Outcast

by Gary D. Svee

  “About five-feet apart, no, closer to six.”

  “How about five and a half?”

  “Left my measuring stick in the house.”

  The work and the bantering left the faintest of grins on Mrs. Belshaw’s face. She labored under a wide-brimmed straw hat nearly as wide as her shoulders, but wherever her skin was open to the sun it blushed red. She had the prison pallor of some men he had known. What would make her home a prison?

  After the pumpkins came the cucumbers and rutabagas and carrots and potatoes and beets and radishes and cabbage and lettuce. Only one patch lay vacant in the southeast corner of the garden.

  Mrs. Belshaw rose. “Arch, if you would give me a hand?”

  “Give you a hand? Don’t know what I’ve been doing all day if I haven’t been giving you a hand, and my knees and my back and about everything else I have.”

  “Seems like you have some sass left.”

  Arch looked at his mother and grinned. She grinned back. Her face cracked and the shell crashed to the ground, revealing a very pretty woman. Standish felt as though he were in the presence of wizardry. The two walked off, a little bounce in their steps and Standish was surprised they didn’t take each other’s hands. Into the house they went to emerge a moment later carrying pots of…tomatoes. Little yellow flowers winked from a redolent rich green. Standish salivated, remembering the days of his youth when he roamed through his family’s garden with a saltshaker, choosing bright red tomatoes, peeling a bit of the skin with his teeth and shaking salt on the wound. Tomatoes are rare among fruit. They explode under the pressure of teeth, spewing flavor-drenched juice into the mouth. Standish’s mouth watered at the thought, and he remembered that he hadn’t had lunch.

  Arch and his mother carried the tomatoes ceremoniously to the open corner of the garden, stopping there to wait for Standish. That corner would be first touched by the morning sun and open to its rays until dusk fell over the land. The plant’s place at the lower edge of the garden ensured that any moisture would carry nutrients to the plant’s roots.

  Standish frowned. Irrigation. There had been no mention of any means of irrigation. To carry water from the pump for a garden of this size would occupy both of the Belshaws 24 hours a day. That later. Now, he would help them reset their precious tomatoes into the garden. He picked up the shovel and joined the pair.

  Mrs. Belshaw pointed with her toe. “If you would, Mr. Standish”

  “Miles” Standish said, but she didn’t give him the privilege of her first name. She just smiled and waited for Standish to dig the hole. A foot and a half deep, his father had said. The two knelt, slipping the potting soil and the plant’s roots into the hole as delicately as a mother holds a newborn.

  They moved on, planting the tomatoes, and when they stood, they were smiling.

  “A fine garden” she said. “We so very much appreciate your help, Mr. Standish. Know that we will share the harvest with you.”

  “That would be nice” Standish said. He scuffed the dirt with his boot, and then looked into her eyes: dark they were and shiny as obsidian. “I would be pleased, Ma’am, if you would call me Miles”

  A shadow crossed her face. She stared at him as though attempting to read his soul. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant as Bele’s doe entering the meadow. “My name is Iona. Iona Belshaw.” she said.

  Standish smiled. “Nice to meet you,” He hesitated for a moment and then added, “A question if I might?”

  Iona’s eyes squeezed nearly shut, and Standish thought she might bolt for the house, Arch on her heels in his race for the shotgun.

  “I was just wondering how you’re going to water this garden.”

  “I told you he was a little slow, Ma.”

  Iona’s brows knit together. “Arch! Mr. Standish is our guest. He has just helped us put in our garden. I will not have you speaking of him like that.”

  “Just said he was a little slow. Didn’t say he was totally stupid.”

  “Arch! Stop that. You show Mr. Standish.…”

  “Miles, ma’am.”

  “…Miles our irrigation system. Maybe he can help you hook it up. I’ll put the finishing touches on supper.”

  Iona turned to Standish. “You will join us for supper won’t you? We’re having…ham and potatoes, just as we would have had for dinner, if.…”

  Standish came to her rescue. “I would be pleased to share the meal with you.”

