He takes a step through the heavy snow, foot sinking down till he's knee deep. Of course he would only know this by looking down, because he can no longer feel his feet. Could be the cold, but he reckons it's the blood loss. He's numb everywhere now.
Another step. Black rose of blood that blooms through the glittering ice crust. He has little left to lose, though he keeps going. The wind cuts through his meager coat, body wracked with convulsions. Too cold, or he is dying. Or both. Each step requires something more than he can muster; his body begs his mind to stop, but he lifts the left foot again, tries to put it in front of the right. This time he wobbles, falls back like a child planning to make snow angels. They are behind him now, but he can't get away.
There comes a sound like a gunshot, the crack ricocheting off hills and trees. Branches lose their cloak of snow as the birds launch themselves skyward, as if they themselves are shot fired from a scatter gun. Then silence folds around him. The snow falls lightly over his face, kisses from an icy lover.
He waits for death to claim him, either in the familiar shape learned from books, or in the form of these men who dry-gulched him. But there is only another rifle shot. This time when its echo fades, the sky above him fades, too.
Then the sound of a horse snorting jolts him back. Opening his eyes, he sees a man above him, face hidden by a kerchief, hat down low. Only blue eyes show, and long brown hair beneath the hat. He wears a heavy buffalo coat and holds a Winchester in his hand. He doesn't look like one of them who shot him.
But if the stranger wants to help him, it's too late. Life has ebbed out of him, left behind in the snow like so much dead weight. That thought amuses him and he almost laughs, but it makes him cough. Then he is gone.
At first Chris wonders, as he wakes, if he's dead. It's very dark, so dark in fact that he can't see anything but black. He's not warm, but not completely cold, either. He can barely feel anything, anyway. It's as though he drifts in space, weightless and alone. Then he hears a scratching sound, and what he thinks is the crackle of a fire. Odor of smoke, something dank and moldy beneath that. But it doesn't last long before he blacks out again.
When he wakes he can feel more. Pain sears through his guts. The man he saw before is nearby, squatting down, fading in and out from view. A collection of images: strong jaw, long hair, lean frame. He says something but Chris can't quite make it out. Lays a hand on Chris's chest. For some reason Chris feels it's safe now to sleep, not to black out again but to really just... sleep. He's still so cold and tired, vaguely recalling the sensation of being shot, of falling down, down, into the snow, into death. But here he is: sleeping under a stranger's hand.
Gradually he comes to and recognizes the stranger. He wants to say thank you, even though he's not certain what for, but his mouth sticks, lips so dry that they adhere together in a stinging line. The stranger tilts a tin cup to his lips and gently lifts his head, dribbling a bit of water into his mouth. Chris coughs, chokes, but the stranger tries again, speaking in a soothing voice. They sound like words he should know but he can't quite make them out. Everything is ghostly and red, outlined in the fire. For a while Chris closes his eyes and just drifts, listening to the sounds of movement. Cooking, maybe, and what sounds like wood being stacked together. Whoever is taking care of him, he appears to be in for the long haul. He tries with all his might to bring his hand to his face, but he can't. After some time of trying, he gives up, and lets go.
Time comes and goes in waves for the next few days, or what he thinks are days. He's convinced he's seen nighttime at least twice, and daylight. A body next to his like his sleeping shadow. The stranger disappears in the early part of the day, comes back a long time later. Chris thought, when he first noticed it happen, that the stranger was leaving him alone to die, but eventually he came back. The smells of meat cooking woke him up. The idea of eating food, though, makes his stomach sour. Often the man tilts his head up, gives him more water that tastes of tin. He shivers violently sometimes, knowing he has the fever, unable to tell the stranger. Not that anything can be done about it. Gut shot, he is unlikely to live. These were the odds he knew about when he came out here, but it is still hard to admit that he was bushwhacked like a greenhorn up here in the mountains. Early, unexpected snowfall brings people to fright and he should have known to be more careful when he left town.
