Chapter Two—
You Can Lead a Horse to Water...
--
"Jack, let me take the reins."
"What're you talkin' about? I'm doin' fine."
"Are you kidding? Jack, look—"
"Gwen, I think I know what I'm doin' here."
"Well, I don't think you do."
"Just...let...me...do it."
Gwen settled back in her seat, looking at the wide prairie stretched in front of them, silent a moment. "Jack, do you realize we haven't argued for fifteen seconds?"
"It was twenty. Shut up."
Suppressing a laugh, Gwen still couldn't help but smile faintly. It was the beginning of their third day on the trail: the nights cold and windy, the days long and hot. Even after such a short time she woke up as exhausted as she had been the night before. In the mornings as she rode on the wagon alongside Jack, she was almost blinded by the brightness, the glances of sunlight that stretched golden across her wind-burned cheeks. All she and Jack ever did was argue: about everything and nothing at all, things just as trivial as how to hold the reins, or what time it was, or the proper word for stirrups. He was infuriating, the way he would smirk as he reached out and tussled her hair, called her a yokel and refused to listen to any advice at all. In the evening, as the sun set in a crimson blaze, he would help her as she hopped down from the front of the wagon, even though she told him not to, and then take her around the waist, and waltz with her across the endless prairie. And at night she fell into her tent, asleep before she could even close her eyes. It was an impossible existence, even now she could see: catch-as-catch-can and unending and raw, leaving her each day sore, and beaten, and blind.
All in all, she had never been happier in her life.
--
Along about eighteen twenty-five
I left Tennessee very much alive
And I never woulda made it through the Arkansas mud
If I hadn't been a-ridin' on the Tennessee stud...
The Tennessee stud was long and lean
The color of the sun, and his eyes were green
He had the nerve and he had the blood—
And there never was a horse like the Tennessee stud
--Traditional bluegrass song
--
The greatest outlaw in the American west was hotfooting it out of Missouri. Mounted on her trusty steed, the great Sapphire Eyes was on the run, kicking up dust in her wake as she galloped further and further away from her captors. The sun was harsh on her back; it was tough now, and the going would only get tougher: but she had no fear. As she urged her horse faster and faster towards the horizon, she looked up, almost blinded by the bright morning sun but refusing to flinch: what lay ahead was her future...
And here the narrative stopped for a moment as the great Sapphire Eyes-- terror of the bible belt, murderer, gypsy, thief, and all around tough cookie—looked over her shoulder at the barren ground that raced past behind her, startled by a sudden breeze that had blown her cap right off of her head.
With a sigh and a muttering of an obscenity so complicated that the knowledge of no less than five foreign languages would be necessary to plumb its full meaning, the outlaw queen of the western world turned around and raced back the way she had come, holding tight to the reins as she bent down low enough to snatch her cap up from the ground.
Regaining possession of the last of her sole effects—the only other things she owned in this world being seven stale Circus Peanuts currently residing, her faithful steed, Apollo, and the meager contents of her covered wagon, currently being handled by one Mush Meyers (title as yet forthcoming), the greatest outlaw in the American west turned back around and headed towards the horizon, no more than a blur against the sugary late- morning sky.
Not all of this was strictly true, of course. But the way Sapphy saw it, as long as it sounded good, accuracy didn't matter all that much. And "the greatest outlaw in the American west" did have a certain ring to it, even if, in all truth, she most likely would have barely made it into the top twenty, and even then on a good day. But if you were going to narrate your life, it might as well be a worthwhile story. And besides, most of the rest was true enough—she was on her faithful steed, her last possessions a ragged cap, seven stale Circus Peanuts (six now; she had eaten one), and eight hundred dollars hidden in a sock at the bottom of a steamer trunk. And it was true, too, that she was headed west, chased by nothing but her own wanderlust as she rode on the fringe of one of the last great wagon trains headed for Oregon. Although she was hardly being discreet about it. She had had her fair share of quick escapes, and threading through the stream of wagons at breakneck speed wasn't the best way to split town.
Then again, it was a hell of a way to make an entrance.
And people did notice her. Girls hopping from the back of their wagons stopped to look up, the fathers driving the oxen; almost everyone saw something, even if it was just a streak, some piece of motion and sound too fast to be caught by the naked eye. Only Checkmate, who noticed almost everything, pieced together a clear picture, although it was really the horse she saw first. He was a magnificent creature—an Arabian, golden in color, lean and muscled; to see that horse thundering across the prairie in all its elegance and speed was a thing of beauty. The rider was crouched low, nipping at its sides with her heels, pure speed; she could control him, and unconsciously Checkmate admired her a little bit on sight, just for that. She squinted to catch a better view through the morning brightness, with one hand on the reins and the other shading her eyes—but in a whirlwind of dust she lost sight of both horse and rider, and by the time the air had cleared, they were gone.
