A Glibertarians Exclusive:  Mystical Child Part X

From the diary of Robert “Cairo Bob” Allen, 1841-1928

November 27, 1886 –The Tomb

Nothing, God damn it all, nothing.  Not so much as a damn bauble.  No Spaniard coins, doubloons or whatever, not so much as a copper penny.  Just some old dry bones and scraps of cloth that fell apart when I touched them.  Not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do now, but I guess I need to do something with Sam Evans.  Never did tell me whether he had any kin anywhere, back in West Virginia or anywhere else.  Hell, I don’t even know if that’s his real name.  I went through his pockets, just to see if he had any letters or anything that might give me a clue but didn’t find anything but his sixgun, a twenty-dollar gold piece, and a silver half-dollar, all of which I kept, as he ain’t got any use for it anymore.  Taking his rifle, too, and the rest of his traps.  Figure he owes me something anyway, dragging me all the way out here for nothing, and I have to say, if this place ain’t about five steps from Hell, I’m a Yankee.  Leastways I reckon I know now what to do about Sam’s remains.  After that, I’m going to quit this place.  I am going home.

 ***

November 27, 1886

The last morning broke cloudy but warmer.  Some of the ice above the tomb entrance was dripping.  Figures, Bob told himself as he lay in his bedroll, looking up at the drips of water.  All that work breaking in here, and the damn thing starts to melt now.  Speaking of which…

He got up, poked up the coals in the small fire he had placed at the entrance to the tomb, added some dry sticks and got the coffee going.  With that done, he walked over to examine Sam Evans’ body.

Well.  No use putting it off.

He grabbed the ends of the bedroll and dragged the body into the tomb.  Evans was frozen pretty solid, but Bob managed to squeeze his frozen corpse into the grave, atop the scattered bones of the Spaniard.  The wooden cover wasn’t much of a lid, but it was all there was, so Bob placed it carefully atop the grave of the man he knew nothing about, other than his heath issues and his misguided quest for Spanish gold.

“Well,” he said out loud.  Removing his hat, he bowed his head.

“Well,” he repeated.  He wasn’t sure what to say, but felt he needed to say something.  “Lord,” he went on at last, “I know I ain’t talked to you much these last years, not since the war, really.  Ain’t seen the reason to, and that’s the truth.  But there ain’t nobody to speak for this fella in the ground here but me, so here I am.  He told me his name was Sam Evans, and Lord, I reckon you’ll know him, whether that’s his real name or not.  I didn’t know him well.  I could easy hold a grudge against him for dragging me all the way out here for nothing, but he’s dead, and grudges don’t do no one no good, ‘specially not when the fella you’re begrudging is dead, so I won’t.  All I’ll say is this:  I don’t think what he did was out of any malice, I think he was just misguided, and misguided me into it along with him.  He didn’t seem like a bad fella.  He was good enough company on the trail here these last few days.  If he’s there with you, Lord, if you could just pass that on to him, maybe it will make the dying easier.  And if he is, please tell him I’ll see him again, someday, walking the streets of Glory.”

He opened his eyes and looked down at the wooden grave lid.  “Amen,” he said.  He put his hat back on and walked outside to see to the horses.

By mid-morning he was on the way south.  Riding one horse and leading three others slowed him some, and his choice of moving through the rougher country of the low foothills made it slower, but within two days he figured was near the border.  After an hour spent on a low rise looking over the country, he made his way south, keeping to low ground until he figured he had to be back in Idaho Territory.  Late that day he ran into two Indians out hunting deer who confirmed that information.

Good, he thought.  One less damn thing to worry about.

Two days later he was in Boise.  After taking up the same room in the Monarch Boarding House for a night, he went back to Colonel Appleton’s stable and sold the two pack horses and their packsaddles and assorted tack.  Evans’ saddle horse he kept for a spare.  A hardware store on the same street as the boarding house bought Evans’ revolver and his ’66 Winchester.  The balance of Evans’ traps he kept, against the odd chance any of the dead man’s kin might come around looking for him.

That evening, dressed in clean clothes, bathed, with eighty-two dollars in his pocket, Bob felt finer than he had in some time.  The drummer from his first night in Boise was gone, replaced by a skinny old man who was a traveling salesman for a piano company.  The other faces around the table were more or less familiar.

Mrs. Dalby came in with a huge cauldron of beef stew.  Her boy followed, with a big platter bearing fresh, hot bread.  Bob spooned up stew until his bowl like to overflowed.  As seemed to be the way with Mrs. Dalby, the stew was long on potatoes and short on beef, but the bread was hot, there was fresh butter, and there was plenty of hot coffee.

“How are you finding the stew, Mr. Allen?” Mrs. Dalby asked, impressed at the speed with which Bob was shoveling it in.

Bob stopped eating long enough to grin and reply.  “Mighty fine, ma’am,” he said.  “Mighty fine.”

What the hell, he thought to himself as he ate.  I’m on my way home, I ain’t dead, and I ain’t broke.  Things could have been a whole lot worse than this.

After he ate, he thanked Mrs. Dalby again, then went to his room.  The bed was narrow and hard, but the sheets were clean.  Bob undressed, collapsed into the bed, and slept until almost a half-hour after sunup the next morning.

In the morning, after a huge plate of Mrs. Dalby’s biscuits and sausage gravy and more coffee, Bob gave the widow lady an extra dollar by way of thanks.  He saddled his horse and, leading Evans’ horse – no, now his spare horse – he set off to the south, thinking as he went.

Funny how just a few days can make a difference.  Lends a fella perspective, it does.  Had some hard times there on that trail, hard as I’ve had since the war, but here I am, headed home.  Didn’t come out of it so bad.  Won’t be taking Isis any gold or precious stones, but I’ll be taking her me.

She said I had to get out for a while.  Well, I did ‘er.  She said I was getting stale.  Well, I ain’t stale no more, not hardly.  Reckon I’ll make a proper husband, now.

The day was turning fine for the end of November.  1st of December tomorrow, Bob remembered.  If I make good time, I’ll prove Evans right – I’ll be home by the 4th. 

I’ll go right out to the place.  Tell Isis I love her.  That’s all.  Just that I love her, and I’m ready to come home.

Don’t rightly see how she can argue with that.

***

I picked up his body and I dragged him inside.

Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover.

I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied.

Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her.