Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  I offen think about us Plugfords and how we aynt like most familees. I aynt sure why this is so, but maybe if ma had lived after she birthed Stevie, we would all be married and have us big families by now. Or maybe its konnected to what Pa did long ago before he was a family man. But this is who we are. I like riding all over the grate lanscape free and unkonnected and Dolores says no to every man that likes her ever since her feeansay left her and Stevie is wayword and I hope is gonna get fixed better tho I don’t know. I think its very good that you found a man who loves you and that you wanna have a familee with because I don’t know who else is gonna do it.

  I hope that I can ride down and vist with you two before the wedding and I can bring you a good heifer if you need one. I promiss that I will make every effert to get along better with Samuel C. Upfeeld the forth since he will be familee and the father of my nefews and neeses before long. I hope he can forgive the stuff I said about him being like a girl and I won’t hold it against him that he called me unejucated uneducated. Him and me are diffrent types, but we both care a lot about you and need to get along so that you can be all the way happy, one hundred persent.

  I look foward to youre wedding.

  Sinseerly,

  Youre brother Brent Lawrence Plugford

  P.S. The part about the heifer was a joke. I know you aynt got room for no cow in youre apartment.

  Brent folded the paper, placed it within an envelope that Patch Up had addressed to Yvette and slid the missive inside his saddlebag.

  “C’mon in!” coaxed Fat Jim.

  Although Brent hated cold water, he knew that he needed to wash off his sour accumulations before he rode into Kansas City to drop off the letter. “I’m comin’ down.” He grabbed the heel of his left boot and pulled.

  Darkness expanded.

  The face of John Lawrence Plugford wailed and coughed up blood.

  Darkness receded.

  “Wake up!”

  A hand shook Brent’s right shoulder.

  The recumbent cowboy opened his eyes, but could not see anything. “What’s occurred?” The wound upon the right side of his head throbbed audibly.

  Stevie gulped a breath of air. “It’s started!”

  Part IV

  The Tacticians

  Chapter I

  Alongside Corpses

  Brent Plugford leaned forward and surveyed the enclosure. Diffuse moonlight crept through the vertical openings and shone upon the extinguished lantern, the weaponry, Stevie and the sleeping women.

  Sitting upon the edge of his bunk, the cowboy asked, “Where’re the others?”

  “Coverin’ over…the last…torpedoes,” Stevie replied in-between gasps.

  “Is Patch Up back?”

  “Not yet.” Stevie sounded worried. “We heard shots. Distant.”

  Brent landed upon his feet, felt the impact pull at his stitches and walked toward his sisters. “Dolores.”

  Beneath the yellow blanket, the redheaded woman stirred.

  “You hear me?” inquired Brent.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sit up. I’ve gotta get at Yvette.”

  “Okay.” Dolores sat forward and revealed the narrow blue line that was her younger sister.

  Brent leaned over and banged his head upon the upper bunk. Fiery pain exploded across his skull, and he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out.

  “You okay?” asked Dolores.

  Brent grunted, bent his knees, leaned over, adjusted the blanket, scooped up the collection of interconnected bones that was Yvette and looked at Stevie. “Open up the pris’ners’ cell.”

  Instantly, the young man hastened to the west side of the north wall and pulled open a thick door. The cowboy carried his sister through the portal into a windowless chamber and set her upon a stone bench, which was directly beside four whistling air holes.

  Outside, a distant gunshot cracked. Yvette’s eyelashes fluttered like the wings of tired butterflies.

  “I put some chow in the cubby for if you get hungry,” said Brent.

  “Lower the drapes,” mumbled Yvette.

  Brent reached into his pocket, withdrew two pieces of cotton, plugged up Yvette’s ear canals and withdrew from the prisoners’ cell. The circus dog ran into the room, and the cowboy shut the door.

  Two tall shadows hastened into the fort.

  “Grab a repeater rifle and get beside your crenellation,” ordered Long Clay.

  “Somebody’s gotta bring me mine,” Dolores said as she hobbled toward the eastern opening, through which half of the stone well was visible.

  “I got yours,” replied Stevie.

  “And some spare magazines.” The redheaded woman sat upon Patch Up’s three-legged cooking stool.

  “I got ‘em.” Stevie claimed two repeater rifles and twelve cylinders from the table and hastened toward Dolores.

  A distant gunshot popped and was succeeded by two sharp reports.

  Brent and Nathaniel reached the table upon which laid the firearms.

  “You know how to shoot?” inquired the cowboy, feeling stupid that he had not earlier asked this question.

  “I went hunting with my father when I was a child.”

  “Good. This gun’s like a huntin’ rifle, but quicker to reload—just fling the trigger guard to throw a new bullet into the chamber, and after you send eight shots, change magazines.” Brent pointed to the pile of loaded cylinders that were resting within the munitions box. “Get some extra.”

  Nathaniel claimed a repeater rifle and one additional magazine.

  “Take more than that,”

  The dandy acquired three additional magazines and walked toward the western slit, through which a sliver of the moonlit cemetery was apparent.

