She said good night to the girls and, for the first fifty yards, tried to match Bedford’s rapid pace. It was a clear night, but the path was still pocked from the recent rains. She slowed and finally stopped, calling out to him to assist her.
He ran his palm over his forehead, saying, “How thoughtless.” He held out his arm for her to take and slowed his stride. “You must forgive me, Miss Carter. It’s been a while since we’ve had a guest.”
“Not at all, Mr. Grant. I am, I’m afraid, all too used to the pace of the country.” She tightened her hold on his arm. “And you have been accustomed to the rattle of cities. What an interesting life you’ve led.”
The corners of his lips turned downward. “If penury can be called interesting, then it has certainly been that.”
“But you’ve provided a wealth of experience and knowledge for your girls.” She slowed her walking even further; they were approaching the Waller house too quickly.
“Yes, I have given them that, but my rootlessness has also made them easily distracted and, in May’s case, a bit feckless.”
“May is my brightest student, Mr. Grant.” She paused, leaning slightly into his arm. “When she is in school.” She smiled up at him, and for the briefest instant, he stopped walking and stared openly at her face.
Blushing, he abruptly let go of her arm and gestured for her to continue in front of him. She walked ahead, listening to his uneven breathing, taking note of his sudden embarrassment. The Waller house appeared at the end of the road, lantern light streaming brightly from the front windows, as though the house had been readied for a battery of holiday guests. She knew that the family would be waiting up so that Lavada and Sephronia could press her with questions about the evening.
She stopped and turned. “Mr. Grant, May has written a very good essay on one of the local legends. I’d like to submit it to the newspaper at Harrisburg. But…” She paused.
“Yes?” he asked, taking a step back.
“It’s about the legend of Lafitte’s gold in Middle Bayou. Are you familiar with this legend, Mr. Grant?”
He looked at her, his features indistinct in the dark. “Bedford. Call me Bedford, please.”
“Very well…Bedford. Do you know this legend?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Well, May has a tendency to embellish. Before I sent the story to the paper, I wanted to make sure it was…”
“True?”
“Yes, true.” Lucinda inclined her head, waiting for his answer.
“Yes,” he offered absently, staring at the tips of his shoes.
A yipping sound from behind caused them to turn, and they watched a coyote trotting across the road. The animal looked at them, head lowered, with a sly, open dog-smile.
“An opportunist,” Bedford said quietly, watching the animal disappear into the tall grasses.
Lucinda looked at him, unsure of his meaning.
“He’s hoping we’ll weaken. He wouldn’t attack us outright, but he’s watching, waiting for us to become…compromised.” He turned to face her again. “We have a very thin hold on civilization here in the bayou, Miss Carter. There are twenty ways to die from one Sunday to the next.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the Waller home. “Despite the efforts of Euphrastus to keep life civilized.”
Lucinda looked at the house and discerned the outlines of three of the Wallers peering through the windows watching them, the two women from the second floor and Euphrastus parting the curtains at the parlor. Like dolls propped up in a dollhouse, she thought.
She felt Bedford’s eyes studying her, and when she turned to face him, his lips turned up sadly. “We’re all opportunists in a way, wouldn’t you say, Miss Carter?”
She answered his smile cautiously. He held out his arm for her to take and then walked her to the door.
He placed two fingers lightly on her hand to still her. “I would ask if I’ve troubled you with my talk, but I believe I have not. I will request of you, though, not to send May’s essay to Harrisburg. May is repeating only what she has heard the locals say. She knows nothing beyond that.”
She looked at him, a knot of disappointment in her throat. “I see. Then the story of the gold coins is not true.”
“On the contrary, Miss Carter, it’s quite true.”
Her breathing quickened, but she worked to keep her face calm. “Call me Lucinda.”
He ducked his head, pleased. “Lucinda.”
“And just how do you know it to be true?” She put her hand gently on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Because…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Because I’ve seen it.”
