Some Kind of Courage

by Dan Gemeinhart

  “Huh. Well, if it eases your mind any, you didn’t kill Caleb Fawney.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “Nope. Not remotely. But Mr. Caleb Fawney died by his own hand, technically speaking. Shot himself as my posse rode up on him. Your shot didn’t do him any good, but the fatal bullet came from his own gun.”

  “But I took his gun.”

  “Seems he had another. Little derringer. Reward’s still yours, though, as the one most responsible for his death and capture. Congratulations, son.”

  I looked at the money, thinking. Fawney’d had another gun the whole time. He could’ve pulled it on me, could have shot me for spite or revenge or to try one last desperate escape. But instead he’d shared a drink with me, and wished me luck. And given me his hat.

  I cleared a scratch from my throat.

  “I owe Mr. Campbell,” I said. “For my horse here.”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “John Campbell is already halfway to Walla Walla. Told me to thank you sincerely for getting him his money back, and that if anyone owes anyone anything, it’s him owing you. The horse, he said, was already yours. He was pretty darn impressed with your grit, and he wishes you and your horse here the best.”

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. I bent down and put the envelope into my satchel.

  “So, where’s your home, son?”

  I looked down at the dirt stable floor. I didn’t have no home. I didn’t have no nothing, except for Sarah. I reached up and put my hands on her. She lowered her head and nuzzled my neck, soft and warm.

  “She’s right here,” I answered. “Sarah here is my home.”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows furrowed down.

  “You ain’t got somewhere to go?” he asked, his voice gruff. “Some family somewhere?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the words for it. I kept my eyes and my hands on my horse.

  “Well,” the doctor said, “you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need, Joseph.”

  “Thank you,” I said, still looking at Sarah. “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “Will you come in for some breakfast, then?”

  “No, sir. Thank you. I think I’ll stay here with Sarah.”

  “I figured. I’ll bring something out. And, Joseph … she ain’t out of the woods. She’s made it longer than I thought, but she’s still not eating, and she’s getting weaker all the time. You need to prepare yourself. She’s put up a helluva fight—you both have—but the odds are still that she ain’t gonna make it. You understand that?”

  I nodded without looking up at him.

  The sheriff shook my hand and wished me luck, and the two men left.

  I stood there with Sarah. And she stood there with me. She rubbed her nose up against my shoulder. I scratched at her mane.

  “Don’t you go leaving me, girl,” I whispered. “We’re all that we’ve got, me and you.”

  * * *

  Doc Stevens kept bringing me food, out there in the stable. Breakfast, and then lunch, and then a dinner. But it wasn’t my eating I was worried about.

  Then, finally, as the sun was setting and the night chill was coming on, Sarah did it. She shoved her nose in the feedbag I’d been offering her every hour and she started munching on those oats. My heart went right to thumping and I don’t know if it was a half-beat or a whole but it was sure enough a happy beat.

  I almost danced and sang right there, but I had to hold that feedbag for her.

  “That’s it!” I whisper-sang. “Eat up, girl! Eat up!” Sarah chewed her way right through that sack of oats and then, with big, slopping licks, she emptied the bucket of water I held up to her.

  Tears were in my eyes, but for the first time in as long as I could remember they were happy tears.

  I fed my Sarah on and off all night. Any time I woke up in that darkness I’d call her name and fumble for the bag and hold it out to her for as long as she ate.

  When the doctor came in the morning I jumped right up.

  “She’s eating, Doc! She’s been eating oats all night!”

  The doctor raised his eyebrows.

  “How much?”

  I held up the feedbag.

  “Three of these! And three buckets of water, too!”

  The doctor looked at Sarah. She looked better, there weren’t no doubt about it. Her head was higher. Her ears perkier. Her eyes brighter. The doctor smiled.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll be.”

  “So she’s gonna be all right? She’s gonna get better?”

  Doc Stevens rubbed a thoughtful hand across Sarah’s flank.

  “I reckon she will, son.” He shook his head again and laughed, just a little laugh. “I reckon she will. Now will you finally come on out of this barn and let this horse be alone for just a while?”

  I wrapped my arms around Sarah’s neck, a smile on my face to match the peace in my heart.

  “I reckon I won’t, Doc. I reckon I won’t.”

  “Yep. I don’t s’pose I would, either.”

  The doctor left, after taking a look under Sarah’s bandages. He reckoned it’d be a couple more days before she’d be ready to do any traveling.

  When he left, I sat down in my straw bed, back up against the stable wall. In a couple days, then, I’d be free to go. I’d have no horse to chase, no debt to pay, no man to find. No place to go.

  I had my horse. And I had some money. And my papa’s pistol. And a little black bird. And an outlaw’s hat. But that was about it.

  What I didn’t have was a home.

  But I s’pose, maybe, I had an idea.

  The leaves were mostly gone off the trees, leaving the branches bare and alone against the fading light of the sky. Those leaves that were left were bright and beautiful, sure enough glowing in the colors of the sunset.

