The door opened and the man stood there. “How do you feel this morning? Better?”
“Yes, better. I think I’m all right.”
“Fine! I was figuring on that. I have a good breakfast ready for you. It’ll really fix you up.”
The man left, yet his voice stayed in the room. It was a low, cultured voice. It belonged to this orderly room, and not to a desert wanderer. He had been wearing a white shirt and tie, well-pressed pants, and soft slippers. Was this the man who had walked endless miles beside him under the hot sun of the desert?
The man returned, carrying a breakfast tray which he placed on the bedside table. He propped pillows behind the boy, and then transferred the tray to the bed. Two fried eggs, crisp bacon, toast and jelly. “Go ahead and eat,” he said. “I guess you can do it without my help this morning.” He smiled. It was a warm, good smile, disclosing even, white teeth. He looked younger than he was, closer to forty than to sixty, which was probably his real age. “Eggs from my own chickens,” he said, “laid fresh this morning for you.” He pulled up a chair to the bed, his eyes resting a moment on the yellow fabric that covered the chair’s straight back. “What color is this, anyway?” he asked suddenly.
“Color? I—it’s yellow.”
The man laughed. “I bought it for a brown one. That’s what they told me it was at the store. I’m color-blind. Blind as a bat to colors.” He met the boy’s eyes. “Go ahead and eat, McGregor. I’ll keep quiet for a while, if my talking bothers you. But you see, I don’t have many guests. Maybe just two or three in the six years I’ve been here.” He paused. “And I forgot to ask my other guests about the color of these chairs.”
“But how do you know my name is McGregor?”
“You must have told me so at least a hundred times during the past week.” The tall man smiled. “Mine’s Gordon.”
“I’ve been with you a week?”
“Yes, a week since we picked you up.”
“We?”
“Goldie and I,” the man said. “Goldie’s my burro, my pal.” He paused, the tiny creases at the corners of his clear eyes crinkling again. “His full name is Black Gold. I named him after the 1924 winner of the Kentucky Derby.”
Black Gold. Kentucky Derby. The boy felt his mind groping, trying to respond to these names. He shut his eyes, hoping to help himself, hoping to overcome the mental barrier that would not permit his memory to return. His face whitened at his great effort, and then suddenly saddened. He knew he was beaten, that it was still too early, that it would take time, perhaps a long time, before he’d be able to remember anything. He opened his eyes and met the man’s gaze.
“Does your head still hurt?” Gordon asked.
“No … it isn’t that.”
“Then you’re worrying more about what you don’t know is true,” Gordon said. “You forget all that, McGregor, and you’ll get well a lot faster.”
The boy’s eyes were alive with fear. He wanted to run again. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
Gordon rose to his feet, standing tall and lean above the bed. “You told me everything in your delirium,” he said quietly. “You think the Utah state police are after you. You think you’re wanted by them for robbery, and you’re running away. Maybe they are after you. I don’t know. But then you don’t know for certain, either. You’ve been hurt, so you can’t remember anything … even your name. You said you assumed the name McGregor. So, I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions now, if I were you. There’ll be time enough for all that later. Just figure on getting well. After that, you can make your own decision about what to do.”
He walked over to the high dresser and, opening the top right-hand drawer, removed an envelope. Inside was the bloodstained money. “It’s all here,” he said. “Let it stay here, and forget about it until you’re well. If you know then it’s not yours, you can decide for yourself the right thing to do. But don’t convict yourself before you know for certain you’ve committed a crime. Your big job is to get well, and living with a guilt complex won’t help you do it.”
He went to the door. “And don’t worry so much about assuming another name, McGregor,” he said. “Names don’t mean anything in this country. One’s as good as another. Keep McGregor. It’s a good one. So is Gordon … and that’s not my right name, either.” Smiling, he closed the door behind him, leaving the boy alone.
THE PINES
8
During the week that followed, the boy learned all he needed to know about Gordon. Actually the man’s first name was Gordon; his last name was Davis. But he had not used the latter in the six years he had been living in the pine country. There was no sinister reason for the omission. Gordon simply wanted to break away completely from the old life and habits of one Gordon Davis.
He had talked a great deal that week, as though most happy to have a guest in his home.
“A few years ago I wouldn’t have told this to anyone. I didn’t even think about it,” he said. “I wanted nothing to remind me of Hollywood. I hated the sound of my own name. I more than hated it. I was afraid of it. Gordon Davis, managing editor of that slick, pseudo-glamour movie magazine Seeing Stars! I can say it now, and it doesn’t bother me at all. I know that life’s all over for me. But what the devil, the name Gordon alone is good enough.” He laughed. “In fact, I don’t even need that much. It doesn’t matter around here. Over at the general store in Leesburg they call me ‘Slim, the Burro Man.’ That’s enough identification for anyone around these parts.
“I went to work on Seeing Stars at the age of fourteen, and thirty years later became managing editor. I spent ten more years in that job before chucking the whole thing. I was sick of the business, sick of Hollywood, sick of the world. I guess I’d felt that way for years, but never had the gumption to do anything about it. One day my secretary hands me a deed to an acre of land. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘what the publicity department of that movie epic Sea of Pines has come up with. They’ve given you an acre of pine woodland in Arizona!’
