Spirit Pouch

by Vaterlaus, Stanford

“Let me see that,” the sheriff demands.

  I hand it over and the sheriff holds it up to the light between his fingers.

  “Hey!” Joseph sputters. “That’s my bumblebee that I gave to you.”

  “What’s your name, son?” the sheriff demands.

  “Jared. Jared Taggart, sir.” I add the ‘sir’ because it seems polite. I figure a little politeness can go a long way right now.

  “Danny, you and Oliver get off my street. And if I see you making trouble here again you will spend time in my jail. And, Oliver, go get those ribs checked out by Doc.”

  “Oliver?” I say with a smirk and a slight chuckle.

  Oliver turns and glares at me as he and Danny shuffle off, relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of the sheriff. The sheriff watches until they have turned the corner and are out of sight, then turns to me.

  “Jared, you come with me. You will be my guest in jail. I’m sure I will get to know you, because you are going to tell me where you are from and who your parents are so I can speak with them. I’m going to be talking to the passengers on the stage, also. We do not tolerate thieves in this town. You other boys behave or you will be boarding with me, also.”

  “Sheriff,” Joseph blurts, “I gave Jared that taw. It used to be mine.”

  “Thank you, Joseph. I’m going to check it out completely. Jared, come with me.”

  The sheriff and I walk up the street in the direction we had come and then turn to the right. We pass in front of the Denver Stagecoach Station, which doubles as a hotel, and then the next building says ‘Sheriff’s Office’ on a sign that hangs down from the weathered wooden rafters of the porch.

  We enter the front door and the sheriff walks over to his desk and picks up a ring of keys. “Come over here, Jared,” he motions to me as he inserts a key in the cell door and swings it open. “This will be your home until we straighten all this out. You can start by telling me where you live.”

  “I live in Tucson, Arizona,” I manage to say in the best humble, repentant voice that I can muster. “My dad is dead, and my Mother lives in Arizona, also.”

  “Look, son,” the sheriff says sternly. “We are not getting off to a very good start here.”

  I think we are doing pretty good, so I just look at him with eyes that say, “What do you mean?”

  “That stagecoach you were on did not come from Arizona. So, why don’t we start again and this time tell me where you are really from. If it is back east, I can understand, because your clothes are different. They have that ‘New York’ look. What do you say?”

  I do not answer. Not because I want to be rude, or stubborn. I just do not know what to say. I am not smart enough to know the towns back east to even make up a good lie. And I certainly know the truth will not work. What I want to say I only imagine in my mind, and it makes me smile, Well, Sheriff, you’re right. I’m not from around here. I’m from Arizona. I was born in the future, where people own cars, not horses. Indians live on reservations, if they want to. And they don’t go around scalping people. Houses have electricity, with central heating and air conditioning and indoor plumbing, and running water. Most kids my age have cell phones, and send text messages instantly through the air. And my mom, well, she would be worried if she knew where and when, I am. Sitting in jail in 1866. That is what I want to say. But I can’t.

  “Okay,” the sheriff says as he gets up and closes the cell door with a clang that rattles all the bars. “Maybe you will talk after spending a couple of weeks in here.

  Weeks? I think, in somewhat of a stupor. I imagine hours, not days, and certainly not weeks. I’ve got to get out of here! I sit down in despair. I just barely rescued Ty from a burning car. And then I rescued William from the town bully. Who is going to rescue me? I can feel a tear trying to squeeze out of my eye and I blink hard to fight it back.

  I sit locked in my cell as one lonely minute after another ticks by. The sheriff shuffles some papers on his desk, cleans his gun, and looks over at me at least ten times. He is playing the waiting game, but it is going to be a long wait, because if I tell him the truth it will just sound like a really bad fabrication. So bad, in fact, that a five year old can do better.

