.
.
.
Mornings with Fathers
.
1Dawn Meeting (prequel, before the war)
2 Swing Low, Sweet Chariot (Circle of Fire)
3 The Old Fella's Thoughts (Killer Legend)
4 Dawn Gift (prequel, before Encounter in Shadows)
5 No Ducking Out (further avian antics)
6 Dawn Departing (sequel)
.
.
1
Dawn Meeting
Long before the war and the events revisited in 'The Last Battleground'
.
It takes a lot to wake an active youngster who has spent all day in lively physical activity in the open air. Nonetheless, Andy Sherman woke in the still time before dawn, aware that something had happened.
He sat up cautiously in his truckle bed in the corner of his parents' room.
There was only the very faintest hint of light from behind the curtains. Everything was shadowy and vague. Andy blinked hard, but it did not help to distinguish any more details. He used his ears instead. Accustomed as he was to sharing the space with two adults, he knew at once that he could hear only one person breathing. It must be his Ma. Although she was always up at first light, preparing the morning meal with Jonesy, and making a homely clatter in the kitchen, she would not stir before then. She would not have gone out in the pre-dawn twilight, leaving the door still ajar as if it had only just stopped moving.
That must be his Pa. And if Pa was up and about while it was still night, something important must be happening.
Curiosity is the prerogative of the very young. Andy slipped from beneath the bedclothes, making less sound than the mice he loved to watch about their secret business. He found his boots by touch in the dark and pulled them on. Young though he was, he knew better than to wander around barefoot in the dark. Then he tiptoed as silently as he could across the room, past the big bed with a single human mound snug beneath the quilt, through the half open door which he was small enough to pass round without moving it, and so into the living room.
It was strange at night. There was only the last feeble glimmer of moonlight which made the furniture look huge, looming towards him like the monsters out of some old story. He knew every inch of the space, yet it felt as if he might suddenly step forward into a hole which had never existed before.
He drew a deep breath and screwed up his courage. He was a Sherman and Shermans did not give in to fear. Andy already knew this was how his father and his brother always behaved.
The thought of his older brother made him listen again. He could hear faint snores from the room Slim shared with Jonesy and the creak of a bedframe as someone shifted in their sleep. Then all was still again. They did not know that strange things were afoot tonight. They did not know that Pa might need help.
Only Andy knew. Knew with an instinctive sensitivity to the currents of life around him which was natural to a young child, but had to become a practised skill in an adult.
Pushing aside his fears of the strange night-time version of his daily world, he walked carefully round the big wooden table and avoided the chair someone had left pushed out at the head of it. His Pa must have been sitting there later in the evening, long after three year old Andy had been put to bed, working as he often did at mending something, a tool, some harness, a utensil which had been broken in the kitchen.
The thought of Matthew Sherman Senior sitting there quietly, his clever, competent hands restoring some simple part of the world to working order, reassured his small son. Andy went confidently across the rest of the room to the front door. It was not locked and bolted. If he stretched hard, Andy could just push up the latch so it would swing open and let him out onto the porch and so into the yard.
Outside it was very cool, almost chilly, and there was a subtle scent in the air, dew and herbs and earth mingled together. Nothing stirred yet, not even the first bird. Only a little dust lifted on the wind and fell back as if the earth were a rug shaken into a ripple before dropping flat again. It was almost dark too. The moon had sunk now and there was just the faintest glimmer fringing the edge of the ridge to the east, so the light from the barn door caught Andy's attention immediately.
He knew at once what had called his father from his sleep. Matt's favourite mare was about to foal and he had been keeping an eye on her on and off all day and through the evening too. Such things came in their own time and Matt must have judged the birth would not take place until after midnight. Then, on the edge of daybreak, he'd risen to observe and to help if need be. All Andy knew was that Pa loved the horse and that he was worried about her. This was enough to send him speeding towards the barn, for he too loved all the animals belonging to the ranch.
He crept round the door and looked down the barn. The light was at the far end, where a holding pen was thickly strewn with straw. The mare was lying on her side, her flank heaving. Matt was crouched by her head, rubbing away the sweat with a handful of hay and murmuring words of comfort, too low to be heard. Andy moved silently, as only a very small child can, like one of the wild things he loved to watch. Soon he was wriggling under the bars of the pen and settling softly into the straw beside his Pa.
Matt looked round in surprise. He had not expected company and certainly not from his very small son. He was about to hush the child, even send him back to his bed, but the boy's behaviour stopped him.
Andy sat silent and totally still, utterly absorbed in the drama unfolding before him.
Matt wanted to reach out and take his son's hand in his own, but hesitated to disturb such rapt concentration, even with a welcoming gesture. Instead he smiled and turned his attention back to his horse. It would not be long now.
Like any child born and raised in a place where livestock are paramount, Andy understood the simple cycle of birth, growth and death, even though he could not have articulated it at this stage in his life. Besides, he had a strong affinity for living things, especially the weak, the small and the vulnerable. He had seen plenty of eggs hatch, but never anything actually being born before. It looked as if the mother had to give a lot of effort to the process, so much that she sometimes paused and rested.
For long minutes nothing seemed to happen except the straining movements of the mare's flanks. Then suddenly the foal began to emerge, its tiny hooves and delicate legs encased in a strange shimmery substance which looked quite strong. One front leg appeared first with the other above it, the hooves with their soles downwards towards the earth on which, once they had hardened, the young one would shortly be standing. At this, Andy heard his Pa give a sigh of relief; he didn't know why, but it was because the foal was being birthed in the correct position. Then, to Andy's joy and amazement, the foal's nose appeared, nestled between its knees.
There was another one of those pauses. The mare was resting and gathering strength for the most difficult part of the birth. It took several minutes before she was ready to push the foal's shoulders through the birth canal. Once the shoulders were out, the rest of the foal seemed to slither and slide out in a big rush and a great deal of mess. It was only partly released from its strange casing, its head and forelegs sticking out like a half unwrapped birthday present. Andy instinctively longed to help the little creature struggle free completely and find its feet, but his Pa kept quite still and did not interfere. Andy knew without being told that he must follow his father's example.
