Anson reached into his knapsack and removed a tiny ball of pink knit fabric - unfurling the thick, long material revealed that it was an overly large sock stuffed with something sloshing. He stuck his hand inside and pulled a corked bottle from the center of the pouch.
"Pour this on it," he assured her, passing the bottle.
"Any good?" she asked, uncorking it and sniffing; her eyes didn't hint at any reaction to the scent.
"Um?" he squinted at the bottle, then shook his head and returned to the knapsack, removing yet another tiny bundle of fabric, unfurling it, and this time pulling out a pint-sized, transparent glass bottle. The liquid inside was clear. He uncorked it and took a little sip, then gasped as if his throat were gone.
"Here?" was the only hoarse word he could stifle out, motioning to switch the bottles before Henri could pour any on her arm. She remained motionless watching Anson, the bottle in her hand.
For a brief flicker in the firelight, he saw the hint of a smile cross her lips.
Then it was gone.
After an exchange of the bottles, Henri smelled the clear liquid and her expression relaxed a small, almost immeasurable amount. Anson noticed her easing slightly; he was accustomed to her nuance, her idiosyncrasies and all the other things she denied whenever he brought them up. Like how she would sometimes contradict herself first thing (literally the very first thing) in the morning, as if her brain were working things out and her mouth lagged behind.
Henri poured the clear liquid on the shirt, then wiped it over her throat and arm wounds, feeling the burn deep in her muscles, from bicep to chest to face and even around to her mid-back; but, as always, Henri made no noise and brought no attention to the pain. With a nodding motion like the one Anson had just made (he nodded in agreement, smiling), they exchanged bottles once more - and this time she took a strong drink of the liquid.
Anson stood up, his knife in one hand and his pistol drawn in the other.
"How's it taste?" he asked, curious.
Time stopped a moment while he looked down at her.
Another of her quirks (and the hardest for her to outright deny) was that she winced after every shot of hard alcohol; on occasion, she'd even shutter a bit. Pain, death, murder - none of it made her flinch, only alcohol. In the light of the fire, Anson caught Henri's eyes as she drank - and she stared back up, right back up into Anson's brown eyes knowing full well he was looking, watching, waiting for that wince. Two gulps in, the bottle lowered from her lips as both eyes half-closed, her lips taking the form of something tart having just passed between them, and she breathed out deeply.
That was all the answer he needed.
Anson never stopped smiling as he left to hunt before darkness set in.
VII
Dinner was quail and two rabbits.
Returning to camp, approaching under the cover of night, the voices were distinct at twenty paces and Anson could clearly see the boy was again tied to the tree. Henri had put her blue and white plaid shirt back on but without an undershirt or bra, her chest beating its way out against the top buttons; even at twenty paces, Anson could tell the buttons were losing the fight.
Kid's gonna have another Goddamn asthma attack.
"You killed my papa!" the boy was angry. His tone was venomous without yelling, a subtle, controlled rage in his inflection. Obviously distraught, the boy seemed to have become less fearful, less violent, more weary, more restrained.
"I'm sorry."
Henri's calm, unrequited tone further angered the boy.
"But wwwwwwhy?" the boy moaned, his rage gone, and all that remained in him was grief-stricken. "Why did you have?" sob, snivel, "?why'd you have to kill my papa? Why couldn't you have left him?" sob, sob, "?just left him alone, the rest?"
His remorse, his profound hurt was shattering, worse than the wounds.
She was leaning in near him (careful to stay away from his teeth), having just finished retying him to the tree. Anson continued his silent approach, same as he did hunting, and was just beyond the nearest trees. About to speak up, something prevented him. Crouched back on her heels, facing the young boy from beside the fire, Henri's eyes conveyed regret more than her mild apology, more than any words passing through her harsh lips.
"What's your name?" Henri finally asked.
Anson decided this was his best time to enter, and he did so careful not to alarm Henri; however, as he rejoined the camp, she gave him a look as if she knew he had been paused behind the trees the entire time.
