Haints Stay

by Colin Winnette

  The next day went much as the previous. They walked and stopped and walked and stopped. They found a small stream and drank from it. They filled their canteens and a cup to carry each. Mary spotted a bird’s nest with a mother bird on its edge. She did not mention it to Bird.

  “I like it out here,” said Mary. “It is pretty and I like the air.”

  “You’re a fool to fall in love with it,” said Bird.

  She did not answer. The mother bird lifted and sought food for the hidden young.

  “You would do better to speak less,” said Mary.

  “The same could be said of you,” said Bird.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But you are predictable and your position is clear. If you said nothing, I would nonetheless know how you felt about anything we might experience.”

  “How do I feel about what you’ve just said ?”

  “You feel hurt, perhaps, but you also think that I am wrong.”

  “I am not hurt.”

  That night, Bird was less insistent about the sacks. He did not cover his face, and said nothing when Mary set her blanket down on the ground, rather than over her bright muddy white dress.

  They were quiet for some time, but neither slept.

  “Do you know any constellations ?” said Mary.

  “What are they ?”

  “The stars,” said Mary. “The shapes they make.”

  “I see clusters,” said Bird, “flickering like a bunch of little fires on the hill.”

  “Several points make an identifiable shape,” said Mary. “If you imagine a line drawn between them.”

  “Like what ?”

  “I have only been told of them, and I do not know them,” said Mary. “So every time I look, they are different.”

  “What are they now ?”

  “I am too tired to see anything other than a big soft bed for me to sleep in.”

  “I will make money in town and we will buy a big soft bed,” said Bird.

  Mary did not respond.

  It was a cold night. The trees seemed not to break the wind at all. The mouths of the bread sacks slapped the earth and neither of their blankets would hold still. They hardly slept. They lay awake, staring up and trying to settle things. In the morning, they walked. They walked and walked and walked. They were losing their appetites, though they were working harder than they had for some time. When they were alone in the building with the kitchen, the amount of bread it took to fill them up was less and less with each day. Typically, they were still hungry after they were finished eating, but their stomachs could take no more of what it was they had to give it. In the woods, even that small amount seemed too much to the both of them. They forced it down, knowing they needed the energy to keep themselves on foot and moving forward. It was painful and Mary would throw up every now and then, after a meal. When she did, Bird made them stop and eat more. She knew he was right, that she needed to eat, but it was miserable and she hated him for it.

  On the fourth day, the trees broke and they discovered a meadow. There were white flowers scattered throughout, and clusters of yellow ones. Bees crowded the blossoms. At the far end of the meadow, a thick brown moose vanished back into the woods.

  On the fifth day, Bird spotted a fence. They had crossed the meadow and back into the trees. These trees were thinner, more spread apart. Finally, they gave way to a slope of rolling hills. It was on the edge of one of these hills that Bird saw the shadow of four parallel lines, breaking the light that was vanishing beyond it.

  “On the other side of that hill,” said Bird, “we will find a house.”

  Mary did not believe it. Or she was not willing to let herself believe it. That this early on, they would discover a home, a fireplace, a matching set of chairs and people in them.

  They walked on and discovered it was true. They spotted the smoke first, and then the ponies. Trained ponies moving about within the confines of the enormous gate. They investigated the two of them from a comfortable distance. The pen was large enough to vanish over a second hill, and it was the hill from behind which the smoke was rising. It was blue in the dusk light, lifting casually and thinning.

  “I would like to pet them,” said Mary.

  “Do as you like,” said Bird. He set down his sacks. He removed his pistol from his belt and approached the far hill. He crested it, kept low, and descended toward the house. He spotted no bodies on the porch or in the distance of any visible direction. It was a log cabin, relatively new. He crept to the window and crouched there. He listened, but heard nothing. Then he heard the floorboards groan. He spotted a cat lapping water from a puddle by the porch. A young girl appeared at its edge. She set herself on her belly, reached down and gripped the cat, and it scratched her. She began to cry, and an older man appeared behind her to investigate.

  “Who are you ?” said the man.

  He held his daughter behind him then.

  “What do you want ?”

  Bird had the pistol trained on him. He was trembling.

  “Are you hurt ?” said the man.

  Bird did not respond.

  The cat bounded beneath the porch. The girl’s head appeared to the right of her father’s hip.

  “He’s lost an arm,” she said.

  “Are you hurt ?” the man said again.

  “No,” said Bird. “Where is the nearest town ?”

  “About ten miles up that road,” said the man, pointing to a path leading from the front of the house. “Are you here to hurt or rob us ?”

  “No,” said Bird. “But we’d like to eat.”

  “We ?”

  “My wife and I,” said Bird.

  “But you can’t be more than… fourteen ?” said the man.

  “I am older than that,” said Bird. “We’ve been walking for days.”

  “From where ?”

  “The woods,” said Bird, “that way.” He signaled with the barrel of the pistol then directed it back at the man.

  “Wolf Creek ? But it’s winter…”

  Bird did not respond.

  “You were in the valley when it snowed ?”

  Bird nodded.

