So Brave, Young, and Handsome: A Novel

by Leif Enger

  “I gather.”

  “I believe Mr. Crealock had people in the Flint Hills,” he remarked.

  “Who’s Crealock?” Hood asked.

  “Preacher I knew once. Not a regular preacher—he had no church, is what I’m saying. He’d had two or three but kept losing them. He’d drink too much, or forget himself and go to a dance, or play cards. I owe a lot to Crealock,” Glendon added.

  “Sounds messed up,” came Hood’s voice from under the car.

  “I suppose he was,” said Glendon. “He was kind to me, though, and taught me to read—that’s worth something, I think.”

  “Worth a pain in the backside,” Hood said, in a grouchy mood for the first time since he’d joined us. He was having a terrible go of it, to judge from his twisting legs.

  “What happened to Crealock, did you ever hear?” I asked, for Glendon’s face was pained at Hood’s disrespectful tone.

  “Yes, George Parrot shot him,” Glendon answered. “I wasn’t there when it happened, and I feel ill to this day when I think of it. George was big and powerful and in all ways a stupid person. I always felt someone must’ve put him up to it, although it may have been his idea. He was sufficiently mean all by himself.”

  At this we heard a sharp metallic lurch and Hood roared a string of impolite adjectives. He might even have cried a little. It wasn’t his fault. I’ve looked under a car or two myself, since then—it’s bedlam down there, no beginning no end, and a consequence for everything you touch.

  15

  Poor Hood—the Packard, so dependable on the flats, went all balky confronted with rise and fall. We couldn’t go ten miles without some new problem putting us out of commission. The car would cough and stall, or bang like gunfire, or run down like a clock. We had so many stops it was no surprise when, in the evening shadows, the silver auto crested a rise and came down into the valley of our latest trial and pulled up behind us. The door sagged open and Charles Siringo hove out and stretched. Without shame I admit to a case of cold horrors, though Siringo did not look especially intimidating. He looked like any man does who has been driving too long. He rotated his neck and swung his arms back and forth and even touched his toes, the limber old screw.

  “Hello,” I said. Glendon was nowhere in sight. All afternoon he’d been tipping the flask. I was worried he might stroll unawares right into this nervous gathering.

  “Hello, we shared a barber,” said our visitor. “I am Charles Siringo of the Pinkerton Agency and you are Jack Waits, I happen to know. I have been trotting after you these several days.”

  “Well, and here you are. What can I do for you?” I managed to utter.

  Siringo looked me over. “Do you recall from the barbershop, Mr. Waits, that I am seeking a man?”

  “Remind me,” I said. Stricken, fuddled, mine sounded like a stranger’s voice.

  Siringo hesitated and said in clipped fashion, “Man of fifty or so. Might be using the name of Dobie. White hair. Green eyes.”

  “If you are looking for this Dobie,” I croaked, in my new voice, “why follow me?”

  “Some youngsters up in Revival mentioned a fellow of that description,” Siringo said. He nodded at my clothes. “They said his companion was younger, dark, had a denim shirt on.”

  My palms itched like a thief’s. “That was certainly me,” I allowed.

  “Then where is he, Mr. Waits?”

  “I’m sorry for your effort. It’s true we crossed paths there by the railroad, but I don’t know the man.” I wondered at the ease with which this tale emerged. The simple telling of it calmed me. I went on, “He seemed a friendly old sort, though. Soft-spoken, as you say. What has he done to gain the Pinkertons’ attention?”

  Siringo squatted and examined the ground at his feet, saying gently, “Oh, Mr. Waits, his felonies would make a long book.” He peered up at my face and I won’t soon forget his coiled intent, his buttery tone. “It was those boys’ guess the two of you were traveling together.”

  “No, it’s only me and Hood, here,” came my distant reply.

  Siringo nodded. “You wouldn’t know a man named Becket, would you? Monte Becket?”

  This shook me terribly, as you may imagine; but by now Jack Waits had climbed aboard, so I said, “Is he another of your felons?”

  “No,” Siringo replied, as though resigned. “No, he ain’t.” Then he seemed to perk up and said, “What’s that sound, fellows? Is there a creek nearby?”

