The Dark Land

by Jory Sherman

  He stretched out his legs and felt the weariness seep through him. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he sat down. His eyes burned from the wind and there was sand in his ears and nostrils. He scraped some of it away and then closed his eyes to give them a rest. Outside, the wind keened like a banshee howling over an Irish bog and he wondered how they had made it this far, to shelter, in such a blow.

  This night, he thought wryly, was truly not fit for man nor beast. It reminded him of another such windstorm, not long after he and Mary had been wed and he had brought his bride home, to live on his ranch. They had been happy, at first, but Mary was a city girl, and unused to the wild places, the long distances between neighbors, the seeming emptiness of a land that seemed to stretch forever and could, to her eyes, be bleak and harsh and cruel.

  Mary was not prepared for the wind that came up that day. She had spent the morning planting seeds in their garden that spring. He was breaking a horse out in the corral, keeping an eye on the northwestern sky where the clouds had started to build, billowing up into great white thunderheads as the warm Gulf air surged up and crossed the Rio Grande, sped northward and westward into cooler air.

  “Brad, look at the pretty clouds,” Mary said, looking up at the sky. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful day.”

  “Storm coming.”

  “Good. Maybe we’ll get some rain on the seeds I’ve been planting.”

  “Might be some wind with that.”

  “The clouds seem to be moving very fast.”

  “Mary, I’ve got this horse gentled down. I’m going to throw a saddle on and take her for a ride.”

  “Be careful,” she said.

  The horse stood for the saddle, but the minute he boarded the mare, she bunched up her muscles and took off, straight-legged. The saddle turned into a hurricane deck as the horse twisted, fishtailed, humped, bucked, and tried to rub him off on one of the fenceposts and all of the rails. It was as if she had a burr under her blanket the way she contorted and whipped him this way and that, trying to unseat him. When she hit the ground, all four legs rigid as iron track, the shock ripped through his spine and rattled his brains.

  “Brad,” Mary called.

  The mare ran around in circles, trying to escape, trying to toss him into the air, trying to flip him, but he stayed with her until he wore her out.

  “Brad,” Mary called again.

  “Got her, Mary.”

  “No, look.” She stood in the garden and pointed to the sky.

  The white clouds were now coal-black and bulging with rain. They had moved closer and were coming on fast.

  Then the wind hit and Mary screamed as her dress flapped and whipped and clung to her body. She leaned into the wind.

  He led the horse into the barn and pushed her into a stall. He unsaddled her quickly as the wind rattled the door and made the walls quake. He had no time to rub the mare down, but went outside, bolted the barn door shut, and looked toward the garden. Mary leaned into the gusting wind, turned, and then pitched headlong to the ground as a mighty blast of air struck her backside.

  He ran to her, picked her up. By then, the wind was roaring at them, a stiff, straight-line wind that almost made his knees buckle. He struggled with her to the house. It took him three or four minutes to get the door open. He shoved Mary inside and then put his shoulder down as the door tried to slam shut. Inside, he bolted the door and led Mary to the divan in the front room.

  “This’ll be the safest place.”

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice laden with bewilderment. “What’s happening?”

  “A big blow. We’ll be all right.”

  “Brad, I’m scared.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here. Just got some things to do.”

  The house shook violently as the hard winds hit it and when he looked out the window, all he could see was dust in the air, moving toward them like a gigantic twister. In seconds, the garden, the fields, the corral and the barn, and the outhouse were all obscured by the blowing dust.

  He hung blankets over the windows, but had no water to dampen them. The house began to fill with pulverized earth and grit and dust. Dust seeped in under the door and through every opening. The air inside was thick with it and Mary began to cough, struggling for breath.

  He crammed sheets and blankets under both the front and back doors to try to keep out the blasting dust. The blankets helped some, but the winds increased in velocity and the house was pummeled by ferocious blasts that threatened to tear their shelter from its foundation and blow them clean to the Nueces.

  Mary grew hysterical and began to scream. Then he started praying. Next, she cursed the wind, Texas, Brad, and God.

