Grayfox (2 page)

“You ain't got no right to call
yourself my father no more!”

The bitter words rang over and over through my brain. I urged my horse harder and harder, as if riding faster would take them away.

But they kept coming back, echoing in my mind . . .
no right . . . no right to call yourself my father!

They'd been out of my mouth before I knew it, smashing against Pa harder and more cruelly than if I'd have actually hit him with my fist.

It was all I could do to force the tears to stay inside my eyes! A horrible knot grabbed at my stomach. How could I have said such an awful thing? But the words kept ringing through my head, like an iron gong crashing inside my skull from ear to ear. Above the pounding of hooves on the dirt, above the sounds of the wind on my face and the leather whip on the horse's rump—above it all the sound of my own voice kept yelling the cruel words at my own father.

On I rode.

I hadn't looked back yet, though my heart was sick over what I'd done.

But kids aren't usually able to calm themselves down and then go back and apologize for what they've done. And though I may have been twenty-one at the time, I was still a kid, as sure as my name was Zachary Hollister. And besides being a kid, I was full of all kinds of angry feelings toward my pa, though half my reasons for them didn't make much sense.

It was a mighty mixed-up way to feel—aching for what you've done and said . . . and guilty for hurting someone you half loved and half hated at the same time . . . and full of resentful and selfish thoughts that had got you believing all the accusations that had just
erupted out of your mouth without you planning it. That's how I felt—angry, guilty, mixed up.

But I couldn't go back. I was too proud, too hurt, too mad, all rolled into one.

I reckon that's right common among young boys who figure they're old enough to be considered men but don't figure enough folks know it yet. They're too hardheaded to admit it when they go off and do something foolish that shows how much growing up they've still got to do. And then their pride gets them all the deeper into the hole they dug themselves into.

That's sure what happened to me! Angry and selfish and not so grown-up as I wanted to be . . . but too proud to admit any of it!

I'd told my father I was leaving home to join the Pony Express. I hadn't just told him, I'd yelled it at him—said he didn't have any right to call himself my father anymore. And though I was aching and crying inside, and feeling so alone in the middle of my hurt, another part of me had meant the words.

I'm ashamed to say it now, but it's true.

So I kept right on riding. I didn't turn back. And I forced back the tears. That was another thing that showed that I was still a boy. I thought it wasn't a manly thing to cry. And I kept riding from home as fast as my horse would carry me.

That was July of 1860.

I was thirteen when we came to California.

Pa left when we were young, seven years before that, when we still lived in the East—New York State. I was seven or eight when Pa went west. Then the rest of us and Ma headed for California in a wagon train in 1852. Ma died on the way, and me and my older sister Corrie, with the help of the captain of the wagon train—Captain Dixon was his name—we got ourselves and our two younger sisters and younger brother out to California where we hooked up again with Pa. That was the five of us—Corrie and me, our sisters Emily and Becky, and little Tad. Corrie wrote about all that in her book, so I don't reckon I need to say much more about it.

After we got to California we lived with Pa at the claim he and Uncle Nick—that's our ma's brother who came west with Pa—had been mining outside the town of Miracle Springs, north of Sacramento. A couple of years later, Pa married a widow lady in town by the name of Almeda Parrish. That would have been in '54. Two years after that, our Pa became the mayor of Miracle Springs.

Maybe there's nothing wrong with all that. Nothing except that all those years, while I was growing from thirteen to sixteen and then eighteen, I didn't feel I had much of a claim on Pa's time or attention.

First, he was all tied up with the mine. Then it was Almeda and all kinds of trouble that seemed to happen to us. Becky got kidnapped once, and Pa had trouble from the past from being on the wrong side of the law a long time ago, back when he and Uncle Nick had been in the East. And after all that settled down, pretty soon he was getting himself elected mayor of Miracle Springs. Meanwhile I was growing up, and he didn't even seem to see it.

Don't get me wrong.

I ain't saying Pa actually done anything bad or mean to me. I reckon by most folks' standards he was a pretty decent pa to me, considering what he'd been through. It's just that I always felt kinda
off to the side of things. I helped him and Uncle Nick with the mining for gold, and Pa was right good to me in a lot of ways. But to me, it always seemed like he had his mind on other things.

