“What about the ponies?” asked Duck.
“Looks like they scattered after the walls collapsed. Powerful lucky they huddled in that back corner, otherwise they would’ve been crushed. We’ll have to round ’em up.”
As the gang crawled out of the secret room, freezing air blasted Keech’s face, and thick snow tumbled onto their hats and shoulders. He looked around in shock as Quinn swept his lantern around the church. Mercy Mission stood intact on the north and south ends, but the center of the building had been gutted, as if a giant bite had been taken out of it. The high rafters had disintegrated, and the walls had crumbled, creating a mound of wreckage that the young riders had to help one another scale.
There was no sign of the Chamelia or John Wesley.
“The monster must’ve run off with John’s body,” Duck said, grimacing.
Keech didn’t want to think too deeply about the creature’s grotesque reason for doing such a thing. All he knew was that their trailmate deserved a proper burial.
“The norther’s died down a bit, but the snow ain’t letting up,” Nat murmured. “We best round up the ponies.” He turned to Keech. “Why don’t you and Quinn stay and look for my Hawken. I dropped it after that devil attacked. And fetch a few blankets from the cellar. We’ll freeze if we don’t cover up proper.”
“Be careful. Keep your eyes open.” Keech didn’t like the notion of the group separating, especially with the Chamelia still on the loose, but Nat didn’t need the whole gang to gather the ponies.
Wrapped up in ponchos and blankets from the cellar, Nat, Duck, and Cutter set out into the wilderness to round up the horses, leaving Keech and Quinn to search through the rubble.
Bundled tightly in his own blanket, Keech followed Quinn’s lantern light and dug through Mercy Mission’s ice-covered wreckage. Through the snow, he spotted a glint of silver and soon uncovered both amulet shards. He slipped Pa Abner’s fragment over his neck and tucked it down his coat. He placed Duck’s shard into his coat pocket.
“What are those?” Quinn asked.
“Long story. But the quick answer is magic. They’re magical shards we’ve used to fight the creatures that have been after us. Didn’t work against the Chamelia, though.”
“Monsters and magic,” Quinn mused. “I feel like I’m living in a strange dream.”
They continued to kick through the rubble. Quinn pushed back a mantle of fresh snow with his oversized boot and pointed to a long, broken object lying under a stone. “There’s Nat’s rifle.”
Keech felt his heart drop as he lifted the Hawken from the icy debris. The collapse of the eastern wall had smashed the walnut stock to pieces. A large chunk of stone had also bent the barrel near sideways. The rifle was useless.
“Oh no,” Keech said.
“Maybe if Ranger Doyle catches up, he can outfit us with another gun,” Quinn suggested, his breath a solid white fog in the lamplight.
Outfit us. Keech smiled at the notion that Quinn Revels would ride on with the Lost Causes, even if only till they reached Wisdom and he rejoined his aunt Ruth. The kid was smart. Most important, the team could use a guide who knew the lay of the land.
“I want you to know, all that stuff that Nat said before—”
“About me being untrustworthy? He meant every word, and you know it,” Quinn snapped.
The reply momentarily jolted Keech. “I was gonna say that you’re in no danger with us. The gang you need to beware is the Reverend Rose’s brood.”
As soon as he spoke the name of that mysterious, malignant man, Quinn’s features twisted. “You mean the Big Snake gang?”
“Big Snake,” Keech said, pondering. That was what Bad Whiskey had called Rose’s cursed militia. He had said he was the Gita-Skog, the Big Snake that consumes all. Whiskey had tried to hide behind the Abenaki word, but Keech hated to use that name because they intended it as a word to be feared. Calling them rotten snakes felt far more accurate.
“So you’re telling me you know about Rose’s killers?” Keech asked.
Quinn made a low whistling noise. “Boy, do I. Not long after me and Auntie Ruth got to Wisdom and settled in, that low-down Friendly showed up with his hunters. He locked me and Auntie Ruth back in chains on account of our skin, locked up anybody else who dared to stand against him, and then he tossed poor Mr. Strahan inside one of his own jail cells. We didn’t imagine life could get worse, but a few weeks later, things got downright terrible when the Big Snake showed up.”
“I won’t call them by that name anymore. They don’t deserve to be feared.”
