The Sundown Man

by Jory Sherman

  I left early before Becky and the girls were up. I rode the horse bareback and carried one of the rifles and plenty of ammunition. I hid the horse in the woods and walked to the same place I had been before, near the river. There was smoke above the lodges of the Utes, and the chimney of the cabin was streaming smoke as well.

  I waited, well hidden, and watched both the Ute camp and the cabin.

  Kate was the first to emerge from the cabin. She was carrying the yoke and two empty wooden pails, as before. She headed my way, went to the same spot as she had the night before. She was within earshot when she pulled the yoke from her shoulders and lifted one of the pails to dip it into the Poudre.

  “Kate,” I called, in a loud whisper. “Don’t turn around. It’s me, Jared.”

  She stiffened as she held the pail down and let the running water fill it.

  “Kate. I’ve come to get you.”

  “Go away, Jared. Please.”

  “I’m staying with Rebecca.”

  She filled the pail and set it on the shore. She kept her head down, as if not daring to look in my direction.

  “Can you get away from them tonight?”

  She picked up the other pail and turned her back to me. She dipped it in the river. I could hear the water gurgling as it rushed against the pail.

  “No, Jared. Stay away. Please.”

  “You’ve got to get away from Pettigrew. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “They’re watching me,” she said.

  “I know. Just come to this same place. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Myrtle came out onto the porch, looked downriver at Kate.

  “Hurry it up, girl. What’s taking you so damned long?” Myrtle’s voice was loud and shrill.

  “I’m coming,” Kate shouted back.

  “Look for me, Kate. I’ll be here.”

  She finished filling the pail, set it next to the other one. Then she stood up, put the yoke over her shoulders, and lifted the pails by their ropes and put them in the grooves on either end.

  She didn’t look my way, nor did she reply. Myrtle was still on the porch, watching her every move. I felt like running over to Kate, knocking the yoke from her shoulders, snatching her up, and carrying her away.

  Amos came out on the porch just then, and he too stood watching Kate. He had a rifle in his hands. Then his son Jasper joined him, and he also had a rifle. They were suspicious, I thought. And all three people on that porch were watching Kate like a hawk. She trudged off toward the cabin, her back bent under the weight of the yoke and the water in the pails. I felt sorry for her. I fingered the trigger guard on my rifle. I’d have to shoot true and fast to bring those men down, and then the Utes would probably swoop down on me and Kate.

  I ground my teeth and did nothing, except curse under my breath.

  I stayed there all day. The Utes crossed over with packhorses and traded with the Pettigrews all afternoon.

  Kate did not come down to the river again that day. The Utes packed up the goods they had bought, loading them on travois, and crossed the river, rode up to their lodges.

  Amos Pettigrew, after closing up his wagon, walked downriver, stopped at the spot where Kate filled the pails. He was carrying a Winchester and there was a Colt pistol on his gun belt. He was so close I could hear him breathing. He looked down at the water, then up at the mountains. He studied Kate’s tracks, then walked back to the cabin, apparently satisfied.

  I breathed easier after he left. What had he been looking for? Was he suspicious? He never once looked in my direction, or had I missed something?

  I rode back to Becky’s, discouraged.

  For the next three days, I waited in the woods behind that small ridge, but Kate never came down my way. But I saw the Utes strike their lodges and vanish into the mountains. Jasper filled the water pails, closer to the cabin, a couple of times, and Myrtle filled them once. But no Kate. I began to worry, and on the fourth day of my vigil, I rode around to the back of their cabin, tied my horse to a sturdy pine, and walked down to look at the cabin from the rear.

  There was a large shed to the left of the cabin, a lean-to, and a pole corral where they kept the horses. It was out in the open, unprotected, and I knew better than to inspect it up close.

  There was an outhouse, a wooden privy covered with pine slabs. I saw Kate come out twice, Myrtle at her side. Jasper and Amos came out separately, one at a time. There was no back porch, just some rustic steps at the back door. I made my way back up the slope, got on my horse, and rode back to Becky’s.

