I knew it! Billy, you idiot!
Mr. Garrow turned his gaze on Billy, strolled over, and kicked him solidly in the ribs—once, twice, three times. Even over Billy’s yelps, I heard Billy’s rib cage pop. It was the same sound wood makes in a hot, hot fire. Billy went limp. Mr. Garrow stepped over Billy’s body, walked back to his horse, and tucked the printing plate into a saddlebag.
I stared at Billy, horrified. I’d held a rifle. I’d let him be hurt by that man.
Billy, move! Bile rose in my throat as I realized I could do nothing now.
Then Billy shifted. I gasped with relief.
A high, raspy voice called out: “She’s not at the creek.”
Bowler Hat. I pulled the rifle into my shoulder. Bowler Hat leaned over Billy. “What you do to him?”
Mr. Garrow ignored his question and pointed out at the meadow—my meadow. I distinctly heard: “Go and bring her in.” My heart stopped cold.
Through sawing breath, Billy’s voice came. He spoke loudly: “Leave her. She’s got a rifle—a repeater. She can shoot. She’s the best shot in our town.”
Bowler Hat jerked around. “You got a mouth. Haven’t you had enough?” he said.
“Roy, I told you to do something,” said Mr. Garrow sharply.
Bowler Hat glanced out at the meadow. “I’m not going into that meadow if she’s got a gun.”
“She’s a girl, Roy.” Mr. Garrow walked up to the edge of the meadow and squinted directly at my pile of boulders, his right hand over that revolver. I thought about my skirt lying on top of the rocks. Skirts don’t look like moss—never have, never will.
I knew what to do. I put my right eye to the sight of the gun and aimed the barrel at Mr. Garrow’s chest. As my finger hovered over the trigger, I saw how this would be: I would pull the trigger. One of my cartridges would leave this gun and rip into Mr. Garrow’s chest, blood blossoming on his shirt—a blue plaid shirt that looked slate blue from here. The big male, I thought. Once again there’d be blue and a rosy red. But this time it would be the blood of a man, and not a pigeon.
He deserved it—he killed Agatha, I thought.
My index finger wrapped around the trigger.
How can you be so sure? It was Agatha’s voice singing in my head as clear as any spring cardinal’s. It was what she had said on the bright blue February day.
I remembered the look on Mr. Garrow’s face upon seeing Agatha’s photograph. Now I recognized that look. Mr. Garrow looked confused. If he’d killed my sister, would he look confused? Mr. Garrow didn’t get angry with us either. The only time I’d seen him angry was when he discovered that Billy had taken his five-dollar counterfeiting plate, and then Mr. Garrow showed no hesitation in expressing it. Was I sure Mr. Garrow had killed Agatha?
There’s no forward or backward from dead, and no breath either. My own thoughts. Earlier. About someone else—a someone else who turned out to be my sister.
And look at all that had happened as a result of Agatha’s death. Wouldn’t it be the same for the Garrows? If Mr. Garrow died (shot dead by me), there’d be a useful woman without a husband. There’d be no father for at least three children. Maybe Mr. Garrow was lawless. Maybe he did not deserve life. But Agatha was right: Mr. Garrow’s living or dying could not be my decision. Why should my bullet be the one that punched his soul from his body and sent it barreling toward some eternal destination?
The thought of eternal destinations made me wonder about myself. Yes, I had given ample thought to the pain involved in dying, where my death might happen, how others would grieve, and what might be said at my funeral. (Who doesn’t think such thoughts?) But I had not thought about what would happen to me after death. Though I attended church regularly, I’d never been given to religious passions. Agatha was the one who saw God in the natural world, and who prayed with a fervor I found unimaginable. As for me, I had a hard time understanding how God could distinguish one Georgie Burkhardt from the myriads of thirteen-year-old girls with braided hair, brown eyes, and plain faces. If I had been sure that death was only a candle blown out, an endless oblivion as my body broke down and soaked into the earth, I would have found that a comfort. But now I was here—in this meadow with a gun, Billy tied up and hurting, and two bad men in our camp, both armed. In this situation, I found out that deep down I wondered if there might be a heaven and a hell and a capital-G someone waiting for me.
