Seven Days to Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  Here was a fairly straight and narrow stretch where the river narrowed to the width of a stone’s throw. The narrowing made the water run still faster.

  This crossing lay below, in the middle ground. A small sturdy dock marked this side of the landing. A high-sided wooden flatboat barge was moored here at the near end, the south bank.

  A length of thick rope cable hawser was strung from one side of the river to the other, hung from a set of twin posts at either end. The rope was strung in a continuous loop. It dipped low, sagging at the midpoint so it hung close to the water.

  “We’re in luck,” Johnny Cross said, “the ferry’s still running. Looks like it’s under new management.”

  A couple of figures were grouped at the landing. They took notice of the newcomers, turning to face them.

  Johnny rested one hand on top of the saddle horn and the other hand atop the first. He turned his yellow-clay masked face toward Bill.

  “A word before we go down to the crossing,” he said. “You got a quick temper and a gun to match, and I don’t fault you on that score. Lord knows I’m not the one to go pointing fingers. But it might not be a bad idea to walk soft for a while until we get the lay of the land. Our mission is to break Cullen out of jail. Let’s not get sidetracked.”

  “Anything you say, Johnny. You’re running this shindig.”

  “Let’s ride in.”

  They started forward. The trail followed a slight downward slope toward the landing.

  “See those two docks, one at each landing? The towers on both banks? The barge? We made that, Cullen and I,” Bill Longley said, prideful.

  “You done good, they’re still standing,” Johnny said.

  “Yes, and to think they’ve been stolen outright by a pack of no-accounts!” The edge in Bill’s voice was as distinctive as the warning buzz of a rattlesnake.

  “Hold on before you fly off the handle. Folks have got to make a living. Could be the new bargemen saw something that looked good and made the most of it. Can’t blame them for that. Land’s lying fallow . . . some man’s gonna sew a crop there,” Johnny said.

  “It makes me mad, that’s all!”

  “Hell, what doesn’t?”

  “Not much,” Bill confessed with a halfway grin. “You sure have changed, Johnny.”

  “How so?”

  “Time was you’d shoot a man for looking wrong at you. Now . . .”

  “You can’t fight the world, I learned. Now I try to pick my fights.”

  “Getting pardoned might have had something to do with that,” Bill said.

  “Could be,” Johnny said, face clouding.

  “Hey—hope I didn’t say anything out of line; I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Let it go. Who knows if that pardon’ll be any good once we’re done here?”

  “Sorry, I know you put everything on the line to help Cullen.”

  “So did you.”

  The conversation had gone where Johnny didn’t want. Thinking about consequences would only jam up his natural moves, and that could be fatal in a game like this.

  He and Bill rode down the mild slope to level ground, closing on the landing. They could smell it.

  “The new proprietors ain’t too keen about cleaning up after the horse droppings and what all,” Johnny said.

  “It’s a damned pigsty!” Bill was indignant. “They’ve let it go to rot and ruin.”

  “What do you care? We’re just passing through, remember? What we want is to get to the other side so we can do what we came here for.”

  “Right, Johnny, right. I’m okay now. But to see something you helped build with your own hands not only stolen but run down into the ground—it makes me see red.”

  The figures at the landing—they numbered five—were lazing around under a shade tree. Two of them rose and went to the trail and stood facing Johnny and Bill, watching them come on.

  Of the three remaining under the tree, two of them were passing a brown jug back and forth. A third sat off by himself, leaning against the tree trunk. He looked like a hogshead barrel fitted with a head and limbs. He stared at the sky, dull eyed.

  “I know them,” Bill said in a low voice. “The Clewtes brothers.” Klootz, he pronounced it. “Purley’s the younger one with the long greasy hair, Reese’s the older meaner-looking one. Back shooters the both of them.”

  “They know you?” Johnny asked.

  Bill nodded. “They’ll think I’m long gone, if they think of me at all. They’ll not be looking for Bill Longley, they’ve got no reason to. And with this yellow clay smearing my face—I should pass muster.”

  “We’ll find out,” Johnny said. “Too late to turn back now, not that I’m of a mind to. Let me do the talking. You stay in the background so they don’t get too good a look at you.”