They sat together for what seemed to a small boy to be a very long time.
Mother and foal lay panting at first before their breathing gradually became more even. At last, the mare heaved to her feet and began to nuzzle and lick the foal. She started by licking its head, working gradually along the small body, cleaning off the shimmery stuff and drying the coat. Andy could see she was looking over every inch of the new-born and sniffing it too. All the time the mother made little snuffling and snorting noises, as if encouraging her baby. By the time she had cleaned and dried it from head to tail, the foal was already trying to get up. Its mother nudged and nuzzled it, using her own strength gently to support the foal until at last, to Andy's delight, it managed to stagger upright.
For a moment the small creature and the small boy gazed at each other solemnly.
"Hallo," Andy said very softly.
The foal gave a spluttery snort which finally cleared its airways. Almost immediately it pressed up against the mare and began to suckle.
Andy gave a chuckle and whispered, "Very hungry!".
Matt did reach out then and took a small hand in his large one.
Andy smiled up at him.
Then he looked back at the foal and observed, "Too small for me to ride."
"Too small now," Matt agreed.
"One day?" Andy asked hopefully.
Matt took in his youngest son's enraptured face and evident empathy with the infant horse. He had observed the restraint Andy had shown, young as he was, in not rushing in to help or pet the newly born foal. Matt had already thought about the foal's future. Slim had a horse of his own, but this one would make a fine second string by the time it was ready to be broken. Or perhaps, if the offspring proved as gentle as the mother, Mary might like to have it as her own particular mount. At six Andy certainly would not be big enough to school or ride the full grown horse this foal would become.
But Andy was the one who had been there at the birth – the first human the foal had encountered and one who had respected its needs with a deep and loving instinct ...
His father had a dilemma.
.
.
2
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
A snippet of missing action from the very end of 'Circle of Fire'
.
What a waste of a good man!
Slim Sherman stood looking down at David Prescott with anguish and regret. Everything had happened so quickly. Slim had acted on reflex when he shot Yellow Knife, the instinctive action when someone he knew, someone on his own side, was in danger. But he was still stunned from the blow with which Prescott had laid him low. Although he claimed it was nothing to Jonesy, his head continued to ring and ache and blood was congealing where the gun butt had cut his scalp. If he had not placed his shot accurately, he would be doubting whether his eyes were seeing straight either.
And he had not succeeded in saving Prescott.
He had his moment of glory. His heroic impulse!
Yet despite acting from his emotions – and Slim could only guess at the force of emotion driving Prescott to defend Martha – he was once again doing it for the sake of someone else. There was nothing selfish in that last 'hell for leather' charge up the hillside to confront the enraged Chief. And even then, Prescott had still tried to reason, still tried to bring about a solution which would not only save his woman but prevent a man he admired from incurring further grievous penalties.
Slim turned away wearily and, weaving a little from fatigue and his injury, headed back down towards the ranch. The ranch which was still standing after the long night of watching and waiting. Still harbouring safely those who had sought refuge there and Slim's own family – safe because of the cool thinking and wide knowledge of the man he had left lying up on the hillside. In the darkest watches of the night it had not seemed possible that they would survive and yet, grateful as he was, Slim would have given much not to be the bearer of such news this morning.
All I can do is to bring his body to her with dignity!
Already Slim's mind was working out how to retrieve Prescott in a respectful manner, befitting both his rank and his sacrifice. He was hardly aware of stumbling across the road as he made for the barn and the necessary equipment. So he came unexpectedly upon a dusty bay horse, blocking his entrance as he was led in by his rider.
"What the ... Jess, what the heck are you doing here?"
Jess looked round and grinned. "Thought I had a job here. But if y've run out o' work already, I guess I'll have to move on t' earn my keep."
"How are you here so soon? What about the cavalry?" Slim asked in confusion. "Couldn't you find them?"
The Texan shrugged. "They'll be along. But it sure don't look as if y' need them any more."
"You came back on your own."
Jess looked away, ducking his head as he always did when he wanted to conceal some emotion. "Guess I didn't want t' miss the shootin' party." Not for anything would he have admitted that he had been desperate to get back and make sure his new family was safe. "Looks like I'm a bit late."
"Yeah." Slim was looking hard at him and had a pretty good idea what had brought him racing back ahead of the supposed rescuing troops. "It's over."
At that moment, Martha came running out of the house, with Jonesy and Andy hot on her heels.
"What happened? Where's David?" she demanded frantically.
Slim moved swiftly and took her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake as he did so. "Be strong. As he was."
"Was ..." The word came out as a horrified whisper.
"I was going to kill Yellow Knife, but David knocked me out and took my place," Slim explained. "I followed him and saw him meet with the Chief. He tried to reason again, to get the attack called off, but Yellow Knife was beyond reason. He raised his battle spear and gave the war cry. David drew to shoot him, but a brave was quicker and shot him first. Then I shot Yellow Knife and his warriors retreated, rode away in a panic. It's all over."
"And David? He's dead, isn't he?"
Slim nodded. "I'm sorry. I wasn't quick enough to save him. But he was determined to save us all."
There was a long and heart-wrenching pause. It was hard for the others to take in that the man they had admired and trusted, a man one of them had loved without reserve, was not going to return.
"He was a brave and honourable man," Slim said. Then, gently, "Go in with Jonesy. I'll bring him down carefully to you."
As the pair turned back to the house, Jess said quietly, "I'll come with you. Andy, can y' look after Trav for me?"
"Sure, Jess!" The boy took the bay's reins and led him into his stall.
"Thanks, partner." Confident in the comfort of his faithful mount, Jess turned back to Slim. "How d'y' wanna do this?"
"Ask Jonesy for some blankets," Slim told him. "I'll find poles for a stretcher."
It took them a short while to hammer together a strong enough stretcher. When they had finished and were ready to climb the hill once more, Jess went to his saddlebag and produced the bottle of whiskey Jonesy had given him.