Spare me and we’ll talk. Please don’t let me die.
(I suspect I’m neither the first nor the last that has made bargains with God under trying circumstances.)
I was unsure. My trigger finger went loose. I would not kill. If a mosquito had landed on my neck then, I would have left that insect in peace.
That said, I did not lower the repeater. May I remind you that Billy was still tied to a tree? Roy Bowler Hat had a mean, corroded look. Additionally, Mr. Garrow stood at the edge of the meadow with his eyes glued on the split skirt laid over the top of the rock. His hand hovered like a prairie falcon over the revolver’s handle.
Billy said: “She never misses.”
Shut up, Billy! Shut up, I thought.
Mr. Garrow spun around. “Roy! No!” he said.
Suddenly I saw what Mr. Garrow saw. Bowler Hat swung the butt end of the Springfield rifle—clap, clap, clap—into his palm. He walked to Billy (who was bound to that white pine) and raised the butt end of the Springfield over Billy’s head.
I found my mark.
I shot.
I have never heard such a yelp.
I’d known as I took aim that I’d finish the Springfield. I did. The Springfield—my Springfield—flew from Bowler Hat’s hands, the butt end splintering. Sparks scattered as parts of it landed in the fire and began to burn.
Bowler Hat grabbed at his right hand and hit the ground on his knees, genuflecting up and down, his hands clenched as if in prayer—profane prayer, because he swore up and down the alphabet. “My thumb! My thumb’s gone!”
I pushed the lever. A used cartridge dropped and another one moved into its place. I was immediately well aware that I did not know how many cartridges were loaded. I was sure I had three or four, but after that? I did not know. I began to count. One shot gone.
Revolver-first, Mr. Garrow stepped into the meadow. I barely heard the bullet that whizzed over my head.
I pointed the rifle barrel at Mr. Garrow.
Remember how I’d placed the split skirt on the V of that cracked boulder? At that moment, the split skirt slid. Yes, it slid off the rock and hit me in the face. Everything—absolutely everything, including Mr. Garrow—disappeared from sight.
I flung the rifle barrel upward—an instinctual act. The split skirt flew up eight, maybe ten feet into the air. I guess Mr. Garrow felt twitchy too. Because from the middle of the meadow, Mr. Garrow twisted and fired one shot into the airborne split skirt. When the bullet hit it, the skirt crumpled into itself, flying farther backward.
While Mr. Garrow was aiming at my skirt, I was aiming at his gun hand.
I shot. Mr. Garrow’s revolver made a sound like a cheap dinner bell and flew out of his hand. This caused Mr. Garrow to lose his balance, and he fell into the tall grasses.
I pushed the lever. The used cartridge dropped and a fresh one loaded. Two shots gone.
Mr. Garrow spotted his gun in the grass, and scuttled for it on all fours.
I aimed at the ground between Mr. Garrow and that revolver, and pulled the trigger again. Three shots gone.
Mr. Garrow leapt backward.
But he made one more attempt to reach for the revolver. That’s when I finally stood up from behind that boulder, and I aimed for a spot of ground very near Mr. Garrow’s hand.
Mr. Garrow yelled as a bullet ricocheted off the ground in front of him. Four shots gone. He jumped up and half skipped toward his horse. “Let’s go. We got what we come for,” he said to Bowler Hat.
My heart pounded as I pushed the lever. Would there be another shot? I thought I heard something mo
ve into place, but this was not my gun. Its idiosyncrasies were unknown to me.
Bowler Hat was staring at me. “That’s no girl,” he said. He put his bloody clenched hands on something tucked in the back of his pants. It was the way he reached that made me know it was a pistol. My breath caught in my throat, but I brought my rifle around.
Please, I prayed. I took aim and squeezed the trigger.
The bowler hat popped off his head, revealing his balding pate.
Five shots.
Bowler Hat rubbed his head with his hand, covering his scalp with blood. I was sure he thought some of that blood was from his head, but I was convinced it was from his missing thumb. Anyway, all that blood confused him. He screamed as he ran for his horse. “That is not a girl! That’s a hoyden demon!”
