The Dark Land

by Jory Sherman

  “Men, this is old Grimley,” Thorne said, “a Union carpetbagger come down from Washington to collect taxes from the poor Texians. You look hungry, Grimley. Want something to eat? That’s prime beef on the spit yonder. Don’t know if the taxes have been paid on it, though.”

  Grimley saw the fire, then, under a beef carcass run through with a thick willow pole, a man standing beside it, slowly turning it so that it would cook evenly. Atop another fire stood a blackened kettle full of boiling water. Steam rose from the kettle and it carried the aroma of cooked onions and yams or potatoes. Grimley’s stomach swirled with hunger pangs, but the ball of fear was still there and he feared he might start to shiver.

  “I am a bit hungry,” Grimley said, and the men all laughed. All except Thorne, who pointed to him.

  “From the looks of that belly, Grimley, you ain’t gone hungry much,” Thorne said.

  The men laughed again.

  “Light down, Grimley,” Thorne said, “and get you a plate. The boys will take care of your horse. Pa, give old Grimley a plate and a fork.”

  Grimley followed Thorne’s gaze and saw the man who had led the pack horse for all those miles.

  “That’s your father?” Grimley asked Thorne.

  “Why, shore, didn’t I introduce you? That’s Blackjack Thorne, my pa. That don’t keep him from callin’ me a bastard from time to time.”

  The men roared with laughter and Thorne swung out of the saddle. Grimley dismounted and waddled over to Blackjack, who reached down and picked up a tin plate and a fork from a number of dishes and utensils he had laid out on a saddle blanket.

  “Eat hearty, Grimley,” Blackjack said.

  More laughter from the others there, as if they all shared the same dark secret.

  Blackjack appeared to be very old. He was thin and wiry and bore some resemblance to his son, Abel. Grimley had seen him only once or twice and never up close. It was odd, he thought, that Thorne had never mentioned that the drover was his own father.

  “Thanks,” Grimley said, taking the plate and fork. Both had been scrubbed with sand, not washed with water, but he felt this was no time to be fastidious. The plate was covered with a thin patina of dust and the fork still had small portions of dried food stuck between the tines.

  Herbert Luskin and Orville Trask came up beside Grimley. One of them slapped him on the back. Trask.

  “Hurry up, Grimley,” Trask said, “or we’ll beat you to the trough. Blackjack, better give Grimley two forks.”

  Blackjack didn’t laugh, but he looked quizzically at Grimley, then winked at him. “I think he’ll do all right with one fork from what I’ve seen,” Blackjack said.

  “Oh, he does all right without no fork at all, I reckon,” Trask said. “Don’t you, Grimley?”

  “I can’t help it if I’m stout,” Grimley said.

  “Stout? Why you’re a regular pork barrel, Grimley. Must be the food in Washington. It goes right to your butt and your gut.”

  The two men laughed, reached down, and picked up plates from the horse blanket. Blackjack handed them forks and they followed Grimley over to the spit, where Abel was now standing with his knife in his hand—a Bowie knife with a huge blade and sharp edges on both sides.

  “What do you want, Grimley?” Thorne asked. “A chunk of brisket? Roast?”

  “Just anything,” Grimley replied, his mouth watering.

  “I’ll cut you off a good chunk.”

  Thorne nodded to the man turning the spit, who stopped pulling on the makeshift handle made from a wagon hub and a spoke. Thorne cut a large piece from the rump of the steer. He grabbed the fork out of Grimley’s hand and speared the meat; then, stabbing the other side with his knife, he slabbed the meat onto Grimley’s plate.

  “Enough? You want more?”

  “That is more than adequate, Mr. Thorne. Thank you.”

  “Go on over to that pot and get yourself some turnips and onions, some taters.”

  Grimley turned away and walked to the kettle, where a man was waiting with a ladle in his hand. “Bring your plate in close,” the man said.

  Grimley pushed his plate close to the kettle and the man dipped the ladle in the boiling water and came up with cut potatoes, little wild onions, and what looked to be turnip greens. The man piled Grimley’s plate full and Grimley held up his hand as the man started to dip the ladle back into the kettle.

  “That’s fine, thank you.”

