The Young Riders

The Journey

By Gabrielle Lawson

Chapter Thirteen

Lou finished folding the blanket at the foot of the bed and dropped down onto it. It wasn't that making up the bed had been hard work. It struck her that this was exactly what she'd done only two days ago, though in a more hasty fashion. Then she had been in a hurry to help get Buck out of the shed and into the house where he could be tended and his life perhaps saved. This time, she and Rachel had hours to prepare.

She and Jake had moved the bed, and Jake had practically pummeled her with questions until she was exhausted by the cruelty she recounted to him. Thereafter, Jake had offered to take care of the horses and help with other chores so that those who knew Buck best would be free to stay with him. Lou could sense how uneasy he was. Rachel had gathered the blankets and pillows and left them to Lou so that she could prepare bandages and move Buck's other things from the bunkhouse. Lou made up the bed, leaving a folded blanket at the foot to be easily brought up over Buck if he should get cold.

Lou was alone then, for a little while, with no one to distract her from the memories of those two days. The shed was still vivid in her mind's eye, and Buck's suffering so clear. Kid had said he was asleep now. He hadn't so much as closed his eyes in her presence. They had moved his body, but his mind stayed locked in the shed, tormented by the man Lou had killed. Buck might die and never know that he'd been found and rescued by his friends. He might die and never know that Jenny had come, never have the chance he had hoped for. Was his present sleep a sign of improvement or evidence that he was now closer to death?

She wasn't alone long. Rachel returned, setting a basket of supplies on the floor by the bed. She, too, sat on the bed, and took Lou's hand in hers. "He's asleep," she whispered. "At least he's peaceful. That's something."

Lou nodded. It was something. But was it good?

The front door opened, and Kid poked his head in. "The doctor's here," he said. "And I hear a buckboard."

Rachel squeezed Lou's hand and then stood, pulling Lou up with her. They stepped onto the porch together, joining Kid and the doctor to watch Teaspoon drive the buckboard in, with Jimmy riding along side.


This town was familiar. And Buck was surprised by how relieved he felt to be there. This town had not always been friendly to him. More often than not, in fact, he'd barely been tolerated by it. But despite that, this town felt like home. He knew the streets, the shops, the livery, the saloon, even the church. Rock Creek was where Teaspoon and his friends—his family—were, and that made it home.

The station was on the other side of town, and Buck had half a mind to run there, but he was afraid of what he'd find. "They brought you home," Ike told him. "You need to choose."

Buck was dying and his body was back at the station. The choice was before him, and he had not found his answer. Life, it turned out, was a lot like the town of Rock Creek. It was filled with hostility and pain, but it also held memories of joy and loved ones. If there was only the one, only the hatred, he could say goodbye to it all so easily. This world wasn't made for him. Not the White world and not the Indian. He was both and he was neither, and he just didn't fit. But in the Indian world he'd had his mother and his brother, and in the White world he'd had Ike and Teaspoon and the riders. And they'd made a place for him. And yet, how could those few people counteract the multitudes who saw no worth in him?

Before he realized it, Ike was gone again, and Buck found himself standing in front of Tompkins' store. Ike came and went and Buck had yet to understand the reasoning. Or maybe he did understand. He had to choose for himself. If Ike were to choose for him, the answer would be simple. Ike would choose life. But Buck was the one to live with the consequences if he chose life. Ike was beyond that choice. Buck had to decide on his own.

A woman's voice floated out from the store. "Tortured him?"

"That's what the doctor said," Tompkins answered.

"Why would Mr. Lathrop do a thing like that?"

"Indians killed his family," someone else replied, and Buck knew they were talking about him and the man who had shot him and held him in the shed. Curious, he stepped inside.

The three of them, Tompkins and his customers, were standing close together near the counter. "But why Buck?" the woman asked. "He didn't have anything to do with that. He keeps to himself and his business mostly."

Tompkins' face flushed red and he turned to the side. "He's Indian," he said. "And I suspect that's all Lathrop could see."

"But torture?" the other man asked, oblivious to Tompkin's discomfort. "I ain't so fond of Indians neither, but that's just ungodly."