  Bill pulled his hat brim down so it partly covered his face. He and Johnny reined in, halting.

  The Clewtes brothers exchanged glances, then started forward to palaver with the newcomers. Purley’s smile was as oily as his hair, which fell in curly black ringlets past his bony shoulders.

  Reese had a big outthrust jaw and small round eyes set too close together. “Howdy, gents,” he said.

  “’Morning to you,” Johnny said.

  “Fixing on making the crossing?”

  “How much?”

  “Two bits. Each.”

  Bill snorted, outraged.

  “Something wrong with your pard there?” Reese peered at Bill, trying to get a better look at him.

  “Your prices, maybe. Two bits a throw seems awful hard,” Johnny said.

  “So’s riding,” Reese Clewtes said, laughing humorlessly. “Take you till nightfall to get to Clinchfield by land. That’s where you’re going, ain’t it? Clinchfield?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions. You a bargeman or a lawman?” Johnny said.

  “Lawman! That’s a good one!” Purley Clewtes guffawed, a real jackass braying. “Imagine taking you for a lawman, Reese!”

  Reese smiled tightly. “No more lawman than you, stranger.”

  “Reckon we’ll get along then,” Johnny said.

  “We will if’n you got four bits to cross over with,” Reese said.

  “I’m studying on it.”

  Purley cupped a hand to his mouth, calling to the two passing the jug around. “Rafey, Guy! Here’s a good one: this yere pilgrim just asked if Brother Reese is a lawman!”

  Rafey and Guy were in their early twenties. Rafey was short, his dark curly hair thinning on top. Guy had black hair combed in a pompadour, thick straight brows, dark eyes.

  “Reese a lawman? That’s a caution,” Rafey said, not laughing or cracking a smile.

  Guy didn’t say anything; he was busy drinking. Rafey reached out, trying to wrest the jug from the other. Guy turned away from him, putting the jug out of Rafey’s reach, fending him off with a straight-arm.

  The big man under the tree kept on staring at a blank patch of sky.

  “Four bits for two seems a mite steep. How about giving us a play on a double rate?” Johnny asked.

  Reese Clewtes’s rheumy chuckle bubbled in his lungs. “Knock down on the price? You’re lucky we ain’t charging extra for the horses. No dickering, we got to make our Combine tax.”

  “Combine tax? What’s that?” Johnny said, playing dumb.

  “Hear that, Reese? He wants to know about the Combine tax!” Purley Clewtes slapped his knee over that one, he thought it was so funny, or else made out like he did.

  “Combine’s the outfit that runs the river, mister,” Reese said. “Everyone on the Blacksnake pays a Combine tax. Storekeep pays to keep his store open, fisherman pays to fish, farmer pays to farm . . .”

  “Sporting gal’s got to pay if she wants to turn up her legs and ply her trade,” Purley chimed in.

  “All must pay,” Reese said, “that is, if’n they want to stay healthy.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Johnny remarked.

  “It ain’t cheap,
” Reese agreed. “There’s money to be made here, though, if’n you know how.”

  “How?”

  “Hire on with Barbaroux.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You never heard of Barbaroux? Man, you must have come from a long way off!” Purley marveled.

  “A fair piece,” Johnny said noncommittally.

  “On the dodge, are you?”

  “That’s a hell of a question.”

  “That’s a hell of an answer,” Purley cracked. “Tells me all I need to know.”

  “Barbaroux runs the Blacksnake and everything on it,” Reese said.

  “That’s who he is, that’s all,” Purley seconded.

  “I hear tell Barbaroux’s allus’ looking for fast guns. You any good with those?” Reese said, indicating Johnny’s twin-holstered guns.

  “Reckon I can hit a barn door if I’m standing close enough to it,” Johnny said.

  “Don’t crack too much, do you, mister? Well, that’s fine. Your business is your business,” Reese said.

  “And I ain’t paid no Combine tax on it, either,” Johnny said.

  “You just got here,” Purley pointed out.

  “My business is running this here ferry,” Reese began.

