Pick Fillion appeared to be in his usual rage. He snarled an order and brusquely grabbed the proffered bottle of Rye from the bartender’s hand. He took the cork in his teeth, pulled it from the bottle and spat it across the room. He was about to take the usual Fillion gulp, the kind that emptied half the bottle in one interminable swig but he froze, the bottle inches from his mouth. For a long moment he was motionless. Then he began to sob violently, smashed the bottle against the wall and ran from the saloon.
It had been a week since Pick realized that Thorn had either taken Levi or had killed him. In any case, both Thorn and Levi were gone. Pick, unaware of Thorn’s trafficking in young boys with the San Francisco brothels, and knowing Thorn’s demented, evil side, could think of no reason for Thorn to keep the boy alive. He thought the boy was dead but he didn’t know that for sure and that uncertainty made life for Pick almost unbearable.
Pick had never been in a situation like this before. Every other crisis in his life he had solved by drinking himself into oblivion or, in a rage, pummeling his presumed antagonist or whoever happened to be handy. If he knew Levi was dead, he could, perhaps, cope, but he didn’t know that. He had tried the drinking but when he sobered up, Levi was still gone and the agonizing mystery remained. He had raged and fought but when the fighting was done and the rage subsided Levi was still gone and the agonizing mystery remained. He had searched abandoned mine tunnels. He had searched anywhere he could think that Thorn may have left Levi captive—and he watched the sky for buzzards. When all of that was done, Levi was still gone and the agonizing mystery remained.
Pick Fillion had no real friends, just men who tolerated him out of fear or the chance that he might buy them a drink. But as the week progressed, Pick did have sympathizers. This was a new man they saw, a man in agony of mind and spirit, a man whose life now seemed nothing but hopeless frustration. Many who frequented the saloons of Carson City understood that well. They were in Carson City because the vicissitudes of life in the east or in the south had left them with hopeless frustration and they ran from it and they drank to forget it but they knew what Pick had discovered. One could not run far enough or drink enough. It was still always there. No one in the saloon jeered at Pick’s sobbing. Several of them had done it themselves. There was a good deal more whiskey drunk that night than usual. Pick’s anguish had made their own too vivid.
The four other Fillion children were frightened. They knew how to live with drunkenness and anger. The fact that the next beating could kill or maim them was as accepted a part of their lives as was filth and stench. They knew no other way and for them that was the normal way to live. But a father who would, without warning, burst into tears, a father whose reach for them now meant a hug and caress rather than a blow, a father who had brought home a bathtub and had bathed himself and them, a father who made them help clean up the shack and helped Minnie wash clothes—all of this was so unfamiliar and so different that it frightened them. Although he never came right out and said it, Pick was suddenly asking his children to live a life they didn’t understand and, as it would any child, the unfamiliar frightened them.
Pick could not have explained the change. He had not lived filthy as a child. He had lived in poverty but his mother kept a clean house. It was her only source of pride. Pick’s father worked hard but seventeen children consumed more resources than any one man could provide. Both Jean Marc and Alouit Fillion were too conscious of their social and financial status. They assumed the community perception of them to be condescending. They were angrily vocal about the ‘uppity’ neighbors who they were sure looked down on them. They thought so little of themselves that they perceived anything different from what they were as being superior to what they were. They resented that perceived superiority so when their son showed signs of intellectual curiosity, they assumed he was putting on airs and trying to be better than they were. They ridiculed his curiosity and belittled his insights. That which was in their tenth child, Levi—a superior intelligence—they saw as an insanity or a feeblemindedness. To them, if the boy was different, he had to be crazy or stupid, and therefore worthless. Pick resented their opinion of him but unconsciously bought into it. He felt himself to be worthless, so he lived as if he were.
When it became obvious that Thorn had either killed or stolen Pick’s son, Dodd and Josh Forrest held themselves responsible. Pick had, without question, saved Dodd’s life. While Pick was willing to assume blame for not recognizing the extent of Thorn’s evil, the Forrests knew that the delays they had requested and the court action had driven Thorn to force the issue by resorting to that evil. They felt it their obligation to assist Pick in his search for his son. Josh had given him unlimited time off at full pay. Josh had also assigned his security men, several of whom had friendly relations with the local Indians, to help in the search and enlist the help of their Indian friends. Dodd had hired and paid for the Pinkertons.