At one point he feels almost lucid, but he turns to say something to the man, who isn't there. A glance around the area reveals they are in a mine entry, fallen timbers scattered this way and that, an ore car nearby. The stranger has built a fire underneath a ventilation hole, and they are about thirty feet inside the main entrance. No longer a working mine, clearly, judging from the cans scattered around, the empty bottles. It smells like nothing has moved in here for a long time except varmints.
When he finds the capacity to think about it, he can't begin to understand why the stranger has helped him. They must have traveled at least a little distance to reach this place; wherever he was going in the early snow, he may no longer be able to reach it. He's just as trapped here now as Chris is, both for the same reason -- him, letting himself be shot. It's not as though Good Samaritans don't exist here in the west, but they are harder to find these days. And why would this man risk so much for someone he doesn't know, who could have been an outlaw himself? There is nothing to tell this stranger that Chris was the wronged party and not the one doing the wrong, getting his just rewards.
He lets himself fall in and out, floating on a sea of pain, so familiar to him now. Sometimes he thinks he sees his wife and child as they wave to him; other times he could swear he sees his family back home, even his old friend Buck. But he understands eventually that it's his imagination, his perishing body making his mind spin tall tales.
There is music for a time, tuneless wandering on a harmonica. More smells of smoke and meat, coffee. A pot with steam is over the fire. He can smell the bear grease, the fur that covers him. Chris knows he should be warm under all these skins but still he shivers, the wound tearing apart as spasms rock his body. The stranger is there each time, though, smoothing a hand over his fiery forehead, murmuring soft words.
In and out. Then there's the stranger's hand on his forehead. "Fever's down some." He settles down next to Chris, resting on his haunches. "Feeling any better?" Chris nods, licks his lips, and tries a few words.
"Getting there."
The man smiles warmly, his eyes alight. "You're gonna be fine. On the down side of things now, I reckon."
It takes a lot of his strength to try more words, but he needs to. "You saved my life."
"Odds hardly seemed fair."
So he is modest, too. For some reason that amuses Chris, and he can feel the ghost of a smile on his face. The stranger has assumed he was the wronged party, that he wasn't deserving of killing, and that makes Chris like him. Whatever else he is, the man has a good heart.
"Think you can take a little broth? Got a rabbit here already cooked and boiled down some liquid, and just brought in a deer. Ain't dressed it yet, but I'll do that once you're done. You're going to need more than just a little old bunny once we get you to eating again."
"You don't even know me."
The man shakes his head. "Ain't hard to tell the difference between folks stealing a horse out from under a fella and the fella being stole from."
Chris wants to point out the fallacy of that argument but he's so tired he can't, nor can he bring his hand out from under the furs piled on top of him. They are newer pelts, so the man must have been on the way to trade them when he came upon the scene. The man brings some broth to his mouth, holds it there for him. Chris sips it in; he has never felt so hungry in his life, so he slurps as much as he can get. Sensing that he is exhausted, the stranger wipes his fingers off on his pants leg, pulls the fur up higher to Chris's chin, and fades into the darkness.
He has a savior now, nameless, but an angel guardian nonetheless.
Within a few days he has progressed to taking small bites of meat, though he is still so weak that he can barely lift anything to his own mouth. That doesn't stop Chris from trying, though, and between the two of them they usually get whatever he tries to eat inside with the least amount of mess.
He stays awake longer now. Once he's finished eating, the stranger puts his saddle under Chris's shoulders, and he half-sits for the first time in far too long. It hurts a lot and makes his head spin, but it's wonderful to feel as if he might be on the way to recovery, something he could not have believed would happen.
"Been too long we've holed up here," the man says, putting away some of the gear. "Horses are down to forage outside the entrance and there ain't too much of that left without me clearing some of this snow. I think I can get back up to the town, but it means I'm gonna be away a few days. You think you can handle that?"
"You've put me in good shape. I imagine I'll be okay."
"I'll leave you the hogleg. Between that and your own guns, you should be fine. I got me the yellow boy."
"You're a damn good shot, to get each of them on one try, so far away. You army?"
"Not a chance. Just been around some, made a living this way for a while." He nods in the direction of Chris's Colts. "Looks like you do, too."