  “I’m leaving when this is over,” she said. “I hate Texas. I hate you for bringing me here. God, we’re going to die, I know it.”

  “We’re not going to die, Mary.”

  “Damn you, Brad. You bastard. You had no business bringing me out here to this desolate, godforsaken place. Nobody can live here. My seeds have all blown away, every last one of them.”

  She began to sob and he couldn’t stand to see her like that, but she beat at him with her fists when he tried to comfort her and she cursed him until the sand-filled air was blue.

  Mary finally buried her face in her hands, doubled over on the divan, and just kept crying. The wind blew all afternoon and into the night and she finally fell asleep, choking and gasping on the dust inside the house. He covered her with a blanket when the rain and hail began to pelt the house, rattling it from baseboard to rafters.

  The rain and the hail sounded like flung buckshot, and the wind kept up, roaring in his ears as he wondered all night if they were going to be struck by a twister. He expected the house to be flattened at any minute, either crushing them to death or leaving them at the mercy of the wind. He imagined being sucked up into a dark funnel and flung like dolls to the ground several miles away. He had seen twisters do that to people and structures.

  Sometime before dawn, the wind eased and the hail melted on the ground as the rain shrank to a drizzling patter. Mary awoke at dawn, when it grew suddenly quiet as the storm passed on. She stood up, her hair in tangles, and walked to the front window. She jerked the blanket down. Dust danced in the air as it fell to the floor. She looked out the window and saw bare paths carved by the rushing water. Her garden was gone, the dirt and seeds washed away. All that was left was a sheet of glistening clay that had been beneath the topsoil. It looked as if a flash flood had roared through, leaving nothing behind but devastation.

  “This place,” she said, turning from the window. “It’s not fit for man or beast.”

  Her words had sent a shudder through him that he could still feel, even at this moment.

  A few moments later the front door opened and Brad felt the rush of air, the sting of the blown dust. Lou entered first, carrying Brad’s rifle, saddlebags, and bedroll, followed by Paco and Gid, carrying their gear, stumbling into the room, propelled by wind and weariness. Lou shut the door and dropped Brad’s things on the floor before rehanging a blanket over the door and scooting a soggy dirty towel against the bottom to keep the grit out.

  “Thanks, Lou.”

  “Nice new rifle, Major.”

  “No more ‘Major,’ Lou. The war’s over.”

  “I’ve got whiskey. I can make coffee. Gid, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Last time I saw you, you were chasin’ Yankees across the Rio.”

  “Did you meet Paco, Lou?”

  Reeves looked at the Mexican and shook his head. He didn’t offer his hand, and turned away. Brad didn’t push it. Some Texians still did not like Mexicans or Spaniards or the French. It was an awkward moment and he felt sorry for Paco, but sometimes feelings got hurt when strangers first met up. He expected he might be able to change Lou’s mind about Paco, at least, even if he couldn’t remove the resentments he bore against all foreigners.

  “What’ll it be, Maj—Brad? Gid?”

  “Whiskey
’s fine,” Brad said.

  “It’s corn,” Lou said.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Anything wet’s fine with me,” Gid said.

  “I’ll put water in it,” Lou called from the kitchen. “If Chambers didn’t swaller it all.”

  “You’ve got enough water in there to float a small boat,” Brad said. Then, to Paco, “Qué quieres, mi amigo? Agua? Café? Algo más fuerte?”

  “Nada,” Paco replied. “No quiero nada.”

  “Don’t you be jabberin’ that Mex shit, Chambers,” Lou said. “We speak American in my house.”

  Brad walked into the kitchen, retrieved a glass from a cupboard, and picked up the pitcher he had drunk from. He poured the glass full and set the pitcher down. “Paco’s just as thirsty as Gid and me,” he said. “You don’t mind me showing him a little human kindness, do you, Lou?”

  “I don’t cotton to Mexes.”

  “He won’t hurt you.”

