This Old World

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “Oh, you let me deal with that boy,” Willingham said. “He’ll have his uses. Let’s get a little sleep and finish up here when we can see what we're doing.”

  “My men don’t answer to you, sheriff,” said the soldier. “They answer to me.” He paused. “Very well, we’ll bivouac up in those shelters at the top of the hill and then I’ll decide what to do next.”

  Typical, thought Flynn. Officers were the same the world over.

  Squatting in the shadows, Flynn felt a strange feeling come over him. It took him a moment before he realized he was enjoying himself. It felt good to be sitting in darkness, a gun in his hand, ready to fight. His senses were filled with the sounds and smells of the night, the creaking tack, the rustle of leaves, the sweat of the horses. He imagined he could hear the breathing of the wounded vigilante, dragged to the riverbank by his companion, as they waited in silence, hoping the soldiers would leave. He smiled to himself. How did those boys imagine they would make their way to safety, with one of them bearing a pistol wound in the chest? The son of a bitch was a dead man already. He thought about hunting them down himself after the soldiers left, but it didn’t seem worth the bother.

  As the sheriff and the troops started up the hill, Flynn’s thoughts returned to the sound that had awakened him in the first place—the bawling of the calf. It had continued like the drone string on a banjo throughout the events of the night, the voices, the shots, the rumble of horses, and now it stood alone again. He listened. The calf was somewhere south of him, but more toward the woods than the river. He listened further. That rider and his pal were somewhere down to his right, armed, but he couldn’t hear any stirring. He could skirt through the field, avoiding them, and find the calf. Maybe some of the other riders would come back, but he doubted it—once a man started running, he didn’t turn around unless forced. Flynn cocked his shotgun just in case.

  He eased to his feet and stepped into the open. There was enough daylight now to see better; he could make out the house and sheds, could see the fence rails where they snaked into the undergrowth. He held the shotgun at hip level, stepping quietly around the edge of the dewy pasture.

  Every few steps, Flynn stopped and looked around. He wished for a couple of revolvers like the ones those vigilance boys had carried; there would be no time to reload the shotgun if it came to a fight. He would have to take his shot and then rush the body, grab whatever weapon he could. If he missed—throw down the gun and run for the river, hope whoever he met didn’t care for water.

  He was getting close to the calf but still could not see it. He was in the thicket of brush and treetops where he had been clearing yesterday, a tangle of sprouts and limbs felled in every direction, dropped to be trimmed into firewood lengths on a later day. He pushed his way through the brush, wet cobwebs draping his face.

  There was something hiding the calf from his sight, a big mound of earth or something, a big lump that looked like—

  That looked like the dead body of its mother.

  The calf pressed against its mother’s flank, vainly seeking an udder. Flynn laid his hand on the animal’s side; it was barely warm, dead for a couple of hours at least. He felt along its neck and face for wounds or blood. Nothing. But how could a healthy cow, not three years old, simply die?

  He straightened. Ahead he saw another lump among the brush, and another, and another. He pushed his way past the calf to the next—another of his cattle. And in the growing light he saw that his entire herd was dead. Dead without a mark on them, or a grain storehouse for them to get into and bloat themselves, or a lightning storm to kill them. What had happened? Poison? The hand of an enemy? What could have killed them all so fast and so invisibly? He sank to his knees and rested the shotgun against the side of the dead animal.

  He was ruined. It would have taken him five years to pay off the loan on the cattle, even assuming steady prices and healthy calves every year. But with no breeding stock, he could never repay it. He could work on the railroad the rest of his life and never put back enough to repay Ferguson in town. And getting clear on the cattle was to be the first step toward getting clear on the land. Now—

  Now there was no way to get clear on anything, ever. He would lose the land. Ferguson would take him to law, and if he didn’t get the farm, he’d force the Daybreak people to sell it and get his money that way.

  Flynn leaned back into the side of the dead cow and laid his head against its flank. He had the shotgun. He should just kill himself now and be done with it.

