by Logan, Jake
“You’ll see.” Judith leaned back out the door frame, watching.
“Untie me, dammit. This is foolish.”
“No, Mama says you’re too good, you’ll try to do the right thing and that will end up killing more family or them killing you, and none of us want that.” She looked at him briefly in the dark, then leaned back out around the door frame.
Slocum turned back to the gaps in the boards. “You be careful, don’t lean out too far. I don’t trust them.”
The old man began shouting as the torchbearer stepped onto the road. “You devils! You demon spawn! You have earned this! Every second of it! As your bodies begin to roast, you will scream and God Himself will not help you! You are beyond redemption! I have tried my best to save your doomed souls, but you have made your beds, you demons! You shall perish in the flames of hell! And Luke will deliver the death blow! He will prove himself a man and the heavens shall sing his name into the Book of Life!”
“What in the hell is he going on about?” Slocum shifted tighter to the wall, pressing his eye closer to the boards, forgetting for a moment the hard bindings of the ropes. He couldn’t see the old man, who was still hidden well away in the safety of the dark and under cover of rocks and trees and night.
And then down came the boy, Luke, his skinny arm raised above his head, the flaming torch held high, lighting his face. His eyes squinted against the heat and glare. He stopped at the edge of the road, and with his other hand resting on the butt of his side arm, he stood still, looking at the little ruined house.
His mother came out into the rubble-filled dooryard, a lantern held aloft, mimicking her young son’s posture. “That you, Luke? Sweet boy, you come to see your mama. Finally come back to me?”
Slocum heard the old woman’s voice catch in her throat. The boy, Slocum saw even at that distance, stood still, trembling.
From behind him, the old man roared, “Boy! Don’t you listen! She is a devil woman! Devil woman! She will kill you and pull you down into the cauldron of hell, where your soul will suffer eternal torments, boy! Get walking, walk on and throw that fire! Do as God bids you!”
The boy still stood, quaking and staring forward. He glanced back once over his shoulder, wincing every time his father lashed him with another layer of Biblically tinged insult. Then he looked again at his mother. Finally he reached forward with his gun hand, empty of any gun, and his thin, trembling fingers groped outward as if beckoning his own mother to him. He took one, two tottering steps forward.
“No, boy! I forbid this sacrilege!” The old man’s voice rose to a fevered pitch, his shouts strained and cracked into screams. “Dare you disobey the Lord’s will? You are a weak-willed womanly boy!”
As if time had slowed down, in the warm amber glow of torch and lamplight mingling in the cool night air, Slocum saw a bullet pelt the earth just to the side of the boy. Screams and shouts of warning and panic arose from the little house. But the boy and mother continued walking toward each other, slowly, arms outstretched, some sort of shared joy writ large on their faces. Another bullet pocked closer, rooster-tailing dirt that spattered the boy, but still he kept walking, closing the gap between himself and his mama. Then he stiffened, both arms thrown to the heavens as if he had just found God and had to express himself in some meaningful way.
Then time became real again, and the boy lurched forward, a dark mass spreading as only blood can on the boy’s dirty white shirtfront. He’d been shot square in the back. And the torch slipped from his hand and fell, harmless, to the dirt road. The boy dropped forward to his side, his head bounced against the hard-packed surface and his mother bent to him, scooped up his head into her lap, and cradled him. Slocum saw the boy, with one last effort, raise his arm and touch a limp hand to his mother’s wrinkled face, then it dropped and Slocum knew the boy was dead.
Slocum was sure the old man’s screams could be heard for miles. Soon, the old bearded bastard himself came stumbling down out of the rocks and staggered into the road, followed by his last remaining son, a hulking brute looking cowed and defeated.
“What . . . look what you made me do. Look, devils. I meant only to get him moving, get him to carry out the Lord’s work. He was on a mission. But not this, not now . . . Oh, my boy, what have I done? What have I done?” He dropped to his knees on the other side of the boy, put his bald forehead to the boy’s unmoving legs, and clutched at the thin, lifeless form as if it were a life raft on a roiling sea.
