Legends of the Lost Causes

by Brad McLelland

  Cutter pulled his giant knife again. “What do you call this, lawdog—a maple leaf?”

  Deputy Goodlet grunted. “Put that knife away, green pea. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

  In a flash the blade appeared in Cutter’s opposite hand. “Call me that again, you bog-trotter.”

  “Enough,” Nat said, then turned back to the sheriff. “No disrespect, sir, but I have to side with Keech. The time to ride is now or never. My gang may be young, but we’ve been on the trail of these men for weeks. We’ve been studying their movements, the way they work. They travel in small packs, they strike quick, and they vanish into thin air once they’re done.”

  “I understand the need for haste,” Turner said. “But that don’t change the fact that we need a posse of men, not boys.”

  Keech looked Turner straight in the eye. “Sheriff, I may be a greenhorn in your eyes, but I’m far from a child. Pa Abner prepared me well for this day. Please don’t attempt to stop me.”

  “Nobody thinks you’re a greenhorn, son,” Frosty Potter said. “In fact, you saved every one of our hinds back in Big Timber. We can see the purpose in your eyes, and I am certain you’re up to the task. But you can’t go chasing after men willing to murder children unless you’re equipped proper. They’d tear you apart.”

  Keech thought about the silver pendant in Felix’s saddlebag, the way Pa had used the piece to destroy Whiskey’s leprous thralls. Because the sheriff’s revolver might be worthless against the gang, it dawned on him he might be the best-armed person in the hunt.

  “Mr. Potter, you’re a wise man,” he said. “There is no doubt, Bad Whiskey could tear us apart. He’s a cold-blooded snake, and he’s got the taste for blood. But that’s exactly why Whiskey will not get the upper hand.”

  The clerk looked confused. “I don’t follow.”

  “To catch a deadly snake, you need something worse. You need a predator, unafraid of the poison.” Keech looked at Sheriff Turner to speak the rest.

  “Well, Sheriff, I am the Wolf. And with or without you, I’m gonna find this murderer, and lead him straight to the end of a rope.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A REVELATION AT SWIFT HOLLOW

  According to Sheriff Turner’s pocket watch, it was just after two o’clock when their posse set out for the village of Whistler. Keech had at last made the sheriff understand that the signs pointed to Whistler’s demise. The town needed help, and they needed it quickly. Besides, the grateful folk of Whistler might help them form a proper posse. In the end, Turner made the call to ride west.

  The group struck out at the westernmost edge of Pa Abner’s property, taking the long path the old settlers had nicknamed Swift Hollow, for its curiously dark and winding terrain.

  Eight souls made up the posse: Nat and his gang, Turner and his deputies, and Keech, who found himself riding next to Duck on the trail. The only man absent from the posse was Frosty. He had volunteered to stay behind and look after Pa’s livestock. Keech had been so set on chasing Whiskey that he had mounted Felix and forgotten all about the other animals, including poor Minerva. He was happy they would be getting proper care.

  The posse rode in silence—except for Duck. He never stopped speaking, but Keech didn’t mind. The kid talked about everything—from building rabbit houses to making chokecherry stew.

  “You sure do know a lot,” Keech told the boy.

  Duck smiled proudly. “Everything I know, I learned from my pa.”

  “Mine too. He had answers for every question.”

  “‘Ask, and it shall be given to you,’ my pa used to say. ‘Seek, and ye shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.’”

  “The Bible?” Keech said.

  Duck nodded. “My pa used to say it all the time, during our lessons. He was the smartest man on Earth.”

  Keech thought Pa Abner was the smartest, but he knew better than to argue about the dead.

  Behind them, Tommy Claymore rode between the deputies. Keech hadn’t wanted the foul creature to come along, till he realized Claymore might be able to spill on Bad Whiskey’s plans. The mongrel would never betray his master outright, but if someone pressed him for answers, he might just give something valuable.

  Duck must have read the revulsion on his face, for he spurred his pony closer and said, “You never told us what’s wrong with him. The fella in the chains.”

  Keech grimaced. “He’s a walking dead man, is what’s wrong.”

  Duck looked startled. “Sheriff’s gonna lead him to the gallows, you mean?”

  “No. I mean the man is dead. As in two-bullets-in-the-heart dead.”

  A few feet away, Cutter called out, “Who’s dead?”

  “Never mind,” Keech returned.

  Visibly shaken by Keech’s words, Duck gazed off into the woods. After a time he said, “We didn’t tell you about the night our folks died.”

  “Big Ben,” Keech said, remembering his conversation with Nat. “Red beard parted like a forked tongue, right?”

  “That’s the one. Well, the night Big Ben attacked our ranch, he brought something with him. Some kind of monster.”

  “A thrall?”

  Duck shrugged. “We never saw it, but Big Ben kept shouting at the woods like he was, I dunno, scolding it. When Nat and I was escaping, we heard it tear down one of our barns. The thing tore it down like the barn was paper.”

