Sam Bass Page 5

  I wasn’t really surprised to find Sam in Dr. Ross’s barn when I went to tend the horses that evening. He had already fed them, including Jenny, who was in the stall next to my bay, still saddled. “Look at that gal eat,” he said. “She ain’t had grain in a while.”

  He was armed with two pistols and a Bowie knife, all tucked into a belt that bristled with bullets. The bulge above them told me he still wore the money belt under his shirt. Large spurs graced his heels. His gray hat was pushed back from his forehead. He looked nothing like a teamster now, sitting there on a grain sack, smoking and grinning.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I got here before the doc.”

  “He knows, then.”

  “Yeah. Look, I come to make you an offer. I’ll guarantee you a hundred dollars a month. There’s little danger. I’ve never had no trouble yet…” He hesitated, studying my face, trying to determine what last card would play best. “I’ll even let you ride Jenny sometimes.”

  “All right, Sam,” I said.

  He looked surprised, and answered so quietly I barely heard him. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

  We walked to the house. Dr. Ross had built a roaring fire, and the room was stifling. He stood with his back to the fireplace, as usual, still wearing his coat, stroking his beard. He wasn’t drinking, though. “You’ve made your decision?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m going.”

  He nodded. “God help me. You could be killed.” “Sam says it’s safe.”

  “Well.” He frowned and rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Let an old man advise you. Don’t hurt the people. They’ll be your friends if you don’t hurt them. It’s the nature of this place. And Frank, when you get enough money, go to Lexington, Kentucky, and write to me. I’ll see that you have a chance to become a doctor. I swear.” He stooped and picked up a set of saddlebags. I hadn’t noticed them there at his feet. He handed them to me. “This is all you really need, anyway,” he said. “This and a beard.”

  Sam, whose presence Dr. Ross hadn’t acknowledged, was shifting from foot to foot, impatient. “Pack your gear,” he said. “It’s dark. It’s time we went.”

  I started to unbuckle one of the saddlebags, but Dr. Ross said, “He’s right. It’s time.”

  I carried the saddlebags to my room and laid them on my chair while I stripped the two blankets from my bed, wadded my spare shirt and pantaloons and rolled them into the blankets. Then I saw Dr. Aiken’s book of songs on the table, unrolled the blankets and nestled the little volume among my clothes. I stuck my pistol in my belt, laid the saddlebags across my shoulder, picked up my old Spencer rifle and the bedroll and was ready. I looked around the small room that had been my home for five years and was grieved. But I blew out the lamp and closed the door.

  Dr. Ross and Sam were standing just within the back door, talking quietly. “Say your goodbyes,” Sam told me. “I’ll go saddle your horse.” He opened the door just wide enough to slide through, and Dr. Ross closed it and turned to me. I could barely see his face in the darkness.

  “I’m sorry I encouraged this,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “You were right. I’ll be fine.”

  “Stay alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “And don’t kill, Frank. For God’s sake, don’t kill.”

  “I won’t. Really. I’ll be all right.”

  I felt his beard against my face. He kissed me. He opened the door again, and I slipped through. I looked back and gave a small wave, and he closed the door.

  Sam was cinching my saddle when I got to the barn. “Tie on your gear, and let’s ride,” he said.

  The moon was high and almost bright enough to cast shadows. We avoided the square and stuck to the alleys and the streets where only a few lamps burned inside the houses until we were beyond Denton, riding at a trot toward the northwest. The horses were rested and moved effortlessly through the cool night. The moon flashed dimly off the withers and haunches of Sam’s mare and the silver conchos of his saddle. It was a fine night for a ride, and although there was an emptiness in my gut at leaving the home and life I had known, I felt good. I knew I was not only leaving something but moving toward something, too, toward the fulfillment of some dream, the keeping of some right, unclear promise, something unknown and inevitable but not at all bad. Destiny, I suppose you could call it. And I had no wish to avoid it. Sam and I didn’t speak until we were beyond the town and well into the prairie, which rolled before us in the moonlight like a sea. I asked where we were going.

