Crucifixion River

by Marcia Muller

  “My Lord, what are you doing out on such a night?”

  He ignored the question. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

  “T.J. Murdock, ferrymaster here.”

  “My name’s Kraft. Afternoon stage comes this way, bound for Stockton. You ferry it across before the storm broke?”

  “No, it arrived too late for safe passage.”

  He made a hard, grunting sound. “Passengers still here, then?”

  “Yes. Until morning likely.”

  “Rachel Kraft one of them? Woman, twenty-eight, roan-color hair braided and rolled, pretty face?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a man with short, curly hair and a thick mustache?”

  “He’s here, too, yes. Is Rachel Kraft related to you?”

  “Damn right she is…my wife. Where are they?”

  “Inside with the others. Mister Kraft, why…?”

  He wheeled the horse, spurred it hard toward the house. I hurried after him through the muddy puddles. He jumped down, left the animal where it stood with no thought to its care, and literally ripped at the door latch. I was only a few paces behind him when he bulled his way inside the common room.

  The guests were all still at table, lingering over coffee and dried apple pie, Shock picking on his banjo. Rachel Kraft’s reaction to sight of her husband was to let loose a keening wail. Joe Hoover stood up fast, nearly upsetting his chair on the near side of the table. Everyone else froze. I shut the door against the rain and wind as Luke Kraft swept his hat back off his head. When I stepped around him, I had a clear look at his face and what I saw stood me dead still. It was blotched dark red from drink, cold, and the clear mix of fury and hate that brewed inside him.

  Rachel Kraft’s expression was one of bloodless terror. “Oh, my God…Luke!”

  “Didn’t think I’d find you this fast, did you? You and that son of a bitch you run off with.”

  Hoover said: “Leave her be, Kraft.”

  “Like hell I will. You ain’t getting away with what you done. She’s coming back with me, her and the money both. Right now, storm or no storm.”

  “You can have the money and welcome, but not Rachel.”

  “Shut up, Hoover. No damn’ thieving wife stealer’s gonna stand in my way.”

  “Listen to me…”

  Kraft swept the tail of his poncho back, snaked a hand underneath. It came out filled with a long-barreled Colt sidearm. Rachel Kraft cried out again. Nesbitt stood up, doing it slowly, with his hands in plain sight. None of the rest of us moved an inch.

  “There’s no call for that, Mister Kraft,” I said, with as much calm as I could muster. “There are women in here.”

  “Only woman I’m interested in is my wife. Rachel, get on over here.”

  “No, Luke, please…”

  “I said get over here. Now!”

  “She’s not going back with you,” Hoover said.

  “You gonna stop me from taking her? Go ahead and try. I’d just as lief put a bullet in you.”

  “She’s had all the beatings she can stand. I’ve seen the marks you put on her.”

  “Yeah, and I know what the two of you was doing when you seen ’em. Rachel! Do what you been told!”

  She obeyed this time. Her legs were unsteady as she rose to her feet and started toward him.

  Hoover stepped in front her, pushed her behind him, and held her there with one arm. His jaw was set hard. He’d struck me as mild-mannered, but there was plenty of sand and iron in him. The thought crossed my mind that he was more in love with Rachel Kraft than her husband ever could be.

  “You can’t have her, Kraft.”

  “I’m taking what’s mine, all of it.”

  She said through her fright: “Luke, Joe didn’t steal the money. I did. He didn’t know anything about it until after we left…”

  “Shut up. I won’t tell you again…get on over here!”

  Hoover took a step forward, still holding the woman behind him. “Suppose we keep this between you and me…”

  Kraft shot him. Just that quickly.

  The sound of the gunshot was nearly deafening in the low-ceilinged room. The bullet struck Hoover in the chest, threw him around, grunting, and down to the floor. Shocked gasps and cries rode the dying echoes of the shot. Rachel Kraft screamed, took one look at the blood streaming from Hoover’s chest, and fainted.

  The sudden violence, the acrid fog of powder smoke in the air, seemed to have no effect on Nesbitt. He said to Kraft: “You shot an unarmed man, mister. If he dies, that’s murder.”

  “Bastard stole my wife and three thousand dollars out of my safe.”