I pushed the lever on the repeater and felt nothing move into place. I was certain it was empty now.
My heart leapt to my throat, but I willed myself not to show fear. I did not move. I did not speak. I held the Spencer on them.
From over the rifle barrel, I watched them leave. They left at a gallop.
When they were gone (though dust still hung in the air), I leaned over and vomited. Then I fell on my knees and retched again. I breathed a few unsteady breaths and stood up. When I stopped seeing stars, I ran to Billy.
Billy was bad off. I found my knife and sawed through his bindings. “You shot his thumb?” he said.
“I aimed for the gun. Try to get yourself up,” I said as I freed his hands. I knew several of his ribs were probably broken, but I needed his help to leave this place.
Hurry, hurry, faster, hurry, I thought. I’d humiliated Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat. They wouldn’t like being bested by a thirteen-year-old girl. (It’s not the kind of story one man can tell another.) I did not want to be here upon their return.
I reloaded that Spencer repeater with seven fresh cartridges and kept it nearby while I got us packed.
I prodded the charred and shattered Springfield rifle out of the fire. While there, I spotted The Prairie Traveler. All that was left was the spine. I took both because they were mine. I found the blue-green ribbon trampled on the ground. Mr. Garrow had failed to take it with him.
I paused to wonder at Mr. Garrow passing over evidence that suggested he had shot my sister. Why had he been so careless as to leave it behind?
Had he killed my sister? Maybe he hadn’t. Mr. Garrow had come after the five-dollar plate. That was all I knew.
I turned around and saw that Billy had gotten upright with the help of the pine, but he lacked the strength to do more than stand. A tall horse like Storm was out of the question, so I put Billy’s saddle on Long Ears and walked the mule to him. I hoped he could hoist himself aboard.
One of my last acts was to retrieve my split skirt. I ran through the tall grasses, remembering the Bechtler dollars I’d sewn into the waistband. I found the skirt twisted in some shrubbish wild sunflowers. I tugged it free, and felt for the five bumps in the waistband. The coins were still there. Then I held the skirt up to the sun and found two holes—the bullet had entered through one and exited through the other. I put an index finger in one of them. It was still warm.
Thank you, I thought-prayed as loud as I could.
That afternoon I knew what I needed to do. We needed to leave and Billy needed a doctor. Billy’s face had gone putty-colored.
Still, there was a decision to be made. See, Dog Hollow was the closest town. Dog Hollow would have a doctor. And I did not want to go to Dog Hollow. I knew who else knew how badly Billy needed a doctor.
I imagined that even reasonable people do not have difficulty recalling the person that cost them a thumb. Forget the vain reasons—Here comes Four Fingers!—a thumb is downright useful. Fingers alone? A clamp, not a hand. Additionally, consider how many of us start life sucking our thumbs. Chicken soup doesn’t render half the comfort of a thumb. I tell you, people like their thumbs. Might as well send an invitation for a personal vendetta. Never mind that it was an accident. I did it. I was a thumb shooter.
I suspected that Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat would wait for me on the road to Dog Hollow.
Billy and I could head back to Placid, but Placid had to be a journey of at least two days, and two days without a doctor would send Billy to his grave. You don’t turn the color of dust unless you’re returning to it.
As I saw it, I could choose between death for one of us (Placid) or a good possibility of death for me (Dog Hollow), since I’d be the one holding the gun in the shoot-out. I ask you, what kind of choice is that? Every time I thought the words “Dog Hollow,” I shook so badly I could barely hang on to the reins.
In desperation, I recited what I knew: I knew we couldn’t stay in the meadow. I also knew I didn’t have to decide which way to go until I found Miller Road. At Miller Road, I could choose between east (Dog Hollow) or west (Placid). Let Miller Road be my crossroads, I thought.
I was fidgety as we got moving. I’d tethered Long Ears to Storm and told Billy to hold the saddle horn. The repeater lay across my lap. (After that cougar, I did not trust myself to pull it from a holster.) I rode like some sort of ranger, with one hand on the reins, the other hand on the rifle.
I kept glancing back at Billy. He cringed with every one of Long Ears’ steps, even though we went slower than I thought wise.
