“They’ll be expecting you to make a break for it,” I was able to wheeze.
Hannah’s features became etched with sadness. “I know. We all know. But we have to do it. There are enough of us that maybe we can shoot our way out.” She smiled and said in earnest, “Good luck to you.”
Partial darkness enfolded me. I was being lowered into their root cellar. I smelled dank earth. Near me hung a slab of jerked venison. To my left lay a sack of potatoes. A blanket was placed under me.
Hannah and Tyrel and Carson and Kip filed up the steps, but not Daisy. She sank down beside me and tenderly touched my cheek. “I don’t want to leave you, but Ma says it’s best. At least this way you have a slim chance of living.”
“Don’t go.” I was sincere, much to my amazement.
“I have to. They’re my family.” Daisy’s eyes were the loveliest eyes I ever gazed into. “Before I do, I’d like an answer out of you. An honest answer.”
“About what?”
“Are you a preacher or aren’t you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course I am.”
A smile lit Daisy’s face. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t lie to us. And your hideout gun?”
“I told you. I brought it to help protect you if I had to. It belonged to my pa.”
Daisy kissed my cheek. Not a peck, but a lingering kiss that was the best kiss of my life. Then she straightened and said hoarsely, “This ain’t fair. But don’t you worry. I’ll be back for you. No matter what. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said.
Hannah appeared in the opening. “Daisy! Come on! There’s so much smoke we can barely see. We have to leave. We have to do it now.”
“Coming, Ma.” Daisy smiled and caressed my chin. Turning, she bounded up the steps.
I opened my mouth to call out to her to be careful, but the trap door closed. Now all I could do was lie there as helpless as a newborn while the cabin burned down around me.
Presently I noticed gray wisps worming between the boards above me. The floor had enough chinks and cracks that a lot more smoke was bound to get in. Thin slivers of light penetrated too. I looked about but could not see much.
I was straining my ears, and I heard it. I heard the front door slam open and the shooting began. In my mind’s eye I saw the Butchers race out into the night, firing as they went. How many made it to the trees depended on whether Gerty had thought to bring cowboys from the sides and rear of the cabin to support those in front. Judging by the din, she had.
The shooting went on and on.
I drew my Remington. I wanted to rush out and help the Butchers. I rose on my elbows, but that was as far as I got. The root cellar turned topsyturvy and I passed out again.
When I came to the shooting was over. Smoke half filled the root cellar. I heard loud crackling and hissing and snapping. After a bit I thought I heard something else—laughter. Female laughter.
The cabin was in flames. Soon the floor would burn, right down on top of me. Hannah had meant well, but I would be roasted alive.
To my left, past the sack of potatoes, was an earth wall. Girding myself, I rolled onto my side. My head swam and I thought I would pass out again, but I didn’t. Levering my forearms, I inched toward the sack. A simple potato sack, yet crawling over it was like crawling over a mountain. It hurt. It hurt like nothing ever hurt my whole life long. I broke out in a sweat. My chest felt as if iron bands were wrapped tight, squeezing the life from me. But I made it. I crawled over the potatoes and lay spent and limp between the sack and the wall.
The crackling and hissing grew louder. A tremendous crash signaled the roof was collapsing.
Marshaling my energy, I gouged at the dirt with both hands. It was not as hard-packed as I feared. I dug as fast as I could, aware that the root cellar was now nearly full of smoke. I clawed and scooped and scooped and clawed and made steady headway.
Another crash spurred me to greater speed. Smoke seeped into my nose and mouth. I started to cough, but quickly smothered my mouth with my sleeve. If Gertrude and her cowboys were still out there, they might hear me
Taking short, shallow breaths, I continued to dig. My fingers ached and my chest was a welter of agony, but I did not stop. I could not stop. I scraped and gouged, scraped and gouged. Soon I had a niche almost as long as my body and a foot wide. It was not much, but it had to do.
Wedging myself in, I reached behind me, cupped the dirt I had dug, and covered my head and back as best I could until exhaustion caused me to collapse. I lay completely spent, scarcely able to breathe, as the crackling and hissing swelled to the roar of an inferno.
