“Double goddamn!”
“You gotta shoot and hide while they got that sharpshooter,” Brent said as he retrieved their weapons.
On the far side of the fort, Dolores fired, leaned to the wall and flung her trigger guard. “Got somebody.”
“Which one’s the turquoise stagecoach?” asked Long Clay.
“The green-looking one,” said Stevie.
“Tell me its position,” clarified Long Clay, who was loath to admit that he could not see colors.
Brent surveyed the charging enemy, gleaned the turquoise stagecoach, fired his gun and hid. “On the right. The furthest on the right.”
Long Clay shot, stepped away from his opening, jettisoned the spent shell, filled the chamber, went to a different slit, aimed and fired. “The sharpshooter’s done.”
Dolores fired and leaned back to the wall. “Got another.”
“That’s a Plugford woman!” Stevie fired.
Outside, fleet hooves thundered.
Brent raised his gun, aimed at the egg yolk that was the top of a yellow hat, pulled his trigger, blinked, flung his lever, watched the shot rider tumble and reveal a blonde man who wore a beige suit, fired, blinked and witnessed a gory corsage burgeon upon the man’s left lapel.
Long Clay put down his telescopic weapon, raised his repeater rifle and sent bullets, alternately squeezing and fanning. Brent, Stevie and Dolores pulled magazines from their gunstocks, slotted replacements and sent three magazines at the enemy. Upon the stone floor, spent shells clinked like coins from a slot machine. Five members of the opposition tumbled to the sere terrain.
The siblings slotted new magazines.
“Hold fire,” said the gunfighter. “Let them come.”
All of the vehicles and five of the riders slowed their approach, but the remainder of the opposition, twenty-six horsemen who were hunched low in their saddles, hastened onward, toward the trench that laid one hundred and ten yards south of the fort.
The Plugfords and Long Clay watched.
Hiding behind the necks of their galloping steeds, the riders yelled obscenities at their enemies within the fort.
One of the inverted captives shouted, “¡Ayudame, por favor!”
“¡Nuestros amigos están aquí!” cried another hostage. “¡Triunfo, triunfo!”
The vanguard reached the line. Two hesitant animals tumbled into the trench and snapped their necks, but the majority of the horses hurdled the narrow gap. Hooves impacted the pregnant ground and the sun exploded from the earth. Steeds and men were hurled into the air, shrieking, atop a welter of white fire, shrapnel and dirt. Brent and his siblings were shoved from their slits by the blasts.
Myriad thunders echoed across the mountain wall.
“Go to Hell!” Dolores shouted from beside her toppled stool.
“They’re on their way!” enthused Stevie. “Barbecued!”
A small amount of hope entered Brent’s chest.
Beyond the cowboy’s slit, the blackened pieces of steeds and men rained to the ground. A writhing vaquero struck the dirt, detonated another land torpedo and was wholly consumed by a bright white flash.
Five riders emerged from the cloud of smoke and continued their charge. Seared, deaf and blinded by grit, they fired wildly to the north, west and east.
Brent aimed his rifle at the nearest rider, fired and saw the dusty hombre fall. Long Clay shot two fellows from their saddles and sent an additional bullet into each man’s skull when he landed. Stevie and Dolores fired upon and killed the remaining pair.
The cowboy surveyed the terrain that laid in-between the fort and the opaque curtain of smoke that hung seventy yards to the south. In that dark region, he saw no immediate threat.
“Guns forward,” Long Clay ordered, “but hold until you’ve got something to shoot at.”
Brent flung his trigger guard and snapped it back. In the eerie silence of the aftermath, the sound of the mechanism seemed especially loud and sharp. He looked at the sky and saw that the eastern horizon was a tiny bit brighter than the surrounding vault. Dawn approached.
Stevie and Dolores slotted new magazines.
One of the captives began to weep.
