Legends of the Lost Causes

by Brad McLelland

  Beware the high ridge made of bone.

  All those who enter turn to stone.

  Should you be there in deepest night,

  in moon as dim as candlelight,

  you’ll stand alone as ready prey,

  until your soul withers away.

  As Pa Abner had once told it, Granny Nell’s husband—a blacksmith named Abraham—had died in her arms, whispering her name as he had taken his last breath. He was buried out there in the west, in the vast expanse of Bone Ridge alongside the others, the unspeakable number of lost souls, taken by the Withers.

  “Mr. Blackwood!” Granny barked. Her severe tone gave him a jolt, and he almost dropped a plate on the floor.

  “Yes’m?”

  “I’ve never known you to be so untidy at dishes. What’s got into you?”

  Keech hesitated. He was unsure if he should keep the morning’s events down by the river a secret or come right out and spill every detail. As the oldest of the orphans, he had long taken upon himself the role of guardian for the others, which meant facing things they could not yet handle. Sam was twelve, and had practiced all the same training as Keech, had excelled at the forest lessons and games with Pa, but his own confidence sometimes misguided him. Little Eugena was nine but weighed barely fifty pounds after a hearty meal. Patrick had just turned four a month ago. Robby was eleven but had a crooked hand that sometimes slowed him down. Keech felt like most of his duty at the Home was to keep the others safe. The last thing he wanted was to scare anyone with tales of one-eyed strangers.

  Then again, keeping secrets was a surefire way to upset the whole house.

  Keech said to Granny, “This morning, out by the river, Sam and I met a traveler.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes’m. He rode a chestnut horse and had a long goatee.”

  “Was it a farmer up from Big Timber?”

  “No, ma’am. He wore a long black coat and smelled worse than any farmer by a long sight.”

  “Lord, child, he got close enough to smell?”

  “That ain’t the curious part,” added Sam. “This fella had a bad eye, like a pirate only without a patch. And he wanted to know the where’bouts of a man named Raines.”

  Granny Nell staggered as if she had been pushed. “Boys, tell me, who was this man?”

  “He said his name was Whiskey, like the drink,” Keech said. “He asked if we knew of any Isaiah Raines, because they had business. When we told him we didn’t know the name, he wanted to know where he could find Pa instead.”

  “But on no counts would Pa have any dealing with such a fella,” Sam said. “So we sent him down a false trail. Told him we’d heard the name all right, but that he’d headed out west in search of the Fountain of Youth.”

  Granny Nell lowered her silver eyebrows. “You lied to this man?”

  “It was Keech’s fib!” Sam said, quickly passing any blame.

  Keech recognized his imminent danger. Of all the terrible things a kid could do, Granny Nell despised a lie the most.

  “I didn’t lie to be spiteful,” he said. “The man didn’t seem right, is all.”

  Granny pondered and then said, “You boys should have told me this before I made you wash the dishes. I want you to run to Pa right this minute and tell him everything you heard.”

  The boys turned to go.

  “And Keech?”

  He stopped, his boots skidding on the hardwood floor.

  “Tell Abner every word. Leave out nothing.”

  “Yes’m,” he said.

  He stepped out the back door, and Sam followed.

  CHAPTER 3

  PA ABNER’S SECRET

  Pa Abner was sitting under the shady overhang of the woodshed, a scrap of wood that would soon be a chair leg resting on his lap. The straps of his suspenders hung loose off his white shirt, and a sheet of sanding paper had been tied by a narrow string to his right hand. A thick brown beard covered Pa’s face, but he kept the top of his head shaved close. To Keech, his head always looked a little bit upside down.

  Pa didn’t rise when they approached. “Well, well, it’s the Wolf and the Rabbit, back from their adventure,” he said, and continued to brush at the chair leg. Keech noticed that Pa’s hands were splotched with dried red and blue paints. Sometimes at the break of day, Pa Abner woke up cantankerous from bad dreams. He made himself feel better by painting pictures on old newspapers in his study.

  Across the yard, their brother Robby was sitting on a tin pail inside the chicken coop, hammering away at the edges of a roosting bar that had come loose from its frame. He held the end of the bar in place with his left arm, the hand of that arm curled dramatically under and the fingers twisted, and pounded home a nail with Pa’s claw hammer. In the pigpen behind the coop, the sound of the hammering disturbed Granny’s sow and her little brood. They squealed at the noise till Robby yelled at them to hush.

