Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  Chapter VI

  Unsafe and Safe Ventures

  Wearing his yellow riding outfit, Nathaniel Stromler rode his tan mare along the central avenue of Leesville, toward the blacksmith’s forge where he was to meet his future employers. A homogeneous blanket of gray clouds covered the vault, diffused the sun and threw the world into a drear limbo from which no person could divine the time of day. Underneath the effulgent slate, the gentleman and his horse failed to cast shadows.

  A crucifix that was only slightly darker than its dull surroundings glided across ashen sky, toward the avenue. Presently, Nathaniel, a novice birdwatcher, determined that it was some type of hawk.

  A thin black line sprouted from the creature’s neck. Silently, the aviator plummeted from the sky and landed upon the avenue. A short man with dark skin, shoulder-length grayish-black hair, blue denim clothing, a strange bow and a lopsided gait walked toward the felled hawk.

  Nathaniel neared the archer, and a third individual, a portly fellow with a green suit and a crescent of white hair surrounding his otherwise bald pate, emerged from a nearby storefront and clapped. “You sure can use that thing good,” enthused the elder. “Can I fiddle with it for a moment?”

  The archer, who was a native in his fifties, shook his head, a tacit refusal. He slung the strange bow over his bare left shoulder and knelt beside the bird carcass.

  The portly elder inquired, “You intend to make yourself some hawk stew? Maybe some hawk tacos?” He ruminated momentarily. “Hawk a vin?”

  “I’ll eat its eyes and mind.”

  A disingenuous smile did not disguise the portly man’s disquiet.

  The native plucked out his arrow, slid it inside a groove upon the back of his vest and picked up the bird by its talons. The head of the animal dangled, and crimson beads dribbled from the holes in its neck. Without another word, the native departed into an alleyway with his prize.

  Nathaniel glanced at the beads of blood that sat upon the dirt avenue like a game of red marbles, wiped chill sweat from his forehead and tried not to think about his fiancé, alone and crying in the baby’s room of the Footman’s house.

  Riding east along the avenue, the gentleman passed Harding’s Notable Chandler, Pocket Watches & Knick-Knacks, Dame Gertrude’s Dress Shoppe, Chemist Stuff, Baked Goods, Leesville’s Butcher and We’ve Got Some Guns. Ambitious dust was escorted from porches by the hissing bristles of thick brooms.

  Nathaniel neared a motley assemblage, the cynosure of which was a large wagon that had a tattered green canopy, which had been mended with a pair of yellow long drawers. Two tan, five foot nine-inch fellows, who wore damp beige clothes and had curly brown hair, flung blankets upon the bare backs of horses that were tied in front of the blacksmith’s forge. Stretched out upon the crossbar were four other blankets that a pudgy gray-haired negro, wearing a maroon suit, beat with a fire-hardened walking stick.

  It immediately occurred to Nathaniel that these were poor men to whom four hundred and fifty dollars would mean a great deal. He gently tugged upon the reins of his tan mare, and slowed the animal’s gait.

  The brothers adjusted the cloths that draped the animals’ spines, and the negro whacked a blanket. Without looking up from his work, the older sibling maneuvered so that his torso was on the other side of his horse, hidden from Nathaniel, and hitched his right shoulder. The younger brother, whose red eyes betrayed that he had either a fever or terrible hangover, paused, leaned upon his horse and perspired. The negro had disappeared.

  Nathaniel assumed that the shielded sibling held a gun behind the body of the mustang, and he stopped his tan mare. “Good morning.”

  Eyeballing the gentleman’s hips and valise, the older brother nodded.

  “I never carry any weapons,” announced Nathaniel. A loud whack startled him. He looked to his right and saw that the negro had returned with his stick.

  “Doesn’t seem like he’s got one stashed away.” The colored man sneezed out a damp distillation of the dust he had wrought.

  “Nope.” The older sibling relaxed his right shoulder and looked up at the mounted gentleman. “Are you Nathaniel Stromler?”

