He pushed harder. "Pain?"
"No."
The doc reached for his scalpel and pressed it into Zebulon's leg. "Feel that?"
"No."
"Odd." He probed harder. "How about that?"
"Nothin'."
"Do you remember getting shot?"
"I recall yesterday, and not much of that."
"The only cure is not thinking about it," the doc said, and left the room.
avs later, or maybe it was that afternoon, Zebulon stood in front of the photographer and his camera, wearing a clean shirt and pair of pants and a leather vest, all of which had been donated by a special fund of well-wishers.
"I guess you're aware of your reputation," the photographer said. "Everyone's talking about you. They might even appoint you mayor.
The camera's flash left Zebulon momentarily blind.
Working quickly, the photographer handed Zebulon a tomahawk. "Raise it like you're about to scalp someone."
When the camera's flash went off, Zebulon threw the tomahawk into the wall, missing the photographer's head by a few inches.
The photographer handed him a Mandan war club.
"Think about how many men you've killed, and how many want you dead."
Zebulon slammed the war club at a pillow, sending feathers flying around the room.
For his last shot, the photographer handed Elijah's rifle to Zebulon.
"Aim at the camera the way your Pa did when he came through the saloon door."
Another flash.
Zebulon lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, imagining that he was soaring over the town.
"Beautiful. Don't move." The photographer set up another shot of Zebulon sleeping. "Remain as still as a mountain. We're not only gonna make history, we'll make more money than you can imagine. More than any gold strike! I'll sell these pictures to newspapers, picture books, magazines. Seventy for me. Thirty for you."
Zebulon shook his head. "I want nothin' to do with that. All I want is to ride off and be forgot."
"Too late," the photographer said. "Your horse is out of the barn. There's a price on your head and they're singing songs about you from here to New York City If it was me, I'd make a dash for the cash."
"Fifty-fifty."
"Sixty-forty"
"All right," Zebulon agreed.
The photographer shook his hand, closing the deal, and went out the door.
ebulon sat in front of the window with his eyes closed, imagining a wooden bench stretching across an empty desert. Lost and bewildered men sat on either side of him, not knowing who or what they were waiting for, or running away from.
He didn't look up when the Sheriff opened the door.
"Tell me what to do with you?" the Sheriff asked. "People say you ain't worth the trouble, and that I should hand you over. Others say I should keep you around. You ask me, it would be easier to shoot vou."
"Your choice," Zebulon said.
"Not hardly," the Sheriff said. "They'd tar and feather me if I plugged you. And they'd be right. You saved the town and put us on the map. Last week Greasy Springs meant nothin' but cheap whiskey and worse grub. Now people come all the way from Hangtown and Mariposa to see that painting over the bar. Now we got entertainment - fiddlers, mouth organs, and accordion players. Shanty queens and floozies. Yesterday a woman came all the way from New Orleans. She sings like she's plugged into God's choir. We're big time, Mister Shook."
The Sheriff lit up a cigar, blowing a fat smoke ring towards the ceiling. "The other day another pilgrim come in, wantin' to buy the painting. Said he wants to haul it to San Francisco, the bar and everything on it, ship it to London and hang it in the biggest dance hall in the Western world. Of course, I didn't go for it."
He unrolled a newspaper. "Here's what they're saying about you in the state capital":
"Two weeks ago, rage, violence, and fear swept through the state capital when a band of desperate prisoners escaped from a prison ship anchored on the Sacramento River. The breakout was initiated by Zebulon Shook, the outlaw whose exploits have become so well known throughout the Far West. Shook was serving a twenty-year sentence for manslaughter. At the time of his escape, several other charges of bank robbery, horse theft, and murder were pending against him in Texas and Colorado.
"According to eyewitnesses, the breakout was the result of a simmering resentment that Shook harbored towards the prison's Warden, Major Ashton Bigelow A revered public figure who had just announced his intentions of running for governor, Warden Bigelow served in the army under Colonel John Prescott in the recent war with Mexico. A native of Boston, Warden Bigelow is a graduate of Harvard Divinity School.