Now Tompkins stepped away and put the counter between them. "I ain't saying it was right. But I understand it. When they killed—when I thought they killed—my family, I hated them. I hated him. I could have lived without ever seeing another one. Grief like that, that goes to hate, it's hard to turn off. It makes you blind. I lost my daughter because of it. I lost my wife."

Buck had only glimpsed that side of Tompkins once before. The day that Eagle Feather's mother, Sally, had died. Since he'd joined the Express, Tompkins had been a nemesis. There had been a few others who treated him worse, but they had come and gone. Tompkins had always been there. When the riders had moved to Rock Creek, the idea of leaving Tompkins behind in Sweetwater was the bright spot in that otherwise unhappy change. Then Tompkins followed them and opened his store in Rock Creek. It was as if he was put on this earth as Buck's personal tormenter.

Or that's how he had seemed. Buck had tried to see the good in him. He had hoped that by bringing his family back to him, Tompkins' hate might be lessened and he'd let up. But Tompkins hadn't changed. For a brief moment when Sally died, Tompkins let go of his bitterness, only to regain it soon after Jenny left town. Not once had Buck seen any sympathy or kindness toward himself coming from Tompkins, not even when Sally died. That kindness was toward his dead wife and his daughter. But this? This was for him.

Buck turned to leave and ran into a crowd who spat at him and called him "traitor". Tompkins was there, as was the man in his store. Teaspoon's army friend stood to one side, and Buck recognized this for what it was. He turned quickly and the shouts faded into the wind.

A few people passed him on the sidewalk, muttering quietly to themselves with a sense of shock. He caught just enough words to know that their conversations were similar to the one in Tompkins store. Only now, he found no comfort in their concern for him. "Fair weather friends" was a white man's saying. It took something so horrible to earn their sympathy, but let one Indian from a tribe a hundred miles away kill a white man trying to rape his wife, and Buck would feel the brunt of these same people's righteous indignation. He'd gotten a few pats on the back and sympathetic looks when Ike had died, just the same. It didn't last. The weather was foul more often than it was fair.

"Did you think that would change my mind?" he asked whoever could hear him. Ike or the spirits or anyone. "Wait until Tompkins learns that his daughter wanted to be with me. He'll change right back again. This doesn't mean anything!"


Buck lay in the bed in the front room of the station house. He was propped up on pillows so that his upper body reclined and his right knee was elevated just a bit. His left wrist, bandaged and splinted, rested carefully beside his hip, while his right hand lay across his equally bandaged chest. Uncovered to his waist, Buck's every breath was exposed, and yet they were hard to see. His chest barely moved. His face, though bruised and swollen, was peaceful, and far too pale.

"He'll not last long," the doctor said, pulling his hand back from Buck's neck where he'd felt for a pulse. "Not like this. He's asleep though, unconscious. He's not in any pain. He'll go peacefully at least."

Though the doctor had kept his voice soft and sorrowful, Teaspoon didn't want to hear those words. Buck would die. He'd known it was possible, even likely, from the moment he'd been found. He'd known it from his dream the night before. But still he'd hoped. Buck had a strong spirit, a fire within him. Teaspoon had held on to that, hoping it would be enough to carry Buck through this.

Wake up! he thought to Buck. Show him that he's wrong. But Buck didn't move, except to take that next shallow breath and release it.

No one else spoke, and Teaspoon guessed they were all wrestling with similar thoughts. The doctor, though, was trying hard to act as if it weren't awkward in the middle of that silence.

Jimmy broke it by turning to storm out the door. Rachel called after him, but Teaspoon's hand on her arm was enough to tell her to let him go. Buck had fled once, too, just before Ike had died.

The door slammed behind Jimmy, and the rest of the scene fell apart. Lou sobbed into the Kid's chest. Rachel collapsed into a chair, and the doctor began to pack up his bag. Jenny sat right down on the floor and took Buck's hand.

Teaspoon had hardly left Buck's side, but he found it hard to stay now. He felt like Jimmy felt, sad and angry at the world that had allowed this to happen. He wanted to break something, hurt something, make something pay. But there was nothing here that he could punish. Only people, and none of them deserved it.

Taking a deep breath, he held his hand out toward the door. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, with a calmness he didn't feel. "I'll walk you to town. I need to check on Barnett."


