Bittersweet (40 page)

The kitchen window opened with a screech. “Karl,” Sarah called. “You’ve been at that all afternoon and you were up all night. You’re being silly. Stop before you chop yourself.”

Karl grunted and swung the ax. It bit deep and he couldn’t pull it free.

“Answer me!” Nothing. Sarah banged the window shut.

He rocked the ax back and forth, then planted his foot near the head and jerked. The handle pulled free of the head and Karl stumbled back into the small figure of Matthew Ebbitt. The boy stood square-shouldered, feet wide apart, ready to take on the world. Karl
blinked at him, unseeing for a moment, then let the ax handle slide to the ground.

“Momma was crying,” Matthew said accusingly. “Are you mad at her because she let Uncle David break the dishes?”

Karl pulled his kerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his face. “No, son, I’m not mad.”

“Momma said you won’t talk to her. She told me to come tell you she said you could tell me about Moss Face if you wanted to.”

“Sarah said that? That I was to tell you about Moss Face?”

“That’s what she said.”

Karl leaned the ax against the wood stand and upended a chunk of wood to sit on. He folded the damp kerchief into a neat square and stared out across the desert so long that Matthew began to fidget. “Come here,” Karl said at last, and his stepson came to stand between his knees. Karl pulled him up on his lap and wrapped his coat around him. “Last night I thought I heard something,” he began, “out by the chicken coop. When I went out to see what it was, I saw Moss Face. He was with a pretty lady coyote. They ran out toward those mountains together.” He pointed south to the blue Fox Range. “He grew up, Matthew, and had to go back to the wild to raise a family. Maybe we’ll see him again, come spring. Or maybe we’ll see puppies and they will be Moss Face all over again.”

Matthew buried his face against Karl’s shoulder, and Karl held him close.

MONTHS PASSED, A YEAR, THEN TWO. MATTHEW THRIVED AND GREW
; on his tenth birthday he was five feet tall. “I’ll be taller than Uncle David,” he boasted. His Uncle had neither visited nor written since the night he’d gotten drunk and smashed every glass in the place. There was still a dent in the wall where he’d rammed his knuckles. Somebody had scratched
DAVID TOLSTONADGE
under it, and the date, with a pocket knife.

The stages ran less frequently, and even with the decreased service, there were fewer passengers on each mudwagon. David’s predictions of railroad supremacy were fast coming true, but still no rails were being laid across the Smoke Creek or Black Rock Deserts. Freighters and, ever increasingly, cattle became the mainstay of the Saunderses’ business. They had increased the size of their herd and now ran two hundred and fifty head of cattle on the rangeland.

Coby’s responsibilities grew with the cattle ranching, and though he had enough money saved to buy a rig and a team, he stayed on as the Saunderses’ foreman. Each spring he took the wagon into Standish and hired enough hands to help with the branding, and again in late summer, when the cattle were driven to the railroad to be sold.

Maturity settled on Sarah like a handsome cloak. Her features, soft and vaguely undefined throughout her early twenties, firmed
and took on substance. When she spoke, it was with the easy assurance of a woman who knew her job and did it well. She had taken on the task of raising pigs as well as chickens, and east of the barn, downwind of the house, she had built a pigsty.

Early in the summer of 1885, Jerome Jannis rolled in from Standish. His cannonball head was grizzled and his barrel chest sloped off into a belly that pulled his shirttail out. For once his partner, Charley, was not coming behind, eating his dust. He hollered “Halloo!” to Sarah as he drove in. She was kneeling beside the pigpen, burlap sacking protecting her skirts and Karl’s oversized work gloves caricaturing her hands. She smiled, waved her hammer by way of reply, and returned to her fence-mending. The board nearest the ground had been rooted out from the post. As she pounded new nails in, all of her brood stomped and squealed on the other side of the fence, crowding each other to get near enough to poke their snouts between the boards. They liked her.

“Where’s everybody got to?” Jerome hollered. “Got Karl’s winter wood here. Need a hand unloading it if I’m going to get to Fish Springs today.”

“Coby and Matthew are out with the cattle.” Sarah stood and shook out her skirts. “There.” Beyond the spring, toward Reno, two black dots, barely discernible as horsemen, rode in the direction of the mountains. “Karl should be along directly. He’s around here somewhere. Karl!”

Karl came out from behind the shed, a blacksmith’s leather apron tied over his clothes. He’d grown even leaner and browner over the years. “Hello, Jerome. We haven’t seen you in a dog’s age.” The men shook hands warmly. “Where’s Charley? I hardly recognized you all by yourself.”

“Charley’s got a bad tooth. His face was swoll up like a pumpkin. That sawbones they got in Carson yanked it out for him, but he was still sicker’n a calf when I left. I done the Susanville, Standish, and back on my own.”

