Mariana's Knight

by W. Michael Farmer

  I thought for a minute and said, “I got a copy of Huckleberry Finn for Christmas, and I had read about half of it when we left for Lincoln. I took it with me, but I lost it on that wagon ride when I was trying to get away.”

  “Ye read purdy good, then?” he asked.

  I nodded and said, “Daddy started us out early. We were reading before we went to school, and he made each of us read something aloud every night by the time we were in the first grade, and we’d all listen to one another read. Sometimes my older brothers would read papers Daddy had written. That’s how I learned about the work Daddy did.”

  Rufus squinted with one eye and said, “Well, sir, ye had a good start. I don’t think ye should go to bein’ ignorant now that ye’re a-livin’ here with me. Go inside there and find The Iliad in them two stacks of books over in the corner. That’s a good ’un to start with. I want ye to start readin’ some ever’ day. Can’t have ye illit’rate when ye git back home.”

  I had to get the old coal-oil lantern and light it to read the titles. His book stacks were nearly as tall as I was. Rufus read often himself, so there wasn’t much dust on them. I found The Iliad and The Odyssey in one volume about halfway down the first stack. Rufus had practically worn the gold letters off the green leather binding. I restacked the other books and took it outside with the lantern. I sat down by Rufus and opened it to the first page. He spat a long stream against the green creosote bush by the porch and said, “Read some to me, boy. I ain’t seen that tale in a while.”

  I found the book very hard to read. Every night, we’d sit on the porch or at the table with that old lantern casting its soft, yellow glow, Rufus chewing and spitting, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed and his eyes closed, listening, while I tried to sound out the words. Whenever I asked him, he’d tell me the correct way to say a word, and then he’d tell me what it meant. I worked hard to learn fast and not forget what he taught me.

  Over our dinners, Rufus and I usually talked about what I’d read the evening before. I’d say something like, “That was a great trick the Greeks played with the Trojan horse. They didn’t give up after ten years of war. I think it’s funny they finally were able to beat the Trojans with a trick.”

  Rufus would reply with something like, “Yes, sir, that was purdy clever. But it don’t make no never mind that it took the Greeks ten years to beat the Trojans. What mattered was that the Greeks wouldn’t quit no matter what, and neither should ye. Ol’ Ulysses didn’t quit a-goin’ home, neither. When he got home, he set things right, even though he looked like a beggar an’ they’s men trying to take his wife and property. Shot ’em ever one with his bow an’ arrer an’ made things right. Aye, God, that’s what ye need to do, Henry. Ye gotta set things right fer yore family and fer yore daddy.”

  Of course, Rufus was just reinforcing what I had already promised to myself and to him. He was teaching me I wasn’t the only one who’d had to struggle to find justice. But I wasn’t about to quit. No matter how hard it was to bring my daddy’s murderers to justice, I was going to do it, and I was going to get back home and see my mama, too.

  After the Iliad and Odyssey I read most of Shakespeare’s plays and learned a lot about the doings of men and women, kings and queens, and human nature in general. I read The Three Musketeers and Treasure Island and learned the true value of friends like Rufus and Yellow Boy. We continued our readings and discussions this way as the weeks sped by, but Yellow Boy did not reappear. After a while, I became convinced he wasn’t coming back.

  One day Rufus examined my arm splints closely. After he felt my broken arm all over, he asked me, “Does it hurt anywheres, son?” When I told him it didn’t, he pulled his long knife out of his belt, the one he said he’d used to take scalps back in his scouting days, and said, “All right, looks like it’s about time fer that thang to come off. Ye ready?”

  “Yes, sir, cut it off.”

  His scalping knife sliced up through the splint ties in one smooth motion, and the splint sticks fell away. My arm, although thin and wasted-looking, felt good as new. It was filthy because I hadn’t been able to wash it while the splint and bandages were covering it.

  “Does it hurt to move it around?” Rufus asked.

  I swung it back and forth a couple of times and wrapped it around my body. “No, sir, a little sore, maybe. But other than that, it’s great.”

  Rufus said, “Now, son, we can start a-gittin’ ye strong. We’re a-gonna start working on the rock pile tomorrow, and we’re a-gonna start yore lessons with that there gun, too.”

