“We’re the good guys!” Duck called out.
“Yeah, that’s what they always say.” The stranger’s eyes flicked to Cutter’s knife.
“Put that thing away,” Keech hissed.
Cutter flipped the long blade through his fingers—a show-off trick he liked to do for new folks he met—and then stuffed the knife back into its sheath.
Keech looked again at the kid in hiding. “My name’s Keech Blackwood. My partners and I call ourselves the Lost Causes.”
The boy remained frozen on the stairway. Duck’s lamplight revealed a black forage cap on his head, the kind of covering that US Army soldiers wore as part of their uniforms. The stranger frowned. “Lost Causes? What kinda name is that?”
“It’s from Saint Jude,” Duck said.
“It’s the name you take when you’re on a deadly mission that’s sure to get you killed,” Keech added. “We’re after a gang of ruffians who murdered our families.”
The kid pursed his lips. “I suppose y’all don’t look like bounty hunters.”
“Heavens no.” Duck laughed. “In fact, we scuffled with a rotten hunter just today. A fella who called himself Sunrise. Wore a big bear pelt, all dirtied up and ugly.”
“That’s the snake who’s been tracking me!”
“We were told you ran from Wisdom,” Keech said to the kid. “That’s where we’re trying to get to. There’s a person we have to see there. The sheriff. He goes by the name of—”
“Tom Strahan,” the boy answered for him, and his eyes lit up. “I know him. He’s a friend.”
“No way. You gotta be jokin’.” John Wesley turned back to Keech, his round face warming. “This can’t be coincidence, can it?”
After meeting the others who had been in pursuit of the same outlaw as Keech, he could not believe that mere coincidence was guiding them. Now, finding this young stranger in the wilds of Kansas Territory—a boy who had escaped the very town they were trying to find, a boy who claimed to know the lawman they were trying to reach—sealed the deal for Keech.
Granny Nell had always called matters of good fortune and chance providence—as in “Providence wills that you and Sam will be doing dishes today,” or “It’s pure providence, Keech Blackwood, that you know how to paint window shutters so well”—but Keech knew a much better word for what they were all experiencing: fate.
Outside, the Kansas norther raged against Mercy Mission’s roof. The brass bell at the front door clattered so furiously that Keech thought it would rip free from the arch.
After a moment, the kid said, “All right, if y’all step on back, I’ll come up.”
Once the entire troop had retreated, the boy climbed the remaining stairs, then stepped out onto the platform. The light of the lantern illuminated his getup. He wore a pair of muddy gray trousers, a torn brown shirt, and a ragged blue sack coat. His boots were too big for his feet. A man’s boots. About the right size to make a heel print near a Dakota pit, Keech figured.
The kid took a few seconds to peer into the dark corners of the mission. Keech liked how he checked his surroundings, peeked into the shadows. He was clearly a survivor. “Y’all have horses?”
“We do,” said Duck.
The kid’s left arm had been tucked behind his back, but now he brought it forward, revealing a thick wooden rod, a stick as big around as the neck yoke on a wagon. He held the rod out like a club. “If y’all try anything, I promise to put up a mean scrap.”
“We won’t make any sudden moves,” John Wesley said.
“In that case, I’ll introduce myself.” The boy raised himself taller. “My true name is Quinn Revels. I spit on the name ‘Oscar,’ shackled on me by terrible men. I am the son of George and Hettie Revels, who died in the cornfields of Tennessee. My mama died birthing me, my papa died while hiding me from slavers, and Auntie Ruth helped me escape out west to be a free man. I got a free body, I got a free soul, and I won’t ever wear chains again. Anybody tries to lock me up, I’ll kill them dead or die fighting.”
After a moment of silent contemplation, Duck stood. “No need to fight, Quinn Revels. You’re with friends.” The girl smiled. “Now come and sit with us.”
CHAPTER 6
THE STASH IN THE CELLAR
The cold air of Mercy Mission made them all shiver, so Keech suggested they build a small campfire in the aisle. “It’ll have to be a tiny one,” he warned. “We don’t want the church to fill up with too much smoke.”
“I can help with that,” Quinn Revels said. “I’m good at building campfires.”