“You got no complaint from me,” Quinn said.
“Good. Now tell me more. When did they first come?”
Quinn shivered at the cold. “They rode in sometime in late September and took over Friendly’s operations. I never saw who led them, but a strange pack of men came along with them, men who shuffled ’round and never talked. Friendly told us he worked for them. They put everybody in chains to work around the town.”
A mountain of anger dropped on Keech’s soul. The Reverend Rose’s murderers had infiltrated Wisdom. “Are they still there?” he asked. The Lost Causes were counting on tracking down Sheriff Strahan—he was their best hope to find Bonfire Crossing. If Rose’s outlaws were still in town, that would complicate matters.
“Sure are. They set up shop and started working on something big.”
Keech felt his hands bundle into fists. “Did you ever see a big man in a tan coat, with a red beard parted up the middle? That’s Big Ben, the fella who killed Nat and Duck’s folks.”
Quinn pondered the description. “I don’t recollect a man like that, but as I said, I never saw the leaders, only the men who followed.”
The familiar song of a warbler echoed across the dark landscape, and Keech and Quinn glanced out across the chilled forest. Nat, Duck, and Cutter came riding up astride their ponies. Felix and Lightnin’ followed along at the ends of two lead ropes held by Cutter.
Reaching down from Chantico, Cutter handed Felix’s lead rope to Keech.
“Thanks,” Keech said, putting a hand on the pony’s neck. Felix returned the gesture by leaning his head into Keech’s shoulder. “Good boy. You’re okay now.”
Cutter glanced at the rope attached to Lightnin’. “I don’t know what to do with John’s horse,” he told the gang, staring blankly at the braid.
The Embry siblings kept their eyes trained on their saddle horns.
“I reckon we could sell him,” Nat said.
“That don’t seem right,” Duck replied.
“We can’t just turn him loose,” Nat said. “John Wesley would hate for us to do that.”
Cutter said, “I know what to do,” and he held the rope down to Quinn.
“Me?” said Quinn, blinking in surprise.
For a second, Keech thought he saw tears bubble up in both boys’ eyes. “He needs a good jinete. Someone strong,” Cutter said.
Quinn seemed at a loss for words, so he simply took the line. John Wesley’s gelding balked a little when the boy drew him closer, but the horse settled down when Quinn whispered a few nice words into his twitching ear.
Keech turned to Nat and lifted the piece of walnut stock he was holding. “I hate to break more bad news to you, Nat, but I’m afraid you’re gonna need a new gun.”
Nat regarded the broken walnut rifle the way a fellow might look upon a beloved pet who’d just perished. Shirking off his blanket, he dismounted Sally and took the busted walnut from Keech and gazed at it. “My pa gave me this gun.” He looked up at Duck, but she kept silent. “He told me, ‘As long as you carry this rifle, you’ll feel me near, protecting you.’ I’ve kept this Hawken near for almost ten years.”
“I’m sure sorry,” Quinn offered.
Nat pitched the broken pieces back into the rubble. “It don’t matter. Nothing matters.” He wiped at the corner of his eye.
Keech tried to change the subject. “Good news, though. Quinn’s gonna guide us on down to Wi
sdom.”
The rancher only grunted. “I ain’t sure we should even keep on.”
The bitter sound of defeat coming from Nat surprised Keech. He looked up at Cutter and Duck, but they, too, were speechless.
“I thought we could do it,” Nat continued. “We stopped Bad Whiskey. Sheriff Turner deputized us. Even your pa gave us his blessing. Everything was possible. I thought I could lead us on to stop the Reverend Rose. But now John Wesley’s gone, and it’s all my fault.”
“How was this your fault?” Keech asked.
“I led us to this mission and locked us into a trap. It was a foolish move. And at the end, I was so focused on getting me and Duck to safety, I forgot the rest of the team. I wasn’t there to save John.”
Spitting a loud Spanish curse, Cutter swiped at an errant tear on his cheek. “No, Embry. You don’t get to quit. We keep on to Wisdom, no matter what. We need to find Strahan and get to Bonfire Crossing. Keech’s pa said we could face Rose’s bandidos if we got there. That’s what we’re gonna do. Get our justice for John Wesley, for your folks, for everybody who fell on their path. Make them answer in blood.”