"In the middle of the prison's evening roll call, Shook produced a revolver and stormed the officer's deck, seeking to kill Warden Bigelow. Unable to overpower Bigelow, who had barricaded himself inside his cabin, Shook jumped into the river and swam to shore, where several accomplices were waiting for him. In the chaos that followed, several other inmates overpowered the remaining guards, killing three and wounding four. Other prisoners managed to commandeer the ship's lifeboats and were last seen rowing down the river. Eight other prisoners, half of whom were females, made their way to the shore only to be captured the next day by troops sent out from the army garrison in Sacramento.
"Zebulon Shook, aided by his small band of desperadoes, looted and burned the Bigelow's house, killing the Warden's wife and son before riding off.
"Now that this dangerous outlaw is once more on the loose, citizens have one more reason to lock their doors at night. Local militia groups have joined the Warden in a concentrated effort to track down Zebulon Shook and bring him to justice."
The Sheriff folded up the newspaper. "I been tellin' folks that you've gone to Colorady or Texas, but one of these days some likkered-up fool will spill the beans. Then the law will ride in and string you up. You ask me, you're better off on the run."
The Sheriff paused at the door. "I never knowed a man as famous as you, and I hope I never will again."
hat night, Zebulon heard a song drift up from the saloon:
I he next morning he woke to find Delilah beside him, rubbing rose petals over his wounded heart.
Her fingers trailed across his stomach. Then lower.
"Where's Hatchet?" he asked.
"Waiting for us."
"Forget about Hatchet. We'll head to Mexico. Or north. It don't matter where."
She eased herself on top of him, straddling his waist and biting her lower lip as she felt him rise inside her. He closed his eyes. "You never sang about grace, and I didn't see you inside that hacienda, and you didn't head off the Warden so that I could ride free, and I never saw you before."
"That's true." She leaned down and kissed his throat, and ears, and eyes. "It was all a dream."
She arched her neck and maneuvered her hips over his, then leaned over and pressed her hands on both sides of his heart. Not moving, she joined her breathing to his until he calmed down, enough to let her guide him gently to another edge of himself, and then slowly reel him back again, a sensation that he had never experienced before. In the past he had always been the guide, the one who marked the trail, the one that was always in control, who came and went as he chose.
"Are we dreaming each other?" she asked.
"No." He thrust into her so violently that she screamed. "Now?"
"No," she whispered, guiding him back.
"Now?"
"Yes," she moaned. "Now."
Later that night, as they lay side by side, her voice was so distant that he had to hold her in his arms in order to hear her:
"A long time ago, in a faraway land, there was a girl who spent all her days playing by the side of a big muddy river. The girl had been born with special powers and knew how to speak to all the life forms that lived on the river, including fish, frogs, snakes, and insects, as well as several mischievous water spirits who considered themselves very special and in control of everything that went on.
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"One day, the girl made fun of the water spirits, telling them that she knew more about the river than they did and that they weren't doing a very good job of handling the floods and the greedy fishermen that were making the river a dangerous place. She advised them that if they knew what was good for them, they should consult her, as she possessed a special gift. The water spirits, most of whom were old and cranky, became angry with the girl's vanity and decided to teach her a lesson by placing a curse on her.