I reckon this is one of those times, like Corrie told me, when you gotta not just tell what happened, but tell how you were feeling too. So I was feeling like I didn't matter much to anyone—that nobody, least of all Pa, had much time or need of me. And I started to think that nobody really cared.

That's how all my trouble started—thinking those kinds of things. And now I see that they were lies. I ain't sure exactly where they came from—I guess from down inside that part of me where all I cared about was myself, and you take things to mean that everybody's against you. None of that's usually true. Most of the time people are nicer inside than you give them credit for, and probably think better thoughts toward you than you realize. But I reckon we all spend a heap more time thinking about ourselves than is good for us. And when we do, we start believing things that ain't true.

You don't have to believe those little voices that speak to you from out of your self, telling you untrue things about other folks.

But I did.

I believed the lies. And like they always do, they started right away poisoning my whole feelings and attitude toward Pa. But I didn't even realize what was happening until a lot later, when Hawk helped me see things clearer.

As I got older, I suppose I got quieter toward Pa, on account of how those lies had gone all through me. It was like my whole mind was poisoned toward him and everything and everybody.

By the time I was twenty or so, I was starting to think how I wanted to leave and get away from Miracle Springs. I never told anybody, not even my sister Corrie. I knew she loved me, and I'd always talked to her before. But I never even told her the hurt and anger and frustration I was feeling inside.

I just wanted to get away from home. I figured everything would be different and I'd be happy if I was free and taking care of no one but myself.

That's when I heard they were hiring boys for the Pony Express. I wanted to go and join up right away.

I knew about the Pony Express, of course. Who in California didn't! Why, it was in the papers all through the early months of 1860 while they were getting it ready and building the stations. Then there were all kinds of celebrations that April when the first riders went out, both in San Francisco and Sacramento.

I'd loved horses and loved to ride for as long as I can remember. Little Wolf's father raised and trained horses, and Little Wolf and I had always talked about making our living with horses when we were grown. Little Wolf is an Indian, and we'd been best friends since almost right after we got to California.

But then one day the idea of
me
riding for the Pony Express hit me hard. It was while Pa and Corrie were in San Francisco at some political gathering. I met a fellow over in Marysville who said there were openings on the Express line and told me how I could get hired.

I practically jumped at the chance right then!

It would be a way to get away from Miracle. And the money they were paying riders was a lot—twenty-five dollars a week, plus your food and lodging!

I decided right then and there . . . I was gonna go!

But Pa and Almeda had other ideas.

I came home right away and told Almeda. She said I'd have to wait till Pa got home and talk it over with him. I don't know what got into me, but her words riled me, and I flared up at her. I'd never spoken so disrespectful to a woman in my life.

“When am I gonna be old enough to make up my own mind about anything?” I yelled at her. “You and Pa treat me like I'm no more'n about six!”

“Zack, I'm sorry. I just thought—”

But I was so upset I didn't even let her finish.

“Don't make no difference around here what I might think or what I might wanna do with myself!” I said back. “You all treat Corrie like she's a princess, but who cares about ol' Zack!”

I don't even remember what I said exactly, but it wasn't none too polite. I yelled and stormed some more and made poor Almeda cry. Then I turned around and left the house.

I went up in the mountains and camped alone by myself for a week or so, but that didn't resolve nothing in my mind. I was still all worked up and still determined in my own self to go ride for the Pony Express.

Finally I realized I'd have to go home eventually, even if it was just to get some of my things so I could go and take the job. So I rode down out of the hills. I knew Pa'd be back by then, and I knew it could get kinda ugly and tense between us. I wasn't planning to say nothing especially, just to get my things and go. But Pa's a headstrong man if you cross him. And after what I'd done and said, and how rude I'd been to his wife, I reckoned he'd be pretty riled when I got back.

I was sure right about that!

The minute I walked into the house, I could feel the air thick with all kinds of things nobody was saying.

I don't suppose I looked too good—all sloppy and dirty, and with five days' worth of beard. I sure wasn't smiling.