Brent raised his spyglass and inspected the terrain. The smoke dissipated, revealimg a score of jet-black craters that looked like holes in reality. Along the south side of the trench sat both stagecoaches and all three wagons. The vehicles were parked in a continuous line and had their sides forward.
“They made a wall with the wagons,” announced Brent.
“Stevie,” said Long Clay.
“Yessir?”
“Get to the west wall. Dolores.”
“What?”
“Get to the east wall.”
Stevie returned to the opening that overlooked the cemetery, and Dolores scooted her stool beside the slit that faced the well.
“Watch the ground,” Long Clay advised, “there are probably survivors. Playing possum. Hiding.”
“We will,” said Stevie.
Brent monitored the terrain. Two blind horses stumbled amidst craters and incomplete corpses. South of the carnage, the line of vehicles sat still and quiet like an abandoned locomotive.
Immediately outside the fort, somebody sneezed. Brent stiffened—although none of the captives had their hands free, the sound had been muffled. “Back away from your slits,” the cowboy whispered, “someone’s out there.”
The Plugfords and Long Clay leaned their backs to the wall. Silently, the gunfighter slung his rifle and drew a black revolver. The quartet waited, listening, for a very long minute.
Outside the fort, a pebble clicked.
Long Clay thrust his gun barrel through a slit and into an eyeball; he squeezed his trigger twice. The reports were dim, muted by the man’s brainpan. As the gunfighter withdrew from the wall, and the man with the seared mind thudded to the ground outside. “Watch for them.”
Brent returned to his opening and raised his spyglass. Through the lenses he saw the luminous dark blue teeth of a charred horse, the prostrated body of a dead man who had been pierced by shrapnel, a leg with no owner and the rim of the foremost crater.
Within the dark hole, something moved.
Brent adjusted his lenses and said, “I see—”
A muzzle flashed.
The cowboy flew backwards, and a gunshot resounded.
“Brent!” yelled Stevie.
“No, no, no!” shouted Dolores.
The floor slammed into Brent’s shoulders, spine and buttocks. Fire flared across his shot left arm. “In the crater!”
In one fluid motion, Long Clay leaned to an opening, trained his rifle, fired twice and retreated.
Stevie ran to Brent.
“Stay on the wall,” the cowboy said, “I ain’t that bad off.”
“No. You can’t lose no more blood.” Stevie knelt, withdrew a large handkerchief, folded it thrice and pulled it around his brother’s left forearm.
“Hell!” The pain that burst from the wound almost knocked Brent unconscious. “Hell.” His left hand twitched and clenched.
Stevie tightened the tourniquet and knotted its ends. “There.”
Brent could not feel his left hand, but the wound was stanched. “Thanks.”
“You’re we—”
“Get to your slit,” ordered Long Clay. “Now!”
“I’m goin.’” Stevie rose to his feet and glared at the gunfighter. “And you don’t have to talk to me that way, neither. You can break all my limbs if that’s real important to you, but if my brother or any of my kin get hurt, I’m helpin’ them out no matter what.”
A shadow covered the opening directly behind the young man.
Brent’s stomach sank. “Stevie! Drop!”
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Outside the darkened slit, a gun flashed.
The front of Stevie’s forehead burst open.
Dolores shrieked.
“No!” yelled Brent.
The gun flashed a second time. Stevie lurched forward and dropped to his knees. Long Clay fired three shots through the slit, and the shadow outside screamed.
Stevie’s face impacted the stone floor.
“Stevie!” Brent crawled to his brother and turned him over. “Stevie.”
The young man’s eyes were wide with horror and confusion. Gore filled his mouth and drained from the back of his head.
“We’ll get you fixed,” Brent said, “it ain’t as bad as you think.”
The terrified animal that was Stevie Plugford nodded. He moved his mouth and tried to say something.
“And after, you can come with me on the cattle trail. Okay?”
The young man nodded, relaxed and stopped breathing.
Brent looked away from his brother’s piteous face.
“He’s gone.”
