The Haweaters

  That sounds good in the saying. The problem comes with the doing. Still, he’s not going to stand here arguing about what has to happen next, since it won’t change a thing. “Go home now. Don’t make me tell you a third time or I’ll find a stick and beat the insolence clear out of you.”

  Laban’s words come out gruffer than he intends and he’s as surprised as his sister by how much he sounds like Father. This spooks Annie. She bolts towards home without once looking over her shoulder. Laban issues a sharp whistle and signals for Twist to follow. The dog is off like a shot.

  As Laban watches his sister and his dog racing through the wheat, he draws a deep breath and prays he’ll be able to get those horses back without encountering Charlie or Old Man Bryan. He has his doubts, but his only other option is to return home and explain to Father where the horses are and that they’re likely there because he forgot to hobble them. That isn’t much of an option. He’ll get a whipping for sure, so he’s resolved to do as the situation dictates and hope Father doesn’t discover what transpired here this evening.

  Laban checks the sky. It’s as orange as he’s ever seen it and the shadows engulfing his feet are the darkest of darks. He moves forward cautiously, listening for any sign he’s getting closer to the wayward horses.

  With every step, Laban feels dread rising a little bit higher in his throat. He knows full well where the horses are. He knew they were on their way to Bryan’s corral the moment he heard their hoofbeats. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out, since a horse moving under its own direction sounds very different from one being led. There’s no question the horses Laban heard were being led and there are only two people who realistically could be leading them: Charlie or Old Man Bryan. Charlie is Laban’s bet. The fielding of the livestock has always been left to him and there’s no reason to believe today is any different.

  Laban slows as he approaches the Bryan place, dread rising in his throat. He doesn’t want to be here, not after what happened last time. His ribs ache just thinking about it. He rubs them, then reaches behind his back and tugs free his shirttail, draping it over the revolver. It’s best to keep it out of sight so that it doesn’t inadvertently spark a row. It’d be just like Charlie to see provocation where no provocation is meant and Laban doesn’t want to be the cause of his own beating. His plan is to locate the horses and lead them away before Charlie realizes he’s been there. What makes that possible is the horses, which are roped to the corral fence with Charlie nowhere in sight. Laban just needs to untie them, then lead them back home and all will be well.

  Laban approaches the nearest horse and reaches up to pat the nervous animal’s neck. With his free hand, he starts working the knot, but it’s surprisingly tight and he’s unable to pry it apart. He pinches and he rips and while he’s doing this, he detects a subtle shift. His eyes snap front and centre.

  Charlie steps from the shadows. He has a club in his fist and menace in his stride. Fear shoots up Laban’s spine as he looks for the rumoured revolver. He doesn’t see it, but that might only be because Charlie, like Laban, sees wisdom in keeping it concealed until the last possible second.

  Laban swallows hard. “I’m just getting what’s mine to get.”

  Charlie inches closer, gripping and re-gripping the club. “Not how I see it.”

  Laban wills the panic from his voice. “I’m not interested in how you see it.”

  A sly smile crosses Charlie’s lips. “Not sure I care what interests you. Now get.”

  Laban can’t do that. Surely Charlie understands this to be true. They both know Father too well to believe that when informed that the Bryans have captured his horses, George Amer will do no more than shrug and walk away. There won’t be any shrugging and there certainly won’t be any walking away. And when the law is finally called in, it’ll be because someone is lying dead on the ground and, likely as not, that someone will be Charlie.

  Charlie strikes the club against his own thigh. “You deaf or just stupid?”

  Deep breath. “I’m thinking I need more choices than that.”

  Charlie tightens his grip on the club. “Life isn’t about choices. It’s about who’s done what to you and what you’re going to do about it in return.”

  Laban has no doubt Charlie believes this. If there’s one thing he can truthfully say about Charlie, it’s that he’s always sincere in his belief that insults should be met with violence. “That philosophy doesn’t seem sound. You might want to think on it some more and maybe read a better class of book. Those adventure stories you’ve been devouring are making you see the world in a way it can’t ever be.”

  “I’ll not be taking advice from the likes of you.”

  Charlie grabs hold of the top fence rail and rattles it, which also rattles Laban. He backs up, just a step, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Charlie is emboldened by what he rightly perceives is his opponent’s weakness. “The way it looks to me is these horses have been in my fields, eating my oats. What I can’t figure is why any horse would be in my fields, eating my oats, unless that horse rightly belongs to me. So I take it as obvious these horses are mine.”

  Talk about convoluted. If they were all to operate under that logic, Bryan’s oxen would collectively be owned by every family within five miles. That thought clearly hasn’t occurred to Charlie and likely won’t. “How long did it take you to work out that lie?”

  Charlie raises his club and slams it down on the fence. The horses bluster and yank back their necks, but somehow the fence holds. Laban can’t say the same for his knees, which feel like they’re slowly dissolving. Not that Charlie notices. “No lie about it. These horses are mine by right of law. Seized them with my own hands in my own field and you not liking it isn’t going to hold the least bit of sway with the courts. So run along home and tell your poppa everything I’ve said here tonight. He got a problem with it, he knows where to find me.”

