Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  This morning Lester came to work with a boy around sixteen. The son was almost as tall as his father and had a chin full of pimples, an adam’s apple that seemed ready to pop out of his throat, and a flaming chock of red hair sticking up in the middle of his head.

  Lester introduced him as his boy, Roger, but admitted that everybody called him Rooster. You couldn’t help but hear the giggle from Ethan’s direction, and Mary shot him a glare. I just wish she hadn’t been looking in the wrong direction to catch sight of the purely evil look Rooster shot toward little Ethan.

  “Roger, this here is Miz Fitzwater, and that there is her girl Janie and her boy Ethan. Yonder in the doorway is B. F.”

  Rooster spent too much time looking at Jane for it to go unnoticed. There was a split second of awkward silence before Mary said, “Good to meet ye, Roger. Are ye working somewhere around here?”

  “No, I don’t have no work yet. I was wonderin’ if I could work here?”

  Mary cringed at the thought of this boy gawking at her daughter all day. “No, we just don’t have the business for another worker. But since they run off the Celestials and Mexicans and killed most of the Indians, the mining companies are always lookin’ for help.”

  Lester broke in. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure he can find work.”

  That evening Mary took Jane and B. F. aside. “I seen an omen this morning. ’Twas well past sunrise, and I saw an owl perched outside the window. It was staring straight at me.”

  Jane drew in a sharp breath. “Are you sure, Ma?”

  “Sure as can be. An owl looking in your house in the daylight is the lookout for the death angel. It’s even worse than a black crow. I want you two to be real careful. Course, that owl mighta been looking for Yukon Jack. But you can’t be too cautious. I don’t want you goin’ nowhere without a good pinch of salt in your pocket to protect you.”

  Over the next several weeks, it became more obvious to B. F. that Lester was pursuing Mary, and that Mary wasn’t trying to run very fast. It also was clear that Rooster had set his sights on Jane. The boy was in the store twice a day, and for no good reason that B. F. could see, other than making eyes at Jane. So far at least, she was paying him no mind.

  Mary, on the other hand, was paying plenty of attention. The more she saw of the boy, the less she liked him. Her conversation with her daughter was straightforward. “Janie, ye got to get outa this place. Me and the boys’ll stay here for another year, but you got to go to San Fran and start a new life. Go to school. Be around people your age. Go to some of them fancy places.”

  “Ma, please don’t make me go. I don’t wanna leave my family. I ain’t scared here.”

  “That’s one of the problems. You ain’t scared of nothin’. You’re just stubborn enough to deny that fat means greasy. That Rooster makes my backbone crawl. He’s just plain wormy. You just as well get ready. You and me are headed to San Fran next week.”

  “What about the store?”

  “These old men will have to miss our cooking for a week or so. Lester and B. F. can keep the rest going.”

  Friday afternoon was a lazy fall day. B. F. was busy cutting the hair of an Indian named Six Toes, but it was too early for the supper crowd. Mary heard a scream—then another. “That sounded like Ethan.”

  The sound was so unlike him that she ran out of the store and started up the hill behind the place. She met Ethan running at full tilt. He was crying, but in a panicked way. “I got snake bit!”

  Mary caught him and picked him up. “Calm down son. What kind of snake was it?”

  “I think there was two of them—both rattlers.”

  She was walking toward the store, hollering for B. F. “Where did they bite ye, son?” He pointed to his legs. She could see a clear imprint of fangs on his left calf and similar marks on his right ankle. “Where were ye when it happened?”

  “I went up to my fort to play, and they were inside.”

  “B. F. take a shovel or hoe and go see what kinda snakes are in his fort. Be careful. He says they’re vipers.”

  He felt Six Toes’ hand on his shoulder. “I go too. I know snakes that rattle.” B. F. was relieved. He hated snakes.

  Once in the store, she sent Lester for Doc McDaniel, put Ethan on the table, and poured cold water over his legs. Then she began to suck on the bite marks, as they were already swelling. She tried to spit out everything in her mouth, but in a few minutes she felt herself getting dizzy. Despite this, she kept up the suction, and then she was sick to her stomach.

