The Legend of Sam Miracle

  People were moving around him. A cowboy was dragging the trunk into a train car for Millie. A conductor had hopped off and was yelling.

  Sam looked down the length of the train, down the tracks, to where a narrow timber bridge spanned a canyon. So many memories were flying through him, they were impossible to sort out. There were gunfighters and a girl and a priest and terrible pain. But there was also Ping-Pong. And baseball hats. Had he made those up? He could see an older boy, worrying about him, and he knew the boy’s name was Peter. And then all the faces came into focus, and they all had names. Jude and Barto. Matt Cat and Sir T. Jimmy Z and Johnny Z, the redheads. Drew. Flip chewing his lip . . . and it was all fading again.

  “Samuel!” Millie picked up his coat and tugged on his hand. “Come. Now.”

  Sam looked into his sister’s eyes. “Do you ever dream the future?”

  “Every night,” she said. “I dream a future in California on a farm with green grass and fat cows and trees that grow oranges. And I dream the past.”

  “I don’t mean what you hope the future is,” Sam said. “I mean the future for real.”

  “Like a prophet?” Millie asked. She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t about to admit anything about her strange relationship to future feelings. “No,” she said. “And neither do you. We’ve talked about this. Now get on the train or I might hit you again.”

  Sam followed his sister to the train. He stood behind her as she handed a man with a huge beard their tickets. He helped her climb the two flip-down iron steps up onto a small platform at the end of a passenger car, and he held the little wood-and-glass door open so that she could enter first.

  All the windows in the train car were open, but the place still smelled worse than the bathroom when the boys had skipped cleaning for a month. Even as he had the thought, it didn’t make sense. But the smell was still familiar. The air was sour with old sweat and unwashed bodies, and the temperature wasn’t helping. Wooden benches with worn rawhide and wool cushions faced each other in pairs, like restaurant booths with no table. Two cowboys were in one. A large family with sweating, moaning children filled two. An old Indian was sleeping near the front.

  Millie chose her bench and Sam dropped onto the bench across from her. She had already turned her face toward the open window and was fanning herself.

  “It’s an oven in here,” Sam said. “Is the air conditioner broken?”

  Millie shot him a curious look. Sam looked around the car, flaring his nostrils in disgust.

  “I could skip showering for a week and not smell this bad.”

  Millie leaned forward. “You’re babbling. Conditioning air? Shower skipping?”

  “I’m not babbling,” Sam said. “I’m just . . .” He shut his eyes, trying to think. He could see the showers in the Bunk House. He could hear the air conditioner humming, he remembered its cool breath on his neck while he read a book and the boys played Ping-Pong. Too vivid for a dream.

  But he could also remember his house in West Virginia. Tall and white. With fences. And horses. No water pipes. No lights. Lanterns with little flames. A well he had to pump till his hands blistered. Baths in the kitchen. Baby lambs. Chopping kindling and nicking his knuckle. Millie cooking when the sickness came. Cooking till there wasn’t anything more to boil in water than month-old chicken bones. He remembered the men nailing the lid onto the box that held his mother. He remembered her living face smiling at him. Her rough hands. Her soft kiss on his forehead. He could see them sliding the box up onto the wagon beside the bigger one that held his father. It all felt so long ago.

  But now he knew what a telephone was. And a television. And a stereo. And a refrigerator. He couldn’t have made those up. He wasn’t that smart.

  The steam engine gasped, jerking the train forward. It gasped again and iron wheels squealed on the rails. And again. The train was moving a little more each time.

  Sam opened his eyes and looked at his sister. He leaned forward, beautifully bent elbows on his knees. “Millie, I need you to listen and not be worried even if this doesn’t make sense. I don’t remember much from West Virginia, and I’m sorry I said that about Dad. But for me it was a very long time ago. I was hurt and then someone hid me in the future to keep me safe.” He leaned back, and his heel scraped over a piece of paper on the floor. “I don’t remember why, but I know there was a reason.”

  Millie’s brows were as low as they could go. She touched Sam’s forehead with the back of her hand, and grabbed his wrist to feel his pulse.