Some things, at least, didn't change at all. The chair behind the desk in the Marshall's office was tilted precariously toward the wall. Its occupant's feet rested on the desktop, and his snoring caused the brim of his hat to flutter slightly when he exhaled. Buck had come here expecting to find Teaspoon, though he wasn't sure why. If the others were bringing his dying body home, Teaspoon would most likely be back at the station.

"Barnett!"

That was all the chair needed. Fortunately for Barnett, the wall kept the chair from falling to the floor. But now, tilted at an even more impossible angle, Barnett had no chance of a dignified exit. Buck would have chuckled if it wasn't for the man glowering in the doorway.

There were few times Buck had ever seen Teaspoon so angry, and even fewer when that anger was released at one of his friends. Barnett was perhaps not the most skilled of deputies, but Buck knew that Teaspoon would count him a friend.

"I—" Barnett stammered as he tried to extricate himself from the chair, "—I suppose you found him."

"Have you been asleep the entire time I've been gone?" Teaspoon snapped.

Barnett, to his credit, wasn't phased by the outburst. "He's alright, ain't he?" he asked, taking off his hat and holding it to his chest.

Teaspoon didn't answer. He turned away and lifted his own hat with one hand while he ran his other back through his hair.

If Buck had doubted Ike's word before, Teaspoon's outburst would have convinced him. The one time Teaspoon had snapped at him undeservedly was after he got word that an old friend and fellow Alamo survivor had died.

"What happened?" Barnett asked as he gently righted the chair.

I'm dying, Buck thought in response.

"He's dying," Teaspoon replied, still facing away. "He was shot. His horse was shot. He was trampled and beaten and tied up in a goddamned shed for two days!"

Buck closed his eyes, not wanting to see Teaspoon like this. But Teaspoon's venom must have been spent because his next words only sounded weary. Buck opened his eyes again.

"At least two days," Teaspoon breathed, letting his head fall forward. "He couldn't sleep the way he was tied. He didn't even know we'd found him. And now he's dying and I can't stop it."

"Who would do such a thing?" Barnett stepped close, stopping just behind Teaspoon. "Why would anyone do that?"

Buck felt his anger building again. At the man who had harmed him, at all the people who had mistreated him, and at all the others who remained ignorant to it, pretending it didn't happen. "Why would anyone spit at me?" he asked in return, knowing that Barnett wouldn't hear. "Why would anyone curse me, beat me, mock me, humiliate me? Why do they hate me?"

"Because his skin ain't the right color," Teaspoon replied, turning. "That's all the reason anyone needs, ain't it?"

"Ya gotta think someday people'll learn to see beyond that," Barnett said. "This whole war is startin' 'cause of such things. Black people bein' slaves or not because they're black. Indians are bad because they're Indians and folks don't want to think of them as people trying to care for their own same as us. A whole lot of people die because of skin in this world. Someday, enough people are gonna die so as we can learn it ain't right."

Teaspoon turned to stare at Barnett, and Buck couldn't blame him. All his own anger had melted away in surprise at Barnett's words. Where had that insight come from?

Barnett put his hand on Teaspoon's shoulder. "I'm sorry if Buck has to be one of them. I'll leave you to yourself for a time."

Teaspoon just nodded and waited for Barnett to leave. Then he dropped himself into the vacated chair and placed his face in his hands.

Buck knelt beside the desk and tried touching Teaspoon's hands, hoping that some connection could be made, as it had with Emma. But his hands passed through the older man's and Teaspoon didn't look up. He tried his voice, hoping that somehow he would be heard. "Teaspoon."

Teaspoon's head lifted, but it wasn't the reaction Buck had wanted. Teaspoon stood up so abruptly that Buck fell backwards. Then Teaspoon slammed his hat onto the desk and kicked the chair away. But that burst spent his anger again, and he leaned against the desk. "I didn't mean to grow attached," Teaspoon said, and Buck wondered if perhaps Teaspoon did know he was there. There was no one else to talk to in the office. Except God. Teaspoon might be praying, like Emma had been. "It was a job. I meant to teach them as best I could so maybe they'd survive the job. I didn't expect a family out of it. You took Ike and Noah. Jesse's brother took him. Kid and Lou have each other. They'll find a place for themselves before too long. Jimmy ain't long for stayin' neither, and Cody's done left. Buck was the only one I had left, and I know it wasn't right to want to keep him. But I hoped, I hoped just one would stay. We were family. Now You're gonna take him away, too."

