About the West (Prologue)

Post 316:

Almost the Fall: A Novel

Prologue:

            It was near two years since the War of the Rebellion. He’d managed to survive the cannons and the cold, the swamps and bayonets. Johnny Reb stole one of his fingers and gifted him a limp that festered more than it let up. No matter. He was alive. To crawl over dead limbs and dead fields, to come out breathing at all, he figured it a sign from the Maker.

            He sought no recompense from the South. Recompense would require more accounting, going back over land already bled for. South was no longer a direction. The other three were more than enough—West being most important.  

            Like so many of the wasted might’ve wanted, he went.

            It was an isolated, simple spread, but there was plenty of grass and water. They had a cow and some pigs, more than a few chickens. A sturdy horse. Their crops came in weak the first year, flush the next. It was hard work like any, but the air was free from men’s meddling and the ground was mostly green. The only blood he saw came from too much time on the shovel or the plow.

            Different types of blood. Something never thought on before the War. Now he knew different.

            “Strange thing, ain’t it?” he asked, looking out on the worked land and beyond. Rows and rows and then forever until the mountains. It made his contribution seem insignificant in the most beautiful of ways. The stream ran lively in the background while he held fast for a response.

            “I’m supposing you want me to chase you,” she said, tilting her head down at the son they’d made together, standing between them. The boy was near knee-high to his father and strangely sturdy on his little feet.

            “Chase me?” he asked. He’d stay confused until she made herself clear. That was their way and always had been.

            She sighed and issued a smile too small for him to find. “I never was partial to fancy talking men,” she said, “but you lay your words down like a half a hand of cards.”

            He turned and used a dirty finger to push up the brim of his hat.

            “What’s strange?” she asked, deciding to give in.

            Their son raised up his arms like trying to steady a horse and they each grabbed a hand, swinging him just off the planks of the porch. He laughed at all points of the pendulum, back and forth, until their shoulders started to fuss.

            “Life,” he said, easing the boy to a solid landing. “It’s strange.”

            “I’m fairly certain that’s an observation made by many of our predecessors,” she answered. “Adam and Eve went on at length, I’d venture to guess.”

            He put one hand on his son’s head, guiding his little body forward. His other hand found a home on his wife’s cheek. “You’re always making light of things, Nell.”

            “Takes a lot of work.”

            “Does it?” he asked, kissing her other cheek.

            “Indeed it does.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his lips down to hers. Husband and wife could smell each other’s day while their mouths lingered. It wasn’t pleasant or perfumed, but something better; earned and good. Life is strange, she thought.

            He took her wrists and held her arms to his chest, strong, the way she liked. “Indeed it does, you said?”

            “Indeed I did, John.” Nell gently kicked the toe of his boot. “It’s a matter of balancing the scales. Proportions and the like.”

            “I see.”

            “Oh you see,” she laughed, pushing his brim a bit higher. “You rustling around with the deep and dark—”

            “Yes ma’am. You’re doing your part, providing the light.”

            Her eyes opened wide as their little boy tried to push his way back between their legs. “Huh. I guess you do get it. Maybe my husband isn’t the brute I reckoned I was stuck with.”

            “Maybe not.”

            “Well I’ll be sure to thank God while I tend to supper.”

            John watched her walk inside and picked up his boy. “Your mama’s something else, son.” As he filled the swine trough with water and checked on the main barn, it came back to him. His point about the strangeness of life. He was relieved Nell had derailed his line of thinking—how obvious his mind worked compared to hers. She’d gotten a proper education while he was off fighting. His wife spent years learning to use her brain he while spent the same time trying to turn his off.

            His miseries were nothing special. A twisted up thought, but true all the same. Just another blight by man towards man. He’d contributed his portion to the foul feast. One more mountain of bodies in the range of human catastrophe. No call for complaining. No reason. A pretty wife, good land. A fine boy.

            So much life. On the other side of the darkest time he could imagine, so much beauty and life. That’s all he’d meant to say back there, staring out from the porch. Strange.

            John continued to hold his son while he brushed the horse. The boy was still struggling for words, face red and brimming over with things to express. The little noises he let out sounded something like Zeus without the Z.

            “That’s right, Joel. You wantin’ to help me brush down the old Zeus?”

