Sweetwater

by Lisa Henry

He lifted his head and looked at Crane. He expected to see the man’s rage still evident on his face, but he didn’t. Crane stared back at him and lifted his bottle of whiskey.

  Grady helped him up. They sat with Crane at his table.

  This was a new sort of silence. This one was laden, not with the things that Elijah couldn’t hear but with the things that weren’t being said. Elijah didn’t want to think about why Crane wasn’t angry at him. Didn’t want to think about what sort of strange morality this was where Crane called him a dog and a cocksucker but hadn’t killed him for what he’d done to Walt. Didn’t want to think about what this would cost him. It didn’t matter, not really. He’d end on a rope now.

  “We got ourselves a problem here,” Crane said at last. “Look at me. You look at me so I know you’re hearing me, understand?”

  Elijah fixed his gaze on Crane’s. “Yes, sir.”

  “Last thing we want is for Sherlock to go sticking his nose in all our business,” Crane said.

  Grady inclined his head.

  Which business was that? The supply and butchering of stolen cattle, or sodomy and murder? They all had their part in both, and none of it was fit for Mrs. Morris to hear in her kitchen courtroom.

  “Put this bitch in front of Sherlock and he’d weep like a girl getting fucked for the first time,” Crane said. He drank. “Wouldn’t you, Elijah?”

  No.

  Grady touched his arm, and Elijah caught the denial before it spilled from his busted mouth. Grady nodded at him.

  Something was happening here that was passing above Elijah’s understanding. He would tell Thaddeus Sherlock the truth about what happened, about Walt killing Dr. Carter, to try to balance out what men must’ve been jabbering about him right now: that Harlan Crane called Elijah Carter his cocksucker, and the simple deaf cunt went mad. But he wouldn’t tell about the cattle. Not for Crane or for Dawson, but for Grady and Lovell.

  Both Crane and Grady were watching him closely.

  “Maybe,” he said at last, afraid to answer.

  Grady looked at Crane. “You gonna take issue with Elijah killing one of yours?”

  Elijah remembered the story of the man who had cut the girl in the face and never walked out of the Empire. Crane was dangerous. He was feared for a reason. He was ruthless.

  “I got plenty of fucking issues with it,” Crane said, “the foremost being that this little cunt has closed my saloon early, but that’s neither here nor there.” He leaned back in his seat. “It’s true. I asked Lila myself. Walt gave her the bracelet same time as Dr. Carter was killed. I got no other explanation as to how he would have gotten it, and he was always a jealous son of a bitch.”

  Grady nodded.

  Crane fixed his narrow gaze on Elijah. “And you. You’re fit for fucking nothing in this town anymore.”

  Elijah’s face burned.

  “So get the fuck out,” Crane said. “Get the fuck out, and if you ever come back into any place of mine, I’ll cut the length of rope myself. You understand me?”

  Hope stole over Elijah, strange and unfamiliar. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Crane. He lit a cigar, the sudden strike of the match illuminating the stubbled planes of his face, and flaring in his dark eyes. “Fuck off, the pair of you.”

  They left through the back door of the Empire, Elijah trailing bloody footprints through the kitchen and into the yard.

  He’d killed a man—couldn’t regret it—but where was the meaning? Where was the magnitude? There were laws against it, God’s and man’s, set in stone since the beginning of time. A deed like that ought to shatter the world, ought to bring down a rain of fire, but it was nothing. How come life was sacred and cheap at the same time? How could it mean everything and nothing? And, mostly, why had Crane let him leave? Just followed Elijah with his dark, narrow gaze, as smoke curled off the end of his cigar.

  That farewell, he thought, had been as hollow as Walt’s.

  Elijah’s chest was tight. He couldn’t suck in enough air. He was shaking now as well, wet with blood that was suddenly cold in the night air.

  There were men waiting for them.

  “It’s okay,” Grady said. His face was hidden in the darkness. He shrugged off his coat and pulled it around Elijah. Helped him into it like he was a kid and then buttoned it. Put his own hat on Elijah’s head. “It’s okay.”

