Crucifixion River

by Marcia Muller

  Thinking of him made me shiver again. Joe didn’t notice. He kept his eyes on the fire, thinking Lord knew what. I knew he was angry with me for stealing Luke’s money, but I also sensed that he wanted those $3,000. More than he wanted me? Oh, God, not more than me! Remain calm, Rachel. That’s what Joe’s always telling you. Remain calm.

  I glanced at him. In profile, he looked strong, his jaw set, his eyes focused. A man who had battled the elements working cattle ranches in Montana before he came to California. A man who was everything Luke was not-strong, gentle, kind. And unafraid of the storm raging outside.

  But was he unafraid of the man whose wife he’d run off with? Would he stand up to Luke if he found us?

  Of course he would. He loved me. Or kept telling me he did.

  But did I love him? Or was I with him only because he was my way out of an intolerable situation?

  Well, I hadn’t had any choice, had I? In time Luke would have killed me, I was sure of that. I couldn’t leave by myself, a woman alone with nothing and no one to rely on for protection. I’d been so sheltered as a child in Isleton, and then so isolated on Luke’s big ranch, that I knew very little of the world beyond its borders.

  The wind gusted, rattling what were probably loose shingles on the roof. With it came another battering downpour and a clap of thunder.

  Joe gently removed my hand from his arm, favored me with one of his reassuring smiles, and stood. He moved to the buffet, poured himself a small glass of whiskey, and went to sit alone at the long trestle table.

  Dear God, what if he was tiring of me? He’d been so angry with my nervous babbling when we’d first arrived here. “Keep still about the money,” he’d told me. Keep still. He’d never spoken to me that harshly before.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Murdock and a young girl of perhaps seventeen wearing mud-spattered oilskins came inside. This must be the daughter she’d been so worried about. Mrs. Murdock clucked over her like a mother hen, helped her out of the sodden rain gear, and then bustled her through the common room to the rear. I felt the dampness on the hem of my traveling skirt, and again I shivered in spite of the stove’s heat.

  Caroline Devane touched my arm. “There’s nothing to be concerned about,” she said. “By tomorrow morning we’ll be on our way.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “What on earth would stop us?”

  “That there’s nothing to be concerned about, I meant.”

  After a pause the Devane woman said: “Please don’t mind my saying this, but I have the feeling you’re fleeing from something. You and your…cousin. If you’d care to confide in me…”

  “…I can’t.”

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t be so frightened if you did.”

  I’ve been afraid for years. Sometimes I think I’ll always be afraid.

  Caroline Devane put her hand on mine. Normally I don’t like to be touched by strangers, but this time I didn’t pull away. “We share a common bond,” she said softly. “I’m running away, too, you see.”

  Her words surprised me. There was a quiet strength about her; she didn’t seem the type to run from anything.

  “Sometimes, Miss Kraft, sharing one’s troubles can be a comfort to both parties.”

  “It’s Missus Kraft,” I said, and watched knowledge mixed with sorrow come into her eyes. Perhaps her troubles and mine were not so different. Perhaps we did have a common bond, that of sisters who had been badly used by the men they thought they could trust.

  Boone Nesbitt

  After Murdock’s wife took young Annabelle inside the roadhouse, he thanked me again for helping her. I said the pleasure was all mine, and it was true in more than one sense. What she’d told me on the way confirmed my suspicions. Now it was time to prod Murdock and gauge his reaction.

  When he offered to put my horse up in the barn, I said: “I’ll come along and give you a hand.”

  “Lot drier and warmer inside, Mister Nesbitt.”

  “I don’t mind helping out.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He climbed up on the buckboard seat and I followed along on foot, leading the piebald I’d hired in Sacramento. Stage or steamer passage would have been more comfortable, but I prefer my own company in situations such as this. There’d be plenty of time for comfort and pleasure later on.

