Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1)

by Luke Bauserman

  “I thought I told you to stay put.”

  Ephraim looked up. Clabe shifted his quid of tobacco around into a brown-toothed sneer. He was holding his rifle with the stock facing Ephraim. Behind him, by the still, Jake and Frank were sleeping.

  Clabe gripped the barrel of his rifle in both hands and raised it. “Let’s make sure you stay down there this time.”

  He drove the rifle butt downward with a quick, powerful thrust. The stock connected with Ephraim’s skull, and the world exploded in a whirl of lights. Ephraim slid backward into the pit, hitting the bottom like a loose sack of cornmeal, and everything went black.

  14

  Burning Scent

  Sampson awoke to the muffled sounds of a spade slicing through the soil above him. Thoughts of Wes, the cabin porch, and cornbread and gravy flashed through his mind in a jumble. He raised his head—and banged it on the roof. His current situation returned to him. He was in prison.

  The scraping of earth above him continued. Sampson felt different, though. Even in the complete darkness, he could now see the inside of his prison: rough boards nailed together into a box. His sense of smell felt sharper too. He sniffed the air and smelled a new scent. No, not new—it was the scent from his dreams, a scent he had come to know under the earth. It burned in his nostrils.

  The scent reached deep inside Sampson and pulled at his hollow gut. He hungered to follow it. He had to chase, to dig, to attack the source of that scent.

  With a thunk, the tip of the shovel struck the wood above him. Sampson raised his ears and listened as the shovel was laid aside. Hands brushed dirt from his prison. Then, with the creak of wood and the squeak of nails, the lid of the box sprang free.

  Sampson stood and shook himself from nose to tail. Clods of soil rained down from his coat. He stared up into the night. Withered tree branches scratched at the moon.

  Strength pulsed through his muscles. He flexed his limbs and stepped from the box. He caught a whiff of the burning scent again and wheeled around to face its source.

  A man, his face shadowed by a hat, stood by the wooden box, studying him. It was William, the man who’d imprisoned him.

  “There you are: my ace in the hole.” William set down the pry-bar in his hand and picked up a whip lying curled at his feet. “Your services are needed.”

  Sampson bared his teeth, snarled. The scent was coming from William, from his hip. There was a bulge there, in William’s pocket. Flattening his ears, Sampson began to circle, looking for a place to dart in and attack.

  William laughed. “You didn’t waste time picking up the trail. That’s good. But we can’t have you attacking me over it.”

  He stepped forward suddenly, uncoiled the whip, and swung it through the air in one smooth motion.

  Sampson saw the black metal barbs at the ends of the whip’s three tails as they sailed over his head. They landed on his back. He yelped in pain as the barbs sank through his fur.

  The whip recoiled, then cracked again, and again.

  Sampson howled in agony, cowering in the dirt.

  “There,” William said briskly. “Every hellhound needs taming at first.” He walked over to Sampson and looped a cord around his neck.

  The burning scent was overpowering at this range. It was all Sampson could do to resist snapping at William’s hand. But he didn’t want to be whipped again.

  “Come.” William tugged the cord. “You’ll sink your teeth into flesh soon enough.”

  Obediently, Sampson rose and followed his master.

  They walked from the graveyard to the surrounding woods. William crouched, reached into his pocket, and held something up to Sampson’s snout.

  The object reeked with fiery vapors, like the fear of a rabbit being chased by a pack of hounds, only deeper, more pungent. Sampson could make out something else too: the scent of metal and wood. A gun. His tongue flicked out and tasted the pistol. Immediately, a ghostly image filled his mind: a boy on horseback, gun in hand. Sampson could smell the boy, the horse, the fear in the air. The horse reared, the gun fired, and the boy tumbled to the ground.

  The burning scent blossomed again in his nostrils, mingling with the boy’s fear.

  “You see him, don’t you?” William said. “Find his trail and follow it. Catch him, and bring him to me. Understand?”

  Sampson growled.

  “Now go,” William said, releasing the cord.

  15

  The Hurricane Timber

  Ephraim awoke with his skull throbbing. He moaned and swallowed. Lifting his bound hands to his head, he gingerly explored the firm lump on his temple where Clabe had hit him.

