Tabitha (2 page)

“We would do it all together, dear. Every part.” Rose
hesitated. “We have nine weeks. I do not know but that it may be the work of
more than nine weeks, but we can be well begun in that time.”

Tabitha swallowed again and nodded. “I . . .
suppose I am willing to at least try.”

Rose took her hands. “Then let us give this to our Lord and trust
him for the outcome. Nine weeks will give us a good start—and let us start
today, now, while our determination is fresh.”

They cleared away the tea things and Rose selected paper and
pen.

“Where should I begin?” Tabitha asked.

“Perhaps we should start at the place where you made your
first wrong choice?”

Tabitha hmmed. “Yes. I know exactly when that was.”

“Very well. Take a moment to compose your thoughts and then
begin.”

Tabitha shifted and looked around the room as though she
wanted to flee the memories in her head. “I . . . well, I should
say that my name is Tabitha Kathrine Hale.”

“I did not know your middle name.” Rose smiled. “It is
beautiful and suits you.”

“Thank you, Miss Rose.” Tabitha rested her chin upon her
folded hands.

“I probably should begin, then, when I was
fourteen . . .”

~~**~~

The
eye that mocks a father
and despises a mother’s instructions
will be plucked out by ravens of the valley
and eaten by vultures.
(Proverbs 30:17, NLT)

I sighed and wondered again what was keeping Cray from his
dinner. Sweat and dirt ran down the back of my neck and I swiped at it.

I was angry, of course. I was almost always angry lately.
Bile and discontent had taken up residence in my belly. They lived and thrived
there, seething and churning, until they climbed up my throat and erupted in
heated words.

“Here I been a-cookin’ an’ bakin’ over this hot fire and he
ain’t got th’ decency t’ come eat?” I grumbled. I was incensed at Cray’s
thoughtlessness. “He can’t leave off a-workin’ when day is done?”

Down in my gut the anger swirled. I wanted to say more, much
more, but I wanted to say it to Cray’s face. I held one hand over my eyes and
squinted west into the scorching light, scanning the path that wended down the
hillside not far away. I saw no sign of Cray and his mule.

The late afternoon dragged on toward sunset, and the sun
still burned, hanging like a bloated, shimmering orb in a blindingly blue sky.
The day’s heat was beyond anything I had endured in my short fourteen years.
Even the scorching skies of west Texas, under which I had spent my childhood,
had been nowhere near as merciless as the searing desert of southern Arizona.

During the day the air inside of our small tent grew so hot
that it sucked the moisture from my lungs: If I inhaled, fiery billows seared
my chest. So I spent the long hours outside, hunkered down in the tent’s scanty
profile, the single refuge to be found for miles.

Every hour of the day I had to shift the box upon which I
sat so as to remain within the tent’s shadow; every hour of the day the sun’s
blazing furnace intensified.

When blessed night arrived, the stifling heat retreated but
slightly; by daybreak the temperature was already clawing its way up to blister
and torture the land—and us—once more.

And we had been camped in this awful place for two weeks. I
lifted my dry eyes to the path that led up the craggy hillside.

Still no sign of Cray.

Four months back, Cray had begged me to leave my folks. He
pleaded with me to leave them, leave their pretty little patch of land
alongside a seasonal Texas creek, and venture west with him to seek fortune and
glory in the Arizona gold fields.

“There’s gold to be had in Arizona Territory, Tabitha, just
by pickin’ it out of the sides of hills,” he bragged with shining eyes, “and
the price of gold is goin’ up like fireworks on the Fourth o’ July. Why, once I
get my share, we’ll be set for life. I’ll never have t’ work again.”

The first time Cray came to call on me, my folks had studied
him with misgivings. They were not educated people and they did not come out
and say as much, but I knew they did not care for Cray.

Then I overheard Daddy tell Mama, “Thet boy ain’t got the
sense God give him.” A moment later he added, “And he’s wild. A dreamer. Too
much like
her
.”

It was true. I had an unruly streak as wide as the day was
long, and I was drawn to Cray, pulled to him by the thrilling, adventurous future
he painted for me. Life on my folk’s little spread was spare and it was
good—but it was the same,
always the
same
, day in and day out,
year after year.

I rebelled against a life of monotony, of that dreary
sameness—a future that held nothing different, only more of what I already knew
and, with youthful contempt, despised.

