The Hunted

by Ralph Compton

  He flopped the body back to its facedown pose and covered it over with snow, in case Delia should look in this direction. But with this snow, he doubted she’d see much farther than the campfire. And at the thought of the warming element, he rose, stiff and slow to his feet, and returned to the wagon to strip away more wood in preparation for a long, cold night.

  Chapter 40

  From behind Hester, Rollie’s already-slurring voice rose above the whistling snow, the blowing of the struggling mules and horses, and the random squawk of a wheel begging for grease. “Get walkin’, woman! Or I swear I will lay this lash right down on you, you hear?”

  Hester picked up her pace and raised her head to make sure she was still on what looked like the trail. The snow had begun to come down harder over the past few hours until seeing more than five feet ahead had become difficult. She wasn’t even sure what time it might be, not that it mattered.

  An image of Norbert popped into her mind and she felt a tug of sadness. Yes, he’d been one of the hated freighters, but there had been something about him that was almost decent. As if he had struggled with the very idea of being Rollie’s so-called friend. And now he was dead. Or was he? Had that even happened? Had they really seen him dead on the bank of the brook, as if he had been trying to climb out of the frozen water? Of course it had happened, she told herself. But the dizzying effect of the snow, the cold, her throbbing hands, her tired legs, her weakness from lack of decent food—it all seemed to work together to make her confused somehow. Then a gust of raw wind sliced straight at her like a slap to the face and roused her once again. She blinked hard and walked on.

  If they kept on like this, they might well totter off the edge of one of those spots she’d seen earlier, off to her left as the trail narrowed and wound along a steep drop-off. It wouldn’t take much for the wagon and Rollie to pitch to the side and crash down a rocky slope. The phantom vision brought a smile to her face, only to disappear at the thought of Mabel-Mae, who the last Hester knew was still tied behind the wagon, still trudging along silently, without complaining, mile after mile.

  And thought of the kindly old mule brought Charlie and, so, Delia to mind. It was all Hester could do to not spin and run straight back at Rollie, with but one thing in mind. But that would only get her killed, of that she was sure. He had shown no worry or concern over harming others.

  Maybe she could wander off into the snow and hide from Rollie, then sneak up on him later and . . . Foolish woman, Hester chided herself. There was no way that was going to happen. Not with Shiner up ahead, looking back on her every now and again, and with Rollie snapping his whip and shouting his drunken anger at her back at odd times, as though he did it to keep her frightened and confused.

  Hester trudged on for more lengthy minutes. Some time later she looked up, the wind doing its best to peel the blanket from her shoulder and head. Loose strands of her hair whipped away from her face, and icy snow peppered her face. Where was Shiner? As much as she despised the filthy man, today she had grown to rely on seeing his back a dozen paces ahead. But he was gone.

  Hester took one more long step, sinking up to her knees in the thick, dense snow. She half turned and looked behind her. She swore she heard a voice other than Rollie’s, maybe a high-pitched shout, like a scream. Probably that squawking wagon wheel.

  The wagon was farther behind than ever. Through the snow she saw Rollie still in the seat, heard his whip cracking and Rollie’s drunken shouts urging the beasts onward. Maybe Shiner had gone back to the wagon for a drink from Rollie’s bottle. Maybe he had wandered far ahead. Or . . . did she dare hope? Maybe the man wandered off one of the steep-sided stretches of trail they’d passed along earlier. With this snow and with Rollie’s drinking, no one might know.

  Hester’s heart beat faster. In the span of a few slight seconds, she had all but decided that this was her time to escape, to keep low and scramble off the trail, down the slope, somehow cut through the rawhide straps around her wrists—maybe on the edge of a sharp rock—and make her way . . . where? What was out here? Did she care? No, as she’d told herself time and again, there was but one thing left for her to do, and that was to kill Rollie Meecher.

  And then she thought of the Indians stalking them. What if they got her? No, she couldn’t let that happen, not before she took care of Rollie.

