by Jeff Chapman
“Jimmy,” she said. “I thought fer sure as the sun rises he’d shot you, as good as carved in stone.”
“The birds.” I pulled my legs free of hers and nodded at the carcasses under the tree. “Wilbur shot those damned crows that’ve been doggin’ us.”
She turned to Wilbur and got an eyeful of shotgun barrels.
“You’re one lucky little lady. I was ’bout to shoot.”
Isobel made a point of ignoring him as she dusted off her dress. “Now we can surprise Marzby.” Her enthusiasm attested her youth.
“I think he knows we’re comin’, but he ain’t goin’ to know as much. We oughta get on the move before he sends more.”
“Let me have a look at that blade,” said Wilbur.
“What fer? So you can take it?” said Isobel.
“I coulda shot you and taken it long ago.” Wilbur extended an open palm. “I wanna see what all this fuss is about.”
“Let him have a look,” I said. “Don’t do us no good to stand her yammerin’.”
Isobel laid the blade of obsidian in Wilbur’s hand. With an edge so sharp, she could’ve cut his hand clean off. I was thankful she did not.
Wilbur’s mouth hung slack as he studied the blade, as good a flycatcher as anything. He rubbed the leather-bound handle and glass-smooth blade and then tested the edge. The corners of his mouth flinched. He held up his finger to show us a thin red line.
He made a low whistle. “Lordy. This’d cut rawhide like butter. What’re these scratchings on the blade?”
Isobel and I leaned over for a look. In all the excitement, I’d never given the knife a close gander. A row of swirls and lines and little pictures of birds and panthers ran along the length of the blade.
I shook my head. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“Wickedness,” said Wilbur. “That Marzby means to cut somebody.”
“I didn’t know those Indians had writin’,” said Isobel, “if that’s what those scratchings are.”
“Seems they do,” I said, “at least some of them.”
Wilbur shoved the knife at her. “You hold it. I’ll stick with my God-fearin’ shotgun. The devil himself likely crafted that thing.”
We finished our meager breakfast. Wilbur finally agreed to share a few scraps of bacon.
“Give, and it will be given to you and runneth over. Good measure will fall into your lap,” I told him. “Or somethin’ like that. From Luke, I believe.”
Wilbur couldn’t argue with the Bible, not with his “God-fearin’” shotgun cradled in his lap.
With the sweet taste of bacon grease settled on our tongues, we saddled and watered the horses and then set off for Marzby’s. We had no plan and we had no leader and my arm ached from wrestling with Isobel. You gotta boil your jars afore you commence your canning, my grandma was fond of saying. Never before had a campaign begun with less chance of success.
Chapter Seventeen
Again and again, I scanned the horizon for crows, but not a single one of the black beasts swooped into sight. Did Marzby know they were down? Had he seen us through their eyes? Or was it more a messenger kind of service?
We rode in silence across undulating meadows, mountains in the distance to the east and low hills before us. The sun had cleared the mountains, washing us with warmth. I wiped sweat from the back of my neck and pressed my hat lower onto my head. Another hot, clear day awaited us, and I had yet to concoct any clever plan to free Orville and Nellie.
“We’re ridin’ into battle,” I said. “One of my uncles fought in the war. Said everyone got real quiet.” He also said a lot of them puked their breakfast and a meal or two from the day before, but I didn’t want to give anyone ideas. Digestion is a delicate business, claimed my grandma.
“Is that the War of Northern Aggression you’re talkin’ about?” said Isobel. For the first time I heard a southern twang in her voice, no doubt echoing her mama’s.
“That ain’t what we called it,” I said.
Wilbur cleared his throat and spat. We were riding side-by-side today, and Wilbur, thank mercy, had the shotgun pointing away from us. Somehow we had forged a tenuous alliance, which strengthened the closer we rode to our mutual enemy.
“How long you lived in these parts?” I asked.
“All my life,” said Wilbur. “I grew up on that farm, and I expect my children to grow up there.”
“I’ve always had a hankerin’ for travel,” said Isobel. “See a bit more of the world.”
