Spirit Pouch (21 page)

“That’s it!” Danny yells.  “That’s what he stole.”

“Let me see that,” the sheriff demands.

I hand it over and the sheriff holds it up to the light between his fingers.

“Hey!” Joseph sputters.  “That’s my bumblebee that I gave to you.”

“What’s your name, son?” the sheriff demands.

“Jared.  Jared Taggart, sir.”  I add the ‘sir’ because it seems polite.  I figure a little politeness can go a long way right now.

“Danny, you and Oliver get off my street.  And if I see you making trouble here again you will spend time in my jail.  And, Oliver, go get those ribs checked out by Doc.”

“Oliver?” I say with a smirk and a slight chuckle.

Oliver turns and glares at me as he and Danny shuffle off, relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of the sheriff.  The sheriff watches until they have turned the corner and are out of sight, then turns to me.

“Jared, you come with me.  You will be my guest in jail.  I’m sure I will get to know you, because you are going to tell me where you are from and who your parents are so I can speak with them.  I’m going to be talking to the passengers on the stage, also.  We do not tolerate thieves in this town.  You other boys behave or you will be boarding with me, also.”

“Sheriff,” Joseph blurts, “I gave Jared that taw.  It used to be mine.”

“Thank you, Joseph.  I’m going to check it out completely.  Jared, come with me.”

The sheriff and I walk up the street in the direction we had come and then turn to the right.  We pass in front of the Denver Stagecoach Station, which doubles as a hotel, and then the next building says ‘Sheriff’s Office’ on a sign that hangs down from the weathered wooden rafters of the porch.

We enter the front door and the sheriff walks over to his desk and picks up a ring of keys.  “Come over here, Jared,” he motions to me as he inserts a key in the cell door and swings it open.  “This will be your home until we straighten all this out.  You can start by telling me where you live.”

“I live in Tucson, Arizona,” I manage to say in the best humble, repentant voice that I can muster.  “My dad is dead, and my Mother lives in Arizona, also.”

“Look, son,” the sheriff says sternly.  “We are not getting off to a very good start here.”

I think we are doing pretty good, so I just look at him with eyes that say, “What do you mean?”

“That stagecoach you were on did not come from Arizona.  So, why don’t we start again and this time tell me where you are
really
from.  If it is back east, I can understand, because your clothes are different.  They have that ‘New York’ look.  What do you say?”

I do not answer.  Not because I want to be rude, or stubborn.  I just do not know what to say.  I am not smart enough to know the towns back east to even make up a good lie.  And I certainly know the truth will not work.  What I want to say I only imagine in my mind, and it makes me smile,
Well, Sheriff, you’re right.  I’m not from around here.  I’m from Arizona.  I was born in the future, where people own cars, not horses.  Indians live on reservations, if they want to.  And they don’t go around scalping people.  Houses have electricity, with central heating and air conditioning and indoor plumbing, and running water.  Most kids my age have cell phones, and send text messages instantly through the air.  And my mom, well, she would be worried if she knew where and when, I am.  Sitting in jail in 1866.
  That is what I want to say.  But I can’t.

“Okay,” the sheriff says as he gets up and closes the cell door with a clang that rattles all the bars.  “Maybe you will talk after spending a couple of weeks in here.

Weeks?
I think, in somewhat of a stupor.  I imagine hours, not days, and certainly not weeks. 
I’ve got to get out of here!
  I sit down in despair. 
I just barely rescued Ty from a burning car. And then I rescued William from the town bully.  Who is going to rescue me?
  I can feel a tear trying to squeeze out of my eye and I blink hard to fight it back.

I sit locked in my cell as one lonely minute after another ticks by.  The sheriff shuffles some papers on his desk, cleans his gun, and looks over at me at least ten times.  He is playing the waiting game, but it is going to be a long wait, because if I tell him the truth it will just sound like a really bad fabrication.  So bad, in fact, that a five year old can do better.

After what seems to be about two hours I steal a glance at my watch. 
Twenty minutes!
  I just about choke.  In fact, I make some kind of noise because the sheriff looks over in my direction, but makes no move to set me free.  I am destined to spend the next two weeks or more in jail for something that I did not do.  And then what?  Prison?  Or a public hanging?  I can feel a knot in my chest and that tear squeezing out of my eye again. 
Isn’t there an inter-galactic time continuum law somewhere that says a boy is not allowed to die in another state a hundred and some years before he is even born?  Where are my friends?  They could at least come visit so I don’t have to die alone in jail.

It is then that the sheriff and I both hear someone race across the wooden sidewalk outside the Sheriff’s Office and burst in through the front door.  The sheriff raises his revolver and swings it toward the door.

“Whoa!” exclaims Ty as he stops short and raises his hands.

“What do you mean bursting in here like that?” the sheriff scolds.  “You could have been shot!”

“Sheriff, I came to tell you that there is a fire down by the General Store!”

“A fire?” he repeats standing up and running to the door as he buckles on his gun belt.  I hear his boots as he steps out onto the sidewalk.  “I don’t see any smoke.” The sheriff calls back.  He runs to the middle of the street and stands there, staring toward the General Store.

I am on my feet the moment Ty bursts through the door.  As soon as the sheriff steps out the door, Ty runs to the desk, grabs the keys and unlocks my cell door.

“Hide under the desk,” Ty commands.  “Hurry!”

“Under the desk?” I question.  “How is that going to help?”

“Just do it.”  Ty runs to the window that opens to the side of the building and throws it open, as I crawl under the desk.  “Wait until the sheriff leaves, then run for it,” Ty whispers, and then he steps out the front door.

“I don’t see any fire,” the sheriff says shaking his head as he turns back toward his office.

“I saw smoke and came running to get you,” Ty explains.  “It was at the General Store.”

