The three men eventually caught up with those they had left behind and they began their long trek to the nearest station, this time Fort Bridger, defeated, having failed in their efforts. It was not a feeling that my great-grandfather wanted to experience again.
Chapter Three
Separation
I was fifteen years old and no different to any other boy of that age in that I was almost impossible to live with. My relationship with Isaac had developed to the point where we lived together peacefully without ever really speaking to each other. Neither of us made any demands on the other; I silently agreed to listen to his stories as we sat around the dinner table – Bill Cody being the only topic through which he felt he could relate to me; in those tales, he stressed, lay the foundations for my own life, for the secrets of honour and success in the world. Other than that, we kept a cold distance from each other. We were polite whenever we spoke, but never eager to be left in the same room together for any length of time. I had grown my hair long and it curled over my collar, the blond strands refusing to stretch down my back in the fashion I wanted. I did it partly to annoy my father, who scowled whenever young people appeared on the television blurring the lines between the traditional male and female identities. Isaac, an old-timer all the way, liked to know who was who and what was what.
By 1985, Isaac had retired, closing down his business and taking instead to a few regular haunts which defined his movements throughout the day: the armchair in front of the television, the local pub, a park where he would sit for hours and scowl at passers-by. He was sixty-seven by then and I noticed that his body was closing in on itself, making him seem smaller and more compressed than the giant I had seen him as when I was younger. We passed each other that summer – I on the way up, he on the way down – as I rose towards six feet in height and my body filled out and grew more muscular. I wore white T-shirts and tight blue jeans and made a point of never smiling. I acquired a girlfriend named Agnes, an ugly name but a prize catch nonetheless. Relations between father and son became purely civilised.
The one concession I made to boyhood was the continuation of my paper round, which I had been doing since the age of ten. Although it seemed slightly contradictory to my friends Adam and Justin when taken in the context of my new teenage delinquent era, I didn’t care what others thought and still quite enjoyed the routine. It was an early start for me – I rose at six o’clock every morning – and my route covered about six miles per day, which helped to keep me fit. I liked the feeling of the mounds of papers in my basket growing lighter and lighter as the sun came up, my bike becoming easier to push as the last of the news got delivered in the area closest to my own house. The streets were generally quiet at that time of the day; it was pleasant to be able to cycle along the main road where at other times of the day one took one’s life in one’s hands, and I liked to veer from side to side, cycling on the wrong side of the road, courting danger, feeling free, letting go of the handlebars and flying down the hills. So when my friends teased me about my childish job, I simply shrugged and carried on, oblivious to their taunts. I was a paperboy and proud of it. And unlike most of them, I had some money in my pocket.
Agnes Cliff was in the same year in school as me and was generally considered to be beautiful but terrifying. She had long blonde hair which, unlike mine, continued straight down her back and she wore dark-black mascara around her eyes. She chewed gum incessantly, even when we kissed, and had that rarest of teenage luxuries: her own car. (Wealthy family.) At sixteen she was about four months older than me, but those four months were all I needed to feel that I was finally learning from an experienced woman. She didn’t talk about her feelings – she claimed that she had none – and was content to stand on corners and be stared at, frown at strangers, and sit in the park, kissing me. None of which I had any issue with. She knew that she was beautiful and had barely to make any effort with her appearance to maintain it. She pretended that she resented the attentions of men who would stare at her when she entered a room or walked down a road, but she did nothing to discourage them and probably enjoyed the power it gave her.
Isaac took exception to her at first, such a novelty was a young girl to our small company of men. I didn’t talk about her at home but he often mentioned having seen us in the park together, or walking through the town, although he had never come over to introduce himself. She only came around to our house once but it was a troublesome visit. It was shortly after Christmas and we were alone in the living room, Agnes lying on the sofa, me sitting in an armchair, the fire lit, steaming mugs of coffee in our hands. It was mid-afternoon and we were watching daytime television, staring at the box and saying little to each other, having decided that school was simply not acceptable for the day. Eventually Isaac came in and was taken by surprise by her presence. Indeed, he looked at her as if she was something I had dragged in from the streets.
