Guns of Seneca 6 Box Set Collected Saga (Chambers 1-4)

by Bernard Schaffer

  Chapter 2: Sand Inside

  Whiskey Pete Phillips had a busted lip and a swollen eye, but he could see the woman come out of Sheriff Sam Clayton’s house just fine. He sunk down into the tall wheat grass and watched her carry a little girl down the steps, heading for the road. The child was bawling, loud enough to make the valley echo.

  Betsy Clayton patted her young daughter on the back and told her everything was going to be okay. The little girl’s body was unbearably hot, like she had stuffed her clothes with scalding coals and she responded by shrieking into Betsy’s ear. The Halladay’s house was only a few hundred yards away and even if Royce wasn’t home, surely his wife would know what to do. At the very least, Katey Halladay could stick Claire in a cold bath while Betsy ran into town to fetch her husband.

  Betsy heard a branch snap in the distance and turned to see a ruggedly-built, ugly looking man coming toward her. Claire kept screaming.

  Betsy glanced back at the man and quickened her pace. Phillips smiled cruelly at her. Black gums and teeth caked with sweetweed. "Where you goin’ in such a hurry?" he called out.

  Claire grabbed handfuls of Betsy’s blonde hair and stuck wet fingers into her face, blocking her line of sight. Betsy yanked her head away looking for something to help her, anything, but there was nothing except tall reeds and the looming mountains. The Halladay house was a small speck on the horizon, lined by an unkempt white fence and dead grass. It looked like no one was even home. "Katey!" Betsy shouted. "Katey Halladay!"

  No answer.

  The wind carried the man’s stench, something like sour whiskey mash and flop sweat. "I come to talk to you about your husband," Phillips said.

  "Doc!" Betsy cried. "Listen, I got a sick baby and don't have time to discuss anything right now." The baby cried loud enough to make Betsy’s eyes flutter and she could hear the man’s footsteps getting closer, his labored breathing was close enough that it was like he was hissing in her ear.

  "Put that kid down so you and me can parlay a bit, woman."

  "Leave us alone!" Betsy hollered. Her guts were torn inside, still not fully healed from delivering Claire so many months ago. It killed her to run.

  Phillips finally grabbed her by the back of the collar and said, "Put that little squaller down before I swat her."

  Betsy’s legs went rigid. She could not breathe. Could not blink. Her mind barely registered what was happening. She looked down at the grass around her and saw a flat, dry space. That’s where Claire will have to lay, she thought. And that’s where I will be raped and murdered. She said the only thing that came to mind, only able to force the words out in a whisper. "My husband," was all she could say.

  "Oh yeah. We gon' talk all about him," Phillips said. "Put her down."

  Betsy’s legs wobbled as she bent down to lay Claire in the grass. She smoothed down the grass with her hand as the child screamed and tried to cling to her. "It’s okay, sweetie," Betsy mumbled again and again. No it isn’t, she thought.

  She looked up again at the Halladay’s front porch. Close enough to make out the details of the modest home. Too far away to try running for. Betsy swallowed and glared back at the man, "Don’t you even think about laying a finger on this baby. I will claw out your eyes."

  "What I do and don’t do is up to me," Phillips said. "But you certainly can influence the situation."

  He smiled at her and reached for the belt around his waist, pausing at the sound of something moving through the reeds nearby. A child's voice called out, "Mama? Where you at? Is that Claire screaming?"

  Betsy’s eyes widened and she shot to her feet, "Jem!"

  The boy came through the grass, caked with mud, carrying a rusted chain with two fish dangling from it. He looked at his mother in confusion and then back at Whiskey Pete Phillips. "Hello, mister," Jem said.

  Phillips glared at him, then pointed at Betsy, "Give the baby to this one and send him home."

  Jem looked back at his mother, "What’s going on?"

  Betsy’s hands were shaking uncontrollably as she picked Claire up from the ground. "Take her to Miss Katey. Run!"

  His mother’s eyes were wide enough to show him the white edges surrounding them on all sides. Jem stepped away from her and turned to the man, "Who are you, mister?"

