The Sundown Man

by Jory Sherman

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Blood makes the man.

  There was pandemonium and confusion everywhere I looked. Women screamed. Children cried out in pain and fear.

  I looked around for a weapon so I could defend myself. I found a lance and picked it up. The minute I had it in my hands, one of the marauders charged straight at me.

  When he came within a few yards of me, I drew back my arm and hurled the lance . . . striking the warrior in the stomach. Blood gushed from his body. There was a surprised look in his eyes. I stood there, frozen, as he squirmed.

  I began to tremble all over. I had killed a man. With my own hands, I had taken a human life.

  Berkley titles by Jory Sherman

  THE VIGILANTE

  THE VIGILANTE: SIX-GUN LAW

  THE DARK LAND

  SUNSET RIDER

  TEXAS DUST

  BLOOD RIVER

  THE SAVAGE GUN

  THE SUNDOWN MAN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE SUNDOWN MAN

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / July 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by Jory Sherman.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of

  the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21630-9

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  For Leslie King

  One

  I am the story, much as I hate to be, but that’s just the way it is. I am the story because of all the things that happened to me so long ago and how I came to be who I am today. But a story isn’t just one person and what happened didn’t just happen to me. It happened to my family, and most of them can’t be the story because they can’t tell it. That’s why I’m the story and why I have to tell it just the way it all happened.

  Even now, telling it, I feel like I’m staring straight down the business end of a gun, and at someone I don’t even know who has his finger on the trigger, squeezing it so slow my insides turn to mush.

  Oh, the horror of it. The horror of that day, that last day of my father’s life, and my mother’s, and a cloudless blue sky so serene and beautiful, and the blood, their blood, soaking into the prairie, their lives leaking away just moments after they were alive, their muscles working, their legs walking, their voices raised in alarm.

  The horror lingers, and it’s difficult for me to discuss those last moments when my world, and my sister’s, was shattered, scattered, decimated like broken pottery, and I hesitate to begin reassembling the events of that day, which, for so long, seemed a blur, a cacophony of images shrieking in my brain as if a series of paintings on a wall had the ability to scream.

  My name is Jared Sunnedon, a Finnish name, according to my father. Over time, after my family came to this country, the “e” became silent, so people never heard it right when I said it, so they started calling me “Sundown,” and later after I gained an unsavory reputation as a gunfighter, they called me “The Sundown Man.” I hated the appellation, but I had to admit it saved time when I was in a tight spot, and I was in a number of those the past few years. Sometimes, a reputation can give the bearer a bit of an edge.

  I never thought of any of these things when we set out from Kansas City in the spring of 1874. My pa had joined up with a small wagon train heading for Oregon, and Ma had our wagon filled with supplies for the journey and some of her precious belongings, including a small spinet piano, a modest chest of drawers, clothing, and such. I had my books, and Kate, my kid sister, had her dulcimer and dolls. Pa had his printing press, of course. He wanted to set up a newspaper somewhere in Oregon. He was a pretty good reporter and wanted to be on his own.

  The wagon boss was a mean bastard named Cassius Hogg, but like many such folks, he hid his true nature from all of us. None of us suspected that he was a vicious, heartless man, with a streak of greed in him as wide as a barn door. There were two other families of pilgrims who had signed up with Hogg. One was David Prentiss, a store-keeper; his wife, Sally; and their daughter, Violet, who was about sixteen at the time. The other gullible family was a carpenter feller name of Giacomo Bandini, a Venetian from Italy; his wife, Francesca; and their twin sons, eight years old, Mario and Matteo, handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired urchins who looked like little scrubbed angels in the fancy Little Lord Fauntleroy clothes they wore on the first day out. They weren’t so clean-faced, nor dressed so well, after that first week across the Kansas prairie.

  Every day, we traveled from sunrise until nearly sunset, but one day we stopped early in the afternoon so everyone, including the animals, could get some well-deserved rest.

  That’s when we found out that Hogg was carrying two boxes of brand-new Winchester rifles in Mr. Prentiss’s wagon. When Hogg asked if we wanted to hunt antelope with him, he took out one of the boxes and showed us the new rifles. He handed one to my
father.

  My father reached for the rifle when Hogg handed it toward him. Hogg let go of it too soon and my father grabbed for it. The rifle slipped from his grasp and struck the wagon. My father lunged for it and slammed it up against the boards. The rifle slipped down across an exposed nail. When he finally grasped it and held it up, I saw that there was a scratch in the new barrel. It looked like a small silver scar.