Walking along at the rear of the wagon train, Racetrack was one of the few people who missed getting a glimpse of the rider weaver her way through the schooners and weary travelers littering the hard-packed earth of the trail. In fact, for the better part of that morning he didn't see much of anything at all. He was far too busy concentrating on looking at his feet, taking one step at a time. In all it would be two thousand miles to Oregon City, and they would be walking most of the way. In the few hours since he learned this, walking had jumped from eighth place to second on his definitive list of things he hated, losing out only to wet socks. (Race liked to think that he would hold up well under torture. He didn't mind getting banged-up and bruised, and he wasn't any sissy when it came to hard work—but make him walk around in wet socks, and he'd cave in five minutes and tell you everything you wanted to know.)
After forty-eight hours on the trail, Racetrack was starting to have his doubts. It wasn't that he didn't like where they were now, because that wasn't true; he thought it was beautiful. Maybe he almost loved it: the dry grass blowing in the wind and the rolling hills, the dusky night sky wild with stars and the ragged sweet william blossoming on the plain. If he shielded his eyes from all the people and wagons and oxen, and looked away to where it was empty and endless, he could believe that he was the only person in the world, and begin to understand why almost every song written out here was about loneliness, and love for a place big enough to accommodate any dream. He had never been homesick a day in his life, but he was starting to feel that way now. He had never felt lonely, and now, for the first time, he felt loneliness too—he missed the city, the way you could never really feel that you were by yourself. And what he wouldn't give for a cup of coffee, a racing form, and a bag of Circus Peanuts from behind the counter at Blumenthal's.
"Circus Peanut?" an anonymous voice offered, coming up on him from behind and somewhere to the left, and causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.
Race looked over to see a girl looking up at him with lively muddy-green eyes, a pointed little face neatly camouflaged by a battered wide-brimmed hat, somewhere near smiling as she held out a rumpled paper bag to him. "Hi," she said, almost as an afterthought.
Not willing to pass up a conversation after a good two hours without human contact of any kind, Race smiled back. "Hiya. You always sneak up on a guy dat way?"
"The way I see it, he's either gonna run or stay put. That way ya know from the beginning what kinda person you're dealin' with." She reached a hand into the bag and pulled out something in a noxious orange shade, spongy and peanut-shaped—nature's perfect food. Popping it into her mouth, she extended the bag to him once again. "It's a weakness," she confessed. "Incurable sweet tooth."
"Yeh, me too," Race said, reaching in and taking out a few for himself. "I'm Racetrack," he said at last, once his teeth could come properly unglued from each other, at least enough to talk.
"Misery," she said.
"Huh?"
"That's my name."
"What kind of a name is Misery?"
"What kind of a name is Racetrack?" she countered, without missing beat.
"...Good point. So c'mon, though, what's your real name?"
She looked for a moment as if she was close to telling him, and then smiled devilishly and reached out, thumping the brim of his cap. "I'll tell you when you're older, how's that?"
Well, that was fine, in Race's opinion. They walked together a while after that, just making small talk, quick conversation. And things might have gone that way for a lot longer if Spot hadn't walked by, using his stupid cane like it was a shillelagh, waving at both of them and smiling impishly before he disappeared behind a wagon.
Racetrack looked over as soon as Spot had passed, not really knowing what to expect, but knowing enough to expect something. Misery hadn't swooned-- she was too tough for that kind of thing—but she was staring after Spot in a way that made Racetrack realize, even though he had only known her for a grand total of forty-five minutes or so, how well she and Spot would go together. He could imagine it perfectly: they would fight like tomcats for two weeks, make up, fight again, have a few hours of passionate kissing and then fight some more. A match made in heaven, as far as he was concerned.
"Go ahead," he said at last.
"...What?" Misery said vaguely, still staring at the place where Spot had been a few seconds ago.
"Go ahead. I ain't stoppin' ya."
She smiled at him, handing him the rumpled paper bag and already beginning to take off. "I owe ya one."
"You sure as hell do." He grinned, and with that she jetted away, kicking up clouds of dust in her wake.
Racetrack sighed, alone once again. He didn't envy Spot anything; he wished both of them well—or at least as well as he could wish them if Spot Conlon was half of the equation. But it was nice to have a friend out here to talk to when things got rough, just to keep the loneliness at bay.
But failing that, he could always have Circus Peanuts.
--
In the end, Mush did get his title. For being sucker enough to take the reins of Sapphy's wagon for most of the day, and for valiantly steering the oxen with more natural ease than Duane Street's own cowboy could muster in building a fire, Mush Meyers became Mush the Pure, Defender of Innocent Women on the Missouri Frontier (or just Mush the Pure for short). Or, that was what Sapphy (The Greatest Outlaw in the American West, et cetera) said.
"Sapphy?" Mush asked, leaning up against the taught canvas covering of the wagon as he took a bite of one of the impossibly hard wheat crackers that Jack had bought in bulk for the trip. "You really think you count as an 'Innocent Woman on the Missouri Frontier'?"
Sapphy took a moment to consider this. It was after dark, the sky gone all purple, the lamps all lit. She was tethering Apollo for the night, even though she hated to tie him. But if she didn't, then she had a good chance of losing him; he was a good horse, and the only thing she had to remember an old friend by. It was far too easy to go stir-crazy out here.
