The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  “Will you help in the store tomorrow?”

  “Last time I got hurt.”

  “It was just a sliver in your hand,” Paul growled. “Are you still crying about that?”

  “N-no.”

  “You’ll help me in the store tomorrow and you’ll come with me to pick up some new inventory on Monday.”

  “But I got school on Monday!” David said.

  “Not when your father needs an extra set of hands to load the wagon. You and your sister are coming along and that’s that.”

  “Will I get paid for it?”

  Paul scowled at the boy and took hold of the front of David’s shirt to give him a gentle shake. “What am I gonna do with you? I’ll pay you fifty cents but not a penny more. Deal?”

  Extending his hand so quickly that he almost threw out an elbow, David replied excitedly, “Deal!”

  Father and son shook hands and enjoyed a nice couple of moments before David asked, “What else can I do and get paid for it?”

  “Go to bed.”

  “You’ll pay me to go to bed?”

  “No,” Paul said in a strained voice. “Just . . . go to bed. It’s getting late.”

  David started walking into the house, stopped, and then turned around to approach his father again. He kissed Paul’s forehead and then went inside.

  Once he was certain he was alone on the porch, Paul started flipping through the book he’d tried to give to David. Since it wasn’t going to be put to any use at his house, he’d take it back to the store in the morning. He could think of a few boys who would get a thrill out of the adventurous yarns. In fact, he was hard-pressed to think of a boy other than his own who wouldn’t like it. Or perhaps he just didn’t know children very well.

  “I’m trying, Joanna,” he said quietly into the night sky. “I’m trying, but it surely ain’t easy. I wonder if you would have an easier time with these two. Aw, who the hell am I kidding? Of course you would.”

  With that, Paul set the book down and crossed his arms over his full belly. He thought about inventory and numbers that had yet to be written into the ledger in his office. He thought about when the next traveling salesmen were due to roll through town and how much of a discount he could wheedle from them for a bulk purchase. As the steady current flowed through his head and a cool breeze touched his face, Paul started drifting to sleep.

  Eventually his thoughts drifted toward the future. He’d heard tell of a vein of gold that had barely been touched in a mine that was being sold for next to nothing. If he found a buyer for his store, he could cash in and possibly become rich after a few months of hard work. There were always ranchers looking for partners down in Texas or back in his old Kansas stomping grounds. Running a spread instead of working on one could set him up for life.

  So many different trails to ride after leaving Keystone Pass.

  So many destinies to chase.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  Despite the biblical origins of his name, Paul had never been much of a churchgoing man. His mother and father had dragged him to Sunday worship for most of his childhood, presumably as a way to cleanse his young soul or enrich his growing mind. He couldn’t much speak to the success of the former, but the latter didn’t seem to take very well. If not for Joanna, he probably would have avoided hearing another sermon for the rest of his days. She’d been a truly joyful Christian. In Paul’s experience those were a rare breed whose faith came from genuine inspiration instead of habit or fear of retribution in the hereafter. If she was lenient in some matters, taking the children to church wasn’t one of them, and it seemed only proper for Paul to continue doing so after she’d passed on. The children, however, weren’t as eager to uphold the practice.

  They sat on either side of him in one of the pews at the back of the town’s small church. As Paul attempted to sing along with a few of the hymns, David and Abigail shifted fretfully and occasionally swatted at each other. Since they didn’t carry their squabble any further than that, Paul let them be.

  After Pastor Harlowe was done talking, he smiled at everyone in front of him, let a few other folks pass on some news about birthdays or sicknesses and such, and then concluded the services. Paul and the kids filed out with the rest of the congregation, shook a few hands, and pretended to have been a little more enlightened than when they’d walked in.

  “Do we really have to go to this picnic?” David asked.

  Paul looked down at his son as if he’d sprouted antlers. “Why wouldn’t you want to go to a picnic?”

  “There might be bees.”

  “You know what I can guarantee there’ll be?”

  “What?” David asked hesitantly.

  “Pork ribs, corn on the cob, and pie!”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Peach pie?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Probably just the same old cherry pie that Claudia Spencer always makes,” Abigail groaned.

  “You hear that, Dave?” Paul asked with genuine excitement. “Claudia Spencer’s cherry pie!”

  Nodding as if he’d just decided his fate as well as that of his family, David declared, “All right. We’re going to that picnic.” Stretching his arms out to his father, he said, “Carry me.”

  Paul winced a bit and pushed the boy along to clear a path for the stragglers leaving the church. “You’re too big for that, son. You’re almost as tall as I am.”

  That was about a foot and a half from being true, but the point had been made. David shrank as if the wind had been taken from his sails and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his itchy black suit. Before he could slink too far away, David was swept off his feet and carried toward the little field behind the church. Even though Paul had only managed to lift him about seven inches off the ground, the boy reacted as if he were flying.

  “Be quiet, Dave,” Abigail scolded. “People will hear.”

