No. He turned away, putting his back to his home determinedly, thinking how sorry that little savage would be when he had to hoe the corn all alone—when he was well enough. And how angry he’d be when he discovered the pieces of his flute under his pillow.
A grim smile touched Luke’s lips. The first bit of gladness of the day filled him. It was a good thing he’d done—killing that dog. He could feel the joy rise up inside him again as he remembered the way the rifle had kicked when he’d pulled the trigger. The dog had fallen without a sound, but his brother had been yelling Shadow’s name as he ran toward him in those final moments. But the way Shadow had looked at him…and then, the way Jeremiah had…
A shiver ran up his spine. Would he ever be able to forget that steady accusatory gaze from the beast? And suddenly, the pure hatred for him that he’d seen in Jeremiah’s fading, pain-filled gaze rose up to haunt him as well.
Luke shrugged it off. “Shoulda kept out of the way,” he muttered.
****
Sleep was a while in coming to Luke that night. He’d found a place in Old Man Jackson’s barn to bed down. The old coot didn’t have but one horse, so Luke figured that would be as good a place as any. The horse shouldn’t mind sharing, especially since Luke was sleeping in an empty stall near the back of the barn.
He’d slung his pack down on a bed of straw that hadn’t been changed in a while. It wasn’t fresh, but it was welcome, as Luke stretched out slowly in the darkness and rested his head against his pack.
Just as sleep began to steal over him, a noise floated to him on the midnight breeze. It was a soft, melodic sound that was somehow…familiar. Luke opened his eyes and sat up, hearing only the sighing breeze outside and the rhythmic breathing of the horse two stalls down.
Only a dream. He settled back down into the straw, closing his eyes again. Weariness seeped through his bones. He let himself relax once more.
Somehow, sleep eluded him. Something crinkled in the pack, and he remembered the pages he’d ripped from Jeremiah’s book.
He sat up again, opening the pack, feeling for the papers. He drew them out slowly and rose, walking back toward the barn door. The night wind had picked up, and Luke could hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance. From far off, lightning flashed. Clouds scudded across the moon, but there was enough light for him to see his younger brother’s drawings.
He’d never truly looked at them before. They weren’t important. Nothing about Jeremiah was important. But… these drawings were much better than he had anticipated. Though Jeremiah was only eight, the drawings showed the hand of a much more mature artist. Luke was surprised.
But as he looked at the pictures Jeremiah had sketched, he could see something even deeper.
The first few sketches were of Shadow. There were eight pages. Paper was such a rare commodity that most every page of Jeremiah’s drawings was filled from top to bottom on both sides.
The common subject of many of the drawings was the familiar figure of Shadow, crude and childish, in the beginning. But with each new drawing, there was improvement in the skill and deftness of touch, culminating in the last picture…
Luke stood staring at that one. It was a rendition of Shadow lying in the yard, feet outstretched. The dog’s eyes were open, barely—and they were looking straight at him. They gleamed at him, as if they were alive.
The wind gusted, and he was tempted to let it carry the handful of papers with it, scattering those drawings to the four corners of the earth. But he held on tightly to them, for some reason, and forced himself to look at that last picture again.
No matter how he turned the picture, those eyes followed him, holding his own stare. Finally, he wrenched his gaze away, folding the pictures. It had been a trick of the dappled moonlight, he told himself.
“Little bastard,” he muttered, turning back toward the depths of the barn and making his way to this straw bed. He shoved the wad of papers back into his pack, wondering why he didn’t bury them under the straw.
Sleep finally stole over him, but it was restless and shallow, with dreams of dying dog eyes, the clear melody of the broken flute, and Jeremiah’s face streaked with blood, hungry for vengeance of his own.
****
The pointed end of Old Man Jackson’s shotgun awoke him abruptly. Luke turned, easing himself over to look up into the weathered face.
“You git up and git out,” the crusty old man said.
Luke couldn’t understand the animosity that was evident in the narrowing of his eyes, the hard set of the eighty-year-old jaw. The last time they’d passed on the road, there had been a pleasant exchange of a few neighborly words. Now, the old man had hate in his eyes and lead in his hands—a bad combination for someone lying on a bed of straw too far from his own rifle for it to do him one damn bit of good.
