Gabriel's Story (35 page)

Gabriel dug on, averting his eyes so completely from Marshall that he wasn't actually looking at his work. He could barely control the chill that passed through his body when the shovel hit the trunk. He paused despite himself, and Marshall smiled.

“That's the sound I was waiting for. Go on.”

Gabriel uncovered the top, brushed it off with his fingers, and worked the edges free of dirt. He used the shovel to pry the box loose, rocking it with his weight, and finally managed to get his fingers around either side of it and hoist it out. He fell to the side as he did so, and the weight landed hard on the soil next to him. Again Gabriel's head reeled with fear, but the box made nothing more than an innocuous shifting sound. Marshall didn't seem to notice.

“Okay, get up. Boy, you don't how lucky you are. I've half a mind to call off my grudge and ride out of here unbloodied.” He knelt down and touched the lid of the box, finding its latch and tugging it with his fingers. “Yessir, but that's only half my mind. Other half's a different matter. Where the hell's the key for this thing?”

“Inside.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over the man's face. “We best go get it then,” he said, motioning with the gun, and Gabriel fell into step before him, crate in hand.

Gabriel's boots swished through the grass. Behind him, Marshall's spurs produced a slight jingling with each step. The boy tried to block out the sounds and plan what he would do next. He had set this in motion, and now he'd have to see it through. If he could just get the guns in his hands . . . He'd have to try to get the key himself, to open the box himself and hope that he'd have the chance to do what came next. There was no other way now.

Marshall started talking as they headed back along the cornfield, saying something about the strange behavior of people with a gun pointed at them, but Gabriel suddenly ceased listening. His eyes shot up at some inclination of their own, and there he saw the first ripple of movement coming over the hill. It was Hiram and Ben returning in the wagon. He wasn't sure whether Marshall saw them, but the sight sent his mind reeling. It seemed that with this development, all notion of a plan was gone. He wanted to rise on the balls of his feet and shout for them to flee. He wished he could drop the box right there and have the revolvers in his hand. He would shoot this time. He would shoot with everything he had. He could—

Marshall clucked his tongue. “If that ain't a hassle. Who's that?”

Gabriel didn't answer.

Marshall shoved him on the shoulder. “Who is it? They family?”

Gabriel listened to himself speak but barely felt that he was creating the words.

“That's just dandy. Don't get any ideas, Archangel. You know who you're dealing with, don't you? You know you only live as long as I say.” With that, Marshall urged the boy forward. “Keep it casual.”

They walked on, and the wagon rolled in. Gabriel tried to focus once more, to calm his mind and bring it back. He couldn't signal to them. He knew that much. If he did, and if they somehow understood the signal and fled for help, they'd find the others dead on their return.

They closed to within two hundred yards. Before long, the squeaking of the wagon's wheels carried over the distance. Hiram and Ben exchanged glances. They said something to each other, but they kept coming.

Marshall and Gabriel passed in front of the barn and moved across the trampled earth toward the house. “Just don't do nothing stupid,” Marshall said. “Let them come on in.”

A hundred yards. The wheels moved slowly, wobbling. Gabriel could just make out the features of Hiram's and Ben's faces. He stared for a long moment and tried to pull Ben's eyes to him. What he might say or how, he didn't know, but he must make the contact. He did, and whether he had a message to convey or not, Ben read something there. He turned, spoke to Hiram, and reached for something behind him.

This was enough for Marshall. He lifted one of his pistols and fired. The shot missed Hiram but passed close enough that he cocked his head and listened to the bullet's passage. He yanked the reins and turned toward Ben. In the time this took, Marshall backhanded Gabriel across the face, sending him sprawling and loosing the box from his hands. The man was on the boy in a moment. He pushed his face into the ground and planted the weight of his knee against Gabriel's forearm and pressed the barrel of one of the pistols against the back of his hand.

Marshall resumed shooting with his free hand. This time Hiram fell back. He tried to get off the wagon, clutching his side as he did, then changed his mind and urged the horse to speed up. He yelled something to Ben, who jumped from the wagon and ran, rifle in hand. Marshall fired the pistol, hitting Hiram once more and leaving him sprawled across the seat of the moving wagon.