  “Damned right.” Lou finished pouring whiskey into three glasses and then he splashed some water in two of them. “Give that greaser all the goddamned water he wants, for all I care.”

  “Your compassion overwhelms me, Lou.”

  “Huh?”

  “Skip it.”

  Brad walked into the front room and handed the glass of water to Paco. Paco nodded in gratitude and drank the whole glass in one swallow. “Want more?” Brad asked.

  Paco shook his head, wiped his mouth, and handed the glass back to Brad. Brad set it down on a table and waited for Lou to hand him a glass of whiskey and water.

  “Thanks, Lou,” Brad said, taking the glass.

  “You see all them papers on that table yonder?” Lou asked, handing a drink to Gid, keeping the straight one for himself.

  Brad glanced at the table between the front room and the kitchen. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at scattered sheafs of papers in disarray atop the table.

  “Me’n Randy both got served them yesterday by a pack of Yankee carpetbaggers.”

  “What do the papers say?” Gid asked, sipping from his drink. His eyes were rimmed with dust and dirt, giving him the appearance of a curious raccoon.

  “They say we’re going to lose our spreads for back taxes, all kinds of war assessments, you name it. Seems like the government, what still owes me soldier’s pay, wants to grab my land. One of those jaspers had the goddamned gall to ask me if I would sell for a nickel an acre. When I told him no, he offered me a dime. I should have shot every one of the bastards, especially that goddamned traitor what was with ’em.”

  “You mean they can just take your land like that?” Gid asked.

  Brad said nothing. He sat there, mulling over what Lou had said. He swallowed some of his branch and whiskey, then walked to the table and riffled through the papers.

  “That’s what they said,” Lou replied. “Gave me ninety days to come up with the taxes I owe and all the other fees and assessments or they’ll take my land for nothin’.”

  “Jesus,” Gid said, as Brad picked up a document and read it.

  Lou glanced over at Brad. “Well, don’t that fair beat all, Brad?”

  “It all looks official,” Brad said. “And mighty suspicious.”

  “What do you mean?” Lou asked.

  “Looks to me like someone’s out to grab your land and pulled some strings in Austin.”

  “Anything I can do about it?”

  “You can come work for me and pay up your liens and taxes.”

  “You got a job for me?”

  “A manhunter’s job,” Brad said.

  “Well, if it pays well enough, I’ll surely do it. I didn’t have much left when I got back. Randy neither.”

  “I know,” Brad said. “Who was the traitor you mentioned? I thought you said these men were Yankees. Carpetbaggers.”

  “Well, the one what offered me a nickel and a dime an acre was a damned bluebelly, that’s for sure. The other’n, he was like a-showin’ this Yankee around. From the sound of his voice, I’d say he was a Texian.”

  “Did either of the men have names?”

  “The Yankee carpetbagger was a man named Grimsby or something like that.”

  “What about the other one? The Texian?”

  “I heard this Grimsby feller call him Thorne.”

  “Abel Thorne?” Brad asked.

  “I didn’t get no first name. Just Thorne.”

  Gid and Brad exchanged glances. Brad’s mouth warped into a slow sidelong smile.

  “What?” Lou asked.

  “Abel Thorne, Lou. That’s the man I’m after.”

  Lou sat down, stunned. Gid heaved a sigh and finished his drink. Paco walked over to a corner of the room and sat down. Brad stood there, listening to the howl of the wind.

  Now, he thought, some things were starting to make sense. It would take some sorting out, but when the blow was over, they could ride to Randy Dunn’s place and talk to him. If he came with them, they had a good chance of catching Thorne before he did any more damage.

  But the whole thing was beginning to smell of politics and he didn’t like it one damned bit.

  12

  * * *

  RANDY DUNN LOOKED up from the anvil, to see the riders emerge on the horizon, tiny moving specks at the edge of the flat plain that was now almost all mud from the rains of the night before. He twisted the tongs holding the horseshoe, bent it over the anvil, and hammered at the part of the shoe that was glowing cherry-red.

