A forgotten evil, p.10
A Forgotten Evil, page 10
Much to Caleb’s surprise, it was the Indian who was brought out to help unload the wood.
“He ain’t half the trouble prizing out,” the guard said, cradling his rifle across his arm, “being by hisself like he is.”
The Indian said nothing as Caleb stacked wood on his outstretched arms. Even as his muscles rippled under the weight, he bore it without protest. They were close to the same age, Caleb guessed, and of the same slight build. Beyond that, they were worlds apart, as evidenced in the silence between them.
They had finished, and Caleb was stacking the last of the cedar into the wood box, when the guard motioned for Little River to move back to his cell.
“Thanks,” Caleb said, looking up from the box.
“The white man carries the wood to his camp,” Little River said, “but the Indian takes his camp to the wood so he doesn’t have to carry it.”
“It’s a point,” Caleb said, tossing in the last piece, “but the rabbit, which ain’t even a human bein’, has no need for either, does he?”
Little River lifted his chin and thought over the words for a moment before turning back to his cell.
From there, Caleb pulled the empty wagon about, making certain to stay off the parade grounds, and took the back road to the dock of the quartermaster storehouse. After loading in his oats, he wrapped the bacon side in a sack for keeping off the dust and slipped it under the wagon seat.
Sergeant Wins wrote figures into his book as he watched on from the dock.
“It’s more wood we’ll be needing soon,” he said. “If you can’t manage, then we’ll just have to get someone what can, won’t we.” Slipping his notebook into his hip pocket, he leaned forward, his hand on his knee, and spit tobacco juice between Mule Two’s ears. “Better feed this ole hinny ’fore the buzzards eat her right out of the harness,” he said.
As Caleb approached the railhead camp, a soldier mounted on a sorrel rode down the track to meet him. He held his hat against the wind with one hand and the other up for Caleb to stop.
“Whoa,” Caleb said, drawing up the reins.
“You got business with the railroad, Mister?” he asked.
“No, sir, given I ain’t been there yet.”
“What’s your name?”
“Caleb Justin.”
“I’m Corporal Fitz,” he said, “with a detachment out of Harker, guarding this here work train against Indian depredations. I suggest you move on.”
“I ain’t a Indian,” he said, “just a woodcutter come to see if the camp needs wood brought in. Jim Ferric, the blacksmith out of Harker’s the one what sent me.”
“Jim? Yeah, I know Jim,” Fitz said, bringing about his horse. “Ole Jim’s a fine blacksmith and a mighty poor soldier. Lost his corporal stripes when he set the cook on top of his stove. Lifted him right up under his arms like he weighed no more than a sack of sugar. You could hear that cook screaming all the way to Leavenworth. Course, he deserved it, didn’t he, and he ain’t sat down since either. Every time ole Jim comes in the commissary, that son of a bitch scrambles out the back door just as quick.”
“Jim thought the railroad might pay a little cash money for firewood,” Caleb said, “what cut and stacked for convenience.”
“Well, Caleb Justin, do you know there’s Cheyenne about what like to have your hair hanged off their teepee pole?”
“Yes, sir, but I’m armed, ain’t I, working the trees and keeping out of sight.”
“It’s your hair, I reckon, and none of my say.”
“You figure I could go in to camp and ask about the woodcutting?”
“I suppose it would be all right,” he said. “Those track boys keep a fire blazing day and night, to drive off the fiends and the fear in their hearts, I’m betting, but it don’t, does it? Monnet’s got his own stove up there in that private car of his, keeping hisself and that daughter all cozy, whilst the rest of us freeze off our balls in these saddles. But I reckon you could check with him, if you was of a mind.”
Caleb’s heart leaped at the possibility of seeing the girl again. “Ain’t he the owner of the railroad?” he asked.
