The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  Newton’s bitterness would not let him stay silent. “Enjoy a future being chased from state to state. After Kansas you can try Colorado, and when that fails, there’s always Utah.”

  Lily Breeze grimaced. “Persecution is the lot of anyone who threatens the established order. I know that.”

  “Do you threaten the established order, or does the established order threaten you?”

  “Enough. Goodbye.” And then she was gone, thrashing through the underbrush in her haste to get away from him.

  Newton climbed over the ridge to return to Daybreak, unwilling to pass through Masterson’s farm to reach the road. He scrambled furiously up the slope, impelled not only by his shame and anger, but by the lowering clouds to the west behind him, which had turned from slate to charcoal. And as he started his descent on the Daybreak side, coming down behind Charley Pettibone’s, his haste was borne out by a return of the rain, first a few oversized, scattered drops, then quickly a pelting downpour that looked as though it would last for days.

  Chapter 41

  Watching Newton Turner slink in through his back field, with a sheepish and crestfallen look on his face, Charley guessed he had been to Braswell’s. When Newton ducked under his eaves to shelter from the first rush of rain, not wanting to bring his muddy boots inside, Charley stood out with him to pass the time. And as Newton told the story of how Braswell and company had jumped the gate, Charley felt as if he had turned the barrel on a spyglass, and all the world had suddenly come into focus. “Newton, I need your help on something, and it may not be pleasant,” he said. “Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” Newton said.

  “Then go saddle two horses and bring them here right away. We need to take a ride.” He walked into his house and found Jenny in the front room, polishing their lamp bases. “I have to go do some law enforcing,” he said.

  Jenny had learned long ago never to question the demands of his deputying, but she raised an eyebrow when he unlocked the gun cabinet to take out both his Winchester and his old revolver. “They’re just for show,” he said. “I won’t shoot ’em.”

  “I’d rather have you shoot than be shot,” she replied.

  “Amen to that. Don’t even know if these people have guns, but you don’t want to bet wrong on such a question.”

  He left the revolver unloaded and put a handful of bullets into his coat pocket. No point in courting harm. He waited by the window until he saw Newton ride up, then took two heavy slickers off their pegs and walked out to mount the horse he was leading. He slung the Winchester over his shoulder with its carrying strap and climbed into the saddle.

  “We’ll take this at a trot,” he said. “I’d like to catch up with the Reverend Mister Braswell and his crew before they cross the county line. From the sound of it, they only had a couple hours’ head start.”

  “But why are we after them?”

  Charley rode on a while without speaking to see if Newton could figure it out. They passed the Masterson farm, seemingly deserted, though Charley supposed Masterson was somewhere nearby, sulking. He’d need to stop and talk with him on his way back.

  About a hundred yards past the farm, Newton exclaimed, “The girl!” He smacked himself on the head.

  Charley turned in his saddle to look at him. “That’s right. Working her up to become the fourth Mrs. Braswell, I expect.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “You tell me. All I know is that I want to catch up with them, and we’ll go from there.”

  The rain had settled into a cold and steady misery, the kind of weather Charley would never have emerged into had it not been for his sense of urgency, and they rode in silence around the shoulder of Black Mountain and into the flat ground on the other side. Another creek crossing lay a couple of miles ahead, and with any luck Braswell would have stopped there.

  How many times during the war had he done something like this, ride out in a small group bent on ambush? Half a dozen, he supposed, especially in the final months, when regular order was breaking down and men could take it into their heads to do whatever they pleased. Then after the surrender, the boys he fell in with had been a right awful band of marauders, using their wartime tactics for private ends. Charley didn’t like to think about those days. Ever since he had gone to the side of the law, he’d tried to compensate for those years by taking pains on both the letter and the spirit, unlike so many he had seen, who treated their offices like little princedoms. He could claim this ride was an official act, but it felt uncomfortably personal. Another scratch on the battered slate of his conscience.

  They passed the Black Mountain church, where a little trail swung out to the right. Braswell could have taken it and dodged the ford altogether, but as a man who didn’t know the country, he likely would have stayed with the main road straight ahead.

  “All right,” Charley said. He handed the Winchester to Newton. “Wedge this into your billet strap and don’t put a bullet into the chamber. It’s just for show.”

  “I have to ask you something,” Newton said.

  Charley waited.

  “This ‘marrying,’ or whatever they call it,” Newton continued. “Do you think he’s married that girl yet?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Can’t say as I know for sure, but I don’t think so.”

  “Because if he has, you might not want to let me have this rifle.”

  Charley took off his riding glove and laid his hand on Newton’s arm. “Whatever happens here is my doing, and I won’t object to the consequences. But I’d like to believe that you’re not foolish enough to shoot an unarmed man, whatever you might think of him.”

  “Of course,” Newton said, abashed. “I’m sorry.”

  The last hundred feet to the creek was a steep drop. They stopped at the top of the rise and listened. The roar of the flooded creek drowned out most sounds, but Charley thought he could hear horses and the clank of wagon wheels on rock.

  “I think they’ve turned around and are coming back to try that other road,” he said. “That’s good. We’ll meet them in the road before they can do anything. Let’s kick it up a little.”

