Hell's Half-Acre

by Nicholas Nicastro

  “Ye must have thought, ‘That’s a man who has spent all his years with tar in his shit, what he got to offer me? Just busting sod and the doggeries of Parsons is all he knows.’ But thy be wrong about that, mein Liebling. I’ve seen something of the world. Before Kansas, I was in Baltimore, and before that the great city of Dresden, in the kingdom of Saxony. My grandfather kept the seals for the royal elector at the Zwinger. I have seen the setting sun blaze on the shoulder of the Semper Opera. I have heard Schiller float on the Elbe at dusk . . .”

  She had once read a geography book that described the splendors of Dresden, Florence of the East. Intrigued, she grasped him closer.

  “ . . . After the troubles of ’forty-­eight, we went west. I knew no English when I took ship in Hamburg. When we landed in Baltimore six weeks later, I spoke it better than the Americans who worked the dock.”

  “From what I’ve seen of the pitiful creatures they let into this country, that’s not much of a boast.”

  “What I want to say,” he flared, “is that I’m not a stupid man. I can see your purpose.”

  “Can you? What is my purpose, then?”

  He offered up a smile that seemed in ser­vice of some private joke. It froze her, for while she granted that he had some vague notion of how they’d come into all that “lost” property, she didn’t want to believe he knew everything.

  “Ye want to get out. Ye are not made for this place. Thy enemies can see it, and thy friends.”

  “My enemies? Goodness!”

  “Ye would go, but ye want a man who’d be willing to serve thy need—­if any man be worthy.”

  “Do I?”

  “Ye can use me if you want to, Kate. Let me be thy faithful instrument.”

  He stopped then, and stared into her eyes as he grasped her skirt with one hand and his hat with the other. The wind was rising and the clouds crowding in from the west. The sudden chill raised goose bumps on her neck as Rudolph’s forwardness made her blush and her lips feel dry and pent and ready to peel apart like a thistle blossom.

  “I see ye. You’re the only one who’s alive here. Alle anderen sind tot. They are just going through the motions of living. Can ye see me?”

  For a moment she was anxious, and speechless. To endure her loneliness, she had to believe she was exceptional, uniquely gifted among clods and drudges. But what to do with a sign like this, that someone out there was looking back at her not only with interest, but with perception?

  It was more discomfiting than comforting—­at first. But when she looked into his eyes, and saw there the simple animal need she had seen so often before, in all the others, she steadied.

  “I don’t say you’re wrong,” she said carefully. “I’m happy to hear you say it. I have to tell you I’ve always felt I’m supposed to be somewhere else, fulfilling greater purposes. Does that sound mad?”

  “Thee may always share thy madness with me.”

  “I tell you sincerely that I intend to see oceans.”

  “As you shall. As you shall.”

  “I’m so very miserable here, Rudolph. Can I trust you with that secret?”

  “Ja. And more.”

  She grasped the end of her veil and tugged it closer to her face, as if it would make their exchange more confidential. “There may be a time when I’ll call upon you. It may not be soon, but it won’t be long. Will you be ready?”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Now walk me back.”

  They turned about as the first raindrops began to fall, the church picnickers scattering before them like lies before a single powerful truth.

  That pleasant Sunday was chased away by a final blast of winter. Frigid winds coursed over the plains, pushing so hard against the cabin that the joists popped and draughts spun among the rafters. Outside, the sky was a translucent, milk-­glass vault that let all warmth drain from the earth. Under Junior’s boot heels, the newly sprouted grass was crisp with frost. He found the Benders’ small stock of animals hunkered down in their pens, the chickens loath to leave their roosts, the pigs curled up and steaming in their little circles of frosted shit.

  As he did every morning, the old man ambled to the orchard to groom the furrows, hatless head lost in a cloud of condensed breath as he slashed the frozen ground. He was doing no practical good, and Kate would have told him so if the man acknowledged a word she said. But Flickinger had long since ceased exchanging articulate speech with her. Instead, he would listen to her voice with a quizzical look on his face, as if some bird or insect had spoken. His expression around her was usually one of bemusement, whatever she did or said seeming to confirm some secret expectation. Surpassingly strange, he filled her with dread of what he might ultimately do to betray them all. She suspected the last body to be planted in his beloved orchard might have to be his.

  The posse appeared around noon. It came up between the mounds like any party of travelers, but instead of proceeding along the trail to the grocery, it struck straight across the prairie to Spill Out Creek. The riders split into details, a few sweeping the creek bottom, others bushwhacking among the cottonwoods and brambles, beating off the blackberry thorns with rifle butts. They proceeded this way, as if searching for something, across half a dozen neighboring farms and onto the Bender claim. In no case did they ask permission to cross property lines. Nor did any of the owners dare challenge the seven heavily armed strangers as they grimly scoured the creek.

  Only when the riders were done searching did they approach the cabin. All four Benders stood at the back window, dumb with apprehension. Every man in the posse was armed to the teeth, trail-­splattered, horses foamed and gleaming. All showed signs of hard riding except for the man leading them, in his knee-­high boots and leathers, who was spotless and carried no arms except for a single revolver holstered under his left armpit. His expression was not exactly grim, but darkly expectant, as if he was closing in on some reward half sought and half dreaded.

