No Eye Can See (50 page)

Then the baby quieted, a knife slice to her heart.

Oltipa prayed he might bring the child out, let her take him with them now that he was quiet. She heard nothing, a final silence as the monster pulled the door shut.

David pushed the horse hard, back toward the cabin, the dog tucked into his shirt. He wished there was a way to tell Baxter what had happened, why he wasn't there to take the stage. He'd lose this job sure, gain a reputation for being irresponsible. If she was all right, if the boy was safe, then it would be worth whatever any might think of him. He shouldn't have left them. What was he thinking of? He should have brought them into town. Anyone could have found them, taken them. California had become a breeding bed for madness, crazy for blood and blame.

He'd hang on to the hope that since the dog lived, she and Ben did too. He wondered how long the dog had taken to catch up to him. It looked as if a bullet had grazed his side. He might have been out for a time, then wandered, sniffing at squirrels, following rabbits before he came to David. How much time had elapsed?

He imagined a dozen things: She was dead. Ben was lost. There'd been a fire. A claim jumper had found them. He shook his head and pressed his knees to speed the horse. “Sorry, boy,” he said, “but you got to give your all.” The horse broke into a gallop and David tucked down in the saddle. At least the moon was up. And the horse did know the way.

“What is it, Ruth?” Matthew Schmidtke stepped up beside her. Jason hung back closer to the house.

She handed him a rectangle, a limestone plate.

“What is it?”

“A lithograph,” Ruth said, her voice flat and low. “Of Columbus, Ohio. I made it five years ago. For my husband. He has her. On a trail cold for following. I dont even know where to start.”

When David arrived at the cabin it was dark. His heart moved into his throat, and he felt the pulse at his neck throb. The dog squirmed and whined. “No,” David whispered, petting Chance. “You've got to wait. This doesn't look good.” He dismounted, tied the horse a hundred yards from the house. The end of the whip brushed his face, and he thought to take it, but pulled his rifle from the scabbard instead.

For the first time in his life, he wished he were a small man, able to tuck and bend and slide quiet as a cat without being seen. He still carried the dog under his arm, but when David crouched, the dog squirmed out and scurried toward the cabin.

David eased his way around to the door that faced the stream. The dog whimpered at the porch. Then before David could approach, Chance pushed against the unlatched door. David held his breath, listened. He breathed again when he heard a baby cry.

“Oltipa?” he said. “Ben?”

The crying that had been a gasping sob now broke into a wail as Ben recognized his voice, the dog licking at him where he lay on the floor.

“Oh, thank God,” David breathed when he saw the boy. He said it as a prayer, spoken in his soul as he rode back, pounding in his heart as he saw the darkened cabin, a song to cool his parched throat as he heard the baby cry. “Ben, baby,” he said and lifted the child to his chest. Ben's
muslin shirt was covered with dirt and damp from his tears. “Oltipa?” David called, looking around. “Where are you?”

He lit a lamp, still holding the child, the light spilling over a room he hoped would show him Oltipa, safe, just asleep, perhaps. But he didn't see her, just the baby's face, caked with snot and dirt, his eyes puffy from the crying. Small purple bruises the size of a mans thumbs appeared on both forearms, even on his pudgy fingers.

The baby's arms were wet with sweat, and they wrapped around David's neck, so tight, so tight now, as though he gripped for breath, for life. David patted his back. “Its all right, Ben. It's all right, fella. You're okay now, you're okay. It's not happening now. You're all right.” He repeated the words, saying them as much for himself as for Ben. He patted the baby, walking and walking around the room, scanning for evidence of what had happened, where Oltipa was.

A tin cup sat on the table.

The fireplace was cold. He could see that. She'd been gone a long time. At least the baby hadn't crawled into hot coals. He picked the cup up, saw the paper beneath it. Ben began a new burst of crying, as if fearing David thought to put him down. The dog barked, scurried around as though looking for Oltipa, too, inside and out. He left little dark spots of blood where he walked.

David found a dry cloth and changed the boy. He wiped his eyes and face, all the while trying to piece what could have happened, why Oltipa wasn't there. He lifted the boy. His eyes fell again on the paper.

I've reclaimed my possessions.
It was signed,
Zane Randolph.

David's ears rang, he felt his face grow hot. His stomach ached as though struck by a post. That man, who had tried to ruin his life, who saw human beings as baggage, had struck again.

David hadn't kept her safe. Again this vile man had found a way to bind him. He slammed his fist into the table, and the child screamed anew. David held the boy closer to him. Poor child. What had he witnessed? How deep were
his
wounds?

