“Thirty-five years, and I still remember how my daughter’s tears tasted. She had just learned to walk, and when she came to me that day she fell down and started crying. Remember how my wife felt in my arms when she hugged me good-bye. She was the prettiest woman I ever seen. She smelled like … wildflowers. We caught up to Buffalo Hump at Plum Creek. For once the Comanches were travelin’ slow. They’d found so much loot they had hundreds of pack mules. Had more than a thousand stolen horses with ’em too, as I recall. We killed about eighty in a running fight that lasted a whole day, daybreak to sundown. Got most of the loot back and most of the horses too. We should have kept after them but the militia had gotten hold of the bullion and they forgot all about the Comanches and started divvying up the treasure. Then they just went home. Our captains called it quits after that. I should have headed straight home myself but some of the men in my company wanted to pay a visit to the saloon in Lockhart and I went along. When I did get home I found it was burned to the ground. My daughter’s skull had been crushed. My wife had been…”
He made a sound like something was caught in his throat. Eddings saw his Adam’s apple bobbing and muttered, “I’m sorry.” That hardly seemed adequate but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Sayles was silent a moment, still looking away. When he continued his voice was husky, flat, and devoid of emotion. “Was five or six bucks from what I could tell. They hit other places nearby. Guess they thought it was a good time for a little raiding of their own, with every able-bodied man out after Buffalo Hump. I just missed them too. See, if I had gone straight home from Plum Creek…” He shook his head. “The burned my house. The smashed my little girl’s skull in. And they raped my wife then cut her throat. I’ve always wondered which one had to watch the other die.”
“My God!” Eddings was horrified.
“After I buried my family I lit out after that raiding party but I lost the sign in a storm. Real fence-lifter, that storm was. But it didn’t really matter. I spent the next thirty years killing every Comanche I could find. Men and women, old and young. Just couldn’t kill the children, though. Kept seeing my own daughter. Thing is, no matter how many I killed it didn’t make me feel a damned bit better. Maybe I was just trying to get myself killed.” He drew a long breath and looked at Eddings, his creased, sun-dark face seemingly etched in stone. “I made a mistake, and people I loved died. I’ve lived with that mistake. But you get tired of hurting. It’s a hurt that doesn’t seem to get better. But then you know all about that kind.”
Eddings nodded and looked off into the distance himself, bleakly aware that at that moment his resolve to do his time like a man should, like his son would want him to, began to waver. Could he endure thirteen years of the hurt that Sayles had just described? He doubted it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “And sorry for what I said before.”
Sayles nodded. “Let’s ride.” He kicked the coyote dun into a canter, heading west.
Day Six
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Temple Hanley drove the buggy out to the Eddings place early in the morning on the day after the funeral. It was bitterly cold, as it had been for weeks now, weeks that seemed like months. At least it hadn’t snowed in two days. He had seen quite enough snow to last him a lifetime, or at least that was how he felt now. When the Texas summer came he supposed he would wish for cold weather again, since summers in these parts were hellish. Back in the Reconstruction years General Phil Sheridan had famously said that if he owned Texas and Hell he would live in Hell and rent out Texas. Hanley was of the opinion that Sherman was not so much slighting Texas weather as showcasing his dislike for Texans—a feeling that was mutual. But anyone who had endured a Texas summer could be forgiven for wondering at times if Hell might not be a little bit cooler.
He had spent a troubled and mostly sleepless night worrying about Purdy, so he was motivated to venture out as soon as there was enough light to travel by. Seeing the front door of the farmhouse wide open when he pulled up out front caused his concern to spike. He called her name as he climbed down out of the buggy and then again as he clambered up onto the porch, pausing to cast a quick look across the fields as he rapped on the door with his knuckles, which pushed it further open. He ventured inside, experiencing a sense of dread, worried about what he would find. The fire he had started for Purdy the day before was dead, the ashes cold. He checked the bedroom and then went back outside. Brows furrowed with concern, he shouted her name at the top of his lungs and listened to … a deathly stillness. Venturing away from the house he saw three sets of footsteps in the snow. Two came from the west, and crisscrossed each other. The third headed north, across the field to the line of trees that marked the course of the Little River. Hanley was no tracker, but even he could tell that the southbound sign had been made by smaller feet than the other two, so he struck out in that direction.
