Vulture Wings

by Dirk Hawkman

  He looked down at the grasslands looming below. Though it was shadowy, he could discern the black shapes of the farm buildings. Eli never thought he would return to the Morris ranch.

  CHAPTER 24

  Enrique and his men directed the Connors back towards the ranch. Adam and Bob were stunned. They did not understand the reasons for their abduction in the first place. Yet much as they loathed their captors, to witness them being gunned down so unexpectedly was shocking. The brothers were perplexed. Enrique’s men took the reins of the Strongs’ horses, leading them with the dead bodies still wilting in the saddles.

  Enrique led them to a corral behind the main ranch-house. It was darkening now. The strange men surrounding the Connors muttered, some of them in Spanish. Though Adam and Bob could not follow the discourse, they could tell that it was not idle chatter. These men were lethal, ready to spring at the slightest sign of danger.

  Sensing his guests’ dumbstruck trepidation, Enrique turned back to them.

  ‘We ain’t like the Strongs, boys. We are gonna look after you. But you’ll have to work for your keep. In fact, I’ve got a little job for you right now.’

  The crew dismounted at the corral. They also removed the swaying bodies of the Strongs from their rides, dropping them crudely on the grass. Enrique dismissed his men who returned inside. He lit a lamp, and approached the Connors. The lantern’s yellow rays illuminated part of Enrique’s stern face, leaving the rest masked by the ghostly blackness. Though Enrique was smiling glibly, his teeth appeared menacing under the fading light.

  ‘You two – pick up Charlie Strong and follow me.’

  ‘What?’ Bob was flummoxed. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just do as I say!’ Enrique was typically softy spoken, but his words could snap into a snarl whenever he sniffed the slightest opposition.

  The Connors obeyed. Bob hooked his arms under Charlie’s lifeless shoulders, while Adam took his legs.

  ‘I don’t like this, Bob. What the heck is going on now?’ Adam whispered, only to be shushed by Enrique. The Connors staggered after Enrique as he led them through the corral gate, up a gentle hill to what looked like a small cemetery. There were three spades laying on the ground there.

  ‘Start digging,’ Enrique commanded. Adam and Bob released Charlie unceremoniously, relieved to be unburdened. They did not feel any gladness that their abductor was no more. The brothers were in fact angry that, even in death, Charlie was bothering them.

  Bob noted, as his foot pressed the diamond-shaped spade into the soft earth, that the shovels were brand new. The hard, steel teeth of the spades bit clean mouthfuls out of the soil, their strokes making groans as metal ground against the earth. Adam laboured arduously, for he was sapped. His confusion as to the odd events only magnified his fatigue. Bob was no less beat, but concentrated his simmering frustrations into every thrust of the shovel. He dug with vigour.

  Enrique assisted them. When the improvised grave was deep enough for Charlie to be rolled in, Enrique halted the digging. With scornful, sharp, kicks, he pushed Charlie into the shallow pit. A burial place this slight would be irresistible to foxes and wolves. None of the three minded. As they patted down the soil on top of Charlie’s inanimate, gawping face, Bob – despite the weird circumstances – felt great satisfaction. The thought of a wild animal’s fangs tearing the lifeless skin from Charlie gladdened him.

  As they gave Dwight the same treatment, Bob grew bolder, if not exactly relaxed. Digging the second hole, he peered around. There was a pattern of small headstones in rows over the hill. The darkness was now thickening. Squinting, Bob observed that almost all the gravestones bore the name Morris. There was only one with a different title: Scott Glenn.

  ‘Sir,’ Bob began, as politely as he could. ‘Will you tell us what’s happening? The Strongs wouldn’t tell us a darn thing. Who’s this friend of theirs?’

  Before Enrique could answer, the rumble of another’s thunderous tones made them turn their heads. Morris did not like to raise his voice, and he never needed to. His words carried through the air like the crash of waves. The three saw a silhouette of a man at the foot of the hill. So tall and strongly-built was the figure that, for a second, the Connors thought it might be a tree.