Her grip tightened on his arm. “What have you seen?” she asked, her eyes wide.
He stepped abruptly away, looking stricken, almost fearful. Touching the brim of his hat to her, he said, “Someday perhaps I will show you. Good night, Miss Carter. Lucinda.”
Lucinda watched him for a while from the doorway as he walked rapidly along the path. When she entered the parlor, she saw that Euphrastus had abandoned his post at the window.
The next morning included the usual Sunday prayer service and Bible reading by Euphrastus. The women had been uplifted in their excitement about a possible blossoming romance between the new teacher and the widower. When questioned, Lucinda smiled serenely and told them what a kind and intelligent man Bedford Grant was.
Euphrastus, however, seemed put-upon and dour, casting long reproachful looks in her direction. She had been aware, of course, of his desire. He had sought every opportunity to encounter her alone: at the school, on the paths, and even inside the house. He came upon her once, seemingly by chance, as she was coming down the stairs. Nodding politely, he brushed past her, his arm trailing along her thigh.
Normally, she would have encouraged this behavior. The man was a fool and could have been easily handled. But she didn’t need him, only the good opinion of his wife, who would, no doubt, fan the rumors of a budding courtship between Lucinda and Bedford, thus helping to make it so.
She had woken up that Sunday morning with a headache, and she struggled to keep the impatience from her face as Euphrastus read to them Colossians: “‘Put to death, therefore, immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed.’” She had a rush of compassion for the Wallers’ son, Elam, imprisoned in his chair parked next to his father, forced to listen to interminable lectures and punishing Bible readings, week after week, month after month.
As soon as she could, she walked along the path to her hiding place, welcoming the warmer air of the greenhouse pressing against her skin. The weather had begun to hold the biting tang of coming winter, and the low, heavy clouds were returning.
She seated herself and began writing a letter, but soon she heard a rustling sound, as though an animal was rooting around behind the greenhouse. She picked up a loose board as a club and opened the door, then cautiously walked behind the building.
Seated with his back pressed against the wall was the black man Lucinda had seen crossing the field. He was smoking, and he gave her a heavy look.
They regarded each other for a moment. He said, “This is my place.”
“Oh?” Lucinda crossed her arms. The odor of tobacco made her want to smoke as well. “I thought this belonged to Euphrastus Waller.”
He snorted through his nose and continued looking at her. “Do they know you’re a sportin’ woman?”
She thought perhaps she had misheard him, but the throbbing band of the morning’s headache tightened and turned sharp, stabbing her behind her eyes.
“I’m not passin’ judgment. I’m just askin’.” He flicked ash away with his fingers, watching her closely.
She stood transfixed by the expanding glow of the lit end of the cigarette, her mind frantically searching for the ways in which she could have revealed her true profession in Middle Bayou. The blood pounded in her face and she raised her voice in outrage. “How do you dare to insinuate—”
He shrugged. “Myself, I co
uld give a goddamn. It’s not my business.” He stared off across the fields, dismissing her as though she’d become invisible.
The smell of the tobacco had turned acrid, making her nauseated, and using the walls for support, she turned and walked back into the greenhouse. She bent down to pick up her things and leave, but she felt light-headed, and empty spaces began seeping into her field of vision. As she reached her arms out for balance, her legs weakened, and she fell hard onto her backside, breathing raggedly. The familiar heaviness at the back of her tongue was followed by spasmodic shakes in her legs and arms, the small muscles at the base of her neck.
Her head jerked back, the rest of her body following the momentum, and she was vaguely aware of her head grazing the sharp corner of a packing crate. She lay faceup, twitching, looking at the glass ceiling, at the images of the dead soldiers floating disconnected above her, the blank spaces where their eyes would have been pale and ill-defined.
Chapter 12
Nate rode next to Deerling, worrying the edges of Dr. Tom’s letter in his pocket with his fingers. The talk with the German woman had spooked him badly. He’d begun to imagine disasters in many forms visiting his own family. That he hadn’t yet received a letter from his wife served only to strengthen his growing disquiet.
