The Old One stirred and mumbled. "In my sleep I saw them," he muttered, "strange men sitting upon strange beasts."
"He is old," their mother said. "His thoughts wander."
How old he was they did not know. He had come out of the desert and they cared for him. None knew what manner of man he was, but it was said he talked to gods, and they with him.
"Strange men," he said, "with robes that glisten."
"How many men?" The boy asked without curiosity but because he knew that to live, an old one must be listened to and questioned sometimes.
"Three," the Old One said, "no more."
Firelight flickered on the parchment of his ancient face. "Sitting upon beasts," he repeated.
Sitting upon? What manner of beast? And why sit upon them? The boy went to a corner for an old timber. A hundred years ago it had been a tree; then part of a roof; now it was fuel.
They must leave or die, and it was better to die while doing than sitting. There was no corn left in the storage place. Even the rats were gone.
"When the light comes," the boy said, "we will go."
"What of the Old One? His limbs are weak."
"So are we all," the boy said. "Let him walk as far as he may."
"They followed the path," the Old One said, "a path where there was no path. They went where the light was."
On the third day their water was gone, but the boy knew of a seep. At the foot of the rocks he dug into the sand. When the sand grew damp, they held it against their brows, liking its coolness. Water seeped into the hollow, and one by one they drank.
They ate of the corn they carried, but some they must not eat. It would be seed for planting in the new place--if they found it.
During the night snow fell. They filled a water sack made of skin and started on.
With the morning the snow vanished. Here and there a few seeds still clung to the brush. Under an ironwood they rested, picking seed from the ground. They could be parched and eaten or ground into pinole. As they walked they did not cease from looking, and the Old One found many seeds, although his eyes were bad.
"Where do we go?" Small Sister asked.
"We go," the boy replied, but inside he felt cold shivers as when one eats too much of the prickly-pear fruit. He did not know where they went, and he was much afraid.
On the ninth day they ate the last of their corn but for that which must be kept for seed. Twice the boy snared ground squirrels, and three times he killed lizards. One day they stopped at a spring, gathering roots of a kind of wild potato that the people to the south callediikof . His mother and the Old One dug them from the flat below the spring.
Day after day they plodded onward, and the cold grew. It snowed again, and this time it did not go away. The Old One lagged farther and farther behind, and each day it took him longer to reach the fire.
The boy did not meet their eyes now, for they looked to him, and he had nothing to promise.
"There was a path of light," the Old One muttered. "They followed the path."
He drew his worn blanket about his thin shoulders. "It is the Moon of the Limbs of Trees Broken by Snow," he whispered, "that was the time."
"What time, Old One?" The boy tried to be patient.
"The time of the path. They followed the path."
"We have seen no path, Old One."
"The path was light. No man had walked where the path lay."
"Why, then, did they follow? Were they fools?"
"They followed the path because they heard and they believed."
"Heard what? Believed in what?"
"I do not know. It came while I slept. I do not know what they believed, only that they believed."
"I believe we are lost," Small Sister said.
The mother looked to the boy. He was the man, although but a small man, and alone. "In the morning we will go on," he said.
The Old One arose. "Come," he said. Wondering, the boy followed.
Out in the night they went, stopping where no firelight was. The Old One lifted his staff. "There!" he said. "There lies the path!"
"I see no path," the boy said, "only a star."
"The star is the path," the Old One said, "if you believe."
It was a bright star, hanging in the southern sky. The boy looked at it, and his lips trembled. He had but twelve summers. Yet he was the man, and he was afraid.
"The star is the path," the Old One said.
"How can one believe in a star?" the boy protested.
"You do not have to believe in the star. They traveled for a reason. We travel for another. But you can believe in yourself, believe in the good you would do. The men of the star were long ago and not like us. It was only a dream."
The Old One went back to the fire and left the boy alone. They trusted him, and he did not trust himself. They had faith, and he had none. He led them into a wilderness--to what?
