“How’s my horse?” He lifted his head to look for his animal, who had gotten back on her feet but was hobbling. A broken foreleg, I thought. When Marshal Farmer made note of this, he cursed. And then let his head fall back onto the rock again.
“Get me some water, will you?” he said.
I quickly went over to the mare and got his canteen and put it to his mouth. The “water” dripped over the sides of his mouth without going into him. He waved at me to stop, so I did, and waited for him to tell me what to do next.
“Well, ain’t this a pickle,” he muttered.
“Are you in pain?”
He shook his head and frowned. “Not really. Can’t feel much of anything.”
“What should we do?”
He took a deep breath to assess the situation. “Well, we don’t have lots of options here, kid. You’re going to have to go to Rosasharon to get some help.”
“I can do that, sure.”
“Good. I guess it was good I let you come here with me, after all.”
“What do I do when I get there?”
“The sheriff’s name is Archibald Burns. I haven’t seen him for years, but he’ll remember me. Tell him about this bind I’m in, and that Roscoe Ollerenshaw is holed up in a cave down in the Hollow, just south of the Falls. He’ll know where that is. Tell him to raise a posse of a dozen men and come back here today, without fail. You got all that?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“What’s the lawman’s name?” he tested me.
“Archibald Burns.”
“And what’s the outlaw’s name? See if you have it now.”
“Ros-coe Ol-le-ren-shaw,” I said.
He managed a weak smile as he patted my arm. “Good boy.”
“But are you going to be all right?” I asked.
“Oh, me? I’ll be right as rain, kid,” he assured me. “This isn’t the first scrape I’ve been in like this, I assure you. Now leave my canteen right over here where I can reach it, and get going.”
“Let me cover you with a blanket first,” I said.
“I’m fine, kid! Don’t coddle me. Just shuffle off and begone!”
I nodded, too stunned to truly think for myself just then, and got on Pony and set off through the forest.
2
I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH OF THAT ride. Just me keeping my head low over Pony’s neck while he charged through the forest like he’d gone through there a hundred times before. It was a steep path upward, and I had to duck to keep the branches from swiping me, but the ground was far less dense on this side of the ravine. That I recall surely.
It is not the circumstances of the ride that I recollect the most, though, but the feeling I had while riding. A feeling like I had done this before, like I had dreamed this once upon a time. Something familiar in the color of the light, maybe. In the sound of the hooves trampling the earth. Like a storm plowing through a field of tall grass.
When I got to Rosasharon, it did not feel like strange country at all. Maybe because it was a town not unlike Boneville. Brick buildings. A dry goods store. A post office. A clapboard church at the end of the square. It felt odd seeing people again, dressed in ordinary clothes. I must have looked like a vagabond to them, riding down the main street in my mud-caked clothes. Luckily the county jail was easy to find, tucked between the saloon and the two-story courthouse.
I tied Pony to a post and charged through the large white door of the sheriff’s office. I was met with surprise and curiosity by the only lawman in the room.
“Are you Archibald Burns?” I said with a certain new gravity, for although only four days had passed since Pa had left, it was like I had grown a year and a day in that time.
The man behind the desk, whose feet were crossed over a mess of papers, didn’t know what to make of me or my intrusion.
“What in heaven,” he replied. “Who are you?”
“I’m Silas Bird,” I answered quickly. “Marshal Enoch Farmer sent me to find Archibald Burns. I have to speak to him now, if you please.”
The man, who was young and thin and clean-shaven, with a mop of curly brown hair, leaned forward on his chair. “Who is Enoch Farmer?”
“He’s a United States marshal,” I answered. “Listen, I don’t have time to dillydally. Marshal Farmer fell off his horse and is badly hurt. He was on his way here to raise a posse, for he’s found Oscar Rollerensh’s headquarters by the Falls.” That name, for whatever reason, was one I just could not master in a pinch.
I thought all this information would spur the young lawman behind the desk into some kind of action, or at least trigger some kind of excitable response. But he looked at me like my words were much less meaningful than I was perceiving them to be.