  He sat up slowly, his broken thumb throbbing in time with his head. The pit tilted crazily around him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the hole. Cold clumps of loose soil rained down in his hair. He didn’t bother to shake them out.

  After a few minutes, the dizziness subsided, and he opened his eyes. He breathed deep, willing himself to master the pain, and stood.

  Waning light illuminated the upper half of the hole. I must’ve been out most of the day. His stomach knotted as he thought of Ma. He looked at the sky. Please, just give me a chance to find Nancy.

  Outside the hole, someone retched.

  “I done told you, Frank!” Clabe said. “That mash soured your gut. Now look at you!”

  Frank moaned. “I feel sick enough to die.”

  “Don’t think you’re gettin’ out of helpin’ us haul this liquor,” Clabe said. “I don’t care if it takes you all night to tote your load to town.”

  Frank muttered something unintelligible.

  “Say that again, Frank! Go on now, look me square in the eyes and say it again! I swear I’m goin’ to whip you till you piss, then whip you for pissin’!”

  Sounds like Frank’s not much better off than I am, Ephraim thought wryly.

  Clabe and Jake appeared at the edge of the sinkhole. Clabe was still clenching his jaw in anger at Frank.

  “Well, look who’s awake,” Clabe said. “That’ll make this easier.” He trained his rifle on Ephraim while Jake tossed down the end of a rope.

  “Grab hold, Cutler,” Jake said. “Don’t try nothin’ funny now.”

  Ephraim took hold of the rope, favoring his good hand.

  Jake walked off with the other end of the rope—probably tying it around a tree. When he returned, he simply nodded. Ephraim tugged at the rope and felt it hold. Gritting his teeth, he climbed out.

  The Fletcher brothers had packed the jugs of corn whiskey in their tow sacks. Jake shouldered one, and Frank struggled to do the same. Clabe lifted the third sack and slung it over Ephraim’s back. “Better that you’re weighted down, not me.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ goes together like liquor and a hangin’,” Jake said as they set off. “We’ll be doing double business tonight!”

  The sun sank low as they headed down the slope of Flint Ridge. Fog preceded the darkness, swirling through the trees in thick billows as the temperature dropped. Ephraim struggled to find his footing through the white carpet.

  Frank was faring even worse. Still moaning about his aching skull and cramped guts, he stumbled over every rock and branch in his path. He fell several times, and at one point managed to break one of the jugs of whiskey in his sack. That won him a curse from Jake and a kick in the seat from Clabe.

  An hour of walking brought them to the Hurricane Timber near the base of the mountain. Years before the settlement of Sixmile Creek, a storm had ripped its way through the mountains, blazing a scar across the flank of Flint Ridge. It had felled many trees, leaving their roots balls twisted together in massive snarls. Others were broken and jagged, jutting from the ground like giant splinters. The party slowed its pace.

  A sharp breeze cut across the slope, roiling the mist and chilling Ephraim. Inhaling, he caught a cool tang in the wind. He looked at the sky; a mass of dark clouds teetered on top of the mountain, obscuring the moon. A storm was coming.

 
; He studied the ridge; Barefoot Nancy lived just on the other side. Did it even matter now? It had already been three days since Ma had taken the poison. For all he knew, she might be dead already. And if not, how much time did she have left?

  Ephraim had to find a way to escape.

  A cold drop of rain hit his cheek. Clabe must’ve felt one too because he cursed.

  “There’s a big oak yonder,” Jake said. “Let’s hunker down under it and wait this out.”

  Ephraim could see the tree ahead of them, spreading its thick limbs in a shadowy promise of shelter. It stood in the middle of the clear-cut, the lone survivor of the long-ago storm. They ran to it. Frank brought up the rear, stumbling and moaning.

  On the lee side of the oak, Clabe dropped to his knees and began gathering twigs. He assembled them into a small tepee. Jake produced a flint and tinder, which he handed to his brother.

  The wind picked up, and the dark clouds edged forward. The storm came tumbling down the mountainside, spitting rain.

