by Judith Pella
“Maybe.” Micah spoke tonelessly, knowing even that much was a dream.
“Micah?”
“Yeah, Jed?”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Why’d you come back for me? You told me it’d be a stupid, dumb thing to do—”
“Well, I never said I was any smarter than you!”
“You’re lots smarter,” Jed replied so matter-of-factly that it made Micah’s stomach clench. He knew Jed practically worshiped him, and he hated it. Hated the burden of responsibility, hated knowing it was the most misplaced worship ever bestowed upon a miserable creature.
Micah returned to his cot and plopped down, making the flimsy wooden structure creak and sway. “I want to get some shut-eye, ” he said. “It’s late.”
In the morning Micah and Jed were brought before the town magistrate. Because the evidence was overwhelmingly against them, they were easily convicted of horse thieving and sentenced to hang. Jed cried. Micah stood like a stone, not even blinking at the words of the judge. When the execution was scheduled to take place in three days, Micah’s stomach quivered, but no one could see that.
Back in his cell he killed a couple more cockroaches, and when the midday meal came, he ate every scrap of it, though his insides felt like a big knot. He’d give no man the satisfaction of seeing him regret anything about his life.
Jed tried to talk to him, but Micah answered tersely, then told his friend to shut up. It was cruel, because he knew Jed was scared and needed to talk about it. But Micah was scared, too, and he needed to be silent. Despite the fact that he’d always suspected his end would come in this manner, he’d believed it would wait a few years. He wasn’t even going to see his twenty-first birthday in a few weeks. But he was not going to whimper about the thing. What was done was done. He’d accept it like a man, and when the moment came . . . well, he just hoped he’d be able to take that like a man, too.
He’d chosen his path a long time ago. Maybe not consciously, but he’d always known he would take whatever route was the exact opposite of his father’s. He had made that decision one dark night as he sat by a campfire and watched his mother die. No one had said much to him, and certainly no one had explained why he and his sisters found themselves many miles from home with their uncle and their mother, but not with their father. No one had said their father had driven them away. No one had said his mother was dying because she had chosen to travel in a delicate condition instead of enduring another moment with that monster Micah must call “Father.”
No one said anything.
But Micah was twelve years old at the time, and he perceived far more than anyone had given him credit for. He knew his mother had been a long-suffering saint while his father was demanding, harsh, self-righteous. And when his mother had breathed her last, Micah had silently sworn to himself that he would hate his father and all that he stood for as long as he lived.
He had never thought his father would outlive him. In a way, though, that was rather a sweet irony. At least it gave Micah a small satisfaction in his inglorious death. For that religious hypocrite to know his son had hung for horse-stealing, well, there was a certain beauty in that.
Footsteps in the corridor intruded into Micah’s grim musings. Glancing at the small barred window high up near the ceiling on the wall opposite of where he lay, he saw it was full dark out, and he had not even noticed the growing darkness in his cell. He did not move from his cot even when he heard a key twist in the lock of his door, nor did he glance toward the door.
“Micah, you ain’t asleep, are you?”
The voice belonged to Tom Fife. He was holding a lighted candle that illuminated his face in an eerie orange glow.
Micah only grunted in reply.
Fife stepped around so as to see Micah better, and probably so Micah, who remained still, could see him.
“I’d like a word with you, if I might.” He set the candle on the table near the cot.
“I’m locked in here. I don’t got a choice,” Micah muttered.
“True . . .” Fife drew out the word as he laced his fingers through his beard. “I got a proposition for you.”
Micah’s eyes, almost against his will, flickered toward the ranger. He hated demonstrating even the slightest interest or curiosity. But “propositions” for a man in his position couldn’t mean too many things. More’n likely they wanted him to give up Harvey and Joe in exchange for some concession. But Micah had never yet said so much as a word about the others. And he wouldn’t either.
“Make it fast, Tom,” Micah said as if he didn’t care. “It’s late, and I want some sleep.”
“Well, since your sentencing today, I been talking myself blue in the face trying to get you some kind of lighter sentence. I just been two hours with Captain Hays trying to convince him you are worth saving—”
“Sorry you wasted your breath, Tom.”
“It wasn’t wasted.”
Micah’s heart did a double beat. What did that mean? Was he going to get off? No way would he turn in his friends. He said nothing, however, continuing with his stoic indifference.
“Why, you knuckleheaded, impudent, thick-skulled, addlepated, foolish little brat!” Fife suddenly raved.
This forced Micah’s attention. Fife’s face was turning beet red, his fists were clenched, and he looked about two breaths away from murder. In fact, in the next instant Fife’s fists swung into motion and grabbed Micah’s shirtfront, dragging Micah into a sitting position.
“You ornery little twit!” Fife continued to yell. “I know you got better manners than that. You look at me when I talk to you!”
Micah licked his lips. He was thirsty, that’s all. But his eyes shot up to meet Fife’s fiery gaze. “Calm yourself, Tom,” he said in a tone barely above a squeak.
“Do you realize you are gonna die in three days, boy? Is that what you want?”
