The Book of Lost Friends(98)
The question nips at me all the rest of the way to Menardville, which when we get there, ain’t too much more than a few store buildings, a smith shop, a wheelwright, a jail, two saloons, houses, and churches. Juneau Jane and me make plans to leave out for Mason to see about Old Mister. It’s just a day’s hard horseback ride away, but longer afoot. Penberthy holds our pay and won’t let us strike off. Says it’s too dangerous walking, and he’ll find us a better way to get there.
By morning, we know we won’t go to Mason, after all. Folks tell Penberthy that the soldiers took the man who had the stole army horse to Fort McKavett, and there he still is, but he ain’t even well enough to hang.
Penberthy fixes us a ride with a mail supply wagon bound on to the fort, just twenty miles south and west from Menardville. Our freight boss parts with us kindly and is good to his promises. He gives my wages and don’t even hold out money for my bail in Fort Worth. He tells us to be mindful of what sort of men we get ourselves in with. “There’s many a youngster succumbs to the promises of riches and fast living. Set the pay money deep in your pocket.” He’s hired Gus McKlatchy for another trip, so this is where we part ways.
We have our goodbyes with the crew. The one to Gus is hardest. He’s been a friend to me. A real, true friend.
“I’d come on with you,” he says before our wagon rolls out. “I’d like to see me a fort. Maybe even sign up and do some scoutin’ for the army. But I’m bound to get me a horse and go to where all them wild cattle are just waitin’ to be caught. One more trip back to Old Fort Worth, and I’ll have enough to be well mounted and start making my fortune, gathering up a herd of my own.”
“You watch out for yourself,” I say, and he just grins and waves me off and says McKlatchys always land square footed. Our wagon rolls forward, and the load shifts under us. Juneau Jane grabs on to me, and I hang on to the ropes with one hand and to Missy with the other. “Gus McKlatchy, you watch out,” I holler as the wagon rattles off, bound for Fort McKavett.
He pats the old sidearm in his belt and gives a grin that’s all freckles and horse teeth. Then he cups his hands round his mouth and yells after me, “I hope you find your people, Hannibal Gossett!”
It’s the last thing I hear before the town fades from sight and the San Saba River valley swallows us whole.
CHAPTER 24
BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987
It’s Saturday night, and I’m worried, though I’m determined not to show it. We’ve been trying to have a dress rehearsal of our Underground project all week, but the weather has been working against us. Rain and more rain. Augustine, Louisiana, is like a bath sponge after the tub drains. The rain has finally stopped, but the cemetery is wet, the city park is puddled under, my yard is a swamp, the orchard behind my house is covered in ankle-deep mud. Yet, we have to do something. Our last couple weeks before Halloween weekend—and the Underground project—are rapidly ticking away. The school’s agriculture department is hosting a Halloween party and haunted house fundraiser in the school’s shop barn that same weekend, and they’ve already put their flyers out. If we want to compete, we have to start advertising.
Before we do that, I need proof that we’re actually going to pull off the performance of this project. So far, the kids are all over the map with it. Some are ready. Some are struggling. Some keep changing their minds about whether they want to participate in the performance portion. It doesn’t help that many of them get little encouragement or assistance at home and have no money for costumes or materials.
I’m losing hope, wondering if we should shift to doing written reports or presentations in class. Something more manageable. No living history pageant in the graveyard. No advertising. No community involvement. No risk of humiliation or crushing public disappointment for the ones who really have tried hard.
I’ve commandeered the old football field for our attempt at a dress rehearsal. It’s on fairly high ground, and I see townie kids playing games of tag and sandlot ball here fairly often, so I figure it’s up for grabs.
In the sunset glow, we’ve positioned the Bug and a few other rattletrap student cars so we can turn on headlights for illumination. I have no keys to the stadium lights that hang bent and broken above the old concrete bleachers, and they probably don’t work anyway. A couple of lopsided streetlamps blink overhead, and that’s it. I’ve spent the last of a small historical society grant to equip the kids with dollar store lanterns that look surprisingly like the real thing. They house cheap little tea candles, but even getting those to stay lit has turned out to be a challenge.
Someone thought a string of Black Cat firecrackers would be a great addition to tonight’s fun. Ten levels of chaos broke out when they started popping. Kids ran everywhere, screamed, laughed, tackled one another. The cardboard mock tombstones we’ve worked on this week have been inadvertently trampled. Some of them were really nice. A few kids even went to the graveyard and made charcoal rubbings of the actual monuments they based their reports on.
Our new lanterns now twinkle cheerfully in the muck, half of them kicked upside down and sideways, victims of the fireworks scramble.
This is all too far out of the norm for them, the voice in my head says. It’s more than they can handle.
If they can’t complete a rehearsal, then any kind of a public performance is a no go. It’s partly my fault. I never anticipated how much the group dynamic would change with all my classes, multiple age groups, and even little brothers and sisters and cousins gathered together to reenact their chosen characters.