Outcast

by Gary D. Svee

  Standish scooped coffee into the pot and set it on stove.

  He set the lantern behind the stove, leaving most of the cabin in shadows and stepped first to one window and then to the other. He studied the darkness as though his life, or his death, were written there. No glowing end of a cigarette. No glints of oil-shined metal. No sounds.

  Standish picked up the lantern and stepped through the cabin door. The lantern did little but outline the faint path to the outhouse. That was enough. Standish slipped into the outhouse, the spring slamming the door behind him.

  What the hell was Bele talking about, that gibberish about light and shadow? Bele knew what it was to be hunted. Bele couldn’t have written that unless he knew. Bele had revealed something of himself in that passage last night, something he didn’t want to talk about.

  Standish, leading Hortenzia, rode Sally into the false dawn. Light was creeping on the land. Colors that went to bed with the sun were returning as confused with sleep as Standish was. Pale colors peeked over the horizon at this new day. Later in the day, the colors would nap, their subtleties washed out by the sun.

  Ahead, Standish could see the outline of a road in the grass. This must be the entrance to Arch’s place. Grass was reclaiming the track. Certainly, Arch and his mother hadn’t spent much time going to town for groceries. The boy seemed an inch from starvation.

  Standish frowned. He didn’t even know the boy’s last name.

  A line of trees seemed to block the trail ahead of him. Arch’s father had apparently decided to live back in the trees, too. Why was Arch’s father hiding? Standish shook his head. He had to remember that flight isn’t normal, that most people lived their lives without wondering when Bodmer would hang them.

  Standish stopped the horses. He peered into the soft shadows. Nothing that he could see, but the shadows were deep. Anything could wait in that narrow passage. He stopped and leaned back in his saddle. This would be the time to have a cigarette, if he still smoked. A period of silence breaks the nerve of prey and predator alike, but no deer broke away from the trees. No one stood up and said, “Miles Standish, we aim to hang you for the.…” He eased the horses into the passage, and Arch stepped into the trail ahead of him. A double-barreled shotgun hung from one arm.

  Standish stopped. “You ever sleep, Arch?”

  The boy cocked his head, and stared at Standish, backlit by the sun.

  “Don’t see much use for it.”

  “Any reason for the welcoming party?”

  “Just wanted to be sure it was you.”

  “You sure?”

  “You look like the bona fide party.”

  “S’pose we can go on in then?”

  “S’pose so.”

  “S’pose you want a ride.”

  Arch shook his head.

  Standish scratched his forehead. Arch wanted to follow him, shotgun in hand. “You’ll have to tell me what you want plowed.”

  Arch nodded, gesturing with the shotgun for Standish to go ahead.

  The rising sun cast the homestead in long shadows; Standish was taken with how precise the buildings appeared. It reminded him of a Denver, Colorado artist he had watched painting a street scene. The artist would stop occasionally to hold his brush at arm’s length, marking the width of a building with thumb held to the brush’s handle. He then transferred that measurement to the painting.

  Standish imagined that Arch’s father had stood back with a brush, before putting the home there, just in the shade of that huge ponderosa pine, before setting the chicken coop so that the slant of its roof pointed to the top of the barn.

  The barn would be the focus of any painting. The other buildings, including the house, did little more than to frame the barn. Peeling paint and a general sense of disrepair marked the scene. Chickens scratched through the dust for something to eat. A small herd of milk cows—what was it, six—looked up from a fenced pasture south of the house. Arch ran past Standish, the shotgun swaying from side to side. He stopped, his face red with the exertion.

  “There,” he gasped, pointing at the ragweed with his shotgun. “That’s the garden.”

  Standish nodded. “You hold Hortenzia?”

  Arch grabbed the horse’s reins and bent over hands on knees, sucking air.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t carry that shotgun around.”

  “Maybe you should get to plowing,” Arch wheezed.