"The curse made the girl so afraid that for three years she was unable to leave her bed. One night in the middle of a thunderstorm, an old dwarf appeared in the village and told the girl's mother and father that she had been imprisoned in the shadowy realm that existed between life and death. To break the spell, the old man told the girl to stand by the river every night and pray for the water spirits to guide her back to life. Several months later, after listening to the girl's wild and hysterical songs, the river spirits finally agreed to lift the curse, but only if she accepted three conditions: that she never forget that she was an ordinary human being who could never understand the mysteries of nature; that she leave the village, the river, and her family behind; and that she never spend more than a few days in any one place. When the girl began to weep at her terrible fate, the river spirits took pity on her and told her that one day, after many adventures, she would meet a man in a strange and violent land who had also been imprisoned by a curse. If they had compassion for each other, they would have a chance to be released from their in-between worlds - even if it meant that one of them would die so that the other might live, and that a child would spring from her loins."
ater that morning, roused by a commotion of hooves and (shouts, they stood together at the window, looking down at the Warden who sat on his horse in front of the saloon, along with Stebbins and a ragged platoon of mounted soldiers and prison guards.
The Sheriff and the doc came out of the saloon, along with the photographer and a few whores and drunks who weren't ready to give up celebrating the birth of Shookville, as the town had been renamed.
"We know that Zebulon Shook was wounded when he took off from Sutter's Fort," they heard the Warden say. "And we know that he rode up here and raised all kinds of hell."
More people came out of the saloon to listen.
"Shook was here all right," the Sheriff said. "He came here to deal with his Pa after he killed three men and shot up the saloon."
The bartender spoke up. "If he hadn't done what he did, a lot of us would be dead and the saloon burned to the ground."
Incredulous, the Warden shook his head. "Are you saying that Zebulon Shook killed his own father? I find that hard to believe."
"If he hadn't killed him, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you," the doc said. "And I'm not the only one."
"That's right," said a voice from the crowd. "He saved our bacon."
"The man is a saint," said one of the whores.
"Where is he now?" Stebbins asked.
"Dead, most likely," the Sheriff said, "or if he ain't, he's in Colorado or Mexico."
"He shot a man called Plug," the doc said to the Warden. "I think he was one of your prisoners."
"I took a photograph of Zebulon Shook holding his dying father in his arms," the photographer added. "If you like, I'll show it to you."
The Warden dismounted and walked up to the steps of the saloon, then turned to address the crowd. "Let me make this very clear to you people. Zebulon Shook is an outlaw He has caused damage and suffering across the entire state. Because of him, innocent people have died, including my own wife and son. This man lives with the devil on his shoulder. Anyone found harboring him or withholding information about his whereabouts will be arrested."
When no one spoke up, the Warden pushed his way into the saloon.
On the street, Stebbins pulled the photographer aside. "My newspaper will pay a good price for your photographs. I've been filing reports on Zebulon Shook since the start of his outlaw career. I came out to California with him and wrote my first dispatch about him for The Nenz' York Herald and two Philadelphia papers. I know more about Zebulon Shook than any man alive."
The photographer was interested. "I'll take your portrait where the shoot-out happened. You can stand in front of the bullet holes and the busted tables, none of which have been removed. You pay me if you send a picture to your paper."
"Of course," Stebbins said as they walked into the saloon. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
he Sheriff and the Warden will make a deal." Zebulon said as they struggled into their clothes. "Then they'll bust down the door and shoot us."
As if to verify what he said, there was a shot from the saloon, then another, followed by a scream.
Halfway down the hall, he hesitated.
"North," Delilah said, as they hurried down the stairs two at a time.
Then they ran for a stand of trees, where Delilah had horses waiting for them.
'HEY RODE BENEATH A COLD SHIVER OF METALLIC STARS, their horses' hooves thudding over the black earth. Before dawn they reached a lean-to, a strip of canvas nailed between two oak trees. In front of the lean-to, three saddled horses were hitched to a log near the remains of a small fire.
Hatchet Jack stumbled towards them, pulling on his pants and reaching for a gun-belt hanging from a branch.
He looked at Delilah. "I figured you and him for old Mex."
"He wanted to. I didn't," she said.
Hatchet Jack pointed to Elijah's otter cap pulled over Zebulon's forehead. "I know that bonnet."
"Pa's dead," Zebulon said. "He got himself shot."
Hatchet Jack turned away, kicking dirt on the fire. "It was gold that done it, that and leavin' the mountains."
