Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  Dolores shouted something that was not a word and struggled to free herself from her brother’s arms.

  “You can’t hit her no matter what she says,” stated Brent. “It’s only words and she’s weak.”

  Dolores gazed balefully at Yvette. “You think you’re so goddamn superior to all of us, huh? Well go ahead and be a Upfield—the Plugfords don’t want you no more. Go back to San Francisco with that coward you married and stay there fixed permanent—until he goes and bets you for a cigar butt!” She shoved away her twin brother, reached for her wooden crutch, rose from the bunk and ambled toward the exit.

  “Quieten the women,” Long Clay ordered from the darkness outside, “and get back to work,”

  “Okay,” said Brent.

  Dolores paused before the open door and looked over her shoulder. “Your important Jesus Christ didn’t do nothin’ while we was gettin’ raped for eight months. It was Daddy, the terrible sinner, who came down to Hell to save us.” She leaned upon the gunstock that was the top of her crutch and ambled into the night.

  Without a word, Patch Up walked across the fort and departed.

  Brent handed Yvette a canteen. “Drink some.”

  The choirmaster drank, and the water soothed her raw throat. Around her head, walls wavered.

  “You want to see Samuel?”

  “No.” Yvette knew that she could not bear to look upon the quivering epilogue of her marriage.

  “Ever?” Brent attempted to appear impartial, but it was obvious that he wanted to rid the world of Samuel C. Upfield IV.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “I’ll leave him alone ‘til you decide. And you should lie back down—you’re pale and shakin’.”

  Yvette lowered herself to the wood.

  Brent pulled the yellow blanket over his sister’s bones. “Me and Patch Up and Stevie got a surprise for you—a good one—for when you’re feelin’ a little better.”

  It was difficult for Yvette to feign any interest. “Thank you.”

  “Get some sleep.” Brent kissed his sister’s forehead and walked through the black portal.

  Yvette imagined the betrayer, Samuel C. Upfield IV, whispering the words, “Lower the drapes.” She shut her eyes, pressed her face into the cold coarse stone and asked, “How could you?”

  Chapter VIII

  Eyes of the Unguarded Interior

  Brent Plugford walked into the dark outdoors, where the halved moon was shielded by a swath of pregnant gray cotton that would carry rain to some other part of the world. He surveyed the open terrain and saw Long Clay, Patch Up, Stevie and the dandy arrayed along the close side of the trench, digging holes for land torpedoes. The skin of every man was glazed with moonlight.

  “Where’s Deep Lakes at?” asked Brent.

  “On the perimeter,” answered Long Clay as he shoveled.

  “Any burnin’ arrows from him?”

  “No.”

  The cowboy reclaimed his shovel, strode to the eastern side of the trench and applied himself vigorously. For twenty minutes, he plunged, jerked and heaved the iron head of his shovel; grit climbed to the stars and fell back to the earth.

  “Stevie,” said Long Clay.

  “Yessir.”

  “Get the land torpedoes.”

  “Yessir.”

  Stevie stabbed his shovel into the ground, climbed from the earth and walked toward the rear of the fort, where the wagon had been parked inside the sunken stable.

  “Brent.”

  The cowboy looked across the dirt at the gunfighter’s torso. “Yeah?”

  “Drive iron stakes into the façade.”

  A chill descended Brent’s spine. He knew how these metal extrusions would be employed.

  “Set them high,” Long Clay specified, “in-between the crenellations.”

  “There’s a stepladder under the wagon,” added Patch Up.

  After climbing out of his hole, the cowboy stabbed his shovel into the dirt and walked toward the rear of the fort. The dandy watched him go, but did not say anything.

  Brent ascended the stepladder, put his index finger between two stone bricks, ran the digit east, found a tiny niche in the mortar, inserted the tip of a two-foot long iron stake, covered the blurred half-moon with his hammer and brought the heavy head down. Metals clanked, and three sparks shot west. The point pierced the wall. Down the wall, grit sizzled.

  He covered the lunar segment and swung again. Metals clanked, and the iron stake penetrated deeper.