  “That’s no cause for gunplay.”

  “You saw him start for me. Self-defense, by Christ.”

  “Everyone here will testify otherwise.”

  Kraft pointed his weapon at Nesbitt. What he’d done seemed to have had no effect on the rage and hatred that controlled him. “That’s enough out of you. You and Murdock pick up my wife and carry her outside and put her on my horse. Tie her down if needs be.”

  I said: “Be reasonable, man. You can’t take her out in this storm…”

  “Don’t you start in on me, mister, unless you want a bullet, too. We’re leaving here as soon as I…”

  The rest of what he’d been about to say was lost in another report, not as loud but just as sudden and shocking. A bloody hole appeared in Kraft’s forehead; he had time for one amazed gasp before his knees buckled and he fell headlong, his weapon coming free of his grasp. I tore my gaze away from his settling body, put it on the shaken, gabbling group around the table.

  The peddler, James Shock, said: “That was self-defense, brothers and sisters. I trust you’ll all testify to the fact.”

  In his hand, smoke adrift from the muzzle, was a small, nickel-plated revolver.

  Caroline Devane

  Mr. Nesbitt and I were the first to move after James Shock’s pronouncement. He went to kneel beside the man named Kraft while I hurried to Joe Hoover’s side. Young Hoover was alive, barely conscious and moaning, blood pumping from the wound in his chest. As I knelt quickly beside him, I heard Nesbitt say that the drunken rancher was dead. Others were moving about, too, by then, Mrs. Murdock attending to Rachel Kraft.

  Hoover’s wound, fortunately, was high on the left side of his chest, below the collar bone-a location where there were no vital organs. There was considerable blood, but it was not arterial blood. Serious, then, but perhaps not life-threatening if the bullet could be removed, the wound cleaned and properly treated to reduce the threat of infection.

  Mr. Murdock said: “How badly hurt he is?”

  I told him my prognosis.

  “Sounds like you’ve had nurse’s training.”

  “I have,” I said. I looked past him at his wife. “We’ll need hot water, clean towels, a sharp, clean knife. Have you any disinfectant?”

  “Only rubbing alcohol.”

  “That’ll do. Also sulphur powder, if you have that.”

  She nodded and hurried away.

  Rachel Kraft had recovered from her faint and was sitting up, staring at us with horrified eyes. “Joe,” she said. “Oh, God, don’t let him die.”

  “He’s not going to die,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

  She moaned, made an effort to stand, failed, and began to crawl toward us. Nesbitt grasped her arms and drew her to her feet. She cried out in protest, struggled for a moment, and suddenly went limp again. Not the sort of woman one could rely upon in a crisis such as this.

  Murdock asked me: “Can he be moved?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “We’ll take him into one of the guest rooms.”

  I stood and moved aside as he and Mr. Nesbitt lifted the injured man. Nesbitt had helped Rachel Kraft to a chair by the fire; she was conscious again, but inert, and she wore the glazed look of deep shock. James Shock still stood by the table, and, as I followed the men carrying Hoover, I glanced at the peddler. He was smil
ing faintly, his gaze fixed and thoughtful. He didn’t seem particularly affected by the fact that he had just killed a man, and it made me wonder if he had killed before. Whether he had or not, the man’s coldness, his unctuousness, his conviction that all women would fall prey to his superficial charm, repelled me.

  The men laid young Hoover on the guest room bed. With Mr. Murdock’s help, I removed the wounded man’s coat and shirt. Sophie Murdock came with towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a package of sulfur powder. Laudanum, too, for pain relief afterward. “The water’s heating,” she said. “It won’t be long.”

  “The knife will have to be sterilized.”

  “Yes. I have it in another pan on the stove.”

  I used a towel to sponge blood from the wound. It was as I’d surmised from my cursory examination in the common room-serious but not necessarily life-threatening. Hoover moaned and his eyelids fluttered, then popped open. Pain clouded his eyes, but he managed to focus on me.

  “Rachel,” he whispered.

  “Lie still, Mister Hoover.”

  “I have to know…she all right?”

  “Yes. Unharmed.”

  “Kraft?”