“Oscar Rollerensh…?” he finally responded. “Do you mean Roscoe Ollerenshaw?”
“Yes!” I answered madly.
“Down by the Falls?” he repeated.
“Yes!” I said, exasperated. “Look, can you find Archibald Burns for me, please? Marshal Farmer told me he’s the one to talk to. We need to raise a posse of twenty men and charge the headquarters today.”
“Charge the headquarters,” repeated the man, looking at me like I was crazy. “Look, little fella, I’ve heard of Roscoe Ollerenshaw, for sure. I don’t know what lawman hasn’t. But I’ve never heard of a Marshal Enoch Farmer. And Archibald Burns? He was the sheriff before I got here, but he’s been dead about five years now.”
3
I WAS NOT AS TAKEN ABACK as one might think by this news about Archibald Burns. Marshal Farmer had warned that it had been years since he’d seen him. But I was aggrieved, for I did not think that the young lawman before me, with his curly hair and dimpled cheeks, was up to the task before him.
“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter about Archibald Burns, then. What matters is, you need to raise a posse, quick.”
He shook his head slowly and finally stood up, his hands holding a felt campaign hat like he was undecided about whether to put it on or not. He was taller than I thought he’d be, and wore a dented tin badge on his shirt.
“Look, Silas,” he said. “That’s your name, right? Silas, you look like you’ve been through a lot, and I want to hear all about this Marshal Farmer and how you came to find Roscoe Ollerenshaw, who is indeed a fugitive from the law with a big bounty on his head. But why don’t you sit down and have something to eat first, and then we can have ourselves a nice long chat.”
“I don’t have time for a long chat!” I yelled, feeling my throat tighten. “Marshal Farmer is hurt. His body’s all mangled. We have to go back to get him. There’s no time to waste.”
Just then, another lawman entered the building and saw me squaring off against the tall man.
“Desimonde, what do we have here?” the large man said, patting my head as he passed by me to sit down by the curly-haired man’s desk. He eyed me with humor. His breath smelled of ale. “Who is this tiny child?”
“He says a U.S. marshal sent him,” the curly-haired man answered. “Enoch Farmer. That name sound familiar to you?”
“No.”
“Wants us to raise a posse.”
“What the devil for?”
“Says he knows where Roscoe Ollerenshaw is.”
“Roscoe Ollerenshaw?”
“We don’t have time for this!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air.
“Look, Silas,” the curly-haired man then said to me. “I’m Sheriff Chalfont, and this here is Deputy Beautyman. We will help you in any way we can, but you got to slow down and tell us your story, from beginning to end. Who you are. Where you’re from. And what it is you need from us. All right? Calmly and clearly. Sit down in this chair right next to you, and start from the beginning.”
I felt like I would cry if I let my guard d
own just then. I was so tired, and in such a rush, and all this while, time had been speeding up on me. It had circled around me like floodwaters, and I was afraid I would be carried away by the torrent and swept out to sea. Here, Sheriff Chalfont was throwing me a rope to help me stay afloat in the deluge. And I desperately wanted to cling to it.
So I sat down and told him everything I could, save about Mittenwool, and the Bog ghosts, and the fact that pacing in the room behind him was an elegant young woman, about twenty years of age, holding both her hands over a wound on her chest that flowed with blood.
After I was done, Sheriff Chalfont didn’t say anything, but let my words gestate in his mind. Deputy Beautyman, on the other hand, snickered as he bit off a wad of tobacco.
“Well, ain’t that a load of bunkum right there,” he scoffed, chewing noisily. “Come on, sonny boy. You must have more fables than that to tell us.”
“Nothing I told you is a fable,” I said directly to Sheriff Chalfont. I didn’t even look at the deputy, who I took an instant dislike to.
“Oh, come now!” the deputy challenged. “You want us to believe you went chasing down Roscoe Ollerenshaw’s men all by yourself? What are you, six years old?”