He had wandered, hoping. He had found nothing. He had longed, but the longing was empty. He found no place for planting, no food nor fuel.
He looked again. Was not that one star brighter than all the rest? Or did he only believe it so?
The Old One had said, "They followed a star."
He looked at the star. Then stepping back of a tall spear of yucca, he looked across it at the star. Then breaking off another spear, he set it in the sand and lined it up on the star so he would know the direction of the star when dawn came.
To lead them, he must believe. He would believe in the star.
When morning came, they took up their packs. Only the Old One sat withdrawn, unmoving. "It is enough," he said. "I can go no further."
"You will come. You taught me to have faith; you, too, must have it."
Day followed day, and night followed night. Each night the boy lined up his star with a peak, a tree, or a rock. On three of the days they had no food, and two days were without water. They broke the spines from cactus and sucked on the pulp from the thick leaves.
Small Sister's feet were swollen and the flesh broken. "It is enough," his mother said. "We can go no further."
They had come to a place where cottonwoods grew. He dug a hole in the streambed and found a little water. They soaked cottonwood leaves and bound them to Small Sister's feet. "In the morning," he said, "we will go on."
"I cannot," Small Sister said.
With dead branches from the cottonwoods he built a fire. They broiled the flesh of a terrapin found on the desert. Little though there was, they shared it.
The boy walked out in the darkness alone. He looked up and the star was there. "All right," he said.
When the light came, he shouldered his pack, and they looked at him. He turned to go, and one by one they followed. The Old One was the last to rise.
Now the land was broken by canyons. There was more cedar, occasionally a pioon. It snowed in the night, and the ground was covered, so they found only those seeds that still hung in their dry pods. They were very few.
Often they waited for the Old One. The walking was harder now, and the boy's heart grew small within him. At last they stopped to rest, and his mother looked at him: "It is no use. I cannot go on."
Small Sister said nothing and the Old One took a long time coming to where they waited.
"Do you stay then?" the boy said. "I will go on."
"If you do not come back?"
"Then you are better without me," he said. "If I can, I will come."
Out of their sight he sat down and put his head in his hands. He had failed them. The Old One's medicine had failed. Yet he knew he must try. Small though he was, he was the man. He walked on, his thoughts no longer clear. Once he fell, and again he caught himself on a rock before falling. He straightened, blinking to clear his vision.
On the sand before him was a track, the track of a deer. He walked on and saw other tracks, those of a raccoon, and the raccoon liked water. Not in two months had he seen the track of an animal. They led away down the canyon.
He went out on the rocks
and caught himself abruptly, almost falling over the rim. It was a limestone sink, and it was filled with water. He took up a stone and dropped it, and it hit the pool and sank with a deep, rich, satisfying sound. The well was deep and wide, with a stream running from one side.
He went around the rim and lay down flat to drink of the stream. Something stirred near him, and he looked up quickly.
They were there: his mother, Small Sister, and the Old One. He stood up, very straight, and he said, "This is our place; we will stop here."
The boy killed a deer, and they ate. He wiped his fingers on his buckskin leggings and said, "Those who sat upon the beasts? What did they find, following their star?"
"A cave that smelled of animals where a baby lay on dry grass. The baby's father and mother were there, and some other men wearing skins, who stood by with bowed heads."
"And the shining ones who sat upon the beasts?"
"They knelt before the baby and offered it gifts."
"It is a strange story," the boy said, "and at another time I will listen to it again. Now we must think of planting."
-
Moran of the Tigers
FLASH MORAN TOOK the ball on the Rangers' thirty yard line, running with his head up, eyes alert. He was a money player, and a ground gainer who took the openings where he found them.
The play was called for off tackle. Murphy had the hole open for him, and Flash put his head down and went through, running like a madman. He hit a two-hundred-pound tackle in the midriff and set him back ten feet and plowed on for nine yards before he was downed.