  “Damn you, Sven Sunnedon,” Hogg yelled. “That there Winchester’s brand-spankin’-new.”

  “Sorry,” Pa said.

  “I ought to make you buy it, but I got other plans for these here ’73s.”

  “As long as you don’t shoot me with it,” Pa said.

  “I’ve a good mind to.” Hogg turned and walked away.

  After that, nothing more was said about the slightly damaged rifle and we left early the following morning.

  The first couple of weeks were fun for us young kids. I was the oldest, almost seventeen, and Kate was but fourteen. She played with her dolls and I read my books, Ivanhoe, The Count of Monte Cristo, and works by Homer, among others. At night, Ma would read some from the Bible, and she’d play the spinet while Kate plunked her dulcimer, and we’d sing the simple songs. The singing seemed to irritate Hogg, but he had not yet shown his true colors and none us of suspected what a black heart he had beating inside that big barrel chest of his.

  Until we got well into the Territory of Colorado, a vast, endless prairie with snowcapped peaks in the hazy distance. We were all pretty excited, and some of us rode bareback out in front of the wagons to get a better look at those beautiful mountains bathed in a purple haze. Hogg had already ridden off, saying he was going to do some scouting. He mumbled something about “Rappyhoe,” and we didn’t know what he meant.

  Kate and I rode over a small rise and saw a dip in the trail that opened up onto a vast landscape of high grass and a wonderland of buttes and mesas that seemed to suck all the breath out of our lungs. It was then that we saw some young brown-skinned boys lying on their backs atop a little knoll. They were working their bare legs like scissors, and that’s when we saw some antelope coming toward them, one in the lead, about four others several yards behind them. Beyond those pronghorns was a larger herd. We already knew what they were because we had seen many of them after we got into the Territory of Colorado and left Kansas behind. In fact, Hogg had shot one and had his cook prepare it one night. It tasted, he said, like goat meat, but I had never eaten goat, so I just shrugged and ate it. The meat was tough and stringy, but it satisfied my hunger that night.

  Kate was excited and pulled on my sleeve.

  “Let’s ride down to where those boys are,” she said. “Ask them why they’re doing such a foolish thing.”

  “I think they’re hunting,” I said. “Those antelope are mighty curious. Look, those boys have bows next to them and each one has an arrow in it. See, those are their quivers alongside. Those are red Indians, Kate, and we don’t want to fool with them.”

  “How do you know those boys are hunting?” she asked.

  “’Cause that was just the way Hogg and his men did it when they shot that antelope a few days ago.”

  “You went with them?”

  “I followed them.”

  She looked at me right sharp as if I’d just revealed a secret side of myself, which I had. I wanted to know what was going on in the world.

  Right after that, we saw Hogg and one of his drovers, a man named Rudy Truitt, both of them all hunched over, carrying rifles, come sneaking up on those Indian boys from two different directions, like arrows shot from bows. I opened my mouth to shout out a warning, but my voice froze in my throat as if my neck was clamped tight by an icy hand.

  Hogg and Truitt rode right up and shot those two boys with their Winchesters. I heard two cracks and saw the boys twitch and then stiffen up. They were plumb dead, I knew. Hogg and Truitt jumped down from their horses and ran up to the dead Indians and drew their knives. They knelt down and cut the braids where they joined the skulls and held up the pair of dangling scalps. That’s about when my pa and the other men rode out to see what was going on.

  “Let’s go down there, Jared,” Kate said. “I’ll bet our daddy’s going to tell that Hogg a thing or two.”

  “You want to go down where those dead boys are? Their heads are all bloody.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Yes.”

  So we ran down there just as Pa and the others rode up.

  “What in the hell is this, Hogg?” Pa asked.

  “We done got us some Injun scalps, Mr. Sunnedon. Ain’t they pretty?”

  “This is an outrage. Those were two human beings.”

  “Red niggers is what they was,” Hogg said. “Vermin.”

  “You sonofabitch. You’ll bring the whole tribe down on us. That’s no way for a civilized man to act.”

  Hogg just laughed. And so did Truitt. Kate and I got there breathless, and could see the anger on our father’s face. The other men were pretty uneasy too.