  The next morning we had breakfast while it was still dark, and we were out the door at dawn. Rufus rummaged around in his shed until he found a crowbar and an old pair of miners’ gloves, which he handed to me. Then he took a steel pry bar about his height and a pair of gloves for himself. He called Cody, and we walked to the stock gate and down the path toward the back of the canyon.

  When we got to a rock pile, Rufus said, “Now look at them there rocks. They’s about the size of yore head. That there is the size ye wanna git. They’s rocks scattered all over the canyon floor, but ye’re most likely to find the right size uns up along the canyon walls. When ye find one, check fer critters, then pick ’er up an’ haul ’er over to this here pile. Old Cody’s a-gonna let us know if’n they’s any snakes around. It’s cool in the mornings, so them varmints can’t move too fast, and they’s usually found a place to rest fer the day by the time the sun’s up.”

  He started walking through the bushes toward the canyon wall and said over his shoulder, “Come on, an’ I’ll show ye how to get one without gettin’ bit by snakes or them other critters I warned ye ’bout.”

  He walked about thirty yards before he stopped in front of five or six rocks scattered about that were just about the right size. He motioned me over to the nearest one and said, “Now, first, jest look all around to be shore they’s no snakes around the rocks or the bushes. Usually, Cody will let ye know if they is, but sometimes the old fart fergits to do his job, so ain’t no harm in bein’ real kerful. If they ain’t no snakes nearby, then all ye gotta do is roll the rock over with yore pry bar there so ye can see if’n they’s any other bitin’ or stingin’ varmints under it. If they is, crunch ’em with yore bar, then carry the rock over to the pile, but first, jest stick the bar in the ground where the rock was so’s ye can find where ye found yore rock. Go head an’ try it.”

  Eagerly, I walked over to the first rock, slid the pry bar under it and flipped it over with a little strain. I saw nothing on it or in the dirt where it had rested. I started to stick my pry bar in the ground to mark the spot, but the end of Rufus’s pry bar landed with a thump in the center of the place where the rock had been. It surprised me, and I jumped back. I looked at Rufus and yelled, “What’re you trying to do, scare me?”

  He grinned, nodding toward the place where the rock had been, and said, “Naw, son. Take a look at the end of my bar there.” I looked. There was a small rattlesnake twisting in its death throes. It was almost the same color as the sand under the rock and maybe five or six inches long. Rufus said, “Ye gotta look close, boy. He ain’t big, but a bite from that little bugger can make ye real sick or even kill ye. Now see if’n ye can carry that there rock over to the pile.”

  Humbled, I bent over to pick up the rock, but before I could lift it off the ground, Rufus said, “Not that a-way, Henry. Bend at yore knees, and use yore legs to lift it, not yore back. Usin’ yore back to lift heavy thangs can ruin a feller.”

  I did as he told me. It was easy enough to lift the rock that way, but the reality was that it was a lot heavier than I’d thought it would be. My right arm was still sore and weak. I strained a little to hold it. It was only about twenty yards to the pile, but by the time I got halfway there, I was struggling to keep hold of that rock. I clenched my teeth and strained to hold on until I finally made it to the pile and let it fall.

  As I walked back to him, Rufus asked, “Too heavy fer ye, Henry?”
His brow was furrowed. I shook my head, although both my arms felt like they wanted to float off my body now that the weight was gone. Rufus said, “I know that was a strain fer ye, but ye held ’er. That was real good. Git the rest of them rocks there, and call it a day. We’ll do a little more ever’ day while ye git stronger. In a month or two, ye’ll be strong enough to work three or four hours like I do. Careful now an’ don’t drop one on yore foot.”

  I got the other four rocks. I found no more snakes, but I did uncover a couple of scorpions, which I promptly dispatched with my pry bar. Each new rock, although about the same size as the first one, seemed heavier than the last, and the distance to the rock pile seemed to grow longer and longer. The last one I carried, I dropped twice on the way to the pile. I was worn out after only an hour of that heavy labor. When I got the last rock to the pile, Rufus, who had been carrying two or three rocks to the pile for my one, said, “Go on to the shack and git me some water will ye?”

  Once inside, I drank several dippers of water and carried Rufus half a bucket of water, which he nearly emptied. Then he wiped his face with the old red-and-white bandanna dangling from his back pocket and said, “You go on back to rest on the porch. I’ll be along in a while.”

