Maude March on the Run! (28 page)

“
J
OE HARDEN, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST,” THE BOUNTY
hunter said, loud enough to turn heads. I was right about the smell.

“He's not Joe Harden,” I said. “What makes you think so?”

We were drawing a crowd. It didn't help that more than a few soldiers was part of it.

Two of them put hands on Marion, twisting his arms behind his back, and the officer Marion had been talking to was taking his pistol. This unkindly treatment didn't sit well with me.

I was betwixt and between, wanting to stand up with Marion and knowing this would make Maude the last card up our sleeve. She was an excellent card, but it was a weight to carry, I knew.

I said, “Who is this Joe Harden?”

“A wanted man,” a fellow in the crowd said. “I seen his name on a poster last week.”

“It takes only a touch of bad luck,” I said, “and yours could be on one next week.”

“What about this one?” the bounty hunter said, meaning
me. He had written all over him the likelihood that he was going to set us back some in our hurry to get to Uncle Arlen. Even without that, I disliked the fellow entire.

“A boy,” the officer said, and I didn't care for him, either. Boys could be more trouble than he was willing to credit them. “You can't expect me to arrest a boy.”

“You can't arrest anyone on the say so of this smelly mongrel,” I said.

The bounty hunter said, “Shut it, brat.”

I kicked him in the shins.

Somebody grabbed me from behind and knocked the box from my grasp. The cookies fell into the dirt. “Hey,” I said, twisting around inside my shirt. I connected with another kick.

I was taken along right behind Marion.

I looked back to see two dogs come from nowhere and start to gobble up those cookies.

The bounty hunters followed, arguing for collecting their money. The officer wouldn't part with a penny until he knew Marion had a price on his head. In this, I could admire him.

We were walked over to a few horse sheds in a far corner of the fort—that is, these were places only a horse could love. Up above, at the top of the fort walls, a guardhouse overlooked the prairie. If the soldiers looked down, they overlooked the sheds.

A foot soldier sat at a small table, his chair leaning back against a wall, pretty much doing nothing until he saw the captain coming. Then he jumped up, saluting and saying, “Sir! Captain, sir!”

One of those bullying Marion along said, “Two prisoners for you.”

The foot soldier said, “You can't put a boy in together with these men. Two of them is murderers.”

“We can't put him with that fellow who cut three fingers off that little squirt who moved his boots while he was sleeping, either,” the captain said irritably.

With the air of a man who was ready for anything, the foot soldier went over and drew the bar from the door on one of the sheds. We were let into the shed, where there were three other men already.

There were pallets strewn about on the dirt floor, so I knew these men did sleep there. Two were standing, and one sat in the corner. I was hard put to figure out which of them were murderers. They none of them looked quite right to me.

One of them had a bad shape to his jaw, part of it missing and scarred over. He didn't look at us as we came in, and it struck me the reason for this was so he wouldn't have to see us looking curiously at him. I made my gaze travel on.

The next one was dressed fancy, but was dirty to a turn, like he had been dragged through mud flats by a horse. Only, if he'd been dragged, the coat he wore would have sustained some damage, so he was just dirty, really.

He looked at us as if we were going to be some personal trouble to him. He'd likely make us sorry for it if we were. I didn't say a word of hello, and neither did Marion.

I looked at the last one.

He was old and dressed oddly. It was going some to stand out as odd in these parts, but he had pulled together a queer
kind of riding pants, I thought they were, and a moth-eaten jacket that might have dated from the Revolutionary War.

He was talking to himself there in the corner. He looked at us, but we might have been sparrows or wood blocks for all the difference we made to him.

I'd already made up my mind not to move anybody's belongings.

When the shed door was shut, there came a small scuffle between the scarred fellow and the dirty one. There was no real start to it, more like we had interrupted a dispute. They just fell to the ground in a tussle.

At first this was alarming. I thought it the beginning of something I didn't understand. When it came clear there was some personal difference being worked out, I said to Marion in a low voice, “What's wrong with that one's face?”

“Looks like part of it was shot away,” he said. “Most likely the war.”

The shed door swung back suddenly, and the foot soldier rushed back in to settle the argument by kicking both men soundly in their midsections. Marion pulled me behind him. The soldier left with a glare at us, as if we might have caused him this extra effort.

We sat in silence for maybe half an hour. Those two didn't look at each other. Only the third fellow whispered into his cupped hands.

In this time I went from being glad to be at Marion's side to being grateful he was at mine. I remembered Maude's words: “If they're not locking the door on you, you're fine.”

If Marion felt the same way, he didn't show it through fidgets or sighing.

“How will Maude find out about this?” I said to Marion in a low voice. “She's going to expect us to show up pretty soon.”

“I don't know, Sallie. Maybe there'll be talk around the fort, and the word will trickle back to her.”

“Word?”

“That Joe Harden has been arrested.”

This didn't have a pleasant ring to it.

When my belly began to want the lost cookies, I set my mind to knowing every inch of this prison. No mud or stone, they used half-rotten wood to build it. I suspected it was meant to be a horse shed. Likely the horses had refused it.

We had a pitcher and bowl set on a wooden crate. We also had a slop bucket I couldn't use, with a cloud of flies hovering over it. All the comforts.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“What for?”

“This was my idea.”

“The bounty hunters were no part of your idea.”

Outside, there was only the muffled sound of life going on without us. Overhead, the shuffle of boots on the catwalk couldn't be separated into a pattern of guard duty.