Nat threw his hands up, frustration shaking his entire frame. “I reckon you didn’t hear the news, Cut. Our sheriff is in jail. If we keep on to Wisdom, we’ll be placing ourselves in the hands of an outlaw named Friendly Williams and his bounty hunters.”
Keech grimaced when he spoke the next few words. “I don’t mean to bear more bad news, but Quinn’s told me something you’re not gonna like. Apparently, the Reverend’s gang has moved into Wisdom. From the sound of it, they run the town now.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Quinn added.
Nat hauled back and laughed in surrender. It was, perhaps, an even more haunting sound than the Chamelia’s howl, for it told Keech that Nathaniel Embry had lost his critical edge. More than ever, the Lost Causes needed their leader, and Nat was unraveling before their eyes. “The jig is up then. Riding on to Wisdom would be hopeless now that we’ve lost everything.”
“Not everything’s a loss,” Quinn said. He pointed to a bulge in the pocket of his tattered blue sack coat. “I snatched a couple more of those whistle bombs. Maybe we could use them on Rose’s killers. You know, if they try to cross us while we look for my auntie and free Mr. Strahan.”
“It’s a fool’s mission,” Nat said.
Gloomy silence overtook the group—till Duck stepped down from Irving and pushed up close to her brother, her nostrils huffing fog. She slipped the thick arms of her coat around his middle and squeezed. Nat’s stomach pushed against her wide-brimmed hat and shoved it backward on her head, but she didn’t stop hugging. As she pressed her face into his shirt, her words came back to Keech as a muffled whisper. “Remember what Ma and Pa used to tell us whenever we got down? ‘A person whose chin drags the ground never sees the sunset.’ Let’s make our folks proud, Nathaniel. Let’s find the sunset. It’s right there for us; we’ve just got to look up.”
Nat’s dismal face became a world of emotion.
“Let’s get on to Wisdom and find Strahan,” Keech said. “Let’s go for John Wesley.”
“I’m ready,” said Cutter. He yanked his coverings close around his arms. “Vámonos.”
Keech fished Duck’s amulet shard out of his pocket. “You probably want this,” he said to her. Duck slipped the pendant back around her neck and smiled.
Nat wiped his eyes with a trembling hand. “Okay, Lost Causes, let’s ride. For John Wesley. We’ll travel through the forest, avoid open roads, and be on the lookout for the Shifter. There may be more trackers on the hunt, too.” He glanced at Quinn as he spoke the last part. “We’ll need to be ready.”
A brilliant kind of light appeared in Quinn’s eyes. Keech couldn’t help recalling the tattered man in chains who had been dragged down the Big Timber street years ago, the man whose eyes had spoken of hopelessness and sorrow. There was pain in Quinn’s gaze, no doubt about it. But even more, there was fire and determination.
CHAPTER 9
ABOARD THE LIBERATOR
Numbing winds churned from the north and snowflakes drifted across the black sky as the Lost Causes plodded toward Wisdom, Kansas. Thick layers of snow and ice had covered the logging road, but Quinn read the forest well enough to point them south into the wilderness on a furtive route toward the Kansas River. Keech pulled his blanket and poncho close to his body and prayed for a warmer morning.
Before departing what was left of Mercy Mission, the young riders had stocked their saddlebags with the salted beef and corn from the cellar. Duck suggested they prepare a few torches for the next leg of the journey. “Fire was the only thing that slowed the Chamelia down,” she reminded them.
“I want a torch for myself,” Cutter said. “My magic knife never works, so I want something that does a little damage at least.”
Keech grabbed a jar of kerosene from the cellar and worked with Duck to wrap cotton rags around two splintered wooden shafts. They fashioned a pair of passable torches for Cutter and Nat, then soaked the rags in kerosene.
As the young riders started south, Quinn rode John Wesley’s gelding. He sat tall on the saddle, his face turned down against the wind. The boy had a calming effect on Lightnin’; the pony rode softly and without a single fuss.
“You’re good with John’s nag,” Keech said, impressed. “He took right to you.”
Quinn smiled bashfully. “I never got to touch a saddle back in Tennessee, but after me and Auntie Ruth lit out, I learned on the move. Picked up most of what I know from kind strangers who helped us.”
