Gracie heard the bell over the door ring. She pushed her glasses in place and smiled. “Afternoon, Marshal. You’ve got that look on your face. What is it you’re needin’ today — thief catchin’ advice or a gun hand?”
Frye chuckled. “Am I that obvious?”
Gracie laughed. “No more so than Papa when he’s holdin’ aces.”
“Then I might as well lay mine on the table.” He sighed.
“You sound kinda serious about this, Uncle Walt. Has somebody been hurt?”
“Not yet, but I don’t want it to come to that. Is your papa in the back room?”
“It’s almost time to lock up and supper is in the oven. You might just as well stay so you can discuss it with a full stomach. Papa is just cleanin’ up a bit. Head on in. I’ll be right behind you.”Gracie locked the door, grabbed the gun belt from behind the counter, and headed for their rooms in the back of the store. “Put it on, Papa.”
Edwin smiled, took the gun belt that Gracie offered, wrapped it around his waist, buckled it, and tied the holster down. “I’ll get the pot roast and the biscuits out of the oven while you wash up.”
Marshal Frye took his place at the table and watched the familiar routine.
“Check it first, Papa.”
Edwin drew the .44 and slowly spun the cylinder, checking each chamber. “We’re good.”
Gracie locked the back door, headed to the sink and washed her face and hands.
“Put them on, Gracie.” He held out her glasses.
* * *
Ed pushed his plate back and rubbed his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense, Walt. Anybody that knows a damn thing about this town knows there’s no money in the bank until the auction and anybody with any sense at all would rob the train long before it got within sight of town.”
“Well now, most of the people we’ve locked up over the past five years landed there because they didn’t have any sense. What I’m thinking is if we can figure out stupidity, maybe we can stop a hold-up before it happens and somebody gets hurt.”
Gracie stood to clear the table. “Are you sure you’re dealin’ with stupidity and not genius?”
“How’s that, Gracie?” Frye cocked his head.
“I’d bet my last dollar you’ve hit the boardwalk runnin’ south each and every time you heard the train whistle blow and north every time you’ve seen a stranger headin’ toward the bank.”
“Well, yes, I guess I have.”
“You’d do best to hit the boardwalk and take up a seat. Sit a spell and see if you can spot who might be watchin' you. Might just be someone havin’ a good time winnin’ bets at your expense or it could be someone tryin’ to learn your behavior. They’ll either have a good laugh or they’ll make a play on the opposite end of town. How’d you find out about this plan?”
Marshal Frye leaned back in his chair and reached into his pocket. “I got it right here. Delivered to the jailhouse this morning. Postmark says Benson.” He unfolded the picture postcard and handed it to Gracie
She wiggled her nose then reached up and pushed her glasses into place. The picture showed the Sweetwater train station. Gracie turned it over, stared at the familiar handwriting, shivered and dropped the card to the floor.
Edwin stood at his chair. “Are you all right, Gracie?”
She forced a smile then bent to retrieve the card. “Just a chill, Papa.”
“Let me have a look.” Edwin took the note from her hand. Between the train and the bank you have something I want. With furrowed brow, Edwin looked up at Gracie then back to the note.
Marshal Frye put his hands on his hips. “You both look a little rattled. You want to sit back down and talk about this?”
Edwin handed the card back to Frye, sat, eased back in his chair and smiled. “I’m sidin’ with Gracie on this one, Walt. I think you’ve got a prankster.”
Frye looked at the note and laughed. “Well, I think I’ll side with caution for a day or two and then I’ll side with Gracie and see if I can figure out who’s watching me.”
* * *
Edwin reached for Gracie’s hand, pulled her close and hugged her. “I’m gonna go send a telegram. Don’t want your Uncle Hess to worry about us. You know what to do. I’ll let you know it’s me when I come back.”
Gracie locked the door behind her father, walked to her bedroom and grabbed her Greener break-action double-barrelled 10 gauge that was propped against the wall beside her bed. She thumbed the lever, broke it open. Satisfied both primers were unscathed, she snapped it shut, pivoted a quarter turn, cradled the shotgun and rested her right arm on her hip while her finger caressed the front trigger. She pivoted another quarter turn and with her left foot forward, shotgun firmly against her right shoulder, she rested her cheek against the stock. With the thumb on her right hand she straightened her glasses, sighted down the barrel and smiled.
Relaxing her stance andturning the shotgun over her shoulder, she grabbed her journal and walked to the kitchen. She placed her notebook on her chair, laid the gun on the table and started washing the dishes. Once everything was in order she sat at the kitchen table and thumbed through her journal, stopping where the worn postcard marked the page she had written almost six years ago. She pulled the card from the book. Your father is very close to two people. Both by blood. One his blood. The other the blood of many. Of the two, whose blood will he carry on his hands for the rest of his life?
A knock on the door startled her. She put the postcard back in her journal, picked up the shotgun and put it to her shoulder. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Gracie.” Edwin came in, shut the door and locked it.
“What took you so long, Papa? I was startin’ to worry.”
“I had to find Sam, then convince him that sendin’ a telegram for me was more important than sharin’ a drink with a lovely lady.” Edwin laughed. “He was none too happy with me when he heard what I wanted it to say.”
* * *
Butch knocked on the open door of the jailhouse. “Sheriff Statler, I got a telegram here for you.”
“Well, bring it on in here, Butch.” Hess laughed. “I have no cause to lock you up today. Maybe later tonight . . . but not today.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff.” Butch nervously handed him the message.
I have a riddle for you.
“Shit, Butch. When the hell did this come in?”
“Late last night, Sheriff.” Butch took the defensive. “Didn’t think I should wake you up for it.”
“Well, damn it Butch, who ever told you to think?”
“Just figured you was playin’ that riddle game with Gracie Allan.”
“What the hell do you know about that?”
“No need gettin’ all riled, Sheriff. I’m just sayin’ it puts me to mind of a few years back when Gracie was gettin’ them postcards with riddles on ‘em. Got ‘em for about three months before the incident.” Butch shook his head. “Still can’t believe Ed only winged ‘im.”
“It was dead or alive. Ed Allan never killed a man for money.”
“Gracie used to pick up the mail on her way home from school. If there was a postcard, chances were she’d post a response within a day or two. Is Ed and Gracie doin’ alright in Benson? That’s where the telegram is from.”
“Shit, Butch. Why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”
“Just figured you knew where they lived is all.”
“It’s not from Ed!”
Hess shoved Butch out the door and pointed him in the direction of the post office.
“You need me to post a letter for you, Sheriff?”
“I need to send a telegram!”
“George ain’t there.”
“Damn it, Butch! You know the clickin’ good enough to write them down! Don’t you think maybe you could send one?”
“I reckon I could — in an emergency.”
“That telegram was from Carter! Do you think just maybe we have an emergency here, Butch?”
Butch took off his hat and scratched his head. “I didn’t think they let ‘em send telegrams from prison.”
“They don’t! He must have broke and run! Problem is he ran straight for Ed Allan!”
Butch put his hat on and started running toward the post office. “Like everybody keeps sayin’, Ed shoulda killed him while he had the chance.”
Butch sat down in front of the telegraph machine just as it came to life. “They’re askin’ for a response so they can send a message.”
“Answer them!”
“All right. All right.” Butch handed a note pad to Hess. “Just write down what you want me to say. I’ll take this one then send yours out.” Butch started to write then stopped. “No need if you’re sendin’ that to Ed. It’s too late.”
“What the hell do you mean it’s too late!”
“Ed knows he’s there.”
“Well, what did it say?”
“Just says, ‘I know.’”
“All that tapping and that’s all it said!”
“With a long explanation of why we just now got it. Seems somebody over in New Mexico was sleepin’ on the job and—.”
Hess patted him on the back. “Good job, Butch.”
* * *
“Put it on, Papa.”
Edwin smiled as he took the gun belt that Gracie offered, wrapped it around his waist, buckled it, and tied the holster down. “I’ll finish the bacon while you get washed up for breakfast.”
“Check it first, Papa.”
The cylinder spun slowly as Edwin checked each chamber. “We’re good, Gracie.”
She nodded and pushed her glasses into place. “You know we have to bait the trap again?”
“You shouldn’t have set yourself up as the bait.”
“I had to or he wouldn’t have come.”
“Partners this time?”
She winked. “Partners.”
“So what are you thinkin’?”
“When the whistle blows, he’ll watch as Uncle Walt heads toward the station then he’ll make his move. That should be somewhere around two fifteen.” Gracie washed her face then dried it.
“Put them on.”
Gracie reached for her glasses, stopped. “Papa, you know the rat won’t go for the cheese if the cat is watchin’ the trap.”
“No Gracie. I’m not leavin’ you in the store alone.”
“It’ll just be for a minute, Papa.”
Ed sighed. “What’s your plan?”
* * *
Gracie Allan spent the better part of the morning helping customers, stocking shelves and getting ready for the one person she had hoped she’d never see again.
Edwin pointed to the clock. “It’s two o’clock, Gracie.”