  Robby had come to the Home a couple years ago, right after Keech had turned eleven, and had promptly taken to Pa’s lessons on woodworking. Though his crooked left hand caused him much frustration, Robby still could craft the finest toys for Patrick and Little Eugena.

  Pa Abner’s hand slid the sanding paper across the chair leg. With each stroke, the trusty pendant he always wore around his neck, a silver charm attached to a black leather cord, swung back and forth. The ornament was a tarnished fragment of sorts, old and mysterious and shaped like a jagged quarter moon, as though it had been broken from a larger piece. Grooved lines and swirls that meant nothing to Keech decorated the pendant. He suspected the etchings had meant something important before the pendant was shattered.

  This strange charm was at the center of Keech’s earliest memory. He’d been three years old and something terrible had happened to his real parents, but he couldn’t remember what that terrible something was. His only memory was of Pa Abner shouting while holding him in the crook of his arm. A whirlwind of dust flew about, and there had been a dry heat on Keech’s cheek, a heat so intense he’d been forced to hide his face against Pa’s chest. His hot cheek had touched the charm. His next memory was of an unnatural chill, like the coldest ice on Earth, pulsing out of the silver pendant.

  In the years since, Keech had uncovered very few details about that day, not even his parents’ names. Pa Abner refused to speak about anything related to the past. All Keech knew was that Pa had saved his life.

  The memory of the charm was most likely a confused dream. One afternoon a few years back, Pa had stripped for his weekly bath and left the pendant resting on his nightstand. Keech had touched the metal, expecting bolts of ice to pulse through his fingers. But there was nothing. The charm was simply a piece of tarnished silver.

  Still, Keech liked to think it brought his family a little extra luck.

  Pa’s discerning gaze shifted back and forth from Keech to Sam. “Something’s got you two all lathered up,” he said.

  Sam nodded. “Granny sent us out to tell you about the man—the traveler.”

  “What traveler?”

  “A fella who wore a black overcoat and rode a chestnut horse,” Keech said. “And he carried a Colt Dragoon on his right hip.”

  “A Dragoon, you say.” Pa mulled it over. “That’s a whoppin’ hog leg for these parts.”

  Just beyond the eastern wood line, Little Eugena’s bugle honked and tooted a frightening, painful noise. When the sound petered out, Sam said, “He needed a shave. Had a goatee, all sharp at the end like a porky-pine.”

  “And one of his eyes”—Keech grimaced at the thought—“was dead and colored like the guts of a smashed slug.”

  The pleasant grin on Pa Abner’s face dropped away. “Which eye was dead?”

  “The left one,” the boys said in unison.

  Pa Abner stood. Sawdust sprinkled off his lap.

  A low breeze swirled over the ground, summoning a loud stink from the pigpen. The constant work of Robby’s hammer pounded in Keech’s ears. “He told us his name was Whiskey.”

&n
bsp; Every last shade of color drained from Pa’s face.

  “Whiskey like the drink,” Sam added. “And he asked about you, Pa.”

  Without turning, Pa Abner called out, “Robby, son! That board is done. I need you to come here.”

  Dusting chicken debris off his breeches, Robby crawled out of the coop and walked over.

  “I need you to go round up Little Eugena,” Pa said to the boy. “Then head to the house and gather up Granny and Patty.”

  Robby frowned, but Keech had never known the boy to argue or disobey. “Yessir,” he said, and headed off to the woods to find the bugle player.

  Pa turned his attention back to Keech and Sam. “Who exactly did this man ask about?”

  “First he asked if we knew a fella named Raines,” Keech said. “He claimed to have business with him.”

  Pa Abner peered across the land, observing the stubby tree line beyond the stable, then the long gravel road leading up White Elm Peak and east to Big Timber. He gazed at the wooded Low Hill to the north. He turned back to the boys.

  “I take it you didn’t send him back this way.”

  “We pointed him down to Farnham. Told him you were headed out west, in search of the Fountain of Youth.”

  “You should’ve heard Keech spin that yarn,” Sam said. “He was brilliant, Pa.”

