Luke & JJ

by Greg Bowden

jg.ps@gte.net

Chapter Three

Golita

"You about ready, Luke?" Mr. Davidson asked.

"Yeah, I'm ready." A fine sheen of sweat had formed on his naked chest. "Here we go..." He shot once, then again. And again.

"You sure are good at this, boy. Better than any man I've known, I think."

"I like doin' it is all," Luke said, shooting again. "You ready yet?"

"Yep. Just waitin' on you." The man quickly got off four shots and Luke felt every one of them deep in his gut.

"I can't get over how big that thing is. I mean I can feel it, every time it goes off."

Mr. Davidson laughed. "It isn't the size that counts, Luke. It's how good you are at using it. Sometimes I think a small one is better, you know? With a big one like this," he carefully wiped it down with his kerchief, "folks are all the time wantin' to hold it, maybe try it out. With a small one they leave you alone, mostly don't even notice it."

I guess you're right," Luke said, "you pack one that big and it's going to show; there's no way to hide it. Heck, it's the first thing I noticed when I saw you down by the general store."

Mr. Davidson laughed again. "So it wasn't my good looks or the offer of a high payin' job that got you up here to stay with us, huh? It was just this ol' thing." He hefted it in his hand. "Well, since you been here I guess it's gotten a pretty good workout."

"Yes, sir, I guess so. But with all this admiration, don't ever think me ungrateful for this one." He hefted his own smaller one, lovingly stroking its barrel. "I guess you taught me just about all there is to know about using it by now."

"And using it with care. Come on," he said, mopping at his sweating chest, "let's go see what we done and then get in out of this heat."

They walked out to the low stone wall and examined the old milk cans lying behind it. The first three each showed two neat bullet holes, side by side, one from the .22 caliber and the other from the .38. The fourth can had only one hole, made by Mr. Davidson's .38.

"Well I'll be," Luke exclaimed. "I don't believe I could have missed it altogether."

Mr. Davidson turned the can over. Two tiny masses of lead fell to the ground, each faintly showing its earlier bullet shape. Luke saw the implication immediately.

"Well damn my eyes. I did hit it and then you hit squarely the same place." He looked at Mr. Davidson with reverent eyes. "I never saw shootin' like that."

"Probably an accident," the older man said, "one time don't mean all that much." He looked to the spot they had shot from, measuring the distance with his eyes. "I'd say the really good shot here is you, Luke. That's right accurate shooting, especially with that little pistol. You're good, boy. Damn good."

Luke blushed. His life had not acquainted him with much in the way of praise, especially from men who might be his father's age.

"Well, come on, boy," he tossed Luke his shirt, "lets us go in and see if Mrs. Davidson has seen fit to make a pitcher of that fine lemonade of hers."

Anticipating their wants, Mrs. Davidson had indeed made a pitcher of lemonade. She had also baked up a batch of thin, crisp sugar cookies to go with it. She served them on the front patio where they had a fine view of the orange trees standing in their military rows stretching for a mile or more, all the way down to the sea.

While they sipped their lemonade in a comfortable silence, enjoying the cool breeze just starting to come in off the ocean, the events of the past eight weeks passed slowly through Luke's mind. He never allowed himself to think about any time before that lest the hot tears of rage and hurt and, if the truth were known, fear, would start again. When they did he was sometimes afraid that nothing he could do would stop them.

He had left Los Angeles, walking for days along the dusty road through the valley. At first he had tried to hide whenever there was traffic coming up the road, but he quickly realized that no one was going to be looking for him, for any reason. But still, for the first couple of days he couldn't bring himself to talk to anyone and ran the few times some kind person stopped to offer a ride or to share a portable meal with him.

It was hunger, though, that finally forced him into human contact. There had been half a loaf of bread in the little bundle Honch had made for him and Luke ate some of it that first morning after the earthquake. It hadn't stayed down and only served to make a mess on the ground; his stomach muscles still hurt from the retching he had thought he would never manage to stop. When he finally was hungry again the bread was so stale and hard that it simply shattered when he tried to break it with a stone. His hunger had made him weak, too, and so he had held his ground when a wagon carrying a family stopped and the woman asked if he might like to ride along for a ways.