  He’d be damned if he would.

  Better to kill Ferguson instead. There would be prison, sure, but after prison a return. No. He was not thinking right. He should take the woman and leave these debts behind, go to California or Oregon, let Ferguson and Mrs. Turner fight over the corpses of these cattle. Modern though the world may be, there was still room out West for a man to get lost.

  There would be time to plan all this, but for now he had a couple of old rebels hiding somewhere nearby and a calf to try to keep alive. He glanced toward his cabin. A lantern was moving in the near-dawn. The woman had no doubt come out to see what had happened with all the shooting.

  “Michael?” Her voice softly carried through the darkness. He didn’t answer.

  The lantern moved toward the ferry landing, away from him. Just as well. She would only get in the way. There was a roaring in his ears as Flynn tried to organize his thoughts.

  “Ma’am?” a voice came from the riverbank. “Ma’am, we need help. There’s a man hurt.”

  The damn vigilantes. Well, first things first. Flynn strode back to his house, his shotgun cradled and cocked.

  Marie stood at the edge of the slope, lantern high. The vigilante was at the water’s edge, a tall man with a wild scruff of hair and a long coat. Flynn stepped into the lantern light and lowered the shotgun toward him.

  “Find the road,” he said.

  “I’ve got a man over here who’s hurt,” the man said.

  “I know you do. He’s likely dead by now, or soon will be. Same as you if you don’t find the road in another ten seconds.”

  The man shifted his feet and glanced at Marie. She better not peep, Flynn thought, or else there would be more hell after he put a hole in this rebel boy.

  She did not speak. Sensible gal.

  “Start moving,” Flynn said. “But first open your coat and toss me your pistol.”

  The man did as he was told and then trudged up the slope.

  “You know the way to town,” Flynn said. “We’ll bury your friend for you.”

  “We’ll be back,” the man said over his shoulder. “We didn’t have no quarrel with you, but now we do.”

  “More the fool.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “You ought to be thanking me for not sending you to join your friend, and here you are still trying my patience.”

  The man did not answer as he disappeared up the road. Flynn watched until he had disappeared into the dimness. For a moment he thought about firing after him—to wound, kill, or frighten, didn’t really matter—but by then the man was gone. What the hell, let them come.

  Marie turned toward the house.

  “Where are you going?” Flynn said. “I may need your lantern. I want to see if that son of a bitch is dead yet.”

  She reached it toward him, eyes averted. “I’ll have your breakfast ready.”

  The little bitch. Always judging, judging, judging. The roaring in his ears nearly deafened him. He should kill her now and get it over with.

  The wounded vigilante was lying under an overhang of the bank about twenty feet down from the ferry landing, still breathing, eyes open.

  “What’s your name?” Flynn said, bending down.

  The man licked his lips and managed to croak out, “Green Pratt.”

  “I’ll tell them to put that on your marker.”

  Pratt did not respond. Flynn flipped open the man’s coat; the wound was low in the torso. Too bad; a few inch
es higher and he would have been spared some misery. He took the pistol from Pratt’s waistband and tucked it into his own.

  “Bring me some water,” Pratt whispered.

  “All right.” Flynn straightened and looked around. Nothing to carry water nearby, and he’d be damned if he was going to spoil his hat by using it as a vessel. He stepped to the water’s edge and cupped his hands. Only a small trickle was left by the time he made it up the bank again, but it would have to do. He tipped the water into Pratt’s open mouth.

  “Thank you,” he said, dropping his head against the earth.

  “You got any word you need passed along?” Pratt closed his eyes in answer. “You ain’t going to see nightfall. I expect you know that. Maybe not even full sunup.”

  “My pal make it out?” he finally said.

  “Yeah. I sent him on his way.”

  Pratt said no more. Flynn turned to leave. “I’ll bring you some more water later, in a proper cup.”