  Standish rode Sally to the corral. He stepped down, slipped the saddle and blanket off and draped them over the corral’s top pole. He draped the bridle over a post, and turned. Arch was talking to Hortenzia, and she seemed to be listening. She nodded just as Standish walked up.

  “She ready?”

  “Said she was.”

  “She talk to you a lot?”

  “Ain’t so wordy as some.”

  “S’pose you will show me where the plow is.”

  “S’pose.”

  “S’pose I should show you how to drive Hortenzia.”

  “What makes you think I don’t know how?”

  “You haven’t got a horse.”

  Arch rubbed the palm of his free hand under his chin. “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “You want to learn how to drive a horse?”

  “Can I do it one handed?”

  “Nope.”

  Arch shook his head. “Guess not.”

  Standish stopped and scuffed at the dirt with his boot. “Suppose we strike a deal?”

  Arch squinted at Standish. “What kind of deal?”

  “Suppose I promise not to go anywhere near your house, and you put that shotgun away.”

  “Suppose you go to Hel…ena.”

  “Suppose I go home, and you can spade your own garden.”

  Arch sighed, and dropped his eyes to his feet. “Ma, I.…”

  “Arch, I promised I won’t go near the house. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”

  “Ma.…” Arch turned to hide his face from Standish, but after a silence that seemed to stretch forever, the boy nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Good. S’pose you tell me where the plow is, and then you go put that shotgun away.”

  Arch turned, his face pulled into hard planes and sharp edges. “Okay, but if you.…”

  “I said I won’t, Arch.”

  “Plow’s behind the barn,” Arch said, as he stepped toward the house, carrying the shotgun as though it were a hundred-pound bag of potatoes.

  Standish stopped, leaning back to work some of the kinks from his back. He wasn’t accustomed to plowing. He didn’t want to be accustomed to plowing. He wanted to lie down in the shade of a tree. He rubbed his sleeve against his forehead. Almost done. Standish peered across the garden. Arch looked as tired as Standish felt. The boy was stumbling across the plowed ground, grabbing ragweed and dragging it to a pile on the side of the garden.

  “Arch, what do you say we take a break?”

  “Ain’t done.”

  “Keep this up; we’ll likely be done for.”

  Arch shook his head: the effort seemed more than anyone should have to endure.

  “A-a-r-c-h.”

  The sound floated down to the garden from the house. Standish looked up. The door to the house was open, but the interior remained dark. He saw only the hem of a long, gray dress.

  “W-h-a-t?”

  The sound floated back, riding the air as gently as caddis flies exploring spring breezes.

  “D-i-n-n-e-r.”

  Arch turned to Standish. “Have to go eat.”

  Standish nodded. “Okay if I get some water from the pump?”

  Arch stared at Standish. “Let me get in the house first.”

  Standish nodded. He waited until the front door to the house closed, and then he stepped to the pump, running water over his head and neck, scrubbing his hands and arms. When he had finished, he leaned back, trying to set the bones of his back into correct order.

  Then he remembered Hortenzia. Hell of a thing to forget about a horse that had b
een working so hard all day. He turned toward the animal, pausing at a strident chorus from the house. Standish couldn’t make out the words, but there was no doubt an argument was underway. He was torn between caring for Hortenzia and going to the house, but the horse won. She needed his care. He would likely be nothing but trouble if he went to the house.

  Standish shook his head. He might question Arch’s motivation, but he didn’t doubt the boy’s determination.

  Standish backed Hortenzia a step, loosening the tugs, unhooking the singletree from the plow. He drove the horse to the corral, stripping her of her harness. Only then did he slip the bridle from her head.

  Hortenzia shook herself and trotted over to Sally. Sally had found a corner of the pasture away from the milk cows. The two nuzzled each other, and leaned down, seeking grass untainted by cows.

  Standish scanned the pasture for some shade. He could lie down flat on his back with his knees drawn up, feeling the coolness of the grass and the breeze. He would watch clouds until they soothed him into a nap. When he awoke he would be ready to finish the work.

