Some Kind of Courage

by Dan Gemeinhart

  But I couldn’t keep my eyes closed for long. The train was almost going faster now than I could run. If it got past me, I wouldn’t catch it.

  I peeked over the bush. The caboose was only five cars away. But right before the caboose was a freight car. A freight car with a metal ladder bolted to its side.

  I licked my lips and flexed my legs and crouched, ready to run. I waited, breathless.

  Three. Two. One.

  I took off, running alongside the train, my feet pounding the gravel of the railbed. The train kept speeding past me, but with every stride I took, I got closer to matching its speed. When we were almost even and the train was just barely crawling past me, I looked up.

  The ladder was about ten feet behind me, and coming up. My legs churned and my lungs gulped air hungrily.

  I looked quickly forward, and almost stumbled to a stop. Right ahead of me and coming fast was a timber post, with a sign on it … some sort of train signal for the engineer. It was right in my path. There was no time for thinking.

  I jumped.

  Up, and back, and to the side. To catch that ladder as it went rushing past.

  There it was. My hand stretched. I felt the metal of the ladder slap my palm and my fingers closed tight like a trap on a beaver. My foot reached up and found a rung. But I felt myself swinging out, away from the train, twisting backwards through the air as I held on with only one hand and one foot. I knew that signal post was coming up, that it was gonna smack me like the hand of God and cave my skull in.

  With a desperate scream I pulled myself in, my muscles straining, tight up against the train, grabbing that blessed ladder with both hands. I felt the signal post whistle past me, kissing at the coat on my back but leaving me be.

  I clung to the ladder, breathing like a drowning man pulled from the ocean.

  I was moving now, and fast.

  The world was moving on, all right, but I was moving with it. And in just the direction I needed to go.

  The ground sped by under my feet, zipping by so fast it made my stomach turn and I had to close my eyes to keep from losing my breakfast. I held on as tight as my fingers could grip, got both feet firm on the rungs, and then hugged that ladder like it was my mama.

  Once I caught my breath, I relaxed a bit. Just enough to open my eyes and look out ahead. I could still see the road, off to the side, a muddy track cutting through the countryside. I knew I had to keep my eye on it. I couldn’t let myself fly right past Mr. Campbell and my horse.

  A smile broke through my fear. The world was sure enough flying under me. Faster than I could walk. Faster than I could run. Faster than a horse could run, at least in that mud. I was getting closer and closer at last to my Sarah.

  I knew I had miles to go yet, but I kept my eyes trained on that road. Sometimes it ran off dangerously far from the train tracks, barely visible off in the distance, but I knew if I kept my eyes sharp I wouldn’t be able to miss fifty horses and a covered wagon.

  Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Then, likely an hour. My fear turned to excitement, then to boredom, then to nervousness. Had I missed them somehow? Were they on a different road? My stomach knotted with worry. Going fast is mighty fine, but going fast in the wrong direction is worse than not going anywhere at all.

  Eventually even my nervousness gave way to a dangerous exhaustion. My fingers and arms cramped and burned, and I had to shift from side to side to keep from losing my grip. My back was aching, and the thin metal rung of the ladder stabbed into the bottoms of my feet like a drill.

  I was bending down low, stretching and flexing my aching leg muscles, when I saw him. A man, on the road. Running his horse just as fast as he could, back toward Yakima. I straightened up quick and eyed him. He looked scared. A little desperate, maybe. He was slapping his horse with his hat and going a heckuva lot quicker than was probably safe in all that mud. I swallowed grimly. There ain’t no good reason for a man to be racing down a muddy road in the rain all scared like that. And whatever he was running from I was heading toward, and my Sarah was already there.

  I quit with my bending and shifting, ignoring the protests of my body. I stood straight and I watched that road.

  Then I saw it. Under the gray sky in all that bare country, it was unmistakable. The rounded white top of a covered wagon. I held my breath and stretched up to my tippy-toes. There was a stirring crowd around it, and as I got closer the crowd became horses. Plenty of ’em. And some paints among them, too. My breath came back, fast.

