Silence the Dead

by David Crossman

  “And most of ‘em ain’t real cowboys a’tall, but city folk taught by this fella.” Jenkins jerked a thumb in Gerrard’s direction. “And they’re faster, and sharper, and more accurate than any old cowpoke in Tuscon you ever heard of.”

  Thomas could only speculate as to what a ‘cowpoke’ might be. As for Tuscon, it was a foreign and exotic name, nothing more. But it sounded dangerous.

  “I didn’t teach the Indians,” said Gerrard with a chuckle.

  “Can you teach me to use this,” said Thomas, removing Uncle Theo’s venerable pistol from Flanagan’s saddlebag.

  “My, my,” said Gerrard, taking the gun. “Where’d you ever get this, boy?”

  As Thomas related the story, Gerrard nodded a lot, turning the gun over and over in his hand, holding it up to his eye and peering down the barrel, spinning the cartridge chamber, running his thumb along the stock.

  “Well, it’s had quite a history, hasn’t it?” he said, handing the gun back. “A fine weapon, and it seems to be in good shooting order. Have you ever fired it?”

  “No,” said Thomas, running a sad eye over the gun. “No bullets.”

  “No,” said Gerrard. “They’d be pretty rare these days. Just a mite bigger than the .44’s.” He leaned back against a barrel of scrap iron. “Probably for the best, anyway, given that you haven’t had proper instruction. A loaded gun and ignorance are a deadly combination.”

  “But, you can teach me?”

  “Well, let me take a quick inventory.” He studied Thomas a moment. “Two arms. Two hands. Ten fingers. A brain capable of communication. Yes, I think I might be able to teach even an Irishman with those attributes, given time.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure he liked the crack about Irishmen, but as it had been delivered with a twinkle in the eye, he let it go.

  “Question ain’t ‘can ‘e’, it’s ‘will ‘e?’ ” Jenkins twisted a curious eyebrow in Gerrard’s direction.

  “Been a long time,” said Gerrard.

  “Yeah, we seen how rusty you was with that whip,” said Jenkins. He went to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out an old pistol nested in a worn leather holster. “Show ‘em what you can do, Lou.” He tossed the package to Gerrard.

  “You ever think about being a manager, Jenkins?” he said. “The thing you have to know about quick-draw,” he said, as he performed a quick inspection of the gun, “is that it’s a game of milliseconds.”

  “Milliseconds?” said Thomas.

  “That’s a second cut into a thousand parts,” Gerrard explained. “A figure of speech. What it means is that you have to be able to do in a hundred milliseconds the same action it takes your opponents a hundred and one milliseconds to perform. You don’t have to be a lot faster. Just faster.

  “On the other hand,” he tucked the gun into the holster, “if you can be a lot faster, you might never have to pull the trigger. Let me show you what I mean.”

  Jenkins leaned back against a partition on his elbows. “Heh-heh. I always like this part.”

  “A holster for the gentleman?” said Gerrard, holding out his hand toward the saddler.

  Moving quickly, Jenkins retrieved one from a nail on the wall and handed it over. “There y’go.”

  Gerrard tossed it to Thomas and waited while he put it on and slipped the gun into the holster. He liked the feel of the weight on his hip. He stood a little taller.

  Gerrard smiled. “Good. Now, let me make sure my gun’s empty so no one gets hurt.”

  The motion that followed was nothing but a blur as a bullet whizzed by Thomas’ left ear, splintering the wall just behind his head. Then, in less time than it took Thomas to grunt, Gerrard had re-holstered, drawn, and fired again – the bullet this time passing no more than an inch to his right. All of this had taken place, literally, in the blink of an eye; something no one had done as of yet, except for Matthew who had put his own hands over his ears and was about to burst into tears. Which he did. Numbly, Patrice patted his head.

  “Empty now,” said Gerrard. “Sorry about the noise. Well, ready?”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Jenkins was slapping his knees raw. He sat back on his desk and rolled back on his tailbone, laughing. “You should see your faces! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  Only Sadie wasn’t at a loss for words. “Cor blimey. Wot ‘appen’t?”