  Thunder rumbled, loud, and jagged forks of lightning seemed to split the black sky in two. The time was not much past 4:00 p.m., but daylight was already gone and the wind-whipped rain seemed thick as gumbo. If it weren’t for the lightning flares, I wouldn’t have been able to see the barn until we were right up to it.

  Murdock jumped down, and I helped him get the doors propped open. A pair of hurricane lanterns flickered inside, throwing light and shadow across the Concord coach and the slab-sided peddler’s wagon that took up much of the runway between the stalls. There was just enough room for the buckboard. Once he’d drawn it inside, it took both of us to drive the doors shut against the force of the storm.

  Cold and damp inside, the combined smells of manure, hay, harness leather, wet animals were strong enough to make a man breathe through his mouth. A bearded oldster was busy unharnessing the stage team, putting the horses into the stalls. He paused long enough to say: “Pete Dell. Wells Fargo driver.”

  “Boone Nesbitt,” I said.

  Dell eyed my horse. “Foul weather to be out on horseback.”

  “That it is.”

  He shrugged and went on about his business. Murdock began unharnessing the wagon horse. I took my saddlebags off the piebald first, then I removed bridle and bit, uncinched the saddle, and rubbed down the horse with a burlap sack.

  Murdock said conversationally: “Don’t recall seeing you before, Mister Nesbitt.”

  “That’s because I’ve never been in the delta before.”

  “You’re seeing it at its worst. It’s a good place to live and work most of the year.”

  “I prefer cities. San Francisco.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “No. It’s my home at present, but I’m a native of Chicago.”

  Murdock stiffened. His hand froze on the bay mare’s halter.

  “Fine city, Chicago. You ever been there, Mister Murdock?”

  “No,” he said. He finished unharnessing the bay without looking at me, led it into one of the remaining stalls. I ambled over next to Murdock as he measured out a portion of oats. Pete Dell was out of earshot, with the rain beating hard against the roof and walls, but I kept my voice low anyhow.

  “Your daughter told me you’re the T.J. Murdock who writes sketches for the San Francisco periodicals.”

  The look he gave me had a mask on it. “Now and then. A hobby.”

  “I’ve read some of them. Reminiscent of Ambrose Bierce, but with a distinctive style all your own. Very distinctive, as a matter of fact.”

  “If you think so, I’m flattered.”

  “The one in the Argonaut about the Crucifixion River sect was particularly good.”

  “That was several years ago,” Murdock said warily.

  “Yes, I know. I looked it up after I’d read some of your more recent sketches. You wrote it from firsthand knowledge, I understand.”

  “That’s right. The sect established itself on the peninsula southwest of here.”

  “Buildings still standing?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Ghosts. The past is full of them.”

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “Funny thing,” I said, “how the past can haunt the present. I wonder if the sect members are haunted by their failure here.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I’ll wager some of them are. Some folks just can’t escape their past failures. Or their past sins.”

  A muscle jumped along his jaw. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind. The mask was back in place, tight as ever. He finished rubbing down the roan, slung a blanket over the animal, and called to Pete Dell: “Goi
ng inside now, Pete! Come on in for some hot grub when you’re finished.”

  “I’ll be there. Pour me a whiskey to go with it.”

  “Done. You planning to spend the night in the common room or out here?”

  “Out here. Prefer my own company at night, you know that.”

  “It’ll be pretty cold and damp. This barn’s drafty.”

  “Warm enough for me inside the coach.”

  “Suit yourself.” Murdock started toward the doors, glanced back at me long enough to say: “You coming, Mister Nesbitt?”

  “Right behind you.”

  He went on with his shoulders squared, slipped out through one door half, closed it after I followed, and set off in hard strides to the roadhouse. Walking, not running. He was through running, one way or another-we both knew that now.

  T.J. Murdock? Not by a damned sight. His true name was Harold P. Baxter and he was a native of Chicago, same as I was. And after eight years, purely by chance, I was the man who’d found him, I was the man who stood to collect the private reward of $10,000 on his head.

