by W. J. Lundy
“No, no, please stop,” the man gasped.
Sean eased back then scowled. “Tell me where the damn camp is or I’ll blow your nuts off and leave you here for the Primals.” Snarling his words, he pelted the man’s face with spit as he dug in the barrel of the pistol.
The man pulled back, looking away. “I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”
Sean eased away the weapon, giving the prisoner instant relief. He turned to look at the team gathered around him. Away from the fire, keeping watch, Brooks turned to look back, holding up the scrap paper. “I say if this is a map, we shoot him in the face and get the hell out of here. Even in the cold, Chief, the Primals will be on us soon.”
“Okay, okay, go east,” the man gasped. “I’m telling you it’s east, just let me be.”
Villegas shook his head, tossing empty wallets to the fire. He moved closer, holding up a stack of driver’s licenses. “Nah, this hombre is full of shit. I’ve been east; ain’t shit that way but more mountain.” He stepped closer and handed Chief a set of driver’s licenses. “All three dead men are from Ohio. I bet this guy is too. Just shoot this fool, Chief.”
Sean reached back and took the IDs, flipping through them. “Ohio, really?”
The man nodded his head violently, still gagging, his neck already beginning to bruise. “Yeah, so what? Most of the boys are from Ohio, but that don’t mean nothing. I’m telling the truth—go east a ways; you’ll find a trail. That’s where they’re at.”
“How many?”
The man’s eyes locked onto the pistol in Sean’s hands. “You might just as well kill me, ‘cause if I tell you any more, Carson will hunt me down himself.”
From the shadows, Burt stepped forward, grinning, “So there it is; the confirmation.”
The man’s gaze shifted. “Why you got this Ranger with you? Carson’s declared war on Texas. You know that makes you all part of it. You all are fucked now.”
Burt ignored the prisoner and looked at Sean. “Ohio makes sense if they followed the railway. If he is here, we got a chance to stop him. Kill him.”
Sean nodded in agreement and turned back to the prisoner. “How many? Last chance before you eat a bullet.”
The man shook his head.
“How many?” Sean asked.
The prisoner’s eyes went wide before answering the question. “More than you can count.”
Sean smiled. “And Carson?”
The man dipped his chin. “He’ll kill you,” he muttered.
Sean looked at Brooks. “What’s on the paper?”
Brooks unfolded the scrap and looked at the handwritten note. He laughed and tossed the paper into the fire. “Some bullshit poem.”
“Okay then, we go east,” Sean raised the pistol.
The man screamed, “You said you’d let me go!”
Sean aimed low, firing a single shot that grazed the inside of the man’s thigh just above the knee. A shallow wound that bled heavily. Sean tuned as the man wailed; with his bound hands, he rolled in agony. Chief put his arm in the air, making a lasso motion and gathering the men around him, then looked back toward the high ridge to the east and started moving, the others falling in behind him.
“What the hell we doing, Chief?” Villegas asked. “I told you there ain’t shit this way.”
Sean snorted. He looked back behind him to see the prisoner still rolling on the ground. “I know that. And he knows that. Once that man back there gets over his tantrum and figures we’re long gone, he’ll cut himself free with that pocket knife that I ignored in his back pocket.”
Villegas grinned. “So, we ain’t going east?”
Sean shook his head. “We’re going just over the hill, Joey; then we’ll follow that bastard home.”
Chapter 11
Henry Tucker Homestead
Free Virginia Territories
“How’s the shoulder?” Henry asked.
The old man was standing over a wash basin, wiping his hands with a cotton cloth. They’d just finished breakfast and the man had placed the now clean dishes on a rack over the sink. Shane was shirtless, sitting on a wooden chair near an open fireplace. His wound was closed, dull red scabs crusted over the black stitching. Jagged teeth had punctured deep into his skin, leaving a dark bruise below the collar bone. He was applying salve from a shallow tin, rubbing it over the scabs.
“It’s a scratch,” he said quietly. “Where did you learn to stitch?” Shane asked, running his fingertips over the hard, black sutures.