  ‘You’ve been through a lot, young men, but now you are my guests. Follow me.’

  They dared not disobey.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Morris family had been minor nobles in their native England. Once wealthy and powerful, they fled, penniless when Lord Morris had been hung for treason. They were amongst the first settlers in the new world. Though they arrived with little more than their suitcases, their sense of entitlement equalled their wickedness. Their peers in the West hunted in the woods, toiled in the fields and traded with the Indians. The Morrises, however, trod a lazier, easier pathway to affluence: murder.

  Settlers would mysteriously fail to return to their cabins, which were swiftly annexed by the Morris clan. Though Wyoming was then a young territory and the population was sparse, whispers about the reclusive family with the snotty accents soon spread. Nobody dared refuse a Morris. During the following decades, the Morrises bought farms, ranches, land and businesses for bargain prices. The brave few who dared resist usually vanished mystifyingly.

  There had been twenty Morrises when they first swooped on the Americas. Because they regarded their bloodline as superior, they were not willing to intermarry. Before their disgrace in England, Lord Morris would have engineered bridges to other aristocrats through marriage.

  Wyoming, however, lacked any suitable nobility. Cousins were wed to cousins. At times, Morriston women were forced into wedlock. These interlopers never lasted long. After they had borne children, these outsiders suspiciously disappeared. The sheriffs were but hand-picked stooges, and dared not investigate.

  The effect of the Morris family’s arrogant disdain for their lessers was that their numbers dwindled. John Morris had been an only child. His mother had been a local pauper, who – so it was said – died in childbirth. When John was born, he and his father were the only surviving Morrises.

  The ranch where John was raised was a nursery for evil and madness. Forbidden from associating with other children, John grew up with little companionship. He was schooled by private tutors. Lacking friends or siblings, John found other, crueller recreations.

  John’s father had been cold and solitary. He had always been too busy to discipline or nurture young John. Without a guiding hand to address John’s callous behaviour, John tired of cutting the throats of cats and dogs. Growing into a young man, John came to view his father’s servants and cowboys as playthings. When John’s barbaric treatment of a kitchen girl caused a stir at the ranch, John’s father finally came to show an interest in him.

  John had been summoned to his father’s study. An ordinary boy would have trembled at the prospect of his father’s wrath. John, though, had always lived without repercussion. The emotion of fear was unknown to him. He had been curious, though, as to what his father (who was nearly a stranger to him) desired.

  John’s father had leaned back in his expensive leather armchair. He had been puffing on his pipe, a glass of whiskey in one hand. Far from angry, he had been amused by his son’s ruthlessness.

  ‘John,’ he had begun, in relaxed, pensive tones, ‘it will not be long before I leave this world.’ Indeed, John estimated that his father must have been at least fifty when he had sired him. ‘Soon, you will be the only remaining Morris. I must begin to teach you how to conduct our affairs.’ He had paused to puff on his pipe. ‘Now firstly, keep your hands off the servants. I do not care for them any more than you do, but I don’t want any fuss nor scandal. We Morrises keep our business secret from the rabble.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ John had answered. He had been intrigued as to where this was leading.

  ‘Now go to bed. We’ll ride out early in the morning. Then your education will really begin.’

  At dawn the next day, the Morri
ses and five heavies had ridden out to a new farmstead. The smallholding had been operating for hardly a year, but was earning a modest living for its owner. Unfortunately, the farmer had ignorantly omitted to pay tribute to his new master.

  It had been so bright and sunny that day that John had had to shield his eyes from the sting of the sun. They had ridden up to the tiny house where the farmer had been milking a cow in his corral. The settler was a man with an honest face. John had been sickened by the man’s stink: a reeking mix of milk and sweat. John’s father, though, had smelled blood.

  ‘Good morning, partner. Here to talk business. Come to offer you a good price for a share of your farm.’

  ‘Pardon me, sir. It’s not for sale.’

  At this point, Morris had stopped his pretence of politeness. Bellowing at the farmer, Morris had manhandled the settler back into his cabin. With five armed henchmen behind him, the dairyman did not fight back. John had followed them in. There, with the man’s speechless wife and screaming children watching, the man had signed over the deeds to his property.

