Jacob's Way (27 page)

The afternoon sped on, and finally it was Phineas who said, “I got me an idee. I'm tired of you goin' around lookin' like a ragged bum, Ben.”

“Well, that's all right. I won some money on that wrestlin' contest.”

“You need more than that. You can use some ready cash. You done enough work around the place that I felt bad we wasn't able to pay ya.”

“That doesn't matter, Phineas.”

“Come on.”

“Where to?”

“The last event's always the shootin' contest.” His eyes gleamed, and he said, “The way you bring them squirrels home, I figure you got a pretty good chance.”

“I got no gun.”

“Well, I have. Come on.”

Driver followed the one-legged man to the wagon. Phineas had mastered the crutches so that he could swing along at a more rapid rate even than ordinary so Ben had to stretch his legs to keep up. When they reached the wagon, Phineas reached over and pulled out a long object in canvas. “See what you think of this,” he said, unwrapping the object.

“Why, this is a Whitworth!” Ben exclaimed.

“You bet it is. I left a leg in that war, but I brung this gun home. Ain't used it much, but I always keep it in first-class condition. Come on now.”

“I don't know. There'll be some good shooters there.”

“Give her a try, Ben.”

Suddenly Driver felt good. “All right,” he said. “I will.”

The two made their way to the site of the shooting match, where a huge crowd had already gathered. “This is always the big show,” Phineas said.

Indeed it was a big show, for at least twenty men were already lined up in position to shoot at the target. “It costs a dollar entry fee.”

“Well, I got that. If I lose it, I'm not out much.”

“You ain't gonna lose,” Phineas said. “Come on now, get to it.” Phineas moved across the field, for he had seen Sam, Jacob, and Reisa. He moved to stand beside them and said, “Ben's going to shoot.”

“Well, by gum, that's a good idea!” Sam exclaimed. He nudged Reisa with his elbow. “That feller was a sharpshooter during the war. He don't boast none about it, but he was. They made only the best shots sharpshooters in our army.”

“Oh, I hope he wins!” Reisa said.

“Got a good chance,” Phineas nodded. “But there's some mighty good shots here, too.”

Driver, at that moment, was paying his fee. The man that took it looked up at him. He was the sheriff, Charlie Giles. He blinked with surprise when he saw the tall man standing in front of him. “I heard you was back, Driver. It didn't pleasure me none.”

Ben did not answer. He simply put the twenty dollars down.

“I got to take your money, but I'm warnin' you, Driver. You give me any trouble, and I'll see you go back to the pen.”

Driver did not even nod. He took the receipt that the sheriff offered, watched his name being written down, then turned to go to the line of men. He had not gone far when a voice caught him up.

“Driver!”

He turned to see Alf DeSpain and Vic Giles standing there. He half expected to see Honey Fears, but the muscular man was not present. DeSpain was a tall man, even an inch or so taller than Driver. He was lean as a snake, and he had a wide mouth like a catfish. “There ought to be a law against lettin' convicts in this match,” DeSpain sneered.

Vic Giles snickered.

DeSpain continued, “But I think I can beat a one-eyed man.”

The two continued to make loud remarks so that soon everyone was aware of the situation. Driver clamped his temper down tightly. He did not even answer the two and stood there waiting quietly until the contest started.

The men shot in groups of five at targets set a hundred yards away. Each man had three shots, then the totals were counted up. The first five shot, and one man was the winner. Then another five took their place. This went on for some time with cheering and moans of grief and shouting. Driver quietly stood there watching until his turn came. He was in the last group of five. Giles had been eliminated, but Alf DeSpain had won from his group.

There was a familiarity to the feel of the Whitworth. He had used one in the war, but then he had been shooting at men instead of a target. For a moment it disconcerted him, but that passed. Coolly he put his three shots so close together in the center that it could have been covered by a dollar.

“Ben Driver's the winner,” the sheriff announced. “Now the semifinalists will shoot.”

There were five semifinalists, and out of these, two would be chosen to shoot for the finals. The target was moved back twenty yards, and once again Driver coolly planted his shots in a neat triangle in the center. The sheriff announced the winners, and discontent was in his voice. “The two finalists are Alf DeSpain—and Ben Driver.”