Buck hadn't managed to pick himself up off the floor. He crossed his legs and let his head fall forward over his chest. "God didn't take Ike or Noah, Teaspoon," he said, hoping Teaspoon would hear. "And he didn't take me. He—the spirits. . . . Well, I have to choose. Ike brought me here and walked with me through all of my life, and I still don't know which is the right way. There were good things, like you, Emma, my brother. But every time I turned around there were bad things. This latest, the one that's killing me, that's just the worst. It's been going on for as long as I can remember. How am I supposed to choose, Teaspoon?" He looked up and tried to touch Teaspoon again, but his hand only found the wood of the desk. "Please, hear me. How do I choose?"

"I never told him how proud I was." Teaspoon slowly walked over and picked up the chair. "Now he can't hear me."

"I can," Buck said, hungry to hear those words. Words of praise had been so rare in his life that the few he had ever gotten were cherished, as were the people who gave them: his mother, his brother, and Ike.

"You can tell me." Buck turned to find Barnett in the doorway again.

"You never did know him very well, did you?" Teaspoon asked, looking toward the door.

Barnett shook his head.

"He wasn't easy to know," Teaspoon said. "He hid himself, turned invisible when he needed to. Less chance of gettin' hurt that way, I suppose. But if you spend enough time with him, you learn him."

"Tell me," Barnett said, taking the chair from Teaspoon. He placed it beside the desk and waited for Teaspoon to speak.

Buck backed away as Barnett approached. Teaspoon nodded and put his hat back on. "He was probably the best tracker I ever met. His brother taught him, I reckon. He could hear better than any of the other boys, or rather, he could hear more. They might hear horses coming. He could tell how many. He could write when some of the other boys couldn't, and he spoke three or four languages. Some white folks have trouble with the one they were born to, but he spoke Kiowa, Lakota, and English."

"And the signs," Barnett added. "He taught Ike, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Teaspoon said. "I never seen two friends more like brothers than those two. And I never seen any one person walk two worlds so easily as Buck. Noah couldn't do it. He was too full of anger. He was more like Jimmy than Buck. But Buck was quiet. He listened more than he talked. He watched more than he was seen. Not that he didn't get angry. He could fight when he needed to, better than most. He could be downright vindictive if it got in his head." Teaspoon chuckled a bit. "I never cornered him on it, but I know what he did to that banker's men."

Barnett smiled, too. "What?"

"They humiliated him," Teaspoon told him. "Tarred and feathered him and drug him aways. He caught 'em at night. One he buried to his neck and covered in spiders. The other he hung upside-down over a pit of rattlers."

Barnett's eyebrows rose high enough to tilt his hat back. "And they didn't press charges?"

Teaspoon looked sideways down at him. "Would you?"

Barnett ducked his head. "No, sir. Don't guess I would. I'd hate to think what he'd dream up for me."

"All the other boys had a father, one way or another, good or bad. And you can see it in the way they were raised. They were a little wild when they first came to the Express. But Buck. . . ." He stopped and smiled again. "I think he was the most civilized of the bunch. And that's what most people never looked long enough to see. They see his skin and his hair and they stop there and call him 'savage'." Teaspoon sighed. "If I had to choose only one of those boys and could call him my son, I'd choose Buck. But now I won't get the chance."

Buck felt his throat tighten painfully, and tears welled up in his eyes. He'd never told Teaspoon how he felt like a father to him. He'd never had one to know for sure, but if he had gotten to choose a father from all the men he'd ever met, white or Indian, he would have chosen Teaspoon. And if he chose death now, he'd never have the chance.

Someone knocked on the door and Buck turned to find Ike standing beside him. Jake Matheson's face was peeking in the door. "Teaspoon?" he asked. "Rachel sent me to find you. She thinks it's time."

Teaspoon just nodded. "Thank you, Jake," he said. "Please get the doctor."

Jake tipped his hat and quickly closed the door again. "Rachel's right," Ike said. "It is time."


TBC