Deerling had decided to travel directly to Harrisburg without stopping in Houston. Nate suspected it was his way of putting off hearing possible bad news about his partner, and Deerling remained quiet for a good while, his mouth downturned in thought.
Riding singly with the older ranger, without Dr. Tom’s affable, relaxed commentary on the weather, the terrain, or past events, with his head swiveling from side to side in constant movement, Nate observed how differently Deerling sat a horse when Dr. Tom wasn’t there: his face fixed in forward alignment with that of his mount, both hands on the reins, leaning into the rapid gait. Part of his alertness, Nate suspected, had to do with the horse itself, the stallion being young and more content to run than walk. But Deerling’s eyes swept the landscape in ceaseless fashion, as though he expected disaster at any turn.
Spending the few hours in Deerling’s company without the buffering presence of Dr. Tom had begun to make Nate’s nerves feel thin and spidery. He tried composing a letter to his wife in his head and was caught off guard when Deerling finally spoke to him. They had been riding for hours in silence and Nate twisted in his saddle to face him. “What?”
“I said, I should have let you talk to that woman. I’m too practiced in questioning violent men.”
Nate nodded, remembering the woman’s self-protective gestures. “She was scared.”
“With good reason. I’ve known McGill to backtrack and shoot a survivor. In Houston, McGill shot a man in a card dispute. The man survived and was taken to the same doctor’s clinic where Tom is now. McGill walked through the doctor’s front door, went up the stairs, and shot the man in the heart while he lay in bed recovering.”
Nate took note of the satisfaction in Deerling’s retelling of the story, his grim enthusiasm for the efficiency of the perpetrator, and he said, “I guess it was a good idea, then, your not telling Mrs. Shenck that, or Tom.”
Deerling cut his eyes to Nate but he finally pointed to Nate’s new Winchester and asked, “You fired it yet?”
“Not yet.”
Deerling legged himself off his horse and motioned Nate down as well. “Let’s see what distance we get out of it.”
Deerling paced off a hundred yards and Nate fired a few rounds into the trunk of a tree. He was pleased with the compactness of design, the ease of the lever action, and the accuracy. Deerling then walked out another fifty yards and Nate toppled a chokeberry tree, splitting the narrow trunk in half.
The ranger returned, held out a hand for the rifle, and fired twice into the nearer tree, splintering bark both times. “You may squeeze out a few more yards,” he said, handing the rifle back to Nate, “but you’re not likely to be doing any great distance shooting with it anyway.” He pointed with two fingers to his eyes. “You’ll want to be close up when you engage.”
Nate held the rifle upright at his side, resting the half-moon curve of the stock on his thigh. “Thank you for this.”
Deerling nodded, shifting self-consciously, and looked away. “Many a time the thing that saved me was not my accuracy but the sheer number of weapons I had to hand, the number of rounds I could fire off. We’ll make sure, Tom and me, that you’re outfitted properly.”
They watched the clouds approaching from the Gulf, mountainous, gray, and featureless on the underside, but white and rounded high up, covering over the morning sun and diffusing the light. And yet the grass and a few large cedar trees on the eastern horizon showed in sharp relief.
“Tom looked bad when we left,” Deerling said. “I think he’s appreciated all your consideration. I know I do.”
He put his back to Nate for a moment and then walked to his horse and pulled the Whitworth from its saddle case. He pointed to one of the bare trees in the distance and asked, “Would you say that’s a good quarter mile away?”
Nate considered the distance and said, “About.”
Deerling then handed him the rifle. “Here, why don’t you take a shot. You’ll be one of the few men who can say he’s fired a Whitworth.”
Nate, awkward with this unexpected gesture, managed to smile, and said, “Thanks, Captain.”
Deerling showed Nate how to sight down the brass side scope and explained how to load the powder and wadding and how to ramrod the hexagonal bullet down the barrel.