  Iona nodded and strode toward the house. Standish turned to Arch. “You were going to show me the irrigation system.”

  “Didn’t say I was.”

  Standish’s neck bent as though he meant to study his boots, but his eyes were closed, and he reached up to scratch his forehead.

  “So you aren’t going to show me your irrigation system?”

  “Didn’t say that either.”

  Standish cleared his throat. “Would you please show me the irrigation system?”

  “Long as you put it that way.”

  Arch started toward the barn as though he were bearing all the ignorance of the world on his back. When they stepped into the barn’s coolness, Arch pointed to two coils of canvas hose hanging on the walls.

  “S’pose you could bring those?”

  “S’pose I could.”

  Arch nodded and headed toward the barn door. By the time Standish had both coils and stepped through the barn door, the boy was halfway back to the garden. Standish realized why Arch hadn’t taken one of the coils. They were simply too heavy for his small frame to carry. He might have been able to do the job with the wheelbarrow leaning against one wall of the barn, but there was no need to do that when he had a beast of burden at hand.

  Standish gritted his teeth as he walked. Somebody ought to teach Arch a little respect for his elders. No, that wasn’t right. He had damn little respect for his elders already.

  Arch was waiting on the far end of the garden. “You can put them down here,” he said as Standish walked up.

  “Yes sahib” Standish said dropping the coils on the ground.

  One of Arch’s eyes closed. “You smart talking me?”

  “No sahib.”

  Arch’s hands went to his hips. “So what’s that sahib stuff?”

  “It is a gesture of respect, the lesser to his master.”

  Arch stared at Standish and then sighed. “Sorry, it’s just that.…”

  “No problem. Just show me how this works.”

  “Well, Klaus and my Pa, they dug this trench from the spring to here.” Arch pointed at a wooden box near the garden. “They didn’t dig it deep, because it only runs in the summer. Anyhow, it’s got a faucet and a Y connection, and we hook these two hoses to it, and then run them across the garden, one across the top row on the west and the other about halfway down”

  Standish shook his head. “Arch, these hoses won’t hold water.”

  Arch hunkered. Standish followed, squatting to sit on his heels. Arch cocked his head. “They wouldn’t do much good if they didn’t leak, would they?”

  Chagrin crossed Standish’s face. “The water seeps out?”

  Arch nodded. “Doesn’t take much water this way. Klaus said to turn it on early in the morning and turn it off before it gets hot. Don’t have to water everyday.”

  Standish nodded. “That Klaus was pretty smart wasn’t he?”

  Arch nodded.

  “What happened to him, Arch?”

  Arch leaped to his feet. “That’s none of your business.”

  Standish nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked. How about we finish this and get something to eat. I figure I could sprinkle a little salt on the table and eat about half of it myself.”

  “Who said we were going to give you any salt?”

  “You saying I’m not worth my salt?”

  Arch grinned. “Let’s get this done, so we can go eat.”

  Standish pushed back from the table. “Mrs. Belshaw, that was the finest dinner I’ve ever had. Those potatoes were…
”

  Arch interrupted. “How many ways do you figure you can describe potatoes, Ma?”

  Mrs. Belshaw grinned. “Looks to me like Mr. Standish is having a hard time coming up with one.”

  “Kind of a shame, ain’t it, that he gets so discombobulated over something like describing potatoes?”

  “That’s what I would call it, Arch. I’d call it a shame.”

  “We are of accord, then,” Arch said.

  Standish grinned. Arch had started the bantering early in the meal, and Mrs. Belshaw had stepped in naturally. Standish was the butt of the jokes, but that made him part of the repartee, and that made him feel as though he belonged. A long time had passed since he felt that he belonged anywhere.

  “Could be,” he said, “that while I’m attempting to find the exact word to describe these…these…potatoes, the two of you might consider a proposal.”

  A shadow crossed Iona’s face. When she spoke, her voice was guarded. “What proposal might that be, Mr. Standish?”

  Standish tiptoed into the proposal. “Since we worked so hard the past couple of days, I’d like to take tomorrow off. What I was thinking is that there are a number of beaver ponds on my place. I thought we might go on a picnic, and I could show Arch how to fish with a fly pole.”