  “Don’t be so cross,” Paul said as he carried his son a few more steps and set him down. “You love picnics.”

  “Not when he’s squealing like a stuck pig.”

  “You’re a stuck—”

  “Enough of that,” Paul said before the siblings came to blows. “Let’s get something to eat and play some games.”

  “Games?” David asked. “Where?”

  “Over there by those other boys,” Paul said as he pointed his son toward a growing flock of children near a duck pond. “Why don’t you go and join them?” When David looked away tentatively, Paul gave him a little push. “Go on, now.” After the boy had made significant progress toward the group, Paul shifted his focus to his left.

  “Don’t say it, Daddy,” Abigail warned.

  “I see a certain young man over there as well.”

  “I told you not to say it.”

  “Michael doesn’t look happy being with so many younger boys, and his mood’s probably not going to be any better once David gets over there.”

  She smiled, albeit hesitantly.

  Even though he’d been the girl’s father for all of her fourteen years, Paul still seemed uncomfortable when he tugged on her collar and pulled her sleeves to straighten a couple of wrinkles in the fabric. “I know this isn’t the fancy silk dress you had your eye on, but it sure does become you.”

  Abigail looked down at the new, bright green cotton dress. Taking hold of her skirts, she gave them a halfhearted twirl and grumbled, “That other one would have been too fancy for a church picnic anyway.”

  “See? Always a bright side. Just like your mother.”

  Hearing mention of Joanna brought a much brighter smile to her face. It was a beautiful sight for her father, even if there was a hint of sadness behind the expression. “And I haven’t spilled on it.”

  Tapping the tip of her nose, Paul chided, “Not yet anyway.”

  That triggered the all-too-famil
iar eye roll. Abigail suddenly couldn’t move fast enough as she spun away from him and made her way toward the older boy who had captured her attention since last spring. She almost made it to Michael Willis’s side before allowing herself to be sidetracked by her best friend, Becky.

  “You’re doing well with them,” came a familiar voice from over Paul’s shoulder.

  After putting on what he thought was a pleasant expression, Paul turned around to face Pastor Harlowe. The pastor was a few years younger than him, but his thinning head of hair tacked on a bit more age than he’d earned. When he’d first arrived in town a few years ago, Harlowe looked more like a rancher than a preacher. Trim and muscular, he’d turned plenty of heads from the available ladies in town. Although still unmarried, Harlowe had been invited to enough home-cooked suppers to lose a bit of his muscle and add a few layers of padding beneath his starched black clothing. His friendly demeanor, on the other hand, was still as engaging as it had been during his first service in Keystone Pass.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Paul said, “but I know I’m lacking as a father.”

  Harlowe dismissed that with the back of one hand. “Nonsense. They’re fine children and have been through a lot. You’ve been there for them and they’re better for it. That’s plain enough to see.”

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  “You’ve been through a lot as well. How are you holding up?”

  “Joanna’s been gone a while now,” Paul said.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s easy. We all heal at our own pace.”

  “Yeah.” Paul removed his hat and wiped away a few beads of sweat. The summer heat was waning, but he couldn’t help feeling as if it were all focused on him at that moment. “That was a nice service today. Real nice.”

  “Did you enjoy my sermon? I worked hard on it.”

  “It was good.”

  “Which part did you like best? The passages on Abraham or my question about Genesis?”

  “The Abraham passages. Definitely.”

  Harlowe placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder and kept it there. “Neither was in my sermon today. I was just testing you.”

  “And I failed.” With a shrug, Paul added, “Sorry about that.”

  “There’s no failing where I’m concerned. At least, not with something as fluid as words,” Harlowe said. “I knew you weren’t listening. You’re always distracted when you come to services. I’m just happy to see you in the Lord’s house. I hope you take some comfort from just being there.”

  “I . . . I do.”

  Grinning like a kid not much older than Paul’s own, the pastor said, “I’m glad. And I know you’re telling the truth because I already saw what you look like when you’re lying.”

  “Lying to a preacher,” Paul sighed as he put his hat back on. “That won’t look good when I’m up there being judged.”

  “I forgive you, Paul. There. Clean slate.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  “Sometimes. Now, why don’t you help yourself to something to eat? That is, unless you’d like to talk some more?”

  Paul smiled at the other man with genuine, if somewhat tired, warmth. “I am mighty hungry. Also, someone’s got to keep an eye on my youngest. Sometimes them other boys play a little rough.”

  “Don’t forget about your other child,” Harlowe said while nodding toward the other side of the duck pond. “She might need some watching as well.”

  While Paul was happy to see Abigail walking next to Michael Willis, he wasn’t pleased with the fact that they were making their way around the pond to a cluster of trees where they could easily slip out of sight. “’Scuse me, Pastor.”

  “Tend to your flock and I’ll tend to mine,” Harlowe replied.