  “You’re more’n welcome to more, pilgrim,” the man said, grinning with a set of broken and carious teeth.

  Grimley stepped away from the kettle and the fire beneath it that made him perspire even more freely than when he had been riding in the blazing sun. He looked around for a place to sit and eat his meal. He looked to the left and saw the pack horses owned by the men in the camp, and to the right, there was a clot of men just standing in a bunch staring straight at him.

  Then Thorne called out to him.

  “Over here, Grimley, by the creek. There’s a log to sit on. Big enough for your fat ass.”

  Grimley winced, but walked over and surveyed the rotting log that lay above the creek bank. Thorne waved him to sit down. The other two men who had ridden with Thorne took up places on either end and began eating, forking food into their mouths as if they were starving.

  Grimley sat down and sighed heavily. He took out a small pocket knife, opened it and, holding down the chunk of meat, began to slice off one end.

  Grimley’s head was bent over as he began to devour the food on his plate. He listened to the clank and clatter of utensils as Thorne’s men ate their food, and then he heard the shuffle of many feet. He swallowed a mouthful of food and looked up to see Thorne standing in front of him. But he was not alone. Most of the men in camp were there, too, flanking Thorne, and they were all staring at him with blank expressions on their faces.

  The food in Grimley’s throat stuck halfway down. He choked and Thorne stepped forward and slapped him on the back to dislodge the particles.

  “Now, you don’t want to go and choke yourself to death, Grimley,” Thorne said.

  Grimley got the food down and gasped for air. He spluttered and drew out his kerchief and dabbed at his mouth.

  “Food good, Grimley?”

  “Fair to middling,” Grimley said.

  “Glad you like it, because it’s your last meal.”

  “What?”

  “Well, now, I think you heard me. This is as far as you go. I can serve them papers now that I see how it’s done. We don’t need no carpetbagger settlin’ matters here in Texas, do we, boys?”

  The men all grunted and shook their heads.

  “Sir, I’ve been duly sworn . . .”

  “Just shut up, Grimley,” Thorne said. “You see all these men here? They never surrendered and they were never beaten in your goddamned Civil War. You come down here with your duly sworn and think you can grab land that ain’t your’n and just hand it over to the Yankee government. Well, by Judas, you ain’t goin’ to serve no more papers.”

  “I’ll have to report this, Thorne. You have no authority . . .”

  “No authority?” Thorne spat. “I’ve got twenty cannon that’re my authority. That’s what these boys come here for. When the last battle was fought at Palmito Hill, my boys run cannon over the border and we aim to pick ’em up, run ’em overland, and blow hell out of ever’ ex-slave we can find. There won’t be no freed slaves in Texas, by God, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, mister.”

  “Why, that’s murder, Thorne. The U.S. Army will hunt you down and . . .”

  “They’re already huntin’ us, Grimley, and we hope they catch up to us after we get those cannon. Too bad you won’t be around to see it.”

  Grimley’s face drained of blood as Thorne drew his pistol.

  “No,” Grimley said, “you’re not . . .”

  Thorne swiped him across the face with the pistol barrel. Blood shot from Grimley’s nose like juice from a smashed tomato. He reeled ba
ck, throwing up his hands, and screamed with the pain. His plate slid off his lap and upended, spilling the food all over the ground.

  Through wet eyes, he saw Thorne raise his pistol and level it at his forehead.

  “No, please God, no,” Grimley said, “don’t—don’t shoot me . . .”

  Grimley saw Thorne’s thumb cock the hammer, saw the cylinder of the six-gun spin and stop. He could see the blunt lead in the cylinders that were visible. Then he sucked in a breath as Thorne’s index finger curled around the trigger.

  “Please,” Grimley mewed, his voice a thin squeak.

  Then he saw Thorne’s finger tighten on the trigger and he heard the explosion, felt the sting of burning powder and the hammerblow of the lead ball as it struck his forehead and then there was only the blackness and the eternal silence.

  19

  * * *

  LIEUTENANT JARED COY stared at the two fresh graves, with the dirt piled high atop them, beneath the shade of an overhanging oak bough. His tracker, Sergeant Fred Benson, was stalking back and forth across the garden, while his other man, Corporal David Wilkins, watered their horses at a trough near the barn.