The gang worked together to clear a large enough space to sit in the aisle. They gathered boards from a broken church pew and Quinn built the fire, a perfect construction of kindling and planks that smoldered with very little smoke. After he was done, Quinn sat on his knees before the crackling fire, keeping the wooden rod right next to him.
“All right, so y’all know my name. It’s high time you tell me yours,” he said.
The young riders went around the circle introducing themselves. Cutter didn’t give his real name, Miguel Herrera, but he did mention to Quinn that “Cutter” was a nickname given to him by his deceased friend, Frank Bishop. The gang followed their introductions with a quick recap of the Bad Whiskey situation and the battle at Bone Ridge Cemetery.
Quinn raised his hand as if in a schoolroom. “Y’all mentioned you was deputies of the Law, but you’re only kids like me. Were y’all just playing around, or are you truly the Law?”
“We truly are,” said Duck, grinning. “A sheriff by the name of Bose Turner deputized us back in Missouri. We don’t carry the stars yet, but he promised to give them to us when we returned.”
“I ain’t sure we’re Law in Kansas, though,” said John Wesley. “Jurisdiction and borders and such, but I’d have to consult a book on it.”
“You’ve never consulted a book in your life,” said Cutter, chortling.
“Well, I believe we are the Law,” said Duck.
“So do I,” Nat replied. “And we’ll carry ourselves as such. That may be the only thing we’ve got to get us through this mission.”
“What mission?” said Quinn.
Nat tossed a sudden glance at Keech, his frown suggesting he didn’t wish to speak openly about their undertaking.
Keech waved an unconcerned hand back at him. “Let’s just say our first objective is to find Sheriff Strahan in Wisdom. That’s what we’re focused on right now.”
“Well, I could point you to Wisdom, at least,” Quinn said.
The kid started to mention something else, a thought that had puckered his face in concern, but Duck interrupted him. “You’d go back there, even after escaping?”
Quinn loosed a long sigh. “I have to head back. Auntie Ruth’s still there.”
“You mentioned her before,” Keech said.
“Four nights ago, me and Auntie Ruth tried to escape Wisdom together,” Quinn said. “We ran a good mile from the burg, but Friendly Williams and his men caught up to us and hauled her up on a horse. She hollered for me to keep running. I wanted to stop right there and give myself up, but I didn’t. I kept going till I couldn’t breathe no more. By the time I was done, Friendly’s men was nowhere to be seen. But that didn’t make me feel no better.” At this, Quinn slipped off his US Army forage cap. “Auntie Ruth is all I got, you see. She raised me as her own in Tennessee after Mama and Papa died and taught me everything she knows. How to stitch, how to swim, how to read the alphabet, how to mend shoes out of buckskin. I’ve got to get her back, no matter what.”
“But ain’t Kansas a neutral territory?” asked John Wesley. “Why’re you running from bounty hunters in the first place?”
“Don’t ever think this territory’s neutral,” Quinn explained. “This whole place is a dried-up hay bale waiting for a lit match. You said terrible things happened in Missouri?” He paused to look at each of them. “Well, welcome to Kansas.”
Keech let a small silence fill the space before he
said, “Maybe we can help each other, Mr. Revels. Since we’re headed the same way and all.”
Nat looked irritated at the suggestion. “We can’t just uproot our mission to help a fugitive.”
“But it wouldn’t slow us any,” Keech protested.
“No, Keech. I can’t allow it.”
John Wesley gave Nat a hard look. “Hang your permission! We’re going the same direction. It only makes sense.”
Duck quickly changed the subject. “What happened after you ran, Quinn? How’d you end up here at the mission?”
Quinn gazed into the fire. “After I got separated from Auntie Ruth, I spent a couple nights in the woods. I kept on the move since the bounty hunters were about. I knew if I stopped for too long, I’d be a goner. I built a campfire not too far from here when, about two days ago, a mountain man stepped out of nowheres and grabbed me.”
“A mountain man,” Duck repeated. “In Kansas?”
“Well, I say mountain man ’cause he wears leathers over his clothes and such. He’s actually a Texas Ranger.”
