laughing.
The sound of his son’s laughter was honey to Josiah’s ears, and he smiled broadly. It had been a long stretch of one bad day after the next recently, and there hadn’t been a stitch of laughter to be found anywhere this side of Comanche, Texas.
Josiah looked over to the next stall and saw that Lady Mead had already been tended to. Beyond the palomino mare was Josiah’s Appaloosa, Clipper.
The sight of the horse filled Josiah’s heart and took his memory back a few days—back to the attack of the Indians at the San Saba River. It seemed less an attack than a trap, and Red Overmeyer had paid dearly for Josiah’s failure to see the trap—with his life. Suddenly, Josiah’s mood changed, and he gripped Lyle’s hand a little harder, getting his son’s attention. “Okay, no more laughing.”
“How come, Papa?” Lyle asked.
“It’s just time.” Josiah nodded, and Lyle copied his movement, nodding back with a big smile on his face.
“Thanks for taking care of the horses,” Josiah said to Scrap in his normal tone, squaring his shoulders.
“That palomino is a fine horse. Needs some steady care, but she could be a beauty,” Scrap said.
“She’s been left to her own devices for a little while.”
“What are you gonna do with her?” Scrap asked, relaxing, taking the brush to Missy’s back.
“Take her back when I can. I’ll be glad to be on my saddle the next time, but I’ll kind of hate to part with the mare. She could be a good horse.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“What? Not keeping her?”
“Taking her back to Comanche?”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Josiah said.
Scrap shrugged, kept brushing, and didn’t respond any further. He seemed easily lost in the task, glad that Josiah was not laughing at him any longer.
The stalls were just inside two tall doors that were standing wide open. Bright sunlight beamed into the livery, making all of the straw look like gold strands lying on top of the hard dirt floor. From where Josiah was standing, he could see clear blue skies, a reprieve from the dreariness of typical gray November skies. It looked to be a fine day, warm enough for just a long-sleeved shirt and no jacket.
The railroad was about thirty yards to the north of the large barn, and a whistle in the distance announced the coming thunder of steel and steam. It was the early train, one of two freights a day. The sound and rumble would be deafening. At least for Josiah.
Lyle started jumping up and down, squealing. He loved trains.
“Settle down there, boy,” Josiah said.
“Train’s a-comin’ ! Train’s a-comin’ !”
“I can hear that. Now, settle down.”
There was another noise that had captured Josiah’s attention. Only this one was closer—still distant—but closer. It sounded like yells, screams, hoots and hollers. He cocked his head, making sure he wasn’t hearing things.
The mob sounded about as far away as Congress Avenue.
“Train!” Lyle said, jumping up and down, pulling on Josiah’s hand toward the door.
“Hush now,” Josiah said, sternly.
Scrap stopped his chores and looked up. “Sounds like a hangin’ comin’ along with that train. Ain’t none that I know of. How about you, Wolfe?”
Josiah shook his head no. “How would I know?” He looked down at Lyle and gave him a gentle tug. “I said stop.”
The tone in Josiah’s voice got Lyle’s attention. He pursed his lips together tight, stiffened, and exhaled. “All right.”
“That’s not what you say, is it?”
Lyle looked up at Josiah curiously. “Yes?”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
No one said anything for a long minute. Josiah nodded his approval, then listened closer, his curiosity growing at the rising noise from a couple of blocks over.
Scrap walked out of the stall and stood next to Josiah. “Little hard on the boy, ain’t you?”
“He’s got to learn manners sooner or later.”
“You mean ones in English?”
Josiah shot Scrap an angry look; his blue eyes blazed hard as the railroad tracks. Scrap looked away and offered no apology for expressing his opinion about Lyle being raised by a Mexican.
Ofelia had never found herself in Scrap’s good graces, and Josiah was certain she never would. Still, there was a point to be made, and Josiah knew it, was seeing it with his own eyes. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
The ground began to rumble under Josiah’s feet as the train grew closer. Lyle could barely contain himself, but it was obvious, with the restrained look on his tiny face, that he was trying with all of his might.
Just then a man went running past the open doors of the livery.
Scrap pushed past Josiah and ran out the door, coming to a stop. “Hey there, fella.”
Josiah and Lyle joined Scrap, as much out of curiosity as dread, as to what Scrap was going to do next.
The man, short and bald, a butcher’s apron still wrapped around his waist, stopped at Scrap’s yell.
“What you want there, man?” The man turned to face Scrap and Josiah. His German accent was thick, and the apron and his hands were bloody. Something had stopped him right in the middle of carving his pork.
“What’s going on? You know?” Scrap asked.
The bald man nodded. “Rangers is coming into town. Word is they is draggin’ a Comanche behind them in ropes. Gonna take it right up to Governor Coke. That I got to see!” he said, turning, running off as fast as his portly body would allow.
Josiah and Scrap looked at each other, said nothing, and started to run after the man. It didn’t take Josiah but about three steps into the run before he realized that Lyle had pulled away from him.
The little boy was standing where Josiah left him, looking in the opposite direction, looking at the coming train. The big locomotive was slowing down, blowing off steam, the brakes squealing, the ground shaking hard.
Lyle was set to break into a run toward the train . . . and Josiah knew that with the graze, the wound on his leg, the boy might be more than a match for him. He lunged toward Lyle, missing him just before he lit out.
Lyle ran as fast as he could toward the train, clapping his hands, laughing, never looking back.
“Lyle! Stop!” Josiah screamed.
It took all the energy Josiah had to catch up with Lyle, reaching out for him like he was about to dive off a big cliff and unaware of the drought-ridden creek bed awaiting him at the bottom.
Josiah scooped Lyle up into his arms, his heart beating rapidly, about three feet from the railroad tracks.
He could hardly scold the boy—he was the one who’d gone off and left him. Still, the thought of Lyle running toward the train, being pulled under the wheels just by the pure force of their energy, was something Josiah could not bear to imagine. How could he live with himself if he let something happen to Lyle? Sickness had taken Lily and his three daughters. Negligence would be too much to take. He was sure of it.
The train skidded past, sparks flying from the wheels, smoke rolling off the track from metal on metal, and then the steam. The horn blasted, pushing away any thought, any fear from Josiah’s mind.
Lyle clapped and screamed with excitement, and Josiah just let him, held him as tight as he could, tears welling in his eyes. He ignored Scrap, who had stopped, motioning for Josiah to join him.
The butcher disappeared around the corner, and the steam and smoke from the train enveloped Josiah and Lyle. For a long moment, Josiah wasn’t sure if either one of them were dead or alive. They were just lost in a fog— hot and sulfur-like—the sun beaming overhead, distant and unreachable.