“No, no, no, no!” Dolores yelled from her stool. “None of this is fair—none of it is!” She looked up at the ceiling and yelled, “I hate you up there! Come on down so I can claw out your eyes and spit in the holes! I hate you all the way every bit!”
Long Clay looked at Brent. “We need you on the west wall.”
The cowboy rested his brother’s head upon the floor, concealed the young man’s confused eyes with a handkerchief, focused his thoughts upon his living sisters and walked to the assigned slit. He saw the corpse outside and recognized the dead fellow as Jose Pastillo, an affable and kind vaquero with whom he had ridden and played checkers.
“Hell.”
A wounded man who was covered so thoroughly with dirt that he looked wholly wrought from the substance crawled into the cemetery, dragging his detached right foot and long tubes that were his entrails. Brent aimed his gun and fired. The interior of the crawler’s head splashed upon a tombstone that was previously unmarked. Atop dirt that covered old corpses, the dying man collapsed.
The cowboy focused his thoughts upon his sisters and killing the enemy, because all other ruminations had an undertow of despair that would pull him under.
“Roast in Hell!” Dolores fired and flung her trigger guard. The spent shell clinked against the floor, and a man groaned.
Long Clay fired two bullets. A man wept.
Brent saw a dirt-covered vaquero stumble toward the west side of the fort. The earthen being had a lopsided head and clutched a warped revolver with his lone remaining hand.
The cowboy shot him in the skull.
“Hell, Hell, Hell.”
Chapter VI
We Ain’t the Heroes
Something rapped upon the slanted roof of perdition. Brent Plugford pointed his rifle at the ceiling and flung his trigger guard.
“Don’t fire,” said Long Clay. “That’s Deep Lakes.”
“Where the hell’s he been?” hissed Dolores.
“Guarding our back,” said Long Clay. “Both of you get on the south wall and check the landscape.”
Dolores scooted her stool across the floor.
“He’s safe up there?” asked Brent.
“The roof’s inclined away from the terrain so that defenders can go up top.”
Brent walked to a forward slit and surveyed the foggy blue tapestry of corpses and craters that laid in-between the fort and the wall of vehicles.
“It’s like the end of the world out there,” remarked Dolores.
“Seems clear,” said Brent. “And there can’t be more than twenty of ‘em left. Less, maybe.”
“You’re correct.”
“Us Plugfords ain’t easy huntin’,” commented Dolores.
After a moment of silent surveillance, the gunfighter looked at the cowboy. “Get a pen and something to write on.”
“Okay.”
Brent circumnavigated the puddle that surrounded Stevie, walked to the bunk wherein laid Patch Up and John Lawrence Plugford, leaned over to retrieve his father’s fountain pen and felt a painful burning in his head and left arm. Darkness expanded before his eyes, and in it he saw the wailing face of the patriarch, coughing up blood.
“Brent?” questioned Dolores. “You okay?”
The cowboy slammed his right palm to the north wall and regained his equilibrium. “Yeah.” After a dizzy breath, he extracted the fountain pen from his father’s pocket, grabbed a page of Samuel C. Upfield IV’s confessional essay and walked toward the munitions table.
Long Clay strode to an eastern crenellation upon the south wall. “Midwestern Man.”
There was no reply.
“Respond right now or the Indian will cut off one of your toes.”
“I hear you,” the Midwesterner replied from the façade.
Weak and dizzy, Brent reached the munitions table and leaned.
Long Clay asked the captive, “Do you speak Spanish?”
“Yes.” The inverted man coughed and momentarily choked.
“You’re going to translate a message for us to say to the opposition.”
“Most of them speak English.”
“I’d like for every single person to understand every single word.”
“I’ll translate your message.”
Brent uncovered the fountain pen and touched its dripping tip to the blank side of the paper.
Long Clay said, “First part. ‘Listen to me. You have lost.’”
“Escúchame. Usted ha perdido.”
Brent wrote.
Escoochamay. Oosted a perdeedo.