  Pa Abner patted Keech on the shoulder. “Good work.” But his compliment sounded distant.

  After a silence, Pa said, “Boys, I do know this man. But I always called him Bad Whiskey, and when I knew him, he rode with a most terrible gang. They called themselves the Gita-Skog, a name stolen from the Abenaki tribes up north. Means ‘big snake’ or some such. I’m proud you both recognized his rotten character when you laid eyes on him.”

  “Do you think he’ll find out Keech was fooling?” Sam asked.

  From the other side of Low Hill, a dark bird cawed and took high to the air. Pa Abner watched it bank away toward the tree line. It was the only bird in the sky, and Keech didn’t like the look of its cruel solitude. Only things that bullied were left alone.

  Sam rephrased his question. “Will Bad Whiskey find us, Pa?”

  His eyes still trained on the bird, Pa Abner said, “Yes. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I’d say Whiskey is already here.”

  They followed Pa’s gaze to the top of Low Hill.

  A chestnut stallion had appeared in the distance, its rider framed in a cascade of morning sun.

  Pa Abner patted sawdust off his hands. “Boys, when this man rides up, you are to say nothing. Not a word about the others, and not about yourselves. Understood?”

  Both boys nodded.

  Pa turned to Keech. “And don’t speak your last name. Mention nothing about ‘Blackwood.’”

  Keech meant to nod again, but frowned instead. He wanted to ask why his name was so important, but the expression on Pa’s face told him the time for questions had finished.

  They stood in silence as the figure in black rambled his way down Low Hill. When the rider drew near the shakepole fence, he called out, “Hello, the house!”

  Pa Abner said nothing. The one-eyed man continued forward, easing his stallion through the open gate and giving a slightly amused gander at the painted sign announcing the Home for Lost Causes.

  As he approached, the sunlight pulled more features out of his horse—details Keech had missed back at the river. The first thing he noticed was that the animal’s ribs were peeking out from beneath the heavy cinches of his saddle. The critter was terribly underfed, and ridden too hard. The second thing was the brand. Ownership brands were located on the left or right hip in these parts, but this brand was in the dead center of the stallion’s forehead. A spiral of some kind, coiling to a dark point under the horse’s bushy forelock. Keech thought the brand was intended to be a flower.

  More specifically: a rose.

  When the rider got within fifty feet, Pa Abner held up a warning hand. “That’s close enough,” he called out.

  Bad Whiskey reined in his steed. His good eye skimmed first Keech, then Sam. He offered the devilish grin of one who keeps unwholesome secrets.

  “Howdy, old friend,” the ragged man said to Pa. He doffed his filthy black hat. “Been a dog’s age.”

  “Bad Whiskey Nelson,” Pa said with a low voice. “As I live and breathe.”

  Bad Whiskey lowered his reins to let his mangy horse stand free. “How long’s it been?”

  “Since 1845,” Pa said. “You oughta remember that date well.”

  “That’s right! Spring of forty-five. My, how a decade does burn.”

  Pa Abner kept a watchful eye on the man’s trigger hand. “Your standing here tells me the Reverend’s woken in the Palace,” he said. “Some devils just don’t know when to stay down.”

  Bad Whiskey laughed. “You know as well as I do some devils can’t be put down.”

  Pa Abner took only the slightest notice of the comment. “My boys tell me you’ve been looking for Raines.”

  “Indeed. The tall one there”—Bad Whiskey gazed at Keech—“he told me a grand tale about the Fountain of Youth or some such. But as I was circlin’ down to Farnham, I remembered yer all finished huntin’ for fountains, so I turned my mule around. Good thing I did.”

  “Well, I’ve got unhappy news, Bad.” Pa Abner frowned at Keech, as though he didn’t wish to keep talking in their presence. “Isaiah Raines is dead. Been dead a long time.”

  “He looks mighty fit to me.” Bad Whiskey chortled.

  Keech and Sam exchanged a bewildered look.

  Bad Whiskey noticed their confusion. “Raines, don’t tell me you’ve been lyin’ to these little pilgrims?” He clucked his tongue.

  Keech took one defensive step toward Bad Whiskey. “Mister, watch what you say about my pa.”