“Mr. Jackson? It’s—It’s me—Luke Marshall. Your neighbor.” Maybe he just hadn’t recognized him.
“I know who you are, you murderin’ little bastard. Anybody who’d kill like you done ought to be shot for a mad ravin’ dog! But that’s too good for the likes of you, Lucas Marshall, isn’t it? You’re nothin’ but a cold-blooded murderer. A rabid dog can’t help that he’s got the hydrophobe and has to be put out of his misery. You got all your sense about you, boy. You’re just dang stinkin’ pure evil. Ought to shoot you right now, myself.”
Luke started to sit up, but the old man took a step back and cocked the rifle, aiming it dead-center at Luke’s chest.
“I may be old, but I still got my eyesight and the use of my hands. I don’t mind pluggin’ you, either.”
“Mr. Jackson—”
“Save it,” Jackson bit out. “Your brother was here last night. He told me all about what you done. You’re a sorry excuse for a human being. I don’t want you on my property.”
Anger shot through Luke like a fire that flamed to life in his gut and fanned outward, setting his limbs tingling. That little bastard! Why would he have come…but he couldn’t have, could he? Because when Luke had left, Jeremiah had been lying in a pool of blood—his and Shadow’s.
“I needed a place to sleep—”
Jackson nodded once, a grim smile on his leathery lips. “You might say I’m mucking out my stables, and this is the first stall I’m cleaning the shit out of. Git your gear, and git out!”
Seething, Luke rose slowly, picking up his pack and the rifle that rested on it.
“So that’s the gun you murdered that poor animal with,” Jackson stated.
“I thought he was a wildcat,” Luke replied sullenly.
The old man cackled. “That’s your tale—I sit on mine!” Abruptly, the smile left his face. “Git the hell off my land.”
Luke took a step toward the door and Jackson moved to stand behind him, prodding him in the back with the gun barrel again.
“Mr. Jackson—what did Jeremiah tell you?”
“He told me what happened. An’ you’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on sight, you damn vermin!”
“But, what did he say?”
“Boy, I’d like to plant my boot up your ass right now, but it would slow you down, and I want you gone. You know what you done.”
“But what did Jeremiah—”
“I give that pup to your ma for y’all to have a good guard dog, once Jeremiah come along. Yer ma was alone there with two young’uns. She needed protection. Looks like she shoulda been guardin’ from within her own family,” he snarled.
“It was a mistake!” Luke turned to face Jackson.
Jackson shook his head. “Nah. Wasn’t no ‘mistake’ to it. Jeremiah, he told all about how it happened. You got mad, let your jealousy boil over—all ’cause little Jeremiah didn’t do what you said. You seen Shadow come into the yard, took aim, and shot him dead to get back at Jeremiah—but that wasn’t all you done, was it, boy?”
Luke’s mind whirled. When he’d last seen Jeremiah, he had been in no shape to walk the distance to Old Man Jackson’s place. He hadn’t looked like
he’d be able to make it into the house…yet, the old man knew…he knew!
“When was he here—my brother?” He turned around again and kept walking as Old Man Jackson nodded for him to move.
“During the night…” His voice trailed away and Luke sensed he was confused about something.
“What time?”
“It don’t matter none! All you need to know is it was after suppertime –after you did your killin’.”
It was a good four-mile walk from Old Man Jackson’s back to the Marshalls’ cabin. Luke knew his ma would never have allowed Jeremiah to come, even if he’d been able. A chill swept through him. How could the old man know what had happened?
“Where was my ma at, Mr. Jackson?”
They had reached the edge of Jackson’s property line, and the rutted road lay beckoning a few feet away.
Jackson stopped, but Luke knew the rifle was still pointed at his back. He didn’t turn around until he reached the road.
Old Man Jackson gave him a contemptuous look.
Luke couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Did she say she wanted me to come back home?”
