Joelle's Secret

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Chocolate covered ants or frog legs or something different from antelope. Come on, Cherry. Let’s go investigate the morals of Fort Kearny.”

  Harry Jump said, “Cherry, the good Lord is watching you. I done preached at you about the way you’re living.”

  “Preach on, Harry. Maybe it’ll do some good, but I’ll have all the fun I want. Then when I’m on my death bed, I’ll get converted.”

  “That’s foolish talk,” Jump frowned. “It don’t work.” But Cherry was already gone. Harry shook his head. “That poor woman is headed for a fall, and all the rest of them too. It’s bound to be worse when we get to the gold camp.”

  “You really have any hope for women like that, Harry?”

  “Why, of course I do. They ain’t no worse than I was. They ain’t no angels, but then I wasn’t either. Come on. Let’s go spend some foolish money and get something real unnecessary and good to eat.”

  Joelle moved with Harry toward the general store, but her eyes followed the tall form of Owen as he and the woman left. She noticed that Cherry’s arm was around him, and as she watched, his arm went around her. “There’s some more of his honor being carried off by rats,” she said.

  “Rats? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Joelle smiled. “Come on. Let’s go find something good to eat.”

  * * *

  OWEN HAD NOT INTENDED to drink much, but somehow with Cherry he found himself becoming drunk. It had been a long time, and he more than once protested, “Cherry, tomorrow I’ll have a head that feels like a stick of dynamite went off.”

  “Don’t worry about tomorrow. You’re having a good time, aren’t you?”

  “I guess so, but all I think about is the headache. Liquor don’t agree with me. You’re leading me astray.” But then Owen said, giving her a sober look, “You always did.”

  They stayed at the saloon for another hour, and Owen got into a poker game. There was a rough-looking man who was winning most of the pots. His name was James Sanders. When Owen started to win, Sanders began hinting that Owen was dealing from under the deck.

  “No, I’m not doing that. That wouldn’t be honorable. I’m an honorable man, James.”

  “You ain’t all that honorable. I’ll bet you was rotten even when you was a kid.”

  Owen leaned back and winked at Cherry who was perched on the arm of his chair. “I was so honorable. When I was a kid, I went to Sunday school every Sunday, and I helped old ladies across the street, and I never said no bad words. I bet you wasn’t that honorable, was you, James?”

  “Shut up and play cards!”

  The card game went on, and even half-drunk, Owen was a good poker player. He won a great deal of money and finally he said, “Well, I’m pulling out.”

  “You ain’t leaving the winner!” Sanders growled.

  “That’s the best way to leave a game.” Owen scraped the money across the table and knocked some of it to the floor. Cherry picked it up, and he stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll come back tomorrow and win the rest of your money.”

  Sanders stood up so abruptly his chair fell backward. He came around the table very fast for a big man and caught Cherry by the arm. “You take the money, and I’ll take your woman.”

  “Take your hands off that woman, Sanders.”

  “Why don’t you make me?”

  Owen swung a blow, but his reflexes were slow. Sanders laughed and suddenly struck Owen a hard blow right in the mouth. It drove him backward, and he scrambled to his feet in time to meet the rush. I wish I wasn’t drunk. He looks like a rough old cob.

  * * *

  IT WAS LATE, AND the stars were sprinkled across the sky. From far off came the lonesome cry of a wolf, always a sad sound and rather frightening to Joelle. She had been waiting for Owen to come back, but Harry had gone to bed, saying, “He’ll come in when he gets ready if he don’t get beat-up.”

  A slight sound came to her, and Joelle stood up. It was a bright night with the moon round, shining, and silver and throwing gleams all over the flat plain. As she expected, she saw a tall form and knew it was Owen. Then she saw Cherry beside him, and he was leaning heavily on her. When they got close enough, Joelle saw that Owen had blood on the front of his shirt.

  “What happened?” Joelle demanded.

  “Well, I suppose you think I’ve been drinking,” Owen said pugnaciously. “Well, I ain’t. I ain’t had a drop.”