Gabriel tried to wrench his hand free. He punched at Marshall with his other hand, but the man's eyes stayed on the field, following Ben.

He had spent the bullets of one gun. He let it drop and pulled the trigger of the other pistol, the one pressed against Gabriel's flesh. The boy felt an explosion of pain that began in his hand but ripped through the rest of his body like an electric shock. He collapsed beneath it, rolling on his back and holding his hand by the wrist before him, staring at its trembling, blood-red image against the gray sky. He was aware that Marshall was standing up and emptying the second pistol, but he knew of Ben's escape because of the man's response.

“Goddamn the little chigger! He's fast as a monkey, he is.” He yanked Gabriel to his feet. “Get up, you, and stop your wailing.” He pushed Gabriel forward and stepped toward the box.

Only then did Gabriel get some sense of purpose back. He circled around the man and motioned that he would still carry the box. He got the fingers of his good hand under it and, using his foot and then his elbow, hefted it up. Marshall commented that he mustn't be hurt too bad, then walked behind him the rest of the way to the house, reloading the pistols along the way. Caleb was standing in the doorway to greet them.

THE YOUNGER BROTHER RAN OVER THE RISE and on to the
west. Before long his lungs were scorched by the effort, his legs
numb and exhausted. His breathing came in deep, labored gasps,
and his ears rang with the sounds his body made as he flew into
the wind. But it was none of these things that finally stopped him.
It was the recollection, sudden and complete, of why he was running, and what that meant for those he loved. He slowed, stumbled
over something, then sprawled on the grass, still clutching the
rifle.

At first the boy just lay in the grass, so shocked that he could
form no clear thought but felt only a jumble of emotions that he
fought not to believe. He didn't know these men. He'd never spoken
to them or heard their voices or looked closely into their eyes. How
could he know what was the right thing to do? He didn't even
know how many of them there were. He'd seen two horses, but . . .
Maybe they just wanted the money. They might ride off at any second . . . But there was no money. They weren't riding anywhere.
They had already shot his uncle. They had shown themselves for
what they were. He knew his brother had not yet told him the full
extent of their evil, and now they had come to show them all.

He had to speak to himself in simple words, clearly, silently, to
steady his mind. Think. Turn and go back. He must do something,
for he couldn't wait for them to do what they would. He tried to
tell himself that his actions would not open a window to chaos.
That window was already open. All he could do was try to close it.
He had a glimpse of a world without those he loved, and the wave
of anguish it sent through him was enough to send him to his feet.
He would have to find a way, and he could run no farther than
this very spot on the plains.

As he turned, his eyes fell on the thing that had tripped him.
There in the tall grass were the sun-weathered bones of some creature's skeleton. His mind immediately conjured up morbid images
of a dead human, but almost as quickly his eyes noticed the ragged
fur that cloaked some of the mass, the curves of an animal rib
cage, and the long muzzle that could only be canine. Rows of incisors still clung to the jaw, but the flesh all about them and the rest
of the bones had been cleaned almost completely, pulled at, no
doubt, by vultures, and eaten by maggots, and attacked by various
other creatures seen and unseen by the human eye.

His eyes rose and combed the grass nearby as if he expected to
see burial markers. There was nothing, only the dry grass and the
warm wind from the south and the cloudy sky. He turned his gaze
toward the rise that separated him from his home. He didn't ask
what providence had brought this sign to him. He just started
walking, cracking the gun open as he did so and checking that it
was loaded. He steadied his mind around the fact that he had only
one shot with this old Kentucky long. Only one. He had only the
shot already primed in the rifle. The rest of his ammo lay in the
back of the wagon.

The boy closed his eyes for the space of several breaths. He
walked on, feeling the grass brush against his legs. Steady. Steady
the mind. Hide in the trees along the creek. There would be a clear
shot from there. Steady. This was the biggest thing he'd ever been
asked to do. He pushed the questions away and filled their spaces
with the words the uncle had taught him to say before killing.

