12

The child rode with his arms around Tad and his cheek pressed against the older boy’s back. The junipers followed the dry creek bed through the draw and the sounds and colors of life suggested the water nearby, but the mesquite that filled the sandy wash grew too thick and the riders turned the horses back out toward the desert to find a way around. They climbed to the halfway point of the south-facing ridge and saw the arroyo below and pointed to the trail leading down.

The rock shelf from the lonely ridge came down to meet the trees, which made for the riders a welcomed windbreak. They all—man, woman, and child—set about their routine and with the efficiency of those who’d been at such work over the course of many undertakings, as must be the case for any thing or things in life which are to ever be deemed routine in the first place.

At the finishing of the camp, Charlotte and the child walked with her horse toward the water, Tad sat and stared into the fire, and Randall found himself admiring his mount in a way he had not anticipated.

Randall knew naught of horses save that little which he read, which was mostly exaggerated accounts of deeds turned legend, and he placed such stories below him as the fantastical accounts of cowboys and booksellers. But as he numbered backward the days and the riding and there was Mara, still profound in her regality, he thought again of these tales and at least entertained the idea of their truthfulness. He spoke to Mara and her ears flicked and his voice he thought must be a novelty as little of it had been given to her, and he apologized for this and other things and ran his hand along her neck and felt the strength of her breathing. His hand moved down to her shoes and the stout Arabian lifted her foot back in the learned way and Randall was remiss it had not been he who taught her. The shoe was still intact, but even a man who knew nothing would name it overworn and he found the same of the other three and suddenly there was a great indebtedness on his heart and again he asked the horse’s forgiveness as if she were God Herself.

“You reckon that priest went to Heaven?” Tad asked, interrupting his admiration.

“It’s not my place to say,” Randall answered.

“You believe in God, Mr. Dawson?”

“I do. Don’t you, son?”

“I don’t rightly know. I guess so.”

Randall studied the boy as he poked at the fire and seemed to pay no mind to the heaviness of the subject or the future of his soul.

“Tad, have you been baptized?”

“I ain’t real sure. Daddy took me to a woman’s house and dunked me in her bathtub and said I was baptized, but he was drunk so I don’t know if that counts. I imagine he don’t know the right words to say, anyhow.”

The boy held his hand over the flame as long as he could, then jerked it back and shook it and appeared disappointed, as if in a competition with himself or the ghosts around him.

“Would you like me to baptize you?” Randall asked him.

“Did you baptize Harry?”

Randall smiled. “I sure did.”

“Let me think on it a spell.”

Randall nodded and they set for a time.

“What about Old Man Simpson?” Tad asked.

Randall shook his head, “Who is Old Man Simpson?”

“Old Man Simpson was this fella lived in a little cabin outside of Longpine. Daddy used to take me there and have me set with the old man’s granddaughter while he and her momma went off and did what there was to do. Daddy would call it playing cards, but I knew it wasn’t that. One time the little girl, I think her name was Mary, or Martha, she opened the door and we could see her momma down on her knees and—”

“Tad,” Randall cut him off.

“Right. Anyhow, Old Man Simpson was deaf and dumb, so he couldn’t hear nothing. Blind too, since birth, and he just set there in a rocker moving his lips while me and that little girl scooted a few playthings ’cross the floor.”

Randall waited for more, but Tad was back at his hand-burning game.

“I don’t follow.”

“Well,” the boy snatched his hand back and shook it. “If he can’t see the Bible, and he can’t hear no preacher, how’s Old Man Simpson gonna know about God and Heaven and the like?”

“Surely in such a case, the Lord would make an exception.”

“What’s an exception?”

“It means not following the rules, but only in certain situations.”

“So God gets to break His own rules?”

“Well, to an extent I guess that’s right,” Randall said, wondering if that was indeed correct.

“That don’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t about fair. It’s about faith—trusting in God and trusting He’ll do the right thing.”

“But sometimes He doesn’t.”

“He works in mysterious ways, but that doesn’t mean He’s wrong.”

Tad poked at the fire and again looked disappointed, and Randall could not be sure if it was his answer or the dying embers that had upset the boy, and long after their talk both of them, man and child, would think about what was said.

Charlotte returned with the young boy who went and sat next to Tad. The older boy rolled his eyes.

Randall stared at the woman and took in her beauty—the leanness of her arms and the sharp edges contouring her face.

“Something wrong?” she asked and Randall shook his head, embarrassed, and looked away.

“So, uh, I was thinking,” Randall said, hoping to deflect the awkwardness, “Charlotte, you know Texas. These men are headed there. Where will they go?”

“Texas is a big place, Mr. Dawson,” she replied. “But if they don’t want no part of the Mexican fight that’s coming, I imagine they’ll cross all the way through New Mexico, come into Texas around Gaines or Andrews County. That’s the track I’d take, ’less we hear different.”

“And you know the land in these places?”

“I know it a little bit. My brother was killed in Shafter Lake. A bunch of white men stripped him naked and strung him up.”

“Good God.”

“If you say so.”

“Were you there?”

“I was,” she nodded. “Hiding like a coward. The next morning I ran off to Carlsbad. Never looked back.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother. But there was nothing you could have done.”

“Don’t speak, Mr. Dawson, on matters you don’t know a thing about.”

“My apologies.”

She waved him off.

“Aw, I just get touchy,” she said. “It’s a good thing you did, taking that boy. Child like that shouldn’t be alone in this world.”

“We couldn’t leave him,” Randall said, confused by the praise.

“Some would have. A lot even.”

“That’s awful. I can’t believe that to be the truth.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s what makes you a good man.”

Randall blushed.

“Y’all quit your dadgum courting,” Tad said, crossing his arms. “Ain’t neither one of you any good at it and I’m trying to get some shut-eye.”

“Pumpkin,” the child said, crossing his arms as well.