  “Place is deserted, sir,” Wilkins called out.

  “But they’ve been here,” Coy said. “Was there anybody in the house?”

  “No, sir. Empty, sir.” Wilkins led the horses back to the edge of the garden.

  “Sergeant?” Coy turned away from the graves and slapped his gloves against his thigh.

  “Plenty of tracks, Lieutenant. Two days old, at least.”

  “Find out which way Chambers went.”

  “Oh, I know where he went, sir,” Benson said. “Right through yonder.” He pointed to the woods on the other side of the garden. “But they’s mule tracks here, horse tracks, tracks of a small person, a girl, maybe, and a couple probably belong to whoever’s buried in them two graves.”

  “You’re sure Chambers was here?”

  “Yes, sir, him and them others. They buried some people here and rode off through yonder.”

  “Mount up,” Coy ordered, as he walked toward his horse. Wilkins handed him the reins. He was pulling a pack mule that he had not let water. He’d had nothing but trouble with it the whole trip, and this was his way of asserting his authority. The mule had brayed mightily as the horses drank, but was now just getting ready to balk as it always did when they first started out.

  “You going to water that mule, Corporal?” Coy asked.

  “Not yet, sir. Look at his belly. He drinks like a camel.”

  “Just so he doesn’t founder along the way.”

  “Sir, that mule’s plumb bloated from the last watering hole.”

  “Lead out, Sergeant,” Coy said, as Benson took to the saddle.

  Coy studied the map he’d dug out of his pocket. He had been keeping track of their route. His horse had thrown a shoe the morning before and had put them miles behind Brad Chambers. Sergeant Benson had had to build a fire and perform blacksmith duties by the creek. He had muttered and grumbled, but finally got the shoe reshaped, the hoof trimmed, and the iron nailed to the horse’s foot. Coy cursed himself for not bringing extra horses, but he knew if he had, he’d fall further behind Chambers.

  He knew by now that Chambers was tracking his quarry, Abel Thorne and four other men. According to Benson, those men were pulling a pack horse and the drover left them every so often to rendezvous further along their route. It was puzzling, thus far, but he felt he was gaining on Chambers, having lost only a day after they left the Dunn place, which he had dutifully marked on his map, as well.

  They passed through the woods and came upon another farm, which also appeared deserted. They rode in with rifles at the ready, just in case. But it was very quiet, and Coy knew why, a few moments later, when Benson pointed out two more fresh graves.

  “What in hell’s going on here, Sergeant?” Coy asked.

  “Looks to me like maybe Thorne is killin’ every sodbuster he comes across.”

  “We don’t know who is buried in those graves,” Coy said. “Maybe Chambers killed Thorne or some of his men.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Benson said. “I’ll sort out these tracks and give you a report directly.”

  “Wilkins,” Coy said. “Water that mule. That’s an order.”

  The mule had started braying the minute it smelled water in the trough behind the house.

  “Yes, sir,” Wilkins said, and pulled on the rope hitched to the mule’s bridle.

  Coy dismounted and walked up to the house. He called first, then knocked on the door. It was locked. He walked around, peering through the windows, but saw no sign of life. Puzzled, he sat down on the porch, pulled out his pipe, and filled it with tobacco. He lit it and watched Benson walk around the place. He noticed the burning stumps, which gave the illusion that the inhabitants of the farm were close by. But he knew they weren’t.

  By the time Coy had finished his pipe, Benson was finished deciphering the maze of tracks. He walked over to the house and stood in the shade of the porch roof, one foot on the bottom step.

  “Well, Sergeant?” Coy asked.

  “Two fresh graves out back of the house. No animals in the barn, but it appears they were turned out to pasture, except for one horse. There’s fairly fresh manure in one stall. A day old, maybe. Piss smells.”

  “Spare me those details, please,” Coy said.

  “Chambers lit a shuck, is all I know. He’s got a new rider, a girl, I figure, or maybe a boy.”

  “What makes you think it might be a girl?”

  “Tracks could be either. Small person. But I found long strands of hair stuck to the stall, kind of coppery, silky hair. Could be a woman’s, or a boy with long hair. And I smelled a whiff of perfume in the barn.”

