OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel)

by Jocks, Yvonne

  And this time, he was accusing me. Maybe he was agreeing with Seth there, too. Maybe he didn't think I was a lady.

  Considering how unwilling I was to drop this matter, I was beginning to question that myself.

  "Well it would help," I whispered archly, including Benj in my glare, "if people would bother explaining the rules now and then. Especially when they're stupid rules endorsed by bad management!" And at that, while both men stared, I stood up, stalked to the front of the wagon, and climbed up and into my "room."

  To my amazement, despite my deliberately poor manners, the Boss acknowledged my departure with another polite, if belated, "Ma'am."

  Through the canvas I heard Benj get control of his latest fit of laughter to hiss, "Ain't that somethin'! Jacob, maybe you found a European gal. They's got some progressive ways of thinkin' over there."

  From closer to me, Garrison repeated it like a dirty word, "Progressive." For some reason, that hurt. I didn't want him to be a bigot too.

  I said, "Yes, progressive," right back at him, from my bed on the feed sacks, inside.

  Benj didn't stop his sporadic chuckling until sometime after I fell sulkily asleep.

  For the first time in my five-day memory, I did not dream.

  In fact, I remembered nothing before hearing the trail-drive version of an alarm clock: Garrison, saying, "Mornin', boys. If you can't get up, there are men in the next town who can."

  Romero, at breakfast, had been beaten.

  I saw his swollen eye and the raw skin over his high cheekbones, and I felt ill.

  He wouldn't look at me. Very few of the men would—I caught Garrison's gaze on me a moment, but as soon as I did he looked back to his breakfast. The message was clear: pretend nothing's wrong. But something was very wrong. Unlike certain nightmares, this wasn't a dream, and maybe it was time I learned to be more than a victim. So I demanded, "Who did that?"

  Several heads popped up at my tone—clearly, I'd played along for too long. My less-than-docile approach surprised them.

  Romero held my gaze for a long moment with his one good eye, then squeezed out the words, "Horse kicked me."

  He was so lying.

  I looked at Seth, then at Lee. Both men continued to eat as if they couldn't feel me boring holes in their bare heads...but I thought I detected veiled satisfaction in Seth's posture. Then I looked at Garrison.

  He didn't look away, this time. But he didn't say anything, either. In fact, he looked...curious. Thanks for the intervention there, Boss.

  I looked at Benj, knowing he wouldn't stay quiet.

  He stunned me by saying, a little too cheerfully, "It's been known to happen, darlin'. Rough work, trailing beeves."

  Liar! I couldn't believe it. Benj had just lied to me!

  Garrison put his breakfast plate down, stood, and headed for his horse. At that signal, half the men snatched their hats and scattered like roaches in the light. I left my own plate and went after the Boss. I reached him just as he mounted and accidentally startled his horse into a sideways hop that didn't even faze its rider. Easily spooked animals, horses.

  "Ho," he commanded, reining the horse in two tight circles until it calmed. He didn't look particularly happy with me—and yet he still touched his damned hat brim in greeting. What was it with these cowboys and their hats?

  "Why don't you do something?" I asked, craning my neck to see some part of him other than his knee and his thick thigh.

  He frowned—but at least he didn't ask what I meant. "Says he got kicked."

  "And you believe that?"

  "Won't call him a liar." He touched his hat again. "Ma'am." And he rode off, none-too-slowly, to oversee the great exodus of the cattle.

  So that was that? I stalked back to the campfire and stared down at it in frustration. It wasn't fair.

  "Finish breakfast," said Schmidty. It took me a moment to realize he'd spoken. Schmidty generally volunteered conversation even less than Garrison did.

  "It isn't fair," I told him, willing him to understand. And maybe he did. He nodded, anyhow.

  "Still hungry come noon, even in unfair world," he reminded me, sounding particularly German.

  So I made myself swallow the rest of my breakfast and gulp some hot turbo-coffee, and I imagined all sorts of possible scenarios. Most of them had to do with convincing Romero to go to Garrison, and Garrison firing Seth. But... something about that plan didn't seem to fit this world. This world encouraged something more like Garrison beating Seth to a pulp, instead. Or maybe... maybe me beating Seth to a pulp.

