Outcast (11 page)

Arch scratched his cheek. His chin dropped, and he looked at Standish from the corners of his eyes. “You speaking a foreign language or something?”

Standish backtracked through the conversation. “You said your Ma invited me to dinner. I asked you how you felt about that, and you said you didn't like it.”

“Didn't say that,” Arch said, shaking his head. “Said I didn't like the idea of having 'Nerva and noodles.”

“You don't like 'Nerva and noodles?”

Arch shook his head in disgust. “How would I know that?”

Standish hunkered. Arch joined him, the two squatting on the ground, staring at each other.

Arch cleared his throat. “Far as I know, you can't eat a chicken twice.”

Standish picked up a stick and doodled in the dust at his feet. When he looked up, real concern marked his face. “Your Ma hit you?”

Arch glowered. “My Ma would never hit me.”

“So you're feeling okay, no headache or anything?”

“I'm feeling…darn hungry.”

“So you want to go eat dinner?”

Arch nodded.

“And you want me to eat dinner with you?”

“Didn't say I wanted to. Didn't say I didn't.”

“Let's go eat.”

Arch nodded, and the two stood, walking off toward the house.

“Won't like this,” Arch said.

“Won't like what?”

“Having 'Nerva and noodles.”

Standish's jaw gritted shut. “Why's that, Arch?”

“Raised Minerva from a chick. Hard to eat a pet, but she quit laying, so Ma stewed her.”

Standish shook his head. “Hard to communicate, isn't it Arch?”

Arch looked up at him as they walked. “Ain't if you talk plain English.”

Standish leaned back in his chair. “Ma'am, that was the best 'Nerva and noodles I ever had.”

Mrs. Belshaw smiled. “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“Maybe Arch and I can do the dishes for you?”

A scar on Mrs. Belshaw's cheek glowed red. “No need for that. Dinner's the least I can do for you plowing the garden.”

Standish understood. The dinner was for plowing the garden, nothing more. The meal was not an invitation. The sooner he left, the better. The message hung in the air like an August thunderstorm. She hadn't greeted him at the door, instead peeking in from the home's kitchen. She served lunch, but always from the other side of the table and always out of Standish's reach. She ate alone in the kitchen, the sound of her fork and knife clicking against her plate the only signs of her existence.

Standish had watched her from the corners of his eyes. She was tall and thin. Her dress hung on her like a sack draped over a broom handle. The planes of her face were hard and sharp edged, and her hands almost skeletal.

Arch had come famished into the cabin that first night. The scent of ham had pulled him through the door as inexorably as a locomotive pulls its cars, but Arch was in better condition than his mother. She had been giving him her share of the scarce food they had.

Standish tried to imagine the woman with a little more flesh. He decided that she would be pretty. She had long dark hair and dark eyes, and she moved with a grace that gave the illusion that her feet weren't anchored to the ground.

The legs of the chair scuffed as Standish rose, and Mrs. Belshaw shrunk back as though in fear that she would be beaten. Her husband must have been a beast, Standish thought, to make her so fearful of men.

“Ma'am,” he said to Arch's mother. “I am grateful for your generosity. That was as fine a meal as I've had. Now, if you will excuse Arch and me, we will finish plowing your garden.”

Mrs. Belshaw tried to smile, but those muscles had apparently atrophied, and the attempt did little more than to contort her face. Standish felt a need to reach out to the woman, to comfort her, but he knew if he stepped toward her, she would panic. He nodded, and slipped on his hat.

“Arch, we'd best get at it.”

Arch nodded. “Ma, 'Nerva was good to the last.”

A faint smile crossed Mrs. Belshaw's face, a brief respite in the brooding apprehension pervading the home.

Standish and Arch stepped outside the cabin.

“Your Ma's a good cook.”

“Makes the best 'Nerva and noodles ever.”

Standish nodded. It wasn't likely that she would ever fix Nerva and noodles again.

“She feeling okay?”

Arch glowered. “None of your business.”

“It's just that she doesn't seem to feel well.”

“Hunger hurts.”

The words pierced Standish's heart.

“You know all about that, don't you, Arch?”

