“Where?” Keeler asked.
“Where what?”
“Where’s a worse place?”
“Ever been to O’Donnel?”
“Been there and back.”
Sheriff Hinge nodded with satisfaction and walked into his office. As he proceeded toward the chair behind his rolltop desk, a voice called out from one of the cells in the back.
“Sheriff, is that you?” The voice belonged to Charlie Reno.
“It’s me.”
“Come on back here.”
“What for?”
“Let me out.”
“When the federal marshal gets here, you’ll get out.”
“I mean, I need to go to the outhouse.”
“Use the chamber pot.”
“It’s near full. I got to go out and take a dump.”
“You eat too much.”
“I mean it, Sheriff. I got to go.”
“You’ll go later.”
“How much later?”
“When the deputy comes in.”
“When’ll that be?”
“Before supper.”
Sheriff Elwood Hinge took the four dodgers stacked on his desk and pinned them back onto the bulletin board. Frank Chase, Red Borden, and the Reno brothers, Johnsy and Charlie. Two men living and two deceased. But dead or alive worth a total of two thousand dollars on the hoof.
Hinge had been a lawman for a long time and had collected other rewards. But this would be the biggest payday of his life. Enough to do just about anything he wanted.
Trouble was, he wasn’t sure just what he wanted.
* * *
The orange December sun was nearly noon high in its winter arc above Shad Parker’s farm.
Without stopping even for drink of water or thought of time, he had labored with pickax and shovel and with the grip of his powerful hands to wrest from the stubborn earth the stones that had in scores and scores of years become a part of it, the barren, brown, unforgiving Texas earth, bleached by a white-hot sun in summer, numbed by the cold bleak nights of winter.
How unlike the rich, dark, fertile soil of Virginia Shad Parker and his family before him had worked with care and pride for more than a century.
The Parkers of Virginia.
There were Parkers there ever since there was a Virginia. And there was a Virginia before there was a United States. Virginia played a large part in the creation of the United States. Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Henry, Monroe. Would there have been a Declaration of Independence, a Constitution, a United States without them?
Since the birth of Virginia and the United States the Parkers had been there. Farmers and fighters. Soldiers of the soil. Parkers had fought and bled and died in the French and Indian War, the Revolution, the War of 1812, the Mexican campaign, and in the carnage of the War for the Confederacy. With Wolfe, Washington, Jackson, Scott, and finally Lee, always in the ranks there had been one or more Parkers bearing arms, sometimes far away, but returning always, those who survived, to their Shenandoah Valley in Virginia.
But as he toiled this day near noon Shad Parker knew that he would never go back. Someday the scabs would fall and the scars would fade. Someday the valley would bloom and bear fruit and flower and leaf. Someday the farmers of the Shenandoah again would work the land with care and pride. For some, that work already had begun. But not for Shad Parker.
Shad Parker would dig into the hardscrabble earth of Texas and curse the fate and cause that killed his wife and children and spared him. But now he had stopped the digging and thought again—he knew not for how long—of three graves far away—until he felt a presence.
Shad looked up and saw the tall, lean man with musing eyes, sitting on a mule.
“You all right, mister?” the man inquired.
Shad looked at the man on the mule but didn’t answer.
“You looked, well, I don’t know,” the man said. “You looked like you was about to faint . . . or somethin’. You all right?” the man repeated.
Shad nodded.
“Well, that bein’ the case . . .” the man on the mule pointed toward the NO TRESPASSING sign “. . . I’ll move on.” The man’s heels lightly nudged the ribs of the mule.
“Just a minute.”
The man held back the mule and turned his face toward Shad.
“You . . . you need to water your mule?”
The man’s expression changed into a near-smile.
“No, thanks. Just stopped by the creek a ways back. But thanks anyway, and . . . merry Christmas.”
Shad Parker did not answer.
The man on the mule moved east toward Gilead.