  That seemed unlikely. Maybe Seth should be taken down by a longhorn cow or a gopher hole, instead.

  As soon as I finished eating, I scrubbed the damned dishes with damned dirt and imagined how nice it would be to have access to water for more than just drinking, again. This afternoon, I reminded myself. By tonight, I would have returned to civilization, and I would belong again.

  I hoped Amos and the calf cart would brighten my mood long enough to get me to Dodge without making any more scenes...but when I reached them, the Boss had gotten there before me.

  In three mornings, the Boss had never approached the calf cart. Now I almost asked Lee, who was looking concerned with a speckled little red calf across his saddle, what was wrong. But then I remembered that Lee had backed Seth up last night, and I went to Amos instead. "What's going on?"

  Garrison glanced up, noted my presence, then went back to the job he was doing, which was looking over the babies in the cart, touching their heads, checking their mouths.

  "Too many calves last night, child. You best go back to the chuck wagon." Amos said it very seriously, as if something was wrong and the Boss wasn't going to handle it after all.

  Part of me didn't want to imagine anything Garrison couldn't handle. But after last night, I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of trusting anybody to handle things. That's what they wanted a woman to do, around here: silently, docilely trust them. "So what's going to happen?"

  Amos said, "Shhh," and waited for word from on-high.

  I suddenly wished I hadn't eaten my breakfast as quickly as I did. The only reason I didn't ask again what exactly was going on was, part of me already suspected the worst and didn't want it confirmed.

  Finally the Boss said, "I reckon this one," and slanted his gaze toward Amos for a second opinion. His gloved hand rested on Patches' head.

  "Yessir," agreed Amos—the traitor. "He's the runt of the two, and that leaves the bigger'n to keep the mama's milk flowin'. She'll leave easier for her live 'un, too. Lucky thing she calved twins."

  Her live one? Lucky thing for whom?

  The Boss reached into the cart and hoisted Patches into his arms. Patches stuck his pure white head out and wailed for his mother. Amos took the speckled little calf from Lee, and put it into the cart, in Patches' place. Lee turned his horse sharply and rode hastily away, as if he didn't want to be here anymore.

  I caught Garrison noticing me, but he looked quickly away, hesitated, then started to carry Patches to his horse. In his arms, Patches bawled for his mother again. I wasn't even a mama cow, and I ached to answer him.

  "Best get up safe," said Amos to me, as if nothing of import had happened.

  I didn't get up anywhere. "Where's he taking Patches?"

  Amos put his hand on my shoulder. "Where you don't have to watch, I s'pect."

  That was horrible enough confirmation, and this time I didn't hesitate for a second. I took off after the Boss as fast as my clodhopper feet could carry me. For a moment, it felt like one of my old, helpless dreams—I might run and run and run, and I would never get anywhere, would never reach him. But this wasn't a dream, and cowboys walk slow. I caught Garrison by the arm before he could mount.

  He spun in surprise, nearly clobbering me with the calf he held; lucky for me he had good reflexes.

  "You can't kill him!" It would have sounded more imperative if I weren't gasping for breath.

  His expression tightened, and he nodded.
"Yes, ma'am. I can."

  "Maybe one of the older ones can keep up on its own."

  Garrison said, "No, ma'am."

  "Then we can put him in the chuck wagon."

  "Chuck wagon ain't for calves." He couldn't touch his hat, with his hands full, but he did nod before turning to his horse, leaving me powerless again. I would have to stand there, watch him ride off with Patches, hear the gunshot, know that I didn't do anything....

  No matter what, I couldn't be helpless. Not again! Without checking my thoughts, I ducked by the Boss and waved my arms and yelled at his horse, as loud as I could. Just as I'd hoped, his horse took one look at me and ran away...well, a good fifteen feet or so. Then, probably because of its dangling reins, it trotted to a stop. It glanced warily over its shoulder at the Boss and the crazy lady.

  I turned to peek back at Garrison—and gulped. I felt suddenly lucky his hands were full of calf.

  "Go. Back. To. The. Wagon." The words ground out of him.