Soon the run-down house emptied and women and girls poured from it, clustering around the sad scene, weeping and holding one another.
Judith inhaled as if she would never again breathe normally, her thin body trembling with shock, grief, and anger. Slocum tried to crawl to her but she scrabbled to her feet and ran into the night, out behind the barn. He shouted once, but was sure she had not heard him above the din made by her weeping family. But she did not go to them. Soon, he heard hoofbeats rushing northwest into the night.
“Oh, Judith,” said Slocum to the dark, empty space of the barn. “This isn’t right. None of this should have happened.”
He struggled to loosen his bindings, trying to gain himself enough slack to reach the knife in his boot. Soon, he heard fast footsteps running across the gravel yard, thick, thuggish steps, and his gut curdled at what that meant—the men, just the two of them, the old man and the older son, would soon find him. He was sure of it with each growl and grunt he heard. He wanted to at least meet them face to face, head on in a fight. They were cowardly backshooters, and he didn’t doubt they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him as he lay tied up, defenseless, helpless.
He thrashed and tipped over on his side on the musty old straw, the thin smells of rat shit and old, dried dung mingling with the thick dust in the air. He was trussed tight, his knees drawn up to his chest, hands lashed about the wrists and then wrapped around his legs. The sewn gash on his leg felt wet and throbbed tighter than Dick’s hatband.
He almost bellowed to the women, the children, anyone, to look out, not to trust the men, but knew it was too late. The best thing he could do, he figured, was try to sit upright and push himself with his heels back into the dark corner behind him. If the men came poking about in here, with any luck they’d overlook him.
“Where’s Judith?” The voice was that of the last young man just outside. Then Slocum heard a slap and a sharp gasp. Another slap. “Where is she? I asked you a question, Angel!”
He was hitting his sister? The very thought made Slocum sick. He’d never been able to understand nor stomach a man who hit a woman. That was the foulest of the foul, the lowest, and only rarely did a woman ever deserve such nasty treatment. There were viperous women in the world, to be sure, but they were the sort to claw out a man’s eyes for his poke, then stab him when he was down. These women were not of that ilk. They were just caught between freedom and a Bible-thumper. One they wanted, the other they wanted to get away from.
But the thumper had spread his twisted madness to his boys, made them hate and regard the women as he did—as mere cattle for breeding purposes. And they were their own flesh and blood. Now look what it got them all. What a mad family. And yet, as he scooted backward into the corner, frantically working to grab hold of the hilt of his boot knife with his straining fingertips, he knew he couldn’t let them down. He had to get free so that he might get them free.
Damn the old woman! If she hadn’t tied him up, he’d be able to turn the tables on those bastards.
He wondered if she’d taken his rifle as well. Oddly she’d left him with his pistol. Just wanted to slow me down? he thought. Was that her game? Was she feeling so torn about the fact that her sons and daughters were getting killed and hurt? If the old man kept shooting, that’s what would happen to them all, the children included. Maybe she was giving up. Giving in to the old Bible-thumper?
Shouts from the house alerted him t
o what was happening. He redoubled his effort, the throbbing of his leg wound be damned. He had to get loose, had to rescue Ruth, the twins, and Judith. There was no way he was going to let those God-fearing fools hurt those women. He had to get to them, get them free of those men somehow. Set them on their way to California. But first, Slocum, he told himself, you have to get that knife out of your boot.
He felt the hilt with his middle fingers’ tips, but he was trussed so tight that there was little room for budging. He gritted his teeth, strained, felt the hemp tighten, heard it squeak and strain . . . and finally it budged a fraction more than it had. And now he wanted more and more. And by God, he told himself, he’d get that damn knife or he’d lose his hands trying.
Soon, he heard more noises, the deep cries of frightened children, interrupted by slaps that brought on harsher cries. Ruth’s voice spoke sternly, but in a warm way to them, shushing them. He heard chains rattle, heard hard, stinging slaps against horses’ rumps, and knew they were hooking up the wagon. The old woman’s voice rose in pitch and was met with a smack and an oath from the old man: “Shut your mouth, woman! The Lord will not tolerate your wicked ways any longer! Your evil has resulted in killing on this night!”
