Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  Ellen picked up the uneaten remains of breakfast in one hand and followed Hal onto the top of the steps. Her horse was ready, waiting at the foot, its reins tied to a post. Ellen stashed the food in a bag and tied her jacket behind the saddle. Yesterday she had needed it, but her shirt should be adequate now that the rain was gone. She looked up at Hal, feeling both confused and rejected.

  Hal’s expression was blank, her mood impossible to deduce. She was clearly trying to hide something that might have been regret, might have been anger, might even have been fear. Ellen trotted up the steps and slipped her arms around Hal’s waist.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Except the sheep have been little shits and done me out of a few hours in bed with you. I will personally and individually kick their asses for it when I catch them.” Some of Hal’s normal humor had returned. She enfolded Ellen’s shoulders in a hug and claimed her mouth in a long, forceful kiss.

  Ellen responded. She could feel Hal soften against her, as the tension and irritation ebbed away. Their mouths were joined in mutual desire. Hal’s body fitted into her arms, filling Ellen with a sense of completeness. For a moment, all her doubts were gone. Ellen knew she had been created for no purpose other than to hold Hal close. Nothing was wrong. What could be wrong?

  And then Hal broke away and pushed her gently down the steps. “Go on. I’ll see you again in a few days.”

  Now smiling, Ellen loosened the horse’s reins and hopped into the saddle. As she rode away, she glanced back over her shoulder repeatedly. Hal remained on the top of the steps, watching her go. The sight made Ellen’s smile broaden, until confusion returned. Where had all Hal’s urgency gone? Up until then, Hal had been acting as if there was not a second to waste. Now she had time to stand around, waving good-bye—except she was not waving. Hal stood uncharacteristically motionless.

  Ellen’s doubts returned, growing with each thud of her horse’s hooves. Fifty meters from the farmhouse, she reined her horse to a stop and stared at the ground, trying to define the contours of the barbed knot in her mind. What was going on? Why was she so worried? And which aspect worried her the most?

  The road to the farmyard was trampled earth, still damp from yesterday’s rain. The hoof prints from her own horse, arriving the previous evening, could be seen soft and partially washed away. Overlying them were half a dozen or more fresh tracks going to the house. So at least six horses had arrived that morning, which was certainly the way it had sounded. Had Hal lied when she claimed only three riders had arrived? Or was it possible that each rider had brought a spare horse in tow?

  On the other side of the dry stone wall, the sheep in the paddock were peacefully grazing. One shuffled closer, until it was in Ellen’s shadow. She stared at it, while the questions surged around in her head. The sheep’s fleece was already showing signs of thickening, ready for winter. A few straggly tuffs trailed away from its rump. More clung over its shoulders. Suddenly Ellen’s focus hardened, recognizing what she saw. The sheep had not been shorn in the spring, instead its fleece had been allowed to brush away on passing vegetation.

  This happened occasionally, when a farmer failed to round up all her sheep from the hills, but not often. Wool was too valuable to waste. Yet, now that Ellen looked, over half the sheep in the paddock were showing similar signs. Ellen slipped from her horse and leaned over the wall, peering closer. The sheep turned away, flicking its ears, but not before Ellen had caught the numerals 73 at the end of its tattoo. Whatever the full number was, the sheep did not belong to Broken Hills Ranch.

  Ellen looked back at the farmhouse. Hal still stood unmoving on the steps, watching her. Ellen’s head spun as half thoughts and conjectures collided with each other. In any other farm, Ellen knew she would have gotten on her horse quickly and rode away to report to the Rangers what she had seen. But if she leveled accusations at Hal, it would put one hell of a damper on their relationship, even if the suspicions turned out to be unfounded. And surely there had to be some innocent explanation. Perhaps Fay Wisniewski had deposited the sheep there for safekeeping, having found it straying as part of the undisclosed crisis. Perhaps there was a good reason for the waste of wool.

  Ellen had to give Hal the chance to explain first. She owed her that much. She walked slowly back to the farmyard, leading her horse behind her, while she tried to work out what she was going to say. At the foot of the steps, she stopped and looked up. Hal’s face was impassive, unreadable.