  There, at the east edge of the pasture one tree stood out from the rest. He could lie on the south side of the shadow so that the sun would wake him in an hour or so. Standish set out for the tree, his long strides easing the muscles in his back.

  Standish had barely reached full stride before Arch appeared at his shoulder. “Ma wants you to come to dinner. We’re having ’Nerva and noodles.”

  Standish continued walking. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Don’t like it.”

  “Then I won’t come. I’ll be under that tree when you’re ready to go again after dinner.”

  Arch reached up and pinched Standish’s shirt between his thumb and index finger.

  Standish stopped, the question plain on his face.

  Arch seemed equally perplexed. “Well, ain’t you coming?”

  “Thought you said you didn’t want me to come.”

  Arch’s face twisted into a walnut. “Didn’t say that.”

  Standish leaned back, hands on hips. “You said you didn’t want me to come to dinner.”

  Arch scratched his cheek. His chin dropped, and he looked at Standish from the corners of his eyes. “You speaking a foreign language or something?”

  Standish backtracked through the conversation. “You said your Ma invited me to dinner. I asked you how you felt about that, and you said you didn’t like it.”

  “Didn’t say that,” Arch said, shaking his head. “Said I didn’t like the idea of having ’Nerva and noodles.”

  “You don’t like ’Nerva and noodles?”

  Arch shook his head in disgust. “How would I know that?”

  Standish hunkered. Arch joined him, the two squatting on the ground, staring at each other.

  Arch cleared his throat. “Far as I know, you can’t eat a chicken twice.”

  Standish picked up a stick and doodled in the dust at his feet. When he looked up, real concern marked his face. “Your Ma hit you?”

  Arch glowered. “My Ma would never hit me.”

  “So you’re feeling okay, no headache or anything?”

  “I’m feeling…darn hungry.”

  “So you want to go eat dinner?”

  Arch nodded.

  “And you want me to eat dinner with you?”

  “Didn’t say I wanted to. Didn’t say I didn’t.”

  “Let’s go eat.”

  Arch nodded, and the two stood, walking off toward the house.

  “Won’t like this,” Arch said.

  “Won’t like what?”

  “Having ’Nerva and noodles.”

  Standish’s jaw gritted shut. “Why’s that, Arch?”

  “Raised Minerva from a chick. Hard to eat a pet, but she quit laying, so Ma stewed her.”

  Standish shook his head. “Hard to communicate, isn’t it Arch?”

  Arch looked up at him as they walked. “Ain’t if you talk plain English.”

  Standish leaned back in his chair. “Ma’am, that was the best ’Nerva and noodles I ever had.”

  Mrs. Belshaw smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Maybe Arch and I can do the dishes for you?”

  A scar on Mrs. Belshaw’s cheek glowed red. “No need for that. Dinner’s the least I can do for you plowing the garden.”

  Standish understood. The dinner was for plowing the garden, nothing more. The meal was not an invitation. The sooner he left, the better. The message hung in the air like an August thunderstorm. She hadn’t greeted him at the door, instead peeking in from the home’s kitchen. She served lunch, but always from the other side of the table and always out of Standish’s reach. She ate alone in the kitchen, the sound of her fork and knife clicking against her plate the only signs of her existence.

  Standish had watched her from the corners of his eyes. She was tall and thin. Her dress hung on her like a sack draped over a broom handle. The planes of her face were hard and sharp edged, and her hands almost skeletal.

  Arch had come famished into the cabin that first night. The scent of ham had pulled him through the door as inexorably as a locomotive pulls its cars, but Arch was in better condition than his mother. She had been giving him her share of the scarce food they had.

  Standish tried to imagine the woman with a little more flesh. He decided that she would be pretty. She had long dark hair and dark eyes, and she moved with a grace that gave the illusion that her feet weren’t anchored to the ground.

