Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 (8 page)

The next few days he went to the public library and found all the writings he could about Judge Parker and his court and especially about the marshals that represented the law in Indian Territory. He had made up his mind that this would be a good place for him to be a man, but how to tell his mother he could not imagine.
She’s going to have a terrible fit, and she’s going to say no, but it’s something I’ve got to do
.

“You want to do what, Faye?”

“I want to prove myself to be more than just a painter.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I feel like I’m only half a man, Mother.”

“You’re just measuring yourself against your father and your brothers.”

“I’m sure that’s true and also against some other people. They’re bigger than I am and stronger, but I want to prove to myself that I am a man. That I’ll survive.”

That was the beginning of the argument. It went on for a week but never in the presence of his father or his brothers. Always the battle took place between Faye and his mother.

As for his mother, she was shocked so greatly she could not even speak for a while. She was completely against the idea.

Finally Faye said, “I’m going away for a few days. Maybe even a month.”

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’ve never gone anywhere. I want to wander around and learn to take care of myself. When I come back we’ll talk some more about what I want to do.”

“Yes, you think it over carefully. It would be the wrong thing, I’m sure.”

T
he next morning Faye left his house before breakfast, leaving his mother to explain his vacation to the family.

He took a train to upper New York State and got out at a small stop where there seemed to be nothing but three or four buildings. The trees were huge, and it was a large enough forest to intimidate him.

He went at once to the livery stable and said, “I want a very tame horse. No bucking broncos.”

“Why, I’ve got just the horse for you, Mr. Riordan. Name is Patsy. She’s just as gentle as a mother. She’s never thrown a man in her life, I don’t think. You’re not going to win any races with her, however.”

Indeed, Patsy was a gentle horse. She was strong enough and could carry his weight easily. He led Patsy down the street to a general store, and when he left he had bought a frying pan, a saucepan, salt, a knife to hang on his belt, a spoon, and matches. He already had a blanket, some soap, a fishing line, and some hooks. He also took a toothbrush, and the biggest part of his load was feed for Patsy.

That afternoon he loaded Patsy and stepped awkwardly into the saddle. “Well, Patsy, we’re going out into the woods, and I’m going to stay there for about a month. The only food I have will be what I shoot with this.38. I’ll sleep on the ground, and if I don’t learn to hit something with this pistol, I’ll live on grass and leaves.” He suddenly felt good about the whole thing and slapped her on the neck. “Come on, girl. Let’s go make a man out of Lafayette Riordan!”

It was cool but not uncomfortable as Faye walked through the woods. It was two weeks into his experiment, seeing if he could survive, and now he was feeling doubt, for he had not been able to secure much in the way of food. He had learned that squirrels are quicker than a man’s hand. Even when he would see one behind a tree, the creature could scoot around on the far side of the tree quicker than Faye could draw a bead on him. Up until this time he had caught two frogs and forced himself to eat them, but the only animal he had killed with his revolver was a porcupine who was a slow-moving beast to say the least. He had almost given up, but he had turned the porcupine upside down and dug out enough meat to at least fight off his hunger pangs.

Suddenly Faye heard what he thought—and hoped—was a flock of geese. Looking up, he could barely see them through the trees. They were in a familiar V-formation and crying their familiar
“K-whonk! K-whonk! K-whonk!”
To his delight, they descended quickly, and although Faye knew little about wild geese, he assumed late in the afternoon they were looking for a place to spend the night. He was fairly sure that they stayed near water.

As he moved forward, he realized that he was famished and beginning to feel a bit weak from hunger. More than once he had been tempted to give up his plan, but he had doggedly stuck with it. Once while out there, he had found a tree with berries on it that he could not identify. Hoping they were not poisonous, he ate them. They had filled his stomach, although they provided little nourishment. The other meal he had supplied himself was one he had never thought to sample. He had been moving through the woods when he heard a rattle. Whirling around he saw a huge snake in a coil, ready to strike. He had pulled his.38 and got off three shots. One of them had hit the snake in the head.

Now as he moved cautiously forward, Faye remembered how he had considered the monstrous snake. He had heard of men eating snakes but had never thought he would be one of them. Hunger had won out. He had cut the head and the rattles off, skinned it, and toasted the white meat on a stick over a fire. To his surprise it had been rather tasty and had filled his stomach at least for a period.

Trying to walk silently as the Indians did in the stories by James Fenimore Cooper proved to be a problem. According to the books, they could walk silently through a forest unless they happened to step on a twig. But now the leaves had fallen. Some of them were crisp and made a crackling sound each time he stepped on them. Taking a deep breath, he started shoving the leaves aside with the toe of his boot so he could step on the bare ground. It was a slow method, but finally he came to what seemed to be a ridge of some sort, about six feet high.

The sound of the geese came to him clearly as they were splashing, and their honking came to him on the afternoon air.

They’re right over this rise down in the water
.