"Here!" He held it out to Slim. When Slim shook his head, Jess insisted, "Y' look like y've been hit hard in more ways 'n one. Drink it!"
Slim reluctantly took the bottle and had a sip.
"That ain't doin' y' any good. More!" Jess insisted. He'd taken in the blood and bruising, but knew it was useless trying to change Slim's mind when he had given his word about an honourable course of action.
"Any more and I'll fall over," Slim protested.
"It'll keep y' goin' long enough," Jess assured him firmly, "if y' so hell-bent on doin' this y'self."
Slim did not deign to comment on this, but took the bottle and a good swig, ending with a growl as the liquor hit his throat. When he handed it back, Jess too took a deep gulp.
"It's been a long night all round," he observed. "Come on, let's do it."
They climbed the hill together in silence. It was not until they reached Prescott's body that Jess gave a sudden exclamation of disbelief and something which sounded very much like horror.
Slim looked at him in surprise. "What's the matter?" Jess had surely seen enough dead bodies and probably with worse injuries than those the brave Major had suffered.
Jess did not answer immediately. He walked round Prescott and stood staring down at Yellow Knife's body. After several lingering moments, he said very quietly, "They left his body behind. They didn't come back for him."
Slim shrugged. "They're probably skulking over the ridge, waiting for us to go away."
"No!" Jess's voice was harsh and pained. "No. If they were going t' take him, they'd have done it the moment they saw you were alone and goin' back to the ranch. Probably killed you too."
"Maybe they've got enough with one body to handle," Slim guessed.
"Yeah. They have the body of his son. The one who should have been by his side."
There seemed to be no answer to this. Slim said, "We have to honour our own dead."
He bent to grasp Prescott's shoulders and Jess moved at once to take the dead man's feet and help lift him gently on to the stretcher. When they had secured him with extra blankets, they took hold of the poles, raised the improvised bier and made their way slowly and cautiously down to the ranch. It was not easy going, weighed down as they were with their sad burden and with rough, slippery grass, outcrops of stone and shale and patches of treacherous sand underfoot.
Though he would not admit it, Slim was glad when at last they were able to manoeuvre the stretcher into the house and give it into the care of others. Andy, although shocked at the Major's death, was also mightily relieved that Slim and Jess were both home safely. Once he was sure Slim was going to get treated by Jonesy, he went quietly outside to start on some of the chores and lighten the load for his brother. Jess meanwhile had, of course, been into the kitchen in search of coffee and returned with two steaming mugs, one of which he passed to Slim.
"Sit down. Y' look all in. Better get Jonesy t' see t' that head o' yours."
"Yeah." Slim slumped into a chair at the table and Jess went outside through the kitchen, refilling his mug on the way. Presently Jonesy appeared, mopped up and dressed the cut, treated the bump with some arnica and the headache with feverfew. The stimulus of whiskey and coffee was beginning to wear off, and, knowing he could rely on Jess, Slim took time to recover until he felt ready to go into the yard and see what was happening.
Mose was busy trying to restore some form of order, aided as best they could by the rest of the party. Even Biglow was lending a hand without moaning for once. In the flurry of activity Slim did not miss Jess at first. Only after some while did he think to ask if anyone had seen him.
"He was here," Andy said, just as puzzled by the disappearance of his hero as his brother was. "Because he did a whole lot of the morning chores real quick – you know how he is when he decides to work fast."
"Yeah, seemed like he was in a tearin' hurry to get the place up and runnin' again," Mose agreed. "But I ain't seen him, not for maybe a quarter've an hour or more."
"Saw him carryin' a spade an' some other tool," Cal volunteered. "He was headed over to the corral. I think he took one of the horses."
"He rode out?" Slim was mystified. Jess had only just ridden in not long ago.
"Maybe he's gone t' meet the cavalry?"
"With a spade?" It did not seem at all likely. Slim stared worriedly at the surrounding land, wondering which direction Jess had gone, when the cavalry would arrive and whether the Indians had really high-tailed it. He spotted movement up on the hillside where Prescott had fallen. At first he feared a further attack, even though this was very unlikely with the Chief dead, but soon realised what he could see was a single horse being led.
"Mose, can you manage for a while?" he asked and, receiving an affirmative, started to make his way back up the hill as quickly as he could. This was not particularly fast, given a sleepless night and a head injury, not to mention the intense strain surrounding Prescott's death. He caught glimpses of the led horse far ahead of him. Whoever was leading it was climbing steadily upwards towards the highest ridge. Slim wished his own legs felt steadier and he did not need to pause for rest so often, but he was not going to give in and go back. Not until he had found out if this was Jess and if so, what was going on.
He came at long last to the highest point in the surrounding hills.
On the ridge there was a single tree.
Nearby his employee was busy digging.
Beside him on the ground was a body.
Jess had been working hard with a pickaxe and already loosened the earth considerably. Now he was busy shovelling it out of what was obviously going to be a grave. He looked up momentarily when Slim halted beside him but resumed work almost immediately.
"Jess, what the heck are you doing now?"
"What it looks like. Diggin' a grave."
It was superfluous to ask who for. Yellow Knife's body lay still, his face serene, his hands composed on his chest, partly concealing the blood from Slim's shot. His war lance was beside him, next to the Chieftain's headdress, the proud feathers standing bright in the early morning sun. He was lying on a fine skin rug.
"Jess, that's the fur you bought for winter, for your bed!" Slim had been there when he bought it. It had cost him plenty, for it was excellent quality.
"Ain't got bison," Jess responded obscurely.
"You're going to bury him!"
Stating the obvious seemed to infuriate Jess. He leaned on his shovel and glared up at Slim, somehow looking indomitable, even though he was on a level with the other man's knees. "You sayin' I should leave him? For the coyotes an' the rats? Or f' the army t' take him away, sling him in the corner of some burial ground without even a sign t' his name?"
"The army are going to want proof he's dead," Slim said reasonably. "He led a rebellion."
"They'll get their proof," Jess snapped. "Proof with honour, the kind a chief deserves."
"Honour?" Slim objected. "He's the reason David Prescott is dead."
