November, 2009       Issue #2

No Harm In Them
by Elmer Fralick. Jr.

The wind put a shake in the bushes and trees. Out front, at the end of the pole that extended from a lashing on the burro's saddle, the lantern bounced and made shadows at the fringes of what Elbridge could see. Whoever was outside of the wobbling circle of the yellow light in the woods worried him. The rattle of the glass in the lamp's metal frame offered him a slight comfort. Would the flame it held protect him?

As morning's light began to overtake the dark, Elbridge called the burro to a halt. He crawled from the saddle, took the animal's bridle and tugged it along behind him as he searched for a safe place to bed down. At about 25 paces he spied such a spot. Before the sun's orange put a shine on things, Elbridge dug a pit, piled on saplings, fronds of leaves and surrounded them with bushes situated to make the area look God-made. There he'd rest.

He nodded to the mule, and then slapped himself. Only crazy people and children talked to themselves and animals. He was neither.

Elbridge fed the donkey. He resisted the urge to pet it. As good as it was, as fond of it as he was, it had no name. Names for animals: another thing for children. That, he'd learned when he was one. His first horse was Ginger, for its color. He'd talked to it. No, he was not crazy, just young. One day it was gone. Stolen. It would not have left on its own. After a hard freeze had left him in a poor state, a man who, by his own good word, raised it from a colt, sold it to him for a fair price. He promised, "This horse, it'll never walk away, not even for the sweetest, freshest hay."

The donkey's bridle rope double square-knot tied to a stout tree, Elbridge slept fitfully. That was alright with him. It was an advantage: resting during the day. All the more safe he was from anyone wishing to do him harm. For, from a hole in that cunningly covered bed-down, he could see who or what woke him. You couldn't do that at night. If he heard something as faint as the whispered cry of a falling leaf, which had come upon either its natural time of death, or an unfortunate end of its life caused by someone, he'd hear the warning knell.

That evening, like the others before, he lay awake listening. Upon assuring himself he was alone, he scrambled out, brushed himself off and boiled up some coffee.

Not Arbuckle's. Too many drank it. You could taste its smell. So many drank it Elbridge was convinced it was as much trouble as beer. And anything akin to something that took his pa's life was to be avoided.

Over the sounds of his sipping and chewing, off a fair distance behind, he heard a boar root for supper. Above, a jaybird, thankfully not a raven, called. Or was it a warning? Elbridge sat up straight and cocked his head for a hear with his better ear. The evening wind rattled the leaves. Somewhere a branch, perhaps killed off by the hard freeze the year Elbridge had gotten Ginger, lost its grip and crashed to the ground.

In a motion as swift as a river in the throes of spring thaw, Elbridge's heart began to pound. He dropped the cup and drew his pistol. Steady, he pointed it north and then around to the other points of the compass. After a moment of absolute stillness, he blinked. His gun reholstered, he poured another coffee and paced. Both hands did their best to comfort him: in his right, his cup. His left hand rested on the butt of his Colt Navy Revolver. The same as what Bill Hickock carried, 'nough said to most, he nodded- to himself.

Night's dark due soon, having made the dig-out indiscernible, Elbridge relieved himself in the fire pit and covered it with dirt. He checked the tightness of the burro's saddle. The lantern's oil refilled, he lit it. He retied the lamp pole's lashings so it arched up and out properly from the saddle. It was time to absquatulate that place. Elbridge climbed aboard the donkey.

Some time later, after seemingly wandering, he halted at a town's placard. Just one nail held it up. It swung recklessly in the wind. After a length of time, in the growing glow of the lantern, Elbridge finally ciphered the words out. He leaned to his right and settled his hand on the pistol. He squinted at the name. What did "Last Stop” mean? Was it a warning? Did someone aim to do him harm here? He swiveled his head and listened hard with both ears.

The burro spurred, they would circle around town. It was the smartest, safest way.

Still . . . Last Stop? What was that? Had he been found out? Was there word about him? That had to be it.

Elbridge eased out of the saddle, his pistol drawn, he faced the four directions.

Did someone have something against him? Why? He'd done nothing uncalled for. If he had- well . . . it was a simple misunderstanding. He tried to be chirk, cheerful- a good man. He would not do bad things or have conniptions. No. Not him; unless someone scratched his ear instead of their own.

Elbridge replaced the Colt in his holster and remounted the donkey. He clucked once and spurred the burro to a quicker pace. The lantern up front jangled noisily. Elbridge put his hand on his gun. He twisted in the saddle and looked behind him. They would try to get him from behind. He curled his finger around the trigger. He wished he could hear better. He wished the pounding in his ears would stop. He sniffed. The air was crisp, too clean, rather autumnish for the summer. Not right.

Last Stop?

To Elbridge's right, his bad side, the town's lights twinkled in the dark. By now, he figured, he'd gone far enough, long enough to have outrun the lights, so no one could see him. The only lights he ought to see should be the stars, and his own. It wasn't so.

His own!

Elbridge stopped the burro. He had to have been seen.