For a moment, Luke thought he saw a flash of pity in Old Man Jackson’s aged blue eyes.
“No. It’d be damn hard for a mother, even, to forgive what you done, boy.”
“I—I killed a damn dog!” Luke would not admit, even to himself, that he had done it in cold blood…and that even when Jeremiah had run forward toward Shadow, there was still that split second he might have held up on the trigger and saved them both.
Jackson shook his grizzled bald head. “No, you done a lot more’n that. In the killin’ of the animal you broke that boy’s heart. You done somethin’ to him he couldn’t never get over; you betrayed his trust and killed his best friend. And you…” He broke off and scratched his head, as if he wanted to say something about Jeremiah’s killing. But if he did, Luke realized he’d have to admit that Jeremiah couldn’t have come to him in the night.
But he knew. And how could he have known if someone hadn’t told him?
“You forced yer ma to see the ugly part of you she didn’t never want to look at. She wouldn’t let a stranger do what you done without blastin’ back at him. But you’re her boy. She couldn’t shoot you. So, though it broke her heart, she sent you on your way. An’ I know you never even thought of goin’ for Doc Myers. Not even when she begged you.”
He cocked his head. “Don’t envy you a’tall. You ain’t gonna be welcome anywhere you go…startin’ right here. Now, git.”
****
Luke had a lot of time to think about Old Man Jackson’s words. The old coot had spewed them out like he was some damned prophet or something, Luke thought angrily.
He stopped around lunchtime as he neared a place in the nearby creek where he knew the water ran clear. He was thirsty, but more so, hunger gripped his empty stomach like a clamp.
He stumbled off the road, down toward the creek bank, and flopped down close to the water to get a cool drink.
But as he reached to make a cup of his hands, he noticed something—a movement behind him in his reflection in the water. He whirled quickly, but saw nothing. It must’ve been his tired eyes, he thought, leaning forward again.
In the water, reflected beside his own face, there was another. Jeremiah!
He turned again, but Jeremiah was not there. It had been his imagination. He shook his head, and reached for a handful of water to splash across his face. That had not been real. Couldn’t have been. How would Jeremiah have come this far on foot—especially after Luke had winged him with that bullet. And why would he be here?
Luke looked behind him again. Only the wind in the trees and the sounds of wildlife came to him. Nothing seemed out of place. He leaned up to get a drink again, closing his eyes this time.
A soft laugh sounded next to him, just as the water touched his dry lips. He jumped and rolled to his back, reaching for the rifle—and coming up empty.
Jeremiah stood over him. “Hello, brother.”
Luke’s breath caught in his throat. This was not the Jeremiah he knew. He was taller, older, stronger. His face was ageless; streaked still with Shadow’s blood. The dark eyes that pinioned him to the ground were filled with soul-burning hate.
“J-Jeremiah?” Luke’s voice came out breathy and afraid. “Wh—what are you doing here?”
Jeremiah’s sardonic chuckle chilled Luke in spite of the hot summer sun.
“Why, I’m here to keep you company on your journey, brother.” He stepped forward and dropped one knee to the ground, kneeling beside Luke. “I’m here to let everyone know what you did.”
Luke couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch the apparition; for that was all it could be, he decided—his brother’s ghost. His fingers passed through Jeremiah’s leg. Luke closed his eyes and shuddered.
“You’re d-dead, then,” he stated, when he could draw a deep breath once again.
Jeremiah didn’t answer until Luke opened his eyes. He stood, looking down at Luke with a mixture of disgust and pity. “You have no idea what you did, Lucas.”
Luke moistened his lips. “Are you—going to kill me?”
Jeremiah grinned slowly. “Always concerned about yourself, aren’t you? Don’t you even wonder what happened after you left last night?”
Before Luke could answer, Jeremiah continued. “I’m going to tell you, and you’re going to hear me.”
Luke bristled at Jeremiah’s tone. Ghost or not, Jeremiah was Indian scum that would never best Luke, in this world or the next. “Watch your words, Jeremiah.” Luke rolled to a sitting position and slowly came to his feet.
“You’re hardly in a position to give orders anymore.”
