Gabriel's Story (36 page)

He straightened up, looking as though he might conclude the matter with that, but he caught Eliza's eye and remembered something. He moved over to her, pushing Caleb out of the way to get near her face.

“There were a few good things Clemmins did for me when I was a boy,” he said. “One of them was, he set me up with my first screw. She was a black woman, much like yourself.” Behind Marshall, Caleb shifted his eyes. He looked away from Eliza and focused on the back of Marshall's head. “Pretty thing she was, in her way. She was dark, like she'd just got off the boat from Guinea. She knew how to be ridden, too.” He turned away and gestured at Gabriel with his gun. “Open that thing.”

Gabriel turned the key, and the padlock fell open silently, as if it had died in his hands and gone limp. The boy moved slowly, for he had seen the shift in Caleb's gaze. He moved the lock away from the crate and set it on the ground, then brought his fingers to the rusted iron of the latch. Caleb's eyes had been steel-cold upon his mother, until something Marshall said . . . He lifted the latch free and released it. Caleb's face had undergone a slow recoiling, as if he'd been slapped by a hand moving in slow motion . . . The latch stayed exactly where he left it, pointing toward him. Gabriel half opened it. He tried to read Caleb's expression, and still he could not. The man took a step toward Marshall; his lips moved; his eyes blinked; but he was wholly unreadable.

Gabriel slipped his hand inside the crate, and for a few frantic seconds he felt nothing but the dusty grain of the wood. Then his fingers brushed something. He grasped it in the palm of his hand. It was cool against his flesh, hard and small. His finger touched the trigger. It seemed so tiny in his hand. He held out a second longer, but that was all he had. His hand rose, and with it the top of the box swung open and up came the gun, tight in his grip. The boy fully realized what he'd done only when he saw the short muzzle of the derringer before him. He knew in a flash of clarity that with this gun he'd have only one shot, a small shot at that, one that would have to be taken at close range.

Before he had time to act, a shot came from the trees along the creek. Beyond Marshall, Caleb jerked suddenly. He turned to the left, and as he did so, a spray of moisture sprang from his shoulder and hung for a second in the air. A snap followed, a dull, muted sound that Gabriel recognized as rifle fire. Marshall might have seen the gun in Gabriel's hand, but he moved before he'd fully comprehended it. In the second it took the man to call to Caleb, Gabriel sprang to his feet, leapt over the box, and laid the muzzle of the derringer against Marshall's neck. The man's eyes snapped toward him, full recognition there for the first time, and the boy pulled the trigger.

At first it seemed as if nothing had changed. Marshall stood with a look on his face that was not much different from his familiar smirk. He didn't raise his gun. He didn't move. Then all at once his eyes flushed red, deeply and darkly red, a crimson like that which suddenly poured forth from his nose and tinted his teeth. He opened his mouth and stepped toward the boy. Gabriel thought he was falling, but instead Marshall grabbed him by the neck and brought him to his chest with one all-powerful arm. He jerked his body in one direction and another, using Gabriel as a shield against any more bullets. But he could not find the source of the shot that hit Caleb, and he turned the boy to face his parents.

Caleb held his rifle in one hand, but the other arm dangled, limp. When Marshall tried to speak, his voice was muffled and altogether unintelligible. He twice tried to form words but came out with a rasping, gurgling chaos of sound. Instead he gestured his instructions to Caleb with his gun hand, then brought the barrel of his pistol to rest on Gabriel's cheek. He turned the boy's face toward his parents so that he would see them die.

Caleb looked slowly from Marshall to the bound couple, then back to Marshall again. If he felt the pain of his shoulder wound, he showed no sign. Neither did he show any inclination to follow the other man's directions, although it was clear enough that he understood them.

Gabriel couldn't see Marshall's face from where he stood, but he could tell the man's eyes were locked on Caleb's. He ordered him once more to shoot the couple, his voice a loud rasp that managed to express his meaning through the rage of the sound alone. But again Caleb stared as if he'd heard no such command. Finally Marshall cursed the black man and pulled his pistol away from Gabriel to shoot the others himself.

