The Last Good Day, стр. 7
“I know who my papa is,” Tommy said.
“You do?” B.W. said surprised.
“His name is Robert Travers from Texas,” Tommy said. “My mama told me all about him. He owns a railroad. Told everybody after my mama died but they laughed at me, said I was making up a story.”
“Are you?” Rance asked.
“No, it’s true. I got a letter to prove it. It’s in my stash. I’ll show you.”
Tommy jumped up and ran to his horse and untied the gunny sack.
“Sounds like his mama fixed up a pretty important papa for him,” B.W. said.
“Yeah, owns a railroad,” Rance said.
Tommy came running back to Rance and B.W., sat down and untied his sack and picked up a faded letter and a picture from the sack. “I tried to show this to everyone but no one would read it.” He handed the letter and picture to Rance.
“Can you read, Tommy ?” Rance asked.
“No, but my mama could. She read it to me a lot. I know every word of it.”
Rance glanced at the picture, then the letter. It was hand written on Travers Southern Railway – Traversville, Texas letterhead dated 15 July 1853 to Alice Woodson c/o Big Sally’s Saloon.
Rance read the letter aloud, Tommy lip-synching the words.
“My dear Alice, I’m sorry to inform you that I cannot continue to see you. I am enclosing a hundred dollars and a train ticket to Whiskey Gulch, Virginia where you and Tommy can stay on my cousin’s farm for as long as you like. His name is Billy Freeman. He is expecting you. I will send fifty dollars every month for your future care. I have no other choice. My father said because of your past I have to break all ties or he will disinherit me. If you do not accept this arrangement then I will deny any kind of relationship ever existed and have no further contact with you or the boy. I hope you will accept my offer. Signed, Robert Travers.”
Rance looked at the picture and handed it to B.W. The man in the picture was tall, good-looking, maybe in his thirties, well-dressed in a suit with a watch chain hanging out of a vest pocket. He had on a bowler hat with thick hair sticking out from it. A pretty young lady was standing beside him holding an infant.
“Where did your mama get the name Thomas?” Rance asked. “Shouldn’t it be Robert if that’s your daddy?”
“Was my mama’s daddy’s name. He was killed by Indians,” Tommy said.
“Do you know if Robert ever sent your mama money?” Rance asked.
“Some,” Tommy said. “Mama said Billy was keeping it. We stayed with Billy until the war started. He learned me how to ride and shoot then got himself killed by some Union soldiers for being a Confederate. Then me and mama had to leave and she got a job at the saloon.”
“This may be your papa, Tommy,” B.W. said, “but it looks like he didn’t want to see you or your mama anymore, why he sent you away.”
Tommy snatched the letter and picture from B.W., jumped up and stuck them in the sack. “I know she was a whore. I’m old enough to know what that is. The picture was when I was born. At least I know who my papa was. That’s more than you do.” He ran to his horse, tied the sack back on the saddle and took off at a hard gallop.
“Where you goin’, boy?” Rance yelled. But he kept riding and disappeared over the next rise.
“Didn’t handle that very well, did I?” B.W. said.
“Nope,” Rance said. “Let’s go get him.”
They mounted and saw a flock of buzzards filling the sky from over the rise. Just before they toped the hill Tommy appeared, riding as fast as he could towards them.
“What the hell?” B.W. said. “What’s that boy doin?’”
Tommy reined down his horse beside them and wheeled him around. “Come with me,” he said and took off in a hard gallop.
“Tommy come back here!” Rance yelled, but he kept riding.
B.W. and Rance spurred their horses after Tommy. When they topped the rise, Tommy was sitting on his horse in front of a big oak tree. A colored man and a boy, about Tommy’s age, were hanging from the tree, naked. Their eyes were gone, loose, stringy flesh hanging from all parts of their bodies. A note was pinned on an overturned wagon. “What free niggers get.” Big chunks of meat were tore out of the wagon’s two dead horses still in harnesses.
They sat motionless on their horses, trying to absorb the reality of what they were seeing. Tommy threw up his peaches.
B.W. drew his knife, rode up to them holding one hand over his mouth and cut them down. “Maybe there’s a shovel in the wagon.” He dismounted and led his horse to the wagon. He saw a pair of stained leather gloves in the wagon. He picked up the gloves and walked over to the man and laid a glove over his hand. It was way too small for him. B.W. saw a paper blowing by, stepped on it and picked it up. It was a receipt for ten pounds of flour made out to Leon Brookings from Catching’s Trading Post. He stuck the receipt in his pocket and put the gloves in his saddle bags.
“Wasn’t no tools in the wagon,” he said.
“We’ll figure out somethin,’” Rance said.
“Still think you were on the right side, major?”
”Don’t know how to answer that.”
“Would think there would be a woman around with the boy but ain’t seen nothin’ to say that.”
“Was thinking the same thing,” Rance said. “May have taken her with them.”
“You know what that means,” B.W. said.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Rance said.
B.W. mounted and rode over to Tommy. “I’m sorry for what I said back there.”
“Don’t seem that important anymore,” Tommy said. “Don’t know why I even kept that letter. We