No Eye Can See

  “That scamp, that…” Ruths dress kept catching between her knees, threatening to trip her. “Cantankerous dress,” she said, stomping into the house.

  It was still and warm inside, despite the shade trees. Ruth walked around the room, looking for some clue, some hint of what this child had come up with now, meant to drive her crazy. She couldn't hide all day. She must have gone exphring But where, why?

  Ruth walked out the back door, toward the privy. The cat sat curled on the board with the soap, the grinding stone Jessie used for a mold lying on the grass. “How'd you knock that heavy thing off, Miss Kitty?” Ruth said. Ruth squatted down to retrieve the stone, set it back on the board. She gazed around. Nothing, no hint. Had the child run away? Did she believe no one cared for her? Maybe she interpreted being stuck with Ruth as a punishment while Sarah got to go away.

  The cat stood, arched into a purr. Ruth absently stroked its striped back, running her hands out to the end of its tail. She heard it mew, looked down.

  When she saw it, her face turned hot and her heart sank.

  “Well, Hawk,” Zane said. He pivoted awkwardly on one foot. “This is a rare moment. Sit over there,” he directed then, quick with his words while his hand pointed with the revolver. “You ve made a difficult day forme, my Jessie.”

  “Not your Jessie,” she said.

  “Oh, but you are, you are. And you'll have to do a bit more for me since you've broken my toe.” He turned to the woman. “A lost possession returned is more treasured than when originally obtained. And today I have two such treasures.” The baby cried.

  Zane's eyes moved quick to the sound of the boy, noticed the lamp stand, a book or two, things brought in by another. A rocker moved near the baby. The Wintu woman was being kept—but not against her will. “David Taylors managed my baggage well.” The woman's eyes shifted ever so slightly with the stage driver's name. “So you aren't keeping yourself, then? I was right. Ah, this is sweet revenge indeed.” He sighed. “I'd love to spend the evening with you basking in this domestic scene, but I fear that gunshot just might bring someone back. And so I suggest we ready ourselves.”

  He grabbed at the boy the woman held at her hip. He ripped him from his mothers arms. The child screamed, his face reddening as he wailed.

  “You,” Zane said, pointing with the gun to the woman as her hands reached for her son, “get the rope from my saddle.” He pushed her from the child, who shook as he wailed. “Go!” he shouted, then almost sang out sweetly, “You come right back, or I'll be forced to deal with this child the way I know how.”

  She tried to touch him, and Zane struck her. “Still a bold one, aren't you?” Now he pushed the boy's head, his fingers like long snakes pressing against the boy's face, close to his eyes.

  “Ello, ello, “ she whispered, her fingers to her lips. “No, no.” She pulled herself from the floor and scuttled past Zane through the door.

  He knew David Taylor might be back, and he debated about waiting, anticipating the pleasure in watching the jehu's face when he came through the door and saw him, this woman again under his control. He wanted him to see that. But he wanted something else more, liking this taking and retaking game better than dealing with mindless men like Greasy managing the claims. He liked this…and imagining Ruths terror.

  He ran his tongue over his lips, decided. “You, my Jessie, find what food you can and put it in a sack.”

  “No,” Jessie said.

  Despite his toe throbbing, he lurched toward her and struck her with the back of his hand. “You do what I tell you,” he said. Tears filled the girls eyes, but she held her sob, pressed her fingers to her cheek while she dug in the cupboard for cans.

  When the Wintu woman returned, rope in hand, he told her, “Find me something to scratch a note on.” He motioned for paper. “I want to be sure when that jehu returns home he knows who it is that's intruded.”

  David carried the payment with him, the monthly installment owed to Mr. Hall. He'd thought about quitting the Baxter stage line and trying to work full-time on the claim his father had abandoned, maybe locate a dry digging where the wet ones hadn't paid. Placers not far away had proven rich, the gravel giving up color enough to support one man at least. Maybe there'd be enough to support him and his family. He smiled. His family.