  “They’re watching Kate pretty close, Becky.”

  “I told you.”

  “I don’t know what to do. Kate warned me away and I don’t know why.”

  “She’s trying to save her life and yours,” Becky said.

  “There has to be a way to get her out of there.” I told Rebecca about the outhouse.

  Becky shook her head. “Whenever Myrtle and Kate go out there, either Jasper or my father, or both, will be standing back of the window, watching. And they’ll have rifles in their hands.”

  “Well, I’m going to get Kate away from them, Becky. If it’s the last damned thing I do.”

  “It might be the last thing you do, Jared,” she said.

  “At least the Utes are gone. I don’t have to worry about them.”

  “They’ll all be going to town soon. You don’t have much time. And in a few days, I’ll have to take the wagon down and buy supplies.”

  I had a hunch.

  “Does Kate ever go outside after dark to get water?” I asked Becky.

  “Sometimes. Not often.”

  “What are people afraid of most?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

  “Of ways to get all of them out of that cabin, including Kate.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Becky said, as if reading my thoughts.

  “It’ll have to be light enough to see,” I said.

  “Yes. There’s bound to be some shooting. At you.”

  “And me at them,” I said.

  “Do you plan to . . . ?”

  “The privy,” I said. “It’ll burn fast and threaten the house. Maybe they’ll rush out with those pails of water and leave their guns inside.”

  I knew what people were afraid of, and so did Becky.

  Fire.

  Twenty-eight

  When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Odysseus put on his shirt and cloak. . . .

  I thought of Homer’s words as I dressed in the dark, knowing I was venturing into an unknown realm where human lives were at stake, including my own and my sister Kate’s.

  As I strapped on my pistol, Becky entered the front room.

  “I’ve packed what you need, Jared. Some scraps of cloth, coal oil, and lucifers. I put them all in a flour sack and made a sling so that you can carry it on your shoulders.”

  “Thanks, Becky. Wish me luck?”

  “I wish you Godspeed, Jared.”

  We spoke in whispers because the girls were still asleep. Her whisper had a kind of sleepy husk to it that stirred my blood, seeped into my manhood like delicate female fingers. A whisper that touched the deepest parts of me and made me feel embarrassed at my carnal thoughts. I was nervous too, but tried not to show it. I picked up my rifle and we walked out into the kitchen. There, on the counter, was the sack with the fire-making materials. She had slit the large sack and tied two pieces together to make a sling. I put it on my shoulder, tested it. The knot was strong and the sack rested just beneath my left armpit.

  “It works, Becky.”

  “Here, put these lucifers in your pocket.”

  I took the matches and put them in my shirt pocket. Our fingers touched, briefly but lingeringly, and there was that odd feeling again, a rush of warmth to my loins, a yearning in me that was deeper than anything I had ever felt before, a feeling that a man has for a woman when she is in season.

  “Be seeing you,” I sai
d lightly, but realized that my voice had a quaver in it. At least my hands were not shaking. Not yet.

  I looked deep into her eyes at that moment, into those smoky blue eyes, and felt something inside me falling, floating downward from a great height. It was a moment of knowing between us, a solemn, sacred knowing, as if a godlike voice was calling to both of us, bidding me to stay, urging her to hold onto my fingers a while longer and draw me into her, into those secret depths of her where all was quiet and peaceful and grander than anything on earth. The moment lasted an eternity and I saw, for an instant, that divine spark of lust that flares up when a woman wants a man, wants him almost desperately and forever.

  She didn’t speak, and I realized that Becky was as scared as I was. But of what? Of wanting me, or of just letting me go into that deepest, darkest cave where dragons lurk and heroes die before their time? I would lose the concealment of darkness if I tarried, so I broke the gaze and turned my back on a woman glowing with an earthy desire. I slipped out the door and went to my horse, which I had tied up out back earlier that morning. Again, I rode bareback through the pines over a now-familiar trail.

  There was just a smear of cream in the eastern sky, barely visible over the jumble of foothills. I could see my breath in the chill morning air, and I was shivering when I dismounted, whether from fear or the cold, I did not know.

