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Chapter 37
There was a pond not far from the house. She used to swim in it with her mother during warm summer days, when the prairie was blossoming with flowers and the air was hazy from the heat and the bugs. You could skate on it when it was frozen over, she remembered coming home with bruised knees from falling, smiling ear to ear as her mother put homemade chamomile paste on her bruises.
Herds of deer and wild horses drank from it greedily in the twilight of the evenings. She could study them come and go, their eyes illuminated by fireflies. Her father used to take out a sketch book and pencil, and draw the animals that came by for water. Her mother ended up framing each and every piece of parchment he ever touched, and hung them around the house after he passed away. Each year, on the day die he died, Eleanor remembered her mother's reflective mood as she stood in front of the wall of drawings, studying them as if she'd never seen them before.
Heaven looked like home. Just without animals, or family. She had the whole place to herself. A breezy, hazy summer's day. With their lone sycamore tree swaying gently in the desert wind, scattering her leafs across the pond, letting them twirl in circles creating ripples on the surface of the water. Heaven had no sound to her. All was still and quiet. All she heard was her own calm breathing, calmer than it should be. As she moved her head to look around, her movements seemed to be bend in time, slower, steadier and with more serenity. Her long, auburn hair danced in the silent, hot wind. There was a dog barking, but she couldn't see where the sound was coming from.
Behind her, on the porch of the house she had breathed her first breath, a rocking chair creaked with a familiar sound. She turned to look at Grandfather, smoking his pipe in the lone hours of the afternoon. There was no trace of blood on his face like the last time she saw him. In fact, he looked better than ever. Better than before father died. Better than she had ever seen him. She frowned at the sight, but could somehow not be bothered by it in the silent haze that surrounded her.
A horse neighed gently, and she moved her head in the direction of the sound. Her father, looking as strong as she had once known him, before the war, before he got sick, leading his old horse from the stables. The stables that Elton had so carefully, punctually burned to the ground. She had been rebuild, the pigs happy, scurrying around their little mud pool. She felt tears well up, watching her father harnessing the horse for field work. The plough had withered away from age and not being used after his passing. But there it was, in the same state it had been the day father purchased it and brought it home, beaming with pride at his new tool. A tool that would make life for his family so much easier than it had been.
He walked up to her, smiling like a young fool, and took her crying face in his hands. "Elly." His voice caused a sob to escape her lips. "I'm so proud of you. So proud." Her knees buckled and she somehow found herself sitting on the floor of the porch, her father kneeling in front of her, cooing and consoling her like he had done when she was just a child. As she cried, silent sobbing in a dry wind, he murmured the tune he had put her to sleep with during stormy nights. When lightning and thunder kept her awake, and she'd hide under her bed until he came to soothe her fears. He drew her close against him, and she listened to the vibrations in his chest while he continued his humming. All that missed was the gentle beating of his heart. Trembling from silent crying, she opened her eyes to look at the sycamore tree, it's gentle swaying form reflecting in the pond's smooth surface. The sun seemed to be setting. The light was changing fast.
From across the pond, a small coyote was watching her. He sat quietly, his smooth, brown coat coloured yellow in the dying light of the fading day. He looked up to follow the falling leafs with his keen, blue eyes, before turning back to gaze at her in expectation. She returned it with a tired expression, still pressed against her father's vibrating chest. The pond was flowing over, and water gathered around the coyote's feet. But she wasn't alarmed. Somehow, she knew this is what needed to happen for it all to go away.
"It's time to go, Elly."
She shook her head slowly against her father's words, closing her eyes at the dreaded feeling of water accumulating around her knees. "I want to stay with you." Her voice sounded strange to herself. Lighter, like it hadn't been in years. Before she stopped singing at church. Before they sold Grandfather's piano.
The water was rising fast, now up to her waist, soaking the suddenly clean blue dress her mother had made for her. She wore ribbons in her hair that day. Her father had given her those to match with her dress. But her hair was soaked now. The ribbons had vanished. And the water rose to her chin. She sobbed quietly against the inevitable, wrapping her arms around her father tightly. "Don't make me go." She raised her chin against the rising tide, suddenly overcome by fear of drowning allover again.
