Ten

His mind swirling with all that had happened in one day, being hired and realizing that he had found his father and two brothers, Esau had trouble sleeping, would doze and then awaken at the slightest sound. He would hear the horses snort or nicker on occasion and just turn over and go back to sleep. But once he sat up, alarmed, when he felt pressure on his cot. He sighed in relief; it was just the orange tabby investigating. The cat walked about the blankets and then, tucking its legs underneath it, it lay on the end of the cot.

"Who told you that you were welcome? Get off my bed and hunt down some fat mice or go find some female to enjoy." But the cat made no response, didn't even open its eyes and Esau didn't have the heart to kick it off. He lay back down; he knew how difficult it was to find moments of peace in the world and he couldn't deny another creature who also had to live by its wits to survive a chance to find sanctuary and rest.

Esau's mind went back to the Obermeyers—and then before.

"What you mean this white boy ain't worth nothin'? Nobody's put out a reward for a kid lost in Osage territory?" Zachariah, the head trapper, stalked about the Hays City marshal's office.

The marshal tried not to show that he was repelled by the offensive smell that had entered along with the trapper and his "prisoner," a young man led in on a rope tied about his wrists. "I've got nothin' on a lost child, boy, girl, anyone—look yourself. You ask him if he's got family?" The marshal turned to the young man sitting calmly before him. His face looked as if he was still recovering from being battered; it was bruised and his lip and one eye was still swollen. Whether the boy—although he was close to being a man—had family to claim him, the marshal decided he needed to keep him there. Even at 16 or 17 years which was what he appeared, he was too young to ride with these men. "Esau, what's your last name? Who's your pa?"

"Hell…" Zachariah said and then spat tobacco into a spittoon by the sheriff's desk, some of it splattering on the side along with other stains from poor aim. "Esau ain't his Christian name—I gave it to him 'cause he's growin' fur already. All he'll ever say is that his name is some…Wasape…somethin' Injun, so I just call him Esau, you know, like you'd name a stray dog that started followin' you around only if this 'dog' had his way, he'd take off runnin'. He'd probably only come back to slit your throat and then piss down it."

"Well," the marshal said as he shuffled through papers on his desk, "I'm guessing he's been with the Indians a long time. Probably more Indian that white by now—happens you know."

"Yeah, I guess. Well, somebody somewhere'll pay money for him. Might be able to trade 'im to the Comanches for a nice, round squaw. They'd pay for a night's entertainment torturing a white kid." Zachariah grabbed Esau up by the collar and the boy twisted away and then butted Zachariah in the stomach and with an "Oof," the man fell backwards. He quickly found his feet, furious with being embarrassed. "You little sonovabitch, I'll teach you…" He grabbed the length of rope hanging from Esau's wrists and jerked on it, almost bringing the young man to his knees. He then pulled back his fist to smash Esau's face but pulled short when he heard a gun click behind him.

"Now, you just leave that kid here. I'm taking custody of him and if you have an argument, think you have a case, the circuit judge comes by in about a month. You can file papers now if you want to and have a hearing. But the kid stays here. I might find out yet that someone is lookin' for him."

Zachariah glowered. He knew the young man was afraid of being turned over to the Comanches; anyone who'd spent time with the Indians, anyone who'd ever heard about the Apache or the Comanches and their hate toward white men, well, they would rather shoot themselves in the head than be turned over. The remains of their victims spoke about how much the captives must have suffered before they died. Even Zachariah was afraid of the two tribes—actually all tribes—but he had managed a grudging respect—that is if he had something they wanted, usually horses or women from other tribes. But Zachariah knew that he could be killed on a whim if he showed any disrespect. But this white boy, what a prize he would have been.

"I think I'll just take that afore I go…" Zachariah reached for the bear claw necklace.

"No, I don't think so," the marshal said. "Just leave it."

"I shoulda killed 'im when I had the chance," Zachariah said and then he spat on the floor , wiped the spittle off his beard with the back of his hand and walked out.