  Laban continues to stand his ground despite his weak knees and his trembling hands and his suddenly aching ribs. He can’t face Father without these horses and he has to make that clear. “I’m not saying anything to no one. I’m not your errand boy.”

  “You are tonight.”

  That sends a chill down Laban’s spine. He reaches back and grabs for the revolver, but his shirttail gets in the way. Charlie watches Laban struggle to free the weapon with something akin to amusement lighting his face. “What you got there?”

  “A sore back.”

  Laban is surprised by the quickness of his own lie.

  Charlie is surprised by nothing. He grabs the fence rail and hurls himself over it. “Going to be even sorer once I get through with you.”

  Laban is off like a rabbit, bounding towards the winter wheat. He has a decision to make. If he keeps heading straight, he’ll soon have to leap two fences and crash through the creek to get within striking distance of home. If he dekes left, he’ll hit the settlement road inside a minute. There he can pick up his pace considerably, but then so can Charlie, and there’s no question of Charlie outpacing him. It’s a gamble either way, so he mentally tosses a coin, then continues straight for the fields. He’ll find out soon enough if that was the right choice. For now, he tries with all his might to block the sounds of Charlie’s fast-closing-in footfall. He spots the first fence too late to jump it and clears the top rail only because he dives over it at the last possible second. Charlie isn’t so lucky. There’s a thwack, a clatter, then a thud as the Bryan boy collides with the fence, then hits the ground. Laban staggers to his feet and trips forward, listening for any indication his foe is doing the same.

  Charlie’s voice comes at him through the darkness. “You’re the biggest coward I ever laid eyes on.”

  Laban doesn’t reply nor does he slow his stride. Charlie continues to call after him. “Think your poppa would’ve run just now? Think Sam would’ve? How about me? Not one of us would’ve taken the coward�
��s way out because all of us know the trouble that finds us now will keep on finding us until a thing’s been settled. Only a coward runs from what’s his to face.”

  Laban reaches back and checks for the revolver. It’s still there. This knowledge allows him to haul himself over the final fence with a mitigated sense of failure but, as Laban wades through the creek, he can’t help wondering what he’s going to say to Father. More importantly, when he is going to say it? Tonight? Tomorrow morning? Can this news really be left until dawn? Probably not.

  As Laban scrambles up the opposite bank, he spots a lamp flashing and dimming in the kitchen window as Ellen passes repeatedly in front of it. Laban calms by several degrees. There’s something about lamplight that always signals salvation to him. It doesn’t matter whose house the lamp is in – his own or another’s – when Laban sees lamplight, he can’t help but feel safe even on a night like tonight and in circumstances such as these.

  Laban swallows hard as he yanks open the kitchen door and finds Ellen greeting him with a plate of biscuits. He waves her off. With Charlie at his back and Father yet to face, he’s got no time for pleasurable things.

  Laban trips into the parlour and starts towards his parents’ bedroom, only to veer away. He paces the full length of the room several times, trying to calm his thoughts enough to organize them into a story that won’t diminish him in Father’s eyes. What will it be? How’s this: The horses were hobbled. They were in their own field until Charlie came onto their land and led them away.

  Laban’s story doesn’t have to be true. It only has to be plausible and it’s plausible that Charlie would do something like that. The only person who can contradict his version of events is Charlie himself and the great George Amer won’t take the word of a Bryan over that of his own son. Laban is almost certain of that as he heads for his parents’ bedroom and knocks on the door. He hears nothing from within and is about to knock a second time when a grunt gives way to a creak. The door swings open and Father glowers at him in drowsy irritation. “Early day tomorrow. Better have a good reason for rousing me.”

  Good isn’t exactly how Laban would describe it. It’s best to just blurt it out. “Charlie Bryan has seized our horses.”

  Father is instantly awake. “Came onto our land?”

  Laban’s knees start to buckle and he reaches for the doorframe. “Not that I know of, Father. He says they were on his land, but I’ve got no proof his words are true.”

  And so the lie begins. George gives a perfunctory nod. “Knew this would happen. Said as much at the dinner table. A man can tell when a storm is brewing if he watches the skies long enough. Wait here.”

  As his father disappears behind the closing door, Laban hangs his head for a few seconds, then returns to the parlour. Less than a minute later, Father bursts from the bedroom tucking his nightshirt into his pants. His suspenders dangle at his knees. George spots his son loitering in the middle of the parlour and the look on his face is not one a son should ever see. It’s something beyond disappointment. Disgust might be a more accurate description. “Chase you off or threaten you?”

  “Both.”

  “He still standing?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Didn’t down him where he stood?”

  “No, Father. Not on his own property.”

  “But you had the revolver with you as I instructed?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Out with it.”

  Laban yanks the revolver from his waistband and hands it to Father, who sets it on the sideboard while he turns up the lamp’s wick. The sudden brightness in the previously dim room is almost painful. Laban winces as his father turns the revolver over in his hands, inspecting it like a fine piece of jewellery. Then he hands the weapon back to his son and stretches his suspenders up over his shoulders. “Revolver is meant to be used. Best you remember that or you could very well end up in a pine box.”