Slipping his carbine back into its scabbard, the soldier leaned forward on his saddle horn. “Ain’t nobody owns a railroad, ’cept God, and He ain’t got but a partner’s share. Now, ole Monnet is a big shot, don’t get me wrong, and one to be reckoned with. Got that daughter with him, too, a real looker, ain’t she, waiting on her lieutenant fiancé to come out of Fort Larned and whisk her away.”
“That’s what I heard,” Caleb said.
“Well, you just be careful where you let them eyeballs fall ’cause ole Monnet’s got a pack of men working for him and willing to do anything what he takes a mind of. Say,” he said, turning in his saddle, “ain’t them army mules?”
“Salvaged out on account of their age,” Caleb said, “and headed for the glue factory. Jim Ferric traded ’em right out of death’s door. This here’s Mule One, and this one here’s Mule Two.”
“Hell’s bells,” Fitz said, “I didn’t know ‘Mule Two’ was a girl’s name.”
“Was all along, far as I know.”
“Well, you take care, Woodcutter. I got to get back up there and protect them railroad boys, or they start crying to Monnet, and Monnet cries to the commander at Harker, and the commander makes life unfit for living, don’t he.”
“Thanks, Fitz,” Caleb said.
The private car sat on a siding just yards from where the track stopped. An iron step hung from the doorway, but with cold welcome, as the curtains were pulled against the rudeness of the outside world. A hundred yards farther down, civilization itself ended, and men worked as ants, laying tie and rail into the wilderness ahead.
With trepidation, Caleb knocked on the car door. He stepped back and removed his hat to comb his fingers through his hair. Moments passed before the door opened and a man appeared. Dressed in coat and tie, he peered down from the height of the car, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, suspended there by some invisible will. Dark, intelligent eyes bore through Caleb.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Mr. Monnet?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Caleb Justin. I’m the woodcutter for Fort Harker. I was wondering if you might be interested in having firewood cut and stacked for the work crew, or maybe even for yourself here at this car?”
Placing his finger in the center of his glasses, Monnet pushed them back up his nose, and his eyes rounded and grew under the magnification.
“This is the railroad, Mr. Justin,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“The railroad doesn’t need anyone else to cut its wood. It’s quite capable of cutting its own wood.”
“Yes, sir. I can see that plain enough. Still, I work a sight cheaper than a high-paid rail hand, a man what should be laying track and shaping the course of America instead of cutting wood just to keep hisself warm at night. It’s woodcutters what should be left to do their share, though a mighty small thing it is, sir.”
Once again the glasses eased to the end of Monnet’s nose, stopping just at its tip. “Don’t blow smoke up my skirt, boy. It’s been tried by the best.”
“Yes, sir,” Caleb said. “It’s a mighty thin smoke, I admit.”
Just as he turned to leave, the girl appeared at Monnet’s shoulder, the hardness in his eyes softening with her touch.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked.
“It’s nothing, Joan. This boy claims to be a woodcutter, that’s all.”
She lifted on tiptoes to see over Monnet’s shoulder and asked, “A what?”
“A woodcutter.”
A wisp of ebony hair fell across her face as she studied Caleb, the scent of her perfume exotic and sudden in the earthy confines of the camp.
“What does he want, I wonder?”
“To sell firewood to the railroad,” Monnet said, stroking her hand with the tips of his fingers, the way one might stroke the nose of a spirited horse.
She hooked her chin on Papa’s shoulder and leaned in, the emerald green of her eyes, the whiteness of her skin, the startling dimples that set Caleb’s heart to tripping.
“Papa,” she whispered, “is he hungry?”
Heat flushed in Caleb’s face, and he turned away so that they would not see.
“How much do you charge for wood, Mr. Justin?” Monnet asked.
When Caleb turned back, he avoided the green eyes of the girl, who saw him for what he was—destitute and miserable and unworthy. “Five dollars a load,” he said, “but it’s earned wood, sir. You don’t have a need, then I’ll just be moving on.”
“You’re a might touchy for a man concerned about the course of America’s future.”