With some difficulty he'd managed to climb into the back of the wagon. The four young children already there made room for him on their hard bench. The children were munching on some carrots which they had taken from a small crate at their feet; Luke's hunger emboldened him to reach down and take one for himself, without even asking. The woman, seeing how greedily he ate the carrot, asked him if he would care to stop the night with them, trade help with the chores for his supper.

In the end Luke stayed on with the family for more than a week, at first helping with the light chores and gaining back strength he hadn't known he had lost. After a few days, though, he left the chicken feeding and egg gathering to the children and worked with their father, turning soil in the kitchen garden and helping with the early planting.

He slept in the barn, in the hay stored up in the high loft. He found that he could get away from the cold, at least enough to sleep, by burrowing down into the hay like some animal, burrowing out a den. In the morning he shook out his lone blanket, carefully folded it and put it away with his other things in a crate he had found at the back of the loft. No one had thought to ask how many blankets there were rolled up in his little bundle.

It was made clear that he was expected to accompany the family to church, come Sunday. All he had to wear were his dirty old jeans so he took one of the horse brushes to them and tried to make them a little cleaner but he only succeeded in wearing them even thinner at the knees. He did manage to make his old boots a bit more presentable, using some pump grease and shining them with handfuls of straw.

At Saturday night bath, all the men bathed together, then the women, to save on the hot water. First the two boys were bathed by their father, scrubbed with harsh, homemade soap until their skin glowed in the warm firelight of the kitchen. Once they were dry and wrapped in their night things they were sent out to their mother, to be given a sweet as reward for good behavior and put down to bed.

Taking his turn, their father shucked out of his shirt and trousers, then unbuttoned his union suit. When he stood naked in the firelight, unconsciously pulling on his sex before stepping into the big tub, Luke found his sexual interest somehow numb. Where once he would have been excited to even glimpse the man's naked form, he now found he had no more interest than he would have in watching a duck entering it's pond.

"Scrub my back, will you, Luke?" He handed Luke a stiff brush and the soap. Luke bent to the task, surprised at how little delight he took in it. He thought perhaps a part of him had died, and he thought he was glad of it.

When it came his turn in the bath he pulled off his britches and shirt and stepped into the tub. The heat of the water was soothing to his testicles, which were still painful much of the time. Perhaps that was what was dead.

"Where's your union suit got to?"

Luke didn't have one. Hadn't had one since he and his father had left Tucson in such a hurry that almost everything got left behind. After that there had never been enough money for things of that sort, and Luke had quickly grown used to not wearing one in the generally warm climate of Los Angeles.

"Don't have one, sir. I'm warm enough without."

"Nonsense, boy. It's winter." He opened the kitchen door and called out to his wife, "Betina, bring me down one of my old union suits. The boy here doesn't have any." He turned to Luke, "I reckon it'll fit you well enough to get by. Now hurry up there. The women are gettin' anxious, I expect."

That night, lying in his straw burrow and warm in his new union suit, he cried. He didn't know why.

The church service the next morning was hard for Luke to get through. The prayers and familiar hymns were somehow painful for him, almost as if he were attending a funeral; he had no stomach to do it again. At bathing time the next Saturday, he said he felt the call to move on. The boys didn't want him to go and Matthew, the youngest, cried when Luke said his mind was firm on the matter.

Their father told him he was welcome to stay on but Luke knew it was time to go, and for many reasons. He was aware that he was something of a burden for them, having an extra mouth to feed, even if he did help with the chores. When Luke began to dress, after his bath, the union suit stayed, neatly folded on a chair.

"Here now, you put that on. I meant you to have it as your own."

Luke felt a lump form in his throat. "Thank you, sir. That is mighty thoughtful of you." He stripped his britches off and put on the union suit. "Tell... Tell your wife thank you, too. Her mending is about the finest I ever saw."