“Taxidermy,” Henry answered, crossing the room to take the salve from Shane. He placed a folded shirt over the back of the chair. “Fixed the hole in yer shirt. The critter that got ya had a hell of a jaw.”
“Thank you,” Shane said, rolling his shoulder.
Henry stepped away and looked down at him. “Sure you’re up to traveling? I could go it alone.”
Shane shook his head, slipping the shirt over his arms and shoulders. “I’m fine,” he said, standing. The chair scooted back away from him. Henry had bags packed by the door, the lever action Winchester resting against the wall. Shane moved toward the gear and gripped the rifle, checking the action. On the stock was a leather sleeve with an additional twelve rounds.
Henry pointed to a heavy jacket with a sheep’s wool collar hanging on a hook. “You’ll need that too.”
Shane reached for the range coat then paused. “Henry, why are you helping me?”
The old man smiled and stepped slowly toward the stone fireplace. “Maybe you were right, maybe I am tired of being alone,” he said, taking a .44 Henry rifle from a rack above the mantle. He moved across the room and took a seat on a walnut hall tree, then laid a leather holster across his lap and seated a 1911 pistol. “I guess after Vera died, I stopped caring about other people. I’ve been pretty content with just holding out up here and taking care of myself.”
“And Vera, she was your wife?” Shane asked innocently.
Henry nodded and reached for a set of heavy leather boots.
“How did it happen? Was it the Primals?”
The old man glanced up from the laces he was tying. “The sick folks… ‘Primals,’ that what you call ‘em?” he answered, shifting his feet. “Nah, but not for lack of trying. I tell ya, that woman could fight. I got some scars to prove it.” He looked off and grinned again. “She was old, son, and wasn’t even in the best of health before all of this started. The cancer most likely took her, but I don’t know; once we lost contact with my son, I think she kind of lost her fight. She got tired.” Henry flipped the gun belt over and filled leather stitched loops with ammunition from a box, then stuck the remainder into his pack.
“You have a son, then?” Shane asked in a low voice.
The old man looked off as he seemed to search for the answer. “Yeah,” he said finally. Henry reached into his shirt pocket and began to pack his pipe. “He’s in Charleston. Smart kid; he would have gone north with the convoys. We talked about it before the phones failed. I told him he should go. I told him to follow the soldiers north.” He rolled the pipe in his hand and tamped it.
Shane looked down at his feet, reflecting on his own time during and after the fall—the chaos in the streets, the mad panic, and the lack of any organization from the government. He looked at the tired eyes of the old man. How would Henry have known what it was like out there? He’d been here on this mountain through it all. Shane knew the old man blocked out what must have happened to his son. Shane knew because he’d tried to do the same.
Henry struck a match and lit the pipe. He stood, then hoisted a pack with a bedroll strapped to the top. He pointed out an identical pack leaning against the wall, then took the pipe from his mouth and rubbed his leathered and worn hands together. “You mentioned the girl, that she is like a daughter, but do you have a woman?”
“No,” Shane said stubbornly. “I have a friend. We got split up during the fight; she’ll be back there waiting for me. But no, I don’t have anyone… not really. She’s just a fri
end.”
Henry eyed him suspiciously and ran a hand through his gray hair. “Friend? What the hell does that mean? Damn, son, you either got a woman or ya don’t.”
“Then I guess I don’t,” Shane spat back. “Sometimes I wish I did, though.”
The old man gnawed at the end of the pipe, giving Shane a skeptical glance. He shook his head and pointed to the pack and rifle. “Well, that’s your gear. C’mon, follow me. I hope you weren’t lying about being able to ride.”
Henry hurried to the door and Shane followed him. The sun was a just over the horizon, but it wasn’t bright; dark shadows still hung through the tall trees. Having been the first time he’d stepped outside Henry's home, Shane stopped and looked around. The place was well taken care of; snow covered flower beds and an old pickup truck topped with a canvas cover showed him Henry had maintained some semblance of his previous life. Off to the back, from what Shane could tell, was a staked off garden. Henry moved on, stomped over a shoveled path toward a tall barn. As they approached, the horses detected them and began shuffling; Shane could hear them moving inside as the old man slid open a door.