The Forrests and their friends expressed sympathy and concern for the Fillions. Elizabeth had gone to the house to comfort the other children and see if there was some other way in which she could help. Pick’s advice on matters concerning the search was sought and followed. As Josh spoke with him, he became aware of the man’s intelligence, his keen insights, his powers of observation, and his ability to translate those insights and observations into practical suggestions. Josh began to ask Pick’s opinion on problem issues in the operation of the mine. Pick usually had a practical, workable solution. When Pick’s suggestions became mine policy, often decreasing the difficulty and increasing the safety of the job, the men were told that the idea had been Pick’s. These men had respected Pick because they feared him. Now they were respecting him for his intelligence. He became a sort of hero to them. He was making their lives easier and safer and they let him know that.
Occasionally Pick had thought about the problem but was not as yet satisfied that he had arrived at a satisfactory solution. He would tell Josh his thoughts and freely admit that he wasn’t sure yet how the problem should be solved. Josh saw in Pick a valuable, thoughtful, and honest resource and increased his pay. Josh told Pick to take as much time as he needed to search for Levi but that when he came back to work, he would no longer be in the shafts. He would be an assistant and an advisor to Josh.
Pick was being treated with respect and his thoughts, suggestions, and feelings were appreciated. Pick’s decision to change his style of living was not a conscious one. It just seemed the thing to do. Someone had finally recognized that he was not worthless. He could no longer live as if he were. If he were thought respectable, it just made sense that he should live respectably.
Elizabeth and Lillian went often to the Fillion house. They helped Minnie arrange what furniture they had in a pleasing, comfortable way. From having taught her in school, Elizabeth knew that behind Minnie’s defensive anger was a very bright little girl so she was not surprised at the quality of Minnie’s suggestions, only at the girl’s truly aesthetic turn of mind. Elizabeth understood more fully what Dodd knew. Regardless of the appearance and behavior of a child, there lies within all of them possibilities—possibilities that can become realities only when the child knows security, respect and love.
Lillian got things done. She enlisted ladies from their church to make clothes for the children and curtains for the house.
Every mother wants the opportunity to fawn over and make pretty a little girl. Lillian loved her sons but she could not make them pretty dresses or brush their hair and form it into curls or braids. She could not make them dainty and pretty so she poured all that latent desire into the three Fillion girls. Lillian was an expert on boys and she had little Albert looking—and soon acting—like the normal boy he always could have been.
The Fillions were actually beautiful children. Long before the townspeople were aware of their improving behavior, their much improved appearance brought them respect, and just as being treated with respect had accelerated their father’s change of life style it accelerated theirs. Pick had almost completely stopped drinking. Occasionally, when almost drowning in grief, he would take a few drinks but there was no more of the Fillion Gulp. Two drinks, he found would numb the pain so two were all he would allow himself. He was truly ashamed of the kind of father Levi had known and he had vowed never to be that kind of man again. If he were ever to find Levi, the boy would have a father of whom he could be proud.
Carson City was aware that its town drunk and bully had abdicated his position but it was absolutely shocked when he and his four scrubbed and coiffed and beautifully dressed children appeared at the Methodist church one Sunday morning. Now that he was respectable, Pick felt that he should do as the other respectable people did—go to church. There was a Catholic Church in town but it had been the ladies from the Methodist Church who had been so kind to his children so it was to the Methodist church he went. He felt a little fear, remembering that he had been told as a child that going to any other church was a mortal sin—one which could not be forgiven—and that he would go to hell. But he also remembered the fear of God the nuns had placed in him the few times he went to school and the awful fear he felt after the priest’s homily about hellfire and brimstone, and he decided that hell couldn’t be much worse than that. He had talked to his drunken friends about their childhood religious experiences and had found that it made no difference what the church was. All had been convinced that they were such terrible sinners that there was no way they would miss hell so it didn’t make a whole lot of difference what they did now. You could only go to hell once.
Pick tried not to be ostentatious but he couldn’t help himself. He was proud of himself and proud of his children so he led his brood to the front row. It took the little girl in the second row a while to recognize her. When it occurred to Sarah Hockley that that was Minnie Fillion, the girl wrinkled up her nose. She had had to sit beside Minnie in school. She was ready for a very unpleasant Sunday Service. But there was no rancid smell of filth. Sarah thought there was perfume. Minnie Fillion was clean. Her hair fell to her shoulders in neat curls. Her dress was pretty with lace at the collar and on the sleeves, and she was wearing perfume. Sarah Hockley experienced an increase of faith that morning and it wasn’t the sermon or the Sunday School lesson that did it. Sarah had shared a bench with Minnie in school. She knew what Minnie had been and what she was now. Miracles really did happen.