  B. F. came back in. “They were Oregon Rattlers all right. One was as big around as my calf. And there’s another thing. Six Toes says there was an empty flour sack in Ethan’s fort. He thinks somebody brought the snakes in that sack and put it in there on purpose.”

  “How could anybody do that to a little boy?”

  Lester came back in. “Doc says to bring the boy to his office so’s he can cup him. I’ll tote him over.”

  Mary looked at him with a helpless look. “I thought you was supposed to keep them still. I heard about that cupping. The Celestials believe in that. I just hope the doctor knows what he’s about.”

  When they were gone, B. F. and Jane began to clean up and close the store. They had already started preparing the big supper meal, so there was plenty that needed to be done before they could go see about Ethan. Jane was crying as she worked, and B. F. felt like it himself. They worked together in the dining room until Jane finally walked over to B. F. and put her arms around him and sobbed. Neither of them said a word, but they knew they needed something from each other. They stood there like that—heads on each other’s shoulder—for at least five minutes, neither saying a word, until Jane pulled away and went back to the kitchen.

  B. F. heard the door open behind him, and without even looking up from his work, he said. “We’re closed. There won’t be any supper here tonight.” The door opened again, and he kept up his work, assuming that the customer had left. Too late, he heard the sound of a step behind him, but before he could get turned around, there was a whooshing sound, and the club struck him in the back of the head. B. F. hit the wooden floor hard and didn’t move.

  He must be dreaming, because he heard someone scream his name.

  Then there was a voice. “Shut the hell up or I’ll smack you again.”

  Who was that? Then his name was screamed out again. It was Jane!

  He heard the sickening sound of a fist striking a nose, and the screaming stopped. “Hurry up, pa. I been waitin’ on this.” It was Rooster’s voice coming from the kitchen.

  B. F. forced himself to be quiet. He pulled himself up to his knees and held his hands on the floor to keep his balance as the room slowed its spinning. He silently crept behind his barber chair, retrieved his pistol, pulled it out of the holster, and cocked it as quietly as he could. When he stepped to the doorway of the kitchen, he had to force himself not to look at the unconscious Jane. Rooster was kneeling over her, and Lester had his back to B. F.

  “Get off her, you low-bred dog.” Both of them twisted around toward his voice and saw the gun.

  Rooster spoke again. “Must be losin’ my touch. I figured I kilt ye.”

  “I said get off her.” B. F. had most of his attention focused on Rooster, but he reacted quickly when he saw the knife in Lester’s hand. Lester lunged at him and B. F. stepped sideways as he pulled the trigger on the big pistol. The man fell against the table and hit the floor like he’d been hit by a hammer.

  B. F. was off balance enough that the concussion of the gun knocked him back into a chair. He cocked it again as Rooster jumped up and ran for the door. He pulled the trigger again and Rooster fell into the front door frame. He grabbed his side and got out the door before B. F. could recover himself to shoot again.

  He looked at the spreading pool of blood under Lester. At least one of them was done. In looking at Jane, he was not sure she was in much better shape. There were big red whelps on her face where fists had struck her, the bridge
of her nose was badly cut, and there was a nasty bite mark on her shoulder. She made no sign of responding when he tried to wake her. He did what he could do to get her decent and began to holler for help.

  A voice from the front door. . . . “What’s going on in there, B. F.?”

  “Two men attacked Jane Fitzwater and may have killed her. Will you get Doc McDaniel?”

  When the doc showed up, B. F. was holding a wet cloth on the back of Jane’s neck. She had not stirred. “What happened here, son?”

  “This man here, Lester Purdy, and his son Rooster were attacking Jane. One of them hit me on the head and must have knocked me out. When I woke up, Jane was screaming. I got my pistol and shot this one when he tried to jump me with his knife, and I shot at his son as he ran out the door. I think I hit him.”

  “There’s blood on the door jamb, so I’d say you did.”