  Mr. Campbell. And Sarah. My Sarah, at last.

  I loosed my grip a bit and leaned back, getting ready to jump. But that train was sure enough moving fast, even faster than when I’d jumped on. Getting off now would be like jumping off a horse at an all-out sprint, with nothing but the rocky ground to catch you.

  But it had to be done. So there was nothing to do but to do it. I sure as heck wasn’t gonna ride that train right past my Sarah.

  I peered ahead through the falling rain and saw a big bush coming up. Just close enough to the tracks, maybe, if I pushed off real good. It wouldn’t be soft, necessarily, but it’d sure as heck be softer than all the rocks that were my only other option.

  One thing I didn’t have was much time to make up my mind.

  The bush came rushing up. I crouched, legs tight and ready for the spring. I let go of the ladder with one hand and leaned back into the rushing air.

  For a split second I thought of Ah-Kee, and wished he was jumping with me.

  Then the bush was there and I fired both legs like loaded pistols and let go of the ladder.

  I flew through the air like a shot arrow. The bush came rushing at me faster than I was expecting. I just had time to close my eyes and cover my face with my arms. Then there was a crash and a tangle and a thousand scratches and then a thud and I was on the ground, breathless and bruised, with a mouthful of leaves.

  I ain’t sure how the leaves got in my mouth. Must’ve had it open, I s’pose. I was probably screaming, but too scared to notice. I shook my head and spit ’em out.

  I gave my body a good once-over, shaking my limbs and wiggling my toes and fingers, then got gingerly up to my feet. Everything seemed in order, though a little sore and touchy in places.

  I wiped a little blood off a scratch across my forehead and took off at a jog toward that covered wagon and my horse.

  My heart was getting ready to start singing. I had that early morning Christmas feeling rattling around in my insides. I was gonna see my Sarah again, gonna scratch her neck and look into those warm brown eyes at last.

  But when I broke out of the brush onto the muddy road, about twenty feet from the wagon, I could tell right off that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  The wagon weren’t moving. The horses were high-stepping and tossing their heads, all nervous-like. They were tied up together in bunches all around and behind the wagon. I couldn’t see right off if Sarah was among ’em.

  But I could see the men, gathered and crouched around something lying in the mud of the road.

  It was a body. And it weren’t moving, neither.

  The men had their hats off.

  I stopped my running and walked up, slow and easy.

  There were three men still breathing, two standing up and one kneeling down by the body. They turned to look as I walked up to ’em. The rain pattered down all around us.

  They all had mournful faces. None of ’em spoke.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “That damned dirty Caleb Fawney,” one of the men answered, his voice scratchy and low. “That’s what.”

  My blood ran a heart-chilling kind of cold. I’d heard the name Caleb Fawney before. He was a known outlaw, wanted for some time in these parts. There was a bounty on his head. He’d killed eleven men, I’d heard. I looked at the body in the road. I reckoned he was number twelve.

  The corpse belonged to a young man, no more than twenty, with a clean-shaven face and a cleft in his chin. His eyes were open, st
aring empty up at the sky that was sprinkling his dead face with rain. A gun lay limp in one outstretched hand.

  “He was waiting for us,” the man went on. “He took our money, and our guns.” The man sighed and spit onto the ground. “Then Travis here went for his gun, the fool. Mr. Fawney shot him down without so much as blinking. Then he took the fastest horse off our string and took off up that trail there. We sent James to run back to Yakima and fetch up a posse, but Mr. Fawney’ll be long gone by the time they get here.”

  I was still staring shocked at that dead man when the words broke through my fog.

  “He took your fastest horse?” My eyes scanned the horses quick. There were all kinds, paints and bays and blacks. But I didn’t see a red-and-white Indian pony with a notched ear among them. “A red-and-white paint? That you bought from Ezra Bishop?”

  The man cocked his head at me.

  “How’d you figure that, son?”

  “Are you Mr. Campbell?”

  “Yeah,” he answered cautiously.