  Rufus was right. Within a month, I was spending three or four hours a day carrying those rocks. Every step I took with one, I put it down to what I owed Stone, Tally, and Oliver Lee. Someday . . . someday, I kept thinking as I carried those rocks. Someday you’re going pay, and I’m going to collect for what you did to Daddy and me. Someday I’m gonna kill you. I promise you, someday I will.

  I was so tired after the days we carried rocks, I slept soundly. However, on Saturdays and Sundays, we rested, and for several years thereafter, on Saturday and Sunday nights, I nearly always had a nightmare in which I was chased by shadowy men who wanted to kill me. Stone’s cold, wolf eyes kept sizing me up. Tally was jerking me up by my collar to go sit in the wagon while he watched Daddy die. Big, bloody streams were pumping out of Daddy’s chest while he drowned in his own blood. I suppose that nightmare spurred me to start thinking deeply about why my daddy ever allowed the situation to come to that.

  Many times, especially on Saturdays, when Rufus went to town to get supplies, I’d get out the ivory watch fob Mama had given me and think about my family. I began to see that Rufus was right. It really wasn’t my fault that Daddy had been killed, but I didn’t blame Mama or my sister Maggie for nagging him to take me along. Mostly, I blamed the men who planned his murder, and sometimes, when I was honest with myself, I even cast a bit of the blame on Daddy.

  CHAPTER 23

  SHOOTS TODAY KILLS TOMORROW

  After my first rock-carrying day, Rufus had finally come to the porch in mid-morning and had a cup of coffee. He sat on the porch and rested with his back to the wall, mopping his sweat-covered face with his old red bandanna. After he sat there for about an hour, he pushed himself up and staggered inside. I heard him rummaging around and then heard something sliding across the floor. Soon he stepped out, a box of cartridges in one hand and the buffalo gun that hung over the doorpost in the other. He grinned at me and asked, “Ready to start yore shootin’ lessons with this here old thunder stick?”

  I jumped up, my heart pounding, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded and said, “Well, run in the shack and grab several of them there old, empty whiskey bottles in the box close to the stove, and we’ll walk down to the shootin’ range and see what you can do.”

  When we got to the back cliff, he said, “Put them bottles on top of that first pile of dirt.”

  I ran to the dirt pile and placed the bottles on top, side-by-side, about six inches apart. When I turned around, it took a couple of moments for me to spot Rufus, who was standing a few yards back from where I’d left him, up close to the north face of the cliffs, neatly camouflaged by the bushes and shadows. He was sitting in the shade of a big piñon tree about fifty yards away from the dirt mound. He motioned me to come and patted the ground for me to sit next to his left side.

  When I was seated, he said, “This here rifle is a eighteen seventy-four Sharps. It has a barrel that’s thirty-two inches long, and it shoots a forty-five-seventy cartridge that has ’bout an ounce of lead in the bullet. Yellow Boy calls it ‘Shoots Today Kills Tomorrow’ because of its long range—well over a mile. You can shoot at a target a thousand yards away, and it will take about three seconds after you pull the trigger before the bullet hits the target. It can shoot all the way through a buffalo at a thousand yards. Ye know how far that is, Henry?”

  I slowly shook my head, my heart pounding harder with the thought that I might get to fire the cannon Rufus lovingly held in his hands. “Well, sir,” he said, “it’s a little less than two thirds of the length of the path back to the fence.” My jaw dropped in wonder. I was amazed at the idea that a gun, any gun, could actually shoot that much lead that far.

  Rufus reached in his pocket and pulled out a huge cartridge, its brass shining golden in the sun, its lead short, silvery, and flat-nosed protruding from the brass casing. Nearly two and half inches long, it was a giant compared to the regular .45-caliber shells I had shot in Daddy’s rifle.

  Rufus grinned at my awe. “Now pay attention, son. This here is how ye load her up. First, ye pull the hammer here to half cock. Half cock is a safety feature. The rifle won’t fire with the hammer there.” He thumbed the side-mounted hammer back until it clicked. Lowering the end of the barrel until it pointed toward the piles of dirt, he said, “Then ye drop the breechblock.” He pulled on the wide, heavy trigger guard until it came forward, and the heavy breechblock dropped down from the stock end of the barrel. “Now ye’re ready to slide yore cartridge in. Sight down the barrel first to be shore it’s clear the first time ye shoot her. Be shore the cartridge is all the way in, so’s the breechblock’ll slide past ’er when ye pull the lever back.” He slid the cartridge into the breech end of the barrel, then pulled the lever forming the trigger guard back up so the breech closed with a reassuring snap. “Did ye git all that, Henry?” he asked with a smile, and I nodded.