Henry wasted no time grabbing gear from a post; he lifted a saddle, blanket, and bridle, then moved to a stall in the barn housing a pair of line back duns. The old man moved to the nearest and signaled for Shane to take the other. “Sally here, she’s gentle enough for you; she was Vera’s girl,” he said softly. “She’ll take care of you.”
Shane reached for a second saddle and bridle, and stood watching as the old man entered the stall. The man rubbed the horse’s back and whispered to it before covering it with the blanket. The horse turned and moved closer, ready to accept the saddle. Henry worked efficiently and finished his task, then turned back to see Shane standing awkwardly with the saddle still in his hands. “Come on now, son, you got to work with me,” he chuckled, taking the saddle from Shane. “I’ll help you out this time, but a man needs to be able to care for his own horse.”
Henry prepped Sally in no time, explaining what he was doing as he quickly prepared the horse for the day’s ride. When the mare was ready, he took Shane’s rifle and slid it into a long, leather sheath on the horse’s right side. He walked the horse around and placed a rein in Shane’s palm. “We’ll walk them for a bit as they get used to the terrain, then we’ll be on our way.”
Shane waited a minute before asking, “You sure this is okay with the Primals? Won’t they attack the horses?”
Henry nodded and rubbed his hand over scars on the flank of his horse. Shane could easily recognize it as a human bite. “If we run into Primals, you just hang on; the girls don’t like them anymore than we do. They’ll get us out of trouble.” Henry grinned. “But if you fall off and they get surrounded, you best clear out cause these girls will fight.”
Shane nodded and stared at the horse as he put a hand to the scars. Henry moved out, leading the way down a snow-covered trail. When they’d cleared the farm’s property, he stopped and swung into the saddle. Shane placed a boot in the stirrup and pulled himself up into place. Henry watched and smiled his approval. “Keep your sidearm where you can reach it; you don’t have to do much else. Sally there will follow along, you just enjoy the ride.”
They wended along a tract of flat land high with brown grasses, the edge lined with tall cedar trees. Henry waved a hand as he described his property lines and small improvements he’d made to the place since he’d lived there. Shane gripped the saddle horn and tried to adjust his body to the horse’s stride. The trail narrowed and the trees closed in around them. The terrain grew difficult and Henry stopped speaking as he concentrated on navigating the path. The horses stepped heavily, seeming to carefully place each footfall to avoid slipping on the frozen ground.
Off to the left, the terrain dropped down away from them. Shane looked ahead and could see they were moving deeper into the valley; a notch at the end showed an opening far in the distance. White and gray clouds hung overhead, and a cold, damp air crept into the collar of his jacket. Henry moved them down the trail, which eventually dumped them onto a narrow road covered in untouched snow. At the far side of the road was another stretch of grass that butted up against a slow moving stream.
“There’s good fishing here,” Henry said casually.
Shane let his head drift left and right. It was empty, no signs of inhabitants or travelers, no homes, and no people. Just an enormous slice of land, untouched except for the road. The air was fresh, the sounds of the flowing water calming. He stiffened his shoulders, having to remind himself that the looks of the place could be deceiving, that danger always lurked close by. He grew up on a farm, hiking trails and traveling through the forest with his grandfather. He was no stranger to the woods and felt more at home here than in any city.
The horse swayed below him as it navigated a hole in the road. Far ahead, blue sky was beginning to reveal itself, and below that, in the opening of the trees, he could see the makings of a blacktop road where the sunlight had melted away the snow. Henry moved his horse to the center of the road and slowed so that they were now side by side. He reached into his pocket for his pipe and placed it into the corner of his mouth.
“I been pondering on this for a bit. I don’t think we can expect much by sneaking up on ‘em. Worst case, we get caught and shot for our troubles,” he said, speaking softly.
Shane nodded, keeping his hands on the saddle horn. “Then what are you planning to do?”
