Days of Death

by P McCormac

  ‘What are you gonna do with me?” Turlough asked.

  He might as well not have wasted his precious breath. Without answering the man went across to where his injured companion lay and after examining him, turned and left the cave.

  Turlough tested his bonds but they were very secure. Indeed, so tightly bound was he that the circulation to his hands and feet was severely restricted. Amongst all the other throbbing hurts in his body this was but another discomfort to endure. He resigned himself to the fact he was completely at the mercy of the taciturn stranger.

  He must have dozed off as he awoke to find his captor untying the rawhide on his wrists. The big man coiled the rawhide, turned and went across to the patient. Keeping an eye on him, Turlough worked on the rawhide binding his feet.

  ‘What are you gonna do with me?’ he asked again.

  ‘Get that fire going,’ was the growled reply. ‘I need hot water.’

  Rubbing feeling back into his hands, Turlough set about his tasks and brought the water as instructed. He watched as the man washed the other’s wounds and then his face. There was tenderness in the action and Turlough was mesmerised as he watched, comparing the brutality of his own treatment to the gentle ministrations now being performed on Milo.

  ‘You’re not angry at me anymore?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Make yourself useful and get some coffee going. I could do with something to eat. You’ll find coffee and vittles in that sack.’

  Turlough scuttled to do as he was bid and soon had coffee brewed. He poured two mugs and took one to his companion who remained watching over Milo. The coffee was received without a word. Turlough went back to the fire and cooked up two plates of fatback and beans.

  He sat by the fire eating and keeping a wary eye on his companion, wondering if now would be a good time to make a break for it but also if he would make it to safety before he would be caught and beaten to death. There was a dangerous quality to his jailor that induced nervousness and a fear of provoking him. Turlough ate his meal and brooded on his chances of survival.

  He was jerked out of his musing when his companion tossed his empty plate over towards him. Turlough twitched and glanced nervously over his shoulder. The big man was moving towards him and he tensed as he awaited a blow or a kick – like a cowed dog watching its master on the move, regretting now he hadn’t made a run for it after all. The big man squatted down beside Turlough, pulled out the makings and began building a smoke.

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Those gimlet eyes turned on Turlough and he quailed before their coldness.

  ‘Don’t act stupid with me. I’ve been out there and examined the signs. A bunch of horsemen rode through here searching for someone and I figured that someone was you. So tell me everything about them. If you lie to me I’ll rip your arms off.’

  Turlough gulped and started to talk.

  ‘I . . . I guess it was all my fault. Clive Carter and his gang were chasing me. I was just running. I didn’t even know where I was. Your friend Milo befriended me. Somehow they tracked me down and he ran afoul of them. I saw them beating him and tried to help. I had no weapon so I chucked a rock and hit one of them and they come after me. I hid and they went on. I came back to see if I could help Milo and found him in a pretty bad way. He revived enough to show me how to get to his cave and I brought him in here. I could have taken the money and left but I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Who is this Carter?’

  ‘Elwood Black’s enforcer. Clive Carter is a gunman who does most of his dirty work for him. He’s reckoned to be deadly with a gun. No one is his equal.’

  ‘So why were they chasing you?’

  Turlough took up a twig and poked at the fire.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have tobacco to spare?’ he asked.

  The big man tossed over his tobacco pouch. Turlough started rolling his smoke. Turlough spilled some tobacco as the other man growled at him.

  ‘Don’t stop talking.’

  ‘They said I killed someone,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do I have to beat the information outta you? Who did you kill and why?’

  So Turlough told it all.

  ‘My family live in a mining town. We have a claim as do most of the folks around. The biggest mine is Alliance Holdings owned by Elwood Black. Black wants all the mine workings under his control. He offered to buy us out but the price was so low no one took him up. So he sends his hound dog, Carter and his gang to soften us up. They would come into the diggings and ride roughshod over everything, wrecking equipment and setting fire to huts and anything of use. Some people upped and left but most held on.

  ‘One of Carter’s sidekicks, Alfie Manning, waylaid my sister and attacked her. I suppose he thought he could do anything he liked just because he was under Carter’s protection. I got in a fight with Manning. Afterwards he was found dead and I was accused of killing him. I tried to tell them he was alive when I left him. When Sheriff Ginsberg came after me I had to go on the run.’

  Turlough fell silent, thinking over the awful events. He had found his sister with torn clothing and sobbing. He made her tell him who had done it and then he went after Manning. The gang member was bigger than Turlough but in the end proved himself a coward. Brave enough when attacking a young girl, he proved no match against the youngster driven by anger and thoughts of revenge.

  ‘So you’re wanted for murder.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t do it.’

  ‘If that was so why’d you run?’

  ‘Sheriff Ginsberg said he was gonna hang me for the killing.’

  ‘Why was that if you were innocent?’

  ‘Sheriff Ginsberg is not an impartial officer of the law. He was appointed by Elwood Black, the man who owns the biggest mine in the valley. Ginsberg is the mine owner’s man, lock, stock and barrel. Black wanted me dead just as he wants anyone dead who opposes his takeover of the claims.’

  ‘This claim of yours, who’s looking after it now?’

