Gabriel's Story (21 page)

IT CAME ON THE THIRD NIGHT OF THE BOY'S VIGIL. He had
fallen asleep, although he knew so only because when he opened his
eyes the world was different from what he remembered. It was still
just as dark. The animals were still near at hand. The gun still
sat cradled in his lap. But something was different. He swallowed
and was surprised at how loud the sound was. He'd never heard
the world more clearly. It was as if he had woken as some new sort
of being, one with ears that could float away from him and speed
out into the night.

He would have shaken his head to rid himself of the sensation,
except it was thus that he heard the beast's footfalls when they were
still far away. Raleigh heard them too and lifted his head and
neighed and watched the boy. But the boy just listened to the swish
of paws through the grass, to the breathing of the life out there. He
could even hear the saliva as it fell from the creature's lips and
splashed against the earth. He knew just when the wolf loped in
from the cultivated fields, crossed the space between house and
barn, and set its eyes on the barn door. There it paused. The boy's
fingers gripped the rifle so tightly they were white against it, but he
didn't notice. He noticed nothing save the presence on the other
side of the door.

When the wolf moved, it did so suddenly, as if all reserve had
been cast away. It shoved its head into the crack of the door and
tried to squirm through. The boy forgot the rifle and fell back
against the wall and stared at it. The wood bucked and shimmied
against the rope latch, then gave with a crack. The wolf stepped
forward. The boy couldn't believe the size of its head. It was a
monster of a head, a disembodied thing with enormous eyes. Its
snout was longer than his forearm, with flaps of skin that pulled
back from its teeth in exertion and hunger and anger. Behind this
came a body somehow small by comparison, bony and barely capable of bearing the weight of its skull and all the more grotesque for
it. The creature paused in the door and surveyed the barn with
quick jerks of its head, taking in the frantic horse and mule and
the crazed pig, which was trying to burrow through the wall of the
barn. Then it looked at the boy.

The boy saw the hairs on the creature's back rise up. He saw its
teeth standing like so many ivory phantoms in the dim light. And
he saw into its skull through the sockets of its eyes. That's when he
remembered the gun. As the beast leapt toward him, he brought
the rifle up to his chin and pulled, aiming into the blur of motion
before him. He fell back with the kick of the gun and bounced off
the wall and landed on his knees. He came up lashing out with
the butt of the rifle, pulling the trigger again and again, although
there was nothing left to fire. Only slowly did he realize that he
was still alive and that the wolf was not upon him. He spun
around, searching out the corners of the barn. But there was nothing, only Raleigh and the mule and the pig and the nervous clucking of the one remaining hen.

He could never truly believe that the kick of the gun had been so
great. In his dreams for many nights to follow, the kick was actually
the force of the wolf's chest butting against the rifle and ac
cepting his bullet. But in real life there was no sign that the wolf
had been shot. No body, no blood, nothing except the tracks that
proved it had actually been there. How he could have missed it he
would never understand. The wolf didn't come back again, but
the victory left the boy with a deep sense of something unfulfilled.

ON A MORNING TWO DAYS OUT OF SANTA FE, the group came to the top of a sandstone ridge and looked down upon a farm. It was a complex of three structures, a main house and two barns, which sat next to a shallow river. Behind the house and lining the river ran well-tended rows of corn, among which a man and a woman worked, heads down and moving slowly up the lanes, oblivious of the watchers above. At the back of the house, two teenage girls washed clothes, occasionally laughing and flicking soapy water at each other. The whole valley was lightly dotted with firs, which shimmered in the morning breeze and sent their green smell wafting up the ridge. A goat munched on the sparse grass at the far edge of the field, and a single mule grazed from a long tether on the spit of land within the river's fork. The place conveyed a sense of idyllic tranquillity. Gabriel couldn't help but think of his own family, the green grass, the sod house, the people and the quiet warmth therein.

Marshall led them forward. He hailed the family from a hundred yards. The two heads in the field snapped up. They exchanged some words. The woman circled quickly around the house, gathered the two girls, and disappeared inside. The man walked forward to welcome them. He looked to be a mestizo, mostly of Spanish descent but with features that also betrayed Indian ancestry. His legs were slightly bowed, his arms somehow short for his body, but his face had a strength to it, a quiet, polite calm, which instantly seemed both a greeting and a warning. His nose was prominent and sharply hooked, and his beard was carefully kept. He stood before the horsemen, wiping his hands with a handkerchief, and greeted them in Spanish.

Marshall looked at Rollins as if something in the greeting would amuse him, then back at the man. “Howdy,” he said. “This here's a beautiful spread you got. I never would've thought it, all this desert around the place. Little Eden. Hope you don't mind us passing through.”

The man watched Marshall, looked over the other men, and answered, switching into English without comment, “Thank you. You're welcome to pass.”

Marshall nodded. An awkward moment followed, a tense silence as the man waited for a response or movement from the travelers. Marshall seemed too enraptured by the tranquillity of the place to notice. He inhaled deeply and tilted his head to the side. “Listen to that creek. Ain't that nice? Just gurgling like that.” Dallas affirmed that it was nice—right pretty-sounding, he thought. Marshall wondered out loud how far it was to the next creek, wondered if they'd find as nice a place as this to take some lunch and water the horses. He let the question hang in the air until the man made his offer, the offer he must make in that land of few homes and unwritten hospitality. Marshall accepted.