Sunday dawned clear and cold. Luke rolled his possessions in his blanket, tied it into a proper roll with some cord he had been given, and started out on the road. He would miss the ample breakfast he had quickly grown used to but he didn't want to upset the children with his leaving any more than he already had. By the time the family set out for church, Luke would be several miles along his way.

e e

"Your mind gone away from us, Luke?" Mr. Davidson handed him the plate of cookies.

Luke put aside his musings and focused on Mr. Davidson. "Oh, no, sir. I was just thinkin' about a good family. People who took me in for a while when I wasn't doin' so very well." He smiled. "Kinda like you folks, only there I had to sleep in the hay loft and there really wasn't enough to eat for me to stay on very long. Not enough work, either, to need an extra hand."

"Well, there's plenty of work here. Plenty to eat, too, for that matter." He stood and stretched himself. "What do you say, let's ride down to the beach and see if anyone has a fish or two to sell. I think Mrs. Davidson would like that instead of chicken for Sunday dinner.

Riding along the path through the orange trees Luke remembered the awe he had felt when he first came upon the groves fifteen miles down the road, near Santa Barbara. He'd never seen anything like them with their row upon row of glossy green trees covered with bright golden fruit. The groves covered the land just as far as he could see, from the dark blue ocean on the West to the tops of the low hills on the East. He'd picked several of the bright fruit and peeled them, letting the sticky juice run through his fingers as he greedily ate the sweet segments inside.

It had taken him a little over a week to get to Santa Barbara after he left the family in San Fernando. He'd been lucky, catching a ride on a wagon once in a while and, at the end, allowed to ride in an empty stagecoach on its way up the coast. The driver had taken pity on him, walking along the road in a downpour. Since the stage had no passengers, the driver figured no one would know if he gave a ride to the soaked young man. But he'd had to let Luke out a mile or so before they got to the town—so the agent wouldn't know. Luke had carefully brushed the seat and floorboards as he got out, leaving no trace of himself behind.

In Santa Barbara Luke found work washing dishes in the hotel restaurant. He worked from six in the morning until ten at night and for this he received his meals, a cot in the kitchen storeroom and eleven cents a day. When things were slow in the kitchen they sent him upstairs, to make up the beds and empty the chamber pots. He determined to leave at the first opportunity.

That opportunity came several days later when he overheard the cook talking to an old man, just outside the kitchen. The man was often employed by the hotel to run errands and today he was being told to take his wagon up to Goleta and bring back several crates of lemons. The old man whined that it was Saturday and there would be no one up there to help him with the heavy crates but the cook was adamant. He would have his lemons.

When the cook slammed back into the kitchen, Luke hurried out and caught the old man by the sleeve. "I'll help you with those crates if you'll just wait for me a minute or two."

The old man was always happy to wait, especially when it was for a strapping young man who wanted to help him and could probably lift the heavy lemon crates all by himself.

Luke ran back into the hotel and got his few possessions from the storeroom. In the kitchen he bid the cook good-bye, telling him he just wasn't cut out to work in a hotel. On that point, he didn't know how wrong he was.

Once they were out of the town, the old man reached under the seat and pulled out a nearly full bottle of whiskey. He pulled the cork with his teeth and, with a great show of courtesy, first offered the bottle to Luke. "Wonderful stuff, this. Keeps a man goin' no matter how bad off he might be."

Luke refused, remembering the drunks Señora Rosa had refused to serve, and the ones Paco, her husband, had had to throw out of the cantina. The old man tipped the bottle up, swallowing quickly and then coughing until Luke thought he might die, right there, holding the reins. But of course he didn't; he simply toasted Luke and took another swallow from the bottle.

It took them several hours to cover the fifteen miles up to Goleta and the old man spent the time alternately pulling from the bottle and nodding off. By the time they arrived at the Goleta general store the old man's bottle was empty and he was fast asleep in the bed of the wagon. Luke had held the reins for the last couple of miles or so, letting the horses set their own pace and hoping that they knew where they were going.