  Becky had wrapped the bottles of coal oil in the rags so they didn’t clink as I walked down the slope of the small ridge to the back of the outhouse. I was careful not to make any noise, but it was precarious going with movable stones underfoot, brush, tree branches, and small fissures eroded by flowing water. There were no lamps lit in the cabin, at least no lights that I could see. I crouched down behind the small building and slowly eased the sling off my shoulder. I laid my rifle down beside me. There was a cartridge in the chamber and the hammer was pulled back to half-cock. My Colt was fully loaded with six cartridges. I had slid the cylinder so that the hammer rested on the metal between bullet chambers. The Colt was a single-action, so I’d have to cock the hammer back to lock the cylinder into place and be able to fire it.

  I clumped the rags together and pulled the cork on one of the bottles. I soaked the rags with coal oil, making sure they were each saturated. I placed these around the base of the outhouse on three sides. I stuffed a rag in an open knot-hole. Then I doused the entire back of the building with oil, splashing it on gently so that I didn’t make any noise. I set the empty bottle right against the baseboard of the wooden structure. I picked up my rifle and laid down a line of coal oil from the building, crab-walking backward. I hoped all of it would not seep into the ground and fail to ignite.

  I made sure that the outbuilding concealed me from view, and piled up brittle pinecones and needles, then soaked that with the last of the coal oil. I set the bottle down, out of the way, and walked to a hiding place I had chosen that gave me a full view of the cabin, the back steps, and the outhouse. There, rifle at the ready, I waited for the sky to pale.

  I took out the matchbox. There was a strip of sandpaper glued to its side that had never been used. The box and the sandpaper were dry, and I intended to keep them that way. The brand name on the box read LUCIFER, and depicted a red devil with horns on its head and a horned tail. I took one of the matches out. It would take me three strides to get to the pile of oil-soaked pinecones and needles. I only had to wait for the first early riser to enter the outhouse. I hoped like hell it wasn’t Kate.

  Sunlight began to flow up the canyon, splashing color onto the bluffs, tinting the boulders, burning green on the pines. The cold from the ground rose up in a shivering chill as the earth began to warm. In one of the windows of the cabin, I saw a glow as someone inside lighted a lamp. I stared until my eyes watered trying to see who had done this, but saw only a play of light and shadows beyond the pane.

  I heard a soft click in my ear and sensed a presence next to me. A hand reached down and grabbed the box of matches.

  “I’ll take those,” a voice said. “Kids shouldn’t play with matches.”

  I turned slowly and looked up as the man hurled the box to the ground. Jasper Pettigrew stood there, a cocked Colt in his hand. I was looking straight down the pistol’s black snout.

  “I saw your tracks yesterday, sonny. I been waitin’ for you. Now you just get up real slow and leave that rifle where it lays.”

  I acted as if I was going to get up and let Jasper kill me. He was just too sure of himself. As I got my feet under me, I reached out, grabbed the barrel of his pistol, and jerked him down on top of me. I slid my finger up the barrel and stuck it between the hammer and the cartridge primer. With my right hand, I slammed a fist into his throat, hoping to crack his vocal chords so that he could not cry out.

  I felt small bones crunch under my fist. Jasper made a gurgling, croaking sound in his throat as I snatched his pistol out of his hand. We rolled a foot or two and he began clawing at my face, trying to gouge out my eyes. I dropped the pistol, throwing up my arm to defend myself. He jabbed a thumb in my left eye. I knocked his hand away and scrambled to get on top of him. He squirmed like a snake to avoid getting pinned. I grabbed his throat with my right hand and squeezed as hard as I could. He shook his head and his body convulsed as he tucked his legs up and tried to roll out from under me.

  His breathing came hard and raspy, but he was still strong, sinewy, with flexing muscles that rippled under the skin of his arms. He slammed me in the temple with a solid haymaker right, and stars danced in my brain like tiny moths caught in a searing light.