Long Clay said, “Next part. ‘Gris stole and raped my sisters. Gris is a bad man.’”
A heavy silence followed these declarations.
The Midwesterner said, “Gris wouldn’t do that to a woman. He’s—”
“It’s true you dumb fool!” shouted Dolores. “That’s what your amigo’s father done to me and my sister—that’s why all of this terrible stuff’s happenin’!”
“I didn’t know.” The Midwesterner coughed. “I swear I didn’t.” Brent believed that the man was telling the truth.
“Translate,” Long Clay said, “or the Indian will shove a stake through your scrotum.”
“Gris robaton y violaron mi hermanas. Gris es un hombre malo.”
“Again and slower.”
The Midwesterner repeated himself, and Brent wrote.
Gris robaton ee beeolaron me ermanas. Gris es un ombray maloh.
“Next part,” said Long Clay. “Give us Gris and we will let all of you live.”
“Nos dan Gris y vamos a dejar a todos ustedes en vivo.”
Brent wrote.
Nos don Gris ee bamos a dehar a todos oosteades en beebo.
“Last part. If you continue to fight, we will torture these men and kill all of you.”
There was a momentary pause.
The Midwesterner cleared his throat. “Si continúa la lucha, vamos a la tortura a estos hombres y matar a todos ustedes.”
See conteenewa la lewcha, bamos a la tortuda ah estos ombrays ee matar a todos oosteades.
Long Clay looked at Brent. “Say it back to the Midwestern Man so that he can correct your pronunciation.”
“Okay.” The cowboy walked over to the opening that was closest to the dangling Midwesterner and read the message aloud.
“Say, ‘tortura,’ with an ‘r’ sound at the end,” advised the captive. “What you said sounded like tortuga, which mean turtle.”
“Tortura,” repeated the cowboy.
“That’s right.”
tortuda
tortura
Long Clay raised his telescopic rifle and pointed it so
uth. “Call that message through the slit as loud as you can.”
Brent put his left cheek to the stone bricks and yelled the message. ‘Listen to me! You have lost! Gris stole and raped my sisters! Gris is a bad man! Give us Gris and we will let all of you live! If you continue to fight, we will torture these men and kill all of you!’
Upon the façade, one of the inverted captives wailed, “¡Ayudame, por favor, ayudame!”
“Help us!” cried the Midwesterner. “Please, please help us!”
Brent peered through the slit. Outside, the ruined terrain was still, excepting two blind horses that struggled to escape from a deep crater into which they had fallen. The sounds of men engaged in a loud and hostile conversation emanated from behind the line of vehicles.
“Say again how he got me and Yvette,” suggested Dolores.
Brent yelled, “¡Gris beeolaron me ermanas!”
“He raped me!” cried his sister. “He raped me!”
The argument behind the vehicles grew louder, and the soft wings of hope fluttered within the cowboy’s chest.
Footsteps pounded south across the ceiling.
Long Clay looked at Brent. “Take his place on the roof. And bring a couple of iron stakes with you.”
“Okay.”
“Wear a tabard if you think you can manage the extra weight.”
“I can’t.”
“Get up there and stay low.” Long Clay eyed him sternly. “If they don’t yield, you’ll need to get mean.”
“I know we ain’t the heroes.”
The cowboy hung the wooden spyglass by its thong around his neck, slung his rifle over his good shoulder, slid magazines and two iron stakes into the sleeve of his left boot and walked toward the east door. His heart throbbed inside his chest, upon the side of his head and throughout his left arm.
“Brent!” shouted Dolores.
The cowboy looked over at his sister. “I’ll get back safe.”
“I’ve scolded you before ‘bout not givin’ a proper goodbye.”
“I’m hopin’ this ain’t goodbye.”
“Give me a goddamn hug!”
Brent walked to Dolores, leaned over and put his right arm around her shoulders. His gun swung forward and clacked against the stock of her weapon.
Wraiths of the Broken Land Page 29