  ‘It belonged to Pa but he was killed in a fight with Carter. Ma and me and sis were left to run it. Now there is only Ma and sis and I don’t know if sis will be fit to help now she’s laid up.’

  The men smoked in silence. Turlough stared bleakly into the fire, his thoughts eaten up with bitterness at the hand that fate had dealt him. Without him there to help, he reckoned his ma would have no choice but to sell out to Elwood Black. Through his own foolish actions, he had lost his family as well as their diggings that now their enemies would hijack. There came a low moan from Milo and his companion rose swiftly and knelt by his side.

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘Bring a warm drink,’ Turlough was instructed.

  It took only moments for the youngster to produce a mug of coffee. Milo’s eyes were open and he was looking up at the big man.

  ‘Cyriac, you’re back.’

  ‘Don’t talk. Have a sup of this.’

  Turlough squatted nearby, wondering at the tenderness of the big man who had treated him so brutally. As if he had communicated his thoughts to Milo, he turned his head slightly and saw Turlough squatting nearby.

  ‘Don’t hurt the kid. It weren’t his fault.’

  Every word was gasped out with great effort.

  ‘Hush now, Milo, I ain’t hurting nobody excepting those as did this to you.’

  ‘No, don’t go near them. I don’t need no vengeance for this. They’re bad medicine. I don’t want you going on a killing spree.’

  ‘You’re my brother. They hurt you, they hurt me.’

  ‘I’m done for. Afore I go promise me you’ll keep outta trouble.’

  ‘Hell, Milo, you know I can’t do that. Trouble just tags along, no matter where I go. You know that. And anyway, I’ll pack you on a horse and take you to a sawbones. They’ll patch you up.’

  ‘Not this time, Cyriac. Can you light a candle? I’d like to watch the flame for a while. Young ’un, what’s your name?’

  ‘Turlough Benedic
t. I’m sorry you got hurt.’

  ‘Yeah, so am I, son. Was it you as throwed the rock?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought it might distract them a mite – I mean, stop them from beating you.’

  While Turlough was talking, Cyriac moved away and lit a candle and placed it in a crack in the rock wall.

  ‘You know any prayers, Turlough?’ Milo asked.

  ‘Sure, Ma taught them to me. Made me learn them off by heart.’

  ‘Would you mind telling some for me? I never was one for religion and preachifying but now I’m at the end of my days it might do some good if you said some prayers for me.’

  Turlough glanced at Cyriac, wondering how he might react to him praying.

  ‘Do as he asks,’ came the gruff command.

  ‘OK, I’ll do my best.’ Turlough paused a moment, thinking, and then launched into a recital. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, help in our time of need: we humbly beseech thee to heal thy sick servant Milo. Look upon him with the eyes of thy mercy; comfort him with a sense of thy goodness; and give him patience under his affliction. In thy good time, restore him to health, and enable him to lead the rest of his life in thy love, and dedicated to thy glory; and grant that finally he may dwell with thee in life everlasting. Amen.’

  ‘Goddamn it, Turlough,’ Milo whispered, ‘that sure is a fine bit of praying. If that don’t set good with them heavenly fellows up there then I don’t know what will.’ There was a moment of silence before the dying man spoke again. ‘Cyriac, would you light that candle now?’

  The big man plucked the candle from its niche and held it up in front of his brother.

  ‘Here you are, Milo. It’s right here.’

  There was no response. Turlough peered into Milo’s sick face.

  ‘I . . . think he’s gone.’

  He heard a moan and the big man had sunk to his knees with his hands across his face. The moaning went on as the bereaved man rocked back and forth. Turlough sat perfectly still, afraid to move in case he sparked off some violent reaction from Cyriac. He cringed as his companion abruptly stood, strode to the cave entrance and disappeared outside. Not having any coin, Turlough searched and found two small pebbles which he placed on the dead man’s eyes.

  ‘Rest in peace, Milo. I guess you’d still be alive if I hadn’t turned up.’

  Still apprehensive of what would happen when Cyriac returned, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and sat with his back against the wall.

  ‘I don’t know if he’s gonna blame me for his brother’s death and kill me out of hand or just let me go on my way,’ he muttered. ‘It’s like being in the company of a wild bear.’

  From somewhere outside there came the sound of shots and Turlough jerked nervously.

  ‘What the hell!’

  His first thoughts were that the Carter gang had come back and found Cyriac. He crept to the entrance and peered out. Because of the screen of bushes and trees camouflaging the mouth of the cave, Turlough could see nothing. In order to find out what was going on he would have to venture outside. He turned back and searched for a weapon but there was no sign of the firearms he knew had been there.

  ‘Goddamn it, he’s taken all the guns.’

  Turlough crept outside and began stalking through the undergrowth. On the way he picked up a broken branch as a possible weapon, thinking it was poor defence against someone with a gun.

  He circled around the area, stopping and listening every so often but could see nothing that would explain the shooting. There was a sudden movement and something came winging out of the air towards him. Turlough swung his makeshift weapon and hit a heavy object that nearly wrenched the branch from his hand. He stumbled back and stared in puzzlement at the thing he had clubbed. A good sized turkey was sprawled in the dirt.