When he reached the trees and saw the dress draped over the log his heart lurched in his chest. He called out her name again several times, and now there was a frantic edge to his voice. “What have you done?” he cried out. “What have you done?” He was chastising himself for leaving Purdy alone, for not insisting that she come to town, even stay in his house, propriety be damned. He ran clumsily through the snow, heading downstream. A man unaccustomed to physical exertion and with too much meat on his bones, he was quickly winded. His legs were burning. He wasn’t paying attention to the ground in front of him, instead scanning both banks of the river, and he stumbled several times. Once he pitched facedown into the snow. For once, though, Temple Hanley wasn’t concerned with appearances.
He slowed down at the bend in the river, checking the limbs of the fallen tree that went down into the water, where a body might be snared. Then he stumbled on, the breath rasping in his throat, but he didn’t have to go much farther. He saw the big yellow dog first, lying on the river’s edge, and then he saw Purdy’s naked body beneath the dog, and an anguished cry escaped his lips. Knowing how devastated she had been, he cursed himself for leaving this poor woman alone. He stood there a moment, trying to cope with gut-wrenching dismay. There didn’t seem to be a need for urgency anymore. Purdy Eddings was dead. A suicide. He advanced slowly, warily, holding out his hands as the big dog lifted his massive head and watched his approach with those gleaming eyes—one bright blue, one golden brown. Since Buck didn’t lunge at him, or even produce one of those bloodcurdling growls of his, Hanley wondered if somehow the beast could comprehend his gesture. He took a few more cautious steps and then, overwhelmed with emotion, dropped to his knees in the snow, tears burning his eyes.
The dog rose, standing over Purdy’s slender white body, head down, tongue lolling, watching Hanley a moment before stepping back and dragging his tongue over his owner’s face. He whined and licked her again and it was then that Hanley saw her head move, heard the faintest of sounds well up from her throat and emerge from her slightly parted, bluish lips. “Purdy!” gasped Hanley, and crawled on hands and knees to her side. The dog backed away a little and watched him as Hanley touched her face. She was so cold, so pale! She looked so lifeless. But her head moved again, and he hastily took off his buffalo coat, laid it out on the snow, and gently, if clumsily, lifted her onto it and wrapped it over her. Brushing tendrils of auburn hair off her face, he talked to her … “Purdy. Purdy, it’s me, Temple Hanley. Can you hear me? Purdy?” until she moaned and moved again and this time the tears escaped his eyes and he sobbed, “Thank you, Lord!” He sat up and looked at the bruising and punctures on her upper arm, and then at the dog. One thing Temple Hanley was good at was looking at evidence and putting two and two together. “Good dog!” he said. “Good dog!” The dog, seemingly satisfied that Hanley had come to help, not harm, his owner, lay his long body right next to Purdy’s and rested his head on her shoulder. Even then he kept his eyes glued on the lawyer.
Glancing over his shoulder, Hanley tried to calculate just how far he had come from the Eddings farmhouse
and whether or not he could make it back there while carrying Purdy. He couldn’t see the place anymore and figured it was farther than a man in his condition could carry someone, even someone as slender as Purdy, but he knew for certain that he had to try. He got on his feet, which was a monumental effort in itself, but nothing like the effort he had to exert getting her cradled in his arms. He trudged along the river, going upstream. The big yellow dog followed. Eventually, as exhaustion loomed, Hanley began to stagger. He stopped once, dropping to his knees and sitting back on his heels. But he didn’t dare put Purdy down, afraid that if he did he might not be able to lift her into his arms again. The dog circled around and sat on his haunches in front of him, watching him and his burden intently.