  “Them boys is up to no good,” said Almira.

  Under the circumstances, it made more sense to let Junior greet them. Despite the cold, he went out the back door in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, boots half fastened. The posse pulled up in a semicircle around him, horses spewing a wall of vapor through which a voice demanded:

  “You the proprietor here . . . ?”

  Through the single pane of glass, the leader’s voice boomed like God’s own flatulence. From behind, Almira clutched Kate’s shoulder. Kate heard an odd sound, like small bones being shaken in a cup; turning, she saw Almira trembling so violently her teeth chattered.

  “You all right now?”

  “Our fate is plighted,” replied Almira, “the Furies are nigh.”

  “Been at the jug cider?” Kate asked, glancing at the old man for a trace of cleansing mirth. But of course he didn’t laugh.

  Outside, the interview was not going well. None of the visitors had climbed down from their horses, and Junior was lapsing into that hangdog posture he assumed when despair got the better of him. Kate seized the old man’s wool greatcoat off a nail in the wall—­a tentlike thing, oil-­stained and smelling of his unwashed self—­and threw it around her shoulders.

  “I’m going out.”

  “Don’t get us hung,” advised Almira.

  The air outside seemed heavier than the fabric draped around her, laden with a frigid, clinging kind of wet. All dozen heads turned to her as she emerged, and a good number of the horses too; Junior, when he saw her, rose perceptibly in height.

  “And this is my sister, Kate . . .” he said.

  The leader regarded her, his eyes as black as the clipped moustache at this lip. His gaze was narrow, analyzing her as if he were a gem-­cutter trying to ascertain the best angle to split a stone. Then, a brief nod.

  She said, “I would wish you a good day, gentlemen, if the climate were more salubrious. But we mu
st make do with what Providence intends for us. Can we interest you in a hot fire and a meal?”

  “Thank you, no,” he replied in a voice straight from some patriarch’s dais. “As I was telling your young man here, I am Colonel Alexander York—­retired. This here is Mr. Evelyn Whistler, my associate, and the rest of my party . . .” He indicated the others in a gesture that was less an introduction than a show of force. “We are here from Independence on a matter of life and death. My brother was seen in these parts before he went astray. His name was Dr. William York, and he was on his way back from Fort Scott when he disappeared . . .”

  At the name of the missing man, Junior stiffened. The reaction was involuntary, and almost imperceptible, but to Kate it seemed the next worst thing to a confession. She glared at him, and in his regret, he became argumentative:

  “How do you know he disappeared coming back from Fort Scott, instead of on the way?”

  York turned on Junior, eyes igniting. This, perceived Kate, was the look of a man who relished the chance to vanquish a challenger.

  “Because, sir, he was seen there before he started back this way. In Fort Scott, a man matching his description bought cigars, and supplies for his practice.”

  To show weakness before this man would make him bolder, she thought. She crossed her arms and said, as tartly as she dared, “We are always eager to help travelers in need, whether it profits us or not. But we are not accustomed to being interrogated by our guests. Especially ones without the courtesy to come down from their mounts.”

  A smile cracked the colonel’s face. Then, lashing his reins around his saddle horn, he swung over a leg and dismounted. Whistler followed suit, then the rest.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And now I bid you come inside out of this cold, so we might discuss your problem. As much as I would like to accommodate all of your men, our lodgings are rather small, as you can see.”

  “Yes, I indeed see. Can we trouble you for some water, for the horses?”

  “Of course. My brother will show you.”

  Inside, Almira had the oven stoked up so high the windows were fogged. York came in, lip slightly curled at the evident meanness of the place. When Kate invited him to sit at the table, he perched at the very edge of the chair, as if expecting to be ejected. Whistler declined her invitation, preferring to hover on the periphery.

  “Would either of you care for some coffee? Or something more fortifying, perhaps?”

  York shook his head, gingerly planted an elbow on the table. He removed his hat, revealing a sabre scar that snaked up his high forehead to notch his hairline.

  “Well then,” said Kate, taking up the chair opposite. “Tell me again what happened to your brother.”

  “He took a runabout and sorrel mare up to Fort Scott last week, on business. It’s a trip he’s done well on a dozen times, without incident. He was expected back five days ago. Without a doubt he took this trail when he started back last Friday. He ought to have passed this very cabin—­if he made it this far.”

  “What did he—­does he—­look like?”

  York shrugged. “He rode out in a buff-­colored trail suit, checked waistcoat, black hat. White linen shirt with European-­made cuffs. He was well turned-­out. He has a successful practice.”

  Kate looked to Almira. “Do we remember anyone like that?”

  Almira shook her head.

  “Could it be some professional duty detained him along the way?” Kate asked.

  “For five days? Without sending word he’d been delayed?”

  “Some of these outclaims are isolated. I’ve had occasion to have my own skills summoned at short notice, from quite a distance.”

  “Young miss, your skills notwithstanding, I know my own brother. This is not conduct we have ever seen from him before. It’s possible something foul has befallen him.”