  Clabe shivered and struck the flint, spraying sparks. They dove into the curled strands of tinder and smoked promisingly. Clabe cupped his hands around the tinder and blew gently. When the wood sent up fingers of flame, Clabe snapped a bundle of twigs into pieces and piled them around the smoldering tinder. They all drew near, anticipating the heat.

  A howl cut through the night.

  At first, it was indistinguishable from the rising wind, but gradually it rose in pitch and volume until Ephraim could tell the two apart.

  Ephraim stood and peered into the darkness. What had made that howl? A coonhound? Who’d be hunting on a night like this?

  Lightning flashed, revealing a figure standing on a rocky outcrop above them. Ephraim saw him for only an instant, but he harbored no doubt about who it was. It was the stranger from the other night.

  He glanced at the other men, who were huddled around the guttering fire, protecting it from the wind. Tickles of fear scuttled up his body like granddaddy longlegs.

  The stranger had been standing in the woods the night Ephraim had shot Silas. It was his boot that had broken the branch that spooked Molly—Ephraim felt sure of it. There was something sinister about that man.

  “Hey, Cutler,” Clabe said. “Sit down here where we can see you. You try to run off and I’ll—”

  The howl echoed across the slope again. It sounded closer this time—a lot closer. And it wasn’t no hound. Ephraim was sure of that. It lacked the excited quality of a coondog on a trail. This was a hollow wail, a funeral dirge.

  Lightning flickered across the sky again. The stranger had vanished from the outcrop.

  Jake and Clabe were standing now too.

  Frank looked up from the fire. “What’re y’all doin’?”

  “Shhh.” Clabe held a finger to his lips. He looked at Jake, and they both raised their rifles.

  “Cutler, you’re a good shot, ain’t you?” Clabe asked.

  Ephraim nodded.

  Clabe fished out his knife and cut the rope binding Ephraim’s wrists. “Frank, pass your rifle to him,” he said. “You’ll do no good with it as you are.”

  “You gonna give him my gun? That’s stupid,” Frank said.

  “Shut up and hand it over or I’ll knock the rest of your teeth out!” Clabe snapped, peering out into the gloom.

  Frank shoved the rifle across the ground.

  Ephraim picked it up, looked at it, and snorted. The barrel was plugged with mud. Frank must’ve stuck it in the ground when he tripped. Ephraim picked up a stick and rammed it into the clogged barrel.

  A few minutes passed without incident. Finally, Clabe shrugged and lowered his gun. “Somebody’s dog probably got loose.”

  Frank belched loudly from the fire. Ephraim looked over and saw the man taking a long swig from a jug of whiskey.

  “What are you doin’, fool?” Clabe strode over and knocked the jug from Frank’s hand with the butt of his rifle. The remaining liquor spilled into the fire, causing it to flare higher.

  Jake swore.

  “I had to drink somethin’ for this headache,” Frank said. He stared glumly at the jug among the ashes. “You can take that one out of my share of the sale.”

  “That one, and the one you broke earlier,” Clabe said. “It was drinkin’ what caused your headache in the first place! It’s a fool notion to think it’ll fix it!”

  Frank shrugged.

  Ephraim felt amused in spite of his throbbing skull and hand. But as he looked out across the Hurricane Timber, his heart slammed into his ribs. A hulking shadow crouched on a log just yards from the oak.

  Without pausing to alert the others, Ephraim raised the rifle to his cheek, his broken thumb jutting off the side like a bizarre sighting mechanism, and squeezed off a round. The rifle barked in his hands. On the log, the shadow tightened and sprang forward, emitting a short howl that decayed into a rattling snarl.

  Clabe and Jake snapped off shots at the beast as it drew close. The creature kept coming, making straight for Ephraim, gaining speed. Ephraim glimpsed luminous red eyes and slavering jaws.

  Ephraim’s fear of the beast vanished with a sudden realization. This is my chance to escape.

  Dropping the rifle, he launched himself into the air a split second before the beast reached him. He caught a low-hanging bough, crying out as he jarred his broken thumb, swung forward, and propelled himself in an arc that took him over the creature’s back. He landed behind it in a crouch, right hand clutched to his belly, left hand on the ground for stability. Bits of rock cut into his palm. Without pausing, he raced out into the darkness, darting through the wasteland of fallen timber. Behind him, he heard shouts. At least two of the others were running, too.

