Ben walked in. ‘Horses are fed and watered. I put your saddle by the stable, but I brought your saddle-bags in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Henry John said. He reached into the saddle-bags and brought out several sacks which he placed on the side table. He emptied the contents of one and Rose took a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘My, my,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they the most beautiful jewels you ever did see?’

  She leant forward. Henry John could see she was dying to pick them up and feel them.

  ‘Go ahead, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Take ’em, they’re yours.’

  She stared at his face long and hard, not sure if he was fooling around or serious.

  ‘Go ahead. Take ’em. I took ’em off the outlaws who killed Pete.’

  Rose put her hands to her face. She already knew Pete was dead, but to be told – that was certainty.

  ‘I buried him, ma’am, an’ said the same words as I said for his wife and son. What about Sean?’

  Rose looked to her husband. He nodded.

  ‘He’ll be safe with us, we’ll bring him up as our own. When he’s old enough, I’ll tell him,’ she said softly.

  ‘Reckon these here trinkets’ll go a long way for helping out with his room an’ board,’ Henry John said.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay on a whiles,’ Ben King said.

  ‘Thank you kindly, but I’d best be off. I seen too much sorrow of late. I’ll settle down again one day, but not now.’

  ‘I respect your decision, Henry John. There’ll always be a place here for you, if you’re ever in the vicinity.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Ben.’

  ‘You can’t go just yet,’ Rose said. ‘You’ll need a change of clothing at the very least.’

  Henry John looked down at his clothes. He’d not noticed the blood before. He was covered in it.

  ‘Reckon you’re right there, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘You get those things off and I’ll wash them. Ben’s about your size. I’ll dig some of his things out ’til yours are ready.’

  Rose was never happier than when she was busy fussing over something, and getting Henry John looking respectable again was just what she needed to be doing. She left the two men alone.

  Henry John undressed down to his underwear while Ben got him fresh trousers and a shirt. Rose re-entered and took the filthy garments outside to the washtub.

  ‘Whiskey?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ben poured two generous glasses and the two men sat and chewed fat.

  Within twenty minutes, Henry John was asleep again, his mouth open wide, gulping in vast quantities of oxygen that didn’t quite seem to be enough, never quite made it into his chest.

  Ben and Rose didn’t notice anything.

  Henry John spent the entire night on the only armchair in the house. Ben and Rose left him where he was. He didn’t hear the crying of young Sean who waited impatiently to be fed, nor did he hear the rain thundering down on the tin roof, fit to wake the dead.

  Henry John dreamed again. It followed the same format as before, coloured images flashed across his brain, some stopped for brief moments before flitting off again; the only constant was breathing.

  The background to all the images was his laboured breathing that had now added a slight, hollow sounding whistle.

  There was something there he couldn’t quite comprehend. Something just out of reach, but it was getting closer. He knew that.

  Rose cooked a breakfast the likes of which Henry John hadn’t enjoyed for longer than he could remember. Ben joined them. He’d been working in the barn, Rose had collected the eggs herself while Henry John slept. Young Sean was asleep in the crib. To all intents and purposes, there permeated an atmosphere of contentment, of normality.

  The nightmares in Henry John’s head began to appear in the daylight.

  He’d thought he was imagining it at first, that he hadn’t woken up yet, that he’d only dreamed he had. Yet, between Ben and Rose sat a man he’d never seen before.

  His jacket was off and his hands were covered in blood. He held a sharp knife in his left hand, the kind that medical people sometimes used. The man looked sad, he was talking to someone, not to Henry John, but about him.

  He couldn’t hear the words. The man’s lips moved almost imperceptively beneath his neatly-trimmed moustache. He kept looking to one side and then down again. Henry John tried to catch the man’s eyes, but he melted away. Only Ben and Rose sat opposite him.

  ‘I said, are you all right, Henry John?’ Rose was looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I was miles away, I could’ve sworn—’ he stopped short.

