Days of Death

by P McCormac

  Until we meet again,

  May God hold you in the palm of His Hand.’

  For long moments there was no sound in the woods and Turlough stood with head bowed, wondering if the unpredictable man kneeling by his brother’s grave expected more from him.

  ‘Amen,’ he said at last.

  Cyriac stood up and turned towards Turlough. The youngster was startled to see tears running down those scarred cheeks. The big man nodded to him, turned and picked up a handful of dirt and sprinkled it into the grave.

  ‘Farewell, brother. Rest there in peace, knowing that your murderers will soon be joining you in the dirt.’

  Hastily Turlough grabbed up a handful of spoil and tossed it into the hole.

  ‘Rest in peace,’ he mumbled.

  He stood back and watched while Cyriac took the shovel and began filling in the grave. Once the dirt was shovelled in, the big man spent some time chucking leaves and branches on top of the freshly turned soil. When he had finished he stood back and admired his handiwork while wiping his sleeve across his eyes. Abruptly he turned and strode in the direction of the cave with Turlough trailing after. On the way, he retrieved a brace of saddle bags from the inside of a hollow tree.

  ‘We’ll have coffee afore we leave.’

  As Turlough crouched by the fire and got the brew going, his companion opened his saddle bag and extracted a revolver. It looked very like the Smith & Wesson Turlough had found previously. The big man stood weighing it in his hand, thoughtfully studying Turlough. The youngster’s eyes widened.

  ‘Cyriac, please, I swear I had nothing to do with your brother’s death,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Can you use a gun?’

  ‘Sure I can.’

  ‘Take this.’

  He handed the weapon to the youngster and turned away, searching in the saddle bags again. Turlough stared at the gun in his hand. He gripped it firmly and looked across at his companion. Cyriac had his back to him. A wild idea came into Turlough’s head, still befuddled by the effects of the alcohol he had consumed last night.

  What if he shot the big man and took off with his money and possessions? It looked too easy and Turlough even went so far as to raise the gun and aim it at the broad back presented so temptingly. Then the same qualms that had prevented him from abandoning the wounded Milo stopped him and he turned back to the fire and his coffee preparations. He jumped nervously as a holster and belt landed in the dirt beside him.

  ‘Good job you didn’t decide shoot me in the back,’ Cyriac commented. ‘The gun ain’t loaded.’

  Turlough looked guiltily at the gun.

  ‘I wouldn’t do nothing like that,’ he stammered.

  ‘Get yourself ready. We’ll be riding out soon.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You heard what I promised Milo. We’re going after this Black fella and the Carter gang you told me about. The ones as killed him.’

  ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Can’t ain’t a word in my vocabulary.’

  ‘You don’t understand. To track Carter we gotta go back to Gold Point. As soon as I show up there they’ll hang me.’

  ‘The way I see it you got two choices. Either you take me to this Gold Point or I break both your legs and leave you here.’

  Which was no choice at all.

  Cyriac had two horses corralled downstream of the cave. They retrieved the saddles and got ready to ride out. As Turlough climbed aboard his mount, the big man pointed ahead.

  ‘Seeing as you know the way, you lead. How long do you reckon afore we reach this Gold Point?’

  ‘Depends on how quick you want to get there.’

  ‘We’re in no hurry. We’ll take our time – spare the horses.’

  ‘Three to four days, then. When I lit out I was on foot so it’s hard to guess how far I come. I reckon I was running for the good part of a week. Seems like I didn’t run far enough.’

  ‘When trouble stalks a man he can never run far enough,’ came the reply.

  With deep foreboding Turlough jigged his horse forward. He wanted to protest again against the wisdom of returning to the place where he would be most certainly arrested and then hanged, but he sensed he would be wasting his time appealing to his taciturn companion.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ he muttered, ‘I’m a dead man no matter what way I turn.’

  He put his hand up and massaged his throat as if he could already feel the noose tightening around his neck.