For some reason this shames him. Whatever living the stranger has made, it was probably one of necessity; as a hired shootist, Chris has no such claims to honor.
The man makes a nervous motion with his hands. "Aw, not my place to go judging you. Didn't mean it that way."
Chris nods. He decides that after all this time, it's worth taking a chance. It's very unlikely that the man will give him his real name; few out here do and Chris hardly feels ready to give his own away. But he wants something to call this person who has rescued him, even if it's just where he comes from, the way "names" so often are. "What do they call you? I'm Christian." His given name is good enough for now, even though no one has called him that since his mother passed on.
The man watches him a while, sizing up Chris's own intentions and weighing just what kind of identity he is willing to provide. "Cal."
For Calvin, Chris assumes. A given name, or last? Chris won't ask; this is enough for the time being.
"Thank you." He reaches out a hand and offers it to Cal, who takes it. Not a handshake exactly, more a grasping of his hand and wrist. Something solid, friendly. Worthy, he thinks.
"How did you come to be dry-gulched like that, if you don't mind me asking? Were you up to the town? Only, I reckon I ought to know if I'm headed back that way. Could be someone else decides to try following."
"That's true." He pauses, wipes his mouth, arm trembling from the effort of all this. "Been helping a man buy out some property round here. Plans to take up what ain't been mined already, and that ain't a popular notion. Not particularly well-liked for the mines he does run already."
Cal laughed. "No, I reckon not. Lot of homesteads up here. Not going to want to give that up even for someone offering that kind of money. Some places are happy to have that kind of work, others seem to want something different."
"I wasn't gonna stick around long enough to find out whether he was buying or taking. Reckon the three who jumped me must have been up there, moving through like folks do, looking for something to have of their own. They'd have figured I got paid off before I took my leave." Chris smiled. "Hired his own hands, permanent-like."
"They didn't wait too long to jump you."
"Snow must have panicked them."
"Does that. Seen a few early snows like this, people get all worked up. Then a few weeks later it's all melted and there's plenty of time to get set up for winter."
"You don't look to me like you've seen that many winters at all." He smiles, but it's true -- Cal is clearly a young man, so very much younger than him.
But he just laughs. "Why, seen my share, I expect." He moves over toward Chris, slips an arm underneath his shoulders, and pulls the saddle out, settling Chris's head gently on a folded up blanket. This is the thing that surprises Chris each day -- how tenderly he treats him, and Chris doesn't believe that Cal's life calls for much tenderness. "We'll get a decent night's sleep, then I'll move on out in the morning." He smoothes the hair from Chris's forehead, looks questioningly at Chris to make sure he's all right, before he moves away and puts his own bed together.
Chris turns on his side and watches Cal settle in to sleep, pulling his own blanket up around his shoulders. He lies at a right angle to Chris, his head not but a few inches away. "Mighty generous of you to put your trust in me to take the horses. Could be I never come back with yours."
"I have faith you'll want to at least get this gun back. It looks well-loved."
"No competition for that black of your'n."
"I'll stake a claim you come back, anyway."
Cal turns his head up and looks at Chris, but his eyes are closing fast and he only sees him through the slits of his eyes. There might be a smile on his face, it's hard to tell. But he draws an arm up to take Chris's hand that rests outside the fur. Squeezing his fingers, he says, "Won't hardly notice I'm gone."
"There's money in a pouch inside the coat, a pocket tucked away there."
"I know."
Chris manages a chuckle. "I'd like you to take it. It's the least I can offer since you're doing this to help me."
"I'll consider it." Cal pats the back of his hand and draws his own away.
Before he falls into sleep, Chris thinks it's almost as if they've known each other forever. Has he ever talked this easy to someone else? Perhaps just his old friend Buck. He feels something he doesn't know how to speak of. Maybe because it's been so long since he felt anything at all.
True to his word, Cal returns not two full days later.