He looked back at his mules and paused before speaking, but when he did speak, he spoke to the girl who watched him from over her papa’s shoulder.
“I carried wood for my pa ever since I was big enough to climb into a wagon, sir, and when I was strong enough to lift a axe, I cut kindling, sometimes no bigger than my finger, but I cut it right alongside, and when I was older, I cut two loads of hardwood a day, a rarity even for growed men, and when my pa died, I cut wood alone to make my way, cut it with my pa’s axe, this axe right here, and in all that time I never asked for nothing what I didn’t earn with my own two hands.”
Monnet pushed his glasses up again, centering his attention on Caleb. “Two dollars a load then?”
“Three,” Caleb said.
“All right, three dollars. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir. Agreed.”
“Cash money on delivery from the paymaster in the end car there. I expect you not to interfere with the crew or take up my time, Mr. Justin, because as you pointed out, time is of the essence when building a railroad. The course of America depends on it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
And when Caleb looked again, both papa and daughter were gone, and the door to their private world was closed once more.
By the time Caleb rode into his camp, the cold sun was shimmering below the cottonwoods, and in their tops, wild turkey gathered in the limbs once again, like black-robed priests huddling against the sharpening chill of evening. But tonight they would sleep undisturbed, because it was smoked bacon Caleb had on his mind.
He unharnessed the mules and fed them peach cans of oats in the dry, clean buffalo grass, sitting on his haunches to watch them eat, the grind of their teeth like drums in the hollowness of their skulls, and when they were hobbled out, he cooked the bacon, wrapping it in fried bread made of water and flour.
The night darkened, and a great weariness pressed in on him. It had been a busy day, a day fraught with people and words and difficult things, but now at least his way was made. All that remained was the promise that he work, that he cut wood and deliver, and these were but ordinary companions to a man such as he.
Climbing into his bunk, he pulled the blanket about him and listened to the fire, watched the frolic of shadows, and wondered if she might visit his door tonight, the coyote bitch with the eyes of yellow.
But fatigue washed over him, and soon he slept the flawless sleep of resolve and decision. Not until the wee hours did he stir in his dreams, and there from under the moon were the eyes, as he knew they would be, but not of yellow, or of savagery, or of valiance untamed, but the eyes of green, and of emerald, and of Papa’s own daughter.
Chapter 9
For two weeks Caleb worked into the night, ranging ever farther from camp in pursuit of suitable firewood and plodding home in darkness, frozen, wearied, and half-mad from the eternal winds.
Twice he’d made deliveries to the fort and was short-changed both times by Sergeant Wins, who claimed the wood inferior, or shy, or too wet to burn. It was then that Caleb held back the best sticks of hardwood for the rail camp, stacking them next to the cellar until he could get a full cord saved. At least at the rail camp, he’d get cash money for his efforts.
On this day, Sergeant Wins leaned forward from the dock and spit tobacco juice on Mule Two’s rump, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“It’s trash, ain’t it,” he said, “and not worth the haul, if you ask me.”
“The best there is, Sergeant, ’less you want it freighted in from Kentucky.”
“Shy of hardwood, ain’t it?”
“No, sir. It ain’t.”
Taking out his notebook, Sergeant Wins made his entry with a stub pencil.
“I’m docking you a third, ’cause nobody cheats the army. It’s something woodcutters got to learn.”
“It ain’t the army being cheated, Sergeant.”
“Well, now,” he said, “you don’t like army business, you can just sell it somewheres else, can’t you. Maybe ole Red Nose would like a load or two. Why don’t you just send up a smoke signal and see?”
Pulling his team about, Caleb didn’t answer, because there was no answer. Wins was right. The army’s business was all that bore between him and starvation at the moment.
There was no need to go by the blacksmith shop because Jim Ferric, according to the guard at the gate, had been assigned to a detachment of supply wagons sent to Riley, so after the best wood was delivered at the commander’s house and the commissary, Caleb stopped at the guardhouse to finish out his load.