"An' how d'y think the Major would treat Yellow Knife now he's dead?" Jess demanded. "What did he think of this man? What did he think he was worth?"
"He thought highly of him," Slim admitted slowly as the conversation he had had with Prescott came back to him. "He said he would've been proud to serve under him, if they had been the same race."
"The Major honoured Yellow Knife," Jess said, his voice steely with determination. "I ain't gonna do any less for him."
"But you went to get the cavalry!"
"It's what we do, Slim. We defend the people we love. Like in the war, it wasn't just about principles – it was about people defending other people who mattered to them."
People who mattered to them! It struck Slim right in the heart. He'd done what he'd done because his people mattered to him. He wanted them to be safe, to live. Moreover, that was where this whole sorry affair had started – with a woman wanting to defend the one she loved. He thought some more. Jess is saying he cares enough about us to do what is necessary to defend us. Jess had used the word 'love', but Slim's mind skated over this, for the implications were too much, too soon after such a tragic outcome of love.
Jess was thinking along the same line. "Y' did what y' judged was right when y' shot this man. Ain't sayin' it was right or wrong, what you did, 'cause I know y' were actin' t' protect Andy and Jonesy and all the rest of them. Just sayin' that Yellow Knife did what he had to, the same way, t' defend his people, the ones he cared about."
"He wanted revenge," Slim protested.
"Yeah. Guess he had cause. Ain't that how any parent'd feel about their child? No words or deeds were gonna bring back his son. But he didn't just lose a son. His people lost their home. Lost everything." Jess's bright blue eyes darkened with a distant vision he did not share. "You know what that's like?"
Slim shook his head.
Jess grasped the spade ready to dig again. He looked up at Slim. "Y' gonna stand there objectin'? Or are y' gonna get down here an' help?"
There was no hesitation but, as he jumped down to join his friend, Slim asked, "Why are you digging the grave up here?" It seemed an unnecessary labour to move the body so far from where it had fallen.
"The highest point for the highest man in the tribe. He can't look over Jordan from here, but he sure can see all the horizons, the whole land he belongs to. The home that can't be taken away. Don't need no chariot to carry him."
With two of them working together they managed to excavate a sufficiently deep grave in very quick time. Jess prepared the body for burial, scattering a handful of red leaves on it before wrapping it carefully in the fur rug. Together they lowered the Chief into the grave, replaced the earth over him and covered it as best they could with rocks and large stones.
After this, Jess lifted the great feathered headdress and fastened it to a branch of the tree above the grave and bound the battle spear to the trunk. He took out his boot knife and carved some symbols, one of which was a knife, on the trunk of the tree. Then he brushed the dust from his hands and fastened the tools back on the patiently waiting horse.
It was only when they were ready to go back to the ranch that he spoke again, his voice low and resonant with grief. "My father had six sons. He'll never see the ones who still live, any more than yours will. But neither of our fathers had to see their sons killed." He paused. "Pray we'll never know what it is to lose a son."
This was all, except that as Jess turned to take a final look at Yellow Knife's memorial, he murmured softly:
"Two good men dead and absolutely nothing achieved. What a waste!"
.
.
3
The Old Fella's Thoughts
After 'Killer Legend'
.
It does nothing for the quiet of a man's old age to watch someone trying to kill his son!
Maybe he should file that thought in case it came in useful later? For there would definitely be a 'later', since taking issue with the sheriff and trying to evade justice by shooting him was a given hazard of his son's job. He accepted this, as he accepted that most of the time his son didn't need his help and was perfectly capable of looking after himself.
So what had brought him up the long road from Denver to Laramie? Why had he broken his hitherto steadfast rule of non-interference? Why had he felt that his presence was urgently needed at his son's back? So urgently needed that he was prepared to make such a ride, however much he might suffer for it in the days after.
Well, this was the day after, and sure enough, his bones were aching something fierce! If he'd been one to lie abed, now would be the day for it. But he wasn't, so here he was, sitting on the veranda of his son's house, looking out above the rooftops of Laramie. The remains of breakfast were still on the table and beside him a pot of good hot coffee. Presently he'd get up and clear away tidily, for he was not in the habit of leaving a mess for others. Right now it was enough to survey this place and give thanks for both of them just being alive.
So this was his son's town. It was good to see it at last, for it was a powerful long way from Denver, as his old bones attested, and he'd heard and seen less of Mort in recent months than they would both have liked. The town was growing and thriving, that was evident. The faint bustle and clatter of life drifted up on a gentle wind; you could hear folk calling out greetings to each other and shouted orders where something heavy was being off-loaded at the store. It sounded in good heart and peaceful after the tense gunfight yesterday.
Mort would be glad. The town was like his child. He'd said as much, over supper last night. A growing, changing, unpredictable child. Full of potential. Working out the shape of its own life. Choosing values, some learnt from a guiding parent, some learnt from experience. Like the son whom neither of them would ever hold in their arms.
Could care and responsibility for a town full of people ever fully take the place of that one precious, unique individual? Probably not. But if a man had a choice, he could do a lot worse than help to nurture an environment in which other families could set down roots and grow the priceless network of connections which bound human beings together. His son was right to care for this place and its people.
And Mort was not without very special connections of his own here. That had been clear the moment he'd stepped out onto the street with his deputy beside him. Long experience gave you insight into the way men walked together when they trusted each other utterly. This deputy might be a reformed gunslinger, but he was one who had turned out very much better than most. Mort likely had a lot to do with such an outcome. He had charged the young man with the safety of the town and with his own reputation. He could not have done so nor made the long journey to Denver in search of the proof he sought unless he knew the man he left behind very well indeed. Besides, after the shooting was all over, it was clear there was between Mort Cory Junior and Jess Harper the mutually respectful and trusting relationship man and son should have. What had Mort said about the young man? 'Not just a fast gun, but a shrewd head, an honest heart and a spirit of justice.' A worthy member of a family formed not through blood but through shared vision and ideals.
