Leaving Epitaph (8 page)

Matthew bunked with his father that night, so Shaye could check the young man’s ribs. They were sore, but he didn’t think they were cracked or broken.

“Good thing he didn’t hit you twice,” Shaye said.

“He hit pretty hard,” Matthew said. “I figured I couldn’t afford to let him hit me again.”

“Smart lad. Better get ready for bed now.”

There were two beds in the room. They took turns washing with the pitcher and basin on the dresser, then each climbed into their beds after Shaye doused the light.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Matthew?”

“Sorry about tonight.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Matthew,” Shaye said. “Maybe you learned something tonight.”

“Maybe I did.”

A few moments went by, then Matthew said, “Learned what?” but by then Shaye was snoring.

In the other room, Thomas and James had turned in as well, but neither fell asleep right away.

“Thomas?”

“What?”

“Do you think you’re in trouble with Pa?”

“Naw,” Thomas said. “Pa didn’t seem that upset.”

There was a pause, then James asked, “Do you think Pa will ever talk to us about Ma?”

“Yes, James, he will,” Thomas said. “He’s just not ready yet.”

“When do you think he will be ready?”

Thomas pushed himself up on to one elbow and looked at his brother in the other bed. “Probably when we’re finished with what we have to do,” he answered. “Why, James? Do you want to talk about Ma?”

“All the time.”

Thomas laid back down on his back and folded his hands across his belly. “Okay, James,” he said, “what do you want to talk about?”

“Well,” James said, taking a moment, “do you remember that time when…”

When they met in the lobby to check out and get some breakfast, Shaye said to Thomas, “You don’t look very well rested.”

Thomas waited until Matthew and James had gone outside before he answered.

“James kept me up most of the night.”

“Snoring?”

“Talkin’.”

“About what?”

Thomas hesitated, then said, “Ma.”

Shaye put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about that, son,” he said. “That should be my job. I should be talking to all three of you about her, I guess.”

“It’s okay, Pa,” Thomas said. “I’m the oldest. I can help you with James and Matthew.”

“I appreciate that, Thomas. You’re a good brother, as well as a good son. But if the boys want to talk about their mother, I guess I should be the one to do it.”

“Why can’t we both do it, Pa?” Thomas asked. “And why can’t Matthew and James talk about Ma between themselves? We can all do it, can’t we?”

Shaye clasped his hand on the back of Thomas’s neck and said, “Sure, Thomas, we can all do it.”

Thomas went outside to join his brothers. Shaye stayed behind a moment. He was proud of Thomas for looking out for his brothers, and he hoped that the boys would talk about their mother among themselves. However, talking to them about their mother’s death—that was a father’s job. He knew he’d have to find the time to
talk to each of the boys alone somewhere along the trail.

Stepping outside, he saw the boys standing together off to one side. Maybe it wasn’t fair to make them accompany him on his vendetta, he thought. But they had demanded to come, demanded to be deputized. They hadn’t known exactly what they were getting themselves into, but he doubted that any of them would turn back, given the chance.

But perhaps they should be given the chance after all.

“Let’s go, boys,” he said, joining them. “A good breakfast and we’ll be on our way.”

“Can’t wait to put this town behind us,” Matthew said, touching his ribs.

“You did pretty good for yourself, big brother,” James said. “Pretty good for all of us. In fact, it’s the money we won betting on you that’s gonna buy us breakfast—and I’m havin’ a big one!”

They all had big breakfasts and left the café with bulging stomachs.

“Thank you, Matthew,” Thomas said. “That was a fine breakfast.”

“Pa paid for it,” Matthew said.

“Maybe,” James said, “but you earned the money.”

“And got sore ribs for his trouble,” Shaye
said. “Maybe I should turn the money over to Matthew.”

“All of it?” James asked.

“Well,” Shaye said, “maybe what’s left after we reoutfit.”

They went to the livery for their horses, then rode to the general store to spend some of the money they’d won. They all came out carrying canvas bags which they tied to their saddles, having split all the supplies evenly between them.

As they mounted up to leave, Shaye noticed Sheriff Ray Stover standing out in front of his office, watching them.

“Wait here a second,” Shaye told his sons. He turned his horse and directed it over to where the sheriff was standing.

“Sheriff Shaye,” Stover said.

“Sheriff Stover.”

“Headin’ out?”

“That’s right.”

Ray Stover looked off into the distance. Shaye knew the man had something to tell him, figured he’d let him get to it in his own time.