“You’ll be able to take one shot, and one shot only. I have just five bullets left,” Deerling said.
He let Nate take his time centering the target within the reticles of the scope. Nate pulled back the hammer, but before he could squeeze off the shot, Deerling placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I just need to know one thing, Nate,” Deerling said. “I need to know that whatever order I give you from now on, you’re going to follow it, or it will not go well for one of us.”
He took his hand away and Nate kept his eye focused on the scope. Deerling’s voice had been carefully neutral, but every gesture the man made seemed to be a show of strength, couched in a warning and tethered to some vague threat, like the big bite, given to him under the guise of merciful relief for some unforeseen danger.
Nate exhaled slowly, resighted, and pulled the trigger; his shoulder jerked violently with the explosion, and the ridge around his right eye smarted from the scope’s recoil into his face.
They walked to the tree, leading their horses, counting off the distance—over six hundred yards. Nate saw that although he hadn’t hit the center of the tree, the shot had torn the bark off its side like an artillery shell.
Deerling scratched at the splintered wood with a fingernail and smiled. “Not one man in fifty could have made that shot, Nate. You’ll be useful yet.”
They mounted and rode at a faster pace, making Harrisburg before noon. After settling their horses into the stable, they walked up the main street and into the marshal’s office.
The marshal, a big man named Prudone, listened to Deerling recount their search across the entire state and then regarded them in frank disbelief. “Where did you say you started from?”
“Franklin,” Deerling said, casting a critical eye at the man’s desk, which was scattered with papers and the remnants of past meals.
“You must want McGill bad.” The marshal shook his head. “That was cowardly business in Houston. But he’s long gone.”
“I don’t think so.”
Prudone appraised Deerling with a half smile. Nate had initially thought the marshal looked like a man whose greatest battle in recent years had been finding a way to fasten his belt. But now, looking closer, he wasn’t so sure that was the case.
Prudone made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Believe me, if McGill was still in the county, I’d know about it. I’ve got reliable scouts and more than a few deputies. There�
�s been no upset within the past month other than the cattle thieves we adjudicated yesterday. The six of them are stacked up like cordwood now outside the undertaker’s.”
A small vessel under Deerling’s eye pulsed. He said, “Then you won’t mind if we spend the night in your quiet town.”
“No, Captain, you’re certainly welcome.” The smile had disappeared. “We have two fine saloons, a beer hall, and a bordello that is, so I’ve heard, clean. Just a couple rules, and one suggestion. First, don’t carry your guns into the cathouse. It annoys the regulars. Second, no card-playing past midnight, because it annoys me. And finally: I’m a federal marshal. I trump both you and your governor-appointed friend here. My suggestion is you remember that.”
Deerling looked at the marshal for a moment but then nodded and motioned for Nate to follow him out. Halfway down the street, Deerling and Nate crossed to the other side, and the two of them stood in the shadow of a storefront, watching the door to the marshal’s office.
Nate asked, “What’re we doing?”
“Wait and see.”
The door opened and the marshal walked in the opposite direction from them, then entered a building with a sign reading Texas and New Orleans Telegraph Company. A few minutes later, he emerged and returned to his office.
Nate followed Deerling back up the street to the telegraph office, and they stood for a moment outside, peering through the window. The operator, a man with the creased and worried face of a hound, was sitting behind a shallow counter, alone in the room.
Nate said to Deerling, “Just find a way to give me a moment alone in there, without him in the room.”
The ranger nodded and they walked in and greeted the operator.
Deerling said, “I’d like to send a message to a fellow ranger at Company E at Fort Inge, but I don’t know if the telegraph goes that far.”
“Fort Inge?” the operator said. “God help your friend, then, sir. They were just attacked by about five hundred Comanche and Lipan. I can send the telegraph to Austin, but that’s as far as it goes. Then it’s mule relay.”
The Outcasts Page 10