The Black Blade: A Huckster Novel

by Jeff Chapman

  “Damn,” I said. “He must have ’em somewheres else. Or in the house, but I swore I saw unfettered daylight behind Marzby when he opened the door to our cell. And those walls were stone.”

  Wilbur stopped before us, his eyes fired with unspent fury.

  “We should have sent you to follow Marzby,” I said to Isobel.

  “And your neck’d be as broken as a Sunday chicken,” she said.

  “I say we tear that house to bits,” said Wilbur.

  And I figured he’d crack every table and chair and smash every glass on principle.

  “Did you say what you’re lookin’ fer is built of stone?” said Isobel.

  “I did. Why?”

  “Well, there’s this little stone room inside the barn. Got hay bales stacked around it and on top. I wouldn’t have noticed except for a stack of bales had fallen over and there was a stone wall.”

  Without a word Wilbur and I set off at a sprint for the barn with Isobel chasing behind. Only one of the doors was open. Wilbur ran inside, his gun leveled as if he was leading a bayonet charge. Isobel and I pushed the closed door flat against the outside wall. I figured we’d need all the light we could get.

  Hay bales flew across the barn, yielding to Wilbur’s anger like they were nothing more than empty peach baskets.

  “Nellie!” Wilbur shouted between grunts. “I’m comin’, Nellie.”

  I remembered the hole in which the Pig-man lived. Wouldn’t do us no good to find a way in if we couldn’t get past his lair.

  “Isobel, look around for a board, anything we can walk on. Maybe seven feet or more.”

  For once Isobel didn’t argue with me. She nodded and scurried off to the other side, dodging the flying bales. The sidewalls of most barns were littered with useful junk waiting for the day it might be needed, but not this one. Marzby kept the neatest barn I’d ever seen. Every tool and piece of tack hung in its place. Even the shovels, pitchforks, and rakes occupied specific homes.

  I tugged a board on the side of an empty stall. No rot. A couple of these side-by-side would do the trick. Thanks to Marzby’s neatness, I found a hammer to knock and pry the boards loose.

  “I found it,” Wilbur shouted.

  I stopped my work on the board to watch him assault the door with feet and fists.

  “Nellie! Nellie!” Wilbur charged the door. A hollow thud sounded when his shoulder met stout resistance. He pressed his ear to the wood and then shook his fist above his head. “I can hear ’em.” For the first time, I saw Wilbur smile with genuine joy.

  Isobel came running. “Is they in there?”

  “Says he can hear ’em.” Another lick with my hammer sent the first board clattering at my feet.

  “There ain’t a loose board to be found,” she said.

  “Haul this one over while I get another.”

  Isobel covered her ears as the shotgun roared, splintering wood and chipping stone, but the hasp held. Wilbur dug in his satchel for more shells.

  “What’d we need these boards fer?”

  “There’s a pit to cross and, well, you don’t want to fall in. It’s where the Pig-man lives.”

  Wilbur’s next blast dug into the wood around the hasp but not enough to knock it loose. Isobel came back for another board. I stared over my shoulder out the barn doors, hoping to see the road passing over the hill, but the house blocked my view.

  “Quit your gawkin’, Jimmy. Wilbur ain’t gonna wait.”

  “How about you climb up in the hayloft and watch the road. I fear Marzby’s gonna surprise us if we don’t keep a lookout.”

  “Are you tryin’ to get rid of me again?”

  “We been at this too long already.” This girl had more argument in her than a badger with a burr up its tail. I knocked the board loose with one mighty swing of the hammer. “We need a lookout.”

  “Oh, alright.” Isobel stomped off toward the ladder to the loft.

  Balancing the newly liberated board on my shoulder, I hustled over to where Wilbur was attacking the door. He aimed his gun downward at the hasp. The door jerked inward as wood splintered, flying in every direction. The hasp hung toward us, holding on by only one screw like a man who’s fallen from a saddle but keeps one foot in a stirrup. Cordite had driven off the sweet smell of hay. After all those shots, Wilbur had yet to blast a hole clean through. It was a testament to Marzby’s choice of timber.

  I turned to shout a question at Isobel, but there was the stubborn girl’s head at the floor of the loft, her hair hanging below like Spanish moss.