‘Why aren’t you in school?’ he asked me and I shrugged, not bothering to turn around to look at him. I may have granted him an obligatory grunt. ‘You’ll learn nothing and you’ll make nothing of yourself if you don’t go to school,’ he informed me but I could tell from his voice that he was merely going through the motions. He wasn’t bothered whether I was in school or not any more. He never believed that the lessons I needed to learn could come from a classroom. He sat down in his armchair and looked in the direction of the television also, squinting at it as if he had never seen anything like it before. He had still not acknowledged Agnes but she seemed equally oblivious to his presence. ‘Get me a glass, William, will you?’ he asked politely, affecting a slightly more refined voice, and somehow I felt unable to tell him to get it himself, as I often might. I sighed and went into the kitchen, returning with a small whisky shot-glass, the same one which was virtually an extension of his own hand. I had naturally assumed that this was the type of glass he wanted.
The bottle was already standing on the table and Isaac took the top off carefully. I watched him as he took in the quick rush of scent from the bottle, his eyes lighting up as he poured the liquid into the glass, the sense of calming relief that even the anticipation of the drink could give him. Sitting back he put it to his lips before pausing and I looked in the same direction that he was looking. Agnes had turned her head and was watching him carefully.
‘Isaac … this is … Agnes,’ I said casually, waving a hand in her general direction, as if I wasn’t too sure either who she was and was even less bothered than he. It was important to appear casual; at fifteen years old, anything stronger might have indicated that I had actual feelings.
‘You’re staring at me, Agnes,’ said Isaac and there was a twinkle in his voice as he spoke.
‘It’s a little early to be drinking, isn’t it?’ she asked him in a steady voice. I flinched, wondering how he would respond to this, and not a little surprised that she would make such a rude comment to a perfect stranger in his own house. I barely gave much thought to his drinking myself any more for even though he drank a lot and regularly, he was not an alcoholic. I always had the feeling that if he had to stop drinking, then he could, quite easily. But at that time there was no particular reason why he should. So he simply continued.
‘Not really,’ Isaac replied eventually. ‘Some men say they wait until the sun rises over the yard-arm. Me, I’ve always said that when school is out, then it’s time enough for a drink.’ He paused for effect. ‘And school is clearly out.’
‘Well it’s disgusting, drinking at this time of the day,’ she said. She turned and looked at the television again and I slowly rotated my head to look at Isaac, who was looking at me now with a bemused smile on his face. I turned away, unwilling to catch his eye.
‘I enjoy a drink,’ Isaac said, not in the least defensively.
‘So do I, but not at two in the afternoon,’ said Agnes.
‘Surely you’re too young to drink?’ he asked her and she sighed in exasperation. There was a long pause when no one said anything. I tried to
concentrate on the television and wondered how soon I could break the silence by standing up and announcing that we were going out. We hadn’t planned on leaving the house though until after four, when school would be out anyway. It was unsafe to visit the town centre or wander the streets aimlessly while playing truant; you never knew who you might bump into. I had been under the impression that Isaac would be on scowling duty in the park until four so thought we would be safe inside for another couple of hours yet. ‘Would you like a drink, Agnes?’ he asked eventually in a friendly tone of voice. ‘Is that what you’re saying? That you’d like to join me in a dram?’
She shrugged. ‘Nothing else to do,’ she said, as if she was doing him a big favour, and I stared at her in surprise. The last thing I wanted was for my father and my girlfriend to begin a drinking session. Who knew where something like that could lead?
‘Maybe we should go,’ I suggested. ‘Do that … thing.’
‘What thing?’ asked Agnes irritably. ‘There is no “thing”.’