  CHAPTER 9

  For the most part the pair rode in silence; Turlough brooding on his likely fate at the hands of Sheriff Ginsberg. Cyriac was by nature the strong silent type and answered in monosyllables or not at all if his companion spoke to him. They met no one as they travelled.

  The first night they camped in an arroyo. The travellers feasted on beans and fatback which Turlough cooked. After the meal he surreptitiously studied his close-mouthed companion as they sat in silence, smoking and drinking coffee. Noting the scarred and lumpy countenance, he wondered what had caused them but was leery of asking.

  Turlough slept well and woke the next morning, and for a time lay where he was, luxuriating in the cosy warmth of his bedroll. Eventually he stretched his limbs and noted his aches and pains seemed to have faded somewhat after a good night’s sleep. Carefully he sat up and glanced towards the lightness in the sky.

  He felt a strange sense of peace as he observed the big, blue, clear sky merging into a pink vaporous band above the dark mountains. The pink expanded and pulsed, radiating streaks of fire and the sun emerged, orange and radiant. For a brief moment, lost in the beauty of the dawn, he forgot his worries and fears. Then hunger pains brought him back to reality, and Turlough arose and got a fire going.

  When his companion awakened, he slid from his blankets smoothly like a serpent emerging from its lair. Turlough noted the big man was clutching his revolver and realized that was how Cyriac slept – with his weapon ready to hand.

  Cyriac stretched mightily, standing on tiptoe and reaching towards the dawn tinted sky, a menacing and powerful figure, then he hunkered down beside the fire. Turlough ventured ‘good morning’ and received a grunt in reply.

  The morning ritual continued in silence. Coffee, breakfast and then cleaning up afterwards, all of it done by Turlough. Though he hated to admit it, Cyriac took good care of the horses, looking after Turlough’s mount as well as his own. Saddling and unsaddling, rubbing down and feeding and watering and for that at least, Turlough was grateful.

  It was another uneventful day and that night they camped by a creek that Turlough recognized. Even this far downstream they could see the damage done by the mining operations at Gold Point.

  ‘Half a day’s ride at most and then we’re there,’ he informed Cyriac, getting the usual grunt in reply.

  Once they had set up camp, Cyriac stepped to the water’s edge, stripped off his clothes and waded into the creek. Turlough watched while he vigorously soaped and washed himself. At one stage he looked up and noticed Turlough staring at him.

  ‘Get in here and wash,’ he growled. ‘You stink like a buffalo’s cojones.’

  ‘I stink!’ Turlough bridled. ‘What the hell! I’ve been on the run for days and then I fell in a goddamn swamp. Is it any wonder I smell?’

  Moodily he turned his back on the water and stared into the fire, listening to the splashing coming from behind him. There was a moment of quiet as Cyriac came out, then Turlough felt himself picked up bodily and heaved into the air. He was yelling something incomprehensible before he hit the water face down and went under. Spluttering and trashing about, he came to the surface.

  ‘You goddamn maniac!’ he yelled and splashed to the shore, cursing under his breath.

  Cyriac was standing towelling himself dry as Turlough crawled on to dry land. He glared at the big man and was about to yell some more abuse when he noticed the scars on Cyriac’s body and abruptly thought better of it.

  Surreptitiously he noted the small round
marks that were probably healed up bullet wounds. There were also puckered seams running at various places – one across the abdomen, two crisscrossing his chest. A long ragged scar ran down the length of one thigh. Smaller marks might have been healed up knife wounds. Turlough looked away and went and huddled by the fire.

  ‘Get them wet clothes off and dry out,’ Cyriac growled.

  At first Turlough was inclined to tell his companion where to go but then thought better of it when he felt the chill eat into him. With difficulty he undressed, wringing out his garments and placing them by the fire. The soap hit him on the chest, making him jump.

  ‘Get back in there and wash.’

  In a fit of pique Turlough picked up the soap and flung it back. Cyriac easily plucked it out of the air.