"Don't be afraid." Her father whispered to her. "It'll be over soon." He pushed her away from her gently to gaze into her eyes with a loving smile. His sideburns full, and his eyes the same vibrant green as they had been before the war. She had his eyes. She knew she did. Her mother told her so. But she couldn't see their colour in the faded black and white picture she had of him. Her parents' wedding day. The only photo she had of her father. The one that died in the fire. "You keep pushin' on, Elly. You keep grittin' your teeth till you're home. I know you can do that." He was crying too now, the water up to his chin, almost rendering him unable to speak. He leaned in to kiss her as the water reached her lips, and she felt the sudden urge to breathe, but what filled her lungs wasn't water but air. "Breathe, Elly." He spoke to her underwater, but his voice was clear as day. "Breathe." She breathed again, the water forcing her to close her eyes, her hair floating around her as the world turned quiet, and the fading day disappeared. She was going up. Up to the surface that she thought had to be the sky, had to be Heaven itself as she had just been standing on the porch of her old home. So fast she was going, like something was pulling her with a determination that rendered her mindless, thoughtless and almost bodiless. She inhaled long and hard as she reached the surface, pulling the air straight from Butch's lungs, his lips sealed on hers for a lingering second before he drew away to allow her lungs to take over themselves.
She coughed and sputtered on the water that forced itself up from the pit of her very core, and she vaguely felt the drops of cold water drip from the long wet tresses of Butch's hair fall onto her face. As she continued vomiting up the entire river's water supply, she was roughly turned onto her side, to make it easier to heave out the ice cold substance. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard his rough, taunting chuckle. And the tremor that came with it revealed how cold he felt himself. Still numb, the hypothermia had not reached her yet. And for a moment, she just felt warm and safe in the shadow of his body, still so close to her own as he hovered above her.
"Welcome back, Sharky." He whispered in her ear. A heavy horse blanket appeared around her shoulders, pressing the damp material of her soaked through clothes more tightly and uncomfortably to her body. She started shivering uncontrollably, and was about to ask questions when she realized he had gotten back on his feet and had trudged off.
The sounds of an ongoing gunfire reached her numbed senses only slowly, and she gazed down at her fingers dug in the wet sand of the river's banks. Men were yelling, and horses whinnied in panic. She forced herself to sit up and take in her blurry surroundings. The air was filled with smoke from recently fired pistols, revolvers and rifles. And she found it hard to breathe still, placing a trembling to her aching chest, feeling the vibrations of her struggling, cold lungs. Across the river, the Rangers had opened fire on the gang of bandits she called home for now. They had received back up from the Sheriff of Standing Faith, and the banks of the river had momentarily been turned into a small warzone, with weapons firing at eachother on both sides. She watched Butch load his revolver behind a large, pine tree. He was soaked to the bone, water accumulating around his boots. He had jumped right after her, she realized.
Feeling herself fade, she lay down, the wet sand feeling like the most comfortable bed she had ever been on. Rolling onto her back, she gazed at the swaying tree tops, and the circles of smoke that lingered between the highest branches. The gunfight seemed to take hours, but she was shielded behind the fallen tree that hung over the river, its broken roots dug in the banks. She blinked slowly against the watery rays of the winter sun, feeling her face dry in its fading, warm light. The overwhelming feeling of exhaustion buried itself in her stomach, and she yawned despite the noise surrounding her. Shock. She was going into shock. She recognized the symptoms. She had seen them in her father after he returned from the war. Every little thing seemed to tick him off. Sent him flying up the walls and then fall asleep. She couldn't fight it, and closed her eyes.
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She woke to the sound of a crackling fire. Crickets joined in, and together, they made up the sound of a quiet desert night. Her eyelids, feeling heavy, obeyed her only slowly when she tried to open her eyes, staring into Orion's Belt in all of her colourful wonder. The air smelled dry and heavy from the day, and she knew they were no longer on the banks of the river. She turned her throbbing head into the direction of the soft sound of men talking in hushed tones. The gentle jingling of their spurs and gun belts as they moved around silently, mindful of the girl sleeping on the other side of the campfire. She smelled Kyle's strong coffee, and couldn't help but smile at the serenity of the moment. She counted their backs through half lidded eyes, and concluded they were all safe and accounted for.