  “What about Ethan—is he going to be alright?”

  “I left Miz Fitzwater with him. I’m afraid he’s awful little to take two rattler bites. Both his legs are swollen at least two or three times normal. I’ve done everything I know to do.” He looked like he was about to cry. “It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”

  B. F. told him about Six Toes finding the flour sack near the snakes. “I believe these two men were figuring to kill both Mary’s kids.” He pointed at the figure on the floor. “Lester there was trying to talk her into marrying him, so maybe that’s how he was going to do away with any interference.”

  “What that Indian says he found won’t do any good in court.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because California passed a law about three years ago that says no Indian or non-white can testify in court against a white man.”

  “What?”

  “Look here son, I’ve got to get back to Ethan. This man is dead. I’ll send the undertaker over to get him out of here. The girl is alive, but she’s unconscious. I don’t want to move her ’til she wakes up. Can you stay with her? Just send for me if she gets worse.”

  My story. On November 24, 1853

  The most terrible thing ever has happened. Lester Purdy and his boy attacked Ethan and Jane yesterday. Jane is alive, but beat up so bad that we can’t wake her up.

  That’s not the worst of it. They put rattlesnakes in Ethan’s fort. He got bit twice, and they buried him this afternoon. At least half the town showed up for his funeral. I stayed in the store with Jane, in case she woke up, but I watched the procession of miners following along behind Mary to the cemetery. His little casket didn’t seem anywhere near big enough to hold all of his personality.

  Lester is dead and gone to hell, and I’m the one who sent him there. I can’t say I regret it, but I know I’ve committed one of the deadly sins. Rooster got away—but it wasn’t because I didn’t try to kill him too. I don’t want to scare Mary, but I think he’ll be back.

  Over the next several days, B. F. and Mary took turns sitting with Jane. They tried to get liquid nourishment down her, but were just marginally successful. The store was still closed, and neither of them had any heart in being open and having to talk to people. Doc McDaniel came every afternoon to check on her, but he had no more idea about Jane’s prognosis than they did.

  Rooster’s description had been circulated around Placerville and in surrounding towns, but that gave B. F. little reason to feel safe. Awkward as it may be, he had begun wearing his pistol twenty-four hours a day.

  He had a terrible time sleeping and kept getting up all during the night to check on Jane. Anyway, if it hadn’t been for his not being alert, this wouldn’t have happened to her. He was determined that nothing bad would happen again.

  Mary slept beside Jane in the kitchen, while B. F. alternated between his pallet in the barbershop and sitting in a chair at the doorway to the kitchen. The fifth night after the attack, it must have been around midnight when he thought he heard something outside. He lifted his head off the pallet in order to hear better, holding that pose for at least ten minutes and didn’t hear another thing.

  He was mentally and physically wrung out and finally put his head back down, but just before he drifted away, he heard a light popping sound. He argued with himself that it must be the fire in the wood stove in the kitchen, but just the same, got up and walked into the kitchen. The room was dark, save a glow of light through the chinks of the stove, but before he turned back to bed, he realized there was another glow coming from the window at the back of the store. He took a couple of steps toward the window and saw the fire.

  “Mary! Jane! The store is on fire. Get up.” Then he saw the outline of a grinning face looking in the window. The hair had been cut short, but he knew it was Rooster Purdy. He drew his pistol and fired where the face had been, then ran to the window to shoot again if necessary. There was no sign of anyone out in the darkness. Surely his imagination wasn’t running away with him!

  He and Mary dragged Jane’s pallet to the front of the store and left her near the door, then ran back to fight the fire. B. F. knocked out the rest of the window to see what they were dealing with. Thankfully, they had two large pots of water in the kitchen, which were always there for cooking or dishwashing purposes. Each of them began to carry bucketfuls of water to the window and dump it on the fire. The pots were soon emptied, and they turned to using the contents of the slop jar.