  Gerrard put the gun back in its sheath. “Most opponents will be sufficiently discouraged by that kind of display, so they don’t care to press the point. Assuming there is one. Which is good. It means you don’t have to kill anyone, which makes for a much more pleasant day.”

  “Less paperwork, too!” Jenkins tittered like an old crone.

  “That’s the difference between a quick-draw artist,” he bowed modestly, “and a gunslinger. The artist hones his skills with the object of never having to pull the trigger . . . at least not with the intent of killing a man. The gunslinger wants to put another notch in his gun. I’ll tell you something, if you’re disciplined enough to practice, you can learn to draw twice in the time it takes your average gunslinger to draw once.

  “So, my boy, what are you hoping to be? Gunslinger or artist?”

  Thomas’ bladder had ceased to function after the first shot. The second had staunched the flow. He tried to say ‘artist’ but, though his lips moved, nothing came out.

  “Good choice!” said Gerrard.

  Jenkins nodded toward Sadie. “You gonna teach her, too?”

  Gerrard cast an appraising eye over Sadie, walking around her. “Women are good students, Jenkins. Miss Mosey comes to mind.”

  “That’s right! You taught her, didn’t you!”

  “Let’s say I assisted the development of her natural aptitude,” said Gerrard. “Plus she had no end of patience with herself.” He leveled a glance at Sadie. “Those are the keystones of perfection: practice, and patience with oneself.”

  Thomas was trying to keep the name from slipping his memory. “Miss Mosey?”

  For the ensuing five minutes, Jenkins declaimed enthusiastically on the rising legend of Phoebe Mosey, who now called herself Annie Oakley, and her trick-shooter husband, Frank Butler. “You taught him, too, come to think of it. He was Irish.”

  “Still is, in all likelihood,” said Gerrard. He looked at Thomas. “That’s a point in your favor, young man. Irish are teachable. Please, Jenkins, continue. I’m thinking I might hire you to write my biography.”

  “Well, you already wrote the first half. Got it here, somewheres.” Jenkins rummaged through a beat-up oaken cabinet, and from somewhere among the wreckage of his business documents, produced a leather-bound volume. He held it up and recited the title aloud, without looking at it. “‘Wah-to-Yah and the Taos Trail’ is what it says.” He crossed the room and handed the book to Thomas with all the reverence of someone who can’t read, for whom the written word is something both sacred and mystical. He tapped the book with his forefinger. “Open the cover there.”

  Thomas complied. There was an inscription on the first page.

  “Read that out loud, now.”

  There were few things, Thomas discovered at that moment, that rendered him as weak in the knees as the prospect of reading in public. Gerrard saw his discomfort. “Here, give it to me,” he said, holding out his hand. Jenkins transferred the book. “The boy’s obviously misplaced his spectacles. Fortunately, I have mine.” He removed a pair of pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket and fixed them on his nose. “It says, ‘To my good friend and saddler, Rupert Jenkins, for his many years of faithful service.’ Signed,” he put his glasses away, closed the book, and gave it back to Jenkins, ‘Yours Truly.’ He gave a gentlemanly bow.

  “Rupert Jenkins,” said Jenkins cheerfully. “That’s this squiggly part right here.” He pointed to his name on the flyleaf. The ‘first half’ – as Jenkins called it – was an account Gerrard had written and published while in his early twenties detailing his exploits during an expedition in the 40s to the Wild West of Thomas’ most fevered imaginings, complete wi
th encounters with Indians, both friendly and savage, run-ins with ruthless Mexican cut-throats, discovery of gold mines, fortunes lost, found, and lost again, buffalo hunting, rustling, avalanches in remote mountain passes, meetings with singing French trappers and Shakespeare-quoting mountain men, death-defying desert journeys, gunfights, saloon brawls, dark-eyed senoritas and black-haired squaws; nothing, in short, was omitted that might stir up a young man’s blood.

  The storytelling was dominated by Jenkins, though certain statements were tossed back to Gerrard for verification on one fine point or another. Thomas found that man’s complacency in the face of what amounted to hero worship unsettling. Yet, there was nothing proud or boastful in either his comments or his bearing. Everything was very matter-of-fact.