  “And mine, Brother,” Purley said quickly.

  “I said my piece and named my price. Take it or leave it . . . your choice. Ferry across or ride on, it’s all the same to me,” Reese said. “I got bigger fish to fry than to stand around jawing with you. I want to get some of that whiskey before it’s all gone.”

  “Too late! I drank it all!” Guy shouted, then started giggling.

  “You sure did, you blamed hawg,” Rafey accused, angry and red faced.

  Guy giggled all the louder.

  “We’ll barge,” Johnny said.

  “Well, good! Climb down from them horses and we’ll take you across the river,” Reese Clewtes said.

  Johnny and Bill dismounted, the latter keeping his horse between himself and the Clewtes to further hamper their getting a good look at him.

  “Long as you got the fare, that is,” Reese added, holding out a hand palm up.

  Johnny fished some coins out of a pocket in his jeans and let them trickle from his fist into Reese’s hand, which closed around them like a trap being sprung.

  “Done!” Reese cried, making the money disappear.

  “Your pard don’t say much,” Purley said.

  “Cat got his tongue once and he never got it back,” Johnny said lightly. “’Course, it’s only the fish with the open mouth that gets hooked.”

  “Where does that leave you, talking for two?” Reese needled.

  “Me? I’m the sociable type,” Johnny said blandly.

  “You look familiar—we ever meet before?” Purley said, squinting at Bill.

  Bill shook his head no.

  “He don’t get around much. Simple,” Johnny said, significantly tapping the side of his head.

  “We got one of them, too, and damned if’n we don’t’ need to put him to work,” Reese said. He called out to the big man sitting under the tree. “Stubb, Stubb! Haul ass over here, you big dumb ox!”

  Stubb kept on staring at the sky, as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Stubb!”

  “I’ll git him,” Purley said. He hurried over to the tree and began kicking Stubb, saying, “Up, you blamed idjit, up!”

  Stubb rose to his feet. Purley took him by the arm and hustled him down to the waterside.

  Stubb was built like a fireplug, short, squat, and solid. A head shaped like a cinder block was set atop a massive upper body, itself supported by stunted bandy legs and gunboat-sized feet. His muddy eyes looked like two shards of brown glass and held about as much understanding.

  Rafey and Guy got up and ambled over to the riverside.

  The barge was a rectangle-shaped raft, its deck of plank boards nailed down to thick logs that supplied the buoyancy. A chest-high board rail fence enclosed the sides. It wallowed low in the water, wide enough for two horses to stand abreast.

  A hinged gate and upraised loading ramp stood at both short ends, fore and aft. Reese Clewtes opened the gate at the near end and lowered the boarding ramp so it connected with the embankment.

  Stubb hopped on board the raft, sending it shuddering under his weight. The horses were boarded with some effort; they didn’t like the closed confines, the unsteady footing. Johnny and Bill and the Clewtes brothers came on board.

  The barge wallowed low in the water.

  “Sure we’ll make it?” Johnny Cross asked.

  “Never lost one yet,” Reese said. “Of course, there’s always a first time. Don’t fall off, that current will suck a man right straight down to the bottom no matter how strong a swimmer he is.”

  “We’ll chance it if you will,” Johnny said.

  The crossing cable was strung across the river on two towers, one on each side. Each tower had a wagon wheel mounted vertically on it. Metal wheel rims had built up edges circling them to provide a groove for the cable to nest in. The cable hawser was fastened to both tower wheels in a continuous loop, like a giant clothesline.

  Stubb took up a place at the barge’s forward end. Purley Clewtes raised the shore-side loading ramp and closed the loading gate, securing them. He and Brother Reese stood at the aft end.

  Rafey and Guy remained on shore, watching.

  “Here we go! Hold on to your horses,” Reese shouted.

  The Torrent’s waters, swift and murky, tore at the barge trying to rip it downstream and would have done so if not for the tow rope and a second, anchor rope tethered to the upstream side float and spanning the river.

  Even so the barge bulged out downstream, straining at the traces.

  The Clewtes brothers stood at the shore end wielding long poles to push off from the bank. Mighty Stubb took hold of the towrope with oversized pawlike hands, their insides rough as pine bark.