  Sarcasm dripped from Arch’s voice. “A fly pole? I told you he was an odd one, Ma.”

  A smile tiptoed on Iona’s face. “Yes, you did Arch. He’s an odd one alright.”

  Standish grinned. “You supply the bread,” he said to Mrs. Belshaw. “I will lavish it with salmon.”

  “And I will make a potato salad that is…” She turned to Arch. “How would you describe my potato salad?”

  Arch’s face wrinkled into conjecture. “Your potato salad is…Well, it’s.… Ma, there’s just no word good enough to describe your potato salad”

  All three laughed.

  Standish walked home that night. He would read Klaus’s journal tonight. Maybe that would give him the lever that he could use to pry the secret from Iona and Arch.

  CHAPTER 7

  Miles Standish looked forward to morning, and that worried him. He was more accustomed to looking over his shoulder than ahead. Arch and Iona had committed themselves to a picnic and a day of fishing. Standish looked forward to both more than he dared. No roots anchored Standish’s life. He lived as some plants do, pulling their nutrients from the air. At any moment, he might be running again. He couldn’t have anything holding him back.

  Standish rolled over and stared at a ceiling marked by moonshine and shadows. Standish’s life was like that, delineated in blacks and whites, but now Arch and his mother threatened to bring color into his life. That would make him an easy target, like the red capes toreros wave at bulls.

  Ah hell, he would never get to sleep this way. Standish rolled over, his fingers probing the top of the apple box beside his bed. Matches, he always kept a few matches beside the lamp, but where the hell.… There. He scratched one into life and held it against the wick of the kerosene lamp. Light sputtered into the room, dulling the darkness and leaving a globe of light around the head of the bed.

  Standish picked up Klaus’s journal, opening it to the marked page. Let’s see.… Yes, here.

  Today, I filed for my piece of America. So generous this country to give me land for nothing more than a promise that I will build a home on it. I am fortunate to have saved my money. I bought a wagon today and a horse I shall call Hortenzia. She reminds me so much of my sainted aunt. She stood alone in the corral away from the other horses. I think she was affronted to be spending her days in the company of lesser creatures, so smart is she. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, and she trotted over to me.

  I turned to the blacksmith, Ivan Kabanov, and asked if I might purchase Hortenzia. He listened to me for a moment and then smiled. I could not understand what pleased him so until he replied in the words of my native Slovenia. We sat beside the forge and talked for hours. His home was in a small village near my own Ljubljana. Such a joy to hear those words permeating the very pores of my soul.

  I invited Ivan to visit me after I had my cabin in place. He shook his head, and I thought that I had somehow offended him. But then he said that he would help me build my cabin. We discussed what we would need, and I traveled to Mr. Kennedy’s mercantile. He was very nice. Saws and shovels and axes and hammers and nails. I was amazed at what I found in his store. He was amazed, too, I think, that I could pay for everything I had chosen.

  I bought food, too, and a tent that I could live in while I was building my house. The wagon was piled high, and I was worried that I might have loaded too much for Hortenzia to pull, but that Hortenzia, she could pull a railroad train down the tracks. Such a treasure is she I could not bear to lose her so the first thing I did is cut smaller Lodge pole pine and nailed them to trees fringing the meadow. This was not much work, and when I was finished, Hortenzia had the nicest home a horse could ask for. She is like my sainted aunt and did not cavort, skipping around to show her pleasure, but she did drop to the grass and roll.

  By early evening, I had my tent set up with a little stove inside. No Slovenian has ever had so wonderful an estate as I.

  I slept as a babe, the clear mountain air a balm to my lungs. I did not cough once, and I think that maybe Doctor Harold was right, that Montana would cure my tuberculosis. Such a country of promise is this. I understand better now why the people who settled here named their village Last Chance.

  I will spend tomorrow exploring my land, finding just the right place for my cabin, and then I will go through these tall trees and pick the best. When Ivan comes out this weekend, I will have built a foundation of rock, and I will have the logs ready. Such a place is this Montana America. Such a place is this.