  “I am. Are you Brent Plugford or John Lawrence Plugford?”

  “Brent.” The fellow strode around his horse and toward the gentleman, openly appraising him. “Where’s your fancy dress at?” His Texas accent was heavy.

  “In my valise.”

  “Show me them garments.” Brent’s damp boots squeaked. “I want to see.”

  The brusque demands irked Nathaniel, and he decided to respond in kind. “Show me the stipend with which you intend to pay me.”

  Brent paused just beyond the nostrils of the gentleman’s tan mare. “My pa’s got the money in his wallet.”

  “Are you speaking of John Lawrence Plugford?”

  “I am.”

  “Perhaps I should speak to him directly.” This was not uttered as a question.

  “Best to leave Pa in his quietude,” recommended the younger sibling. “He’s…he’s bereft.”

  Brent worked through some inner sadness and said to the gentleman, “You’ll deal with me.” His voice was harder than it had been a moment ago.

  Although Nathaniel would not leave Leesville until he was certain that these poor rubes could pay him, he wanted to diffuse the burgeoning tension before it turned into a squabble. “I shall show you the garments that I selected.”

  “Okay,” said Brent.

  The gentleman climbed from his saddle, landed upon the avenue, took his mare’s reins, walked the beast beneath the overhang of the blacksmith’s forge, pulled the lines around a post, claimed the green linen valise from the saddle nook, set it upon a bench, undid its four gold buckles, slid the straps, opened the top and popped the six buttons that secured the inner lining.

  “It’s like he’s undressing a prude,” opined the younger bother.

  “Stevie,” chastised Brent.

  From the dark interior of the valise, Nathaniel raised the black, long-tailed tuxedo jacket.

  Brent ran his fingertips along the fabric. “Okay. The other one got some color? Mex’cans like things colorful.”

  At that moment, Nathaniel knew that he was going to be required to ride across the border, which he had hoped would not be the case. After replacing the first garment, he raised the double-breasted royal blue jacket.

  Brent took the fine coat in his hands and inspected it as if it were the pelt of an Oriental animal. “This one here’s better.”

  “You should go show it to Long Clay and ask what he thinks,” advised Stevie.

  Ignoring his brother’s suggestion, Brent returned the garment to its owner and disappeared into the dark interior of the blacksmith’s forge. Stevie and the negro resumed their respective tasks—flinging and whacking blankets.

  Nathaniel set the jacket inside his valise and withdrew the Spanish novel.

  A tall narrow man with an unpleasant triangular face, which was delineated by a long narrow nose, three vertical scars and a slender gray mustache, emerged from the forge, carrying a heavy bundle upon his left shoulder. His hat, shirt and trousers were black, and his eyes were bright blue. He glanced at the gentleman from a superior altitude (it was uncommon for Nathaniel—who was six foot two—to look up at anyone) and walked past him without a word. The ponderous burden upon the fellow’s left shoulder clanked metallically with each stride.

  Nathaniel knew instantly that this man was Long Clay. The fellow’s height matched the nickname, and it was clear that he was not the type of person who desired children or remained near accidental gets, and thus was not the siblings’ father. The two long black pistols that jutted from his hips and his cold demeanor informed the world that he was a gunfighter and possibly a practitioner of less lawful trades.

  Before he agreed to travel
with this type of man, Nathaniel would need certain assurances.

  Long Clay set his bundle inside the wagon canopy, beside a large black trunk. The wind moaned and sounded eerily like a miserable human being.

  Footsteps shook the slats beneath Nathaniel’s boots, and he turned back to face the doorway. A huge older man, wearing an untamed beard and gray overalls, emerged from the forge, followed by Brent.

  “Pa. This here’s Nathaniel Stromler. The gentleman who wired us.”

  Eyes that did not seem attached to anything rational stared out at the gentleman from a craggy canvas of inebriation, grief and hatred. In the leather holster that depended from John Lawrence Plugford’s waist sat a wide gauge sawed-off shotgun that had been covered with black paint.

  “Good morning,” Nathaniel said to the bestial face.