  “You gotta eat,” said Dolores. “Please.”

  Brent looked into the fort, through the nearest crenellation.

  Dolores was seated at the edge of Yvette’s bunk, dipping bread into a bowl of stew. “Just take a little.”

  The gaunt woman did not turn around from the stone wall.

  “I’m sorry for what I said ‘bout Jesus.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. You’ve got every right to feel how you do and say what you did. It was wrong for me to lecture you.”

  Dolores placed her free hand upon her sister’s right shoulder and pulled her away from the wall. The skin upon Yvette’s face was red with scratches, abraded by the coarse stone against which she had pressed herself.

  “Girl…please….take care of yourself,” said Dolores. “Eat some.” She placed a piece of the stew-soaked bread into her sister’s mouth. “Chew it. Please.”

  Yvette’s jaw moved.

  “Good.”

  Brent knew that all of the Plugfords might perish in the very near future, and he swung his hammer at his fears. He pounded the iron stake ten inches deep, descended the stepladder, carried it in-between the two adjacent crenellations, climbed to the top, ran his finger along the mortar, found a crack and set the tip. Metals clanked, and sparks shot west. Iron pierced stone. Grit sizzled.

  A distant hooting garnered the cowboy’s attention, and when he turned around he saw, silhouetted against effulgent clouds, a tiny speck that was an owl. Without warning, the creature plummeted from the sky.

  Near the trench that laid one hundred and ten yards south of the fort, Stevie clapped. “I hope that owl had on his favorite sombrero!”

  “We’re in the Territory,” Patch Up stated, “and that bird was an American.”

  “According to what I’ve seen, this New Mex’co ain’t no better than the old one.”

  Brent drove a seventh iron stake into the mortar, descended the ladder and positioned himself beside the last of the eight crenellations that were located upon the south façade.

  “I need two hours,” said Deep Lakes.

  “Fine,” said Long Clay.

  Brent turned from the wall. The Indian, who was covered with dark dirt, approached the fort, clutching the talons of an upside-down great horned owl, which possessed giant yellow eyes.

  Patch Up said, “I’ll get the perimeter,” and shouldered his repeater rifle.

  “When you return,” Long Clay cautioned, “give this entire area a wide berth.” He gestured at the dark holes into which he had just deposited the land torpedoes. “Ride straight for the mountain wall and cut east through the cemetery.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The youngest Plugford japed, “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ blowed up.”

  Patch Up walked toward the stable. “If only one of us lives through this, I sure hope it’s Stevie.”

  “Wear a tabard,” Long Clay called out, “and ride my mare—she’ll outrun any other.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ten yards from Brent, Deep Lakes entered the cemetery, pressed the heel of his left boot to a gravestone, shoved the marker over and set the owl upon the smooth rock, where the creature attempted to flap its broken wings to no avail. From his denim vest, the Indian withdrew two woo
den blocks, each two inches tall, and set them upon either side of the bird’s head. A milky film diffused the creature’s big yellow eyes, as if it had contracted a sudden (and very visible) case of glaucoma.

  Deep Lakes slammed a flat stone against the wooden blocks, the owl’s skull cracked like a walnut shell. The bird grasped at the air with its dying claws.

  Astride the black mare and wearing an iron tabard, Patch Up rode out of the stable and waved at Brent. “Mr. Plugford.”

  “You be careful,” cautioned the cowboy.

  “I got the negro advantage—and a matching horse.” Patch Up dusted his gray hair and rode downhill, toward the dark woodlands that laid five miles south of the fort.

  Brent waved, turned back to the façade, pounded his stake ten inches deep and descended the stepladder. Nearby, Deep Lakes scooped a pale morsel from the owl’s cracked head and placed it in his mouth.

  “Do you feel it inside you?” asked the cowboy. “Its spirit?”

  “There’s no immediate affect.”

  Brent moved the stepladder, ascended its five rungs and placed the tip of an iron stake to the façade. “It takes a while? A hour?”

