He made a sound like he’d just tasted something delicious. “Helpin’ others find their way. This a good thing you’re doin’, ma’am. A good thing.”
Culpability crept close in the lingering silence, and Elizabeth tried to think of something to say to fill the gap. The way he said it made her seem so noble, when she was anything but. Part of her wanted to tell him the truth about her coming here, but the greater part of her was afraid to for some reason.
“I’m guessin’ you and me’s more alike than we thought, Miz Westbrook.”
That brought her attention back. “And how’s that?”
“It was a paintin’ I seen of a place out here that first set my sights west too.”
“Really?” Relieved at the turn in conversation, her interest was also piqued. “What was the name of the painting?”
“Didn’t have a name that I recall. I seen it in a store window, years back now. Came back there every day just to look at it. I’d stand and stare at them colors. Never in my days had I seen land bucklin’ up so high in the sky. And the color of the water . . .” He let out a soft whoop. “They ain’t got no water that color back in Georgia, to be sure.”
“You’re from Georgia, then?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’s born in Atlanta, but I lived lots of places since those days. Before the war, I’s in the Carolinas and Tennessee mostly. After that, I’s all over. Wherever I wants to go, I go.”
“Do you have any family out here?”
He looked skyward. “I reckon all my family’s up there with your mama by now. Don’t rightly know for sure, though. Weren’t no records kept of where they sent us.” His voice changed. It grew quieter, more flinty. “You just wake up one mornin’ and they’s loadin’ you up. Then you’s gone.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was referring to, and the pain in his voice brought one to her chest. Something he’d said not long ago came to mind. About the worst thing in his life already having been done to him. “Josiah, you once said you’d already had the—”
He suddenly brought his arm out, impeding her progress. “What done happened here . . . ?”
She followed his line of vision to a point farther up the trail. To where a man lay motionless, his body half hidden in the brush.
16
You stay here, ma’am, while I go check this out.”
As Josiah approached the body, Elizabeth quietly followed behind, peering to one side so she could keep an eye on the man. He was clothed in dungarees, a wool shirt, and boots, pistol at his hip, and the upper half of his body lay sheltered beneath a low hedge of scrub brush. He didn’t move as Josiah stood over him, nor as Josiah knelt and checked his wrist.
“Is he breathing?” she whispered.
Josiah spun, his eyes wide. “I done told you to wait over there. You ain’t a listenin’ woman for nothin’!”
Unable to argue with him, she stayed silent.
Frowning, Josiah licked his forefinger and held it beneath the man’s nose. “No, ma’am, he ain’t breathin’ . . . cuz he’s dead.”
Elizabeth took a backward step. She’d seen dead bodies before but never one so . . . newly dead. New being measured not so much in time as in the lack of a coffin and a mortician’s touch. She scanned their surroundings, wondering if they were truly as alone as it seemed. Thick brush and evergreens lined the trail on either side, and the path ahead curved up and around, making it impossible to see for any distance. The trail was dirt and rock, like every other trail they’d traveled so far. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
She laid her pack aside. There were no external wounds on the body that she could see, and his pistol was still fastened at his hip. “How do you think he died?”
“Do I looks like a doctor, ma’am?” Josiah rose, and his voice rose with him. “I ain’t got no idea how this man passed. All I know is that he’s gone!”
Elizabeth stared at him, unaccustomed to his speaking to her in such a manner. Then she looked from him to the man and back again. “Did you know him, Josiah? Was he a friend?”
His jaw muscles tightened. “I knowed him . . . in a way, but he weren’t no friend.”
“What was his name?”
“Don’t know that neither.”
“So in what way did you know this man?”