Arch looked at Standish, and his face wrinkled into exasperation. “Everybody knows that.”

“Guess so. Don't suppose you want to run down there and get Hortenzia?”

“Well, at least you got that right.”

Standish turned and stalked to the corral. Work like a mule all morning, and ask that kid to do one little favor.… Well, the best way to get something done is to do it yourself. He untied the coiled rope he had put on the saddle that morning. He would slip a rope around Hortenzia's neck and bring her back. He turned just as Hortenzia trotted to Arch. Arch reached up and stroked the horse's head, speaking to her so softly that Standish couldn't hear what he was saying.

Standish shook his head and tied the rope back on the saddle. He slipped the collar over Hortenzia's head, draping the harness along her back before he spoke.

“How'd you get Hortenzi to come back?”

“How do you s'pose?”

“Don't know.”

“Old as Methuselah and don't know how to call a horse.”

“I am not old as Methuselah, and I do know how to call a horse. I just don't know how you called Hortenzia.”

“I whistled.”

“Didn't hear you whistle.”

“Just cause you didn't hear it, doesn't mean I didn't do it.”

“S'pose you could do it again.”

Arch's head dropped, and he ran his fingers through his thatch of red hair. “Now, why would I call a horse that's already here?” In a voice so low, Standish could barely hear, Arch muttered, “Old as Methuselah and dumb as a post.”

Standish bristled. “I just want to see you do it.”

“Won't.”

“Why not?”

“It'll just confuse Hortenzia. If I call her when she's already here, she won't know what to do the next time I call her.”

Standish sighed. No reason to confuse Hortenzia. He was confused enough for both of them.

Standish pulled Hortenzia to a stop. He glanced over at Arch. The boy was sitting on the edge of the garden, head down. He sat beside what looked like a haystack of ragweed he had pulled from the garden. He appeared as tired as Standish felt.

“Arch.”

The boy's head jerked up. He had been napping, and now he felt ashamed for not doing his part.

“Arch,” Standish repeated. “You have a harrow?”

Arch pulled himself to his feet, the effort Herculean. He started to walk across the furrows to Standish.

“Wait there, Arch. Hortenzia and I are done for the day.”

Standish urged the horse back. He put his full weight on the handles, easing the tip of the plow blade free. “Easy, Hortenzia easy”

The horse stepped forward, pulling the blade free of the dirt. The blade, polished by the soil, gleamed like fine silver. Standish clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Hortenzia pulled the plow behind the barn. By the time Arch appeared, Standish had the loosened the single tree from the plow and unhooked one of the tugs.

“We're done for the day,” Standish said.

Arch nodded. He was done, too.

“You have a harrow?”

Arch shrugged. The boy was so tired that the gesture seemed to be in slow motion.

“We need to cultivate the soil before you plant it.”

“Thought we already did that.”

“No. We have to break up the clods.”

Arch's eyes dropped to his feet. “What's it look like?”

“It's got teeth that go into the soil.”

Arch nodded. “It's behind the shed.”

“How about I come over tomorrow morning, and we'll cultivate the garden. Shouldn't take long. Maybe we can plant it, too.”

The two walked back to the corral. Standish unbuckled the belly strap from the harness, and slipped the bridle off Hortenzia's head. Then he pulled the harness off the horse's back, and draped it over a corral rail.

“You don't mind, I'll leave this here.”

Arch nodded.

“Maybe, I could just leave Hortenzia here tonight, too. Just give her a bucket of oats.”

“Can't do that.”

“Why?”

“We ate 'em.”

Standish sucked in his breath. “I'll take her back, then. She deserves some oats. She worked hard today.

Standish stared off at the setting sun and then turned back to Arch. “You having oats tonight for supper?”

“Told you. We ate 'em.”

“So, you're having 'Nerva and noodles?”

“Ate that for dinner.”

“So what are you having?”

“Maybe some bread.”

“With huckleberry jam?”

Arch shook his head. “That's gone.” He looked up. “You want the bread; Ma will likely give it to you.”

Standish dropped his chin to his chest, and ran the palm of one hand across his forehead. “No Arch I don't want the bread.” Silence stretched, and then Standish nodded, apparently agreeing with his thoughts. “I was hoping you might do a favor for me.”