  He leaped onto a tall boulder, scrabbled his way to the top, then looked behind him. The moon shone through a gap in the clouds, revealing Frank, standing with his back to the tree trunk, sweeping a branch back and forth in front of the dark beast. Clabe and Jake were nowhere to be seen.

  “I ain’t got my gun! Somebody help!” Frank bellowed like a lost calf.

  The beast growled and flung itself onto Frank, knocking the branch from his hand. It planted its paws on Frank’s chest, pinning him against the oak, then took the tender part of his neck in its jaws, and shook savagely.

  Frank let loose a gurgling scream.

  The creature dragged him to the ground, thrashing its head back and forth. Frank’s body whipped from side to side like a windblown rag. The beast twisted and released Frank, sending his lifeless form tumbling. It landed with a whump and lay still.

  A violent shudder chattered down Ephraim’s spine.

  The beast turned toward the boulder where Ephraim stood, its eyes glowing in the night. It lowered its muzzle to the ground and huffed about.

  Ephraim had seen coyotes and the occasional wolf, but this wasn’t either. The canine had tattered, hanging ears and mournful jowls. Ribs and the craggy knobs of its spine jutted from its patchy hide like poles beneath a sagging tent. It was a bear hound on the wrong side of death’s door. But unlike any hound Ephraim had ever seen, this beast had oversized red eyes. Black drool strung from its jaws, almost touching the ground. And despite its ragged appearance, the hound moved with the confidence of a master predator.

  It’s a huntin’ dog, Ephraim thought. It’s lookin’ for a trail. Blood thundered in his head.

  A scuffling came from below him, and he looked down.

  Clabe was perched on top of a fallen tree, standing just above the fog. He took aim with his rifle as the creature bounded toward him. The dog-thing bunched up its rear legs and sprang, flying toward Clabe at chest level. Clabe waited until its bulk almost touched the end of his rifle barrel before squeezing the trigger. The gun discharged with a clapping report.

  The creature collided with Clabe in a fury of snapping jaws. They tumbled backward off the log, disappearing beneath the carpet of white. The rifle pinwheeled into the darkness.

  Clabe yelled and emerged from the f
og, running for his life. To Ephraim’s surprise, the hound emerged from the fog as well, loping after him.

  How did it survive the bullet at that range? Nothing about this creature was natural.

  The hound stopped suddenly, raised its nose, and tasted the air. It turned slowly… and sighted Ephraim.

  Ephraim wanted to yell, but terror had sewn his lips shut.

  The hound bared its fangs and started toward Ephraim.

  Ephraim stepped backward.

  The hound’s body tensed to spring.

  Ephraim threw himself off the boulder and ran upslope. He heard the beast gaining on him and risked a glance back over his shoulder. The Hurricane Timber was tough going, but the hound was bounding through it like it was born and bred for this terrain.

  A jagged stump rose out of the darkness in front of Ephraim. He dodged it—and nearly fell down a steep slope on the other side. He had come to the edge of the clear-cut, to the mountain stream. He sprinted down the slope into its shallow waters.

  Half stumbling, half crawling through the smooth stones of the creek bed, he made for the far bank. He heard the panting of the hound behind him. He pulled himself out of the water. The slope on the other side of the stream was too steep to climb. He had no choice but to run alongside the stream, following the trench it had cut through the earth.

  The hound did not cross the stream, but it kept pace with him on the opposite bank. Was it unwilling to cross the water?

  Suddenly it gave a low growl and darted ahead, disappearing around a bend.

  Ephraim slowed to a walk. When he reached the bend, he came to a stop, searching for any movement in the darkness on the far bank. The creature was nowhere in sight.

  A wind-felled tree bridged the stream up ahead. Ephraim froze. Had the beast come across?

  He bent down and picked a rock out of the streambed with his left hand. The wet stone chilled his fingers.

  Leaves rustled behind him. Ephraim spun around.

  The hound was crouched not five yards away, teeth bared.

  Ephraim hurled the rock into the beast’s face. It connected with a thunk, and as the hound blinked and snarled, Ephraim threw himself into the water.