The Gentleman Outlaw and Me--Eli

by Mary Downing Hahn

  "Come back here, boy!" the ticket agent hollered. I believe he meant to chase me but thought better of it when he saw Caesar.

  "With that red hair, you won't get far!" he yelled. "I'll give your description to the sheriff, and he'll do up a poster with your face on it!"

  Without looking back, I headed for the woods as fast as I could go. Didn't slow down until I'd put at least a mile between Clark Summit and me. Even then I kept up a good pace. For all I knew, the sheriff had nothing better to do than chase after boys like me.

  By late afternoon, I was hot and thirsty and hungry and tired. I'd never walked so far in Uncle Homer's big old boots. They were rubbing my heels raw. Finally I found a shady spot and flopped down in the grass, too weary to take another step. Hard as the ground was, it felt good to lie still.

  Caesar collapsed beside me and panted in my face, not an altogether pleasant experience. I guess he was as hungry as I was, but all I had was the apple. When I showed it to him, he sniffed and turned his head away. I went ahead and ate it, but I swear I was hungrier after I'd finished it than I'd been before.

  I lay in the grass, trying to ignore the ants crawling up and down my arms like I was their own private thoroughfare, and wondered what I should do next.

  Overhead, thrushes were singing, showering me with music that fell like drops of gold from the treetops. Their song reminded me of a sad, sad story Mama once read to me. "The Babes in the Woods" it was called. It told of two poor children who lost their way in the wilderness. The birds took pity on them and covered their little bodies with leaves, but the children starved to death anyway.

  Soon I began to think Caesar and I might end up like that boy and girl. We'd die here, and the birds would cover us. And then Papa would take it into his head to come back to Kansas. He'd be walking along this exact same trail and he'd stumble on my skeleton in the leaves, see the shiny locket round my neck, and know it was me, his own daughter, the child he'd abandoned so long ago.

  Papa would gather the bones, not knowing, which were mine and which were Caesar's, and bury us together. Above our grave, he'd put a stone sculpture of a girl and a dog. The inscription would say HERE LIE POOR ELIZA YATES AND HER ONE AND ONLY FRIEND, CAESAR, A NOBLE DOG.

  Thinking these thoughts made me so sad I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up, I was surprised to see the sun had set. Pink light lingered in the western sky, but the woods were darkening fast and the air was cold.

  Belly empty, I shivered and got to my feet. At the same time, a gust of wind rustled the leaves overhead, bringing with it the smell of woodsmoke and beef stew. My stomach growled so loudly Caesar barked.

  "Hush," I whispered. "We'll sneak over to the fire and see who's doing the cooking. If they look kindly, we'll ask if we can please have a bite."

  Caesar and I crept through the trees and underbrush like Indians, scarcely making a sound. Not that it mattered much. The three men gathered around the campfire were raising such a ruckus they wouldn't have heard a runaway circus elephant on the rampage. As if whooping and hollering weren't enough, one of them fired a gun every now and then. The sound made their horses whinny and rear up. Startled the birds too, especially the crows roosting right over my head who added their caws to the racket.

  It was plain to see the men weren't the kindly sort who'd share their food with a poor boy and his dog. The best thing to do was to wait until they fell asleep and then help ourselves to whatever was left in the pot.

  Caesar and I hunkered down behind a big tree. The more the men drank, the louder they talked. The cuss words flew, too bad to repeat. If you're a poet of profanity, most likely you can imagine them for yourself.

  When it was good and dark, a tall, skinny man with a face as flat as a shovel said, "Are we going to kill him or just leave him here to die on his own?"

  For a second, I thought the man meant me, but before I gave myself away by begging for mercy, I realized some poor soul was lying on the ground on the other side of the fire. It was him they were talking about, not me.

  The leader laughed the nastiest laugh I ever heard. "We got his money, his horse, and his gold watch. He ain't worth a bullet now."

  "Don't forget he seen our faces, Roscoe," Shovel Face said. "If we don't kill him, he's bound to head straight for the sheriffs office. We're worth a lot of reward money."

  Roscoe pulled out a pistol and looked at it like he was studying what to do. While he was deciding, he took a couple more swigs from a jug of whiskey.