“I met up with him at the livery a while back, when I’s workin’ there. Month or so before you come to town.” Josiah’s features were tense. “He come in looking for Mr. Atwood—man who owns the livery. Man’s wantin’ to buy a horse. ‘Mr. Atwood ain’t in,’ I says. ‘You come back this noontime. Mr. Atwood be happy to deal with you then.’ ” Josiah shook his head. “But he already got his mind made up, and he been drinkin’. You could smell it on his breath. He had a meanness to him. You could tell it in the way he walked, the way he looked at you. He went on over to a stall, started messin’ with one of Mr. Atwood’s stallions. Rilin’ him, yellin’, gettin’ all the animals worked up. Drawin’ a crowd from outside. I asked him kindly to leave and come back later. But he wouldn’t.”
Elizabeth compared the dead man’s build to that of Josiah’s and found there was no comparison. The dead man was thick around his middle but was a good half foot shorter, and his arms and legs lacked muscle and were bony, like an old man’s.
“He walked from the stall and picked up a hammer. He waved it at me. I says, ‘I don’t want no trouble with you, sir.’ Then he looks down and sees he done stepped where an animal been. ‘Pick it up,’ he tells me, pointing to the pile. So I turn to get a shovel and he says, ‘No, nigger, you pick it up with your hands.’ ”
Elizabeth burned inside as the scene unfolded in her mind.
“I go to get the shovel and somethin’ hard hits me in the back of the head, knocks me down. I reach back and feel my own blood. He’s still goin’ on behind me, talkin’ foolishness. I stand up and tell him we done fought a war over this and that I ain’t fightin’ it again with him. ‘Mr. Lincoln signed something sayin’ that,’ I told him. But this man . . .” He scoffed, looking down at the dead man. “He says he don’t give a—” Josiah closed his mouth. “His tongue had a foulness to it, ma’am. Showed what poison there was eatin’ at him on the inside. He says he don’t care ’bout Mr. Lincoln or the war, that a nigger will always be a nigger. And now look at him.” He sighed. “Maybe not right away, but in the end . . . a man always gets back what he gives.”
“Did he come to the livery again? Bother you in any way?”
“No, ma’am. But Mr. Atwood let me go after that, sayin’ he don’t want no more trouble at his place.”
A bitter tang filled Elizabeth’s mouth. “As if what happened was your fault.”
“Don’t always matter whose fault it is. Things is the way they is, and you just live each day with what comes.”
She didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry seemed empty and inappropriate. It was the dead man who should have offered apology. But if ever there had been a hope of his doing that, it had gone to the grave with him. Or soon would.
She reached out and touched Josiah’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, then walked back to retrieve her camera pack where she’d left it. Josiah stood over the body, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. Then something went through hers.
She looked at the dead man, then at the evergreens and the Maroon Bells rising in the near distance. If she were to back up a ways . . .
No, she couldn’t. It wasn’t right. Even thinking about taking this photograph felt wrong.
She thought back to the day Ranslett had killed the bull elk, and of her regret afterward over not having captured the image for Wendell Goldberg. But this was a man, not an animal, however vile his behavior, or his heart, had been. Wondering what Goldberg would do, Elizabeth found she already knew. If he were here, Goldberg would have already had the tripod set up and the article half written.
She knelt and began unpacking her satchel. She heard the crunch of gravel.
“What you
doin’, Miz Westbrook?”
“I’m going to take a photograph.”
“Of a dead man?”
Disbelief laced his tone, but it was all right. She couldn’t believe she was doing it either. “Of life in the Rocky Mountains.”
“Looks more like death in the Rocky Mountains to me.”
She started cleaning a glass plate, wondering if she would have to set up the dark tent herself. She couldn’t explain it, but this photograph felt outside the boundaries of Josiah’s obligation to her, so she would set up the dark tent herself if she needed to. But she wouldn’t ask him to do it.
“Why would a good Christian woman like you want a picture of a dead man?”
“It’s not just a picture of a dead man.” Elizabeth found herself moving faster than she normally did. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was nervousness over what—or who—had killed this man. But she wanted to get the picture taken and leave. “It’s a lesson about reaping what you sow. Isn’t that what you said a moment ago?”
She watched his worn boots in front of her and felt his stare, but she kept her head down. He shifted his weight. The leather on his right boot was worn clean through on one side. The other one would soon match it. How had she not noticed that before?
