Departure (10 page)

I went away a little distance and sat down. I didn't look at Pa. I tried to remember where we were, what Pa had told me about going west. When I thought of Ma, I had a sense of awful fear. Suppose it happened now.

The mule walked over and nuzzled my shoulder. I was glad the mule was there then. If he wasn't, I don't know what I would have done.

Pa had to be buried. I knew that men had to be buried, but I couldn't do it. The prairie was hard, baked mud. I went back to Pa and stood over him; I guess that was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life. I straightened his clothes. I pulled off his boots. Men in the West were always talking about dying with their boots on. I didn't know how it meant anything, one way or another, but I thought Pa would be pleased if he didn't have his boots on.

Then I climbed up on the mule and started back for the wagon. I tried not to think that I was twelve years old. If you get to thinking about that, they you're no good at all. When I got back, Ma would lick me plenty.

The mule must have found its way back, because I didn't pay much attention to that. I let the reins loose, holding onto the harness straps, and I kept swallowing. Then I saw the wagon.

I thought: “I can't tell Ma now—maybe later.” Nobody had ever told me about a thing like that, but I knew it wouldn't do to tell Ma now. I guess I only felt it instinctively, but I knew that the importance wasn't in Pa any more. All that was important was life, and life was just a fleck of dust in the prairie. It was like a nightmare to think of the distance of the prairie, and how we were alone.

I rode up to the wagon, and Maude and Ma were both standing next to it. I could tell from Ma's face how worried she had been about me.

“There he is!” Maude screamed.

Ma said: “I guess there ain't nothing a body can do with you, Dave. Get off that mule.”

I slipped off, tethered the mule. My whole body was twisted up with the strain of keeping what I had seen off my face. I came over to Ma.

“Where you been?” she demanded.

“Hunting.”

“I reckon there's nothing else for a little loafer like you. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Come here.”

I went over and bent down, and she walloped me a bit, not too hard. She wasn't very strong then, I guess. I cried, but I wasn't crying because of the licking. I had had worse lickings than that and never opened my mouth. But it seemed to break the tension inside of me, and I had to cry. I went over and sat down with my back against one of the wagon wheels.

Maude walked past me and said: “I guess that learned you.”

I just looked at her, without answering. I took out my jackknife and began to pare at one of the wagon boards. Then my eyes traveled to the water keg.

I got up and went around to Ma. She was still standing there, staring off across the prairie in the direction Pa had gone.

Without turning, she said to me: “Seen anything of your Pa?”

“No.”

The sun was westward now, a splotch of red that blazed the whole prairie into a fire. I could get a little of how Ma felt; I could see the loneliness.

“Get a fire going,” she said. “He ought to have enough sense to come back early. Stop that whimpering. God help a woman when a man has itching feet.”

I gathered chips and started the fire. When I took water from the keg for mush, the keg was just about empty. I didn't mention that to Ma. She went about preparing supper slowly, awkwardly, and Maude watched her, frightened.

Ma kept glancing at the west.

“Be dark soon,” I said

“Guess Pa'll be here any minute,” Ma said dully. I could tell that she didn't believe that.

“I guess so,” I nodded.

We ate without speaking much. Ma didn't eat a great deal. As soon as we had finished, she went into the wagon.

Maude was saying: “I don't see how I can clean dishes without water. You fetch some water, Dave.”

“There ain't no water,” I said.

Maude stared at me, her eyes wide and frightened. She had heard stories, just the same as I had, about pilgrims who ran out of water. She opened her mouth to say something.

“What about Ma?” I asked her quietly, nodding at the wagon.

“Why don't Pa come back?”

“Ain't no sense thinking about Pa if he ain't here. What about Ma? I guess it won't be long.”

She shook her head.

“You don't need to be scared,” I muttered. “It won't do no good to be scared. I reckon the worst part of this trip is over.”

“Where's Pa?” she whispered. “What happened?”

“How do I know what happened? You girls make me sick. I never seen anything to beat you girls.”

I got up and went over to the water keg. I shook it, hoping, without having any reason to hope. I knew it was just about empty. We had plenty of food—dried meat and meal and dried beans—enough to last a month, I guess. But Ma would need water.