There was some shock and a few muffled snickers when Pick crossed himself after the prayer. Pick realized his error but was not embarrassed. He had learned something new and he tucked that bit of information into his brain for future reference. You don’t make the sign of the cross in a Methodist church.
With all the outward changes, one thing had not changed for Pick. His soul was being eaten away by grief and guilt. Why had he not known that he loved the boy? Why had he been so quick to beat the boy? Why was Levi gone? Was he dead? Had the evil in Thorn made that a frightening, cruel, and painful death? Why should Levi suffer? He had suffered enough because of his father. It had been Pick who had sinned. Why was God punishing Levi?
Pick had known crazy people. He knew that some of them had gone crazy as the result of a great loss. When Pick realized that his brooding and bouts of sobbing were beginning to dominate him, he feared that he was going crazy. His fear was sharpened by the knowledge that a crazy man could not care for children. To the guilt and grief he felt for Levi was added fear and a sense of guilt that his addled mind would rob his remaining children of a father and a home and probably of each other.
Cajun folks always took problems like that to the priest but Pick didn’t want to go to the priest. He remembered, as a boy, the priest saying something about the sins of the fathers being visited on their children. Pick already knew that. He already knew that Levi had suffered or was suffering for his sins. The people and the pastor of the Methodist Church had been very kind and, by now, Pick felt almost Methodist but he didn’t want to go to the pastor either. Men of the cloth were men of the cloth. The Methodist pastor would tell him the same thing. Pick knew that hearing that his sin was causing or had caused Levi’s suffering would exacerbate his problem, not relieve it. He didn’t want to be told that again.
He went to Dodd. Dodd had read that some doctors in Europe were studying a new science called psychology. He knew little about it and so far as he knew none of their work had been published. It was the same thing. Dodd knew medicine, probably better than most who practiced it, but he never seemed to know enough. He had become very fond of Pick. Pick had not only saved Dodd’s life but he had, by sheer will, turned his own around. The man was suffering and Dodd did not know enough to help. All he could be to Pick in this matter was his friend. For what Pick needed, no one knew enough to be his doctor.
It was Pick himself who found a way out of his despair. During one of his visits to Dodd, a rancher brought in a bound-boy. The boy looked to be about fifteen but he was pale and undernourished. He was also badly beaten. He had black eyes, bruises on his face and arms, and a severe limp. The rancher told Dodd that the boy had fallen from a ladder and he heard that Dodd was treatin’ orphans free.
Dodd had no chance to answer. “Ladder, like hell! Anyone in Carson City knows a boy that’s been beat, it’s me, Pick Fillion. You beat that boy, you son-of-a-bitch, so don’t come in here lyin’.”
The rancher had never seen Pick before but he had heard of him. Pick’s obvious anger now frightened him and Pick saw that. He immediately saw a way to give meaning to his empty life and atone for his sins. Perhaps he could never again help Levi but he could help other children. “I scare you, don’t I?”
The rancher fumbled nervously with his hat. “I hear tell of you. I don’t want to get cross ways with you.”
“Here’s how not to do it. I’ll be comin’ around to your place about once a week. You take a good look at this boy. I see him lookin’ like this again, you gonna’ be lookin’ twice as bad. You treat that boy right and you ain’t got no trouble with me. You beat him like this again, you sure as hell got yourself cross ways with Pick Fillion. You understand that?”
“I hear you.”
“And, boy, you bound to this man and you bound to work for him. But you ain’t no slave. He got to feed you good and know you ain’t a full growed man when he works you. He got to treat you like you somebody, not like no dog. I want you to do your work and don’t ever be tellin’ me no lies. He ain’t ever to beat you like this again but I need to know the truth. If you start lyin’ to me about what he done, I ain’t gonna be able to do nothin’ for you. You a boy and you got to learn to do right. I don’t like a liar no more than I like a man would beat a boy like this. You bound to work for this man but you also bound to be treated right. You do me right, I’ll see to that.”
Dodd worked hard to suppress a grin. The rancher was scared and so was the boy. Dodd had the feeling that the boy would work and the rancher would hold his temper. Time proved that both did and when the atmosphere of antagonism between them was forced away by Pick’s threat, they developed a respect and eventually actually a fondness for each other.
Dodd realized that this might be a partial solution to his concern regarding let-out children. Pick’s methods might be a little crude but he was confident that most bound-holders would react to Pick’s threats as this one did. They did. Pick began to make regular rounds to the homes of all the county’s bound-holders.