The heat was unbearable. I felt like I was being fried alive. Sweat poured from me in great drops, soaking me, drenching my clothes. I swore I was giving off steam. Just when I could not take it anymore and was about to scream in torment, the roar began to fade. I was hot, ungodly hot, but I did not grow any hotter.
I lapsed in and out of consciousness until after a while I opened my eyes and the roar was gone. But not the hissing. And not the acrid odor of burned wood and burned other things.
I stayed where I was. It would take hours for the wreckage to cool enough for me to make my way out of the root cellar. As weak as I was, I was content to stay put, and to marvel at my deliverance.
But I was putting the cart before the horse. Suddenly I heard the clomp of feet, and the person I hated most in this world barked orders.
“Look everywhere! He has to be here. There won’t be much left, but I want to see what there is with my own eyes.”
“Why go to all this bother over a Bible thumper?” a cowboy responded. “We know he didn’t get out.”
“It’s too hot,” another said. “We’ll burn ourselves.”
“Do as I tell you!” Gertrude commanded. “It’s important I find him. Chester, you poke around in that corner. Brewer, over by the stove. Sutton, you take the root cellar.”
Boots clomped closer. “What a mess,” the man who had to be Sutton said. “My pants will be so black they’ll need washing.”
Farther off a puncher remarked, “Folks won’t take kindly to a man of the cloth being killed.”
“They’ll string us up for sure if they find out,” said another.
Gertrude did not appreciate their comments. “Hush up, both of you. There’s not a shred of evidence to link us to this. Quite the contrary. The arrow we’ll leave will point the blame at hostiles.”
“Isn’t that a Kiowa arrow, ma’am?” Chester asked.
“Yes, it is,” Gertrude confirmed.
“Where did you get it, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“We can thank my late departed husband. His cousin gave it to him. We’ll leave it where it’s bound to be found. Seton will add the icing to the cake, as the saying goes.”
Laughs and snickers greeted that tidbit. I wondered why. And why the name Seton was vaguely familiar.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, ma’am. You’ve thought of everything.”
“I always do,” Gertrude stated matter-of-factly. “I’ve had a lot of practice. My husband was next to worthless when it came to making decisions. I made the LT what it is today, not him.”
The cowboys did not say anything.
“Lloyd was lily-livered. Remember those nesters we drove off back in seventy-seven? I gave the order, not him. And those rustlers we hung? Lloyd would have turned them over to the law. But not me. I believe in handling my own problems. Like these wretches we’ve just exterminated.”
“Their rustling days are over,” a cowboy remarked, and again all of them laughed.
“Yes. The cows,” Gertrude said.
I was so intent on what they were saying that I had forgotten about Sutton, but I was reminded of him when I heard him cough. He was close, very close, and I tensed, thinking he would find me and call out to the others. But much to my amazement, he didn’t. Instead, Gertrude called down to him.
“Anything down there?”
&
nbsp; “No, ma’am. A lot of burned boards and burned food, but that’s all.”
“Come on up, then. Powell, give him a hand.” Gertrude paused. “I don’t understand it. Where can the body be?”
“Maybe the reason we can’t find it is because there’s nothing left of him,” someone suggested.
“No, there is always something,” Gertrude informed them. “Bones. Teeth. Remains of some kind.”
She was right. I once had occasion to burn out a squatter, and when I sifted through the ruin, I found a thigh bone and the brittle bones of one hand and his teeth. Oh. And his glass eye.
“We can search all night if you want, Mrs. Tanner,” a cowpoke said. “But that fire could be seen from a long ways off. We might have visitors.”
“Unfortunately, we just might,” Gertrude conceded. “To our horses, then, gentlemen. We will avoid Whiskey Flats and return to the LT with no one the wiser. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll ride into town and be suitably shocked when I hear about the massacre.”
Approximately ten minutes later the thud of hooves filled me with relief. It was short-lived. I started to twist but couldn’t move. Not through any fault of mine. I was pinned.