  Amos appeared beside me, taking my arm. "She's just upset, Mister Garrison. I'll take care of her. Come with me, child. Don't make this no harder on the man than need be."

  "Harder? Nothing's hard for the Boss—is it?" My challenge turned from Amos to the calf-murderer. "Or if it is, you just damn well ignore it!"

  "Won't have that language in my camp," Garrison reminded me, his tone cold—and very sincere. Oh, kill calves, but by no means use foul language!

  "Or what? You'll shoot me like you're going to shoot Patches?" As if to second my protest, Patches bawled for his mother again.

  Garrison stared at me in disbelief, then shifted that disbelief accusingly to Amos. "She named 'em."

  "Yessir," admitted Amos, sounding ashamed. "Didn't know 'til it was too late."

  The Boss closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he opened them and, still deadly quiet, he told me, "Get back to the wagon."

  Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. I stared at him and Patches, and I didn't cry. "No."

  Then he put Patches down. For an absurdly joyful moment I thought he'd changed his mind—but he held onto the calf by the scruff of its neck and didn't let go. Then he pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and flipped it in his hand, so that he held it by the barrel, to use as a club. The message was clear. If I wouldn't let him go somewhere else, and I wouldn't go myself, he would just do it in front of me. "Now," he warned.

  "Child," pleaded Amos, but I ignored Amos to step up to Garrison—and I wedged myself right between him, his gun, and Patches. Since the Boss was already bent over to keep hold of the calf, that put me so close to him I could smell the coffee on his breath and the horses on his clothes, could feel the pulse of his anger roiling off him like the summer heat.

  "Git," he warned, with all his macho authority.

  I said, "Fuck you."

  In a flash, Garrison had me by both arms, half carrying and half dragging me back to the calf cart, where he shoved me firmly against one of the tall wheels. I caught a glimpse of almost-comical surprise on Amos's face before strong shoulders blocked my sight of him; my own expression could probably have outdone his.

  Garrison's expression wasn't surprised. Garrison's was, to use a word he would hate, pissed.

  I clung to one thought: He'd let go of Patches.

  "Won't have it from my boy," he warned, low. "Won't have it from men what do a good day's work for me. I surely won't have it from a useless bit of woman who don't do nothin' but eat, complain, and cause trouble!"

  "I—" I knew I should make an impassioned speech, should defend myself and animal-kind, should somehow show him the error of his ways, but self-preservation had kicked in. "They're just words...."

  "Dirty and disrespectful, and I won't—"

  "Have it?" I finished shakily for him. He was not amused.

  Neither, I noticed tardily, had he done more than pin me against the cart, and not hard at that. I caught a breath and felt just a little less terrified. Maybe he wasn't going to hurt me after all? Maybe?

  A little bolder I asked, "Or what? You'll fire me?"

  "We got soap," he warned, his fingers still biting into my arms.

  It took a minute for the meaning of his words to sink in. "You wouldn't!"

  But apparently Jacob Garrison was not a man to bluff. And he had the upper hand. I couldn't fight him off, I wasn't armed, and I doubted any of his men—maybe not even Benj—would go against him for me. I couldn't just leave the camp and hope to last long either; not unless I stole some food, and a horse, and oh yeah, a sense of direction.

  Something told me that I'd get a lot worse than a soapy mouth if I tried that.

  And none of it would do Patches any good.

  The helplessness felt familiar, and that angered me more than anything else. I wanted to cry, wanted to kick him where it would hurt, wanted to call him a bastard and a sonovabitch. But the threat was real, just as the threat to Patches—or to one of the other babies, now—was real. This might be a dictatorship, but it was his dictatorship.

  "You enjoy this," I accused, my voice too wavery.

  "No, ma'am." His grip on my arms softened; his gaze dropped to the ground before relocking with mine, and for a moment I thought I saw a glimmer of regret in their cool depths. "And I don't enjoy killin' calves. But some things gotta be done, and I won't have my authority bucked. When I'm shed of you, you can raise Cain if that's how you lean." Regret? No, now his eyes just beheld me with disgust. "Not with me."

  He was waiting for some acknowledgement on my part—and he'd all but released my arms. At least he'd given me an out. Not that I was happy about it.