  The men were Grady’s cousins, Elijah realized. The cowboys. They formed a loose knot around Elijah and Grady, shielding them from stares once they moved out of the alley behind the Empire and into the street.

  They walked unnoticed right past Thaddeus Sherlock and another of the deputies striding toward the Empire. Waving jabbering men off like they were nothing but bothersome insects.

  “Go to the hotel and get our gear,” Grady said. “You need anything from home, Elijah? You ain’t coming back here.”

  Elijah’s heart stuttered. “I got . . . I got clothes there.”

  “Okay. Dale, bring the horses to Elijah’s cabin.”

  Grady and Elijah peeled away from the others just past the new Exchange Bank and headed up the rise to the cabin.

  “Don’t light a lamp,” Grady said in a low voice as Elijah unlatched the door. “Soon as Sherlock’s done at the Empire, he’ll come looking for you.”

  Elijah nodded stiffly and walked inside. He didn’t need a light to find his way. He knew every inch of it. He knew the way the boards shifted under his feet. He knew the number of split logs in the roof. He knew how many steps from his cot to the stove. He knew the smell of the place. No other place in the world would ever smell like home.

  He knew the dimensions of the invisible stain on the table.

  “Hurry,” Grady said. “You gotta hurry.”

  Elijah’s throat swelled. Hurry? How could he hurry when he couldn’t even fucking move? This was his home. This was the only place he’d ever known any comfort, or any love at all.

  “Can you hear me, son? Can you tell me your name?”

  He thought of Dr. Carter’s eyes, sometimes hidden by the way the light glinted on his spectacles, and of his smile that was never hidden. Not from Elijah. Sometimes it was a little sad, a little tempered by regret, but he had loved Elijah.

  “It’s all right now. You’re all right.”

  He packed his clothes, then crossed to Dr. Carter’s lowboy. He lifted the lid, his fingers brushing against the brown paper that held Hannah’s christening gown and Dr. Carter’s wedding portrait. He picked them up and placed them in his bag. Then went to the desk and took Dr. Carter’s journal and put that in the bag, as well.

  A good life lost too soon, a life full of hope and faith, and Elijah had reduced it to useless things, to symbols. But these things had been precious to Dr. Carter. They could never be precious to Elijah in the same way, but they were treasures all the same.

  Elijah slung his bag over his shoulder and cast one last look around the cabin. At the stove, at the kitchen shelves, at the cot he’d slept on since he’d come to South Pass City. And at the books. The books that Elijah had pored over, turning them sideways to try to make sense of the diagrams. The faro board. The medical bag.

  He didn’t want to leave. A part of him thought it would be better to die on the end of a rope, to know that he was taken from his home but hadn’t abandoned it.

  “Come on, Elijah,” Grady said.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice cracking. “What am I to you?”

  “Told you before,” Grady said. He stepped closer. Took Elijah’s bloody face in his hands and tilted it back. Pressed his lips against Elijah’s. “You’re someone I think about.”

  “Is it that simple?” he asked and strained to hear Grady’s whispered answer.

  “It is if we want, Elijah.”

  By the time the sun rose over South Pass City, they were gone. Out of the town, past the graveyard, and into the Wind River Range. The sunlight was filtering through the trees and picking paths through the gullies and the gulches.
The horses skidded sometimes on the dirt and gravel, skittering sideways until they found their feet again.

  The air grew sharper the higher they climbed. It would be winter soon. The last of the wagon trains had already crossed the South Pass. Soon the snow would come and bury South Pass City. And Elijah wouldn’t be underneath it, huddled near the stove, alone. Where he would be, he didn’t know. But he was climbing west, wasn’t he? After all these years, he was climbing west into the unknown.

  He was leaving behind all those petty small-town disputes about gold and the railroad and a woman justice. Leaving behind newspapers and coupons and hymnals, and climbing west to a larger sky. To quiet.

  He turned around once as dawn lit up the world but couldn’t see South Pass City. Even the rooftops had disappeared, stolen from his sight by the hills that now swallowed him. He couldn’t even see the Sweetwater River, crossing the plains below, turning back on itself like a cut snake.

