Old Enough

The McCraney men lived in Missouri territory for as long as Henry could remember, which wasn’t his entire life, just the important part. Henry surmised that if something were worth knowing, he’d remember it, and if he couldn’t recall a year or more of his life, then it didn’t contain anything worth remembering. Until this point, due to Henry’s fear that his logic didn’t make no sense, he hadn’t told Pa this kind of thinking was how he kept the unknowns of his upbringing organized. Pa was a widower and a farmer, and to say he was a quiet man would be generous. Still, at sixteen years of age, Henry thought himself old enough to learn the details of the life he couldn’t remember - the unknowns - and he finally asked Pa what life was like before they moved to Logan’s Creek.

It was nighttime, and the lanterns were on in every room. A gust of wind blew up from a crack in the floorboards, making the kitchen lantern’s flame flicker and cast a giant shadow on the wall behind his father, who picked up his mug of cow’s milk and took a swig, then burped.

He'd given his response.

“Is it because it isn’t important to know?” Henry asked, feeling foolish.

“It’s because there’s things a boy your age wouldn’t understand.”

Pa’s mug slammed on the table as the wind whipped the house, making it creak like the old rocking chair on their front porch.

“How am I supposed to grow up when you won’t shoot me straight?”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“You never told me what happened. Ain't that just as bad?”

Pa scowled, and kept quiet for the rest of the night.

***

Henry wasn’t much interested in schooling, but a girl named Lorena Bean made him eager to show up. Lorena was his age but seemed older. She carried herself with a straight back like she was always balancing something on her head. She didn’t wear that fine of clothes, but what she wore she made look good. Henry liked Lorena, and they’d once kissed in the ally between the General Store and the bank. It was his first time, and she asked him not to tell anyone. He told her that that seemed like the hardest thing in the world, which he thought was a smart thing to say, and she promised him that if he could keep his mouth shut, she’d reward him. When he asked what the reward was, she winked. That was two weeks ago.

Lorena’s allure was strong like a Choctaw Horse, but the feeling of shooting a pistol was more enticing, and Henry had skipped that morning’s lesson so he could shoot at glass bottles with Joe Deet, who left his house with his father’s revolver so frequently, Henry wondered if he’d gotten permission to take it. License or not, that Joe was carrying a pistol at all amazed Henry, whose Pa hadn’t ever let him handle a gun. It was one of the topics they argued over the most often. Pa was always saying that his son wasn’t old enough. Henry didn’t believe him.

After he and Joe had fired all the bullets from the revolver, Henry announced that he was going to show up late to school. With the adrenaline of shooting a pistol coursing through his veins, he desired to see Lorena about that reward, but Joe didn’t understand his friend’s sudden need to get to school and recommended they skip the whole day. He told Henry they could go to the river and make a day of it, but Henry brushed him off.

Henry stood in the doorway of his classroom as the towering man stared him up and down. He had spurs on his boots as sharp as arrow tips, and his salt and pepper walrus mustache stretched wide off his lip, halfway to the back of his jaw. His clothes, all black, except the white shirt, were cleaner than everyone else’s; he looked like an out of towner, but Henry would soon find out he was the new Sheriff, introducing himself to everybody in town.

“You’re late for your lesson.”

“Sorry, sir,” Henry said, walking to his seat.

Before entering the room, Henry had felt like a locomotive leaving the station; all he’d wanted was to see Lorena, but now that he was walking by the Sheriff, he’d felt small. He couldn’t even look Lorena in the eyes.

“Smells like burnt gunpowder. You been shooting something, boy? The Sheriff asked him.

Henry’s face was hot, and he felt sweat fall off his body from everywhere, quickly soaking his clothes. The man was intimidating, and Henry sensed that if the Sheriff had a chance to make an example out of somebody, he would.

“No, sir,” Henry said.

The Sheriff leaned his head back and surveyed Henry a bit longer as if he’d just recognized something that wasn’t clear before.

“What’s your name?”

“McCraney.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You from here?”

“As far as I know,” Henry said, without thinking twice.

“I knew a McCraney once, back in Kansas. I didn’t like him.”

***

It must have been a Thursday because Pa was whetting his knives. When Henry walked up, his dad was spitting on the whetstone while sliding his bowie knife back and forth. He whet so quick it looked like his wrists were making circles. Pa looked at his son approaching. Sometimes it was surprising to him how big Henry had gotten. If he hadn’t known the silhouette approaching his property just then was his son, he would have switched his hold on his bowie so that it was ready to use.

Henry had been pondering the Sheriff’s words all the way home from school. He’d been so eager to get home and tell his Pa what the Sheriff said that he didn’t wait after class to see Lorena, though even if he had, it probably wouldn’t have led to his reward since he’d made a fool out of himself for being late. But none of that would matter to Henry if he could get Pa to tell him about the Kansas McCraney.