  He could have worked the streams more when he brought food and milk out each week for Oltipa and Ben, maybe pick up extra to repay Mr. Hall faster. He did usually take a pan out and swirl the water up, almost over, the slanted edges as he squatted, watching the boy as he sat in the mud and splashed. Once or twice they watched a raccoon washing itself on the other side of the creek, and the boy pointed. He was quick to notice things.

  “Its a raccoon.” A person would have thought he had fathered the boy himself.

  Yes, he could have worked harder to find some hidden bar or coyote down some random hole hoping it would lead to his fortune. But when he came over the rise at the end of his run, when he dropped down into the gulch where the cabin sat, digger pines and live oaks draping over the roof, when he rode around to the front, saw lilies shooting up green beside the door, the last thing he wanted to think of was working a claim.

  He wanted to ride low in the shy glances Oltipa gave him when he handed her the sacks of food, feel the weight of the boy when he lifted him and know that here was something good he had done, something that had made a difference, even if tomorrow they left him, even if they never came back. Here, he had left a mark.

  He was pleased about the dog, Chance, coming back too. The little thing kept the rats down. At least after the dog disappeared, not long after the baby was born, they noticed the rodents seeking shelter in the heat of the cabin. David spent more time than he wanted stuffing holes with rags and shakes that the rat would eat through before he returned. He'd have to chink it good before winter—if they were to stay there through another. It was one thing with just Oltipa there. She was tough and sturdy. But with a baby, a long winter might be too much even with all the wood he had chopped and stacked.

  He felt the currency in his vest pocket. Maybe he should work on Hall's sympathy a bit more. At least that's what he thought he'd experienced when he'd paid him last month. The old man had coughed and cleared his throat and said something about “not really necessary, David.” But he'd taken the money. He should try to negotiate the debt. It would be nice to have the weight of it from his shoulders.

  Still, he'd made an agreement. He'd been well paid for that decision despite losing his job. Oltipa's look and the boy's laughter were more than enough compensation. He shook his head, wishing his work days went as quickly as the days he spent with Oltipa and her boy.

  Dusk approached. He'd be taking the stage run leaving that night and wasn't far now from Shasta, the trail nearly all downhill coming into town from the northwest. He pressed his knees into the horse, thinking to make up a little time. He was always lagging when he left, he noticed, and hurrying fast coming home.

  He pulled up on the reins. “Sorry, boy,” he told the horse. He twisted in the saddle. “Thought I heard something.” Then, “What're you doing all this way, Chance?” he said when he noticed the dog.

  He stepped down off the horse, thinking as he did that he'd have to take the dog with him now or be too late for the stage run. He had no time to take him back. “Tongue all hanging out. You've been on a hike, little one, haven't you? Why'd you chase me?” He picked up the dog. When he did, he felt the ooze, blood seeping from the little dog's side.

  The monster kept them bound. My Jessie—the name Zane Randolph called the child—rode in front of Oltipa. He'd wrapped another rope around them both, had that rope attached to his own horse. He could feel any effort they might make to shift or slip away. Oltipa felt the coldness of the child's back through the ache of her own hands, the coldness of her own heart. He had killed her child. He had killed Ben.

  Oltipa could hardly stay awake now, but to sleep meant losing a chance for escape, for revenge. It mea
nt betraying her child, her now lost child.

  Zane had first secured the girl's hands, then led her to the horse tied outside, his body sideways in the door. “Be civil and stay right there now,” he had said and smiled. Always a smile. Then he stepped back inside, grabbed Oltipa, tied her arms behind her. He must have thought they were secure because when he stepped close to the baby on the floor, Ben pulled on the man's pant legs, screaming, each scream piercing through her. Then Zane kicked at him. He grabbed Ben with both hands then, lifting him by the shoulders, his fingers sinking into the smooth flesh of her son who was raging now, screaming, jolted as though dragged across a rough road. Zane shook him, yelled at the boy. “Silence or I will silence you! What I should have done already.” A twitch in the man's eyebrow, strange breathing, like a wounded deer, made Oltipa fear his mind had gone away, could not stay with the challenge given by a small, frightened child.

