“Go on,” Old Bill told her, a grim sort of fighting smile on his lips.
Sam’s thoughts kept dissolving, the word No repeating in his brain as images of Shyla smiling, her eyes agleam replayed in his memory.
Had to be a mistake. Had to.
“Let’s go,” Breeze told him. “I need your help getting the bike out of the truck.”
As they turned to leave, Sam heard the deputy: “Sure. Give a silly girl a big gun. My bet? If she ever gets close to action she’ll be so busy pissing herself, that if she gets a round off, it’ll be through her own foot.”
For a half second Breeze hesitated, probably considered going back and blowing chunks of his heart out through a hole in the middle of his back.
“Vermont,” Sam said as if in a trance. “That fat fucker said she was from Vermont.”
“Who?”
He didn’t answer as he dumbly followed her out the doors, just worked his mouth. Choking on something impossible.
Outside she lowered the tailgate, vaulted into the back of the Dodge, and released the turnbuckles. As she backed the bike, she called, “Sam, help me keep it upright.”
He pitched in with all the enthusiasm of old wood. Somehow, they managed to roll the BMW back and down without dropping the bike onto the unforgiving parking lot. She flicked out the kickstand and pulled the boogie bag from the back. As she strapped it on the back of the seat, Sam stood there, back arched, staring off to the west past Round Top hill.
Shyla’s still out there. Got to be a mistake.
Breeze fetched her helmet and worn jacket, squinting up at the slanting light. Maybe an hour or two left before sunset.
Sam said, “That guy said her body’s still there.” He tried to swallow. Couldn’t. “Please, Breeze. She’s... She’s... I’ve got to get to the ranch.”
She swung a leg over the seat, reached for the key. Got a good look at the desperation in his eyes.
“Oh, fuck.” She leaned the bike back on the stand, saying, “Yeah, help me repack this load.”
On the way out of town, Sam clinging behind her, they passed the fairgrounds where deputies were loading horses into stock trailers. The slanting sunlight glinted on rifle barrels.
“Mom wasn’t delusional,” she called over her shoulder. “They’re really coming.”
Death’s Head
Before the collapse, lots of people were into stylized skulls. They cast them into rings, painted them on motorcycles or sewed them onto jackets. Used them on art to promote music. Molded them into candles or cast them as hood ornaments or shifter knobs. Hung them on keyrings. Spray painted them onto walls or railroad cars. Death’s head skulls hung on bar and nightclub signs, and millions were tattooed on the arms, backs, and chests of guys and women who’d never seen a dead body, let alone an abandoned corpse, or real skull.
After the collapse, I never saw a death’s head used that way again. Those of us who survived? The death’s head didn’t need to be painted or tattooed. It peered out from behind our eyes.
— Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sam kept his fingers knotted in the tough fabric of Breeze’s coat as wind tore at his hair and pooled tears in his eyes. The heavy boogie bag pulled his shoulder down where it hung from the strap.
Through a slitted and watery gaze, he watched the familiar terrain pass. He’d never ridden on the back of a motorcycle, watched in curious unease as the ground flashed past just below his hiking boots. Breeze’s short black rifle jabbed uncomfortably into his thigh. All that, and somehow, he couldn’t make himself care.
Brain-numb, the time seemed to compress. Lost in moments with Shyla, he barely recognized when the bike chattered across the cattle guard and down the lane.
“Got a sheriff’s car, Sam,” he heard Breeze’s muffled voice from behind the curtain of her helmet. “If this goes bad, you drop like a rock, all right?”
“What?” he asked softly.
She obviously didn’t hear as she pulled into the yard, circled around, and stopped the bike before the barn door.
A single deputy stood from the chair where he’d been sitting on the porch.
As Sam climbed fragilely from the bike and swung the boogie bag down, the deputy racked a shell into the chamber in his shotgun. He came forward in a wary walk, as if feeling his way. His eyes focused, laser-like, on Breeze as she stepped off, unstrapped her helmet, and placed it on the bike’s mirror.