  Jenkins wound down about half-an-hour later, but judging from his reception, he could have continued indefinitely. Both Thomas and Sadie had gained a much deeper appreciation of the breadth and depth of their ambitions and the difficulties they could anticipate as they pressed westward.

  “But that was a lifetime ago, Jenkins,” said Gerrard. “Things have changed. Everybody takes the train west these days – missing most of the country in the process, sadly, but you’ve got to admit, it’s a lot faster and more comfortable.”

  “We’re not!” Thomas chirped, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat. “We’re takin’ the wagon train come spring. That we are.”

  Gerrard was taken aback. “You are? Seriously?”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye,” said Sadie tentatively. Understandably, given the chronicle of her life, hers was not a nature that tended to give much consideration to tomorrow. Thus far, she had taken things pretty much a day at a time, and ignorance of what the future held had most assuredly been bliss. Now, however, the tales of Gerrard’s life on the plains still ringing in her ears painted the future in ominous hues.

  Patrice, for her part, had left with M. A. at a point early in the story because M.A. was more than usually disruptive.

  “But that’s months away,” said Gerrard. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  “They want me to stable their horse,” said Jenkins, jerking a nod at Pinch.

  Thomas was afraid Gerrard was going to laugh at the horse. Others had. But instead, he stood up and went to the stall and stroked Pinch’s nose. “He looks like he’s given years of service.”

  “That he has,” said Thomas, assuming that was the case. He’d certainly performed admirably in the weeks they’d had him.

  Gerrard produced a peppermint from his pocket and fed it to the animal. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

  Pinch made a grateful noise.

  “‘s like ‘e unnerstood ya,” said Sadie.

  “He did, miss. He did.” He ran his hand along the horse’s shoulder, slapped it, and returned to his former seat. “Now, I find myself in a most agreeable situation. I had come by, as I do most Tuesday afternoons, to pass the time of day with my good friend here.” He gestured at Jenkins. “And give him an excuse for not working for a half-hour or so. But, as I’ve heard all his stories – and between us, since he’s hardly left this barn for at least two hundred years, he’s got them all second-hand . . . ” Jenkins laughed and slapped himself again. “I am eager to hear yours.”

  “We’d rather hear yours,” said Thomas.

  Sadie clarified. “Ours ain’t got an endin’.”

  Gerrard laughed. “Well, I hope mine hasn’t either! Not just yet.”

  In Sadie’s responding blush, the second in their acquaintance, Thomas read a hopeful sign for her rehabilitation.

  “I only mean . . . ” she said, but didn’t have anything to say after that.

  “I know what you mean, miss,” said Gerrard. “I’m just having a bit of fun with you. As for my story, if you’re not leaving Junction City ‘til spring, I’ve got all winter to impart the tedious details. But you’ve had the general outline from Jenkins here. Though, believe me, it’s more glorious to hear of it than it was to live it. Now, tell me yours.”

  Jobs were not hard to come by in Junction City that winter. Thomas found himself employed within two days; not without the help, he suspected, of L.H. Gerrard, who seemed to be very highly respected in town. Thomas worked as a stock boy at the Trailhead Mercantile. Sadie, however, flatly refused indoor work of any kind. “If I’m gonna be stuck in four walls, Tommy, I’ll make me livin’ lookin’ at the ceilin’ like I done afore. The hours is short, an’ the money’s better.”

  In the window of the mercantile, Thomas saw a yellowed notice for a muleteer to drive a delivery wagon for the store, a position that had long been vacant, if the yellowing of the card was any indication. He happened to mention it in Sadie’s hearing.

  “That’s the one, Tommy! Let me at it!”

  “You! You’re a . . . ” he was about to make a big mistake and could see that Sadie was about to pounce. He altered course. “You don’t know how to drive a wagon.”

  “I drove Pinch, din’t I?”

  “Yes, but that ain’t the same thing.”

  “Jenkins’ll teach me, then.”

  “Make you a deal. You get Jenkins to teach you, an’ if he’s satisfied you can do it, I’ll see if I can talk Mr. Carver into givin’ you a go.”