Shad watched for a moment, wiped the cold sweat from his face, stuck the pickax and the shovel into the ground, picked up his rifle from a nearby rock, then walked toward the cabin and his noon meal.
From the hillside above, but hidden near the face of the cave, Peg and Davy watched as the man went inside the cabin and closed the door.
They had been watching, on and off, ever since Austin left that morning. Davy dozed in the cave part of the time but now he was becoming restless.
“When’s Austin coming back?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Davy, but now’s the time we’re going out and do what Austin said.”
“What was that?”
“Don’t you remember? He said to gather some firewood when the man down there went inside. So, come on. While he’s eating let’s get to the other side of the hill and see what we can find that’ll burn.” Peg took hold of Davy’s hand and led him away.
“Probably went in to eat,” said Davy as they walked.
“Probably. I never saw a man work so hard for so long without stopping, or even slowing down. He just kept digging, and shoveling and wrestling with those rocks. I used to think that Pa worked hard, but I never saw anybody work like that man down there.”
“Yeah, but at least he’s eating now and I’m hungry.”
“I know, Davy.”
“Why can’t we go down there and ask him for somethin’? You saw all them provisions he brought in last night.”
“Sure, and you heard what the man on the mule said yesterday about him, about how mean he was and how he didn’t cotton to strangers.”
“Yeah, but today the man on the mule stopped and talked to him, didn’t he? You saw him.”
“I did. But I didn’t see him get invited in to eat. Did you? So, for all we know he’s lucky he didn’t get chopped in pieces with that pickax and buried under some rock with that shovel.”
“Cut it out, Peg. You’re just tryin’ to scare me.”
“No, I’m just trying to teach you to do what you’re told for your own good . . . until you’re a little older, Davy.”
“I know. Look!”
“What?”
“Over there!” Davy pointed. “A dead ol’ tree. All fell apart. We don’t have to look no further.”
“Any further.”
“Right. Hope ol’ Austin brings back somethin’ to cook.”
So far ol’ Austin’s expedition had been pretty much in vain. Except for the matches.
He had met a peddler named Herman who had unhitched his team of horses and was letting them rest for a time, after which he intended to hitch them to the heavy wagon again and proceed on his journey to Prescott. Mr. Herman intended to start up a general store in Prescott and then send for his wife and four children. After Austin volunteered and undertook to help Mr. Herman with the hitching, Mr. Herman offered Austin a couple strips of dried beef jerky.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Herman, could I just take one strip of jerky . . . and a few matches?”
Mr. Herman looked at the boy and smiled.
“Or, I’ll just take the matches, please,” Austin added.
“You want to start a fire, my boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“To keep warm tonight. We . . . I mean, I’ve got a cave and it’s cold at night?”
“You live in a cave?”
“For now.”
“Alone?”
“I got a brother and a sister.”
“Older? Younger?”
“Younger.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I couldn’t take you all to Prescott.”
“I know.”
“Too bad. You’re a good worker. I could tell by the way you hitched those horses. All right, my boy, here’s a strip of jerky. Eat it now. And here’s three more strips for you and your brother and sister later. And here’s matches so you’ll be warm in that cave.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you have a destination?”
“What’s that?”
“A place to go. Relatives, maybe?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Austin lied, since he saw no point in telling the truth and dragging things out. “We’ll be fine soon as we get there. So you see I couldn’t go to Prescott anyhow.”
“Yes, I see. Well, auf Wiedersehen, my boy.”
* * *
From the moment the Keeshaws had entered the bank there was no doubt about which one of the people inside was Amos Bush.
He sat in a big leather chair behind a big oak desk with a triangular wood-and-brass nameplate.
AMOS BUSH
President
The desk was located in the left forefront of the bank near a windowed corner, an area separated by a three-foot-high wooden rail with a set of hinged gates.