Higgins called for a pass and Flash dropped back and took the ball. Swindler went around end fast and was cutting over when Flash rifled the ball to him with a pass that fairly smoked. He took it without slowing and started for the end zone. Weaving, a big Ranger lineman missed him, and he went on to be downed on the two yard line by a Ranger named Fenton, a wiry lad new in pro football.
"All right, Flash," Higgins said as they trotted back. "I'm sending you right through the middle for this one."
Flash nodded. The ball was snapped, and as Higgins wheeled and shoved it into his middle, he turned sharply and went through the line with a crash of leather that could be heard in the top rows. He went through and he was downed safely in the end zone. He got up as the whistle shrilled, and grinned at Higgins. "Well, there's another one for Pop. If we can keep this up, the Old Man will be in the money again."
"Right." Tom Higgins was limping a little, but grinning. "It's lucky for him he's got a loyal bunch. Not a man offered to back out when he laid his cards on the table."
"No," Flash agreed, "but I'm worried. Lon Cramp has been after some of the boys. He's got money, and he's willing to pay anything to get in there with a championship team. He's already got Johnny Hill from the Rangers, doubled his salary, and he got Kowalski from the Brewers. He hasn't started on us, but I'm expecting it."
"It'll be you he's after," Tom Higgins said, glancing at the big halfback. "You were the biggest ground gainer in the league last year, and a triple-threat man."
"Maybe. But there's others, too. Hagan, for instance. And he needs the money with all those operations for his wife. He's the best tackle in pro football."
POP DOLAN WAS standing in the dressing room grinning when they came in. "Thanks, boys," he said, "I can't tell you what this means to me. I don't mean the winning, so much as the loyalty."
Flash Moran sat down and began to unlace his shoes. Pop Dolan had started in pro football on a shoestring and a lot of goodwill. He had made it pay. His first two years had been successful beyond anybody's expectations, but Pop hadn't banked all the money, he had split a good third of the take with the team, over and above their salaries. "You earned it," he said simply. "When I make money, we all make it."
Well, Flash thought, he's losing now, and if we take the winnings we've got to take the punishment. Yet how many of the players felt that way? Tom Higgins, yes. Dolan had discovered Tom in the mines of Colorado. He had coached him through college, and the two were close as father and son. Hagan?
He didn't know. Butch Hagan was the mainstay of the big line. An intercollegiate heavyweight wrestling champ, he had drive and power to spare. Ken Martin? The handsome Tiger tailback, famous college star and glamour boy of pro football, was another doubtful one. He was practically engaged to "Micky" Dolan, Pop's flame-haired daughter, so that would probably keep him in line.
Flash dressed and walked outside, then turned and strolled away toward the line of cabs that stood waiting.
A slender, sallow-faced man was standing by a black car as he approached, and he looked up at Flash, smiling. "Hi, Moran!" He thrust out a cold limp hand. "Want a ride uptown?"
Flash looked at him, then shrugged. It wasn't unusual. Lots of sports fans liked to talk to athletes, and the ride would save him the cab fare as his car was in the shop. He got in.
"You live at the Metropole, don't you?" the stranger asked. "How about dropping by the Parkway for a steak? I want to talk a little. My name is Rossaro. Jinx Rossaro."
"A steak? Well, why not?" They rode on in silence until the car swung into the drive of the Parkway. It was a twenty-story apartment hotel, and quite a place. The kind of place Flash Moran couldn't afford. He was wondering, now...Jinx Rossaro...The name sounded familiar but he couldn't place it. He shrugged. Well, what the devil? He wasn't any high-school girl who had to be careful about pickups.
The dining room was spotless and the hush that prevailed was broken only by the tinkle of glass and silver. Somewhere, beyond the range of his eyes, an orchestra played a waltz by Strauss. They did things well here, he reflected. This Rossaro--
Another man was approaching their table. A short, square man who looked all soft and silky, until you saw his eyes. Then he looked hard. He walked up and held out his hand. "How are you, Jinx? And this is the great Flash Moran?"