  Shovel Face started waving his pistol. "I swear if you don't kill him, I will. I ain't ready for the hanging tree." While he spoke, he listed to one side like gravity was pulling hard in that direction.

  The third outlaw, a runty, bowlegged man with a bald head, was sitting on the ground watching. He'd look from Roscoe to Shovel Face and back again to Roscoe just like he was at a tennis game. Every now and then he hiccuped so hard his whole body shook. Then he'd giggle real high like a nervous girl.

  Strangest of all, the man lying on the ground never said a word. Maybe he was asleep. I hoped he was. That way he wouldn't know when they shot him.

  "If there's going to be any killing, I'm the one to do it." Roscoe pointed the gun at his chest, for emphasis I guess, and almost shot himself.

  Staggering over to the man on the ground, he nudged him with his boot. "You got any last words, Featherbone?"

  I leaned forward, hoping to see the doomed man's face, but it was too dark. I heard his answer, though. "I wouldn't waste my precious breath on an ignorant lout such as yourself," he said.

  Though the words he spoke were brave, Mr. Featherbone's voice quavered, making him sound like a boy playing a game of bluff with the school bully.

  Roscoe scowled most fiercely and swore a long string of curses, most of them having to do with Mr. Featherbone's cheating ways. Then he aimed right at the poor man and pulled the trigger. The gun made a terrible sound, flashing fire and smoke. Mr. Featherbone cried out like the rabbit Little Homer once shot, a shrill, terrible sound I knew I'd recall to my dying day.

  Forgetting myself, I screamed and hid my face, but the outlaws were too busy shouting and swearing to hear anything but themselves. Jumping on their horses, they galloped off into the dark, passing so close to my hiding place they nearly trampled me. They were riding so fast that Roscoe's old felt hat blew off. But he didn't stop to reclaim it.

  For a long time Caesar and I stayed where we were, listening to the sound of the horses fade away into the night. When the woods were quiet again, I picked up Roscoe's hat, thinking it would make me look even more like a boy. Then I crawled a little closer to the campsite and peered through the bushes. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, but I could still smell the stew. It seemed being witness to a killing hadn't taken away my appetite.

  The trouble was, I had to walk past Mr. Featherbone to get to the stew. Till then the only dead person I'd ever seen was my poor, dear mama, and she'd been laid out neat and tidy in a coffin in the parlor. She'd gone peaceful, slipping out of her body as quiet as a butterfly leaving its cocoon. I was sad almost to dying myself, but I wasn't any more scared of Mama dead than I'd been scared of her alive.

  Mr. Featherbone was a different case altogether. There hadn't been anything peaceful about his passing. From what I could tell, he'd been blown out of himself like a fish when you throw a stick of dynamite in a pond. If ever a dying man had left a vengeful spirit behind, it would be Mr. Featherbone.

  My empty stomach growled louder than ever, though. Desperate with hunger, I crept toward the fire, keeping my eyes on the stew pot so as not to see anything else. I bent down to get it, thinking I'd run as fast as I could once I had it in my hand. But just before I touched it, cold fingers wrapped around my ankle and a voice whispered, "For the Lord's sake, help me."

  4

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY WHOLE LIFE I understood what people mean when they say their blood runs cold. Here I was just twelve years old, and a dead man had a hold of my ankle. I was
frozen to the ground. Couldn't move. Couldn't cry out. Even Caesar seemed scared senseless. Didn't bark or growl. Just stood there with his tail between his legs, whimpering.

  The dead man groaned, but he didn't let loose of me. "Help me, please," he whispered again.

  I swallowed hard and looked down at Mr. Featherbone. His face was mighty pale, and there was a powerful lot of blood dabbling his shirt, but he wasn't dead. What's more, he didn't appear to be more than seventeen years old. A boy, that's all he was. Curly haired, kind of thin, and delicate featured. What Aunt Mabel would call refined. Maybe even handsome.

  Why, there was nothing to be scared of after all, except the blood—which was more than enough to make a squeamish girl like Millicent faint. Not me, though. Even before I became a boy, I wasn't the swooning type.

  I knelt beside Featherbone. "I don't know a thing about bullet wounds," I admitted. "But if you tell me what to do, I'll help you. For surely you don't deserve to die."

  He grimaced. "First bind my arm to stop the bleeding. Use the handkerchief in my coat pocket. Then clean the wound. There's a kettle of water by the fire."