  I felt better when he said that—fellows.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hood, pointing down the grassy draw.

  “Excuse me then,” said Siringo, brightening. He stood upright and slapped the dust from his pants and strode to his automobile and leaned deep into it. Out he came with two long bamboo tapers which he fit together to make a fly rod. He whipped it to and fro a few times until it felt right and said, “Gentlemen, it’s nearly dark. Don’t think me rude, but a man must take the chance that’s offered. Why don’t you two build a fire, I mean to bring back supper.”

  And with that he set off through the brush like any eager sportsman out for the finned quarry. Can you credit this? From suspicion to camaraderie, like a man changing clothes!

  Of course we tore all round that little campsite the moment he disappeared, looking for Glendon. Hood checked the rear seat of the Packard, just in case, while I poked through the heavy grasses, but no luck, and the thought occurred that my friend might be at the creek himself and about to get surprised. Hood Roberts had the same idea—he was at my elbow and I saw his eyes shine as he cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Wait, Hood, what are you up to?”

  He said, “Hooting like a owl!”

  I saw it straightaway—he wanted to warn Glendon via desperate owl noise. Every boy knows that’s what the Indians always did. To say Hood was excited doesn’t approach it. He was aiding a fugitive! Fixing the car of a desperado whose felonies would make a long book! Even when I talked him out of hooting and got him to help me build a fire, he was almost out of his skin.

  “Suppose we hear gunshots, what’ll we do then?” he said.

  “Sprint down that gully and see who is standing.”

  “Suppose Glendon overcomes him by guile and brings him back hogtied and blindfold,” said Hood, ashine with joy. “What’ll we do then?”

  “Untie him and let him go. What do you mean, blindfold? Why would he blindfold him?”

  Hood ignored my question, saying, “If they shoot each other to death, what will happen to that silver automobile?”

  But none of Hood’s scenarios transpired. In fact quite some time went by before Mr. Siringo returned to the fire. He was alone. He walked up into the ruddy light and his pant legs shone wet to the knee.

  “Here we go,” he said, laying four striped fish beside the coals. They were decent little bass like those we used to take in the spring spawn up in Minnesota.

  “Success,” I remarked, with fraudulent gusto.

  He looked at me closely. “There are men who claim they fish just to stand in a creek, you know. They say the fish are not the point of it.”

  “A creek is a pleasant spot to be, even if you catch nothing,” I said.

  “That is asinine. A man fishes because he is hungry. Now get these ladies on the fire, and we’ll call it supper.”

  16

  In the accounting of debts there are few bigger or less compensated than those I owe to young Hood Roberts. There was his work on the Packard, of course, and we all know a good mechanic is worth his weight in precious metals; that aside, Hood was the purest liar I ever knew. He lied for profit as many do but he also lied for joy, which is less common—it may even be he lied for beauty, by some deeply buried rationale.

  We rolled the four bass in cornmeal and fried them in a big warped skillet Siringo hauled out of his silver car. He was not a terrible host, though he acted like the place was his own by private arrangement. At one point he leapt up and went to his car and brought out two bound copies of his mem
oirs. These he inscribed for us with deep regards then propped himself into the position of Visiting Bard and told stories. They were good stories, full of posses and stolen mustangs and strayed payrolls, and all led back to this Glen Dobie. It was a captivating narrative and Siringo was so magnetic in the telling that even I found myself drawn toward confession.

  “I saw your man,” said Hood Roberts all at once—I felt my throat pull shut.

  “Is that right,” said Charles Siringo.

  “Well, the white hair you mention. Mustache. I wouldn’t of thought he was a bandit, a fellow that short.”

  Siringo straightened ever so slightly. “You didn’t tell me this before.”

  “You didn’t ask me—you only asked him.” Hood sounded offended.

  “All right, I’m asking you.”

  Hood smiled. “He came in looking to buy a car.”

  “Your boss Lewis didn’t mention him.”

  “Lewis didn’t see him. Lewis was gone,” Hood said, unhurriedly—he had a fish bone stuck in his teeth and was trying to get it out.

  Siringo said nothing but relaxed back onto one elbow.