  He urged his horse down the slope, and as he hoped, they were on the group in a hurry, the two wagons in single file with Braswell gripping the reins of the lead horse. Charley reined in beside Braswell while Newton rode to the back.

  “What, you’re arresting me?” Braswell said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Charley took the revolver out of his coat pocket and held it on the pommel of his saddle. “No, I’m not arresting you.” He could see the fear rise into Bras-well’s face, and he let it sit there for a minute before speaking again. “Where’s the young’un?”

  “What do you want her for?”

  Charley didn’t answer. He wanted to let Braswell stew a bit.

  “I don’t know what you heard about me from that son-of-a-bitch riding with you, but none of it’s true,” Braswell continued. “He’s a bald-faced liar of the worst sort.”

  “How do you know it’s not true if you don’t know what it is?”

  Braswell’s eyes darted. “Trying to trick me. I know your type. I’m not saying anything.”

  “Back to my question.”

  “She’s in the back,” Braswell said with a shrug.

  “Wilhelmina!” Charley called. “Step out of the wagon and bring your suitcase. We ain’t going to hurt you.” He heard a murmur of voices and the rattle of goods being shifted. “Newton, you see her?”

  “Yes,” Newton said. “She’s climbing out.”

  “Swing her up behind you and bring me the suitcase.”

  “What the hell!” Braswell said. “This is kidnapping!”

  Charley waited until Newton had reappeared from the back of the other wagon, with Wilhelmina clinging to him, her face drawn and frightened, and the suitcase gripped in his hand. “Maybe it is,” Charley said. “Come on back and swear out a warrant, and I’ll answer to it.” He backed up
his horse, holding the pistol with one hand. “Or, you can ride ahead to that little turn-off you saw up the road, and it will lead you around this creek and on west. But whatever you do, don’t return to Daybreak. Because somebody will shoot a hole in you. We are a savage lot.”

  “You joke, but it’s true,” Braswell muttered. “You call yourselves idealists, but I don’t see it. Bunch of damn pistoleros is what you are.”

  “Strong language for a man of God,” Charley said.

  “Go to hell.”

  Charley wheeled his horse and urged it up the hill, wanting to get out of sight before anyone had time to think. So it was kidnapping. What of it? He’d done worse.

  Chapter 42

  Charlotte awoke that morning to unaccustomed silence, after so many nights of rain on the roof. It disconcerted her momentarily, a sensation that redoubled when she heard another odd sound, the squeaking of the rocking chair on her front porch. She put on a robe and walked outside into the chilly dawn.

  Ambrose Gardner sat in the rocking chair she had bought for him, wrapped in one of his buffalo robes, a distracted expression on his face. “When did you get here?” Charlotte said.

  “Not long,” said Gardner. “I woke up restless and the stars were shining, so I started out. Came around the long way so I wouldn’t have to cross any creeks in the dark.”

  “Come on in, I’ll start coffee.”

  Charlotte shook down the damper in her stove and tossed in some small pieces of kindling, and soon had a blaze going. As the house warmed up, she placed a pot on the stove and stepped inside her bedroom to dress properly. When she returned, Gardner was warming himself by the stove. She poured out the coffee and handed him a cup.

  “So you’re a night wanderer now,” she said. “Better watch out, mamas will be making a boogeyman out of you to get their children to mind.”

  Gardner laughed ruefully. “I reckon so. Perhaps my eccentricities are getting the best of me.”

  His face looked worn. Charlotte took stock of the man—his muddy shoes, his sleepless eyes—and felt a rush of affection. “And you came all this way to see me.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  She kissed him. “Sit down, then. You must be tired.”

  “Not so. When the mind is active, the body follows.”

  “If you say so. My body isn’t as obedient as yours.” She held her coffee cup close and inhaled the aroma. The small rituals of life, a morning coffee, a few quiet words. It was remarkable how much these little things meant. “You have an active mind. No one will dispute that.”

  “Want to hear what I’ve been thinking? A long walk conduces reflection.”

  “Always. If it weren’t so chilly out, we could sit on the porch and watch the sun rise.”

  Charlotte sat at her table and waited, knowing that Gardner liked to take his time working toward a thought. He seated himself across from her, and for once the sly humor was gone from his face.

  “What are you planning to do with yourself for the next few years?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Charlotte, taken aback. “I’ll have my first grandchild soon. Adam and Penelope will need help.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I’m a private landowner now, just like you. So I suppose I’ll have to tend my estate.” They laughed.

  An expectant look remained on Gardner’s face, and in that expectancy an idea occurred to Charlotte.

  “And the suffrage movement has gone West these days—Kansas, Utah, Washington Territory. I wonder if I might be of use out there.”

  “That’s what I like to hear! Thinking forward for yourself, not just for others.”

  “And you, Ambrose? Gaze into your crystal.”

  He stood up and walked to the back door, looked out the window a while, then returned to the stove, brought the coffee pot and refilled their cups before sitting down again. “Two men have died because of me. The first I don’t regret and needn’t speak of. But the second . . . “

  He took a sip of coffee.