She ran a hand over his warm golden flank, glistening in the darkness, and smiled as he gently nuzzled her cheek. "Probably not," she said at last, turning to Mush. "But 'Mush the Pure, Defender of Sarcastic Bitches' just doesn't sound as good. Circus Peanut?"
"Don't mind if I do," Mush the Pure said amiably, reaching out and taking one from her palm. Apollo regarded the exchange with interest, in the end deciding that his bran mix was a lot more appetizing than something nuclear orange in the shape of a deformed peanut.
Suddenly, from the other side of the campsite, a strangled cry could be heard. A few moments later, a breathless Kid Blink ran up from behind Sapphy's wagon, looking for Mush. "Jack had a little problem building the fire. He's gonna, uh...he's gonna need some help."
"Yeh, I heard."
Sapphy rolled her eyes. "Boy, would I like to meet this guy..."
"Y'know, ya really wouldn't," Mush said, already walking off with Blink.
Sapphy smiled. "Bye, boys."
"Bye, Sapph..." and then, more faintly, a cry of surprise, followed by orders to get a bucket of cold water, fast. Sapphy just laughed, and went back to currying Apollo.
After a while, from the corner of her eye, she saw someone coming towards her. Expecting Mush the Pure, she looked up with a word of greeting on her lips, and was surprised when she saw a girl about her age, with hair pulled tight away from her face and lovely soft blue eyes, leading a dusty brown mare behind her.
"Did you see them over there, tryin' to build a fire?" Sapphy asked, working on stifling a laugh as she heard a muffled shout from the other side of the campground.
"No," the girl said ruefully. "I heard them, though, when I was out riding. They sounded like they were...having some trouble," she finished, making a good attempt at tact.
"Well, it's a long trip," Sapphy said. "Maybe they'll improve."
"Let's hope so," she laughed.
Sapphy extended a hand to shake. "I'm Sapphire Eyes, the gre...I'm Sapphy," she finished.
"I'm Checkmate."
"Nice to meet ya."
Checkmate bent to tether her horse for the night, looking at Apollo as she worked. "That's a beautiful horse," she said at last, standing up again. "Is he an Arabian?"
"Why not?" Sapphy said amiably. She had, at that point, absolutely no idea what breed he was, nor did it matter much to her. All she knew that he was strong, and lovely, and faithful and carried her where she wanted to go.
"Where did you get him?" Checkmate asked, reaching out a hand and stroking Apollo's withers while he regarded her thoughtfully with clear green eyes.
"A gift from an old friend," Sapphy said, not revealing much. "Best birthday present I ever got."
"I bet," Checkmate laughed. Apollo nickered appreciatively, enjoying her touch.
They stood in friendly silence for a while after that, both pretending that they weren't listening to the ruckus on the other side of the camp, as the boys tried to light a fire.
"GOD DAMMIT, JACK, DAT HOITS!"
"WELL, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TA KNOW IT WAS FLAMMABLE?"
They were both trying to outfake each other, seeing who would be the first to suggest going over. Checkmate caved first. She looked up at Sapphy, eyes innocent as sin: "you think they need any help?"
"Well, we could always just point and laugh..."
"Let's go."
As the two girls walked off into the darkness, headed towards the first real entertainment they had had in days, another figure emerged from the night, coming in the opposite direction. Breathing a weary sigh, Racetrack walked up close to Apollo, resting his head against the horse's strong neck, petting him gently around the ears. God, he needed a break.
There was something about horses that always seemed a little lonely. Or made him feel that way, either one. Racetrack closed his eyes, feeling the warmth and strength against his skin. The horse nudged at his head gently, his muzzle velvety. It was a perfect, golden thing, helpless and brave, and in that instant Race knew he was the lonely one here; because you never feel lonely, not if you can run at the horizon until your breath can't come anymore, not if you've got eyes like that, and a beautiful girl to care for you. Racetrack moved away. He was empty. He was beat. He was going to bed.
A moment later, the two girls emerged from the crackling night, a distinct, greasy odor of smoke still on their clothes. Laughing and talking, comparing strands of burnt hair, they came back in the instant that Racetrack disappeared, blotted out by the deep spring darkness.
--
A/N: This has officially been The Circus Peanuts Chapter. And for those of you who are ready to sic the historical accuracy police on me, I'll have you know that I've done my homework, and Circus Peanuts (those pale-orange, peanut-shaped, banana-flavored marshmallows that taste best when they're about three years old) were actually around in newsie times, sold in bulk at candy stores and available only in spring. Now that's home cookin'.
Will Sapphy and Racetrack ever meet? Will Gwen still have feelings for Jack even after his eyebrows have been singed off? Will Dakki EVER stop using candy as a plot device? (Probably not.)
And as I'm having a bit of a sweet-tooth attack right now, every reviewer will be rewarded with a fresh-from-the-grocery-store banana cream pie, to either throw at me for not updating in so long, or eat—not to mention a say in whether Dustin Diamond or Dean Portman will striptease for the audience in the next chapter, as the author's way of saying thank you for not throwing banana cream pies at her (hint, hint).
Personally, I think Dustin Diamond is just about the ultimate sex god. But, then again, I actually do like Circus Peanuts...