  “My name is Joseph Johnson, sir. That horse is mine, unlawfully bought by Mr. Bishop. I’ve been trailing her for more miles than I care to figure. I’ve come all the way from Old Mission in the Wenatchee Valley to get that horse back.”

  “Well, son, I hate to disappoint you. But looks like your adventure ends here. Your horse is with Caleb Fawney now. It’s the end of the road for you.”

  I wiped the rain out of my eyes with a soggy sleeve.

  “No, sir,” I answered him. “It is not. My road ends when I have that horse back. Not a muddy foot sooner.” I looked over the horses milling nervously about. “Could I borrow one of your horses, sir?”

  “Borrow one of my …” Mr. Campbell’s voice trailed off, mystified.

  “Yes, sir. I aim to catch up to Mr. Fawney and retrieve my horse. And maybe get your money back, too. But I’ll need a good quick mount, and now.”

  “Son, now hold on. You can’t go charging after a man like Caleb Fawney unarmed. Why do you think we’re all standing here?”

  I pulled Papa’s pistol out of the satchel and held it up, pointed at the sky.

  “I ain’t unarmed, sir. And I am going after him, no matter what. I’d rather not go on foot, and I’d sure be obliged if you’d lend me a horse.”

  He took a few steps forward, hands outstretched to reason with me.

  “Now, son, I appreciate what you’re saying and all but …” And then Mr. Campbell got close enough to look in my eyes. He stopped short, his face thoughtful.

  “By God,” he said. “You are going after him, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Campbell scratched his neck and looked around, then back at me.

  “Listen, the law and the ladies will never let me be if I let a boy go after the likes of Caleb Fawney. Point your gun at me, son.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Go ahead. Point your gun at me.” I saw an earnestness in Mr. Campbell’s eyes, so I reluctantly lowered the gun ’til its barrel was pointed more or less in Mr. Campbell’s general direction.

  He raised both hands in the air.

  “Holy blazes, boys, he’s got me beat. I s’pose I have no choice. I cannot leave my children orphans, if I ever have any. Yes, son, you can take one of my horses. I’d recommend that gray stallion over there, already saddled. He’s fast and steady and good in the mud.”

  I smiled.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll bring him back, riding my own.”

  “I hope so.”

  I was on the stallion and ready to give him my heels when Mr. Campbell called out to me.

  “You keep your guard up, Joseph Johnson. Caleb Fawney is bad all the way through. He will not think twice before putting a bullet in you. He will not bluff, and he will not hesitate. You best do the same.”

  I nodded, the stallion stomping the dirt beneath me. I held the reins in one hand, Papa’s pistol in the other.

  “Yes, sir. This here has got to be done. And I do intend to do it.”

  The trail Mr. Campbell had pointed out took off straight up a slope from the road. I held the reins in my mouth so I could grip the saddle horn tight, and gave that stallion a good kick. He was a fine horse, all right, and he charged right up the hill.

  At the top I could see the trail winding ahead through the sagebrush, flat and level for a ways, before dropping down and out of sight into a draw. I slowed for a few paces, just long enough to double-check I had a bullet in the chamber and to put the reins back into my other hand. Then I slapped those reins down on that stallion’s neck and kicked with both heels and we were off, racing after the outlaw and murderer who had stolen my horse.

  We sprinted through the rain, mud flying up from under the stallion’s hooves. I had to wipe with my sleeve to keep from getting blinded by the falling rain. But my teeth were set hard, and all the determination in my heart left no real room for fear.

  I sharpened my eyes and readied my shooting hand as we dropped down into the draw, but the trail ahead stayed empty. Up the draw we ran, the sound of our beating hooves and panting lungs lost in all the rain.

  Dark clouds by now had blocked out nearly all the sun, and a heavy mist hung in the chilled air. Between the clouds and the rain and the mist it was sure enough dark, looking closer to dusk than noon. I squinted ahead, ready to see my horse and the man upon her.

  The trail ran straight up the draw, which was choked with brush and trees. The walls of the little canyon were close, and low. I could’ve thrown a rock from one side to the other, or from the bottom to the top. It was a tight place, dark and cramped, and not the kind of place at all that I wanted to come upon an armed outlaw.