‘Fetch Agnes a glass, William,’ said Isaac, unscrewing the bottle again, never once taking his eyes off her. ‘There’s a good lad.’ I didn’t move and pursed my lips together in irritation. ‘A glass, William,’ repeated Isaac and this time Agnes gave me a look which said Now! and so I got up and did as I was told.
‘One drink,’ I said to her as I put the glass down, acting as if I had some control over her actions, somehow wanting Isaac to believe that I was in charge of this situation. ‘Then we have to go.’
‘To do the “thing”, I know,’ said Agnes sarcastically. ‘Don’t worry. The “thing” will wait for us.’ She made inverted comma signs in the air with her fingers every time she uttered the word and looked at me as if she wondered what on earth she was doing with me in the first place.
They drank a whisky together and then they drank another. Agnes didn’t flinch as she tasted it; I had only tried it once or twice but had not as yet grown accustomed to the taste. They carried on talking and seemed to be getting on fine but when Isaac opened the bottle to pour her third and his fourth she placed her hand across the top of her glass.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘You’ll have another,’ he urged, just beginning to enjoy himself.
‘I’ve had enough,’ she repeated quietly and pushed the glass away, returning to look at the television as if their friendliness had never even taken place. I turned to glance at Isaac who looked crestfallen; it wasn’t every day that a pretty girl wanted to sit and knock back whiskies with him. The fact that she appeared to know when she had had enough irritated him.
‘Don’t be such a girl,’ he said, but the pause between her line and his had been too long; the regular run of conversation had already ended and his comeback seemed needy and slightly pathetic, not to mention embarrassingly silly.
‘I am a girl,’ she pointed out without looking at him. A tense silence ensued and I excused myself for a moment, walking upstairs to use the bathroom. I threw some water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror as I dried it, racking my brain for a place we could go in order to get out of the house but also avoid being caught by any authority figures. I spent a little longer upstairs than necessary and when I went back into the living room, Agnes was standing up and brushing her hands down her skirt to straighten out the creases. It stopped just above her knees and was a point of controversy between her and the school, although neither I nor my classmates had any problems with it. ‘Come on, William,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s go.’ Isaac was sitting back in his seat, nursing his whisky, and didn’t even look at me. The atmosphere seemed strained but I thought nothing of it at the time.
‘Right,’ I said, reaching for my jacket, pleased to be leaving but feeling as if I could not look at Isaac’s face for fear of feeling unkind somehow. He wasn’t looking at me, he was pouring another drink, his eyes half closed, his body rigid. I opened my mouth to say something conciliatory, but before the words could come, Agnes grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, shaking free of her grasp but Isaac wouldn’t look at me.
‘It was just the drink, that was all,’ he muttered quietly and at the time, I assumed he was talking to me.
George Chrisman was self-conscious about the red burn mark which covered a good portion of his left cheek, a design which resembled a map of Central America from the wide northern points of Texas and New Mexico to the thin islet of the Panama Canal, where it grew narrow before exploding forth once again into Colombia and Venezuela. The mark was the result of an accident he had had when he was in his teens. While he dozed at the kitchen table, his mother walked past with a pan of bubbling lard and tripped on the wood carving which her youngest son, Denny, had left at the side of the table earlier in the day. As she fell, the pan flew into the air, George woke with a start but not soon enough to escape a shower of boiling grease which disfigured his otherwise good looks for ever. Previously a personable, cheerful character, he took the opportunity then to harden himself and became known as something of a brute and a violent fellow, particularly if anyone was foolish enough to stare too long at the signs of his disfigurement.
Now, at the age of thirty-two, and controlling a ranch in Julesberg, he was at the top of the town hierarchy, a justice of the peace, a non-practising minister, and one of the most important agents for the Pony Express line in the west. His wife Sarah had borne him six children in as many years, six daughters, one of whom would eventually murder him on the eve of her own wedding after he withdrew consent for her to be joined with a man he had originally considered to be her social inferior – he was a Baptist – a point upon which he would relent before changing his mind once again while his daughter was enduring her final dress fitting on the upper storey of the ranch, an hour before she came up behind him as he slept by the fire and slit his throat noiselessly from ear to ear.