The door opened again, and that soldier came in, carrying small buckets of boiled potato and a chicken joint. I hoped it was chicken; I was hungry enough to eat prairie dog, but I didn't want to know it. We no sooner began to eat than some manner of biting green midge began to bother us.

It's strange the way the mind works, that being hungry would seem to be more tragic than being jailed, and to forget all in the irritation of bugs.

We were given a lantern at nightfall, which was a comfort
of sorts. It didn't discourage the flies, but if there was a rustling noise, we knew it was one of us made it and not a rat or a snake.

“What did you have to say to John Henry about writing your story into those Joe Harden dimers?” I asked Marion. This question had been darting about in my mind since learning John Henry was none other than John Henry Kirby.

I hadn't wanted to bring the matter up where Maude might overhear. The whole matter could lead to her wondering why Marion had never noticed those dimers and finding out he couldn't read.

“I told him my continuing adventures must happen in Texas or Mexico,” Marion said, “but I had other bones to pick with him.”

“Like what?” “I didn't make any money off these stories he was writing, don't forget. The least he could do is make me out to be a good guy.”

“You are a good guy.”

Marion ducked his head. “I didn't want him to make mention of your aunt Ruthie again.”

I said, “Did he agree?”

“He did. He offered to write more honest accounts if I would write him a letter now and again. He said he would pay for the right sort of letter.”

“Oh,” I said. “That's right fair of him. You didn't have to punch him?”

“No. I told him you would help me write the letter.”

This pleased me well enough I almost forgot the flies.

From the other side of the wall I heard a cat hiss.

A
T LEAST I BELIEVED IT TO BE A CAT THE FIRST TIME
. The second time, I wondered. And when my name was whispered, I stood up. I stood up rather suddenly, then looked around.

The man with the scarred face watched me from his pallet. I could see he wanted to know what I was up to. “Believe I'll try to get some air on my face,” I said somewhat loudly.

I could just see through a crack in the wall. It was dark to begin with, except for our lantern light, but also this little shed was backed up to the corner of the fort. With walls on two sides, the torchlight from outside didn't creep back there.

I heard another whisper. “It's me, Sallie. Maude.”

I strained to see her, but I said nothing. I didn't dare.

Behind me, the dirty fellow got up. He might could have been on his way over to peer out through that crack where I was, but he had to cross in front of the scarred one.

That one was still mad, their tussle not forgotten, because at the last moment he stuck his foot out and tripped his enemy. The lantern went over, spilling oil and flame that was
somewhat soaked up by the dirt floor, but not before it had teased a bite out of the wall.

They fell to it just as before, a silent struggle but for grunts and wheezes.

“What's happening?” I heard Maude say; she'd forgotten to whisper. “Sallie?”

“It's a fire,” I said, in not much more dire tones than I would have used for “it's a rat.”

“Do you have a pitcher of water in there?” “Yes.” “Dip a rag in the wet for you and Marion,” she said. “I'll be waiting. Macdougal, too.”

I wondered if I'd heard the last rightly.

“Do it, Sallie.”

I made a quick inventory and decided the only likely rag was the torn-off piece of Maude's petticoat I had put in my pocket as a change of bandage.

“Tear off a piece of your shirttail,” I said to Marion. He had stepped over to the door as if to bang on it, but after one look at me he thought better of letting them outside know what was happening.

I dipped the bit of ruffle in water, and the piece of Marion's shirttail. We stood quiet, but clapped the wet rags over our noses.

Those fellows went on pulling and tugging at each other. It took maybe two minutes before the backside of our shed lit up some.

Someone outside yelled, “Fire!”

As if discovery hurried it along, the smoke and flames
slipped across the wall and climbed to the roof of the shed. The wood began to snap and crackle. Outside, the cry went up, and I heard the heavy tread of men running.

Smoke collected under the roof faster than I would have believed it could. Those wet rags did cut the smoke some, but my eyes stung and tears ran down our faces.

It was bright as daylight in there by then. The old man began to rock back and forth, but he didn't move away as the flames climbed higher and reached out in his direction.

The door opened and two soldiers rushed in with buckets and threw the contents at the wall. Sand, that's what it was, and it didn't discourage the fire much. The two on the floor abandoned their fight and were gone before the buckets were emptied.

Everything happened fast.

I saw those fellows on the move and knew Marion and me should be right in front of them, never mind behind. But Marion ran across to that old man in the corner instead, and I followed him.

The soldiers rushed out, maybe for more sand.

We tried to get the man on his feet, but he only commenced to screaming and fighting us off.

His shirt caught a bit of fire. I saw it and shoved him back to the ground and tried to stomp it out. The old fellow took to shrieking like something wild.

Marion rolled him over to smother the flames.

“Get out!” he shouted.

I shook my head.

He'd lost his wet shirttail and started to cough. But he
reached down and snatched that man out of the corner as if he was a sack of feed. “Go on,” Marion said to me, half carrying and half dragging him along.

There were soldiers rushing in, yelling orders at each other. We didn't make a speedy exit, but no one put down a bucket to stop us.

The officer was standing only a short distance from the shed. Marion lifted that kicking, screaming bundle and set it into his arms. The officer took the old fellow before he thought better of it.

The fire was taking the shed down and had leapt to the next one. Men in the guardhouse had been turned both bright and shadowy as they ran along the catwalk to other corners. Smoke wafted through the night air like draperies.

Someone yanked at my hand, and I didn't resist. I ran. In the next few seconds, I realized a strange woman had taken hold of me, not Maude.

“Follow your sister,” she shouted over all the other noise. She held my horse and pointed me in the right direction.