Gabriel's Story (33 page)

The room was a blur of motion. Gabriel was up and moving toward the door before Ben's words had faded from the room. Solomon reached for the Kentucky long and tossed it to Hiram, who breached it on his knee and checked the load. Solomon yanked the Winchester from the wall. “It's okay, Eliza,” he said, his words overtly at odds with his actions. “We'll see who it is.” He strode into the morning, with Hiram fast beside him.

Gabriel was five paces out into the yard before he saw them. They were closer than he expected, moving in along the edge of the cornfield. At first he saw only the men's bobbing torsos and their horses' heads, but it was enough to send a chill reeling through his body. He recognized the man in front, and it was recognition that he feared. He began to spin around, ready to shout at the others, but something caught in his mind and made him falter. It wasn't a clear thought at first, just a hesitation that he tried to fight against but that kept him still and silent. He recognized the rider, but . . .

Solomon and Hiram were standing beside him by the time the horsemen rode clear of the corn and turned toward the house, and it was only then that Gabriel understood his own mind. The way the rider sat his horse, the loose comfort of his dangling legs, the supple to-and-fro of his torso . . . He fell to his knees with the relief of the recognition.

Solomon, not knowing how to read the boy, grasped his shoulder and said something about standing together. “We all here, Gabriel.”

But the boy smiled and shook his head, saying, “It's okay. He's a friend.”

DUNLOP AND THE MEXICAN SHARED THE BREAKFAST that morning. The family watched the transaction between them and Gabriel with cautious eyes. They didn't speak of the events that had brought them together and the trials that had forged their relationship. While this was in the back of their eyes and was clear for all to see, the Scot kept the conversation on simple things. He asked the men about the summer's work and commented on Eliza's cooking and praised the homestead as a fine product of such a short time's labor. Gabriel nodded and listened and looked around at his family to see how these words affected them.

Dunlop's face betrayed the fatigue of his torments. Tiny lines sprang from the corners of his eyes. His lips had a thin, slack quality while they were at rest. Only when he smiled did they spring to full life. Indeed, that was just how he was—saddened during the quiet moments but as likely as ever to move the conversation to things of joy, to state for all to remember the simple things for which one might give thanks.

The Mexican sat, silent and polite. He was not a tall man but was proportioned in such a way that he gave that impression. His posture was erect, almost formal, and his features were composed of strong lines. His eyes were two black stones; his nose was prominent and bent at its midpoint. A scar above his left eyebrow cut diagonally across his forehead, and his mustache was trimmed in a style Gabriel had seen only on the streets of Santa Fe. The olive skin of his cheeks had been shaved recently. Dunlop introduced him as Ludovico, Ludovico Maria Fuentes. He looked at Gabriel when he said this name, and it was clear that the boy listened carefully and grasped its import. But no more was said of it just then.

It was not a day that could be spent idly, but the two visitors insisted that they share the day's labor. Solomon looked at them doubtfully and at first wouldn't hear of it. But Ludovico was firm on the point. He said he was not a stranger to this work, and he considered it only proper that hospitality should flow two ways. He walked out to the field beside Ben, looking oddly attired for farm life but falling into it with a vigor that impressed all.

It was Dunlop who needed direction. He was awkward with the corn knife, seemed both afraid of damaging the stalks and at risk of damaging himself. Gabriel asked if his family had not been farmers, and the Scot answered, aye, they, but not he. Some skills were not hereditary, it seemed. He carried the bundles of corn in a full embrace, finding some humor in this and turning the work into a comic dance with cornsheaf partners. He had Gabriel laughing from the outset, something that Eliza didn't fail to notice, even from a considerable distance.

The morning passed quickly into afternoon. Eliza made lunch and brought it out to them, then asked Ben for his assistance back at the house, leaving Gabriel with his two companions. The three, as if aware of the import of the moment, fell quiet. They ate studiously, chunks of rough-cut bread and slices of ham, with some greenish jelly that Gabriel had never taken to. The day was fair and breezy, with high wisps of clouds far to the north. A cowbird landed on a patch of trodden grass nearby, hopped around in curious circles, then flew off to join a company of passing blackbirds.