When the horses drew up at the general store and threw their manes about, indicating that this was their destination and that they were thirsty, Luke jumped down and wrapped the reins around the rail over the drinking trough. As the horses ducked their heads to drink, Luke realized he was thirsty too. He contemplated going in the store and spending part of the forty-four cents he had earned at the hotel but then decided it wasn't worth it when he saw that beside the crates of lemons that were stacked up next to the store there were crates of oranges as well. He took an orange from one of the crates and started to peel it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were to remain healthy."

Luke jumped. He hadn't seen the tall, sandy haired man come up beside him. "I... I was thirsty. I didn't mean..."

The man smiled. "That's all right, boy. I'll just say I gave it to you if old man Frucht comes out yelling about it. You with ol' Joseph here?" He indicated the softly snoring old man laid out in the back of the wagon.

"Uh, yes, sir. That is, no sir. I came to help him load the crates of lemons for the hotel in town." He stopped peeling the orange and waved vaguely in the direction of Santa Barbara. He couldn't take his eyes off the man's sidearm; it was the biggest pistol he had ever seen.

"You work at the hotel? And what's your name, boy?"

"Luke, sir. I used to. But not anymore. 'Cept to help with the lemons." He stopped, realizing he wasn't making much sense.

The man laughed and stuck out his hand. "Well, Luke, I'm glad to meet you. Davidson's my name and that there is one of my oranges that you're eating. They're supposed to go down to town but old man Frucht—he runs this place—he didn't get 'em sent off. Now they'll rot sittin' here. Won't get to send them for two more days, tomorrow being the Sabbath."

Luke eyed the crates, then the wagon, measuring the space. "I reckon Joseph could take them down for you. Once he sobers up. When he does it'll be all right; the last of the whiskey's been drunk." He looked up at the man. "Want me to load them on?"

Mr. Davidson thought for a moment. "Appreciate it if you would, Luke. I'll go see what I can find to bring him around."

Luke picked Joseph up and laid him across the seat. When he was satisfied that the old man was secure, he loaded the crates of lemons into the wagon, followed by the crates of oranges. He hurried and worked up quite a sweat by the time he was finished. When Mr. Davidson came out of the store with a tin cup of coffee he was very impressed.

"You're a fast worker there, Luke. You anxious to get back to town?"

"Oh, no, sir. I'm not goin' back with him. I aim to work my way up north, maybe go as far as San Francisco. Maybe farther."

"Well, I tell ya, Luke. If you're not in too great a hurry to get on up north, I could sure use a hard working lad like yourself over to my spread for a while. Got quite a lot of fixin' up to do, you know, repairs and so forth. It's hard work, but we take time to enjoy the days too. You interested?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Let's say, meals, lodging and thirty cents a day for the days you work. I don't pay for days off, you have to understand that."

Luke could hardly believe his good fortune. "Sounds fair to me, sir. Be happy to work for you, long as you need me."

So, after Mr. Davidson managed to wake Joseph, get some coffee into him and give him instructions about delivering the oranges, he and Luke set off on Lizbeth, Mr. Davidson's favorite horse. Luke sat behind, holding tight onto Mr. Davidson as they trotted up the road.

"You ride much?" Mr. Davidson asked, over his shoulder.

"No. Not... Not much."

"Well, don't worry about it. It's not hard. You'll be good as anyone in a week or two."

Luke had his doubts about that but Mr. Davidson proved him wrong. He was a demanding teacher but patient and he had several horses of the same temperament in his stable. Luke learned to ride quickly, and well.

On his second Sunday, after the mid-day meal, Mr. Davidson asked Luke if he knew how to handle a gun. When Luke admitted that his experience was limited to some target shooting with a borrowed rifle, Mr. Davidson decreed that he had to learn to use a hand gun. They began that very day, with Luke using an old .22 caliber Mr. Davidson had taken, years ago, from a drunk in order to keep the man from hurting himself. Luke turned out to be a natural.

Mr. Davidson was amazed. "I swear, boy, I never saw anyone take to shooting a pistol like you do. Must be in the blood somewhere."

