Follow The Stone

by John Locke

  Thinkin’ about all this made me start day dreamin’ about what I’d seen: Phoebe naked, her long hair loose and whippin’ around like it had been caught in a cyclone, white hips pumpin’ steady as a railroad engine with a full head of steam. I conjured up her image in my mind to the point I almost missed the stones that lay a mere ten feet in front of me.

  I pulled Major to a halt and looked around.

  The whole area was low-land prairie, meanin’ there was nothin’ to either side of us, and before us, nothin’ but the rutted miner’s trail. I stood in my stirrups and looked back the way we’d come.

  Nothin’ followin’ us.

  There were four stones, with no directional fifth one. For whatever reason, Shrug was tellin’ me to stop.

  But why?

  I cursed.

  Dependin’ on how long he wanted us to wait, we might not make Copper Lake before dark. If that happened, we wouldn’t be able to fill the water barrels ’til mornin’. I’d a whole lot rather fill ’em tonight, and get an early start tomorrow.

  I had half a mind to keep movin’, but Shrug ain’t never been wrong before, so I waited ’til the wagons caught up to me. Then I said, “We’re gonna sit tight awhile, and rest the livestock. Ladies, this’d be a good time to relieve yourselves, if you got the urge.”

  The women climbed out of the wagon and wandered around to get the blood flowin’ in their legs. Some of ’em squatted in the prairie grass to piss. Rose hopped off her wagon and tied her reins around a large rock. Then she walked over to me and Major.

  I said, “You have any idea why he wants us to stop here?”

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head skyward.

  I waited.

  She moved her head slightly, from side to side, swayin’ like she could hear some type of silent music.

  I waited some more.

  Finally, she said, “Someone’s coming.”

  “Who, Shrug?”

  “A wagon. Heading right for us.” She pointed westward.

  I stood in my stirrups again and stared a long time.

  “There ain’t nothin’ there,” I said.

  “It’s coming,” she said.

  I’d never known Rose to be wrong before, but this time she had to be. The land to the west was flat and clear, far as the eye could see, which was at least five miles. If there was anythin’ headin’ our way, I’d a’seen it.

  Rose pointed again.

  “There it is,” she said.

  I frowned and followed her finger. No one’s eyes were better than mine, and there was no wagon, nor anythin’ else comin’ from that direction. Not man, beast, nor bird.

  And then there was.

  Far off in the horizon, I was able to make out the wispy lines of somethin’ that weren’t there a few seconds earlier. It was so far away it could a’been anythin’, but a half hour later I could see it was a covered wagon, pulled by two oxen. Another half hour passed, and the man and woman sittin’ in the front waved at us.

  “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” I said.

  Rose said, “They’re not alone.”

  “You mean there’s more folks in the wagon?”

  “There’s a child. And something else.”

  “What, a dog? A cat?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” I said.

  “Death.”

  24.

  It didn’t seem like no death wagon to me. In fact, the man and woman seemed right friendly, judgin’ by how many times they waved at us while approachin’. Their wagon was weathered and gray, and covered with a dirt-colored canvass that had probably started out bein’ white. The wheels hadn’t been greased in awhile, causin’ ’em to make an angry squeal with each turn. Someone had attached half-barrels of water on each side of the wagon, and I wondered how much water might be in ’em. When they got about ten minutes from us, their little girl joined them on the wagon seat. She looked to be eight or nine, and from this distance seemed to have very little expression on her face. She had blond hair and blue eyes and wore a gray dress that looked to be made of burlap, and a blue necklace that seemed too old for her.

  The whores and Phoebe wanted to run and greet ’em, but I put a stop to that nonsense right quick. I told ’em to take up positions on and around the wagons and keep their rifles in their hands or on their laps.

  “That’s rude,” Phoebe said.

  “Maybe so,” I said, “but it don’t pay to be too friendly on the prairie. At least ’til you know who you’re bein’ friendly to.”

  The family pulled their wagon to a noisy stop about forty feet from us. Then the man, one of the biggest I’d ever seen, climbed down and started walkin’ toward me.

