Testament

by David Morrell

  But while the river was almost soundless, more like a whisper than anything else, it was wide and swift and deep, and they rode down along it, looking for a ford. To the left there were tumbled cabins among the trees. Farther down there were logs set out to form the foundations of cabins that had never been built. Then they came to a pale cracked listing wagon, the spokes of its crumbled wheels splayed out beneath it. They circled it, reaching a place in the river where rocks and silt and gravel had gathered enough to form a ford, crossing it, the water knee-high on the horses, spotting a huge rusted metal pan down there under the water.

  For a moment he was afraid that the wide motion of the water would spook the horses, make them rear up and try to dump them, maybe Sarah, but then before he expected they were across and he was feeling easier out in the bright open of the meadow away from the trees. He stopped to let the horses drink, something he knew he should have done earlier but that his feeling in the woods had not let him. The horses drank until he had to force them back, fearing they’d get sick. Then looking at the tall green grass of the meadow, so unlike the scrub grass of the sheep desert or any other grass that they had come through, he imagined how obvious the path that the horses would make through it would be from the air. Deciding to stay along the riverbank, he noticed the rusty head of a shovel, its handle long since rotted away. He reached a road that angled off to the right through the grass toward the town, the grass barely ankle-high on the horses, mixed in with patches of dust and the vague outlines of wheel ruts, and if the town was as old as the cabins he had seen in the trees behind him, the road shouldn’t still have been here, let alone the town itself.

  It was about a hundred yards ahead of them, the buildings mostly low and slant-roofed except for the two-story buildings down both sides of the main street. There were occasional shacks now, and then they reached the outskirts, and the buildings were listing, their doors rotted off their hinges, windows broken, but they weren’t made of logs like the cabins on the other side of the river. Their wood was flat and even-planed, and there were wooden sidewalks propped up over the dirt of the street, and there was the tall spire of a church down at the far end, and if the planks now were warped and cracked and the sidewalk partially collapsed and the crucifix on the spire snapped dangling, it was obvious that once there had been a good deal of pride in their making. MARERRO, a sign said, blown down into the middle of the street. The word was etched deeply into the wood. And below it, POPULATION 4000, the number almost indiscernible, slashed out, “350” cut awkwardly under it. They passed a candy store, a tobacco shop, a drugstore, two laundries, one directly across from the other, a barber shop, a dry goods store, their signs fallen down in front of their doors or still painted neatly on a few surviving windows. They were halfway through town before he stopped them and looked around and finally dismounted.

  MARERRO HOUSE, a sign said in front of the biggest building. It was wider than the rest and taller with a false front of wood on top of its two stories. There were big dusty windows on both sides of the double door, a row of smaller ones on the second story, a balcony jutting out,. Hitching his horse to the rail in front, he stepped onto the sidewalk toward the entrance. There wasn’t any sound at all now, not the creaking of signs in the wind or the whistling of a breeze through broken windows, nothing, so that when his foot cracked through the sidewalk, the noise was startling. He thought irrationally of snakes and yanked his foot out, ripping his pant cuff.

  “Christ,” he said, and the word was like dust in his mouth.

  He tested the boards this time before he put any weight on them, walking carefully across, the wood bending under him. He opened one of the double doors, then an inner door, and looked in. The bar took up the whole left wall, a dusty cobwebbed mirror behind it, a dull copper railing along the bottom for a foot rest, cuspidors in the middle and at each end. There were tables and chairs in the middle, some with bottles and glasses still on them, the chairs pushed back as if people had only a moment ago stood and left them. A dance-hall stage against the back, a piano in one corner of it, dusty ragged red velvet curtains bunched together on both sides, a stairway along the right wall that disappeared up through a break in the ceiling to the second floor.

  Marerro, he thought to himself, turning to Claire and Sarah in the street, saying, “It’s all right. We can go on in,” his words like dust again. He entered, glancing at the candle-studded wagon-wheel chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He followed the path of light until it ended in the middle of the room.

  “Open the other door,” he told Claire as they came in behind him, and the extra light showed the thick dust on the tables and the bottles and the glasses. And on the floor, he noticed, seeing behind him where he had made tracks through the dust to where he was standing.

  He went over to the stage, floorboards creaking under him, examining the burned-down candles that had been set along the rim with metal reflectors behind them for foot-lights. Marerro, he thought again, Claire and Sarah coming behind him. “Who the hell or what was Marerro?”

  12

  “He was a Mexican,” a voice said behind him.

  It paralyzed him. For a moment he couldn’t move or breathe or anything, and then something snapped and he was turning, gun drawn, but Claire and Sarah were in the way, and as he lunged to the right, crouching, aiming, he saw the tall grizzled white-haired old man standing in the open doorway pointing the shotgun at him, and the big dog beside the old man was braced, its teeth bared to leap, and the old man was saying, “Hey now, sonny. Point that gun the other way. I’ve no doubt you could hit me, but my fingers are solid on these triggers and before I dropped I’d hit you too and if that didn’t finish you the dog surely would, so just point that gun the other way.”

