Gabriel's Story (16 page)

GABRIEL REALIZED THERE WAS SOMETHING IN HIS MOUTH, a ball of some sort, a rough object that threatened to choke him. He became aware of it only gradually, as his eyes fluttered open and tried to make sense of what turned out to be the thin, crooked branches of a honey mesquite tree. Having grasped that he was lying on his back, with his neck twisted around at an awkward angle, he rolled over and in so doing launched himself off the porch on which he had been lying. He lay sprawled in the dust a moment, as if this position were as good as any, until he remembered the ball in his throat. He rose as far as his hands and knees and tried to spit the object out. It wouldn't come, and his mouth was so parched that he could hardly produce any liquid at all. He stayed at this strange heaving for a few moments, slowly awakening to the fact that the ball was nothing more than his tongue, inflamed and dry and as limp as if it were a salt-tortured slug. His head ached as it had on his forced march, but worse now, for it seemed that his brain was afloat in alcohol. With the slightest movement it bumped up against the confines of his skull and clouded his eyes with pain.

He stood up and began stumbling toward the saloon, but he stopped and thought better of it. He remembered another source of water, one that seemed to have had some dim part in the events of the previous night. Retracing a thin thread of memory, he found the water trough at the back of the saloon. The water was tepid and murky, with bits of debris floating on it, but Gabriel drank from it deep and long. It seemed he might do so indefinitely, except that he jerked upright suddenly and began patting his trousers with his palms, calming down only when he found the coin and touched it once more.

As he stared into his reflection in the trough, events of the previous evening floated back to him bit by fragmented bit. He remembered being patted on the back by heavy hands, commended on his safe passage, his “trial by trail,” as Marshall put it. It seemed that their abandonment had been nothing more than an unfortunate circumstance, a small, impromptu test that, once passed, could be laughed off and drunk away and forgotten. He saw Marshall's face close to his own, smiling and sweaty and speaking to him in a flow of words that had no beginning, no ending, and no meaning that he could now discern. He heard again the chorus of songs sung with thick voices and saw the grins that devolved into frowns that became harsh words thrown about the room and made physical. Then he remembered the world twirling and the sky bright with stars, creatures of light that were not still as they should have been but that moved and trembled above him as if God's fingers had made the earth a top and set it spinning. The boy closed his eyes, cringed at a whiskey-flavored belch in his mouth, and vowed never to drink again.

GABRIEL FOUND JAMES IN MUCH THE SAME STATE. The two boys attempted to eat breakfast but didn't get much further than a few mouthfuls. They returned to the porch upon which Gabriel had spent the night. The building seemed to be abandoned, and they lounged about through the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon, watching the occasional foot traffic from one building to another, nodding at two passing horsemen who rode, quiet and deliberate, through town from one end to the other and on. It wasn't until the sun had passed its zenith and begun to relent that any real activity started. A group of men gathered a little way down the street. They entertained themselves with tarantula fights, a sport enlivened by the appearance of a bottle and the easy flow of money.

Gabriel first noticed the man because of his black Stetson, something he hadn't seen before, since most cowboys wore neutral shades of tan and brown, a reflection more of the color of the soil in the country they worked than any design of the hat-makers. This man's hat was a dark, dark gray, with a hatband of rattlesnake skin with the rattle still attached. He sauntered over to the boys with an air of mischief, a crooked grin tilting his thin lips. Several others followed just behind him, nondescript and poor-looking with whiskey slowing their steps and shaping their faces into grimaces of mirth.

“Hey, boys, how the hell are ya?” the man in the black hat asked. He set one boot up on the porch and smiled at the boys. He had a long, thin nose that pointed up slightly at the end, and his eyes crowded in on either side of it. There was a thin scar down his left cheek, as if the point of a knifeblade had traced the line of the jawbone beneath. “You boys are punchers, aren't ya?”

“Well . . .” James began, but shrugged to convey that that was not exactly the case.

“Who do you work for?”