  Stevie strode to the easternmost slit in the south face. Against the middle of the same wall, Long Clay leaned two weapons—a telescopic rifle and a repeater. Holding firearms, additional ammunition and a wooden spyglass, Brent walked to the other side of the gunfighter.

  “Don’t fire until I give the word,” announced Long Clay.

  “Yessir,” said Steve.

  “There any chance a stray bullet can set off a land torpedo?” asked Brent.

  “Almost none. The plungers must be pressed directly down, and gunshots fly horizontally, diagonally and in long arcs.”

  “Okay.”

  Brent raised his spyglass and peered through his opening, over dirt that was pregnant with land torpedoes, beyond the perimeter trench and down at the woodlands that laid five miles south of the fort. The vast forested region was opaque.

  Two distant gunshots echoed and were succeeded by five reports. The sounds were tiny and distant, like rocks falling on the far side of a mountain.

  “Can you discern anything?” Brent asked Long Clay. “Pa said you could identify guns by their sounds.”

  “The first two shots were from Patch Up’s rifle, and the other five shots were from three different revolvers.”

  “They won’t get him,” proclaimed Stevie. “He’s smarter than any of them Mex’cans and is skilled.”

  “We’ll know if we hear him fire again,” stated Long Clay.

  The silence that followed the gunfighter’s remark was long and heavy.

  Brent felt a drop of blood trickle from his suture, past a torn stitch, beyond the edge of his bandage and down his cheek. The lateral wound burned as if it had been treated with hot coals.

  “Goddamn!” exclaimed Stevie. “What’s that nigger doin’?”

  “I’ve told you not to call him that,” complained Dolores. “It ain’t nice.”

  “I’m just…I’m just worried is all.”

  “Still.”

  Brent surveyed the opaque woodlands with his spyglass. A volley of
gunshots flashed amongst the black trees—a halo of white fire.

  The Plugfords and the dandy looked at Long Clay.

  “Patch Up fired the first, eleventh and twelfth shots. The others were revolvers and a shotgun.”

  Stevie asked, “Why don’t he ride back?”

  “He’s probably pinned.”

  Brent monitored the woodlands with his spyglass, and saw five white bursts of gunfire along the northern edge. “The fray’s comin’ towards us.”

  “None of those were from Patch Up,” stated Long Clay. “He’s on the run or they put him down.”

  “No,” said Dolores.

  “He’ll make it,” proclaimed Stevie. “He’ll make it.”

  Brent’s heart pounded as he scanned the northern edge of the woodlands, hoping that he would witness Patch Up emerge atop the fast black mare, but the perimeter remained still and quiet.

  The silence was suffocating.

  Upon the side of Brent’s head, the laceration throbbed audibly. “Where’s Deep Lakes?”

  “Getting into position.”

  The cowboy scanned the terrain for the Indian, but did not see him. At the northern edge of the woods, seven gunshots flashed.

  “Three revolvers and a pump action shotgun. Patch Up did not fire.”

  “Well they’re still shootin’ at him,” Brent said, “so he’s still alive.”

  Gunshots flashed across the woodland perimeter like a line of firecrackers.

  “Two shotguns, seven revolvers and two rifles. Patch Up did not fire.”

  Brent saw a lone black fleck emerge from the northern edge of the forest and careen directly toward the fort. Hope fluttered like a bird’s soft wings within his chest. “I think I see Patch Up.”

  “That’s him,” confirmed the gunfighter, who observed the tableau through the telescopic sight of his long-range rifle.

  At the edge of the woodlands, white fire crackled.

  “Is he out of range?” asked Brent. It looked like the major part of a mile separated the negro and his western pursuers.

  “He’s beyond accurate revolver rounds and buckshot.”

  The dot that was Patch Up astride the black mare sped north on the grasslands, toward the fort.

  “Is anybody giving chase?” asked the dandy.

  Brent observed the area where he had last seen gunfire. “I can’t descry nobody.”

  Patch Up neared the weedy terrain that laid in-between the grasslands and the sere rise upon which sat the fort. A constellation of gunfire sparkled at the edge of the woods.

  Brent panned his spyglass to the illuminated area and watched tiny black dots drip onto the grass. “Hell. He’s got a train.”

  “How many pursuers?” asked the dandy.

  The cowboy studied the fleas. “Looks like…nine.”

  “Goddamn!” exclaimed Stevie.

  “Now eleven.”

  “Even worse!”

  Dolores swatted her younger brother’s back. “That ain’t helpin’.”

  “Neither is hittin’ me.”

  Brent divined Patch Up from the weedy terrain, exactly halfway in-between the forest and the fort. The pudgy negro clung to the black mare’s neck, and bouncing pell-mell at his side was his rifle. “I can’t tell if he’s been hit. Can you?”

  “I can’t,” said Long Clay.

  A crackling constellation glimmered southwest of Patch Up, and a star glimmered upon his tabard. The black mare shook its head and flashed its tail, but did not slacken its pace.

  “Where’s that goddamn Indian?” complained Stevie. “How come he ain’t goin’ red savage out there?”

  The black mare galloped toward the edge of the weedy terrain.

  “He’s more than halfway here,” announced Brent. “And his train’s falling behind.” During the prolonged beeline, the incredible speed of the black mare transpired.

