by Jessie Haas
They traveled a long time. Phin’s shoulders ached. His wrists grew numb. Fraser was completely silent. Phin had no idea if he was conscious, or even alive. He was just a dark lump up there in the saddle, no help at all.
The stallion stopped. Phin stumbled into his haunches and he clamped his tail down, but didn’t kick. Phin trudged up to his head to see what the matter was.
The graveyard. They had reached the back wall of the graveyard.
Before the stallion had jumped it. He couldn’t now, with Fraser tied on like a sack of meal. Uphill Phin saw the farm buildings. He was walled away from them, would have to search for a barway—
A sound above him, not noticeably human, made him turn. Fraser’s eyes were open. “Go,” he whispered. “Gate. I’ll jump.”
Phin didn’t have the strength to argue. He climbed over the wall and stumbled between snow-capped stones to the roadside gateway. There was no actual gate, just an opening, so he stood in the middle to block it.
Beyond the far wall, the stallion’s head rose. The knife-shaped ears flattened, and he circled once. Then the hoofbeats came in a muffled drumming. The stallion cantered toward the wall with Fraser hunched over his shoulder. He soared across and landed skidding on the snow, snaking his head in triumph. Phin spread his arms wide as the stallion cantered toward him. “Ho,” he croaked.
The horse dodged, blasting an excited snort. Fraser hung limp in the saddle. “Easy,” Phin said. He reached for more nuts, but the coat pockets were empty.
The stallion stopped near Randal Collins’s grave, turning to gaze at the wide pasture beyond the wall. He could so easily be away, carrying his helpless master with him.
Phin reached into his pants pockets. Tobacco. Horses and mules loved tobacco. He took out Dennis’s knife and cut Jimmy’s tobacco in half, releasing a richer scent. The stallion looked his way, nostrils flaring. His eyes brightened, and he came to Phin.
Phin gave him half the tobacco, then took the rein stubs and looked up at Fraser.
Unconcious, he seemed younger, his eyelashes dark and beaded with drops of melting snow. His slack hands still embraced the saddle horn. There was a fresh slick of blood on his coat. Wherever he’d meant for them to go, there was no instruction from him now.
Phin turned uphill, twisting his free hand into the stallion’s mane for support. He walked toward the only sound in this whole bright morning, an irregular thump and crack, and came into the farmyard where Abby was splitting kindling.
22
DEAD-AND-ALIVE
Phin had been brought up not to startle someone splitting wood, but there was nothing he could do. Abby looked up, the hatchet kept swinging, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the horrible sound of her hitting herself.
Instead came a familiar uproar; his old friend Lucky by the front door, eyes bulging as if Phin and Fraser were his worst nightmare come to life.
When Phin looked away from the dog, he saw he needn’t have worried about Abby. She had her hatchet well under control, cocked back like a weapon with the blade angled at him.
He opened his mouth and his voice failed. He tried again, pushing out the only word he could think of.
“Sorry.”
Anger flared in her eyes. “That’s my father’s coat!” Phin nodded.
“Abby!” a firm, ringing voice commanded. “Step back.”
The grandmother stood in the open doorway. The rifle was too long and heavy for her, but it didn’t matter. The barrel rested on the back of a kitchen chair, leveled at Phin’s belt buckle.
Abby went to her side and turned to face Phin. The two women looked much alike: small, neat, and disconcertingly competent.
“You suppose he killed this man, too?” the grandmother asked. “Young fellow, I want you to know I can shoot a squirrel’s eye out with this!”
Phin just nodded, just stared, and they stared back at him. Lucky filled the wordless stalemate with barks.
Abruptly something shoved Phin from behind and he stumbled. The short rein ends nearly pulled through his hand as the stallion turned. A throaty nicker came from uphill, and the mare hobbled around the corner of the barn.
“Oh for pete’s sake! Abby, catch her! Put her in the barn!”
Abby went running, pulling off her apron. Lucky leaped and barked at her side. She twisted the apron into a rope as she ran, and intercepted the lame mare.
The stallion jerked his head, trying to follow. The bit still dangled below his throat and with only the loose noseband, Phin could barely hold him.
