Chapter 4 – Shapes in the Dust...
Gabe Henderson appreciated a good vein of work. He was thankful for the position Randolph Harlington's trust afforded him. Gabe Henderson had known more lucrative salaries as a gunfighter. His gun and his luck had earned very rich bounties.
His employment with Randolph Harlington, however, remained steady work that seldom taxed his prowess with his pistols. No matter the bluff he might show in the street, Gabe realized that the gunfighters who lived the longest were those who recognized when pistols were best left in their holsters. The killing of a man never grew easy for Gabe Henderson. Regardless of the cold face he was required to maintain, Gabe had not yet numbed to the reaping of life.
He had killed for Randolph Harlington. He doubted anyone would question that he had done so when he had dropped that idiot Turner boy into the dust. Gabe Henderson had killed for another, and Gabe Henderson would make sure he was rewarded with a proper kind of payment.
And Gabe Henderson had his eye on a horse.
Randolph Harlington's habit for poker and drink encouraged Dry Acre's wealthiest citizen to sleep late into the day. Thus mornings were slow for Gabe Henderson, hired to escort and protect Mr. Harlington about the county. During those slow mornings, Gabe developed the habit of watching Harlington's men work horses. He knew how to ride, for violence often chased a gunfighter out of town. He knew how to maintain a horse, for a gunfighter's life could be lost or saved depending upon how quickly a horse was ready to ride. Yet Gabe Henderson knew little of training horses. He regretted whenever he was dependent on another man's skills, for it was difficult for a gunfighter to develop trusted relations with a town barber, butcher or baker. Gabe considered it wise to learn whatever tricks the gunfighter's roaming life might present him. He thought the more he learned, the less he would need to draw those pistols that he holstered on his hips.
He had watched Harlington's men attempt to break a spirited bronco the last couple of weeks, a powerful horse the gunfighter admired, a horse Gabe thought he might claim from the ranch due to the influence his pistols brought from Randolph Harlington. Each of Harlington's handlers had attempted to break the horse. None thus far succeeded in even mounting the animal, who charged at the handlers who entered the corral, who bit at whatever arms and hands reached out to him. Randolph Harlington's bunkhouse filled with mending bones. The bronco's spirit promised a fine horse, but that spirit proved too much for those who thought they might break it.
Gabe Henderson noticed that only Wilson Doyle appeared to make any progress with the animal. Wilson displayed a patience none of the other handlers appeared to possess. While other handlers attempted to assert their will over the creature, hurrying towards the horse and trying to leap upon its back, Wilson Doyle encouraged the horse to establish its own terms. Wilson could walk beside the horse without being bitten or kicked. He could stroke the bronco's mane though the horse would romp away from anyone else who might have tried to touch him. Gabe Henderson watched, spellbound, that morning as the horse awarded Wilson's patience by allowing the handler to toss a light saddle over his back. Gabe thought Wilson shared a silent language with the animal. Gabe envied such skill. He could not deny feeling jealous that Wilson Doyle knew the luxury to slowly, carefully, develop such talent. A gunfighter knew no such luxury. A gunfighter had to train his finger and aim in a flash, or instantly pay for his inadequacies in the grave.
Gabe Henderson hoped Wilson Doyle tamed that bronco, and he hoped Wilson Doyle would not offer a fight when he was told to give that creature to a gunfighter.
Wilson Doyle was walking a circle next to the bronco as that ugly, albino girl Maggie Turner crawled beneath the fence surrounding Harlington's horse stalls. The bronco snorted and reared at the sight of the contorted girl who stomped his direction with her footfalls kicking dust into the air, and Wilson Doyle was forced to duck beneath a descending hoof. The handlers standing around the corral glared at the girl as her presence unsettled not only the bronco, but the surrounding horses as well. Wilson calmed the bronco enough to retreat from the corral without suffering a serious hurt and hurried to Maggie Turner.
“Show some care, Maggie,” Wilson gripped Maggie's elbow and hustled her away from the men squinting distrust her direction. “You know how you spook the horses. I was lucky I didn't get my skull cracked open.”
Maggie glared at Wilson. She would do much for the man. His calm gaze had never flinched at the sight of her. Maggie was under no illusion that such a cool expression communicated much feeling for her, but a calm expression was always better than the disgusted faces most everyone else showed her.
“You asked for me,” Maggie grumbled. “And I know my place. I know old man Harlington will look the other way as long as I stay in the stalls with the animals. I know he will look the other way as long as I soothe Emma's trembling.”
Wilson sighed. “Follow me then. You've already attracted plenty enough attention.”
Maggie stomped behind Wilson into the Harlington stalls. The horses brayed and snorted as Maggie entered the stall's shade. The animals circled and paced in their confines. Maggie paid no attention to the response. Animals always shunned her. She did not expect those simple creatures to respond any differently because she called on sweet Emma Harlington.
“I'll get Emma right away,” Wilson proffered Maggie a stool.
Maggie declined the stool and folded onto the dusty ground. “Be quick. I don't feel any more comfortable around animals than they feel around me.”
The morning proved very interesting to Gabe Henderson, who had intently watched as Wilson took Maggie into the stalls, who watched as Wilson hurried to the back door to the Harlington manor. The morning's interest grew further as Emma Harlington answered Wilson's knock and followed him back to the stalls. Gabe Henderson recognized when an opportunity presented itself. A little leverage might help him barter for that bronco Wilson Doyle so patiently worked.