  Sam was looking at the paper on the floor between his boots. It was a note.

  WHEN THE COWBOYS STAND, RACE FORWARD TWO CARS.

  FT

  “FT?” Sam said it out loud. His memory was roaring now. Centuries were sorting themselves out. “Father Tiempo.”

  “What about him?” The voice was hard and deep like a canyon in the air. Two long-limbed cowboys blocked the aisle. One was more cowboy than the other, the one with the voice. He had a droopy black mustache, spurs, a sweat-soaked bandanna, and a two-gun holster. The other had a similar holster, but he wore it with a suit. His trousers were tucked into high black boots with silver buckles, and a bowler hat sat on the back of his head. His face was smooth and freshly shaven. His smiling eyes were arctic blue. Sam knew them.

  “Can we help you, gentlemen?” Millie asked.

  Sam’s whole body had tightened. He’d seen the note too late. And now there was nowhere to go. He could dive through the glass and out of the train, but he’d be leaving his sister behind. He could dive over the bench, but that would leave her exposed, and they would just shoot him in the back. His fingers clenched the edge of his bench. At least his elbows were bendy now. He could throw a punch before he died.

  The real cowboy touched his hat. “Kind of you to ask, miss. Folks call me Rattles on account of how many I kill. My friend here is known as the Tinman on account of how he likes to collect the badges of fallen sheriffs, deputies, marshals, and assorted lawdogs.”

  “That I do,” the Tinman said. He touched his hat and grinned. His voice was crisp and proper. “You’ll excuse us not sharing our Christian names.”

  “No,” Millie said. “I don’t think I will. What do you want with us?” Her voice was nearly sharp enough to draw blood.

  “Tiny,” said Sam. He kept his voice low and cold. “People will call you Tiny, on account of how stretched out you get moving between times. Also, you won’t like what I do to your face.”

  Rattles drew a long bowie knife from his belt and stroked his mustache. “Miss, would you mind holding your brother down while we cut out his heart? We’ve had just about enough of that Navajo priest dancing him away through time after we kill him fair and square.”

  “To be honest,” Tiny said, sniffing, “it’s shameful the way some types don’t know when they’ve lost. But we can’t all be winners.” He tossed a wink and a tongue click at Millie.

  Sam’s hands were fast. Faster than Tiny’s wink. As Tiny’s eyelid began to close, Sam lunged. As Tiny’s tongue clicked against his teeth, Sam’s hand closed on the butt of his holstered revolver. As Tiny’s eyelid opened, Sam was trying to draw the weapon backward.

  And failing.

  Rattles was quick, too. His fist cracked into Sam’s cheek, slamming his head against the back of the bench. Sam’s hand slipped from Tiny’s gun, but he’d partially cocked the revolver’s hammer.

  The hammer snapped forward.

  The gunshot shook the windows. Millie screamed. Tiny yelped and fell, grabbing his knee. Rattles snarled, clamping Sam’s throat tight with one hand, pressing the knife against Sam’s ribs with the other.

  Millie rocked back, pulled up her skirt, and stomped him in the ear. Rattles dropped Sam’s throat and grabbed her ankle.

  The sleeping Indian had thrown off his blanket and was running down the aisle. His hair was pure white and his face was scarred with deep creases.

  He raised both arms high, then wind and hissing sand roared throu
gh the train car.

  Tiny shot him from the floor. Father Tiempo staggered forward and fell. As he did, he pointed, and sand devoured his two enemies. They were gone. The priest sprawled facedown in the aisle, his blood creeping through the sand.

  Millie was frozen on her bench in shock. But for the clatter and rock of the rails, the train car was silent. The other passengers were stunned and staring. Sam crawled out beside the priest and felt for his neck. No pulse. The old man was dead. But he’d written something in the sand with his finger.

  NO

  Sam looked back at his sister. Millie’s eyes were wide, wondering.

  “Dead.” Sam coughed on the word. His throat was practically crushed. His jaw was throbbing. He had a shallow knife prick between his ribs just above his heart.

  Which meant his mind was perfectly clear. And he wanted to cry.