Only then did Caleb move. He lifted the rifle up to sight. From Gabriel's angle, it looked as if the man were aiming at him. When Caleb pulled the trigger, the boy even felt the impact of the bullet against the side of his head. The arm gripping him moved away, and he fell free, into space. He hit the ground with a thud that released him from the sensation, and his body sprang up of its own accord. He spun in a sharp half-circle and realized then that it was not he who had been shot.

Marshall lay sprawled on his back, arms wide and pistol thrown some distance away. The boy stared at him, disbelieving. He tore his eyes away to search out Caleb, who was slowly lowering the rifle. The black man's eyes were dark pinpoints in his face, like stones embedded in him, rock-hard objects whose function was uncertain. He shifted them from the fallen body, up to the boy, then over to the kneeling couple. They all stared back at him, sharing a moment of silence louder than any they'd ever heard.

THE TWO MEN RODE as if the entire world depended on their
speed. Their horses ran neck and neck, pushing through the high
prairie grass, sending up a flock of doves before them, and leaving
behind them that strange silence that is the wake of bodies slicing
the air. The horses were lathered and exhausted and cried within
themselves for this to stop. But it didn't. It couldn't. The Scot felt
his horse throw a shoe, and he thanked the horse for being all and
completely the beautiful creature that she was. The Mexican only
rode, knowing that each second passing here was a second passing
there as well.

Both men knew where they were as they approached a gently
sloping rise. It was a subtle feature on an expanse of similar features. They knew that they should slow here and think this
through. But they didn't, and the distance closed. The momentum
they had already created, which was many weeks old now, carried
them on. They crested the rise, and the homestead came into view.
Only then did they rein in their mounts.

They could barely make out the players' identities from this distance, but they knew immediately that the scene was not one they
could have predicted. They took it all in within the space of a few
seconds: the wounded in the field, those bound beside the soddy, the
two standing, and the dead form laid out motionless in the short
grass. Before the Scot could converse with him, the Mexican had
spurred his horse forward. He swept down the slope at a mad run,
a confusion of hooves and flapping arms and a sound that the Scot
realized only later was some sort of war cry.

The black man saw him coming. He looked from one to the
other of the party around him, lingering on the dead man, and
then he walked to his horse. He mounted, again surveyed the carnage that he had helped create, and moved his horse forward. First
at a walk, then into a canter, and finally, as if gaining strength as
he moved out of the orbit of the homestead, up to a gallop. He
moved to the east, away from his pursuer. He didn't look back. He
managed to make his way out of the shallow depression that was
the homestead, to rise up and watch as the sky opened before him
in all of its magnificent breadth.

But he got little farther than this. He felt his horse shudder
before he heard the rifle's report. The beast paused in midstride,
trembled, and lost step, then regained its footing and ran on as if
it were mistaken about its own injury and could gallop away from
it. It couldn't. Within fifty yards it went down, falling onto its
rear and spilling the man off its backside. The man rolled away,
found his footing, and dodged as the horse's hind legs flared out at
the air. It tried to rise but couldn't, and the man saw the wound
and knew it was one of death. His rifle was trapped beneath the
horse. He had a pistol in a hip holster. He touched it once, almost
unconsciously, but he did not draw, and soon let his hand relax at
his side.

The Mexican rode toward him, now unhurried, his rifle pointing to the sky. He stopped before him. There was much the
Mexican had thought he would say at this moment. He had
rehearsed his words in quiet hours both waking and sleeping, and
he didn't forget them now. Neither did he speak. The black man
stood before him, but it was clear that words had little meaning at
a time like this. In fact, words might simply defile the sanctity of
what was to come. Instead, the Mexican lowered his rifle and shot
the other through the chest. The blast blew the black man backward and laid him out flat, heart-shot and spine-broken. His fingers twitched at his side for a few seconds, but this was his last
motion. The Mexican looked down only long enough to verify his
death. Then he let his gaze rise up and float across the plains.