  Then she caught a whiff of something, smoke maybe. And as quickly, it was gone.

  “Hey! Where’s Shiner at?” Rollie spat into the snow as the exhausted team dragged closer. “Woman! Where’s he got to? Takin’ a leak, is he?” This struck Rollie as funny and Hester watched as he leaned back in the wagon seat and shook with silent laughter.

  The blowing snow made it increasingly difficult for Hester to see the wagon. She heard the beasts’ harsh breathing, their chuffing and blowing, groans and low neighs as one or another slipped, driving an already bleeding knee back to the unforgiving snow and ice pack beneath. And yet, because of the guttural shouts and painful whistle-and-cut of the whip, they continued to lumber forward in the thick white piling snow before them.

  It was now above her knees and halfway up the wagon’s wheels. And still Rollie, after his laughing fit, had resumed the lash. Hester refused to go on and instead stood in the middle of the trail, as defiant as she could look in such conditions. The wagon ground to a squeaking halt, the horses and mules hanging their heads as if bowing in deference to her.

  Hester reckoned the hour barely past midday, but the exhaustion of the animals was evident. Their pink tongues thrust outward, stiff and trembling, their rubbery mouths steaming and flecked with foam. Great clouds of smoky breath rose from them as though they were trains huffing after an uphill stretch. Hester raised her bound hands and gently rubbed them on the head of the horse before her.

  “I tell you what, they are near useless. Time was you could get animals with some sand, some bottom to ’em. Nowadays you got this!” He popped the whip over their heads. Hester felt the air whistle and crack. The animals lunged, but in their stalled and exhausted state the best they could muster was a halfhearted few inches of momentum. The wagon slowly rolled back to its earlier ruts.

  He laughed again. “I swear I am hungry for some meat! Something in the air reminding me of a thick cut. You hungry, woman?” More laughter.

  Hester was about to curse him, no longer caring of the outcome, whether he whipped her to death or shot at her in his drunkenness. But she never got the chance to give voice to her rage because, from the hillside above them, to the right of the wagon, far too high to see in the whistling, wind-driven snow, something large and dark dove out of the white gloom and straight down on Rollie.

  Hester saw it all, watched the shape emerge from the snow, into view, and fall heavily. Rollie saw none of it, as he was busily sucking on a bottle that seemed to have reached its end. But when the large, dark shape slapped with a loud crash partly on him and partly on the bench beside him, causing a loud cracking sound, the wooden-plank seat snapping like a gunshot, that’s when Rollie reacted.

  The freighting boss screamed high pitched and long and loud, as if he were a young child seeing something in the shadows that wasn’t there. But there was something there, and Hester saw it at the same time Rollie did. They both screamed.

  It was a blackened, smoking man. And in the following seconds that it took Hester to figure out that it was a burned man, she knew with certainty that it was Shiner. Burned and thrown down at them from on high. She looked up, into the dizzying, driving snow, but saw nothing.

  As soon as Rollie figured out what had dropped down on him, his screams took on an even harsher edge, a higher-pitched squeal as he tried to slide from beneath the flopped, charred, smoking remains. The pulling beasts lunged, each trying to run in an opposing direction, resulting in none moving too far from any other. They ended up standing in their same spots, blowing and champing, not at all comfortable with the raw stink of burn
ed man.

  Rollie made it to the ground, fell into the snow, and flailed his arms trying to stand. He finally accomplished the task and slid his Colt, fast and easy, from its holster. Despite the fact that he’d been drinking for hours, in smooth motions he cocked and fired, cocked and fired far above, up into the driving gloom, until his gun was empty. He stood staring into the snow, his Colt’s barrel smoking, his mouth agape. His dead friend lay sprawled, broken and awkward, across the splintered seat of the wagon.

  A half hour later, unable to force the beasts to move in any direction, Rollie and Hester made camp on that spot in the trail. Rollie had not tried to move Shiner, nor had he asked Hester to do so, even though she had fully expected it.

