Oak
The oak tree probably doesn’t need me at all; it’s been there for generations. But it’s alone on this plateau, and it’s special. I’ve watered it every few days, laboring under this arid sun with a sloshing bucket in my hands. Today’s the last day. Sam Conrad’s come back to Rainbow Gulch, and Sam Conrad needs to die.
I straighten up and wince. My back. Have to ignore it.
Usually, it takes me about half an hour to wind my way back down the mule trail, buckets clunking, back into the ranch house that sags against this rock wall. Usually, too, I disappear inside and start drinking. I drink until sunset, then emerge when the next day’s sun is high to start whatever work I have. I haven’t always done this, but I have been lately.
Today, though, I come back outside without taking a drink. I drag the heavy yoke across the yard toward the barn where my two oxen wait, chewing their thoughts. I talk them softly outside into the noon sun. My son taught me how to speak to them; it had never occurred to me to say anything to animals, except to yell at them, but I envy Ash’s quiet wisdom. I was surprised to find out how receptive my oxen are; Ash had laughed at me.
Ash had grown to a fine young man. I’d been hoping he could find some real opportunities, something better than this lonely ranch and these stone-infested crops. Maybe something in the bigger cities, maybe head west.
The oxen wait while I gather up the wagon behind them. Today’s a traveling day, not a plowing day. I can see their curious tails swishing when I go back inside the house, emerging with rolls of clothing, some boxes and the Winchester. I stand there for a few moments, clicking rounds into it.
The road to Rainbow Gulch takes about two hours, and I take it easy. I want the oxen fresh, since I’ll be selling them. The sun is hot, but not vengeful like it can be. I wish for a moment that my bottle was with me, but I’ve left it behind on purpose.
The wagon slams into a rut, and my back complains. I don’t regret my oak-watering labors of this morning, though. When both buckets are empty, I can stand atop that plateau and survey my land for miles around. Under that oak is Ash’s favorite place, a place of coolness and peace. I’d often find him gazing at distant red mountains. I’d be furious since I’d have to labor up that trail looking for him, but Ash’s quick smile always disarmed me. Hell, I’d usually end up sitting down next to him, pointing out distant dust clouds. I miss those times. I’ve never carried anything heavy up the mule trail, except once.
When Ash told me he wanted to go work in Rainbow Gulch I’d just nodded. It wasn’t the best place to be—I’d rather Ash go somewhere farther, maybe to Phoenix—but it was a start, right? Ash has always been good with animals, so I wasn’t surprised when he went to work at the stables. He used to come back every few weeks to give me some money and tell me everything that went on. He didn’t approve of Mr. Rush, and neither did I; I’d listen to him tell me how crooked the man was. Rush owns most of Rainbow Gulch, and employs men like Clyde Best and John Chandler and Sam Conrad to pretend there’s some law. I would nod as Ash clenched his fists in anger; Chandler, Best and Conrad are bad men.
Ash’s sense of justice got the better of him one day. He knocked Sam Conrad to the ground. I’d come as soon as I heard, but by that time Conrad had gone.
The oxen bring less than a hundred dollars, not worth their strength, but I take it anyway and throw in the heavy yoke. The deed to the house brings in a little more. I talk to people: the the balding man at the bank, to Alfred at the general store, to Miss Bashford at the school. I find out that Sam Conrad is spending his time at the Melody Hall, waiting for orders from Mr. Rush.
I put my affairs in order, then my head and heart.
I walk across the dust toward the Melody Hall. The saloon doors swing with a creak.
Sam Conrad’s back is to me, a golden opportunity, but I don’t take it. Ash has made me into something resembling a good man, so I stand in the doorway and call Conrad’s name. The shadow of my Winchester stretches across the wooden boards.
Conrad turns, lays his cards down on the table and places a dollar coin on them. A toothpick spirals between his lips. He is all confidence.
”Is there something you want, maybe?” he asks.
”You shot my son. Ash.”
“That skinny kid? I don’t remember anything like that,” he says around his toothpick. He pretends he doesn’t remember. “You’d best speak to Mister Rush about that. I’m only just in town.”
”I’m speaking to you. It was a month ago.”
”And I’m speaking to you. You’d best take that rifle and go on back home, before something bad happens to you,” says Sam Conrad, and he rises to his feet, hands near his belt.
”It’s already happened,” I said. I yank the lever down on the Winchester and snap it up, pulling the trigger in almost the same motion. His hands are a blur, and I don’t hear the roar of powder, but he pitches backward in a cloud of smoke and cards.
It’s done.
Then I look down at myself, at the red slowly spreading across my shirt. I am fascinated, and no longer tormented. The Winchester drops on the wooden floor, and I drop next to it, gazing up at the ceiling. My thoughts drift to the lone oak. I’m glad I’d kept it watered, and just as glad it probably doesn’t need me to. It has to stay, and give shade to that spot forever, keeping a small place of coolness and peace over Ash’s headstone.