Tom’s gaze bore into Micah like a knife, only this hurt far worse than a stab with any blade. Though his gaze was sharp and furious, there was no hatred in it. Though the man’s voice shook, it was filled with something that finally penetrated Micah’s senses. Tom Fife was scared. Scared for Micah.
“N-no.” That realization made Micah’s voice tremble. And, God help him, moisture rose in his eyes. He turned his face away. He didn’t care if Tom smacked him. He couldn’t let the man see him cry.
“Boy?” Fife said softly, loosening his grip on Micah’s shirt.
“I ain’t a boy no more.” Micah wiped a sleeve across his face, eyes still averted from the ranger’s.
“I want to help you.”
“I won’t give away any of my friends.”
“Didn’t think you would. And I never thought to ask.” Fife sat on the foot of the cot. “You want to hear my proposition?”
Micah swallowed and blinked back the brimming moisture. Then he nodded. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to listen. He really didn’t want to die.
“Well, I convinced Captain Hays that in view of your tender years—”
“I said I ain’t no boy—”
Tom held up his hand. “I know . . . I know. But it wouldn’t be so bad to be thought a kid if it’d save your life, now, would it?” Without giving Micah a chance to respond, he went on. “Besides, I think he was more impressed when I told him you was also a hero of San Jacinto. He wondered why you was stealing horses instead of working your land allotment. I wonder the same thing. What happened to your land grants? You should have got six hundred forty acres, and another six hundred forty as your uncle’s heir. That could have set you up real good, Micah.”
“Are you gonna lecture me, or are you gonna tell me about this all-important proposition of yours?” Micah asked, risking only a mild sneer in his voice.
“All right.” Tom sighed resignedly. “Captain Hays figures that maybe you deserve another chance. He’s prepared to release you into my custody for a probationary period of one year, during which you will serve the Repub
lic of Texas as a ranger. If you conduct yourself in an honorable manner in that time, he reckons to commute your sentence.”
Micah stared, disbelieving. All he could manage to say was “A ranger?”
“That’s right.”
“A lawman?”
“Not exactly . . .” Tom scratched his head. “But close enough.”
“You mean to tell me that this here captain of yours is willing to take a thief and make him into a lawman? Don’t make no sense. . . .”
Micah leaned against the wall, shaking his head. “No sense at all.”
“I spoke up for you, Micah.”
“What’d you tell him? You don’t know me.” He studied the ranger more carefully. Tom was looking at him, but what did he see? A frightened kid clinging to his mother’s skirts, ripped from the home he loved and forced to endure hardships of a life in a rough, strange land? Or perhaps a boy smeared with gunpowder and blood and the stench of death, fighting battles meant for men? He surely did not see the man Micah had become: at best, a thief; at worst, well, at worst a man who did deserve to hang.
“It has been a long time,” Fife admitted. “But I’m willing to take that risk.”
“Why?”
“I seen lots of men in my time, Micah. And I know when a man’s bad to the core, and you ain’t one of those. Leastways, I’m willing to stake my reputation on it. Now, are you gonna accept my proposition or not? You ain’t got a lot of time.”
“What about Jed?”
“Huh?”
Micah jerked his head toward the next cell. “My friend. He get the same proposition?”
“Aw, now Micah, it’d be pushing it mightily just to get it for you.” Tom lurched to his feet and paced across the cell. “We can’t be letting every horse thief loose.”
“What about Jed’s tender years? ’Sides, he’s even younger than he looks. His mind ain’t quite all there, you know.”
“I thought maybe he was a mite slow.”
“And he don’t deserve to hang, even more than me.”
Tom turned and faced Micah. “The captain won’t go for it.” He chewed his mustache and shook his head. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Don’t matter,” Micah said imperturbably. “I wasn’t gonna take your offer anyway. I don’t want to be a ranger.”
As Tom left the cell, Micah experienced a twinge of regret. This rangering business might not be too bad. In fact, it might offer him all the excitement and adventure he’d found riding with Harvey Tate without the constant threat of, well, of where he was right now. He’d heard of the exploits of the rangers since they had been officially recruited just after the war. They mostly fought Indians and Mexicans, protecting the borders of the new republic. Imagine that! He’d be able to fight all the Mexicans he wanted, and it would be perfectly legal.
But there was no way he’d let Jed hang alone. It was his fault Jed was in this position, and Micah might be a lot of unsavory things, but he wasn’t the kind to desert his friends.
CHAPTER
8
TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS CAME TO see Micah the day before his hanging. He was eating his midday meal when the first one arrived. He wasn’t much interested in the beans on the tin plate and the hunk of bread. He and Jed had had lengthy discussions that morning about food because they had been told that for supper they’d be able to have anything they wanted since it would be their last meal. Jed couldn’t decide between ham and fried chicken. He was very definite about what he wanted for dessert—pecan pie. And not just a slice, but the whole thing!
Micah moved the beans around on his plate with his spoon, the only eating implement his jailers trusted him with. He wondered if he’d have an appetite for anything when supper came. Then he heard the noise of someone approaching. With a defiant flourish he scooped up some beans and stuffed them into his mouth, following that with a huge bite of corn bread. When his cell door opened, he nearly choked on the food.