  They left the animals in the traces and Hester had had a few moments when Rollie was still babbling, drunk and confused and scared, to check on Mabel-Mae. The mule was still there, standing with her head down, hipshot and quiet, behind the wagon. Hester rubbed the long nose, spoke soft meaningless words of apology to her. If any of it mattered, the mule made no sign, save for the flick of an ear. Hester chose to believe that meant she was forgiven for whatever her part in this nightmare trek had been.

  Hester untied the mule and moved her to the downslope side of the wagon, where she retied her.

  “What are you up to, woman?” Rollie belched and gestured at the mule as he sloppily reloaded his pistol.

  “I’m getting her out of the wind.” In truth, Hester wondered if whoever had killed Shiner was still up there, most likely the Indians, then they might attack from up above, and moving Mabel-Mae was the only thing she could think of doing for the animal. She felt responsible for her somehow. As if she owed it to Big Charlie Chilton to do what she could to keep the sweet beast safe, little though the gesture would amount to.

  “Leave off that foolishness and cook me some food, curse your hide!” Rollie spat the words and gurgled back more whiskey.

  Hester considered untying Mabel-Mae and riding off, but dark was fast descending and she didn’t think they would make it far at all. They’d be lucky to not topple off one of the steep cuts, let alone stay on the trail.

  She was exhausted, and imagined Mabel-Mae was too. And besides, if he wanted her help with all those chores, he would have to cut her hands free. And who knew what that might bring? Still, she convinced him she needed use of her hands, and he complied, though he railed about how he’d be watching her for any sign of treachery against him.

  Hester did her best to ignore him and went about the business of setting up the camp. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or the rest of the day, for that matter. But she was relieved that they had stopped. The animals were in desperate need of rest and she felt as though she could hardly go on.

  True to his word—and his character thus far on the trip—Rollie did very little but drink and wag his Colt revolver in her direction whenever she caught his eye. It seemed he was always watching her.

  Which is why he didn’t see the man watching them from the trees on the slope above the camp.

  The snow still fell thickly, but not so much that Hester couldn’t tell it was an Indian, mostly from the way he stood, unafraid, arms folded across his chest, staring straight at her, as if daring her to scream or drop to the ground in a faint.

  She did neither. Instead she regarded him fully, a frying pan in one of her hands, a hunk of side bacon in another.

  “What you staring at, woman?” Rollie was facing her, with his back to the Indian.

  Hester looked at Rollie, shook her head, then looked back to the Indian, but he was gone. She looked hard at the trees, but she only saw snow and trees and little else. Had she really seen him? Yes, she decided she had. Just as she had definitely seen poor dead Norbert earlier in the day.

  Hester bent to her task at the fire, smiling. She had a feeling something was going to happen that night. One way or another, good or bad—though she suspected it would no doubt be bad—something was going to happen to them that very night, and maybe even sooner.

  Rollie had seemed much drunker earlier than he was, now that the light had faded and the small fire was snapping. She had stretched the canvas tarpaulin, tied to trees and the wagon, to help cut the wind. It helped. She cut open two tins of meat and they ate in silence, across the fire from each other.

  Rollie’s wobbling head occasionally looked up, focused on her across the guttering blaze, and he would try to smile. But she knew that he had been rattled to his boots, no mistake. She didn’t think he’d try anything foul that night. He was far too bothered by what the Indians had done to Shiner.

  For long minutes, Hester stared into the fire. There was a sickened, deranged part of her that envied Shiner the escape he’d made, burned to death in a blizzard. She was gripped with the sudden urge to laugh. If she didn’t she might well cry and cry and never stop. And crying was not something Hester O’Fallon had ever had the luxury of doing. So she gave full and free rein to her laughter, long loud bellows of it.

  She leaned back and into it until she cried from the throat-aching laughs that bubbled up and out of her. Rollie regarded her as if she were some sort of attraction at one of the mystery tents at the traveling circuses, the sort of show that only the daring ever ventured forth to see. And still she laughed, didn’t give a whit what Rollie Meecher thought of her. Let him shoot, let him whip.