  He reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a couple of lumps of bee’s wax, and handed one to me. “Here. Pinch off a couple of pieces an’ roll ’em up so’s they fit in yore ears. Ye need to do this when ye shoot this here rifle a lot of times at one sittin’. Ye can’t hear a thang fer hours afterwards if’n ye don’t.” I nodded.

  “Now watch, Henry. This here is how ye cock and fire.” He pulled the side hammer back until it clicked once more. Then Rufus pointed to the back trigger and said, “This here trigger is the set trigger. Pull that trigger back ’fore ye fire, and it’ll set the front trigger so it’s real easy to pull. See that there little screw between the triggers? Well, ye just adjust that screw with yore fingers until the first trigger has just the pull pressure ye want to use. Some folks want a hair trigger. Some don’t. I like an easy pull myself. Onct ye pull back on that set trigger, the pull pressure ye set will make ’er shoot. Ye ready to fire?” I nodded with excitement, trembling, and unable to speak.

  Sitting in the dirt, Rufus rested his elbows on his knees and sighted the rifle on a bottle. He squinted down the sights for an instant, and then he pulled back the set trigger. The front trigger made a little click forward. In a smooth motion, his trigger finger found the front trigger and paused for half a heartbeat before the rifle roared and the end of the barrel bucked up about six inches. Echoes filled the canyon, and some cattle that had been watching us headed for the front fence. I was expecting the noise, but I still jumped, amazed at the booming thunder from the report and the obvious power in the weapon. It wasn’t at all like Daddy’s Winchester, which seemed almost a toy by comparison.

  Rufus grinned at me and nodded down range through the gray haze of smoke lying in the still air. One of the bottles had completely disappeared. “See if ye can do what I jest showed ye,” he said, handing the rifle over to me. I took it and almost dropped it because it was so heav
y. “Be careful where ye point the barrel, and always assume it’s loaded. Here, sit cross-legged, and rest it across your knees while a-pointin’ toward them bottles.” I did, and he said, “Good. Now pull the hammer to half cock and push the trigger lever down, and it’ll throw out the empty shell.” I had to strain and use my whole hand to pull the hammer back to half cock. The spring on the lever was stiff, and I had to strain a little with both hands to get it to drop the breech, but the spring soon released, and the shell came sailing out of the breech right into Rufus’s waiting palm. “Save yore brass,” he said. “It’s costly, and I reload ’em as often as I can and like I want ’em.”

  He reached in his pocket again, brought out another cartridge, and handed it to me to load. I first squinted down the empty barrel as he had said to do. It was still shiny with a little smoke vapor left. The cartridge slid smoothly into the breech. I had to pull hard again to make the lever move up to close the breech, but it snapped into place when I finally put both hands on it and leaned back. Rufus said, “Now see if ye’re strong enough to hold it up with yore knees like I did.” I got the barrel pointed in the general direction, but it waved all over the place. Rufus took it out of my hands grinning. “Still got a few more beans to eat, ain’t ye, son? Here, stretch out on the ground on yore belly an’ rest ’er on that there piñon stump.”

  Rufus positioned me at about a forty-five-degree angle to the line of site, raising me up on my elbows, and fit the barrel of the rifle on the stump with the forestock in my left hand and the stock snug against my shoulder. It was a lot more comfortable and steady that way. “Can ye see the bottles through the sights?” he asked. I nodded. “All right, line up on a bottle. Aim about a third of a bottle low cause the rifle is sighted for a lot longer range. Got it?” I nodded. “Now pull the set trigger back until ye hear it click.” I squeezed hard against with my forefinger and it finally clicked. “Good. Now get your line of sight and put yore finger on the front trigger. Don’t pull at all yet. Jest take a deep breath.” I did. “Now let about half of it out an’, sightin’ where ye want, start squeezin’ the trigger.”