  “Hal. There’s a sheep in your paddock that doesn’t belong to you. Do you know what it’s doing there?”

  For a second, Hal’s expression wavered. She looked down quickly, concealing her face. Ellen was about to mount the steps when she heard movement in the house. A woman appeared in the doorway behind Hal.

  The woman was not Fay Wisniewski, or anyone Ellen had seen before. She was in her early thirties, four or five centimeters shorter than Hal, and more sturdily built, with heavy shoulders and jowls. Yet something in her mouth, nose, and cheekbones suggested a family bond between them.

  “You want to know what it’s doing there?” The woman shifted forward and stood beside Hal. She looked down at Ellen, her similar lips forming a humorless, taunting parody of Hal’s grin. “Simple. We stole it.”

  Ellen backed away, but the sound of more activity made her glance to her right. Three other strangers had appeared around the corner of the farmhouse, two holding bows, with arrows nocked on the strings. They made no attempt to draw the bows, but it was obvious that they would shoot if she tried to run. Ellen froze. A further pair of women emerged from the farmhouse, squeezed past Hal, and advanced to take up position on either side of Ellen. They grasped her arms, twisting them into a firm lock.

  The woman who had spoken now sauntered down the steps until she was face to face with Ellen. “You’re Patrolwoman Ellen Mittal. I’ve heard all about you from my cousin Hal.” She indicated by jerking her thumb back over her shoulder. As if Ellen might have any doubt as to who Hal was. “And I know you’ve heard all about me. My name’s Madeline Bucher—Maddy to my friends and family, although most people know me as the Butcher.” Suddenly her hand formed a fist that slammed into Ellen’s gut. “But you can call me ma’am.”

  Ellen fought to breathe, but her lungs refused to work. Bright lights wavered before her eyes and her knees folded, although the women holding her would not let her fall. Even before the spasm eased and she could again suck in air, Ellen’s hands had been pulled out in front of her and she felt cord bound tightly around her wrists.

  Through the distortion of ringing in her ears, Ellen heard the Butcher shouting commands. “Okay. Bring over the horses. Let’s get out of here.”

  “What we going to do about the old woman, Boss?”

  “Leave her. Someone will come looking for our little Blackshirt here. They’ll find Aunt Cassie. And if they don’t, it’s no great loss.”

  Ellen’s head cleared and she was able to put weight on her legs although sparks still drifted at the edge of her vision when she looked up. On the other side of the yard, Jo and another woman were coming from the stables, both leading a string of horses.

  Hal was still stationary at the top of the farmhouse steps, staring at her feet. She had not moved a step since the moment Ellen first rode away. Ellen kept her eyes fixed on Hal, willing her to look up. Ellen had to know what expression was on Hal’s face. How deeply was Hal involved with the gang? How much had she lied? How did she feel now?

  The warm brown flank of a horse stopped directly in front of Ellen, blocking her view. She raised her eyes. The Butcher, now mounted, reached down and caught the trailing end of the cord around Ellen’s wrists. The two minders let go of Ellen and moved away.

  “Damned Blackshirts. You’re all a fucking waste of time. And my cousin certainly wasted her time in fucking you, though she probably enjoyed it. Hal always was a fool for a pretty face. I’ve told her she should think with what she puts under her hat, not what she puts in
her pants. But the kid never listens. Anyway, I’m going to have my turn with you. I’m sure you’ll be more useful than Terrie fucking Rasheed has been.”

  “Terrie?”

  “Yeah. Your shit for brains corporal. She’s the one we came all this way to talk to.”

  Ellen looked around, confused. “Where is she?”

  “Now that’s a good question. The stupid bitch has run off.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause she’s a fucking coward. If she’d just sat tight, she’d have been fine. Nobody suspected her. But now your mates will work out she’s been up to something. And if they track her down, she’ll blab everything she knows.”

  “Terrie’s one of your Knives?” Ellen was struggling to follow.