The marshal holstered his gun. "Sit down, son," the marshal said. "Can I get you something to eat?" He walked closer to the youth who seemed as tightly wound as a coiled snake. "How 'bout I send for some food? You like a nice turkey sandwich?" The marshal smiled benevolently-and then Esau spat in his face.

Whipping out his handkerchief, the marshal wiped his face. "You little sonovabitch. C'mon." he shoved Esau through the back doors and locked him in a cell." Put your hands through the bars, that is if you want them ropes removed. I should leave you tied up and gag you as well."

Esau considered what the marshal said and then he shoved his hands through the bars. The marshal noticed that the skin under the ropes was raw and had been bleeding but the young man was stoic. The marshal pulled out a pocketknife and cut the ropes but before he did, he said, "You spit at me again, son, and I just might beat the hell outta you myself."

Esau sat in the cell for three days eating beans, ham and biscuits three times a day and having only a bucket in which to relieve himself. Every morning, an old man came and emptied the bucket, then mopped the floor while the marshal watched Esau, his gun at the ready. The old man never spoke as he went about his work except the first day.

"You sure he knows that he's not supposed to wash in the bucket as well as shit in it? He stinks."

"Here," the marshal said and gave the man a few coins before he left, but what the old man had said gave him pause. He decided to try once more. "Son, I can't give you a razor but I can give you water and soap. You want any? Might help the atmosphere around here but I know I always feel better after I've cleaned up a bit."

Esau slowly nodded. He had been thinking about what was to come and realized that he was going to need to live among the whites; his people were killed and he wouldn't be accepted into another Wazhazhe tribe, just slaughtered as a white man no matter what language he spoke or how he was dressed.

"Okay. I have to take a stroll around town but when I get back, I'll have what you need."

Esau had finally washed and the cool water felt good on his hot flesh. He had also changed from the loin cloth to a pair of dungarees. The marshal had also returned with a pair of waist-high long johns and a blue cotton shirt along with a pair of boots; he had guessed and guessed correctly. The marshal had to tell Esau the order of clothing—long johns first, then the dungarees. To Esau, it seemed too much clothing. But then that was the white man's way—superfluity.

"You don't look too unusual now. If we cut your hair, well, you just might blend in. People might think you're one of the Stavroses—they're Greek—have black hair and skin like yours. If some of these men hereabouts think you're any part Indian, you don't have a chance. Much as I might try to protect you, you' dbe shot down in the street. Many a man's lost a family member or friend to Indians and although you might be young, well, they'd justify it by killing you afore you could grow up to be trouble."

So Esau allowed a barber to come in and cut his hair while again, the marshal watched, his hand on his gun. He worried the boy would grab the scissors and turn them on the barber and then him. But the young man sat quietly as the long locks of raven-black hair fell to the floor about his new boots. Esau had put on the clothes but when the marshal reached for his old clothing, Esau stood up and said, "No. Those are mine." And the marshal, surprised to hear the first words the boy had spoken, stepped back. Then he shrugged and left the over-sized buckskin shirt, the loin cloth and the soft boots on the end of the cot where Esau had placed them. The young man didn't have much and the marshal saw no reason to take away the few things he did have.

The next morning as he ate his ham, beans and biscuit, Esau heard the door open and the marshal walked in with a man and a woman.

"This is him" The marshal paused while the man and woman looked at the boy in the cell. "Esau, this is Pastor and Mrs. Obermeyer. They're going to take you in, give you a place to live."

Esau still said nothing, just stopped eating to look at them. The couple was older, not as old as Habazi, Esau guessed, but older than the marshal. And the woman had a kind smile, gentle eyes.

"He looks more like a man than a boy," the pastor said. "You've misled us and I'm not sure we should…"

"Well, I am," Mrs. Obermeyer said as she stepped forward. "Esau, I'm pleased to meet you." She turned to the marshal. "Marshal Braeden, will you unlock the cell? There's no reason to keep him locked up, is there?"

"Well, no in that he hasn't committed a crime but…." The marshal was going to say that he hadn't wanted his throat cut in the middle of the night, hence keeping Esau locked up, but didn't. "I just had no place else to put him. Like I said, he has no family. Esau, you ready to go?"