In the meantime Chris has managed to get up all the way off his bed to tend the fire and pass water, something that has been hard to do on his own since he can barely stand. Not much more than a crawl, really, is all he can manage by himself but he was proud to have been up at all. The wound in his side throbs with every motion. He takes the chance to look at it at last, peeling away the bandages and the poultice Cal had made. He'd done a surprising job, stitching it up like a regular doctor. And he'd done this before, Chris could tell. No one should have survived such a wound, but he has because a stranger happened upon him, one whose good deed would gain him nothing.
With him Cal carries enough oats for four more horses and plenty of food for them. Best of all, more coffee -- the smell of which makes him feel better than he has in weeks. He could recover just on the aroma alone.
"Figured we might be here a spell yet," is all Cal says when Chris laughs admiringly at what he's brought. "Best keep an eye out, too. Doubt anyone wanted to trudge out here in the snow just to get what I got, but you never know. I asked about in town, to see if anyone knew what those fellows was up to. Seems one of 'em did some time in the jail for misbehaving, but nothing serious. They must have just decided you were easy pickings."
Chris nods. "And I would have been but for you."
The statement earns a shy smile that makes him feel so warmly toward Cal it's like a new ache in his side. Chris has never been a believer in fate, and his belief in God has been stolen away by circumstance, but something in him says there is destiny in this. As if he needed to be brought to the edge of death and pulled back by someone with enough strength and courage for both. For the first time since his wife and child were taken from him, he has the will to live, to do more than step through each day solely because he must. But he can't explain that to Cal; it's too personal, too private, and they are only really coming to know each other.
As they drink the coffee and Chris eats as much as he can, Cal asks him such plain and gentle questions that before long, Chris is telling him about his family back home and the people he came from, about things he has left unspoken for years. And even when he realizes it, he doesn't stop, pulled by the thread that seems to connect them now, invisible, strong. He feels anchored in Cal's presence, heavy on the ground despite his weakness. Yet Cal doesn't give his own story or background, just listens and nods, says words of comfort when needed. It would be too presumptuous to ask, but he wishes he could.
When finally it's time to sleep, Chris turns to lie down, so tired he can hardly even turn on his back. Cal helps settle him in, then puts his own bedding down behind Chris. "Better to keep an eye on you," he says matter of factly, "since you done too much today."
"Never had someone watch me sleep," Chris responds.
"Ah, don't let it go to your head. Just don't want to see my handiwork go to pieces because I kept you up jawing too long."
As Chris drifts off to sleep, beset by the ache in his side and feeling feverish, there comes the warm weight of Cal's hand and arm resting across his shoulder. It's enough to make him feel like he will really make it.
Cal helps him walk around the entry now, short trips that take all of Chris's energy but make him feel alive at the same time. Each time he is aware of the strength in Cal's hands, the warmth of his body, the smile on his face. Has it ever been this easy with someone so quickly? he wonders, as Cal helps him settle in after they've walked just outside the entrance, the longest one he's had. The mine's sign hung catawampus at the edge: The Silver Moon. Chris takes some of the meat Cal has cooked up for him and asks, "How did you know this place was here? It's like you knew where to take me."
"Didn't, really. I was headed for the north side of the hill, looking for a place might give us shelter on at least a couple sides. Took a minute for me to figure out what the dark spot was."
"Glad you did." He eats for a while, sips at his coffee. "Funny, that name. I had a dream, or maybe it was the fever, I don't know. That I was on the moon, taken someplace safe. Like the moon was a safe spot. Everything around me just stars and black and silver. Reckon that sounds damn silly."
"Not at all. Maybe you saw the sign when I brought you in. It was in your mind without you really knowing."
"Maybe."
"Lot of abandoned places. Think they've tapped the vein out, don't even bother looking farther, just move on. Why, in just a few years, I've seen more operations start up and close than I have fingers on my hands."
He thinks of the man who brought him up here for this job of work, all the operations he has opened and closed. Changing the world that Cal has to try to live in. "You've done a lot of different things, then?"
Cal nods. "Can't say I've figured out how to settle down into something regular." Still he provides no details, so Chris leaves it alone, understanding how reluctant Cal is to talk about himself. Wishes it were different, but understanding.