  “He’s gonna make it,” stated Stevie. “I told you all. I told you.”

  Presently, the cleft moon emerged from the clouds and washed over the landscape, and Brent saw that Patch Up’s gray hair was dark with blood. The cowboy felt punched in the stomach. “He’s…he’s been hit.”

  “No,” said Dolores. “Not him too.”

  “Goddamn them Mex’cans. Goddamn I hate ‘em!”

  “How serious is the injury?” inquired the dandy.

  “I can’t tell. He’s got blood on his head, but he’s holdin’ his horse like he’s conscious.” The distance between Patch Up and his eleven pursuers continued to widen. “And he’s only ‘bout four minutes out from the fort.”

  Two miles south of the bleeding man, eleven riders poked twice as many bright white holes into the night. Shortly after the reports faded, the negro looked up from the mare’s neck and waved a gory hand at the inhabitants of the fort. There was no blood upon Patch Up’s head other than in his hair.

  Brent’s dread abated. “Looks like they shot his hand. Maybe he got some blood in his hair on accident—scratching himself—but I don’t think they got his head.”

  “Thank God,” said Dolores.

  “I told you he’s comin out alive!” enthused Stevie.

  Brent panned his spyglass east and observed the crew that pursued Patch Up. Mounted upon hale horses and wearing dark clothing were eleven armed men. “They’re never gonna catch up with—”

  The foremost rider jerked back and spilled out of his saddle. Two men in brown suits guided their galloping mounts around the fallen individual, grabbed their necks, fell and slammed into the bucking heads of the two mustangs that were directly behind them. Concussed and overbalanced, the beasts tumbled forward and catapulted their riders into the air. The heads of three other men jerked back upon their necks, and moonlight glinted for half of a second upon the arrow shafts lodged in their nostrils.

  Those who remained fired into the open terrain, reined their steeds in a tight circuit and rode back toward the woodlands. After emptying a revolver in all directions, the southernmost rider arched his back, fell from his saddle and rolled across the weeds. Arrows found the spines of the last two mounted men and knocked them down.

  “Deep Lakes got ‘em,” announced Brent.

  “Thank God.”

  “I always liked the goddamn Indians.”

  Hunching low in his saddle, Patch Up guided the black mare west, around the trench and toward the mountain wall.

  Brent trained his spyglass upon the area in which the pursuers had fallen. One of the thrown riders, a pale fat man with a thick handlebar mustache and a dark green suit, stood up and reached for a gun no longer in his holster. Arrows pierced his right hand, left wrist and right kneecap. He shrieked and collapsed to the ground.

  Fifty yards north of the injured and dead riders, Deep Lakes rose from a sinkhole and notched shafts.

  “He’s gettin’ us a captive?” Brent asked Long Clay.

  “Several.”

  Beside the cowboy, the dandy shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

  Patch Up hastened the black mare northwest, toward the mountain wall, and presently escaped Brent’s field of view.

  “He rounded the edge of the trench,” the dandy announced, “and is now riding directly toward us.” The tattoo of the galloping hooves grew louder. “He is bleeding…rather significantly.”

  “I’ll get him.” Brent pulled the strap of his gun over his shoulder, hastened to the western door, opened it wide and looked outside. The black mare cantered through the graveyard, toward the fort. Collapsed upon the beast’s back was Patch Up.

  “No.”

  Dolores asked, “Is he okay?”

  “Patch Up!” Brent ran toward the black mare. “I’m comin’!” His vision blurred. “Hold on, hold on!”

  “How i
s he?” Stevie shouted from within the fort.

  As the cowboy reached the cantering horse, he felt an electric horror. The right side of the negro’s abdomen was covered with blood. For a moment, the world was still.

  “Patch Up.” Brent gripped the injured man’s right shoulder. “I’m here. Wake up.”

  “Get out of the open!” ordered Long Clay. “Now!”

  Brent pulled the mare and its bleeding burden toward the sunken stable that was situated between the fort and the mountain wall.

  Without raising his head from the neck of the black horse, the pudgy negro said, “There are at least sixty more…than what followed me out.”

  “Okay.” Brent was unconcerned with the enemy right now. “How bad are y—”

  “Put me alongside your father.” Patch Up wheezed.

  “We’ll get you fixed.”

  “You won’t. They shot me from the side…through the liver…and a kidney.” Patch Up gasped for air. “Put me…with your father. I want to be wherever he winds up.”

  Brent cleared his throat. “We’ll put you two together.” It was hard to speak with a solid voice, but he knew that he could not break in front of the dying man. “I promise we will.”

  “Thanks.” Patch Up grabbed Brent’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “And tell Stevie that I intend to haunt him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Forever.”

  “Okay.”

  Presently, the cowboy pulled the mare down the log ramp that led into the stable. The beast’s hooves clopped loudly upon the wood, and the tattoo echoed up and down the mountain wall.

  Brent asked, “Do you want me to put Plugford for your last name? On the tombstone?”

  “I do.” Patch Up’s voice was almost inaudible. “Thanks.”

  Brent tied the black horse beside the dandy’s tan mare, turned around and caught the falling man.