Keech smiled in surprise. Pa Abner used to tell stories about Texas Rangers and their deeds at the Battle of Monterrey. To think a Ranger was in the territory made Keech’s skin tingle with excitement.
“What do you mean, he stepped out of nowhere?” Cutter asked Quinn.
“One minute I’m all alone in my camp, the next I’m in this rugged fella’s grip and his hand’s over my mouth. I thought he was one of Friendly’s trackers, but the man hushed me. Said the Chamelia was near. I’d never heard that word before, but I was sure scared, so I stopped fussing.”
The word sent spidery shivers down Keech’s neck.
“Then what happened?” Duck asked.
“The fella made a few weird-sounding noises, like some kind of chant,” Quinn continued. “We sat there, still as a couple of trees. Then something showed up.”
The gang exchanged uneasy glances.
“Tell us what you saw,” said Nat.
“It looked—I dunno—like a messed-up bull or buck, but that was only at first. It crept on past not ten feet away, sniffing at the air and flicking its pink tongue. I figured we’d be its supper, but then it stood up like a man and changed. It took on the shape of a giant coyote or wolf. Then it jumped into the trees and disappeared.”
“I told y’all those prints belonged to a Shifter!” Cutter exclaimed. Rising quickly, he began to pace in a nervous semicircle around the fire.
Quinn looked confused. “The Ranger called it a Chamelia, not a Shifter. He said it came from a different place, not our world.”
Cutter pointed at John Wesley. “See? I told ya.”
John Wesley shrugged. “Whatever it’s called, we saw the weird tracks it left. We couldn’t figure out what kind of animal had made them.”
“Truth is, it didn’t look like no proper animal,” Quinn said. “More like a demon sent by the Devil himself.”
“We shouldn’t be talking like this,” Cutter said. “We’ll invite evil right down on us.” Crossing himself, he stomped away from the group to visit the ponies. John Wesley squirmed to his feet and chased after him.
“Don’t mind Cutter,” Duck said. “He don’t like talk of the Devil, is all.”
The old rafters of Mercy Mission groaned under the norther’s assault, and they all looked up. “That storm’s gonna tear the roof off,” Nat said.
Quinn rose to his ungainly boots and brushed off his trousers, a fool’s errand since the old pants were caked in grime. “It’s safer down in the cellar. C’mon. I’ll show y’all something.”
Duck reached for the lantern, but Quinn stopped her. “You can leave that for your friends. I got another one downstairs.”
Keech and Nat followed the boy to the trapdoor on the stage, and Duck brought up the rear. As he led the way down the stone steps, Quinn explained, “After the Chamelia left, the man in leathers brought me to this mission. He told me to hide down here till he came back.”
“So he’s the one who slid the pulpit over the trapdoor,” Duck said.
“He said to lay low, but when I heard your voices, I had to peek and see who it was. I just forgot the pulpit was sitting over me, and it near toppled when I sneaked a look.”
“This friend of yours, the Texas Ranger. Where is he now?” Nat asked.
“He’s out searching for his trail partner, a fella named Warren Lynch. I gathered he went missing a while back. Mind your noggins. The ceiling’s low here.”
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the darkness of Quinn’s secret room was almost as complete as the Floodwood cave. Through the murk, Keech detected a strange odor. Oily and somewhat sweet, like a bundle of fruit.
“What’s that smell?” asked Duck.
Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped into the frosty gloom of the cellar and fell silent for a moment. Then Keech heard the strike of a safety match, and dull yellow light lit up the hidden chamber.
The cellar was smaller than Keech thought it would be, supported by a low ceiling of wooden beams cluttered with ancient dirt. A disheveled cot sat up against a nearby wall, and beside the cot, a stack of folded blankets and ponchos. A few burlap sacks of horse feed had been heaped on the stone floor, and three flat wooden crates were stacked in the far corner, unmarked. Keech also noticed a large barrel of drinking water sitting by the stairs, and standing in the middle of the room was a clumsy-looking table stocked with sacks of corn and salted beef.
“Glad to see you’re well supplied down here,” Keech said.