  ‘Could’ve sworn what, Henry John?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Nothin’. This sure is a damn fine breakfast, ma’am. I can’t remember the last time—’

  Henry John stopped once more. He did remember the last time he’d eaten a breakfast like this. His first wife had cooked it two days before she’d been killed. She was now sitting in between Rose and Ben.

  Henry John jumped up. ‘I gotta be goin’ now,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no hurry, surely,’ Rose said.

  ‘I wanna thank you for your hospitality, but I gotta get to the coast. I gotta see that ocean, then everything’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’ll saddle up for you, Henry John, while you get ready,’ Ben said as they finished eating.

  Henry John buckled his gun-belt on, checked the pistol was on safety, grabbed his battered hat and jacket and walked toward the front door.

  Rose stepped in his path. ‘You take care, Henry John. And you come visit us when you’ve seen that ocean.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, I sure will. An’ you look after that young nipper.’

  ‘I will.’ Rose leaned forward and placed her lips on Henry John’s cheek. He blushed, then coughed with embarrassment.

  Ben rode up on Henry John’s horse to save further talk.

  The two men shook hands and Henry John galloped off into the Plains as if his life depended on it.

  Ben and Rose King stood and watched him go. They waited for him to turn back and wave.

  He didn’t.

  Henry John rode as if the very devil himself was on his tail. There was more going on in his head than he could fathom. And he was scared.

  Very scared.

  Thinking more of his horse than himself, he reined the animal to a walking pace and settled himself in the saddle.

  The Plains rolled on for miles in every direction, a flat expanse of green, swaying grassland, punctuated by trees and the odd boulder. Cactus, rising high into the air, with silhouettes like a man with arms raised, framed the horizon.

  It was time, he thought, to re-evaluate his life. There had been too much sorrow of late. It seemed that everywhere he went, tragedy dogged his footsteps.

  Out here on the Plains, a man felt his true value. The insignificance was all too apparent. Surely there was no way man could pollute the Plains with his evil ways? Nature was too powerful, too all-consuming and just to allow that to happen.

  Noon time again, the sun blazed. There were white wispy clouds scudding along on a wind that didn’t reach ground level. Henry John halted his horse and dismounted. Using his sailcloth, he rigged a shelter and gathered kindling and dry wood for the fire.

  Striking his flint, the kindling ignited within seconds, and adding the wood piece by piece, he soon had a fire going.

  Taking out the soot-blackened enamelled coffee pot, he half-filled it with water, added the beans and suspended it over the fire.

  It was time for a smoke.

  He rolled a cigarette and lit it before lying back under the shelter. It wasn’t cooler under the sailcloth, but it kept the direct sunlight from him.

  It was quiet. Eerily quiet. Silent as the tomb. He remembered his father. Strange, he thought, how one expression can conjure up so many thoughts and reminiscences.

  His father always told him that children should be seen and not heard, and to keep as silent as a tomb unless spoken to.

  Henry John had no idea at that time what a tomb was or how silent it was. He remembered the beating he got with his father’s leather strap when he dared to ask the question.

  He felt the pain again, not on his naked buttocks, but his chest. He looked down at his body spread out before him. The pain in his chest was like a lead weight pressing down. It was difficult to fill his lungs, the effort of both breathing in and trying to expand his chest was just too much.

  Exhausted with the effort, he fell asleep.

  Dreamtime.

  He watched the rodeo clowns as they jinxed and danced and swerved to attract the attention of the giant, black Brahma. The crowd was cock-a-hoop, the rider had stayed on the beast’s back for the required minute and then ejected himself into the air as far away from those killer hoofs as he could get – which was not quite far enough. But that’s what the crowd liked.

  The bull, snorting steam from his nostrils, was not intent on trampling the rider to death. It never even entered his brain. The binding straps that were around his huge neck was what he was now trying to get rid of.