Since then, they had been out shooting at targets every Sunday morning. Mr. Davidson even gave Luke the old .22 he'd let him practice with, after showing him how to care for it, clean it and adjust the sights. Luke didn't know how to thank him for it and ended up just hugging him close.

e e

"There, on the path up from the beach." Luke came out of his reverie as Mr. Davidson pointed to a couple of men carrying a large hamper between them. From the way the men walked Luke could tell the hamper was heavy with fish.

Mr. Davidson rode up to the men and asked if they would like to lighten their load some in exchange for a little money. They were happy to do so and opened the hamper, proudly displaying their day's catch. Mr. Davidson selected a large silvery fish, put it in the cloth sack he had brought with him, and paid the men. Luke groaned inwardly. It would be his job, he knew, to clean the thing.

Mr. Davidson turned his horse and called out to Luke. "Ready to go back? I think I'm gettin' a mite hungry now's I see what's for dinner." Luke nodded and turned his horse back up the hill.

Back at the house, Mrs. Davidson had just settled Sheriff Packard into a comfortable chair on the patio. She had offered him a glass of lemonade but he had declined, knowing that good whiskey would be in the offing as soon as Mr. Davidson and the boy got back from their ride. The sheriff wondered briefly about the boy but dismissed his thoughts, trusting that answers would come, along with dinner, in the course of the afternoon. In the meantime, he enjoyed the cool breeze and the view of the orange groves.

When they got home Mr. Davidson told Luke to tend the horses and then clean the fish. "And make it quick. Mrs. Davidson is no doubt ready to prepare it by now." He walked around to the front of the house where he found the sheriff relaxing on the patio.

"Well, Sheriff Packard. What brings you up here on such a fine Sunday as this?"

"Simple hunger," the sheriff said with a smile. "It's been a long time since I've enjoyed one of your wife's choice Sunday dinners and she has kindly invited me to stay."

"Well, you're in luck today, Sheriff. We just got ourselves a lovely, big fish, fresh from the waters down below." He nodded in the direction of the ocean, beyond the orange groves. "Luke's out back cleaning it now. Can I offer you a little whiskey, in case your appetite needs buildin' up?"

"Appetite's just fine, Davidson, but I'd be most happy to have a whiskey anyway."

Once the bottle had been brought and the small glasses filled, the two men settled back to enjoy an exchange of news and gossip. Eventually the sheriff got around to his reason for being there.

"Say, Davidson, what do you know about this boy—Luke is it?—you got stayin' here. Who's his people and where are they?"

"Can't rightly answer that, Sheriff. I believe he's bereft of kin, 'cept maybe for someone back east."

"He never talked about anyone close? A father maybe?"

"I don't think so. Seems to me he might have said his folks were both passed away. You want me to get him so's you can ask him yourself?"

"No, don't trouble yourself. Perhaps after dinner."

Mrs. Davidson's fish turned out to be very well prepared indeed and everyone enjoyed it, seasoning it at table with wedges of lemon and a touch of chopped chilies mixed with tomato. The meal ended with a light, tasty orange pudding.

While the dinner things were being cleared away, the men went out to the patio to enjoy the late afternoon sun and one of the cigars that Mr. Davidson had sent down specially from San Francisco. The sheriff invited Luke to join them.

"Well, boy," the sheriff began, after they had settled in comfortable chairs, "tell me about your people."

"I have none, sir." Luke looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"None, boy? No one who would be, say, lookin' for you? No one in Los Angeles?"

Mr. Davidson interrupted. "See here, Sheriff. What's this all about?"

"Well, I don't rightly know yet, but I expect I'll find out." He never took his eyes off Luke. "Now, boy, didn't you come up from Los Angeles a month or two ago?"

Luke stared out toward the ocean. "Yes, sir, I did. Stayed a week or more with a nice family down to San Fernando and then worked my way up here. Been stayin' with Mr. Davidson for six, seven weeks now."

"And what's your family name? Luke..."

"Davis, sir."

"And your age?"

"Near seventeen."

The sheriff shook his head; that wasn't good enough. "How near to seventeen, boy?"