Again James started to mumble a response, but Gabriel spoke more forcefully. “We don't work for nobody. Looking, though.”

This seemed to entertain the man. He glanced back at his companions. “These boys are just looking, is all. And I'd've sworn they were punchers. Guess they had me.” He watched them for a moment, then said, “You're wondering how I got my scar, aren't ya?” He turned his head to let them see it better. “You should've seen the other guy.” He chuckled at this and again cast glances behind him. When he looked back at them, he grew a little more serious. “We was wondering if you boys could help settle a bet for us. We been arguing like you wouldn't believe and just need us an impartial party like yourselves. See, we've been talking about which one of us is the better shot, that is, whether it's me or any of the rest of these scoundrels. I don't trust them as far as I can throw them, so how's about one of you two judge for us?”

Gabriel studied the man. “I don't know nothing about judging nothing. One of y'all could do it better. I'd just as soon not get mixed up in it.”

“Mixed up in it?” The man looked back at his friends. “He thinks one of y'all could do it better. Shit. Boy, you're giving these fellas more credit than they're worth. Truth is, each and every one of these fellas is as crooked as a diamondback. Come on, help us out. I'm just asking a favor.” He said the last sentence with particular emphasis, his voice cast a bit lower than before and laced with threat.

James stepped forward. “All right. I'll judge y'all.”

The man glanced at him. “Thanks, boy, but I'd prefer your friend here. He seems the right critical type, and that's what I'm looking for. Come on, you, I ain't asking anymore.” The man turned and walked slowly away. Some of his entourage followed, but others lingered near Gabriel, encouraging him on with hard glances.

James began to say something, but Gabriel silenced him and rose. He followed the man out into the street and down it a little way, to the side of a barnlike building. The man stopped before a pole that must have been sunk into the ground as the start of a project that was never completed. He motioned Gabriel over and moved him into position by the shoulders. By the time he'd turned around and faced the street, two others had appeared, holding a rope between them. One was no older than Gabriel, and when Gabriel's eyes touched on him, he looked away shyly.

“You ever hear of William Tell?” the man asked. “He was Swiss, I think. Did a little trick with a bow and arrow that I always fancied giving a try. Okay boys, show him how to be the judge.”

Something in the man's narrow eyes unnerved Gabriel enough that he started to move. But he'd hardly taken a step to the side when the two men with the rope had leapt beyond him. The rope hit his chest and smashed him back into the pole, pinning both arms to his sides. He wriggled hard and might have gotten free, except that the two men were quick in their work, one laying the rope low so that the other could jump over it and continue around. In the space of a few seconds they had wound the rope around him twice and had him bound so tightly that the rope bit into his skin and constricted his breathing.

“Now we got us some sport!” the man said. “And you boys wanted to set a rattler against a king snake. That ain't nothing like what you're about to see.” He paced back and forth in front of Gabriel like a hunter before some long-desired and dangerous prey. “Now, look here, boy. All you gotta do is stand there looking as dumb as you please, right? You can do that, can't you? Just stand there, and what I'm gonna do is show these boys how a marksman tests his skills. Don't think I got anything against you. I like you well enough, even if you do got a bit of an attitude for a nigger. If I'm as good as I think I am, you'll keep all your parts and I'll buy you a drink afterward. Who's got something for me to shoot?”

James had backed away a good distance, casually first. But once the man started debating with the others on what should serve as a target, he fell into a full run toward the saloon. Gabriel watched him while he could, but his attention was soon drawn to other matters. One of the men approached him with an earthen jug, an old thing with a chip in the rim. He lifted it up to eye level. Gabriel flinched, but the man was gentle. He set the jug on the boy's head and tried to balance it there. He let go several times, but each time the jug began to fall. Eventually he pressed Gabriel's head back against the pole and leaned the jug against it. This worked. He backed away, leaving Gabriel tied there in an awkward, straight-backed posture, chin pointing forward like a gesture of defiance.