  “Cove Hollow. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s on Henderson Murphy’s ranch, about forty miles from here. It’s perfect for the likes of us. Prairie to run in and woods to hide in.” He flashed a grin in the moonlight. “It’s good to have you, Frank. We can’t lose now.”

  “Joel Collins lost,” I said.

  “He wasn’t among friends, and we are.”

  He spurred Jenny into an easy gallop, and I followed. We said nothing then for what seemed hours. We galloped until the horses began to tire, then we trotted, then walked awhile until they were rested, then galloped again. Both horses were strong, and I knew we were covering the ground fast. Just as I was beginning to tire, Sam reined to the left, toward a line of trees that grew along a watercourse. He pointed. “We’ll stop there. We’ll have an easy trip tomorrow.”

  We entered the woods, ducking to avoid the branches of the scrubby, close-growing trees. Sam picked his way carefully through the brush, and I followed. Most of the leaves were gone, but the thickness of the branches above and around us almost shut out the moonlight, and I was suddenly blind, depending on my horse to follow Jenny’s lead. “Hickory Creek,” Sam said. “I know a good spot by the water.” And soon we were in a tiny, grassy clearing beside the creek. Sam dismounted and started unsaddling. “We can have a fire,” he said. “I’ll take care of your horse if you’ll gather the wood.”

  The night was cool enough to make the fire’s warmth inviting, and when the blaze was well established we spread our saddle blankets on the ground and sat cross-legged on them. Sam pulled a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags, uncorked it and passed it to me. “Warm yourself, pard. The first drink of a prosperous life together. One to remember when we’re rich.”

  I drank and passed the bottle back. He raised it in salute. “Here’s to Joel,” he said. “May them that killed him fry in hell.” He drank, but didn’t pass the bottle back to me. He held it a moment, then drank again. I knew then that he was more troubled by Joel’s death than he admitted, and that if I wanted another drink I would have to ask for it. I did ask, and he stared at me without offering the bottle. “Let’s see what the doc give you,” he said. While I was unbuckling the saddlebags he took another drink.

  In the first saddlebag were three books and a leather case with a green velvet lining containing forceps, three scalpels, several probes and a pair of scissors. The books were Eberle’s small volume of Notes, Dr. Henry H. Smith’s Minor Surgery and Dr. Thompson McGown’s A Practical Treatise on the Most Common Diseases of the South. The other bag was full of vials of various sizes, all filled and labeled with their contents: quinine, opium, sulphur, calomel, mercury, camphor, digitalis and just about every other medicine I had seen Dr. Ross dispense during my years with him. There was also a large packet of bandages, tied up in a piece of canvas. I passed the case of instruments to Sam, and he examined them with mild interest. I was returning the books to the saddlebag when I noticed a white envelope protruding from Eberle’s Notes. It was a letter, sealed, with my name written in Dr. Ross’s beautiful hand. I broke the seal and read it:

  Dear Frank,

  You can’t imagine the remorse I am feeling at this moment, having advised you to take a course that may well be the road to ruin. I was stupid to tell you that you were doomed to the tin shop forever. Of course that isn’t, true! You’re a fine, intelligent boy, capable of a good life and many fine deeds. Instead,
you’re in the wilderness, embarking on a life of crime, and at my urging! I was foolish, made so by drink. If you can forgive, and if you can endure the company of a lonely old man a while longer, please return to my house at once.

  But if your decision is truly made, accept this poor gift and go with my blessing. I used the saddlebags when I was young and made my rounds on horseback, but the chemicals are fresh and the instruments are in good condition. The books will teach you how to use them. I particularly recommend McGown, who was a classmate of mine at Transylvania. He’s a fine, practical physician.

