Gabriel's Story (12 page)

WITH THE PASSING OF THE FIRST WEEK of the boy's absence into
the second and third, the family dug into their work with a resolve
made stronger by their loss. The plots of turned sod stretched ever
larger, the planted acres budded and grew, rows of corn took
shape, and fields of wheat swayed in the breeze with a texture and
motion different from those of the wild grass around them. The
buildings grew as well. The new room was completed, making two
in their simple dwelling. The barn, much because of the younger
son's labor, was roofed, and a chicken coop was built onto one side.
Work became so consuming that it seemed the very purpose of life,
the meaning of it, a holy act that, in the uncle's words, could be
“the prayer of this mortal coil.”

Moments of leisure were few and far between, but when the
uncle received a rifle in return for services rendered to a neighbor,
he shaved minutes from the evening's rituals to teach the younger
son to shoot. The two would walk out some distance on the prairie
and spend the last of the evening's light in friendly tutelage. The
rifle was a Kentucky long, an old creature born early in the
century and well used over the years. The man handled it with
care and asked the boy never to disparage its limited capabilities.
He taught him how to calculate distance and to think of such
things as the lay of the land, whether it rose or fell, the velocity and
direction of the wind, and even to consider his own breath and to
time his shots in accordance. He noted that with this particular
gun you had only one shot at a time, so it was not the weapon of
choice against numerous Indians or against even a single grizzly.

Before he let him fire the rifle, the uncle asked the boy never to
take life except with reverence, never without a prayer of thanks
and forgiveness. Life is sacred, he said. Above all else, it's a gift
given to each creature by the creator. Us people should never get so
big-headed that we kill without great need. I don't care if it's nothing but a field mouse, you still gotta respect that you undoing
something what God done in the first place. So you better ask his
permission first. He told the boy that he believed all creatures had
souls, just like humans. He said that he knew this to be so because
he'd seen it in their eyes. We all God's creatures, true enough. He
made the boy swear that he understood this and would take it to
heart.

The boy did so with quiet eyes and took the weapon into his
hands. The first time he shot the rifle, he was satisfied to find the
kick not as impressive as he expected, just a nudge against his
shoulder. He welcomed the feeling of power within the barrel, the
force projected outward, the small bullet that ripped through the
air like a scream with teeth. From the first shot the boy showed a
knack for marksmanship. He sent the tin target dancing across
the prairie, and the uncle looked at him with new respect.

But that evening as he tried to sleep, the boy found himself
pained in the shoulder and jaw and, strangely, in the hamstring
of his left leg. He couldn't place the origin of these injuries, and
he didn't mention them to anyone, but he was to suffer from these
ailments ever after, whenever he'd shoot a weapon, either pistol
or rifle, whenever he took a life.

THEY HAD JUST BROKEN CAMP THE NEXT MORNING when a lone horseman came in from the east. Gabriel watched him traverse the far bank and come to a stop across the river. He halloed once and held a hand up in greeting, then let it drop and studied the water before him. He bent low over his horse's neck and spoke into its ear. The horse tossed its head and surveyed the water with mistrust, but stepped forward and took to it gently, like a bather testing the temperature with a toe. A few steps in and the horse sank up to its shoulders. It dropped into a swimming rhythm with the rider still leaning forward in the saddle. When the horse emerged on the near bank, it gleamed and shivered in the morning air.

The rider was wet up half his body, but he did not acknowledge it. In a series of motions strung together so quickly they seemed only a single movement, he reined the horse to a stop in the center of camp, flung one leg over the horn of his saddle, and slid down to the ground. He landed hard but was standing straight-backed the next moment, chest pushed out and face anxious. He was just a few years older than Gabriel, thin, with sharp, almost delicate features and blue eyes that flicked from man to man uneasily. Rollins and Jack immediately began joking with him, asking what in Christ's name he was doing up here, comparing him to a faithful dog that couldn't stand being parted from its master. The boy's eyes flashed at this, but he held whatever words he had and directed his gaze toward Marshall.