“Show 'em how it's done, Ben!”

Driver recognized Sam's voice and smiled, looking over toward the sound of it. He saw Reisa holding onto her grandfather's arm, and when he caught her eye, she waved at him. He nodded and turned back and stood beside DeSpain. The target was moved back another twenty yards.

“I don't aim for you to win this match, Driver.” DeSpain's voice was cold, and there was a look of hatred in his blue eyes.

Ben said absolutely nothing. He had made up his mind not to be drawn into any trouble with anyone. He well knew that he could be sent back to the penitentiary, and he also understood that Sheriff Charles Giles would be glad to be the man to do it.

DeSpain shot first, and one of the men at the target examined it. He called out, “Dead center!”

“You're beat, Driver.” DeSpain grinned.

Ben lifted the rifle and held it. He looked down the long barrel, and when he saw the line of light not moving he knew his hand was steady. He squeezed the trigger gently, heard the explosion, and felt the rifle kick up. He stood back then, waiting while the judges at the far end congregated. There were three of them: the mayor, the banker, and a big plantation owner.

One of them advanced forward, and when he got close enough he said, “A dead heat.”

Cheers went up, but DeSpain said, “Move the target back another ten yards.”

Driver said, “That's fine with me.”

They moved the target back, and DeSpain took more time. His shooting was good, as always, but one of his shots was at least three inches off center.

Driver did not hesitate. He sent the three shots one after the other.

The judge, a tall man named Aaron Coats, came with the targets. He held them up and the men gathered around, reading the names written on the target. Coats said, “DeSpain—two dead center, one three inches off—” He turned. “Ben Driver—three dead-center shots.”

A cry went up, and he recognized Reisa's voice. The crowd followed him, men pounding him on the shoulders, until he got to the table where the sheriff sat. Sheriff Charlie Giles looked as if he had bitten into a sour plum. His lips were puckered. With great reluctance he took the money out of a box, threw it down on the table, and said, “Take your money, Driver.”

“Much obliged, Sheriff.”

Picking up the money, Driver stuffed it into his pocket. The crowd was still there, men offering to buy him a drink. Many of them he knew from old times. Most had been his friends, and a good feeling washed over him.

Fifty feet away from the sheriff's table his arm was grasped, and he was whirled around. He saw Alf DeSpain, whose eyes were blazing with anger. He cursed Ben vilely, his voice rising with anger.

“Cool off there, DeSpain,” one of Ben's old friends said. “He won fair and square.”

“He's a stinkin' convict and a dirty yella' coward!” He waited then, cocked and ready for the blow that he was sure Driver would send at him.

Ben knew he could not strike the man, for it would surely buy his own ticket back into the pen. “I don't want any trouble, DeSpain.”

“I'll give you trouble.” DeSpain struck quickly like a snake. The blow caught Ben flush in the mouth and was a disaster. He fell backwards, but he had consciousness enough to roll himself over and double up, preparing for the kick he knew would come. It caught him on the hip, and he gasped with pain. Rolling over, he got to his feet and was swarmed as DeSpain came after him. He was also aware that from nowhere Honey Fears had come and struck him a blow from the right.

There was no beating the two men. They struck him blow after blow, driving him backward. He was only half conscious as he struck the ground, but he was aware that he had fallen on something hard. Rolling over he saw it was the Whitworth, and in desperation he picked it up and got to his feet. He swung the rifle blindly and heard it connect with something. When he looked down he saw Alf DeSpain, but he had no time to think, for Honey Fears leaped at him and knocked him to the ground with a single blow.

“I'll kick your brains out, you stinkin' con!” a voice cried.

Ben looked up just in time to see that Sam had pulled out his pistol and was pointing it dead on at Fears.

“You just make one move, Honey, and I'll see how big a hole this Le Mat will make in your stupid head,” Sam warned.

Fears turned his head slowly. The round bore of a pistol was pointed right at his nose. “You're askin' for trouble, Hall,” Fears said. “I'll stomp you.”

“You won't stomp nobody. Now get out of here.”