  I spat for want of anything to say. There was not a chance even in the most crooked set of dice that I could watch for Marzby and rein in Wilbur all by lonesome. A man who delegates is a man cursed with disappointments, said my grandma.

  “I ain’t seen a lick of nothin’.” Isobel’s head and hair jerked out of sight. Footfalls pounded across the loft.

  “Give it a kick,” I counseled Wilbur. “You’re gonna need all the shells you got left for Marzby and the Pig-man.”

  Wilbur didn’t acknowledge my suggestion, but he took it to heart. With one ferocious thrust of his boot, he planted the sole of his foot on the door and kicked through. The embattled hasp gave up the ghost and hung limp. The door swung free on greased hinges, banged the wall and shivered.

  “Nellie? Nellie.” Wilbur’s hulking back filled the doorframe so I couldn’t see a thing inside.

  “Orville? You still in there?” I yelled.

  “Stand back,” shrieked Nellie. “That monstrosity is creeping up on the door.”

  “Jimmy? Is you out there?” boomed Orville’s voice. “What took you so long? We liked to die of thirst in here.”

  I grinned. Orville sounded hale and hearty. I brought the boards up close to the door. My heart thumped with joy, and my skin tingled with giddy anticipation. I hadn’t really believed until now that we’d free them. So fearing of failure, I had neglected to consider our getaway. Don’t lock yourself in the privy, my grandma said, if you don’t know how to unlock it.

  Wilbur peered into the pit beyond the door, aiming his shotgun at the snuffling and scuffling sounds therein. The barrels twitched, tracking the elusive noises. Beneath the light slanting through the doorway and the hole in the roof, the pit was black as a well. The death of the Monster-men had occasioned guilt, them being mostly human, at least to look at, but I felt no such regret for the Pig-man. His demise would be a mercy.

  A clawed hand broke the blackness, arcing for the gun but coming nowhere close. The muzzle flashed red, illuminating the pit as lightning banishes the darkness on a stormy night, if only for a moment. In that brief flash I saw the Pig-man crumple and wrap his arms round his blood-streaked head. As darkness again flooded the pit, the Pig-man let loose the worst hog butcher squeals I’d ever heard. Shrill screams pierced my ears as the beast kicked and scrabbled below. Wilbur fired again into the dark. The squealing subsided to rasping squawks and then a blessed quiet.

  “I guess you got him,” I said.

  “Reckon so,” said Wilbur.

  “Hurry,” said Orville.

  “Hold on in there,” I shouted. “We got some boards to span the gap.” Each plank was nigh over eight feet. I heaved them up and forward within Wilbur’s reach.

  As I swung the planks ahead, I experienced a queer sensation, like I had thrown myself along with them. My feet left the ground. A burning wind struck my back, launching me ever faster toward the door. I gripped the board with the frantic desperation of a drowning man in a flood-swollen river. Ahead of me, Wilbur’s boots disappeared into the darkness, kicking up and down like he was swimming. Nellie screamed.

  Whether by trap or ambush, we were back in Marzby’s clutches.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wilbur grunted when he crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor a moment before my careening body followed him. The boards slammed into the wall and fell on the both of us.

  “Wilbur?” Nellie scurried over the planks to her husband’s si
de.

  “Criminy, Jimmy. Now you’re gonna get us all killed,” said Orville. “Haven’t you done learned what I’ve been teachin’ you? The real trick goes on behind you.”

  I rubbed the side of my skull where one of the boards had abused me. Wilbur was suffering a lot more comfort and gratefulness from his wife than I would ever hope to get from Orville. I let his comments slide like moss off a turtle shell. Sometimes I had to remind myself that Orville granted me a job when I was down on my luck, as low as a frog in a dried up pond during a summer heat wave, and loyalty to a friend was a most valuable investment. This was one of those times.

  What concerned me the most was Marzby striding across the barn with a confident swagger, his arms bowed at his sides with strength puffing out his chest, like a male peacock in full plumage. He had us right where he wanted us. Had we fallen into a trap? Were there more than crows watching us? And why hadn’t Isobel shouted a warning?

  “Jimmy, are you listening to me? I hope you had sense enough to get that damned black blade or whatever it is he wants.”

  “Of course we got the...knife.” The word died on my tongue, a winged bird plummeting to ground. Isobel had the blade. In all the excitement, I’d never thought to get it back from her.

