Outcast (10 page)

I sat on a rock left for that purpose and surveyed this wonder. The scent of pine and grass and mint and rose wafted past, competing for my attention. I almost fell asleep, the sun so gentle on my face, but speculation drew me to my feet. This seemed the Garden of Eden, without the tempting apple
.

But of course, I couldn't live here. To sully that meadow would be heresy. Still, I found that with not too great an effort, I could create a living space near the meadow. I walked back through the trees to Hortenzia, and the wagon I had purchased in Last Chance. I must find a neighbor to determine if this land is owned by another, or if it might be still be open for homesteading
.

I stepped into the shadows with sun-washed eyes, bumping into branches and stumbling until I broke free of the trees. I knew that any neighbors must be to the south, so I set Hortenzia in that direction, seeking roads, seeking a new life
.

Standish slipped a a scrap of paper into the journal and laid it on the box that served as a night stand. He opened the lamp, blowing out the flame, watching a thin vapor of smoke curl up from the wick.

Bele painted his edges too soft for Montana. Still, he had created this home, a home distinctly suitable for Standish. How could that be? Standish had no soft edges. They had been swept away by a cold that tugged at his bones, by a wind so fierce it blew his soul away. Standish had become one with the doe Bele described. He was hiding now in the shadows of these trees, afraid that something would drive him into the bright light of discovery.

Standish sighed and rolled over. Arch would expect him there at daylight. That was a shred of life that Standish must cling to.

CHAPTER 5

Standish
snortled
, the sound rousing him from his sleep. Still dark. That was good. He had promised to…to plow the garden for Arch and his mother. One of Standish's eyes squinted to see more clearly what this day held for him: plowing and maybe meeting Arch's mother.

Arch was fiercely protective of his mother. Why? Maybe he could solve that mystery without being shot.

Standish's stomach growled for attention. He needed something in his belly, maybe some bread and huckleberry jam. Coffee, of course. Nobody should step into a day without coffee.

Standish twisted against the mattress. Damn long johns were as scratchy as his whiskers. Might as well run a steel brush down his back. He threw the covers off and swung his legs to the floor. The floor was cold, and bristly as his long johns. Bele had used rough lumber for the floor, and it hadn't yet worn smooth. Standish reached for a pair of pants on the chair beside the bed. He slipped into the shirt.

Clean body. Clean clothes. Clean start on a new day.

His hands roved over his clothes. Matches. Where had he left the matches? On the night stand. Last night, he had emptied his pockets on the box that served as a nightstand. There they were, in a small silver case.

Standish scratched the tip of a match against a thumbnail, found the lever to open the lantern with the match's light and set the flame to the wick. The scent of burning kerosene bumped into his nose.

His boots? Where were his boots? There, under the bed. That wasn't good. Wouldn't do to be scrambling for boots if Bodmer found him. Standish sighed. Boots wouldn't matter much if Bodmer put a noose around his neck. Standish had seen a lynching once. The man had kicked and writhed, his face turning purple as he struggled to get air past the rope, and then he died and his mouth opened and his tongue popped out black as ash.

Standish shook his head. Bodmer and his lynch mob had occupied his thoughts for more than three years. He had other things to think about today.

The stove fell into the circle of light. Standish chose kindling, building a teepee of splinters and surrounding it with slightly larger sticks. The splinters flared into life, burning long enough to set the sticks above them on fire. Not long before the cabin would be warming.

Standish scooped coffee into the pot and set it on stove.

He set the lantern behind the stove, leaving most of the cabin in shadows and stepped first to one window and then to the other. He studied the darkness as though his life, or his death, were written there. No glowing end of a cigarette. No glints of oil-shined metal. No sounds.

Standish picked up the lantern and stepped through the cabin door. The lantern did little but outline the faint path to the outhouse. That was enough. Standish slipped into the outhouse, the spring slamming the door behind him.