  “Heave, heave!” Reese shouted.

  Stubb hauled away at the towrope, the brothers poling. The barge creaked slowly away from shore, the Clewtes setting the poles down on the barge deck.

  Once the boat was under way Reese and Purley took up posts on the upstream side rail to haul away at the towrope along with Stubb.

  Johnny and Bill stood on the downstream side for balance, holding the reins of their horses, the animals standing between them and the bargemen.

  Stubb did the lion’s share of the work, hauling away, encouraged by Purley slapping and thumping him.

  “Put your back into it, Stubb, damn yeh! Break your back on it, yeh lazy ox!” Purley shouted.

  Reese contrived to bump against one of the heavily laden saddlebags slung down the flanks of Johnny’s horse. “Them bags sure are heavy, mister—what you got in them?”

  “Rocks—for ballast,” Johnny deadpanned.

  “Ha ha! Like I said, Brother Purley, this one don’t crack too much!”

  There was a steady creak, squeak, and thrum of the cable sliding along the tower wheels. Progress was slow, the barge inching across the water, moving by fits, starts, and jerks into the mainstream.

  The process kicked up a lot of spray. Some splashed on Bill’s face, washing away much of the yellow clay covering it, a fact of which Bill was unaware.

  Purley glanced at Bill, then froze, staring him in the face. “Lawd almighty, Br’er Reese! As I live and breathe, it’s Bill Longley!”

  “You don’t say,” Reese remarked too casually.

  “Bill Longley! I thought they run your ass clean out of the county!” Purley shouted.

  “Life sure is funny,” Bill said.

  “Sure is,” Purley said. He reached for a knife and Reese reached for a gun.

  Johnny Cross snaked out his gun, beating Reese to the draw. He opened up on the other. This was gunfighting at its most raw, standing face to face with the opponent, blasting away at point-blank range.

  Johnny squeezed a couple of shots in Reese’s middle.

  “Oww! You�
�ve killed me, mister!” Reese Clewtes folded up, hands to his sundered belly, gun falling to the deck. He rocked backward hard against the board side rail. Boards cracked, splintering.

  The horses danced in place, rocking the barge. Purley Clewtes came up behind Johnny, knife held upraised to strike.

  Bill Longley shot Purley. Purley cursed, backpedalling, knife still held high. Bill shot him again, this time in the head.

  Purley turned, falling against the downstream rail fence.

  Stubb loomed toward Bill, massive arms outspread, oversized hands reaching. His expression was totally blank, an unintended poker face. No light showed in his dull brown eyes, inexpressive as wet pebbles.

  Stubb tried to wrap a crushing bear hug on Bill, one that would have crushed his ribs and snapped his spine.

  Bill sat down hard, dropping below and clear of Stubb’s arms before they could close around him. The planks were wet with an inch of water, soaking the seat of his pants.

  Stubb’s arms snapped shut on empty air. Bill reached up, jamming his pistol barrel hard against Stubb’s belly, pumping slug after slug into him.

  Muzzle flares caused Stubb’s shirt to burst into flame, charred, blackening. Sizzling black scorch marks ringing the bullet holes’ entrance wound.

  A big man like Stubb took no little amount of killing.

  Stubb staggered back, walking on his heels. His expression was as blank as ever, save that his wide mouth gaped open, loose and yawning.

  He wasn’t moving fast but he had plenty of weight and heft working for him. He hit the forward railed gate, breaking the catch. The gate swung open, causing Stubb to fall backward into the water.

  The swift rushing current whipped the body away like a shot, sending it hurtling downstream, pulling it underwater and out of sight.

  “Lord!” Bill cried, somewhat unnerved by his narrow escape.

  On the riverbank Rafey and Guy had their guns out and working, firing at Johnny. Bill was out of sight where he sat on the deck, shielded by side rails and gate. Bill had to do some fast scrambling to dodge the horses’ hooves.

  Johnny held a gun in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other, fighting to control it. The forward gate was busted open, swinging back and forth on its hinges, banging against the raft.