  The patriarch stared.

  Brent pointed to the book in the gentleman’s left hand. “What’s that?”

  “A Spanish novel entitled, La Playa de Sangre.”

  “You can read and understand it?”

  “I can. Choose any passage, and I shall translate it for you.”

  “I believe you and wouldn’t know if you were lyin’ anyhow.”

  Brent extricated a weathered wallet from the breast pocket of his father’s gray overalls and handed it over to Nathaniel. “Count ‘em, so you know it certain true.”

  John Lawrence Plugford stared.

  The thickness of the wallet told Nathaniel that it contained the promised amount, but he counted out the many, many small bills as he had been instructed. The bank notes were not freshly withdrawn from a bank, and the gentleman surmised that the variegated sum had been earned over a lengthy period of time and squirreled away.

  “The amount that you have promised lies therein.” Nathaniel handed the wallet back to Brent. “I will require half of my payment before our departure.”

  The older brother reached into the wallet, withdrew half of the notes and thrust them forward.

  Nathaniel was surprised by how willing the man was to give so much money to a stranger, and he deliberated on the motley bills and their owners. To take the proffered stack of crisp and wrinkled and bright and discolored notes was to agree to be in their employ.

  “Take it.” Brent shook the bills.

  John Lawrence Plugford stared terribly.

  “Before I accept any wages,” Nathaniel announced, “I must enquire after the details of the job for which I am being hired.”

  Without uttering a word, John Lawrence Plugford stormed off toward the wagon.

  Brent glanced at his father and returned his gaze to the gentleman. “You’re goin’ to reconnoiter for us. Do some investigatin’.”

  Dissatisfied by the vague explanation, Nathaniel asked, “Could you please be more specific?”

  “I’ll handle him.” The tall narrow man strode upon sharp black boots toward the forge.

  Brent, Stevie and the negro were still.

  Long Clay walked directly at Nathaniel, stopped when half of a yard of air hung between their faces and stared down coolly. “You won’t be asked to do anything unlawful.” He radiated the smells of cinders, oil and iron.

  Nathaniel drummed his fingers upon the book, found his strong baritone voice and employed it when he inquired, “Shall I have any part in facilitating unlawful acts?”

  “That’s our business,” responded Long Clay.

  “I would simply like to know to what end my—”

  “You work for us or you don’t,” stated the gunfighter. “We don’t answer to you.”

  Long Clay turned away and strode toward a tall black mare.

  In a voice that was too quiet for anybody but Nathaniel to hear, Brent said, “We’re tryin’ to find my sisters. They were taken. Kidnapped.” Tears glimmered at the bottom of the man’s brown eyes. “We’re good honest folks—I’m just a cowboy foreman—but—” He strained to keep his composure. “We’re all gonna do what’s required to get them back. That’s why Long Clay come with us.”

  The gentleman believed the cowboy.

  Atop the black mare, Long Clay called out, “Don’t gab about our business.” His words were hard.

  Brent extended the advance toward Nathaniel, and the motley bills trembled. “Please.”

  Nathaniel took the wage. “I shall return after I have deposited this sum.” He put the bills inside his shirt pocket, replaced the book, tied the valise, took the mare’s reins and climbed into the saddle.

  By the time Nathaniel returned from depositing his advance into one of the ten small safes located within The Reputable Bank of Leesville, the gray sky had brightened minutely. The Plugfords and Long Clay were astride their horses, and the negro was seated upon a padded bench at the front of the wagon, holding a long-handled whip with which he could coax his brace of four mismatched steeds. Two healthy palfreys that wore finely-decorated women’s sidesaddles were attached to lines that the huge patriarch held in a tightly clenched fist.

  The quietude that had settled upon the assemblage was not peaceful, but ominous.

  Nathaniel guided his horse toward the wagon that was situated at the rear of the small caravan.

  Long Clay snapped tack, and his black mare started forward. The Plugfords and the negro followed the gunfighter, as did Nathaniel.

  The caravan rode west along the avenue.

