With fury and the sound of a thousand drums, the wind drove from the north and whipped the rain through the opening.
“I never seen it rain so hard,” Davy said, shivering and staring outside. “Have you, Austin?”
Austin said nothing.
“Austin?”
“What?”
“Have you ever seen it rain so hard?”
“Sure,” Austin said but not too convincingly. “Lots of times.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, but mostly in the summer, summer storms. Usually don’t last long.”
“Yeah, but this ain’t summer.”
“It’ll be all right, Davy.” Peg put her arm around him. “We’ll just sit here and wait it out.”
“Don’t have much choice.” Austin rose and made his way toward the entrance, getting wetter as he got closer, and looked out.
“What’re you doing?” Peg asked.
“Just looking.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. You know, he hasn’t come out since those people left this morning.”
“I know,” Peg said.
“This is the first time he hasn’t been out there digging since we got here.”
“I know,” she repeated. “Wonder what he’s been doing in there all this time.”
“Well, whatever it is”—Austin walked back toward his brother and sister—“he’s better off than we are.”
Chapter 23
Breakfast, with Ben, Esmeralda, and the two children, was the only meal that Shad Parker had eaten that day and night.
After they left he had come back inside and was still sitting in the same chair, staring at Molly O’s shawl he had put on the table along with the small metal container holding her letters. His Colt was also on the table and a bottle of whiskey, now empty.
He did not know, nor care, how long he had sat there. He was vaguely aware that it had begun to rain sometime that afternoon and continued now well into the night.
All the memories he had tried to erase ever since leaving the Shenandoah, all the pain and suffering, all the ghosts, the haunting vision of three graves left behind, a thousand miles away, but buried in his brain, unearthed again by the visitors from the past, pounded into his every thought as the unceasing rain pounded from the black sky into the tough skin of Texas.
The unwelcomed memories flooded, then funneled one by one, dripping to his whiskey-drenched senses . . . at first almost out of focus. Then sharper, much too sharp . . . at the rasslin’ contest, the first sight of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen on the face of God’s earth. Green eyes sparkling. Flowing red hair blazing in the sunlight. Full crimson lips . . . “Champeen” . . . Ben Warren introducing him to Molly O . . . the shattered Little Green Jug . . . picnics, dances . . . the Christmas Eve he asked Molly O to marry him . . . life and love with her in the paradise of the Shenandoah Valley . . . the babies, Sean and Shannon . . . a shadow across the land . . . Harper’s Ferry . . . the first blood of battle, Stonewall Jackson . . . home again for just a little while . . .
“You’ll miss your brigade” . . . “I’ll only miss you, Molly O” . . . “Come back to us, Shad” . . . “You be here Molly O, and I’ll come back” . . . “back” . . . “back” . . . “back” . . . but back to three graves . . . Oh, Shenandoah. I hear you calling...
Calling . . . Calling . . . Calling . . . the words and music . . . the song that had been their theme had become his curse . . . Away, I’m bound away . . . across the wide Missouri . . . Oh, Shenandoah, I’m going to leave you . . .
But Shad Parker had come over a thousand miles and still he had not left the Shenandoah and the Shenandoah had not left him . . . Away, I’m bound away . . . And the farther he had come, the closer seemed the memories . . . the closer the song, the song that had become a curse that would not, could not, be purged from his mind and body and soul . . . not as long as he lived.
As bad as it had been before they came, Ben and Esmeralda and their children had made it even worse, harder to bear . . . Ben, his best friend, Ben, with his armless sleeve pinned to his coat, the hollow, dried-out remnant of his carefree comrade who was born with a gift of laughter and who would die in a year or two, a skeletal remnant of his former self . . . but at least Ben knew he had some time left with his family and could savor that time with Esmeralda and the two boys . . . He could put his arm around his wife and kiss her and tell her with his dying breath that he loved her and know that Es and the boys would survive.
If only Shad could have given his life in place of Molly O’s and their children’s . . . If they could have survived instead of him. Soldiers, at least some soldiers like Shad who had fought in battle after bloody battle, are apt to die; they know that when they advance with fixed bayonet, but they die for a cause and the women and children they leave behind . . . not the other way around.
And even though Esmeralda knew that she would soon be a widow, she had had time to prepare. Death would not strike their family in one swift, fiery blow as it had struck Shad Parker’s family. Ben would leave Esmeralda more than memories. There were Benjie and Todd, who would live in their father’s image and grow and help their mother.
Shad thought of them, out there in the cold, wet Texas night. But still alive, still together. No matter what might happen, this night they were together.
Shad Parker was alone.
Alone. Except for Molly O’s shawl.
And the gun.
* * *
Austin stood looking out of the entrance of the cave as the rain lashed through the opening and onto his already wet face and soaked clothes. Jagged streaks of lightning and the sharp sound of thunder ripped through the black cloak of night.
But there was no shield. No comfort in the cave.
Austin turned and walked back toward Peggy and Davy, who had sought refuge on the elevation of a rock.