"Jonathon!" he spat, proud. "Jonathon William Beckett the third! Like my papa and my papa's papa. They's good folk?" And the passion fled once more, resolved to sorrow and a short, hidden sniffle - he was trying to hide it as they didn't deserve to hear him sound weak; it served to only make him look that much more pitiful, tears and a runny nose without the ability to wipe them.
Henri gathered one of the shreds from her white tee-shirt. The boy flinched excitedly in an attempt to flee her as she pushed in but he gave in near immediately, letting her caress away the tears and hold the cloth for him to blow his nose, which he did quite loudly.
"Holy moley, kid. You got an elephant up there?" Anson chuckled from the other side of the fire. He was skinning the first rabbit, sure to keep himself visible to the kid, at least while he was tied to the tree. He sneaked a glimpse at the boy using his peripherals. The boy named Jonathon William Beckett the third cracked no smile and showed no sign of good humor, instead glaring irately from Henri, across the fire, to Anson. No further tears were coming, that was for sure.
"My name's Anson Sharpe, kid. I'll shake your hand when we can untie you. And that," he looked to Henri, who had been outside the kid's bite range but was now receding to her spot next to the fire, "is Henrietta Sofia Villanova." He returned his attention to skinning the rabbit. "I used to call her Saida?Arabic for unfortunate one." He chuckled. "That was uh?well, before?" Struggling to pull the hide from the meat, there came a sickening squish noise later and then he was successful. He looked up, one hand covered in blood and the other holding the rabbit's pelt. "Guess that was before we really knew what unfortunate was, huh, Saida?"
"Don't call me that," she scolded.
"Which?" Anson asked back, knowing that she hated the name Saida a fair amount more than she hated her full birth name, which she shed shortly after their abandonment in the west.
There was no answer.
"Just call her Henri. Henri Ville!" he proclaimed. "Sounds westerny, American. Strong, sturdy. Henry Ville, queen of the western frontier."
Henri moved toward Anson - who had gutted the second rabbit and was in the process of skinning it - and she leaned over the small pile of intestines and guts on the ground to whisper, intently, "If you ever mock me again, I'll break your finger. Not your trigger finger, none too important. But I don't appreciate being mocked."
She stood up and looked from the man to the boy.
"We eat. We sleep. Tomorrow we rise before dawn and we head southwest."
"Southwest? Into open land?" Anson asked, shocked.
"We're missing someone," she answered.
"Oh, God! Would you get over it already? There's no going back. You need to get over it."
"Southwest is Injun territory," the boy spoke low, almost as if it were disobedient to speak.
"I didn't ask. Listen here," she spoke, her teeth gritted as if to stop a flood of verbal abuse from spewing past her lips. "We head southwest tomorrow. Indians or no Indians. Home or no home. We eat. We sleep. And we leave before dawn. Get over it." She repeated the words Anson had just used, words he used often under pressure, words she absolutely hated - she wasn't going to get over it, she was going to go straight-Goddamn-through it.
She stomped over to the boy, an accusatory finger pointed at his nose. He flinched, not out of anger but with the anticipation of being hit.
"You better get yourself straight 'cause we're travelin' as a happy family unit. Should save us some hassle."
T
he boy scoffed, disbelieving her sincerity in the plan-her hand was across his face before he had time to flinch, and she waited for him to recover before continuing.
"Your daddy locked you in a room and went off to do dangerous things with dangerous men and death ain't modest for no man, father or not. I may have left your medicine back in that room but you was worse off, weren't you? Ain't have no water in there, did you?" She pointed aggressively; the boy cowered. "Did you?"
"No?"
"No what?" she hissed.
"No, I ain't have no water in the room."
"You address me as 'ma'am' from now on, after everything you say. Got it? 'Yes, ma'am.' 'No ma'am.' Understand?" No answer; raised backhand. "Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You practically drank a gallon of water in the time you've been out. Dehydrated, emaciated-was there food in your room?"
"I?I don't rememb-"
"Was there food in your room? Did your wonderful daddy leave you food? Huh? Did dear ole' dad leave you so much as a sandwich, a-a-a cracker? Anything, when he locked you in a bedroom for who knows how long?"
