by E. L. Ripley
Silva’s face didn’t change; there was a slight bob of his throat as he swallowed. Then he nodded. “Lightning, I suppose?”
“I could not say,” Roy said, face flat. “And Mr. Orr has passed.”
That got more of a reaction. Silva straightened, and he lost some color in his face. “Was that lightning as well?” he asked after a moment, and Roy scowled at him.
“For God’s sake, the man was ill. Has been for two months. Have some respect.”
Silva’s eye twitched, but he said nothing to that.
“Thought it might be easier to hear it now,” Roy grumbled, squeezing his reins. “Rather than ride up to a pile of ashes.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” No real condolences. No offer of help.
“What about me?” Carpenter asked mildly, and Roy gave him a funny look.
“You’re welcome too, Bill.”
“That’s decent of you.”
“What have you done with yourself?”
“Parsons and I built our factory. The first one back then.” He shrugged. “Now there’s four or five others within a mile. We sold a lot of tables.”
“That’s real good to hear. I know the captain mentioned you were doing well. And Penelope?”
“Well,” Carpenter said, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together, “she went on ahead.”
“I’m real sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t expect it’ll be long till it’s our turn.”
“That’s true enough. Gentlemen.” Roy tipped his hat and rode on. Silva didn’t reply or turn to watch him go. A minute or two passed as they sat, looking down at the town.
“Lightning,” Carpenter mused finally.
Silva took a deep breath. “Perhaps I’ll just pretend that it was,” he said, rubbing the staghound’s back. “I was going to try to build Maria a house,” he said, glancing at Carpenter. “I’ve never made a thing with my hands, but I thought I was up to it. I had the lumber ready and everything else. I suppose they burned too, I’ll find.”
“There’s always more lumber,” Carpenter told him. “You won’t run out of that.”
“Oh, I know. It’s time I’m thinking about.”
With that, he picked up the reins and took them into town.
There were no surprises waiting. Carpenter didn’t need all the details to know it stood to reason that no one wanted to look Silva in the eye. And no one could be particularly curious about Carpenter: a big older man humbly dressed. They’d think he was just another prospector, here for the Antelope Valley’s bounty of gold.
But where were the real prospectors?
“You were correct,” Silva said as they drew up outside the hotel.
“First time for everything.” Carpenter picked up his things and climbed down. “About which part?”
“You survived the ride.”
“Wonders never cease.” He put his saddlebags over his shoulder. “If a bullet puts you in an early grave, that’s the cost of doing business. But don’t let your backbone put you there. The money’s only good if you’re around to collect it.”
Silva just glanced at him, then at Maria. “I don’t know that it’s entirely up to me,” he replied. “I was glad to meet you, Mr. Carpenter.”
Silva tipped his hat, and Carpenter did the same.
This was something Carpenter had looked forward to. It didn’t take many nights on the ground to remind him what he’d taken for granted in Richmond: above all else, his feather bed and his wife. He knew which he missed more of the two, but with the noises his back had started to make, he would settle for having a bed.
The room was rough and overpriced but clean.
On the long ride west, Carpenter had fancifully considered how he might go about building a cottage here if things played out in such a way that he was inclined to stay. Now there was no fancy left in him, only the truth. His building days might not be over just yet, but he wouldn’t be building any houses. He’d made peace with the gray at his temples and in his beard, and now it was time to make peace with paying other men to do the things he’d once have done himself.
The hotel’s parlor was filling up as the sun got down low, and no one paid him any mind. The whiskey wasn’t half as good as whatever Silva had had in his wagon, but it was a hundred times better than that swill they’d tried to give him at the lodge.
“Did you drive in with that factory man?” the barman asked, offering the bottle.
Carpenter leaned over the bar to be sure there wasn’t a better bottle in hiding. When there wasn’t, he accepted a second glass. “He was kind enough to let me ride rather than see me walk. I lost my horse.”
The barman nodded, looking sympathetic.
“Of course,” Carpenter went on, taking a sip, “that other fellow lost his home. He’s got no luck to speak of, does he?”
“No brains, more like. On account he can’t see he’s got no friends. Apart from the dog.” That was what the man said, but the look on his face didn’t go with the words. He had no grievance with Silva. All he had was pity. “It’s a handsome dog, though,” he added after a moment.
“He’s a fool all right,” Carpenter agreed, glancing at the door. “I suppose if the factory doesn’t pick up, he can make his fortune in gold. They say all you need is a pan in this camp.”
“We all could,” the barman snorted, stepping away to pour for another man. “We could pan until we’re all as gray as you are. Wouldn’t find no gold.”
Carpenter paused, about to drink. He set the glass down and opened his mouth, but a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to see a man he knew well, even with that mustache, which he certainly hadn’t had twenty years ago.
“Get your rifle, Joe. I believe there’s a weasel on your face,” Carpenter told him.
Joe Fisher groaned. “You got old, Bill. But you ain’t grown up none.”
“I have a razor. I could be prevailed upon to allow you to borrow it,” Carpenter went on.
“I have my own. Edith likes it,” Joe added, touching the mustache self-consciously.
