The Warriors (59 page)

“Yes, I was. Go on.”

“I grew sick of the fighting. I journeyed out here to get away from it and didn’t. I had to kill again. I won’t bore you with the story, but I promised myself I’d never fight again.”

“Think you can stick by such a decision?”

“I can try.”

Kingston grunted, then dabbed his sleeve against a thread of blood below his purpled nose. When he spoke again, it was with a wry sadness.

“I admire your determination. I didn’t find the war a pleasant or uplifting experience either. But when I came out of it, whole in body if not exactly whole of mind, I made a different choice. I decided I’d never let any human being best me in a fight for my life. Nor would I suffer the behavior of dishonorable men. Your position has its merits, though. I’d urge you to stick by it—”

What the devil was this? Michael wondered. Something close to sadness had crept into Kingston’s voice.

Or was he merely imagining that, deceived by the noise of the raging wind?

No, it wasn’t imagination. He saw that when the lightning illuminated the prairie again. The rails shone like streaks of iridescent fire, leading beyond the meridian marker to the wagon, the restive mules, the motionless Indian. Kingston’s eyes were wet.

“—because if you do, you stand a chance of being a happy man. Don’t let any bastard chivvy you into changing your mind.”

“Toby nearly did. He kept calling me a coward.”

“Not surprised. But I’ve had a taste of each kind of life. In many ways, yours demands more courage—”

Kingston’s voice broke. He pivoted away. Michael squeezed his eyes shut against the blowing grit. He couldn’t fathom why this young man who killed so easily seemed eager to counsel him. He was taken by surprise when Kingston seized his arm.

“Where did you get the picture?”

“What?”

“The drawing in your bunk. Where did you get it?”

“Why, from the artist’s father.”

“Do you know him?”

Michael was alarmed by the intensity of the question. Kingston’s fingers dug into his sleeve. Puzzled and annoyed, Michael pulled away. “See here. I hardly consider this an occasion for discussing—”

“Goddamn it, answer me! Do you know the artist’s father?”

“Yes, I know him.”

Lightning lit heaven. Thunder shook the earth.

“He’s my father too,” Kingston said.

“Jesus Christ, that’s it,” Michael breathed. No wonder he’d missed the obvious. He’d been looking in the wrong direction.

“What are you talking about?” Kingston said.

“Your face. It’s like Jephtha’s.”

Kingston—or Jeremiah Kent, as he announced himself to be—repeatedly refused to answer Michael’s questions about his past. He wouldn’t explain how he’d gotten from Georgia to the railhead, or why he was traveling with a Sioux and calling himself by another name.

Hoping to break through the stubborn barrier of refusals, Michael told him Jephtha Kent believed his youngest son to be dead.

“In a sense that’s true, Mr. Boyle. Now what do you know about my brothers?”

Still shaken, Michael described Matthew’s survival of the blockade and his marriage, then Gideon’s unsuccessful struggle to find a place for himself in New York City, where Jephtha was preaching.

“So both of them came out alive. I’m glad. Is my mother well?”

“She—she died this past summer.”

A glare of lightning showed Michael the other man’s bent head. Jeremiah made no sound.

“King—Jeremiah—blast! I can’t get used to calling you Jeremiah—”

“Don’t. It isn’t my name any longer, just as Kingston won’t be after tonight.”

“You’ve got to tell me where you’ve been! How you got here—”

“No, Boyle. I refuse. But what about you? I don’t recall hearing anyone speak of you. What’s your connection with my father?”

Hoping cooperation would engender more of the same, Michael explained. Jeremiah nodded from time to time, and said when Michael finished, “Well, if my mother ever mentioned you before I left Lexington, I’ve forgotten. I’m happy to hear my father’s alive.”

“He’ll be happy to learn you are, too.”

“You’re not going to tell him.”

“Of course I am! As soon as pos—”

Jeremiah interrupted with a shake of his head. “You won’t tell him a thing unless you want to hurt him.”

“Good God, it wouldn’t be fair to keep this news from—” Michael stopped. There was a measure of truth in what the younger man said. Which truth had priority? He thought of one way he might answer that. “There’s a circumstance which could change your mind. You surely recall the California money—”

“Amanda Kent’s money? Yes.”