  Sand and dust covered everything in sight. The winds had dropped off just before dawn, but they had kept him awake most of the night. He had put the horses up in the barn when the winds first started building and they had nickered and whinnied to get out in the corral while it was still dark. He knew that they must have had a miserable night, too. Underneath the wind, he could hear them trying to kick their stalls down to escape the dark confines of the barn. He still hadn’t inspected everything, but at least the roofs of the house and barn hadn’t blown away during the long night of ferocious winds.

  Quickly, he dipped the hot shoe into the vat of cold, murky black water and listened to the metal hiss and sizzle. Then, he set the tongs down and checked his side-arm, a New Model Remington .44 that had been converted from percussion to centerfire.

  Then he stepped inside the barn a few paces and reached for the heavy Henry rifle. He picked it up, jacked a cartridge into the chamber, and stepped further back into the shadows.

  Dunn was a burly man, muscular, with a florid, round face, a small handlebar mustache, reddish hair that was almost the color of rusted iron, trimmed sideburns that turned to wire if he didn’t keep them cropped down, pale blue eyes and a jutting chin that bore a crease at the bottom center.

  “Now who in the hell can that be?” he said to himself, and checked his pistol again to see if it was loose in his holster. He looked at the specks on the horizon as they grew larger. But there was still no definition yet. He didn’t know if there were three riders or four and he had to look away when he felt the strain on his eyes.

  His boots were covered with mud, just like the rest of the yard around his house and barn. He had been up on the roof before dawn repairing a leak that started during the night when the rain poured through a hole left by a shingle that had been ripped away by the wind and hail.

  The riders were coming from the direction of Lou’s place, but that didn’t mean anything. He didn’t expect Lou to come by today. They had talked out their visits by that Yankee carpetbagger, the traitorous Thorne, and his pistolero compadres. He had flat-out told Thorne that if he wanted his land, he’d have to come and take it by force and he would shoot the first son-of-a-bitch that came again with papers, be it a marshal or a land grabber.

  But, if this was more trouble from that bunch, they sure as hell weren’t waiting no ninety days to foreclose on him, the bastards. He had bought this land with hard-earned cash and had paid for it many times over in blood and sweat. By the gods, no Yankee carpetbagger was going to take it away
from him, not as long as he was alive, anyway. He had defended against Apaches and Comanches before the war and he wasn’t going to give it up because of a few pieces of paper. The land was all he had, all he cared about, and he would die before he would just give it away. He had fought in a war to keep it out of Yankee hands and he’d fight for it again until he drew his last breath.

  The horses warned him.

  He had a half-dozen Mexican horses in the corral and they started kicking up a ruckus that woke him up before dawn. The mares were screaming, the colts were bleating in high-pitched squeals, and the gelding was whinnying in his gruff voice that signified danger. One of the mares was trying to kick the poles down. When he looked out, he saw the horses milling and smashing their bodies against the gate.

  His first thought was that a rattlesnake had come into the corral; then he thought of wolves. It was just beginning to get light, but he was already dressed, had eaten breakfast, and was having a last taste of coffee. He strapped on his cap and ball .36 caliber Navy Colt and grabbed the double-barreled Greener by the door. It was loaded with double-ought buckshot and he knew the powder was dry because he had just loaded it the night before. Snakes had been a problem all that spring, with copperheads and pygmy rattlers coming out of the low wetlands to get at his chickens in the henhouse, or to catch the rats and mice that had taken shelter under the house during the winter.

  He spoke to the horses as he approached and one or two of them settled down. He stepped inside the corral, climbing through the poles.

  “What’s the matter?” he said, his voice soft and soothing. “Did you see a snake?”

  The horses seemed reassured by his presence and he spoke to each one, patting them on their necks, and that’s when he saw them, two at first, then two more, out of the corner of his eye. Apaches on foot, skulking toward the corral.

  He stood next to one of the horses, his hand on its withers. The horse was between him and the approaching Indians. He reasoned that if he stood still, he could not be seen easily in the dim light of the dawn.