Maude was crying.

“Why don't you go to bed?” I said. “Go in and sleep with Ma. I'll stay out here.”

“You're not big enough to stay out here alone,” Maude said, but I knew she was afraid to stay inside the wagon with Ma. I knew how she felt, and I didn't blame her for the way she felt, she was such a kid, with Ma petting her all the time. We couldn't talk it over between ourselves, and that would have made it a lot better. But we couldn't.

“I'm plenty big enough,” I said.

Inside the wagon Ma groaned, and out on the prairie a coyote was barking. There's nothing like a coyote barking to make your insides crawl. I was all shivers, and I could see that Maude wanted to stay close to me. But that wouldn't have made it any better.

“Get in the wagon, damn you!” I cried. I was glad Ma couldn't hear me swear. Ma would lick me good and plenty when I swore like that.

Surprised, Maude stared at me. Then, without a word, she went into the wagon.

I stood there, outside, for a while. It had grown quite dark. In the sky there was a faint reflected light of the sun, but it was quite dark. I walked over to the wagon and picked up one of the mule blankets. It was a warm night, summertime; I decided to put the blanket under the wagon and lie down on it.

I heard Maude saying her prayers in the wagon, but no sound from Ma. I couldn't say my prayers. Usually, Ma saw to it that I did, but tonight I couldn't say a word aloud. I tried, opening my mouth, but no words came out. I thought them, as much as I could. I tried not to think about Pa. Spreading the blanket, I lay down on it, holding the carbine close to me. It seemed a part of Pa and all that was left; I hugged it.

I couldn't sleep. I tried for a long time, but I couldn't sleep. It was quite dark now, with no moon in the sky. The mules were moving restlessly; probably because they wanted water.

I think I dozed a little. When I opened my eyes again, the moon was just coming up, yellow and bloated. I felt chilled thoroughly. Bit by bit, what had happened during the day came back, and now it was all more real than it had been in the daytime. While I lay there, thinking about it, I heard horses' hoofs; at first not noticing them, and only becoming aware of them when the horses bulked out of the night, two men riding slowly.

They were in the moonlight, and I was hidden in the shadow of the wagon. They didn't see me. They stopped just about a dozen yards from the wagon, sitting on their horses and eyeing the mules. The mules moved restlessly.

When I realized they were Indians I couldn't move, just lay there and watched them. They were naked to the waist, with their hair in two stiff braids to their shoulders. They both carried rifles.

I thought of Pa. I thought of screaming to wake Maude and Ma. I thought: “If they shot Pa—”

They were cutting loose the mules.

I felt for the carbine, twisted around, so I lay on my belly. One of the men had dismounted and was coming toward the wagon. He held his gun in one hand and had drawn a knife with the other. I sighted the center of his breast and fired.

I remember how the sound blasted out the silence of the prairie. In the wagon, someone screamed. The Indian stopped, seemed to stare at me, swayed a bit, and crumpled to the ground. I remember the sharp pain in my shoulder from the blow of the recoil.

The mounted man's horse had wheeled about. He pulled it back, and fired at me. The shot threw sand in my face. I had a few cartridges and caps in my pocket, and I tried frantically to reload. The cartridges slipped through my fingers.

Then the Indian was gone. He had taken the other horse with him, and I heard their hoofs thundering across the prairie. I dropped the carbine. My shoulder ached terribly. Inside the wagon, Maude was whimpering, my mother groaning.

I climbed from under the wagon. The Indian lay on his back, his face hard and twisted. I stood there, looking at him.

Maude climbed down out of the wagon. “What is it?” she cried. Then she saw the Indian and screamed.

“All right—I shot him.”

She stood there, holding her hand to her mouth.

“You get back in the wagon. I guess he killed Pa, all right. Don't tell that to Ma.”

She shook her head. Ma was groaning. “I can't go back,” Maude said.

“Why?”

And then I knew. I should have known from the way Ma was groaning. I went up to Maude and slapped her face. She didn't seem to feel it. I slapped her again.

“Get in there!” I yelled.

We had lanterns on the outside of the wagon. I took one and lit it. I wasn't trembling so much now. I gave the lantern to Maude, who was still standing the way she had been before.