  I stayed on my horse.

  “Howdy,” he said, extendin’ his hand.

  “That’s close enough,” I said.

  He stopped abruptly.

  “Anythin’ wrong?” he said. “It’s just me and the missus, and our daughter.”

  I looked at the woman and child on the bench seat. The little girl stared straight ahead, like we weren’t there. Though she showed no expression, her ma seemed right nervous.

  “I don’t shake hands,” I said. “Nothin’ personal.”

  “You a gunman?” he said.

  “Nothin’ personal,” I repeated.

  “That’s quite all right,” he said. He looked at the wagons and the women in ’em. “Whatcha got there?”

  “A few folks headin’ west.”

  Some of the ladies waved at the little girl. Instead of wavin’ back, she stared straight ahead. I’d a’ thought she’d be itchin’ to run visit the women, but guessed she’d been told to stay put ’til her pa said it was okay.

  “Looks like a bunch of women, dressed like men,” the man said, wavin’ at ’em. “And one of ’em’s got a yaller face. She ain’t diseased, is she?”

  I looked him over. He wore the biggest cowboy hat I ever saw. Still, it seemed too small for his head. Maybe that was because he wore the brim high on his forehead, ’stead of low over his eyes, like most. He had on denim pants, which you don’t see that often this side of the Rockies. He also had on purple boots, which you don’t see anywhere.

  “I’m Emmett Love,” I said.

  He smiled a big smile. “I’m Joe Simpson,” he said. He pointed at the lady on the wagon seat and said, “And that there’s my wife, Clara.”

  I tipped my hat without offerin’ her a friendly expression.

  “Ma’am,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Love,” she said.

  He pointed at the girl. “And this little bundle of happiness is Hannah.”

  She didn’t appear to be filled with happiness, or even the least bit happy. But I nodded at her anyway, and she stared back at me with empty eyes in the way I’ve seen old men stare at a window without lookin’ through it.

  “Hannah would love to visit your womenfolk,” Joe said, “if that suits you.”

  Hannah didn’t look like she cared either way about visitin’ with the women, but I didn’t see no harm in it, other than the size of her pa. If he decided to turn surly, it could take several bullets to put him down.

  I looked at Rose.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  Rose pulled her shotgun from the wagon and covered the distance to Joe Simpson so quick no one had time to react. She leveled her shotgun at the center of his face, pulled back the hammer on one of the chambers and said, “Hannah seems a bit solemn.”

  Joe laughed, not seemin’ to realize the degree of danger his life was in.

  “Hands in the air,” Rose said.

  He looked at me.

  “I’d do it,” I said.

  Joe put his huge arms in the air.

  “Hannah’s just tired,” he said. “Anyway, her bein’ solemn don’t seem enough reason to shoot a man.”

  “She’s also got blond hair,” Rose said.

  He looked at his daughter.

  “Can’t deny it,” he sai
d.

  “And you folks don’t,” Rose said.

  “She come by her hair color honestly,” he said. “Clara’s family was all blonds.”

  They looked at each other a minute. Joe said, “Still ain’t reason enough to shoot me over.” Then he said, “Can I put my hands down now?”

  Rose said, “You can put them down after I shoot you.”

  Joe shook his head. “You don’t seem a neighborly bunch,” he said. “But that’s fine, we’ll ask nothin’ of you. If you’d see fit to lower your shotgun, Clara and I will be pleased to keep movin’ along without troublin’ you further.”

  Rose said nothin’.

  “’Less you got more questions for me,” Joe Simpson said.

  “I do have one,” Rose said.

  “Please ask it, then.”

  Rose cocked the hammer on the second chamber of her shotgun. Then she said, “How did Hannah come by that necklace?”

  25.

  I hadn’t noticed Hannah’s necklace bein’ familiar ’til Rose asked the question.

  Then it started to look real familiar. In fact, it looked a lot like the one my favorite whore from Springfield used to wear.

  Clara spoke up. “Please don’t shoot my husband!”

  Rose inched the shotgun closer.

  Joe said, “Whoa, Miss! Be careful with that thing!”