Gracie pushed her glasses in place, looked at the clock and smiled. “I’m ready, Papa.”
At two twenty-three a distant train whistle sounded and she turned to her father. “Wait until Uncle Walt goes by.”
“I still don’t like this, Gracie.”
“It’s the only way to end it. He’ll never show his face with you here.”
“You should have told me the last time.”
“I know, Papa.” Gracie pointed. “There goes Uncle Walt. Go on now.”
“Damn it, Gracie. I don’t like it.”
“We gotta give him what he wants or he’ll take it out on someone else.”
“I’ll only be a minute or two.” Edwin went out of the door and down the street toward the barber shop.
* * *
Gracie turned to look at the clock. Two twenty-six. He should have been here by now. Reflective sunlight from the glass in the door moved across the wall and she turned to see Lee Carter standing just inside.
Carter chuckled as he came forward waving his pistol. “Well now, if it isn’t little Gracie Allan, all growed up and wearin’ her glasses today. You was wearin’ ‘em the other day when you was out shootin’ with that papa of yours and from what I seen you ain’t improved none in the last five years so them glasses ain’t doin’ you a damn bit a good ‘cept for helpin’ you to see who’s in control.
“I’m just guessin’ but I’d say the marshal ain’t near as good with riddles as you. Tickled me, watchin’ him run back and forth around town. Kinda surprised you ain’t in good enough with him so he’d a told you somethin’ ‘cause I think if he had, your papa wouldn’t be gettin’ a haircut with me somewheres in the neighborhood.” Carter sneered and took a step forward. “I’m gonna make the best of our short time alone.”
“I’m not alone, Carter.” She pulled the string she had tied to a nail behind the counter and the can at the other end of that string toppled off the shelf and hit the glass display case. Carter spun around, fired three shots in the direction of the crashing noise, then stared as glass and honey mingled together and dribbled from the shelf. He spun back around just as Edwin Allan ran through the back door and pulled back on the trigger on the Greener. Edwin paled with reminiscent regret at the blast of a shotgun and the aroma of spent gunpowder.
* * *
Gracie adjusted her glasses as Marshal Frye stepped up on the boardwalk. “Carter is dead, Uncle Walt.” She handed him the Greener and put her arm around his waist. “Walk with me to the undertaker’s and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“What about your papa?”
“He’ll handle the crowd that’s comin’ and keep them out of the store until we get it back in order.”
“What happened in there, Gracie?”
“I’ll start from the beginnin’, Uncle Walt.” Gracie took a deep breath. “My best friend, Beth Fox, started gettin’ postcards in the mail — riddles of sorts. She showed them to me and I’d help her with the answers. That went on for a couple of months before Beth and her mother were tortured and beaten to death. Beth was only twelve then. I forgot about the postcards for more than a year until I ran across one of them in a book Beth had loaned me. I figured out the riddle and mailed it back. I got a postcard about two weeks later with another riddle. Again I figured it out and mailed it back.
"This went on for about three months until I got one I couldn’t quite figure. I worked on it for a couple of days and finally I realized it was
referrin’ to Beth bein’ tortured. I knew then that the man who sent the cards was the man who murdered her. So I turned the tables on him and sent
a few riddles. It took him a while but he finally figured out I knew who he was and it was just a matter of time before Papa or the authorities
tracked him down. I had a trap set with me as the bait figurin’ Papa could take care of him and claim the bounty. Problem was I hadn’t gotten up the
nerve to tell Papa what I’d done. I was savin’ that for after supper.
"Papa had just finished washin’ up and I was washin’ my face when I heard a
stranger talkin’ to Papa in the kitchen. I reached for my glasses but my hand landed on Papa’s gun belt instead. The man told Papa he was gonna kill
us so I pulled the pistol and walked to the doorway. There were two figures but without my glasses I didn’t know who was who. Papa turned and all
he said was he’s on the right and that’s the direction I fired. I hit Carter in the left shoulder and bein’ a southpaw, he dropped his gun. Good
thing, ‘cause there was only one other chamber loaded and ready. Uncle Hess is the only other person that knows this.”
Gracie stopped outside the undertaker’s office. “Well, here we are.”
Frye and Gracie were halfway back to the mercantile when Frye stopped. “You mean the post card I got was from Carter?”
“Yes, Uncle Walt.”
“Why didn’t you say something, Gracie?”
“Carter wanted me. He didn’t care about gettin’ shot or the jail sentence. He didn’t like me bein’ smarter than him.”
“What did he mean about the train and the bank?”
“Me, Uncle Walt.” She pointed to the mercantile. “I’m between the train and the bank.”
“Back in Sweetwater, why not tell everybody that you were the one that shot him?”
“I knew Carter inside and out by then and so did Papa and Uncle Hess. We figured on killin’ two birds with one stone. We kept my name out of it so I wouldn’t have to deal with reporters or infuriatin’ Carter any more than he already was. We knew he’d never tell anyone it was me that outwitted him or shot him.”
“That’s one bird, Gracie. What’s the other one?”
“To get Papa free and clear of bounty huntin’. Once word got out that Edwin Allan had Lee Carter in his sights and did nothin’ but wing him the requests for help stopped comin’ in.”
“Don’t you think setting Carter up and bringing him down is going to open that up again?”
“Not a chance, Uncle Walt.”
“How are you so sure?”
Gracie put her arm in his and walked up onto the boardwalk right in front of Tim Williams, the local newspaper reporter. “What happened in there, Marshal? I hear Lee Carter was shot and killed. You know whoever got him is going to be famous.”
Still arm in arm, Gracie nudged the marshal to keep him from speaking, pointed to her Greener that Frye had in his right hand and smiled.
“It was Marshal Frye. He saved my life.”
The End
The Preacher's Daughter
by Kathi Sprayberry
Sunlight touched Annie Thompson's face. She bolted upright on the pallet that served as her bed.
"Oh, no!" She glanced around the bedroom, taking in the hooks attached to one wall where her dresses and petticoats once hung. "I'm late."
She hurried through her morning routine but had to slow down after buttoning up her dress wrong. Annie grabbed a satchel from beside her bed
and sped toward the kitchen. A floorboard creaked beneath her sturdy boots and she froze in place.
"Did Mama and Poppa hear that?" she asked in a near whisper.
No other sounds disturbed the small house and Annie continued her perilous journey until she reached the kitchen. Even then, she couldn't relax.
To maintain secrecy, she had to make everything look the same as it did any other day.
"I wish I —"
A cough and a snort stopped her from completing that wish. Annie glanced from right to left, searching. She was always searching in her home.
Searching for an escape from her poppa, the preacher of Church of the Beleaguered Lord – Halleluiah! So much had happened since he enticed their
congregation to leave Tucson only three years past and settle in Tombstone. So many changes that Annie had a hard time grasping how badly their
lives had turned out.
"It's not all bad." Annie slipped a woolen shawl around her shoulders and looked from right to left again.
Wisps of blonde hair slipped loose of the chignon she wore at the nape of her neck. Those hairs dangled against her forehead in miniature ringlets.
Midnight blue eyes widened against her peaches and cream complexion. With an hourglass figure and outward docile demeanor, Annie was what most men
pictured as the perfect woman; men without enough common sense to see she suffered the tortures of the damned.
"It has to get better soon," Annie whispered. "Thank goodness for Brady."
Her heavy heart lightened as she thought about the red-headed man who'd entered her life a year back. Brady Ryan helped Annie gather a package of
shawls she'd attempted to sell at the general store on Fremont Street after a gang of ruffians knocked her all about. His gentle manner gave Annie
hope she could forget the awful waking nightmares she suffered several times a day, the same kind her best friend, Sarah Holley, also endured.
For what else could they, two women not yet married, do in the Wild West? Their lives revolved around their father's or husband's. Women had no
right to think for themselves. Their duties were nothing but cooking and cleaning, bearing and raising children. No female was ever asked for
her opinion on important matters. Those wise in men's ways kept thoughts on politics, ranching, or farming to themselves while murmuring assent
if their husband or father asked for agreement.
Raised in such a manner, Annie felt out of place or as if she was a traitor to womankind. For think she did, and opinions sprang from her thoughts.
As yet, she hadn't voiced those opinions. That day was coming and Annie decided to risk banishment before she gave those in her church the tongue
lashing they deserved.
"Why, then, do I feel like a traitor?" Annie ground coffee and made a pot she set on the back of the grease-coated stove.
She wiped her fingers on a towel that had seen better days and steeled her backbone. Waiting would bring a confrontation with her parents and find
Annie trapped in a place where she feared for her sanity.
"Today," Annie whispered and took one last look around the filthy kitchen her parents refused to let anyone clean. "It all changes today."
The first week of October of 1882 would mark the most important decision of Annie's life. Now seventeen, of an age when most girls on the frontier
had already married and were expecting their first child, she was about to defy her poppa in a way she never imagined while growing up in Tucson.
The madness gripping her parents and most of the men and women in their church drove Annie to escape before anyone found out she saw very strange
images along Tombstone's mean streets. Not one to ignore what some called visions from the Lord, Annie couldn't believe the strange rider she
encountered daily was real.
