Doubtful Canon (12 page)

Her head bobbed slightly.

“You was with a feller named Spoon.”

She looked away, shutting her eyes like a slamming door, and I studied the house, small but solid, with a heavy oaken door and window facing the cañon and another smaller window in the rear, each window equipped with oak or walnut shutters, all of them open, none barred. Had the woman thought to secure the door, she might have kept Whitey Grey at bay. Trash littered the floor, and I espied no furniture, just a pile of wood and a yellow candle resting on the top of an empty can of sugar. Jasmine busied herself pouring coffee into a battered pot, and I cringed, thinking that would be some awfully strong breakfast we’d be forced to drink.

Ian Spencer Henry begged me to help with the fire, and I started to go, but turned, glaring at Whitey Grey when he told Miss Giddings: “I buried Spoon.” He hadn’t done a lick of work, had watched while we had buried the old man. “What was left of him nohow. So you tell me this, girlie, what in the Sam Hill is you doin’ in this god-forsaken country, and, after ’em Cherry Cows hit you, how’d you make it

back here…alive?”

She didn’t speak for an hour, not until the sky turned gray and birds began to sing, not until flames roared in the fireplace, not until Ian Spencer Henry placed a steaming cup of black coffee, the one cup we had—after Whitey Grey had drunk his fill, of course—into her hands, not until Jasmine had given her a smile of encouragement. She sighed briefly, told us her name was Eleora, and tested the bitter brew. “Tell us, girlie,” Whitey Grey said, softer, gentler this time, and moved to the door, Winchester cradled in his arms, peering outside.

“I…I never knew my father,” Eleora Giddings began. “I….” Tears streamed down her face, but only for a moment. Resolutely she brushed them away with a torn strip of cloth. Another sip of coffee fortified her, and she tried again.

This is the story the petrified woman told:

I wasn’t even born when he left El Paso, I mean, well, it was Franklin back then. Called Franklin, I mean. Mama said she got word, two or three weeks later, that Papa had been killed by the Apaches on his trip to California, that he had died in a cañon somewhere in New Mexico Territory, that he had died bravely. Everything was in tumult, Mama said, Federal forces moving out, Confederates coming in. Papa had always been a Union man, so Mama moved to Grayson County, in North Texas, to live with her brother and sister-in-law. Her brother, Ephraim Grelle, he was a Union man, too, and there were a lot of Unionists in that part of the state.

That’s where I was born.

Trouble came there, too. Trouble came everywhere in those terrible years. I must have just turned one year old when a bunch of screaming men from the militia stormed into Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Matilda’s house one night. They arrested Uncle Ephraim. Arrested I don’t know how many Union men all over the county, all over North Texas. And then, later, they hanged them. Hanged forty of them, more than forty, maybe as many as fifty, I don’t know. They hanged Uncle Ephraim. Strung them all up on an elm tree in Gainesville after some kind of trial. Well, the Rebels called it a trial. Mama always called it murder. And later, when Little Ephraim ran off…he was maybe fifteen, sixteen, I guess…the Rebels hanged Aunt Matilda, said Little Ephraim was a draft dodger and that they’d hang him, too, if ever they caught him. Said he wasn’t no better than his Yankee-loving pa, and they’d hang the whole lot of us, me included.

So Mama ran off, crying, shattered, made it to Dallas, she said, and then found someone who carried her…us, I mean…down to the Hill Country. Fredericksburg. We didn’t know anybody in town, but there were Union people there, and the Texas Rebs didn’t hound them as much. Didn’t hang them anyway.

Like I said, I was too young at the time to remember any of what happened in Gainesville, or much of anything during the rest of the war. But I do remember Mama, remember her telling me how they didn’t even bury Uncle Ephraim proper, how the hogs rooted out the graves. I remember her sobbing most nights, worrying so that my father had had at least a decent burial. He was a brave man, a good man, would have been a good father. She wanted to know that he was resting in peace, wanted a marble tombstone over his grave, wanted him remembered for posterity, didn’t want him to wind up like Uncle Ephraim and those Rebel hogs.

Mama…she…she died…in July. Don’t feel sorry. It was a blessing, I think. I know it was. A blessing. In many ways she had died when Papa was killed, or at least after all that happened in North Texas back in the autumn of ’Sixty-Two. She was a seamstress, lived in Fredericksburg the rest of her life, never made much money, but she saw to it that I got an education, saw to it that I read the Good Book, saw to it that I remembered my father even if he had died before I came into this world. I was with her when she was called to Glory, holding her hand, telling her that everything would be all right.

And the last thing Mama said to me, she said, was…“See to your Papa, Eleora.”

I owed Mama that much. I owed Papa. If Mama had any money, if she hadn’t been so devastated by Papa’s death and then that…that…that nightmare she lived through…lived through trying to keep me safe, from evil’s clutches, mind you…in Grayson County and Gainesville, or struggling to keep me fed and a roof over my head all those years…why, I remember seeing her fingers bleed, remember her soaking her hands, sore, so sore, from all her hard work. Well, if she had been up to it, hadn’t been saddled with me, I warrant she would have headed West to locate Papa. But she couldn’t.