Luke looked into Jeremiah’s eyes. They were close to the same height, with Jeremiah being slightly taller—not the eight-year-old that Luke had always been able to physically dominate. But…he’d never controlled him in any other way. Maybe that’s where his resentment stemmed from. Jeremiah had been as wild as a forest animal; feral and more independent than Luke had ever been.
Old habits were hard to break. Luke took a step toward Jeremiah, but his movements were slow and unnatural. He reached for Jeremiah’s shirt front, but Jeremiah knocked his hand back easily, in plenty of time.
“Things are different now, Lucas. Very different.” He pinned Luke with a blazing look of disgust.
Luke swallowed hard and shook his head. “This is a dream—nothing more.” But his voice was quiet, as if he were trying to talk himself into believing it.
Jeremiah shook his head slowly. “No dream. You will reap what you’ve sown.”
“I’m going home to see to Mama,” Luke said. “She’ll need me now. Now that you’re gone.”
Jeremiah’s lips spread slowly, a laugh rumbling from deep inside him. It rose up and spilled out, ringing across the woods in a wild cacophony that set the birds to flight.
“Gone? Gone?” Jeremiah wiped his eyes as his smile faded. “What a kind word to replace ‘murdered’, Lucas. You murdered me. I’m not ‘gone’—and I never will be. I’m going to be right here with you…as long as you draw breath.”
****
Luke tried to ignore Jeremiah, but there was no way to do it. His words had struck more fear into Luke’s heart than the mere fact that Jeremiah was here, standing beside him, in an ageless adult form.
As Luke bent to pick up his gear, Jeremiah said, “Did you forget about your thirst?”
“No,” Luke answered. “Just don’t care for the company here. I’m gonna move downstream a little ways.” He walked away without looking back at his brother. As he walked, he made no move to see if Jeremiah was trailing him.
He didn’t really have to look. He had an odd sensation that someone was with him, though he couldn’t see Jeremiah or hear his footsteps.
He walked until his thirst would allow him to go no further. He had to have a drink. There was a place ahead of him where the creek ran clear. A rock outcr
opping allowed for a person to be able to lie flat, close to the cold water, and drink.
Luke scrambled toward the flat, warm rock, thirst burning in his throat as the sound of the running stream became clearer. He could barely wait to dip his hands into the water.
Just as he lay down, he felt a strong-muscled arm close to his. He turned his head to see Jeremiah beside him. Their eyes met briefly before Luke turned away and plunged his hands into the refreshing coolness.
He cupped his hands and closed his eyes, anticipating the way the water was sure to taste. But there was an odor to it that wasn’t as it should be.
“Open your eyes, Lucas,” Jeremiah murmured. “You need to see what you’re drinking.”
Despite his urge to defy Jeremiah, Luke let his eyes crack open, just as he brought the liquid up to his lips.
It wasn’t water in his hands. It was blood. The entire creek ran red with it, thick and redolent with the odor of old copper, or iron.
Lucas scrambled back away from the bank, revulsion twisting at his insides as he tried to wipe the sticky residue from his hands onto the sparse grass.
When he looked back toward the creek, he could see nothing had changed; it still ran swift with a current of crimson.
He gasped, finally forcing himself to look up at Jeremiah, who gracefully came to his feet and walked to where Luke sat on the grass. He stood over Luke, a sneer twisting his mouth.
“H-How did you do that?” Luke demanded. Anger overrode his fear at what had just happened. How dare this—this ghost, or whatever he was—try to intimidate him?
Jeremiah chuckled mirthlessly. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Lucas.”
Luke jumped to his feet, squaring off against his brother. “Turn it back into water, damn you!”
“Don’t you want to see what else I can do?” Jeremiah taunted.
Luke didn’t. He didn’t want to see anything but cold water in the creek bed. His gaze was drawn to where blood had just flowed freely in place of the water. The creek bed was now bone dry, as if it hadn’t seen a drop of water for years. In the next instant, it was full of water, so plentiful with fish that they leapt out of the water onto the banks.
Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Page 9