  Pete Phillips lurched forward and grabbed Betsy by the arm, "I’m getting tired of repeating myself, goddamn it. Give the brat to this little son of a bitch, or I’m going to show him a few things he ain’t likely never to forget."

  Jem thrust his hand into his pants pocket and fumbled inside of it. He found the wooden handle of his small folding knife and yanked it free, flicking the tiny blade open with his fingers and cried out, "You get the hell away from us or I’ll cut your guts out!"

  Whiskey Pete looked down at the boy and snorted with laughter. "You little piece of shit." He whirled around and clapped Jem across the side of the head with his open palm, sending the boy sprawling into the stalks of grass. Jem’s knife flew into the dirt and Pete chased after him, kicking the boy so hard in the ribs he lifted six inches off the ground.

  Jem scrambled to wrap his arms around the man’s leg with his arm and clutched it to his chest, hollering, "Run, mama! Run!"

  Phillips cursed in disbelief and lifted his other foot over the boy’s head, about to stomp it with his heavy boot when the woman behind him shouted. He saw the flicker of steel in the sunlight right before she cut him.

  The small fishing knife dripped blood on the dirt as Phillips staggered back and grabbed his face with both hands. She’d cut him right down the middle, opening him up from the top of his nose to his upper lip. He gasped and cursed at her as she circled around, still holding the knife in her hand. Betsy Clayton picked Jem off the ground and said, "Get your baby sister!"

  Jem grimaced and wheezed as he limped over to Claire and picked her up.

  Phillips looked down at his hands and saw fresh blood and roared, "You bitch!" He lumbered forward at her like an animal when the front door of the Halladay house burst open.

  "The hell?" Katey Halladay shouted. "Is that you, Betsy?"

  Whiskey Pete Phillips pointed at Betsy and said, "I’m coming back for you. I’m gonna do things to you and those kids you can’t believe. I’m gonna make him watch it all. I’m gonna make him help me do it."

  Katey Halladay hurried down the steps toward them, waving an iron cooking pot over her head and shouting, "Get the hell off my property! Shoo! Git!"

  Phillips turned from them and sprinted, vanishing into the tall grass. Jem handed his mother his bawling sister and collapsed to the ground.

  "I checked his lungs. It appears nothing internal was damaged, Sam. He’ll be quite sore for a few weeks to come, I expect."

  "Nothing’s broken?"

  "Not that I can surmise. When he awakes, I’ll perform a more proper inspection. I may ask you to hold the boy down, however, considering his tendency to bite."

  "I promise, no biting, Doc. I’m going to check on him." Sam Clayton took off his hat as he entered the Halladay’s bedroom.

  Jem looked up at his father and said, "Did you find him?"

  "You’re supposed to be sleeping," Sam said.

  "Who was he?"

  Sam wiped his hand over his face and shook his head. "Boy, you got some kind of sand inside of you, you know that? That much is for certain. How the hell did you…" Sam’s voice trailed off as he looked down at his son. Something changed his mind about whatever he was about to say. He cleared his throat, "I don’t know who he was yet. Tom Masters is bringing over descriptions of every single person I’ve ever arrested. Tilt Junger is heading up the posse to round up every vagrant in the settlement."

  "Where’s Claire? She was burning up when I picked her up."

  "She’s fine," Sam said. He put his hand on the boy’s forehead and cleared the hair out of his face. "Doc gave her some medicine and her fever’s gone. It was just an ear infection, he said. She’s all right."

  "All right." He laid back d
own and stared up at the ceiling. "That’s good. He said he was coming back," Jem said. "He said he was coming back for all of us and gonna make me watch him do things."

  "You better believe none of that is true," Sam said. "As sure as I’m standing here, that is never gonna happen."

  "It almost did," Jem said. "You weren’t here."

  Sam raised his voice, "You think I don’t know that?"

  "That’s not what I meant," Jem said. "I mean it almost happened because you weren’t here, but I was. I figured it was up to me. But Mama is the one who saved us."

  "Yeah, well. She’s got sand inside of her too."

  Frank Miller jerked awake at first light. He grumbled that he was going to be late and grabbed onto the headboard with both hands to pull himself upright.