“I’d sure call you a natural,” Nat said, tipping the boy a nod.
The torchlight turned the territory’s snowy darkness into brilliant portraits of golden trees, gilded leaves, and dancing shadows as the group traveled. In a way, the silence of the deep night was all too perfect for their collective mood, giving the young riders a proper respite to think of the mission ahead and reflect on John’s loss. It also gave Keech time to think about the Chamelia.
He rode up to Cutter. “Okay, Cut, I think it’s high time you tell us what you know. Back when you first saw the tracks, you knew something.”
“Nothing that can help John,” Cutter said. He turned away quickly and coughed, but Keech had seen his bottom lip trembling.
“Tell us anyway. You said you saw something as a boy.”
“Yeah,” said Duck. “Any information can help.”
Cutter took a long, shuddering breath. “Back in Culpa, my old village, mi mamá used to tell me stories of monsters that roamed the Territories. Things not of our world, she said, but demonios that somehow slipped into our lands long ago.”
Quinn’s eyes widened. “That’s what Ranger Doyle said about the Chamelia! ‘From a different place,’ he said. Your mama must’ve seen the same thing.”
Cutter didn’t look comforted. “Maybe. As mi mamá told it, the monsters could mimic animals, sometimes even people, and they would sneak into towns and villages at night and leave strange signs that they were watching.”
“Did you ever see one for yourself?” Nat asked.
“No, but I saw strange tracks one day,” Cutter said, shuddering anew. “They were all around our sunflower garden. After I saw them, I couldn’t sleep for weeks.”
Cutter’s story was deeply unsettling, but another terrible disquiet scratched at Keech’s mind. Not once had he felt the amulet’s chill when the creature attacked, and the silver hadn’t sparked an ounce of light when it struck the thing’s hide. He turned to Duck. “Did you feel any sort of cold from your shard when the creature was near?”
Duck shook her head. “Nothing. What do you think that means?”
“I think it means this monster plays by different rules.” Keech paused to consider something else, something Duck had said back in Missouri. “Do you remember the first few hours after we met? You told me a story about a monster that ransacked your ranch. A monster that came with the man who killed your folks, Bi
g Ben, and tore down one of your barns?”
“How could I forget.” Duck tossed a grim look to her brother, then back to Keech. “But we only heard the thing, we never saw it. Do you think this is connected?”
“Well, I don’t reckon it’s a coincidence that thing attacked us. You saw the black mark of the Reverend Rose on its forehead. Just like the brand on Bad Whiskey’s horse.”
“We shouldn’t speak of these evil things,” Cutter croaked. His hand had crept back to the handle of his knife and gripped the carved bone.
Quinn gestured to the blade. “You shouldn’t be worried if that knife is magic as you claim.”
Nat chortled. “That pigsticker did no more good than those silver charms.”
“This knife is magic,” said Cutter. “My amigo, Bishop, told me a prophet spoke about it.”
“A prophet?” Keech said. “You never mentioned that back in Missouri. You just said it would kill El Ojo.”
“And it didn’t,” finished Nat.
Cutter opened his mouth to keep speaking, but then he closed it, as though he was holding something back, opting to glower instead. The hand gripping the bone handle returned to his reins.
The company fell into another dreary silence as it continued through the frigid night.
As Keech watched the flickers of light on the frosty oaks, his eyelids began to grow heavy. To keep his eyes open, he asked Quinn to tell them more about his aunt Ruth and how they’d come to know Tom Strahan. The rest of the riders steered their ponies closer to listen.
“I was nine years old when she took me out of Tennessee,” Quinn began.
“Nine?” Cutter said. “How long does it take to travel across a couple of states?”
“Long time when you’re on foot. Near four years all told. But Auntie Ruth’s the smartest person on Earth and kept us hid the whole time. Not only did she get me to Kansas, she also taught me all the skills I’d need to make it on my own.”
“Four years is a long time to run,” Keech mused.
“Thing is, I never noticed the time. Took us two years to get across Arkansas—for a while we kept house with a good family, even spent months holed up in some abandoned shack—but to me it felt like the blink of an eye. Auntie Ruth made the whole thing feel like a big adventure. She’d tell me the story of the Odyssey, how the Greek hero in that old yarn took a full ten years just to get back to his island.”
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 6