It seemed as if they stayed that way for a while, and she had the words on her tongue to excuse him from the task when he turned and strode back to Moonshine. Wordlessly they worked, Josiah setting up the tent and arranging her light-sensitive solutions. And she preparing the glass plate and adjusting the camera’s placement and focus.
She ducked into the tent and finished preparing the glass plate by candlelight, then reemerged. She peered through the viewer of the camera one last time—checking the position, the view of the body—and adjusted the rear focus knobs to bring the man’s image into clearer focus.
She fitted the light-protective holder into place within the camera, removed the slide and the lens cover, and started her silent recitation. The words to President Lincoln’s address were especially meaningful in view of what Josiah had just shared. The sun slipped behind a bank of clouds that hadn’t been there a short while ago, so she repeated the last half again to allow for a longer exposure time.
An hour later they had everything repacked on the mule and the glass plate was developed and dry, aided by a wind that had kicked up. Elizabeth swathed the plate in cloth and placed it in her pack.
Josiah started toward the body.
“What are you doing?”
He paused over the man. “I’s gonna carry him back down the mountain to our horses. We got to take him into town and let the sheriff know.”
“Yes, but . . .” Elizabeth glanced up the trail. “Can we not first go see if Mr. Coulter’s home? You said yourself his cabin should be just over the ridge.”
“You aim to leave this man out here all by his lonesome?”
“No, not for long. Just for a little while. Or you can stay here with him and Moonshine, and I’ll go on by myself. It shouldn’t take me long.” She didn’t like the second option and was relieved when his expression revealed the same.
Elizabeth pounded on the door to the cabin. “Mr. Coulter?” She walked to a window and tried to see inside, but dirt caking the panes prevented it. “Hello?”
“I don’t think he be home, Miz Westbrook.”
She rounded the cabin for a quick peek out back and stopped to stare. Through an opening in a stand of aspen trees, she saw a large meadow extending for at least a half mile before gently folding itself back into the foothills, ample space for a resort hotel with all the amenities. If she remembered the placement of this meadow on the surveyor’s map correctly, then Daniel Ranslett’s land began just over the next ridge.
A gust of cold wind sent her retreating behind the protection of the cabin, and she retraced her steps to the front. She knocked one last time and unlatched the door. Though Josiah said nothing, she felt his disapproval as she stepped inside.
If this was Mr. Coulter’s main residence, he was certainly a frugal man. And not one prone to cleanliness. An assortment of smells greeted her, none of them pleasant. “You’re right. No one’s home.” She stepped back outside and closed the door behind her, disappointed.
“Josiah . . .” She almost hated to say the words, feeling that she’d already pushed him. But Goldberg would want to show the view to the land developers. With a frown, Josiah started unpacking the equipment, not saying a word. She situated the camera far back enough to get the edge of the cabin in the picture for added depth.
An hour later, Josiah turned Moonshine around and they headed back down the mountain. Though neither of them said anything, Elizabeth was certain the same question plaguing her was also on Josiah’s mind—was the dead man on the trail down below the same man they’d come looking for today?
Her mind sped ahead. If he was the same man, what did that mean in terms of acquiring this land for the developers? Would it be easier or harder for them to make the acquisition? And how would that play into her own situation if they weren’t able to—
Hearing the vein of her thoughts, Elizabeth clenched her eyes, embarrassed. Down below a man lay dead on the trail, and all she was thinking about was how that development might affect her career. God was forgiving, but there were times she wished her thoughts could be hidden even from Him.
A light snow started falling and she grew cold. Her attention went to Josiah’s boots. She’d worn thicker knit stockings in boots with no holes, so he had to be near freezing. Yet he said noth—
Josiah stopped the same time she did. They were to the spot where they’d discovered the man’s body. Only . . .
The body was gone.
17
Night had fallen and the sheriff’s office was dark when they finally returned to Timber Ridge. A blanket of snow covered the ground and Elizabeth’s fingers were numb with cold. She blew into her cupped hands, vowing not to leave her gloves behind in her room again.