  She'd felt a surge of fiiry then, so powerful and full of protection that she slammed herself into him, jammed her hands against his side using all her force, sure that if he dropped the baby it would be safer than if he shook the child to death.

  Zane lurched forward with the blow, one arm letting loose the baby to swing at Oltipa, the other pinching Bens little arm as he dangled. Zane missed her. She struck at him again with her body, and this time he released the child, who landed on his bottom, the sound of flesh hitting the floor a crack like a shot. Ben screamed while the back of Zane's hand struck her, the pain of the blow to her face nothing compared to the pain of her child's cries, cries she could not comfort.

  Zane headed for the child, who was sitting, leaned over into his sobbing, shaking with each new raging scream, his legs straight out, his hands stiff before him, his eyes a thin dark line of terror.

  “Leave him,” Oltipa said then.

  “What?” Zane turned, the sound of her voice breaking into that distant place. “What?”

  “You cannot travel with the child. Leave him. Take us. A child's death brings trouble you do not want.”

  The man scowled as though she'd put new fire into his rage. Oltipa feared it was this that may have saved their lives, but not her child's. He stared at the crying baby as though far away, as though remembering another time. He breathed like a gut-shot deer, raspy and sharp. Then quick as a weasel, he twisted back to Oltipa and grabbed her. He pulled the tie that bound her arms until she whimpered, then led her out, lifted her onto the horse behind Jessie, and bound them together with the rope. He returned inside, carrying a lantern and a sack of food. He caught up Oltipa's horse and saddled it, then forced the women onto the mare's back. He tied his own horse to them. His last act before mounting and leading them into the night was to set the lantern back in the cabin.

  It went dark inside. The baby whimpered anew, sobbing and screaming a high pitch Oltipa had never heard before, of terror and confusion and rage. She longed to go to him, grateful he still lived enough to cry, powerless to make it stop.

  Then the baby quieted, a knife slice to her heart.

  Oltipa prayed he might bring the child out, let her take him with them now that he was quiet. She heard nothing, a final silence as the monster pulled the door shut.

  David pushed the horse hard, back toward the cabin, the dog tucked into his shirt. He wished there was a way to tell Baxter what had happened, why he wasn't there to take the stage. He'd lose this job sure, gain a reputation for being irresponsible. If she was all right, if the boy was safe, then it would be worth whatever any might think of him. He shouldn't have left them. What was he thinking of? He should have brought them into town. Anyone could have found them, taken them. California had become a breeding bed for madness, crazy for blood and blame.

  He'd hang on to the hope that since the dog lived, she and Ben did too. He wondered how long the dog had taken to catch up to him. It looked as if a bullet had grazed his side. He might have been out for a time, then wandered, sniffing at squirrels, following rabbits before he came to David. How much time had elapsed?

  He imagined a dozen things: She was dead. Ben was lost. There'd been a fire. A claim jumper had found them. He shook his head and pressed his knees to speed the horse. “Sorry, boy,” he said, “but you got to give your all.” The horse broke into a gallop and David tucked down in the saddle. At least the moon was up. And the horse did know the way.

  “What is it, Ruth?” Matthew Schmidtke stepped up beside her. Jason hung back closer to the house.

  She handed him a rectangle, a limestone plate.

  “What is it?”

  “A lithograph,” Ruth said, her voice flat and low. “Of Columbus, Ohio. I made it five years ago. For my husband. He has her. On a trail cold for following. I dont even know where to start.”

  When David arrived at the cabin it was dark. His heart moved into his throat, and he felt the pulse at his neck throb. The dog squirmed and whined. “No,” David whispered, petting Chance. “You've got to wait. This doesn't look good.” He dismounted, tied the horse a hundred yards from the house. The end of the whip brushed his face, and he thought to take it, but pulled his rifle from the scabbard instead.

  For the first time in his life, he wished he were a small man, able to tuck and bend and slide quiet as a cat without being seen. He still carried the dog under his arm, but when David crouched, the dog squirmed out and scurried toward the cabin.