Henry smiled. “I think we ride right up to the gate and asked to be let in. If they are in fact creating a settlement, they’ll be looking for strong men.” The old man turned and looked Shane up and down with a grin. “I’m sure they’ll take me, and I can always put in a good word for you.”
“What about the men you killed?” Shane asked. “I don’t think these folks are friendly.”
“Aye, but they are still folks; and folks is known to be curious,” Henry said, chewing the end of the pipe. “Crabtree is just around the bend. Last I visited, they were building a fence and a gate at the base of the road.”
“I don’t know, Henry. I think I’d rather take these men on behind this rifle, but I’ll give your way benefit of the doubt.”
The old man nodded and lifted a hand, guiding his horse west onto the blacktop road. As they moved into the sunlight and over a narrow bridge, Shane could see the outline of Crabtree in the distance. The raiders had done more than build a fence; the small settlement was completely enclosed by a wall, complete with watch towers. Henry pointed to a bank of snow to the right of the road. “There’s railroad tracks under that drift,” he said. “I come this way to gather coal in the fall.”
Shane nodded, not taking his eyes off the far away wall. He could see men moving in the towers as they took notice of the distant riders.
“There were good people that lived here; good people could live here again one day.”
Shane shrugged. “You’d know more about that than me.”
Henry laughed. “That’s right, I forgot you ain’t got a woman of your own. It tends to give a man a different perspective on things.”
Shane saw heads appear over the top of the wall, followed by rifles leveled over the edge and pointed in their direction. Henry rode on, seemingly unconcerned with the attention. The sun was high and in line with the road, hanging just behind them. Shane laughed thinking of the sight of two men on horseback riding out of the sun toward a frontier outpost. He hoped the Raiders would find as much humor in it.
“What are you planning to tell them?” Shane asked.
“I’m sure I got a story or two left in me; you just stay with me, son.”
To Shane’s surprise, he watched as the gate began to open and two men carrying rifles close to their chests stepped out. Henry picked up the pace and Shane followed, making tiny preparations in his head for the suicidal gunfight that he was sure was in store for them. He had no illusions that the people in Crabtree were killers and they would have little respect for a person
like Henry, as peaceful as he may appear to be. Shane paused and tried to hold back his own grin… maybe Henry was the one these men should be afraid of.
A big man stepped from the cover of the gate and held up a hand to them. Broad-shouldered with wide forearms and easily over two hundred pounds. He wore a well-trimmed, red beard and a dark watch cap covered his head. The stub of a cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. He reached out with his hand, took the cigar, and spit onto the road. Shane studied the men’s faces, none of them showed concern as they held their weapons down.
“That’ll be close enough,” Cigar said.
Henry pulled back on the reins, stopping his horse, and Shane’s stopped with it.
The man stepped closer, eyeing the sheathed rifles strapped to the horses. “What business you fellas got in Crabtree today?”
Henry took the pipe from his mouth and flicked it against his wrist, knocking spent tobacco out. “I ain’t here to see you, I’m here for the boss.”
Cigar grinned but seemed to appreciate Henry’s candor. “If you’re here about a bounty, I’m the man you need to speak to.”
“It ain’t about the bounty—it’s about the price.”
The big man leaned back, letting out a loud laugh. “Ain’t it always?” He turned and slapped one of the guards on the back. Then waved a hand. “Open the gates. Show these two tough guys where they can put their horses, then bring ‘em to me.”
Chapter 12
Crabtree, West Virginia
Free Virginia Territories
When her patient began to stir, the brown-eyed nurse sitting at the end of the bed looked up from a basket of linen she was folding. Chelsea forced her eyes open, the blinding light sending shockwaves through her brain. The nurse rose and walked to the hallway, then returned with a tall man in a stained, yellow lab coat. The man moved close to the bed and looked Chelsea over. She was heavily drugged and could only faintly register his touch.
The man drew the sheet down from her chest and ran his hands along her rib cage then forced her jaw open and shone a light into her mouth. “She’ll be okay. No more drugs, and when she wakes, make sure she eats something,” the doctor said, turning to leave the room.