  After what seems to be about two hours I steal a glance at my watch. Twenty minutes! I just about choke. In fact, I make some kind of noise because the sheriff looks over in my direction, but makes no move to set me free. I am destined to spend the next two weeks or more in jail for something that I did not do. And then what? Prison? Or a public hanging? I can feel a knot in my chest and that tear squeezing out of my eye again. Isn’t there an inter-galactic time continuum law somewhere that says a boy is not allowed to die in another state a hundred and some years before he is even born? Where are my friends? They could at least come visit so I don’t have to die alone in jail.

  It is then that the sheriff and I both hear someone race across the wooden sidewalk outside the Sheriff’s Office and burst in through the front door. The sheriff raises his revolver and swings it toward the door.

  “Whoa!” exclaims Ty as he stops short and raises his hands.

  “What do you mean bursting in here like that?” the sheriff scolds. “You could have been shot!”

  “Sheriff, I came to tell you that there is a fire down by the General Store!”

  “A fire?” he repeats standing up and running to the door as he buckles on his gun belt. I hear his boots as he steps out onto the sidewalk. “I don’t see any smoke.” The sheriff calls back. He runs to the middle of the street and stands there, staring toward the General Store.

  I am on my feet the moment Ty bursts through the door. As soon as the sheriff steps out the door, Ty runs to the desk, grabs the keys and unlocks my cell door.

  “Hide under the desk,” Ty commands. “Hurry!”

  “Under the desk?” I question. “How is that going to help?”

  “Just do it.” Ty runs to the window that opens to the side of the building and throws it open, as I crawl under the desk. “Wait until the sheriff leaves, then run for it,” Ty whispers, and then he steps out the front door.

  “I don’t see any fire,” the sheriff says shaking his head as he turns back toward his office.

  “I saw smoke and came running to get you,” Ty explains. “It was at the General Store.”

  “Well, just because you see a little …”

  “FIRE!” someone yells from down the street. “There’s a fire! Bring water!”

  “I guess you are right,” the sheriff says excitedly as he steps past Ty and enters his office. “Bring a bucket and water,” Ty yells as he scampers off toward the General Store.

  It only takes a second for the sheriff to assess the situation in his office. Jail cell open. Side window open. Prisoner missing. Obviously escaped through the window with a little help. “Come back here,” he yells at Ty as the sheriff runs out the front door and around the side of the building. “And stay here until I get back.”

  I know the sheriff is chasing me, but I am still in his office under his desk, which is not a good place to stay. I scramble out from the desk, grab the taw, and do as Ty directed. I run.

  The sheriff goes one way so I go the other way. Seems logical to me, however, when I get to the corner of his building and look down the narrow space between his office and the stagecoach station, I spy him, and he is coming toward me. I leap forward like a startled jack rabbit, but he sees me.

  “Hey!” he yells, but I am gone.

  I know how to run. I have run plenty in track and cross country in high school and I can be fast. I sprint down the wooden sidewalk in front of the stagecoach station. No one seems to notice that a boy is running like a frightened deer past people gawking down the street. Of course! The fire. I glance ahead toward the General Store. There is a lot of smoke! I think. This whole town could burn to the ground.

  Just then I reach the corner of the Stage Station and someone grabs my arm and yanks me around the corner.

  I’m caught! I think in
disbelief. The sheriff must have doubled back. But that would be impossibly fast. I am about to be put back in jail to rot until I am forty, so I jab my elbow into the ribs of my assailant hard enough to make him gasp. Next thing I know, my feet are swept out from under me and I lay face down in the dirt. I roll over and stare up at Ty.

  Ty extends his hand and helps me back on my feet. “Come on. Quickly.”

  We run to the wagon that William was standing by earlier, climb aboard and bury ourselves under a canvas tarp. Not even ten seconds later William returns, climbs onto the wagon and tucks a box of matches

  [79] under the canvas next to my ear.

  “William,” a familiar voice calls out. I feel William jump off the wagon and I hear his feet land solidly onto the dirt street.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” William replies. I feel my body tense head to toe.

  “I’m looking for Jared and his friend Ty. Have they been around here?”

  “I haven’t seen them,” William answers honestly. “I thought Jared was with you.”