  The Butcher snorted in contempt. “Do me credit. I paid her—complete fucking waste of money. But I wouldn’t trust a turd like her. She doesn’t know much, but she knows about Hal and this farm. Which is why we’re going to have to pull out. Even though Hal does keep her brain between her legs, I still wouldn’t let any of the family get caught by you Blackshirts.”

  The Butcher yanked hard on the cord and wrapped it around the saddle horn. Ellen looked left and right. All the Knives were now mounted, Hal and Jo among them. Both were on the far side of the farmyard, chatting with the rest of the gang, looking relaxed and happy. Neither spared a glance in Ellen’s direction.

  Another tug on the cord reclaimed Ellen’s attention. Her hands were up at head height, and securely attached to the Butcher’s saddle horn, with just a short length of loose cord.

  “Rasheed was supposed to be passing information to us. She was useless. And Hal was no better at getting anything out of you. So now we’re going to my homestead in the hills, and we’re going to have a little chat. We’ll see if my way of asking questions works any better with you. Rasheed doesn’t have the first idea where my homestead is, so even if your friends catch her, there’s no risk of us being disturbed.” The Butcher leered down at Ellen. “What are you like at running, Blackshirt?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the Butcher urged her horse into a canter.

  *

  The journey to the Butcher’s base took over two hours. Ellen was allowed to ride for the second half of it, once her exhausted stumbling put too much drag on the Butcher’s horse, and threats, kicks, and blows could not extract any further effort from her. For the final ten kilometers the route passed along a rough track through the wilderness, presumably made by the gang for bringing in supplies and stolen sheep.

  When they got to it, the base was a collection of rough-built timber buildings, set on the floor of a steep-sided canyon. In construction, the Butcher’s hideaway looked much like a poor homestead, made from simple split logs, but its scale matched that of the largest ranch. The three biggest buildings were laid out to define a yard, with a corral on the remaining side. Twenty or more horses were currently there. Other buildings, looking like stables, barn, and stores were scattered behind.

  The west wall of the canyon was a vertical cliff face, a hundred meters or more in height. The gradient on the eastern flank was less sheer, rising in broken tiers that allowed bands of bushes, and even the occasional tree, to take root. A boulder-strewn river ran along the bottom. Most of the flat canyon floor was densely wooded, but the area around the buildings had been largely cleared of trees, although a few still dotted the site.

  The nearby opening to a second narrower canyon split the sheer cliff face, with a waist-high wickerwork fence across the entrance. The ground beyond the fence also was deforested, and given over to pasture where sheep were grazing.

  Despite the appearance of being a farm, none of the dozen women in sight seemed to be doing anything that might count as work. The largest group were sitting in the shade of an isolated tree, close by the corral, passing around a flagon. They waved and cheered at the sight of the approaching riders.

  “Hey. Welcome home, Boss.”

  One held out the flagon. “Wash the dust away, Boss.”

  Laughing, the Butcher swung down beside them and took the offered drink. “That’s what I call a welcome.”

  Someone immediately took the reins of the Butcher’s horse and led it into the corral. The other riders dismounted. Ellen’s bound hands made it awkward, but she was about to do likewise when a violent shove sent her flying backward over the horse’s rump, to land hard, sprawled in the dust. Several women laughed.

  The sound attracted the Butcher’s attention. “Put the Blackshirt in the cave for now. I’ll talk to her later, after I’ve had time to relax a bit.”

  Ellen was kicked when she did not get up quickly enough and then hauled toward the bottom of the cliff face. A section of wooden boarding, about five meters wide, filled in at one spot. As they approached, a gang member opened the door in the middle and Ellen was booted through.

  Inside was a natural cave, the rear stacked with crates, sacks, and barrels. Ellen could not tell how deep it went, since light from the open door did not penetrate the full depth. The gang were clearly making use of the cold underground for food storage.

  Two Knives entered the cave after Ellen. They dragged her another few meters, to where a two-meter length of chain and manacle had been bolted to the solid rock wall. Obviously, she was not the Butcher’s first unwilling guest. One woman snapped the manacle around Ellen’s ankle and gave a tug on the chain as if wanting to prove that it was firmly attached. The other stood back, studying Ellen with an unsettling intensity. The Knives then left. After the door closed came the sound of a bolt sliding into place and then that of the two women laughing as they walked away.