  “He’s dead,” Murdock said. “The peddler, Shock, shot him.”

  Hoover muttered something, a sound of satisfaction, and his body relaxed and his eyes closed again.

  I drew the Murdocks aside. “We’ll need a bottle of whiskey,” I said. “For anaesthesia. I can’t probe into him unless he’s partially sedated and held still.”

  “I’ll get it,” Murdock said.

  “Another lamp, too. More light.”

  The three of them hurried out, leaving me alone with Hoover. He looked so young and vulnerable, lying there-like one of my own sons. He may have been a thief, as that man Kraft had said, but he was personable and he seemed genuinely to care for Rachel Kraft.

  The Murdocks returned with the rest of the items I had requested. I positioned them, one on either side of the bed. Murdock lifted Hoover’s head and administered a large dose of whiskey. I sponged more blood from the wound, cleaned it with alcohol-he groaned again but lay still-and then stood staring at the sterilized kitchen knife gleaming on a cloth beside the pan of boiled water. My hand was not steady and perspiration beaded my forehead.

  Sophie Murdock looked keenly at me, her tired eyes searching mine. “You’ve never had cause to do this before, have you?”

  “No.” My voice was as unsteady as my hand.

  “But you have assisted with similar procedures.”

  “Yes…once.”

  “Then you’ll manage. Won’t she, Thomas?”

  “I have no doubt of it,” he said.

  I drew several deep breaths. Mrs. Murdock was right-I would manage to do what was necessary to save this young man’s life. I would because I must.

  My hand no longer trembled when I reached out for the knife.

  James Shock

  After the wounded wife stealer was carried out, I ambled over for a look at the gent I’d shot. Drilled dead center above the bridge of the nose, by grab. Never knew what hit him. Never expected a banjo-strumming peddler to have a hideout gun, or in the blink of an eye to draw and fire with perfect aim. He wasn’t the first to suffer the consequences of underestimating James Shock, and like as not he wouldn’t be the last.

  As I turned away, the Murdock girl, Annabelle, came near and caught hold of my arm. Her face was bloodless, but nonetheless attractive for her fright. She wouldn’t look at the dead man; her eyes were all for me. “That was a brave thing you did, Mister Shock,” she said, all breathless. “Truly it was.”

  I smiled down at her. Her body was pressed so tightly against my arm I could feel the swell of her breasts. What a sweet little piece she was, all tender and dewy-eyed and ripe for the picking. But not by me, alas. Not in these surroundings and under these circumstances. Underage she was, too. Jailbait. Pity.

  “I couldn’t let him fire his weapon a second time,” I said. “He might’ve shot someone else…even you, my dear.”

  I felt her shiver and squeeze tighter, tight enough to bring a stir to my loins. Seventeen and surely a virgin. I sighed, licking my lips, and reluctantly eased her away from me. No sense in allowing such warm flesh to torment me, eh? Besides, I had more important matters on my mind. Percolating there, you might say.

  Murdock and the sharp-eyed gent named Nesbitt returned from wherever they’d carried Hoover. Annabelle stepped farther away from me as Nesbitt approached. Murdock went to the buffet for a bottle of whiskey, then picked up one of the coal-oil lamps. Annabelle said to him, dipping her chin in the direction of the dead man: “Dad, will you please take…that outside. He…it’s making me ill.”

  “I can’t right now. Nesbitt?”

  “Shock and I will do it.”

  I shrugged. “For the lady’s sake, yes.”

  “We’ll put him in the barn.”

  “All that distance in this weather? Why not just lay him out front?”

  “Cold, aren’t you, Shock?”

  “Not at all, brother. Practical is the word. After the way he busted in here, a raging threat to all of us, his remains don’t deserve consideration.”

  “The barn. Come on, let’s get it done.”

  Well, I might have argued with him, but I held my tongue. Peace and harmony, now the crisis was ended-that was the ticket. I shrugged and winked at Annabelle and went to put on my rain gear.

  And out we went into the storm, my hands full of the dead rancher’s scuffed boots, and across a mud field to the barn. The stage driver had gone back out there earlier to sleep in his coach and the storm had prevented him from hearing the gunfire. He woke up quickly when we came staggering in and laid the corpse in one of the empty stalls. Nesbitt gave him a terse explanation of the events inside. Dell said he’d fetch Kraft’s horse and went out to do that.