There was no sarcasm in the man. His hard little eyes spanned Moran's shoulders and took in his lean, hard two hundred pounds. "I'm happy to meet you. My name is Cramp, Lon Cramp."
Flash had risen to acknowledge the introduction. His eyes narrowed a little as they often did when he saw an opposing tackler start toward him.
They sat down and he looked across at Cramp. "If the occasion is purely social, Mr. Cramp, I'm going to enjoy it. If you got me here to offer me a job, I'm not interested."
Cramp smiled. "How much money do you make, Mr. Moran?"
"You probably know as well as I do. I'm getting fifteen thousand for the season."
"If you get paid. To pay you Dolan must make money. He's broke now, and he won't win any more games. I think, Moran, you'd better listen to what I have to say."
"I wouldn't think of leaving Pop," Flash said quietly. "I'm not a college boy. I came off a cow ranch to the Marines. After the Marines, where I played some football in training, Pop found me and gave me all the real coaching I had, so I owe a lot to him."
"Of course," Cramp smiled, then he leaned forward, "but you owe something to yourself, too. You haven't long, no man has, in professional football. You have to get what you can when you can get it. Pop's through. We know that, and you must realize it yourself. You can't help him."
"I'm not a rat. If the ship sinks I'll go down with it."
"Very noble. But impractical. And," Cramp leaned forward again, "it isn't as if you would have to leave Dolan."
Flash straightened. "Just what do you mean?"
"My friend, we are businessmen. I want the professional championship. You would be infinitely more valuable on Dolan's team than on mine--if you were on my payroll, too."
"You mean--?" Flash's face was tight, his eyes hard.
"That you play badly? Certainly not! You play your best game, until, shall we say, the critical moment. Then, perhaps a fumble, a bad kick--you understand?" Cramp smiled smoothly.
Flash pushed back his chair, then he leaned forward. "I understand very well. You're not a sportsman, you're a crook! I not only won
't do your dirty work, but I'll see nobody else does!"
Cramp's eyes were deadly. "Those were hard words, Moran. Reconsider when your temper cools, and my offer stands. For two days only. Then--watch yourself!"
Moran wheeled and walked out. He was mad, and mad clear through, yet underneath his anger there was a cool, hardheaded reasoning that told him this was something Dolan couldn't buck. Dolan was honest. Cramp had the money to spend...if Flash wouldn't cooperate, there were others.
There was Hagan, who needed money. Hagan who could fail to open a hole, who could let a tackler by him, who could run too slowly and block out one of his own players. Would Butch do it? Flash shook his head. He wouldn't--usually. Now his wife was ill and he was broke as they all were....
Higgins? He would stand by. Most of the others would, too. Flash walked back to his room, and lay down on the bed. He did not even open his eyes when Higgins came in, undressed, and turned in.
DOLAN MET HIM in the coffee shop for breakfast. He looked bad, dark circles under his eyes, and he showed lack of sleep. Tom Higgins was with him, so was Ken Martin. Ken, looking tall and bronzed and strong, beside him, Micky.
Flash felt a sharp pang. He was in love with Micky Dolan. He had never deceived himself about that. Yet it was always the handsome Martin who was with her, always the sharp-looking former All-American.
"Well, it's happened!" Pop said suddenly. "Cramp raided me yesterday. He got Wilson and Krakoff."
Moran felt himself go sick. Krakoff was their big center. He had been with the team for three years. None of them were working under contract this year, not in the strictest sense. Pop leaned over backwards in being fair. Any agreement could be terminated if the player wished. Krakoff at twenty-two was a power in the line. Wilson had been a substitute back, but a good one. They had been shorthanded before this happened.
Martin looked at Flash thoughtfully. "Didn't I see you going off the field with Rossaro?"
Moran looked up and said quietly, "Rossaro met me with an offer to drive me home. When we got up to dinner, Cramp was there. He made me an offer."
Micky was looking at him, her eyes very steady. "I told him nothing doing."
from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004) Page 11