MARSHALL INSTRUCTED CALEB TO BRING THE OTHERS OUT, and the key along with them. Caleb slipped back inside without comment. On a nod from Marshall, Gabriel set the box down beside the men's horses. His hand gushed blood. He didn't know whether to clench it or to let it hang limp, so he did both, alternately. Each time he flexed it, a searing pain shot up his arm. When he relaxed it, he could feel the painful pulse through his palm. His shirt and pants were soon stained a thick red.

When Solomon and Eliza stepped outside, their eyes flew straight to Gabriel. Eliza gasped and tried to go to him. Marshall stepped in her way and explained, “He's all right. Just hand-shot. It's painful, and it's a bitch to heal, but it won't be the thing that kills him.”

In answer to his mother's questioning gaze, Gabriel muttered something. Marshall silenced him with a forceful blow to his abdomen, but the couple seemed to understand well enough. Within seconds they saw the wagon and the dim shape half hidden within it. Solomon called for the presence of God, and Eliza asked if she could go tend to Hiram. But Marshall told her to shut her trap. He figured the old fella was dead meat right enough, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She hung her head. “I guess we can't expect a moment's worth of decency from you.”

“No, don't expect nothing from him,” Solomon said. His voice was tight. It was an exertion just to form the words, but he spat them out with vehemence. “The fool walketh in darkness, and so too shall he be damned to darkness.”

Marshall found this very amusing, but he chose not to answer either of them directly. “Another time I'd discourse with you. Unfortunately, we ain't got much time, not with the way that monkey was running. We better keep ourselves to business. What do you say, Caleb? We gonna get this over with and pull foot?”

Caleb went on staring at Eliza.

“There's time to finish this off, but that's about it.”

Caleb turned his head toward Marshall. He didn't speak but shared a moment in vision with the white man. There was a statement on his face, and Gabriel read it as clearly as Marshall did.

“Okay,” Marshall said, “you do what you want once I leave, but I'm getting the gold and going. The rest is up to yourself.”

Caleb nodded.

Marshall motioned with his hand, and Caleb nudged the couple in the back of the legs so they fell to their knees. “Now,” Marshall said, “open that crate, and let's see what we got.” He tossed the boy the key. “I'll tell you what. I'll even give you one way out. All you gotta do is send a prayer to heaven asking for a miracle, and this is it. You're gonna open up that crate now and pull out my rightful plunder. You're gonna count out the bricks, and if they come to two—two solid bricks of gold bullion—I'll consider it a divine intervention, and the lot of you will win yourselves a pardon. But if God don't see fit to intervene in this way . . . then you can name the spot where you take the bullet. I won't even take no joy from it. You just name your spot. We'll take care of each of you the same way.”

Gabriel looked down at the box. He didn't raise his eyes when he spoke. His voice was dry, forlorn, and older than ever before. “Marshall, there never were two bars.”

“Exactly. You sure do cut to the quick of things when you want to. That's why I'm looking for an act of God. You people have faith, don't ya? Let's put it to the test.”

“We don't test our God,” Solomon said. He kneeled beside his wife, both with their hands bound behind them, but he held himself straight, chin high and bruised face jutting up into the air. “He tests us. All else is vanity.” He didn't look at Marshall directly but added, almost as an afterthought, “And you're about the vainest man that ever walked the earth.”

Marshall thought this over for a second, seemed to consider ignoring it, but then walked over and leaned close to Solomon's face. “Don't quote Scripture to me. You think I can't spit it back at ya, don't ya? Well, ‘Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.' Ecclesiastes. Same book that says, ‘If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the earth, and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be.' Now what the hell does that mean? Ain't that the biggest piece of nonsense you ever heard? And I'll tell you another thing. I grew up listening to this shit, and the man who taught it to me was my father. Called himself Clemmins, and that's all I really ever called him myself, cause I wasn't about to call him Papa. This man used to spout the gospel like nobody's business. You woulda thought he had the spirit in him for sure, cept he was the evilest bastard I've ever known. Worse than Caleb here.”