  John had learned much that day. He had glimpsed a hitherto unknown plain of opportunity to be heartlessly plundered.

  ‘Son,’ his father had instructed during the ride home, ‘if there’s something you want, go and get it. If you can’t get it, take it.’

  His father’s pitiless philosophy had been impressed on John. During the following years, John had learned that his father had been right. Nobody is going to defy a Morris. In manhood, John had continued his father’s merciless ways.

  John’s father had been right about something else, as well. Not long after the brutal lesson at the smallholding, he had indeed left the mortal world. John had snuck into his father’s bedroom and smothered him under a pillow.

  John had also added to his father’s business affairs. He had an ear for scandal, or weakness. John’s father had been a fiend, but John learned how to manipulate his marionettes with favours and quiet words.

  He had never lost his taste for viciousness, though. Leading the Connors into his ranch, John was keen to share his latest toy.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘My name is John Morris, lads. I’m sure you must have heard of me.’

  Of course, the Connors had. They had glimpsed him in town from time to time. Adam and Bob knew little of their host, though. He was always spoken of in hushed, reverential tones. Morris was leading them through his plush house. The recent days had been strange for the Connors, and visiting the Morris ranch was odder yet.

  The buildings in Morriston tended to have a whiff of sawdust or wood. Morris’s ranch, though, had a stinking, chemical scent. The house must have been scrubbed thoroughly and often with cleaning powder. It had obviously cost a lot of money to furnish the house. The whole place was like a museum. Morris decorated his mausoleum with stuffed animals, suits of armour, and crystal skulls. But for the scrape of their footsteps, the interior was hauntingly silent.

  ‘Come with me, boys. Come with me.’

  At their rear, Enrique was guarded. He was confident that he and his Colt could quell any coup by the Connors, yet he was not complacent. Enrique had spoken with his master’s spies, and knew what the Connors were capable of. He had noticed Bob’s furtive glances at him.

  Enrique had no great warmth for Morris. His loyalty was akin to that of a professional soldier rather than a devout acolyte. Enrique drew great pride from his reputation. More than a cheap gunny, he was a fixer who never shied from a dirty job. Usually, Enrique carried out assassinations, or helped witnesses to remember (or forget) the truth with the correct degree of clarity. This time, though, he could not fathom his boss’ scheme. His employer paid well enough, though, so Enrique had not debated the matter.

  He had worked for Morris long enough to develop a sense for his moods. Morris typically delivered his orders without embellishment. He kept it simple, even when decreeing murder. Tonight, though, Enrique was finding Morris talkative and restless. It was not apparent to others, but Enrique detected differences in Morris’ gestures and words. He was most pleased to be receiving his unwilling guests.

  When they reached the door to the cellar, Morris turned to send him away.

  ‘Enrique – leave us for now. Go outside and wait for our next guest. I’ll look after the Connors.’

  Enrique nodded his compliance and headed back outside. Morris preferred to leave the front line of his business to Enrique. He knew from experience, though, that Morris was not afraid of getting his hands dirtied – or bloodied. Morris could well handle the Connors.

  The cellar door groaned as Morris opened it. Though his face was like a weathered tombstone, Bob thought he saw the faintest of smirks as Morris gestured for the brothers to follow him downstairs.

  The basement’s macabre gloom was dense, yet faintly illuminated by a lamp. Walking apprehensively behind Morris, the Connors thought they heard murmurs of pain from within the murk. Reaching the bottom of the steps, Bob’s eyes had to adjust to the darkness. His mind also had to adapt to what he saw down there.

  The cellar was large enough to make a fine vault for exotic wines. Yet it was not the cool of the cellar that made the Connors shiver. Above, Morris’s bric-a-brac had been sinister. However, Bob had not expected him to hold a prisoner in his basement.