Hanley could piece together what had happened. Purdy had gone down to the river to drown herself. The missing dog had appeared as if by magic at just the right time, jumping into the river, latching on to her arm, and somehow getting her to shore. It was an extraordinary display of courage and devotion, nigh on unbelievable. What were the odds that the runaway canine would show up at just the right moment to save his owner? And what were the odds that the dog would know to lie atop Purdy and keep her alive with his own body heat through the bitter-cold night? Maybe the best and certainly the easiest explanation would be that it had been a miracle. He stared at the dog in awe, and the dog stared at him with great intensity, then stood up and barked. It wasn’t a menacing sound, but still it made Hanley jump. “All right, all right,” he said, and groaned and grunted his way onto his feet and continued to plod through the calf-high snow with his precious burden.
When at last he reached the farmhouse his legs and arms and back were aching fiercely, and he tottered up onto the porch and through the door and laid Purdy gently on the floor right next to the fireplace, still wrapped in the buffalo coat. While he built a fire he watched the dog sniffing around in an agitated way, first in the main room and then in the bedroom. Once he had the fire going strong he went into the bedroom and grabbed a blanket and draped it over Purdy. He noticed that the kettle on the crane in the fireplace was full of water, and that there was fresh-ground coffee. Having forgotten the other tracks in his concern for Purdy’s whereabouts and well-being, he remembered them now. Someone had walked to the farmhouse and then walked away, and he had a feeling it was George Norris. The Norris homestead was in the direction from which those tracks came—and went.
Settling down at the table, he sipped hot coffee and began to thaw out. The yellow dog was curled up near the crackling fire and his owner, eyes shut, and sleeping. In stark contrast with how he had always felt before, Hanley felt somehow comforted by the dog’s presence. His anxiety had something to do with Norris. Purdy’s neighbor was an unpleasant and potentially dangerous man. Norris had never done anything to him personally but there were rumors, most particularly about the way Norris had treated his wife. After meeting the man, Hanley had not doubted the rumors were true. The lawyer prided himself on being a good judge of character, and there was just something about that man that put him ill at ease. There was an ugly rage simmering just beneath the surface in Norris; one could see it in his eyes and expression, and hear it in his voice.
The question now was when Norris would return. Hanley considered putting Purdy in the buggy and heading for Cameron. He could take her to the doctor. But he worried about exposing her to the elements. Torn by indecision, Hanley looked around, and saw the shotgun propped up in a corner of the room. He fetched it and sat back down at the table. Having done a little hunting as a youth, he knew something about shotguns, and determined that both barrels were loaded—powder, wadding, shot in equal measure to the powder, and more wadding. With the weapon laid across the top of the table, he checked on Purdy again, laying the back of his hand against her cheek. She was no longer cold as ice, and seemed to be breathing normally. Further relieved, he sat at the table and gave in to exhaustion, laying his head down on his arms. He passed out right away.
He woke with a start, when something soft and cool touched his cheek, and found Purdy standing beside him. There was some color in her cheeks now, and her lips as well. She had put on faded blue gingham dress and draped the buffalo coat around his shoulders and then touched his cheek. “I made you some hot coffee,” she murmured, and he looked at the cup of steaming java on the table in front of him. He looked back up at her and for once found himself at a loss for words. What did you say to someone who had tried to kill herself?
She smiled pensively. “Did you save me?”
Hanley sipped the coffee while he collected his thoughts and carefully considered his words. “Your dog saved you. I found you both on the bank of the river. He was lying across you. It seems somehow he knew you needed the warmth of his body to stay alive.” He shook his head. “One hears about such tales, but I never expected to see such a thing with my own eyes.”