  My sweet Sarah was strong and steady beneath me, my body moving with hers as we made our way up the empty road. Darkness fell around us like a blanket, but a cold one. Our breath puffed in white clouds that we left behind as we went. The river to our side had a fragile lace of ice at its edge.

  I took the turn I knew to take, up off the main road. The light was almost gone, but I knew where I was going.

  Then it was there, up ahead. The warm and welcoming light of a fire glowed in the cabin’s window, and a trail of smoke rose from its stone chimney.

  Around me and Sarah, a soft snow began to fall. Big, fluffy, silent white flakes, drifting and tumbling down. I looked up, watching them fall and flutter. Here and there, in the sky between the clouds, single stars were just beginning to spark and flicker.

  I could feel a smile on my face, sure enough, but I was feeling a bit too much to say I was happy. I was happy, I s’pose, but I was lots of other things at the same time. I reckon I always will be.

  Behind me, I could still hear the river talking. It was telling me a story, and I knew the voice that was doing the talking. There was plenty of sadness in the story, I reckon, but it wasn’t sad all the way through. There was an awful lot of love, and an awful lot of together, and an awful lot of happy at the end. It was a good story, I thought. A good story.

  Way up above me were campfires. Campfires of folks that had gone before me. They were together now, gathered, looking down at me. They were together. That was something. A beautiful kind of something. I looked up at them, and didn’t bother about the blurriness in my eyes. I reckon they were smiling, too. I missed ’em, sure enough, true and deep and hard, but the loving was stronger than the missing.

  And all around me were the feathers of angels, drifting down. Falling on my shoulders, and the brim of my hat. Angels that had been with me, no doubt, the whole way. I could hear Katie’s voice, looking at those angel feathers. And I reckon I always will.

  And in my pocket was a little bird, a little black stone bird. A memory I’d always carry. The memory of a friend.

  And under me was a horse. A horse I shared my very heart with. Getting her back h
ad been tough. But Papa had said that when there’s something that’s got to be done, the thing to do is just to buckle down and do it the best you can. And I had. Just like he’d have wanted me to. I’d gotten her back. My sweet Sarah. My sweet Sarah.

  In the window was the shape of a person. A woman, it looked like, holding a baby. Just a silhouette, before a golden fire, in the darkness of a canyon night. The silhouette disappeared, and the cabin door opened.

  Anna Davidson stood in the door, looking out at me.

  “Joseph,” she said.

  “Mrs. Davidson,” I answered. I patted Sarah on the neck and slid down off her back.

  A boy came running past his mama, right out the door and through the falling snow. He hit me with a running hug that almost knocked me down and wrapped his arms tight around me.

  “Joseph!” he hollered. “Joseph, you’re back!”

  I put my arms around him, too.

  “Justin,” I said, giving him a squeeze. “My Justin.”

  Mrs. Davidson took a few steps toward me, wrapping that baby up a little tighter in a blanket. Mr. Davidson stepped through the door behind her, then followed her out.

  “Is this the horse, then?” she asked. “Is this your Sarah?”

  “It is, ma’am. This is her.”

  “She’s a fine horse,” Mr. Davidson said.

  “Yes,” I said. “She sure enough is.”

  “It’s good to see you, Joseph,” Mrs. Davidson said, looking into my face. “Are you just passing through again?” she asked quietly, her eyes steady on mine.

  I raised one hand from Justin’s back and rested it up on Sarah, my sweet Sarah, standing by me. I looked up at the stars, through the falling snow, and listened to the river talking behind me. I reckoned, just maybe, you can choose your home.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, looking back at her. “I am not passing through. I’m coming home.”

  I’m lucky to have a long list of folks I need to thank for all their support in making this book—and many other books, as well—come to life.

  A huge thanks to my editor, Nick, as well as to Jeffrey, Jeremy, Sara, Bess, Charlie, Tracy, Nikki, Sue, Sheila Marie, Lizette, and the whole amazing crowd at Scholastic. I’m so happy and grateful to be with you. Also, Nina gets her own shout-out for another beautiful cover.

  To my agent, Pam, and Bob Diforio, for all the help and support.

  To my local community of writers, Write on the River, and to my writing group—it’s so great to have so many great writers to share ideas and community with.

  To the Fearless Fifteeners—one great year behind us, many more to come! Getting through a crazy, brain-spinning year was so much more fun with all of you!

  To the wonderful staff and students of Mission View Elementary. One of the things I’m luckiest to have is a job that I wake up excited to go to, and that’s because of all of you. Thanks for all the cheers and smiles.

  To my friends, old and new, who have been nothing short of amazing in cheering me on and encouraging me. Thank you.

  Lastly, but not remotely least, to my family. This book is, in many ways, mostly about family … and all of you were the inspiration for all the best parts. I can’t thank you all enough.

  Dan Gemeinhart is the author of The Honest Truth, which was a New York Times Editors’ Choice selection, an Indie Next List selection, and an Amazon.com Best Book of the Month. A teacher-librarian and father of three daughters, he lives with his family in Washington State. Visit him online at www.dangemeinhart.com.

  Copyright © 2016 by Dan Gemeinhart

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, February 2016

  Cover art & design by Nina Goffi

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-66583-4

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.