  The portly, gray-haired negro placed the ball of his long-handled whip inside a nook, slid across the wagon bench toward Nathaniel and extended a chubby hand, but the fabric of his right sleeve tugged against his chest and he withdrew the appendage. “Nuisance.” The negro undid his top jacket button and extended his hand once more. “My name’s Patch Up.” He sounded like a Floridian.

  Nathaniel took his hand (which was the only one proffered by any member of the caravan) and shook it. “I am pleased to meet you. My name is Nathaniel Stromler.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stromler.”

  They shared a dip in the road and released each other.

  “Very often,” Patch Up stated, “folks who ride with me come back heavier than when they left.”

  “You are a skilled cook?”

  “Your belly won’t want to give up my provender.”

  Long Clay guided his horse off of the central avenue and onto a southerly street, and the others followed. The open terrain beyond the last buildings was a vast orange swath as homogeneous and blank as the gray sky.

  “Do you have a favorite comestible item that you’d like for the cook to add to his menu?” inquired Patch Up, magniloquently employing third person.

  “I am quite partial to grouse and pheasant.”

  “Fricasseed or pan fried?”

  “You don’t got no grouse or no pheasant,” Stevie grumbled from his spotted colt on the far side of the wagon.

  “Not yet. But Deep Lakes got us that hawk.”

  Stevie spit his opinion of such meat onto the road.

  Nathaniel recalled the archer whom he had seen earlier that morning. “Did you purchase that bird from a native with a limp and a strange bow?”

  “Deep Lakes didn’t sell it to us,” replied Patch Up. “He eats the parts he wants and gives us the rest.”

  “Is that fellow traveling with us?”

  “Near us.” Patch Up turned the light side of his hand up, as if he intended to catch a falling raindrop, and motioned expansively. “In our perimeters.”

  The eyes of the siblings flickered to Nathaniel’s face, which likely betrayed some concern at the idea of traveling with a native who ate the brain and eyes of a hawk.

  “He’s hunted up grouse before,” Patch Up added, “but prefers animals that breathe the high up air and get bigger views.”

  Nathaniel remarked, “Oh?” because he could not
think of anything intelligent to say regarding this information.

  “He ain’t the kind of Indian you need to worry ‘bout,” clarified Brent.

  “I shall not,” replied the gentleman, worried.

  The horses cantered, and the town of Leesville retreated. Winds that howled like a miserable man chilled the beads of sweat that clung to Nathaniel’s brow, nape and mustache.

  Long Clay coaxed his horse to a brisk canter, and the other riders matched his pace. The buildings at the southern edge of the town shrank.

  “And if you need anything mended,” Patch Up resumed, as if he and Nathaniel were in the middle of a conversation, “I can do that too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Shirts, pants, shoes, lacerations, broken bones, dangling scalps—I’ve fixed them all.”

  Chapter VII

  Saddled

  Brent Plugford was impressed that the dandy had been able to return Long Clay’s stare, back in Leesville. Nathaniel Stromler had been a little frightened, but it was clear that he had nerves, even facing a gunfighter who could cow any man in existence.

  Beneath an ambivalent gray sky, the briskly cantering horses traversed open plains and entered terrain that begat avoidable creosote bushes and unavoidable stalks of purple three awn and black grama. The foliage harassed the beasts’ legs and the riders’ leather chaps, but did not break open any hides or substantially slow the caravan. Patch Up had a tough time steering his vehicle through the arid vegetation, and every few minutes Brent heard the word “Nuisance” muttered or shouted—the volume of the exclamation determined by how strongly the landscape and the wagon wheels disagreed.

  The cowboy pulled right upon his reins, guided his brindled mustang in a loop around the rear of the caravan and urged his animal alongside the dandy’s tan mare. Brent glanced at Long Clay and saw only the back of the tall narrow man. This lack of attention from the gunfighter meant that it was now acceptable to speak more candidly with Nathaniel Stromler.

  Without preamble, Brent said, “We got a letter from a man named Ojos.”