“Hello, Micah.”
He just stared at the figure nearly filling the doorway, his mouth and throat working desperately to swallow the food that had suddenly become as dry as sawdust. But even without the food, he would not have known what to say. In fact, he wasn’t certain he’d say anything. He’d finished talking to this man six years ago . . . no, long before that. He’d quit having anything to say to his father the day he had dragged his family from their home in Boston.
Benjamin Sinclair ducked under the door lintel and stepped fully into the cell as the jailer closed and locked the door behind him. Micah continued to stare silently. But silence wasn’t going to make the man go away. His father filled the small cell with that presence he’d always had, some inner force that made people listen to him, fear him, and hate him. His preaching had often driven people to tears. His recriminations had made them tremble. Micah himself had trembled often in the man’s presence. There had been a time when he was a very young boy that he had even regarded the man with awe. Micah had thought that the fiery Almighty whom Reverend Sinclair had so eloquently preached about had actually been his father and that if he worshiped his father, his father would love him, but if he fell short, that same father would condemn him to hell. Then Micah had grown older and wiser, realizing there was nothing he could do to please either father—the one in heaven or the man now standing before him.
“Say something, son,” Benjamin said in a tone of soft entreaty.
It reminded Micah of how his father had claimed to have changed after his mother’s death. He had behaved kind of differently then, but the changes had come too late. For Micah, at least.
“What’re you doing here?” Micah could barely speak. The food was gone, but his throat still felt constricted.
“Tom got word to me about what happened. I . . . had to see you, Micah.”
“Why?”
“W-why?”h The man now returned the same gaping expression his son was wearing. “You’re my son!”
“You figure to take one last chance to save my soul?” Micah taunted.
“I don’t know what I figure to do. I haven’t seen you in over six years, had no way to find you. I guess when I heard you’d finally . . . well, lighted in one place, I just came.”
Benjamin continued to stand, towering over Micah. His legs were slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease. He looked like he could and would stand there forever.
Micah resisted the urge to squirm. But he could not deny the inner sense of being an errant child awaiting deserved discipline. He knew if he stood, he’d be just as tall as his father. He knew if he wanted, he could engage in a physical battle with this man and win. Yet he wouldn’t. And he had no idea why. But he would not hurt this man, at least physically. Still, he grasped his spoon as if it were a weapon.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Micah said stiffly.
“I’ve come a long ways to see you.”
“No one asked you to.”
Benjamin’s jaw began to work spasmodically, and a brief flicker of something like fire glinted from his eyes. Micah had seen that look before. It had usually come just before a particularly painful beating.
But Benjamin continued to stand like a statue. Finally he spoke, tightly at first, then seemingly gaining control of his ire, his tone relaxed. “Tom Fife tells me they have offered you a way out of this mess. I guess it wouldn’t help if I encouraged you to take his offer.”
The corner of Micah’s mouth quirked slightly into a hint of amusement.
Benjamin shook his head. “So you’ll let them hang you just to spite me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Pa. I got my reasons, and they don’t have nothing to do with you.” Deliberately, Micah laid down his spoon and pushed aside his tray, which was on his bed.
“Don’t be so stubborn, son!”
“You ain’t got no right to tell me how to be or what to do,” Micah rejoined.
“No . . . I suppose I don’t.” He paused, his eyes blue like the summer sky, blue like
Micah’s, searching his son. “I know you’ll never believe it, but I have changed. I’ve made mistakes—I still make mistakes—but I’ve learned that God sees only a man’s heart, and I am trying to do that as well. Not always successfully, I admit. But . . .”
The fire was gone now from those incisive pools, replaced by some thing Micah could not read . . . or did not want to.
“Son, I know I am to blame for the parts of your heart that are dark and painful. But I know, too, that your heart is not all dark. I know that because, even more than me, your mother had a great influence upon you. Her love and her tender spirit are in you as well. And just maybe they are even stronger than my part. I think that is what Tom Fife sees, and that is why he is willing to take such a risk for you. I ask you—not for me but for your mother’s sake—to stay alive.”
“My mother is dead.” Somehow Micah’s flat monotone managed to convey volumes of scorn.
Then the statue of the man moved. Benjamin lifted a hand and raked it through his hair, blond like Micah’s.
“You know what I mean.” A desperate quality suffused his voice.
“Well, just remember this. If I live or die, it has nothing to do with you.” Micah’s voice rang clear and confident, though in his heart he feared the fate he chose would have everything to do with this man.
“I know.”
The pain in those two words made Micah’s stomach twist. “Now leave me alone,” Micah said.
Benjamin turned toward the cell door, then paused. “Do you care to know how your sisters and brother are, and my wife?”
Micah shrugged.
Benjamin, apparently taking that for assent, continued. “You’ve got a half brother and half sister now. The youngest was born a few months ago. The whole family is well. Isabel is growing into a pretty young lady. She wanted to come with me and told me to tell you she misses you—”
“Do they know about me?” Micah cut in, not really understanding the sudden concern rising in him.
“They don’t hear as much news as I, so I doubt it. I would never tell them.”