"I can't tell anyone." Annie looked around wildly to see if anyone heard her speak. Not that she expected either of her parents to be up this
early; both had taken to lying in bed until nearly midday, leaving the running of church matters in her hands and giving Annie time to make
her escape. "Please, let Mama and Poppa still be asleep. I couldn't stand it if they stopped me."
Shambling footsteps shook the wood-framed house. Fear crept through Annie. Only one person walked like that.
"Poppa!" Annie felt the wrongness of her situation tighten around her until she had a hard time catching her breath. "I can't let him stop me."
Spurred into action to avoid Poppa's rantings, Annie snatched up the satchel and raced out the kitchen door. She had carried this particular
satchel many times in the last week while strolling along the streets, letting people believe she had the shawls inside it she planned to sell.
Today, the bag held her clothing. After almost three years living with increasing madness on the part of her parents, Annie Thompson was breaking free.
"Don't let Poppa look out the window," Annie begged the Almighty as she raced out the listing gate. A decaying fence creaked and groaned in the
everlasting wind pummeling Tombstone. "Please, Lord, don't let Mama and Poppa find me before I go away with Brady."
Annie made it to the northern edge of the silver mining town and kept up her fast pace until she reached Fifth Street. She slowed her mad dash for
a moment. Regret ran through her when she spotted the boarded up catholic church. Father Ryan disappeared last month after everyone heard several
volleys of gunshots and the Earp brothers discovered the bodies of a dozen dead miners, half inside the bullet-riddled church. The priest had
encouraged Annie to speak with Brady rather than avoiding him and she made a wonderful discovery, one she never thought to make.
Annie fell head over heels in love with a man who treated her with kindness. Brady coaxed Annie out of her fearful distrust of most of Tombstone's
residents and showed her there were good people around her.
"It's so wonderful," Annie murmured as she continued toward her destination. "Because of Mama and Poppa, I never thought any man would ask for my hand."
Doomed to choose her husband from one of the men in her poppa's church and knowing she would then have to reveal what she saw on Tombstone's mean
streets, Annie sought refuge from her terrors. Brady not only understood the fear she thought she hid so well, he suggested that she leave her
parents’ home as soon as she felt comfortable doing so. Without any other family, Annie fought the suggestion until her poppa announced at supper
last night that he had arranged a marriage for her to a man several years older than she and as corrupt as any of the lawmen in this town. Worse
than that, Avery Milkey lusted after the soiled doves in the red light district and kept one of those women in a house he rented in the more
respectable part of town, a situation Annie detested with every fiber of her being.
"Avery can find another woman to marry." Annie grinned, a grin of satisfaction at having found a way to thwart Avery's desire to have a wife and a
mistress. "Or he can marry his whore. He'll never touch me." Her skin crawled as she imagined his filthy hands touching her in any way.
Avery worked in his father's general store but, like most of the members of their church, forgot about bathing and cleanliness as 1882 crawled from
scorching summer into too-warm autumn.
At Fremont Street, Annie glanced in all directions before walking into the red light district. No one would look for her around these shacks and
tents as filthy as any pigpen. Not a single person who knew her parents would ever suspect Annie had set foot on streets where harlots and reprobates
strolled in the open. It was the perfect place to leave behind the town that threatened to drag her into the evil seeping from every corner.
A hand touched her shoulder. Annie's heart sank to the toes of her boots. She held the satchel against her chest and turned around. Ready excuses
about Christian charity to the downtrodden sprang to her lips, along with a fervent prayer the person believed her.
"Oh, Sarah, it's you," Annie said. Relief so great that she almost fainted ran through Annie once she saw her friend.
Sarah stared at Annie with troubled blue eyes. Strands escaped their confinement from the pins Sarah used to keep the honey-blonde hair
restrained. A bit shorter than Annie, and not much taller than most thirteen-year-old boys, Sarah suffered much more than anyone else in
Tombstone. Her mama had hidden an awful secret for many years. The revelation of that secret destroyed Sarah's reputation in one breath
when it was discovered her parents never married. Sarah was Doc Holliday's illegitimate child. To make matters worse, the man treated her
as if she was a cur on the street, going so far as to deny her a name in order to repair her tattered reputation.
"What are you doing?" Sarah looked right and left, one hand clasping the shawl she wore closer to her throat. "Do you want to go through what I do?"
"Of course not." Annie slipped her arm around Sarah's. "I'm just taking a walk. Why are you outside? I thought you'd still be hiding after yesterday."
Several women from the Church of the Beleaguered Lord – Halleluiah! had crossed Sarah's path near Schieffelin Hall yesterday morning. Their scathing
comments about pursuing her mother's profession, that of a whore most men despised for all the trouble she caused, drove Sarah to run down Fremont
with tears streaming from her eyes. The women gave chase while heaping more abuses upon the hapless girl, until more than half the town witnessed
the travesty.
"No." Sarah shivered. "I can handle that but it's all these people." She gestured with her free hand. "They're all covered with that weird black mist."
Therein lay the reason Annie and Sarah continued their relationship even after Reverend Thompson shunned the Holleys. The man went so far as to stalk
Sarah and her mother and exhorted Tombstone's citizens to drive the harlots into the desert without food or water. Only a timely intervention by all
three of the Earp brothers kept Annie's poppa from continuing to harass Sarah but her mother was another problem. Melinda Holley, as popular opinion
put it, had made her bed, and should pay the price for her sins.
"I hate those mists," Sarah complained. "They're everywhere. Doesn't it bother you knowing you're looking at someone who will soon die?"
"The mists aren't always right," Annie whispered. "Didn't Rose O'Cannon live in spite of having a black mist?"
"She did live," Sarah answered. "But at what cost? No decent woman will speak to her."
"It wasn't because of the mist." Annie shook her head at how easily Rose escaped the problems Sarah experienced. "Sometimes the mists are wrong."
Both girls saw mists around people, mists that proclaimed those people would die from violent acts or survive if only by a hairsbreadth. Both felt
evil circling Tombstone from all directions. An old Indian once explained the town was cursed, a curse set long ago by gods worshiped by the
Chiricahua Apache. So long as white men inhabited the town, violent death stalked them, for Tombstone's citizens had trespassed on sacred ground.
Sarah and Annie suspected differently. Neither had yet voiced their suspicions but believed the beings haunting them belonged to biblical lore.
"They're all black," Sarah repeated. "It's awful knowing they'll all die violent deaths. I asked Ma to leave again but she won't without Frank McLaury."
"Piffle." Annie drew Sarah closer. "There are people around Tombstone without the black mists. Father Ryan for one."
"He ran off," Sarah protested. "He's gone forever. I thought Father Ryan would help us but I don't know how to find him."
Annie stared at a red-headed man walking toward them, a man she knew very well. He wore black pants and a pristine white shirt decorated with a
black string tie. A black cowboy duster flared out behind him as his booted feet kicked up dust along Fremont Street. The black Stetson atop his
head shaded his green eyes, eyes Annie often found herself drowning in.
"The mist around him is white," Sarah said. "Like a few others." Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible murmur. "Like Henry."
Henry Stuart was the only bright light in Sarah's lonely life. Annie hoped the man took her friend away from the hatred soon. Only then could Sarah
find the same happiness Annie had.
The man stopped in front of the women. Annie turned a beatific smile upon him.
"Sarah Holley, meet Brady Ryan," Annie said. "One of Father Ryan's brothers. Brady's taking me away from Tombstone."
"Annie!" Sarah cried. "No! You can't do this. You promised."
Guilt lay upon Annie like a heavy blanket. As soon as she left with Brady, Sarah had no one to confide in or seek out in times of trouble. Yet,
returning home held no appeal for Annie.
"It's won't be for long." Brady took Sarah's arm and led her off a few steps.
They spoke for quite a while. Those who lived in the red light district rose and dove into their debauched lives. A few of the whoremasters eyed
Annie with lascivious grins. Uneasy, she crept closer to where Sarah and Brady conversed.
"You can do this, Sarah," Brady said. "We have to get Annie away from here. Her parents and most of those in their church are insane but no one will
do anything about that. Do you want Annie's life in danger to remain with you?"
Sarah looked as if she would start crying right there in the middle of Fremont Street, with all the whores and gamblers watching. Annie knew a
moment of acute embarrassment for her friend. After all, Sarah's life was as hard as Annie's but without the promise of freedom from the bindings
holding the dear girl in servitude.
"I understand," Sarah said after gulping back tears. She walked over to Annie and they hugged. "Forget my hasty words," she begged. "I would never
ask you to stay for a silly promise."
"It wasn't a silly promise." Annie stepped back and managed a watery smile for her lifelong friend. "I . . . I —"
Sarah pressed two fingers over Annie's lips.
"Go before your poppa discovers what you've done," Sarah said. "Don't look back, Annie. And don't worry about me. Brady says Henry will stay close."