“Go inside,” I said.

Maude climbed into the wagon, taking the lantern with her. Then I cried. I crouched under the wagon, clutching the carbine and crying.

Finally, I went over to the Indian. I forced myself to do that. He lay half across the rifle he had carried. I pulled it out, and it was my father's rifle, all right.

I don't know how long I stood there holding the rifle. Then I put it under the seat, along with the carbine. I didn't want to look at the wagon.

I walked over to the mules. It was hard to harness them. When it was done, I ached all over, and my shoulder was swollen where the carbine had rested.

I climbed to the driver's seat. The curtains were down, and I couldn't see into the wagon, but the light still burned. Taking down Pa's whip, I let it go onto the mule's backs. I had seen Pa do that and sometimes he let me try. The whip was fourteen feet long and I couldn't do much with it, but I got the mules moving. They had to keep moving. We had to find water.

At night, under the moon, the prairie was black and silver at the same time. Somehow, it didn't frighten me the way it had during the day. I sat there thinking, I guess, of nothing at all, only awfully aware of the change inside me.

We drove on like that. I kept the mules at a slow pace, so the freighter wouldn't roll much. I was very tired, and after a while I didn't use the whip at all.

Then Maude came out of the wagon, sat down next to me. She looked at me and I looked at her, but she didn't say anything. She pressed close to me.

I whistled at the mules.

Inside the wagon something was whimpering. It made me tremble to hear that.

“Reckon we'll find water soon” I told Maude.

She nodded mechanically. Her head kept nodding and I dozed, myself. I guess I kept dozing through the night, fell asleep toward morning.

Maude woke me. The wagon had stopped, and the sun was an hour up. The mules had stopped on the bank of a slow, brown stream, lined with cottonwoods as far as I could see.

Maude was pointing at the water.

“Don't you start crying now,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“I won't,” Maude nodded.

Ma called me, not very loud: “Dave, come here.”

I climbed inside the wagon. Ma was lying on the bed, her arm curled around something. I peered at it.

“Do you know?” she said.

“I reckon I do. I reckon it's a boy. Girls ain't much use.”

Ma was crying—not much; her eyes were just wetting themselves slowly.

“Where are we?” Ma asked me.

“We been traveling through the night. There's a river out there. I guess we don't need to worry about water.”

“All night—Pa back?”

I said slowly: “I killed an Indian last night, Ma. He had Pa's gun.”

Then she just stared at me, and I stood there, shifting from one foot to another, wanting to run away. But I stood there. It must have been about five minutes, and she didn't say anything at all. The baby was whimpering.

Then she said: “You harnessed the mules?”

“Uh-huh. Maude didn't help me—”

Ma said: “You don't tease Maude. You don't tease Maude, or I'll take a stick to you. I never seen a boy like you for teasing.”

“Uh-huh,” I nodded.

“Just like your Pa,” Ma whispered. “It don't pay to have a man whose heels are always itching—it don't pay.”

“No use cryin',” I said.

Ma said: “What are we going to do?”

“Go on west. Ain't hard now to go a few hundred miles more. Reckon it won't be hard. Pa said—”

Ma was staring at me, her mouth trembling. I hadn't ever seen her look just like that before. I wanted to put my head down on her breast, hide it there.

I couldn't do that. I said: “Pa told me. We'll go west.”

Then I went outside. I sat down on the wagon seat, looking at the river. I heard the baby making noises.

I said to Maude: “A man feels funny—with a kid.”

The Little Folk from the Hills

T
HIS THING HAPPENED
to me in an old, old land, where I had been riding forever with a tech sergeant, a staff sergeant and two thousand pounds of United States mail. The train stopped every six miles or so, and each time there was no real certainty that it would ever start again. We were at Agra or Lucknow or Patna or some place like that; it doesn't matter very much, and one town looks like another in such a land. When we rolled into a town to stay for an hour or six hours or maybe all night, a bearer in a green and red and white uniform, with a great piled white turban topped by a splendid feather, more imposing than a Coldstream Guard on dress parade, leaped onto the running board outside of our compartment and said, “Tea, sahib?” or “Tray, sahib?”