Now I understood why Sutton had not found me.
The floor had caved in, and I was buried under it.
Chapter 15
I twisted my neck around to take stock and nearly gouged an eye out on a thin spine of charred wood that had once been a floorboard. I discovered I had been wrong. Only part of the floor had caved in, a wedge-shaped section that had collapsed within an inch of my cranny and within an inch of crushing my skull like an eggshell.
Gathering my strength, I rolled over on my other side. It was a tight squeeze, but by worming my body a bit deeper into the niche, I succeeded. I placed both hands against the still very warm boards, and pushed. They would not budge. Panic gripped me at the thought I might be trapped. To die of hunger and thirst had always struck me as a horrible way to cash in one’s chips. I would much rather go quick, with a bullet or a blade to a vital organ.
A crossbeam held the section of floor together, but the crossbeam was loose; I could see it jounce and shake when I pushed.
I tried a different board. It and two others next to it were the most badly burned. Sheer joy coursed through me as, creaking loudly, it gave way. Not a lot, maybe a foot or so, but it was enough that when I pushed the other two boards, I created a gap wide enough for me to wriggle through.
The effort cost me, though. I lay still and spent, caked with sweat. My chest did not hurt, which surprised me. I wanted to examine the wound, but it would have to wait. Presently I felt strong enough to sit up. I gazed at where the steps had been only to find them gone. They had been burned to ashes. Again panic stabbed through me. I could not possibly jump high enough to hook my elbows over the edge and pull myself out. Then I noticed a smoldering mound that had once been stockpiled provisions.
Bracing myself against the fallen wedge of floor, I slowly stood. It took everything I had. I leaned against the blackened boards until I could shuffle to the mound and gingerly lift my foot. It was spongy but solid enough to support me. With my hands on the dirt wall, I rose high enough to poke my head and shoulders out of the root cellar.
A cool breeze fanned my face, a breeze so wonderfully welcome and refreshing that I was content to stand there and do nothing but breathe deeply for a while. Stars speckled the firmament, and by the position of the Big Dipper I figured it had to be close to two in the morning. Were it not for the east wall of the cabin, which was still burning, I would be in total darkness.
It was strange. Fires are fickle beasts. The roof was gone, the west and north walls had been burned to the ground, yet most of the east wall and part of the south wall were largely intact. Parts of the floor had been burned through; other parts were barely scorched.
I had to get out of that hole. I extended my arms over the edge as far as they would go and attempted to lever myself out, but the instant I put my weight on my chest, agony racked me. I nearly blacked out.
It was some time before I could focus my thoughts. Obviously, I wasn’t going to climb out. I needed something to hold on to. The stove was still standing, but it was out of my reach. The only piece of furniture left, oddly enough, was a chair, but it, too, was too far away.
I noticed that I was close to a corner of the root cellar. Carefully raising my right leg, I found that I could brace my boot against the other wall. Moving slowly so as not to tire myself, I poked and jabbed at the earth. My intent was to make a foothold I could wedge my boot in, but the fire had somehow hardened the dirt and jabbing at it was like jabbing at rock. Brittle rock. I persisted, sweating torrents. Twice I had to stop to catch my breath and wait for my head to stop spinning. But at last I had a roughly round hole I could stick part of my boot into.
Pressing my forearms flat, I thrust upward with my leg. Again my chest protested and my head swam, but I slid up and over the rim and crabbed forward until I lay spent and hurting on the floor.
More minutes went by. I might have lain there longer, but the odor of charred flesh roused me. In the center of the east wall the badly burned door hung open on one hinge. Just inside, consumed by the flames where he had fallen, was the body of Sam Butcher. I could tell it was him because he had been the shortest and slimmest of the men.
I forgot my own condition in my concern for the Butchers. Or, rather, one of the Butchers. I stood up. My legs were like mush and I swayed as I walked, but I made it out the door, wary of the flames that continued to lick the wall.