I saw Corrie first when I walked in and gave her a little nod. I couldn't help wishing Pa wasn't there right at first. But he was, and there wasn't any way to pretend he wasn't.

“Where you been, son?” he asked me.

“Out riding,” I said back.

“Where?”

“Just around.” I was nervous, wondering what he was going to say. I moved over to the stove to see if there was anything left from breakfast to eat. I was famished.

“Surprised me some to find you gone,” Pa went on. “When I'm away I expect you to look after the family.”

I didn't say anything, just picked up a piece of bread and started chewing on it.

“You don't figure you owe no responsibility to the family, is that it?”

“It's your family, not mine,” I said, half-mumbling.

“What's that you say?” asked Pa.

I repeated what I'd just said.

“What do you mean by that?” he growled back at me.

“What should you care what I do?” I said, not mumbling now but speaking out louder than I should have if I knew what was good for me. “You all got your own plans. Corrie's got her writing, and you all think she's pretty great at everything she does. And you're busy being the town's important man. There ain't nothing Almeda can't do for herself. What do any of you need me for?”

“When I'm not here, I want you keeping a watch over things, that's what,” said Pa, his voice getting more angry.

“Zack, please. I don't want—”

It was Almeda speaking now, but I cut her off.

“You don't need me, Almeda,” I said. “Don't try to pretend.”

“Zack, that's not true,” she protested. She looked straight at me, and I could see the hurt and love in her eyes. But I was too stirred up and angry toward Pa to respond to her right then. “You know that I do need—”

“Almeda,” I said, interrupting her again, “you don't have to try to make me feel good no more like you did when I was little.”

“That's no way to talk to your mother, boy!” said Pa, and now he was good and mad.

“She ain't my mother!”

“She's my wife and a woman, and that means you better learn to talk to her with respect in your voice, unless you want my belt around that hind end of yours!”

“So you still think I'm a little boy too.”

“You're still my son, and I'll whip you if I need to.”

I turned away from him and laughed. It was all I could do to save face, but there wasn't any laughter in my heart. And even hearing my own voice was awful, for the laughter had a bitter, hollow ring to it.

Pa didn't like me laughing, either.

“You find something funny in that?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, spinning around to face him again. “I'm twenty-one years old. I'm taller than you. I can ride a horse better than anyone for miles. But you still think of me like I was six years old. You don't even know what it's like for me. I got a life of my own to live, and you don't even know the kinds of things I'm thinking about. Everything's about Corrie and Almeda or your being mayor or the Mine and Freight. You got no time for me—you never had. What do you care what I do? You just expect me to be around to take care of things so you can leave whenever you want.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Pa challenged me.

“You figure out what it means,” I answered him.

“None of that matters,” he said. “You're not going to the Pony Express without my say-so. Whatever you may think, I'm still your pa. And I got a right to tell you what you can and can't do.”

I was staring straight into Pa's face as he spoke, and I hardly knew what I was saying when I blurted out the rest of what I said. I didn't know all of what was inside me until suddenly the words started pouring out. I reckon they bit deeper into Pa's heart than an angry young fellow like me could realize at the time.

“You never knew what it was like for me,” I accused him. “You never knew the times I cried myself to sleep back in New York, hoping you'd come home. I was frightened without a pa. I got teased and made fun of something awful 'cause I was little, and sometimes I came home with bruises and a black eye from trying to defend you when the other fellas said you was a low-down outlaw. I used to dream how good it would be to come home to feel the arms of a pa to hold me. I'd beg God to help us find you. But we never did, and I had to grow up alone like that. And it hurt Ma too. I'd see her crying sometimes when she didn't know I was watching. She kept on loving you and kept on praying for you—always asking God to protect you and watch over you. But I finally quit praying, because I was sick of being disappointed.”

I couldn't talk anymore for a couple of seconds. I was almost shaking from all the mixed-up things I was feeling, and I'd never talked like this to Pa in all my life. And that's when the awful words came out of my lips that I had to keep hearing over and over and living with for the next year.

“So I don't reckon you got a right to call yourself my father no more,” I said. “You may be my pa. But I figure I'm old enough to decide for myself what I want!”