  The cell darkened as Marzby’s frame filled the door. A deathly silence smothered our thoughts.

  Marzby peered into the pit. Now that we were all quiet, I heard soft whimpering and a weak scraping—claws against stone—rising from the hole. The Pig-man proved a might bit tougher than those two other monsters. A bluish flash shot from Marzby’s hand. The Pig-man squealed and then gave a healthy snort. I recalled Marzby’s healing touch on my own wounds, mere scratches compared to what the Pig-man suffered.

  Offering a killing blow, putting the Pig-man out of his misery, would have been a mercy, but I reckoned Marzby’s merciful bones had rotted to black hatred long ago. His healing called back the Pig-man for another round of misery. The Pig-man, Marzby had a use for. I pondered whether he had a use for me?

  “Weakness.” Marzby spat out the word like a sour grape. “All those pathetic lumps of waste who throw themselves at the feet of my humanity. Ha!” He laughed, as if humanity was a scornful joke, and then spat. “I despise weakness.”

  Wilbur rose to his feet, taking up his shotgun in one hand and pushing Nellie behind him with the other.

  “You wanna see weakness?” Wilbur stepped to the edge of the pit. “A coward? Roll your yellow-bellied eyes back, cause he’s hidin’ behind a monster. Behind trickery.” He flung a glance in Orville’s direction for good measure. “Gettin’ innocent folk to do your dirty work.” He spat across the pit toward Marzby. “I spit on you.”

  Despite my misgivings about Wilbur’s character, I admired his bravery. He possessed more audacity than an angry wolverine.

  Marzby grinned. What was he playing at?

  “Oh, but you are, my friend. You would trek to the ends of the earth and beyond. For what? For love. Your weakness.”

  Marzby’s eyes flicked from side to side as he spoke, a red blur like someone waving a brand. He was looking for something, for Isobel, I decided. He must have known she was with us.

  “You two have played the game and played it well,” said Marzby. “Beyond my expectations.”

  “I don’t give a damn ’bout your stinkin’ praise,” said Wilbur. “Now get over here and fight.”

  Marzby held his hands out at his sides, palms up. “And if I let the four of you go?”

  “A bargain, you say? Let’s hear your terms,” said Orville, always the negotiator.

  Didn’t we know a bit too much about Marzby for him to let us go? He was concocting another infernal game.

  Wilbur turned on Orville. With his lips curled back, Wilbur didn’t look much different than a snarling coyote, and I’d seen one of those up close. “You’d sell your sorry soul to the devil just to save your fat hide.”

  “I’m workin’ to keep my soul and yours and everyone else’s firmly in their livin’ bodies,” said Orville.

  “Marzby is the enemy, Wilbur. Orville’s just tryin’ to help,” I said.

  “Where’s the girl?” shouted Marzby.

  Orville and Nellie looked puzzled. Marzby turned to scan the barn.

  “What girl?” said Orville.

  “She was with you,” said Marzby. “Three of you traveling on two horses.”

  “We sent her home,” I said.

  “That’s right,” echoed Wilbur. “Ain’t no place for children.”

  Marzby laughed. “Hardly a child. How old is she? Thirteen? Almost a woman, but not quite. An in between time. The girl and the blade for the four of you.”

  “I wouldn’t trust you to uphold any bargain,” said Wilbur.

  “What girl?” said Orville.

  “Isobel,” I hissed. “The grave digger’s daughter. From Busted Axle.”

  Recognition spread slowly but surely as Orville’s tightly wrinkled brows loosened.

  “She’s a troublesome little brat,” said Orville. “You wouldn’t want her underfoot. Perhaps we could offer you a horse or ready cash in her stead?”

  Marzby shook his head. “The girl and the blade. Nothing less. Makes no difference to me if you leave here or rot.”

  “Jimmy,” whispered Orville. “Show him the knife.”

  We were in a mighty deep pickle barrel now. No way to bluff our way out. Marzby would want to see the goods. I shook my head at Orville, who groaned like a man finding himself at the end of a rope fifty feet too short. We had arrived at an impasse. Perchance Wilbur thought the same or maybe he was fed up with yammering.