A whisper came from above; barely a whisper. Barely a breath. “Ho.”
The stallion stilled, quivering. He struck out with one hard black hoof, just missing Phin, but didn’t take another step.
Fraser lifted his head to look directly at the grandmother. He was a ghastly sight, corpse gray, with blood in his beard where he’d strained the stick hard against the corners of his mouth.
“We’d appreciate,” he said. “Your help.”
“So you’re alive, are you?”
“Just,” Fraser said, his voice a thread on the edge of breaking.
“Yesterday you said you were a lawman. Is the boy your prisoner?”
Abby came back in time to hear this. “Implied. Implied he was a lawman.”
The grandmother turned to her. The rifle stayed steady, pointed at Phin’s middle. “They want help, Abby.”
“They need it!”
“‘We,’ he said. All of a sudden it’s ‘we.’ But the boy’s a murderer, we know that!”
Phin shook his head. Once it started shaking, it refused to stop. He stood helpless under their stares, trying to think what to say.
“Accused of murder,” Abby said. “I don’t think either one of them could murder a mouse right now. Do you?”
“A lot of men have walked up to a buck that looked dead and wished they hadn’t. I don’t know.”
“Too long,” Fraser said, “and I’ll be gone. Bleeding.”
The two exchanged a swift glance. The grandmother twitched the rifle upright and leaned it against the house. “Can you get him off the horse, boy, or are you as dead-and-alive as you look? Abby, what bed will we put him on?”
“I want him in the kitchen. Get blankets—” Abby whirled on Phin. “Can you get him down? What’s your name? Why are you just standing there?”
He knew the answer to only one of those questions. “Phin. Chase.”
“Chase,” she said, and took a second in the crowded morning to really look at him. A smile warmed her eyes. “That’s apt! Do you need help?”
He nodded. Fraser looked limp again, and yes, a trickle of blood ran down the stallion’s dark shoulder.
“Untie him—no, bring him to the door first. Gran, will you kill that dog!”
In a few minutes everything was organized; Lucky locked in a back room, bedding brought to the kitchen, the stallion standing astride the front step and the grandmother at his head. Abby loosened the rope; “Is this our rope?” Fraser tipped slackly onto Phin’s shoulders and braced arms.
The weight was too much. He couldn’t really carry the man. He dragged him through the doorway and collapsed backward on the blankets with Fraser on top of him.
“Get up, get up! Take that horse away from Gran—put it in the other stall and get back here!”
Phin stumbled out the door. The grandmother was grimly hanging on. Phin took the reins and was towed toward the familiar barn.
He opened the door of the empty stall and maneuvered the stallion inside. The horse was dangerous now. Completely focused on the mare, he hardly seemed to notice Phin’s presence. With clumsy fingers, Phin stripped off saddle and bridle and took himself away from the trampling hooves. The horses introduced themselves over the wall between the stalls, with sniffs, loud squeals from the mare, the ring of boards being struck by hard hooves. Phin hastened to bring armloads of hay.
Water? Were there buckets somewhere? And where was the well?
Water would hav
e to wait.
He went back to the house. Warmth flowed out the open door.
They knelt on either side of Fraser. His coat was off, and Phin could see the dark crust of blood on his shirt. Tenderly the grandmother held a wet cloth to it. “I don’t think we can get it off yet,” she said to Abby. “Let me soak it a little more.”
Abby looked up at Phin. “Close the door, for heaven’s sake! Is this a knife wound or did you shoot him?”
“He fell.”
“Just fell?”
“I—” Phin said. “With the rope…I don’t know why there’s blood.” It made no sense, especially with the wound on the front of Fraser’s body. If he’d landed on something, he’d be wounded in back, wouldn’t he?
Abby got to her feet with a quick, graceful twist and went into the next room. After a moment she returned with a ceramic pitcher and basin, and a pile of clean white cloths over one arm. She put everything on the table. There was a mixing bowl on the table, too, a small bottle stuffed full of fuzzy purple flowers, a book with a worn cover.