Finally, Stover looked up at Shaye, who was patiently sitting his horse. “You want to head toward Oklahoma City.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Well…it’s just a feelin’ I have, ya know?” Stover said. “Kind of a lawman’s feelin’?”

Now it was Shaye’s turn to look off into the
distance, toward Oklahoma City. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve had those feelings myself.”

“I figured you would’ve.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Shaye turned his horse, then turned it again so he was facing Stover once more. “You know, if you’re lying to me…”

“Yes,” Stover said, “I know.”

Shaye nodded, then turned his horse and rode to join his sons.

“Why are we headin’ for Oklahoma City?” Terry Petry asked Ethan Langer. “I thought we had to head north to meet the rest.”

Langer took a moment before answering Petry. Normally he would have either backhanded the man from his saddle for questioning him or just outright killed him. Aaron, he knew, would have killed Petry without a thought. But then Aaron wasn’t having those dreams.

“Ethan?”

“We aren’t headin’ north, Petry,” Langer said. “We’re headin’ northeast.”

“Yeah,” Petry said, “but why?”

Langer turned his head to glare at the other man, who had ridden up alongside him to ask him the questions. The other men were laying back, their shoulders hunched against what they thought was coming.

“Since when do I have to explain my reasons to you, Petry?” he demanded.

“Hey, Ethan,” Petry said, “a lot of us are askin’ the same question, ya know? I’m the only one figured I could ride up and ask ya without getting’ shot.”

“Look into my eyes, Terry,” Langer said. “Are you still sure that’s true?”

Petry did look into Ethan Langer’s eyes, and he didn’t like what he saw—at all.

“Forget it, Ethan,” Petry said. “Just forget it.”

“That’s right, Terry,” Langer said. “You ride back and tell the others to forget it. They can either follow me or go their own way—but if they go, they forfeit their share of the last job. Got it?”

“I got it, Ethan.”

“Good, then pass it along.”

Petry pulled back and joined the other men, leaving Langer alone with his thoughts—thoughts about his dreams. That woman was still there, every night, screaming in his dreams. He wondered if hearing her scream in real life would have kept him from hearing it in his dreams.

He needed to talk to somebody, but not any of the men he was riding with. He’d considered talking to Aaron, his older brother, except he wasn’t sure that Aaron would understand. He didn’t even understand. Somebody had to explain it to him, and the only person he knew who could do it lived in Oklahoma City. Once they stopped there, they could still continue north through Indian Territory to meet up with Aaron
and his men. Hopefully, by then the woman would be gone from his dreams—and maybe even his dreams would be gone.

Maybe then he’d be able to get some peace in his sleep.

The Shayes camped between Lawton and Oklahoma City. There wasn’t much else in between the two, but they had outfitted enough in Lawton to be able to make the trip, as long as they rationed their food and drink well enough. Actually, they didn’t even need to ration it, just manage it so it would last another hundred miles.

“If they’re really going to Oklahoma City, then we’re only a couple of days good ride behind them, ain’t we, Pa?” James asked.

“That’s about right.”

“Whether or not we catch up to them,” Thomas said, “depends on how long they stay there—that is, if they’re really goin’ there.”

“I think that sheriff was too afraid of Pa to lie to him,” Matthew said.

“Is that right, Pa?” James asked. “He was scared of you?”

“Maybe he just wanted to do the right thing,” Shaye said.

“Pa,” James said, “tell us some stories about when you was an outlaw.”

Shaye looked across the fire at his youngest son.

“Why?” he asked. “Why would you want to hear about a time in my life I’m not proud of?”

“Because you’re my pa,” James said. “And in the last couple of days I guess I figure we don’t know as much about you as we thought we did.”

Shaye remained silent.

“And maybe,” Thomas said, “maybe we didn’t know as much about Ma as we thought we did…and now she’s dead. Maybe we don’t wanna have questions about you, Pa, when you ain’t around to answer them.”

Now Shaye examined the faces of all three of his sons in the flickering firelight.

“Fair enough,” he said at last. “I won’t tell stories, but I’ll answer your questions.”

“Okay,” James said, “me first. You ever kill anybody?”

“Before or after I put on a badge?” Shaye asked.

“Not while you’ve been Sheriff Dan Shaye,” Thomas said, “but back when you were Shay Daniels.”

Shaye took a deep breath. “Shay Daniels killed some men, yes.”

“How many?” Matthew asked.

“To be honest,” Shaye said, “I never counted. I never murdered anyone, though. I wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t Jesse James or Billy the Kid.”

“But you were good with a gun?”

Shaye held his right hand out. At the moment it was big, with thick fingers, a powerful hand.