Unslinging the black rifle, Breeze called, “We going to war, Eddie?”
“Breeze? That you?” The deputy lowered the shotgun, a pleading on his face. “Please, Breeze. I don’t want to have to bury you.”
Breeze stepped up to the guy, her black rifle resting at half-mast. “You still married to Kelly Ann?”
“Yeah. Jennie’s just two. Little Cody’s four this year.”
“Eddie, we go back, you and me. Hell, you’re the guy gave me my first drink of whiskey. Remember that?”
“Wyoming State Fair. What? Six years ago? You finished fourth in the barrel racing finals. Thought the world had come to an end.” The deputy smiled. “I should have stopped at the first drink. The only reason I’m still alive is you didn’t tell your dad who got you drunk that night.”
“You in love with Kelly Ann and your kids?”
“What the hell kind of question’s that?”
Breeze cocked her hip, bracing the rifle on it. “You’re a good man, Eddie Lawson. You don’t want to be part of this. And I sure as hell don’t want to watch Kelly Ann crying at your grave.”
“Breeze, you don’t underst—”
“Go home, Eddie! That bastard Kapital is bringing a posse.”
“I know.”
“You swing that Mossberg around and shoot me. Right here.” She unzipped her coat and jabbed a thumb into her chest. “Come on. Do it. And look me in the eyes as you do.”
“Breeze, this is just crazy. You don’t—”
“You heard what kind of man Edgewater is? About why he came here? About the looting? Word is he’s taking girls. Arresting people who don’t lick his ass.”
Eddie made a face. “Breeze, those are just rumors.”
“Take the Anchor Dam road south so you don’t run into Kapital’s people. Go home to Kelly Ann, and if you have a lick of sense in you, hold her and love her, and wait until we can bring some sense to this.”
“Breeze, I swore an oath.”
“You torture yourself over getting an underage girl drunk? How are you going to live with yourself knowing you were part of what’s coming down now?”
Sam watched the deputy swallow hard, nod his head. Then Breeze gave the man a fierce hug, one made awkward by the weapons.
“Where’s Shyla Adams?” Sam heard himself call, the voice coming from another universe.
“Buried her,” the deputy answered over his shoulder as he walked hurriedly to his car. “Ask the old Indian.”
Buried her.
The words hammered around the inside of his head.
Sam stumbled aimlessly backwards into the barn wall. Propped himself against it. He stared dully at the ranch yard. Tried to piece it together: A black Chevy Yukon—its windows shot out—had been pulled to the side; the University van in front of the tractor shed; bullet holes that pock-marked the front of the house. The empty ranch yard where tires had spun and torn the gravel. Gleaming brass cartridge cases lay scattered across the ground.
And there, just before the door, the blackened blood stain in the beaten ground. Shyla’s?
He vaguely heard the deputy’s cruiser start, spin around, and roar off down the lane.
“Sam?” Breeze was there, like magic, staring into his eyes. Images of Shyla, like an old movie pastiche, flickering inside him. “Why did this...?”
“Because the world’s dying,” a familiar voice said, and Thomas Star appeared in the barn door; the .44 caliber Marlin that once sat on the rack inside the ranch door hung in his right hand.
Sam hadn’t felt himself sink to the ground, held up only by the barn. “Who killed her?”
“Tubb did when he saw there was no way. Shot her, then ran for his truck. He was the first one to run.”
“Saw him in town,” Sam whispered, “loading horses.”
“How you doing, Thomas?” Breeze asked. “Long time, no see.”
“Good to have you back. I thought I was going to have to shoot that deputy. Got Joker saddled for you. I put a pack saddle on Molly, and Old Tobe is saddled for Sam.”
“Joker? My saddle? How’d you know I was coming.”
“Spirits told me.” Thomas bent down, staring into Sam’s eyes. “Shyla’s body is buried on the hillside. The rest of her, her soul, has gone up the mountain with the others. That’s where she’s waiting for you.”