The hope in Sarah's voice gave Annie the strength to walk away with Brady. The couple strolled along Fremont until the street petered out at the
edge of the high desert surrounding Tombstone. The constant visions Annie experienced began to fade, as did the sight of black or white mists
around the town's residents. For the first time in three years, she dragged a breath of air free from the taint she felt in this place.
"I'm sorry you had to leave Sarah behind," Brady said, always so formal when speaking to Annie in public. He took her hand in his and gave it
a warm squeeze. "It'll work out. Henry will watch out for Sarah and bring her to the rest of us as soon as it's safe to do so."
Annie didn't understand much about Brady's life. Most of what she knew about his family came from information tossed around Tombstone's mean
streets, speculation on how a group of men that looked so much alike and had the same last name denied a familial relationship. One night, after
Annie snuck out of her parent's house, she met Brady and they walked out of the town into the desert where he revealed the truth. He, his brothers,
mother, sister, and father were part of a large contingent of US Marshals in Tombstone to investigate the unusual problems; unusual as in there
were more violent deaths and shootings here than almost any other town in Arizona Territory. Their identities were kept secret from just about
everyone for their safety. No one in the town but a very few knew the real reason behind their sudden appearance two years back.
"I understand but I worry about Sarah." Annie watched as Brady hung her satchel on the saddle horn of a gorgeous Palomino. "How long do you think
Sarah will have to stay in Tombstone?"
She held the impression Brady's family had come to the rescue of another woman who'd disappeared. Rose O'Cannon reappeared a month ago and left a
few weeks later, some said to California. She frightened Annie, for Rose took on a man's job without thought as to how others viewed her actions.
"Not long," Brady promised and pulled a flat-brimmed hat from his saddlebags. "Wear this, Annie-love, else your skin will burn to a crisp before
we get to the ranch."
He'd finally called her Annie-love. Delightful shivers ran up and down Annie's body. She had no doubts as to Brady's love, even though he kept the
gentle caresses and non-demanding kisses for when they were sure to avoid interruption. Her man never showed his emotions in public, which suited
Annie just fine. No one else, not even Sarah, should know of how soft a man Brady truly was. Annie loosened her hair until the blonde locks flowed
down her back and slapped the hat atop her head. A chin strap dangled in front of her throat, which she tightened to keep the hat in place.
"You'll have to ride behind me." Brady mounted and held out a hand after freeing one booted foot from the stirrup. "It's not far, Annie. An hour,
maybe less."
"I'll be all right." Annie grasped his gloved hand and put her foot into the stirrup. In a tick, he swung her around behind him and she sat on the
broad rump of the horse, her arms circling Brady's strong torso while she rested a cheek against his duster. "Get me away from here, Brady, before
I stay for Sarah's sake."
"Home, Cathmore," Brady commanded.
The stallion set off in a sedate walk. Annie watched as Tombstone faded from view. Finally, she was free of a town that threatened to tear apart
everything she held dear, and still might if Sarah didn't escape the clutches of those determined to ruin her.
I'll make sure you escape, Sarah. Annie silently promised. Even if I have to come for you in the dead of night, I'll find a way to free you from
Doc Holliday's clutches.
All around Annie and Brady, Saguaro cactus lifted their great arm-like limbs toward the sky. Boulders dotted a landscape almost void of life, except
for rattlesnakes, jackrabbits, and coyotes.
"Cathmore is an unusual name for a horse," Annie said, breaking the long silence. "What does it mean?"
There was a meaning behind the horse's name, of that she was sure. Of English ancestry herself, Annie didn't let centuries long feuds stop her from
loving a man whose family escaped Ireland's Potato Famine.
"Great warrior," Brady said. "It's Gaelic for great warrior. Da spoke of Ireland's legends and warriors when I picked out Cathmore. The name fit for
the duties he has to accomplish."
His brusque way of speaking in no way worried Annie. Brady's muscles bunched under her arms and she felt tension radiating from him. Although their
friendship was short, Annie knew with all her heart that Brady Ryan was the man she'd stand by for the rest of her life. He was one of the few people
she trusted.
"We're safe now. Aren't we?" Annie asked.
"Sure and we are," Brady said, lapsing into the Irish Brogue she loved as much as she did him. "It's just all we have to do. There's so much I still
have to tell you, Annie-love, but I can't until we're safe with my family." He stopped for a moment and then urged Cathmore on. "We're here. Thank
goodness. We're here and no one tried to stop us."
Annie peered around Brady's back as they rode into a fenced area surrounding a sprawling ranch house. A man stood on the covered porch, a flat-brimmed
black hat atop his fiery red hair.
"Father Ryan!" Annie gasped. "How? Why? When?"
"Dwyer was in trouble as much as you are, Annie-love." Brady stopped and waited for Dwyer to join them. "Help my Annie down, brother," Brady said.
"Treat her gently."
"Always." Dwyer placed his hands around Annie's waist and lifted her to the ground. "It's good to see you here, Annie. I worried about you."
"And how I worried about you!" Annie moved into Brady's protective embrace when more people gathered around.
More than a few looked like Brady and Father Ryan, including a girl Annie's age. That girl didn't have the bright red hair like the rest of the
Ryan's. Hers was more of a red that resembled sunset the one time a fire ravaged the eastern side of Tombstone with molten gold streaks highlighting
a face from which green eyes peered at the world with fear and suspicion; the same fear and suspicion that was Annie's view of the world.
"Megan," Annie said. "You're far more beautiful than Brady told me."
"You must be Annie," Megan Ryan said. "Call me Meg." She threw a saucy look at the rest of her family. "Welcome to our haven." Meg flung a hand at
the ranch now teeming with men, women, and children. "Or prison. Depends on who you are as to how you view this place."
"Enough, Meg," Brady said in a sharp tone. "Don't scare Annie."
Meg poked out her tongue, making Annie laugh. Oh, how wonderful it would have been growing up in a family such as this one. No one worried about
position or age it seemed. They all offered smiles of welcome while also going out of their way to make Annie feel at ease. She truly had come
to a haven.
"I'm not scared, Brady," Annie said. "I feel like I've come home."
She truly had found peace and sanctuary, for however long it lasted. Annie pressed against Brady as she realized a horrible confrontation was on
the horizon. Hopefully, the battle would happen far from here. She vowed never to set foot in Tombstone again. Annie had no idea what it was that
was coming — the sensation of trouble looming was really more of a feeling than anything else. But she felt strongly that Tombstone would never be
the nice, quiet little town she’d moved to from Tucson three years earlier.
The End
Somebody's Darling
by Jeff Richards
Walker Thomas was fourteen when his father left for the war. Walker hitched up the horses and took him to the depot in the city ten miles north.
“Dad,” he said as he looked at the train huffing like an old codger up a hill to the station. “Why can’t I go with you?”
“I told you a thousand times you need to tend the farm,” he said, patting Walker on the shoulder “Take care of your Ma and sister.”
“I don’t want to take care of that brat, Lisa.”
“I don’t care what you want, son. You have your duty like I have mine.”
He watched his father climb in the train and wave from the window as it chugged off, blowing steam. It was heading west, a peculiar direction since
the enemy was to the south. Walker found out later that the train stopped at Cairo. The soldiers boarded steamboats that took them upriver to
Paducah, Kentucky where his father stayed, according to the letters, forever. Then one day, his father marched out of town, up one hill and down
another to where the soldiers tangled up in an altercation that ended with his dad shot in the arm. They hauled him to the hospital in Paducah. They
fished out the bullet. He developed gangrene. They amputated. A year later he was back home, but he wasn’t the same cocksure dad who left.
“I seen your cousin,” he said as they sat on the front porch looking at a field Walker had planted in corn. The sprouts barely peeked out of the
ground. His father shook some tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. Tamped it down. Lit it. “We were in the fight together. Close quarters. I saw him
for the shortest second staring at me in disbelief, his saber drawn. Could have sliced me in half. But he turned away. Went to hacking at the other
bluecoats.”
His father stood up from the rocking chair. Paced to the end of the porch to where he could see the apple orchard. Walker had spent a good bit of
the winter up in the trees, trimming off the branches so there’d be enough room for the fruit to grow fat when the summer came. “You done a good
job. I’m proud of you,” said his father, pointing the stem of his pipe at the trees. “That’ll be a good crop come fall.”
He laughed. “You ever hear of a one-armed farmer? How in tarnation am I going to climb up those trees and saw away at the branches without killing
myself?”
“You’ll find a way.”
“Why thank you, son. I suppose I will.” He shook his head. Laughed again. “All this responsibility made a man out of you. Don’t know what it’s done
to me.”
Walker guessed at what his dad meant, and he thought about it and the funny coincidence of his cousin, Raymond Morgan. When his dad was off to war,
he used to roam down to the river below the preacher’s house. Stare at the water as it flowed past him carrying whatever fell into it: a stray leaf;
a branch of a tree; an old shoe; a wagon wheel; even a cow who’d strayed out too far. He rescued the cow. Once he even rescued a raccoon and nearly
got scratched to death. But mostly he’d sit there and watch the stray debris slide by downstream and imagined it went all the way to Paducah and
that his dad would be standing by the dock looking down and see the same debris as it flowed on by to the Mississippi.