So I did. Well, tried….

After we buried Mama, after I settled all her affairs, I took what little money we had saved and went to San Antonio, started trying to find out what I could about Papa. It took a few months, took a lot of scouting, reading old newspapers, hunting up old-timers, but I did it. Some old Overland men knew about John James Giddings, sent me to El Paso, then Mesilla, finally Lordsburg. That’s where I met….

Oh, I can’t bear to think about what happened to that poor, poor man.

Thanks, honey. I’ll be all right. Coffee’s strong. Hot. First hot coffee I’ve had since I can’t remember when. I’ve been too scared to light a fire, just that candle every now and then when I’d get real scared. Well…well…anyway, Mister Spoon said he remembered all about Papa. He didn’t know him, never met him, but he knew about that stagecoach the Apaches had hit in April of ’Sixty-One. Twenty years ago. He was freighting supplies to Fort Breckinridge, coming toward Doubtful Cañon, when they discovered the ruins of what once had been a stagecoach station. They found a man there, odd-looking bird, Mister Spoon recalled, who said he had been on the stage heading to California with Mister Giddings. They had arrived, the man had told Mister Spoon, after the attack on the station, found the well poisoned, had buried the men killed by the Indians, then went on. Mister Giddings had to get through, the man had said. But….

But…he didn’t. Poor Papa.

Mister Spoon said they found the stagecoach down in the cañon, found the dead men, buried them. He said my father had died bravely, but I knew that already, knew it from Mama’s stories, but, yeah, it sure felt good to hear it from someone who had been there, well, maybe not there at the time, but someone who had at least seen the aftermath, had read the sign. Mister Spoon, he said he could read sign as good as any Army scout.

He told me he’d be glad to take me to Papa’s grave, that he knew exactly where it was. All I wanted was to see it, to make sure it would satisfy Mama, then maybe come back with a handsome stone. I remember one time asking Mama, before she took sick real bad, if she wanted to be laid to rest alongside Papa. Not in New Mexico, but we could bring his remains to a real cemetery in a real churchyard, but she had told me, no, that she’d be with Papa soon enough, together in heaven, and that it would mean more for Papa to lie near where he had so bravely fallen, as long as his grave was good and he had a monument and Christian blessing.

Well, Mister Spoon and I rode out, on horses and with a pack mule, and he was such a gentleman. He warned me of the dangers in the cañon, as had everyone in Lordsburg and Mesilla, but I just had to see it. I saw it.

Briefly.

Then I heard the screams.

Mister Spoon pushed me aside, shoved a rifle into my hands, told me to run, and not look back, and I ran. I ran and ran and ran, and I heard the shots, the screams. I was terrified. I don’t remember what all happened, I just remember running. See my clothes? Scratches? The Apaches didn’t do this. I did all that myself. Tore up my clothes in yucca and catclaw. I hid. I think I did. Found a little cave, well, not even a cave, just, well, a hole or something, and I hid there after all the screaming, all the gunshots, after everything had grown quiet. I heard men walking, ever so softly, heard them talking in some strange voice. I even saw two of them, and knew for certain that they would see me, but they didn’t. They were just kids. Boys. Not much older than you children. And then they walked off, and, when it grew dark, when the moon came out, I just walked back here. I’ve been here since, waiting, praying.

I’m sorry I shot at you. Sorry I didn’t believe you, but I’ve been here for days, hiding. Mister Spoon told me that I shouldn’t trust anyone we’d meet in Doubtful Cañon. For all I knew, you were outlaws. I’m sorry. I…I just want to go home.

After leaning his Winchester against the wall near the door, Whitey Grey came back to Eleora Giddings and took the cup from her hand, walked to the hearth, and refilled it with coffee. Then he drank, considering her story, or maybe our plight.

With Jasmine and Ian Spencer Henry tending and comforting Miss Giddings, I went to the albino.

“You should tell her,” I told him.

“Tell her what?”

“About her father. You knew him. You saw him die. I think it would comfort her.”

“I don’t want to,” he said petulantly.

“I don’t mean tell her how he died. She’s upset enough, has been through enough. But you knew him. You should tell her.”

“Don’t want to,” he repeated.

I tried a different subject. “Should I stand guard? In case the Apaches hit us?”

“They ain’t,” he said. “Iffen they was, they’d done it by now. Woman’s right. Said it was nothin’ but boys. That’s all I seen when they attacked us. Boys. Twelve, fourteen, no older than fifteen, I warrant. Boys from San Carlos wantin’ to prove they’s good ol’ Apaches. Show off for that Geronimo and all ’em other big bucks that took flight.”

“Boys?” Well, I recalled, it certainly had been a young lad trying to cut my throat back in the cañon.