  The colonel turned to regard Junior as he returned from showing the posse to water. He was clearly measuring Junior up and down, appraising his capacity for mischief.

  “There are reports of disappearances traced to this area,” he continued. “Quite a number of disappearances, in fact. You are aware of that?”

  “We are. Please understand, sir, that it is our practice never to turn away a traveler in need, no matter what hour they may reach our door. These are quiet parts. But what acts dark of night might conceal, no one may be sure.”

  “I’ll ask again,” York pronounced, eyes closed like the effigy of Justice herself. “Do you remember someone matching his description?”

  Kate, by contrast, was unblinking. “I believe I do. Perhaps a week ago. I was alone here—­my family was in Parsons, on business—­and I’m not in habit of entertaining gentleman guests on my own. He took some water and offered to sell us some paregorics from his kit. Said he had too much of the stuff. I declined. Then he climbed back on his rig and went on his way.”

  “East or west?”

  “East.”

  “Was this exactly a week ago, or more or less?”

  “More or less. I couldn’t tell you the day.”

  “You can’t remember the day your family all went into town and left you alone?”

  Kate looked to Almira. “Can you recall?” Almira shook her head mechanically, and to Kate’s mind, unconvincingly. But before she could speak, Junior blurted—­

  “I was nearly waylaid myself not long ago, close by here.”

  Kate had not expected any such story but managed to keep a smile on her face. Almira, however, would have swallowed her fist if her mouth had been big enough. Unable to control her unease, she retreated behind the canvas.

  “Explain yourself, son,” demanded York.

  “I was coming back with supplies last week when someone made a run at me. I heard the shot and the bullet miss my ear, but I couldn’t tell from where. So I lowered my head and drove out of there at a gallop.”

  “Where, exactly?” asked Whistler. He had been so silent, Kate had forgotten he was there.

  “It was a few miles outside of Cherryvale, where the trail winds around the Dreyer place. There’s a creek and some trees.”

  York rose. “You’ll show us the spot, now . . .” he commanded. Then he added with threadbare courtesy, “Won’t you?”

  Junior lowered his head. “I will.”

  Kate followed the colonel to the front door, where he turned on her.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” he indicated behind the canvas.

  She shrugged. “What mother wouldn’t be upset to relive an attack on her only son?”

  “Yes, what mother wouldn’t?” he replied, that smile brushing his lips again. He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, miss.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Bitch of Justice

  JUNIOR WAS AWAY for the rest of the afternoon. The others scattered to their separate tasks: Almira to her laundry pot, Flickinger to the orchard, Kate to her tarot. There was no discussion of what York’s visit meant for their enterprise. There was nothing to conceal, no telltale signs to erase, because they never left any. All that the colonel left in his wake was a sense of unease—­an odor of imminent threat that festered as if he’d left one of his drowned marmots on the floor.

  Kate laid out her cards in various patterns but found her vision blocked by anger. Almira’s performance in front of the colonel was hapless, infuriating. And while she had long ceased to expect anything from Junior, his strange story of being ambushed on the trail was sure to make matters worse. She always thought of herself as the outsider in their partnership, the one anyone could tell didn’t belong there. She had never wanted to swing the hammer. Yet there she was, forced time and time again to use her wits to save them all.

  She had always hoped she could exact her share of the profits without really being of them. Her suffering had purchased that much at least, to pull her weight by dint of
her presence, of the smile she sent into the world as easily as mailing a letter. And when the time came, and her funds were right, she would leave them all flat, without consequences or regret. Yet now circumstances were casting her in the role of the leader. The more her acts determined their collective fate, the less she felt in control of her own.

  They returned Junior an hour before dusk. As the old man watched from his usual vantage outside, the riders collected themselves and resumed their journey to Fort Scott. They bid no goodbyes, made no pleasantries as they set off. The old man waited until they were out of sight, shut his Bible, and angled his watching chair against the wall to keep the snow off the seat.

  He walked in as Kate confronted Junior. The latter was sitting with his coat undone, prying off a boot and most of the sock with it.

  “So the fool returns from his errand. Tell us—­was it a true catastrophe, or just a waste of time?”

  “You do me no justice. It all went as I expected. I took them to the spot, and the lieutenant—­Whistler—­even said it was a pretty place for an ambuscade. I gave them no reason to doubt me.”

  “Were they impressed with the evidence you showed them? The tracks and casings and bullet holes and such?”

  Junior’s boot slipped free, launching across the store. He slouched back against the wall, spent.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “That colonel is not the kind to take the word of a stranger. He’s empirical—­he’s going to want to see proof. Isn’t that right?” Kate asked, swiveling toward Almira.

  The other scowled, as if unpleasantly surprised to be included in the conversation. “Das sind schlechte Menschen. Them boys is up to no good.”

  “Is that all you have to say? Is anyone else prepared to be of use here? If not, we’d better light out now, or resign ourselves to stretched necks.”

  Junior shook his head. “He’s got no evidence to suspect us, neither.”

  “He already does, though he may not be aware of it yet himself. Any fool can see it.”