  They stopped to rest at a shallow stream that cut through the wind-beaten sagebrush at the side of the road. Elijah swung down from behind Grady and hunkered on the road. His gaze followed the tracks left by the wagons, year in and year out. He wondered how long it would take for the wind to smooth the tracks clean when the wagons stopped coming because of the railroad. How long before the South Pass itself was forgotten. What would happen to South Pass City when the gold was gone? When the boom was a bust, and even the last of the miners chipping away at the dirt abandoned it.

  Grady tapped him on the shoulder, and Elijah looked at him. The daylight made Grady’s eyes bluer than Elijah had noticed before. Eyes the color of a summer sky.

  “Come on,” Grady said. “You need to get washed up.”

  Elijah studied at his hands, still stained with blood, and followed Grady to the stream. He glanced back at the others, leading the horses off the road and into the cover of the thin trees.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked suddenly, the force of the question crushing his words into nothing but noise.

  “Say it again,” Grady said, his tone patient.

  Elijah swallowed. “Why are you doing this?”

  Grady unfastened his bandanna and stooped to wet it in the stream. He wrung it out, the water dripping between his rough fingers. “Wasn’t gonna let you hang for killing a man when you had good reason.”

  “I wouldn’t have told,” Elijah said. He closed his eyes as Grady lifted the wet bandanna to his face. “About the cattle, and Dawson, and Crane.”

  “I know that. Open your eyes.” Grady showed him a crooked smile. “Crane knew that as well. He didn’t want you to hang no more than me.”

  Elijah wasn’t sure what that signified. There was a wide gulf, he supposed, between actually caring for a person and not wanting them to hang. He’d probably never know if Crane had really cared for him. And it probably didn’t matter why he’d let Elijah walk away, only that he had. And saved face by doing it.

  But Crane had looked at Elijah and seen something besides a simple deaf cunt. And so had Grady. Maybe that counted for something.

  “I can’t go back,” he said. Speaking the words aloud made them feel more real.

  He thought of all the faces he would never see again: Emily Spicer, her father, Sherlock, and Dawson and Lovell. And Crane, his mouth curved into a knowing smile and all the promises of Hell gleaming in his dark eyes.

  But Grady had given him more.

  “No,” Grady agreed. He took Elijah’s hands and began to wipe them clean. “Plenty of other places under the sky than South Pass City.”

  Elijah had never known any of them.

  “You can pick any place you want,” Grady told him. He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against Elijah’s bruised jaw. “Or . . . or you can stay with me a while.”

  The promise of comfort flowed through Elijah at Grady’s touch. It could really be that simple. He drew a breath, careful not to mangle his answer. “I want that.”

  Grady’s smile crinkled his eyes. “I’m glad.”

  Elijah leaned against him, burying his face in Grady’s throat. He closed his eyes and inhaled his smell, and it gave him just as much comfort at his touch. Just as much peace. He could feel Grady’s heartbeat. Elijah’s throat ached, and his eyes stung.

  Grady held him close for a long time.

  Then, when Elijah wiped his tears away, they returned to the others and continued west.

  It was cold, and they hadn’t lit a fire. The air was sharp, but there was very little wind tonight, so that was something, at least. They’d only been gone a day from South Pass City, and while Grady didn’t think the deputies would be after them—he had a feeling Thaddeus Sherlock would drag his feet when it came to Elijah—there was no sense in making it easy for the man if he was following them.

  Under the brilliant stars, he picked his way to where Dale was sitting watch by the tethered horses. Picked a tree and took a piss.

  Dale turned his head slowly, puffing on his pipe. “You can’t sleep?”

  “I’ll take over for a bit,” Grady offered, squatting down beside his cousin.

  Last year there had been some trouble in these hills with the Arapaho. A couple of miners were killed and their camps destroyed. Stupid not to set a watch, even without the chance that Sherlock would come looking for them.

  “He sleeping?” Dale asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t go back to South Pass City for a while,” Dale said at last, his face wreathed in smoke.

  “No,” Grady agreed.