On the morning my great-grandfather met George Chrisman for the first time, he was recovering from a hangover, having celebrated long and hard into the night the birth, only hours earlier, of this same daughter. His mood therefore was torn between happiness at being made a father again and misery at the level of pounding which was going on within his head, not to mention the slow churning of his breakfast within his stomach. He was not in the mood for conversation. A few days earlier he had hung a sign on the porch of his office inviting applicants for a position with the Pony Express Company of America. ‘Skinny, expert riders willing to risk death daily,’ said the sign. ‘Apply within.’ He had received no applicants so far, which was unfortunate as he wanted to fill the position as soon as possible.
Bill arrived in Julesberg with a carefree attitude, a sixteen-year-old boy who looked no more than thirteen, with a thin, taut body and curly blond hair. He had come from Pike’s Peak, where he had been prospecting unsuccessfully for gold. It was one of those rare moments in my great-grandfather’s life when he felt unsure of who he was or where he was going. He had left Pike’s Peak with the intention of returning to Fort Leavenworth but the combination of a leaky raft and a lack of a sense of purpose found him wandering instead into Julesberg on that hot summer’s morning, looking for something to do, hoping for adventure. His white cotton shirt, which he had been wearing for four days, was sticking to his chest with perspiration and he hoped to find a saloon that might serve him a cold glass of iced water before deciding what to do next. As he stood in the centre of the town, taking his hat off his head to wipe his brow, he saw the sign hanging on George Chrisman’s window and, never one to miss an opportunity, immediately knew where his next stop should be.
The interview was brief and to the point. Chrisman looked at him with distaste as he sat down before him and sniffed the air without subtlety, urging the boy to go straight to a bathhouse in the future before seeking employment with Christian men.
‘I only just this minute arrived in … in town,’ said Bill defensively, unsure of exactly where
he was and unwilling to pluck a random name from the air in case he was wrong and he gave offence.
‘Julesberg,’ said Chrisman irritably, pointing out the window towards a sign which gave the name of the town and its population (1,439) quite clearly. ‘Have the goodness to discover where you are too.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Bill, maintaining his usual level of politeness but unsure for how long he could do so. He was not quite the pliant, respectful fellow he had been a couple of years earlier, having seen a little more of the world, and of men, since then. ‘An honest mistake. I’ve been travelling for days now. Liked the look of this town the minute I walked into it though.’
‘Did you indeed?’ muttered the older man, suspicious of new people, particularly the young. ‘Not a Baptist, are you?’
‘No, sir,’ said Bill, surprised to be asked such a question.
‘And where you been before now then? Who are your people? Will I know them?’
‘Doubt it,’ he replied. ‘They’re the Codys. Late of Wyoming. Now of Iowa. My father’s Isaac Cody. Maybe you’ve heard of him?’
‘Can’t say as I have,’ said Chrisman. ‘Knew an Isaac Delaitre once. You anything to him?’
Bill blinked and his mouth sat open while he wondered how to answer that. He stared at the burn mark on the cheek of the fellow opposite him and had to will himself to take his eyes away from it. Chrisman flinched, aware that Bill was staring at the deformity, and his hand instinctively went to his cheek to cover the mark for a moment. ‘No, sir. Never had the pleasure,’ said Bill then quickly. ‘I’m sure he was a good man though.’
‘Ha!’ said Chrisman. ‘I was sure he was too. Until he stole a hundred dollars from my office and disappeared off on a horse belonging to Ben Kendall over there.’ His wagging finger indicated a group of about twenty similar-looking men standing talking outside the general store; Bill had no idea which man his potential employer was identifying. ‘You tell me you’re related to Isaac Delaitre and I’ll see you tell me where he is or you’ll hang for it, so help me.’