Dust Page 2

  He went outside. Heat thickened the air. The slender hairs on his neck slowly stood on end. It was that familiar electrical current that preceded a storm, but there were no signs in the sky. Just a vacant, bleached blue color. And yet the feeling was there. That "something is going to happen" feeling. Soon.

  Robert walked toward the barn that his father had built in a time when he'd talked about wheat as tall as sunflowers and cattle as heavy as hippopotamuses. In the last five years the wind driven dust had peeled the paint and aged the building. It tilted west.

  It was still a sturdy home for Cerberus. When they'd bought the milk cow, his father had let Robert name her. But when his mother had asked who Cerberus was, and Robert had explained that this was the name of the dog who guarded Hell's gate, she'd become furious and insisted they change the cow's name to Dot.

  Robert still called her Cerberus, and she answered to it anyway.

  Inside the barn the familiar smell of dried manure and old straw filled his nostrils. Robert believed there was magic here because this was where the calves were pushed out of their mothers, heads or tails first, bodies wrapped in a gooey sac. The calves' first bawling cries had consecrated this place (there was another word he liked), had made it so the wind never worked its way inside.

  Three kittens—one gray, one black, and one calico—padded out to greet him. He patted each in turn, then walked to the feed room. He lifted the latch and opened the door, the light widening across the pile of oats. A soft scurrying followed. The kittens darted in and hunted around, but failed to catch any of the mice who'd been cavorting in the grain.

  He scooped half a pail of chicken feed out of a sack in the corner, then headed to the coop, a small, red structure that looked like a sawed off outhouse.

  None of the chickens was outside. They usually spent their time pecking at the ground, gobbling up anything that would fit in their beaks, which would eventually come out their other ends in white and gray piles that they'd leave around the yard like splashes of paint. Today they were hiding.

  Robert poured the chicken feed in the small wooden trough, not worrying about spilling it since the birds didn't care whether they ate off the ground. If he were here, his father would have given him a talking to for that. "Keep your mind on your job," his dad always grumbled. His dad and Matthew were good at carrying pails. It was hard, Robert thought, to concentrate on something so simple. So ... mundane? Was that the right word?

  Robert spilled a little more, causing a tiny chicken feed avalanche. Then he walked to the door of the coop. The slim twine that usually held the door shut was broken. He peered inside at the beds of straw. No chickens. He tied the door open using the remainder of the twine. His head brushed the top of the door frame.

  "Here chicky-chick-chicks," he said, taking a few steps. The chickens were huddled in a corner, backs against the farthest wall, looking like a dirty snowbank partly buried in the straw. They shook.

  He picked up the nearest hen. She cowered but didn't struggle. She seemed petrified.

  "Your food is outside." He set the chicken down. "It's in the trough."

  His voice echoed, as if in a cave. The chickens didn't move. Robert searched around their roosts for eggs but couldn't find any.

  He finally lifted the hens one by one and discovered three eggs. They were an odd, gray color, and heavy. He placed them gently into the pail. Nothing felt right about this day any more.

  He put the pail back in the feed room, then, holding the eggs against his chest with his left hand, he used his right to lock the door. He had to give a good push, and one of the eggs slipped from his grip.

  It dropped slowly through the air, spinning like a planet in space. It smashed against the hard dirt, spreading a red guck across the ground.

  Blood eggs. Robert had seen one a few years ago. They were eggs that had somehow gone bad, his dad had explained, and instead of yolk and the white stuff, everything inside was a red sticky gunk.

  The cats wouldn't go near it.

  He felt the odd weight of the other two eggs. He didn't like the look of them. They were probably the same. You couldn't cook them, and if he took them back home and his mom broke them, she might think the Devil had wormed his way into the house. Robert hid them beneath a pile of old straw.

  As he stood up he heard a motor rev outside. Two doors slammed shut.

  A man yelled, "Hello, anyone home?"

  CHAPTER THREE

  Robert peered into the farmyard. Two men were at the front door of his house, the bigger one banging away with a ham-sized fist. They were dressed in dark blue uniforms and wore Stetsons. A Royal Canadian Mounted Police car sat behind them.