Quinn surveyed the room with a proud face. “The food was here when the Ranger hid me. Some folks in these parts like to help people on the run. They keep the room stocked so anyone can hole up till the trackers have moved on.”
“‘Upon this rock, I will build my church,’” Duck quoted, clearly impressed at the secret chamber. “Maybe that’s why this mission was built in the middle of nowhere, because they had protection in mind when they put it here.”
“I suppose so,” Quinn said. “I plan to bring Auntie Ruth here when I get her out of Wisdom. We’ll rest up before we leave Kansas.”
“Where will you go?” Keech asked.
The dull lamplight captured Quinn’s buoyant, hopeful eyes. “To the Free States, of course. I want to go to Boston, Massachusetts. Maybe Auntie Ruth could start her very own sewing shop.” When he glanced back at Keech, his face went abruptly grave. “Let me show y’all why I brought you down here. C’mon.”
He led them across the room to the stack of flat wooden crates and lifted the lid off the topmost box, revealing piles of brownish hay used for packing.
“What’s in there?” Nat asked.
Quinn looked at each of them. “I know you don’t rightly trust me yet, and I ain’t got a reason to ask you to believe what I’m saying. But if we go to Wisdom together, I may be able to help your team more than you think.”
“How?”
“Wisdom ain’t what you’re expecting. It used to be a nice place, but it’s changed. You won’t be able to stroll into Wisdom and find Sheriff Strahan. He’s been arrested. Friendly Williams hauled him into custody not long before I ran.”
Keech felt his teeth grind painfully at the bad luck. He had hoped their Kansas operation would be a snap, that the young riders could find Strahan in a matter of days, question him about Bonfire Crossing, then move on to the next plan. But now they had a slaving fiend named Friendly Williams standing in their path.
“So what’s your proposition?” Nat asked.
Reaching inside the flat box, Quinn withdrew a black sphere the size of a large onion from the packed hay. The ball sat perfectly in his palm, the surface shiny, as though it had been dipped in oil and hadn’t quite dried, but no liquid rubbed off on his hand.
The crate held a few more of the peculiar orbs. The oily, fruity smell was coming from the objects.
“The man who saved me calls these whistle bombs,” Quinn said.
“Bombs?” Duck took
a cautious step back from the crates. “But they don’t have a wick to light.”
“I suppose a fire could set them off without a wick, but the Ranger told me when you squeeze them, the insides mix up and you hear a big whistle, then boom. Apparently, these here boxes got too wet to be relied on, but he warned if I happened to squeeze one, or get a flame too close, it could still go off. He said if I hear a whistle, I best run for my life.”
Sudden clarity struck Keech concerning Quinn’s thoughts. “You plan to use these whistle bombs on Wisdom.”
Quinn smiled, though his face looked severe. “I’m gonna head back to Wisdom and free Auntie Ruth, then I’m gonna use these whistle bombs, at least the ones that still work, to blow that whole wicked town to kingdom come. You Lost Causes can come with me. I’ll take care of my auntie, but I want your help getting Sheriff Strahan out before the fire comes down.”
Keech glanced at Nat and Duck, who both looked skeptical.
Nat leaned forward to inspect the contents of the crate. “Your friend, the man in leathers. Does he have a name?”
“He goes by the name of Edgar Doyle. I call him Ranger Doyle.”
The sound of a heavy thump upstairs jarred their attention.
“What in blazes was that?” Duck said.
Nat dashed back to the stairwell and peered up. “Sounded like a knock.”
Suddenly, Keech heard Cutter and John Wesley rush across the platform.
“Y’all need to get up here pronto!” came Cutter’s frantic voice.
“Somebody just banged on the front door!” John Wesley added.
They all hurried up the stairs and sprinted to the north end of Mercy Mission. Thunder cracked outside, again and again, a constant pounding that rattled the church’s heavy oak door: thud thud thud.
Duck grabbed the lantern they had found earlier. “Could it be the storm? Maybe a tree limb banging against the door?”
Keech plucked the amulet shard out of his coat, but the shard failed to register any hints of strange cold or unnatural light. “Whatever’s out there, I don’t think it’s a thrall or a crow.”
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 4