Eventually Ludovico sighed. He wiped his lips and smoothed his fingers over his mustache. He praised Eliza's preparation of the meal, as simple as it was, then began to speak in earnest.

“You know my family?”

Gabriel nodded that he did.

“I think you may not know what happened to them.” Gabriel glanced at Dunlop and waited. And so the Mexican told him all, filling in that further portion of the nightmare.

As he spoke, Gabriel realized that he had known it all along. He hadn't let himself state it clearly. How could he? But he had known. He remembered the very night, being awakened by that form in the darkness, the mumbling voice and the sound that must have been laughter but was no kin to joy. Of course he had known. But the equally shocking revelation was that the girl must have known too. It was in her eyes the whole time. Full, complete knowledge, beyond his. Had she simply known of her own accord, or had she been told? He knew the answer right away. Caleb, who so rarely shaped words but could do it occasionally . . . Caleb had whispered it in her ear.

“My sister spoke of you,” Ludovico said.

Gabriel's thoughts snapped back to the present. “She did?”

“Yes. She said you were kind to her, that you were a good person, honorable. She said that you did what you could to help her and have no guilt like the others. She said this of your friend too, the one we found.”

Dunlop had been tugging absently at the stitching of his trouser leg, but his head snapped up. His eyes went straight to Gabriel, who stared at the man as if his words had made no sense whatsoever.

“I'm sorry. Perhaps you didn't know what became of him. Is that so?”

“I didn't know for sure,” Gabriel said.

Ludovico pursed his lips and looked at Dunlop. “I see.”

The Scot adjusted his hat, shifting the angle of it, then finding it not to his liking. He took it off and held it in his lap as he explained. “We found James, Gabe. Found him downstream a good few miles from where Marshall and them went in. I . . . I don't know, Gabe, but I don't think he had a hard time of it. He had his eyes closed. I'm no doctor, but most people I've seen die haven't been happy about it, and they all pretty much had their eyes open. Not James. Looked more like he just went to sleep.” Ludovico watched him through all of this and didn't comment. “That's how it looked, at least.” Dunlop didn't mention that the force of the water had sucked off the boy's boots. He went on to tell of Dallas, that he was found alive and unrepentant in his views but had not remained so for long, and of the horses and what gear they'd found. But this was all he could speak of with certainty.

“We had hoped you might tell us more,” Ludovico said.

Gabriel said that he couldn't. He told the man of his escape, and the Mexican listened gravely. He began to nod when the boy spoke of the mountains and his journey there. Before long the boy stopped.

The man didn't ask him to continue but said, “Strange, when the acts of one man upon another so call out for justice, but nobody hears. This is hard for me to understand.” He stood up, stretched his legs, and scented the air blowing in from the west. “I think this is the end of it. It's not the end I would have written, but . . .” Still looking off to the west, he motioned like one throwing out seeds. “I've been too long away. Thank you, Gabriel. Tomorrow I should leave.”

Gabriel seemed to be seeking those seeds where they might lie in the grass. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

Ludovico looked at Dunlop to see if he would answer first. He didn't. “Well,” the Mexican said, “I'll return to my sister. We'll sell my family's land. I'll go to Santa Fe and speak to a lady I know. I'll ask her if she will have me for a husband. If she will, I'll ask her and my sister to go with me to Mexico. There is a man there, back in my father's father's country, in Guadalajara, who will employ me. We'll try to live without forgetting. I don't know if all these things will come, but I owe it to my parents to try. That's what I'll do.”

To the same question Dunlop shrugged. “I don't know, Gabe. I've fair lost sense of myself.” He looked as if he might speak on, but he couldn't state it any more clearly.

THE FAMILY CAME TO THE DECISION THAT EVENING. They spoke in the solitude of the soddy. Hiram said the choice was obvious. God had brought these two men here to help cleanse them of sin. Think of them not as men, he said, but as the instruments of our Lord. This was one time when God was showing them the way clearly; the least they could do was acknowledge it and do the right thing.

Solomon raised the question of a new plow, but he did so with a quiet voice that faded, saying, “That and some more sows. Could buy Franklin's wagon off him, and next year . . .”