The mud in the cave was now ankle thick as it sucked at Austin’s feet with every step he took. Water ran down the creviced walls and spilled onto the muddied bottom.
“No sign of it letting up.” Austin wiped the rain from his eyes and face. “It just means to keep on coming down.”
“I’m cold.” Davy shivered.
“I know, Davy.” Peg patted her brother’s face. “Austin, we’ve got to do something.”
Austin looked at his half-submerged feet, then back toward the entrance.
“Austin?”
“You’re right, Peg. This place leaks like a sieve. It’s turning into nothing but a mudhole.”
“We just can’t stay here.”
“We’re not going to.” Austin motioned down toward the spread below. “We’re going down there.”
“To his place?”
Austin nodded.
“He won’t take us in.”
“He will if he doesn’t know about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the barn. That’s what I mean. He’s probably drunk asleep . . .”
“You think so?”
“Sure. The barn. I’ll bet that’s nice and dry with lots of warm hay in it. How does that sound?”
Davy shivered again. Peg looked at her little brother, then nodded to Austin.
“Let’s go,” Austin said.
“What if he wakes up?” Peg was also shivering. “And catches us?”
“What if he does? What’s he gonna do? Kill us?”
Chapter 24
Everything was quiet except for the rain and the intermittent lightning and thunder.
At five minutes until midnight most of the inhabitants of Gilead already were asleep.
But not all.
Hooter had closed the Appaloosa early because the customers either didn’t come in that night or went home sooner than usual. The rain had a dampening effect on business. Hooter sat alone at the bar, illuminated by only a single lamp, and thought about how things would be without Yellow Rose and with a new partner. A silent partner. His feelings about the situa
tion were mixed. Yellow Rose had made up her mind to leave, and the Appaloosa, the town, and he, would miss her and the business she attracted. That was on one side of the mix. On the other was the fact that he was buying her out at a bargain price and as his silent partner had pointed out, Hooter would end up with a profit going in, a bigger percentage, and the benefit of a partnership with the town’s leading citizen, who just happened to be his landlord anyhow and could jack up the rent out of spite if Hooter refused.
Hooter already had made up his mind to make it a clean sweep by getting rid of Francine Needle and Stella Bright in favor of younger, better-looking attractions. Yes, he’d miss Yellow Rose even though he had never touched her. She had made that part of the deal going in. “Strictly a business arrangement,” she had said. “No personal involvement,” she added. “Partners shouldn’t sleep together unless they’re married.” Hooter reluctantly agreed and there were times when he wished he hadn’t. But he did. That was another advantage—none of the new, younger, more attractive ladies would be partners.
After the bank closed Hooter had walked over in the rain, signed the papers without even reading them, picked up the fifteen hundred dollars in cash, and walked back into the new Appaloosa.
Yes, it was going to be a merry Christmas.
* * *
Rosalind DuPree lay in bed, wearing a nightgown, reading from Corinthians.
Behold, I show you a mystery:We shall not all sleep; but we shall all be changed—
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
She still had not made up her mind about San Francisco and about other things, but one way or another there would be a change.
Yellow Rose had died when she crossed over and out of the doorway of the Appaloosa, but she was not sure that the corruptible had, or could, put on incorruption.
The trumpet had not sounded. The only sound was that of rain . . . but would, or could, the rain wash away the stain of corruption?
* * *
Deek Keeshaw stood by the window of their hotel room sucking his pipe while his two brothers slept. He looked across at the dark, wet window of the bank and then at the sheriff’s office next to it.
He knew that there were three men inside. Two of them slated to hang. The other, Sheriff Elwood Hinge, guarding them until he could deliver them to their fate . . . and collect the reward.
If Deek Keeshaw had his way, both prisoners would try to escape and be shot dead in the effort. That night. Then there would be no need for Hinge to guard them or the bank, and the Keeshaws could go about their business and collect their reward.
But as Deek Keeshaw puffed on his pipe everything was quiet. Except for the sound of the rain.
* * *
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” Charlie Reno cried out. “Make him stop! He’s making me crazy! Sheriff!”
“I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch,” Red Borden whispered. “I’m gonna kill you just as sure as the turnin’ of the earth.”
Elwood Hinge stood in front of the cells in his stocking feet, but holding the shotgun.
“Sheriff!” Charlie repeated.
“Red,” Hinge said in a soft but firm voice, “unless you shut up for the rest of the night, I’m not going to gag you, I’m going to hit you on the side of the skull so hard you won’t wake up till the marshal gets here . . . or maybe never.”
“Tell him, Sheriff,” Charlie squealed.
“I already did. And I just might put you out for the duration, too, Charlie. Now, both of you, shut up for the rest of the night.”
Elwood Hinge went back to his cot, set aside the shotgun, and lay down. He had been thinking about the fact that Homer Keeler would soon be married and be a father a little too soon after that. There would be those in Gilead who would keep track of the calendar. Hinge, like all men, had sometimes thought about being a father. But he was not especially enamored of the notion. His younger brother, Frank, had seen to it that there were sons to carry on the Hinge identity. Three sons whom Elwood had never seen. Nor had he seen Frank and his wife, Gloria, since they went to Chicago just before the war. Like Sam Houston, Frank believed in the preservation of the Union. While he didn’t believe in it enough to enlist, he did go north to practice law. Frank Hinge had prospered there and after the cessation of hostilities sent Elwood a letter and pictures of his three nephews—inviting his older brother to come to Chicago and visit.