Oltipa, how she must be grieving having left her child behind. What could he do?

He stepped outside, wondered if the moon was bright enough for him to track them. He checked the corral, Ben still on his hip. Her horse was gone. She was probably alive, then. He could go after her, but what could he do with Ben? He couldn't take him along, at least not while he searched for this man so lethal, so without feeling. He'd have to take the baby into town, the dog, too. There might be someone there he could leave the boy with.

He packed Ben into the basket Oltipad made for him, one she carried on her back. Ben sat up, his little knees tucked up inside, the bow of the reeds keeping sun from his face during the day. He strapped Ben around the middle, tucked the green cloth he'd once given Oltipa as a gift over the boy's legs. He tied the basket at the saddle's horn. He hung a bag of food behind the saddle, then walked to the stream and pulled up the tin of milk.” May as well take this, too,” he said.

He picked up Chance, checked the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He put the dog back inside his vest, then mounted and headed out, talking quietly to the boy until David was sure he'd fallen asleep.

They'd traveled a mile or two when he heard the music. A voice so clear and clean with notes like an angel singing with a harp. And he remembered—the entertainment in Mad Mule Canyon, all this week, at different camps. Three women and three children is what he'd been told by a passenger on the stage who'd heard them. “Sing like angels.” They might be up to looking after Ben, and he could gain good time, not have to head into Shasta. Maybe they'd been provided by God, perfect timing.

At least he could ride there and assess them for himself. If they looked like people he could trust, he would. It might be crazy, but if it would get Ben's mother away from that man sooner, it was worth a little risk.

He reined the horse and headed toward the harp.

Suzanne couldn't remember a night like this one. She lay on the mattress stuffed with cornhusks, thinking when she got home—wherever that was—she might try what Naomi had suggested, using buckwheat hulls. The husks pressed dust out through the linen. Did that make her cough? No, probably the strain on her voice, singing so long, so many nights and often afternoons, too, in a row. She felt Claytons gentle intake and release of breath beside her. She brushed his head with her hands, remembering the color of his hair.

Claytons bandaged hand lay on her stomach. He slept hard. She wished she could. Even hours after the performances she'd lie awake, partly still taking in the adulation; partly from the raucous noises that kept on through the night, card games and arguments she could hear in the distance. If a town had no tent or structure they called a hotel, they always pulled up and camped at the outskirts. Not so far out as to invite trouble. They were, after all, just women and children. But far enough out to feel safe.

The fatigue must have been adding to her restlessness, she decided. Without sleep she couldn't regain what she needed for the day, gave up too much, and then couldn't get refreshed. When had she last felt refreshed? At Tipton's wedding, when everyone was there, together, and she felt a part of something worthy and worthwhile. A good mother who had kept her children safe despite a fire, despite her blindness, who had a new goal. She'd listened to Ned sing. She'd shared in Tipton's joy. What had she done to empty that fullness?

She lifted Clayton's arm with her hands. She heard him moan, then settle back into his sleep.

Suzanne eased her way out from beneath him, stood, checked Sason, too. He slept still in an overhanging hammock. He'd passed his first birthday. Soon he'd be just too big for that swing. Pig must have lifted his head because she heard his collar jangle. “It's all right,” she
whispered, smoothing the silky head with the back of her hand. She heard the dogs tail pound against the wagons floor. She patted for the troubadour harp. The playing—just for herself—would be soothing, the song a soulful prayer.

It was what she was doing when she heard the sound of a horse, a rider, coming in. She stopped, her heart moving faster. That persistent miner? Who? Whoever it was pulled up, called out just as Pig bounded out of the wagon.

“Hey, there! Whoa, Chance, no! Wait.”

Pig slobbered and barked low. Another dog barked and growled. The snarl of struggle over territory enough to wake the dead

“Call off the dog! Please, I need help,” a man shouted. “I have a baby here. Chance. No!” A baby whimpered.

“Pig! Down!” she commanded from behind the wagons canvas. The commotion finally came to a stop. An infant cried, then rustling sounds from Lura's tent where she and Ned and Mariah slept.

“Please,” the mans voice said. “I'm looking for the women, the entertainers. Was that you, playing the harp? I need help. For my boy.”

“Whatever are you talking about, young man?” Lura said. Suzanne could imagine her in a nightcap and gown, a lantern held high to see what was happening before her.

“My boy, Ben, somethings happened to his mother. I've got to find her. I can't take the boy. Can you look after him? My name is David Taylor. I'm a driver for the stage line. I'm reliable, you can check on me. I'll come back for him; I just need a safe place for him. Now.”