One day he was sitting by the water thinking that maybe he’d put a message in a bottle when he heard a voice yelling at him from across the river.
“Hey there, Yankee boy. How do I look?”
Walker jumped to his feet. Scrambled up the hill because he knew what kind of species inhabited Kentucky, but at the last minute he turned and
saw who it was. Ray, standing on the opposite bank of the river in full Rebel regalia, head tilted back, laughing.
Walker wandered back down to the bank, hands in pocket, and yelled, “I know who you are. My cousin, Raymond Morgan.”
“The very same,” said Ray, waving his hand. “Come on over.”
“What do you think, I’m stupid? You think I’m gonna rot in Sesech jail?”
“You’re not gonna rot anywhere, son. I want to talk. I’m about to head off to war.”
“What do I care? You’re the enemy.”
Ray was about to turn away exasperated when Walker changed his mind, found a raft he knew was hidden in the reeds, and poled across.
“Guess blood is thicker than water,” said Ray as he tied up the raft. He looked every part the officer he was. A first lieutenant – Walker could
tell by the two gold bars on the sleeve of his gray jacket. Two rows of gold buttons down the front of the jacket and a gold sash wrapped around
the middle. His pants were blue. Gold stripes down the side. He wore a gold kepi hat.
“You look mighty fine,” said Walker, as he sat down on the stump of a tree. “But you’re fighting on the wrong side.”
“I guess that’s a matter of opinion.” Ray leaned up against a tree a few feet away. He shook his head. “You sure have grown up, Walker. Talking
back to me and all. Couldn’t get a peep out of you in the old days.”
The old days was five years ago when the preacher moved into the house on the cliff and started to stealing slaves from across the river and
getting everybody riled at each other. Back then, Walker was in awe of his cousin who was seven years older and a daredevil. He had a way with
horses. Walker had seen Ray jump from one horse to another at a full gallop. He’d seen him stand up on a horse’s bare back like in the circus.
Ride sideways. Backwards. Jump from one side of the horse to the other hitting the ground at full speed. But most all he’d seen him at the racetrack
at the county fair. He won every year. He even went across the river and won, embarrassing everyone on the north side of the river. Couldn’t even
beat a ragged old farmer boy. Back then Raymond Morgan didn’t pay much attention to his haberdashery.
The two of them stared at each other for the longest time like they were sworn enemies who didn’t know how to talk. “What ever happened to your
cousin, Eliot?” asked Raymond, finally.
“He’s your cousin, too,” said Walker, picking up a pebble and tossing it in the water. “He went off to Baptist seminary up near Columbus.”
“I’m glad for that,” said Ray, “means none of our slaves will go missing when I’m off to war.” Eliot had helped out the preacher. “How’s Lisa? I
used to carry her around in my arms when she was a baby.”
“The other day when I wasn’t looking, she unlatched the gate to the chicken coop and scared out all the chickens so I had to spend half the day
running all over tarnation to gather them up.”
“Turned into a real spit-fire,” Ray laughed.
They went through the whole family and then went onto Ray’s and when they were finished, they both sighed as if they just finished reciting the
begats in the Bible and felt weighed down by the generations that preceded them.
“I wouldn’t have no regrets if it wasn’t for you fellows across the river. My relatives,” said Raymond. He was wiping at his face with the sleeve
of his military jacket, his eyes glistening. “I’d go away to war with a cleanconscience. But I got to forget that.”
He sauntered over to Walker who stood up from the stump. They shook hands.
“I got to forget that,” he repeated, “and remember only my sworn duty.”
He turned on his heel, marched through the clearing, his sword clinking at his side, into the thick woods until he disappeared. It was the
last time Walker saw him until a year later on a battlefield somewhere in Tennessee.
It took Walker a long time to decide to join up even though he felt a yearning to go. First he helped out his daddy. They designed a plough
he could grab with one hand and use his hips to maneuver well enough to draw a straight furrow. He was slower at picking the crops so he had
Ma and Lisa to help out. The women milked the cows and Walker taught Lisa how to care for the chickens, his job since he was five years old.
The apples were more difficult since there were more of them. They were the cash crop of the farm. In the fall, they stored the apples in a
cool place until there was enough volume picked to haul to market in the nearby town where the train depot was located. This took heavy lifting,
which his dad was not capable of all by himself and he wasn’t capable of digging holes to plant the trees that had been germinating since spring.
The idea was to keep ahead of the trees that were dying off and, more important, increase the volume, because it was a business and the nature of
business, according to his dad, was to grow.
After much thought, his dad decided to hire one of the Morris kids. Normally you wouldn’t hire a free Negro for a job a white man could do. But
given that most of the white men were off to war and that he was a veteran who sacrificed an arm, the townspeople weren’t too upset.
From then on things were easy on the farm so that freed up Walker to think about the second thing that bothered him, duty. He had heard that
word used twice, once by his father and once by his cousin. Yet their duty couldn’t be the same because they were fighting for the opposite
sides. It took Eliot Thomas on vacation from the seminary to clear things up.
“Are you going to fight in the war?” he asked Eliot who was dressed up in black like a funeral director.
“No, I won’t fight. I may join as a chaplain,” he said. It was Saturday. Market day. They were sitting on a bench in the town square watching
the crowd. “Then again I might not join. I have a duty to a higher power.”
Just like that, Walker understood. His dad had a duty to fight for the North. Ray Morgan had a duty to fight for the South. Eliot Thomas had a
duty to fight for God and that meant not to fight at all because it said in the Bible, “Thou shalt not kill.” That means that duty doesn’t fall
on you like a brick but that you got to think about it and come up with a decision that suits you. And it better be the right decision and that
confused him until he thought about the final thing that bothered him, guilt.
There was a big battle down south and within a few weeks the bodies started to come in, at least the few that were recovered by relatives. One
of those dead was Robert Clinch, a boy his age. He didn’t like the kid. He was one of the school bullies but he went to the funeral and the
whole time he felt this burning shame. Especially when he went up to Robert’s parents to tell them how sorry he was but couldn’t get the words
out. They gave him these blank looks like they were staring through his skin to the other side. Like he was invisible. He ran off down the road
past the preacher’s house to the river. He looked across to the Kentucky side and thought about his kin, Raymond Morgan. How he didn’t hesitate
to sign up. How his own father didn’t hesitate. How four other boys his age went? and one of them come back dead. How can he not do the same?
He tried to reason this out, but somehow his thoughts were muddled, got mixed up with Eliot Thomas and the Bible so maybe he should have waited
longer, but when he saw the poster that the recruiter was up at Dover Canal to fill in the missing ranks for the 80th Ohio Volunteers, he went
there and signed up and that’s how he reached the battle and found his cousin facing him on the opposite side of the field.
He didn’t see him all at once. He saw the graybacks march out of the woods and line up behind a stone fence. Their officers paced up and down
the ranks nervously. Then they lined up the artillery in a neat row. And behind the artillery, deep in the woods, Walker spied horsemen. Cavalry.
He sat there behind his own stone fence across the field with his comrades, wondering what his officers were thinking. He turned to the fellow
next to him who was chewing a plug of tobacco.
“Why didn’t we attack the Secech when they was in disarray?” asked Walker, leaning close to the old, grizzled soldier who looked twice his dad’s
age. “We could’ve sent them skedaddling back where they come from.”
“We’re as snug as a bug, boy. No reason to tire ourselves running across that field dodging bullets,” he laughed bitterly, spitting out tobacco
juice. Some of it dribbled down a crease in his chin.
Walker looked back across the field. Some of the horseman emerged from the woods. One, a general Walker surmised from the graybeard and star on
his slouch hat, dismounted. The officers gathered around him. They pointed across the field at the Yankee line. Pulled out a map. Walker shivered
even though it was a warm spring morning. There was a visible nervousness in the air.
A gentle zephyr was blowing in his face carrying the sweet perfume of the apple blossoms from the orchard to his left. It was quiet. Only the
occasional crunch of wagon wheels against rock, the clink of metal against metal, a soldier throwing taunts here and there. Walker thought he
heard the lazy drone of the bees as they darted from one blossom to another in the orchard and to the field dotted with blue and yellow wildflowers.
A small bird flew across his line of sight flowing up and down with the wind currents. Landed in a scrub oak tree in the middle of the field and
started to sing. He recognized the voice, a mocking bird. He heard it outside the window of his bedroom every morning when he woke up and felt
this yearning for home. As a matter of fact he’d rather be anywhere — chopping wood, cleaning manure out of the barn, chasing a chicken with a
hatchet — then where he was now feeling more like the chicken, the hatchet about to slice his scrawny neck in two. He’d been marching for weeks.
Heard gunshots far off. The clash of cannons. Bugles blow a charge. The rattle of muffled drums. But never had he been this close to an actual
altercation. This is what they called “seeing the elephant” and he didn’t like it.