  Head down, eyes ablaze, the bull thrust his rear legs outwards and upwards with a kick that sent a swish through the air. Dust rose and fell as the creature danced its futile way around the arena. Women screamed and laughed, men drank beer, bronco-busters got themselves ready for their dice with death.

  The brass band struck up Dixie in a tempo that was just a tad too quick, but nobody was bothered. The sun shone, the beer and the food was aplenty and people were happy.

  The junior event was next on the agenda and William Henry John was the last rider in it. The boy sweated, not from the heat, not from the thrill, but from sheer terror.

  The six-month-old calves the boys would ride seemed, to him, every bit as ferocious as the Brahma.

  It was not his idea to ride.

  He was riding for his father. He was riding because his father couldn’t. The broken leg suffered during his youth had not been set properly, leaving him with a stiff leg that had little feeling in it.

  Henry John rode through his father.

  He sat abreast the brown and white calf, rope wrapped tightly around his right wrist. He was doing his best not to piss in his pants. Surrounded by six or seven rodeo workers, they opened the wooden catch-gate and thumped the calf on the rump to get him going.

  The animal shot out of the holding pen as if Satan was on his tail. Henry John’s head was thrown back with a jerk, followed by the rest of his body – he didn’t even make a second.

  He landed with a thud on the ground, all the wind knocked out of him. He couldn’t get his breath. The air had been driven out of him so severely that he couldn’t breathe. He remembered the smells, meat being barbequed, candy, coffee, and not being able to breathe. The smell of the coffee was strongest, hanging in the air like a brown cloud.

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe – the smell of the coffee.

  He woke up with a start. The white sailcloth was a shroud. He was dead, he felt certain.

  He sat up, knocking the makeshift tent-pole over. He was covered in the sailcloth, fighting to get his breath.

  Arms going like a windmill, he managed to get himself free. The air came into his lungs like a tidal wave. He was bathed in sweat. He’d been dreaming, he realized. The smell of the coffee was the coffee pot on the fire that had boiled dry, giving off a sharp, bitter aroma.

  He mopped his brow. His shirt was soaked so he took it off, spreading it over the tall grass to dry off in the sun. He rebuilt his shelter and, taking the canteen with him, he crawled back inside. All thoughts of drinking coffee had vanished.

  He rested for another hour, half awake, half asleep, but dreamless, for which he was grateful.

  His shirt had dried; it felt stiff, but dry. He put it back on and looked to the sky. Still clear, the wispy clouds scudded along.

  He saw the birds to the west, flying in ever diminishing circles, getting lower and lower until they were lost from view.

  Vultures.

  Vultures didn’t fly much unless food was in the offing. He’d seen trees full of the ugly things in his time, just sitting, watching, waiting.

  Whatever was over to the west, it was dead. Of that he was sure.

  He saddled up and rode on, heading for where he’d last seen the birds. It took an hour to reach the large, flattened trail. What he saw took his breath away – literally – and made him feel both sick and ashamed.

  The stench alone was horrific enough without the sight of the steam rising lazily into the air.

  It was a massacre. A senseless, bloody, one-sided massacre.

  For as far as the eye could see were the rotting, stinking corpses of buffalo.

  They’d been skinned, but their heads were all too visible. Young, old, bulls, cows, all dead for their pelts.

  Henry John realized then that man could pollute the Plains, and already had.

  He reached for his spade, then stopped himself. There was no way he could even begin to bury this herd. There must be over five-hundred dead animals. Enough meat going to waste to feed an average tribe of Plains Indians for ten years. Gone. Wiped out.

  He felt the sting of tears. The tight band around his chest made the sobbing difficult. Even out here, he thought, in the middle of nowhere, in God’s green land, the evil fingers of man stretched and annihilated everything they came into contact with.

  Pretty soon, man’s best friend would be the vulture.

  William Henry John rode on, his heart heavy, but also filled with a new resolve.