  They were majestic in their movements, like knights trying to enter a castle. Many years ago, men like these two had built Fort Walsh in the hills, after all those Indians had been massacred by wolfers.

  Mounties. Standing right here. He bet they were from the detachment in Gull Lake.

  One man opened the door. He took half a step inside, then paused, as though he'd heard a noise.

  He knows I'm watching, Robert thought. He ducked back in the barn and sat silent for a few moments. His heartbeat quickened. He took a breath, then slowly peeked around the corner.

  The Mountie was staring straight at him.

  "Hello!" the man yelled. He closed the door and strode toward the barn, his long legs covering yards of ground. The other officer followed, glancing around as if expecting trouble. "Are you Robert Steelgate?"

  Robert's lips were frozen. All he had to do was spit out a yes, but shyness had formed a stone on his tongue.

  "Is that your name, son?" The Mountie was only a few feet away. His footsteps seemed to shake the earth. "Is that you?"

  "Yes," Robert mumbled. "Yes, that's me. I'm Robert Steelgate."

  He studied the Mountie. He looked as though he had been carved from solid stone, then had life breathed into him by a cruel-mouthed god. But his eyes were kind.

  "My name is Sergeant Ramsden, and this is Officer Davies. I ..." It was strange that this man would hesitate. His every word should have been forceful and confident. And yet, he had paused. "... I ... your parents phoned and asked us to bring you into town."

  "Why?"

  "Because something has happened, and you should be with your mom and dad," the sergeant answered. He surveyed the farmyard, then his piercing gaze returned to Robert. "Are you ready to go? Is there anything you need?"

  What did he need? The question seemed odd. It wasn't going to be a long trip, was it?

  "I don't need anything. I guess I'll come along. I have to, don't I?"

  Ramsden nodded and started back toward the car. Robert followed, his eyes drawn to the holster on the sergeant's hip. That's a .455-caliber Colt revolver, Robert thought. He knew the cops used .455s because Jonathan Fawkes, an older kid, had bragged that he'd once fired one and hit a tin can.

  Officer Davies opened the door and Robert slipped into the backseat. Both Mounties removed their hats and sat in front. The silent one drove. They headed west.

  Sergeant Ramsden faced Robert, looking over the seat. "Did anyone stop while your parents were gone?"

  "No." Robert thought for a second. He knew that the Mounties needed to know all the details. It was their job. "The chickens seemed scared," he added

  The sergeant furrowed his heavy brow. "What do you mean?"

  "They were all huddled together like they thought there was a fox outside, but there wasn't."

  "Do you know why they were like that?"

  Robert shook his head.

  "Did you see any strange vehicles?"

  "No. But I did hear one—a truck passed while I was reading."

  Ramsden leaned closer. He had a scar that drew a white line from his bottom lip to his chin. Robert wondered if it had been sliced by a knife; maybe the sergeant had fought with a bank robber. Robert imagined two, bandanna-wearing men robbing the Broadfoot Trust Company in Gull Lake, then stopping outside to rub their hands in
glee and count their loot. The sergeant and his partner would have swept down on them, revolvers blazing, bullets pinging off the car. The bad guys would have surrendered, only to pull a knife when the Mounties holstered their guns.

  "Do you know what time you heard the truck?" the sergeant barked.

  Robert blinked and shook his head. "After my brother went to town and before my parents left. I was in my room ..." A sadness flickered in the sergeant's eyes at the mention of Matthew. "Is my brother all right?"

  "What makes you ask that?"

  There it was again, a softness behind the eyes and then stone. "I ... I just wondered. It seems ..." It was obvious something had happened. "Is that why you're here?"

  "Your parents will answer all your questions." The sergeant cleared his throat. "So you didn't see this truck?"

  "No. I was ... lying down."

  "How do you know it was a truck?"

  Robert paused. How did he know? The sound had been deep and rumbling, and as it passed he had pictured an old truck, dust trailing behind it. He lifted his eyes to the officer. "It was just a feeling I had ..." His voice trailed off.