“My ma died just last year. My pa a few years before and my brother and sister when they was kids. Nellie is all I’ve got.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Livin’s about doin’ before dyin’.”
“You travelled much, Jimmy?” said Isobel.
“I’ve seen a bit of country followin’ Orville about, but I’d say we tend to go in circles.”
“I ain’t never been nowhere. My mama tells me stories about Mississippi and my pa about Kentucky, but stories is just stories, and after a bit you wanna see the world fer yerself. Busted Axle is a fine town as far as it goes. But there’s a lot more to this big ole world. I ain’t never seen where we are now and I done growed up less than a hard days ride from here.”
“For that you oughta count your blessings,” said Wilbur. “I reckon Marzby’s place is just over them hills.”
The foot of said hills was no more than thirty yards distant. A couple outcrops peaked out from clumps of grass and yucca, but no trees to give riders any cover.
“Maybe we oughta dismount and creep up to the crest on foot. Marzby or one of his denizens might be watchin’.” The rattler in Isobel’s house and the snakeskin on Marzby’s boots came to mind.
We dismounted and led the horses to the foot of the hills. A gully cut between them to the east. A few scraggly trees clung for life along the eroding banks.
“Isobel, tie the horses to those trees,” I said. “With any luck, there’s a few drops of water in the gulley.”
Isobel grimaced. “Don’t you go leavin’ without me.”
Wilbur cocked his gun as we trudged up the hill. The dirt was dry and loose, peppered with flakes of stone from the outcrops near the crest.
Over my shoulder, I saw Isobel running after us, waving her arms over her head. I motioned for her to hurry along. The horses chewed grass at the base of the tree she’d tied them to. She’d had the good sense to put her boots back on. This hillside would tear her bare feet to shreds. The satchel with the knife hung across her chest. Maybe, I hoped, she thought ahead and snatched some of Wilbur’s grub too.
“How did Marzby lure you and your wife out here?”
“Said he had a horse to sell me and a bolt of yellow cloth the misses might like. Lyin’ bastard.” Wilbur spat. “What’d he offer you two?”
I told him about the knocker. Wilbur furrowed his brows and shook his head. I figured I’d lost much of the respect I’d managed to gain. Most folks didn’t hold with the uncanny, considered it the preserve of charlatans, even when the weird and mysterious stared them in the face.
Isobel came up behind us, huffing and puffing like a spent locomotive. “I told you to wait for me.”
“I don’t take orders from no little girl,” spat Wilbur. “Now shut up and learn your manners.”
Isobel thrust her tongue out, but Wilbur had already turned his back.
I put a finger to my lips. “We was gonna wait for you up at the top,” I whispered.
Isobel folded her arms across her chest. She belonged at home with her mama. Real danger lurked ahead, but other than tying her to a tree, no words or threats would hold her back.
Nearing the crest of the hill, we crawled ahead on hands and knees, Isobel between us. When we reached the top, we peered through a screen of tall grass. A crumbling outcrop stretched across the hilltop to our right.
“There it is,” I said. “And yonder is that hill with the tree on it.”
Marzby’s ranch wasn’
t much to look at. A two-story hacienda-style house with a red-tile roof faced the lane leading over the hill opposite us. Behind the house was a stables, a pig sty, and three other buildings. A small peach orchard grew between the buildings and the hills. Marzby’s buckboard stood outside the stables, all four wheels intact.
“Orville and Nellie could be in any one of ’em,” I said, “excepting the stables and the pig sty. No chance of us missin’ the sound and smell of the animals. Could even be the house.”
“Strange there’s nobody else about,” said Wilbur.
“I suspect he don’t want no one nosin’ around his business,” I said. “Would you trust some hired hand to keep the Pig-man a secret?”
“Maybe,” said Wilbur. “But he ain’t the kind to do his own chores.”
“The Pig-man?” said Isobel.
“One of Marzby’s helpers,” said Wilbur.
“You said there ain’t nobody else down there,” said Isobel.