He knocked on the door and waited, his back against the wind that cut unheeded across the compound.
“What is it?” the guard asked through the crack in the door.
“I got some pretty good elm left,” Caleb said. “Thought you boys could use a little.”
“Could always use a little. Hang on,” he said, closing the door. When he opened it again, a private shivered at his side. “Mooney here will help you load up the box. He’s sprung come morning anyway, so don’t figure he’s apt to murder no woodcutter.”
After the box was loaded, Caleb stoked the stove while the guard returned Mooney to his cell.
When the guard had resumed his post by the stove, Caleb asked, “Where’s the Indian?”
“Little River?”
“Ain’t but one I ever saw,” Caleb said, “what with the red tails in his braid?”
“Done his time,” the guard said, warming his hands to the fire. “Hopped on his pony and rode off without so much as a smooch or a wave. Guess the guardhouse wasn’t to his liking, though I don’t see living in a snowbank and eating dog as much improvement, myself.”
“Living in a snowbank ain’t so bad,” Caleb said, buttoning his coat, “though I can’t say about eating dog, least not yet. See you in a couple weeks.”
With a sack of pinto beans and a twenty-five-pound bag of flour under the wagon seat, Caleb headed back to his camp. As he topped the hill above the garden, the sky darkened in the west, and the smell of moisture rode in on the wind. The prairie dogs watched from their mounds as he passed, reverence in the fold of their hands and the tilt of their heads.
By the time the mules were unharnessed, flakes of snow had gathered white on their backs. Caleb doubled their feed and tied them in the hollow behind the cellar, the one place sheltered from the bitter north wind.
He dug an onion from the garden and built a fire of hardwood, taken against his better judgment from the rail camp stash. With his skinning knife, he quartered the onion and cut up the last of the bacon, browning it in the pan. Adding water, pinto beans, salt, and a dash of vinegar, he snuggled the whole of it into the coals to simmer, and by the time the aroma wafted through the camp, snowflakes had thickened about him, gathering on his shoulders and the brim of his hat, filling the camp like silent but determined guests.
The beans were delicious, and he mopped the last of them from the bottom of his tin with a hunk of sourdough. To ward against the dropping temperatures, he donned Jim’s sack coat and added wood to the fire. He settled back and listened to the sizzle of the flakes as they swept into the flames, vanishing to nowhere, just as they had come.
A coyote called from the blackness, of loneliness, of desolation, of questions unanswered, and Caleb’s own doubts spilled within him. Rubbing at the stiffness in his foot, he thought of that day in the woods, of the tree with its terrible weight, and of his pa so still on the porch. He thought of the cabin, of Ben and Sophie, and of the window, beyond which the Ohio twisted and flowed. He thought of the steamers struggling against the river, their whistles screaming against the impossible current, and of the smell of smoke, and of the fire, and the end of his life. That time was far away now, from a different world, a different life, one he could never reclaim or know again.
That night he stored kindling in the cellar to keep it dry for the morning fire. Slipping on a pair of extra socks, he pulled both Jim’s sack coat and the woolen blanket over him, even still, shivering against the bitterness of the night. Outside, the snow buried and quieted the valley in its softness, but for tomorrow, when the sun rose on the frozen world, he would load the wood for the railhead camp. With luck he would catch a glimpse of her, the girl with the fleur-de-lis and the eyes of green, making this night, this place and time, more bearable.
The next morning, he climbed from his bed, clapping his hands to warm them against the cold, his teeth chattering as he slipped on his stiff and frozen boots. Even in the cellar, his breath rose, freezing in his beard and the brows of his eyes.
He stepped outside with his arms full of kindling and squinted against the light, a morning locked in a shimmering sunrise. As far as he could see, drifts swelled and ebbed like a vast crystal ocean. Steam curled from the creek bed into the stillness, and tree limbs drooped under stacks of snow. High in the branches, blackbirds lifted and settled in joyous chatter, invulnerable to the piercing morning cold.