  In the second it took to toss another curse at Marzby, Wilbur aimed his shotgun and fired. The cell’s confines intensified the roar. I grabbed my ears, which felt like they’d been stabbed with needles. Marzby flew backward and then skidded across the dirt floor on his sorry behind. He lay still as death, but I was loathe to celebrate. There was something missing.

  “Bargain with that.” Wilbur turned round, grinning like a hog in a fresh mud wallow.

  “Mind the pit,” said Nellie. “Come away from it.” She extended her hand to Wilbur.

  “He’s dead?” said Orville.

  “Of course he’s dead,” said Wilbur. “He ain’t movin’ is he? Now let’s get those planks across and ride outa’ here.”

  “And that was all it took?” said Orville as he rubbed his chin. He didn’t look any more convinced than I felt.

  I grabbed a board and directed it toward the door, my gaze locked on Marzby’s stiff form, when Isobel darted across the barn. The girl peeked around a post. Gripped in her hand, thrust out in the open, was the blade in all its infernal blackness. Was Marzby playing opossum, a trick? If he saw Isobel and the blade together, within his reach, I didn’t have to hazard a guess what would become of all of us.

  I dropped the plank, which bounced back and forth on its edges before clapping to the floor. I waved at Isobel, telling her to hide, but the headstrong girl stepped forward, all the way out from behind the post.

  “Get away from there,” cried Nellie. “The pig is still alive.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Wilbur. “Snap the boards ’fore we use ’em?”

  Isobel trotted toward us. Orville peered past Wilbur at Marzby’s body.

  “There ain’t no blood,” I said. “There ain’t no blood on his shirt. Look at it. As pure white as unbroken snow.”

  “Of course there’s blood,” said Wilbur.

  “Jimmy’s right,” said Isobel, who was now bent over Marzby. “Ain’t no holes neither.”

  “You was supposed to be watchin’,” said Wilbur. “Why didn’t—” His scream cut off his question. The burly farmer hit the floor face-first with a wet crunch. I ducked away from his gun, which went spinning past me, clattering into the wall.

  Nellie screamed.

  Wilbur’s body jerked toward the pit. I lunged for his hand but only in time to graze his fingertips. Blood oo
zed from his cracked forehead and joined the gusher from his broken nose, spreading a wet, red bandana across his eyes. The Pig-man yanked again. Wilbur slid into the pit, leaving a slick crimson trail across the stone floor.

  Nellie lunged after her husband, but Orville wrapped his thick arms round her waist, preventing her from following Wilbur to a messy death. Horrible sounds of rending and crunching echoed off the walls and ceiling. The Pig-man slobbered and gnashed his teeth. Nellie wailed as she kicked and slapped at Orville to free herself. Wilbur hadn’t done a lot to recommend himself, what with trying to kill me and all, but nobody deserved to tumble into the Pig-man’s clutches.

  “Jimmy!” cried Isobel.

  I whirled to see the unimaginable. Marzby stood behind Isobel, one arm holding her waist, the other gripping the wrist of the hand holding the blade.

  “Let go, you little brat. Let it go.” The words hissed between Marzby’s gritted teeth. He shook Isobel’s arm. Veins stood out on his hand. He’d crush her wrist if she didn’t drop the blasted thing.

  Isobel stomped his feet with her heels, screaming with each exertion. In between stomps, she jabbed her elbow into his gut with her free arm. Marzby shuffled his boots to avoid Isobel’s heels. They called to mind an ill-matched couple trying to dance two different dances.

  “Lemme go,” cried Isobel. “Help!”

  With the pit between us, I could do nothing but watch. Marzby yelped with pain as Isobel’s heel connected with his shin.

  Nellie had broken free of Orville’s grip and scurried past me but not for the pit. She turned from the back wall, a firm grip on Wilbur’s shotgun. I feared she was going to shoot Marzby and kill Isobel in the bargain.

  Marzby didn’t wait to find out. He pointed the arm he had round Isobel’s waist at Nellie. I flattened myself to the floor and pressed my hands over my hat. A powerful wind gust roared above me. The tail end of it dragged me toward Nellie, and I thought I might go flying like a tumbleweed caught in a tornado, but it dropped me as quick as it grabbed me. Nellie and Orville didn’t fare so well. I heard two umphs as soft bodies struck the back wall. The shotgun clattered. Orville groaned.