The soft noises of the horses drew her attention away from the gang, and she vaguely remembered her fall with Paluxy. And the horses counted all but one. She felt the blood drain from her face as she realized she had been responsible for her poor little mare's tumble and ruin. Stifling a sob, she averted her eyes back to the galaxy, feeling hot tears roll down her cheeks. Poor Little Paluxy. The only horse Butch had ever named. She must have created a sound, cause the men stopped talking and one of them was coming over. Barret's face appeared into view, a deep gash on his cheek from the fight they had today. As usual, he didn't look worried, just agitated with the situation as he kneeled down beside her. Crudely, he snapped his fingers in front of her eyes, and she flinched at the unkind gesture before shooting him a glare.
He ignored her and reached for a flask of water attached to his belt. The thought of consuming water after coughing up half the river didn't appeal to her in the slightest, but it was no use to fight against Barret's treatment. He helped her drink, supporting her head out of duty and efficiency.
"Where are we?" her voice sounded strange and hoarse to herself, but she had made herself audible anyway, and the army surgeon gave her a bored look while storing the flask away. "What time is it?"
"A little after midnight, I think." He started with the easiest question and looked around, like he was still trying to determine their exact location. "We're about twenty miles West from Standing Faith by now." He whispered for some reason, like he was instructed to keep the noise to a minimum. They were pushing west again. And she remembered Butch's talk about San Francisco and boarding houses for young women.
"West." She frowned. "Why?"
He didn't seem eager to explain the gang's decision, and chewed on his lip for a moment. "We're taking the wagon trail for a while. It's something the law don't exactly expect us to do. And the road is easy and well-travelled." She frowned at his words. "we've got wounded. Butch is still shot up. Ray got hit in his leg, and you nearly drowned. You'd be lucky if you don't get a lung infection from this."
She gazed at him in silence, narrowing her eyes as she tried to read his expression, and the thing he was so obviously trying not to tell her in order to keep the peace. "We're going to rob settlers, are we?" she whispered in defeat. "We need the money, don't we?"
"This time of season there's hardly any settler worth robbing travelling these roads, so I'm not sure what the plan is." Barret answered in truth as he got up. "Fact is, we had to improvise after that gunfight." She gave no reply. "Get some sleep." He walked off, back to the group to report about her condition. She didn't turn her head to look at them, somewhat embarrassed about the fact this gang was forced to improvise around her person. She listened to Barret's voice telling the rest about her questions, and her reaction to his answers no doubt. It was Ray who replied in his usual angry tones. From day one, he had felt nothing for allowing her to travel along, and he still held on to that opinion. She didn't hear Butch's voice join the conversation. She only heard him cough a couple of times, the sound worrying her. He had no reserves on his body. He was destroying himself long before she ever met him, and she wondered when the day would come he would collapse like he had done at her home. She wished Frank would be at her side right now. Making her laugh without meaning to. But he didn't move away from the group this time, nor did he make a sound to make his presence known. She felt alone, her feelings of serenity leaving her slowly as she continued gazing at the clear starry sky. The heavy weight of the stack of horse blankets covering her felt as if the weight of the universe rested upon her chest, and she had trouble breathing as the grandeur of the sky almost overwhelmed her. But she dozed off again, before the air could swallow her whole.
She woke before the dawn had set in. Though several early birds had begun their morning song already. The fire next to her had reduced to a bed of smouldering coals, and it no longer produced any warmth. She shivered under the now damp blankets, covered in morning dew, and dug deeper under them to draw out the cold of the coming day. But it was waking her, her body refused to warm the damp blankets, and she opened her eyes in annoyance. In her sleep, she had turned onto her side, facing the vast open desert. A little away from her, seated on a big rock, was Butch. His back to her as he stared out into the absolute nothing before the sun would make her appearance over the mountain ridge in the far distance. The rest of the gang, still rolled up in their cots and blankets, was still vast asleep. Their snoring, of which Jesus was the loudest, scared a few prairie hens from the tall grass. She got up, wrapped Paluxy's saddle blanket around her shoulders, and walked up to the gang leader still contemplatively making the surroundings his own. For as far as he didn't know them yet. She sat herself down on the rock next to him, not saying a word as she followed his gaze into the distance. He didn't wear his coat. Just his shirt and vest. And she wondered if he felt the chilly, morning breeze playing with his hair, and making her shiver. He looked at her when she sat down, but didn't say anything. Their silence only interrupted by Jesus' crude snoring, but they both decided to just ignore it. She looked at his profile, his face turned toward the rising sun again.
"How's your shoulder?" she asked after a while. It took him a moment before coming up with an answer he was satisfied with giving her.