  He reached down and drew a knife as we rolled back and forth. He tried to jab me with the blade, but I grabbed his wrist and forced his arm to the ground. I bore down hard and his fingers came apart. The knife slid from his grasp. I brought a knee up and kicked him square in the groin. He gasped and doubled over in pain. We both looked at the knife lying there. He went for it, but I was faster.

  I snatched up the knife and Jasper’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to scream and pushed on my chest with both arms. I drove the knife downward, slicing his arm before I plunged it into his throat. Blood bubbled up and sprayed my face in a sudden burst. Jasper quivered all over like a beheaded chicken, his legs flopping out of control.

  “You bastard,” I hissed, and slashed the blade across his throat until he lay still. My hand was bloody and I wiped it on his shirt. I rose up, panting from the exertion, and looked over at the house. The window was still glowing a pale orange and the sunlight was crawling up the logs.

  Frantically, I picked up my rifle and retrieved the box of matches. I dashed to the pile I had made, and with trembling hands, I took out another match and raked it across the sandpaper strip.

  The head of the match popped off and it didn’t light. I struck another one and the phosphorus flared into flame. I touched the match to the soaked debris. And waited an eternity.

  The fire caught, slowly, and began to flow along the path of coal oil I had made. So slowly did the fire creep, my heart started to pound in my temples. I lit another match, and it blew out before I could toss it onto the ground.

  I ran back to where Jasper lay spread-eagled on the ground, his blood no longer pumping. Smoke rose from behind the outhouse and I saw the back door open. Myrtle came out and stood on the steps, then opened her mouth to scream.

  “Amos!” she screeched.

  It seemed that the fire took forever to reach the back of the outhouse, but once it did, the whole back wall erupted in flames. Myrtle went back inside the house and emerged a moment later, a bucket in her hand.

  And right behind her was Kate, carrying another wooden pail.

  The outhouse, with its dry old wood, burst into full flame, painting Myrtle a bright orange as she lifted the pail to hurl the water from it. She jumped back, and the water sloshed harmlessly onto the ground. Myrtle turned toward Kate, dropping her pail. She snatched the pail from Kate’s hands and splashed water onto the fire. It was like throwing sand at a wall. The wat
er turned to steam, evaporated in a hissing puff.

  “Get more water,” Myrtle screamed, throwing the empty bucket toward Kate.

  Kate stooped over to pick up both buckets. She snatched them up by their rope handles and started to run toward me, around the side of the house. She dashed toward the river as Amos stepped outside, still wearing his long underwear, a Winchester in his hand.

  “Pettigrew,” I yelled. “You looking for Jasper? Here he is.”

  Myrtle turned toward me.

  So did Amos. He swung around toward me, his rifle at hip level. I brought my own rifle up quick and thumbed the hammer back to full cock.

  Amos fired first. His shot went wild, sizzling past my ear like a buzzing hornet. I dropped the sight on his midsection and squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught him in the abdomen, spun him around. He staggered back on the landing and struck the back door.

  Myrtle ran to him and pulled the rifle from his hand. She turned toward me, levering another cartridge into the firing chamber.

  “Drop it,” I said as I jacked another shell from the magazine. “Drop the rifle or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Shoot him,” Amos groaned.

  I took direct aim at Myrtle Pettigrew, my finger just ticking the trigger.

  The gas from inside the outhouse exploded, hurling pieces of wood, shit, piss, siding in all directions. Flaming fagots landed at Myrtle’s feet and on the porch where Amos stood.

  Myrtle screamed. Amos staggered down the steps and grabbed the rifle from her. He swung it in my direction. I fired, aiming for his heart. Myrtle started running toward me, infuriated, perhaps confused. Amos fired his rifle while his wife was directly in the line of fire. The bullet struck her in the back and she pitched forward, a big hole in her chest.

  I squeezed the trigger as Myrtle struck the ground. My aim was off and the lead projectile hit Amos in the belly. He doubled over in pain, stared at me with a look of shock and rage. I worked the lever and slid another cartridge into the chamber.