Dorothy Garlock (4 page)

“I noticed a lot of new houses back in town,” Eli said as Hank drove the team of horses down the familiar road to the family ranch. “If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn the train had stopped in the wrong place.”

Hank nodded. “Things are different. With the coming of the train, everything in these parts has changed. Seems that everywhere one of those things goes, there’ll be folks flockin’ to make a quick dollar.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was a lad—hell, when
you
were knee-high, all the folks back in town made their livin’ off of ranchin’, pure and simple. Now with the railroad, just about anybody can set up shop. There’re so many new faces that I can walk on down the street and not see a soul I know! It’s gettin’ so that I just as soon keep myself on the ranch.”

“Probably best to keep that face of yours hidden,” Eli said with a grin.

“Nice to see your humor ain’t changed none.”

Even though they laughed about the matter, Eli knew that Hank was right about one thing: Things
had
changed. While he was gone, Bison City and all the people who lived there had undergone transformations of their own, right along with him. He couldn’t help but wonder just what else was different.

Hank guided the wagon down the dusty road, between tall trees that shaded them from the blistering heat, and across a bridge that spanned a gurgling stream. Eli couldn’t stop taking it all in; with all the talk of change, he was happy to find that some things were the same.

As they rounded a turn in the road, they came across a couple of men mending a broken fence. One of them, a younger man with his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose bulging muscles, hefted a large wooden post as easily as most men would pick up a stick. The older man doffed his hat, wiped his brow, and greeted them.

“Afternoon,” he said.

“Afternoon, Silas,” Hank had time to say before they were past them.

It took Eli a moment longer to realize who they had just met and surprise made him turn around in his seat for another look. “Silas?” he wondered aloud. “That was Silas Givens?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Then the fella with him would have to be his oldest boy, William,” he said incredulously. “But the last time I saw William he wasn’t much more than a cornstalk in baggy clothes. That man back there was as fit as an ox and nearly half as big!”

Hank laughed. “It’s like I told you. Things change!”

The miles passed by with more talk and laughter, but Eli felt that there was something gnawing at Hank. Eli had known the older man nearly all his life, and he knew Hank would tell him when he was ready. Soon, they neared the homestead. They passed over a short rise in the land, and the ranch buildings came into view.

“Home,” he muttered.

The Morgan ranch lay on a stretch of flat land at the end of a large grove of elm and pine. The main building, a squat, single-story house hewn from the neighboring trees, sat at the ranch’s center. All around it, smaller buildings, tall barns, and corrals for cattle spread out over the land. As they rode on, Eli could see a ranch hand driving cattle into a pen. The familiar sounds and smells washed over him, and he was suddenly filled with the sensation that he had never left. This life was as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his veins.

“Before we arrive, there’s something I think you ought to be made aware of.” Hank fidgeted beside him. “It’s a mite strange and a bit hard to get used to, but there ain’t nothin’ any of us can do to change it.”

As Eli stared at his uncle, he was filled with dread. He was certain that he was about to be told the reason that the telegram had been sent, the reason that he’d been called home. His hands clenched into tight fists as he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Well . . . it’s just that . . .” but before he could say more, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed. Pointing on ahead, he said, “I guess you can just see for yourself.”

Eli followed Hank’s arm. They had just passed by two of the holding corrals and were nearing the main house. The sight that greeted Eli’s gaze was enough to strike him mute. He blinked once, twice, and even a third time in the hope that he wasn’t seeing a mirage. His mouth opened and closed but no sound would dare to come out.

There, on the front porch, stood Abraham Lincoln.

Chapter Three

E
LI COULD SCARCELY
believe the sight that greeted his eyes. As he looked at the man who was even now making his way from the porch toward their wagon, his mind raced to take in all the details. The man’s frame was long and thin, his arms and legs gangly under the coal-black suit that hung loosely off his body. A tall hat the same color as his suit was perched atop his head. Scraggly black hair lined his jaw below his bare upper lip.

“Ho—how in the hell?” Eli sputtered.