  B. F. then tried to run out into the street, but the knob on the front door seemed to be loose somehow, and he could not disengage the lock. Had Rooster somehow loosened the door knob so they were unable to escape? The door was sturdy enough that it resisted his stout kicks, and he ended up prying the door lock open with his Army knife before he could get outside. He shot his pistol into the air and hollered “Fire” several times as loud as he could, then raced across the road and down the embankment to the river, filling his two buckets. Once he was able to pour water directly on the fire at the back of the store, he could use the water more effectively and began to believe he was making some progress.

  By the time he had run back around to fill his buckets again, five men had shown up with buckets and Mary was directing them. In five more minutes, the fire was out. Several of the mining camp towns had not been so fortunate in their experience with fires. The stores were generally built very close together, and they were always built of wood—a recipe for total destruction of some of the towns. Although a large area of the back of the store was heavily blackened, they had been very lucky.

  As they continued to pour more water on the rear of the building to make sure the wood was saturated, B. F. told the other men about the face he thought he had seen at the window, and his gunshot. The general opinion was to wait until daybreak to see if they could find any sign of Rooster. Mr. Percy Night, the hardware store owner, put it very well for all of them. “Ain’t none of us got the desire to walk through them woods at night looking for a damned lunatic.”

  When B. F. finally walked back in the store, he was bone-tired and filthy with smoke and soot. But his weariness melted away when he saw Mary sitting on the floor by her daughter, and Jane finally had her eyes open. He sat down beside her too and held her hand.

  They sat there for a while, not really knowing what to say. Mary made some small talk about getting her up and getting all cleaned up and fixing her a meal, but Jane seemed to be paying no attention to her. She didn’t make any attempt to respond when B. F. squeezed her hand, didn’t show any feeling when her mother hugged her, didn’t say a single word. The only response they got was when they were getting her into a chair, and Mary put her hand on her right side to support her. Only then did she cry out in pain when her mother touched her ribcage. When Mary unbuttoned Jane’s shift, she saw the large bruised area that possibly meant a broken or cracked rib. Mary fed her a soft-boiled egg, but that was about all she was interested in.

  With Rooster out there on the loose, B. F. couldn’t allow himself to sleep. He pushed one of the long tables against the damaged front door and spent the rest of the night si
tting in the kitchen, watching the broken back window. He must have been in a haze sometime before daybreak, because he jerked wide awake when he heard a strange sound out beyond the window. He couldn’t identify what he had heard in his half-awake state, and finally put it down to the wind blowing in the pines.

  In the morning, B. F. handed his pistol to Mary, made sure she knew how to use it, and went to get the doctor. While Doc made his examination, B. F. retrieved his pistol and walked back behind the store to see if he could see any sign of Rooster. There had been quite a bit of traffic in the area the previous night, and lots of water slopped everywhere, so he tried looking for evidence a bit up the side of the hill. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, he was ready to give up when he saw two drops of dried blood.

  The trail was about seven hours old by that point, so it wasn’t easy to follow, particularly in the rocky terrain, but he persisted. More blood. Another few yards and he found a place where Rooster had apparently stopped for a few minutes to collect himself—there was a small puddle of congealed blood behind a big pine tree.

  Perhaps he had tried to stanch the blood by some method that had worked the wrong way, or perhaps his clothing had become saturated with it by that time. At any rate, the trail had become easier to follow. B. F. drew his gun and laid his thumb across the hammer. He was convinced the only way to stop this was to do it permanently.

  He moved as silently as he could, knowing that nobody would continue to lose this much blood and keep going for very long.

  He looked ahead about forty yards further up the hill and saw a rocky outcropping—certainly a good place to hide. He looked hard at the spot for at least ten minutes and finally saw something move. It was such an obscure movement that he couldn’t tell what he’d seen. He had to move closer.

  He maneuvered sideways until he put a large digger pine directly between himself and where he had seen the movement. Then when he reached the pine, he braced the big pistol against the right side of the tree and eased his head around ever so slowly in order to get a closer look. It moved again. But the outcropping looked almost impossible to reach, so he doubted that it was a human being lying up there. Maybe some kind of an animal—something big.