  Laban nods, hoping this is the end of the discussion. Father reaches for the lamp. “Where was the old man when all this was taking place?”

  Laban hesitates. He’d been too busy with the horses and Charlie and the prospect of another beating to consider whether Old Man Bryan was lurking in the same shadows Charlie burst from. He couldn’t have been, for Laban would surely have noticed if that’d been the case. How could he not? “I didn’t see him.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”

  Laban can’t dispute that. He can only watch as Father yanks open the sideboard’s top drawer and plucks out his truncheon. Then Father heads over to the sofa, where he grabs the boots Ellen has polished and returned. He kicks them onto his feet as he stalks towards the summer kitchen.

  As Laban follows, he feels compelled to volunteer a critical detail. “Charlie didn’t have a revolver. He just had a mean-looking club and he wasn’t afraid to use it.”

  George pauses at the entrance to the summer kitchen, but doesn’t turn. “How do you know?”

  Isn’t it obvious? “If he had a revolver, he wouldn’t have bothered to chase me across the field, not when he could’ve shot me from a distance and saved himself the effort.”

  George’s back tenses. It’s several seconds before he turns. “That how you see it? There was no revolver because Charlie didn’t fire a shot?”

  Laban shrugs, then nods. Yes, for better or worse, that is how he sees it.

  “Then I guess it’ll come as a shock when I inform you the reason Charlie didn’t fire is because he and his ingrate father are setting a trap and you played right into it.”

  Laban says nothing. He hadn’t considered this but now, as he thinks back through all Charlie said and did, he sees Father could very well be right. Laban slowly nods. His father, on the other hand, is shaking his head. “Charlie wanted you to scamper back here with news of his misdeeds so that I could be lured onto their property, where they’ll be waiting in ambush.” George points to the revolver dangling from his son’s hand. “Shoot when I tell you. Not before, not after. At the exact moment I tell you. Nod so I know you understand.”

  Laban nods. For the second time tonight, a chill races down his spine. “Is it really a good idea to be walking into a trap?”

  Father raises his eyes to the ceiling and mutters, “Not much of a trap if your opponent knows it’s been set. Whole point of a trap is the surprise. No surprise, no advantage.”

  And yet the Bryans will have even less of an advantage if they don’t go over there at all. Surely Father has considered this. “Isn’t Boyd the one who should be taking care of this?”

  Father snorts. “Boyd is powerless in a situation such as this. Only way we can use the law to get our horses back is by heading up to the Sault and filing a complaint. Too expensive by far. No, we have to reclaim our horses ourselves.”

  Laban glances down at the revolver, then reaches back and fits it into his waistband, wiggling it around until he’s certain it’s secure. “Charlie seems to think the law is on their side on account of our horses being in his field eating his oats.”

  “Charlie thinks the law is what he says it is. A boy’s got to learn his place in the world sometime and Charlie Bryan has earned the right to learn his tonight. Just fire when I say. Don’t waste your time worrying over whether it’s right. I’m in a better position to judge than you.”

  Laban trails his father into the summer kitchen. His feet feel like they’re encased in lead and his thoughts are rebelling mightily against the prospect of another encounter with Charlie. He can’t possibly do it. He’s fairly certain something inside him will rupture if he’s forced to face the wretched Bryan boy again so soon.

  Not that Father notices. He grabs the hunting knife that Ellen keeps by the door and sets it on the counter along with the truncheon. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he fishes out a key and holds it in front of the lamp until he’s certain Ellen has seen it. Then he sets it
on the counter, gathers up his weaponry, and shoulders his way through the door.

  Laban turns his gaze on Ellen in the desperate hope that help will come from that direction, but she appears frozen, a half-darned shirt gripped in one hand and a barely perceptible needle in the other. It’s a safe guess she won’t be lending him a helping hand. It’s also safe to guess that the house girl knows what the key is for. Laban makes a mental note to charm the answer out of her later, then bats open the screen door and jogs to within a few paces of his father, who is marching towards the back of the property. This isn’t the most direct way to the Bryan place, but even Laban can guess the reason for this circuitous route. The Bryans will be expecting Father to approach from the settlement road so he intends to surprise them by coming at them from the opposite direction. The direction of villains.

  Laban doesn’t like this one bit. He raises his eyes to the moon, which is a sliver off full. This makes their lantern-less trek across the back fields much easier than it normally would be. Still, Laban finds himself dancing around stumps and rocks as he struggles to keep up with Father. Soon they are closing in on the one place Laban was hoping to never see again.

  “There. That’s them all right.” The horses whinny when they detect their master’s stealthy but persistent approach. Father whisper-shouts over his shoulder. “Slower. Stick to the shadows. And soften your step. We could get lucky.”

  Laban doesn’t see how, but he does as he’s told. For naught. Bryan explodes from the shadows and plants himself between the Amers and their animals. That isn’t a good sign, but it could be worse. Much worse. Laban searches the dark. It takes a good five seconds to locate Charlie skulking in the shadows beyond the corral fence. If there was any doubt about this being a trap, it’s laid to rest first by Charlie’s clandestine behaviour and then by Bill Bryan’s caustic greeting. “Your lies have poisoned us all.”