  “Don’t you be calling me no damned names, Mr. Sunnedon. This is the goddamned West and civilization’s rules don’t count for dog shit.”

  “You ought to be whipped like a cur, Hogg,” our pappy said. “A common cur.”

  “All right, Sunnedon, I’ve had about enough shit from you. You get your wagon out of my train. I don’t want you in my camp tonight.”

  “Fine with me, Hogg. You damned butcher.”

  Our father turned to us, his face almost purple with rage.

  “Jared, you and Kate get on back. We’re packing up.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Kate whimpered and squeezed my hand.

  But I stood there, rooted like a hickory to the spot, looking at those dead boys, with their heads all bloodied. Then, Hogg stuffed the scalp in his hand behind his belt.

  “You folks go on back too,” Hogg said. “Me ’n Truitt got some more surgery to perform here.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mr. Prentiss asked.

  “You better not ask that question, Mr. Prentiss, unless you really got to know.”

  “I think you’ve done enough for one day, Mr. Hogg,” Bandini said in that gravelly voice of his. “And I don’t think you can just run Mr. Sunnedon off like that. He has a contract with you to take him to Oregon, same as us.”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you, Giacomo? I ain’t takin’ none of you to Oregon. We’re heading for Santa Fe. I changed my mind about Oregon.”

  “You can’t do that,” Prentiss spluttered.

  “I’m a-doin’ it,” Hogg said, then knelt back down and lifted the breechclout on one of the dead boys and cut away his privates as if he were slicking plums off a tree branch.

  My stomach churned at the blood and I tightened my whole crotch up as if I was the one being castrated. Kate leaned over and lost her breakfast. It came spuming out like a jet of water, only it was a mess of johnnycakes and I don’t know what all.

  I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her toward our horses just as Truitt was putting the knife to the other boy’s private parts. I heard Bandini get sick too, and when I looked at Prentiss, his face was white as bone.

  That night, Pa was studying the stars, drawing up a route that would take us over the mountains to Oregon. He had a fix on the North Star, I knew. We were all alone on that vast prairie under a gleaming dark carpet of stars. I had never felt so lonesome in my life, nor more relieved in being away from Hogg and Truitt.

  “Do you think we can make it, Pa?” I asked.

  “Others have made it before us, Jared. We can do the same.”

  We were not so far from our wagon that we could not hear Ma and Kate crying softly. And after that, it was so quiet, it seemed like we were in a big old empty church with the night sky for a ceiling.

  Two

  The next morning I told Pa what I had heard after he left Hogg and Truitt to go back to our wagon and pack up.

  “Hogg had no intention of leading us to Ore
gon, Pa.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what he told Mr. Bandini and Mr. Prentiss yesterday.”

  “That scurrilous bastard. You know, he wouldn’t refund any of our money either.”

  “I know. Ma was pretty riled about that last night.”

  “I should have known,” Pa said.

  “About Oregon?”

  “No, about Cassius Hogg. I heard stories about him back in Kansas City.”

  “What stories?”

  Ma was driving the wagon, with Kate sitting beside her on the buckboard seat, so they couldn’t hear what we were talking about. We rode ahead of the wagon on the two horses we had, a bay mare we called Sally, and a five-year-old gelding Pa called Tuck, after Friar Tuck. Tuck was on the heavy side and would never win any races at the county fair.

  “Oh, that he was a drunkard and a bully, a wastrel. But I never heard of him stranding anyone on the prairie before. Or taking people where they didn’t want to go.”

  “Maybe Hogg said that to the others just to scare them.”

  “Maybe. I’m plumb burned that he didn’t refund any of the money I gave him.”

  “That’s stealing, Pa.”

  “Yeah. But he and Truitt were ready to jump me back there. I thought discretion was the better part of valor. If I ever see Hogg again, I’ll make him pay what he owes me.”

  “How?”

  “There are courts. Laws.”

  “Where we’re going?”

  Pa smiled. “I reckon,” he said.

  There were buttes and mesas rising from the broad land like ancient galleons, and in the distance, the Rocky Mountains. The sky was pure blue, and little puffs of white clouds floated here and there. Birds flew across our lines of sight every so often and we sometimes heard quail piping. Everything seemed so peaceful as we rode that unknown land. Small herds of buffalo grazed under the watchful eyes of a pronghorn sentinel standing near its flock, and best of all, the memory of Cassius Hogg was fading like the mist of morning on that soft, serene day.