As in the first, in some cases, the animosity turned to fondness and occasionally even love. In others, it was always the fear of Pick Fillion that kept the child decently treated. Pick’s reputation made it unnecessary for him to actually assault anyone. When word got around, things changed. No one wanted to find out whether Pick was really as mean as his reputation. Only once was there a suggestion that Pick used something other than his reputation to get results. When he became convinced that Hubert Miller was molesting his bound girl, Pick brought him to the new sheriff but Miller’s black eyes and other bruises suggested that there had been a preliminary event to Pick’s performing his citizen’s arrest.
Pick threw himself into his new duties. Dodd convinced Josh to continue to pay Pick’s salary and Pick did continue in his new position as advisor to Josh but the majority of his time was spent in the county seeing to those children. Seeing to their wellbeing became a vicarious way of caring for his son. He still grieved Levi but he now had some peace of mind. His childhood religious training made him feel obligated to do penance for his past sins. He felt now that he was doing that. He was protecting children, and in so doing he was honoring his son. Pick Fillion still carried the heavy burden of what he had been, what he had done, and the loss of his son, but he was also finding the beginnings of peace of mind.
Dodd’s gratification at these improvements for children was always muted. He, of course, was pleased that let-out children now had some degree of protection but the specter of the unloved Pete was always before him. Dodd knew that not all children would come to know the kind of love Pete had but that was no reason to stop trying. He was angered by people who believed that because one could not solve everything, there was no reason to try to solve anything. Dodd could never make this a perfect world but he could do what he knew to be right. Many still were not loved. Josh and other employers were still using children in the mines. Dodd was pleased with Pick’s work. True, he would much rather have had the children protected out of love or at least concern but, for now, intimidation would do just fine.
Pick was proud of his work. He said to Dodd, “We doin’ good, ain’t we?”
Dodd patted Pick on the back. “Yes, Pick, you’re doing a lot of good and I thank you for it. But it’s just a start. It’s only a start.”
Levi Fillion had, like his daddy, approached all his life crises with anger. He knew no other way. He had seen it work for his daddy all his life. People were afraid of Pick. Children were afraid of Levi. Both seemed to feel they were not worthy of friends or respect so they were more than satisfied with fear. Anger was who Levi knew Pick to be. Anger was who Levi was. It had always worked for him, until now.
Levi had learned well that using anger with Bill Thorn was painful, very painful. When Thorn had come to the mine tunnel for him, Levi had again attacked with curses, fingernails, teeth, fists and feet. With his free foot, he had given Thorn a good one in the groin. Thorn winced in pain but drew back with a smug, knowing smile. There had been niggers dumb enough to try to resist him. You couldn’t kill a nigger just like you couldn’t kill this boy. They was money. But you didn’t have to let them know you wouldn’t kill them.
Bill Thorn smiled a mean smile as he moved back toward the boy. His fist was fast and the blow to Levi’s jaw was powerful. When Levi regained consciousness, Thorn proceeded to give him the beating of his life. Pick, in his drunken anger had given the boy some memorable beatings but nothing to compare with this. The boy broke. He pleaded with tears and promises of cooperation for Thorn to stop. Thorn did, but with the promise that any more trouble and he would beat the boy to death. Levi believed him.
Thorn knew that they would be seen as they traveled west. He traveled in early morning or late in the evening and took remote, lightly used trails until they were a safe distance from Carson City. Chances of them being seen by someone who knew them were slim but chances of this boy trying to get away were not. Thorn did not want to answer questions as to why he had a boy tied to a horse so he cut a slit on the inside seam of the boys pants legs, just below the knee. Thorn ran a rawhide thong around the boy’s legs, inside the clothing but with the ends sticking out of the slit. Those ends were then tied firmly to the stirrup strap. The boy was tied to the horse but a passer-by could not tell it. It took Thorn two hands and a lot of cursing to get them untied at night so there was no possibility of the boy freeing himself. There was no way Levi could reach either thong with both hands. He tried but it hurt his leg to lean too far one way, and there was always the danger that Thorn would catch him.
They did meet people, but no one Thorn recognized, and none seemed to recognize them. Some tried to make polite conversation as they passed. You knew they were greenhorns, come west to make all that fortune that nobody ever seemed to find anymore. A seasoned westerner knew better than to ask into a stranger’s business. When they asked about the boy’s injuries, Thorn made up various lies to explain his bruised and swollen face.
