"Dadda!" Sarah called as soon as she saw Garison. She ran to him and jumped up into his arms. He whisked her to his neck and returned the fierce hug she was giving him.
After a squeeze that was all her eighteen month old arms could muster, she turned to Heather and squealed, "Mama!" She practically leapt into Heather's arms and squeezed her mother as tightly as she could. Heather couldn't even express how glad she was to be holding her daughter, even though it had only been two days.
"She's been talking about seeing her Mama and Daddy ever since she got up this morning," Garison's father said with a smile. "Guess we know how we rate."
Heather quickly injected with a smile, "Oh, she loves her Granddad, too." Turning to Garison's mom, "And she talks about Nana all the time. Tomorrow she'll be talking about coming to see you again."
"Nothing like the bond of a parent, though," Bob Fitch smiled as he held the door open for them to all enter the house.
Heather landed her single engine airplane at the La Plata County Airport, south of Durango, by the lights of the runway. She didn't particularly like flying at night, but they had hung around Garison's parents' house until late in the afternoon and she hadn't wanted to be flying into the sun the whole way home. They also hadn't brought the necessities for staying the night. The trip was uneventful and they landed near midnight after a very long day. Heather had had a catnap in the early evening in anticipation of the late night flight.
Driving home, Garison asked, "You think we should have told my parents about the funeral?"
"No. Do you?"
"I never have liked hiding anything from them. And it does make for an interesting story."
"Garison, they still don't believe you've traveled through time. Not fully, anyway. I think it's been a wise move on our part to just pretend none of that ever happened for the last two and a half years—around them, anyway. You're sister Susie is the only family member on either side that half way believes the story and that's because she's a little wacko herself."
Garison thought he ought to object, in defense of his sister, but didn't feel that he truthfully could. Susie always had been the oddball in the family—moreso than Garison, which was why the two of them had always gotten along so well. Tommy and Janie were normal, average people and thought their siblings a little too kooky. So he let the comment slide.
"What would we tell them, anyway?" Heather asked. "We don't know what happened. We don't even have any proof that anything happened."
"What about the stuff at the county records building?"
"Sure, there's lots of proof that Guy Wilson is buried next door to us in La Plata Canyon. We can even prove the year and the funeral company. What we can't prove is that we were there or that it really happened yesterday. Someone might suggest we had read the story or found the tombstone and either made up our tale or been wrapped up in some sort of fantasy based on old memories. As far as anyone would know, we'd just be nuts."
They pulled into their driveway after one in the morning. Garison opened the back door of the car and gently unbuckled Sarah from her car seat. She was sound asleep and a little like trying to lift a rag doll out of the car—a heavy rag doll. She didn't so much as blink at the jostling as Garison carried her inside.
Garison carried Sarah upstairs to her bedroom but Heather stayed downstairs. Flying always gave her a bit of a rush and she needed a little time to try and calm down. She picked up the remote to the television and flipped it on.
Nothing. That late at night all she could find on the tube was infomercials, catalogue stations, news reruns, and soccer replays. What she wanted was just a good, mindless sitcom, but none was to be had. She pushed the "Off" button on the remote.
As the screen went blank she heard a scream from outside the front window. She dropped the remote in fright and stood frozen as Garison rushed down the stairs. "Was that you?" he asked quickly.
Unable to even speak, she pointed a shaky finger at the front window. Garison took a step towards it, then grabbed his flashlight and a baseball bat from the front closet. Armed against anything not carrying a weapon or over one hundred pounds, he stepped cautiously out the door.
Heather was sitting on the couch a few moments later, her heart still up in her throat and pounding alarmingly, when Garison reentered. "Find anything?" she managed.
"Nothing," he replied, shaking his head. "I didn't even see any tracks or anything. You don't suppose it was a mountain lion, do you? I've heard they sound just like a human sometimes when they scream."
"It sounded human to me," she replied, still short of breath. Her hand was on her heart and it was beating so fast she thought it would bruise the inside of her chest. "On the other hand, a mountain lion isn't all that comforting of a hypothesis, either."
Garison cast another look toward the front window, then shrugged, "I'll look again in the morning and see if I see tracks or anything." He offered his hand and said, "For now, let's just go on up to bed."
She nodded and gratefully took his hand. Until they were both asleep that night, she cuddled extra close.
Chapter Six
April 8, 1879
Alexander Teague shouldered his pack and stepped off the porch of the boarding house in which he had lived for five years. He had eaten there, slept there, even entertained there a time or two; but it had never been home. He had heard that "home is where the heart is". If that were true, he never really had had a home.
Ever since he was a little boy, Alex Teague had dreamed of exploring the west. His father had run an inn in the Ohio Valley country for a while, and all manner of odd and interesting people had stopped in. After being sent to bed, young Alex would sneak back into the common room, where those with little money were allowed to sleep on the floor, and listen. Traveling men often entertained each other after the sun went down with tales of their exploits and travels. While many were of a ribald nature and certainly not fit for a youngster's ears, Alex had listened intently. The west sounded like a wild and wonderful place.