  The legs of the chair scuffed as Standish rose, and Mrs. Belshaw shrunk back as though in fear that she would be beaten. Her husband must have been a beast, Standish thought, to make her so fearful of men.

  “Ma’am,” he said to Arch’s mother. “I am grateful for your generosity. That was as fine a meal as I’ve had. Now, if you will excuse Arch and me, we will finish plowing your garden.”

  Mrs. Belshaw tried to smile, but those muscles had apparently atrophied, and the attempt did little more than to contort her face. Standish felt a need to reach out to the woman, to comfort her, but he knew if he stepped toward her, she would panic. He nodded, and slipped on his hat.

  “Arch, we’d best get at it.”

  Arch nodded. “Ma, ’Nerva was good to the last.”

  A faint smile crossed Mrs. Belshaw’s face, a brief respite in the brooding apprehension pervading the home.

  Standish and Arch stepped outside the cabin.

  “Your Ma’s a good cook.”

  “Makes the best ’Nerva and noodles ever.”

  Standish nodded. It wasn’t likely that she would ever fix Nerva and noodles again.

  “She feeling okay?”

  Arch glowered. “None of your business.”

  “It’s just that she doesn’t seem to feel well.”

  “Hunger hurts.”

  The words pierced Standish’s heart.

  “You know all about that, don’t you, Arch?”

  Arch looked at Standish, and his face wrinkled into exasperation. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Guess so. Don’t suppose you want to run down there and get Hortenzia?”

  “Well, at least you got that right.”

  Standish turned and stalked to the corral. Work like a mule all morning, and ask that kid to do one little favor.… Well, the best way to get something done is to do it yourself. He untied the coiled rope he had put on the saddle that morning. He would slip a rope around Hortenzia’s neck and bring her back. He turned just as Hortenzia trotted to Arch. Arch reached up and stroked the horse’s head, speaking to her so softly that Standish couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Standish shook his head and tied the rope back on the saddle. He slipped the collar over Hortenzia’s head, draping the harness along her back before he spoke.

  “How’d you get Hortenzi to come back?”

  “How do you s’pose?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Old as Methuselah and don’t know how to call a horse.�
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  “I am not old as Methuselah, and I do know how to call a horse. I just don’t know how you called Hortenzia.”

  “I whistled.”

  “Didn’t hear you whistle.”

  “Just cause you didn’t hear it, doesn’t mean I didn’t do it.”

  “S’pose you could do it again.”

  Arch’s head dropped, and he ran his fingers through his thatch of red hair. “Now, why would I call a horse that’s already here?” In a voice so low, Standish could barely hear, Arch muttered, “Old as Methuselah and dumb as a post.”

  Standish bristled. “I just want to see you do it.”

  “Won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll just confuse Hortenzia. If I call her when she’s already here, she won’t know what to do the next time I call her.”

  Standish sighed. No reason to confuse Hortenzia. He was confused enough for both of them.

  Standish pulled Hortenzia to a stop. He glanced over at Arch. The boy was sitting on the edge of the garden, head down. He sat beside what looked like a haystack of ragweed he had pulled from the garden. He appeared as tired as Standish felt.

  “Arch.”

  The boy’s head jerked up. He had been napping, and now he felt ashamed for not doing his part.

  “Arch,” Standish repeated. “You have a harrow?”

  Arch pulled himself to his feet, the effort Herculean. He started to walk across the furrows to Standish.

  “Wait there, Arch. Hortenzia and I are done for the day.”

  Standish urged the horse back. He put his full weight on the handles, easing the tip of the plow blade free. “Easy, Hortenzia easy”

  The horse stepped forward, pulling the blade free of the dirt. The blade, polished by the soil, gleamed like fine silver. Standish clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Hortenzia pulled the plow behind the barn. By the time Arch appeared, Standish had the loosened the single tree from the plow and unhooked one of the tugs.

  “We’re done for the day,” Standish said.

  Arch nodded. He was done, too.

  “You have a harrow?”