Sam blinked, trying to make sense, teeth gritted against the urge to sob. “She’s...waiting?”
“You need to be a warrior now.” Thomas stood. “Not much time. They’ll be here soon.”
“Thomas. Pack that army bag on Molly, if you would,” Breeze called over her shoulder as she ran for the house, clunking across the porch in her motorcycle boots.
“Come on. I need some help.” Thomas extended a hand and pulled Sam to his feet. “We don’t have much time. They’ll be here just about dark. You and Breeze need to be up the mountain by then.”
Tubb shot her? “Where is everybody? Meggan, Brandon, Amber, and the rest?”
“Up at the field camp with Willy.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because this is where I have to be. I’m in no danger.” Thomas grinned showing his stained yellow teeth. “I’m just the Indian who does old Bill’s chores for whiskey money.”
“But you don’t drink.”
“Those stupid taipo don’t know that.” He grinned. “Come on. Help me with that bag.”
Moving, working, just the mechanical motions allowed Sam to block off the grief. She shot one of the men who tried to take her.
And they were coming here. Bringing horses. Ready to track Brandon and the rest into the back country.
“What about the ranch? Will they burn it?”
“Nope,” Thomas said as he flipped the lash cinch around Breeze’s boogie bag. “It’s too nice a ranch. Tubb wants it for himself. No sense in busting up something you think is going to be yours.”
“What about the animals?”
“I’ll be sure they’re fed and watered.” Thomas tightened the diamond hitch, then fixed his dark eyes on Sam’s. “You and Breeze. When this is all over. Go to the cave. Do you understand?”
“What?”
“You will both need to heal. To have the death and corruption cleansed.”
At that moment, Breeze came hurrying out of the house transformed. She now wore western boots, slim jeans, and a thick flannel shirt. A black, scuffed cowboy hat with a stampede strap topped her head. A bundle of clothing was wadded in her arms.
“You about ready?” she called as she entered the barn and stuffed the clothing into one of Molly’s panniards. Then asked, “Whose sleeping bag?”
“Sam’s,” Thomas told her. “I figured he wouldn’t be thinking when he got here. His tent’s in there, too.”
Meanwhile her attention was fixed on Joker. She wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck, hugging him fiercely. “Hello, old friend. Do you forgive me?”
The horse nuzzled her shoulder, lips pulling at her coat, as she whispered, “I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.”
Breeze stopped, pulled back, and wiped at a tear. She studied the old man thoughtfully, then gave him a big hug, too. “You watch your ass with these guys. They’re itching to kill.”
“You, too, almost-a-daughter.”
She shot him a fleeting grin, slung her rifle, and swung into the saddle. “Use kaan kwaisi, almost-a-father.”
Thomas grinned as Sam clambered into the saddle. Then the old man thrust the Marlin into the empty saddle scabbard beneath Sam’s right leg, adding, “Bullets are packed in the right side of those saddlebags tied on behind your butt. Watch for Nynymbi, he’ll guide you.”
Like a passive observer from another universe, Sam watched the ranch pass as they rode out. From the higher vantage of horseback, he could see more blood spots now. In places he could see where bullet strikes had furrowed the dirt.
“Must have been a hell of a fight,” he heard himself say.
“You were face-to-face with Edgewater, what possessed him to attack us?”
“My wife,” Sam answered bitterly. “And I wasn’t here to keep her safe like I promised.”
“Yeah, well, the world’s a really fucked up place, isn’t it?”
He could see Breeze’s jaws knot as she stared bitterly ahead from beneath the brim of her hat.
“That last thing you said to Thomas. What was that?”
“Shoshoni. Translates to ‘in a packrat’s tail’. Sort of like ‘the end’ in English. A final goodbye.” Breeze kept studying the long shadows. “We’d better make tracks. It’s going to be dark before we’re up top as it is.”
“Why’d Thomas give you Frank’s horse?”
“Dad’s horse? Joker’s mine. My barrel horse. I trained him up from a foal.”