Abby took the kettle from the stove and poured steaming water into the pitcher. She dipped her hands into a small crock. Phin smelled strong soap. Washing her hands, she looked keenly at him.
“Are you sick?”
He nodded.
“Go in there—” she pointed toward an open doorway off the kitchen. “Get the teapot and put in two scoops from the jar marked ‘Boneset’—you can read?”
Phin laughed; not out loud, just a little breath. Engelbreit’s house and Leaves of Grass; everything before and since, all in a flash not seen but felt, a twist of emotion in his body. He nodded.
“Two scoops of boneset, and fill the pot with hot water from the stove.” Phin obeyed. “Then go out that door”—she pointed to one Phin hadn’t noticed yet—“and pump me a bucket of water.”
“The horses?” Phin croaked.
“What about—oh. There’s a trough behind the barn—I’m amazed you don’t know that! They’ll have to be led out later. Now go!”
Phin went. The door opened to the back of the house, a yard with a pump. He worked the handle, more exhausted with every stroke, and turned with the full bucket. Abby stood in the doorway watching him as she dried her hands.
Did she think he’d run? Did she think he could?
He came toward her. She stood back to let him into the house, but her penetrating eyes stopped him.
“Why did you laugh?”
Phin’s throat hurt too much for talking. Besides, he had no words. Here he was on this bright morning, being bossed by a girl who barely came up to his shoulder. She was in charge. Why her and not her grandmother? And where was the mother? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.
“Well, come on in, and close the door behind you. I don’t want to touch anything. Now fill the kettle—thank you. And sit. Pour yourself a cup of tea and drink it right down—you won’t like it! And then have another. Ready, Gran?”
Fraser groaned as his shirt peeled away from the wound. Phin saw a glimpse of milk-white torso tracked with red puckered scars, and a black oozing place low on his chest. He looked quickly away. Watch Abby. Sunlight through the window on her smooth clean hair….
“That’ll be a war wound,” the grandmother said.
Abby bent close. She seemed cool, alert, thoughtful. “Look at that,” she said to her grandmother. “Shrapnel, do you think?”
Fraser whispered something.
“Shell? Oh. Cannon shell. Sir—what’s his name?” she asked Phin. “He told us yesterday, I suppose, but—”
“Fraser.” And he’d have a first name, wouldn’t he? David, maybe? Douglas?
“Mr. Fraser, I should take this out of your wound. The fall must have—oh, think of it, Gran! Like living with a knife inside you! May I try to take it out?”
Fraser’s head barely moved on the bedclothes; a nod.
“Give him something to bite on, Gran—cloth is fine; he won’t hurt himself. I wish Mummy would come back with the bag right now! I’ll have to use my fingers.”
The grandmother looked to be wringing her hands, but no, Phin saw, she was twisting a rag into a hard stick and now she put it between Fraser’s teeth. “I wish she’d come, too,” she said grimly. “That baby could have waited a day or two, seems to me!”
“Are you ready, Mr. Fraser?” Abby asked. “It’s going to hurt. A lot.”
It did, and it took a long time. That growl came out of Fraser again. In the other room Lucky barked. A smell began to pervade the kitchen, of old blood and new blood, and around the edges of Fraser’s growl a silence deepened. Whenever Phin glanced toward the mattress he saw Abby bent over, intent, her thumb and forefinger pinched on something and working it tensely. The thing was small and frighteningly tenacious.
He turned away, stared out the window at the snow melting in the warm sun, dripping off the eaves of the house. He tried to avoid hearing the small, wet sound within the room, not quite masked by Fraser’s growl.
“There!” Abby held something up. It was smaller than Phin had expected, and it dripped—
“Abby, put your head down! Don’t you dare faint on me till we’ve got this man bandaged!”
Abby turned abruptly from Fraser and sat bent over, hugging her knees. She held the shell fragment away from her skirt in red fingers. “Stupid,” she said after a moment, her voice sounding slow and slurred. “I was doing so well and then—I looked at it….” She swallowed audibly.
The grandmother knelt, pressing a cloth to the wound. For a moment there was no sound in the kitchen save Fraser’s harsh breathing.