“He’s a kind of prisoner too,” I said. “But not a friendly one.”
Isobel grimaced, no more satisfied with my explanation than Wilbur’s.
“We can’t see nothin’ from up here. Too far.” I pointed to the other side of the ranch. “Let’s try that little thicket to the west of the house.”
Using the hills as cover, we moved to the west side of the ranch, putting us closer to the stables. The hills petered out to a few stray rocks. Thirty yards of open field separated us from the thicket’s leafy shield.
“You think he’s got a dog? A few barks might bring Marzby running.” He had to be expecting us. “I suppose any dog of his would be a hell hound likely to just tear us apart.”
“I never seen no dog,” said Wilbur. “If he’s worth his hide, he should’ve scented us by now.”
“Guess we have to risk it,” I said. “Let’s all make a run for it on three.”
“That don’t make no sense,” said Wilbur. “I gotta gun. One of you oughta run and I’ll shoot anything that chases you.”
“Let me go,” said Isobel. “I’m faster.”
“And smaller,” I said. “Anything swats at you is like to take your head off. And what would I tell your mama?”
“But I got this.” She fished the knife out of her haversack.
“Put that away,” I said. “Marzby might—”
“Hush,” said Wilbur. “Listen.”
I closed my eyes and stilled my breathing. Tack jingled nearby and then the ring of shod hooves on stone. I scarcely believed our luck. Marzby was readying his wagon to leave.
We rested behind the hill, pressing our backs against a wall of gritty sandstone, nestling our legs between clumps of grass. The noonday sun warmed our faces. I swatted at a fly harassing my nose. Isobel picked up fist-sized stones, examined the edges and stowed the sharpest ones in her satchel.
None of us said a word as we listened to Marzby hitching his horses. The wait gave me time to think. We had no plan once we found Orville and Nellie. If we found them. What if he kept them somewhere else and was readying his wagon to go check on them? I banished that possibility from my head.
“You think he’s leavin’?” whispered Wilbur.
“Appears so. The good Lord has taken a right shine to us today, as my grandma would say. We gotta move quick ’fore he comes back. Got any plans for the Pig-man?”
Wilbur grinned as he patted the dual barrels of his gun. “Got two of ’em.”
Would buckshot stop an unnatural fiend? I kept my doubts to myself. No sense in awakening Wilbur’s ire.
“He’s goin’,” hissed Isobel. She ducked her head back behind the rocks. A clattering of hooves confirmed her announcement.
“Anybody with him?” I said.
Isobel shook her head. “He’s headed down the road toward that big hill.”
Wilbur made to rise, but I flung my arm across his chest.
“Wait ’til he’s over the hill,” I said.
Wilbur grimaced and then settled himself.
“He’s stopped on top of the hill,” said Isobel.
“What’s he doin’?” I said.
“He’s lookin’ around. Lookin’ up in the tree I guess.”
“Lookin’ for his crows,” I muttered.
“He’s standin’ up in the wagon now, sweepin’ his gaze all over the country.”
“Is he lookin’ back here?” said Wilbur.
“Not in particular.”
“I think we oughta check the house first,” I said. “Make sure he don’t have no servants to raise an alarm.”
I shivered as I imagined what sort of creature Marzby would coerce into serving him. Jean Lemauvais, one of Orville’s friends, hailed from New Orleans and told stories of zombies and other variations of the undead. Times like these made me appreciate the simple life of mucking stables and digging turnips.
“He’s gone over the hill,” said Isobel.
I leaned across her. A fading swirl of dust hung about the old oak.
“Peek in the windows of the house first. And don’t shoot anybody,” I said to Wilbur. “We might make someone tell us where Orville and Nellie are.”
“Who appointed you captain?” said Wilbur.
“You got a better plan?”
I withdrew my knife. Wilbur pulled back both hammers. Isobel fingered a flat stone in her hand, ready for throwing. We moved as one and ran across the yard to the nearest corner of the house where we crouched against the stucco wall. The house followed the old Spanish style with a courtyard in the back, bordered by the house on three sides. A long balcony overlooking the courtyard ran along the upper-story rooms.