He looked at the rock-strewn field. Not the field to plant a crop. A pasture. They had pasture like this on the other side of his orchard. So it
was no problem to imagine the Reb farmer on the far side of the hill huddling in the basement of his house with his family like his father would
be huddling with Lisa and Ma if the Sesech crossed the river. For a moment, he felt sorry for this fellow. He wondered if he had slaves. He hadn’t
seen one, nor any other darkies for miles. This land seemed poor. Ragged, almost mountain land. He saw the peaks, a blue haze in the distance. Last
night when he didn’t know the mountains were there — they took up their positions after dark — he asked the grizzled veteran what all
that light was hanging up in the middle of the air.
“Why those are fireflies,” said the vet, spitting a long line of tobacco juice in the fire. He winked at the other soldiers. “They grow ‘em big
down here.”
One of the soldiers, who was heating a tin of pokeweed tea not two inches from where the juice sizzled in the coals, said, “Why don’t you hush
up, Zeb. Those are campfires up side of a hill. Probably Reb, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“But there’s thousands of them.”
Walker Thomas was shivering at the thought. Tens of thousands of Confederate soldiers, ten per fire on average, screaming like devils as they
barreled across the field, battle flags aflutter, until his position’s over-run and one of the butternuts runs him clean through so he’s like
a butterfly mounted on a display board, can’t even sit up to die.
He was trying to purge this thought from his brain when he heard the sound of a cowbell. He looked up over the stone fence and saw the heifer
meandering leisurely down the field towards the apple orchard, turning its head first to the right, at the Confederate line of battle then to
the left, at the Federal. That’s when Walker Thomas saw a Confederate Cavalry lieutenant jump over the stone fence on a dun-colored Arabian
and gallop straight towards his line. He pulled up at the last moment, yanked off his kepi with a flourish. Bowed to the Yankees. His blue
eyes sparkled. He smiled blissfully. Walker stood up.
“Is that you cousin?” he gasped. “Is that you, Raymond Morgan?”
The Confederate lieutenant stared straight at Walker. The smile slide off his face. His eyes seemed full of sadness for a moment. Then he
snapped his head away with conscious effort. Donned his gold kepi, pulled back on the reins. The horse reared up and galloped down the line
towards the errant cow. He was down there a long time. Invisible to Walker because he was too close to the Yankee line. But he could hear
the cheers coming from his Confederate brothers that was picked up on the Federal side. Everyone was cheering like this was some kind of
game. Like they were back at the racetrack in Kentucky and all bets were on Raymond who was nosing out his closest competitor as they
headed towards the finish line. Walker was still on his feet but so were the soldiers next to him, cheering, looking down the line. Walker
felt the pride swell up in his chest. He leaned towards the grizzled veteran, “That’s my cousin Raymond Morgan from the other side of the
river in Kentucky,” he said. “Don’t he have grit?”
“Grit ain’t the word for him,” answered the vet, shaking his head. “Glory hound is.”
And just as he said that a shot rang out. Then another. The cheering stopped followed by a silence broken only by the mockingbird still
perched on the scrub oak tree singing like the world wasn’t altered.
Walker heard the bell ringing and saw the cow, head raised to the sky, mooing for all it was worth. Following close behind was the dun
Arabian. Riderless. Walker hoped that Raymond had fallen from his horse. That he was wounded only and his comrades dragged him back to
the line and he was taken to a sawbones though a sawbones could kill you faster than a bullet. But he was wrong. The cow slowed to a
walk before he came up the line to Walker. The Arabian galloped past and Walker saw that somehow in falling, Raymond’s boot tangled up
in the stirrup and that he was dragged along the ground beside his mount. It was hard to tell if he was dead or alive until finally Raymond’s
head smacked a sharp rock, spraying a fountain of blood in the air.
Walker sunk to his knees behind the stone fence. He wanted to cry but he was supposed to be a soldier.
The grizzled vet kneeled down beside him. Put his hand on Walker’s shoulder. “Hey, son, sorry about your cousin. But I won’t take back what I
said. He was a glory hound. All them Rebs are. Brave, but glory hounds.”
“He could ride like the wind.”
“I seen that,” he spat another stream of juice, a tiny dribble landing on the toe of Walker’s boot.
Walker looked up when he heard the cowbell again. A couple of soldiers grabbed the cow by the neck and rustled it through an opening in the
stone fence to the rear of the Yankee line. Across the field, a Rebel officer held tightly to the reins of the spooked Arabian, a lone boot
still in the stirrup. He was following two of his buddies who were carrying Raymond’s rag doll body through the lines. That’s when the
artillery barrage commenced. Walker buried himself behind the stone fence. He resisted an urge to run which would have been impossible
anyway since there were other soldiers behind him. The space was so tight, it was hard to breathe. But the barrage only lasted a moment
and then ears ringing like he came from under a church bell, he poked his head up and saw exactly what he imagined some time before.
Tens of thousands of Confederate soldiers, it seemed to him, screaming like devils as they barreled across the field, battle flags aflutter
only they hadn’t overrun his position yet. Walker felt a hand on his shoulder and the calm voice of his sergeant ordering them to hold their
fire. He focused on the voice, all the other things that got him here in the first place like duty, shame, love of family and country seemed
to recede like the waves from the ocean shore. All, that is, except for the sad look in Raymond Morgan’s eyes, the same look he imagined in
his own eyes. It was a chink in his armor. He better not hold to it. Better to put on a brave face like his Kentucky cousin.
So when the order came from the sergeant to fire, Walker Thomas fired and out in the field amongst the thinning ranks of the charging
Confederates, flags still aflutter, somebody’s darling dropped to the ground.
The End
Stoddard’s Gold, Part 2 of 3
by John Putnam
For the next two days Stoddard pushed us relentlessly, leaving me little doubt that he thought Raush was indeed following us, but I'd heard no mention of it among the other members of our party. I'd also talked with Anderson about wanting to go back to Nevada City. He pointed out that if I did I would run smack dab into Raush on the way. So I continued on, much like I had the first day, sharing time leading our mules or bringing up the rear of the column and keeping a watchful eye to our back trail.
We'd crossed the Middle Yuba late Tuesday and camped up the ridge on Kanaka Creek, named for the Sandwich Islanders from Honolulu who were mining there. And like so many others we had passed, the place had all the indications of gold, but Anderson urged that we press on, assuring me that Stoddard's mythical lake would, in the end, bring us a bounty we could find nowhere else. But I wasn't the only one who saw missed opportunity. The four men of the Natchez Mining Company had begun to openly carp over passing by so many prime locations to mine such easily available placer gold.
The next day saw more of the same. We were in the saddle before sunup, crossed a stony Oregon Creek at midday, then another high ridge beyond and by sunset were descending into the valley of the North Yuba River alongside a small brook that tumbled from rocky pool to rocky pool under a thick canopy of fir trees. After skirting a large boulder I led our four mules into a small clearing where I saw a stranger dressed like a miner talking with the men from Natchez.
It was clear right off that Ike and the rest of the Southerners were grilling the man about the amount and location of gold strikes along the North Yuba. News of gold in the California mines traveled by mouth faster here than it could on the new fangled telegraph wires back east. Practically everybody had heard how a Scotsman named Downie and the handful of colored men partnered with him had spent last winter at the forks of the North Yuba, and how they got snowed in and almost starved to death. Even the two Goodyear brothers, who'd worked a gravel bar downstream from the forks since last summer, had stayed the winter. Nobody would tolerate cold Sierra snows without a reason. Miners were pouring into this area now. That likely meant a lot of rich finds around here.
But if you cornered a miner working a good paying claim and asked him straight up, face to face, if there was much gold around, he'd hem and haw worse than an old mule bedeviled by a swarm of horse flies in the middle of August. And as soon as I got within earshot I heard the fellow rambling on about all the rich finds on Rock Creek and the South Yuba, or Kanaka Creek and the Middle Yuba, and how he thought that smart fellows like us should head back south where a lot more gold could be found.
"I see your point," agreed Ike, the oldest and cagiest of the Natchez boys. "But we've heard of a brand new mining town nearby and could all use a drink or two and maybe a good meal that ain't been cooked over an open fire before we go."
The miner stuck his thumbs into his waistband and grinned wide. "Oh, yes sir, we got a town alright," he bragged. "More saloons than you can count, bakeries with fresh bread, butcher shops with lean beef, a whole passel of tasty places to eat, a number of hotels, if you're a mind to sleep with the bed bugs, and everything here built since the winter snow melted. Some folks already call it Downieville, after the Scotsman."
He climbed up on a pretty mustang filly then looked back to Ike. "Heading there myself to play a little faro at Craycroft's Saloon. Look me up. Name's Tucker." He gave a quick tip of his beat up felt hat and rode off down the hill.
Ike watched until the miner was out of earshot. "Well, you heard what the man said. Is there anything else you need to know?" he asked the rest of his companions. When no one spoke out he continued. "Are we all of one mind then?"
To a man the three other members of the Natchez Mining Company sounded their agreement with him.