  David eased his way around to the door that faced the stream. The dog whimpered at the porch. Then before David could approach, Chance pushed against the unlatched door. David held his breath, listened. He breathed again when he heard a baby cry.

  “Oltipa?” he said. “Ben?”

  The crying that had been a gasping sob now broke into a wail as Ben recognized his voice, the dog licking at him where he lay on the floor.

  “Oh, thank God,” David breathed when he saw the boy. He said it as a prayer, spoken in his soul as he rode back, pounding in his heart as he saw the darkened cabin, a song to cool his parched throat as he heard the baby cry. “Ben, baby,” he said and lifted the child to his chest. Ben's muslin shirt was covered with dirt and damp from his tears. “Oltipa?” David called, looking around. “Where are you?”

  He lit a lamp, still holding the child, the light spilling over a room he hoped would show him Oltipa, safe, just asleep, perhaps. But he didn't see her, just the baby's face, caked with snot and dirt, his eyes puffy from the crying. Small purple bruises the size of a mans thumbs appeared on both forearms, even on his pudgy fingers.

  The baby's arms were wet with sweat, and they wrapped around David's neck, so tight, so tight now, as though he gripped for breath, for life. David patted his back. “Its all right, Ben. It's all right, fella. You're okay now, you're okay. It's not happening now. You're all right.” He repeated the words, saying them as much for himself as for Ben. He patted the baby, walking and walking around the room, scanning for evidence of what had happened, where Oltipa was.

  A tin cup sat on the table.

  The fireplace was cold. He could see that. She'd been gone a long time. At least the baby hadn't crawled into hot coals. He picked the cup up, saw the paper beneath it. Ben began a new burst of crying, as if fearing David thought to put him down. The dog barked, scurried around as though looking for Oltipa, too, inside and out. He left little dark spots of blood where he walked.

  David found a dry cloth and changed the boy. He wiped his eyes and face, all the while trying to piece what could have happened, why Oltipa wasn't there. He lifted the boy. His eyes fell again on the paper.

  I've reclaimed my possessions. It was signed, Zane Randolph.

  David's ears rang, he felt his face grow hot. His stomach ached as though struck by a post. That man, who had tried to ruin his life, who saw human beings as baggage, had struck again.

  David hadn't kept her safe. Again this vile man had found a way to bind him. He slammed his fist into the table, and the child screamed anew. David held the boy closer to him. Poor child. What had he witnessed? How deep were
his wounds?

  Oltipa, how she must be grieving having left her child behind. What could he do?

  He stepped outside, wondered if the moon was bright enough for him to track them. He checked the corral, Ben still on his hip. Her horse was gone. She was probably alive, then. He could go after her, but what could he do with Ben? He couldn't take him along, at least not while he searched for this man so lethal, so without feeling. He'd have to take the baby into town, the dog, too. There might be someone there he could leave the boy with.

  He packed Ben into the basket Oltipad made for him, one she carried on her back. Ben sat up, his little knees tucked up inside, the bow of the reeds keeping sun from his face during the day. He strapped Ben around the middle, tucked the green cloth he'd once given Oltipa as a gift over the boy's legs. He tied the basket at the saddle's horn. He hung a bag of food behind the saddle, then walked to the stream and pulled up the tin of milk.” May as well take this, too,” he said.

  He picked up Chance, checked the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He put the dog back inside his vest, then mounted and headed out, talking quietly to the boy until David was sure he'd fallen asleep.

  They'd traveled a mile or two when he heard the music. A voice so clear and clean with notes like an angel singing with a harp. And he remembered—the entertainment in Mad Mule Canyon, all this week, at different camps. Three women and three children is what he'd been told by a passenger on the stage who'd heard them. “Sing like angels.” They might be up to looking after Ben, and he could gain good time, not have to head into Shasta. Maybe they'd been provided by God, perfect timing.

  At least he could ride there and assess them for himself. If they looked like people he could trust, he would. It might be crazy, but if it would get Ben's mother away from that man sooner, it was worth a little risk.

  He reined the horse and headed toward the harp.