Hiram watched him. “You know I can't tell you what to do with your own family, but you and me both been trying to build this place with hard work and good faith. That gold's got blood on it, Solomon. You can't build a life on blood. That's what they tried to do down South, with our blood, and look how they paid for it. If we gonna do this, we gotta do it clean.”

Solomon sighed. “I know. Just wanted to say it, cause I know we was all thinking it. Just wanted to say it is all, so we know what we're giving up.”

“And what we're gaining.”

Solomon sighed again. “Truth is, I don't know what we'd do with a gold brick anyway. Can you imagine me marching into Howe's and throwing down that hunk of metal?” This finally brought out some of the man's humor. “They'd lock me up faster than I could ask for change. And they'd keep the gold anyhow. A white man could get away with that, but naw, this land ain't gonna give us nothing we don't work for. Might not even give us that.”

Eliza said only that she wanted no part of any stolen property. “Let them have it.”

But before the decision was made final, they all looked at Gabriel. It was a long time before he answered. He saw something in Solomon's eyes that belied his words. Not that the man didn't agree, but there was a piece of him whose faith had been challenged too far, a piece of him that was of this world and willing to play by the rules of this world. Ben had hung his head low from the start of the conversation, but Gabriel remembered his dream of that hundred head of horses. In Eliza and Hiram he saw a firmer resolve, although he knew it was for different reasons. But they had asked for his voice, and for him the decision was easy: “Let them have it.”

Before the sun had lifted itself from the night, Gabriel and Ben strode off, shovel in hand, to the turned earth on the far side of the cornfield. They went to digging with a vigor that warmed their bodies and brought moisture to their foreheads. They made quick work of it, drawing out the saddlebags and tossing them to the side and filling the hole once more. They'd put the guns in a rough wooden crate, and this they buried again, shovelful by shovelful. The boys were careful to replace the block of sod neatly, smoothing out the edges and mussing the grass so that no sign of the treasure remained. Ben asked if Gabriel wanted to take one last look at the gold, but his brother declined, saying, “I've studied it enough.”

They presented the gold to the two men after they had mounted. Solomon laid it over Ludovico's saddlehorn. The man tried to refuse it, but Solomon insisted. Ludovico looked at Dunlop, and together they denied their right to such treasure. “Keep it,” Dunlop said. “We wouldn't know what to do with it.”

But Solomon would not allow the Mexican to give it back. He tried to form the words to explain the gift, but in the end he just stepped away and would have nothing more to do with it. “Take it. It's a gift given, and that's that,” he said.

Gabriel watched the two ride away quietly. They seemed ill at ease with the gold, unsure of what to do with it and completely surprised by its appearance. The boy couldn't help feeling that something had been lost with their leavetaking. A moment had been thrown out of balance and couldn't be retrieved. But it was all right. The right thing had been done. Perhaps, Gabriel thought, someday he'd see them again. Perhaps they'd return, having prospered and turned the gold to good use. If any could erase the sins that tarnished it and make of it something good, those two could.

The men went to work as usual that morning, although a hush pervaded the group. A farmer whom Gabriel hadn't met, a Mr. March, appeared after lunch. He spoke to the men about helping with the wheat harvest, he having newly acquired a reaper that would speed the process.

Gabriel and Ben worked away at the last corner of the cornfield, moving more slowly as the uncut corner grew into a smaller and smaller triangle.

“We could go get Mr. Mitchell to bring out his stallion. Get him together with the dun,” Gabriel suddenly said.

Ben paused. He stood upright, knife in hand, and gazed away toward the south, the direction of the Mitchells' farm. “You think?”

“Yeah. He's a good horse, ain't he?”

The boy thought this over. “Yeah. I reckon he is.” His eyes drifted over to his brother, but Gabriel turned away and continued working, the hint of a smile creasing his lips.

THE SCOT AND THE MEXICAN RODE WEST TOGETHER toward
Crownsville, talking little, surveying the cloud-choked sky above
them, each thinking through his private dialogues. Each man's
heart beat with sadness, and to this they wished to give no voice.
The Mexican did not say that Gabriel's family reminded him of
his own, but this was so. The Scot did not voice his fear of the
yawning loneliness he felt might soon engulf him, but he saw it
coming just as clearly as he did the clouds.