Alex remembered one man especially. A trapper, or so he claimed, the man had shown up on a cold winter night, heading east. He said he'd made a stake in the Rocky Mountains, and struck it rich in the California strike. He talked big and let everyone know he was heading east to find some financial backing for a venture he proposed. Then, it'd be back to the west for him.
The other travelers at the darkened inn that night were men also familiar with the west. They had heard blustery talk before, but it was a lonely night and better to listen to a fool than sit in silence. Most of them had stretched a tall tale or two in their time as well. They sipped their ales and egged the trapper on, as if weedling him for his secret venture. The trapper didn't require much weedling—and probably would have told the story whether anyone had wanted him to or not. Maybe he was hoping one of his listeners would "talk him into" letting them buy in, but they didn't. Not only were they too smart for such a ploy (having run it themselves, most likely), if they had had any investment capital they wouldn't have been sleeping on the floor in the common room, a fact that seemed to have escaped the storyteller.
The trapper claimed that, after making his strike in California and shipping the money safely to a bank in New York, he had started out east. He had run out of luck on the trip and wound up spending the winter with some friendly Ute Indians he had known from his trapping days. When they found that he was now interested in gold, one of the braves allowed that he knew where some might be found. The trapper, who Teague remembered called himself "Smith", promised the brave "much wampum" if he were to lead Smith to the gold. Supposedly, the Indian agreed.
It was at this point in the story that all the listeners except young Alex knew Smith was stretching a tall one. Only greenhorns used the word "wampum". Besides that, while half the men in the room had had dealings with Utes, they knew the tribe was rarely ever what you'd call friendly. Business like, honest, with a strong sense of integrity and family, but rarely friendly to outsiders.
/> Alex, though, listened with rapt attention from his hiding place behind the wood box. He heard as Smith talked about being taken to a river the Spanish called the La Plata in the Colorado territory. There, Smith swirled a few pans of gold and found color such as he had never seen before—even in California. He had a plan to go back to the La Plata and start a first class operation—as soon as he had the capital, of course. One man asked why he didn't just use the "fortune" he had made in California. Smith quickly replied that he was prepared to sink it all into the venture; however, he was planning an undertaking of mammoth proportions. The La Plata Canyon, he maintained, was a strike such as hadn't been seen since '49, and it was going to take a man with vision, an iron hand, and a will to bring it to fruition. And, of course, capital.
Smith had droned on for quite a while, hoping for investors, but only Alex had continued to pay attention to him. Not too learned in the ways of the world, Alex was wishing he had some money to give Mister Smith. More than that, he wished he could go west with the trapper and see La Plata Canyon for himself. Surely, he thought, it must be a glorious place. Even the name sounded romantic.
That had been twenty years ago and Alexander Teague's life had led him east rather than west. College in Boston, position with a good firm in Alexandria, courtship with more than one eastern beauty. Always the dream had been with him, though. In fact, he had never married any of the eastern beauties he had courted because they all seemed to have a desire to stay in the east. Teague always planned on moving on, so one courtship after another had fizzled.
Now, at the still young age of twenty seven, Alexander Teague had "made his stake" and was heading west. He planned on riding the train as far as it would take him, then he'd buy a horse or a mule or whatever it would take him to get to the Rocky Mountains. With no better idea of the traveling conditions than that, he was determined to go. Maybe he wouldn't end up on the La Plata River, but he was taking Horace Greeley's advice, nonetheless.
He opened the gate in the little picket fence that surrounded the boarding house's yard, and went through. He had done it every day for five years, but this time it was different. He felt as if he were finally stepping out into freedom. No more would he be just another drone at the counting house, he would be his own man. A western man. He glanced down at his feet and reminded himself to purchase some moccasins at the first chance he got. Or cowboy boots. He didn't even know what cowboy boots looked like, but he had heard of them and decided right then that that's what he'd wear out west.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the smell of freedom. It was lightly laced with the smells of Mount Vernon, but it was a heady aroma.
Alexander Teague opened his eyes as he stepped into the street, and his head momentarily swam. The street wasn't the cobblestone of the previous day, but—rather—some odd sort of paving. A gray, rough, rock like surface that reflected the sun back at him and made the day suddenly warm. And it was stained not with the customary horse dung, but with oil and something else. No horse residue in sight, in fact. The curbs were of some sort of off white substance, much like what he had heard called "Portland" on a trip to New York.
There was a horrendous sound, like a mechanical goose being strangled, that startled Teague and caused him to jump back up on the curb. He did so not a moment too soon as a metal vehicle with rubber wheels and no visible signs of propulsion sped through where he had just been standing. A person inside the metal conveyance shouted something at Teague, but sped on. Teague had a vague idea that the person in the car must have been a sailor, based on the language used.