  ‘Goddamn you! I ain’t no goddamn kid you can order around like you was my pa,’ he raged. ‘You hit me, punch me, near strangle me and then throw me in the creek. I’ve had enough. I ain’t going back to Gold Point. You can do what the hell you like. This is the parting of the ways between you and me.’

  He stood stark naked, glaring defiantly at his companion. Cyriac was tossing the soap from one hand to the other, watching him. A slow lopsided grin spread across that scarred countenance.

  ‘So you do have some grit after all. I was wondering how spineless you really were and if you made up that tale about fighting the fella as attacked your sister.’ He walked across and handed the soap over. ‘To soap or not to soap, that is the question. I got some spare clothes you can wear while yourn are drying out.’

  Turlough stood, his mouth agape as he stared from the soap to his companion. Abruptly he shut his mouth, walked to the creek, stepped into the water and began to wash. He came back out shivering and dried himself on a damp piece of cotton and dressed in the clothes Cyriac had left out for him. They were a surprisingly good fit and then he noticed they were brand new.

  ‘How come you got these duds?’ he asked.

  ‘I got them for Milo. We planned a trip to Europe and I bought them in anticipation. Only Milo never got to go. Milo always was a dreamer. Wanted to travel and visit the seat of civilization, he said. We were to go to England, France, Spain and then Greece where our folk originally come from.’

  Turlough did not know how to respond. He squatted beside the fire and not for the first time had to revise his opinion regarding his gruff companion. At one stage as they ate breakfast, Cyriac asked Turlough if his ma and sister were good cooks.

  ‘Yeah, fair, I would say Ma was pretty durned good. Bakes bread and cakes, too.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to some home cooking. How far is it now?’

  Turlough’s brow creased as he thought about it.

  ‘I reckon we should get a mite closer later today. But like I keep trying to tell you, I am probably riding towards a necktie party.’

  ‘In that case, the sooner we get started the better.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Gold Point hadn’t changed much since Turlough had last seen it. Scattered claims littered the valley, creating an untidy mess of dug up dirt and heaps of spoil. This disturbance of the earth, along with the untidy sprawl of crude shelters, gave the place the air of a refugee camp. Tents and crude wooden cabins hastily nailed together and even dugouts clung to whatever space available. And through it all meandered the ancient stream that provided potable water and a medium for washing the dirt and spoilage that the ever optimistic miners spent their days digging out of the rocky soil.

  Many thousands of years ago when the land was covered in ice, a glacier had driven down through the rocky valley, deepening and shaping it into the typical U shape of glacial erosion. As the climate warmed and the ice melted, it deposited rocks large and small throughout its course.

  Back in 1873, a man called Thomas Edmondson had found a nugget of gold while panning in the valley and as the news leaked out, it started a rush of would-be miners. They came in a continuous stream and settled until the money or credit or hope gave out and they either drifted on to the next dream or settled in or near the town of Thomaston, named after the man who had started it by unearthing that lucky gold nugget.

  Turlough and Cyriac rode through the valley, their passage creating idle curiosity as the inhabitants paused in their activities to briefly watch the newcomers.

  Men worked at their claims, digging and panning the dirt. Women could be seen at the crude shelters, hanging out washing or supervising the children playing amongst the disorder of the settlement and in some cases, working with the men at the diggings.

  Gold Point was a place of clutter and disorder and industry. As soon as the riders passed, the miners went back to their excavating and pan washing and scouring the dirt of the valley for a hint of colour that would change their lives for the better.

  Turlough threaded his way through the camp, thinking nothing much had changed during his absence. But then it had only been a matter of days since he went on the run from the law. The tumbledown shack he called home came into sight and he was heartened to see smoke drifting from the chimney. He turned in the saddle and pointed.

  ‘That’s our place.’

  The horses rattled to a halt and Turlough slid from the saddle, conscious of the gun hanging on his side. He turned and nodded to Cyriac who made no response but by now Turlough did not expect any. He pulled off his hat, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Ma, I’m back.’