Josiah pounded on the door. “Sheriff McPherson, you in there, sir?” After several tries, he shook his head. “Best leave it ’til mornin’, Miz Westbrook.”
Elizabeth pressed close to the office window and peered inside. “Seems like someone should be here. Law enforcement should be available at all hours.” She knocked on the pane, then tested the doorknob. It held fast.
“You ain’t in that big, fancy city of yours no more, ma’am. You can’t be expectin’ the same here as you gots there.”
“Do you know where the sheriff lives?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. But it’s a ways from town and it’s freezin’ cold. Besides, he got other duties when he gets home. To his widow sister and her younguns.”
“What happened to her husband—do you know?”
“It ain’t right to speak of the dead, ma’am. But since you’re new to town . . . I only know what I heard—that Mr. Thomas Boyd was out huntin’ and a bear got him. They says it was a sorry scene, what they come upon when they found him.”
Elizabeth winced just thinking about it, then about Rachel and her two boys having to endure that loss. “So the sheriff lives with them now?”
“Yes, ma’am. Moved onto the ranch after it happened. Mr. Boyd, he left behind two good boys. One be eight and the other be six. I reckon they’s growin’ faster than Missus Boyd can keep up with. Mitchell, the older one, he got a likin’ for huntin’ like his papa did. And little Kurt, he aims to keep up with his big brother, no matter what.” He shivered and rubbed his arms. “Listen, ma’am, I don’t mean no disrespect, but that man out there, he was dead. What we gonna do? Travel all the way out to the sheriff ’s place just to tell him we found us a dead man and then done lost him?”
“It just seems like he should know about it.”
“And he will, come mornin’, ma’am. We tell him soon as he gets into town.”
Snowflakes drifted down, and from the saloon two streets over, piano music traveled the chilled night air. She searched the boardwalk in both directions. D
eserted. “How does a corpse just up and disappear? Tell me that.”
“It don’t—leastwise not by hisself.” Josiah turned and walked to where he’d tethered Moonshine.
Elizabeth didn’t move. “And we’re certain he was dead, right?”
Josiah gave her a look that said she’d asked a needless question. It was a look she was becoming accustomed to seeing from him. “Yes, ma’am, we’s certain.”
A thumbnail moon shone over the highest peaks, offering little in the way of illumination. Timber Ridge was advanced enough to have invested in coal-burning street lamps, but apparently not advanced enough to have round-the-clock law enforcement.
“Answer me this, ma’am. What you plannin’ on sayin’ to the sheriff when he asks you why we was up there to Mr. Coulter’s place?”
“I’ll tell him we were up there taking pictures.”
“And what you got a picture of while you’s up there, Miz Westbrook?”
Elizabeth smiled at his imitation of Sheriff McPherson, though she wasn’t about to answer the question with the truth.
“A dead body, you say, ma’am. Well, now, ain’t that interestin’. Why’s a good woman like you takin’ pictures of a dead man? And one you don’t even know.”
“All right, Josiah, your point is made. But I insist on telling the sheriff about what we found.”
“I’s all for that, ma’am. I just sayin’ that we don’t need to break our necks to tell him ’bout something that can wait ’til mornin’. More than likely, some animal got him, drug him off into the brush.”
“I don’t remember seeing any drag marks through the dirt.” Not that she’d looked specifically. Some observant journalist she was turning out to be.
“We got bears that could pick a man clean up off the ground and carry him for miles. So that don’t mean nothin’. ”
Shivering at the thought, she stepped down from the boardwalk and walked beside him down the dimly lit street back to the boardinghouse.
Josiah made three trips up and down the stairs carrying her equipment back to her room, then said good night. Elizabeth closed the door and locked it tight, resisting the urge to crawl straight into bed. Instead, she spent the next half hour making a print from each of the two developed glass plates in her pack. Holding the photograph of the body brought the realness of it back again, and she imagined that same trail now, cloaked in the dark of night and covered in snow, erasing all traces of whatever had happened there. Not that they’d detected any.
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 14