  Claire rolled over and lifted her head, squinting at him in the darkness. "What’s wrong?"

  "It’s almost dawn," Frank said. He grabbed the armrest of his wheelchair and dragged the thing sideways toward the bed, wheels squeaking against the wood floor.

  Claire sighed and laid back down. "He don’t need you out there every morning, you know. He just rides past to check on things."

  Frank reached for the wheelchair and steadied himself on it, then swung himself off of the bed and into the seat. He wheeled the chair backwards and aimed it at the door. "Sheriff Sam died when I was eight years old, Claire. Every morning I’d see him on Pioneer Way when I was walking to school and I’d wave to him and he'd wave back."

  "All right," Claire sighed. "Well, I’m up now, so you might as well put on some coffee after his majesty rides out."

  "Okay," Frank said. He pushed the wheelchair into the living room and unlocked the front door, easing himself down the ramp that led to the front porch. In the distance, Frank could make out the figure of a rider coming to the front of the property. The rider stopped and looked down at house and gave a quick wave. Frank thrust his hand into the air and called out, "Careful today, Sheriff!" The rider turned around and headed out of view. Claire Miller was standing at the door behind him when Frank wheeled himself around, chuckling as he said, "There he goes. A genuine law man. Just like the good old days."

  Claire looked out at the field and grunted, "Listen to you. What the hell makes you think the old days were any good?"

  Chapter 3: The Original People of Seneca

  Willard Davis peered through the shuttle’s portal window and said, "We’re almost down! Quickly, children. Into the circle."

  The dozen men and women unbuckled themselves from their seats and sat in the shuttle’s center and joined hands. They smiled at one another. Young and innocent Ruth Pettigrew’s eyes filled with tears. "Thank you heavenly spirit for bringing us to this sacred place. We ask for your blessing as we embark on our greatest endeavor in your name."

  "Amen," the group said.

  The shuttle landed abruptly, bouncing the group on the hard metal floor as great puffs of dust and smoke rose over the shuttle’s windows. The captain’s cabin door opened and he looked at his passengers, "What the hell are you all doing out of your seats?"

  Willard got to his feet and brushed himself off. He thrust his hand at the captain and said, "Blessings upon you, brother. May the Great Spirit always guide your journey."

  The captain eyed him warily and said, "I’ll pop the back hatch so you can get your things."

  Willard smiled gently at him and said, "We have no possessions, my friend. We need only what we carry in our hearts."

  Willard stepped out of the shuttle and squinted in the harsh glare. The sun directly over Tradesville was a huge fiery circle with thousands of extended arms that reached out to engulf them. No, he thought. Not engulf. Only embrace. The Great Spirit is all. He said a silent prayer, thanking the sun for its heat and light that allowed the crops to grow and feed the blessed children of Seneca. The ones we seek, he thought. They never curse the heat.

  He reached for Ruth’s hand and squeezed it. She smiled at him. "You did it," she whispered.

  "I did nothing, my child. I am only the instrument the music is played through."

  They entered Tradesville’s main square, just a dirt lot surrounded by squat brick buildings advertising animal feed and farming implements. People milled in and out of the buildings, hauling wheelbarrows of goods from one place to the next. The men dabbed soaked handkerchiefs over their faces and the women ducked under awnings and umbrellas to escape the sun. Willard watched a bag of rice fall out of a farmer’s handcart and reached forward to pick it up for him. "Here you go, my friend."

  The farmer took the bag from him and threw it back on top of his cart. "Thanks." He picked up his handles and continued on, but the group hurried after him. "I ain’t got no money, so don’t ask."

  Willard smiled and said, "We are not looking for money. We only want to ask you where we can find the native people of this planet."

  "The what?"

  "Native people. The ones you call Beothuk."

  The farmer stopped wheeling his cart and looked at the young man in confusion. He frowned at Willard’s bleached blonde hair and the necklace of colored crystals around his neck. "You ain’t from around here, is you?"

  "No, my friend. We travelled from far away to come here."

  "Why in the hell did you wanna do something like that? To see the damn itjins?"