* * *
The ride that followed goes on and on and on in my mind. It took work to find Miller Road. I did not have a map. I looped some.
Initially, Storm troubled me. I suppose I felt as light as a dried leaf to her. But what I didn’t have in weight, I made up for in will. I left little room for misunderstanding and Storm obeyed.
“Tell me one of Agatha’s stories,” Billy said, speaking for the first time in a while. So I told Agatha’s stories: the day the fox kits stole her glove; the story of the kingfisher chasing off a hawk by Cattail Pond. I told him everything I remembered of those last days with Agatha.
Then I told him the story of the old man who was visited by the white pigeon. I told the story fully, spinning it out further than Agatha had done: “As the white pigeon left, the old man peered out after it and saw that the sky was filled with birds. Two of every kind of bird on the whole earth waited for the white pigeon. There were big birds and little birds, long-necked birds and spindly-legged birds, birds with beaks like spoons and others with beaks like tweezers. Those birds came in every color too—green, purple, red, yellow, and orange. When the white pigeon joined them, all the birds flew up … up … up. Finally, the birds disappeared from sight and the old man stared at an empty blue sky.
“The wise old man stared into that empty sky until the blue turned black, all the while musing about those birds. When the moon came out, the old man got down from his stool, stretched his back, and went to deliver the white pigeon’s message. Then he returned home and slept.
“The next day the wise old man stepped outside his forest lodge. He looked up at the sky, remembered the visit by the white pigeon, and was filled with joy. He spread his arms wide and began to spin. He felt like he was flying. He threw back his head and laughed. Then he closed his eyes and spun: spinning, spinning, spinning. He spun until he lost his balance and fell.
“But here was something unexpected: as the man fell, he never struck earth. Instead, he heard whirring. He opened his eyes.
“And what do you think he saw? He saw birds. Birds, birds, birds—a wing, an eye, a beak. They flew so fast he could barely make them out. All around him was a feathered fabric weaving itself in and out. It seemed the birds were lifting him. Or perhaps he’d grown wings? One of his moccasins fell off, and the man watched it fall, seeing for the first time that the earth was far below. That should have scared him, but the wise old man felt no fear. What he felt was the heat of somewhere better warming the top of his head.
“Then a bird called to him. He answered! The birds’ language melted on his tongue like honey, and when he spoke it, it felt like laughter. Was he laughing?
Or was he calling?”
I stopped there. In front of me passed the Wisconsin River. Normally, I took joy in seeing those slow red waters. But this time I dreaded what came next.
“Won’t be long now, Billy. Miller Road has to be around here. Hang on,” I said. My heart started to beat furiously.
A minute or two later, I’d found Miller Road. I looked to the east. I looked to the west.
“Billy, tell me what to choose,” I whispered. I stared at the road, unable to urge Storm one way or the other.
I turned around in the saddle to look at Billy. Sweat ran down his face as he concentrated on hanging on to that saddle horn. Half dead, partially departed, one foot in this world and one foot in the next—that was Billy from the looks of him.
“Giddap, girl,” I said. Come what may, we were going back to Dog Hollow.
“What did you think of my story?” I said loudly to Billy. I said it only because I needed to think of something else besides the danger ahead. I did not expect a response.
But I got one: a thud.
Then: “Ungh.”
I turned and saw Billy had slipped off the saddle and fallen to the ground. His right foot was caught up in the stirrup.
“Billy?”
I no longer knew what to do.
I’m sure I do not need to tell you that it didn’t seem good that a man with broken ribs had fallen from a mule. I remembered that there was a section on building litters in The Prairie Traveler, but fire had reduced my guidebook and instruction manual to its spine. So I did what I could: I arranged Billy in a mostly flat manner. Billy sweated, shook, and spoke gibberish.
I had one last choice: to leave or to stay. If I left him to go for help, I imagined either animals or criminals would get him. If I stayed, he’d die—by the side of the road, in a nowhere place.
I would not let him die alone in a nowhere place.
So I sat by the side of the road, my ears listening for the hoofbeats of bad men coming, running my fingers up and down that Spencer repeater. I promised myself that when Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat came, I would shoot until I was dead.
One Came Home Page 14