At that moment a commotion came as a man thrust himself through the crowd. Sheriff Charlie Giles came hustling forward, and he drew his gun. “You put that gun up, Sam.” He took one look, and he said, “Who put this man on the ground?”

“Driver did,” Fears gritted between clenched teeth.

“He did?”

“Yes. He hit Alf with that rifle. He ain't moved. I'm afraid he's hurt bad.”

A light of pleasure touched Sheriff Giles's eyes. He was a corrupt man, taking bribes, and he was not popular. He had served in the Confederate Army, but only as a guard at Andersonville Prison. He had been put in office by the carpetbaggers with help from powerful Federal friends. Now he pointed the gun at Driver and said, “Drop that gun, Driver.”

Driver reversed the weapon and held it by the stock. “Here, Sam,” he said with resignation. He knew what was coming.

“You can't arrest him, Giles,” Sam said loudly.

“You shut up or I'll arrest you, too! Now come on. You're going to jail.”

“He didn't do nothin',” Hall protested. “DeSpain picked the fight.”

“That don't sound likely.”

“No use arguing, Sam. I'll go along with the sheriff.”

There was yelling, some for Ben but a few against him—mostly those who had lost money and who hadn't seen the action.

Ben made his way through the crowd, and as he passed by he saw Reisa, her eyes filled with fear.

Twenty

T
he following morning Reisa washed her hair, using rain water captured in a large barrel. As she worked the soap into her long black tresses, she looked up to see Boris watching her carefully. His eyes were fully opened, and he seemed to find interest in what she did.

“What goes on in your mind, Boris?” She spoke in Yiddish, her voice soft and gentle. “Do cats think—like people?”

Boris suddenly opened his mouth in a tremendous yawn, exposing an amazingly red throat and two rows of gleaming white teeth.

Reisa laughed at this display. “I'm boring you, aren't I? Why don't you go catch a mouse or something.”

The faint sound of a fiddle came to her, and she turned to listen. Phineas played some very sad songs, and this one she didn't know. The melody floated to her, and she soaped her hair, listening to the plaintive sound. Finally she rinsed her hair in a separate bucket of water, and moved to the window to look outside while she dried it with a worn gray towel.

Her hair was difficult to dry, and she longed to go outside and let the sun pour its warm rays on it. But Jewish girls didn't do things like that. She suddenly remembered how Ben had asked about her hair, how long it was, and then had said, “It's a shame to hide anything beautiful.” The memory of the scene was etched in her mind, and she wondered,
Would it be wrong to let my hair down?
The desire was suddenly there, but she knew she never would. She was a good Jewish girl and would keep to the old ways.

Finally her hair was merely damp, and she put on a kerchief and moved outside carrying the two buckets of wash water. She dumped them in the back yard, then set them down by the well. Phineas was sitting in a chair beside the house, pulling the bow across his fiddle. His eyes were closed, and he seemed half asleep. Sam sat beside him, lazily scuffling at the dirt with his boots.

Reisa moved to stand in front of him. “Phineas, play me a song.”

Phineas opened his eyes to twin slits. “What kind of a song?”

“A happy song.”

“Maybe you don't need a happy song.”

“Everyone needs happy songs.”

“Sam read me a verse in the Bible a while back. Said something like—let's see—what was it, Sam?”

Sam shrugged.

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” Phineas said, and quoted, “‘It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting.' Sure sounds mournful, don't it?”

“I suppose we need to think about sad things—but right now I need a happy song. Please, Phineas!”

Phineas began playing a fast tune, and when he finished, asked, “That happy enough for you, girl?”

“Yes! What's the name of it?”

“Ain't got one. I just made it up.”

“Why, Phineas—that's wonderful! How nice to be able to do such a thing!”

“Don't pay too well.” Phineas grinned. He continued to play softly, and finally he gave her an odd look. “What you think about the mess Ben's got himself into?”

“I'm worried,” Reisa said instantly. “It wasn't his fault.”

Phineas nodded in agreement.

“He won't go to prison, will he?” Reisa asked.

“I hope not,” Phineas said gloomily. “Trouble is, the sheriff's crooked. Judge Bell ain't the best one to go up against, neither. He's liable to listen to the sheriff.”