"Now, not so fast," Pastor Obermeyer said. "We need to reconsider…"

"No," Mrs. Obermeyer said, a small note of desperation in her voice. "Please. We discussed this."

"We were told he was a boy, a boy, who had lived with Indians but him…he's…one of them." The young man disturbed him. All his life, the pastor had struggled with urges he tried to deny. He had joined seminary in order that his desire for the love of God would supersede his earthly longings. And he had also married and had been a good and faithful husband. But this young man who sat in the jail cell with his tempting mouth and long, elegant fingers…he didn't want him in the house. A boy would leave him cold, but this was a man and he was beautiful.

And Esau looked dangerous. Hadn't he lived with the heathens? Surely he learned their evil, pagan ways, their brutish mating rituals, their worship of many gods and spirits.

"Father," Mrs. Obermeyer pleaded, "this is your chance to perform your missionary work, to convert another soul to God. The boy needs us."

"He's not a boy! Look at him, Mother! He's a grown man!"

Tears started in her eyes as Mrs. Obermeyer looked down at her gloved hands. Marshal Braedon waited; he had been afraid that once the Obermeyers saw Esau, they would refuse to take him in. And he considered, Esau wasn't a boy and the Marshal had misled them—intentionally. But they had never asked Esau's name and the marshal hadn't volunteered the information.

"All right, all right," the pastor said, patting his wife's arm, "if it means that much to you, he can come with us but the moment he does anything, breaks any of the roles we lay down, he goes. As long as you and he know that." The pastor looked at Esau who just kept his level gaze.

"Thank you," Mrs. Obermeyer said. She smiled with gratitude at her husband and wiped away her tears. "Well, Esau, it looks as if you'll be coming with us after all."

Esau put down the tin plate that held the remains of his breakfast and stood, gathering up his clothing from the end of the cot and the marshal unlocked the cell door. Then he turned to the Obermeyers. "Would you two mind steppin' outside a moment? I just want to have a word or two with 'im before you take "im."

"Of course not," Mrs. Obermeyer said. "Come, Father, let's wait outside.

The marshal noticed the puzzled look on Esau's face each time the Obermeyers called each other "father" and "mother."

"Listen to me, son," the marshal said. "Pastor Obermeyer and his wife are opening their home to you. This here town has a lot of people whose parents or grandparents came from Germany—mine included. You may not know where that is but it's a country far away across the ocean and they've brought a lot of customs with them and one of them is orderliness and neatness and respecting one's elders. Now if they want you to take a bath, sweep up, wash dishes—anything-do it without complaining. And you'll be expected to do chores about the place like any natural child of theirs would."

I am going from finally becoming a person to becoming a slave again, Esau thought to himself. But this time I won't wait as long.

"After all, they're givin' you a roof over your head and fillin' your belly and Mrs. Obermeyer, she's one of the best cook around but she'll deny it like women do, but they sure like to hear it. But you know how women are—they're modest like the Bible says they should be but just keep complimenting her anyway. And Pastor Obermeyer's our Lutheran pastor, a well-respected man but he's a stern man and believes in a stern God. You do what you're told and…well, you'll get along fine and have a lot of apple strudel to eat—like I said, Mrs. Obermeyer's a great cook and baker. Wait until you taste her sauerbraten.

"So my advice to you is be polite and you'll learn how to live with white men without wantin' to kill and scalp all of us. Not everyone is like those trappers were. We are your people, after all." Esau said nothing. "And by the way, the Obermeyers just call each other mother and father even though they have no children of their own. And take off that bear claw necklace. The Pastor, well, he don't like any heathen trappings—which includes rosaries, in his opinion."

Esau had no idea of what the marshal was speaking but he pulled off the bear claw necklace with one hand and put it in a pants-pocket. He waited.

"Let's go," the marshal said, and walked Esau to the Obermeyers who were waiting outside. And Mrs. Obermeyer gave Esau a smile that warmed his heart and for the first time, believing it would never happen again, believing that even a small beam of joy would never again enter his world, Esau smiled back.

TBC