  “Perfume?”

  “Yes, sir, stronger than lilac water. Flowery, but stronger than any flower gives off. Perfume, I’d say. Made me homesick for Kentucky.”

  Coy arose from the chair.

  “Go tell Wilkins to shake a leg. We have some riding to do.”

  “Sir, what is this Chambers to you? I mean, I know you’re supposed to be tracking him and watching him, but I wondered if you knew him or maybe had a grudge against him.”

  “Benson, that’s really none of your business. But, no, I don’t know the man. Phil Sheridan picked him to go after this Abel Thorne. I don’t know why. General Granger sent me to check on Chambers. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I seem to remember a Chambers that rode with Colonel Ford and that damned Cavalry of the West. He chased us out of the Rio Grande Valley.”

  “Who were you with?” Coy asked.

  “I was temporarily assigned to Vidal’s Raiders. Partisans. Shit duty.”

  “I was with Ed Davis’s little cavalry outfit.”

  “Then you know what that bastard Ford was like down there.”

  “He gave us fits,” Coy said, and he looked off into the distance as he remembered that odd time when Colonel Ford’s Cavalry of the West was engaged in guerrilla warfare; when he almost seemed like a ghost.

  It was in ’62, and the land was parched dry all through the Rio Grande Valley. Davis figured Ford would be hard-pressed to gather together any sizable cavalry, and if he did, he’d have hard forage.

  But Ford fooled everybody in the Union forces, the bastard.

  Ford had a lot of cavalrymen to start with, but no way to assemble them, so he had them scattered all along the Rio Grande and through the valley. He couldn’t find forage and he couldn’t mount a military campaign. But he found forage in Mexico and finally was able to assemble a small cavalry unit of 400 horses. He ordered his captains to roll up the Union garrisons. He cut lines of communication. His captains roamed in and out of the thick border brush and laid ambushes in the ebonal. They floated through the chaparral like wraiths cutting Union supply lines and communications.

  The young Union troops were mostly infantry and no match for Ford’s strike-and-disappear tactics. The Yanke
e kids were sweating in the hot tropical sun that was almost unbearable at times. They were outfought and outnumbered.

  Davis’s cavalry fought well, and so did Vidal’s Raiders, but they were no match for Ford, who had superior mobility and a cunning that defied Union military minds.

  Vidal’s force consisted mainly of confederate deserters, like Benson, while Davis’s small outfit was just outclassed from the very beginning. Every time they found one of Ford’s units, they were beaten back or lost contact in the thick brush. It was a nightmare.

  He caught glimpses of Major Brad Chambers now and then. And that tracker, Bob Wakefield. Sometimes Chambers acted as a scout and would come upon them by surprise. When Davis sent men to chase after him, he would just vanish. Some of the others in the outfit thought Chambers, and Ford, too, for that matter, was superhuman. Brad was as bold as Ford was clever and deceptive. And he was a fighter. Once, Chambers and a small cadre of cavalry caught them from the rear and his attack threw confusion into the ranks. Coy had gotten a good look at him then. He was not a man who sent his men into battle; he led them, and he didn’t wield a saber for show, either, like some line officers. Chambers carried a rifle and pistol and he was a crack shot. He had to admit that during that whole time of drought and tropical rain and heat, Chambers had assumed bigger-than-life proportions.

  In April of that year, the rains finally came, and it did help grow some grass, but it also turned the valley into a steam bath. Davis’s men and horses were bathed in sweat and it was difficult to breathe in the steaming thick air.

  Ford and his men camped out in the brush for a time when Davis and Vidal were hunting him. They knew he was in there somewhere, but could not find him. Then Ford surprised them all when it rained for ten straight days. Ten days of hot hard rain that turned the valley into slippery mud and blinded Davis and his men, bewildered Vidal’s force.

  Ford went on the march, riding straight through the heavy torrential rains toward Ringgold Barracks. His forces easily took Los Angeles, Los Ojuelos, and Comitos. He ran the Union infantry out of Rio Grande City without firing a shot. The Union soldiers just saw him and left the city to his cavalry without a fight.