We peered in the windows on either side of the corner. Marzby lived in costly style. Book cases chock full of volumes lined every wall. Two cushioned chairs—one bound in leather, the other horsehair—sat at either end of a polished oak table. A lot of fine furnishings for us poor folk to gawk at, but no people.
We decided to leave Wilbur at the back of the house covering the courtyard while Isobel and I worked our way around the front and opposite end. I crawled on my hands and knees between windows and slithered on my belly beneath them. At each one, I peeked, drew back and then leaned in for a longer study, expecting to see a horrible combination of man and beast, a monstrous insult to nature. We spied a sitting room, a dining room, and an office with a massive oak desk, all as grandly decorated as the library. We found plenty of evidence attesting Marzby’s life of luxury, but not a single living soul. My opinion on our good fortune to be alone on the ranch wavered, as I fervently believed we might persuade a more human-like servant to talk.
Isobel and I approached the stairs to the balcony. There was a second set of stairs on Wilbur’s side. I pointed to the second story. The three of us crept up to what I figured was a gallery of bedrooms. Like any set of stairs when one’s trying to tread lightly, these ones creaked like a troop of crickets, and moving slower didn’t make a lick of difference. Did Marzby hex these stairs to give a warning?
Seemed like a good plan in the moment, us coming up one way and Wilbur the other. Problem was, when we all got to the top of the balcony, Isobel and I were again looking down the twin barrels of Wilbur’s gun. The last thing I needed was to worry about friendly fire from Wilbur tearing my head off, but the time for planning had passed.
I counted five doors. The first two Isobel and I passed were Spartan, a bed and a wardrobe and empty walls, none of the fancy decorating from downstairs. I didn’t suppose Marzby entertained many guests.
As we crept toward the center bedroom, the balcony boards creaked and popped like firecrackers to my nervous ears. I swore those boards shouted our presence louder and louder the closer we approached the center. This here was the last room. My gut told me there was someone in there, a mere premonition, but I trusted it. My temples pounded in league with my thudding heart. I squeezed the handle of my knife for fear it would slip out of my sweaty hand. We’d almost reached the window when a hinge squeaked as a door swung shut. A wardro
be, I reckoned.
Isobel and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance, questioning if the other had heard it too. We pressed our backs to the stucco wall. Wilbur heard it. His eyes were a pair of saucers. He dropped to one knee and aimed at the door, holding the gun level, not a tremor, which was far better than I would’ve done.
All was quiet. Whoever was in the bedroom was listening too. Footsteps approached the near window. I tightened my grip on my knife until my fingers ached and clenched my fist.
Chapter Eighteen
Two hands thick with muscular fingers appeared and gripped the window sill. A head thrust out the open window and twisted in our direction. The man, if that’s what he was, boasted nary a hair on his head. His eyebrows were patchy, like they’d been singed off and not grown back proper. His eyes curdled my blood. They were a cloudy, grayish white, like a scuffed cue ball. No iris. No pupil. The eyes of a dead man, rolled back and useless. But he did see us. His head moved as his gaze flicked between me and Isobel.
“Huh,” he grunted. His voice grated like a saw cutting wood. “What’s? Uhhh.”
His massive shoulders hid his neck, like a turtle retracting its head inside a shell. From what I’d seen of his arms, I guessed he was six feet tall and nearly as wide, the kind of man one would see in a bare-knuckle prize fight, a bruiser that would snap my skinny bones in half like dry kindling.
I pushed Isobel to retreat down the balcony.
“We can take him,” she said. “Three against one.”
I was about to argue the prudence of seeking better ground on which to fight when the bedroom door to the balcony swung open. Isobel stepped to my side. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we blocked the balcony.
The door clapped against the wall and shuddered as the monster of a man stepped onto the balcony and eyed me and Isobel with his gray orbs. He raised his arm and stabbed a finger at us.
“We don’t mean you no harm,” I said. “We’re lookin’ fer a couple of our friends.”