  Paul stormed across the little field surrounding the church. With snowcapped mountains behind the perfect angles of the structure’s roof and steeple, it was a sight that could inspire any man. Watching a beloved daughter wander away with a young man who had the motives of any other young man was enough to inspire a father in a much different way. He was about to unleash some of that inspiration when Paul caught the scent of some fried chicken.

  Mrs. Willis stood behind the plate of poultry, stacking napkins into little piles. “Hello, Paul,” she said. “Beautiful sermon today, wasn’t it?”

  “It sure was.”

  “Go on and take some chicken before it’s gone.”

  Paul might have wanted his daughter to enjoy some companionship, but he’d gladly wring the neck of any boy who sought to take things too far. Before making that intention clear to Mrs. Willis’s son, he took a napkin and a nice plump chicken breast from the table. “Thanks kindly, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Willis gave him a friendly nod and shifted her eyes to the next parishioners to find her offering.

  Abigail and Michael had stopped their wandering just a few paces away from the trees, so Paul held his ground. After taking a bite of chicken, he glanced over to where David was playing. As fidgety as he’d been the night before, or any other night for that matter, David was holding his own with the other boys. In fact, he was quick to throw himself into a lighthearted scrap that quickly grew into a mess of flailing arms and laughing children. It did Paul no end of good to watch that. Having another couple bites of chicken improved his mood even further.

  Turning back toward the other side of the pond, Paul felt his heart skip a beat. Michael and Abigail were nowhere to be found. Before he could get himself worked up even more, Paul caught a glimpse of Abigail’s skirts flapping in the breeze. She was standing behind some trees. With a long, squinting stare, Paul saw Michael was less than an inch away from her.

  “Hey!” Paul barked. “You two!”

  Neither his daughter nor the Willis boy responded.

  “Abigail Meakes!”

  She snapped to attention and hopped fully into view. When she saw her father staring directly at her, the girl flushed and averted her eyes.

  “Get over here and get something to eat,” Paul said. “Both of you.”

  After a few seconds, Michael stepped out from wherever he’d thought of hiding in those trees. He looked sheepishly across the pond and hurried over to his mother’s table. Since neither of their clothes were too rumpled, Paul guessed they hadn’t been up to much while out of his sight.

  Abigail’s fists were clenched and every step she took was heavier than the last. By the time she made it to where Paul waited for her, she was fit to be tied. “I can’t believe you did that,” she hissed.

  “What?” Paul asked with poorly feigned innocence. “I know you like chicken just as much as I do.”

  “I like turkey, Daddy. You should know that.”

  “Well, when you were a little girl, you wouldn’t eat much of anything other than chicken or mashed potatoes. Surely you haven’t grown out of that.”

  “I’ve grown out of a lot of things, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Paul let her sneer at him for a few more seconds before he pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Then help yourself to whatever it is you do like.”

  “Can I eat with Becky? She’s right over there.”

  “Of course.”

  Abigail took a few angry steps away, turned, and walked back over to her father. “You want me to get you anything, Daddy?”

  “Just bring me some pie in a while. I don’t much care which kind it is, but you’re eating it with your kin.”

  She nodded and walked away. Paul noticed how she glanced over to Michael Willis. A few fleeting smiles were exchanged between the young man and Abigail, which seemed innocent enough. Even so, Paul made certain to make his fatherly presence known for the rest of the picnic.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning was a quiet one. Most of the time, Paul would welcome such a thing. On this occasion, however, the silence was imposed upo
n him by his children instead of a pleasure granted by a cool and calm sunrise. Paul awoke, brewed his coffee, ate a simple breakfast of warm oatmeal, and worked with David to get the horses hitched to his cart. Not a word was spoken, but he hadn’t quite noticed just yet. After the sleep had been purged from his mind and body, he tried exchanging a few pleasantries with his children.

  They responded with stifled grunts.

  Paul climbed into the wagon’s driver’s seat, waited for the children to pile into the cart behind him, and then snapped the reins. “Here we go!” he announced.

  Still . . . nothing.

  By the time their house as well as the rest of the town was behind them, Paul got a little suspicious. “You want to take the reins, son?”

  “Eh.”

  “Is that yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because!”

  Paul scowled and bit back his first impulse to try to snarl even louder than the boy. After a few more seconds of tense quiet, he asked, “You usually like to drive the cart.”

  “Not today,” he said.

  “Something wrong?”

  More silence. Paul didn’t need to turn around to get a clear picture in his head of his son swinging his legs over the back of the cart while wearing the terse little frown he’d perfected over the last several months.

  “He’s still upset about getting pushed into the pond yesterday,” Abigail announced.

  When he heard the light impact of a hand against an older sister’s arm, Paul could picture that just as well as he could imagine David’s sour face. Shifting in his seat, he turned to look over his shoulder and say, “It was all in good fun. Just about every boy there wound up in the water with them ducks.”

  “But I was the first,” David griped.

  “You’re a trailblazer.”

  “They were laughing.”

  “You were laughing too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  David crossed his arms into an unbreakable chest plate that would be his armor for the next short while.