When the dust had settled, the villains been jailed or buried, and the innocent restored, Jess had left to go back to the Sherman Relay Station, his full time job and the little family who had adopted him. Here too Mort had strong connections with honest and reliable friends who were family to him in just the same way as was evident with Jess. There was no need to be concerned for the hollow place in his heart which could never truly be filled. He had other sons, other men of whose achievements he could be proud of and in whose affection he could relax. All in all, things could have been a lot worse.
They certainly could have been very much worse if an old fool had come to grief in what might have become a misguided attempt to help. At the tender age of eighty-three, he himself would have been well advised to sit peacefully in his own chair by the fire, not go haring off on a crusade for justice which was really none of his business, except in so far as it was of burning importance to his son. Of course he wanted to support his son in doing his duty. That went without saying. And he had felt passionately, inescapably, that his support was needed not just in thought and prayer but in person. All the same, he could so easily have become a liability instead of a helping hand. Suppose he had fallen off on the long ride, become incapacitated, broken his neck even? Suppose his eyesight had been worse than he realised and his shooting correspondingly inaccurate? Suppose he had got in the way of all the lead flying around and been killed in front of Mort? What then?
Why did he decide to ride from Denver with Mort?
Because he understood at once Mort's four-year quest to prove Tom Wade's innocence. He knew his son would never frame someone but remain true to the justice which they both held sacred. He approved of the patience and persistence which had in the end brought the truth to light. He wanted to be there to applaud the moment when all Mort's dedication and integrity were acknowledged: the moment when he was able to declare indisputably "this is the truth."
When this happened it would not matter if he himself was insignificant, ineffectual, invisible. What mattered was that he was father to this son.
.
.
4
Dawn Gift
In 'Bearing Gifts', Jess tells Chantal he was 'born in the back of a wagon'.
Actually, that's not quite accurate, but then who remembers exactly how they were born?
.
The night was thick and heavy. Lying like an oppressive blanket across the unending flatness of the plains. Somewhere far above there were stars. Their light was hidden in the shrouded night. The air was still as if the earth had ceased breathing. Resting on its immensity, the circle of wagons was nothing more than a texture in the surrounding darkness. The evening fires were long smothered to a bed of cinders. The precious lamp oil and candles doused and saved against a greater need.
Only in one wagon the dauntless light of a single candle glowed. Sharp shadows moved against the brilliant canvas.
Zachariah Harper stood some way off, well outside the protective circle of the encampment. Within it were many of his blood kin. Within it were his woman and his children. Within it was the unborn child. The child whose earthly life would begin this night. If it survived.
He stood completely still, despite the restlessness of his mind and deep inner tension, for he would not spend precious energy uselessly. He simply waited and anyone watching him would have thought that he was completely calm. Zak was never a prey to indecision: he had been taught early to identify and evaluate the conditions, the potential and limitations of his situation. Nor was he one to let nervous anticipation govern him while he waited. He was simply impatient of the outcome and dubious about the method. Birth was women's business, but he knew that this time something more was required.
Invisible as a shadow within shadows, scarcely disturbing the still air, he trod lightly across the intervening grass with an ingrained gliding step which brought him unseen and unheard to the lighted wagon.
"Put out the light!"
Such was his innate authority that, when Zak issued an order, folk very rarely argued back. In any case, his was not a nature which gave orders habitually. He ensured that those close to him were competent in the necessary skills: he expect them to think for themselves. Tonight predictably proved an exception to the immediate obedience he was usually accorded.
"Zachariah Harper, what on earth are you talking about?" It was his sister-in-law, Hannah, Joshua's woman and the eldest of the females. "You must be mad!"
"Put out the light!" Zak repeated. Then he added a further command. "Come, 'Lita." He pulled open the hangings at the back of the wagon and stretched a hand to his woman.
Another exception.
"Can't you see I'm busy!" Estrellita snapped back through gritted teeth as a contraction shook her.
"Lying down is the settlers' way. It is not good. Come!"
"I have had four children already, you know!" she gasped.
"No-one asked me about them."
With a mighty effort, his wife refrained from retorting "No-one asked you about this one either!" This was because all her efforts were focused on her labour, rather than because she feared opposing him. Instead she breathed deep and waited for a pause in the spasms before demanding: "Why is this one any different?"
Zak laughed. "Here is no bed, no house, no walls to curb the spirit. Here there is only the wide earth and the free sky."
"And?" The question came out as another gasp.
"This is a child of the Great Open. He will not enter the world in a wagon. Come!" He held out his hand again.
This time, despite the murmurs of protest from the women attending her, Lita put her hand in his, rose carefully to her feet and let him lift her gently from the wagon. It was no effort on his part. She was a tiny figure, sword-straight and supple as a withy, despite the pregnancy.
"Give me linen and water," Zak demanded, and, when he had received them, ordered for the third time, "Put out the light."
This time he was obeyed and darkness enfolded them all.
"Come!" His arm was around his woman in a rare gesture of physical support. Usually they journeyed side by side, alike in their strength and endurance.
Now they walked slowly but steadily beyond the circle of the wagons, which was soon swallowed up by the dark. The black earth stretched all around them and merged with the lightless sky so that they seemed to be swimming in deep water rather than moving across solid ground. There were no features, no marks to aim for, no path or track, only the steady fall of their bare feet upon the thick grass. There was no guide save his certainty.
"Are you sure about this?"
"I know how many children are born, swiftly, naturally. Trust me."
She stopped suddenly, wracked by a powerful contraction, harder than any before. After hours without progress in the restrictive confines of the wagon, being upright and moving had brought a change. "It won't be long. He's impatient now!"
"Yes. He knows. He feels the call of the wind running free over the open prairie. He feels the light of the sun and the shimmer of the stars."
"I can't go much further ..."
"A few paces only."
Sensitive to the terrain beneath his feet, a skill honed by years of nomadic life, Zak knew that in this flat land they were gradually ascending the only small ridge for hundreds of miles. Soon he drew them to a halt.
"Here."