Most they met were nondescript, but Thorn could not get one of them out of his mind. It was an Indian or a Mexican, hard to tell. Probably an Indian because even though he was wrapped in a serape, he wore the rounded felt hat that had become so popular with the local Indians. Thorn thought it strange that he was wrapped in a serape in this heat, but then, Indians were like niggers. They were stupid. But it was more than the burst of hatred that impressed the Indian on Thorn’s mind.
Most niggers and Indians and Mexicans had the sense not to look a white man in the eyes. But, although he had his hat pulled low so that his face was in shadow, his eyes burned into Thorn’s. Thorn did not recognize the face but the eyes left him with a strange sense of foreboding, a kind of sinister portent. Even after they had passed, Thorn could feel the Indian’s eyes on him. He turned. The Indian was turned in his saddle, still staring at him. It was eerie. Something about that Indian invoked some vague ambivalence in Thorn: a mixture of anger, hate and fear.
The Indian said nothing. He stared from the shadow of his hat brim then turned and walked his horse slowly toward Carson City. Thorn’s bewilderment made him angry. He kicked his horse into a gallop and jerked the lead rope of Levi’s horse. The horse lunged forward with such quickness that had he not been tied on, Levi would have fallen backward off the horse. Thorn cursed and galloped away from the angst.
They camped the first night just a few miles east of Lake Tahoe. Thorn put irons on the boy’s ankles, the chain around a tree. The moon was full and just as he was about to crawl into his bedroll, something pulled Thorn’s eyes to the moon. On a hilltop, silhouetted against the full moon was that Indian. Although he must have been a mile away, Thorn could feel those eyes burning into him. It was necessary for him to drink himself to sleep.
As the days passed and they moved into the beauty of the California mountains, Levi’s terror slowly gave way to a kind of despondent resignation. If Thorn spoke to him at all it was with disdain, but he fed the boy and was no longer brutal. When they got to the high country, Thorn put snow on the bruises on Levi’s face and particularly around his eyes. Levi took Thorn’s treatment as a kindness. He had no way of knowing that it was to improve his appearance and make him more saleable.
The snow was cold but it felt good. Levi loved snow and while they got some in Carson City every winter—sometimes a lot—Levi had never seen this much before. The boy was even allowed to play in the snow for a while.
Thorn never mentioned his intentions for Levi and Levi never asked. Life with an angry and drunken father had taught the boy to live in the present. Don’t think about what might happen. If he wasn’t being beaten or cursed, enjoy it. Although the boy didn’t know it, he was living a very biblical life. He was taking no thought for the morrow.
All his life, Levi’s expectation had been nothing more than survival and safety. The uncertainty of his personal wellbeing made awareness of much other than himself unwise. The good life was to him the absence of fear, hunger and pain. Although his first bath was a horrendous experience, subsequent ones had taught him that personal comfort might also be an ingredient in the good life. He no longer itched all the time and for the first time in his life, he realized there were smells other than the stench of his filthy body. He found himself taking particular pleasure from the smell of the mountain air.
But it was what he saw: the beauty of the mountains, the trees, the snow, the streams, the wild flowers, the clouds, the blue sky—the entire awesome expanse of nature—that stirred his soul. Levi would not have said it that way. In fact, he could not have given any words to what he felt. He knew nothing of awe. He had never heard the words appreciation of the aesthetic. He had no idea that he was capable of the feelings that rose within him when they topped a pass and a panorama of snow-covered peaks, blue sky and green valleys lay before him. Levi knew only two ways to express emotion: derisive laughter and crying. He had laughed when he had hurt someone else and he had cried when he himself had been hurt. When he looked on those panoramas, something inside him wanted to get out. It wanted to be part of what he saw, to make him one with all that beauty. It was wonderful and majestic and overwhelming. It gave him a better feeling than he could ever remember having. Why was it making him cry?
While Thorn was still chaining Levi at night, he no longer tied him to his horse. Levi gave no thought to escaping. There was nowhere for him to go. This man had been cruel to him. He had taken him from all he had ever known. He had beaten him. He had threatened to kill him. But he was all Levi had. Levi was dependent on this cruel man, and that dependence translated itself into a strange kind of fond attachment.
Even had Levi thought he could survive alone in the mountains, the Indian would have kept him close to Thorn. Every day, somewhere, he had appeared. It might have been just a passing glimpse as the Indian moved behind some formation of rock. It might have been another distant silhouette against the blue sky or waning moon. It might have been only the remains of a camp, but always with a broken arrow lying in the grey ashes. It might have been a feather tied to a pine bough, but there was always some indication that he was there or had been there and it frightened Levi because he knew it frightened Thorn.