He wiggled a finger tip in his good ear. He put his palms over both ears and squashed them. The pounding left. Now, another problem possessed them: the chant. Low and steady, like a choir calling all to God; Lord have mercy on you if'n you don't heed the message. Elbridge squashed his ears once more. Sometimes with the second the choir sat.

It didn't work.

He thought to douse the lantern, but considering the town's name, the chanting and that now the preacher had begun his sermon, it was too late; As elusive as he'd been, someone had found him; Elbridge was in trouble.

They had to be put off his trail.

Elbridge double knotted the donkey to a tree, took the lantern and headed to town with its light guiding him. He may be surrounded by the dark, but he was not the dark. He would cleanse what was in the dark.

He walked, Indian-like: heel down, in noiseless spots, his foot rolled slowly forward to feel if something might give him away. He arched and curved his body to avoid contact with anything. Slowly, warily, he moved his eyes and head back and forth, surveying, scouring for trouble.

Perhaps the source of his trouble was in Laramie. The man who'd sold him this lantern. His eyes made him nervous. One was off, canted to the side. The lack of certain eye contact led the preacher to the conclusion of danger. Elbridge had no choice. How could he not shoot the mercantile clerk when he'd made it plain the man would not take Elbridge's money? His money was as good as anyone's. Generous, his ass. Just because he was new in town? Hardly. All he needed was a cup of paraffin oil for his lantern. It couldn't cost so little that he could afford to give it away. And they hadn't known each other for a sufficient time to develop a fondness. Likely enough, dark motives had taken up in his heart.

A single shot relieved him of them.

The colored girl in back, who'd peeked around the corner, she'd been talking. Had it not been for the pounding in his ears, Elbridge could have heard what she'd said about him. He shrugged. It didn't matter. She was dark. And strangers shouldn't talk about strangers. She would no more.

Outside, in the street, two boys laughed at him. Laramie was dark.

Now where the sidewalks of Last Stop started, Elbridge knelt on the ground. He set down his lantern. By its light, he checked his pistol. The cylinder arbor was full with bullets. Elbridge rose and grabbed up the lamp. He walked down the center of the road.

The wind blew past him.

Elbridge was no fool. The smell of alcohol, beer and whiskey hung in the night. Was he being taunted for how his father died? They wanted him in the saloon didn't they? Talk would happen. Lies would be told. After too many drinks there would be a gunfight, the odds overwhelming. Elbridge would not partake.

Next, the red-light house. Perfume. Too much. Like his mother? What was sold there was not contentment, but turmoil. Those women were the ruination of manhood. His father: the proof. He'd been shattered by one of their type. It was under that light that he said in the truth of the dark, none of them measured up to Elbridge's mother. He pulled his stare from the dark light. Here, now, he would not go in to hear them, in their catty way, call her tetched.

And he was not either.

Heckly's restaurant: wouldn't a hot, sit-down meal taste good? A steak, rare, juicy. Biscuits, fluffy as a petticoat. And flapjacks- how he loved flapjacks. But what else was in them? No. The town, all of it, was in this together. Elbridge shielded his eyes from the words on the glass window and pinched his nose closed.

There were no lights in the jail. Inside, the sheriff probably waited thinking he would be an easy capture. Elbridge walked the sidewalk across the street, not scuffing his boot heels, his hand on his Colt revolver.

He straightened his hat when he passed the haberdashery. Back in Laramie, after avenging himself, he'd paid a dollar fifty for it, cash on the barrelhead. On the way out, was it the wind- or the boys -who'd knocked it to the ground? The boy's parents now regretted not teaching them better manners.

Holding the lantern up, Elbridge moved on.

At the far side of town, behind the ironsmith's shop, well lit with torches, men unloaded flatbed cars. Preparations. Ah: they were not yet ready for him.

Across the way was the livery. Easy as a leaf among leaves in a spring-rain drainage, Elbridge made his way to it and peered in. A small man dozed by a hefty railroad lamp, guarding the horses, one a ginger color. Was that his old horse? Elbridge picked up a few bits of hay and rolled it in his fingers. He smelled it: musty-dry.

It'd taken him awhile, having to go the long way around town, but he made it back to where he tied his burro. He thanked the town for the light. Had he not had it he might not have found his donkey so well. This was new territory for him. Elbridge sat against a tree in the dancing light and waited. In the real day, he'd see how well he'd taught his lesson.

Elbridge would not be caught, snuck up on or be spoken ill of. He smiled. He had not been hornswoggled by the town's name. As if suffonsified, he closed his eyes for a thankful prayer with the preacher.

Later a steam whistle jerked him awake. How had he fallen asleep? His new hat was on the ground. Had he received a thrashing? Elbridge checked his head for knots and lumps.

Nothing.

The town? He Smiled. All that remained were charred ruins. Now they would be too busy and have to leave him alone.

Elbridge stood, stretched and grimaced. He hated to travel during the day; it was far too easy to make out a marked man, but he had to, till he bought a new lantern.

The steam whistle tooted again. The train pulled forward, heading west, toward what would soon be its new last stop.

Elbridge thought to look, but did not turn. No sense in dwelling on the past.

Off he went traveling on, with the daylight and his thoughts; no harm in them.

The End