  I’ve given you all you need to be a physician in this wild land. All except a cool, comforting hand (which you may have already) and a beard. And, O yes, a black coat, which I urge you to purchase as soon as possible. The rest will come with experience, and no one will ask to see a diploma.

  Goodbye, my son. Be kind to the people. Do not kill.

  Yr. fmd.,

  Ross

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “A letter from Dr. Ross.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “It’s nothing. Just about the medicines he gave me.” I folded the paper and stuck it in Eberle’s book and buckled the bag.

  “I hope you don’t get a chance to use none of that on me,” Sam said. “Or nobody, for that matter.” He gave me the whiskey bottle. He rolled and lit a cigarette and leaned back against his saddle and gazed upward into the dark trees. “This here’s what you call freedom, Frank. It’s worth taking chances for. No Dad Egan, no Ben Key, no doc telling us when to jump and how high. Just you and me and Henry. Horses, whiskey, cards, women and money. You’ll like it, Frank.”

  “I’m here, Sam.”

  He smiled. He watched the horses grazing quietly just beyond the small circle of firelight. He waved his cigarette toward them. “That Jenny. She’s to thank for it. Without her I’d still be freighting for old Dad. That ain’t no life for us, Frank. It’s no better than being a nigger. That ain’t no life at all for the likes of us. The world belongs to them that grabs onto it and pulls, and that’s what we’re going to do, ain’t it, Frank?”

  “Yeah, Sam, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Lord, Frank, you sure are quiet tonight. You ain’t saying nothing.”

  “I just feel quiet. You know.”

  “Hey, old Henry’s going to be glad to see you.”

  “I’ll be glad to see him, too. It’s been a long time.”

  “Remember when we used to go to the track together? That was good times, wasn’t it? We’ll do that again one of these days, to watch old Jenny make us rich.”

  “Yeah. But what are we going to do now?”

  “Well, we’re going to see Henry.”

  “And after that?”

  “Well, we’ll sit down and decide what to do next. Maybe find us a couple more good men.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, a stagecoach, probably. I’ve did them before. They’re easy. Give you a chance to learn the business.” He held out the bottle against the firelight. The whiskey was nearly gone. He handed it to me. “Finish her, and let’s turn in.”

  I killed the bottle and threw it into the fire. We unrolled our blankets, arranged our saddles for pillows and threw two logs onto the flame. When we were bedded down Sam said, “Dream of gold, Frank.”

  Lying there, I began to miss Dr. Ross and my room back home, and even the tin shop. I couldn’t sleep, despite the whiskey, and Sam couldn’t either. I heard him get up very late, when the fire was low. He pulled on his boots and walked out beyond the firelight to where the horses were. He spoke quietly to Jenny, and she snorted. He talked and talked. He was still talking when I fell asleep.

  The morning was chilly. Sam poked at the embers, and soon a small flame flared. I fed it dry grass and twigs until it was strong enough to take a few small logs and make enough heat to drive the night cold from our bodies. As we hunkered there, I saw we were in a jungle. Most of the trees and bushes were bare, but grew so thickly they almost blocked out the early sun. I had seen such thickets, but had never ventured into one for fear of tearing myself and my horse on the sharp branches and the almost certain presence of snakes. It wasn’t a large wood, not more than a hundred yards across, with Hickory Creek running down its center. But I supposed it stretched as far as the creek did, a vein of marsh and jungle winding across the dry, brown prairie where nothing grew but grass, a testimony to the difference water makes on the face of the land.

  “Learn this place,” Sam said. “You’ll be seeing a lot of it. Only a fool would come in here after an armed man.” He took a hunk of jerky from his saddlebags and sliced off several slivers with his knife and passed them to me. “It’s all I got.”

  “No coffee?”

  “No, but old Henry’s got the pot on the fire.”

  “Let’s move, then,” I said. “Morning’s a grim time without coffee.”

