Prologue
The shrill steam whistle stifled the woman’s cries. Abner swatted flies from her face and stroked her tangled hair. She shook and pushed him off, then stilled for a moment. He tilted his hat, scratched his oily scalp, moved to the sliding door and watched the yellow moon. They would not make it to Wichita. The baby would come this night. He counted the telegraph poles and wondered which part of hell or Texas they were passing.
Strewn hay formed a bed over the rough planks, deep-scarred by the spurs of the vaqueros. There were no animals in the cattle-car, but evidence of their previous occupation filled the air. The locomotive slowed. The hissing, chuffing, seventeen-hour clackity-clack relented to grinding metal on metal as the train came to a stop. The whistle blasted twice, pulling Abner’s attention to the door once again. He craned his neck forward, strained his eyes and read the name of the town on the water tower. Night fog lifted and he said the name to himself—Ocpud.
The woman gulped air and dug her bare feet into the splintered floor. With a quick hand he held her legs and begged. “Breathe, breathe, you must breathe.” More gulps. A whistle blast. She screamed, tensed and bore down, then punted him in the groin with the topside of her foot. Flap. Abner gasped and doubled over. The cattle-car lurched forward. There was one final cry, a desperate glare, then surrender from her spent, vacant eyes. Reaching between her trembling legs he took the newborn into his arms, opened his folding knife, ripped the hem from her dress, tied and cut the cord. He removed his coat and wrapped the child, passing him to the woman.
Two worn cases contained everything they owned: three changes of clothes, a tintype of the woman’s father from the war and his father’s silver pocket watch, won in a crooked poker game from a Choctaw scout on the Chisholm. With a suitcase in each hand, Abner jumped down from the car, opened one case and made a bed from his father’s Confederate uniform. A thought came to him as he smoothed the gray lapels—Micajah . . . yep. I’ll name you after my Pa.
Abner legged up the open door, rolled inside and stood, then pulled the child from the woman. She cursed him. He yelled. The child cried. He held the baby tight and jumped down from the stock car, laid the infant amidst the uniform and returned. She slapped him. The cattle-car jolted. He waved his arms, cursed, then lifted her from the straw, laying her by the door. His boots hit the ground and he turned, shouldered her trembling body, easing her to the case lid next to the newborn. Shifting her weight she cradled the infant against her breast.
Night fog thinned, revealing a deserted train depot. Abner tucked the baby into the uniform, stroked the woman’s hair, then walked down the lone dirt road, past the stationhouse, a collapsed barn and a rotted gate laying in the weeds. A vague outline of a farmhouse appeared. His boots turned off the road and walked up rotting steps to the front door. The second step gave way and his boot fell through to the ground. The house was silent, with no sound of roosters or farm animals—only the clicking of a lonely cicada hugging a mesquite tree next to the porch.
Rapping on the door with his fist he called. “Help! Anybody—” No answer. His hand grasped the rusty doorknob and twisted it open. The door creaked and fell off its hinges, crashing to the floor inside. He stepped into the vacant house. The half-moon shone enough light to scan the front room—a large kitchen with a long, rough-hewn table in the center. Exploring the darkness, fingering the wall, cupboard and countertop he found the familiar shape of a lantern. He lifted and shook it. Empty. In a drawer his hands discovered a box of matches, further in the darkness a sink with a hand pump. In the basin lay a rusty spoon, fork and several knives with broken handles. His eyes searched the darkness and he whispered, “Well, little’n, reckon it’ll have to do for you and your Ma.”
A spidery display of lightning illuminated the sky as he left the house. Thunder crackled. In the flash appeared a barn behind the house. He hurried toward it, discovered an open door and entered. In the barn, an old plow that looked like it hadn’t been used in years leaned against a rusty wheelbarrow. A jersey milk cow dragging a snapped fence post banged against a sidewall, a frayed rope tied around her neck. His hands felt along a shelf and discovered two lanterns full of kerosene. He left the lanterns and took the wheelbarrow.
Out the door and onto the dirt road he pushed the wheelbarrow, hairs tingling on the back of his neck. He picked up his pace and zigzagged down the road, fighting the stubborn cart with each step.
The woman lay in the case lid, nursing the child. He took the two suitcases and propped them up in the back of the wheelbarrow. A crackling flash interrupted her frantic questioning and his urging to sit. At first, she refused but relented after harsh words and a motion to the ominous sky. With the baby held firm to her breast she glared at the man. Lightning flashed, revealing her fright.
Whipping winds picked up dirt in the pre-dawn. Leaves slapped his face. He pushed harder and the wind shoved him toward the ditch. Got to make it to the house. Got to make it. The front wheel hit a rock in the road and she cursed, grasped and steadied herself on the side of the rusty handcart, never removing her other hand from the nursing child.
When they reached the house he refused further questioning by the woman and guided, then forced her in. A gentle wind blew a fine mist at first, followed by giant pelting drops, turning to sideways sheets. Wind whistled through the metal roof and slapping rain came in waves, interspersed with blasting thunder. The two sat in darkness on the kitchen floor with the baby. The woman grabbed Abner’s hand but he released it and refused her argument, then left the house and sprinted to the barn. Entering, he shivered and wrung water from his shirt. With the two lanterns in hand he peeked out the barn door, then scuttled back to the house.
Soaked to his skin with strands of long stringy hair crossing his face he sloshed through the front door, sat the lanterns on the table and found the matches in the drawer. His hands shook and dripped water as he removed the glass, struck a match, lit the wick and moved one lamp to the center of the table, the other to the counter by the kitchen window. With a mud-spattered plop he collapsed next to the woman. She flinched at his wetness and he stood, removed his pants and shirt and laid them across the table. At the kitchen window with the lantern raised to the glass, lightning flashed, revealing a rusty coffee can mailbox. Abner read the name painted on the can and said to himself, Cooper—that’s a good name. That’s the name I will use.