  ‘Hell, even the turkeys around here are hostile.’ Then he noticed the man standing watching him. ‘Cyriac,’ Turlough began nervously. ‘Was that you?’

  The big man raised his hand. Suspended from it was a second turkey.

  ‘You think you could cook these? We’re gonna hold a funeral feast. It’s what Milo would have wanted.’

  For a few moments Turlough studied the man opposite. He bent and picked up the turkey at his feet and handed it to Cyriac.

  ‘You take it back. I got some foraging to do.’

  Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked away, wondering if at any moment there would be a shot in his back. But nothing happened and he continued walking.

  Turlough knew exactly what he was looking for and when he returned to the cave with his booty stored in his shirt, he was pleasantly surprised to find the birds had been plucked and gutted. He placed his finds on the floor.

  ‘Mushrooms, mustard and watercress to go with the main course and I found some blueberries and raspberries for dessert.’

  If he thought he would get a word of praise he was disappointed. Turlough noticed Cyriac had been busy sprucing up his brother. The dead man’s hair was neatly brushed and his clothes tidied. The pebbles Turlough had placed on his eyes had been replaced with coins. He said nothing but got on with his cooking.

  In a short time he had a brisk fire going and the turkey spitted and roasting. Cyriac produced a full bottle of whiskey which, unlike the dreadful Coffin Varnish variety, was a decent brand appropriately enough named Wild Turkey. He poured generous measures into two mugs and handed one to Turlough.

  ‘To Milo,’ he toasted. ‘To Milo and to the men who killed him. May they roast in hell.’

  And later when Turlough served up the meal, his taciturn companion made another toast.

  ‘A man can do no better thing under the sun than to eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we will go in search of the men who killed Milo.’

  Turlough, more than a little drunk, looked up in surprise.

  ‘The first part of that about eat, drink and be merry is from the Bible,’ he said. ‘But you must remember it also says: “beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord”.’

  ‘Is that what you were thinking when you killed the man who attacked your sister?’

  ‘I told you I didn’t kill him. When I parted from him he was still alive. Either someone else killed him or he died from natural causes.’

  ‘The end result was the same,’ Cyriac said. ‘An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Next morning Cyriac nudged Turlough awake. ‘Get the coffee on,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll be gone awhile.’

  Turlough groaned and did not move even after his companion disappeared outside. His head was a dull ache and his stomach felt cramped and there was a nauseous feeling in his gorge. His mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with a rag he had cleaned his boots with.

  ‘I’ll never touch another drink,’ he moaned.

  After a few efforts he made it to his feet and stood swaying, then rushed outside as the queasy feeling in his stomach intensified. When he had finished retching he stood, hands on knees, weak and exhausted. With stumbling steps he made his way down to the stream and dipped his head in the cooling water.

  ‘Never again,’ he vowed as he made his way back up to the cave.

  When Cyriac returned, Turlough had a pot of coffee ready and poured two cups.

  ‘What about breakfast?’ Cyriac growled.

  ‘Breakfast – I didn’t think you’d want breakfast.’

  ‘For sure we want breakfast. Fella can’t travel on an empty belly.’

  ‘You leaving then?’ Turlough asked.

  Cyriac turned those inexpressive black eyes on the youngster.

  ‘You born with your brain between your legs? What did I tell you last night?’

  Turlough tried to get his addled mind to function. He could remember nothing of last night, only a brimming mug of whiskey being handed to him and then another and another.

  ‘Hell, I know what you said,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t feel too goo
d this morning.’

  For reply the big man got up and squatted by the fire where he slung turkey cuts in a pan.

  ‘You need to eat,’ he growled. ‘Gotta keep your strength up. You got a burying to attend and then we are going on a trip.’

  The smell of the cooking meat drove Turlough out into the open again and he tried to be sick but nothing came up.

  ‘God, I feel wretched.’

  When he came back inside, Cyriac was tucking into a heaped plate of meat. There were some turkey slices left in the pan but Turlough ignored them and poured himself a mug of coffee. When his plate was empty, Cyriac hooked the pan across and dumped the remainder of the food on his plate and continued eating.

  ‘You ready?’ he asked.

  Turlough looked up.

  ‘Ready – ready for what?’

  Cyriac’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head.

  ‘How did you get to be the age you are? We gotta bury Milo and then we go in search of his killers.’

  Cyriac wrapped the body in a blanket, lifted the burden like it were nothing but a bedroll and carried it outside with Turlough following. The hole had been dug some distance from the cave. The shovel was standing in the spoil alongside it. Cyriac knelt and gently lowered his dead brother into the grave.

  ‘Say some prayers,’ Cyriac growled, staying on his knees with head bowed.

  Turlough stood, desperately searching for something to say. Not only was his head throbbing but his brain seemed to have turned to mush.

  ‘Get on with it!’

  The harsh command jolted Turlough and out of nowhere came a verse he had heard his mother use when there was a death in the community. He stumbled a bit but remembered most of the words.

  ‘Milo, may the road rise to meet you.

  May the wind be always at your back.

  May the sun shine warm upon your face,

  And the rains fall soft upon your fields.