  “The necklace,” Rose said.

  Clara’s fingers raced to her daughter’s throat. She pulled the necklace over Hannah’s head and threw it on the ground in front of Rose. “Please! You can have it. It’s just a cheap dry goods necklace,” she said. “It’s not valuable, and certainly not worth dying for.”

  Joe relaxed a bit. “I can explain the necklace,” he said.

  “Then do so,” Rose said.

  “It was a gift from a lady we met two days west of here,” Joe said. “We found ’em ten miles off the main trail, five women and a man, travelin’ together. Whores, I think, from Springfield, headin’ to Dodge City. We made camp with ’em that night, and one of the whores, a pretty red-haired one, grew right fond of Hannah. She’s the one give Hannah the necklace.”

  “It’s true, Miss,” Clara Simpson said. “Every word. I swear.”

  “Rose?” I said.

  She didn’t answer, nor take her eyes away from Joe Simpson.

  I said, “It does sound like somethin’ Gina might do, give her necklace to a cute little girl she’d grown attached to.”

  Ignorin’ my comment, Rose said, “Tell your wife and daughter to climb down off the wagon.”

  Simpson sighed, and said, “Clara! Hannah! Do as she says.”

  They climbed down from the wagon and stood beside the ox team.

  “Now walk over to us,” Rose said.

  From the water wagon, Phoebe shouted, “Rose, please. What’s gotten into you?”

  Rose ignored her.

  “All three of you,” she said. “Get on the ground, face down, with your hands behind your backs.”

  Joe gave me a questionin’ look with his eyes. “Can’t you do somethin’?” he said. “Your lady friend is scarin’ my family. If it’s our possessions you’re after, you’re welcome to ’em.”

  “I were you, I’d get on the ground, face down,” I said.

  “She wouldn’t actually shoot us,” Joe said. Then he said, “Would she?”

  “Let me put it like this,” I said. “She’s twenty, and already buried six husbands.”

  The Simpson family hit the dirt like cow patties and put their hands behind their backs.

  “Hold your gun on them, Emmett,” Rose said.

  I did.

  Rose fetched the necklace from where it lay on the grass, examined it briefly, and tossed it to me.

  “See those spots on it?” she said.

  I did.

  “That’s blood.”

  “Blood?”

  “From when he cut Gina’s throat.”

  26.

  “Well, the girl didn’t cut no one’s throat,” I said.

  Rose hollered, “Scarlett, come fetch Hannah. I doubt she’s their kin, anyway.”

  Scarlett walked over and helped Hannah to her feet.

  Rose said, “Get her comfortable, and find out what you can.”

  “You tell ’em nothin’, girl, you hear?” the big man said. For the first time since we’d met him, his voice had menace in it.

  “You got no call to question our girl,” he said angrily.

  “Shut up,” Rose said.

  Scarlett walked Hannah back to the whore wagon and picked her up and set her in it, and the whores instantly started makin’ over her. Leah got her comb out and began running it through Hannah’s hair. I believed what Rose said about Hannah not bein’ kin to the Simpsons. If she was, she didn’t seem concerned that her parents might get shot. Hell, she never said a word to ’em, nor even looked in their direction.

  Rose made her way to the back of the Simpson’s wagon, and climbed in. A few minutes later she came out with a disgusted look on her face.

  “There are too many sizes of clothes to fit Clara,” she said, “and too many possessions that don’t match, including some books with other folks’ names in them.”

  “All easily explained,” Joe said, spittin’ dirt from his lips.

  “Save your breath,” Rose said. “I can sniff a lie from twenty paces.”

  Five minutes passed, then Scarlett and Phoebe helped the child out of the wagon and took her to a small outcroppin’ of rocks about fifty feet away. The three of ’em sat among the rocks, and spoke quietly.

  “How long we gotta lay here in the dirt?” Joe Simpson said. “What you’re doin’ to us ain’t right.”

  “We’re thirsty,” Clara said.

  “Shut up,” Rose said.

  A half hour passed.

  Then Scarlett called Rose over.