President Bush’s staff consisted of a teller and a clerk behind a cage that bisected the room. The most prominent object in the room was the bank’s safe. It looked like a small fortress. Formidable. Impenetrable. Except to him who possessed a privileged sequence of numbers. Or dynamite.
Bush was busy with a man who sat on the edge of a chair near the big oak desk and appeared frightened. It did not seem that Amos Bush was doing anything to allay the man’s fears. The man was a farmer, wearing his Sunday suit and workaday fingernails.
In any sort of physical contest the man could have crushed Bush to a pulp. But this contest was not physical. It was financial. And the man seemed to wither while awaiting Amos Bush’s decision.
Amos Bush seemed in no hurry to render his verdict concerning the farmer’s future. He had interrupted his cigar smoking and the stroking of his jowls when the Keeshaws walked in and stood by.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Bush had proclaimed. “If you’re waiting to see me, it’ll be just a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bush,” Deek had replied, and went about the business of relighting his pipe.
More than just a few minutes had since gone by. Deek had twice more relit his pipe and listened to parcels of the conversation. It wasn’t exactly a conversation, because the only one doing any talking was the banker. The farmer was just nodding and moving closer to the edge of his chair.
Bush was a man in his fifties, gray-haired, pale, and gone to flab. His features, still handsome, but soft, with small eyes the color of currency, his voice smooth and confident, he droned on between puffs and swills of cigar smoke.
But Deek and Tom and Bart weren’t interested in the monologue; their interest was elsewhere. Without being overly obvious they were sizing up the layout of the bank, and most particularly the dimensions and impregnability of the safe.
Just above the safe a banner hung from the ceiling.
START YOUR CHRISTMAS SAVINGS ACCOUNT
FOR NEXT YEAR . . . NOW
That’s just what the Keeshaws intended to do. Bart pulled out his watch, checked the time, and gave the stem a couple of winds.
The man sprang out of his chair and reached for Bush’s hand.
“Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Bush! I sure do appreciate it! So does Emmy Lou and the kids, we won’t forget. No, sir. Where do you want me to make my mark?”
It almost seemed as if the man was about to kiss Amos Bush’s hand.
“That’s all right, Seth,” Bush said grandly. “Glad to help. You just come in tomorrow and we’ll have the papers ready for you to make your mark.”
“Thank you, sir.” Seth shook Bush’s hand even more vigorously. “And merry Christmas, sir. You sure have made it a merry Christmas for the whole lot of us.”
“Yes. Merry Christmas, Seth.”
Seth rushed through the hinged gates and past the Keeshaws with a “beg pardon.”
“Well, gentlemen,” Amos Bush addressed the Keeshaws, “sorry to keep you waiting. Come in. Sit down. What can I do for you?”
Hands were shook while Deek did the introducing, then proceeded with his ploy.
“We’re looking to settle hereabouts. Want to buy us a spread, with hard cash. Been told you’re the man to see.”
“Well, I guess that’s true.” Bush smiled. “What made you decide to come to Gilead?”
Tom and Bart tried not to look at the safe.
“Friend of ours . . . in the army . . . Confederate, of course, said this place had . . . a future.”
“That so. Where’s your friend now?”
“Dead, unfortunately. He died bravely on the field of battle. Told us just before he died.”
“Yes, well, Mr. Keeshaw, I s’pose I can give you the names of three or four people might be interested in selling.”
Bush placed the still-smoking butt of his cigar in an ashtray, reached across, and took up a piece of paper and pencil.
“Sounds like a proper start.” Deek grinned and nodded toward his brothers, who nodded back.
“These are hard times and if you’ve got hard dollars . . . well . . .”
“We’ve got that, all right. Pa died a short while back . . . rest his soul . . . and left us fixed better’n most.”
“I’ll draw you a map so’s you can find your way to these spreads . . . They’re all close by.” Bush went about his mapmaking.
“You’re being very cooperative, Mr. Bush,” said Deek. “We won’t forget, will we, boys?”
The boys’ attention snapped back from the safe and they nodded again.