Slocum gritted his teeth and resumed grasping for the blade. He hoped they didn’t notice the Appaloosa. As if they’d read his mind, he heard one of the men speak.
“Where’s that hired gun you got hid? Where’s he at?”
Then Slocum heard a smacking sound and Ruth said, “He isn’t here! He was just a drifter, a low-down, dust-sucking scum who didn’t want any part of this mess. He rode on as soon as the shooting got too intense.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. He’d been called a pile of things in his years in and out of the saddle, but never a “dust-sucking scum.” He supposed she had a right to be angry with him, but he figured she also knew he was trussed up in the barn.
They seemed to buy her story, because the man grunted and sounded as if he’d resumed working on the wagon. Slocum took advantage of the time to keep working on retrieving the knife. He was sweating and straining from his efforts, but his panting was covered up by the squeaks of the wagon wheels, the shouts of the men, the growling replies of Ruth and the twins, the occasional clipped cries of the children, and the distinct lack of sound from the mother and, more notably, Judith. And that gave Slocum pause. Had they caught Judith? Hurt her? Knocked her out perhaps? Or worse? And the old lady? He imagined she had just given up, convinced herself that she was doing the right thing in surrendering herself and her daughters to the foul whims of the beast men.
Soon, he heard the squeak and clomp of horses pulling a wagon. He heard the sounds of many feet receding, of random sobs, some children, some women. He imagined the deranged men, grim-faced, watching over their “herd” as they escorted them back to their farm for a life of drudgery.
It took him hours more to free a hand, then it was quick work to slice through the ropes that had caused his hands to purple and swell. As gray dawn light filtered in through the gaps in the barn boards and dawn slowly emerged, he risked leaning in the doorway of the barn to get a brief look at his leg wound. It throbbed like hell, but from what he could see, it wasn’t infected—it didn’t sport that swollen, angry red look that infected flesh wore. Despite his lack of care for it, the wound didn’t appear any worse than it had the day before, and for that he was thankful.
It wouldn’t take long for a wound like that to go so bad that he’d lose his leg. Still, he thought, a drizzle of whiskey on the sutured wound wouldn’t hurt it. Now he only had to find his saddlebags, and soon. They turned up in the opposite corner of the barn he’d bedded down in. His saddle, blanket, and bridle and bit were by the saddlebags. And beside them, his rifle.
Now if only he could find the Appaloosa as easily. Slocum draped the bridle over his shoulder and hobbled on out to the paddock off the end of the barn. But there was no horse in sight. He hobbled farther, whistled, but still no horse. So, the sunburned posse took the horse with them. But, he reasoned, Ruth’s story about him would have been chewed to pieces when they did find the Appaloosa. Wouldn’t they have come looking for him, and then surely would have found him trussed up in the barn? It’s what he would have assumed, but then he wasn’t them, a thug led by a half-assed preacher man—even if he was the remaining son’s father.
He had to find Judith. He reasoned that she hadn’t been found by them, or he would have heard otherwise, so she must be around somewhere. But there was no sign of the horse, nor of Judith. “Damn kid,” he said, realizing that he couldn’t leave, couldn’t stay. The only thing he could do was back-trail to the Bible-thumper’s farm, find his horse, and do what he could to save them. If they didn’t want to leave, he had to get the heck out of there while he still had his life. Mueller, he owed that man a bullet, and Slocum vowed he would trail him to the ends of the earth for every wrong thing he’d ever done.
This entire interlude had been a long, costly one. His leg throbbed with every step he took. He searched throughout the house, the front, the back, around the barn, even for the body in the bushes. But there he found only blood on the ground and surrounding rocks. Maybe he didn’t kill whoever it was. No, he’d been sure it had been a throat shot. They had probably lugged him off to bury at the farm.