  Annabelle Murdock

  The common room had never seemed so alive! Two women sitting by the fire, a good-looking man with a banjo slung over his shoulder helping himself at the buffet, another fellow drinking whiskey at the table, and Mr. Nesbitt and my father and Pete Dell yet to join us. Everyone was subdued by the storm, but as glad to be out of it as I was. This much company was a rare treat; we seldom had more than two or three guests. There were only two guest bedrooms, for ladies only if the company was mixed, and it was seldom that both were occupied for a night.

  I’d changed clothes in my bedroom and dried my hair as best I could. Dratted hair-when wet and damp, it curled and tangled and looked like a mare’s nest. Yet another reason I hated this backcountry. At least my dress was pretty; I’d put on the blue gingham with the lace collar for our company.

  I looked around at the stranded travelers. The women by the fire had their heads together in earnest conversation-stage passengers, surely. The man drinking whiskey at the table looked to be a farm or ranch worker dressed up in his Sunday best. The other man at the buffet, the one with the banjo, had his back to me, but I’d gotten a close look at him when I came in. My, he was handsome in his brown butternut suit. And much nearer to my age than Mr. Nesbitt. Mother came out and placed a basket of fresh-baked bread beside him, and he smiled and nodded his thanks before she returned to the kitchen.

  The door opened and Dad came in. His face was tightened up like it got when he’d fought with me or Mother, and he moved in an odd, jerky way. He didn’t even look at me as he shucked out of his oilskins and then walked through the room toward the kitchen. It made me cross. I hate to be ignored, and it was particularly annoying after the soaking I’d gotten and the wheel almost coming off the buckboard. Then Mr. Nesbitt came in, and he nodded to me as he took off his wet slicker.

  I went to the buffet for coffee, and greeted the man with the banjo. Oh, yes, he truly was good-looking-slender, with chestnut brown hair and a nice smile and a rakish gleam in his eyes. And tall-I had to tilt my head to look up at him. I like tall men, probably because I’m short and a man half a head taller makes me feel protected.

  He said, smiling: “You must be Miss Murdock.”

  “Yes. My name is Annabelle.”

  “James Shock, traveling merchant, at your service.”

  “Oh, is that right? Where’s your wagon?”

  “Safe in the barn. It contains all manner of fine merchandise, for ladies as well as men.” He raised one eyebrow questioningly.

  “Are you trying to sell me something, Mister Shock?”

  “An attractive young woman like yourself can always use a new hat, a hair ribbon, sachets, perfume, a bolt of good cloth.”

  “I’ve no money for such things…not that I wouldn’t love to have them.”

  “My prices are more reasonable than any in town stores.”

  “They could cost a penny each and I couldn’t buy them.”

  “That’s a shame. It truly is.”

  “I think so, too. May I ask how long you’ve been a peddler?”

  “Traveling merchant, if you please. All my life. My father was in the trade before me and I learned it at his side.”

  “You must have seen a lot of different places.”

  “I have, indeed. Traveled far and wide throughout the West.”

  “Is that so? Have you been to San Francisco?”

  “Ah, yes. Many times. I expect I’ll be paying another visit before long.”

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? A wonderful, exciting city.”

  “That it is, if you know it well. And I do. You’ve never been there yourself?”

  “No, never. The only city I’ve ever been to is Sacramento, with my folks.” I heard myself sigh. “I’d give anything to live in San Francisco. And to visit all the other places you’ve seen.”

  He smiled more widely, showing even white teeth. “Why don’t you, then?”

  “I’m too young. My folks say I am anyway.”

  “Young, mayhap, but a woman nonetheless. A beautiful young woman.”

  Well, I couldn’t help smiling and preening a little at such flattery. Lovely woman. Beautiful young woman. Mr. James Shock was a charmer, he truly was. And so easy to talk to, and to look at. The more I looked into those eyes of his, the more tingly I felt. Why, he all but gave me goose bumps.

  “Tell me about your travels,” I said. “Tell me about San Francisco.”

  “With pleasure, Annabelle. I may call you Annabelle?”

  “Please do.”