Reisa turned to Sam. “Is that true?”

Sam dropped his head and wouldn't look at her. “Let's just say his chances ain't good.”

Reisa stiffened. “Well, we can't just let Ben get thrown back into jail. We've got to do something!” She paced the yard in front of them for several minutes, then turned suddenly. “I know!”

“Well,” Sam said, “spit it out, Miss Reisa. What you gonna do?”

“I'm going to see his parents. I know Mr. Driver is an influential man. He's got to help Ben—he's just got to!”

“That might help,” Sam agreed. “I think it's worth a try.”

“Do you know where they live?”

“The Driver place? Why, sure.”

“Do you think that Heck and Betty can make it that far?”

“It might be a strain on old folks like them. You get ready, and I'll go hitch 'em up. We'll go as far as we can with 'em. Then we'll walk the rest of the way.”

It had not been necessary for Sam and Reisa to walk. Heck and Betty had made the trip through Richmond and the eight miles past it on the north where the Driver place was located. They walked along now at an even pace, until finally Sam gestured at a large white two-story house set far back off the road. “That's the Driver place. Pretty, ain't it?”

Indeed, it was a beautiful house. To Reisa it seemed like a mansion. “They must have a lot of money.”

“Did have before the war. Of course the Yankees ruined everything. A wonder they didn't burn the house down. Only reason they didn't was they used it for a field headquarters. Just about tore the inside of it out, so I hear tell. When John Driver came back from the war he was like everybody else. He found it a wreck. He's worked like a dog ever since. I remember him as a younger man. He sure has aged since he come back from the war.”

“Why is he so hard against Ben?”

“Well, I don't rightly know. That's family business. Of course, rich folks like that, they don't look favorably when their son gets sent to prison. I guess that was mostly it. But Marianne Driver, she might be different. Mothers always have a soft heart for their sons.”

Sam drove the mules around into the circular driveway that arched in front of the house. Reisa got out, looking up at the tall pillars and the long windows evenly spaced across the front. Her courage failed her for a moment, but she turned and said, “Sam, you wait here. I may not be long. Mr. Driver may not see me.”

Sam leaned back against the wagon seat and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I reckon you've sold to some mighty reluctant buyers. You stick your head in there, girl, and don't leave until they throws you out bodily.” A grin flashed across his face, and he nodded. “I don't reckon he's liable to do that.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Reisa returned his smile. She straightened her back, turned, and walked up the steps. There was a brass knocker in the center of the huge door, and she gave it four firm raps, then stood back to wait. The wait was not long before the door opened, and Reisa recognized Marianne Driver. She had only seen her once, and that fleetingly, but the memory of the woman had stayed with her. She was a fine-looking woman with auburn hair, and the same odd-colored green eyes that she had seen in Ben's remaining eye.

“Yes? May I help you?”

Trying to think of some way to approach the subject, Reisa decided that there was no easy way. “You're Mrs. Driver, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am. Do I know you?”

“No, ma'am, you don't. My name is Reisa Dimitri. My grandfather and I are staying with Sam Hall and Phineas Long on the other side of Richmond.”

“I don't believe I know them either.”

“No, ma'am, I guess you wouldn't.” Reisa straightened her back, and said, “I've come to talk to you and your husband about your son.”

The words seemed to strike against Marianne. Her lips tightened, and she said, “You know my son?”

“Yes, I do, Mrs. Driver. And I think he's in trouble and something's got to be done.”

“You'd better come in,” Marianne said quietly. She stepped back, and Reisa walked inside. She took one quick glance around at the shining hardwood floors, the paintings on the wall, and the glass chandelier overhead, then the woman said, “Come along. We'll go to the parlor.”

As Reisa moved slightly behind Mrs. Driver, she formulated in her mind what she would say. It seemed this woman and her husband were rich and powerful—and she was a nobody, a foreigner not even able to speak the language very well. Still, she set her jaw, and when Mrs. Driver said, “Sit down there, my dear,” she sat down but kept her back straight.

She waited until Marianne took a seat and then said at once, “I suppose you're wondering how I know your son, Mrs. Driver.”