I nearly tripped over another body sprawled just outside. It was Hannah. The fire had blistered her feet, but the rest of her was untouched. She was riddled with bullets and must have been dead when she fell. Powder marks on what was left of her brow suggested that after she was down, someone had walked up to her, put the muzzle of a gun to her forehead, and blown the top of her head off.
Only one person despised the Butchers that much.
The next body was a few yards farther. Kip had been shot in the chest, stomach, and thigh. Spent shells showed that he had fought on after he was down.
The rest made it across the clearing. Carson had dropped a few steps into the trees. A hole the size of an apple in his right temple had proved to be the fatal wound. He had been scalped.
I turned to look for more bodies. Belatedly, it dawned on me that I had not drawn my Remington. Granted, Gertrude and her cowboys were long gone, but for me not to have a gun in my hand told me I wasn’t thinking straight. I remedied my oversight and lurched deeper into the woods.
When I spotted Ty I thought he might be alive. He was sitting with his back to an oak, his rifle across his lap. His eyes were fixed right on me. “Tyrel?” I said, but not too loudly. He did not answer.
It took ridiculously long to reach him. I had to move at a turtle’s pace. Only when I was up close did I see the hole where his left eye had been.
I did not want to go on. I knew what I would find and I did not want to find her. I knew what it would do to me, and what I would do. Apparently there was no end to my foolishness.
But I did go on. I searched and searched and was about ready to give up when a whisper stopped me in my tracks.
“Parson?”
I had almost stepped on Jordy. He was on his back, his torso leaking crimson like a sieve. He, too, had been scalped. I eased onto a knee and propped an arm under me so I would not pitch onto my face as I bent over him. “Is there anything I can do?” Not that I cared, but a real parson would.
Jordy had to try twice before he gasped, “The others? My ma? My brothers?”
I could lie to him. But I responded, “Dead, I am afraid.”
“Ma too? I lost track of her when we ran from the cabin.”
I nodded.
“That bitch. That wretched, vile bitch. Sic the Texas Rangers on her, Parson. Tell them what she’s done. Make her pay.”
“Gertrude Tanner will get what is coming to her,” I
vowed. Then: “You haven’t asked about your sister. Did Daisy get away?”
Jordy’s features clouded. “I don’t think so. I heard her scream. Heard them laugh. She can’t be far.”
“Lie still. I will be back to see what I can do for you.” I went past a thicket and a pine and there she was. A flattened ring of vegetation testified to the fact she had fought fiercely. I stared and stared, numb outside and in. To do what they had done to her was unthinkable. Abusing women was not done. It was worse than murder, worse than rustling, worse than stealing a horse.
I admit that, when judged by the standards most people live by, I had done some terrible things in my life. A lot of terrible things, actually. Murder, many times over. I have stolen on occasion; I helped myself to the money and sometimes the personal effects of those I killed. I was coldhearted. I was ruthless. I could be vicious when crossed. I was all of that, and more. But I had never violated a female. I never stooped to one of the foulest atrocities a man can commit. Lucius Stark, the Regulator, considered by many to be as wretched a human being as ever drew breath, never did that.
I staggered over and dropped to my knees. I wanted to touch her, but she was covered with blood from her neck to her knees. They had slit her throat after they were done.
I never hankered to kill anyone as much as I did those LT hands. They weren’t cowboys. They were vermin. I vowed to make their extermination my main goal in life. Theirs, and one other.
I clasped Daisy’s hand. In life she had been so beautiful, so warm, so full of vitality. Now she was pale and still and cool to the touch, her once lovely eyes blank slates. I let go of her hand and it fell limply to the ground. Soon that would change. Soon she would stiffen and her complexion would become waxen and her eyes would glaze and she would begin to give off the special smell of death.
“I can’t have that,” I said aloud. “I will bury you.” The others needed to be buried, too, but someone else could take care of them. I was only interested in Daisy.
Then Jordy called my name. Reluctantly, I stood. The dead could be ignored. The living were another matter. I returned and squatted at his side. “I found her,” I announced.
A Wolf in the Fold Page 12