  Sergeant Ramsden stared hard at him, then turned to face forward, rubbing a thick hand across his closely cropped hair.

  That hand knows jiu-jitsu, Robert thought. He'd once read a flyer that said: "Join the Mounties, live the adventure." It listed all the things trainees would learn: musketry, revolver fire, fingerprinting, photography, horseback riding, boxing, map reading, and post-mortem examinations. All that information and training was jammed inside these two men. They could handle any situation.

  They were halfway to Horshoe already, passing field after field. The hot sun seared the top of the car, so Officer Davies pulled the visor down to block the light. Robert gawked around the interior but couldn't see any bullet holes. He decided that police cars were probably bullet-proof.

  Both Mounties spent a lot of time searching the prairie. What were they looking for? The world through the window was bleached to whiteness.

  Robert was suddenly gripped with a need to look at the ditch, though he wasn't sure what he expected to see. A lump rose in his throat. They went by a place where the grass was partly trampled down. A bad thing had happened there. He was sure of it. He wondered if he should open his mouth to tell them. But what would he say?

  The apprehension grew in his stomach. Sweat trickled down his forehead. The air seemed stuffy, even though the driver's window was open. He felt trapped.

  He thought of Barsoom. John Carter had flown through the Martian air in a one-man aircraft. Robert sat farther back in his seat, so he could see only sky out the window. It made it easier to believe they were flying through the air in a Mountie scout ship.

  Horshoe's grain elevators rose up like the citadel towers on Barsoom. He wished they'd been made of stone. Soon the "Pioneer" and "Ogilvie" emblems became clear.

  The car didn't slow down. Robert swallowed. They seemed to be going past town. A second later the Mountie jammed his foot on the brake and cranked the wheel.

  The doubt wouldn't go away; it got darker, bigger. There was something Robert should be afraid of right now, but he wasn't sure what.

  Finally, it came to him. He cleared his throat and said, "Seven is too young to walk to town by yourself."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Neither Mountie answered Robert, though the sergeant glanced his way. They drove around the corner onto Main Street. On one side was Harper's Hotel, a two-story building with a false front. A laundry had been attached to the wall facing the alley. The grocery store and the pool parlor were across the street. The Royal Theatre stood alone at the end of the block, its doors nailed shut.

  A crowd had gathered in front of the hotel. Robert spotted his family's wagon but not his mom and dad. The Mountie parked the car, and the people were magnetically drawn toward it. The sergeant got out, opened the back door for Robert, and helped him down.

  "Where is Mr. Steelgate?" the sergeant asked.

  The crowd parted and there stood Robert's parents, unmoving, as though they'd been turned to stone. His father was a slim, wiry man with his sleeves rolled up, his face prematurely wrinkled by the sun and from squinting to keep out the dust. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired. Robert's mother was also tall, her body a frail vessel for her spirit, her clothing plain gray. They looked to be in a trance.

  The sergeant spoke their names, breaking the spell. They shuffled like zombies toward Robert. He was frightened by their slowness.

  He spotted Uncle Alden standing behind them, thin as a post, one hand lifted up as though he was about to wave hello. Then Robert's mother wrapped her long arms around her son, squeezing him against her bony chest, slender fingers clutching his head. "You stupid, stupid boy." He had never heard her voice so soft. "You're safe. Dear God, you're safe."

  Robert was confused. Why was he stupid, and what did she mean by safe? He didn't feel safe. He felt as though there were invisible strings pulling at him, and soon one would drag him away.

  His mother loosened her grip and moved her hands to his cheeks. Her fingers were cool. She shook as if a chill had run through her. "I was so frightened ... so frightened."

  Robert's dad put his hand on her shoulder, dwarfing it. He said, "Your brother is missing."

  Robert nodded. "I know."

  "How did you know? Did the Mounties tell you?" his father asked.

  "No." Robert wanted to close his eyes, to get away from all this, because he didn't understand what was happening. But somewhere inside he had known about this disappearance the moment the blood egg had broken. Maybe even when he'd heard the truck passing his house. "I ... I think I guessed."