  “We all may say that I didn’t directly kill him, or even intend to. I never even knew the man. But his life weighs on me just the same as if I did.”

  Charlotte nodded. “True.”

  “I have nothing of value to myself but a few books and mementos. The land that was once my treasured refuge is now spoiled to me, nothing more than a reminder of the folly of placing value on physical things. You’d think all my philosophy would have taught me that by now.” He took a sip.

  “The trees will grow back.”

  “Not in my lifetime. And besides, the trees were never the point. The sense of harmony was the point, and that will never return once lost. So I will deed over the land to Mr. Corum’s widow. It has a spring, and perhaps some tillable soil in the bottom, and if nothing else they can run hogs.”

  “And you? What will become of you?”

  “Here’s where the crystal clouds. I have my veteran’s mite. I can return East to my brother’s town, find some rooms or a little piece of ground, make my way along. I’d be content at that.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand.

  “Or I could come to you as a man with nothing to offer, no home, no prospects, no wealth to speak of, nothing but a true and honest heart and the greatest admiration and love for you, who will help you farm your ground and cheer you when you go on your suffrage travels. I have nothing to offer you but myself. But I love you. Will you marry me, Charlotte Turner?”

  Now it was Charlotte’s turn to stand up and walk about the room. Her heart was beating fast, and she felt a flush of heat on her face as if she had walked into an unexpected beam of sunlight.

  She had thought to be done with all the folderol of romance. Earnest declarations and tender feelings were for the young. She walked into the front room and out onto the porch, not minding the cold damp air with its promise of more rain by noontime. Gardner followed her out.

  “You practiced that, didn’t you?” she said with a smile.

  He cleared his throat. “Parts.” She took his hand.

  Charley Pettibone and Newton came into view, grim-faced, leading the little orphan girl from Barton Braswell’s family by the hand. They stopped in front of Charlotte’s house, where Charley tipped his hat to her and nodded to Gardner, politely avoiding any inquiry as to what Gardner was doing there at this hour of the morning. “Ma’am, we need your advice,” he said.

  “Well, come in, then,” said Charlotte. “Child, you must be cold in that thin shift.”

  “No ma’am,” said the girl, but inside she darted for the stove and hovered near it.

  “Have you eaten?” Charlotte said.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Charley said. “You know Jenny wouldn’t let a body out of the house without filling it first.”

  Charlotte smiled and waited.

  “Mr. Braswell and company have decamped,” Charley said. “But Wilhelmina here has come into my custody. Newton and I fetched her yesterday afternoon, and now the question is what to do with her. My house is full, and it don’t seem proper to lodge her with Newton, him being a single man, and I don’t see my way clear to putting her on the train back north.”

  Wilhelmina. That was the name. She should have remembered. Charlotte could see where this was heading. “I’ll not take her in,” she said. “I don’t need a house girl. I can tend for myself quite well, thank you.”

  Charley’s face dropped, and although Wilhelmina’s expression was a mask, Charlotte could see the slightest of downturns at the corners of the mouth, hints of what in a softer child would have been tears or wails.

  “But I know someone who does, and I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself,” she went on. “Not five houses up the road is Sarah Wickman, caring for her dad, and as you well know the task is getting harder every day. The poor girl hasn’t the time to darn a sock, she’s so caught up in minding her father.” Charlotte turned to Wilhelmina. “She needs the help, and I’m guessing a sharp girl like you
could keep a watchful eye and meet both their needs. Do you think so, Wilhelmina?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Charley, what do you think?”

  Charley wiped his face with the broad palm of his hand. “Wouldn’t be any plainer if it’d pinched my nose.”

  “Go on up, then, and if Sarah worries about the expense of another mouth to feed, tell her I’ll contribute. But I bet an able young miss such as you will soon be an addition rather than a subtraction to the family larder.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, there’s never been another worker like me,” Wilhelmina announced.

  Charlotte knelt in front of her. “More important. Sarah is kind, and she’s smart. You will learn a lot from her.”

  Wilhelmina curtsied and followed after Charley. They walked into the muddy street, and Charley cocked an eye to the clouds. ““Looks like more to come. Will it ever stop raining?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Charlotte.

  “When?”

  “When the sun comes out.”

  She watched them for a moment then turned inside. “They may have eaten, but we haven’t,” she said. “Wash up and I’ll fry some bacon.” Gardner took the washpan from the counter and started toward the back door to the well. He didn’t speak or try to catch her eye, although they both knew that his question hung between them. But he was giving her room, and Charlotte appreciated that unspoken gesture of consideration. It occurred to her that she felt quite happy.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will marry you. Now rest a while, and then go home and get your dog.”

  Chapter 43

  Josephine had been in the Temple, helping with the evening meal, when a boy came by with a letter.

  “Compliments of Mr. J.M. Bridges, ma’am,” he said.

  “Bridges! He was just by here not long ago. Why didn’t he bring it himself, or better yet just speak to me out loud?”

  “Can’t say, ma’am. He seems a bit strange to me, and that’s a fact.”

  She tucked it in her apron pocket and walked home, where she could read it without company.