  But he didn’t. He just kept crouching, aiming, his finger tensing on the trigger, and the old man was saying, “I could sic the dog on the little girl. Then you wouldn’t know where to shoot first, and I could drop you for sure. Come on, it’s a standoff. Point the gun the other way.”

  But he still didn’t move, tensed, hand shaking, and the old man was staring at him nervously, suddenly shrugging, lowering the shotgun, uncocking the hammers, setting it against the wall inside the door. “All right, if it’s up to me to make the first move, there, I’ve done it. Now it’s your turn.”

  He relaxed a little. “What about the dog?” It was still braced to leap, and all the old man had to do was say “Hush” once and the dog was immediately down on its stomach.

  He relaxed even more, straightening, breathing.

  “I’m not asking you to put the gun away or anything,” the old man said. “Just point it the other way.”

  And he finally did, uncocking it, lowering it by his side.

  The old man grinned, showing jagged yellow teeth. “That’s the stuff, sonny. The way your hand was shaking, I was sure we were both dead where we stood.” And then he started laughing, his mouth a gaping hole in his face. His skin had passed beyond the wrinkle stage, the flesh under it eaten up, so that it had smoothed out and conformed now to his jawbones and cheekbones and forehead, gaunt and sallow like the perfectly preserved face of a mummy, and his ragged pants and shirt and jacket hung loose on him as if the flesh underneath them were gone as well, leaving only bones and skin, and his laugh was high-pitched and cackling.

  “Yes sir, both dead where we stood,” he abruptly finished. “Marerro was a Mexican. He came up here and found a twenty-three-pound gold nugget. When the rest of them came up here to strike it rich just like he did, he told them he knew where there was country around with nuggets just as big as the first, so when they built this town they named it after him. Then they caught him messing with a white woman and they lynched him and afterward they felt so bad about losing all that gold that they kept the town named after him anyhow. It got to be a kind of joke.”

  “You make it sound like you were here.”

  “Almost, sonny. But the town was built in 1879 and I might be old but not tha
t old, not quite. I read all about it in the records at the courthouse. That’s just down the street. Your little girl not feeling well, is she?”

  Sarah was slumped in a chair at one of the tables, a dusty bottle and glass incongruously before her, her face puffy and pale, her eyes drooping, dull.

  “The altitude made her sick.”

  “It’ll do that all right. But not down here. In a while down here she’ll be as good as gold. How you feeling, sweetheart?” the old man asked, starting over, and the dog moved to follow, and the old man said “Hush,” making the dog sitt back where it was. “That’s just so you don’t get any more nervous,” the old man told him, continuing over. “I don’t want you to start shaking again like you got the palsy.” Then he laughed again, and Sarah drew back from him when he reached the chair. “That’s all right, sweetheart. You’ve got nothing to fear from me. It’s been so long that I just want to look close at a little girl. What’s your name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah, eh? That’s a nice name. I knew another little girl named that once, and her mother was named that too, but it’s been so long now that I can’t remember either face. Except they were pretty. I remember that much at least. Just like you. How old are you, Sarah?”

  “Eight.”

  “That’s the best age to be. Don’t ever be anything else. I remember once when I was eight. That was with my father on farm in California. I had a dog like that one over there but not so big. Did you ever have a dog?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Would you like to see this one?”

  She thought a moment and shook her head yes.

  “Would it be all right?” the old man turned and said to him.

  He didn’t know.

  The old man waited.

  “All right, yes.”

  “You’re sure now? You’re sure now even with that gun in your hand that you can trust me?”

  “No, but you can show the dog anyhow.”

  The old man grinned and whistled. The dog came immediately over. It was dark and square-faced and massive, its face taller than the table, and Sarah shrank back from it.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Just hold out your hand and let him sniff you.”

  Sarah hesitated. Then slowly, uncertainly, she held out her hand. The dog sniffed her fingers once and licked them, then stood at attention beside the old man.

  “There now, you see,” the old man said, patting it. “There was nothing to worry about.”

  Sarah was sitting up straighter now, looking curiously at it. “What’s his name?”

  “He doesn’t have a name. I never got around to it. I just call him Dog.”

  The animal’s ears perked up.

  “I found his mother up here wandering in the woods. A German shepherd. Likely separated from a hunter or maybe just gone wild. Anyhow I mated her with a wolf and this was the only pup but dog enough for a whole litter. His mother froze to death two years ago. You been vomiting, Sarah?”

  She nodded.

  “Got pains in your stomach and lower?”

  She nodded again, flinching as he raised his hand.

  “Take it easy, Sarah. I just want to feel your forehead.” And then to him, “You’re sure now you won’t mind?” The old man was grinning those yellow teeth again. “You’re sure now you won’t shoot me or anything?”

  He didn’t answer, and the old man cupped his hand over her forehead. “Her temperature’s too low. You been giving her salt?”

  “As soon as I could.”

  “Well, that’ll help some, but you need something more. You’ve got to get more liquid in her and make it stay.”

  “She’ll only bring it up.”