"Good," he continued. "We still have an hour or so before dark. Let's make sure we find the right spot to camp tonight," And the four of them rode off down the stream, leaving me feeling like a fly on the wall. It sure seemed like they'd made some sort of pact and were all agreed on doing something. Whatever it was must be pretty important because they'd been so wrapped up in it that nary a one of them had noticed me, even though Buddy and I'd been right behind them with all four of our mules for a good while.
Later, over a simple supper of beans and salt pork, I told Anderson about what Ike had said earlier to the Natchez boys and my suspicions that they had made a plan to do something that they weren't letting the rest of us in on.
"Micah, you worry too much," he'd told me in his warm but reproving way. "First it was the Indians, then Raush, and now it's the Natchez crew. You need to learn how to take things as they come. Worrying over what might be is nothing but a waste and causes a man too much unnecessary consternation. We've had a hard day and tomorrow is likely to be worse. Get some sleep." And with that he rolled over and pulled his blanket tight.
He was right about the hard day and likely about tomorrow too. Each day had been like that as we climbed up from the last river valley and over a higher and a rockier ridge. We were heading deeper into the Sierra and Stoddard said that now we would follow the North Yuba east directly into the high backbone of the mountains.
I snuggled dog tired into my bedroll, but sleep didn't come so easily for me. And, like Anderson had said, it was because of the worry that boiled and churned in my mind much like the water in the small stream beside our camp that sloshed and spumed as it scurried down the steep, rocky slope of the river valley. But my turmoil wasn't from Indians, or Raush, or even Ike and the Natchez boys. It came from a blue eyed, brown haired French girl who'd somehow stolen my heart with one fleeting kiss on a moon swept night outside the Bella Union, and whether she'd be waiting if I ever returned.
But at last my exhaustion overcame my fixation with the beguiling Michelle Reynard and all to soon I woke into the half-light before sunrise to the smell of wood smoke and the sizzle of bacon frying. Anderson looked over to me but before he could offer a morning greeting a string of wild oaths erupted from downstream where the Natchez party had camped in a small clearing separated from us by a large rock outcropping. Instinctively I grabbed my Colt revolver and cocked the hammer.
Anderson held up his flat palm to stop me. "Easy, Micah, that sounds like Stoddard and he's coming this way."
Trusting my friend I put the pistol down, but close to hand, and tugged on my boots just as Stoddard rode into our camp, his face as heated as the embers of the cook fire. "Did either of you see them damn Southerners sneak off last night?" he yelled.
Anderson glanced at me with a raised eyebrow then turned to Stoddard. "No, but I take it they're gone," he answered.
"Ran off in the dead of night like thieves. Ought to shoot 'em." Stoddard shouted.
Anderson grabbed the skillet in a gloved hand and, with one sure motion, flipped the salt pork to brown on the other side. Then he calmly asked, "What did they steal?"
Stoddard sat on his horse and spewed and sputtered, unable to answer.
So my wise friend stepped in to help him out, as was his wont. "I believe Ike and his crew have stolen nothing. They are all honest and upright fellows, but they did make an agreement to this expedition that they've reneged on. Since there was no binding contract there is little we can do. We still have enough men to find the lake, but I think an open and frank talk with everyone is called for before we start out today. And if any more of us wish to leave, there isn't much we can do to stop them either."
"But we're short handed now," Stoddard fumed. "What about the Injun's?"
"What about the Indians?" Anderson retorted.
"Yeah," I piped in. "Worrying about what might happen just causes unnecessary consternation." I said, suddenly seeing the truth in what Anderson told me last night exposed in the creases across Stoddard's face that read as clear as the lines in a book.
"But they killed my partner," Stoddard rebutted with fury.
"And you've never mentioned his name, have you?" Anderson countered. "Could he have also been a Raush, and could it be that it's his brother who follows us now?"
"Damn you," Stoddard yelled. "How do you know that?"
"I guessed, but now you've confirmed it. Do you care to tell us what happened?"
Stoddard's face paled, but he looked Anderson square in the eye. "My group crossed the Sierra by Lassen's northern route, a big mistake. We were starving. Two of us went hunting, got lost and wandered for days. Then we found the gold. I was high up the ravine when I heard his shot. He didn't have a chance. They were all over him, so I snuck away. Raush thinks I killed his brother for gold. I didn't, but I did run out on him."
And with that short speech I took pity on Stoddard for the first time.
Just before sunup we met with all the men who were left, except for Bird who wasn't around much anyway. Anderson did most of the talking and made as fine a job at it as any famous orator I'd ever heard of. He informed everyone about the Natchez crew's leaving for what they thought was the easy gold at hand around here, and then went on to explain why he believed in what Stoddard had said and how, if we just held together a little longer, we'd all have more money than some old king named Midas, who could turn anything he touched into pure gold.
Then Anderson did what he'd always done with me and told us that it was our choice and each man had to make up his own mind. He explained how nobody would hold it against anyone who backed out. I'd long thought Anderson had a quality that made him special, but now I saw firsthand how he held a power to persuade men to his way of thinking that was far beyond what most others could ever hope to achieve. Every man among us cheered and eagerly vowed to continue on no matter what lay ahead.
The sun still hung low above the mountains to the east when we came within view of the North Yuba. The dark silence of the forest was broken by the loud splash of water, white and fast, breaking over a host of boulders and snags in the riverbed then boiling together in great convulsions at the forks where the North Yuba, rushing in from the east, collided with the Downie River ramming into it from the north. At the edge of the Yuba stood a tall stand of fir trees with graceful willows on each side, and above them, across the flanks of the deep ravine, sturdy oaks interspersed with towering pines and a few white flowered dogwoods climbed high into a clear blue sky as broad as all eternity.
Nestled in the forest east of the Downie and just across the Yuba lay the town, a motley collection of several log buildings, a few crude shacks, and a number of tents in all sizes and shapes, and all mostly hidden by the trees. Yet to me, the tiny settlement exuded a wonderfully brave demeanor. Humbled by the majesty of the mountains, cowed by the shear power of the swirling water, and shrouded under the thick cloak of nature's foliage, the town seemed to bravely lift it's collective face to us and say, "I am here, built by the hand of man, and I intend to stay." Although there lurked an understated fragility to the place that led me to wonder if it would all blow away in a strong wind.
But in spite of the lure of multiple saloons, fresh meat, a soft bed—bedbugs excepted—or a more savory meal, we kept heading east along the river. By a unanimous vote of all who remained with us we had determined that the town, as tempting as it appeared, would only be a time consuming distraction likely to cause more problems than the small comforts it provided would be worth. And, after crossing to the north shore at the first good ford we found, we rode on, climbing ever higher into the mighty Sierra along the frothing torrent of the North Yuba River.
I soon realized we rode on a well used path and, judging from the amount of fresh mule droppings I came across, it must be frequented by the supply trains, often fifty animals long, that traveled the river valleys all the way from Bidwell's Bar supplying miners with food, clothing, tools and just about everything else a man needs to survive so far from civilization. It was a clear sign that more mining was happening upriver. But traveling along a well used trail was easier than cutting through the raw country like we'd done the first three days and we made good time.
It was near midday when I heard the hoof beats pounding from my rear. It sounded like one horse coming at a run. My old fears of Raush overwhelmed me and I spurred Buddy off the path and into a narrow defile in the steep side of the ravine. No sooner had I gotten turned back toward the trail than the hoof beats stopped and a chilling quiet descended over the forest. The birds stopped their endless prattle, even the wind refused to rustle the leaves; the only sound the deafening chatter of my teeth.
I looked all around me but saw no one. Sweat oozed from under my hat, stinging my eyes. The man on the trail had simply stopped riding and the only reason I could think of was that he knew I was here. Who was he? What was he planning on doing? Then came the unmistakable click of a gun hammer cocking. It had to be the most bloodcurdling sound I'd ever heard. I pulled out my new revolver then held my breath, hoping that would stop my whole body from shaking.
"I eat rattlesnake raw and rassle grizzlies with my bare hands," the rider yelled. "I can shoot the eyes out of a hawk and gut a deer quicker than a mountain lion. I know where ya are. Come out, 'fore I come in and get ya."
Oh, Lord, I'm dead, I thought. Then it dawned on me that I knew that voice. "Bird?" I asked in a weak but ever so hopeful tone.
A loud roar of laughter erupted from the trail. Bird was enjoying himself mightily at my expense. But right now I didn't mind a bit, so happy was I that he wasn't Raush or some other rapscallion. I nudged Buddy and rode out onto the path. Bird sat on his mustang, the bear gun across his lap, and wore the biggest grin I'd ever seen.
"How'd you know where I was?" I asked.
"Ya spend a lifetime in the wilds ya learn to read sign, son," he said and pointed to Buddy's feet.
Even I could see where I'd turned and left the trail. A heavy horse with a rider atop leaves a deep print in soft earth. "Okay, but how'd you know it was me?" I asked.
"Every animal, every man, leaves a clear mark on the land—personal like. Ain't hard t' see once ya learn how. Besides I been followin' ya all day."