Alexander Teague, his heart racing a mile a minute, took a deep breath and looked around. What he saw was not what he should have seen. The street before him was paved with the grey stuff, and curbed with the off white stuff. Along the far side of the street, more of the metal conveyances were parked—and others moved down the street at an amazingly fast pace. Across the street, a series of houses—that looked nothing like the houses along that street should look—stood in a neat, orderly row. There were even children playing in front of one of the houses; children in odd clothing with strange haircuts. One child even seemed to have letters cut into his hair!
Even the smells were different. Whereas moments before he had smelled the smell of industrialization, fresh cut grass, and even horse manure, now he smelled something entirely different. It was a smell of oil, or grime, and . . . other things he could not begin to fathom.
His world had changed in the blink of an eye, so Alexander Teague did the only sensible thing: he fainted.
When Alex woke up, there was a circle of people gathered around him and looking down. Someone noticed he was coming to and commanded, "Give him some air!"
Alex sat up and realized, much to his joy, that everything looked as it should. The people were dressed normally, the street was once again cobblestone, and there were none of the frightful metal conveyances around. He smiled and Mrs. Maloney, his recently ex landlord, asked, "Are you all right, Alex?"
He coughed, to make it seem like he was telling the truth, as he said, "I must have just picked up a bug or something. Made me weak all of a sudden. I hear there are colds going around."
"Sure you don't need to come inside and rest? It might be the influenza. I could fix you some hot tea or some soup. Might do you some good to rest a day or so."
Teague shook his head and replied, "Thank you, but no. I really do have a train to catch."
"But if you're feeling poorly," someone in the crowd said.
"Not really. I'll sleep on the train. Thank you, though." He got up and, taking his pack, hastened away.
As the people on the sidewalk watched him leave and conjectured about the truth of the story, Teague walked speedily toward the train station wondering the same thing. He decided it must have been a hallucination brought on by the anxiety of his life change. He then decided his best course of action was just to not think about it.
Chapter Seven
"Find anything?" Heather asked as Garison came into the kitchen.
"Not really." He took off his hiking boots and sat down at the kitchen table. Heather brought him a cup of hot chocolate, along with one for herself, and sat down across from him. Sarah was already down for her morning nap.
"What do you mean, 'not really'?"
He shrugged and said, "I saw what might have been some tracks in the front yard, but I'm not sure. The ground's awful hard and it's been so dry there wasn't even a dew this morning. So I'm not sure but what they could be tracks you or I made a week ago. It's been more than that since the last rain—so those tracks could be from any time since then."
"Could you tell where they led?"
Garison shook his head and replied again, "Not really. They might have headed off into the woods, but I couldn't be sure."
"You could use Charlie."
"Charlie Begay? What? Just because he's an Indian you think he could read trail sign? That's not too politically correct of you."
Heather shrugged and laughed, knowing Garison hated the political correct people worse than she did. She told him, "Maybe. You know how 'up' he is on the lore and all. Besides, didn't he used to be with the tribal police down in New Mexico. And he's a woodsman. I would figure he'd know something about tracking."
"Maybe, but I'd feel silly asking. Like assuming everyone from Wisconsin knows how to make cheese."
"They don't?" she joked.
"OK, maybe they do. Anyway, Charlie's down in Arizona somewhere lecturing. Won't be back until Friday afternoon." They sat in silence for a while before Garison finally said, "I keep thinking about that scream. It sounded to me not so much like someone trying to scare us, but like someone who was scared."
"Me, too."
"What were you doing when it happened?"
Heather thought a moment, then answered, "Channel surfing. There wasn't anything on, so I flipped the TV off and then I heard that scream. You don't suppose maybe there was a mountain lion out there, do you?
"
"Sounded human to me."
"But maybe some person was out there and they saw a mountain lion. Could be they screamed and ran away."
Garison looked skeptical as he told her, "I sure didn't see any cat tracks. I've seen some of those back in the hills and I think I'd recognize them. If there was a cat out there, it didn't get anywhere near the yard."
"And if it wasn't near the yard, the person probably couldn't have seen it in the dark." They sat in silence for another long moment before Heather remarked, "I sure wonder what that was out there. I heard something; you heard something. What? Cat or human, though, I'm not too thrilled with either screaming outside our front window."
Garison could think of no other reply than a shrug. He polished off the last of his hot chocolate and took the cup to the sink. As he rinsed it, he said, "I'm going to keep working on the fence."
"Need any help?"
"Parmalee's going to come up and help me in a little bit. It's a trade off from when I fixed his generator last month. 'Sides, I thought you were taking Sarah into Durango to see Mrs. Thompson. Those new children's books, remember?"
Heather hesitated, then queried, "You think it's safe? I mean, what with all that's been going on lately."
"We made it to Denver and back just fine. Last night, we may or may not have heard something—"
"I know I heard something."
"But we don't know what." He came over and put his hands on her shoulders. "My point is, we can't lead our life running from shadows. I've had enough weird things happen in my life to make me want to barricade myself into a very small room, but you can't do that. This is the west. There are still all sorts of wild animals roaming around and some of them make pretty weird noises. If we jumped at every noise, we'd have to get a new ceiling."
"What if something else happens?"
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 6