“Yes, of course, I am. We don't—” Marianne broke off for a moment and then finished her sentence. “We've—we've not been close to Ben in recent years.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know. But let me tell you how I met Ben.” She launched into the story of how she and Dov had found the sick man, taken him home, and nursed him.

When Reisa finished telling of her meeting with Ben, Marianne said, “I'm very grateful to you, Miss Dimitri. From what I understand, Ben would have died if you hadn't found him and taken him in.”

Reisa's face flushed. “Well, it was really Sam and Phineas who provided a place. My grandfather and I don't have anything. They took us in, too, as a matter of fact.”

“Where are you from? I don't recognize your accent.”

“From Russia. I don't speak too well, but I'm learning.”

“How did you happen to come to this country?” Marianne Driver listened again as Reisa gave her a brief sketch of her history, and Reisa was encouraged by her sympathetic gaze.

When Reisa finished, Mrs. Driver said, “You said that something must be done, and I agree with you. I don't know much about politics, but from what I hear, Ben doesn't have much chance unless something is done.”

“Could I talk to your husband?”

Mrs. Driver seemed to hesitate, and at that moment Reisa understood—the problem lay with Mr. Driver, not with this kind, yet cautious woman.

Marianne Driver herself confirmed her thoughts. “You must understand. My husband has been very hard on Ben since he was sentenced to prison. He thinks Ben's failed the family. He's very proud of his family name, and he thinks Ben has ruined it. But we will try.”

She rose and beckoned for Reisa to rise as well.

Reisa followed Mrs. Driver down the hall until they stood before a closed door. Marianne knocked, and Reisa heard a voice say, “Come in.” She followed the woman inside and found herself in a large room obviously used as an office. Books lined the wall, papers were everywhere, maps were rolled up, and one large map of the county was fastened to the wall with tacks. She paid little heed to the surroundings, however, but fastened her eyes on a tall man, who rose as they entered.

“John, this is Miss Reisa Dimitri. My husband, Mr. John Driver.”

“Well, I'm glad to know you, Miss Dimitri,” John said. There was a formal manner about him, but his eyes were merely curious. He obviously did not remember Reisa.

Before she could get too nervous, Reisa spoke. “I know this is, perhaps, wrong, but I'm very worried about your son, Mr. Driver. I think unless something is done he is going to go back to prison.”

Instantly a change swept over John Driver. The warmth seemed to vanish, and he said, “I hardly see how that's your affair.”

Marianne intervened. “John, she's a good friend of Ben's. She and her friend found him when he was sick and dying. If they hadn't taken him in, I don't think he would have lived.”

Mr. Driver shot a sharp glance at Reisa. “Well, I'm grateful for that, but as for doing anything else, I must decline.”

Reisa took a deep breath. She was intimidated by this big man, but she knew she must not be. Quietly she faced him, and her eyes locked with his. “Sir, he's your son, and he's in trouble. Can't you find it in your heart to help him?”

John Driver dropped his eyes for a moment, and hope came to Reisa. But it was only a brief moment, and when he looked up his mouth was set firmly. He studied her for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I think this is none of my affair.”

Reisa knew she had been dismissed. She was not by nature a bold girl, but now she was desperate. “Mr. Driver, I myself am not a Christian. My grandfather and I are Jewish, but you are a Christian, are you not?”

Surprise washed across Driver's face. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Why do you ask?”

“I have been reading some in your Bible. Not long ago I read that Jesus told a story about a man who had a son who went wrong. I can't remember all the details. The son went away and fell in with bad companions, but he also was sorry, and he went home. And the story said, I believe, that the father ran and greeted him, put his arms around him, and welcomed him home.”

A silence fell over the room, and Marianne Driver's eyes were fixed upon her husband. Reisa saw how Ben's mother longed for her husband to show her son mercy. But then, like a curtain, bitterness fell across John Driver's face. “Sorry, Miss Dimitri. It's none of your affair, and it's none of mine. I must ask you to leave.”

Reisa, crushed, turned to leave. She walked down the hall almost blindly, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil.

When she reached the front door, she heard a voice saying, “Miss Dimitri, wait, please.” She turned and saw Marianne Driver approach her, her face working as if she were about to weep.