What the hell was Bele talking about, that gibberish about light and shadow? Bele knew what it was to be hunted. Bele couldn't have written that unless he knew. Bele had revealed something of himself in that passage last night, something he didn't want to talk about
.

Standish, leading Hortenzia, rode Sally into the false dawn. Light was creeping on the land. Colors that went to bed with the sun were returning as confused with sleep as Standish was. Pale colors peeked over the horizon at this new day. Later in the day, the colors would nap, their subtleties washed out by the sun.

Ahead, Standish could see the outline of a road in the grass. This must be the entrance to Arch's place. Grass was reclaiming the track. Certainly, Arch and his mother hadn't spent much time going to town for groceries. The boy seemed an inch from starvation.

Standish frowned. He didn't even know the boy's last name.

A line of trees seemed to block the trail ahead of him. Arch's father had apparently decided to live back in the trees, too. Why was Arch's father hiding? Standish shook his head. He had to remember that flight isn't normal, that most people lived their lives without wondering when Bodmer would hang them.

Standish stopped the horses. He peered into the soft shadows. Nothing that he could see, but the shadows were deep. Anything could wait in that narrow passage. He stopped and leaned back in his saddle. This would be the time to have a cigarette, if he still smoked. A period of silence breaks the nerve of prey and predator alike, but no deer broke away from the trees. No one stood up and said, “Miles Standish, we aim to hang you for the.…” He eased the horses into the passage, and Arch stepped into the trail ahead of him. A double-barreled shotgun hung from one arm.

Standish stopped. “You ever sleep, Arch?”

The boy cocked his head, and stared at Standish, backlit by the sun.

“Don't see much use for it.”

“Any reason for the welcoming party?”

“Just wanted to be sure it was you.”

“You sure?”

“You look like the
bona fide
party.”

“S'pose we can go on in then?”

“S'pose so.”

“S'pose you want a ride.”

Arch shook his head.

Standish scratched his forehead. Arch wanted to follow him, shotgun in hand. “You'll have to tell me what you want plowed.”

Arch nodded, gesturing with the shotgun for Standish to go ahead.

The rising sun cast the homestead in long shadows; Standish was taken with how precise the buildings appeared. It reminded him of a Denver, Colorado artist he had watched painting a street scene. The artist would stop occasionally to hold his brush at arm's length, marking the width of a building with thumb held to the brush's handle. He then transferred that measurement to the painting.

Standish imagined that Arch's father had stood back with a brush, before putting the home there, just in the shade of that huge ponderosa pine, before setting the chicken coop so that the slant of its roof pointed to the top of the barn.

The barn would be the focus of any painting. The other buildings, including the house, did little more than to frame the barn. Peeling paint and a general sense of disrepair marked the scene. Chickens scratched through the dust for something to eat. A small herd of milk cows—what was it, six—looked up from a fenced pasture south of the house. Arch ran past Standish, the shotgun swaying from side to side. He stopped, his face red with the exertion.

“There,” he gasped, pointing at the ragweed with his shotgun. “That's the garden.”

Standish nodded. “You hold Hortenzia?”

Arch grabbed the horse's reins and bent over hands on knees, sucking air.

“Maybe you shouldn't carry that shotgun around.”

“Maybe you should get to plowing,” Arch wheezed.

Standish rode Sally to the corral. He stepped down, slipped the saddle and blanket off and draped them over the corral's top pole. He draped the bridle over a post, and turned. Arch was talking to Hortenzia, and she seemed to be listening. She nodded just as Standish walked up.

“She ready?”

“Said she was.”

“She talk to you a lot?”

“Ain't so wordy as some.”

“S'pose you will show me where the plow is.”

“S'pose.”

“S'pose I should show you how to drive Hortenzia.”

“What makes you think I don't know how?”

“You haven't got a horse.”

Arch rubbed the palm of his free hand under his chin. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“You want to learn how to drive a horse?”

“Can I do it one handed?”

“Nope.”

Arch shook his head. “Guess not.”

Standish stopped and scuffed at the dirt with his boot. “Suppose we strike a deal?”