  “He was, but he ran away during the fire.”

  “Oh. Did the fire get put out? There was an awful lot of smoke.”

  “Yes. Apparently it was more smoke than fire. Listen, you stay away from those boys. They seem to be troublemakers.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. That’s probably good advice.”

  "I hear that your family is leaving Denver?"

  "Yes. We are supposed to leave this morning," William answers.

  "You've got a good looking horse and wagon here," the sheriff admires. I feel the wagon rock left and right as the sheriff gives it a gentle nudge.

  "Father got a good price for her," William says proudly. "And the wagon is almost new."

  "Well, you be careful out there on the Overland," the sheriff warns. "The word is that some Indians have been causing some trouble."

  "Indians?"

  "That's what I hear. So stay close and help your father protect your family."

  "Okay," William consents solemnly.

  "Now keep this to yourself, William. No sense getting the women all stirred up. Just be careful."

  "We will," William assures him.

  I hear the sheriff’s footsteps move away until they fade completely.

  “Denver was a quiet town until today,” William mutters as he leans against the wagon causing it to rock a little left and right. “Good thing we are leaving soon.”

  Still under the canvas in the back of the wagon I hear a rumbling sound that seems to grow louder by the moment. Right then something squeezes my right ankle and Ty’s voice from down by my feet whispers, “What is that noise?”

  “I think it is a wagon approaching,” I whisper back. “A heavy wagon.” I can see a slit of light coming in between the wooden side panels of the wagon and inch over to peek outside.

  “William?” I hear a familiar voice call. “Everything all right here?”

  “Yes, Father,” William replies. “Danny and his friend, Oliver, tried to cause some trouble, but then Jared showed up.”

  “Jared?” Elizabeth says, a puzzled look spreading across her face. “He was going to Arizona.”

  “I think he went, but he is back now,” William continues. “He has a friend named Ty with him. Ty has jewels in his ears."”

  “Yeah,” Joseph blurts out. “And red hair, too, but Jared and Ty didn’t let Danny cause any trouble. I think Oliver got a broken rib, though. Then the sheriff came.”

  “Sheriff Johnson?” Henry asks. “What did he want?”

  William’s voice replies, “Danny accused Jared of stealing from the stage that just came in.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Joseph yells. “Danny said that he stole a marble, but it was that chipped Bumblebee that I gave him before he left. He didn’t steal anything.”

  “All right, Joseph. Sheriff Johnson is a good man. He will figure it out.”

  “Did you get all the supplies?” William queries. It sounds to me like he is hoping to change the subject before the topic of the fire comes up.

  “You bet,” Henry replies.

  “We got a new stove,” Joseph sings out the news.

  “And new towels,” Elizabeth laughs, holding up one as a sample.

  “And sugar, coffee, bacon, and flour,” George adds sarcastically. “Not as important as towels,” he smiles, “but it will keep us alive.”

  [80]

  “Is everyone here?” Henry asks looking around.

  “I’m here,” Annie skips down the street and stops next to her father. “And Grandmother and Grandfather are coming.” She points behind her.

  “I’m glad they didn’t forget that we are leaving this morning.”

  “They wouldn’t forget, Father. You’re just teasing.”

  “Tom is driving one of the wagons in the supply train, and they already left early this morning,” Henry states.

  “Will he get to come with us to Utah” Joseph asks with a worried look.

  “Yes,” Henry replies. “But we will have to catch up with him because they are ahead of us.”

  “Wagon trains are slow,” William says. “We should have no trouble catching up with them.”

  “Yes, they are,” George pipes in. “But they make good distance because they drive long hours.”

  “Okay, then,” Henry says cheerfully. “It looks like we are all here, so lets be on our way.”

  “To Utah?” Joseph chimes.

  “Yes, Joseph,” Henry replies. “On our way to Utah.”

  With a puzzled look Joseph says, “How do you know which way is Utah?”