  “I’m sorry.” He touched the priest’s bony back. “It’s always my fault, isn’t it? Every time.”

  GLORY SHIVERED AND RUBBED HER LEGS. THE DENIM warmed up her palms, but it was her sun-torched skin that was now chilled by the night air. She wouldn’t have expected to end the day cold, but she also wouldn’t have expected to end the day by sitting cross-legged beside a dead railroad with a sleeping priest. Whenever she had wanted to move around, he had barked at her.

  The sun was down, the burros were snoring on their feet, and the moon had yet to come up. Warmth was still rising out of the canyon beside her, but cooler air was crawling across the plateau. And over the last hour, that breeze had been growing.

  She hadn’t thought to wear warm clothes—or pack any—but shorts would have been worse than her old jeans. Her bare arms were the problem. To distract herself, she pulled the old copy of The Legend of Poncho out of her pack and dug around for the little flashlight she had thought to throw in. Switching it on, she pointed it over at the priest. The light was dull and orange. Tired batteries. But not as tired as he looked.

  Father Tiempo had his legs crossed and he was slumped forward with his chin on his chest. He had set an empty hourglass on a rock in front of him a long while back and had barely moved since. While Glory watched, his shoulders rose slowly with an incredibly long breath. Fully inflated, all motion paused, and then the breath poured out of him in a ghostly rush and the process began again.

  “So . . . ,” Glory said.

  The priest said nothing.

  “Any thoughts on timing?” she asked. “I’m starting to wish I’d brought a sleeping bag.”

  Glory shivered, rubbed her bare arms and then opened the book, flipping through the yellowing pages all the way to the end.

  “Okay, Sam Miracle,” she whispered. “How much did you tear out?”

  But the final pages were completely intact. There was a little ad for two other novels by J. P. Hawke, and before that, a page that said only “The End.” Across from that there was about half a page of prose, the last lines of the last chapter of The Legend of Poncho.

  At first, Glory thought Sam must have lied about tearing out pages. Or maybe there had been two different copies back at SADDYR. But then she actually read the final lines.

  Gloria sat in her wheelchair and wept beside the loose soil of Sam Miracle’s grave. The loss of her own legs caused not a single tear. But the loss of her hero did more than break her heart . . . it broke her very soul.

  The western sun set slowly on her sorrow. And when it was gone, a final darkness swallowed Gloria Spalding. It swallowed her dreams. It swallowed her story. Only the darkness knows where she may be, and how her life ended.

  “That’s awful!” Glory slammed the book shut and pointed her flashlight at the priest. “That’s seriously the worst ending to any book that I’ve ever read.”

  The priest said nothing.

  “That can’t be real, can it? First off, it made me seem like a total sap, like I was in love with Sam. Second, I lose my legs? I’m weeping in a wheelchair? And Sam is still dead.” She held the paperback up. “How am I even in the book? I’ve never been in the book before. Why would Jude do that?”

  The priest remained silent.

  “Hey!” Glory lobbed her flashlight at the priest, orange light looping in the night. It bounced off his back and skittered across the rocks, breaking the glass. The light died.

  “What was the point of that?” Father Tiempo asked. Glory blinked, her eyes trying to adjust to the first hints of moon dawn.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Glory said. “Batteries were dying, anyway, and I didn’t bring any backups. Do I really lose my legs? Because I am seriously reconsidering this whole thing!”

  The priest’s shape straightened in the low light.

  “Such courage,” he said quietly. “What happened to the bold girl?”

  “It’s not about courage,” Glory said. “I’m just being practical. If Sam still dies, why lose my legs, too?”

  “Will you give your legs if it means saving his life?”

  Glory was silent. It was hard to tell, but she was pretty sure the priest was staring at her.

  “Courage before a battle is a simple thing,” the priest said quietly. “Sacrifices are easily promised.”

  “How did the book change?” Glory asked. “How did I get into the story at all?”

  “You chose to enter the real story. Jude will have made changes in his telling of it. And will make more, depending.”

  “But hold on.” Glory leaned forward until she could see the priest a little better. “We have to stop right now. If that’s how this all ends, you have to get Sam back and try something else right away.”