“I’m twelve! And no, I didn’t go by myself, exactly,” I answered. “I knew the pony would know the way because he had come through the Woods with those riders, the ones who showed up at our house and took my pa. So I knew he would lead me to them.”
“Ah, yes, manhunt by means of magical pony!” Deputy Beautyman said sarcastically, nodding with a big fat grin on his face that I would have loved to wipe away. Then he nudged the sheriff, who had his arms crossed as he took me in. “Tell me, Desimonde, why don’t we ever take magical ponies with us on our manhunts, huh?”
I was in a lather, at this point. Not only at the deputy, of course, but at myself for having so stupidly told them about Pony’s part in recent events. How many times do I have to be rapped on my knuckles to learn that most adults don’t give a whit what children have to say? They’re not like Pa, who always heeds me. I should have known better!
“I never said my horse was magical!” I answered, my fury catching in my throat. “Just that I knew he would follow the trail back to where he’d come from. Which was a logical assumption. And it turned out to be right! For I’m here, aren’t I? And I can lead you, right now, to a hidden cave, just above the banks of a creek, in which a band of counterfeiters are running their operations. Less than a two-hour ride from here, practically under your nose. Don’t you want to catch them? What kind of lawmen are you? Or are you too afraid of being led by a magical pony, Deputy Beautyman?”
Well, Deputy Beautyman did not like this at all, but Sheriff Chalfont looked down and smiled. He put on his hat and patted the deputy on the arm.
“Looks like you’ve been bested by a six-year-old, Jack,” he ribbed gently.
“I’m not six!” I shouted.
Sheriff Chalfont pointed at me, the smile still on his lips. “Listen, Silas. I’m with you, I really am, but you’re going to have to stop yelling at us, all right? We’re going with you! So calm yourself. And go easy on old Jack here. He’s nicer than he acts and smarter than he looks, I promise you.”
He pulled my hat down over my eyes, grabbed a couple of canteens full of water, and tossed a strip of jerky to me. “Eat something while we ready our horses, then meet us out front. Come on, Jack.”
He left quickly, and Deputy Beautyman, sighing theatrically, narrowed his eyes into tiny slits, like he was being sinister. And then, as strange as it may sound, he stuck his tongue out at me before following his boss out the door.
4
IN HINDSIGHT, I HAVE REALIZED, I am able to see the many connections that were unknowable once. That is one of the tricks of memory: that we can see some of the invisible threads that bind us, but only after the fact. Later, I would find out more about Sheriff Desimonde Chalfont, and what he was all about in life, and what kind of man he was. But all I knew as we rode through the forest back toward the Falls was that I liked him. I trusted him. And that, for the time being, was enough.
I cannot say the same about Deputy Beautyman. How could this oafish dunderhead be a lawman? I wondered. Every time he regarded me, it was only to jape at my expense. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, as they say, and he and Sheriff Chalfont were all I had. Despite my protestations, Sheriff Chalfont had refused to raise a posse until he had talked to Marshal Farmer himself, and taken stock of the Roscoe Ollerenshaw situation in the cave.
So we rode like demons through the forest to the Falls, going downhill the whole way. It had started to pour, which made the going much more slippery, but Pony charged through the trees without fear or hesitation. Sheriff Chalfont was on a big white mare, majestic as a painting, and Deputy Beautyman rode a muscular dun he called Petunia. Behind him he trailed a fourth horse for Marshal Farmer to ride, a shaggy but sturdy draft. But none of those big horses could keep up with my Pony as he galloped through the forest. Several times, the sheriff had to call for me to slow down, and finally one time he yelled, “Stop! Stop! Stop, Silas!”
I wheeled Pony around and saw that Deputy Beautyman had been parted from Petunia’s saddle and fallen in the mud. He was not hurt, but mad as a cat—at me!
“Desimonde, you got to tell that kid to stop riding like a maniac!” he yelled at the sheriff, flicking muck off his shoulders as he got up. He was not a fit man, to say the least, and covered in mud as he was, he looked like a wet bear.