  “I expect you need to go to bed, Owen,” Cherry said. “You’re going to feel pretty bad in the morning.”

  “No, it’s too early to go to bed.”

  Cherry laughed. She was half-drunk herself. “You better put him to bed, Joe. He’s had a hard night. I’ll see you tomorrow, Owen.”

  Owen swayed on his feet, and Joelle pulled him toward the fire where she could see his face. “Sit down,” she said shortly.

  “I ain’t had a drop.”

  “You’re drunk as a skunk. Who beat you up?”

  “Nobody. I ain’t been in no fight.”

  Joelle had packed a medical kit, and she got fresh water and washed the blood from Owen’s face. He had a bad cut over his left eyebrow, but she didn’t think stitches were called for. She patched it up, ignoring his grunts. He grew quiet while she did her work, and finally he said, “Joe?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I have so been drinking. I got in a fight and I lost it too. I’m just no good, Joe”

  “Come on. You need to lie down. Here, let me give you some laudanum. It’ll make you sleep.”

  Owen was agreeable enough. He took the medicine, made a face, and stumbled over to where his blankets were. He lay down on one, and Joelle pulled a cover over him. She saw he was already going off to sleep. “I’m just no good, Joe. No good at all.”

  She reached down, nearly touched his hair, and then pulled her hand back quickly. “Good night,” she said sharply, turned, and left. “He should have had better sense. That woman will get him killed one of these days!”

  * * *

  “WELL, YOU SURE MADE a plum fool out of yourself with that scarlet woman. Look at your face. You look like you’ve been hit with a bunch of wet squirrels or something.”

  “I don’t want to hear all this, Harry.” Owen’s head was killing him. He had awakened feeling sick with a terrible headache. Not wanting to face Joe and Harry, he had left before breakfast, but later in the day Harry found him in front of the train. Harry left, but his place was taken by Joelle who had been watching them.

  “Well, you made a fool of yourself, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t you start on me, Joe! Yes, I made a fool of myself. I’ve done it before, and I’ll probably do it again.” He glared at her saying, “You’re just a kid. One of these days you’ll make a fool out of yourself over a woman. Every man does.”

  “No, I won’t ever do that. I’ve got better sense.” She turned and left him angry clear through.

  * * *

  OWEN STAYED SILENT FOR the next two days. He got up early, ate a quick breakfast, and then went back to help the men herd the cattle. It was a job he didn’t like, but he didn’t want to face Joe or listen to Harry’s preaching. By noon he was tired of it, and he circled the train and went out looking for game. He was headed back with an antelope. They were easy enough to pop. All he had to do was tie a white rag onto a sapling and hide himself, and the silly creatures would get curious. They’d move closer and closer, sniffing at the flag, and he had shot one.

  As he headed back, he was berating himself. “Owen, you’re old enough to know better. Why do you have to make a fool of yourself every chance you get?”

  He paused suddenly and drew up his horse’s head. “What’s that? Looks like a man,” he muttered. He spurred the horse forward, and sure enough there was a man lying on his face. “Don’t look like the Indians got him.” He dismounted and dropped the reins. Captain, his horse, was trained to stay where the reins were droppe
d, so Owen bent down and turned the man over. “Not dead,” he said, “but he sure looks bad.” He went back to the horse and got his canteen.

  Raising the man up, he said, “Here, partner, take a drink of this.” The man’s eyes opened slightly. They were both puffy with blows, and his lips were swollen where they had been cut against his teeth. One of his ears was torn nearly off his head, and he cried out when Owen moved his body. “Somebody beat

  you and left you for the wolves. What’s your name?”

  “Logan.”

  “Well, we’d better get you back to the train. What happened to you?” The man didn’t answer, and Owen pulled him to his feet. “Come on. You can’t walk. Here, I’ll help you on the horse.” Fortunately Captain was a placid animal, and he stood stock still as Owen hoisted the battered man into the saddle. He picked up a carpet bag that had been thrown aside, and swung on behind him, saying, “OK, Captain, take us home.”