The thought touched him, and he knew he was still too far away to get an easy shot, but he eased the pistol out of his holster and took a deep breath.
God, don’t let me miss
. Faye didn’t even realize he was praying, but then in one motion he came to his feet and scrambled to the top of the rise. As he had surmised, a pond fed by a small creek was filled with geese, and as he had also known would happen as soon as he stood up, a warning honk filled the air, evidently a signal.
I’m too far away for a good shot. Wish I had my rifle, but it’s too late
.

The large birds rose with a flapping of wings and a hoarse cry. Faye lifted his pistol, tried to aim at one, but when he fired he hit nothing. They were rising rapidly and going farther from his range. He fired again, counting his shots, and despair filled him as he fired his last bullet. He lowered his gun, disgusted. Then he saw one of the geese falling in an awkward fashion. Quickly he shoved the.38 into the holster and ran headlong into the water. He hit the edge of the pond running, his eyes fixed on the goose, recognizing that the bird was not dead but apparently hit in the wing.

The water was shallow, and by lifting his feet high, Faye plunged rapidly toward his goal. The goose hit the water and began floundering, swimming away. Faye was breathing hard, but when he came within six feet of the wounded bird, he flew himself forward in a dive, stretching his arms as far as he could, and managed to grab a handful of feathers. The goose struggled, but quickly Faye came to his feet and wrung the bird’s neck. The bird quivered once and then was still. For a moment Faye stood there holding the dead goose, and a feeling of pure joy came to him. “I did it!” he shouted.

Turning quickly, Faye made his way to the shore then ran at a trot toward the camp he had made. It amounted to little more than a lean-to he had made of saplings cut with his hunting knife and covered with branches with leaves to throw off the worst of the rain. His blanket was in there, and the fire he’d made earlier was blackened. He had, however, made sure that he always had kindling, which meant small pieces of dry wood and larger pieces to make a fire for warmth and for cooking. As he stood in the middle of his small camp, he tossed the goose down and stared at the mare, who lifted her head and considered him.

“I did it, Patsy!” he shouted again, and his voice echoed through the deep woods. “I killed it, and now I’m going to eat it.”

Patsy considered Faye seriously then complacently lowered her head and nibbled at the grass at her feet.

Quickly Faye built up a fire. He had done poorly at keeping his fire at first, but practice makes perfect, and now he kept plenty of dried wood on hand and had learned how to get it started quickly.

Picking up the goose, he moved out of the way and began pulling the feathers off. It was a difficult business. The feathers closer to the breast were light and easily pulled, but getting the long ones off was a problem. He suddenly grinned and shook his head. “Well, I’ve eaten chickens and turkeys all my life, but never once did I think how they got dressed, cooked, and put on my plate. Now every time I eat a chicken leg, I’ll think about someone having to pluck and cook the thing.”

Faye spoke aloud, which he had begun doing soon after arriving in the depth of the woods. He had brought two books with him, and at times he would read aloud. One of them was the Bible, and the other was a book of the history of the southwest. The silence of the deep woods had proved to be intimidating, almost ghostly, and Faye had found that even though no one heard him, there was a consolation in the sound of his own voice.

“Now, how do I cut this fellow up?” He drew his hunting knife and began hacking away at the goose. “Bloody mess, that’s what it is,” he said in disgust. Finally when he had cut small pieces off the bird, he brought a small frying pan out to where the fire was now crackling merrily. He took the parts he had sheared off to the creek, washed them off, and came back. Carefully Faye placed chunks of meat into the pan. “I’m having fried goose for supper, Patsy.”

Soon Faye discovered that the meat in the frying pan was burning. He turned the pieces over with the point of his knife and stirred in some water. “Hey Patsy, too bad horses don’t eat goose.” He laughed aloud, but his stomach had an ache in it.

As soon as the meat in the frying pan was half cooked, he stabbed it with his knife and bit off a bite. “Ow, that’s hot!” he yelped. He blew on the meat, and when it was finally cool enough, although it was burned on the outside and half raw on the inside, he bit off small parts of it and chewed them with delight. “I never tasted anything so good,” he murmured.

He ate slowly, devouring about a quarter of the cooked goose, and saw that the parts in the pan were softened up. “I guess I’d better save something for tomorrow.” A thought came to him, and he gingerly poked through the inner parts of the goose that he had thrown aside. He found what he thought was the liver, pulled it out, and dropped it into the frying pan. When it was brown, he picked it up with his knife and waited until it cooled. Cautiously he tasted it. “Tastes kind of like chicken liver,” he murmured.

Finally he spoke to the horse. “Guess I’ll clean up, Patsy.” He washed his pan and his knife, wrapped the remains of the goose in a piece of heavy cloth, and then sat down in front of the fire, enjoying the sensations of a full stomach. After a while he grew sleepy. He built up the fire, rolled up in his blanket, and lay down.

For a while he lay awake listening to the noises of the forest. He heard all kinds of night birds calling, and somewhere a fox was yipping at the moon. “Well, maybe Natty Bumppo could kill a wolf or a bear, but I’ll bet he couldn’t hit a goose on the wing like yours truly.” He felt pleased with himself and quickly fell asleep, for the first time sleeping a dreamless, placid, sweet sleep.