“When Jephtha concluded you’d been killed, he decided to will me your share. He adopted me unofficially into the family—in my bunk I have his letter explaining why.”

“What you’ve just said proves he did the right thing. You could have kept the information to yourself. You’re a proper Kent, all right.”

“Well, I’d never surrender that part. But the inheritance is yours. It doesn’t belong to me any longer.”

“It certainly does. Consider it your reward for never informing my father, my brothers—anyone—that we’ve met.”

“You
can’t
ask—”

“Not ask. Demand.”

“You expect me to keep it from Jephtha forever?”

“Unless you don’t give a damn about him, yes.”

Michael’s composure was shattered. Too many shocks had piled one onto another. His eyes started to fill with angry tears. “I can’t do it!”

“You can and will. I saved you. For that, and for the money—you owe me. Use the money to give yourself a decent life. Buy a home when you’re done working out here. Marry a good woman. Raise a family—” Mockingly, he asked, “You
can
find use for the money, can’t you?”

“Why”—suddenly Michael saw a possibility, and felt guilt—“of course. But it would be wrong to—”

“The decision isn’t yours.”

Up where Kola waited with the wagon, one of the mules brayed. Jeremiah gripped Michael’s arm again, gently this time.

“To convince you my father mustn’t know, I’ll say this much. I was in Texas for a while. I got into a difficulty. Unfortunately, it’s become hard for other men to bring me down. And hard for me to let them.”

Michael asked himself whether he’d lost his senses. There was a crusty, almost arrogant pride in Jeremiah’s voice.

“By the time I left Fort Worth, they had a bounty on my head. By now I expect there’s a second one.”

“Why?”

“Not important. But I think you’ll read about Joseph Kingston in some paper, and fairly soon. When you do, Kingston will be long gone. I’ll have another name. Now do you understand why I don’t want my father or my brothers to know how I’m living?”

He reached for the double scabbard. Touched one of the buffalo rifles. “I plan to keep living the same way for a good many years.”

Michael shuddered. Jeremiah’s eyes softened again.

“So you’re welcome to the inheritance. I could never put it to use.”

“You could travel. Europe, the Orient—you could live well.”

“Hell, I haven’t even begun to see this country. Besides, I’ve no head for managing money. The war left me with somewhat limited talents,”

“The money could funnel through me. Jephtha need never find out.”

Jeremiah pondered. Cocked his head, smiling a little. “Tempting”—the smile disappeared—“but there might be a slip.”

“It’s unfair to ask me to keep silent. It’s damned unfair, and it’s wrong!”

“Perhaps. But you’ll do it. Your opinion doesn’t matter. My father and brothers are the only ones who count in this.”

Michael uttered a sigh of frustration. Swiped his forehead with his palm as if his head hurt. “Oh, I suppose”—his voice strengthened—“I suppose sparing them is the honorable thing, but—”

“Honorable?” Jeremiah broke in. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He touched his hat. “I’m grateful you put it in such a light.”

Michael felt a splash of rain on his cheeks. Lightning showed him great tumbling clouds directly above, the storm’s leading edge sweeping over the railhead.

Jeremiah lifted his foot to his stirrup. He grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle. The rain intensified, blurring, then hiding the wagon waiting out beyond the unfinished track.

“Do I have your promise you’ll keep silent, Mr. Boyle?”

Drenched and confused, Michael hesitated. Suddenly Jeremiah’s pony reared. He lashed it with the rein until all four hoofs were on the ground. He jerked one of the buffalo guns from the scabbard. He pointed the rifle at Michael’s head.

“This piece may misfire because of the downpour”—he was shouting to be heard—“but if that’s the case, I’ll deal with you another way. Since you’ve abandoned fighting, I should have no trouble. I want your promise or I’ll see you dead right here.”

The rain roared in the silence.

“Boyle?”

Michael lifted his head. “All right. For his sake.”

The thin-lipped face jerked in what might have been a smile. Jeremiah slid the rifle back to its place.

“Now say it again. I want to hear the promise given freely.”

Not knowing whether he was right or wrong, Michael said, “I promise.”