“I met the new sheriff at school today,”

His father didn’t look up from his whetting.

“That right? I heard he was from Texas,”

“I doubt it. He said he came from Kansas,”

Pa paused and stole a glance at Henry, who was blocking the afternoon sun from hitting him in the eyes.

“What was his name?”

“Boggett, I think he said it was.”

Henry watched as Pa put his thumb to the blade to test its sharpness. He was thinking about something. Henry wanted to find out what.

“You know em’?” Henry asked.

Pa put his bowie back in his sheath and thought of telling his son one of many of life’s hard truths: you can’t hide from your problems. But doing so meant he’d have to tell his son everything. He snorted, then spit something black off the porch. He looked up at his son from the rocking chair.

“You know him don’t you?” Henry asked.

“There ain’t no McCraney’s but us,”

“So you’re the McCraney he knew in Kansas?”

Pa shot up from the rickety chair. Standing on the porch, he towered over Henry, who suddenly felt like a child in his presence. Pa was agitated that he was being forced to show his hand, and he wasn’t ready to give his son the full story.

“You say he mentioned a McCraney in Kansas?”

“Yes, sir,”

“And what did he say?”

“Said he didn’t like that McCraney.”

“And you told him you’re a McCraney?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You say anything about your daddy?”

“No.”

Pa turned away from Henry and walked back inside. Henry stood at the bottom of the porch steps, trying to calm his breathing. His heart was shaking like a rattle snake’s tail. Pa knew Sheriff Boggett; Henry was sure of it. Having this fact meant that he’d finally had a road to follow to understand his past, and if Pa weren’t going to tell him anything, he’d try the Sheriff.

***

Two days later, Henry had found enough time away from helping Pa to speak to the Sheriff again. The whole way into town, Henry was excited, so much so that the feeling reminded him of the moments just before opening a present. He’d thought he’d speak with Boggett and gain some sense of his life; like the Sheriff would help him get to someplace he should have been at all along. The feelings made him see the ride to town differently; the hills' grass was greener, and the town had pleasant energy like it was turning into something more than what it was.

The Sheriff hadn’t thought about Henry once since their first encounter, so when the boy walked into the station on this hot June day, he wasn’t thinking about what he’d do if he found out Agustus McCraney was alive and living in this same town.

Henry didn’t know how to start the conversation with the Sheriff, so he just told the truth.

“I think I know the McCraney you met in Kansas,”

The Sheriff laughed, “My suspicion is you don’t. That McCraney is dead.”

Henry was shocked.

“He is? How do you know that?”

“I shot him.”

Henry nodded, then his shoulders sank from the magnified sting of his unknown. The sun on the back of his neck was heating him enough to make him uncomfortable, and he became frustrated at the thought of the ride home when the sun was at its highest. He must have read Pa all wrong.

Boggett furrowed his brow as he watched the boy in front of him hunch over like a pretty girl had just rejected him. It was clear to him that there was something behind Henry’s questioning that carried substantial weight. It piqued his interest.

Henry fiddled with his hat in front of him as he thanked the Sheriff for his time.

“You live with your family in Logan’s Creek?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Mommy? Daddy? Got any siblings?”

“No sir, just my Pa and me,”

“Motherless. Is that right?”

Henry nodded at the Sheriff, who suddenly appeared more interested in him than he’d ever been before.

“And your daddy, what’s he do?”

“He’s a farmer,”

“Honest living,”

“Yes, sir,”

“What’s his name?”

“Agustus,”

As soon as the word left Henry’s mouth, he sensed that he’d made a terrible mistake. The Sheriff, who was rolling a smoke, spilled tobacco on himself, then quickly regained his composure. Of course, the spilled tobacco he brushed off his lap didn’t help. The boy had given him a gift he hadn’t known he wanted, and he hoped he could hide it.

“I get the shakes some time,” The Sheriff lied.

Henry was panicking on the inside. He’d seen how the Sheriff reacted when he heard his father’s name and how he was trying to act like nothing was the matter now. He didn’t know what to do.

Boggett felt the unease in the room. The boy had figured him out, and he was going to let the truth be free.

“Gus McCraney?” Boggett asked.

Henry nodded, growing more and more worried about what he’d done.

“I told you I didn’t like that Kansas McCraney, and you sought me out, showed up in my office, telling me you might know the man. Why is that?”

“I don’t know, sir. When you put it like that, it sounds foolish,” Henry took a step toward the door, “Sorry to have wasted your time,”

“Now, hold on a minute, son. Haven’t you deduced what has just happened here?”