“Well, sure enough, that’s exactly what those guys had done to publicize their forthcoming picture,” Gordon continued. “And there’s no telling how many newspaper and magazine editors in the country got deeds like mine.” He smiled. “But I think I’m the only one who paid my taxes on the property, and then finally moved off to live on it. I’ve never had a moment’s regret. Oh, it wasn’t easy at first, but before long I had it like I wanted it. So now I’m happy and set in my ways just like any old city bachelor, only I’m up here in the pines and alone. I like being alone. I’ll always like it after what I’ve gone through in Hollywood. I’ve got a town, this Leesburg, just over the mountain range. It’s close enough, twenty-one miles through the Cut. I get to town maybe once a month for supplies, less often if I can manage it.
“The rest of the time I spend right around here, taking care of myself, the house, old Goldie and my flowers. I guess you’re kind of surprised at my having so many flowers, now that you know I’m color-blind. But there’s nothing wrong with my nose. I can still smell. And that makes up for my not being able to appreciate their beauty.
“Of course, I’m away a lot, too. Goldie and I know our way around most of these woods, the mountains and the desert country. We go out prospecting for gold and silver.”
Gordon’s clear eyes were always bright when he spoke of his journeys. “I’m no hermit, but a prospector. Think of me as that, McGregor.” And then he would go on, spending hours telling of his far wanderings through high and low country, searching for his elusive strike. “There was a time in a deep canyon I call the Gory Rut that … And another time over beyond the Red Monument … Then back a few years ago I spent a month on Buckskin Ridge and there … But you can’t ignore the desert so let me tell you about the time …”
For most of the week the boy listened to Gordon tell in detail of his years on the trail with Goldie. He listened, and forgot for a while his own problems in the story of the man’s quest for gold and silver. But
at last he came to realize that Gordon actually cared nothing at all about acquiring new wealth. His interest was in the constant search that took him away even from the simple comforts he had here in his meadow home, an endless search that led through canyons, gorges and valleys, across wastelands, woods and ridges. All these mysterious, untouched lands Gordon loved. He was eager to see them with his own eyes, and then to look at what lay beyond.
But the following week Gordon spoke little of himself, his journeys or his life in the pines. It was as if he had talked his fill, and now wanted to be left alone again. Once he even forgot why the boy was there, for he said, “Your face is familiar, McGregor. Have you ever been in Hollywood?” Not until he saw the whiteness come to the boy’s face did he remember. Not until he heard him say “I don’t know” did he mumble an abrupt apology for his own forgetfulness, and go outside to tend to his flowers.
It was during this week that the boy was most miserable. His body had regained its strength and he felt completely well except for the headaches that came perhaps once or twice a day to remind him of his injury. But he lived with the bitter torment that while his physical condition had improved considerably his mind hadn’t. There was no sign of mental recovery, nothing that encouraged him to think, to hope that in time his memory would return.
Conscious of the boy’s mental agony, Gordon tried to do everything he could to help him. He talked a little more during the week that followed. Again he veered from the set pattern of his bachelor life to make the boy more comfortable. He offered him his bed again instead of the living-room couch. But the boy refused. Gordon told him every night to use the big leather chair in the living room, and to feel free to read any of his books. But always the boy refused, saying that he was all right, that he didn’t want to get in the way at all, and that he appreciated everything Gordon had done for him.
So Gordon resigned himself to helping the boy in the only way left. He spent longer hours in the kitchen, cooking the most nourishing meals he knew … stewed young chicken with hot broth and potatoes and green vegetables, roast lamb and beef and salads … meals such as one would get only in fine restaurants and good homes. He set these dishes down on clean tablecloths, urging the boy to eat everything before him.
One night he said, “You must face the fact that you’ve suffered a head concussion, and that’s been followed by amnesia. I suppose it’s only because you were in fine physical shape that you were able to get along without medical attention. Now you’re on the way to complete recovery. But to make it come even faster you’ve got to have plenty of rest and nourishment. That’s all any doctor would tell you, I’m sure.”
“What good is my being physically well, if I can’t remember?” McGregor asked bitterly.
“Your memory will come back, too, if you’re healthy and want it back.”
“Want it back?” A thin smile crept on the boy’s face. “Don’t you think I do?”
The man looked at McGregor a long while, and then said, “Yes … yes, I guess you do, at that.” He turned away guiltily. “The last few days I got to thinking that maybe you didn’t want to regain your memory,” he admitted. “I’ve heard of some people creating a mental block because they don’t want to remember their past.” He met the boy’s eyes again, those tragic, saddened eyes. “I was wrong,” he said.
“You were thinking of the money in the dresser,” McGregor said accusingly. “You thought that since the police are after me …” He paused. “I want to remember everything,” he began again, heatedly. “I don’t care what happens to me after that. I can face it then. You’ve got to believe that.”
“I believe you, and if you want your memory back it’ll come.”
“But how? What good is my wanting it back, if the barrier is always there?”
“It’s half the job,” the man said. “The other half is complete physical recovery from your injury.”