Sarah made a hammock out of the gunnysack to carry her tools back to the shed. “Let me put these away and I’ll get you two something to eat before you tackle that load.”

After lunch the men sat in the shade on the porch, letting their meal digest, the wagoner packing his pipe. The house was cool inside, and a breeze came in through the open windows. Sarah hummed as she cleared up the dishes. The window over the sink
faced east, the sun was directly overhead, and the shadows were small. The desert stretched, stark and clean, under a sky of perfect blue. In the distance two hawks circled on an updraft, tiny black specks over the northern curve of the hills. She watched them slide effortlessly toward the sun until they’d grown so small she could no longer see them.

Karl and Jerome came into sight around the corner of the house as she was starting on the flatwear. Jerome parked the wagon parallel to the fence, as close as he could get it. The back was piled high with cottonwood logs varying in length from eight to fifteen feet, the largest not much bigger around than a man’s thigh. The longer ones stuck out over the tail of the wagon. Both men climbed atop the pile and, one at either end, began heaving the logs over the fence. Puffs of dust shot up as they bounced on the hard dry earth. Karl counted as they worked: “One, two, heave…” and the logs swung off the wagon, hitting the new pile in a battering rhythm. In the kitchen, Sarah sang a little song softly to herself, trying to fit the tune to the pounding of the falling trunks. When the wagon was less than half-full, Karl jumped to the ground and stood behind, hefting the logs out of the wagon bed, then over the fence. He’d stopped counting, and the rhythm slowed, grew irregular, and Sarah sang to her own beat.

It was hot, heavy work, and after a while Jerome stripped down to his undershirt and rolled the sleeves above the elbow. “Hold it a minute, let me get squared away here,” he said, and sat down on the wagon seat to tuck the undershirt back around the belly.

Sweat streamed down Karl’s temples but he didn’t unbutton even his collar or take off the threadbare black woolen vest he always wore. He stood, hands on hips, looking out over the desert, catching his breath.

“Looks like the boys will be in sooner than I thought.”

Jerome followed Karl’s gaze. The two riders were still too far away to recognize. “The missus says Matthew’s riding with Coby.”

“That’s right. We got him an old mare last time we were cattle buying. She’s gentle as a pet—he climbs all over her and she just loves it. Coby is turning him into quite a horseman. He gave up on me.”

“You got no style.” Jerome grinned. “You ride like old Mrs. Pritchard, the circuit preacher’s wife back in Ohio.”

“I get there,” Karl returned mildly.

“Well”—Jerome puffed out his cheeks and heaved himself to his feet—“let’s get on with it.”

The load shifted as he put his weight on it and one of the logs, several feet longer than the others, shot sideways. The butt caught Karl in the stomach. He grunted and doubled over, then slid down around the log to fall back against the wheel of the wagon.

“Jesus Christ! Karl! You all right?” Jerome ran down the logs, catlike for all his girth. Karl’s eyes were glazed and wet, the color was fast draining from his face, and his head rolled drunkenly. “Sarah! Sarah!” Jerome shouted, and she looked up from her chores. “Get out here,” he cried. “It’s Karl.” He jumped to the ground and knelt by the injured man. “Easy, fella,” he said soothingly. “Easy now.”

Sarah ran from the kitchen, the dishrag still clasped in her hand. She dropped to the ground beside Jerome. A gout of blood covered Karl’s chin and stained the front of his shirt. His eyes were open but registered nothing. “Load shifted and a log shot out and caught him in the gut,” Jerome said. “Poor bastard went down like a two-dollar whore.”

Sarah touched the bloody jaw. “Did he hit his face when he fell?”

“No, ma’am. He vomited that up after. I was scared he was going to choke hisself to death, but he come out okay.”

“Let’s get him out flat,” Sarah said, and Jerome took him in his arms, easing him down. Karl screamed and his eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites showed. Sarah pressed her palm to her mouth, her fingers spread wide and rigid like a starfish.

“Better move him before he comes to. He ain’t going to feel it, at least,” the wagoner suggested.

“The house.”

Jerome worked his arms under Karl’s shoulders and knees and lifted him awkwardly. “He’s as long as a piece of string but don’t weigh nothing.”

Sarah walked ahead, opening doors. “Put him on the bed,” she said when they had reached the bedroom. “Would you go for Coby? He’s not far—you’d still get off in time to make Fish Springs before dark.”

The driver looked hurt. “I’m staying till you don’t need me. Fish Springs ain’t going nowhere.”

“Take Karl’s saddle horse.” Sarah closed the door behind him and returned to her husband’s side.

“Sarah.” He reached for her before he opened his eyes. “I hurt. Oh Lord, I hurt.”