My wild streak was companion to an even wilder temper, and I
often allowed my temper to rule me. I was an only child—spoiled, headstrong,
and willful. My folks loved me, but they scarcely knew how to curb the
unrestrained young woman I was growing into.

To listen to my mother, my hot, rebellious disposition was a
great weakness. I know now how right she was, but at that time? When I heard
what Daddy said—about Cray being too much like me?—it rankled my temper, and I
set my jaw and my obstinate will against my folks’ wisdom.

And Cray? I think he was bedazzled by my red hair. He raved
over what he called “the unflawed beauty of my milky complexion” and “the
glowing flames of my long tresses.” My young, inexperienced ego swelled, and I
preened under such high praise.

Cray certainly had a way with words! And as the days went
by, he pressed me harder to leave with him.

The life Cray promises will be better than this dismal
old farm
, I had assured myself when Conscience raised its unwelcome head.
Oh, I knew that running off with Cray was not right. It went against everything
Mama had taught me about decency, and I told Cray as much. I challenged him to
prove my folks wrong.

In response Cray had pledged me a ring, a church wedding,
and a house. Oh, he promised so many things! But always, “As soon as I make my
fortune.”

Finally, I gave in.

One cool morning, Cray and I headed for the Arizona gold
fields. I rode behind Cray on his pony until we reached the southwest edge of
the New Mexico Territory and entered Arizona Territory. There Cray traded his
pony for a pack mule named Sassy. He poured most all of his cash into the tools
and supplies he would need to work his mine. Last of all, he bought a claim, a
claim that (he was told) would yield more than enough gold to set us up for
life.

What we had found when we arrived at the claim was
uninhabitable desert, vast wastelands, and an empty, gutted pit in the side of
a mountain. The claim may have boasted of gold at one time, but its treasure
was long gone when Cray paid good, cash money for it.

Disheartened and with little cash left, we bought what
supplies we could in a disreputable boomtown called Fullman. Then we walked on
into the desert where rumors promised better prospecting. Sassy carried our
tools and tent, a couple of weeks’ of food—if we were careful—and two large
casks of water.

When we arrived at
this
spot, two weeks back, weary
in foot and heart, I spied a patch of green at the base of the hillside over
yonder. I called Cray’s attention to it because the green was so out of keeping
with the bleak shades of brown surrounding us.

We searched for and found the spring that fed the green
patch. It was not much more than a slow seep, really. The tepid liquid
dribbling up from the ground was likely the only water source for miles around.
Cray studied the rocky hillside above the water and decided the looks of it
suited him.

“That there rock face has gold in it, or m’ name ain’t Cray
T. Bishoff,” he had muttered.

We dug a basin in the earth to catch the water from the
seep, and each day I strained what pooled in the hole through a scrap of
canvas. It was not much, that little bit of water, but it was enough to keep us
and Sassy alive day to day.

Cray erected our tent on a low mound nearby, one of the
thousands of mounds just like it dotting the desert around us. Then fourteen
long, scorching days dragged by.

As the sun drooped closer to the horizon, I stood and put my
hand to my eyes to shade them. In every direction I turned, the view was the
same. Undulating dunes and gullies. Sparse cacti and brush. The same landscape
in every direction except for the hillside Cray had climbed with Sassy this
morning.

The low hill just west of our tent, the one Cray had staked
our futures on, was the lone geographical variation within sight. Not another
marker stood in the wild, barren land to hint at where we were. Not another
vestige of human life stirred.

I again stared into the distance. Not for the first time did
the notion of being left alone and adrift in this bleak wasteland cause my
breath to hitch in terror.

“Where is he?” I whispered.

Cray never missed an evening meal, little though it was.

Cray had been enthusiastic when we had arrived at this
place. “I’ll find gold here. I know I will—that hill has the look of it,” he
boasted. “And when I’ve made my fortune, we’ll go back to Texas. I’ll buy me
some land and some cattle.”

He had stared with fierce determination at its rocky face.
“Yep. I’ll get the gold first. Land and cattle next.”

“And then we’ll get married?” I had demanded. My words were
sharp. The shine had worn off our relationship in the few months we had been
together. We quarreled more than once during our fruitless travels, and I often
gave Cray the rough side of my tongue.

“Oh, sure, sweetheart. Sure. We’ll get married.” But he had
frowned and seemed distracted as he said it.

Cray had left off reciting the promises by which he had
lured me into coming with him. The very absence of such assurances frightened
me.

“Like you promised,” I insisted, my temper—and
apprehension—ratcheting up another notch.