He would have readily admitted that he hadn’t been the best student in school, but he wasn’t an ignorant fool either. As a boy, he’d seen photographs of the man from Illinois who had gone on to become the sixteenth president of the United States. The figure walking toward him was the spitting image. Eli blinked quickly, hoping that the trick that assailed his vision would go away. What he saw couldn’t possibly be true. After all, Abraham Lincoln had been dead for nearly thirty years!

Somehow, Eli managed to get himself out of the wagon, although he landed on wobbly legs. His jaw hung limply as the man reached him and took his hand in his own, pumping it vigorously.

“Splendid! Just splendid!” the former president enthused. “I must say that I’ve been awaiting your report from the front line with such anticipation that I haven’t been able to so much as sit! Tell me, sir, what word have you?”

Even though he had been asked a question, Eli found himself completely and utterly incapable of answering; he had been struck mute. Instead, all he could do was stare.
Surely I must be dreaming
! He felt taunted, even teased by the truth. Slowly, as if he were trying to put together a puzzle solely by touching the pieces instead of looking at them, he could feel the answer to this mystery falling into place, but it was still temporarily out of reach.

“Pardon my manners, good sir,” the bearded man said with a smile. Even in his black, heavy clothing, he didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable under the blazing summer sun. “I should have realized your predicament. I can imagine that after such a long and arduous journey your throat must certainly be parched. I’ll send a porter for refreshment.”

Suddenly, Eli knew who stood before him. It was all in the details; the mole to the right of his nose, the way that his dark green eyes danced about mischievously, the slight downturn of his mouth when he spoke. He couldn’t understand why his older brother, Abraham Morgan, was dressed like the former president of the United States.

“Abe, it’s me, Eli,” he finally managed.

A frown crossed the other man’s face. “I understand that you have been on a long trek, sir, but I do believe that the use of a first name is inappropriate for your commanding officer. ‘President Lincoln’ or ‘sir’ should suffice. I do believe that I have earned such courtesies.”

Hank moved from his perch on the wagon to stand beside the two men. Eli expected his uncle to let him in on the joke, to break the charade that they’d created to trick him, but instead his tone was one of dead seriousness. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. President, sir, but you’ve got to understand that General Morgan has just returned from a particularly dangerous mission and ain’t quite used to being back among us more civilized folk.” Turning to Eli, his eyes imploring his nephew to go along, he added, “Ain’t that right, General Morgan?”

What in the hell is going on?
Eli thought even as he managed to say, “Yes—yes, that’s right.” His mind was reeling. He felt as if he were trying to catch up to a runaway horse, yet always remaining a step behind.

“He’ll have a report for you shortly,” Hank promised further.

“Yes . . . I’ll think of something,” Eli agreed.

“Splendid! Just splendid!” Abe crowed. Shooting his cuffs, he grinned from ear to ear. “In the meanwhile, I am going to walk the White House grounds and ruminate upon my upcoming speech before Congress. As I’m sure you’re aware, a president’s work is never done.” With that, he headed off toward the outlying barn, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his face turned up to the hot summer sun.

For a moment longer, Eli was as mute as he had been before the transformed face of his older brother. Hundreds of questions filled his mind, so many that he couldn’t decide which one to ask first. Finally, when the words came, they arrived laced with shock and surprise. “What in the hell happened, Hank? Abe doesn’t think he’s Abraham Lincoln, does he?”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t give you fair warning about your brother.” Hank sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But some things are easier seen than explained.”

“What could possibly be the explanation of that?”

“I don’t know if there is one,” his uncle admitted with a nod.

Eli’s thoughts raged like a tornado. Abraham was one of the things in Eli’s life that had remained constant. Tall, strong, and confident, Abe had been there for him, teaching him to swim and fish, sharing a laugh, and keeping him from getting too big for his britches. Even when Caleb had come along, Abe had simply taken him under his wing and carried on.

Abraham had always been a bit peculiar, prone to burst out into song or to laugh at the wrong time, but no one had ever paid it any mind; it was just Abe being Abe. As he’d gotten older, things seemed to worsen. Out of the clear blue, he’d fly off the handle, curse their father, and then ride off for days at a time. Their father—as had everyone else in town—realized that Abe would never be able to take over the ranch.