  Slowly, Ellen’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. She sat with her back leaning against the cold rock wall and tried to rest. Her legs were rubbery although they had partly recovered from being forced to run for kilometers. Her arms felt as if they had been wrenched from their sockets. The stinging on her feet could only be from broken blisters, and she had already acquired a selection of bruises. Yet things were likely to soon get a lot worse.

  One thing alone gave her hope. The Butcher’s base was exactly where Chris and Ash O’Neil had worked out. At that very moment, eight squadrons of Rangers were on their way, and Ellen was sure they would arrive precisely when they were due, without mistakes. In another four days, they would have surrounded the base.

  Ellen just had to pray she would be able to stay alive for four more days.

  Chapter Fifteen—Love and Hate

  The door opened, allowing afternoon sunshine to flood in. Ellen felt her guts clench, even as her eyes watered at the light. She had no illusions that what was about to happen would be pleasant. The Butcher had said she wanted to have a chat, using her own way of asking questions. The sort of techniques that the Butcher’s way would involve were not in much doubt.

  Hal’s attempts to get information had failed. The bitterness of that thought was enough to drive away Ellen’s fear. While she had been falling in love, Hal had been playing her for a fool. The water in Ellen’s eyes was no longer just a reaction to the sunlight. Had she really meant nothing to Hal? Just how gullible a fool had she been?

  Ellen ducked her head, blinking rapidly to clear the tears. She did not want the Butcher to think she was already crying with fright. However, when she looked up, she saw that it was two Knives who had entered the cave. They used a pronged spike to remove the manacle from her ankle and then hoisted her to her feet.

  Outside, over twenty women were gathered by the corral, forming a loose horseshoe around the tree that the group with the flagon had been sitting under earlier. Was this everyone at the base, or were there more? The poses were casual, some even perched on the corral fence, Hal among them, laughing with the woman who sat beside her. The mood among the crowd was expectant and lighthearted, as if they were awaiting some entertainment. Panic rose in Ellen’s throat as she realized that this was indeed the case, and the entertainment was to be her.

  Ellen’s escort stopped beneath t
he tree. One tied a new length of rope to the binding at her wrists and then tossed the end over a thick branch, a meter or so above their heads. Together, the pair hauled on the rope until Ellen’s arms were stretched so high that her heels were barely in contact with the ground. Ellen clenched her teeth at the pain flaring in her already strained shoulder joints. After tying the rope off on a protruding root, the two Knives then went to join their friends.

  “She’s ready for you, Boss.”

  The Butcher waved her hand to acknowledge the call from her subordinates, but was clearly in no hurry. She was in the same group as Hal, standing in front of her, joining in with the happy banter.

  Ellen studied the assembled faces. Most looked her way from time to time with expressions ranging from contempt to amusement. Others were staring at her with undisguised eagerness. The only one who never once glanced in her direction was Hal.

  Eventually, the Butcher turned and slowly strolled toward Ellen. Around the circle, the buzz of conversation faded as the gang leader stopped a meter away from Ellen, hands on hips. And at last, over the Butcher’s shoulder, Ellen saw Hal’s face turn her way. Yet still Hal did not meet her eyes. Hal’s gaze drifted through her, as if she were not there, caught briefly on her bound hands over her head, and then rose higher into the branches of the tree. Why would Hal not look at her?

  Pain exploded in Ellen’s left knee. The resultant jerk fired fresh darts into her shoulders. The Butcher had kicked her. When Ellen had recovered enough to open her eyes, the Butcher treated her to a broad, cheery smile.

  “I know you enjoy looking at my cousin. But for just now, I’d like some of your attention.”

  Ellen knew that if she tried to speak, she would only whimper.

  “We paid Terrie Rasheed far more than she was worth to let us know what was going on in town, as well as her doing a few other favors for us. Unfortunately, she didn’t know much. Partly because she’s shit stupid and partly because the Rangers only let you in on their plans, and you wouldn’t tell her anything. But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”