“I sent for Coby. We’ll take you to Reno. Tonight. To the doctor there. You’ll be all right, Karl. You’ll be fine.” Her fingers lightly touched his hair, his brow, his shoulders, as though she were reassuring herself that he was real.

“No doctors.” He tried to sit but fell back with a groan and breathed shallowly for a minute, his lips white and pressed into a thin hard line. He closed his eyes and she clung to him, her face buried on his shoulder.

The pounding of hooves brought her head up. Coby and Matthew had ridden their horses into a lather. Matthew’s mare was wheezing as if each breath would be her last. A minute later there was a timid knock on the bedroom door.

“Sarah?”

“Momma?”

“Come in, boys.” They tiptoed in, covered with dust and reeking of horse sweat. Coby pulled off his hat; his forehead gleamed white above the hatband. Matthew took his off as well and, unconsciously aping Coby, held it before him in both hands.

“Jerome told us he took a log in the belly,” Coby said.

Matthew inched nearer the bed, his eyes on the clay-colored face of his stepfather.

“He’s throwing up blood, Coby. We’ve got to get him to Reno, there’s a doctor there.”

“No!” Karl said with such vehemence Matthew retreated behind his mother. “No doctor, Sarah. You know that.” His voice sank to a whisper.

“I don’t care, Karl. I only want you to be well again,” she replied. “Shh. Rest now.”

“Give me a drink of water.”

“Coby.” Sarah nodded toward the pitcher on the washstand. “There should be a glass on the next shelf.” The young man poured out the water and handed it to her. Propping her husband’s head on her arm, she pressed it to his lips and he drank. There was a grim choking sound and the water came foaming blood-red from his mouth and nose. Matthew ran from the room. “Coby, see to Matthew and wait for me in the front,” Sarah said.

Coby and the boy were sitting on the bar stools, Matthew’s elbows propped on the bar in the way of men. Jerome sat at a nearby table, drumming his fingers on the cloth and staring into space. All three looked up when Sarah entered.

“He won’t go to the doctor,” she said flatly.

“Of all the damn fool—” Jerome started.

“He has his reasons,” she snapped. Then: “I’m sorry, Jerome, I’m sorry.”

He waved the apology away. “I’ve already forgot it. I don’t want to make things worse for you than they are already, Sarah. But I’ve lived on this desert a lot of years. That man of yours looks like death to me. If we don’t get him to Reno, I don’t think he’s got the chance of a snowball in hell. He’s broke up inside. A man don’t cure himself of that.”

“The ride would kill him.”

“He’ll die sure as hell here.”

Sarah hid her eyes behind her hand. When she took it away, her mind was made up. “If he’s no better by morning, we’ll go.”

“Suit yourself. I’m hitching up to go, then. You won’t be needing me.” Disapproval was in the set of his jaw and the hunch of his shoulders. He waited a minute for Sarah to change her mind, then said, “I’m going that way, I’d just as soon roll on into Reno.” She said nothing. “Suit yourself,” he said again, and stomped out.

“Help him with his hitching, Coby.”

Sarah didn’t leave the bedroom again that day. Coby cooked dinner for Matthew and himself. At ten he put the boy to bed and tapped on Sarah’s door. “Sarah? It’s Coby. How you doing in there?”

The door opened suddenly, taking him by surprise. There was the reek of sweat and blood and human excrement in the room. Sarah’s lips were pale and the skin around her eyes was as dry and drawn as that of a woman twice her age. In her hands was a chamber pot. “Coby, get the wagon ready to leave as soon as it’s light.”

“I will, Sarah. We can go now if you like—soon as the moon’s up.”

“No, there’s not enough light. The wagon could break a wheel—go off into the ditch. He can’t be jostled around like that. He’s bad, Coby.” The tears started and she choked them back. “Here.” She pushed the chamber pot at him. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“I understand. First thing in the morning. I’ll bed down with
Matthew tonight so I’ll be handy. You call if you need anything or just want somebody to talk to.”

“Thanks, Coby, good night.” Sarah turned the lamp down low and drew her chair nearer the bed.

The night was cool, the air soft and feeling of spring. Karl lay quiet, his eyes closed. A stale, fetid smell clung to his clothes, and the bedspread was scuffed with dirt. Careful not to jar him, Sarah worked his boots off and unbuttoned his collar and sleeves. A blanket was draped over the foot of the bed. She pulled it up, laying it loosely over him. When he was as comfortable as she could make him, she went to the window, propped it wide, and leaned out. The desert was utterly still under immobile, unblinking stars. Sarah breathed deeply, clearing her lungs. Impatiently she pulled the pins from her hair and combed out the plaits with her fingers, letting the clean night breeze play through it. A rustling, so slight it might have been a moth brushing against the shade, turned her from the night. “Karl? she whispered.

“I’m awake.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Blood was crusted brown where his lips met, and around his nostrils. His words were more air than sound.