  “I must be asleep to absorb an animal’s essence.”

  The cowboy pounded the stake. “Why’s that?”

  “The sleeping mind is unguarded and can receive a foreign presence.” The Indian swallowed another pale clump. “The waking mind is closed.”

  “Do you dream you’re flying when you absorb a bird?” Brent hammered, and sparks flew. “Seein’ through its eyes way up?”

  “The essence is not manifested that obviously.”

  “I had some dreams like that—flying ones—after I broke off my engagement. Lots of them.”

  The Indian ate another pale morsel.

  “Does everyone in your tribe eat this way?” Brent regretted the question the moment it left his lips.

  “My tribe cast me into the fire when I was a child—because I was a small and unhealthy.” Deep Lakes cracked open the owl’s head like a clamshell. “This ritual is my own and unrelated to any group.” The Indian’s face was inscrutable.

  “I didn’t mean to give offense.”

  “You didn’t give offense.” Deep Lakes prised loose a yellow eye, and its obsidian iris dilated.

  “Brent.”

  The cowboy looked over at Long Clay.

  “Drive in one more and go rest.”

  “I can still work some,” protested the cowboy.

  “I need you hale for the engagement,” said Long Clay. “And that suture needs to mend.”

  “Okay.”

  Brent swung his hammer and pierced mortar.

  Deep Lakes ate the owl’s eyes.

  Brent walked past the latrine, the iron tabards that leaned against the molten stove, the sleeping women and the array of rifles and loaded magazines that covered the tables, toward the huge recumbent corpse. Although John Lawrence Plugford’s face had been cleaned and repaired (the gunshot wound atop his left eye was currently filled with clay), he looked thoroughly uncomfortable. The cowboy affectionately patted the dead man’s stacked hands, which were as chill as the room.

  “We’ll fight hard to the end. I promise.”

  “Mr. Stromler.”

  Dripping with sweat, the dandy looked up from his hole in the ground.

  Brent opened the wallet that he had just retrieved from the pocket of his father’s overalls and withdrew the monetary remainder. “Your due.” He proffered the legal tender.

  Nathaniel looked at the bills as if they were hieroglyphics.

  “I know that this pay is pitiful considerin’ all that’s gone on,” Brent admitted, “but I ain’t got nothin’ more to give, and you helped save my sisters and are owed this stipend.”

  The dandy accepted the bills, folded them in half and slid them into the left pocket of his yellow riding pants.

  “And I want to ‘pologize for all that’s happened,” added the cowboy. “I know that a apology is just words, but I felt I should say I’m sorry to you.”

  “I heard you.” Nathaniel stabbed his shovel into the dirt and jerked.

  Brent knew better than to endeavor any further conversation, and he turned away from the tall, embittered man and walked toward the fort.

  “What did you think was going to happen,” the dandy inquired, “when you first hired me?”

  The cowboy turned around. “Nothin’ like this. I thought we’d find a whorehouse—a nice one since we had to hire us a dandy—and get my sisters out and put down that Gris and maybe some others with him. Simple rescue with some justice.”

  The dandy hefted his shovel. “I am digging a hole for a land torpedo.”

  “I didn’t think we were gonna use all this crazy stuff Long Clay brung ‘long. Nobody did—includin’ him.”

  The dandy flung dirt into the sky. “It is fortunate for all of us that he is such a conscientious man.”

  “He’s prepared. Ain’t no way you can be no crim’nal for forty years without havin’ hard tactics.” In a quieter voice, Brent added, “But that don’t mean I like him none.”

  The dandy stabbed his shovel into the earth. “How are your sisters doing?”

  “They settled down and got to sleep.”

  “I admire Yvette’s resolve. It is not easy to adhere to one’s beliefs…during a situation like this.” Nathaniel’s voice sounded very, very small.

  “She’s steadfast,” remarked Brent.

  The dandy heaved dirt at the stars.

  Brent entered the fort, walked past his sleeping sisters and decided, for reasons that he could not fully explain, to sleep in the bunk directly above his father’s still body.