“But does she like so much of it?”
“Why don’t you worry about your own wife, Bill?”
“Don’t see what good it would do. She’s dead.”
That stopped him. “I’m sorry to hear that. Penelope was a find. You did better than any of us.”
Carpenter snorted and got to his feet. “It happens to the best of us. I’m glad to see you, Joe.”
He looked better than he ever had. Better dressed, better fed, and better groomed, even with half his face hidden.
They shook hands, but Carpenter wasn’t satisfied with that. He embraced the other man, who put up with it stoically.
“I didn’t think from your letters that you were inclined to join us,” Joe said, stepping back and looking Carpenter up and down. “Making too much money in Richmond. What did you do with it all? Those boots are the same ones you wore on the march.”
“I would have loved to come with you.” It was true. “But you know she couldn’t leave.” Penelope had too much family, too many ties to just drag her out of Richmond. He’d always been a bit wistful about the others, about the way they’d all stayed together after the war, their families and all.
Things were different now. He was alone, and though there was no good reason he shouldn’t have a few more decent years in him, there wouldn’t be many more long journeys. Just coming this far was enough to make him feel like he had one foot in the grave. It had been a long time since he’d been this tired.
“I know,” Joe said. “You missed some good times, Bill. And some bad. But that’s just the way of it.”
“Even after all this time, you still don’t want to do honest work?” Carpenter eyed the badge on Joe’s chest.
“No one changes that much. I’m not
here because I missed you. The captain wants you to have dinner at the house.”
“I didn’t write him I was coming. How’s he know I’m here?” Carpenter finished his whiskey.
“Must have seen you coming in.”
“Must have. Well.” He put the glass down. “I suppose I’ll make room for him on my crowded itinerary.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carpenter’s itinerary wasn’t crowded, but the captain’s house was.
It was well outside town, high above it, and overlooking it without being too obvious about it. What was obvious was how much the man must have spent to build it. Though it was all a single floor, it was sprawled over the ground, finer than it needed to be, but maybe not bigger.
It was full of children. Seventeen by Carpenter’s count, and the youngest of them had to be at least ten years old. Not just children, though.
In addition to Joe Fisher and his wife, Reverend Brown was there, and the others. Isaiah, O’Doul, and even Fred. Even in his wildest dreams, Carpenter would never have thought a reunion could be this way. All of them still here, all of them whole and doing well. Fred had put on a bit of paunch, and Isaiah’s nose was as red as blood, but they were all still on their feet, surrounded by their families. It was nothing short of a miracle.
The men rushed to him with such warmth and familiarity that their wives and children were left in shock. They all stared, uncomprehending. That stood to reason; if any of the old boys were inclined to tell stories, they probably wouldn’t tell the ones about Carpenter. Their wives and children simply didn’t know who he was.
That suited him.
“Lord Almighty, Bill,” Captain Hale said, entering the foyer. “I never saw a man look taller after this many years. Most of us are starting to shrink.”
Hale hadn’t shrunk, at least not his middle. His hair was white, though he seemed spry enough. A fair number of these children were his, a lot of daughters.
“Might be I just stand straighter than you remember.” Carpenter took his hand and shook.
“I’m so proud that Richmond went well for you.”
“I can tell you, Captain, I didn’t have anything like this.” He gestured at the grand house.
“We’re real sorry about Penelope,” said Isaiah, his hat in his hand.
“Thank you.”
Hale beckoned. “Bill, we’d have eaten an hour ago if not for you. How about we sit?”
It was a sight.
There were lamps outside the house to light up the flower beds, which were full of blooms. Each one of the children at the table wore clothes that had to have cost more than all the men’s uniforms in the war combined. There was more food in one dish than the dozen of them had shared in a day.
Carpenter had never been good with names or faces, and tonight would be his worst night yet. He would remember Captain Hale’s new wife, who was a startling beauty half his age, but the rest he wasn’t so sure about. The wives he would learn eventually. The children’s names he might learn if he lived to be a hundred.
It was a cool night with a good breeze through the open windows, just enough to make the smell of the food seem to fill the house. Strange things had come and gone in his time, but he’d never lived in a moment that didn’t feel quite real until now.
“What we found,” Carpenter replied to Joe, “was that you could do more work if you didn’t do it all yourself. If we made the legs in our building, and Pierre made the tabletops at his—well, in the end it meant we were able to move more that way. Later on we bought out Pierre’s factory. Now the company has quite a few, not just in Richmond. I was more lucky than smart. They don’t need me anymore.”
“That’s a hell of a thing,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Of all of us here, you were the one to strike gold.”
That might be, but Carpenter didn’t want gold. He wanted his wife, but no sense talking about it. It wasn’t fair to have what he didn’t want and not what he did. He couldn’t get Penelope back, and he couldn’t get rid of what he knew. He had a thick skull, or at least several people had said so over the years, but that meant that once something got in, it was there to stay. This was no different.
It was very quiet; even the children listened when Carpenter spoke. He was a curiosity. It wasn’t just his height; it was his clothes and how familiar all the men were with him.