He is getting to a point where he should be able to head out on his own. True to Cal's prediction, it's warming up outside, and Chris imagines that within a few days the snow will have melted enough that he can get back down to the lowlands safely, get a hotel room and finish getting back to full strength before he looks for work again.
Yet it's hard to believe now that he can go far without Cal by his side. So rarely has he let anyone in at all, only Buck and Sarah, but Cal feels vital to him now, important. As if somehow he can't be whole without that, and yet... all these months he has survived by himself, stepped through life as though he hasn't lost everything. This gunshot wound was nothing compared to the pain of losing his wife and child, but he feels lost pondering what it will be like without Cal. He has become an anchor, keeping him from going adrift, and there is too much safety and comfort in that to lose.
Chris ducks his head, looks up at Cal. "I expect you're not a man who misses much. It ain't that I'm a crook or deserved that shooting. But I expect you're thinking something's not quite regular."
Cal smiles shyly. "Well, I figure there's things you're walking away from, and it ain't an early snow or the type of business you was hired for."
He sighs and puts down the tin cup, looks into the fire. "I had a wife and a son. A horse ranch. Went away one day to take some horses down to Mexico, and when I came back found they'd been killed in a fire."
Cal looks away for some time. When he turns his gaze back, his eyes are dark. "I can't find words for such a thing. All I can say is I'm sorry."
"That's enough." And it truly is, in a way he could never have believed. "It's like I can't find solid ground now. I just drift from job to job, and I don't much care about the morality behind it. Good or bad, it's just a job of work."
"But you still know the difference between good and bad, from what you've said. Right there you told me what you really believe."
"It used to be so easy. Now it's just..."
"Complicated." Cal smiles at him.
Throughout the evening they talk about anything that comes to mind, nothing more personal than just the towns they've seen, what they will do once they're on their way. Long silences stretch between them that never feel uncomfortable, and they can hear the water running from the boards at the mine entrance while the temperature warms, as fast as raindrops falling in a heavy storm. It's Cal who can tell that Chris needs to rest, so he helps Chris settle in again, even though this time he doesn't need the assistance as much. Maybe tomorrow he will leave, maybe the day after, but soon. When Cal lies down next to him, he lies on his side, facing Chris. He doesn't put his arm across Chris's shoulders this time. So, Chris turns to face Cal, and when he doesn't look away, reaches out and touches his jaw, ever so lightly. Cal stares at him, eyes bright with the reflection of the fire. Chris rubs his thumb along his lower lip, then pulls Cal close to him. He's not sure what he's doing, going on an instinct he's never had before. Lifting his head up, Cal meets his mouth, sliding his hand up along Chris's neck. It feels so familiar and yet he's lost in a world of strangeness, like he's falling again, nothing behind him, nothing in front.
By and by he moves closer to Cal, and he to Chris, until they are under the same blanket and Cal has slowly opened Chris's shirt, unbuttoned his trousers. He slips his hand inside, circling Chris's cock, and Chris sighs into Cal's mouth. Even though his body is tensed, he doesn't feel the wound, only the forgotten enjoyment of touch and affection. It has been so long since his pleasure has involved affection that it startles him, like something completely new. He tries to push Cal's pants out of the way so he can do the same, but his arms are still so weak, so Cal does it himself; Chris touches his sex, timid and bold at the same time. Cal hooks his leg up, pushing in between Chris's thighs. He's not even certain as he climaxes if it's Cal's hand on his cock, or the kisses, or just the fact of this situation at all, but he is more alive now than he has felt since he found himself lost in that long dark tunnel so many years ago. Every moment they've spent here Cal has been bringing him back, step by step, leading him to life again.
And his affection intensifies as Cal moves against him, faster and faster until he comes, too, shuddering against Chris. Eventually Cal opens his eyes and looks at him, not apologetic, exactly, but searching Chris's face. Chris puts his hand against Cal's chest, saying, "My, that was unexpected."
"I ain't so lonely that I would look to take advantage."
Chris just laughs. "I think I was the one doing the taking."
