Outcast (2 page)

Standish climbed a ladder nailed into one wall. Good news—no great news. The man and his horse had come through the winter with a good supply of hay. The winters here must be mild compared to winter in Montana mountains. Standish grinned. Compared to winter in Montana mountains nearly anything was mild. He descended the ladder and stepped outside into the sunshine, shutting the door behind him with the care of a proprietor. Sally had drifted off. She must have found some water. He turned back to the cabin. No well. If he had this place, he would have dug a well. Maybe not. The owner took care of the place. If there was no well, there must be a reason for it.

Sally
nickered
, her good-grass-and-water-and-sunshine nicker. Standish walked toward the sound. A corridor had been cut through the trees, the stumps three or four years old. At the end of the corridor was a meadow of five or six acres. The grass was rich and green and tall. It would carry two horses, maybe three, and a full loft of hay to boot. That's how nice this meadow was.

The meadow sloped up the shoulder of the mountain. Flashes of yellow marked the upper reaches, near the surrounding trees. Arrowleaf Balsamroot, Standish guessed. The root had killed the ache in Standish's belly more than once, but it had no more taste than sawdust.

Sally looked up as he stepped into the meadow and then went back to her feast. Standish knelt at the creek, making a cup of his hands. The water was cold and sweet as a dish of ice cream. He stood, walking upstream. The entire meadow was fenced with cut and trimmed lodge pole pine nailed to living trees.

A trail followed the creek into the trees, and Standish followed it. The sun played through the branches of the trees creating a forest mottled with sun and shadow. The trail was old, but not extensively used. A game trail, he thought, probably for elk coming down from the mountain.

A hundred yards up the trail, he broke into a vast stand of Quaking Aspen. A narrower, steeper meadow followed the creek up the mountain. The creek stepped down the mountain over a series of beaver ponds set amid a glorious display of mountain flowers. As Standish approached the first pond, a cutthroat trout rose as though to free itself forever from its ethereal bonds. The trout glinted silver, red and green, and Standish stopped awestruck. Two pounds, maybe more. Standish was pulled back to his youth, stalking rainbow trout on the Cold River of northern Maine.

As he watched, an aspen at the top of the meadow crashed to the ground. Standish dropped and rolled behind a boulder. He lay there without moving for two or three minutes; it seemed more like an hour. The house wasn't abandoned. The owner was simply cutting trees, perhaps to fence this meadow, too.

Maybe he hadn't seen Standish. Maybe Standish could crab from boulder to boulder back to the trees. He could make his way through the trees without anyone seeing him. He had done that enough times to be sure of it. He and Sally could be on their way before the owner realized they had been there.

First, Standish had to know what the man was doing, whether he had a rifle in his hands or an axe. He slipped off his hat and leaned around the rock; his life hanging on seeing and not being seen. Nothing. No, wait. There! The man was moving. He was crouched low to the ground. He must be new to this game, anyone with a rifle could.…

Standish rolled over on his back, his head propped on the rock, great peals of his laughter filling the meadow and bouncing off the surrounding trees. He laughed until tears stained his cheeks.

A beaver! A beaver had toppled the aspen, and now he was scurrying around it, doing what beavers do after they drop a tree. Another spasm of laughter broke into the meadow, and the beaver sat up on its hind legs, peering nearsightedly into the meadow. What was that strange sound? What creature made such a silly sound.

Standish glanced about the meadow. He could see now the stumps of other trees generations of beaver had cut to create this meadow. Still the effort moved on. More beaver building more dams as the meadow marched up the creek.

His eye skipped across the meadow and abruptly stopped. A straight line had been cut into the forest. What could that be? If the line were continued, it would end in that deep pool. Revelation and then disbelief spread across Standish's face. He walked to the pool, his eyes searching the ground for clues. There! The ground had been disturbed. Grass was filling in, but the disturbance was still obvious. He followed the line. Occasionally, he found boulders with drill marks where the owner blasted his way through the rock. The line led to the tree line just above the cabin and trees. It forked there, with one line leading to the cabin, and the other to the barn.