  * * *

  “WHO’S THAT WITH OWEN?” Harry said.

  “I don’t know. It looks like he’s been through the mill though.” The two hurried, and others were gathering to meet the pair. Ralph Ogden spoke first. “Who you got there, Owen?”

  “Found him on the trail.”

  “He looks dead,” Edith Riker said. “What’s he doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “He’s not able to talk much. Some of you fellows take him.”

  Caleb Taylor and Ralph Ogden helped the man down. “What’s your name, fella?” Ogden demanded.

  He got no answer.

  “He said his name was Logan. I don’t know if it’s the first or last,” Owen said.

  “What’s he doing out here?” Ash Landon demanded. He was dressed as if he were in the finest restaurant in St. Louis and shook his head. “It looks like he’s not going to make it.”

  “Well, we’ll have to do something with him,” Ogden said. “He’ll have to ride in a wagon.”

  No one volunteered, and then Edith Riker said, “We’ve got plenty of room in one of our wagons. Bring him on.”

  “You can’t take him in,” her husband said. Lyman Riker didn’t believe in showing much charity. Edith paid him no attention. “You don’t have to worry about him. I’ll take care of him.”

  Riker threw up his hands and said, “I give up on you, woman. If you’d show your husband a little more attention, you wouldn’t have it to give to a beat-up stranger who’s probably some kind of a crook.”

  “Bring him to my wagon, Ralph. He’ll need to be cleaned up.”

  * * *

  HE FELT SOMETHING COOL on his face. Something had changed and it confused him. When he opened his eyes, the coolness touched his face again, and he started to sit up and uttered a cry of pain.

  “Lie still. You’ve been hurt.”

  Logan opened his eyes and saw that he was under canvas. It was a wagon. It was bumping along, and the woman was sitting beside him. “I patched you up as best I could, but I think you’ve got some cracked ribs.”

  “Who—who are you?”

  “I’m Edith Riker. What were you doing out in a shape like this? . . . Doesn’t matter.”

  Logan lay quietly and said, “You should have left me to die.”

  Edith shook her head. “You’ve given up. Don’t be a coward, man. You’re young enough to make something out of yourself.”

  “I’m no good to anyone.”

  Edith Riker studied him. It was difficult to discern his features since his eyes were puffed shut, and his lips were swollen, but he seemed to be a higher type than most men. At least she felt this. “A man’s meant to find out what he’s put here for.”

  “Not me. I wish you had left me there to die.”

  Edith stared at him for a moment, then jumped off the back of the moving wagon. Artie Riker asked, “How is he, Ma?”

  “He’ll be all right physically, but he sure is in bad shape in other ways. Says he wished we had left him to die.”

  Artie was shocked. “Why would a man wish that? He ain’t hurt that bad.”

  “Something’s wrong with him on the inside. I guess we’ll have to wait until he gets better before we find out what it is.”

  The train moved on slowly under the inverted bowls of sky, and as Edith followed the wagon, she thought about the man Logan. She didn’t know his full name, but for some reason she was interested. Ordinarily she paid men no attention. Her marriage had soured her on the breed. She never had very high expectations of marriage, and the few she had had been shattered by her union with Lyman. Now she shook her head. “You can’t be much of a man if all you want to do is die.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  LOGAN TEMPLE CAME OUT of unconsciousness with a spastic motion. The movement sent a white-hot, searing pain through his head, and immediately he realized his entire body was in pain. His tongue was so thick and dry that he couldn’t even lick his lips.

  Sounds began to come to him—the creaking of wagon wheels and the far-off moaning of a coyote. Closer than these was the sound of a woman singing an old hymn he remembered from his childhood:

  I will arise and go to Jesus,

  He will embrace me in His arms;

  In the arms of my dear Savior,

  O there are ten thousand charms.