  Pa turned on Keech with clenched teeth. “I told you not to speak a word.”

  “But Pa, he’s calling you a liar!” Sam said.

  The next command was sharper than glass. “Silence, boys. I won’t say it again.”

  Bad Whiskey’s chortle turned into long, raspy laughter. “I feel sorry for you little pilgrims. Havin’ gone yer whole lives thinkin’ this man is Abner Carson, when in fact he is someone worse than me!”

  Keech looked again at Sam, his head whirling.

  Bad Whiskey went on. “Smart way to hide, I reckon. Change yer name, raise orphans in the middle of nowheres. No one’d ever guess an Enforcer lurked among ’em.”

  “State your business and leave us in peace,” said Pa.

  “Peace?” Bad Whiskey cackled. “Peace is for good men, Raines. And you and me, we ain’t good men.” He pulled a slender cigarette from his shirt pocket and stuck it between his lips. “Now, send them little pilgrims away so we can speak open.”

  Keech saw the unease in Pa Abner’s eyes, and his heart galloped. “Pa, I’m sorry! I didn’t know he’d track us back here.”

  Pa Abner dismissed the apology with a wave. “It’s not your fault,” he said, dropping his voice so that Whiskey couldn’t hear. “What’s important is you do what I say. Take Sam and hurry back inside. Bar every door. Tell Granny to get the kids up to my bedroom. I won’t let that cur take one step near the house, but just to be safe, tell her to get the rifle down from the mantel. Wait there with her and help keep the others safe.” Pa Abner worried at the whiskers above his lip, then added, “If anyone other than me tries to get in that room, do your best to slow him down. There are six shots loaded in the rifle. Granny Nell will make each one count, but she’ll need you to keep the others clear.”

  Keech wanted to say he understood, but he felt strangely light-headed.

  Tears rimmed Sam’s eyes. “Is Whiskey gonna shoot you, Pa?”

  Pa Abner offered a meager smile. “I doubt it, son. I reckon if he wanted me shot, he would have already pulled. Now get inside.”

  Keech and Sam were turning when Pa stopped them. “And boys? Don’t forget your training.”

  Bad Whiskey reined his bony stal
lion left and right, as though impatient. But he was still grinning when he shouted, “Hurry up, Raines! My charger ain’t fond of chicken manure.”

  Back inside the house, the boys worked together to lower the lock bar, then Keech crossed to the fireplace. Granny Nell and the others were gathered at the small window that overlooked the backyard. Patrick stood behind Granny’s skirt, clutching the wooden stick-and-ball Robby had carved for him. Robby stood next to Little Eugena, their faces glued to the dusty glass to get a glimpse of the dark stranger. Little Eugena raised her brass bugle to her lips. “I’ll play Pa a battle hymn!” she crooned, but Robby grabbed the instrument before the racket could sound. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  Mounted on steel hooks above the mantel was Pa’s Model 39 Carbine rifle. Keech grabbed the rifle and then faced the orphans. “Everyone upstairs into Pa’s room,” he ordered.

  Granny Nell gasped at the weapon. “Heavens mercy, Keech, what are you doing?”

  “Pa said to—”

  Before he could finish, Granny snatched the carbine out of his hands. She inspected the cylinder for ammunition, then thumbed back the hammer. Her small, wrinkled hands looked strong and healthy around the gun. “You are only to touch this during lessons!”

  “That’s right, Keech, Granny will handle the shootin’,” scolded Little Eugena.

  “Not now,” Sam told the girl. “Pa said everyone should get upstairs.”

  Granny raised an eyebrow. “He said upstairs? Not to hide in the cellar?”

  “Up to his room,” Keech affirmed.

  Granny Nell appeared to consider this option, then called out, “Okay, everyone, you heard your big brother. Upstairs.” When the kids didn’t move, she stomped her boot heel. “Hurry up now! March!” Patrick dropped his toy and began to bawl. “Patty, no time for tears,” she said. “Follow Robby.” As smoothly as a practiced soldier, she chucked the rifle to one hand and scooted the orphans ahead of her with the other. The kids moved in a tight cluster toward the stairwell.

  As Patrick passed, Keech scooped up the stick-and-ball and handed it back. “Everything’s all right, flapjack. Just do what Granny says.”