“Ike,” Jake said, “this is the most cockeyed caravan that ever existed.”
“You think so?”
“I think so—if we were Irish I’d say we got a mulligan stew.”
“What’s wrong with mulligan stew?”
“Don’t interrupt. Look at the ingredients—a naïve young lady with beads, a couple ex-slaves with a little yingl, an alcoholic actor, a bunch of rowdy miners—going to a place we’ve never been before across country with wild Apaches inclined to scalp us and likely eat our livers. . . . Yes, brother . . . a cockeyed caravan!”
Apache is the word for enemy. And the Apaches were the enemy of those who crossed into their territory. For centuries those enemies were red. Comanches, Kiowas and other tribes who dared trespass. But with the birth of a new nation came another enemy—an enemy of a different color—that encroached on their ancient domain.
And unseen Apache eyes watched as Ike Silver and his caravan moved deeper into that domain that with every mile became more ragged and wild; and far behind that caravan there were others who waited and watched—Jim Gallagher and company.
“Hold up there! Hold up!” It was Ben Brown’s voice and he moved his wagon up alongside the wagon with Jake, the boys and Sister Bonney.
Jake pulled up and looked across at Ben.
“What’s wrong?”
“That back wheel of yours looks a little wobbly. I want to check something.”
Brown came off his wagon holding a hammer in his hand.
Ike Silver reined up close by.
“Anything wrong?”
“Want to take a look at that wheel.”
“Sure thing.”
The blacksmith inspected the rear right wheel, then whacked it a couple of times with the hammer.
“Loose pin. Ought to be all right now.”
“Much obliged,” Ike said.
“Benjie,” Sister Bonney called out. “Why don’t you ride up here with us for a while?”
The boy looked for a response from his father. There was none.
“Come on,” Sister Bonney beckoned. “We’re telling stories.”
“It’s all right, Benjie,” Melena affirmed from the wagon. “Go ahead.”
Benjie still looked at his father, who stood between the wagons with the hammer in his hand.
Ben Brown nodded.
The boy climbed down and started past his father, hesitated, then stopped. He put his hand in his pocket and whispered.
“Pa, will you hold the yo-yo?”
“No.”
“Climb aboard, Benjie,” Jake called out. “We’re falling behind the rest of the wagons.” He reached his hand down to help.
Reluctantly, Benjie moved closer, took Jake’s extended hand and made his way up next to the others.
“Thanks again.” Jake nodded toward Ben Brown and snapped the reins.
The wagon started to roll.
“Yes, Mister Brown,”—Ike smiled—“thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Mister Silver.” Ben walked toward his wagon as Ike rode forward to the head of the caravan.
“Now then, boys, what kind of a story would you like to hear?”
“Tell us a ghost story this time, Sister Bonney.” Obie sprang up and down on the seat.
“Obadiah,” Jake said, “be more respectful. I think you boys ought to call her Sister Mary Bon—”
“Oh, no, that’s all right. The children at the orphanage all called me Sister Bonney, too.”
“Well, then, Sister Bonney,”—Jake nodded,—“go ahead and tell us that ghost story . . . before it gets dark.”
“Well, once upon a time there were three little boys—”
“Like us?” Obie asked.
“Just like you, but they lived in a faraway land called Gloomo Loomo. . . .”
Behind the caravan the sun began to cast longer shadows as it dipped toward the saw-tooth boulders to the west. And among the boulders, Gallagher, Rooster and the rest of Lessur’s teamsters watched from horseback.
“Looks like they’ll be making camp by them rocks,” Gallagher said.
“Yeah,” Rooster lifted his hat and wiped at the sweat and dirt on his forehead. “What’re we gonna do?”
“Nothin’ . . . yet.”
“ ‘. . . He jests at scars who never felt a wound
But soft what light through yonder window breaks.
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun and kill the envious moon . . .’ ”
For nearly half an hour after supper, as they all sat around the campfire, Basil Binkham had been reciting the story of Romeo and Juliet—and playing both roles.
“ ‘. . . It is my lady; O, it is my love!’ ”
In both voices.
“ ‘. . . O Romeo! Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
It is my soul that calls upon my name.
Good night, good night: parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would that I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!’ ”
Basil Binkham bowed.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen . . . and children, Romeo and Juliet were married and lived happily ever after—at least in this abridged version—and so, I bid you all good night. No applause please—you may praise me later.”
As usual, Ike heard the boys say their prayers and kissed them good night.
Sister Bonney had stood just far enough and close enough to watch and listen.
Ike waited until the boys settled in under their blankets, then turned and walked toward the camp-fire.
Sister Bonney followed. “You can be proud of them. They’re good kids.”
“It hasn’t been easy for them.”
“Or for you. Being mother and father.”
“A man can get used to anything . . . mostly.”
“Some men.” She smiled.
Ike said nothing for a moment.
“Good night, Sister.” He walked away from the fire and Sister Bonney.
As she watched him move into the darkness, Jake came up and stood beside her.
“There was never a man more in love with a woman.”
“When did she . . . ?”
“When Obie was born . . . in England. Things were just beginning to go good . . . after all the hell—uh, excuse me, Sister—he went through getting himself, then me out of the old country. He put himself through the University of London, met Rachel there—the sweetest girl in the world, or at least in his world. And so after she died he decided to come to a new world and brought us with him. . . .”
“To California?”
“Until the war broke out.”
“He fought in the war?”
Jake nodded.
“He hated slavery . . . you know, Sister, our people, for a long time, were in bondage.”
“Yes, I know.”
“All the way across the country he went and fought with the Army of the Tennesse under General Grant, now President Grant. Ike was with him when St. Louis fell, then Fort Henry and Fort Donelson . . . rose to the rank of captain, but the most decisive battle was yet to be fought at a place called Shiloh. The Confederates called it Pittsburg Landing . . . and it turned out to be the bloodiest battle, so far, for both sides.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“The commander of Ike’s brigade fell dead during the charge. Ike picked up his sword and led that brigade through the holocaust until the Confederate ranks broke and retreated in defeat. But Ike was severely wounded. . . .”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Of course, we didn’t hear about leading that charge from Ike. One of the other men who was there told us when they both got back. Ike got a medal, and a discharge, and the boys got a father again.”
“And you, your brother.”
“That’s right, Sister. There were close to twenty-five thousand men dead and missing at Shiloh on both sides . . . they say that after Shiloh, the South never smiled again. And you know something, Sister? Shiloh is a Hebrew word.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Twenty-five thousand men dead . . . and something else you didn’t know, Sister, in Hebrew—Shiloh means ‘place of peace’. . . sometimes . . . I wonder.”
“We all do.”
“Even you?”
There was a moment of silence. Only a moment.
“If we knew all the answers, Jake, then what would faith be for?”
Jake smiled and nodded.
Neither Jake Silver nor Sister Bonney was aware that Ben Brown had been nearby.
Near enough to hear what had been said.
At the edge of the camp, close to a boulder, Ike Silver stood with his watch in his hand, listening to the melody. He closed the lid, put the watch in his pocket, and turned to face someone an arm’s length away.
Eyes searing, a blotch of blood on his body, his face a blazonry of pain, his arm upraised holding a jagged rock poised to strike.
Colorados.