  Following his directions, I knotted the handkerchief around his left arm as tight as I dared and then washed the blood away. The poor fellow clenched his teeth, but every now and then a little moan slid out between them. I knew I was hurting him, but he made me keep on.

  When I'd done all I could, Featherbone told me to go ahead and eat. Lying there on the ground, he looked pale but determined. The set of his jaw told me he didn't give up easy. He'd die when he was ready, I figured, and not one second before.

  Taking care to give Caesar half, I gobbled the stew. The meat was tough and stringy, and the vegetables were mush, but I'd had fancy dinners at Aunt Mabel's table that I'd enjoyed far less.

  When he'd eaten his share, Caesar gave a big sigh of pure contentment and lay down by the fire. In no time he was sound asleep. But not me. I sat there, watching the flames flicker and thinking my own thoughts.

  After a while, I glanced at Featherbone. He'd been so quiet I was afraid he might have upped and died on me after all. But he was wide awake, eyeing me with enough curiosity to kill a cat.

  "A raggedy boy and a shaggy old dog," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but you most certainly saved my life."

  "My name is Elijah." I drew out the syllables to savor the sound. "Elijah Yates."

  "Elijah what?" Featherbone jerked upright and stared at me as if I'd just uttered the most terrible swear word ever invented.

  "Elijah Bates," I hollered, shocked to realize I'd said "Yates" instead of "Bates." "Bates, Bates, Bates. My name's Elijah Bates."

  Featherbone sighed and lay back. "Pardon me for startling you, but I could have sworn you said Yates. Thank the Lord you didn't. If there's one name in this world I despise, it's Yates."

  I looked at him, alarmed by the hatred he was packing into my real name. "Did someone called Yates cause you grief?" I asked timidly.

  "A dirty coward by that vile name shot my father in the back and left him to die in the street."

  I drew in my breath so hard I almost choked. It was a lucky thing I'd corrected myself and said my name was Bates. From the way Featherbone was carrying on, he might have killed me on the spot just because my name was Yates.

  "I swore on my mother's grave I'd avenge my father's death," Featherbone went on, glaring at me as if I doubted his word. "I'm on my way to Tinville, Colorado, to confront the scoundrel."

  "Why, that's just where I'm headed," I said, too surprised to keep my mouth shut as a more cautious person might have. Although I was sure Papa wasn't the kind to shoot a man in the back, it made me uneasy to know he and Featherbone's enemy not only were both named Yates but also lived in the same town. A coincidence no doubt, but worrisome all the same.

  Featherbone stared at me, just as amazed as I was. "What in heaven's name takes an innocent child like you to a town as wicked as Tinville?" he asked.

  "I hope to find my father there," I admitted.

  Featherbone studied my face. "Aren't you rather young to be traveling by yourself?"

  "I'm twelve years old," I said, drawing myself up to my full height. "Not that much younger than you, I reckon!"

  "I'm almost eighteen," Featherbone said quickly. "Which makes me nearly a man and you a mere boy. Why, you should be at home with your mother, not roaming the countryside like a vagabond."

  "My mama is dead," I whispered.

  "So we're both motherless," Featherbone said, softening his haughty tone. "Orphan boys adrift in this cruel world with no place to call home."

  When I turned my head to hide my tears, Featherbone touched my shoulder. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I'm Calvin Thaddeus Featherbone, the Second." After pausing a moment, he added, "Perhaps you've heard of me."

  "No," I apologized, "I'm afraid I haven't."

  "In some parts," he said, watching me closely, "I'm known as the Gentleman Outlaw."

  I stared at my companion, too awed to speak. Just a few days ago, I'd been an ordinary girl, doing chores and ducking whippings, and now here I was alone in the woods with a real, live outlaw. If he knew, my cousin Little Homer would be consumed with jealousy. He had a real hankering to become an outlaw himself, and if you ask me, he was already well on his way to achieving his goal.

  "Are you telling me the honest-to-God truth?" I asked.

  "Would I prevaricate, Elijah?"

  Since I didn't know the meaning of the word, I ignored Calvin's question. "What did you do to become an outlaw?" I asked. "Rob a bank? Hold up a train?"