Along the trail to California I'd heard endless tales of the mountain men and how they knew the wilderness nearly as well as the Indians did. It seemed a pretty good skill to have, especially in the midst of the rugged country we were in now. "Do you think you could show me a little about how you read these signs, Mr. Bird?" I asked.
He looked at me with squinty eyes and the grin he'd had turned suddenly sad. "The days of men like me are done, son. Won't be long 'fore the wilderness is gone, a lotta the animals too. The gold brung all these men to California. It'll bring others."
"But everyone I know plans on going back East as soon as the gold is gone. Most say it can't last more than another year." I offered, hoping to provide him some comfort.
"Men say a lot, then mostly do the opposite. They're here now. More'll come. They ain't going back. There's too much in California. It's a rich country, mighty rich. And it ain't just the gold."
He nudged the mustang to a walk and I rode alongside him since the trail was wide enough here. I wanted to learn more from this down to earth man who had such a deep love for the wild and seemed so convinced that his way of life would soon end. "What are you going to do then? I mean when the wilderness is gone," I wondered.
"Oh, men like me'll find a way to stay alive, but this ain't no time for a young, smart feller like yourself to turn to what I do. The world's changing and it's folks like you what's got to lead the way. Anderson say's you got a gift, say's you're special, and he's 'bout the smartest man I ever met. You'll be stayin' in California I 'spect, and like as not you'll do somethin' important too."
I felt the blood rush to my face. Back on the farm, Jacob had always told me how I didn't know anything, that I was stupid. Now Bird tells me Anderson thinks I'm special. Well, I didn't feel special. Here I was, just twenty years old, miles away from any but the most rustic trappings of civilization, a continent away from home, and feeling awful puny under the shadow of the mountains towering above me. But knowing that someone I respect as much as I do Anderson could feel that way left me feeling real pleased.
Still I had a lot of questions, so I started in. "How long have you been here, I mean in California?" I asked.
"Been a long time son. Started out working the Rockies twenty year ago, been here near ten. But it's been some good years," he said with a wistful sigh.
"How do you make money," I continued. Bird sure didn't look like he had much of it. Except for his felt hat and leather boots his clothes were hand made from deerskin. Still, he had a fine horse and saddle and, with the bear gun and the huge knife he carried, it all must've cost a pretty penny.
He eyeballed me with the same broad grin he'd had before. "Sort of had a job, son, trappin' beaver and other critters and sellin' 'em at the Hudson Bay Company's Fort Vancouver in the Oregon Territories," he said, sounding like a man who loved his work.
"But you just said you had a job," I pointed out. "What happened to it?"
"Things are changin' everywhere, son. Oregon is a part of the States now. Don't know what'll happen to the fort. Hudson's Bay Company's out of Canada ya know. Maybe I'll just take some of this here gold we're after and settle down somewhere. It's a hard life and I'm gettin' on in years." And then a strange sadness crept into his eyes.
"Do you know where Stoddard's lake is, sir?" I asked, to change the subject.
He looked to me again, the sadness replaced by a sudden sparkle. "I ain't sure, but it just could be I do," he boasted without a whiff of bluster about him.
The trail we were on had gradually climbed along the side of the ravine high above the level of the river. I'd been so enthralled in my talk with Bird that I'd paid little attention, but now, riding abreast of him, I realized how close to the edge of a shear cliff I was and how far down the rocky stream seemed. It gave me an uneasy feeling, a fall would be deadly, but I'd not had such a good opportunity to talk to Bird and I still had one abiding question for him for which my sense of survival demanded an answer.
And so I dared ask. "I wonder, sir," I began. "You just rode up pretty fast from behind me somewhere and without your mule, would I be correct if I thought you'd looked into Raush and the men with him? Are they still following us?"
A raised brow enhanced the sparkle in his eye, and he chuckled softly. "I can see how what Anderson said about you was right. You do have a way about ya, son," he said. "Raush is still behind us all right but—"
Then the chilling scream of a man came from the trail ahead, and another scream in a different voice that went on far too long and was mixed with the roar of some deep-throated and fierce sounding beast.
"Damn!" Bird exclaimed and immediately galloped off. I followed as best I could, afraid to ride fast so close to the sharp edge of the treeless cliff. In no time all hell had broken out, shouts, more terrifying screams, mules braying wildly, two gunshots, the appalling squeal of a badly hurt horse or maybe two horses, then the loud boom of a rifle—Bird's bear gun—and another deep-throated roar, a pistol shot, then another and finally only the bray of the mules and the voices of men trying to calm them.
Then the path widened and I came upon Anderson, feverishly trying to settle our four skittish mules and his own panicky horse. He waved me on without a word and Buddy and I managed to squeeze by. Next I found the Oregon boys, Carl, Thomas and Zeke, hard at work soothing their panicked mules and horses. All of them had faces as white as the stars on our flag. But here the trail had narrowed again so I tied Buddy to the branch of a small fir, checked my new Colt revolver and pulled out my rifle.
As I wound through the unsettled pack animals I looked directly at Zeke, "What happened?" I asked.
But he gazed back at me with blank eyes and slowly shook his head like he didn't want to talk about it, so I hurried on until I could see Bird's mustang standing twenty yards ahead in the middle of the path, completely calm and untroubled by the frightened animals all about, a remarkably well trained mount. Another thirty yards on Stoddard stood on the trail holding a rifle. Behind him his horse and three mules were tied to a branch, one mule I recalled as Bird's from that first day when he'd waited beside the rock outcropping where Bird and I had watched Raush and his men cross the South Yuba.
But I'd seen no hint of Lem, his father Jedidiah, or their animals. Normally they would be traveling between Stoddard and the Oregon boys. Then, as I passed the mustang, the scene that unfolded in front of me turned my stomach. Bird was bent over Lem, at least I thought it was Lem. The skin had been ripped from his face and blood was everywhere.
I turned my eyes from this spectacle of horror and saw Lem's pretty mare lying beside the cliff, guts spilled onto the ground, a gunshot wound in her head from someone who'd taken pity and ended her suffering. Just past the mare lay the brown body of an enormous grizzly bear who, on her hind legs, must have stood over twelve feet tall, and undoubtedly was the cause of this whole ghastly scene. Blood dripped from a huge hole in her head, a reminder of why Bird called his large bore rifle a bear gun.
As I stood there, trying to stifle an almighty urge to bring my breakfast back to the light of day, it came to me that I hadn't seen Jedidiah or any of their other animals. And though my mind was near numb from all the death around me, I knew without asking what else must have happened here. While it wasn't hard to look away from this scene of gore, I shook like a leaf in the wind as I walked to the edge of the cliff.
Loose flour, sugar and coffee covered the rocky face of the ravine. Tools, supplies, pots and pans were strewn everywhere along the descent. Jedidiah lay near the water's edge, dead without a doubt. No human body could contort itself in such a way. Close by him the rear end of a mule could be seen on the shore, it's head under water. A few hundred feet downstream another mule had hung up on a rock in an eddy. The rest of the animals were gone, likely washed away by the power of the North Yuba.
I raised my head a bit and gazed out into the emptiness of the ravine. Several small flat objects floated on the up drafts, playing cards that had fallen from Jedidiah's pocket. My mind, perhaps seeking escape, or relief or some simple semblance of sanity, harkened back to that last night of gambling with Michelle Reynard at the Bella Union. I could feel the pressure of her lips as she kissed me. I heard her voice, as clearly as I did that night, as she urged me to look for her when I returned from this fateful undertaking.
Her words, which had at first seemed a plea, now sounded more like a command that I should live in order to return and marry her, as Anderson had once suggested. And for a man who'd fled across the continent to avoid the oppressive orders of my own brother on a farm left to the both of us by our father, I suddenly felt this mandate from Michelle to be the very breath of life itself and the only reason for hope amongst all this despair. I would live. I would find the gold we sought, then I would find her again. She was now my reason to survive against Raush, the Indians, and the very wildness of the country we crossed, and what an enticing motive she was.
How long I stared into the void of the canyon, I don't know, but at last I heard Anderson. "Micah, we need you over here," he cried. "We have things to discuss."
I walked back toward where I'd heard his voice, back to where Buddy waited tied to a tree, and found all the members of our party already gathered except Zeke. The Oregon boys were adamant; they had had enough. The death of Jedidiah and the mauling of Lem were too much for any of them to digest. We all understood.
As we talked, Zeke was tending to Lem's broken bones and patching up his many gashes, including sewing his face back together. No one really thought Lem would live, except Zeke and he wouldn't leave his friend. Carl and Thomas would stay with their brother and meantime they would rope Jedidiah back up the cliff and give him a proper burial. Even Anderson agreed this was for the best.
Stoddard, however, was beside himself after Bird informed us all that Raush was still a half-day behind, but along the way more and more miners had joined his cause. Now there could be four of five hundred men with him. It was a testament to the vast pull of temptation that a mere tale of a lake full of gold could have on the minds of men.
With heavy hearts those of us who were left moved on, our numbers reduced from thirteen to four in less than a day. But I went with a new resolve. I would find the gold we sought and live to see Michelle Reynard again. It's what she wanted. I knew it now.
End of Part 2
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