  “And you’ll call me by my given name, if you please. James…never Jim.”

  I laughed. “Will you play a song for me on your banjo, Mister James Never Jim Shock?”

  He laughed, too. “That I will,” he said. “As many as you like.”

  “Do you know ‘Little Brown Jug’?”

  “One of my favorite tunes.” He caressed me with his eyes and I felt the goose bumps rise again. “I can see that we’re going to be good friends, Annabelle. Yes, indeed. Very good friends.”

  T.J. Murdock

  Supper was later than usual because of all the extra mouths to feed. After I finished eating, I donned my slicker and went outside to check on the ferry lashings and the cable. The driving rain had let up some, but the wind remained strong. I had to push my way through it, bent forward at the waist, as if it were something semisolid.

  I thought Boone Nesbitt might follow me, but he didn’t. All through the meal I’d felt his eyes on me, dark and implacable in a poker face. He hadn’t said a word to me since the barn, and none to any of the others except for a brief response when someone addressed him directly. I had also remained silent. As had the other stranded travelers, except for the banjo-strumming peddler, Shock, who had kept up a running sales pitch for his various wares and told stories that Annabelle, if no one else, seemed to find entertaining. There was a lost quality to Caroline Devane, a strained tension in Joe Hoover and his companion that seemed more a product of private troubles than the pounding storm. But no one was as tautly wound as I, nor as troubled.

  Nesbitt knew my real identity, there was little doubt of that from his questions and comments in the barn. A stranger from San Francisco by way of Sacramento, alone on horseback…come upon me so suddenly that I could scarcely think straight. Who was he? What was his game, with his sly talk and watchful eyes? Waiting for the storm to abate, likely, to make his intentions known to me. We both knew there was no escape while the storm raged, and none afterward because of Sophie and Annabelle.

  How had he found me, after eight long years? My sketches in the Argonaut, The Overland Monthly, and other San Francisco publications? He had made a deliberate point of mentioning them and my distinctive writing style. I’d been a fool to submit my writings for publication, even under the Murdock name and in a city far from Chicago. But a writer such as I was and had been for the Chicago Sentinel is one who yearn
s not for fame or money, but to have his words, ideas, insights read by others. And the pittances I was paid augmented the pittance I earned as a ferrymaster, allowing us what few small luxuries we could afford.

  I didn’t know what to do about Nesbitt. What could I do? Even if it weren’t for my family, I would not have run again. The flight from Chicago in 1887, the years of hardship since, were all of a fugitive’s life I could bear. If Nesbitt was bent on taking me back to face Patrick Bellright, there seemed little choice but to submit. If he was an assassin hired to finish me here, I would try to defend myself, but I would not take action against him first. I could not premeditate the destruction of a human life, even to save my own. It simply was not in me.

  The ferry barge was secure, the cable whipped taut and singing in the wind but showing no indication that it might snap. Crucifixion Slough was a cauldron, frothing near to the tops of the embankments on both shores, inundating the cattails and blackberry shrubs that grew on this side. The levee road, as far as I could tell in the darkness, had not been breached close by, but if the storm’s fury continued long enough, there were bound to be breaks between here and River Bend and over on the Middle Island roads. In any case, it would be long hours through the night and perhaps into the morning before the ferry could be operated-long, difficult hours of waiting for Nesbitt to reveal himself.

  I started back to the house, the wind’s might behind me now and forcing me into a lope. Before I got there, however, a pair of shapes materialized, suddenly and astonishingly, on the levee road above. Horse and rider, coming as fast as could be managed through the downpour. I stopped and rubbed wet out of my eyes, blinking. It was no trick of night vision. When the rider reached the muddy embankment lane, he swung in and slid his mount down and across the yard.

  He drew rein when he spied me, veered over to where I stood, and dismounted. He wore a heavy poncho and a scarf-tied hat that rendered his face all but invisible. All I could tell about him was that he was big and that his voice was rough-toned, thickened by liquor and an emotion I took to be anger.