Arch squinted at Standish. “What kind of deal?”

“Suppose I promise not to go anywhere near your house, and you put that shotgun away.”

“Suppose you go to Hel…ena.”

“Suppose I go home, and you can spade your own garden.”

Arch sighed, and dropped his eyes to his feet. “Ma, I.…”

“Arch, I promised I won't go near the house. That's worth something, isn't it?”

“Ma.…” Arch turned to hide his face from Standish, but after a silence that seemed to stretch forever, the boy nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Good. S'pose you tell me where the plow is, and then you go put that shotgun away.”

Arch turned, his face pulled into hard planes and sharp edges. “Okay, but if you.…”

“I said I won't, Arch.”

“Plow's behind the barn,” Arch said, as he stepped toward the house, carrying the shotgun as though it were a hundred-pound bag of potatoes.

Standish stopped, leaning back to work some of the kinks from his back. He wasn't accustomed to plowing. He didn't want to be accustomed to plowing. He wanted to lie down in the shade of a tree. He rubbed his sleeve against his forehead. Almost done. Standish peered across the garden. Arch looked as tired as Standish felt. The boy was stumbling across the plowed ground, grabbing ragweed and dragging it to a pile on the side of the garden.

“Arch, what do you say we take a break?”

“Ain't done.”

“Keep this up; we'll likely be done for.”

Arch shook his head: the effort seemed more than anyone should have to endure.

“
A-a-r-c-h.”

The sound floated down to the garden from the house. Standish looked up. The door to the house was open, but the interior remained dark. He saw only the hem of a long, gray dress.

“
W-h-a-t?”

The sound floated back, riding the air as gently as caddis flies exploring spring breezes.

“D-i-n-n-e-r.”

Arch turned to Standish. “Have to go eat.”

Standish nodded. “Okay if I get some water from the pump?”

Arch stared at Standish. “Let me get in the house first.”

Standish nodded. He waited until the front door to the house closed, and then he stepped to the pump, running water over his head and neck, scrubbing his hands and arms. When he had finished, he leaned back, trying to set the bones of his back into correct order.

Then he remembered Hortenzia. Hell of a thing to forget about a horse that had been working so hard all day. He turned toward the animal, pausing at a strident chorus from the house. Standish couldn't make out the words, but there was no doubt an argument was underway. He was torn between caring for Hortenzia and going to the house, but the horse won. She needed his care. He would likely be nothing but trouble if he went to the house.

Standish shook his head. He might question Arch's motivation, but he didn't doubt the boy's determination.

Standish backed Hortenzia a step, loosening the tugs, unhooking the singletree from the plow. He drove the horse to the corral, stripping her of her harness. Only then did he slip the bridle from her head.

Hortenzia shook herself and trotted over to Sally. Sally had found a corner of the pasture away from the milk cows. The two nuzzled each other, and leaned down, seeking grass untainted by cows.

Standish scanned the pasture for some shade. He could lie down flat on his back with his knees drawn up, feeling the coolness of the grass and the breeze. He would watch clouds until they soothed him into a nap. When he awoke he would be ready to finish the work.

There, at the east edge of the pasture one tree stood out from the rest. He could lie on the south side of the shadow so that the sun would wake him in an hour or so. Standish set out for the tree, his long strides easing the muscles in his back.

Standish had barely reached full stride before Arch appeared at his shoulder. “Ma wants you to come to dinner. We're having 'Nerva and noodles.”

Standish continued walking. “How do you feel about that?”

“Don't like it.”

“Then I won't come. I'll be under that tree when you're ready to go again after dinner.”

Arch reached up and pinched Standish's shirt between his thumb and index finger.

Standish stopped, the question plain on his face.

Arch seemed equally perplexed. “Well, ain't you coming?”

“Thought you said you didn't want me to come.”

Arch's face twisted into a walnut. “Didn't say that.”

Standish leaned back, hands on hips. “You said you didn't want me to come to dinner.”