  Standish put his bookmark into the journal and laid it on the stand. Bele’s hope shown through his pages, but Standish had seen no hope in the bedcovers twisted in Bele’s death throes. Not much either about the Belshaw mystery. Standish sighed. He had enough problems on his own plate, not the least of which was driving these thoughts from his mind so that he might sleep. He lay in the dark, waiting for his eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness, waiting for the moon to move on, taking his black and silver ceiling with it.

  Early yet, but not long before light. A thumbnail against a match scratched light into the room. Standish set the match to the wick. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Picnic! Arch and Iona were coming over for a picnic. He’d best get dressed.

  He was sitting on the edge of his bed before he realized that no one goes on a picnic at four o’clock in the morning. Coffee! He needed some coffee if he was going to work this out. He stepped to the stove and tossed some kindling in. Embers glowed still from last night. Helluva stove this Majestic Range.

  Standish filled his pot with water and large dollops of coffee. He would need a clear mind to work this out. That done, he stepped back to the bed. What would he wear today? Standish shook his head. A better question was: Why the hell did he agree to this picnic? No, that wasn’t it. He didn’t agree to it, he had suggested it. It was his own damn fault.

  Standish tried to pull his mind back to Earth. He had a new shirt and pants. That was part of the wagon full of supplies he had bought when he first went to Last Chance. No, he couldn’t wear a new shirt and pants to a picnic. If he did, Iona would think he was trying to impress her. She’d run like a deer if she thought he was.… Hell, he wasn’t, so why should he worry about what she.…

  Standish shook his head. Get dressed. That’s all he had to do. Get dressed. He picked a shirt and pants from a dresser drawer. These would work. They were worn, but not too bad, and they were clean. That’s what he would wear if he were going fishing by himself. That’s what he would wear today.

  The outhouse! He’d best not dawdle. Some people said that a man might ignore a call from God but never a call of nature. He’d best get moving. Standish pulled on his clothes, and settled into
his boots. No need to button his shirt now. He could do that later.

  Standish shuffled toward the outhouse, making his feet feel the way in the dark. He stumbled over one rock but didn’t fall. Standish tugged open the outhouse door. Probably wasn’t anything in there. Probably no rattlesnake had crawled in during the night to share the warmth of rotting.… Standish shook the thought from his head.

  Cold! The seat was cold. Hard to think when you’re sitting on a block of ice. Hard to think anytime. He sure as hell wasn’t thinking yesterday when he invited Arch and Iona to a picnic. What would he fix for a picnic lunch? If Iona brought some of her bread, he could make some ham sandwiches…if Arch hadn’t taken all of it. That boy had a helluva career ahead of him as a bank robber. More likely, he’d just talk the bankers into thinking what a great idea it was to give him all their money.

  Horses! He had to get the horses their morning oats and turn them out on the meadow. Wouldn’t do to have them worrying. They had heard him by now, probably when he stumbled over that rock. They would be fussing, ready to go and wondering why Standish wasn’t taking care of them. He didn’t know about Hortenzia, but Sally could sulk for days if she thought she’d been mistreated. Best he go take care of the horses.

  Ooof. Damn rock! Standish picked himself up and brushed himself off. Hole in his pants. Just what he needed: shredded clothes. His hands explored his knee. Wet! His damn knee was bleeding. Probably get infected and swell up like a balloon, and some sawbones would look at it and grin. Another leg for his collection. That’s probably what would happen.

  Standish stepped toward the barn. Well it didn’t hurt. That was good. At least he could walk on it until some blood-thirsty.…

  Standish shook his head. He’d best get this under control. He glanced toward the east. The sun just about to jump over the horizon. Civilized people didn’t have picnics at daybreak, but Standish couldn’t remember the last civilized person he’d known. Well, maybe Iona and Arch. No, maybe Iona, but Arch was a long way from being civilized—or even civil.

  Sally nickered as Standish opened the door. He walked over to her and ran his hand along her sleek neck. “Well, I got you Sally. Man ought to be thankful for what he has.”