“I’m obliged. I urge you to get out of this damn place while you’re still in one piece. Use the money. Amount to something. Find a home and stay there. I’ll tell you something about being able to go home. It seldom seems important until you can’t do it.”

He turned the pony’s head. “Goodbye, Mr. Boyle.”

“Jeremiah!”

The younger man fought to control the fretful animal.

“Would you have shot me if I hadn’t given my word?”

“Yes.”

He kicked the pony and galloped west beside the right of way, quickly lost in the rainstorm.

B
Y THE TIME MICHAEL
reached the sleeping car, he was soaked and exhausted. But Jeremiah’s words denied him rest.

Get out of this damn place while you’re still in one piece.

Amount to something.

Find a home and stay there.

The line was past the meridian. He’d helped accomplish that much. But the cost was high.

Killing Worthing.

Watching Dorn and two Cheyenne braves perish when it might have been prevented.

Finding the remains of the massacred hunters.

Being instrumental in Toby’s death.

Important as the railroad was to the country, he could never again separate it from violence and suffering.

Jeremiah’s face kept intruding as he changed to dry clothes. He barely heard O’Dey’s whined complaints about his noise.

He grieved for Jeremiah, by turns callous and considerate.

He grieved for Jephtha too. And Matt, and Gideon. Still, a painful lie about an unknown grave would be less hurtful to them than the truth—

All at once he rebelled against the burden he’d accepted when he gave his word. But the rebellion lasted only a short time. Amanda Kent had never insisted a man or woman should feel no sorrow or anger. She had insisted sorrow and anger must never keep a man or woman from the right course. He’d keep his promise.

He took down the drawing of the milk vendor and studied it by the feeble light of the one lamp still lit at the end of the car. Instead of the figures on the paper, he saw Jeremiah’s eyes. An old man’s eyes, aged by distrust and deceits and acts of rage. He and Jeremiah were different, yet in one way they were alike. In the flawed mirror of Jephtha’s youngest son he at last confronted an image of what he was—and might become.

He hoped to God he possessed the will to keep his vow. He prayed he’d never reach the point where he would be capable of emulating Jeremiah’s curious pride in killing another human being. He didn’t think so.

Yet between himself and the hunter there remained a fearful bond. They were both rootless. Both running. Jeremiah had little choice. He did. And he’d come to understand the folly of flight. It was time to seek a hope of peace, however tenuous, some other way.

He laid the drawing up at the head of his bunk and walked forward through the dark train. The only sound was the pelt of rain.

Fortunately Jack Casement was still awake.

Before the first supply train arrived, he went out to the end of the track. It had occurred to him the Kents were collectors of mementos of their common past. He had become a Kent. He wanted a souvenir of his work on the transcontinental line.

The storm had obliterated footprints and wagon tracks. He crouched in the driving rain and scooped a handful of mud and crushed stone from between two ties. He used his soggy bandana to wrap it, tying a secure knot.

When the bandana’s contents dried out, he’d hunt up a box for keeping them. Someday, years from now, he might be able to open the box and discover time had erased recollections of decidedly unromantic sweat, tortured muscle, and dead men, leaving only a single fine memory of having lent his hand to building the greatest marvel of the age.

The boy’s alarmed voice brought Michael up short at the rear corner of the unpainted building. The front of the building had shown no light—not surprising since the hour was close to midnight. With the exception of two pine-board saloons down near the right of way, Grand Island’s business establishments and small homes were dark.

The empty supply train whistled twice as it chugged onto a siding. The whistle had a forlorn sound in the drizzle. The rain had lasted nearly sixteen hours.

On the dark, roofed back porch, Michael thought he saw the unmistakable outline of a Hawken. Aimed his way.

“Only me, Klaus.”

The boy scooted to the edge of the porch. “Mr. Boyle?”

“Yes. May I come forward?”

“Sure.” The Hawken’s butt plate thumped on wood. “You’re back from the railhead?”

“So it appears.” Michael flexed the cold, stiff fingers curled around the staff to which he’d tied his bundle of personal belongings and an oilskin tube with the drawing carefully rolled inside. “Up a mite late, aren’t you?”

“We stay on watch till the saloon crowd settles down. We’ve had three break-ins lately.”

“Ah.”

Michael glanced at the slit of light beneath the back door.