"Not on your own, you wasn't." Cal settles his hand on Chris's shoulder, so solid and warm. "Made a bit of a mess of ourselves. You stay put. I'll take care of that."
"I'm fine," Chris says, as reassuring as he can be. He doesn't feel pain, only the sweet ache that accompanies such activities.
He watches Cal move about, so casual and fussy at once. It strikes him then that this is the way he felt for Sarah in the early days -- some thread of fascination pulled from somewhere down inside him, tugging feelings out he has ignored. When a simple smile or a touch leaves him a bit shaky, a little blind.
Cal comes back to lie down, almost as if nothing has happened. He makes sure Chris is settled again and warm, but this time, as Chris begins to fall asleep, Cal moves up against him and puts his hand over Chris's.
The snow is almost gone. Traces still linger in the shadowiest spots, but otherwise it is as clear and lovely a fall day as any Chris has seen. He and Cal stand in the entry to the mine, looking at their horses, saddled and ready to go.
He's had enough of leaving. Goodbyes are not easy; the last look back is the thing that stays with you the most, eats away at your mind, taking over your memories so you can only remember that face as it sends you on your way. He doesn't want to do that with Cal. But it's time to go; best they both travel on their way before the real winter sets in. Cal will head opposite him on his way to sell those furs and go south to find work.
Even in these past few days and as close as they've been, Cal hasn't talked much about himself. That's all right with Chris, though he is curious to know if Cal hides something he is ashamed of or that is too dark to share. He can't imagine what it might be.
But he's healed now, at least enough to be on his way. They have lain together this time, night and day spent teaching each other something neither knew they had in them. Chris has learned the feel of another man's skin, the roughness of a bearded face against his, the feel of strong shoulders under his hands. He would never have thought he'd want this and could never explain to anyone why he did.
If he were truthsome, though, he would admit he wanted to stay here with Cal more than he'd wanted anything in his life since Sarah, and that was a shock to his system, right there.
"You sure you're ready?" Cal asks him for at least the third time that morning.
"Gotta be done. I'm due back down Arizona way soon, anyhow."
Cal touches the grip of his gun. "Got some work to do with that?"
Ducking his head, Chris laughs. "Well, hoping not, but I'll see when I get there."
The look Cal wears is a funny one, sad and happy and a bit expectant. "I been used to being alone so long, I kind of forgot what it was like to be around someone. But this was... why, nothing like I could have figured. Thought I was just helping a stranger out."
"Only you made a friend."
"Expect I did."
Chris lets Cal help him into the saddle, still a bit weak on his side and his legs trembling. He won't go far today, just down to White River where he can rest up some more -- Cal has secured a promise from him that he will not do much until he's fully mended.
As he mounts up himself, Cal pulls his horse close by even though it chafes at the nearness of his black, snorting and pulling at the reins. Despite its fussiness, Cal leans over and grabs Chris, kissing him fiercely. When he pulls away, Chris feels dazed, so he shakes his head to focus.
"You don't owe me nothing, I just want you to remember," Cal says. "Except to stay alive and watch your back. Take care of yourself. I don't want you to think this was anything like a burden or feel obligated somehow."
Chris nods and reaches out to take his hand, clasping his forearm tightly, as Cal does the same. He has a feeling, so strong it is almost like a premonition. They will meet again, he's sure of it.
"I'll see you again."
"Believe so." Cal grins that boyish grin, eyes sparkling. He tips his hat, then backs his horse around. "Arizona way, you say."
Smiling, Chris tips his hat, too, and says, "Anyways, gives me something to look forward to. I can find out your name and all them secrets you been hiding."
Cal appears to consider this a moment before he gives his horse a kick and starts away. Over his shoulder he says, "That you could."
This time, Chris tells himself, I won't look back over my shoulder. To do that would jinx the whole thing. Cal didn't save his life for nothing. He looks at the sign hanging off the entrance and up to the blue, blue sky. It is a dead place that has brought him back to life. Cal will be more than a memory, of that he is certain. Maybe this journey will be alone, but there is a destination for Chris at last, and he expects to see Cal when he reaches it.
End
11/05