  Red Rock was a fairly large town, nestled on the western side of the Sierra Nevadas. It was inexplicably a thriving community.

  Surrounded by rich, fertile farmlands, as well as prairie for the cattle, it was within easy reach of the coast, being only two days’ ride away.

  The throb of the town could be felt even before Henry John reached it. Smoke from the myriad chimneys billowed into the air, the woody aroma making his mouth water.

  He’d never seen a town as big or so bustling as this in his life. Sure, he’d seen the etchings in magazines from back East. Large brick buildings, paved streets, even street lights. But to experience it was another thing.

  Not all the buildings in Red Rock were brick built. Some, the older, probably the founding part of the town, still resembled the towns of the old west. But farther away from the centre, the more modern, two- and sometimes three-storey brick buildings rose majestically into the air.

  The main street in town was paved, the streets leading off were the usual hard-packed dirt with wooden boardwalks. It was one of these streets that Henry John rode down, looking for a cheap hotel.

  The Yellow Rose was just such a hotel.

  He checked in and went to his room. It was perfectly square with a large window facing the distant mountains. Outside the window was a balcony. Henry John opened the double windows and stepped onto it. The hustle and bustle of the town went on in the street below. There was what appeared to be a cattle stockade at one end of what he now realized was a dead-end street. A cattle auction was in full swing; he could just make out the fast-talking of the auctioneer as he banged his gavel on a hand-held piece of wood as each deal was struck.

  He went back into the room. A large, brass-headed double bed filled most of the room. A small table and chair and a wardrobe with a chest of drawers attached to it, completed the furniture. The pitcher and basin, with a small hand towel and bar of soap, sat atop the chest.

  Splashing his face with the surprisingly cool water, Henry John thought about getting himself fixed up with a job.

  There must be a million opportunities in this town, he thought, for someone willing to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.

  He left the room, refreshed and looked for a cafe. He was spoilt for choice. There seemed to be a cafe or a saloon on every street corner.

  There were general stores, hardware stores, clothes stores, a milliner with some of the fanciest hats Henry John had ever seen, bristling with feathers or fruit or stuffed birds. Banks galore; it seemed every association had its own bank.

  He found a saloon that looked quiet enough and ordered a beer. Sitting at one of the large, round tables, he started to wonder what sort of life it’d be to just stay in this town, forget about the wide, open spaces.

  The beer was good, cold and he could taste the malt. It’d been a long time since he’d enjoyed a beer so much.

  Limiting himself to one, he left and walked around town. Breathing in the atmosphere, it was like being in heaven.

  The call of the ocean was too great. He’d no idea what to expect, or indeed, why he wanted to see it. He just knew he had to get there – and soon.

  Walking back to the hotel, he took his horse over to a trough and let the animal drink. He’d been careful to let him rest before filling his belly with water. He looked at the horse. Old now, but faithful. Perhaps he should put him out to grass for a few weeks, give him a rest.

  Later, maybe. Right now, he wanted to see the ocean. He needed to see the ocean.

  Henry John spent a restless night. The problem was the bed was far too soft. He felt as if he was being swallowed up whole.

  In the early hours of the morning, after spending two or three hours tossing and turning, Henry John pulled a blanket off the bed and settled down to sleep on the floor.

  The floorboards, although unforgiving and even harder than the nights he’d spent under the stars, was infinitely preferable to the soft mattress.

  When sleep eventually came, the dreamtime returned. As before, the dreams started to flit from one thing to another at the speed of light. Images appeared and disappeared. Visions began and melted.

  Gradually, his subconscious settled on a dream to concentrate on.

  Henry John was seated at the foot of his mother’s bed. The blinds and the curtains were drawn. On the bedside table, an oil-lamp, wick turned down low, flickered, giving off a sickening yellow light.

  The room was full of people. His father sat on the side of the bed holding his mother’s hand. Near the door, and behind Henry John, two women stood with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses, quietly weeping.

 

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