“Well, just because you see a little …”

“FIRE!” someone yells from down the street.  “There’s a fire!  Bring water!”

“I guess you are right,” the sheriff says excitedly as he steps past Ty and enters his office.  “Bring a bucket and water,” Ty yells as he scampers off toward the General Store.

It only takes a second for the sheriff to assess the situation in his office.  Jail cell open.  Side window open.  Prisoner missing.  Obviously escaped through the window with a little help.  “Come back here,” he yells at Ty as the sheriff runs out the front door and around the side of the building.  “And stay here until I get back.”

I know the sheriff is chasing me, but I am still in his office under his desk, which is not a good place to stay.  I scramble out from the desk, grab the taw, and do as Ty directed.  I run.

The sheriff goes one way so I go the other way.  Seems logical to me, however, when I get to the corner of his building and look down the narrow space between his office and the stagecoach station, I spy him, and he is coming toward me.  I leap forward like a startled jack rabbit, but he sees me.

“Hey!” he yells, but I am gone.

I know how to run.  I have run plenty in track and cross country in high school and I can be fast.  I sprint down the wooden sidewalk in front of the stagecoach station.  No one seems to notice that a boy is running like a frightened deer past people gawking down the street. 
Of course!  The fire.
  I glance ahead toward the General Store. 
There is a lot of smoke!
I think. 
This whole town could burn to the ground.

Just then I reach the corner of the Stage Station and someone grabs my arm and yanks me around the corner.

I’m caught!
I think in disbelief.
  The sheriff must have doubled back.  But that would be impossibly fast.
  I am about to be put back in jail to rot until I am forty, so I jab my elbow into the ribs of my assailant hard enough to make him gasp.  Next thing I know, my feet are swept out from under me and I lay face down in the dirt.  I roll over and stare up at Ty.

Ty extends his hand and helps me back on my feet.  “Come on.  Quickly.”

We run to the wagon that William was standing by earlier, climb aboard and bury ourselves under a canvas tarp.  Not even ten seconds later William returns, climbs onto the wagon and tucks a box of matches
[79]
under the canvas next to my ear.

“William,” a familiar voice calls out.  I feel William jump off the wagon and I hear his feet land solidly onto the dirt street.

“Hello, Sheriff,” William replies.  I feel my body tense head to toe.

“I’m looking for Jared and his friend Ty.  Have they been around here?”

“I haven’t seen them,” William answers honestly.  “I thought Jared was with you.”

“He was, but he ran away during the fire.”

“Oh.  Did the fire get put out?  There was an awful lot of smoke.”

“Yes.  Apparently it was more smoke than fire.  Listen, you stay away from those boys.  They seem to be troublemakers.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.  That’s probably good advice.”

"I hear that your family is leaving Denver?"

"Yes.  We are supposed to leave this morning," William answers.

"You've got a good looking horse and wagon here," the sheriff admires.  I feel the wagon rock left and right as the sheriff gives it a gentle nudge.

"Father got a good price for her," William says proudly.  "And the wagon is almost new."

"Well, you be careful out there on the Overland," the sheriff warns.  "The word is that some Indians have been causing some trouble."

"Indians?"

"That's what I hear.  So stay close and help your father protect your family."

"Okay," William consents solemnly.

"Now keep this to yourself, William.  No sense getting the women all stirred up.  Just be careful."

"We will," William assures him.

I hear the sheriff’s footsteps move away until they fade completely.

“Denver was a quiet town until today,” William mutters as he leans against the wagon causing it to rock a little left and right.  “Good thing we are leaving soon.”

Still under the canvas in the back of the wagon I hear a rumbling sound that seems to grow louder by the moment.  Right then something squeezes my right ankle and Ty’s voice from down by my feet whispers, “What is that noise?”

“I think it is a wagon approaching,” I whisper back.  “A heavy wagon.”  I can see a slit of light coming in between the wooden side panels of the wagon and inch over to peek outside.

“William?” I hear a familiar voice call.  “Everything all right here?”

“Yes, Father,” William replies.  “Danny and his friend, Oliver, tried to cause some trouble, but then Jared showed up.”

“Jared?” Elizabeth says, a puzzled look spreading across her face.  “He was going to Arizona.”

“I think he went, but he is back now,” William continues.  “He has a friend named Ty with him.  Ty has jewels in his ears."”

“Yeah,” Joseph blurts out.  “And red hair, too, but Jared and Ty didn’t let Danny cause any trouble.  I think Oliver got a broken rib, though.  Then the sheriff came.”

“Sheriff Johnson?” Henry asks.  “What did he want?”

William’s voice replies, “Danny accused Jared of stealing from the stage that just came in.”

“He didn’t do it,” Joseph yells.  “Danny said that he stole a marble, but it was that chipped Bumblebee that I gave him before he left.  He didn’t steal anything.”

“All right, Joseph.  Sheriff Johnson is a good man.  He will figure it out.”

“Did you get all the supplies?” William queries.  It sounds to me like he is hoping to change the subject before the topic of the fire comes up.

“You bet,” Henry replies.

“We got a new stove,” Joseph sings out the news.

“And new towels,” Elizabeth laughs, holding up one as a sample.

“And sugar, coffee, bacon, and flour,” George adds sarcastically.  “Not as important as towels,” he smiles, “but it will keep us alive.”
[80]

“Is everyone here?” Henry asks looking around.

“I’m here,” Annie skips down the street and stops next to her father.  “And Grandmother and Grandfather are coming.”  She points behind her.

“I’m glad they didn’t forget that we are leaving this morning.”

“They wouldn’t forget, Father.  You’re just teasing.”

“Tom is driving one of the wagons in the supply train, and they already left early this morning,” Henry states.