  But Rollie Meecher did watch her. And he did not have shooting or whipping on his mind.

  It didn’t take long for Rollie to sidle on over to her. Hester didn’t try to evade him. He was drunk, no doubt seeing double. But Hester’s hands were still untied, and in her right hand, stuffed tight into the waist pocket of her dress, she gripped the handle of a short knife she’d managed to filch from the cooking crate. In fact, as he approached, she tried to quell a grim smile, knowing soon he would get something of what he’d earned for himself.

  He sat down beside her and leaned close, the boozy reek of his breath clouding her. “I expect you know what’s about to happen.”

  She stared at him a moment, her eyes half-lidded in a sultry look. “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t? Why not? Why you smiling, girly? Could be you know what sort of fun you are about to have?”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s not it. It’s because we’re being hunted, you idiot. And each person so far on this trip has died in a horrible manner. Some of them by your hand, some of them not. Unless you are going to kill yourself, that means you will likely be killed next.”

  That seemed to have the effect of cutting through Rollie’s drunken fog. His eyes opened wide. “Why me?”

  Hester smiled. “Because each one so far has been a man, and you are a man. Last one left, in fact. That means you are next.” She couldn’t help herself—she laughed right in his face. Laughed at the fear she saw hovering there, twitching his mouth corners, tugging at his cheeks, raising his eyelids high.

  She didn’t expect that he would react as he did to her brazen, half-formed deduction. She expected he would shrug it off and attack her. She had steeled herself for it, had clenched tight to the short knife in her hand, ready to end the pig’s life.

  But he disappointed her.

  Rollie scrambled backward, one hand on his revolver, the other clutching his bottle. He retreated to his side of the fire. “You’re crazy. Yeah.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “You’re sure enough a crazy woman. You keep away from me, you hear?” He pulled the revolver and aimed it at her across the flames of the campfire.

  Chapter 41

  “Did you hear about Jasper Rafferty?” The young man at the end of the bar slid a fresh beer to the old man who’d walked in.

  As Perton, the bartender at the Royale Gaming Hall, walked back up the bar after delivering the two beers, he couldn’t help smirking. If he’d heard that question once, he’d heard it a hundred times in the past few hours. And it had only be
en a couple, three hours since the shooting.

  The entire town of Monkton was buzzing like a hive full of bear-bothered bees. He thought back on the events that had led up to this not-so-pretty pass. Who would have thought that Jasper Rafferty had it in him to do anything more than overcharge and annoy people with his holier-than-thou attitude? But apparently there was more sand in the man than anyone had given him credit for.

  “Yeah, it’s true.” The excited young man down at the end of the bar smacked a hand down on the bar top.

  The newcomer, ol’ Shakes the wheelwright, stared wide-eyed at the young man, still not believing him. “Say that again,” said Shakes.

  “I tell you,” said the young man. “Jasper Rafferty and Marshal Watt—you know they’re brothers-in-law, right?” The man didn’t wait for Shakes to answer, but kept right on talking. “They had themselves a dustup, rumor has it on account of the news that Pawnee Joe told folks about Gamble being a big strike after all.”

  “But what about Rafferty, dang you! Stick to your story!” Shakes scratched at his smoke-stained beard and poked a wobbly old work-hardened finger into the bowl of his briar pipe.

  “Right, right,” said the young man. “So Rafferty, he goes off in a huff, all bruised up—the marshal’s a solid fighter—and he goes to his store, gets himself a revolver, a box of bullets, and marches back to the jail!”

  “No!” said Shakes, struggling with a box of lucifers.

  “Yes, so help me, it’s the truth! Then he all but kicks in the door. Marshal Watt, he’s settin’ at his desk, working on something, and without a by-your-leave, Rafferty shoots the marshal in the chest four out of six shots fired. The other two hit the wall behind the desk.”