  “Well,” Henry says, “we know Utah is west of here.” He points toward the west. “But there are huge mountains in the way, so we are going to go around those mountains. We are going to go the same way the stagecoaches go. After we leave Denver we will follow the Overland Stage Trail up to the Big Laramie River, then head west again.”

  “Okay. Let’s go!” Joseph chants with the excitement of the adventure ringing in his voice.

  I hear William make a clucking sound with his tongue and the wagon that we are in lurches forward with a bounce and a bump and a rattle that feels like it would jar my teeth loose if my head remains next to the wooden box against which it is resting. And I thought riding in the back seat of my mom’s car was uncomfortable, I think. Maybe I shouldn’t have complained so much. The pioneers certainly had it worse. I don’t think I want to be a pioneer, I re-affirm to myself.

  I can hear Joseph and Annie chatting and I can hear William yell, “Haw” or “Gee” to the horse pulling our wagon, but for the most part, the rattling and creaking noises from the wagon drown out the conversations taking place on the other side of this suffocating canvas.

  My shoulder and neck and hip hurt from the constant bouncing of the wagon wheels over bumps or rocks and I desperately want to stretch my legs and arms and straighten my back. I remember seeing a picture that hangs in the hallway of our church building of the pioneers. They were walking, not riding, in wagons. I am beginning to understand the reason for that. Riding in a wagon, at least with no padding, is very uncomfortable. No wonder the pioneer children sang as they walked and walked. They would have cried if they had to stay in the wagon.

  Being under the canvas in the shade of a building in a wagon that is not moving is one thing, I think, but out in the sun bumping down the road is quite another. I am hot and sweating like a pig. Actually I don’t know if pigs sweat. I do know that dogs don’t sweat.

  [81] But I do sweat, and it is sweltering underneath this canvas and I am getting sore from the bumping. I guess Ty is, too, because just now he pinches my ankle.

  “How long do we have to stay under here?” he whispers.

  I pull my wrist up to my eyes. “Looks like we’ve been rolling for about two hours. We should be well out of Denver by now.”

  “I’m going to peek out,” Ty announces.

  I feel him wiggle around and pull on the canvas a little.

  “Whoa,�
�� Henry’s voice booms up ahead. I hear footsteps and some rustling noise in our wagon. Without warning, the canvas peels back, exposing Ty and me to the full brightness of the sun. Staring down at us is Henry Cottle.

  I look up sheepishly. “Hello, Mr. Cottle,” I say trying to be as polite as possible. I know we are now in trouble.

  “Hello, Jared. Your friend here must be Ty.”

  “Hello,” Ty says quietly.

  “Do you mind telling me what you two boys are doing in my wagon?” Henry asks with a serious tone. He is speaking to me.

  “I didn’t know it was your wagon when we climbed in,” I reply. “I was just hiding from the sheriff.”

  “From the sheriff? Why on Earth would you hide from Sheriff Johnson? He is our friend. He is the law.”

  “He put me in jail for stealing from the stagecoach. But I didn’t steal anything.”

  “It was my bumblebee, Father. I knew he didn’t steal it,” Joseph interrupts.

  “So, if you were in jail,” Henry continues, “why was Sheriff Johnson looking for you?”

  “I escaped during the fire,” I say.

  “And you, Ty? Is the sheriff looking for you?”

  “Yes. He thinks I helped Jared escape, so I guess the sheriff is looking for me, too.”

  “So you hid in my wagon?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ty responds.

  “William?” Henry turns. “Did you know about any of this?”

  “I did not know they were in our wagon, but I did know they were planning an escape. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Father. But I did not see the harm in it because I knew Jared didn’t steal anything.”

  “Well, Jared, I would take you back to Sheriff Johnson myself right now if I thought there was any way that you had stolen anything from that stage. But I think you have more integrity than that. You two boys climb out of that wagon. I’m pretty sure that riding under that canvas for two hours is punishment enough for the commotion you caused Sheriff Johnson.”

  I climb out of the wagon and jump to the ground next to Henry and Ty does the same. “I’m sorry for causing trouble, sir,” I say, looking downward.