Elwood politely declined but wished all of the Hinges well in his letter of response.
If he and Rosalind did get married, would they have children? Where would he and Rosalind live? What would the children look like?
Elwood Hinge noticed that there was a leak in the corner of the office, not a big leak, but enough to make a crooked streak from the ceiling down to the floor.
He would have to see that it got fixed. Or tell Deputy Homer Keeler to get it fixed, if Elwood left Gilead and Homer became sheriff.
* * *
In his bedroom at the Bush mansion, Amos Bush lay in his bed and thought about amending his agreement with Hannah Brown. He thought about approaching her with the proposal that he visit her twice a week instead of once. Of course, he would have to offer quid pro quo. Her mortgage would be paid off twice as fast, five years instead of ten, but for the next five years it would be worth it to him. After that, anything could happen. Maybe Laureen would have that operation and get well. Or maybe she would die.
In any case, for the next five years, Amos Bush would have twice as many visits and he might even get Hannah to quit calling him Mr. Bush.
* * *
In another bedroom Laureen Bush lay with a Bible in one hand and her father’s loaded pistol in the other.
She had been reading from Deuteronomy.
Laureen Bush had a secret, a secret that only she and her housekeeper, Candida Guzman, knew. For the past two years Laureen, with the constant encouragement and aid of Candida Guzman, had been able to walk. At first a few steps, then across the room, until now, when she could make it to the top of the stairs holding on to the rail, then back to her bedroom.
It would not be too long before Laureen Bush would be able to climb the stairs and walk, gun in hand, into her husband’s bedroom. In the meantime she held on to her father’s loaded pistol and thought of the words from Deuteronomy—chapter 32, verse 35.
To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense;
Their foot shall slide in due time:
For the day of their calamity is at hand,
And the things that shall come upon them make haste.
Everything was quiet except for the rain and intermittent lightning and thunder.
At midnight most of the inhabitants of Gilead were asleep.
But not all.
Chapter 25
Shad Parker had not moved.
He stared straight ahead at the table in front of him. The table with the shawl, the small metal box, the whiskey bottle, and the gun.
The midnight sky resounded with lightning, thunder, and the persistent tattoo of rain. His hand reached out across the table.
As he brought the bottle close, he realized that it was empty. He rose, almost knocking over the chair. It was evident that the whiskey had gotten to him, but he made his way to the cabinet. He opened the door, reached in, and pulled out one of the remaining bottles.
Shad Parker walked back to the table. He wrenched the cork out of the bottle and let it drop to the floor. He sat in the chair, took a long drink, looked at the shawl, then his gaze moved slowly, painfully toward the tin box.
He gradually reached out and touched the box.
* * *
They had slipped and slid down the muddy hillside across the flat bottomland and made it to the front of the barn in the downpour.
Austin’s hand unlatched and opened the barn door. Peg and Davy, drenched, stood beside him. Austin took a step inside and waved for his sister and
brother to follow. They did.
Shad Parker’s hand was still touching the tin box, but his eyes were fixed on the Colt. Then he looked at the shawl and lifted the lid of the box. Oh, Shenandoah, I hear you calling.
Gently, he removed one of the letters, brittle and yellowed. He held it carefully and heard the voice of Molly O.
My dearest darling,
I pray this letter finds you safe. The children and I are well and think of you every moment.
It is still impossible for me to understand and countenance the madness that has torn you—and the other men of our valley—away from us.
You who never raised a hand in anger—so gentle and compassionate—whose heart and mind recoiled at the very thought of slavery—turned into a machine of war.
And why? Because we are Virginians. Because other men—farmers like yourself who love the soil of their Ohio or Massachusetts—would devastate our valley.
If only our Blue Mountains were walls to shut them out and let us live in peace.
But the war draws closer to us. You can sense it in the air. Even the doves have left the valley.
And now, as the time we celebrate our Savior’s birth is near, I feel another life stirring within me, too. I know you want a daughter—and may it be God’s will to grant her to us.
I pray that next Christmas we will be at peace, together, our family . . .
Shad Parker could bear no more. He placed the letter on the table beside the shawl. He looked at the bottle, then the gun. His hand moved, but was stopped by a sound.
Once, twice, and then again. A slamming thud from outside.
He rose and walked toward the door. The slamming continued. He opened the door and looked through the driving rain.
The barn door, whipped by rain and wind, slammed against the front, hinged closed, then blew open again.
He took the jacket that hung from a nail near the entrance and started to put it on.
Austin, Peg, and Davy huddled in the warm, dry hayloft. A couple of the horses neighed as the barn door slapped shut again then flew open, allowing another tide of rain to sweep into the barn.
The Christmas Trespassers Page 17