  “With your parents ?”

  Bird did not respond.

  “Alone then.”

  “I want to meet his wife,” said the man’s daughter. She was all the way out at his side now, gripping his hand as he held it to her.

  “She’s with the ponies,” said Bird.

  “I don’t want her fooling with those ponies,” said the man. “I aim to sell them.”

  “She just wanted to meet them,” said Bird.

  “I don’t want her fooling with them. If you go get her, and put that pistol away, we’ll give you some supper and I can hitch you into town in the morning.”

  “Where will we sleep ?”

  “We’ve got furs and a floor,” said the man.

  “I’d just as soon sleep out here,” said Bird.

  “In the mud ?”

  Bird nodded.

  “Fine by me,” said the man. “Now go get your wife and tell her not to fool with those ponies.”

  Brooke made himself useful. He answered to Wendell, but more than that, he aided Marston and Clay when he was done with any particular assigned task. He dug the fire pits — they often had two or three going a night. He dug latrines and led the more troublesome horses. He offered rest to the weary. He offered bits of the food he caught, a bite of rabbit to the youngest girl after he and his wife were fed. He fell in line with their party, and they absorbed him. His wife was slowly recovering. Some mornings, she rose and walked with him. Other days, she spent alone in the shade and relative comfort of the wagon.

  Soon, they came upon the large rocks Brooke had not forgotten. Jack spotted the wreckage, and he, Marston, and Clay rode out to investigate it. The others rested. The boys reported that it was a hired stagecoach, containing several corpses. There had likely been a robbery. There were no tracks, and the corpses were far gone. Whoever had taken down the stag
ecoach had emptied it of whatever contents were of value and were now gone from the area. It was likely that the wagon train was safe from harm, and that they should continue as they had been.

  “Did you investigate the rocks ?” said Wendell. “Did you check for caves ?”

  “We found two caves,” said Marston. “They were empty. There was yellow water in one and we filled the reserve canteens.”

  “You shouldn’t drink yellow water,” said Wendell.

  “We’ve marked them for emergencies only,” said Marston.

  They set on again.

  That night, Brooke boiled the yellow water and strained it through several layers of fabric and sand. It cleared slightly. The smell lifted. He drank a small amount in front of Wendell to show that it was trustworthy. The party waited one day, kept an eye on Brooke, who showed no signs of suffering or discontent. By the end of the day, they were sipping from the reserve canteens. Wendell sent Marston back to the cave to fill anything that could be capped. There was no telling when they would encounter water again. They had left the creek some days before, and now the only water was that which gathered in muddy puddles along their path, and sprang from the occasional hoof print. Brooke volunteered to ride with Marston.

  They took the two fastest horses. It was not far at all to back-track without the wagons and the slow pace of their train. As they reached the stagecoach, Marston did not pause, but Brooke slowed his ride.

  “What do you think they were transporting ?” said Brooke.

  “Gold,” said Marston. “Or someone influential. Perhaps a gang leader or a prisoner or a political figure. The men were armed. They wore holsters and pouches. Whatever it was is gone, though. The cave’s to the left. In that larger of the two red rocks.” He gestured with the reins of his horse in the direction he was headed.

  Brooke dismounted and examined the stagecoach. It was nearly unrecognizable with all the weather had done.

  “Must have been gold,” Brooke yelled to Marston. “The back seat is a hollowed bench, emptied.”

  Marston was just beyond earshot. He signaled for Brooke to join him, so Brooke mounted his horse and rode to meet the man.

  “The back seat is a hollow bench,” said Brooke.

  “So it was gold,” said Marston.

  “Looks like,” said Brooke.

  “Imagine,” said Marston, “even if it were still all there to be collected, Wendell would not allow us to take it.”

  “Why’s that ?”

  “Too heavy. An unnecessary burden. We would be sore to leave it but he would figure it the same as if we had never found it.”

  “And you all listen to him ?”

  “Always have,” said Marston.

  “And he brought you out here ?”

  “It was a group decision. It is this one,” said Marston. They entered the cave, filled all they had to fill, and climbed back upon their horses.

  “But it was his idea ?” said Brooke.

  “Wendell has fond memories of Wolf Creek,” said Marston. They rode at a good clip for some time then, slowed when they spotted the wagon train in the distance.

  “And what did you think ?” said Brooke.

  “That it would not be as he remembered it,” said Marston. “But we were out of money and nothing would grow, so we needed a new plan.”

  “You sold your land and headed out.”

  Marston nodded. “Bought the wagons and what else we could with the money.”

  “What is Wolf Creek ?”

  “A town in a valley. Small, fertile, lonesome. I’ve only heard stories. Snows come in every so often and wreak all kinds of havoc. The valley’ll fill up in the worst of them. Heard a family died one winter, holding out for the snow to pass. Most people use it as a place to stop off in between.”

  “In between what ?”

  “Where they’re coming from and where they’re going,” said Marston. “There’s water there. And cheap land. We don’t have to stay forever.”

  “How long have you been moving ?”

  “A long time,” said Marston.