  “You have only just begun to affect this story,” Father Tiempo said. “Many more choices still wait for you.”

  Suddenly, the priest gasped, inhaling sharply. He was holding his breath.

  Glory gave him a moment. But only a moment.

  “So . . . ,” she said. “What was that?”

  The priest exhaled and picked up the empty hourglass in front of him. “I was waiting for something clear. What I have is not good.”

  “Why not?” Glory asked. “What’s bad about it?”

  “I have been killed,” the priest said. “Shot. My final years given up for a confused boy. And the sacrifice may not even save his life. I do not understand my final message.”

  Glory bit her lower lip. “Killed?”

  “Yes,” the priest said. “And my only note to myself was ‘NO.’ If Sam was killed as well, then perhaps the no was in reference to our now inevitable defeat. Or simply to prevent me from sending you to join him. But more likely it was in reference to the previous written message, which instructed Sam to move forward two cars. No, he didn’t move. That is the most likely. In that case it is an instruction to modify where in the train I attempt to place you. If Sam stays where he is, then he will never survive the crash. You must be sent there to save him, and soon.”

  The priest faced Glory. “The boy’s unreliability is infuriating. He understood and acted on the note perfectly well in his last attempt. But this time . . .” He shrugged. “No. I can’t have died that quickly. Pitiful effort. Surely, I could have been more specific.”

  “I’m sorry you died,” Glory said.

  “As am I.” Father Tiempo rose to his feet. “But at least someone has died. It means that there is room for your soul to join the moment. I have made my decision. I will send you into Sam’s original train car. If he is still there, take him forward two cars immediately. Sam must survive the crash. I’m sure another older me will join you as soon as possible, but don’t wait for me. Act. How many cars forward?”

  “Two,” Glory said.

  “Good. And quickly.” The priest took the nearest burro by the reins and led it back along the track, counting his paces. Glory followed.

  “Right here,” he said, stopping the burro. Then he turned and faced Glory, holding out the small empty hourglass. “Take this and you will know when time is being disrupted around you. Keep it close and it will keep you rooted.”
/>
  The glass was cold and heavy in her hand. Both ends were open and uncapped.

  Father Tiempo stepped back from the burro. “Now stand on the saddle.”

  “Stand?” Glory looked from the fat-backed animal to the priest and then back again. “What do I do if it moves?”

  “You fall,” Father Tiempo said. “And we try again quickly.”

  Glory tucked the hourglass into a water bottle pouch on her backpack. Then she swung herself up onto the saddle. Father Tiempo crossed the tracks and turned to face her from the other side.

  Glory wobbled on her knees, bracing herself on the hard leather of the saddle. One foot, one knee, and both hands. More wobbling. And then . . . two feet and one hand. She let go and stood up tall, both arms extended for balance like a tightrope walker.

  The moon edged one lip above the horizon, trickling silver across the desert. With arms out, backpack on, breathing slowly, Glory watched the silver trickle become a flood. She watched the light paint the priest, and she saw that his eyes were closed.

  “The time is now,” the priest said. His arms rose, but his eyes were still closed. “Leap out above the tracks. You will not land.”

  Glory didn’t jump. She didn’t leap. She stood on the burro and tried to inhale. But her breath fluttered and escaped like a startled bird. Pain sprouted in her chest, like her heart was beating against needles.

  “Now!” the priest said.

  Father Tiempo opened his eyes. Glory shut hers.

  And she jumped.

  With arms flailing and legs kicking, she looked down at the old rails beneath her. And then moonlit sand erased her with a stinging wind.

  WHILE DAZED PASSENGERS WATCHED, SAM DRAGGED HIS SISTER across the priest’s body, pulling her toward the front of the car. Millie was pulling back against him.

  “Samuel! Our trunk!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The note said we have to move forward!”

  He pointed across a family out their window. Men on horses were galloping alongside the train. Sam slammed into the door at the end of the car and dragged his sister onto the little platform. Rock and rails rattled past beneath the huge iron coupling that bound the cars together. Sam jumped over it, grabbed onto a swaying handrail, and leaned back for his sister.