  A wretched figure swung from manacles bolted to the wall. Though the chains were long enough for the captive to stand, the spectre was too weak to. Bob guessed that it was a young man, but only because the shape wore torn trousers and a ripped shirt. It was difficult to discern whether the apparition’s face was darkened by shadows or bruising.

  A wooden table rested in the centre of the dungeon, on which stood a porcelain jug of water. Morris took the vessel over to the prisoner, and poured it carefully over the wretch’s broken lips. The water seemed to revive the captive, and he gulped mindlessly and desperately at the fluid.

  Morris was ready to begin.

  ‘As you know, boys, I own half the county. My men caught this man stealing from one of my stores – where he was being paid to mind the till. Instead of turning him over to the sheriff, though, I thought I’d entertain my guests.’

  The Connors stiffened. Under the Strongs, the entertainment had not been wholesome. They did not like Morris’ pregnant suggestion.

  The brothers’ uncomfortable shudders seemed to prompt Morris. From some niche hidden by the gloom, Morris conjured something. They could not make out what the artefact was. When Morris’ arm arced violently, though, the Connors recognised the lightning snap of a bullwhip striking the ground.

  Though plainly weakened by hunger and thirst, the prisoner was electrified by the weapon’s callous crack. He forced himself to his feet. The wretch appeared to be imploring Morris. His disorientation and broken teeth warped the pleas into incomprehensible mumbles.

  Morris looked to Bob, who fixed him back scornfully. Morris respected that: so few possessed the nerve to meet his penetrating gaze. His agents had reported back about Bob’s flair for the criminal, and Morris was fascinated.

  He handed the whip to Bob.

  ‘Young man – give this fool a hiding. Don’t hold back. I want you to enjoy every second.’

  The wooden handle was warm and moist from Morris’ grip, when Bob took it. Seizing the weapon, it was as if Bob was a valve in a steam train. He was charged with passionate energy which simply had to be expressed.

  Adam recalled Bob’s description of his feelings after shooting dead the overweight tough back in Desolation. Bob had been intoxicated, as if drunk with a lethal liquor. To Adam, his brother once again became a stranger as he gleefully struck blow after stinging blow on the wailing prisoner.

  CHAPTER 27

  Eli waited a little while. This was a challenge to his patience, for he was eager to storm the Morris ranch. Somewhere deep in his gut he knew that he was near to his sons. His father’s instinct was reeled in by his manhunter wiles, though. Eli had no idea how many men were guarding the ranch. He wa
s well aware, though, that he was but a single man. Determined as he was, Eli forced himself to wait until the sun had fully retired.

  Eli repeatedly looked up at the white orb. The anticipation was almost painful. He made himself be patient. He would be unable to strike without the cover of darkness. It was as if the sun could sense Eli’s keenness, and enjoyed observing him wait anxiously. As Eli hid behind a black rock, he frequently made impatient glances to monitor the sunset’s unhurried progress. The plains were warming rods for the sun during the day. Yet, at night, with little cloud, the prairie skies cruelly sapped a man’s heat. Eli shivered. The plains could be deadly cold after sundown. He drew his coat tight, but the garment did not help.

  The Morris ranch was isolated. Twenty years ago, Eli had found this unusual. Morris’ purposeful distancing of himself from his town and his apparent subjects made more sense, now. The magnate ruled over his dominion from the shadows. Eli had no idea why Morris had abducted his sons, and wondered fearfully what secrets would be exposed tonight.

  The farm’s isolation made its surroundings unnaturally quiet. Even the cows were sleeping now, and not so much as a coyote sang to the stars. Eli would need to take measured, padded steps. Every single one of his movements would need to be controlled and silent. The still air would carry the merest whisper to the ears of unseen sentinels.

  When Eli judged that the sun was sufficiently hidden, the manhunter set off. He left his ride tied to a black rock on the hills. With a wolf’s stealth, Eli took calculated, controlled paces down the final descent from the hills to the grassland. It was perhaps a mile or two across the plains to the ranch. The approach would take less than thirty minutes if you were out for a brisk walk on a summer’s day. For an expert tracker such as Eli, though, the advancement would be more meticulous.