  Now to more pressing matters. The sun would soon rise on a pasture full of dead cattle, and word would find its way to town. That bastard Scotsman would be down within the week, wanting his money. Better to make a run.

  Inside the house the woman had ham and hoecakes in the pan. He rested the shotgun against the table and sat to eat, not bothering to hang up his hat. The girl was standing in the corner, eyeing him as always, the little snipe. No doubt the woman had fed her the best bits already.

  “How much milk have we?” he muttered as she set the plate before him.

  Her glance was darting and suspicious. “A couple of gallons, I guess.”

  “I’m going to need it all. There’s a calf has lost its mother.” He gave a look to Josephine, who was studying a crack in the floorboard. “You’ll be drinking water from now on, missy.”

  “What happened to the mother?” said Marie.

  “She’s dead,” said Flynn. “They’re all dead. And you have to get started. We are packing up the wagon and moving on today.”

  “We’re doing what?”

  “Packing up. Are you deaf?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Then shut up and get to it. We’ll cross the river here and go west on the back roads. I want to keep the calf alive until I find someone to sell it to. With any luck that will be enough for train tickets. If not, well, it’s a long ride.”

  He stood up from the table and took the shotgun. Just his luck, one of those Law and Order bastards would wander in.

  “But wait!” Marie said. “All dead? How could this happen? Was it all this shooting?” She plucked at his coat as he walked to the door. “Has someone shot our cattle? We should fetch the sheriff!”

  “We’ll do as I say!”

  The anger boiled over at last and he swung the barrel of the shotgun hard, catching her on the side of her head. She dropped sideways into a heap.

  “Will you listen and not ask questions!” He stood over her a moment. Marie did not move. Knocked out or faking knocked out, didn’t matter. He looked over at Josephine, who had backed into the corner.

  “When your mama wakes up, tell her I’m in the barn. As soon as I’ve packed everything there, I’ll bring the wagon around. I’ll want to be gone before noon.” The girl’s frightened face gave him a pang of remorse. “And tell her I’m sorry I struck her.”

  Outside he took a deep breath to calm himself but it didn’t work. His arms shook and he felt hot. Flynn remembered that he had promised that reb some water. Might as well do one thing right today.

  Between the house and the wagon shed was the well; he stopped and slid off the cover and lowered the bucket, kneeling to peer into its depths.

  This close to the river, he’d only had to dig a shallow one, twenty feet or so. He should have lined it with stones but had been in too big a rush and used planks, so the water was earthy-smelling and murky sometimes. Oh, well. So the planks would rot and the walls collapse. They’d be long gone by then.

  “Lord, let me not have killed her,” he whispered into the well.

  He drew out a dipperful from the bucket and poured the rest back. Still cradling the shotgun, he slid his way down the riverbank to the place he had left Green Pratt.

  But Green Pratt was gone.

  Chapter 21

  Charlotte had gone back to bed after the excitement of the predawn hours, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. No one had, she imagined. She lay in the bed speculating about the jumble of shouts, the sound of horses, and the gunshots they had heard in the predawn hours after the Law and Order League had ridden off. A quarrel amongst the raiders, doubtless, but then what? It had sounded like another group had come down the hill. An ambush? An assault on Flynn’s house? In the confusion of sounds it was impossible to tell.

  Before sunrise she walked to the river. Flynn’s farm, across and upstream, seemed quiet. Strange how the world could seem so serene after a night of violence and chaos. Strange but good, she supposed.

  A man was pulling a handcart down the road, wet from his chest down. When he noticed Charlotte at the river’s edge, he stopped a couple of yards away.

  “I had thought I would go to the next house down the way, someplace I wouldn’t cause no trouble,” the man said. “But here you are, so I reckon I need to ask you for help.”

  “You’re one of the men from last night,” Charlotte said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled the handcart closer. There was a man in it, his clothes also soaked from the river, a broad stain of blood across his chest. “I floated him over. He’s pretty bad hurt.”