Nobody else in the room knew what to do when I said that. They just all stood and stared at me in shock. Even Pa.

I knew I'd hurt him just as sure as if I'd stuck a knife into his gut. But when he finally did find his voice again, his words sounded harsh.

“However mixed up a job I done of it, I'm your pa—whether you like it or not!”

“I'm stuck here all the time with nothing but women and babies!” I shot back. “You can go off and do whatever you want, and you figure I got nothing of my own that matters?”

“You got no right to talk about your mother and sisters that way. You apologize to them, or you're gonna feel that belt like I told you!”

“Ha! Your belt ain't gonna come anywhere near my rump! And I ain't apologizing to nobody! It's true, everything I said. I told myself a long time ago I was getting out of here first chance I got. God knows I spent my muscles and blistered my hands working that mine for you all these years. You don't know how many days I sweated all day long, aching inside just for you to smile at me once and say I done a good day's work. But I might as well not even been
there, for all you ever noticed! I don't reckon you'll figure you owe me anything for it. Well, that's fine with me. But it's all over with. I met a guy, and he's got a place arranged for me in the Pony Express. And I don't care if Little Wolf has changed his mind, I'm gonna take it. It's what I been waiting for—a chance to get out of this place!”

I couldn't look at anybody after I said that. I just turned and hurried toward the door. But Pa was closer to the door than me. He blocked my way and laid one of his big hands on my shoulder.

“No you're not, son,” he said. “You ain't going nowhere without my leave. Now you get back in here, and we'll sit down and talk about it.”

“I'm not talking about nothing,” I retorted. “I've listened to all the rest of you long enough—and nobody seemed much interested in talking to me before. Now I'm going, whether you like it or not.”

“And I'm telling you you're not.”

“Too late. I signed the papers. I start my first run next week.”

“Then I'll go talk to this fella and unsign them.”

I couldn't help laughing again, not realizing how soon I would be regretting it.

“You're not leaving home, Zack! You hear me, son? You got duties to this family.”

“Is that how it was when you left Ma?” I said. “Duties to the family!” I laughed again. “You talk to me about duty to the family? Where were
you
all those years when I needed a pa? Even after we'd come all the way across the country to find you, you didn't want us. You denied you even knew us!”

It was all so cruel to say, and even then I knew it wasn't true! But I was ranting like a crazy man by now, not even knowing what I was saying. I could tell how deep I'd cut into him because Pa's grip on my shoulder loosened. He stepped back, almost like my words had been a physical blow across his face.

“Well you can talk about duty all you want,” I went on, “but I figure I've already about done as much in the way of duty as you ever did. You ran out on us, and even now you're always gone somewhere or other, but still you figure I'll do for you what you never did for me. Well, I tell you, I ain't gonna do it no more! If I go ride for the Pony Express, at least I ain't leaving a wife and five kids like you done!”

I had just wrested myself free of Pa's hand when I felt Almeda's gentle hand on my other shoulder.

“Oh, Zack,” she said, pleading with me, her eyes full of tears, “if only we could make you see how much we all—”

But I was still backing my way clear of Pa, trying to make my way to the door, and I was in no mood to be restrained further. Without even thinking about it, and without hardly hearing her words, I reached up and threw her hand off my shoulder. Then I made for the door.

But seeing me rebuke Almeda so rudely was all Pa needed to jolt him out of his stunned silence. Grabbing at Almeda's hand was the worst thing I could have done.

Pa's eyes flamed with rage. He leaped forward and hit me hard across the jaw. I staggered and fell back onto the floor.

I don't know what my face looked like, but it was hot, and I was trembling from the blow. I crawled back up to my feet.

“It ain't no secret where your loyalties lie,” I said. “Everything for the women, but you won't lift a finger unless it's
against
your own son!”

I turned again, tore open the door, and stalked off, slamming it behind me. I heard nothing more from inside the house.

My horse, Gray Thunder, was still saddled. I had my bedroll and what I needed for fire and cooking—plus the rifle Pa'd given me. So I didn't worry about food or money or the rest of my gear.

I just mounted back up and galloped away.