“My hands were different then,” he said. “They were like Thomas’s hands. That’s why Thomas is good with a gun and Matthew isn’t.”

“And me?” James asked, holding out his hand.

“You have your mother’s hands, James.”

“Oh, great,” he said, drawing his hand back quickly.

“Thomas has her hands too, really, but apparently the speed I had when I was his age. Now my hands are too thick, I often have to double reach for my gun before I get it out of my holster, make sure it’s secure in my palm. Back then…” His eyes got a faraway look. “…I was fast, real fast, and I let it get the better of me.”

“How do you mean, Pa?” James asked.

“Like most young men,” Shaye said, “I thought being fast made me special. I thought being able to outdraw other men, and maybe kill them, made me different.”

“And it didn’t?” Matthew asked.

Again Shaye looked at all his sons before speaking.

“It made me the same as everybody else, boys,” he said. “Your mother is the one who made me different, or special. The fact that she chose me made me special. And I learned from her that being able to handle a gun wasn’t special at all.”

Thomas reached down and touched the smooth handle of his gun. He was fast, and he could hit what he shot at. He thought that made him special. Now he was being told different. If that didn’t make him special, then what would? His mother often told him he was special, but he knew she probably said that to Matthew and James as well.

“Did you ride with anyone famous?” James asked Shaye, but Thomas wasn’t listening anymore….

Shaye had set watches ever since they left Lawton, mostly for the boys to get into the habit, not because he thought they were in actual danger. There was always a chance the Lawton cowboys might decide they weren’t satisfied with the outcome of the arm wrestling incident. There was also the possibility they’d run into Indians—Cheyenne or Arapaho, and later some Cherokee—but there were only four of them and they obviously were not transporting anything of value. Even if and when they turned north and went deep into Indian Territory, Shaye didn’t anticipate any problems.

Matthew had first watch, James second, Thomas third. Thomas woke Shaye for the fourth and final watch.

“Get some sleep, Thomas,” he said as he settled down by the fire. “We’ll get an early start come morning.”

“I slept plenty before James woke me,” Thomas said. “I’d like to set a while with you, Pa.”

“Okay.” Shaye knew Thomas had something on his mind. He decided to let his son get to it in his own time. He poured them each a cup of coffee.

“Can I ask you somethin’, Pa?”

“You can ask me anything, Thomas.”

“Pa, I worked real hard to become good with a gun.”

“I know you have, son.”

“Why did I do that?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t know?”

Thomas hesitated, then said, “I thought I did.”

“Well, tell me what you thought you knew.”

Thomas hesitated again before answering, then said, “I thought it was important.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to be a lawman, like you.”

“Have you? Since when?”

“Since…well, I guess since we moved to Texas and you became sheriff.”

Shaye recalled that it was only after he started wearing a badge that Thomas began asking for a gun. Mary was worried about that. She didn’t want any of her boys to follow in the footsteps of their father—any of the footsteps that he’d left, past, present, or—he assumed—future. Not that she wasn’t proud of her husband—she
was—but she just didn’t want to have to worry about any of her other men…when they became men.

She and Shaye had words over when Thomas should be given a handgun, and in the end Shaye’s will had prevailed. Thomas began practicing with an unloaded gun when he was thirteen. He got bullets when he turned fifteen. By that time, though, he was a dead shot with a rifle and did much of the hunting for the family.

“So why are you asking the question now, Thomas?”

“Because of what you said earlier,” Thomas said, “about being able to handle a gun not making you special.”

“You don’t need a gun to make you special, Thomas.”

The younger Shaye did not respond.

“I see,” Shaye said. “You thought it did make you special.”

“Yes.”

“So now you don’t feel special.”

Thomas put down his coffee cup and spread his hands. “What is there about me now that makes me special?” he asked.

“First of all,” Shaye said, wishing Mary were there to answer the questions, “what makes you think you need to be special? Why can’t you just be…normal?”

“I…don’t know,” Thomas said. “I just thought…it was important.”

“And who knows what makes someone special, Thomas?” Shaye said. “You’re still young. There is plenty of time for you to…become special.”

Thomas gazed out into the darkness.

“I wish your mother was here,” Shaye said. “She was so much better at this than I am.”

Thomas turned his head and looked at his father. “You’re doin’ fine, Pa.”

“Am I?”

Thomas stood up and patted his father on the shoulder. “Yes, you are. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Shaye watched as Thomas walked to his bedroll and rolled himself up in it. His oldest son had just put aside his own questions and doubts to reassure his father about his.

Shaye thought Thomas was pretty special.