“Don’t get careless, Jack, just ’cause they ain’t much older’n you. You’s seen how tough ’em Cherry Cows is even when they ain’t full growed.” The white-skinned man warmed up his cup with another splash of bitter brew. “Baby rattler’s just as deadly as a big one.”

Then shouldn’t someone stand guard?
I wondered, but held my tongue on that subject, instead asking: “Well, what are we going to do with Miss Giddings?”

“Gots to study on it.”

“I still think you should tell her….”

“Boy, I ramrod this outfit. And I’s gettin’ sick and tired of remindin’ you that.”

He took another drink of coffee, only to spray into my face when Ian Spencer Henry asked Eleora Giddings: “What about the gold?”

“Shut up, boy!” he thundered, shoving me aside, while I was frantically wiping my eyes and nose, brushing the coffee away. By the time I had recovered, Whitey Grey stood over a cowering Ian Spencer Henry, raising his fist in an intimidating gesture.

“What gold?” Eleora Giddings asked.

The albino cursed and groaned.

“Mister Grey was there,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “He was with your father. He’s the one Willie Spoon found at the old station. That ‘odd-looking’ one. We’re here….”

Another oath. Whitey Grey let out a howl and marched back to the door, picking up the Winchester, staring into the morning.

“You…you were there?” Miss Giddings asked.

“Don’t pay ’em chil’ren no never mind,” he said, shifting the rifle.

“He was there, all right,” Ian Spencer Henry informed her. “You should hear his story. It’s all blood and thunder and glory. Tell her, Mister Grey. Tell her all about it. Tell her about her daddy. Tell her about the gold!”

“What gold?” she asked again.

And, again, Whitey Grey cursed.

Eventually, though, he handed me the Winchester, told me to keep an eye out, and walked back to Eleora Giddings. “Name’s Grey,” he said. “Folks call me Whitey. On account of…well, I reckon you can see plain enough. I rode for the Overland. And I was a gun hand, messenger, guard, conductor, whatever you want to call it, when Mister Giddings, your pa, took off from Texas to Californy on that fateful ride.”

Squatting, his fingers working nervously, he told her the story, pretty much the same tale he had regaled us with back at the Lady Macbeth Mine, although he skipped some of the blood, toned down much of the thunder, and added theatrics and heroics to the death of her father, which he kept brief. “Bravest man I ever knowed,” he said, “your pappy was.” He also failed to mention the $30,000. When he had finished, he pulled the severed Apache ear from his pocket and tossed out one final embellishment.

“Here, I kilt me one Cherry Cow that I knowed had a hand in your pappy’s death.” He glared at Ian Spencer Henry to keep silent, and I guess his fib was in the right place, disgusting as it was. “You can have it iffen you wants,” he told Miss Giddings.

“No…thanks.”

The ear returned to Whitey Grey’s pocket. “’Tain’t nothin’ much,” he said.

“What about the gold?” she asked.

The glare fell on Ian Spencer Henry again, but this time Whitey Grey sighed heavily, sank onto the dirt floor, and spit out the truth. “Your pappy was in charge of gettin’ thirty thousand dollars in gold out of Texas and into bluebelly territory in Californy. When the Apaches hit us, when it was plumb certain we’d all get rubbed out, he went to bury ’em saddlebags, make sure ’em Cherry Cows didn’t get that money. Well, he did just that. Died brave and game doin’ it.”

“How did you make it out alive?” she asked.

“Same as you,” he answered. “Pure luck. Injuns never been much good at finishin’ a fight. Reckon they gots bored.”

“We’re going to get the gold,” Ian Spencer Henry said.

The white-skinned man, looking a little flushed, ground his teeth. The petrified woman, looking a little confused, stared at Jasmine.

“And?” Eleora Giddings asked.

Jasmine shrugged.

“Dig it up,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “Hey, I got a great idea. Mister Grey said he’d give us five thousand dollars to help find the treasure. That’s why we’re here.”

“I….” Miss Giddings shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess I thought he was your grandfather.”

“No.” Ian Spencer Henry cackled. “No, he ain’t nothing like that. We’d never seen him till he scared us almost to death back in Shakespeare. No, what I was saying is this…we’re not greedy. You can have a share of our five thousand dollars. The math’s easier that way. Four instead of dividing by three.”

Now Whitey Grey perked up, liking and approving Ian Spencer Henry’s plan.

“That’s one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. For each of us. That would buy you a mighty big marble cross to put over your pa’s grave, don’t you think?” When Eleora Giddings didn’t respond, Ian Spencer Henry, as was his nature, kept right on talking. “Me? I thought I’d have sixteen hundred dollars and then some, but I can make a good fortune with twelve hundred fifty. Do you know how many half-dime novels that’ll buy? Twenty-five thousand. And if I sell them for seven cents in Shakespeare? That’s…let’s see…that’s…. That’s seventeen hundred and fifty dollars. Five hundred dollars profit. That’s something.” He grinned and concluded with a brag. “I done all that in my head.”