One Came Home (19 page)

What to do? What to do?
I needed something to pile on top of the V to shade it. Branches and leaves would be perfect, but I couldn’t afford the commotion that would be caused by gathering them. Then I saw my soiled, stiff dark green split skirt.

You may be thinking,
You did not!
Yes I did. If you thought about it levelheadedly, you’d see that I’d wriggled through fresh green grass in a plaid blouse and skirt to get to this boulder. My clothes didn’t have grass stains; they had grass
slicks
. Then there was the bruise across the left side of my face, closing up my left eye. (I am sure that bruise had ripened in my sleep.) So I was torn and dirty and bannered
with bruises. My hair was surely matted. I’d dispensed with decorum long ago. Wearing bloomers out in the open? If that concerns you, you’re splitting hairs.

I pulled off that dark green split skirt and waited for my chance. When Mr. Garrow turned his back again, I slipped the split skirt across the gap in the rock. It left a shady, V-shaped blind with a view into our camp. I stuck the rifle barrel into that blind and snuggled the butt of the gun into my shoulder. I realized I’d had a little luck—I’d bruised my left eye and not my right.

I would have shot Mr. Garrow then, but Bowler Hat made me nervous. The sound of a shot would bring Bowler Hat running from who knows where. If I wanted to survive this, I needed to have both Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat in sight, so I held my fire.

While I waited for Bowler Hat to return, I succumbed to trepidation. I imagined that Bowler Hat was somewhere behind me. He’d spy me with the rifle, consider me a menace, and shoot me from a distance, a bullet slicing some part of me meant to remain together.

In the meantime, I watched Mr. Garrow methodically paw through our things. He’d finished with the kitchen pack and now shook one of my saddlebags.
The Prairie Traveler
slid out with a thud. Mr. Garrow picked it up, thumbed through it, and tossed it into the embers. The book burst into flame. I felt a jolt of sadness: Captain Randolph Marcy, his itineraries to the West, and my one good guide to journeying—gone.
Even the best-laid plans …
, I thought.

But what best-laid plans covered this? Hadn’t I crossed the line where book knowledge helped? It was all me and my wits now.

Mr. Garrow dug in one of Billy’s saddlebags. He paused, then slowly pulled out something bricklike—the five-dollar printing plate. Mr. Garrow let the saddlebag drop to the ground.

I knew it! Billy, you idiot!

Mr. Garrow turned his gaze on Billy, strolled over, and kicked him solidly in the ribs—once, twice, three times. Even over Billy’s yelps, I heard Billy’s rib cage pop. It was the same sound wood makes in a hot, hot fire. Billy went limp. Mr. Garrow stepped over Billy’s body, walked back to his horse, and tucked the printing plate into a saddlebag.

I stared at Billy, horrified. I’d held a rifle. I’d
let
him be hurt by that man.

Billy, move!
Bile rose in my throat as I realized I could do nothing now.

Then Billy shifted. I gasped with relief.

A high, raspy voice called out: “She’s not at the creek.”

Bowler Hat. I pulled the rifle into my shoulder. Bowler Hat leaned over Billy. “What you do to him?”

Mr. Garrow ignored his question and pointed out at the meadow
—my
meadow. I distinctly heard: “Go and bring her in.” My heart stopped cold.

Through sawing breath, Billy’s voice came. He spoke loudly: “Leave her. She’s got a rifle—a repeater. She can shoot. She’s the best shot in our town.”

Bowler Hat jerked around. “You got a mouth. Haven’t you had enough?” he said.

“Roy, I told you to do something,” said Mr. Garrow sharply.

Bowler Hat glanced out at the meadow. “I’m not going into that meadow if she’s got a gun.”

“She’s a
girl
, Roy.” Mr. Garrow walked up to the edge of the meadow and squinted directly at
my
pile of boulders, his right hand over that revolver. I thought about my skirt lying on top of the rocks. Skirts don’t look like moss—never have, never will.

I knew what to do. I put my right eye to the sight of the gun and aimed the barrel at Mr. Garrow’s chest. As my finger hovered over the trigger, I saw how this would be: I would pull the trigger. One of my cartridges would leave this gun and rip into Mr. Garrow’s chest, blood blossoming on his shirt—a blue plaid shirt that looked slate blue from here.
The big male
, I thought. Once again there’d be blue and a rosy red. But this time it would be the blood of a man, and not a pigeon.