Any woman might be forgiven for asking what made this particular patch of bare earth and darkness different from another. Estrellita did not. She felt the surety radiating from the man beside her as she would have known the sun or the warmth of a friendly fire. It was enough. All she wanted to do now was to sink to the earth and let nature take its course. So she sat down and immediately felt the slope of the land which Zak had been aware of as he guided them. On this slightest of eminences – a mountain in its country of molehills – the very least movement of the air could be felt.
"That's good!" The birth of the breeze was refreshing as the increasing frequency of her contractions signalled the birth of a child was imminent.
Silently and swiftly, Zak unrolled the linen and used his knife to cut off enough to wrap the baby. Since the linen was one of Hannah's best sheets, he was not going to be popular. Not that this bothered him in the slightest. He sheathed his knife, spread out the linen like a blanket and offered the canteen of water to his woman.
She shook her head, concentrating now on controlling with her breathing the fierce surges of pain.
Zak's hand fell on his wife's shoulder and his deep voice rumbled out like the darkness of the earth under the sweep of the sky. "At this time, trees are good."
"What ... for?" The question was strangled with a tinge of hysterical laughter.
"You need something to hold on to. A branch can keep you upright."
"Zak, can you see any trees?" she demanded in exasperated tones.
"No. I will brace my arms around you. You can hold on to me."
"I always ... hold ... to you - !" The words came as a groan and her hands came out to grasp his offered arms.
In the following frantic minutes two humans strove their utmost to receive safely the new life of a third. Truly birth is named labour, for the violent effort had them both shaking and sweating as if they had run a great race at noon. When the mother at last sank to rest on the warm earth of the slope and the child was safely wrapped and cradled in her arms, a cooling wind sprang up, the herald of dawn, the faintest featherlight touch caressing and soothing exhaustion. The moonless sky was revealed as if a curtain had been lifted and the azure depths were alight with the fading silver and gold and amethyst of thousands upon thousands of stars.
And the wind carried the boy's first hungry cries away to the wide horizon and the sweep of the mighty sky.
Zachariah Harper bent and picked up his restless son. He took a few short steps to the top of the little ridge and surveyed the waking world, his eyes more piercing than the clarity of the growing light. He saw the inherent unity of everything revealed by the purity and truth which the light embodied. He turned to the east and faced the rising sun and lifted the child high to salute it and to be greeted by it.
"My son, you are the gift of Great Spirit to us and we give thanks. Know now that you belong to this world, brother to all that is in it. Be one with the freedom of the earth and the splendour of the stars."
He lowered the child and moved back to place him once again in his mother's arms so she could begin to nurse him. She looked up at Zachariah and smiled, weary but joyful.
"A gift to us ... then his name is Jesse."
.
.
5
No Ducking Out
Another escapade of our avian hero
.
Jess! Jess! Wake up!"
The impatient and irritable summons was nothing like Slim Sherman's usual cheerful morning persona. Nor was it like him to embark on the risky business of waking up Jess Harper unless there was a very good reason.
"WAKE UP!"
Slim's tone was almost a shout and he was certainly capitalising his words. He added, for good measure, "And get up!"
"Urrr -gggh!"
Hardly a communicative response. Nor one which suggested much co-operation, never mind obedience.
"Get up! Or you're dealing with all the washing for the next month."
"Huh?"
Jess struggled reluctantly into a semi-upright position and forced open bleary and seriously confused eyes. He was eyeball to eyeball with his friend and partner. Slim was towering over him, though Jess was in the top bunk and it was a pretty difficult position for anyone to tower over, even if they were more than six feet tall.
"What?"
"Get up! Or you're on washing duty for a month."
"Why me?" Jess demanded indignantly. His habit of treating his clothing to endurance tests did not generate nearly as much laundry as a man who could get through two or even three clean shirts in a day.
"Get up!"
Slim grabbed the blankets and yanked them off onto the floor, giving Jess not much option but to follow if he did not want to shiver in the chilly spring morning air. The Texan landed with a thud, quite unlike his usual grace, and hastily picked up the quilt, which he draped round him belligerently.
"What crawled under your blankets an' bit y'?"
The only response to this was a disgusted snort and a pointing finger.
"That's y' shirt drawer," Jess said slowly and carefully, as if addressing someone of limited age and intelligence – or possibly hesitating to speak loudly in the presence of unexploded dynamite.
"That's your duck!"
"Napoleon ain't anyone's duck," Jess stated firmly, reflecting the dignity befitting the ruling avian of the ranch. He might also have been trying to evade responsibility for the mallard's activities. If so, he did not succeed.
"Your duck. My shirt drawer."
Slim was speaking through gritted teeth now.
"So that's where he went last night."
Enlightenment flooded Jess's sleepy mind. Napoleon had mysteriously disappeared the previous evening when Jess came to shut up the rest of the ducks in the palatial duckhouse which had been constructed by the considerably enlarged duck pond. Although this was puzzling, it did not cause any immediate panic as Napoleon was able to fly to a safe perch wherever he chose and was, in any case, a past master at the art of both survival and concealment.
"He's never done that before," the mallard's pet observed in surprised tones.
"And he's not getting a second chance to do it again," Slim snarled. "Get him out of there. And get my shirts washed."
The furious rancher stormed off, presumably to complete his own morning wash and find an unsullied shirt amongst those Jonesy had airing round the hearth.
Jess heaved a sigh and regarded with disfavour the beady black eyes and yellow bill just poking over the edge of the shirt drawer now the owner had departed.
"What're y' thinkin' of?" he demanded sorrowfully of his feathered friend. "Did y' really need t' hide in there?"
"Qu -aaa- rr-cck!"
"That bad, eh?" Jess was fishing around for his discarded garments and wondering if he could get away with just washing the top layer of Slim's shirts. "No good expectin' you t' sympathise when I'm up t' my armpits in soapy water, is it?"
"Quack!" Which in duck meant 'Enjoy it while you can!' Napoleon had an unholy fascination with soapy water, despite being frequently reminded it was not good for his feathers and even more frequently being chased out of the sink by an irate Jonesy.