  They were quiet then. They joined the train shortly after and separated.

  The woman Brooke met in the snow was up and walking alongside Irene.

  “John has come back,” said Irene.

  The woman looked at him, confused for a moment, and then smiled.

  Brooke lowered himself from his horse and loaded the water into the back of the wagon. That evening, he treated the water and sat with the woman he met in the snow. She watched him and learned the routine, then set to treating some of the water herself.

  “It doesn’t get rid of everything,” said Brooke, “but it tastes a little better and the smell goes away.”

  “Is it still dangerous ?”

  “Not really,” said Brooke. “It might come out your far end a little aggressively, but you’ll recover and it won’t happen again. Your stomach gets stronger like an arm.” He flexed.

  “You are not John,” she said.

  “I know,” said Brooke.

  “I do not know you.”

  “We met by the creek while you were wandering. I was wandering too,” said Brooke. “You saved my life.” He poured the water slowly and steadily over the handmade filter.

  “I remember,” she said.

  “Who was John ?” he said.

  “My husband,” she said.

  “Where is John ?” he said.

  “Gone.”

  He nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell them ?”

  “I am tired,” she said. “They trust us. They like you. You have not asked much of me. We can continue as we are, if it suits you as well.”

  “It suits me,” he said.

  “You are not a bad man ?” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “But you have done wrong,” she said.

  “In the past,” he said. “But not with you.”

  “You see that it remains the case,” she said.

  The water was treated and safely stored. It was a warm night, so they slept on their backs in the dirt, without a fire.

  In the morning, Brooke sought out Marston. He was unblocking the wagon wheels and digging the anchoring stakes from the dirt. Brooke helped him. They worked in silence, circling the wagons and drawing up the stakes that held them steady. They untied the horses and harnessed them. They gathered the rocks from the fire pits. They were sweating as the wagons began to roll. They brought up the rear, trailing the third wagon, with two mules in tow.

  “Is there money to be made in Wolf Creek ?” said Brooke.

  Marston shook his head.

  “There’s a life to live,” he said. “Or that’s what we hope. It’s all we’re after. I’d like to raise a family.”

  “It sounds easy enough,” said Brooke. “What you’re working

  on.”

  “Few things wind up actually being that way,” said Marston, “but it’s a straightforward plan.”

  “That it is,” said Brooke.

  Bird and Mary slept a good night’s sleep with that family, their first in many. Bird slept outside. The man’s daughter brought him furs and a few flints, sticks, and logs to make a fire. Mary slept inside, in a pile of furs. She did not bother to evenly distribute them upon the floor. She set them in a pile and worked her way into them. They sat heavily beneath and upon her.

  In the morning, the man, whose name was Clark, brought them into town in a wagon he hitched to the back of his horse. His daughter brought up the rear, directing the ponies they were planning to sell that very day. Clark let Mary and Bird off the wagon near the center of town. Bird and Mary thanked them for their kindness and hospitality. Clark and his daughter were more than happy to help. They rode on to tend to business and left Bird and Mary standing together, but a few feet apart.

  Town was busy, bustling, loud, and dirty. Men and women splashed through the mud, dashing from here to there. Shouts came from windows and doors swung mightily with the bodi
es of suited men and drunkards alike. In the very center of town there was a spiraling staircase. It curled up toward the sky and then stopped, as if there was a trapdoor at its top that might have led them from this world to the next.

  “What is this ?” said Bird, fingering the carving perched atop the banister at the bottom of the polished stairs.

  “An eagle,” said Mary.

  “I know it’s a bird,” said Bird. “But why is it here ?”

  “I do not know,” said Mary.

  “I like this place,” said Bird.

  “It does not suit me,” said Mary, holding the hem of her dress an inch or so above the mud.

  “How can you know ?”

  “It’s a feeling. The place is busy and loud. I preferred the ranch. I even preferred our building with a kitchen, on a good night.”

  “This place will do for now,” said Bird. “There is money to be made here.”

  Two men fell out of a set of swinging doors to Bird’s left. They were deep in a struggle, pounding one another with drunken swings. Mary startled, but was out of harm’s way.

  A crowd of men soon followed them from inside, keeping a distance but egging them on.

  “He meant it,” said one of the men. “Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

  “He’s been saying as much for days now,” said another.

  They were laughing for the most part, making sport of these men.

  Bird approached. He withdrew a pistol, but only to more laughter from the men.

  “This broken boy has come to set you apart,” said one of the men on the bar’s stoop.

  The two fighters paid no mind to any of it. One of the men was finally able to gain an upper hand. He was able to straddle the other man and pin him down. He pounded into his face and neck without discrimination. He was smiling. Bird announced himself with a shot, but neither of the men paid him any mind. A few of the men on the stoop whooped or yipped. It all seemed fairly ordinary. Mary withdrew. She did not like to see violence or feel the approach of violence, and this was too much of both. She entered the building across from the bar, a post office that was seeing little action. A clerk sat behind the counter, busy with some writing. He lowered his pen to greet her, but Mary kept her back to him. Her gaze was at the window, in spite of herself.