"No?ma'am."
"Yeah. You're emaciated kid. Malnourished. Iron deficiency. Means you gonna stay small unless you start eating. Prolly die from your ailment. Surprised you ain't dead already."
The boy's eyes had been fearful to look into Henri's penetrating, intense gaze; as a sign of defiance, he glared up with a downturned chin, eyes as evil as a man awaiting the gallows, ferocious and without impress.
While joint, eyes locked, Henri continued in a solemn, haunting tone:
"How often he whip you? Use a belt, did he?" The boy didn't say anything, his eyes full of so much hate. "Yeah?did it mainly when he drank, right? Get that whiskey in him, beat on you 'cause you were weak. Hell, breathing issues - you're probably small for your age, aren't-"
"That's enough."
Anson had stood up, both hands at his side, a knife clasped in his right and both dripping blood. The muscles in his body were tense. There was a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire. Henri and the young boy continued their stare. The boy's face was drenched in as much hate as Anson's hands were blood. Henri gave a snort of detest and broke the stare, twisting to head toward the trees.
"Start cooking that meat. We got an early morning," she said, unzipping her pants as she strolled past the light of the fire and into the darkness.
VIII
The sound of an idiot woke her.
"Who you think these people are?" Coulson asked.
"Ask'em," Nashua answered.
The men were standing just outside the perimeter of the camp.
"Look'it, they tied that boy up to the tree."
"Hey!" the boy called to them. "Help me! Untie me! Get me out of here! She kilt my papa!"
Henri shot upright. Her bed had been too comfortable, the ground too soft, too cushioned?it was already past dawn. Anson wasn't anywhere to be found. And the boy wouldn't shut up from his makeshift bed against the tree. She stood and faced the two men.
"My son," she sighed, "I don't know why he keeps doing this to us. Lying, making up dirty lies. And my husband's gone off, I don't know where he went."
"What'n you say, boy?" Nashua asked, skeptical of both people.
The boy told an abbreviated version of the true story.
Coulson looked dumbfounded, scratching the top of his head where there was still a small tuft of hair that hadn't disappeared with the rest. Nashua had the cavalry rifle but had yet pointed it anywhere other than the ground. Both men studied the boy, then the female, then the boy again, their heads moving together.
"Just take a seat," she said, rationally. "My husband's out hunting an' he'll be back any minute and we can all have breakfast."
"Thought you ain't know where yer husband was?" Coulson asked.
Nashua lazily lifted the rifle to point at Henri's chest.
"This ain't yer real mama, boy?" he asked.
"No! God no!" the boy answered, pleading. "Help me! Untie me! Please!"
"I'm gon' ask you to remove them gun belts-slowly," Nashua told her.
Disappointment washed over Henri face.
"Gentlemen, you're making a mistake?" Henri said, trying her best to sound vulnerable as she undid the belts around her waist. They fell to the floor with a heavy thud while her hands remained on her waist band, holding her pants up.
"Keep them hands up," Coulson added with a snicker.
Henri raised her palms into the air.
Both men let out a disapproving sigh when her pants didn't fall down.
"You sure this here ain'tcher momma?" Nashua asked.
"Please! Just untie me!" the boy's pleading had lost some passion.
Coulson walked behind the tree and cut the binds holding the boy in place. Rubbing his sore wrists, the boy rose to his feet and cast a final contemptuous look at Henri, who stared back with something much calmer, more menacing?then Jonathon William Beckett the third was running through the forest in a direction he hoped would lead to Saintstown.
IX
Jonathon had only run a quarter-mile before he had to stop. His breathing had grown tight in his chest and he knew he couldn't run much further before it would become choking noises and a black out.
Slumped against a tree, the boy did his best not to act reckless.
Breathe, time?