"You'd better lie low while I'm doin' it," Jess ordered gloomily and with little hope of co-operation from the duck. "Or there'll be two of them mad at us for sure."
"Quck!" A very short, sharp quack which clearly indicated the mallard's disdain for anyone's disapproval.
"Come on then." Jess had finished dressing and had no intention of following Slim to the washbasins. Not when he had a duck to deal with. "Outside!" He held the bunkroom door open. "And stay on the pond!"
"Qu-a-a-a-ck!" If a duck of such dignity deigned to whine, this is what it would sound like.
Jess stared at him in surprise. If ducks' bills could droop at the corner, Napoleon's would have done so. The mallard was also the past master of the 'poor little duck' act.
"What's the matter? It's a perfectly good pond an' a fine big duckhouse."
"Quack!" This one unmistakably meant 'pay attention when I'm explaining!'
Jess scratched his head and decided to wait and see what the mighty mallard intended to communicate.
"Queek! Queek! Queek! Queek!"
It sounded exactly like a flock of little ducklings.
Jess suppressed an urge to laugh out loud, although he was grinning as he scooped the reluctant duck up under one arm and strode relentlessly in the direction of the pond. Napoleon had recently become the father of a lively and demanding brood. Obviously he wasn't getting enough sleep at night.
"You've just got to man up to your responsibilities," Jess told the mighty mallard as he deposited him in the water. "Y're a parent now. Y' can't just duck out of your duties!"
"Qu -aaa- rr-cck!"
There was no doubt about Napoleon's final comment: 'Don't come running to me for sympathy when you've got kids of your own!'
.
.
6
Dawn Departing
Our heroes in the first years of the 20th Century,
with members of the family whose names come from 'The Long Homecoming'
.
"Pa! Pa!"
Nathaniel Sherman looked up sharply at the urgency of the summons as his eldest son came charging into the house. It was not unusual for Elijah to be the earliest up – he liked to see the sun rise and to have the first moments of the day in the quiet company of the animals – but this was far from his usual tranquil start.
"What's up? The devil riding your tail?"
"No!" Eli rasped out breathlessly. "It's Grandpa. He's been in the barn."
Nathan raised his eyebrows. It was also not unusual for Slim Sherman, albeit more slowly and stiffly than in former days, to be up and about early. Maybe not this early, but he too had never been one to lie abed, unlike his partner and friend. Jess Harper on the other hand figured that, after a lifetime of getting up before he was ready, he could reasonably leave dawn rising to those who liked it and still do his share of the unremitting work around the ranch. Perish the thought that he should admit to sometimes feeling less than fit and ready for the day ahead.
"Grandpa has been in the barn before," Nathan pointed out with a straight face. "I expect he knows what he's doing."
Eli shook his head impatiently. "He's saddled his horse."
This too was something Slim had done countless times before, but now did not seem the moment to point it out, given the worry contorting Eli's face.
"Did you ask him what he was doing?"
"No. I was fixing the pump for the paddock trough. All I heard was him muttering under his breath. Something about 'finally taking off for the Great Open ...'"
"Come on!"
Nathan left the house with Elijah hot on his heels. They were just in time to see Slim, mounted on the now rather elderly chestnut who was the last in a long line of succession from his faithful Alamo, disappearing at a staid lope round the bend towards Laramie. All they could see was his back, but it looked resolute, as if he had a task which must be undertaken within some specific time.
"Heck! Too late." Nathaniel stood, arms akimbo, in the middle of the yard, staring after his father.
Elijah, meanwhile, was counting the small herd in the near paddock. "There's another horse missing."
"Which?" Nathaniel was alert at once. It was possible a horse had been stolen, but he would have expected his father to come in and tell him, rather than apparently saddling up to ride after the thief.
"That feisty bay, the one who put Granjay on the ground the other day."
"The one he said put him in mind of Traveller," Nathan recalled.
"More like Smoke!" Elijah was well versed in the family history and the more prominent animal members of it.
Nathaniel did not reply, for he was thinking rapidly. There was no particular reason why Slim should not be riding out, but the early hour, the other missing horse and the sense of urgency made him uneasy. He was not his father's keeper, for Slim was a perfectly sensible and experienced adult; he behaved as befitted his age and was certainly not given to unexpected adventures. If it were Jess, now ... Jess's impetuous and often reckless streak was legendary ...
"Saddle up for us!" he told Eli briskly. "I won't be a moment."
With that he went back into the house, not into his own part, but through the original front door which led to the big family living room. More rooms had been added as the family had grown and the kitchen had consequently been expanded too - Nathan's wife, Sarah, maintained this was to keep up with Jess's undiminished appetite.
The old bunkroom had not been changed much, although it now contained just two beds, a couple of comfortable armchairs and a fireplace which had been added so it doubled as a sitting room when the two senior members of the family needed a little peace and quiet. The work of the ranch continued unrelenting, but now there were two more generations to share the workload and give their elders a chance to have at least a little leisure time, should they be minded to take it. Slim had been a widower for some years now and was thankful to have the companionship of his old friend, very much as they had started out together.
Jess had moved back to the original ranch, leaving his eldest son, Matt, to run their spread further up in the mountains, when his wife died. A little smile touched Nathan's lips at the thought of the couple who always strenuously resisted being labelled 'husband and wife' and whose relationship had continued volatile and passionate to the very last. But then another memory made Nathaniel's expression fill with sadness. The gap in Jess's life was impossible to imagine, but Nathan had an inkling how great it must be because he had once overheard Jess tell her she would still be as beautiful when she was a hundred - an age they would not now see together.
Nathan knocked on the bunkroom door, but there was no sound from inside. Opening it, he looked in and saw at once that both beds were empty. Jess's clothes were not in the habitual pile at the foot of his. Glancing behind him, Nathan saw the black hat with its worn silver band was missing from the pegs behind the door and there were no boots standing below.