  In the end, it wasn’t Thomas who talked Mr. Carver into hiring Sadie, which no amount of talking would have accomplished, but the gentle suggestion of Mr. Gerrard. Still, he let Thomas have the credit, at least as far as Sadie was concerned.

  A cabin stood at the bottom of Jenkins’ property. Until recently it had been a bunkhouse for trail teamsters. This was nominated to serve as home for the travelers until spring. Patrice handled the domestic arrangements, constructed modesty walls of old blankets – contributed by Mr. Gerrard – and handled all the shopping, cooking, and cleaning for the slapdash household.

  Winter dragged slowly, uneventfully by. Sadie did more than learn how to handle a team of contrary mules, with the help of her whip – with which she had become frighteningly proficient; she mastered them. Thomas, meantime, though he flourished, learned that he didn’t want to be a shopkeeper. Nevertheless, he kept at it. At the same time, he began the practice of anonymously sending twenty percent of everything he made to the Saltonstalls, earmarked ‘For Katy’s Upbringing.’ This was his practice for years to come and, as the money was telegraphed, they would never know where it came from.

  True to his pledge to Gerrard, he practiced his quick-draw every spare minute until, by spring, it was second nature to him and he could double-draw, as Jenkins called it, almost as fast as Gerrard. The difference being, he knew, that Gerrard could shoot as well. Thomas had yet to pull the trigger.

  As for Gerrard, he proved to be a man of independent means. At forty-nine he had made a modest fortune, married, lost his wife to disease, toured the world, and at last returned home to settle down. Childless himself, he seemed drawn to Patrice and M.A., and, though ostensibly in the neighborhood to supervise Thomas and Sadie in their acquisition of the ‘western arts’, could often be found near the cabin talking to the young widow. Their common loss formed a bond that soon transcended the niceties of social intercourse. They reveled in long walks and deep conversations. M.A., in those brief spells of exhaustion when he would alight, enjoyed crawling up on Gerrard’s knee. The older man’s voice had a calming effect upon him.

  As the time drew near for the last wagon train to depart, the atmosphere in Junction City was a curious mixture of nostalgia – much of it untethered to reality in any way – and celebration. It may mark the end of an era, but what an era! And what might come next? Surely great things were in store for Junction City!

  “Sit down, Tommy,” said Sadie one day when they were in the stable. She shoved him against a wooden packing crate, and he fell into a sitting position.

  “Hey!”

  “Never mind y’er noise. Give me your foot.” Without further preamble, she straddled his leg – back to him – reached down
, grabbed his boot and lifted his foot. A quick inspection of the sole of the boot told her all she needed to know. “Damn! What are these things made of?” She slammed his foot down.

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself,” said Thomas when they’d done laughing. “Some days I think, ‘you know, Thomas, this isn’t such a bad place, is it? We’ve got work, money, food, shelter, made some good friends . . . ’ ”

  “It’s the bleedin’ promise, ain’t it. Them damn boots.”

  “I didn’t make the promise for you, Sade. You can stay here.”

  “Can’t,” Sadie said instantly. “You ain’t the only one can make stupid promises, y’know.”

  “You made a promise?”

  “What if I did?”

  “What is it?”

  “If I tell ye, it won’t come true.”

  “That’s a wish, not a promise.”

  “Same thing, on’y backasswards,” said Sadie. “They’re both somethin’ you ‘ope’ll come true.”

  “Well, what is it then?” Thomas prodded.

  “Never you mind.”

  “You know mine.”

  “That ain’t my fault! I didn’t ast to, did I?”

  There was no denying that. “Tell you what, if your promise was to me in any way, I free you from it. No strings attached. No guilt.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Guilt ain’t never had much ‘olt of me, Tommy. But nope, a promise is a promise. Ain’t that what’chyou always say? Well, I promised, so you’re just gonna ‘ave to put up with me. There, see? I’m turnin’ into a reformed creeture.”

  “It’s a slow process.”

  “How’d you like a belt in y’er cake ‘ole?”

  They fell silent. After a while Sadie spoke. “Wagon train leaves next week.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “We gonna be on it?”

  He looked at her, put his hand around her shoulder, and nodded. “Aye.”