Purdy was looking at Buck, who sat on his haunches by the fireplace, watching her. “I guess that’s how I got these,” she murmured, touching the bruises and punctures on her upper arm. “I don’t remember much of anything.” She stepped closer to Buck, then sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around the beast.
Deeply moved, Hanley cleared his throat and drank some more coffee. He decided not to ask her why she had gone into the river. Considering the ordeal she had been through, the reason seemed obvious enough. “That’s not surprising. I expect you were freezing to death. I’ve read of people becoming confused, dizzy, incoherent, as their body temperature drops.”
Her face buried in Buck’s thick mane, she murmured, “I’m sorry, Mr. Hanley.” She sounded ashamed.
“No, no, my dear, no need to be.” He rose and draped the buffalo coat around her shoulders again, relieved when Buck made no show of aggression. It seemed the dog was convinced that he meant Purdy no harm. Hanley had proven himself and no longer had to fear for life and limb. He added wood to the fire, and the cheerful red-orange light produced by the flames permeated the room, a marked improvement over the gloomy and lifeless gray of the farmhouse in weeks past.”Perhaps you should come to town with me. Let Dr. Crighton take a look at your arm. You can stay at my home.”
Purdy rose and shook her head. “I can’t. My arm will be fine. I don’t mind the pain. It’s a reminder that I’m … that I’m alive. And besides, you know how people would gossip. Especially if you put me up in your own house.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“But it does matter, Mr. Hanley. You have been so kind to me. I’m not going to be a party to ruining your reputation. They must think me some shameless Jezebel. And I suppose I’ve brought that on myself. But no, I won’t go with you.” She looked around the room. “George Norris is coming here today and he said he was going to burn the house down.” Her gaze returned to Hanley’s face. Even though her eyes were filled with apprehension, she uttered her next words quite resolutely: “I’m not going to let him.”
Hanley was surprised by this unexpected show of resolve. She stood there now in such stark contrast with the defeated, grief-stricken woman to whom he was accustomed. “But why would he do such a thing?”
“Because he is going to try to take me to his place. Make me his woman. He said he would burn this house down and kill Buck but I am not going to let him.”
“I admire your spirit, my dear,” said Hanley earnestly, “but I fear it may lead you into harm’s way. George Norris is not a man to be trifled with, as you may already know. A house can be rebuilt. As for your dog, well, he is a remarkable creature, but still he is just a dog.”
Purdy frowned and Hanley realized he had made a mistake. It was obvious by her expression that she was angry. At times he was just too analytical, too detached. He marked it down to a lifetime committed to logic and reason rather than emotion. He had avoided emotional attachments his entire adult life and in so doing had escaped the turmoil that such attachments often produced. Compassion for people like Jake and Purdy Eddings was as far as he would go in terms of f
eelings for others. He considered his dispassionate approach a great asset in the practice of the law, but here, now, he could see that it had led him astray.
“He is not just a dog,” she said sternly. “He is my dog. And this is my house.”
“But dear Purdy, be reasonable. You cannot possibly work this farm alone.”
“You’re suggesting I let George Norris have his way? Drag me off to be his … his slave?”
“No no, not at all!” Hanley exclaimed. “Come with me, right now, to Cameron. Bring your belongings. Bring your dog. Leave the house. You can sell the farm and have a stake for … for whatever you wish to do with your life.”
Purdy sighed and shrugged off the buffalo coat and stepped forward to hold it out for him to take. “I cannot ever repay you for all the kindness you have shown me, Mr. Hanley. And I can never make up for all the concern I have caused you. I am so sorry you had to go through what you did this morning. I-I was not myself. I was just … tired of crying. Tired of hurting inside. The water made me numb. It made me stop thinking. It’s easy to do the wrong thing, you know? That’s why I have this problem with George Norris. I wanted to hold on to this place, this farm, for my son if for no other reason. That was the right thing to want. But letting Norris help with the fields, realizing what he wanted in return—well, that was the wrong thing to do.”
Christmas in the Lone Star State Page 15