He had rounded on me then. “Y’know, Tabitha Hale, no man can
abide a nagging woman. You’d best consider that.”

His cold, detached tone and the way he had clenched his jaw
shocked me. I recoiled as surely as if he had slapped me.

Later, after my distress calmed, I finally admitted to
myself that I had made a mistake—a horrible mistake. Cray was not the man I had
thought him to be, any more than I was the sweet, biddable woman he had thought
he was getting.

Cray had begun his prospecting that first morning with
optimistic energy; he returned that evening wordless. The next day he clamped
his lips together and, with Sassy in tow, hiked up the hill again. That night
he came back to camp, dour and uncommunicative.

I did not question him. I already knew what he had found.
Nothing. No sign of the precious ore he yearned for. Yet he kept at it, day
after burning day. Each morning, with the mule following on a lead, he went in
search of his treasure. Each evening he returned, sullen and less
talkative—until fourteen sunrises and sunsets had passed and our supplies were
spent.

Tabitha glanced up into Rose’s face. “My folks were right,
you know. And it is clear to me now, sixteen years later, how this one, willful
choice—my decision to run off with Cray—set in motion the direction of my life,
the downward course that would end in my ruin.”

Rose, dismay growing in her heart, tucked her chin to her
breast and gripped her pen tighter.

Tabitha picked up where she had left off.

The following morning,
Cray seemed easier and . . . lighter of heart.
 He
packed his gear on the tired mule with purpose and added extra water for the
animal. He ate the small breakfast I prepared for him with dogged determination
and took his packed lunch from my hand. For a change he said goodbye to me
instead of grunting his thanks and stalking wordlessly toward the hill.

Now, hours later, the sun at last slid down the golden
horizon. Long, deep fingers of shadow—the heralds of approaching
night—lengthened around the tent and across the desert floor. I used the sticks
I had gathered during the day to build up the fire. Cray would need light to
find his way to me in the dark.

I hugged myself and tried to recall the exact words he had
muttered when he tugged on the mule’s lead and turned to leave. What was it he
had said?

“Goodbye, Tabitha. You wish me well, now.”

I licked my chapped lips. I was restless. Edgy. The hours
dragged on and Cray did not appear. I lay down on the blanket inside the tent
but could not sleep.

The next morning, before the sun commenced its ponderous
journey across the sky, I hiked up the hill to Cray’s dig. It took me two hours
to reach the rock face where the holes and tailings from his pick and shovel
were evident.

No sign of the mule. No tools or pack. No Cray.

I dragged myself back to our campsite. Exhausted and near to
panic, I drank my fill of the water that had accumulated in the seep. Then I
collapsed in the tent’s shade.

I have to know for certain
, I told myself.
I have
to know
.

I took a deep breath and ducked inside the tent. There I
rummaged through our scant possessions. As my alarmed imaginings had suggested,
most of Cray’s clothes were gone. He had left only the few ragged things he
wanted me to wash and mend.

To keep me from suspecting.

I shuddered. Cray was not coming back.
He had left me.
Left me by myself in the desert!

Rose and Tabitha were silent, held taut and wordless by a
shared horror. But Rose could not stop shivering—the last sentence of Tabitha’s
account burgeoned with dread. Awful, terrifying dread.

Many minutes later, Tabitha resumed her whispered narrative.

I spent the remainder of the day crouched beside the tent
either sobbing in terror or raging at Cray for his duplicity.

Darkness again crept across the desert. I stared at the fire
and rocked back and forth, keening into the empty sky.

Alone! I am alone!

Sometime in the night I shook myself and faced the facts:
If
I do not fend for myself, I am going to die
.

Fullman, where we had bought our last supplies, lay a full
day’s walk due east of our campsite. Surely Cray had to have gone there? It was
the only point of “civilization” either of us knew of.

I swallowed hard at my memory of Fullman. The town consisted
of few rows of clapboard houses and businesses surrounded by a great tent city,
a swelling, noxious collection of ragged canvas shelters. The most
prosperous-looking of the buildings had a store on one side of it and a bar on
the other.

The prospectors camped around Fullman were lean and dry,
desiccated from their fevered pursuit of gold. They outnumbered the women of
the town ten times over—yet as Cray and I had purchased our meager provisions,
it was not the hunger for gold I had glimpsed in those men’s eyes. No, they had
stared with avarice at my red hair; they had raked my body with ravening eyes.