  Willard’s smile wavered and he said, "I respect that you want to call them that, but I would rather you didn’t do so in front of me, my friend."

  The farmer looked at the rest of the group, all of them smiling eagerly at him, all of them dripping with sincerity. "You all came here for that?"

  "Yes, sir," they said.

  "Can you show us the way to them?" Ruth said. She was the youngest of them. The prettiest. She batted her eyes at the farmer and looked up at him pleadingly.

  "Shoot, you can go see an itjin right now. Damn drunk is passed out in front of the saddler." The farmer spat on the ground and said, "No good goddamn waste of human flesh, that one. Whatever you do, don’t give him any money."

  Ruth’s eyes narrowed at the man’s hard words, but Willard nodded at her, reminding her to be patient and loving toward all. "Thank you, my friend," Willard said. "May the Great Spirit bless you and keep you."

  "Whatever you say," the farmer chuckled.

  Willard turned to his group and smiled, "And here I thought it would take us much longer to find one. Who can deny that the Great Spirit is guiding our hands?"

  All of them nodded thoughtfully and murmured prayers of thanks. "Now remember," Willard said, "Do not look him in the eyes. They take it as a challenge."

  They crossed through the dust toward the smell of tanned leather and rich, fragrant oils coming out of the barn. There was a man sitting in the dirt, so filthy and caked with grime that Willard almost overlooked him, thinking him part of the landscape. As they approached, Willard made out the man’s rust colored skin and long, braided hair.

  The man looked up at them with contempt and rattled his tin cup, making the two coins inside of it clang together.

  "Greetings, my brother," Willard said softly. He kept his eyes down at the ground as he spoke and glanced down to make sure the rest of the group did the same. He held his breath before he spoke, trying to control his excitement. "We are the Church of the Great Spirit and have come a long distance to be among you."

  The man rattled his cup again.

  "Are you the one they call Wally?"

  "No."

  Willard grinned. He understood the immediate distrust. He looked around at the way the white men went about their business, ignorant of the situation and felt nothing but scorn. "We are looking for the Beothuk. We have come to live among them and learn their ways of peace and harmony with nature." When Wally did not speak, Willard reached into his pocket and produced a handful of coins. He dropped the first coin in the cup and said, "If you take us to the nearest tribe, we will give you all of our money."

  "How much?"

  "Enough for a
room and a bath and enough hot meals to last a week, my friend."

  "Enough for whiskey?"

  "If that is what you choose, but I sincerely wish you’d—."

  "We go now."

  They travelled in a rented cart pulled by lazy burros that brayed and complained with every lick from Wally’s crop. The sun tumbled across the horizon as they rode, giving way to Seneca’s dual moons. The group looked up in wonder at the sky and Willard smiled and reached out to each of them, touching their hands to say, "Blessed are the faithful."

  "The faithful shall enter the kingdom," they responded.

  Ruth sat up in the cart and said, "Brother Wally, are you from the tribe you are taking us to?"

  "No."

  "May I ask which one you belong to?"

  "I am Motsai, but there are very few of us left. The Pwatsak overtook us when I was a child and scattered our people to the four winds."

  "How terrible," Ruth whispered.

  "Pwatsak? Is that what you call the white settlers who took your land?" Willard said. "We have heard terrible stories about their cruelty. All that we ask is that you do not judge us by their actions."

  Wally looked back at him but did not speak.

  A man perched high above them on a flat topped hill, held a rifle with feathers pinned to the barrel that rippled in the wind. Wally held up his hand but did not speak. The man on the hill walked over to the other side and whistled loudly.

  The whistle was repeated several times from unseen sentries, the sounds whizzing past them in the narrow canyon. Willard spun in his seat, seeing nothing but sheer rock faces on either side that swept upwards toward the sky. Jutting ledges overlooked their passage with boulders and tangles of spiny thorned sagebrush.

  Wally stopped the cart, looked around at the empty rocks, and called out something in a tangled, guttural tongue.

  There was no response.

  Wally turned around and waved his hand over the group in the wagon and said something else, pointing at Ruth and the other women sitting beside her.