            The mature horse nickered with approval as the father guided the boy’s little hand across his back. Joel’s big eyes were fixed while his papa explained the importance of taking care of a horse’s hair. “Supposing we saddle the old boy and there’s mud or a pebble of some such rubbing under all the weight—wouldn’t be proper or kind, would it Zeus?”

            The lesson continued for a few minutes until John heard his wife’s voice calling out from the house.

            “Yeah, we’re coming,” he said, setting the brush and his son down. “Let’s go Joely. Sounding like we’re late for supper.”

            Nell was in the barn before they could make it out. “Riders coming,” she said.

            “Take Joel.”

            John was out of the barn, weaving his way through the pens and toward the house. He squinted north and made out five tiny dots on the horizon. The dipping sun wasn’t much help. Damn she’s got good eyes he thought, walking into the house. As he grabbed his rifle from above the mantelpiece, Nell was behind him, fetching his pistol and two leather ammunition belts.   

            “You’re loaded,” she said, handing over his rig.

            “What about you?” he asked.

            She pulled out her own pistol and nodded. They worked in seamless concert and without wasted words. It was cooperation that had seen them through the perils of the journey. Had it not come natural, they never would’ve made it out of Pennsylvania.

            Nell’s pretty pale face was showing signs of muted concern. A wrinkle or two on her forehead, but nothing overly dramatic. They’d run this drill many a time before. They were three miles south of the main trail leading into town, close enough to get an occasional stray soldier or settler looking in.

            “I’ve got need of your vision,” John said, leaning against the front door frame.

            She looked over his shoulder and out toward the riders. They were defined now, less than a half mile out. The cloud of dust from their horses grew thicker in their wake as they charged on.

            “What do you think?” he asked. “Dang sun’s too low for me to make out much of anything.”

            “They’re all liveried different,” she said. “And they’ve got their rifles out.”

            That sound, like far away thunder, started to rumble and build as the horses neared the farmhouse. “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” he said, cocking his own rifle. “But head out the back door and get down by the river bank. Cross if you have to, get to the woods. Take Joely with you.” John handed his wife a handful of cartridges for her pistol and gave her a look that stayed her from any arguments. He was right to be cautious. They certainly weren’t soldiers or settlers—not without uniforms or wagons.

             Cattle pushers, maybe, but there wasn’t a herd. Could be they had a hurt man, though unlikely; all five seemed to be riding high and hard.

            Nell dropped the extra bullets into her dress pocket and picked her boy up. We can talk later, she thought, leaving her husband still leaning against the door. She cradled Joel in one arm and carried the heavy pistol in the other, thirty seconds trot to the bank. Now the quaint sound of the river was a curse. She wanted desperately to hear the interaction to come, but they were too far away. The water played over the rocks and her son smiled back at her concerned face. “We’re fine,” Nell said, squeezing the boy tight. “Your papa’s plenty tough.” As much as she knew it, a black sort of worry was choking her. What had led them here? The panic made everything they’d sacrificed and worked for a folly. The little stretch of dirt from her to the cabin was an impossible distance, infinitely farther than the country they’d managed to cross. “You papa’s plenty tough,” she said, over and over again.

            They pulled up in front of the house in formation, one man out front, like birds fleeing winter’s cold. John’s struggling eyes danced left and right but he held a non-threatening stance, leaning against the frame of the door. His rifle rested diagonally against his chest, right hand near but not on the trigger. His pistol was cocked and ready just below his left hip.

            As they skidded their horses to a stop, the lead rider was the first to speak. “Howdy there.” He held up his hands and smiled warmly. “Apologies for barging up so unmannered.” The rider took off his hat and rubbed a shirtsleeve across his tanned brow. John could see he was a young man with a confident face and unusually straight white teeth.

            “What can I do for you gentlemen?” John asked. He looked from left to right once more. The riders seemed more fatigued than dangerous, but prospecting after their intentions would be ill-advised.

            “We’re needing food. Water for the horses.” The answer came from the thickly-set man to the leader’s right. He was severe in manner and odd to the eyes; hair long and  blond, almost white. A beard dark as coal. “How far to the nearest town?”

            John squinted as the daylight continued to wane. “Pinewood is about a half day’s ride west. That trail y’all were on will take you straight through.”