“Thank God I found ya! I been riding full chisel since midnight. Marshall, they're fixing to hang you.”

The boy spoke with all seriousness, but Marshall smiled. “To hang me? Well, that's some news, Dallas. Damn if that don't beat all. To hang
me
? What kind of fool would want to try that? I'm too big-headed to be hung.”

Dallas yanked his hat from his head as if it had suddenly offended him, punched it with one sharp blow, and set it back in place. “This here's serious, Marshall. It's on account of them horses y'all stole from Three Bars. Y'all been found out, and now they're fixing to hang ya sure as shit.” He let this sit for a moment, looking from one man to another with a frank accusation on his face. But he held the expression for only a moment. It slipped away, to be replaced by a sullen, almost childlike disappointment. “Y'all should have cut me in on it. You know I'd've rode with ya. I ain't afraid of them halfbreeds . . .”

Caleb walked up from the river, wiping his face with his handkerchief in slow, deliberate strokes. His presence seemed to give Dallas pause, although the boy bubbled with things still unsaid. Gabriel watched Marshall, looking to make some sense of this messenger's news. The humor in Marshall's features was undiminished. In fact, he seemed quite amused by the whole thing.

“Which horses was that, Dallas?”

The boy pulled his hat off and punched it again. “The ones y'all stole and drove up in broad daylight past Fort Concho and took up to Crownsville and sold right there at auction for the whole world to see. Jim Rickles from down at Three Bars been making sure every ranch in Texas knows it too. Y'all are being put out of the whole goddamn state of Texas. Word is that Richards might even turn y'all in. He—”

“Wait a minute,” Marshall said, waving the boy silent with the palm of his hand. “Are we being put out or hanged or turned in? You're making an awful confusion of it, son. Maybe you should have yourself a cup of coffee or something.”

Dallas set his hat back on his head and struggled to control his growing exasperation. “Somebody just might want to listen to what I got to say. I ain't here for my own health, that's for damn sure. Richards has done gone and fired ya, right? I heard the words from his lips myself. And Rickles has been saying he ain't gonna take it sitting down. And since nobody seems to want to hunt you, he's talking about rounding hisself up his own posse and coming after ya. Is that clear enough?”

“Hellfire!” Rollins said, throwing down the canteen he'd been holding and launching one of his instantaneous tirades. “I knew something bad would come of that whole business! I never was a horse thief, and this is exactly why.” Dunlop stood still, as if he hadn't taken it all in, and Marshall said nothing, just kept smiling. Caleb had finished his long, slow cleaning of his face. He knotted his handkerchief around his neck and looked as nonplussed as Marshall did amused.

Gabriel cast a quick glance at James, wondering if he too remembered the horses Dallas spoke of. The image of the market came back to him fully, the gaiety and activity of the day, the humor in Marshall's voice, the command he held over the audience. It was that day that had most formed his perception of this man, and even if the days spent in his company had dimmed the image somewhat, it was still, in Gabriel's mind, the moment of introduction to the world he now lived in. But if he'd heard this boy right, if he hadn't misunderstood . . .

Marshall ran his tongue across his front teeth and scented the air. “All right, Dallas, I heard your message. You can go on back to Richards now, if that's what you had in mind.”

Dallas was so quick to answer that he sprayed the air before him with spittle. “The hell I will! Richards is the biggest lily-livered dandy in the state of Texas. He's a woman, is what he is. Should've been a sheepherder. And Three Bars, they ain't nothing but a bunch of mixed-breed monkeys and whores. Ain't an honest one among them. I'd've stole the horses myself if you'd asked me to. Hell, I'd ride with ya now and put bullets in the lot of them and hang em from the nearest tree. I'd . . .” He seemed to have more to say, but he faltered. “Shit, you know what I'd do.”