"July. On the ninth."

"Didn't you live in a boarding house down south? Run by a party name of Woods?"

Luke turned and looked defiantly at Sheriff Packard. "I did."

The sheriff sighed and turned his attention to Mr. Davidson. "I guess it's him, all right. I got a warrant on him a while back. Didn't make the connection until yesterday when one of the deputies spoke of him livin' here. So now I gotta see he gets taken back down there." He raised his hand, rebuffing any argument. "I'm sorry, but I got to do it. It's the law."

"But why, Sheriff? What's the boy done?"

"Warrant doesn't say. Just says he's to be returned to Los Angeles. Warrant taken out by this man Woods, runs the boarding house." He turned to Luke. "You skip out, not payin' what you owed?"

Luke silently shook his head, a cold knot of fear forming itself in his stomach.

Mr. Davidson got up and went to stand behind the chair Luke sat in; he put his hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "You got any idea why they'd be wantin' you back down there, Luke?"

Luke tilted his head, seeking the older man's eyes. "I don't, sir. There's no one has any use for me down there."

The sheriff stood up. "The law leaves me no choice, boy. You gotta go."

"Is there nothing we can do, Sheriff?"

"Nothing. Look, the stage don't leave 'til late tomorrow morning. I'll send one of the deputies up tomorrow, after breakfast, to get the boy." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's probably nothing. Boy'll be back in a few days and it'll all be forgotten." He looked at Luke. "Now you be ready soon as you've had your breakfast, you hear?"

Luke nodded and then watched as Mr. Davidson saw the sheriff out. By the time he heard the sheriff's horse making its way down to the road he knew what he had to do.

"Sir," he said, standing as Mr. Davidson came back onto the patio, "I never lied to you, ever, 'cept about one thing. My pa. He isn't dead as I led you to believe. He's down there, in Los Angeles, livin' in Mr. Woods boarding house. He's a hard man, sir and he and I, well we didn't get along too good."

Mr. Davidson nodded. "But this Woods man, what interest can he have in you?"

"I truly don't know, sir. Maybe my pa put him up to it but for what reason I don't know."

"Well," Mr. Davidson said, touching Luke on the arm, "you'll find out when you get there, won't you? Now, come on. Let's see if we can find that old valise of mine. You'll want to pack your things after supper tonight so you'll be ready when the deputy gets here tomorrow."

They found the valise in the shed and then spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the patio in silence. When the sun flared red and began its descent below the horizon, Mr. Davidson brought out the whiskey bottle and poured two glasses. He handed one to Luke.

"I don't generally approve of young men drinking whiskey but I think this time it's all right." He touched his glass to Luke's. "I've grown very fond of you in this short time, Luke. Here's to your future." When they drank Luke choked a little and perhaps that's what brought the moisture to his eyes.

After supper Luke went to his little room and packed his things into the valise Mr. Davidson insisted he take. Mr. Davidson also insisted he take the little pistol he had grown so skillful with and a new carton of shells. He added some advice. "Pack them deep in the valise, Luke. I don't think the sheriff, or anyone else, needs to know that you have them." Luke put them under the deerskin trousers he still couldn't think about.

They said good night early and, as they did, Mrs. Davidson pressed something into his hand. In his room he lit the lamp and saw that she had given him a dollar. There was also a tiny slip of paper. 'For necessities & so on' it said in her neat handwriting.

A few hours later, when the house was completely still, Luke pulled on his jeans, a shirt and the light jacket Mr. Davidson had given him back when he first came to live with them. He took the valise in one hand and his boots in the other and silently made his way through the kitchen and out the back door. King, the old yellow dog that lived in the kitchen garden, raised his head to see who dared to trespass at this hour. Luke scratched him behind the ears and received a sleepy lick in return. Then he pulled on his boots, made his way out to the road and turned north.

He'd walked a couple of miles before his rage finally boiled over and he began to scream soundless curses into the night.

***********************************

To be continued.

Comments, suggestions or criticisms always appreciated and always answered.

Greg Bowden

Jg.ps@gte.net