The man called to his wife. Almost instantly she appeared. She cracked the door open, paused, then slipped through and pulled the door closed behind her. The man asked her to prepare a lunch for the visitors. She went back into the house and returned with a cutting board at her waist, holding a large knife in the other hand. She set them down on a wooden table. A moment later the two girls emerged from the house, one carrying a plate of corn tortillas and the other a slab of bacon. They looked to be in their early teens, one slightly older than the other, both slim and tall, taller already than their father. Despite their demure manner, their down-turned faces, the short steps with which they walked, and the plain dresses they wore, or perhaps because of these, the girls betrayed a budding, youthful sensuality. Rollins let out a low whistle. The mother's eyes cut him, but she made no comment.

Marshall instructed the others to water the horses and stake them out. Once this was done, the men gathered under the firs and listened as Marshall and the man spoke.

“This is a hell of a lonely country, ain't it?” Marshall began.

The man agreed that it was, but he said it suited them well. They were prospering here and enjoying the quiet toil of the earth and the solitude.

“What about Indians, bandits and that? You feel safe, what with the womenfolk and all?”

The man said that he enjoyed good relations with the nearby Indians. They traded often, and he'd found them to be nothing save peace-loving, curious folk, simple in the way of God's first children and thus beautiful. He said also that he had a son, a strong young man who was away just now but who was a comfort to them all in their solitude. He was a soldier, a
vaquero,
a son and brother, all at once.

“He's talented, your son. Jack of all trades.”

The man agreed. He stroked the dark hair of his mustache with his fingers. “He is good at many things.”

Marshall smiled and turned to his companions. “These here are good folk, living a good life. You hear that, Dallas? You should learn something from this.”

Dallas nodded, although his attention was on the girls.

“Hey, Dallas, you hearing me?” The boy nodded. Marshall turned to the man. “Think Dallas there's much impressed with your daughters. Fine family you've got. Makes me a little envious, tell you the truth.”

Once the women had set out the food, the wife led the girls off a little distance to eat by themselves. Rollins stood and asked them back to the table. They would not come, and the man said that was the way it should be. Marshall told Rollins to sit down and act like he had some sense.

As they ate, Marshall probed the man further with questions about his life. The man answered him politely, thoroughly, as if it were his duty, one that he didn't take lightly. Yes, it was a joy to father a family and see the children grow. No, he wouldn't give it up for anything. Yes, his family had come north from Mexico several generations ago, from the Guadalajara region. And yes, it was difficult to say where his heart and loyalties lay, being part of a conquered territory, beaten, but not truly accepted into this so-called union. While there were few in Nuevo Mexico who bore his familial name, there were many who did in Viejo Mexico. This he would never forget.

Despite his cordial responses, the man watched the group with slight disdain, which he did not give voice to but which he couldn't help showing all the same. His eyes said that it was rude to ask such questions and that only his good manners prevented him from pointing this out. If Marshall noticed this, he gave not the slightest sign. He chatted on between mouthfuls of food, so completely engrossed by the man's words and so unaware of what his body was saying that Gabriel felt a tingling low in his back. He didn't know what was going to happen here, but he feared that the peace of the afternoon was too much like a blank page and these men were too anxious to write their history on all things pure.

After lunch the men lounged around, showing no signs of haste. Their postures were relaxed enough, but their eyes moved with quick, nervous shifts, landing often on the man, the girls, the wife, and then sliding to Marshall. The woman went inside. Shortly after, Dallas sidled off to where the girls were back at the washing. He moved casually, as if taking in the air over there and enjoying the view of the river without a clear thought in his head. When he finally turned to face the two, he seemed almost surprised to discover that the girls were so near at hand. Gabriel heard the beginning of his conversation: “Hey, y'all girls speak American?” He moved a little closer and looked to be helping them with the laundering.

Marshall told the Mexican that their destination was California. He asked him about the country to the west of here, and the man told him what he knew of it. He said it was high desert country, that they were at the edge of a plateau that stretched for two hundred miles, that beyond that there were more mountains. A bad country, he called it, many scorpions and few people. They should conserve their water, for there would be little this time of the year. Beyond that, he said, the land leveled again and was desert until you reached more mountains. Somewhere beyond that was the Colorado River, and beyond that California, but he could not speak with detail, for he had never been that far. He said it would be a long trip, but he wished them a good voyage.

“Oh, it'll be a good one,” Marshall said.

“Why do you make this trip?” the man asked.

“Well . . .” Marshall waved the question away. “Hey, here we've shared your table and all that and had this nice talk, but I don't even know your name.”

The man smiled. “I find travelers are often slow to speak of names. I am Diego Maria Fuentes.”

Rollins guffawed. “Maria?”

The man looked at him without apology. “Yes. It's not as it sounds, though. My—”

There was a shout. They all turned in time to see one of the girls shove Dallas with such force that he stumbled backward down the shallow slope and fell into the river. He stood up cursing, and the things that happened next followed each other so fast that Gabriel could hardly keep the string of events in order. The door to the house flew open and the woman emerged, brandishing a long slaughter knife. She flew toward her girls and beyond, toward Dallas. The boy drew his pistol in a flourish that sent a spray of water into the air and sighted on her. The father stood to move, but Rollins stopped his progress with one of his long, stiff arms.

“What, you think I won't shoot a woman?” Dallas yelled. “Goddamn, what the hell you thinking, pulling a knife on me? I'll shoot you dead just as soon as look at ya.” His gun hand jerked with his words, impassioned and yet unsteady. The boy cast a quick look at Marshall. “I wasn't even doing nothing. Just told the girl she smelled like strawberries.”

The Mexican, still trapped behind Rollins's arm, whispered God's name quietly and spoke Marshall's aloud. He pushed the arm away and began to move forward. His body seemed divided between two disparate inclinations. His hands gestured for appeasement, drew calming circles in the air, and tried to wave the tension away. But his eyes and lips betrayed him, respectively cutting the boy with all the venom they had and muttering a quick string of Spanish expletives.