  When Calvin didn't answer, I added, "I hope you didn't kill anybody. I don't approve of murder."

  He stared into the fire, his face grim. Lord knows what he was thinking. "Never fear," he said at last. "I haven't taken anyone's life—yet."

  Something in his voice made me shiver. Or maybe it was just the damp night air creeping up behind me. Swallowing hard, I said, "Are you aiming to kill the man who killed your daddy?"

  Calvin clenched his jaw and nodded. "Yates showed no mercy to Father," he said. "I mean to show no mercy to him."

  I moved a little closer to Caesar, taking comfort in his warm body and familiar smell. It seemed to me Calvin was studying my face with growing suspicion.

  'Your father," he said slowly. "He wouldn't be the sheriff of Tinville, would he?"

  "Sheriff?" I burst out laughing at the very idea of Papa being a sheriff. "Why, Aunt Mabel says Papa's about the worst man who ever lived. What makes you think he's a lawman?"

  "The Yates I'm seeking is the sheriff of Tinville," Calvin said slowly, still staring into my eyes as if he hoped to read my mind like a carnival fortuneteller.

  "I told you, Papa's name is Bates," I reminded him. "Even if his name was Yates—which it's not—he isn't the sort to wear a tin star."

  After engaging me in a brief eye-to-eye stare, Calvin seemed to believe what I had told him. Yawning a yawn as big as a house, he stretched out on the ground. "If you'll pardon me, Eli, I shall endeavor to sink into the arms of Morpheus till morning."

  I guess that meant Calvin aimed to go to sleep, because a few seconds later he was snoring as nice and polite as a lady in church.

  But not me. I was too worried to shut my eyes. Much as I hated to part company with a famous outlaw, the sensible thing seemed to be to sneak away while Calvin slept. Go on to Tinville with Caesar. Find my father. Tell him he might have an enemy.

  While I lay there trying to decide what to do, an owl hooted. Animals moved around in the bushes, rustling and snapping twigs. The sounds brought to mind the stories Little Homer made up to scare Millicent and William and me. What if the bogeyman was out there in the dark woods, waiting for me to leave the fire and come closer? The yellow-bellied snallygaster might be perched in a tree right over my head. The fierce turkey chatch that gobbled up little children could be hiding anywhere. I felt their red eyes watching me, smelled their evil smell, hear
d their sharp claws scratching in the dirt.

  The owl called again, raising goose bumps on my skin. A few feet away, a branch snapped like something big and heavy had stepped on it. Moving even closer to Caesar, I hugged him tight. He whimpered and twitched like he was chasing rabbits in his dreams, but he didn't wake up.

  I guessed I'd stay with Calvin a while. At least till daylight. Perhaps even longer. After all, we had miles to go before we got to Tinville. If by some weird quirk of fate it turned out Calvin and I were looking for the same man, I had plenty of time to sneak off and warn Papa.

  Besides, I've never been one to do the sensible thing.

  5

  IF YOU'VE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO spend a night sleeping on the cold ground without a blanket, you know how I felt when I woke up. I was so blamed stiff I could hardly move. My mouth tasted like I'd been chewing on Caesar's fur. Worst of all, I had to hobble off into the trees and relieve myself fast before Calvin noticed I wasn't exactly who or what he thought I was.

  By the time I came back, Calvin had gotten the fire going, but nothing was cooking. It seemed the Gentleman Outlaw wasn't the sort to hunt or fish or carry supplies. He was accustomed to eating in hotel dining rooms, he told me.

  Caesar sighed and lay down beside the young man. Calvin wrinkled his nose. "Pardon me for saying so," he said, "but this brute is badly in need of a bath, Elijah."

  "So are you," I said, making a great show of sniffing the air in Calvin's vicinity. It was true. After a night in the woods, the Gentleman Outlaw smelled a mite stale. I reckon I did too.

  Ignoring me, Calvin attempted to move upwind from Caesar, but my loyal companion wagged his tail and moved closer.

  "Why, Calvin," I said. "I believe Caesar likes you."

  "Is that meant to be a compliment?"

  "I reckon it is," I said, not sure whether I was pleased or jealous. "Caesar hates most everyone except me."

  Calvin heaved a sigh and patted the dog. "It's my fate to be befriended by the lowest types, both animal and human," he said glumly.