The sky was a deepening gray. The clouds lay like the underside
of a great cotton blanket, with all its softness and ripples and
curves and weight. The black man's horse still breathed slow,
labored breaths, and the wind rushed across the prairie, rippling
the grass like the ghosts of the great herds. But these were the only
sounds. In all the world, these were the only sounds. The labored
breathing of the living. The whispers of ghosts.

EPILOGUE

IN THE EVENING, THE BELOVED UNCLE SPEAKS. He tells a tale that all around him have heard before. It is the story of a young man loose in the world. The boy wanders through the land and looks upon things with his own eyes, as he trusts little the words of others. He sees the glory of God, sees his creations as they go about their loves and hates, sees them make a confusion of that which could be so divine. He sees them struggle with the petty things that they believe to be their souls but that are not. This boy becomes a man, and he speaks to the people in words he hopes they'll understand, but few do. These few are a blessing to him. He holds them as close as he can while beckoning to the others, to the mass of souls who will not listen, they who fuel the turmoil of the world. These tortured souls must be won over one at a time, sometimes with joy, other times through great suffering. For some, suffering is the only way.

The uncle takes a seat gingerly, for his wounds heal slowly. He looks around at those he calls family. They sit quietly. The father and the mother, the two sons whose faces so mirror each other, the foreigner who will stay awhile in these people's quiet company: they all listen. Each is reverent in his own way, each saddened and joyful in his own way. The uncle sees a question unspoken on the eldest son's lips. And he answers it.

Sometimes the trials the children face go beyond any their parents imagined, and yet it is not for them to reason with divinity. There are moments when even the angels of God must do battle. Did not Raphael do battle with Asmodeus? Did not Elijah smite the prophets of Baal? And was it not Michael, who sits at God's right hand, who threw down Satan and his legions? He tells them that a battle won in the name of good, for protection of family and against the devil's agents, is a blessed thing. Remember that the angel Uriel, who guarded the gates of Eden, stood with a fiery sword in his hand. No, the uncle says. There is no sin in this. Not even the angels live in peace. At least, not yet.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, of course, I thank my wife, Gudrun, whose faith carried me through the lean days and pushed me into territory I would not have dared tread alone.

My mother, Joan Scurlock. You are the beginning of all my stories. Thank you for creating this kid and then letting him find his strange way in the world.

My agent, Sloan Harris. Thanks for stepping into the fray with such enthusiasm.

And a most heartfelt thanks to my editor, Deborah Cowell. You felt my writing from the early days, when few others did, and your patient efforts and faith have truly been a blessing.

I'd also like to thank everyone in the clans Johnston, Durham, and Scurlock. One way or another, pieces of you all live in everything I write.

This novel is a work of the imagination. All the characters and events and many of the central settings, such as Crownsville, McKutcheon's Station, and the Three Bars Ranch, are completely fictional. While I've done my best to ensure the accuracy of all historical details, I also accept full responsibility for any errors. And although my landscapes may occasionally vary from those of geographical fact, they are certainly true to my intention to convey the diverse majesty that is the real American West.

DAVID ANTHONY DURHAM

GABRIEL'S STORY

David Anthony Durham was born in 1969 to parents of Caribbean ancestry. He won the Zora Neale Hurston/Richard Wright Fiction Award in 1992 and received an MFA from the University of Maryland in 1996. He has lived and traveled widely throughout America and Europe. Durham, along with his wife and daughter, now divides his time between the United States and Scotland.

 

For Gudrun and Maya

Copyright © 2001 by David Anthony Durham

Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:
Durham, David Anthony, 1969–
Gabriel's story / by David Anthony Durham.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Afro-American families—Fiction. 2. Afro-American
cowboys—Fiction. 3. Young men—Fiction. 4. Kansas—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3554.U677 G33 2001
813′.6—dc21
00-025291

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eISBN: 978-0-307-42598-0

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