  Long Clay’s distant and dry voice came through the openings. “Ladle the dirt slowly and mind the plungers.”

  “I’ll be careful,” replied Stevie. “You don’t have to back away from me.”

  “Don’t rush.”

  Brent wondered if he would be awakened by the sound of his brother’s obliteration, and also if an instantaneous death was preferable to whatever awaited the other Plugfords. He dismissed these morbid images from his mind, rolled up his jacket and gently lowered the back of his skull to the ersatz pillow. The wound upon the side of his head throbbed, pulling at its stitches, but did not feel any worse after four hours of manual labor, which was a testament to the hardheadedness of every Plugford and also Patch Up’s prowess with a needle. Exhausted, the cowboy shut his eyes and heard the sounds of his sisters’ respirations.

  Darkness expanded.

  Water splashed.

  “This pond’s cold as hell!”

  “My nuts feel like acorns.”

  “Mine feel like roulette balls—the metal kind.”

  “I just killed some mighty handsome sperm.”

  Sitting upon a twilit green hillock, Brent Plugford lowered the letter that he held in his hands and surveyed his cowboy outfit. Fat Jim (who was no longer heavy), Isaac Isaacs, Kenneth Wyler, Paul Caselli, Gramps Johnson, Otis Brown, Dummy II, Chester Bradington, Gregory Tappert, Derrick Selva and Dummy III stood within the shallows of a gully pond—a congregation of pale chests and tan appendages. The shivering men walked upon and sank into their own bright reflections.

  Brent looked up at the grass plain that surrounded the dell and saw that the herded beeves were calmly grazing. Riding perimeter around the twelve hundred cattle were tiny dots that the foreman recognized as Apache, the Hall brothers, Orton Walderman, Little Brent, Leonard Cane and Kerry O’Boyle.

  “Boss!” yelled Fat Jim.

  Brent looked down at the pond. “Yeah?”

  Fat Jim’s freckled head swiveled upon its mirror image, and his two mouths asked, “You gonna come in?”

  “How’s the wat
er?”

  “Damp.”

  “I was inquirin’ after the temperature,” said Brent. “The discussion seemed to indicate it was cold.”

  Fat Jim’s mouths said, “You’ll shiver ten times and get used to it.”

  “That sounds cold.”

  “Better than twenty shivers.”

  Isaac Isaacs declared, “It’s pleasant.” He rose from the water and the diagonal scars that the bear had given him last winter glowed red upon his chest. “Fat Jim thinks everything’s cold since he lost his blubber. Come on in.”

  “I’ll join you after I’m done perusin’ my letter,” stated Brent. “I’ve gotta post it tomorrow in Kansas, and it’s gotta be written out proper correct.”

  “Get a new author.”

  Three cowboys splashed Isaac Isaacs.

  “Who’s that letter to?” inquired Fat Jim.

  “My sister.”

  “The pretty cancan dancer who won’t go with no cowboys?”

  “The other one,” responded Brent. “She went and got herself engaged.”

  “Well tell her James M. Lyle said congratulations.” Embarrassed, Fat Jim covered up his bare nether region. “Don’t tell her I said it naked.”

  “Put that in the appendix.”

  Five cowboys splashed Isaac Isaacs.

  “Leave me alone for a bit,” the foreman said, “the light’s startin’ to dwindle and I need to peruse.”

  The wet men returned to their bathing and horseplay.

  Brent scooted his buttocks across the hillock and stopped the moment that a beam of golden twilight illuminated the letter. His pupils narrowed, and he read.

  Deer Yvette,

  I hope youre happy out there in San Fransisco.

  I was back home in Shoulderstone and got the news from Pa and Stevie and Patch Up that youre engaged to marry that Samuel C. Upfeeld the forth. I want to say write to you and give you and him my congrachulations. While me and him did not get along so good that one time I visted its clear to me that he treats you nice and loves you and is relijus which is important to you and speaks reel good English which is also important to you. It was good and proper that he asked Pa if he could propose to you and I think Pa does not hate him anymore likes him better now.