Marshall had smiled from the boy's first words. He stepped forward and punched him in the ribs, causing his horse to shy away. “Ain't that perfect?” he asked the others. “Good ole Dallas—never one to shy from runction. Comes up here and volunteers to share the noose with us. That's perfect. You're a piece of work.” He thought for a moment, then motioned to Caleb to join him for a private conversation. He paused a few steps on and turned back. “Well, Jack, Bill, you all can head on if you want. Richards'll know you didn't have nothing to do with it. And I reckon he'll be wanting his wagon back.” With that, he moved away again.

Dallas stood with a stupefied expression on his face. He called after Marshall, as did Rollins and Dunlop, but Marshall and Caleb went and sat beside the river. Marshall bent to roll a cigarette as they talked. Dallas spat, swung his jaw loose, then spat again. It was only then that he noticed Gabriel and James. Derision curled his lips.

“What's with the coloreds?”

Bill looked at the boys almost sadly. “Marshall hired them.”

“For what?”

“Just . . . Well, I don't know. Help out the nigger Enoch, I guess. Make em punchers someday.”

“Punchers?” Dallas squinted one eye at Gabriel and seemed to consider the probability of this. “Not a penguin's chance in hell. You boys get on back where you come from.”

“They're some good boys. I'll stand for em.”

“I don't care if you would stand for them. They ain't about to get no work down there. Marshall should've left them back where they come from.” Dallas took a step closer and spoke to the boys in simple tones, loud and clear, as if they were foreigners. “There ain't no work for you down there. If I were you, I'd pull foot before you get yourselves in trouble. That's my advice.” Having given it, Dallas turned away and seemed to forget about the boys entirely. “What in tarnation are those two talking about, anyway? Marshall should be talking to me. I'm the one that just about saved his skin.”

The young man went on complaining, interrupted often by Rollins's outbursts and Dunlop's questions. Bill and Jack exchanged silent glances. They spoke not a word in council to each other but seemed to be of one mind, as if they'd expected just such trouble all along and had no interest in hanging around any longer than they had to. They returned to their preparations to depart. Gabriel had the feeling that something was slipping away from him. The earth moved under his feet instead of he over the earth. He was aware of conversations taking place, but he played no part in them. He heard Jack express his regrets and say his goodbyes and watched him ride off, slow and quiet but still going. He heard the snap of Bill's whip over the oxen and saw them enter the river. The creatures sank in up to their necks and surged forward in rhythmic thrusts, like aquatic beasts of burden harnessed in a fable from some pre-Biblical time. Gabriel watched them emerge on the other side and move off. He saw James's face before him, troubled almost to tears and filled with questions. He turned and sought out Marshall and found only the man's back, some thirty yards away. He was smoking and talking quietly with Caleb, oblivious of the shift in the earth and as calm as any wayward angel whose work is still blessed by providence. And still the earth rolled beneath the boy's feet, like a slowly undulating ocean that did not yet drown him but might at any moment.

FOR THE NEXT HALF-HOUR GABRIEL LISTENED silently to a tumult of threats and declarations, annoyance and denials. Rollins cursed the fate that would exile him from the land of his birth. He said it was an absurdity, and further treachery, and beyond that a blasphemy, that the halfbreed thieves of Three Bars might accuse them of the same crime they themselves were guilty of. Dunlop was in less of a temper, but he admitted that the fact that the law had not been involved did imply some earlier guilt on the ranch's part. Both of them sought to bring Marshall and Caleb into the discourse, but those two shared only each other's council until a decision was made.

At last Marshall approached the group, smiled at them, and set his hands on his hips. His cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “Well, boys, who's for the whorehouse at McKutcheon's Station?”

Gabriel felt James grasp his elbow, but what the touch might mean he didn't turn to see.

“What?” Dunlop asked.

“There ain't no whorehouse at McKutcheon's,” Rollins said.

“There's women there, ain't there?”

“Yeah. I reckon. There's them Mexicans he keeps all about the place.”