The man in the black hat paced away a few steps, turned, and examined his prospects. He seemed pleased by the target and by the thin crowd watching him. He lifted his hat from his head, held it aloft for a second, then set it back in place, as if allowing his scalp to breathe. Then he said, “All right, boy, now hold still. Just smile, stupid-like, and close your eyes if you need to. This won't hurt a bit.” He drew his pistol and spun the chamber in his palm, commenting to the others about how beautiful the sound was. He held the weapon with his wrist cocked at a slight angle, his legs set together tightly, and his chest held high, like a Spanish bullfighter. He lifted the pistol and sighted on Gabriel.

The boy hadn't spoken since he'd been tied. He hadn't fought or even protested, but he did so now, in one simple motion. He tilted his head to the side. The jug teetered, shifted, and fell to the ground, where it shattered into large, chunky pieces.

The man lowered his pistol and stared at him. A few in the crowd laughed: one complimented the boy's gumption. The man was not similarly amused. “You'd make a fool of me?” He shifted his jaw from side to side, his gun hand hanging limp. “You'd make me a fool?” In one quick motion, less formal than his former posture and more like a child mimicking a gunfighter, he lifted his pistol, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

As with the old man's rifle a few days before, Gabriel saw a commotion of air and spark around the gun's barrel. He saw the jerk of the man's hand and how it translated up through his forearm and shoulder. He never heard the pistol's report, because the next sensation he felt was that of something scorching across his scalp. It was just a split second of feeling, but it was as if a rod of red-hot metal had been laid on his head. The wood behind his head splintered, and the whole pole shivered with a vibration that Gabriel felt right down to his toes. All went black.

He was still feeling the trembling of the pole and the world was still black when he began to hear voices around him, laughing and joking. Rough hands clasped his head, and with their touch, Gabriel opened his eyes. The world returned, in the shape of the man's smiling face, so close to his that he could smell the scent of him, a sweet-smelling scent like that of a baby. “There, that wasn't so bad, just a little haircut,” the man said. “But it didn't count for shit, did it? A man can't shoot without a target, right?” He moved in even closer. “You move your head again, and I'll put a bullet through your forehead.” With that, he spun away and called for another jug.

Gabriel stood in a daze as another object was balanced on his head, this time just a piece of wood about the size of a pint glass. He only half noticed the people walking toward them from the saloon. He didn't really take them in, but part of him was aware, if only by shape and movement, that one of them was Marshall.

The man checked his pistol with a certain formality, made jokes with the others, and asked for bets. He lifted the pistol up, sighted on Gabriel, then chuckled and looked at one of his companions, who instantly fell into hysterics. “Ain't this better'n watching a king kill a rattler?” he said. By the time he focused on Gabriel again, Marshall was closing in fast. Neither the man nor the others noticed, and the man turned his pistol toward Gabriel once more.

Marshall walked toward the man with steps temporarily unswayed by alcohol. He slid his hand down to his gun, drew it out, and gripped the handle tightly. As he approached, he first pointed the pistol at the back of the man's head, held it there through the space of several steps, but then decided otherwise. He lifted his arm high above his head, strode forward in two stunningly fast paces, and just as the man began to turn brought the pistol down on the crown of his head with the full force of his arm, his torso, and the weight of his body.

Gabriel would have thought the blow would make some sound, some concussion, crack, or slap. It made none. The man reeled beneath the impact, stumbling on legs suddenly gone to jelly. His hand convulsed and the pistol shot off, the bullet hitting the ground beneath him. With that, he fell into a crumpled ball and lay motionless.

Marshall looked down at him with a curious smile. A drunken grin creased his face, but only for a second. Then he snapped to attention and looked hard at the man's companions. “Any one of you close enough to this one to get offended, you might as well say so now.” His eyes drifted from one to the next, unflinching, heated, almost cajoling something out of them. They held their tongues. “Anybody have problems with me? Tell me now, cause I plan to go on drinking and I like to get this kind of stuff taken care of first.”

A thin, nervous man spoke from the shelter of the porch, half hidden by the railing. “You might damn near have killed a man for a nigger? We was just funnin.”