“Guess you could use yourself a magical pony,” I observed coolly.
“It’s not my fault the blamed draft can’t keep up!” he shot back.
“Stop that,” scolded Sheriff Chalfont, snapping his fingers at me. “Come on, Jack, hurry up.” Then he pulled his horse next to me and said quietly, but sternly, “Silas, you need to go slower. It won’t do anyone any good if we hurt ourselves before we even get to where we’re going.”
I made a solemn face, and watched Deputy Beautyman get up on his horse. Maybe at this point I even felt a twang of remorse.
“What kind of name is Beautyman, anyway?” I said.
“It’s a name for a beautiful man,” he grumbled. He answered so quickly that I realized he must have been asked that a hundred times before.
Once he was back in the saddle, I made sure Pony went at a more reasonable pace through the forest. We reached the rocky ledge above the Falls about an hour later. It had stopped raining, but the ground was soggy from the downpour as we made our way up to the overlook. Which was empty.
5
I HAVE GOTTEN USED TO A VARIETY of mysteries in my life, to be sure. That I have grown up with a companion no one else can see is one. That I have visions and hear the voices of people no longer alive in this world is another. That I have been marked by lightning, and lived to tell of it, is a third. So I guess I have come to expect a degree of uncertainty in my life, young as I am.
But I was not prepared for Marshal Farmer not to be where I had left him. I had steeled myself for the prospect of his dying there on that rocky ledge before I could reach him, yes. But that he was completely gone, with no sign pointing to where he’d gone to? That was a mystery for which I was not prepared.
“You sure this is where you left him?” Sheriff Chalfont asked me calmly from atop his horse.
I had gotten off Pony and was circling the overlook where, not four hours earlier, I had left the wounded man.
“Yes!” I said. “I left him right here!”
Deputy Beautyman, to his credit, had gotten off his mare and was poking around the shrubs near the rock face. “What about his horse?”
“She was standing right where you are now,” I answered.
Deputy Beautyman bent down to inspect the ground, and then looked around a few feet in all directions. He shook his head. “Nothin
g to track here. The rain swept everything away.”
“I swear, Sheriff Chalfont,” I said, stomping my foot. “I left Marshal Farmer right here.”
Sheriff Chalfont nodded. “I believe you, Silas,” he replied intently.
“Are you thinking Ollerenshaw’s men got him?” Deputy Beautyman asked.
Sheriff Chalfont’s brow furrowed. “Either that, or he rode away on his lame horse. Could that have happened, Silas?”
“I suppose so,” I replied, stupefied. “I mean, he’s a tough old codger.”
“Come on, get on your pony,” said the sheriff. “Show us where you saw that cave you were talking about.”
I glanced at the overlook on the other side of the chasm.
“We’d have to jump to that side,” I answered.
“Hold on. You jumped across that?” Deputy Beautyman asked, peering over the edge of the cliff incredulously. “No, you didn’t. No, he didn’t, Desi.”
“Why would I lie?” I countered.
“Why would the boy who cried wolf lie? Because he was a runty little liar. That’s why.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Tell him there’s a path behind the Falls,” said Mittenwool, appearing out of nowhere. He actually startled me, for I had not seen him approach. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you!”
“There’s a path behind the Falls,” I said to the sheriff, catching my breath.
“I went down to the cave to see how many men were there now,” Mittenwool explained.
“I can take you there, Sheriff,” I continued fervently.
“Desimonde,” cautioned Deputy Beautyman, eyeing me suspiciously, for he had seen me gasp when Mittenwool surprised me. “Something is offish here, I’m telling you. If anything this kid is saying is true—and I’m not sure even he knows what’s true or not—but if what he’s telling us about this cave is true, there could be a dozen men holed up inside. There are just two of us, if you haven’t noticed.” He spat a wad of tobacco juice on the ground, as if to make his point.
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