  Charlotte stepped closer and put her fingers on the man’s throat. There was the barest of pulses, and when she placed her fingertips over the man’s mouth she could feel a slight breath.

  His companion leaned closer. “I borrowed this cart from up the road. I ain’t stealing it.”

  Charlotte ignored him. She felt inside the wounded man’s coat. One bullet hole, no fresh blood coming out as far as she could tell.

  “It was Charley Pettibone shot this man,” he said. “I just want that known. That man across the river tried to run me off from him, but I snuck back. But it was Pettibone done the shooting.”

  “And does this man have a name?”

  “This here’s Green Pratt. His daddy is Parson Pratt, from up Arcadia.”

  “And you?”

  The man thought for a moment. “I don’t think that would be too wise for either of us, ma’am.”

  Charlotte put her lips close to Pratt’s ear. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You’re in good hands. Your friend is here.”

  “Can he hear you?”

  “I think so. Hard to say.”

  “Well, ma’am, I need to leave you. I am wanting to be across some county lines.”

  Their gazes met across the body of Pratt, and she told him with her look that he had better say his good-byes. The man drew close.

  “I’m going now,” he spoke into the man’s ear. “This lady is going to take care of you.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll send word to your family about where you’re at. And all the boys, too. Meet us up on Rockpile as soon as you’re able.” He stepped away from the handcart. “What can you do for him, ma’am?” he said softly.

  She shook her head. “Keep him company. If he lives, it won’t be from anything I do.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the man said, backing away. “I’m sorry to burden you like this.”

  “It’s not me you need to apologize to,” Charlotte said.

  He turned abruptly and walked down the road, picking up speed as he went. Typical, Charlotte thought. Thunder in, make a great mess, and ask the nearest woman to fix it.

  She examined Pratt again. Still a heartbeat, but not much of one. She pulled the man’s coat tightly around his body and considered trying to move him inside, but decided it would only cause him pain.

  The first time she had given birth, the pain had been so great at times that she had thought she would surely die. Everything had disappeared
into a blur of red and black, but through it all the granny woman had talked to her, her voice a thin cord that kept her tied to the bed when she would rather have floated away. Perhaps that was what this man needed, a voice to accompany him through the darkening. So she placed her hand on Pratt’s chest and spoke.

  “I’m here, Mr. Pratt. Your friend will return soon.” Now why say that? Better reassurance than truth, she supposed. “You’re in Daybreak. Last place you ever imagined returning to, at least like this, I’m sure. You did say you’d be back. But you imagined yourself coming on horseback, guns blazing, and so did I. But now here you are, and here I am.”

  The sun finally crested the trees beyond the river and cast a beam across the man’s face.

  “My father died in battle, you know. He liked to quote the Romans. ‘To the thrown stone, there is no more virtue in rising than shame in falling.’ I think that was Aurelius. Fate, you know. Father found that idea comforting, that fate decides all. With no free will, you simply strive, and failure is no stain. But here in Daybreak, we are great on rising. Improvement of the human race, one life at a time. And if we fail—well, it’s our own fault, or the fault of men like you. Obstacles to enlightenment. Not a pretty thought, being an obstacle. I’m sure you don’t see yourself that way. You’re defending a way of life. There’s truth to that.”

  She looked down at him. His jaw had gone slack, and his breath made a faint rasp as it went in and out of his mouth. It hardly seemed the time to talk about philosophy or politics now. A life was passing from the earth. Charlotte bent closer to his ear.

  “I am here,” she said. “I am here. I will take care of you. Don’t be afraid.” The words felt inadequate to her, but she forged ahead. “I don’t know why you ended up here, or why I did for that matter. I doubt it was fate, but I’d like to think it was something other than blind chance. It may not matter. The world has turned and brought us to this spot, and if I know nothing else, I know that the world turns toward the sunrise.”

  There was a rustling behind her. James emerged from the house and came over to see what was in the handcart. When he saw the man, he put his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.