Levi had lost all track of time. He wondered if he would ever see another human being other than Thorn and the Indian, if, indeed, the Indian was human. But eventually they began to come across an occasional prospector. It was then that Levi knew Thorn’s intent for him. Several times a prospector would make an offer to buy him. None was willing to meet Thorn’s price. Levi did not understand why he was being offered for sale. He thought he was to be a slave, that he was wanted for the work he could do. Levi became furious. No one had ever completely owned him and no one ever would. Levi had been beaten by Pick but he had never let his father completely control him. His mood changed again, this time from hopeless resignation to a resolute anger. Levi had the sense not to display his anger but this man had no right to him. Now that he was once again in the world of people, he would not allow himself to be controlled. Levi began plotting escape. Thorn must have sensed that. He began tying Levi to his horse again.
Levi wanted to feel the awe of the mountains at his first glimpse of the sea. It was late afternoon and the sun sparkled on the shimmering, gentle waves. He wanted to feel awe but he needed to remain alert for the chance to escape.
Levi did waver, however, when they boarded the ferry to cross the bay. He was frightened. He had never been on any kind of boat and this one was going way out away from the shore. Levi was a desert child. He had never seen so much water in one place but he’d heard of storms that sink ships and sharks that eat people and he remembered that one of his teachers had said that in some places the ocean was more than a mile deep. He didn’t know where it was that deep but with his luck lately, it was probably right under him and he was tied to his horse. If a storm came, he was sure the horse would sink like a rock and he’d drown. Levi had never seen a horse swim and had no idea that they could.
Thorn wouldn’t untie him from the horse. When asked about it by other passengers, Thorn had shown his sheriff’s star and told them that Levi was a runaway apprentice. “The little bastard’s slick as a snake. Got away from me twice already. I ain’t takin’ no more chances.”
Levi wanted to tell them that that was a lie but he knew no one would believe him. A lot of children were bound or apprenticed and a lot of them ran away. Thorn would be believed. Anyway, they were almost to the other side now and he had to get his mind back on his escape.
It was dusk when they docked and entered the city. Levi struggled not to allow even the wonders of this bustling, rowdy place to distract him. The other ships at the waterfront, much bigger than the ferry they had ridden, pulled hard at his boyish attention and it was only with tremendous effort that he remained alert.
Levi could never have imagined such a big, busy town. He knew that Carson city was getting bigger all the time and he thought it must be the biggest city in the world by now, with all them miners and peddlers and such comin’ in. But even though it was almost dark, you could tell this San Francisco was a whole lot bigger. There were people, wagons, huge wooden boxes, horses… There were alleyways between the buildings. Places he could run through. It would not be hard to get lost here.
They rode past all kinds of places. Levi had no idea what most of them were. He saw fish that were bigger than he was. He saw funny looking people with yellow skin and funny eyes. He heard men talking with words that made no sense.
Some places he understood. He saw saloons and he saw whores and it was there that Thorn reined his horse to a hitching rack and dismounted.
Thorn wrapped the lead rope of Levi’s horse around the rail and moved to untie his left leg. Levi knew they had reached their final destination. This time rather than untying the thong, Thorn cut it. Thorn had no intention of using that thong again.
Thorn moved to the other side of the horse. He cut the thong and reached up to lift the boy from the horse. Levi didn’t fall into Thorn’s hands as he had become his custom each time they had stopped. He stood in the stirrups and stared intently at something behind Thorn. “There’s that Indian again. What’s he followin’ us for?”
Thorn jerked around to look. He had had his fill of that damn Indian. He had lived with his confused apprehension too long. People didn’t frighten Thorn. He frightened them. If they wouldn’t be frightened of Thorn, they’d be dead like Dodd Forrest was. Thorn looked a long time. There were too many people. He could not spot the Indian. Thorn asked, “Where is he?” and turned back toward the boy so he could see where he was pointing. Levi had pulled his right leg from the stirrup and had it cocked at the ready. The moment Thorn was again facing him Levi planted his boot hard in Thorn’s face. The force of the kick put a gash in Thorn’s forehead, broke his nose, and knocked him off his feet.
The boy not only bit like an alligator, he kicked like a mule. Thorn was momentarily stunned. The blood and tearing in his eyes temporarily blinded him. He could not see Levi slide off the horse and disappear among the shipping crates, sailors, fish, whores, horses, wagons and buildings.
Copyright © 2003 Gordon L. Klopfenstein