  “Not if she drinks what I give her. She’ll keep that down all right.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Come on down to my place at the end of the street, and I’ll show you.”

  “We like it here.”

  “Oh, do you now? I never liked this place much myself. The guy who ran it. Couldn’t stand him. Always liked the hotel at the other end. Got a nice setup there. Room to myself and everything.”

  “You just said you weren’t old enough to be here when the town was alive.”

  “Did I? Well, there’s no two ways about it, is there? This way or that, I must be mistaken.” And then the old man grinned again and looked around at the place and said, “Maybe you’re right. A person shouldn’t be set in his ways. It’s a sign of age. Just this once I’ll make an exception.”

  He started for the door.

  “Wait a minute. Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think? Down to my room to get my stuff. Don’t tell me you want to come along.”

  “I think I’d better.”

  “Well I wish you’d make up your mind. One second you don’t want to come, the next you do. You’d better watch it or you’ll get all mixed up.” The old man reached to pick up his shotgun.

  “No.”

  “How’s that, sonny?”

  “The shotgun stays here.” Keeping a distance from the old man, he went over to the shotgun and picked it up.

  The dog stiffened and growled.

  “Hush now,” the old man told it, grinning. “Sonny here’s just being careful. No need to get excited.” And he kept on grinning all the while he took the shotgun over to Claire.

  “Forget the pistol I gave you. If anybody comes in, use this. Don’t let the kick worry you. The other guy will feel it a lot harder than you do.”

  “Somebody else?” the old man asked. “Is that what’s got you bothered? You think I’ve got somebody else here with me and while we’re gone, he’ll come in here and—”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, your instincts are good. I’ll say that for you. But like I keep telling you, there’s nothing to worry about. The whole reason for living up here in the first place is to stay away from people. You don’t think if I wanted company I’d be living up here, do you? With you three here, the place is too crowded for me already. If I thought you were going to be here for any length of time, I’d need to make plans for moving on.”

  “Just the same.”

  “Oh sure,” the old man said. “No hard feelings. I’d do the same myself.” And with that he was walking out the door, the dog following, him stopping just once more to turn and tell him, “But your daughter isn’t getting any better while we stand around and talk about it. Let’s get moving. You’ve got horses to stable. It’ll be dark soon.” And with that the old man was gone.

  He followed him out onto the sidewalk.

  “The stable’s just down here a ways,” the old man told him, walking down the street, the dog beside him.

  Unhitching the horses from the rail, he continued following.

  “What are you doing up here anyhow?” the old man asked.

  “Camping.”

  “Sure. With no tent and no pack horses.”

  “We only planned to stay up here a few days. We got lost.”

  “Sure. With the outline of those maps and compass bulging in your jacket pocket.”

  “I don’t know how to use them as well as I thought.”

  “In which case you would have wept for joy at seeing me instead of pulling your gun. No, those pads tied to your horses’ hooves and everything, you’re on the run all right. Hell, the way you came in here, a person lost would never have gone in through those breaks in the cliff. You went in there deliberately. To throw somebody off.”

  “I told you we’re lost. My little girl got sick, and I took a chance on a shortcut to get down out of here. The town’s not on the map anyhow. What would have been the point of deliberately trying to make it through those breaks in the cliff if I didn’t think they were going to take me anywhere?”

  “I must be having trouble with my ears. A minute ago I was sure I heard you say that you didn’t know how to read a map.”

  That stopped him. He stood motionless where the main street
was cut across by a narrow side street, a restaurant on one corner, dust and scrub grass all around, and the old man went on a few more feet before he realized he wasn’t being followed.

  “Anyway, of course the town’s not on the map,” the old man stopped and said. “It’s never been on a map. They put it up so fast and left it so fast that nobody ever really knew it was up here. The stable’s just down the street a ways.” He pointed halfway down the block to the left. “Those pads are all ripped to hell anyhow. The horses will be glad to get them off.”

  They angled toward the stable, its big doors pinned open against the walls on both sides, the stalls slanted with sunlight in there. A thick smell of sawdust and rotted grain and must hung in front of the doorway. Feeling the same uneasiness he had felt in the forest, he stopped again.

  “What is it?” the old man asked.

  “You first.”

  “No matter.” Snapping his fingers for the dog to follow, the old man went in.

  He hesitated, trembling, and went after him.

  13

  The must filled his nose, choking him. There were ten stalls on each side, half of them tumbled over, the worn board floor littered with dust and straw so dry it turned to powder as he walked. He tied the horses to the first rail he came to. Ready with his gun, he ducked into the second stall on the right, staring up at the hayloft across from him.

  As much as he could tell, there wasn’t anyone.

  He dodged across to the left, checking out the loft on the right as well. He hurried past all the stalls, looking in at them. He went over to a ladder that was built onto a thick post. After testing its rungs, he climbed to check the far corners of the loft. Still no one.

  “You’re really something, you know that?” The old man chuckled, looking up at him.

  He didn’t answer. Halfway down, a rung snapped, and he barely stopped from falling.