  The woman kneading a batch of bread dough turned and Turlough stood with his mouth open.

  ‘I . . . where’s Ma, I mean Mrs Benedict?’

  She was young and pretty and had a smudge of flour on her chin, and Turlough had never seen anything so enchanting in his short life.

  ‘You . . . I. . . .’ Turlough spluttered to a stop.

  The girl was frowning at him. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Turlough Benedict; I live here.’

  ‘Oh, we didn’t know. We just moved in. The place was empty.’

  They stood staring helplessly at each other, not quite knowing how to proceed. Behind Turlough, the door creaked open and Cyriac stepped inside. As he spied the young woman he took off his hat and grunted.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ Turlough said. ‘Ma and sis ain’t here. She says the place was empty when she moved in.’

  ‘You sure you got the right place?’ Cyriac growled.

  ‘Course I’m sure. This was my home. I helped build it.’

  ‘Humph! Better ask around. Find out what happened.’

  Cyriac stared at Turlough until he could stand it no more and the youngster nodded to the young woman and went back outside. Left alone with Cyriac, the woman watched him, nervously noting his scarred countenance.

  ‘Would you like some coffee while you are waiting?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘That would be mighty welcome, miss,’ Cyriac replied, seating himself on a wooden bench against one wall. ‘But don’t let me stop you baking. I’ve heard it said that bread is the staff of life.’

  ‘That’s all right; it won’t take but a moment to make the coffee. The kettle is boiled already.’

  ‘Are you two related?’ she asked as she busied herself pouring hot water into the coffee pot.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Just friends then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘We’re from Denver,’ she said, desperate for some subject that might engage this close-mouthed man. ‘Where have you come from?’

  He made no reply and she sneaked a glance at him. He was sitting straight-backed, staring at nothing. She went back to her bread making while she waited for the coffee to brew but all the time conscious of his presence, stiff and as unyielding as one of the wooden Indians she had seen standing outside cigar stores in some of the towns they had passed through. The door opened and a large gangly individual stepped inside, decked out in overalls and a battered, misshapen hat.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here? We found this place empty and squatted in here so we have
squatters’ rights. Get your mangy butt outta here afore you’re thrown out.’

  ‘Aimee, please,’ the young girl pleaded. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

  Turlough poked his head inside. ‘Cyriac, can I have a word?’

  ‘This young lady kindly offered me a coffee and I was just waiting for her to serve it up. Why don’t you join me?’

  ‘Cropped mule skins, did you not hear what I said?’ Aimee snarled. ‘Get the hell outta here while you can still walk under your own steam.’

  ‘Aimee!’ The young woman stepped over and took the other by the hand. ‘Can we just sit down and discuss this friendly like over a mug of coffee?’

  Aimee was big and ornery and she had a scowl on her that would have turned milk sour but she calmed down under the pleading of the younger woman.

  ‘Goddamn it, all right, but we ain’t moving outta here. I know my rights.’

  Turlough was still hanging by the door as if he was ready to skedaddle back outside again. Cyriac raised his finger and beckoned. Turlough came meekly across and stood with his hat in hand.

  ‘It’s bad, Cyriac. Sis is dead and Ma moved on. Some reckon she went into Thomaston. I gotta go in there and find her. But you know what’ll happen if I go into town.’

  For long moments no one spoke after Turlough had blurted out his news. Then the young woman came across to him and laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry. Won’t you sit a while and have a drink? Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think.’

  Turlough made no resistance as she led him to a chair. Aimee stood indecisive until the younger woman also took her hand.

  ‘Sit down, Aimee. Let’s do this civilized.’

  The big woman scowled and stomped over to the opposite wall to stand glowering at Cyriac and Turlough.

  ‘Nobody speak until I have served up the coffee,’ the younger woman admonished. ‘Then we will introduce ourselves and everyone will get a chance to talk.’

  There was silence as she set about the task of pouring the coffee, serving the guests first and then Aimee and finally herself.