Arch raised his eyes, the effort stretching his endurance to the limit.

Standish reached up and stroked Hortenzia's neck. “I was hoping that you would ride Hortenzia back with me, and give her some oats. Then if you don't mind, I'll cut some of that ham off for you.”

A scowl crawled over Arch's face. “Don't want it.”

“That's too bad,” Standish said. “I don't want it either.”

Arch scuffed his shoe against the soft dirt. “You don't want it?”

“Only want a little of it. I'm tired of ham. Tell you the truth, I think I bought too much cheese, too.”

“You don't want the cheese?”

“Sure I want some of it, but I'd like to trim off some of it.”

“So you ain't just giving it to us?”

“No, Arch, I'd consider it a favor if you'd take some of it. I throw it out it'll likely as not attract a bear or two. Don't want any bears around the horses.” Standish rubbed his eyes. “Hoping you would consider it pay for feeding Hortenzia.”

“What about Sally?”

“Well Sally will need some oats, too.”

Arch chewed on his lips.

“Guess I could do that.” He scuffed his boots in the dirt. “How you feeling about that salmon?”

“Tell you the truth; I'm kind of tired of it.”

“Well, I guess I could take a can or two of that.” A scowl crossed Arch's face. “Just as a favor.”

“I'd sure like some fresh bread, too.”

“S'pose Ma would trade you some bread for some flour.”

“Sounds good to me. S'pose you can ride Hortenzia bareback to my place?”

“We're good friends. She'll take care of me.”

Standish nodded. He took the coil of rope from his saddle, and fashioned a halter on Hortenzia. He whistled then, for Sally, but she was apparently too far away to hear the call. Arch reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a silver cylinder. He blew on one end, and Sally jerked up her head. She trotted toward the two.

“What's that Arch?”

Arch shook his head. “It's a bugle.”

“Arch!”

“It's a whistle. Shouldn't be too hard to figure out.”

“I didn't hear it.”

One eyebrow crawled up Arch's forehead. “Sally did. That's what counts, ain't it?”

“Where'd you get that?”

“Klaus gave it to me.”

“He have any others?”

Arch shrugged, and Standish scratched his cheek. A whistle like that might save his life sometime. If Bodmer rode up, he could slip into the woods and call Sally without their knowing. He'd have to take a good look at Arch's whistle.

CHAPTER 6

Miles Standish pulled a lever, lifting the walk-behind harrow up on its wheels. He drove the apparatus out of the garden and stopped to admire his handy work. The soil was a soft, rich loam waiting to grow a winter's worth of potatoes and corn and carrots and peas.

The morning had disappeared into the garden, Standish lost in carving the soil into a soft bed for seeds. Arch didn't have much to do. He had retreated to a rocking chair on the porch. The boy's feet didn't reach the ground so he swung them back and forth, propelling the chair in an easy rhythm. The picture painted Arch childlike. The thought wrinkled Standish's forehead. The child had fled Arch. The shotgun propped on the porch by the boy confirmed that.

Arch's wariness stepped into Standish's mind. Harrowing the garden was not without noise, a soft jingle of the harness and a slight squeak marking each revolution of a grease-short wheel. But whenever Standish stopped the horse, Arch jerked to attention as any prey animal would, as Standish did. How does an eight-year-old boy become prey?

Why had Arch met him with a shotgun that first morning? What would he have done if a stranger had appeared? What would he have done with that shotgun then?

Standish sighed and stretched. The sky was a soft blue with trespassing puffy, white clouds. The sun managed to be warm without being hot, bright enough to bring out the colors on the land, but not so strong to wash them out. A day like this would set a poet's soul on fire.

Standish pulled his watch from his pocket, the cover glinting gold as he opened it. Nearly noon. He had spent seven hours in the garden, and his stomach was beginning to protest. Maybe hunger fed Arch's fear. Maybe if one were hungry enough.… Standish shook the thought from his mind. He knew what it was to have nothing in his belly but an ache, to feel it grow until only that pain was real. But hunger hadn't stood Standish's nerves on edge. Bodmer and his lynch mob had done that.