  On one knee, Nesbitt ran his hands over Kraft’s clothing. Searching for a wallet or purse, mayhap, but he found nothing of the sort. When he stood up again, he said: “You’re quite a marksman, aren’t you, Shock? For an itinerant peddler.”

  “A man’s profession has little to do with his ability with firearms.”

  “True enough. Still, it was pretty risky, firing as you did in there. Suppose you’d missed?”

  “But I didn’t miss.”

  “But you could have.”

  “Not at that range, with the element of surprise in my favor,” I said. “No, brother, the only danger was that Kraft might have had a notion to fire his weapon again, as drunk and raging as he was. I did what I had to do for all our sakes. You’d have done the same, given the opportunity.”

  “Would I? Why do you say that?”

  “You wear a sidearm. Before I drew and fired, I saw you ease the tail of your coat back.”

  “Very observant. But I wouldn’t have drawn unless Kraft turned his gun in the direction of the table.”

  “Might’ve been too late by then. I chose to act immediately. The right choice, eh, brother?”

  “As it turned out.”

  He gave me a long, searching look. As if he were trying to take my measure. It was the scrutiny of a lawman, one I’d seen too many times in my life to mistake. Well, if a lawman was what he was, no matter to me or my plans. I was not wanted anywhere for any sort of crime. A few close calls here and there, that was all. And no one could dispute the fact that I’d plugged the rancher in self-defense; half a dozen witnesses could attest to that. I had nothing to fear from the law. And wouldn’t after I left here, if I were careful.

  On the walk back to the roadhouse, I thought again of what Luke Kraft had said after shooting down the wife stealer. Bastard stole my wife and three thousand dollars out of my safe. $3,000! No one other than the ever-vigilant James Shock seemed to have paid attention to those words. And where were the $3,000 to be found? In the wife’s or the cowhand’s luggage, possibly, but more likely it was on the cowhand himself. As he’d lain there on the floor, with the Deva
ne woman ministering to him, I’d spied a cowhide pouch fastened to his belt. What better place to keep greenbacks or gold specie or both?

  Heigh-ho! And who better to lay claim to those $3,000 than the resourceful Mr. James Shock?

  Annabelle Murdock

  After James Never Jim Shock and Mr. Nesbitt took the dead man away, I went over to where Mrs. Kraft slumped in a chair in front of the fireplace. Even though the room was warm, she was shaking as if she had the ague and her eyes were unfocused. Well, of course she was in bad way. She’d just seen her husband shoot her lover-that had been a surprise, Joe Hoover being her lover, even though the two of them hadn’t really acted like cousins-and then her husband shot dead right afterward.

  I was still upset myself. All that sudden violence-right here in my home! Oh, we’d had incidents before, drummers imbibing too much whiskey, men cheating at cards and getting into fights. But they’d never been anything that Dad couldn’t resolve without any shooting being done. What had happened tonight had been terrible to see. I’d probably have nightmares about it for the rest of my life. If it hadn’t been for James Never Jim Shock, that man Kraft might have shot his wife, too, and maybe Dad, or Mother, or even me. It made me shudder again just thinking about it.

  “Missus Kraft?” I said.

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me.

  Shaking the way she was, even with the fire, she ought to have a blanket. I hurried to my room, where I stripped away the good heavy woolen one that Mother had ordered for me from a Sears Roebuck catalog last summer. When I came back into the common room, Rachel Kraft hadn’t moved. I wrapped the blanket around her and sat down on the chair to her right. And this time when I spoke her name, she turned her head and looked at me with dull eyes.

  “Joe,” she said, “Mister Hoover. He’ll live, won’t he?”

  I didn’t know, but I said: “I think so. Missus Devane and my folks…they’re doing all they can.”

  “And my husband? He’s dead?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  She looked back at the fire. “Don’t be. He deserved to die. You saw and heard what kind of man he was.” After a moment, she added: “A harsh man created by a harsh land. This is no place to make a decent life, especially for a woman.”