  "No more swearing in your camp," I repeated, and tried to disguise how violently I was trembling by mimicking the cowboys. "Sure thing, Boss."

  He dropped his hands to his side, stepped back, ducked his head as he turned away. Suddenly he seemed more uncomfortable about the whole scene than I was. "Ain't yer boss," he muttered.

  But he might as well be. And that, I realized, was where I'd gone wrong. He couldn't have his authority "bucked"—at least, he didn't think he could. Dictators aren't known for their ability to take orders, right? It weakens their position as dictator.

  But they could, just maybe, listen to reason.

  I noticed how, as Amos headed back to us with poor prodigal Patches in his arms, Garrison's shoulders sank. It was almost imperceptible, but I noticed it—and I stepped quickly to his elbow.

  "Boss," I said, and his slanted, weary glare corrected me. Okay, then—heaven forbid I insinuate he would hire women. "Sir," I tried, over the bad taste in my mouth. If I had to grovel, I would be the best damn groveler this side of the Pecos...whatever the Pecos was and whichever side of it we were on. "I apologize. I let my emotions get in the way of my good sense. I apologize for swearing, and for being disrespectful, and I apologize for assuming you don't care about Patch—about the calf. You just can't afford the trouble if the mother cow hangs back." Troublesome women, yet again. "I know that. But that doesn't mean you want to kill her ba— I mean, her cal— I mean, the calf."

  Garrison stared down at me for a long moment, then sighed. "Go back to the wagon."

  Oh no—it was starting all over again. I'd have to talk fast.

  "Back to the wagon it is... except... just one more thing? Please? I'm not bucking your authority, promise—" I even took a few steps toward the wagon, see, look at me following your orders. "I just have one more question. If I figured a way for that calf to keep up with the rest of the herd as far as Dodge—alive, I mean—then that would make both of us happy, right? More money for you? Less heartache for me? A win/win solution."

  Garrison folded his arms and repeated that skeptically, as if the words were foreign. Or as if he knew a sales pitch when he heard one, which he probably did. "Win win."

  "I'll carry the calf," I offered in a rush. "I'm sure I can. If it's a matter of life and death, I mean. I know he won't fit on the cart seat with me and Amos both, and that I can't drive a mule and hold a
calf at the same time on my own... I mean, assuming I could drive a mule anyway...." Oops. "But I could walk with him. It's only what, seven or eight more miles to the Arkansas River? And you're all resting for a day or so once you reach the Arkansas, right? So Patches will have time to get strong enough to keep up, even if he is a runt."

  It took everything I had not to whisper that last part, so that Patches wouldn't hear the slur.

  The Boss continued his stare, probably hung up on the fact that he'd already made a decision, and that decision was a dead calf. Or maybe even getting angry because I wasn't following his orders—again. My stomach lurched at the very thought.

  "Please let me try," I said, putting the ball solidly in his court, just where male chauvinist power-Nazis want them to be. And, though it irked me to do it, I added, "Sir?"

  "Amos," said the Boss, continuing to stare at me. "Hand her that calf."

  "Her?" Amos gaped. An impatient flick of Garrison's eyes confirmed it, so he did. Suddenly I had my arms full of Patches—and wow, he was one heavy baby. He also didn't like the way I held him; innocently struggling, he kicked me in the leg and kneed me in the ribs. Flinging his head around, he bashed me on the chin with it. But I held on. With only a little struggling on my part, I finally got him positioned like a very, very, very big puppy, holding him under the butt with one arm and cuddling him to my chest with the other. There!

  I blinked proudly at the Boss, hoping that he wouldn't notice the tears of pain in my eyes.

  Garrison seemed unimpressed. "Eight miles," he drawled. "In the heat."

  I knew better than to lie and say I could do it. I sincerely doubted I could, not in one day anyway. But what other choice did I have? "Is there any harm in me trying?"

  He tipped his head at something beyond me, as if casually suggesting I take a look, so I did.

  A tall, patchy-colored cow with horns almost as wide across as I was tall stood there, giving me the evil eye despite a cowboy—Jorge—mounted closer to her. Patches opened his mouth and bawled. The cow trumpeted back at him, and glared at me.