His father had never been one to let him run?or play or attend learnin' or have friends?in fact, his father had never been one to let him do much of anything. They traveled to towns, sure, but near dinner time his father would lock him in his room (or any room, really) and venture out into the world: some nights he would come back alone, sober; some nights he would come back alone, drunk; other nights he brought back a lady and Jonathon would have to wait outside the door, where his father would use crude pieces of twain to tie both his hands to the banister. Oddly enough, those were his favorite nights, as the upstairs banisters in saloons and brothels had an overview of the comings and goings. These were the only times available for him to experience the company of strangers. ("All of them'er degenerate whores and any of 'em touches you, I'll whap you and them, whap 'em real good-and they know it, and now you know it," his father told him.) He also had a bird's eye view of all the card games, which often led to fights. He had even been there, in Saintstown, watching silently as Nashua leapt up, knocking over his chair, and pointed accusatory fingers at each of the people at the poker table; Jonathon's eye was sharp, and he noticed during the hands preceding the loud confrontation that it was Nashua who was cheating. In a stroke of genius, he was the first to make accusations and it forced the deputies to escort him out with all his unearned winnings.
None of this compared to the dulcet sounds of the piano, which was always his favorite. Up on the second floor, Jonathon would lean on the floor as best as he could get comfortable, his back against the wood and tied arms over his head, and he would bask in the blissful keystrokes of the piano (without a wall between!) though he'd eventually have to stand as the blood would drain from his arms.
And then there were the drunk nights-not the normal drunk, which was fine and often led to an immediate snack and sleep; no, the bastard drunk, the demon under whose spell his father fell once a week. That's how his father always described it: "I got a demon in me, boy, an' sometimes?sometimes that demon comin' out whether I wan' 'im to or not." During those bastard drunks, his father would whip him, reminding, "You ain't never gonna be a man, yuh weak sum'bitch."
Those were often the nights of the 7 lashings: each of the 7 lashes represented a sin committed by man, and each lash was in repentance of that sin, no matter the committer. His father often found himself under the demon sin Gluttony but, on rare occasions, he admitted to the sin of Lust with those "degenerate whores"; once he begged forgiveness for committing Envy and Pride, begging his son to let him "whip the demon out good an' fierce." Those were rare though, and most nights of the bastard drunk, his father's calm, mechan
ical voice could be heard beseeching God's forgiveness for the sins of man; his voice only rising to be heard over the wailing of his son and the thrashing of the belt as it sliced air and skin alike.
Alone in his room most nights, Jonathon watched the town inlet and the people mingling, riding up on horseback, shopping and passing through - to occupy his time he tried to make up stories about strangers but it never helped, it only furthered his boredom and sadness as every story he envisioned began:
One day, the stranger got the key to the room and left to visit the world?
Everything after that was blank; there was no material to draw from except the debauchery he witnessed from nights against the banister, and he was terrified to think of them lest a demon possess his soul and force him to sin.
The only place his father would take him was the church at Warminster Parish.
Several minutes passed before Jonathon had gained some strength and he was ready to continue running. Jonathon began again, his legs weak like jelly but this time at the start. Bad sign, he thought, but it wasn't long before, in the middle of the thin forest, Jonathon saw a familiar figure in black. Full sprint, ignoring his weak legs and tightening chest, Jonathon moved without caution as he had finally found hope?
X
Henri sat on the blanket, her legs crossed in front of her. On her lap was a cigarette pouch (snuck out of Anson's knapsack, as all of his stuff was still there) and she smoothed the curly, fibrous strands of dried tobacco leaves back and forth along the center of a thin piece of rolling paper; sliding it between her lips and along her tongue, then out of her mouth and quickly through the flame of the small campfire until the paper hardened into a crisp, sealed cigarette. Her bandana had long been removed and she enjoyed the shade of the trees.
I'm sure the boy'll find a nearby town, she thought and sighed. His escape had caused a rare moment of indecision in Henri, as she was distracted and unable to focus on anything except concern for the young boy who had run from her as if she were the devil.
Leaning in, she lit the tip of the cigarette and inhaled.
And where the hell is Anson?
Her guns had already been disassembled, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled. For breakfast she ate half a canister of cornmeal and diced oats. All that was left was to wait?she couldn't leave Anson as he was too important and none of this would work without him. No, she had no choice but to sit and wait for him to return.
Henri Ville Page 3