  “I’m coming for you, Sarah,” I panted in time with the stallion’s running. “I’m coming for—”

  And just right then we came ’round a corner, and there they were.

  Caleb Fawney, down on his knees, digging in the dirt underneath a tree.

  And, tied off to the tree next to him, ears pricked up and eyes on me and that stallion coming ’round the bend, was my horse. My sweet Sarah, her red and white showing bright in the dim grayness. My horse.

  My heart swelled and sung and nearly beat to bursting, and all I wanted to do was jump off that stallion and toss down my gun and run to her and throw my arms around her neck and bury my nose in her mane and just cry out all my sadness into her warm fur.

  But my head knew better than my heart; it knew there was something to be done, and I was the only one to do it.

  Caleb Fawney’s face snapped toward me and he jumped to his feet. But before his murderer’s hands could move an inch toward the guns on his waist I hollered out, “Stop! Hands up! You reach for those guns and you’re a dead man!” And my voice had no little boy waver in it, no shake or squeak. My voice was as strong as the stallion beneath me, and as sure and solid as the pistol in my hand.

  And Caleb Fawney froze. There was a breathless heartbeat of time, there in the rain, when he stood deciding what to do. I reined the stallion to a halt and sat upon him, looking down the barrel of my gun at a man I was fully prepared to kill if I needed to.

  Slowly, Caleb Fawney raised his hands in the air above his head.

  “Keep ’em there,” I said. Without blinking or looking away once I slid down off the horse, keeping my gun on him all the while. Once on the ground, I took a few careful steps toward him. He narrowed his eyes at me, then his mouth dropped open.

  “Aw, hell, you’re just a boy!” he exclaimed, and I saw his body relax.

  “I’m a boy with a gun,” I warned him. “And this trigger don’t care the age of the finger that pulls it. Don’t test me, sir. I will shoot.”

  At the sound of my voice Sarah let out a loud whinny and strained against her rope, kicking her feet at the ground. I held my heart in check and kept my eyes on a man I knew I couldn’t trust.

  “What kind of a posse are you?” he asked me. “Is this what they send after outlaws ’round here?”

  “I ai
n’t after no outlaw,” I said. “I’m after my horse, and you’ve got her.”

  Caleb Fawney looked over at Sarah.

  “What, this pony here? You’re here for the horse?”

  “Yes, sir. She rightfully belongs to me, and I’m here to get her back.” I paused. I didn’t want to get too close to the outlaw. “Untie her, please, and send her over.”

  “Why in the world should I give you my horse?”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “She ain’t your horse. And this gun pointed at your chest ought to be reason enough, I reckon.”

  Caleb Fawney licked his lips.

  “Where’d you get that gun, kid? Whose is it?” I didn’t like the fake easy tone of his voice. Like he was biding his time, waiting for his moment.

  I looked him right in his outlaw eyes, my voice hard as a hammer.

  “This here was my papa’s pistol,” I said. “But it’s mine, now. And I’ll shoot you dead if you go for your guns, sir.”

  “All right, all right,” Caleb Fawney said, shaking his hands in the air. “You got me beat, kid. But I still don’t see why I gotta give you this horse here when you’ve already got a fine one there.”

  “That horse there,” I answered, “is my horse. She is my horse. She was given to me by my papa, who taught me to ride her when I could hardly walk myself. That horse there carried my mama when she was too pregnant with my sister to walk on her own. That horse there is the horse I gave my little sister rides on, to teach her not to be afraid. My papa always said it was my duty to take care of her, and that is what I am doing.”

  The man smiled at me, a smile I sure enough didn’t like one bit.

  “That’s an awful big job for a boy, chasing down a known murderer all by yourself. Where’s your pa? And your ma?”

  “My papa died, crushed by a rolling wagon. Mama passed on first, from typhoid, along with my little sister. It’s just me, now. Just me and that horse. She’s the only bit of my family I got left, sir.” My voice trailed off. I looked away and sniffed, then real quick brought my eyes back to him. “She’s the only bit of me I got left.”