  A few minutes later, Scarlett put Hannah back in the whore’s wagon.

  Rose walked over to me and nodded slowly.

  I pointed at Clara.

  Rose nodded again.

  Then she fetched her reins and climbed in the supply wagon with Phoebe, and started headin’ down the trail. Scarlett and the others followed in their wagon.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Simpson said. “Where’s everyone goin’?”

  “Where’s Hannah?” Clara said. “What did she tell them?”

  “You ain’t plannin’ to take a kid’s word for nothin’, are you?” Joe Simpson shouted. “She’s sick in the head! You can tell by lookin’ at her she ain’t right.”

  I didn’t know what truths Hannah had revealed, but Phoebe wasn’t makin’ any kind of fuss, so whatever she said, it must a’ been bad.

  I didn’t care for these Simpsons. They’d not only taken up the better part of my afternoon, they probably killed Gina and the rest of the group that left Springfield on Wednesday.

  I felt like shootin’ ’em right then and there.

  But I didn’t.

  It wouldn’t a ’been right.

  Not to mention I’d a’ felt terrible if the little girl heard me shoot ’em.

  So I sat on my horse and guarded Joe and Clara Simpson while the wagons rolled north, toward Copper Lake. I offered ’em no water, nor did I speak a single word to ’em.

  I sat there on my horse and waited a full hour before emptyin’ my pistol in ‘em.

  27.

  “What happened to the oxen?” Phoebe said, when I caught up to her and Rose.

  “I cut ’em loose,” I said. “Four oxen are hard enough to keep up with. We don’t have the manpower to care for six.”

  “Will they survive?”

  “They will.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “They’ll either follow us at a distance or head to Springfield, I reckon.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Oxen are pretty good about locatin’ water,” I said.

  “What about the covered wagon?”

  “I left it there. Why
do you ask?”

  “It might have constituted a fair dowry,” Phoebe said.

  “Dowry?”

  “For Hiram.”

  “Who’s Hiram?”

  “Hiram Pickett.”

  “Who?”

  “My betrothed.”

  “Your what?”

  “My husband-to-be, you dolt.”

  “Well, I didn’t think any thoughts about a dowry,” I admitted.

  “I’m just trying to be practical,” she said. “It seems a waste to leave a perfectly good wagon on the prairie.”

  “I thought about bringin’ it with us to sell,” I said, “but I didn’t want to upset the little girl.”

  “Her name is Hannah.”

  “Of course.”

  “Say it.”

  “Her name is Hannah,” I said.

  “You have no idea what she’s been through,” Phoebe said.

  “Was she their daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t want to know,” I said.

  I spurred my horse and galloped two hundred yards in front a’ them and kept that distance between us ’til we made camp an hour south of Copper Lake.

  While I rode, I thought about Rose, and how she sometimes gets feelin’s about things and people that others don’t. She calls it intuition, but whatever it is, it makes her a great travel companion. Also, she’s uncommon good in the woods. She can find her way from one end to the other in pitch dark. I’ve seen her sniff out water, tubers, and medicinal roots, too. I doubt anyone’s better in the woods than her. She claims it’s because she grew up in a forest in Florida back in the pirate days, but that’s just stories, like the ones she tells about all them husbands she claims to have married. Hell, the girl’s only twenty. She couldn’t a’ known Gentleman Jack Hawley the pirate, or done all them things she claims. But I don’t contradict her. If I did, she might stop tellin’ her stories. And her campfire stories are the best I ever heard!

  Rose is the finest nurse you could hope to have. Her knowledge of potions will match any big city doctor’s. A year ago I caught a grazin’ gun shot on my arm, outside a bar in Springfield. It weren’t enough of a wound to barely hurt, so I thought little of it. Just poured some whiskey on it and went to bed. By the next night it was all swollen and oozy and hurt like the dickens. I’d seen cowboys die from wounds that looked like that, and never understood how such a little scratch could do so much damage. I got worried enough to go see Doc Inman. He took one look at my arm and said, “I ain’t gonna lie to you, it’s bad.”