He deserved it—he killed Agatha
, I thought.

My index finger wrapped around the trigger.

How can you be so sure?
It was Agatha’s voice singing in my head as clear as any spring cardinal’s. It was what she had said on the bright blue February day.

I remembered the look on Mr. Garrow’s face upon seeing Agatha’s photograph. Now I recognized that look. Mr.
Garrow looked confused. If he’d killed my sister, would he look confused? Mr. Garrow didn’t get angry with us either. The only time I’d seen him angry was when he discovered that Billy had taken his five-dollar counterfeiting plate, and then Mr. Garrow showed no hesitation in expressing it. Was I
sure
Mr. Garrow had killed Agatha?

There’s no forward or backward from dead, and no breath either
. My own thoughts. Earlier. About someone else—a someone else who turned out to be my sister.

And look at all that had happened as a result of Agatha’s death. Wouldn’t it be the same for the Garrows? If Mr. Garrow died (shot dead by me), there’d be a useful woman without a husband. There’d be no father for at least three children. Maybe Mr. Garrow was lawless. Maybe he did not deserve life. But Agatha was right: Mr. Garrow’s living or dying could not be my decision. Why should my bullet be the one that punched his soul from his body and sent it barreling toward some eternal destination?

The thought of eternal destinations made me wonder about myself. Yes, I had given ample thought to the pain involved in dying, where my death might happen, how others would grieve, and what might be said at my funeral. (Who doesn’t think such thoughts?) But I had not thought about what would happen to me
after
death. Though I attended church regularly, I’d never been given to religious passions. Agatha was the one who saw God in the natural world, and who prayed with a fervor I found unimaginable. As for me,
I had a hard time understanding how God could distinguish one Georgie Burkhardt from the myriads of thirteen-year-old girls with braided hair, brown eyes, and plain faces. If I had been
sure
that death was only a candle blown out, an endless oblivion as my body broke down and soaked into the earth, I would have found that a comfort. But now I was here—in this meadow with a gun, Billy tied up and hurting, and two bad men in our camp, both armed. In this situation, I found out that deep down I
wondered
if there might be a heaven and a hell and a capital
-G
someone waiting for me.

Spare me and we’ll talk. Please don’t let me die
.

(I suspect I’m neither the first nor the last that has made bargains with God under trying circumstances.)

I was unsure. My trigger finger went loose. I would not kill. If a mosquito had landed on my neck then, I would have left that insect in peace.

That said, I did not lower the repeater. May I remind you that Billy was still tied to a tree? Roy Bowler Hat had a mean, corroded look. Additionally, Mr. Garrow stood at the edge of the meadow with his eyes glued on the split skirt laid over the top of the rock. His hand hovered like a prairie falcon over the revolver’s handle.

Billy said: “She
never
misses.”

Shut up, Billy! Shut up
, I thought.

Mr. Garrow spun around. “Roy! No!” he said.

Suddenly I saw what Mr. Garrow saw. Bowler Hat swung the butt end of the Springfield rifle—clap, clap, clap—into
his palm. He walked to Billy (who was bound to that white pine) and raised the butt end of the Springfield over Billy’s head.

I found my mark.

I shot.

I have never heard such a yelp.

I’d known as I took aim that I’d finish the Springfield. I did. The Springfield—
my
Springfield—flew from Bowler Hat’s hands, the butt end splintering. Sparks scattered as parts of it landed in the fire and began to burn.

Bowler Hat grabbed at his right hand and hit the ground on his knees, genuflecting up and down, his hands clenched as if in prayer—profane prayer, because he swore up and down the alphabet. “My thumb! My thumb’s gone!”

I pushed the lever. A used cartridge dropped and another one moved into its place. I was immediately well aware that I did not know how many cartridges were loaded. I was sure I had three or four, but after that? I did not know. I began to count.
One shot gone
.

Revolver-first, Mr. Garrow stepped into the meadow. I barely heard the bullet that whizzed over my head.

I pointed the rifle barrel at Mr. Garrow.

Remember how I’d placed the split skirt on the V of that cracked boulder? At that moment, the split skirt slid. Yes, it slid off the rock and hit me in the face. Everything—absolutely everything, including Mr. Garrow—disappeared from sight.