Hatchet Jack disappeared into the lean-to. He came out carrying his rifle and two saddle bags that he cinched over a horse.
"I should have left you in that ditch," he said. "It would have saved me and everyone else a lot of trouble."
"Who's leavin' who in what town?" Large Marge said, swaying out of the lean-to.
She slowly hoisted herself onto a horse. "I guess you know they're comin'. But I ain't stayin' to find out."
She galloped off, followed by Hatchet Jack.
Delilah walked over to her horse, then stopped, looking back at Zebulon.
"Go with them, if that's what you want," he said.
"I was thinking we should head for Mexico," she suggested.
"I'm finished with all of that," he said. "And maybe with you, too."
"If only that was true," she said, mounting her horse and riding after the others.
He sat down against the trunk of an oak tree waiting for her to return.
,Quien es? he asked himself.
The answer was a confusion of voices that sounded like marbles poured over a dishpan.
He waited through the morning for the voices to stop. When they became louder and even more confused, he rolled on the ground, pounding his fists on the earth.
Quien es? he asked again.
Finally he got up and rode after Hatchet Jack and Delilah. After a few miles, he became worried about falling asleep in the saddle. The last thing he needed was to wake up inside a dream that wasn't his.
Dreaming was easy, he thought. Being dreamed was the problem.
E FOUND THEIR CAMPFIRE AT THE FAR END OF A NARROW ravine. It was dark. The air was cool from a recent rain and the wet earth smelled of pine cones. Halfway into the ravine, he dismounted and hitched his horse to a stunted pine tree rooted in a boulder.
An owl hooted and he answered with a long mournful twonote. When a sharp pain exploded through his chest, he dug his fingers into the earth and bit his lip until he tasted blood. Again, the owl hooted, this time from a lower branch. "Shook!" the owl screeched: "Shooook... Shooook... Shooook!"
When he stumbled into the camp, everyone was asleep.
He lay down next to Delilah, who was sleeping on the other side of the fire next to Hatchet Jack,
her head on his chest, one arm around his shoulder.
He hesitated, looking from Hatchet Jack to Delilah, then placed a hand on the small of her back, inhaling the scent of her musty mud-caked hair.
"I knew you'd come," she said, not opening her eyes.
He hesitated, looking over at Hatchet Jack. "Maybe it's too late."
"Maybe you should find out," she replied.
She didn't resist when he slipped off her pants.
As he entered her, she pulled her arm away from Hatchet Jack, whose mouth was stretched open as if in rigor mortis.
"Don't move," she instructed as she let him settle into her, breathing with him until he felt a pressure rush up his spine, followed by waves of pulsating heat.
The sensation over, he felt suddenly abandoned, as if he was falling towards the waves of a dark turbulent sea. Come closer, the towering waves howled, closer to - There was no way of knowing what waited for him. When he opened his mouth, he was no longer breathing. He imagined his lungs full of water, and the more he struggled to breathe, the more he felt fear overwhelm him.
He prayed to Wakan Tanka and to all the spirits who live and dance where the sun goes down, who take care of all the in-between creatures trapped in all the waters of the world. The old people were talking to him. His Ma and Pa were calling out to him and to the two-headed eagle who lives where the giant supports the world on his shoulders; they were all calling for him.
"Hee-ay-hay-ee," he called, the cry loud enough to wake the others. "Hee-ay-hay-ee-ee!"
When he opened his eyes, Hatchet Jack was leaning on an elbow looking down at them, his Colt .44 pointed at Zebulon's forehead.
"Ain't you carryin' this ride too far, little brother?" he asked, with a curious half-amused smile.
Zebulon recognized the Colt that he had carried when he had been shot in the saloon and thrown into the arroyo.
"I didn't steal it," Hatchet Jack said. "And I didn't take it off a dead man. Not my style. The Colt was on the table. Since You weren't around, I figured it might as well be mine."
The Drop Edge of Yonder Page 18