Eli had always assumed that his brother had grown tired of chafing under their father’s yoke, just as he himself had, but maybe it had been something more. To find him like this, to see him dressed and acting as the dead president of the United States, was nearly too much to bear.

“How—how did this . . . ,” was all that Eli could manage to ask.

“It happened shortly after you’d left for the army,” Hank began evenly, his eyes locked on Abe’s back as he made his way across the ranch. “He hadn’t been feelin’ all that well, complainin’ about his head for a couple of days, when he up and fell like a sack of potatoes after dinner. Try as we could, wasn’t nothin’ that could get him to wake up. In the end, all we could do was put him in his bed and hope for the best.”

“What about Doc Holland?” Eli asked, referring to the elderly physician who ministered to the town of Bison City and all the ranchers who lived nearby. “Wasn’t there anything he could do?”

“We fetched him right away the next mornin’—rode right through a bear of a summer squall, I did,” Hank explained, “but he wasn’t able to do anythin’ to help. Whatever it was that got ahold of Abe, it was more than the doc was capable of fixin’. He reckoned that it wouldn’t be but a couple of days before he’d give up and pass on. The only thing we could do for him was to keep him comfortable and give him some water from time to time. Your mother sat by his bed for weeks, never leavin’ no matter how exhausted she was.”

“For
weeks
. . . ,” Eli echoed.

“Your mother spent all her time beside her remaining son. I ain’t much of a religious fella, but I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that it was her will that kept that boy alive. He didn’t die because she wouldn’t let him!”

Eli felt the sting of his uncle’s words, even though he was certain that Hank meant no malice. After Caleb’s murder, Eli had left for the army, secure in the knowledge that Abraham remained behind to help their father with the ranch work. As much anger as there had been between him and his father and mother, he certainly hadn’t wanted any hardship to befall them. What his brother had gone through made him sick to his stomach.

“But he didn’t die,” Eli said.

“No, he didn’t.” Hank nodded. “One day he just up and opened his eyes, like he’d been sleepin’ or some such. At first, we were all about as happy as pigs in slop, but then we begun to understand that somethin’ wasn’t quite right.”

“What was the matter? He didn’t know who he was?”

“Oh, he knew who he was all right—it just wasn’t the same as who
we
thought he was,” Hank went on. “He’d answer to his name. But after a touch, he started callin’ all of us by different names and carryin’ on about the White House, the war, and his boyhood. At that point, it sure as hell wouldn’t take no doctor to know things weren’t the way they was supposed to be.”

“But why go along with it? Why does he still think he’s Lincoln?”

“Because try as we might, we couldn’t convince him he wasn’t.” Eli’s uncle shrugged. “Sure, we tried tellin’ him he was
our
Abraham, but he wouldn’t have any of it. The more we kept on, the madder he got. Your mother finally put a stop to it because she was afraid he’d go and have himself another episode. The weeks turned into months and, before you know it, he’s dressin’ like Lincoln, talkin’ like him, even growin’ his beard to look like him.”

Even as Hank explained what had happened, Eli could feel himself rebelling against his uncle’s words. This was an unnatural thing, wrong in every way, and needed to be stopped. “We have to get him to a doctor—a hospital where they deal with this sort of thing. Surely, there’s somewhere in Denver they can make this right!”

“You wouldn’t be doin’ your brother no good,” Hank said matter-of-factly.

“What are you talking about? He needs help!”

“If you take him to some fancy hospital, they ain’t never gonna let him back out. Some doctor would take one look at him and he’d say the boy was crazy. They’d throw the key away!”

In his heart, Eli realized that what his uncle was telling him was the truth; he’d seen much the same while in the army. Soldiers who had been tired, had seen too much action, or were simply afraid were locked in a room and classified as insane. When one acquaintance had gone into the hospital, Eli never saw him again. To imagine Abe in the same predicament was a nightmare.