Unexpectedly, a sense of rightness dropped over Phin; peace and piercing joy. The sun glinted off the teapot. A petal fell from one of the flowers onto the book. He gazed at it, feeling his heartbeat rock him slightly, feeling the warmth and his body relaxing in it.
The moment had edges. He knew it would end. But it went on a long time.
Abby stirred. With a guilty start, Phin poured himself a cup of tea. His hands felt pleasantly distant. Maybe they belonged to someone else.
He took a swig. It was horrible. Another gulp, three. He put the cup on the table, reached toward the pot again, and then, no, he thought he’d just put his head down on his arm, arm of the worn old military coat. Essays, Emerson, said the gold letters on the spine of the book. In a second he’d pick it up, but just now he’d close his eyes….
23
MATCH LIGHT
There were dreams. A hand laid on his forehead as his mother used to, checking for fever. Far-off neighing. Cooking smells.
A voice said, “Not in our rooms! Not till we know.”
Later he woke up someplace else.
No, same place, but on the floor, looking up. A curtain beside him. No, a skirt. In a chair. The grandmother, knitting, looking grimly past Phin at something beyond him.
He wanted to look, too, but it was too much effort to lift his head. He lay staring at the skirt, the stove, sunshine through the legs of chairs and table. There was a sound behind him, regular, harsh. Fraser, he decided after a bit. Breathing. He closed his eyes again.
“I don’t know what to do,” a voice said. Maybe it was later. “If I take her out, he’ll jump the door, and I don’t dare touch him. But they need water.”
“You,” another voice said. “Boy!”
“Phin. His name is Phin.”
Phin opened his eyes again. Abby and her grandmother looked down at him.
“Could you help me take them to water?”
Them.
The horses.
Phin struggled up on his elbows. His head felt stuffed with hot wool. His eyes wouldn’t fully open, and he ached everywhere. When he tried to speak, his voice choked off. He nodded, and then faced the prospect of getting up.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to.” Abby reached down a hand. Phin took it. A firm grip on his elbow boosted him to his feet.
The bedding was next to the stove now. He didn’
t know how he’d gotten there, beside Fraser.
Who looked up at him. His eyes shone like pools of mercury. Phin had seen that shine in the eyes of four people. Three were now dead.
“How lame is the mare?” Fraser sounded weak, but surprisingly rational. “Can she go far?”
“She bowed a tendon three weeks ago,” Abby said. “She can hardly hobble.”
“Turn them loose. If you don’t mind a foal next summer.” He closed his eyes. In the shadow beside the stove, his lids looked purple. Abby bit her lips, looking at him. Then she turned away.
“I can probably let them loose myself.”
Phin didn’t bother to shake his head. He followed her out into the sunny afternoon. The air chased shivers over his skin, even inside the heavy coat.
The mare stood in the farthest corner of her stall, ears back scornfully. The stallion leaned over the dividing wall at her. He looked magnificent, his eyes brilliant, his neck arched. He didn’t so much as flick an ear at Phin and Abby.
“He’d better not hurt her!” Abby said. Phin just pointed at the mare’s door.
Abby looked at him soberly. “Me first, then you?”
Phin nodded.
“I’ll lead her outside, right? So we aren’t trapped in here with them?”
Hurry, Phin mouthed.
Abby opened the mare’s door and looped a strap over her neck. The mare followed her, and the stallion shoved against the door of his stall. Then—was this more fever?—he reared slowly, like a dog sitting up for a crust of bread, and looked over the half-door, judging the distance to the floor.
“Go!” Phin croaked. Abby hauled the mare out the doorway and sprang aside.
“All right!” she called.
Phin threw open the stall door. The stallion’s hooves drummed briefly on the barn floor and then came an enormous squeal. Phin hurried outside.
The stallion was beautiful with Fraser riding him, and beautiful in a stall. Now, as he danced courteously beside the limping mare, pointing his ears at her, stretching his neck to venture a sniff at her flank, he was more than beautiful. The mare threatened him with a hind foot. He curved away, and back to her, and Phin shook his head. He had ridden that horse? It didn’t seem possible.