            “You suggesting we get moving?” asked the blond man. It was clear he was spoiling for trouble. Only question was, how much.

            The leader pointed an admonishing finger at his companion. “That ain’t the way, Clyde. Keep it under your hat.” He turned back to John, all teeth and goodwill. “I apologize, Mister—”

            “Wilkins. John Wilkins. Y’all are welcome to a meal. Stream’s got plenty of water. I’d put you up for the night but there’s not much room for accommodating.”

            “That’s kind of you, Mr. Wilkins,” the leader said, pulling out a gold watch from his vest pocket. My name’s Dan Clayton. I hate being a source of imposition but it’s an offer I’d be foolhardy to pass on. We’ll supper and then push to town.”

            Just as they were about to dismount, the one called Clyde asked, “You have any women?”

            It could’ve been asked in any tone or manner. The question issued from a pauper or the president. It would’ve made no matter. Living free meant there were things you didn’t ask another man. Everyone that got on horse or in a carriage and ventured west knew the things that could get a person killed. Clyde was no exception, and he left John no choice. “Everyone stop,” John said. The stock of his rifle found a home against his shoulder as he pointed it stiffly at Clyde. He chambered a .44 round with smooth proficiency. “And go ahead and set those guns down.”

            With spit and disdain Clyde said, “That’s gotta be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen.” He laughed and looked at the other members of his group. “A damn farmer raising his gun to the Clayton Gang. And all by his lonesome.”

            John felt the cool dry wind against his eyes, but he didn’t blink. “The Clayton Gang—no offense, but never heard of you.”

            Dan Clayton motioned for the others to drop their rifles. “No offense taken Mr. Wilkins. We’ll be on our way. Truth is, we’re looking for someone. It’s our heavenly commission to find him.”

            Clyde started to say something but Clayton held up a steady hand to signal silence. “Anyone ride past here today, maybe yesterday?”

            “Haven’t seen anyone for more than a week,” John said, trying to give every man all the focus he could muster, watching for any threatening moves. “Some boys with a herd driving ‘em up north.”

            “I believe you,” Clayton said, leaning back in his saddle, “because this is the sort that leaves an impression.”

            “Sorry I can’t help.”

            “I’m sorry too,” said Clayton, drawing his pistol with smooth, startling speed. John reacted by firing at Clyde but didn’t have time to lever another round. He had two bullets in his right shoulder in a second’s time, both from Clayton’s six-gun. Clyde was dead, slumped over in his saddle with a hole through the head.

            Clayton and his three remaining men dismounted and tied their horses to the little hitching post in front of the cabin. Smoke fouled the air and the horses fretted. It was their nature, after all, when exposed to the handiwork of unnatural man.

            John was bleeding something awful, forced to his backside by the wounds. His shoulders were propped up against the front of the cabin, underneath the little window. As one of the gang approached him, he summoned enough will in his left hand to pull his pistol and fire. It hit the man square in the chest and dropped him right there on the porch. Clayton yelled NO! to the other two and shot a hole straight through John’s pistol hand. “I’ll be, Mr. Wilkins. You cut my crew almost by half.” The leader stood over his bleeding body and kicked away the guns. “But I’m not angry,” he said, smiling strangely. “See Clyde there had too much mouth and not enough brains. Picker’s the one bleeding out here,” he said, finishing his own man with a shot that blew skull parts across John’s pants. “Obviously, he was lacking caution when it mattered.”

            John reached for one of the scattered weapons but they were all too far away. His hands ran across the wooden slats in vain, collecting splinters and drawing blood from hardened palms.

            Clayton knelt down beside the wounded farmer, reloading his revolver. “I’m pretty good with this,” he said, chambers fully occupied. “But it’s an instrument, is all. An offering.” 

            John kept on his clawing until the shock fully set in. “Just kill me and be on your way you son of a bitch.”

            The gunman looked at his two remaining men, standing behind with the horses. “That’s Russ and Cal,” he said, “they’re pretty young, wild oats and all.” Clayton turned back and stuck the barrel of his pistol into John’s hand wound. A ponderous expression found home on his face. “That’s a nice ring, Mr. Wilkins. Best not to wear adornments out here. Tips people to your lot…”