Leaving Epitaph: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

26

The Shayes camped between Lawton and Oklahoma City. There wasn’t much else in between the two, but they had outfitted enough in Lawton to be able to make the trip, as long as they rationed their food and drink well enough. Actually, they didn’t even need to ration it, just manage it so it would last another hundred miles.

“If they’re really going to Oklahoma City, then we’re only a couple of days good ride behind them, ain’t we, Pa?” James asked.

“That’s about right.”

“Whether or not we catch up to them,” Thomas said, “depends on how long they stay there—that is, if they’re really goin’ there.”

“I think that sheriff was too afraid of Pa to lie to him,” Matthew said.

“Is that right, Pa?” James asked. “He was scared of you?”

“Maybe he just wanted to do the right thing,” Shaye said.

“Pa,” James said, “tell us some stories about when you was an outlaw.”

Shaye looked across the fire at his youngest son.

“Why?” he asked. “Why would you want to hear about a time in my life I’m not proud of?”

“Because you’re my pa,” James said. “And in the last couple of days I guess I figure we don’t know as much about you as we thought we did.”

Shaye remained silent.

“And maybe,” Thomas said, “maybe we didn’t know as much about Ma as we thought we did…and now she’s dead. Maybe we don’t wanna have questions about you, Pa, when you ain’t around to answer them.”

Now Shaye examined the faces of all three of his sons in the flickering firelight.

“Fair enough,” he said at last. “I won’t tell stories, but I’ll answer your questions.”

“Okay,” James said, “me first. You ever kill anybody?”

“Before or after I put on a badge?” Shaye asked.

“Not while you’ve been Sheriff Dan Shaye,” Thomas said, “but back when you were Shay Daniels.”

Shaye took a deep breath. “Shay Daniels killed some men, yes.”

“How many?” Matthew asked.

“To be honest,” Shaye said, “I never counted. I never murdered anyone, though. I wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t Jesse James or Billy the Kid.”

“But you were good with a gun?”

Shaye held his right hand out. At the moment it was big, with thick fingers, a powerful hand.

“My hands were different then,” he said. “They were like Thomas’s hands. That’s why Thomas is good with a gun and Matthew isn’t.”

“And me?” James asked, holding out his hand.

“You have your mother’s hands, James.”

“Oh, great,” he said, drawing his hand back quickly.

“Thomas has her hands too, really, but apparently the speed I had when I was his age. Now my hands are too thick, I often have to double reach for my gun before I get it out of my holster, make sure it’s secure in my palm. Back then…” His eyes got a faraway look. “…I was fast, real fast, and I let it get the better of me.”

“How do you mean, Pa?” James asked.

“Like most young men,” Shaye said, “I thought being fast made me special. I thought being able to outdraw other men, and maybe kill them, made me different.”

“And it didn’t?” Matthew asked.

Again Shaye looked at all his sons before speaking.

“It made me the same as everybody else, boys,” he said. “Your mother is the one who made me different, or special. The fact that she chose me made me special. And I learned from her that being able to handle a gun wasn’t special at all.”

Thomas reached down and touched the smooth handle of his gun. He was fast, and he could hit what he shot at. He thought that made him special. Now he was being told different. If that didn’t make him special, then what would? His mother often told him he was special, but he knew she probably said that to Matthew and James as well.

“Did you ride with anyone famous?” James asked Shaye, but Thomas wasn’t listening anymore….

Shaye had set watches ever since they left Lawton, mostly for the boys to get into the habit, not because he thought they were in actual danger. There was always a chance the Lawton cowboys might decide they weren’t satisfied with the outcome of the arm wrestling incident. There was also the possibility they’d run into Indians—Cheyenne or Arapaho, and later some Cherokee—but there were only four of them and they obviously were not transporting anything of value. Even if and when they turned north and went deep into Indian Territory, Shaye didn’t anticipate any problems.

Matthew had first watch, James second, Thomas third. Thomas woke Shaye for the fourth and final watch.

“Get some sleep, Thomas,” he said as he settled down by the fire. “We’ll get an early start come morning.”

“I slept plenty before James woke me,” Thomas said. “I’d like to set a while with you, Pa.”

“Okay.” Shaye knew Thomas had something on his mind. He decided to let his son get to it in his own time. He poured them each a cup of coffee.

“Can I ask you somethin’, Pa?”

“You can ask me anything, Thomas.”

“Pa, I worked real hard to become good with a gun.”

“I know you have, son.”

“Why did I do that?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t know?”

Thomas hesitated, then said, “I thought I did.”

“Well, tell me what you thought you knew.”

Thomas hesitated again before answering, then said, “I thought it was important.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to be a lawman, like you.”

“Have you? Since when?”

“Since…well, I guess since we moved to Texas and you became sheriff.”

Shaye recalled that it was only after he started wearing a badge that Thomas began asking for a gun. Mary was worried about that. She didn’t want any of her boys to follow in the footsteps of their father—any of the footsteps that he’d left, past, present, or—he assumed—future. Not that she wasn’t proud of her husband—she was—but she just didn’t want to have to worry about any of her other men…when they became men.

She and Shaye had words over when Thomas should be given a handgun, and in the end Shaye’s will had prevailed. Thomas began practicing with an unloaded gun when he was thirteen. He got bullets when he turned fifteen. By that time, though, he was a dead shot with a rifle and did much of the hunting for the family.

“So why are you asking the question now, Thomas?”

“Because of what you said earlier,” Thomas said, “about being able to handle a gun not making you special.”

“You don’t need a gun to make you special, Thomas.”

The younger Shaye did not respond.

“I see,” Shaye said. “You thought it did make you special.”

“Yes.”

“So now you don’t feel special.”

Thomas put down his coffee cup and spread his hands. “What is there about me now that makes me special?” he asked.

“First of all,” Shaye said, wishing Mary were there to answer the questions, “what makes you think you need to be special? Why can’t you just be…normal?”

“I…don’t know,” Thomas said. “I just thought…it was important.”

“And who knows what makes someone special, Thomas?” Shaye said. “You’re still young. There is plenty of time for you to…become special.”

Thomas gazed out into the darkness.

“I wish your mother was here,” Shaye said. “She was so much better at this than I am.”

Thomas turned his head and looked at his father. “You’re doin’ fine, Pa.”

“Am I?”

Thomas stood up and patted his father on the shoulder. “Yes, you are. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Shaye watched as Thomas walked to his bedroll and rolled himself up in it. His oldest son had just put aside his own questions and doubts to reassure his father about his.

Shaye thought Thomas was pretty special.