Standish walked to the barn, feeling the sun on his face, feeling the love the owner had showered on his place. Digging that trench must have been a Herculean task. The rocks had faced the challenges of rock and ice and water for eons. They wouldn't move easily from their beds.

Standish opened the door to the barn and stepped in, reckoning where the line would run under the wall. There it was by the forge, a post with a pipe running up one side. At the top was a faucet. He reached over and opened the valve. Clear, clean, cold water spilled out. Standish shook his head and grinned.

He walked to the door and leaned out. “Sally, it's your good day. You'll sleep in a stall tonight with grass hay for a bed. I'll sleep with a roof over my head. This is a celebration, girl.”

Sally whickered and went back to the glorious green grass she was eating.

Standish walked toward the cabin putting together a list of tasks. He would drag the bed and mattress and covers outside. He couldn't sleep with the smell of death so close to him, and he was too accustomed to sleeping on the ground to sleep in a bed anyway.

He would look for a broom and sweep the dust out. Then he would build a nest on the floor. Tonight while the stove was still putting out some heat, he would settle into that nest and try to decipher that book on the nightstand.

“A glorious day,” Standish yelled, and Sally whickered in agreement.

Miles Standish crossed his legs on the spring wagon seat and stared down at the town. He would strike up a cigarette now, if he hadn't quit smoking. There was nothing menacing about the town. If anything, it spelled hope. The buildings were all new and freshly painted sprawling along the Great Northern Railroad. Still, the thought of stepping into that town rippled the hair on the back of Standish's neck. If anyone recognized him.…

Standish stretched the muscles of his back. He could ride on, leave any traps in the little town for other wayfarers, but what he had found at the cabin had sent a faint wave of hope trickling through the synapses of his mind.

Standish took a deep breath and pulled the wide brim of his hat lower. If he could hide his face in the hat's shadow, maybe.…

Sally was skittish. She didn't like towns, either. She sure as hell didn't like pulling a wagon as though she were a common draft horse. Standish told her that she would so dazzle other horses that they wouldn't notice the wagon.

A four-by-eight-foot sign announced their arrival in Last Chance, Montana. Last Chance for free land to grow wheat tall as a man's chest. Last Chance for prosperity that would evoke the envy of farmers throughout the world. Last Chance for a new life, Standish thought.

Main Street belied the sign. It was packed dirt with two axle-deep ruts running down the center. He coaxed Sally to one side of the ruts, stopping in front of the Last Chance Emporium. He left Sally to drink from the horse trough as he stepped inside. A man and a woman stood behind the counter. The man looked up and smiled.

“What can we do for you?”

“I have a list, here,” Standish said, handing it to the man.

“You certainly do,” the storekeeper said, perusing the scrap of paper. “You expecting to set up a store of your own?”

Standish grinned, “Wondering if you could tell me where the courthouse is.”

“Well, we don't have a courthouse, not really. But they've set up in that building just down the street. Looks like a barn. Supposed to have our real courthouse next spring.”

Standish nodded. “Would it be all right to leave the wagon here? Maybe you could get it loaded while I get my horse shoed and take care of business at the courthouse.”

The shopkeeper looked down at the counter and scratched his head. “Don't mean to be impolite, but we're carrying about all the credit we can, and.…”

“I pay cash.”

The shopkeeper looked up and smiled. “Didn't mean to.…”

“Don't worry about it.”

The shopkeeper thrust his hand across the counter. “Myron Kennedy.”

“Nice to meet you,” Standish said. “I'll be back soon as I can.”

The shopkeeper stared at the door long after Standish stepped out.

Standish stopped for a moment in the sun, feeling its rays on his body, treasuring the warmth. He took a deep breath and sauntered to Sally. She nodded several times, apparently pleased to see him.

“Let's get this paraphernalia off,” Standish said. “A fine lady like you shouldn't be seen in town in such a drab outfit.”