Slim's comment about the Big Open struck an all too relevant chord. Jess had gone missing – again. He hadn't shown any inclination to do so for a long time, being more likely to pull Slim's leg by saying that well-driven stakes didn't wear wandering boots, but today it seemed he had reverted to his old-time self. This was not entirely surprising since, despite being settled in Laramie for the best part of forty years Jess still retained his independence, his affinity for the wild and his love of the open trail. But it was worrying. The well-hidden strain of continued grief and a life-time of unremitting physical labour, combined with the privations of war and life on the drift, the hardships of blizzard and drought, not to mention the innumerable injuries he shrugged off, had all taken their toll of Jess. He was leaner and more drawn than he had ever been, yet, with his indomitable spirit, made light of physical and emotional pain.
Nathaniel wondered very much why the man he loved as a second father should have chosen today to ride out alone. Perhaps he still needed time to be solitary as he had been for much of his early life? Perhaps he just sought a time of peace from the bustling life of the ranch? There was only one way to find out.
"Granjay's missing too," he told Elijah, trying to keep his own concern out of his voice. "The good Lord alone knows what he's up to now, but it probably isn't fencing."
This observation brought a grin to Eli's face: Jess had never been enthusiastic about fencing the range. It also made sense of why Grandpa had ridden out in such a hurry. "Maybe Granjay forgot we moved the horses down to the pasture yesterday?"
Nathaniel shook his head as he mounted the horse Eli had saddled for him. "Nothing much wrong with his memory. He just ignores the fact that he should slow down a bit and take his time. They both do."
"We'd better move fast, then, if we're going to catch them up."
They set off in the direction they had seen their quarry taking. It seemed unlikely that either Jess or Slim would be heading for town at this time of day, so when they came to the trail which led up to the ranch's lake, Nathaniel called a halt and examined it carefully for any signs. He did not need the tracking skills which he had always admired in Jess, for it was evident not one but two horses had very recently left the main road and gone up into the hills.
"Let's go!" He was pretty sure he knew where they were heading. What they would find there was another matter, but his heart was still uneasy.
Elijah rode silently by his side. Despite their earlier joking, anxious tension had not left him. He felt he should have stopped his Grandpa, found out what was going on, yet he had too much deep respect for him and for his friend and partner to do any such thing. Both the men had been the heart of the ranch family for as long as Elijah was able to remember. It was sustained not only by the strength and courage of their physical presence but by their unwavering vision and dedication. Moreover, the stories told by them and about them were interwoven with his life and sense of who he was himself. So he too knew why they were riding towards the lake.
"Should we have sent someone up to get Matt?" Eli asked with a sudden sense of foreboding. His father and Matt had been best friends almost since the moment they were born and the paths and patterns of their lives were inextricable, like those of their fathers.
Nathaniel shook his head. "Let's find out what's going on first." He urged his mount faster up the trail.
Soon they came to the edge of the trees and could look out across the lake. They halted by mutual consent in the shade, unwilling to make their pursuit obvious until it became clear their assistance was wanted.
It appeared that it was not.
The lake narrowed at this end and was only a couple of hundred feet wide. On the far side the old 'No Trespassing' notice leaned a little wearily, still staying upright mainly because the family took care to make sure it did so. Close by they could see the bare, curving trunk of a fallen tree. Not the original tree: that had long crumbled into the earth. But trees continued to fall in the cycle of life and death. Nathaniel and his son could remember dragging this one down to the edge of the lake because family tradition dictated that it should be there for people to rest against.
There was a lean figure resting against it now. The faded blue of his clothing almost blended with the silver grey of the wood and the fragile sage of the new grass pushing though the withered winter leaf-mould. But the black hat tipped over his face stood out sharply, the silver band glinting in the early sunlight. So did the gleam of the bay coat of the horse hitched casually to the sign. Man and horse were quite still.
A little way back on the slope behind them, Slim Sherman sat equally motionless on his chestnut horse. This time his rifle stayed in the saddle holster and he did not jump down angrily. Instead he remained for some minutes, silently contemplating the sight before him.
Nathaniel and Elijah kept totally still too.
Presently Slim slid somewhat stiffly from the saddle and dropped the reins to ground-tie the chestnut. He walked quietly, unhurriedly, down to the lake shore and round the end of the tree trunk.
He dropped to his knees beside the still figure.
The watchers saw the black hat slip to the ground as Slim gathered his friend into a gentle hug. His head bowed. He did not move any more.
"Go home," Nathaniel whispered to his son. "Bring the little wagon up here."
"Matt?" Eli murmured.
"Yes. Send for Matt. And Eli ..."
"Yeah?"
"No rush. They've got all the time in the world now."
.
.
Notes:
Acknowledgements:
The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors.
Thanks as always to Westfalen for excellent beta-ing.
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
It is very difficult to find accurate and reliable sources in the pandemic, as libraries have only just reopened and I've had to rely on Google. I could not find out much about how the Pawnee would have treated Yellow Knife's body, except that 'Individuals of importance and those who died in extreme old age were painted with a sacred red ointment, dressed in their best costumes, and wrapped in a bison robe before burial.' (from Pawnee Religion and Expressive Culture) I hope the account in this story is respectful and does not offend anyone; I'm happy to be emailed with more accurate information.
My trusty beta has very properly pointed out that: 'In the cave scene in Defiance, Jess tells the marshal, "There were seven of us in my family." If he was counting his mother and father in that number, that would leave five kids, no more than four of them boys.' But I've already departed from canon in the way I developed Jess's family in Encounter in Shadows, on which variation the details of this story are based.
The Old Fella's Thoughts
There are deliberate echoes in this story which come from Like Father, Like Son
Dawn Departing
Life expectancy in the USA for white males born before 1850 (which would include Slim and Jess) was just under 40 years. By 1900, the expectancy at birth had only risen to just under 50. A male surviving to 40 might be expected to live into his 60s, but was unlikely to continue much beyond 70. I have assumed in this story that Slim and Jess would be in their 60s by around 1900. The BBC has an interesting article on life-span v. expectancy, called 'Do we really live longer than our ancestors', which suggests that the biblical lifespan of 'three score years and ten' has probably been the average for most of history. Not sure where this leave Mort Cory Senior at 83!