"Not sure that river water did it any good." He looked down at the wound, reaching up to move his shirt away to get a better view. It looked angry and infected, the skin around the perfectly round bullet hole red, bruised and puffy. He placed his palm against it for a second, turning his gaze toward the sun again, now squinting against the light. "Takes te wind outta me." He mumbled. She bit her bottom lip in profound worry at his words.
"I heard Ray got hurt too." She said. He nodded, rolling his eyes. "Is it bad?" he made a face, shrugging with his good shoulder.
"Ahh, he wish it was. He'd finally have somethin' real te piss and moan about." He growled. "We got a doctor with us. Ah bullet wound aint got no secrets from Jack. Ah just.. work differently. Things always get infected on me." He let out an irritated sigh, frustrated with himself. "Always te same damn mess." She studied him, his words making no sense to her, but he didn't look at her, though he must have felt her gaze burn into his cheek.
"I saw my father." She started. "When I almost drowned. I was back home. He was there too." He turned to look at her with a tired expression, not saying anything. "I didn't see my mother." She continued. He nodded in contemplation, looking up at a flock of birds flying over. "Does that mean she's still alive?"
"Ah don't know, Sharky." He shrugged, shaking his head slowly. "Yer askin' te wrong man."
"No, I'm not." She pressed, finding his reluctance to be honest with her becoming more and more frustrating. "You know these things. I know you do." He ignored her and took to staring into the new born sun, moving his head so that the outer rim of his hat blocked the light from stinging his eyes. "You know everything." She whispered softly, almost in admiration. "To me you do." He said nothing more.
Together, they watched the sun appear from behind the distant mountains, and evaporate the morning dew that covered the different kinds of desert grasses. Behind them, the gang awakened slowly, and coffee was being prepared along with what they had left of their scarce provisions. Gradually, the camp started smelling like freshly made biscuits. She didn't wear a hat, so she reached up to block the sun with her hand, though she welcomed her warm rays immensely.
There was another question that had creeped into the back of her mind ever since her near drowning. And now seemed to be as good as a time as ever to ask. "Did you kill Elton?"
"No." Butch answered gruffly. "ah had te let him go because o' ye. He ran off first chance he got." He let out a bitter chuckle. "Goddamn coward. Puffed up, pompous peacock braggin' about arrestin' me and God knows what else. Pulled em off ye and he ran so fast ah thought fer sure e' was gonna break the damn sound barrier." He huffed. "Let them Ranger boys handle the rest too. Ye even got one of them Reid boys tailin' ye. Ah saw him. Heard him call fer ye too. Quite the posse, huh?"
She smiled softly. "Did he hurt you?"
"Reid?" Butch shook his head. "Nah. Couldn't shoot straight if his life depended on it."
Silence returned between them. Only interrupted when Kyle appeared from behind the rock to hand them both a steaming mug of coffee. "Mornin' Butch.. miss." He nervously tried his best attempts at polite curtsying. She smiled at him brightly, accepting the drink with a few well-meant words of gratitude. "Does.. does anyone want breakfast today?" the bearded young man continued, fumbling his bowler hat between his hands. Her stomach decided this was the opportune moment to voice its presence, and it growled so loudly it made the gang leader chuckle.
"Go and eat sumthin'" he instructed her. "Yer gonna need yer strength." She hesitated.
"You should eat too." She tried, watching him make a face at the thought of food. "You haven't eaten in days." She realized she hadn't seen him eat since they spend the night in the woods together, and he made her muskrat. And that could hardly be called a mouthful.
"Ahm not hungry." He argued stiffly, avoiding her gaze. "Go on. Get yer biscuit." He pushed her away from him, off the rock, almost causing her to fall against Kyle. "Let me be. Kyle, take er' with ye." He refused to look at her confused gaze, and turned his head to look in the opposite direction. When she felt Kyle's hesitating hand on her arm, she shrugged him off angrily. She didn't need to be dragged away.
"I don't need an escort." She argued softly, and walked back to the campsite herself, with Kyle following close behind. For the duration of breakfast, Butch remained on his rock, gazing out over the canyon they came from. He watched the dust trail of the men chasing them from afar. They would catch up with them eventually if they kept travelling the roads less travelled. But in the beaten tracks of wagons and horses making their way westbound in search of a better life, they were harder to follow. He let out a heavy sigh as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, and forced himself to get up and tell his men it was time to go.
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