  Hood worked the bone a minute or two, got it finally, and pitched it in the fire. “Look at that—I’m bleeding,” he said, touching his gums.

  “Did you sell him a car?” Siringo seemed annoyed that he had to press Hood for details.

  “Nope.”

  “Where was he going, did he say?”

  Hood said, “Is that side of fish spoke for?”

  Siringo had his own eye on the fish, but nodded sourly at Hood to help himself.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did he say where he was headed,” Siringo repeated.

  “Well, he mentioned Sioux Falls. I suppose that’s in Kansas.”

  “No, it’s not,” Siringo said, annoyed.

  “Oh,” said Hood, settling into the last piece of fish. I felt bad for Glendon, out lying in the brush somewhere, smelling fried bass. Siringo seemed intent on camping here with us—it looked like no supper for our outlaw friend tonight.

  Siringo brooded. The evening stretched before us. He said, “Sioux Falls is in South Dakota. Did he mention South Dakota?”

  “He might of. What’s the matter?” Hood said.

  “Did he mention it or not?”

  Hood stared at Siringo. “Well, I don’t remember. I would of paid closer attention, but I didn’t know a bully old Pinkerton was going to come along and badger it out of me. How about that?”

  The boy had a streak of insolence I feared would make us trouble.

  Siringo appeared to retreat a little, though, and took a calmer tone. “You say you didn’t sell him an automobile.”

  “He hadn’t the money,” Hood replied, his mouth full. “Also I can’t sell ’em, only Lewis can. He would’ve fired me. Of course, I was leaving anyhow,” he added thoughtfully.

  Siringo got to his feet. When agitated he wove back and forth like a charmed snake. It must have been confusing—he would’ve known, probably from Royal Davies, that Glendon had boarded the train from Minnesota to Kansas City. Why would he spin around now and head for South Dakota? Siringo said, “Boy, are you dead-on certain he said Sioux Falls?”

  And Hood replied, “How come you ask me something anyhow, if you won’t listen to the answer?”

  It wasn’t twenty minutes before Siringo announced, “I’m leaving, you gentlemen may have this rocky paradise to yourselves.” His voice was distracted and upset. He stomped around getting his kit together and generally acted like a man disabused of a pet idea. As I would learn, Charles Siringo wasn’t used to this. For forty years his pet ideas had turned out to be correct—they’d made him a good living, even made him famous. Now his hunch about Glen Dobie appeared to have jumped the tracks. He didn’t even wash the fish skillet but tucked it in the car all scaly and slick.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Siringo,” I called—he had the silver car running and its big headlamps lit and was turning it round in the road with some difficulty. I don’t know where he got that automobile. We certainly didn’t see anything like it during our brief hours in Revival. Hood informed me with relaxed contempt that it was known as a Cord. “A Cord ain’t no Ford,” he said, which I guess was true, as the Cords were never to throng roadways like their cheaper cousins. Still the Cord was a thing of beauty, and terribly long, and getting it turned around took Siringo many tries. When he did finally leave us it was to head back north, toward Revival again and toward South Dakota.

  17

  “You ate all those bass,” Glendon complained, appearing at the fire as Siringo’s elegant auto vanished into the Flint Hills.

  “Where were you all this time?” I said, not without some heat.

  “I took a small siesta,” he said. His hair was pushed awry and poked about like any drunkard’s. For some reason the sight of him this way filled me with trouble. I could not imagine what I was doing in this place and again began to blame Glendon in my heart.

  “He asked me about Monte Becket,” I groused.

  “Who’s Becket?” Hood wanted to know.

  “Waits is Becket,” Glendon replied.

  Hood gaped until his dimple appeared—his day just kept improving.

  Glendon said, “You could have been yourself, Monte. You could’ve owned up. It would have been all right.”

  “I’m sure it would’ve. I’m sure Siringo would’ve seen nothing suspicious in my use of a counterfeit name.”

  He said nothing to that. He ran his hands through his sweaty hair.

  “Say, did you hear my story?” Hood said to Glendon. “I sure headed that old man in the wrong direction! What did you think of my story?”