The boy smiled bitterly. “Then I should be completely well,” he said. “I feel fine.”
“No, it isn’t that fast. You have to work for it. There are steps you must take.”
“Steps?”
“Yes, steps. Your body, your hands must have been trained to do something. Start using them, and maybe you’ll find out what it was. Something you do should come easier, more natural to you than anything else. Pursue whatever that is, and perhaps the association of this and what comes from it will make something else more familiar. Follow that line and somewhere along it you should get your memory back.”
Gordon left the room. He returned a moment later, carrying a rifle which he handed to the boy. “Let’s see you hold it, feel it,” he said abruptly.
The boy’s hands slid down the long barrel. The rifle was light in his hands but there was nothing familiar about it. Instead he lifted it awkwardly to his shoulder.
Seeing this, Gordon quickly took the rifle away from him. “You sure never handled a rifle much,” he said. Then he pushed something else into the boy’s hand, his eyes intent, watching every move.
The boy looked down at the small revolver, and was afraid to close his fingers about it. He was afraid because of what he might learn. But finally he made himself grasp it. He felt the polished butt in the palm of his right hand, the trigger beneath his finger. He raised it, sighting it.
“You’ve closed the wrong eye,” Gordon said. “Keep them both open or just close the left one.” Then he took back the revolver, making no effort to conceal his relief at the boy’s being no more familiar with the revolver than with the rifle. He smiled. “Whatever you’ve done hasn’t been in this line,” he said. “That’s good to know.”
The days that followed were easier for McGregor. He had some kind of plan now, and it was far better than just sitting around the house, waiting for the black mental curtain to rise.
He worked with the flowers and plants, cutting them back and planting new ones. He spaded the earth, and rubbed the dirt in his hands, hoping that just the feel of it would awaken some remembrance of similar activity. He brought the dirt close to his nose, smelling it as he did the flowers. But the moist earth, the perfume-scented flowers did nothing for him, awakened nothing.
His nights were spent reading the many books in Gordon’s library, hoping that some page, perhaps just a single sentence would provide him with a key that would open other doors now so securely locked.
One afternoon, thinking the fishing rod he held in his hands felt a little familiar, he went to the meadow steam. Walking along, he found a black pool where fish swarmed in the depths. He found himself shortening his line, and somehow the leader and the fly seemed familiar, too. He must have fished before, and within him rose a keen sense of anticipation, of frenzied hope. Maybe here was his key! He slid down the steep grassy bank, and then stopped. He drew his arm back, his wrist snapped. The reel whirled beneath his thumb. He had cast easily. He had fished before! There was no doubt of it! The fly rested but a second on the surface of the stream, and then came a flash of a white body from the deep blackness. He felt the fish strike, but he was hardly conscious of the fight to land it.
Later he held his catch in his hands, looking at it as if he expected the fish to speak and tell him who he really was. He sat there until the stream became dark in the deep shadows of the setting sun. Finally he got to his feet, and started back for the cottage. He had found something he had done before. He had found a key but it had opened no other doors. A feeling of bitterness, of utter defeat and hopelessness walked with him. Nothing would change, ever change, for him.
The next few days he did nothing. Gordon watched him and offered no sympathy. “This is your fight, McGregor,” the man said. “No one can help you but yourself.” The boy remained silent.
Early the following week Gordon said, “I’m going to town for supplies. You can come or stay here just as you like.” He didn’t meet the boy’s eyes.
McGregor knew it was time to go, that Gordon had had enough of playing host and friend and nursemaid to him. Gordon wanted to
be left alone, to live the quiet, secluded life he had chosen for himself six years ago.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
Surprised, the man looked up. “It’s an all-day trip,” he said, “and you’ll have to walk. Goldie will be carrying some books I’m mailing back to a friend in California.”
McGregor carried his breakfast dishes to the sink. “I’ve walked before,” he said, and then his eyes dropped to the high boots he wore. “I’ll have to keep these,” he added, “and your clothes. But some day …”
“You’re coming back with me. You’re welcome here.”
The boy washed the dishes. “No, you’ve done enough. As you said the other night, it’s my fight. No one can help me but myself.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded to you, McGregor.”
“It sounded all right. It still makes sense. I’ll find a way out.”
“There’s not much to do in Leesburg. It’s pretty small.”
“Then I’ll go on until I find work.”
“You got that money to help.…” Gordon stopped abruptly when the boy turned and faced him.
“Keep it,” McGregor said. “I don’t even want to think about it now. Later, when I learn …”
The tall man stood up. “All right, if you want it that way. It’ll be here when you decide what to do with it.” He went to the sink, and together they finished the dishes in silence.
Goldie stood still, awaiting his pack. Gordon fondled the burro’s head, but his eyes were inquisitively watching the boy. McGregor had gone for the hobbled burro at the far end of the meadow. He had taken the halter and put it on Goldie before taking off the burro’s hobbles.
Perhaps, Gordon thought, I’m putting too much emphasis on this. But I remember my first time with Goldie. Tenderfoot that I was, I went and freed Goldie of his hobbles, and then tried to get the halter on him. I chased him for an hour, and never would have caught him without help.
The Black Stallion Revolts Page 8