“I’ve never seen him ride any other.”
Her lips pursed. “Oh, Daddy. You’re such a soft touch.” She patted Joker on the neck.
Sam suffered a spear of grief. He had no homecoming. Nothing to look forward to.
Sure, there is. There’s standing over Edward Tubb’s lifeless body.
The Poser
I dismissed Sam right off the bat. I’d seen too much of the Line—that hard “I’m already damned” expression in the eyes of the men and women who’d been called upon to commit acts they thought were unconscionable. And seen them through.
Sam’s demeanor spoke of worry, a bit of insecurity, and discomfort with the world he now found himself in. Untested. Unsure. A sort of kite who’d be batted this way and that until an inevitable gust blew him into the power lines to incinerate.
Didn’t matter that he wore Mom’s old Model 10 Smith & Wesson stuffed into his pants. The guy was a poser. Soft. Like a sort of marshmallow.
And there I was. Enraged. The Death’s Head staring out from behind my eyes. Mom was shot. Might die. They were after my brother. Didn’t matter what was behind us. This was family.
And I was stuck with a sobbing city kid who’d just lost his girl?
But that was before slickside.
— Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The first hint of dawn cast a shine on the distant silhouette of the Big Horn Mountains. Between them and where Sam and Breeze had camped stretched a deep indigo shadow that filled the Basin.
Sam yawned, crawled out of his sleeping bag, and tossed sticks on the fire. Somehow, he’d managed to sleep. Had chewed his lips, knotted his fists, and raged until he was sure Breeze was asleep. Then he’d buried his head in the depths of the bag and wept. Punished himself for leaving Shyla alone.
If only I’d been there.
He shivered in the cold morning. Stared across the purple basin. Like he’d seen Brandon do, he leaned down. Blew on the coals until the sticks caught fire.
Breeze winced and stretched in her bedroll. “God,” she whispered. “Every muscle in my hips, thighs, calves, and lower back is sore. Haven’t forked a horse for three years.”
“Pam said it takes about a week.” He stared at the distant Bighorns. Thought that this was how God must see the world. The endless vistas. No wonder He let people like Tubb murder beautiful young women whose only crime was being beautiful.
When they had crossed slickside
the night before, Sam had stepped off Old Tobe. He had pulled the Marlin from its scabbard, saying, “This is it.”
“What’s it?”
“The place I’m going to be standing when they come.” His face a mask of determination, he’d declared, “This is the place I pay them back for what they did to her.”
She’d looked around. Considered. “Not a good place for a last stand. One of them will shoot you from those trees across the way.”
“They already took everything I lived for. What do I care?”
“Got a point there, Sam. But I’ll do you one better.” She’d pointed up the slope’s steep face. “I think we ought to set up there. Behind those rocks.”
He’d followed her eyes to the rocky outcrop sticking out from the mountain. “We?”
“What makes you think you’re the only dog in this fight?”
She’d led him to the second switchback above slickside and showed him an elk trail that ran back to a timbered cleft in the mountainside. Here they’d made camp on a tiny patch of level ground. Ate the sandwiches she’d found in the saddlebags and checked their equipment before rolling out their sleeping bags.
As Sam watched the flames lick around the firewood, it really settled in. This was his last morning. Shyla was dead. Mom, Dad, all of Hempstead, the whole East Coast, everyone he’d known. Gone. Like a nightmare gone wrong, he was going to wage war on a posse. After he killed Edward Tubb. They’d kill him.
And I don’t care.
He wondered if his laughter at the thought sounded insane.
Stepping to the edge of the timber, Breeze cocked her head and listened. Said, “Knowing townies, they won’t be saddled up and out of the ranch yard until full sunup.”
Breaking off a straight branch, she used her knife to sharpen the tip into a wedge and, Sam following, proceeded to wage war on the field of biscuit root and sego lily growing on the slope. With a pocket full of bulbs and roots, she stopped short, listening.
Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One Page 27