  “I think you’ve had a little practice,” Glendon replied.

  Hood fell quiet while I found Glendon a lump of bread and the last rank cheese.

  “And you’re Jack Waits for certain now,” Glendon said. “I’m sorry, I know how it feels. If it helps any, I thought Jack handled himself fairly well.”

  I had fallen into something of a wallow—I suppose Glendon felt bad about it. Clearly he wanted to lift the mood. He said, “What about it, Monte? Did you ever use an alias before?”

  “No, I never thought of it,” I said—although I had thought of it; in fact Susannah had suggested I use a nom de plume on Martin Bligh. The vain truth is I wanted to use my real name just in case it was a success. This, however, seemed off the subject. Also I was enjoying a spot of petulance. “What about you, Glendon? You’ve lied about your name for years. Give me your wisdom on the matter.”

  He had eaten the bread and offered the cheese to us and after our refusal flung it into the brush with obvious relief. Now he was packing his little briar. He said, “The thing is to get a name that tallies with how you are inside. A name is like the shirt you pull on in the morning. Take Siringo. I didn’t know his name back then; he went by Jip Fingers or Dull Knife. A flashy name always pleased him. The shirt that feels most like your own skin is the one you want for the long trip.”

  Hood said, “So your name ain’t Dobie.”

  “No.” Glendon lit his tobacco with a flaming twig from the fire. “I used John Bartle for a time. It was easy to remember when you woke in the morning. But some of the fellows would tease and call me John Bottle, which hurt my feelings. So I thought it over and lit on Solomon, but there was no living up to that. Let’s see, I went through a little spate. I tried out Mike Dugan and William Fast and then Harry Tracy, and here’s a funny thing. Harry Tracy seemed to fit. I liked the name. Here was the cotton shirt you might say. I was Harry Tracy for better than a year and then, don’t you know, a man arrived at the Hole who was also Harry Tracy, only that was his actual name.”

  “I heard of Harry Tracy!” Hood exclaimed.

  “A dangerous person,” said Glendon. “An awful boy. Soul rot, that’s what he had. The only specimen I ever knew who liked shooting people and would look for reasons. You want no association with a boy like Harry Tracy.”

  �
��I got a alias,” said Hood Roberts suddenly.

  “What is it?” Glendon asked.

  “Hood Roberts,” was the grinning reply.

  “Come on,” said I.

  “No, it’s true,” he replied.

  “What’s your real name, then?” I persisted.

  “Well, never you mind!” said Hood. He was plainly injured. Glendon also was looking at me in a way that confirmed my question was bad form.

  “It ain’t Hood Roberts, is all,” said Hood.

  “So what about you, Jack Waits,” Glendon said, deflecting talk from the suddenly moody boy. “Why select that name, of so many available?”

  “I don’t know. I just reached down and up it came.”

  “Well, it’s about perfect, anyway,” Glendon observed.

  “Why perfect?”

  He drew on his pipe and regarded me across the fire. He seemed to feel some sadness about my new acquisition, yet it was sadness alloyed with humor. “Well, because Jack waits, don’t he? He always waits,” Glendon mused. “Then one day you write down his name instead of your own and lo, Jack is free unto the world.”

  There is one more thing you should know about that last night in the Flint Hills, and that is how Glendon, as the fire weakened, took his bedroll and walked some distance into the brush and slept apart from Hood and me. I didn’t question this but in the night I was awakened by footfalls. So stealthy were they that I did not speak but tensed and peered out under my eyelids. Glendon was kneeling at Hood’s side, lifting the blanket to get a better view of the boy’s face. For his part Hood was sleeping like one does at sixteen. He was ruddy from the settling coals. I watched Glendon with curiosity then noticed something, a humped profile to his shoulders. His boots were wrong also. My guts liquefied. It wasn’t Glendon. It was Charles Siringo.

  He looked at Hood, was apparently satisfied, rose silent as a hare and stepped across the fire to kneel beside me.

  I feigned sleep as if born for that very purpose. I don’t know how long he looked into my face. Despite close listening I did not hear him walk away. Sometime later I did hear, very distantly, the ignition of an automobile and its diminishing hum to the north.