  “Maybe not ever,” Dale said.

  Grady shifted his weight. What was there to say? That it was a good racket while it lasted? Driving stolen cattle into the town had kept them in cash for almost six months now. It wasn’t a big racket. Still enough to get them hanged, though. They’d pushed their luck enough times that sooner or later it would push back, so maybe they were better off getting out while they could. They had enough money to see them through the winter.

  Dale glanced over toward where Elijah was sleeping. “He worth it?”

  Grady sighed and scratched his cheek. “What? We gonna steal cattle forever? That ain’t no way to build a future, Dale.”

  “You got a better way?”

  There was no answer for that, either. Grady stared into the night.

  “What’s that kid worth out here, Grady?” Dale asked, his voice low. “He can’t hear, he don’t talk, and he’s skinny as a wet piece of string. Ain’t even enough of him to keep you warm at night.”

  “Plenty enough for that,” Grady said.

  “Sure,” Dale said with a snort.

  “Just shut the hell up about it.”

  “Don’t get sore,” Dale said. “I’m only saying.”

  “I know you are.” Grady shook his head. “But you can say all you want, Dale, and it will make no difference. He’s here now.”

  Mine, now, for as long as I can keep him.

  “Don’t get sore,” Dale said again.

  “I ain’t sore,” Grady said.

  Dale stood and stretched, then made his way over to his blankets.

  Grady shifted, easing the muscles in his thighs. The stars burned bright in the cold. They felt close enough that Grady imagined he could reach up and snag them with his fingertips. Catch one, and the rest would follow like a string of Chinese lanterns.

  Grady loved that about the open country. He loved that it swallowed him and made him feel small. Not so small that he felt insignificant, though. Only felt a part of it, somehow, a connection deeper than any he felt in town, or around folk. Away from noise.

  Grady watched the stars a little longer.

  He plucked a piece of stringy grass from beside him and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He watched the camp. Watched Elijah. He was too far away to make out his face in the darkness, but Grady knew it. He listened to Cody snoring and to the horses snorting and snuffling. Imagined Elijah’s face—his dark lashes lying on his pale cheeks, the bow of his lips—an
d wondered if it mattered that Elijah was part of the flood that was already separating him from his cousins. Wondered if he would ever have cause to resent Elijah for it.

  Couldn’t imagine it.

  Around him, the aspens whispered in the breeze.

  “Where’s Elijah?”

  Cody shook his blanket out. “Went with Matty.” Pointed.

  Grady stepped through the aspens. Saw Elijah and Matt a little way from camp, Matt watching Elijah as he fumbled with his trousers. Too shy to piss in front of the others, Grady guessed, so Matt must’ve brought him there.

  “Elijah.”

  Elijah didn’t hear him, but Matt did. He tapped Elijah on the arm. He froze and then turned slowly.

  Grady’s chest constricted.

  This boy.

  A few nights ago he’d been covered in blood and mad with rage and fear. If Grady hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. Not this boy who stood and offered Grady a shy smile.

  “Good morning,” Grady said.

  “Good morning,” Elijah echoed, his gaze dropping to Grady’s mouth.

  “He’s a quiet one,” Matt said.

  “Thanks.” For keeping an eye on Elijah. For not ignoring him. For having Grady’s back.

  “He’s yours,” Matt said. “Figured that makes him family.”

  “Thanks,” Grady said again, his voice hitching.

  Matt slipped back toward the camp.

  “Come here,” Grady said to Elijah. He held out his hand.

  He wondered if he imagined that challenge in Elijah’s narrowed eyes and his jutting chin. Hard to tell with Elijah if it was something big eating him up or nothing much at all. The kid had more sharp bristles than a prickly pear. No surprise since most people treated him no better than a simpleton. Grady had heard the way that the butcher Dawson had berated Elijah, mocked the way he spoke, and laughed in his face. Well, there was probably no soul at all in South Pass City who was laughing at Elijah Carter now.

  Elijah stepped forward and caught his hand, and Grady drew him into a patch of sunlight.

  “Where are we going?” Elijah asked. “Grady?”