  His mom let go and they stared at him quizzically. Robert had the sick, guilty feeling that he had given the wrong answer.

  Uncle Alden squeezed Robert's arm. "Don't worry. It's all gonna work out. We'll find your brother. That's why the Mounties and all these people are here."

  His uncle looked very serious—grave, in fact. Robert wished this were a different day. If it was he could ask Uncle Alden about Barsoom. About the warlord and the battles with the Tharks. Instead of feeling frightened.

  "Your son said he heard a truck go by your house before you left for town," the sergeant said.

  "Truck?" said Robert's dad. "I didn't hear a truck go by. Are you sure, son?"

  Was he sure? Every question spun webs of doubt around him.

  "Are you sure?" his dad repeated, quietly.

  Robert nodded.

  His mother stepped back so she could look down at him. "Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell us?"

  Robert blinked. "It was just a truck going by. That's all."

  Sergeant Ramsden cleared his throat. "Look, there might have been a truck, there might not. The point is, your boy's probably wandering around somewhere daydreaming."

  "It's not in Matthew to daydream," Robert's mom said, defensively.

  The sergeant frowned. He moved toward the sidewalk and spoke to the crowd, who were waiting a respectful distance from the family.

  "Listen up. Anyone who's got a truck or a wagon, I need help finding this boy, Matthew. You all know what he looks like. He may have been picked up by someone, so if you see anything odd, then wait for us. Don't go getting into any hysterics or heroics—I don't want neither. If you find the boy, bring him right back here."

  The crowd slowly dispersed, except for Mrs. Juskin and Mrs. Torence, the two plump war widows who lived in the house next to the school. They had wormed into place beside Robert's mother, intoning quietly that "everything—every single thing" would be all right. The shape of their bodies reminded Robert of a spider's abdomen. Mrs. Torence set her hand on his head. It felt heavy and hot and sweaty like an African toad.

  The sergeant asked Robert's uncle, "Do you mind if Officer Davies rides in your truck?"

  "I'll go get it," Uncle Alden replied. "Anything to help." He squeezed Robert's arm again, then jogged to his truck. Robert's m
om and dad stared silently. They'd become statues again.

  The Mounties stepped away to talk privately. Robert watched Sergeant Ramsden's lips move. Officer Davies stood straight, leaning slightly ahead. Occasionally he nodded or said something that could have been Yes, sir. The words of his superior officer flowed out and the younger Mountie received them as though he were a receptacle—there was another good word—to be filled with orders. Maybe the sergeant had given a special command. A royal one.

  Uncle Alden's old Ford truck rattled and hummed up the street and stopped near the sidewalk. Then Davies got in and spoke a few words. Robert wanted to slip in the open door and go with them, but the moment he had the thought, the door closed and the truck sped off.

  Sergeant Ramsden returned. "You three will ride with me."

  "You're not taking the boy, are you?" Mrs. Torence asked. "We'll watch over him until you get back." Her hand squirmed on his head and pushed him down as if he were a potato she was trying to plant. "The sandhills and the sage are no place for him."

  "The boy comes." Sergeant Ramsden didn't even look at them. "He's got good eyes and ears. And intuition."

  Mrs. Torence reluctantly removed her hand, and Robert felt lighter.

  "You take care, now, Robbie," one whispered.

  Robert followed his mother, climbing into the backseat of the Mounties' car. His father and the sergeant sat in the front.

  He tried hard to remember exactly what intuition meant.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They drove down Main Street. Three Chinese women stood outside the laundry wiping their hands on aprons, staring into the Mounties' car. Their long black hair was braided and tied back. A wisp of steam drifted out the door behind them. Somewhere inside the men were boiling water, turning handles on the pressing machine, squeezing the stains from clothes. The women seemed sad, Robert thought. They came from an old country, didn't they? A land of emperors and dragons. People disappeared there all the time, stolen by sinister men like Dr. Fu Manchu. These women would know what it was like to lose someone dear.