A board creaked, and he looked up to see a boy in the doorway, leaning. Carpenter hadn’t seen him when he came into the house, but he must have been there. He was the boy who’d been at the lodge and on the trail; there was no mistake. Now he was dressed like he belonged in this house.
“Bill Carpenter,” he said.
Carpenter paused in the act of pulling a roll apart. “That’s right. I remember you. I’m glad you made it here safe, son.”
“You the same coward that killed my uncle Byron?”
Hale choked and put down his wineglass, glaring at the boy. He cleared his throat. “Bill, I’ll introduce my oldest, since he hasn’t got the manners to do it himself. This is William.”
“I’m glad to meet you,” Carpenter said evenly.
The boy just stood there, wearing his fine suit as though he’d been born in it. He was so tall that he looked older, but he couldn’t be more than seventeen.
“Answer my question,” he replied, glaring without blinking.
“I will apologize, Mr. Carpenter,” Hale’s wife cut in. “He’s been in this humor ever since he rode back in.”
Carpenter saw the look that passed between Hale and Joe, and Mrs. Hale twitched as her husband touched her thigh.
“That’s all right,” Carpenter said before anyone else could speak up. “My humor’s no better. I’m sorry, son. But I never killed anyone. I can swear to that.”
William straightened up, and Joe immediately leaned back in his chair, blocking his path. It wasn’t clear what the boy had intended, but that stopped him. William was sore about something—that much was clear—but it couldn’t have had anything to do with Carpenter.
“Will, I told you a hundred times you got to watch what you say,” Joe warned.
Hale groaned. “Maybe it’s not him that needs to speak more careful.” He leaned forward, looking up and down the table. “Lord, have mercy. Who told the boy about Byron?”
A moment went by. Carpenter kept his eyes on his plate, not out of politeness, but because he didn’t have to look. Of those still living, O’Doul was the only one who might’ve told the kid something like that. Byron and O’Doul had always been close, and he’d never understood. Even after the dust settled and it all came out, it just hadn’t mattered. O’Doul felt the way that he felt, and that was all right.
Carpenter didn’t blame him.
Hale put his face in his hand. “O’Doul, if you want to tell my son something that ain’t none of his business, can’t you at least tell him the truth?”
“Sit,” Joe said firmly to the boy.
After a moment, William did so. His mother let out her breath, and some of the others started to eat again, however hesitantly.
Hale picked up his wine again and finished it off. “It was supposed to be a nice night.”
“It still is,” Carpenter said, shrugging. “The past knocks on the door all the time. No need to let it in if you don’t want to. Hell, I been hearing that knock close on twenty years.”
“I wish it was that simple, Bill. But I have my constituency to think about,” Hale said dryly, gesturing at the others and their families. “Can’t let it hang, or William’ll just sit and grind his teeth all night.” He glanced at the maid. “I suppose we’d better have more wine, if not for them, then for me.”
“Or just get the whiskey,” Fred said bitterly.
Joe snorted. “Bring it all out, Captain.”
“I can’t even have a meal without putting you out, sir,” Carpenter said.
“There are worse things than a story at dinner, Bill. Even if it ain’t the one like to bring the most cheer. I take a stroll that way once in a while myself.” He sighed. “I just don’t like to go that far back.”
“Tell the story, Mr. Hale,” one of Fred’s sons said.
“Yes,” Isaiah’s wife agreed, eyes bright.
“It ain’t a good one,” Joe warned, glancing at Carpenter. For what? Permission?
“I’ve heard worse,” Carpenter said lightly.
“Reckon you have.” Hale shook his head and rested his chin on his fist, looking out over everyone at the table. “Been a long time since I heard anyone say Byron’s name. Strange thing. I scarcely even think about him anymore.” He rubbed his face and straightened up. “Sounds all wrong when I say it like that.”
“I do,” O’Doul said, taking a bottle from the tray as the maid returned.
The captain didn’t reply to that. It was obvious he would have liked to let it lie, but there were too many people at the table, and all of them were looking at him expectantly.
“I can tell it,” Reverend Brown volunteered.
“No.” Just like that, Hale’s exhaustion left him, and he smiled. “It’s all right. My younger brother, Byron, was with us. This was only a month or so before Seven Pines, I guess. We were withdrawn from the peninsula, and we had some trouble a week or so earlier in travel. That was when we lost Tucker.”
Reverend Brown was the only one who lifted his glass. Tucker hadn’t been a popular man, but Carpenter still felt a chill at the mention of his name. “Trouble” was the word the captain had chosen for what had happened, but trouble didn’t do it justice.
“We were in camp up by that white birch creek. It was us, and the Fifth, and the cavalry out of Baton Rouge, and some of General Johnston’s irregulars. There was a pair of Yankee spies that sneaked in, and through the grace of God, they mistook our grain for powder. Now,” Hale added firmly, seeing the look on Carpenter’s face, “if Bill were telling the story, he’d tell you they weren’t spies at all, and they weren’t confused about anything. That they were hungry, and that grain was all they wanted. But he’s wrong. Dead wrong. They were Yankee spies, and they wanted our powder.”