  The memory of the hymn was a good one, but it immediately faded, and bleak memories began to rise like ghosts. They seemed to come out of a dark, malevolent box, and one of them was recent. He winced as he thought of a thick-set man named Yates cursing him, striking him with hamlike fists, and beating him into unconsciousness.

  For a long time Temple lay still and wondered whose wagon he was in. He was waking up in a strange place, and he dreaded facing the world. As he lay there, a wagon wheel dropped into a ditch or a hole, shaking his whole body and making him clench his teeth against the pain. I wonder when was the last time I woke up happy and ready to face the day with joy? The question had no answer, and he felt that happiness and joy were as far back in time as the antediluvian period or the Flood.

  He wanted desperately to return to the black hole of unconsciousness, but that time had passed. Finally he heard a voice cry out something, and the wagon ground to a stop. It was time, he knew, to rejoin the world. He struggled to his elbows and managed to get into a sitting position. Looking down, he saw that he was naked to the waist and that his chest, stomach, and arms were dark with bruises, some violently yellow and others fading into a garish violet. He ran his hands over his chest and winced.

  Moving cautiously, he eased onto his knees and moved toward the back of the wagon. Pushing the canvas aside, he stuck his head out and at once was blinded by brilliant sunlight. It was nearly as powerful as a physical blow, and Temple shut his eyes and waited. He finally opened them a mere slit. He was staring at a wagon train.

  Slowly he lowered his legs over the edge and with one impulsive motion shoved himself out. His feet hit the ground, but there was no strength in his limbs. His legs folded and threw him facedown, causing him to utter a painful grunt. He lay there, nearly helpless, catching his breath. He heard footsteps, and then hands were turning him over. He was still staring into the brilliant heavens, but he saw a woman. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.

  Temple couldn’t answer for his tongue was thick. He felt her strong hands help him into a sitting position. He caught a glimpse of bright hair rising from her temples, making a mass on her head and caught into a fall behind. She had gray-green eyes such as he had never seen before, and he knew she was full-figured as she held him to keep him from falling. She said, “Here, lean back against this wheel,” and he obeyed.

  She left for a moment, and he tried to collect his thoughts, but all was confusion. She was back in a moment, kneeling beside him and holding a cup to his lips. The water was tepid, but he drank it eagerly. Some of it ran down the sides of his mouth onto his chest, and the woman said, “Drink slowly. You can have all you want but a little bit at a time.”

  Temple drank all the water
, licked his lips, and felt better. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and rough.

  The woman stared at him. “I’m Edith Riker. What’s your name?”

  Temple started to speak and had to clear his throat. It was still difficult to talk. “Temple,” he whispered roughly. “Logan Temple. Could I have more water?”

  She went to a keg on the side of the wagon, filled the cup, and returned. “Can you hold it yourself?”

  “I think so.” His hands were unsteady, but he drank the water more slowly than he would have liked. When he handed the cup back, he thanked her again.

  Edith Riker stared at him. “How did you get out here in this place in such bad shape?”

  “Where was I?”

  “We found you on the trail.” She touched the bruises on his chest. “Who did this to you?”

  Temple looked down and then lifted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

  His answer didn’t please Edith. She was not satisfied with a man who would take such a beating as if it were nothing. “Where were you headed?”

  “No place important. Doesn’t matter.” He added, “It’ll be just like the last one.”

  Edith noticed something in the man’s face, especially in his eyes. He had light hair, not blond exactly but close to it. His eyes were blue, and as she studied him, she saw loneliness and a pain most people would not show. She felt compassion for this bruised, beaten member of humanity. This was a strange thing for her, almost an alien thing, for her marriage had hardened her against most men. But this one seemed different, and she couldn’t determine why. It troubled her that she felt like this. It made her feel a softness she thought she’d lost.

  “I’ll get your shirt,” she said abruptly. “I had to wash it.”

  Temple watched as she moved away. He was aware of people at the next wagon staring at him, and he didn’t meet their eyes. When she came back, he leaned forward and reached for the shirt, but the pain made him grunt.