  We bridled the horses and led them to the water. We lay on our bellies on the bank, sucking at the water with the horses, trying to moisten the dry, hard meat in our mouths. Then we led the animals back to the fire and saddled them in its warmth, scattered our embers and kicked dirt over them and mounted. We picked our way through the brush more quickly than we had in the darkness, and soon we were on the prairie, and the sun was full on us and warm.

  We rode in silence in the pattern we had established the night before. Trot, gallop, trot, walk, trot, gallop, trot, walk. The rhythm of it took over my body, and as we traveled across the empty prairie I began to think of myself as a small boat, drifting on an ocean. If I had been in Denton at that hour, I would be fixing breakfast for Dr. Ross and myself, and the changeless pattern of my days would be beginning again. After breakfast I would wash the dishes and harness the doctor’s horse, then walk to the tin shop and do again what I had always done. But here I was, drifting on an empty ocean of grass. Not drifting, really, but moving toward the young man’s adventure that Dr. Ross wished he had had, a memory to store up and bring out again before the fireplace of Dr. Frank Jackson, an old man.

  It was freedom I was feeling. A young man’s freedom, which is the absence of responsibility and the prospect of unlimited possibility. And danger! I was riding with a man who owned ten thousand dollars, taken at gunpoint from a Union Pacific train. A man who had tended animals at a hotel and grubbed brush, but who now was considered dangerous because he dared take what others wanted to keep. I liked that. I didn’t think of that as a crime, nor did many others. I had read in a newspaper that the Texas government had compiled descriptions of more than forty-five hundred men in the state who were wanted by the law somewhere, and almost a quarter of the counties hadn’t even filed reports. Oh, many people railed against the “lawless element,” I guess. But I venture to say that those who railed were rich, or had arrived in Texas with prospects of getting rich. Yankees, most of them, who hadn’t suffered the war and its humiliation or the carpetbaggers. Some had even profited from our misery. And many of those on the state’s list had got there for trying to keep what was theirs or regain what was taken from them. There were many others, weaker or more timid than they, who had suffered their losses silently, but cheered on and protected those willing to “grab onto the world and pull,” as Sam had put it. A man who had nothing to pull but a gun and who took only from those who had plenty was considered a criminal only by those who had plenty and feared for it. Believe me, there weren’t many of those in Texas in those days. Not in the countryside. So as Sam and I rode across the prairie in silence, dreaming our dreams, I felt like an outlaw but not like a criminal, and the beauty of the day and its freedom filled me.

  When the sun was almost straight overhead we entered a thicket very like the one we had left in the morning. It, too, was bisected by a creek, which we began following upstream. This one was even more overgrown than the other, full of walnuts, oaks and acacias and thick tangles of vines and brush. High walls rose on both sides, not far from the banks of the stream. Large outcro
ppings of limestone gleamed white near the tops of the walls, shading caves and crevices whose depths I couldn’t determine. “Cove Hollow,” Sam said. “It runs about six miles up yonder, but we don’t have to ride that far.” We dismounted and led the horses to the creek and dropped the reins. The horses, their necks extended, their noses close to the ground, sniffing the water, stepped gingerly down the bank, found firm footing and dipped their muzzles into the stream. Sam and I flopped on the grass. He took off his hat and rubbed his sleeve across the sweat and dirt of his brow. “Welcome home, Frank,” he said.

  When we were refreshed we remounted and picked our way up the creek. I could see that Cove Hollow was ideal for our purpose, but it struck me as an unpleasant, unhealthy place. The ground was spongy under our horses’ hooves. Clear Creek, as it was called, was dark and sluggish, and our course along its bank stank of rotting vegetation that had collected in numerous stagnant pools. Miasma and fever and snakes displaced freedom and adventure in my thoughts.

  We had ridden about two miles into the hollow when a high, rasping voice screeched: “Throw up your props!” Sam halted his mare and raised his hands above his head. I looked around me, confused. I could see no one. The voice came again: “Throw up your props, Frank!” I did, and the voice laughed. “Can you see me?” it asked.