“In the meantime,” Bush looked up a moment from his map, “I expect you’ll be wanting to make a deposit.”
That was something the Keeshaws hadn’t counted on.
“How’s that?” Deek cleared his throat.
“Well, that ‘hard money’ we been talking about. Not safe to carry it around, specially in these hard times. So, like I said, I expect you’ll be wanting to make a deposit.”
Tom and Bart were helpless, but Deek showed the stuff that made him leader of the brotherhood.
“Yeah, well, you see, Mr. Bush, we got another brother . . . Maynard . . . he’s still back in Louisiana. He’ll come with the money, all of it, soon’s we find the right place.”
“Yeah . . . Maynard,” Bart interjected. “He’s got the money.”
“I hope it’s in a bank.”
“Oh, sure,” Tom said. “Big bank . . . strong . . . just like this one.”
“Good.” Bush went back to his map.
“That’s a handsome safe you got there, Mr. Bush,” Bart added.
“Made in Chicago, Illinois. Now, let’s see. Here’s the road leading outta town to the west . . .”
“We’ll get a fresh start tomorrow.” Deek rose, struck another match, and glanced back at the safe as Amos Bush went on with his directions.
“. . . follow your noses till you get to Dirty Creek . . . that’s about a mile and a half. On the other side, the road divides. Bear to the left and . . .”
Chapter 9
What was left of the orange hump of the sun threw long, gloomy shadows across Shad Parker’s property.
It was too dark to work, almost too dark to read the NO TRESPASSING sign. But Shad Parker had done more than an honest day’s work. From sunup to sundown he had labored to smooth out this tiny patch of the planet, and there was a discernible difference in the area he had covered. Dozens and dozens of rocks and stones, part-stained from the soil where they had been bu
ried, lay in no particular pattern waiting to be made into a wall.
Shad Parker’s purpose was twofold: To clear the land so it could be cultivated. To build a wall as further evidence of his desire for self-seclusion. Actually there was a third purpose, to busy his body and brain and try to keep from remembering, at least during the days.
It was easier to accomplish the third purpose during the days, but there was no way to busy himself at night. The only balm, and it seldom worked completely, was to dull the brain with whiskey.
Shad Parker moved amid the field of overturned rocks, stones, and boulders, hoisting the shovel and pickax over his shoulder. He walked to where his rifle leaned against a rock, picked up the rifle, and started toward the cabin, past the chicken coop, where a covey of chickens clucked, scratched, and scampered. He made his way past the hog pen and barn, then stopped at the well.
Shad set down the tools and rifle and started to lift out a bucket of water.
From a slanting distance of just over a hundred yards, a pair of hands pushed back part of a bush and a pair of eyes peered toward the man at the well.
Shad Parker walked, carrying the bucket of water, the rifle, and the tools, toward the cabin. He left the tools on the porch, but took the water and the rifle inside.
Austin allowed the shrubbery to spring back into place. Since leaving Mr. Herman and taking along the jerky and the matches, he had had no luck in scavengering anything to bring back for Peg and Davy except for a few roots and berries. But Austin had plans. It was still too early to implement them, but he’d be back later.
He started up the shadowed hill toward the cave and Peg and Davy who were waiting for something to eat.
* * *
The Keeshaw brothers were dining on thick, well-done steaks at the New Heidelberg Restaurant adjacent to the Eden Hotel. It was the only restaurant in Gilead. The restaurant was run by the Sweissgood family—Curt, Erika, and their well-bred, well-fed twin daughters, Heidi and Hanna, and son Ralph.
Deek Keeshaw’s mind was not on his meal. At a distant corner table Yellow Rose sat alone, not eating very much of the chicken dinner the Sweissgoods had prepared and served.
“If you’re not gonna finish up that meat,” Bart said through his missing teeth, “I’ll do it for you . . . else I’m gonna order me another steak.”
The Christmas Trespassers Page 6