He limped back to the barn and took stock of his situation. Everything the women had with them was gone, including their four horses, plus his horse, their possessions. The wagon, all of it. And the heavily laden wagon’s wheels cut deep grooves back eastward, toward the farm where he’d saved the sunburned men.
“Should have left them to die,” he muttered, rummaging through his saddlebags. At least they hadn’t found him, which in itself was curious. But if they did, he knew he’d be dead, bet on it. He had enough water in his canteen for a decent couple of reviving pulls, confident that he would be able to fill it at the little stream he’d passed on his way here—had it only been two days before?
He changed his shirt and checked his leg wound closely this time, looking for any telltale sign that an infection was developing. There was none, though he’d have a nasty welt once the wound healed. He stuffed the rest of his jerky and two remaining biscuits, now rock-hard, into his vest pocket; loaded his other pockets with spare ammunition; double-checked his Colt Navy, his knife, and his rifle; and headed eastward.
Once on the trail, and not knowing how many animals the men rode to get there, he had a tough time reading the tracks. He eventually determined that the main group didn’t have his Appaloosa. But its shoes, different from the tracks made by the shoeless farm beasts, were there, though fresher and off to the side of the trail. It was almost as if whoever rode him was working hard to keep the tracks as unseen as possible. Probably, he nodded, because the rider knew he was going to follow. Which meant it couldn’t have been one of the sunburned men, for they would have just killed him instead.
So who, then? Judith, of course. She was the one who had gone off on her own into the night, not wanting anyone else to see her. He’d assumed it had been her way of dealing with the shock and instant grief of seeing her brother murdered by their father. Luke had been closest to her in age, and had probably been her closest playmate. Slocum could only imagine how hollow and sad she felt inside.
Had she known the men were about to swoop in and clear out the place? Or perhaps she’d seen it happening and kept hidden—that seemed the likelier scenario to him.
She knew that Slocum had been trussed up in the barn, probably helped to do it. And then a thought stopped him in his slow, plodding tracks. The old woman and the coffee—it had seemed uncharacteristic of her at the time for a woman who’d just had one of her sons shot to bring the man who did it a cup of coffee. But the coffee itself tasted odd, he remembered. Bitter and harsh. He’d attributed it at the time to it being chicory blend or just plain burnt. It had been hot and tha
t was all he really had cared about. Now, though, he wondered if she’d drugged him as she’d done to the sunburned men. Maybe Ruth had been in on it, too? Exercise him? Exhaust him further? Slocum’s mind raced on, making connections where there were none.
He trudged on, trying to gain as much ground before the midday heat sapped more of his strength. Tracking them was simple, particularly because he knew precisely where they were headed. And he was relatively assured, too, that none of them were expecting him. Though he still kept alert and stuck to the roadside, ready to dive for what meager cover he could find should one of them decide to double back or lay in wait to ambush him.
In a way, Judith stealing his horse had saved his neck, which was what the women had partially intended. Kind of them, he smiled grimly. With friends like that . . . The men did buy Ruth’s story about him leaving the day before. That meant Judith must have made off with the Appaloosa during the ambush, but had seen it happening, and then followed, hopefully at a safe distance. Relax, Slocum, he told himself. None of it really matters. At least not until you get there.
By his figuring, he had at least a couple of days’ hard walking, in the best of health. But with this limp, he suspected he’d need another half day on top of that, at least. Unless he came across a miracle, like a stray horse. He chuckled, but try as he might, he couldn’t see one in any direction. So he kept on walking.
The heat was brutal, and just about midday he headed for a rocky shelf that offered plenty of shade on the high side of the trail. Problem was, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. A six-foot diamondback sensed his approach and did everything it needed to warn him off. Slocum sighed, out of striking distance. Since he didn’t think he’d be able to jump back with his usual speed, he stayed well back of the beast while he considered what he was going to do next. He had certainly eaten his share of snake over the years. It reminded him of chicken, and while chicken wasn’t his particular favorite meat, he preferred the hell out of it over starving.