Standish slipped off the harness, and tossed it in the wagon box. Then he slipped a rope around Sally's neck and led her down the street. The blacksmith's shop stood on a corner with a wagon-wide door opening on both streets. The blacksmith looked up from his forge as Standish stepped through.

“What I do for you?”

“I'd like to have Sally shod and brushed. I'd like to leave her here for a couple of hours.”

The blacksmith stepped to a bucket beside the forge. He dipped his hands into the cold water, scrubbing them against each other and wiping them on his trousers. He walked to Sally holding his hand toward her and talking softly in a language that Standish didn't understand.

Sally nodded and pawed at the street.

“Ja, she is a good horse. A very nice horse, but she has had some hard time?”

“We just came out of the mountains.”

The blacksmith nodded. “She take good care of you?”

Standish nodded.

The blacksmith returned his attention to Sally. “Perhaps you would allow me to look at your feet, ja?”

Sally nickered.

The blacksmith reached down and picked up her hoof. He nodded. “Ja, she needs new shoes. The man he shod her last time he was you?”

“No.”

“Good, then I can tell you that he didn't do a very good job. I will do a good job, ja?”

Standish nodded.

The blacksmith stuck out his hand. “Kabanov.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Kabanov,” Standish said. “Two hours time enough?”

“This Sally, she will be dancing when you get back.”

Standish grinned. “I'll be back in two hours.”

“You didn't ask how much.”

“A workman is worthy of his hire.”

Kabonov nodded and bowed slightly. “Ja, this Sally she will be dancing when you get back.”

Standish waved and stepped back on the street. He waded through the sunshine, wishing that he could take off his hat and open his face to the warmth, but that would come later. Now he must hide his face in shadow.

The courthouse wasn't the barn-like structure the shopkeeper had described. It was a barn. Standish stepped through the door into a dark, ill-lit building. Employees sat at desks, wrapped in their coats and lap blankets.

One bundle of clothing looked up as Standish entered. A pale glimpse of a face appeared. “Can I help you?” she asked.

For a moment, Standish forgot his purpose in coming to the building. “Is it always this cold in here?”

The bundle of clothing shook her head. “No, this afternoon it will be intolerably warm. Still, it will be just as dark, and by that time, smoke from the lanterns will have erased any light they emit. So we will sit in the dark and perspire. In the mornings, we sit in the dark and shiver.”

“It's a beautiful day.”

“Not in here.”

“I have a stick of licorice.”

The bundle of clothing cocked its head. “That might help.”

Standish held the sack of candy toward the woman. She reached for it, fumbling. “Sorry,” she said. “I should have known better than to try to find licorice in the dark.”

Standish chuckled and so did the woman.

“So what can I do for you, purveyor of treats?”

“You could tell me where the clerk and recorder is.”

“West four steps and south three.”

Standish chuckled again.

“The man with the black suit, black tie and black heart.”

“This has been an enlightening meeting,” Standish said.

“'Twas sweet indeed,” she replied, reaching for another piece of licorice.

The clerk looked up as Standish stepped in front of his desk. Standish was a black shadow against the pale light in the building. Hints of Standish's rough wool pants and flannel shirt was enough. The clerk sighed. He seemed fated to deal with one damn honyocker after another. Still he would be on bended knee to them when the next election rolled around.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I'm interested in some land.”

The clerk's grin stretched a little wider. At least this one could speak English. Then his grin faded. “Have to say that most of the good land has been taken. We have a few areas left, but they're more suited for buffalo than wheat farming.”

“I was thinking of the Bele place.”

The clerk cocked his head. “I remember that. He died recently, didn't he?”

Standish nodded.

“Cholera, if I remember correctly. I don't think you would like that place. No way to make a living on it. Mostly trees.…”

“I'd like to see the file if I could.”

The clerk nodded, rising as though the effort were more than a man should have to bear. He walked to the ladder leading into the barn's loft “Mabel, I need the Bele file.”

Standish couldn't hear the muffled reply.