Emma Harlington entered the stalls and smiled upon seeing Maggie Turner seated upon the stable's dust.
“Thanks, Maggie. I know it was not easy for you to come here.”
Maggie twisted her head upwards to regard Emma. “I came right after putting another brother in the ground.”
Emma grabbed Maggie's hand and tried to pull her off the ground. Maggie grunted against the effort and instead pulled Emma upon the dust to join her.
“You're going to ruin your dress, Emma.”
Emma's green eyes watered. “You have every right to hate my father. But I'm not him, Maggie. I'm only Emma, and I need your help.”
Maggie shook her head. “I've asked for your help since I first helped sooth your tremors. I've asked for your help when I found Harry at the bottom of a well.”
Emma wrung her hands. “What would you have me do, Emma?”
“I could provide you with a poison for one of you father's cigars,” Maggie scoffed. “I don't know what you might do, Emma. But it stings to watch you go on living same as before though I lose my brothers. You could leave him, Emma. You could leave this place.”
Emma shook her head. “You know it's not that easy. I would still have seizures.”
Maggie grunted. “A person could suffer curses worse than seizures.”
Maggie's fingers traced shapes in dust. Her hands trailed through the dirt around her. A geometry of patterns and shapes formed, a web of lines furrowed in the thick layer of dust.
“The seizures grow worse?” Maggie asked while her hands continued tracing in the dirt.
Emma nodded. “They come to me more quickly than ever before.”
Maggie's fingers continued to sketch upon the ground. “You're holding too many secrets. Your soul shrouds too much for my touch to completely soothe the shaking. You're not the girl you once were when your mother asked my father if it was true that his ugly, albino daughter had an ability to heal what she touched. You're not the sweet and innocent girl you were then, Emma Harlington.”
Emma's eye
s flashed. “You're still just as ugly.”
“Oh, but I'm still pure.”
Maggie Turner did not flinch as Emma's hand flashed and slapped her. Her ugliness shielded her from any indignity she might have felt from such minor hurts. Maggie only smiled as she noticed how Dry Acre's favorite pearl quivered.
“I had no right to slap you, Maggie.” Emma sighed. “Forgive me. I have no right to call you ugly.”
Maggie snorted. “Do you think I would look pretty in one of your dresses? How do you think my figure would fill the cut?”
Maggie stood from the ground and pulled Emma to her feet.
“Stand here and don't move.”
Emma twisted around and looked upon the intricate design Maggie's fingers had drawn in the stable's dust. Shapes twisted and sliced into one another. Triangles morphed into circles. Squares and rectangles shifted their angles. Emma looked upon the geometry and trembled. The patterns traced by Maggie's hand made her mind swoon. Emma struggled to maintain her balance.
“Close your eyes, Emma.”
“What's going to happen, Maggie?”
“Don't doubt me now,” Maggie growled. “It's too late for doubt. Just close your eyes and stand still.”
Maggie stomped upon the lines she had crafted with such intricacy and care. Her clumsy feet kicked dirt over her tracing, and the dust covered what her fingers had wrought.
Emma stood as still as a stone and felt nothing. No rush of warmth electrified her body. No anguish surged through her spine. No gust of wind tickled her hair.
Yet Emma did not shake. Though her hand had a moment before began betraying those symptoms of the seizures that stole her breath, the tremors subsided as Maggie's feet erased the dirt's patterns. Emma felt her breathing calm. Her body did not revolt. Her muscles did not cramp.
“This spot will relieve your seizures,” Maggie explained. “I have written in an invisible ink. Come to this spot whenever you feel the first symptoms. Close your eyes, trust, breathe, and your body will calm. I cannot cure you of your affliction, Emma Harlington, but I can give you a little sanctuary.”
Emma nodded and sobbed.
Maggie stomped out of the stable in the direction from which she had come. Her steps again pounded dust into the air. The horses whimpered as she passed their stalls.
Emma did not move from her spot. “I am sorry about your brothers, Maggie.”
“That doesn't matter”
“At least let me give you something, Maggie.”
Emma opened a palm filled with gold dollar coins. Maggie's eyes filled with fire. Though she had never seen so much gold in one place, Maggie's instinct recoiled at the offering. The Turners were a strange kin, and gold did not feel as thrilling to their touch as it did for most.
“You think that's enough to compensate me for the loss of my brothers?” Maggie growled.
Emma stuttered. “Of course not, Maggie. But it's something. That gold could take you and your family far away from Dry Acre. That gold would be enough for horses and a wagon. I can't repay you for your brothers, Maggie, but maybe I can pay for something.”
The pleads she had made to her father to leave the vicinity of Dry Acre remained fresh on Maggie's mind. A handful of gold dollars might help her convince her father to retreat from their barren ranch before Maggie might lose another brother. And so, though she felt offended by the offer, though she felt more than a little ashamed for accepting it, Maggie took Emma's payment. She was the daughter of a bone-shaker, but Maggie doubted their was a magic more powerful than gold. For gold turned a person's soul so sour.
Ashamed and angry, Maggie left the stables with her head pointed squarely on the ground, paying no attention to the sneers Randolph Harlington's ranch hands directed upon her as she departed. The coins jingled in her hand as she stomped towards home.
Maggie Turner did not look up from the dust to notice the gunfighter who watched her stomping away from the ranch. Gabe's eyes squinted as he tried to guess what connection bound the ugly, Turner albino to lovely Emma Harlington. Gabe did not know how to train horses, but he knew ammunition when he saw it.
* * * * *