“I…”

“I think I shot your daddy.”

The rim of Henry’s hat crumbled in his hand. He didn’t know what to say.

“And I think I knew your mother. She was with my brother, if it’s the same woman. Of course, we didn’t know she was a whore then.”

Henry felt a reflex to say something back to the Sheriff, but no words came out.

“I was the law back then too, and I got word she was running around with Gus McCraney. He was the lousiest type of man, a bank robber, taking other people's things; money, jewelry, their wife. I think that’s who your daddy is”

“Sheriff,” Henry began to beg, “I think I should get back. Thank you for your time.”

“You’ll get on in one minute after I’m finished. You came in here looking for a story about your daddy, and I’ll give you it; I shot that bastard two times in the back when he was riding his horse out of town, but he never let go of the reigns, and that whore riding beside him held him steady, so they kept on riding. We chased them for two nights, then lost the trail. D'you believe that? As time went on, I reasoned that I’d probably killed him because I’ve always been a good shot. Years went by with me thinking he was dead, but then, my first week in Logan’s Creek, and what do I find out? My fugitive is alive, and who better to deliver the information to me than his son.”

The Sheriff rose from his seat, and as he did, Henry dashed out the door. He blew past a couple of folks who were outside waiting to talk to the Sheriff and ran to unhitch his horse. He expected the Sheriff to be right on his tail, but he was still standing inside the station. Henry felt the dumbest he’d ever felt, and if it weren’t that he needed to warn Pa about what a mess he’d just made, he’d have probably run away.

When Henry set off down the street and peered into the Sheriff’s station, Boggett looked right at him, smiling like the devil. Then, he winked at Henry, who knew for certain vengeance was coming.

***

Henry rode fast, not sure of what to make of his mistake. He wished he hadn’t been so naive to show up at the Sheriff's and worried that the worst was to come. Boggett had tried to kill Pa once before, and there was no doubt in Henry’s mind he’d want to finish the job. His stomach was all tangled up inside. All at once, he felt like he needed to throw up and pass out, but he couldn’t stop. He had to ride.

Pa was tending to the hogs when he felt the rapid drum of horses gallop. No one rode that fast for no reason, so he knew that whoever it was that was approaching his property meant to get there in a hurry. When he turned away from what he was doing and saw it was his son, he knew there would be some bad news.

He met Henry at the hitch. The boy was covered in sweat; his face beat red from his journey. Though the boy could ride a horse fast, he exerted too much to do it because he had yet to learn the correct way to balance on top of a horse when it was running at top speed. You can only learn that skill from expereince.

Henry felt like saying a word would be akin to cutting open his belly and letting his guts spill out. He got down from the horse and looked at his Pa’s concerned face. He knew that Pa knew he’d made a mistake.

“What is it?” Pa asked.

“Pa,” Henry stuttered, “I’ve done something terrible.”

“What’d you do, Henry?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I went and saw the Sheriff.”

“Boggett? G’Dammit, son!”

“Pa! I didn’t know you lived in Kansas.”

“What did you tell him?”

Henry felt a weight in his throat that caused him to swallow, and as soon as his adam’s apple dropped, tears began flowing from his cheeks.

“Your name, Pa. He knows your name.”

***

Pa planned to pack their valuables and go to Reeds Spring in Stone county. They’d spend the night there and then head southwest to Texas. It’d probably take them ten days. He was angrier than hell at his son but somehow more upset with himself for not having told him the truth about his past when he had the chance. Pa knew himself as a stubborn man, and it was one of the qualities he’d hoped to improve, but here was proof he’d failed miserably. He’d only hoped he’d have enough time to get them both to safety before Boggett showed up to finish what he meant to do all those years ago.

Henry was the first to hear the horses' thunder coming down from the hill. He shouted at Pa that someone was coming, and then he heard bullets scattering on the floor in the living room and Pa saying expletives under his breath. Pa ordered his son into the room where he’d taken out all the guns he owned; two pistols and a rifle. He began telling his son how to always aim for the chest, but Henry waved him off and told him he already knew how to shoot, and then he looked like he was about to get emotional again, and Henry tried to apologize for getting them into the mess they were in.

“Son, this problem was coming for me today or another day. There’s a truth in life in all this: you can’t run from your problems.”

Pa stared at his son, seeing his mother in him, seeing himself in him.

Just then, they heard the neighs of a horse, followed by the Sheriffs booming voice.

“McCraney! I know you’re in there!”

Pa and Henry got down and scooted away from the windows.

“What do we do, Pa?”

Pa cocked his shotgun, then looked out his window. It was Boggett and three men.

He looked back at his son.

“Aim for the chest,” He said, tapping his heart.