I flung the rifle barrel upward—an instinctual act. The split skirt flew up eight, maybe ten feet into the air. I guess Mr. Garrow felt twitchy too. Because from the middle of the meadow, Mr. Garrow twisted and fired one shot into the airborne split skirt. When the bullet hit it, the skirt crumpled into itself, flying farther backward.

While Mr. Garrow was aiming at my skirt, I was aiming at his gun hand.

I shot. Mr. Garrow’s revolver made a sound like a cheap dinner bell and flew out of his hand. This caused Mr. Garrow to lose his balance, and he fell into the tall grasses.

I pushed the lever. The used cartridge dropped and a fresh one loaded.
Two shots gone
.

Mr. Garrow spotted his gun in the grass, and scuttled for it on all fours.

I aimed at the ground between Mr. Garrow and that revolver, and pulled the trigger again.
Three shots gone
.

Mr. Garrow leapt backward.

But he made one more attempt to reach for the revolver. That’s when I finally stood up from behind that boulder, and I aimed for a spot of ground very near Mr. Garrow’s hand.

Mr. Garrow yelled as a bullet ricocheted off the ground in front of him.
Four shots gone
. He jumped up and half skipped toward his horse. “Let’s go. We got what we come for,” he said to Bowler Hat.

My heart pounded as I pushed the lever. Would there be
another shot? I thought I heard something move into place, but this was not my gun. Its idiosyncrasies were unknown to me.

Bowler Hat was staring at me. “That’s no girl,” he said. He put his bloody clenched hands on something tucked in the back of his pants. It was the way he reached that made me know it was a pistol. My breath caught in my throat, but I brought my rifle around.

Please
, I prayed. I took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The bowler hat popped off his head, revealing his balding pate.

Five shots
.

Bowler Hat rubbed his head with his hand, covering his scalp with blood. I was sure he thought some of that blood was from his head, but I was convinced it was from his missing thumb. Anyway, all that blood confused him. He screamed as he ran for his horse. “That is not a girl! That’s a hoyden demon!”

I pushed the lever on the repeater and felt nothing move into place. I was certain it was empty now.

My heart leapt to my throat, but I willed myself not to show fear. I did not move. I did not speak. I held the Spencer on them.

From over the rifle barrel, I watched them leave. They left at a gallop.

When they were gone (though dust still hung in the air), I leaned over and vomited. Then I fell on my knees and
retched again. I breathed a few unsteady breaths and stood up. When I stopped seeing stars, I ran to Billy.

Billy was bad off. I found my knife and sawed through his bindings. “You shot his
thumb
?” he said.

“I aimed for the gun. Try to get yourself up,” I said as I freed his hands. I knew several of his ribs were probably broken, but I needed his help to leave this place.

Hurry, hurry, faster, hurry
, I thought. I’d humiliated Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat. They wouldn’t like being bested by a thirteen-year-old girl. (It’s not the kind of story one man can tell another.) I did not want to be here upon their return.

I reloaded that Spencer repeater with seven fresh cartridges and kept it nearby while I got us packed.

I prodded the charred and shattered Springfield rifle out of the fire. While there, I spotted
The Prairie Traveler
. All that was left was the spine. I took both because they were mine. I found the blue-green ribbon trampled on the ground. Mr. Garrow had failed to take it with him.

I paused to wonder at Mr. Garrow passing over evidence that suggested he had shot my sister. Why had he been so careless as to leave it behind?

Had
he killed my sister? Maybe he hadn’t. Mr. Garrow had come after the five-dollar plate. That was all I knew.

I turned around and saw that Billy had gotten upright with the help of the pine, but he lacked the strength to do more than stand. A tall horse like Storm was out of the
question, so I put Billy’s saddle on Long Ears and walked the mule to him. I hoped he could hoist himself aboard.

One of my last acts was to retrieve my split skirt. I ran through the tall grasses, remembering the Bechtler dollars I’d sewn into the waistband. I found the skirt twisted in some shrubbish wild sunflowers. I tugged it free, and felt for the five bumps in the waistband. The coins were still there. Then I held the skirt up to the sun and found two holes—the bullet had entered through one and exited through the other. I put an index finger in one of them. It was still warm.

Thank you
, I thought-prayed as loud as I could.