and slowly I let the truth out, skimming over some of the personal tragedies involved, just trying to make the albino understand that our parents—my drunkard father, Ian Spencer Henry’s preoccupied dad, and Jasmine’s fallen mother—most likely would jump for joy at our departure, if they ever noticed our absence.
It didn’t set well with Whitey Grey.
“They’ll come lookin’,” he said with a snarl. “I should put you asunder now, be shun of you and your troubles. Law might charge me with kidnappin’, child stealin’, and I don’t fancy spendin’ no time in the territorial pen up in Santa Fé. No, sir. Never been charged with child stealin’ afore.”
Ian Spencer Henry cried out his argument: “By the time my pa finds out the truth, we’ll be back in Shakespeare with our money and you’ll be long gone.”
“We wrote a note,” Jasmine offered. “Jack left a note for them to find in the mine. It says we’ve run off to El Paso. No one will think to look out here.”
The white-skinned man didn’t hear them. His hollow eyes stared off toward the rugged peak. “’Course, iffen you three was to turn up dead hereabouts, laws might put the blame on ’em renegade Apache bucks. That’s a notion to consider.”
He stared back at me, and my throat went dry, my eyes darting from the Winchester on his shoulder to the Colt stuck in his waistband. Would he have killed us? I’m not sure, for Whitey Grey kept proving to be a difficult man to read, but he seemed to be leaning toward that option when a whistle blasted all four of us out of our wits.
The crazed adult recovered first, moving back and forth, hollering at us to take cover behind the rocks beyond the water tower. “It’s the eastbound!” he yelled. “Get out of sight!”
When Ian Spencer Henry didn’t move fast enough, Whitey Grey picked him up and effortlessly tossed him over the outcropping, then herded Jasmine in the general direction, and at last turned toward me. I needed no more encouragement, and certainly preferred the route Jasmine had taken over that of Ian Spencer Henry’s. The hard, metallic clicks and groans grew closer as the Southern Pacific crept over the barren pass, coughing and puffing, slowing, squeaking, hissing …yet never stopping.
I peered around the natural rock wall after making sure Ian Spencer Henry had not broken his neck. “That smarts,” was all he said, as he sat up, rubbing his shoulder.
“You’re a wicked old man!” Jasmine told our jailer.
“Hush,” he said, Winchester in his arms, his dead eyes keen. “Don’t you chil’ren get no notions ’bout runnin’, neither.”
The train rumbled on now, picking up speed, moving with an urgency to get through this rough, abysmal country. In a moment, all we could see were the clouds, then tendrils of black smoke, and soon even those had vanished in the desert.
“It didn’t even stop for water!” Jasmine exclaimed.
“Ain’t no water here.” The albino lowered the hammer on the rifle and stood, his knees creaking. “Nearest water’s six, seven miles up the road, at the old station. Fool railroaders tried diggin’, but they might as well go all the way to China afore they’d ever find nothin’ wet. No, sir, chil’ren, the onliest thing this patch of ground’s good for is holdin’ the two ends of the earth together.”
I found no fault in his assessment. The country lacked color, looked crude, raw, ugly. In years to come, it would support a small town—water being hauled down and sold for $1 a barrel—after gold, silver, lead, and copper were discovered in the Peloncillo Mountains north of here, taking first the name Doubtful Cañon and later Steins, but even those ventures would prove relatively short-lived. In the autumn of 1881, the place looked as far removed from civilization as anything I had ever witnessed. Even the rawhide water tower—indeed, now I could tell it had never been finished—and the small shed seemed out of place.
It didn’t set well with Whitey Grey.
“They’ll come lookin’,” he said with a snarl. “I should put you asunder now, be shun of you and your troubles. Law might charge me with kidnappin’, child stealin’, and I don’t fancy spendin’ no time in the territorial pen up in Santa Fé. No, sir. Never been charged with child stealin’ afore.”
Ian Spencer Henry cried out his argument: “By the time my pa finds out the truth, we’ll be back in Shakespeare with our money and you’ll be long gone.”
“We wrote a note,” Jasmine offered. “Jack left a note for them to find in the mine. It says we’ve run off to El Paso. No one will think to look out here.”
The white-skinned man didn’t hear them. His hollow eyes stared off toward the rugged peak. “’Course, iffen you three was to turn up dead hereabouts, laws might put the blame on ’em renegade Apache bucks. That’s a notion to consider.”
He stared back at me, and my throat went dry, my eyes darting from the Winchester on his shoulder to the Colt stuck in his waistband. Would he have killed us? I’m not sure, for Whitey Grey kept proving to be a difficult man to read, but he seemed to be leaning toward that option when a whistle blasted all four of us out of our wits.
The crazed adult recovered first, moving back and forth, hollering at us to take cover behind the rocks beyond the water tower. “It’s the eastbound!” he yelled. “Get out of sight!”
When Ian Spencer Henry didn’t move fast enough, Whitey Grey picked him up and effortlessly tossed him over the outcropping, then herded Jasmine in the general direction, and at last turned toward me. I needed no more encouragement, and certainly preferred the route Jasmine had taken over that of Ian Spencer Henry’s. The hard, metallic clicks and groans grew closer as the Southern Pacific crept over the barren pass, coughing and puffing, slowing, squeaking, hissing …yet never stopping.
I peered around the natural rock wall after making sure Ian Spencer Henry had not broken his neck. “That smarts,” was all he said, as he sat up, rubbing his shoulder.
“You’re a wicked old man!” Jasmine told our jailer.
“Hush,” he said, Winchester in his arms, his dead eyes keen. “Don’t you chil’ren get no notions ’bout runnin’, neither.”
The train rumbled on now, picking up speed, moving with an urgency to get through this rough, abysmal country. In a moment, all we could see were the clouds, then tendrils of black smoke, and soon even those had vanished in the desert.
“It didn’t even stop for water!” Jasmine exclaimed.
“Ain’t no water here.” The albino lowered the hammer on the rifle and stood, his knees creaking. “Nearest water’s six, seven miles up the road, at the old station. Fool railroaders tried diggin’, but they might as well go all the way to China afore they’d ever find nothin’ wet. No, sir, chil’ren, the onliest thing this patch of ground’s good for is holdin’ the two ends of the earth together.”
I found no fault in his assessment. The country lacked color, looked crude, raw, ugly. In years to come, it would support a small town—water being hauled down and sold for $1 a barrel—after gold, silver, lead, and copper were discovered in the Peloncillo Mountains north of here, taking first the name Doubtful Cañon and later Steins, but even those ventures would prove relatively short-lived. In the autumn of 1881, the place looked as far removed from civilization as anything I had ever witnessed. Even the rawhide water tower—indeed, now I could tell it had never been finished—and the small shed seemed out of place.
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