  “There’s a mighty big thrall working for Whiskey,” Keech said. “I call him Bull. Maybe he was the one responsible.”

  “Maybe so,” Duck said. He pulled up the folds of his thick black coat, then shook his head a bit, as if readjusting his thoughts. Finally, the boy said, “I know you’ve been through a lot, Keech. We’ll find the men who did this to your family. I swear it on my pa’s name. We’ll find Bad Whiskey.”

  “‘Seek, and ye shall find,’” Keech said, and Duck smiled.

  * * *

  The first hour drifted by without occurrence—till Sheriff Turner called the posse to a sudden halt. A treacherous gully blocked the group’s path, a chasm so deep and wide the trees on each side of the trail had tumbled right in. Tangles of limbs and roots stretched up from the massive void, rendering any sort of travel impossible.

  Nat scrutinized the ugly ravine with a blank expression. “What happened here?” he asked. “Earthquake?”

  “A great flood,” Turner said. “It happened long ago, but the land never recovered. There are sinkholes all over this basin.”

  The group took a moment to rest the ponies and study the forest for an alternate path. Cutter reached back into his saddlebag and pulled out a wad of beef pemmican wrapped in gray cloth. He tore off small strips of the dried meat and offered some to each member of the outfit.

  “Whistler is just beyond this stretch,” Keech said. “We need to find a way through.”

  “We could dip into the woods here,” said Turner, chewing a sliver of pemmican and pointing to where the gully stretched to the base of a tall, dismal-looking hill. “I’d rather not risk a deadfall, but the trail’s too washed out to continue. Also, rain’s approaching.”

  Dark thunderclouds had indeed amassed overhead. Sparks of lightning surged within them. Keech noticed something else. A trio of black dots were circling inside the clouds.

  Crows.

  Turner noticed Keech’s gaze. He studied the black specks and puckered his long brow. “You’re nervous about those birds. Why?”

  Keech remembered Pa’s warning again: This world has many crows, and those crows can see far, and take what they see to dangerous places.

  He was about to explain what he knew, but Nat spoke first. “Those things are bad news.”

  “Your gang has seen the crows?” Keech asked.

  Nat nodded gloomily. “First time was in Boone County, then farther north in Caldwell. They never flew down close, but they tracked every move we made, so we decided to ride in the forest, to hide from them.”

  “What fool talk is this?” Turner said.

/>   Keech recalled how the crow had perched on Bad Whiskey’s shoulder and murmured in the outlaw’s ear. “They’re not birds,” he said to Turner. “I don’t know what they are, but they’re something else.” He considered divulging the other peculiar things to the whole group—Pa’s deadly silver pendant, the Char Stone that Bad Whiskey desired so badly—but Cutter and John Wesley were shifty sorts, prone to anger. Nat and Duck seemed trustworthy, but the other two boys might try to take the charm.

  “The Devil’s at work in Missouri,” Cutter said. He had finished his ribbon of meat and was now twirling his long blade fretfully between his fingers. “I’d wager those birds even have the Devil’s mark. We’re in the last days, hombres.”

  “Bunch of baloney,” Deputy Goodlet mumbled, rather uncertainly.

  Keech paid no mind to the deputy. “What’s he talking about, Devil’s mark?”

  “Did you ever study the Middle Ages?” Duck asked.

  “I’ve read a story or two.”

  “Well, during the Inquisition, the preachers and holy folk believed the Devil put his mark on his witches to make them impervious to pain.”

  “That’s a load of horse apples,” said Nat.

  “No, it’s true!” said Duck. “Anything evil has to have a mark.”

  Keech remembered the sinister brand—the mark of the rose—under the forelock of Bad Whiskey’s stallion. Goose bumps skittered over his arms. “Last night, I saw one of the crows,” he said. “I don’t recollect any particular mark, but I do know it was the ugliest bird I ever saw. Bigger than a burlap sack, and its beak was longer than a farmer’s scythe.”

  Sheriff Turner said nothing, only stared at the savage gully in the Swift Hollow trail.

  “I don’t know if the Devil’s in Missouri or not,” Nat said to Cutter, “but whatever those critters are, they’re here for a reason.”

  “They came with Bad Whiskey,” Keech said. “They’re connected to him.” And to a man named Rose, he considered adding.

  Tommy Claymore began to chortle. When Keech looked, the bandit wiggled two bony fingers at him, a malevolent wave. Deputy Ballard yanked the prisoner’s chain to quiet him.

  Nat turned their attention back to the gully. “So where do we go now?”

  “We could send a scout over the hill,” Turner said. “See if the woods are passable.”

  John Wesley had been sipping water from his canteen. At the mention of a scouting mission, he sat up straight and raised his hand. “I’ll volunteer, Sheriff!”

  “No, I’ll go,” said Deputy Ballard. “I’ll drag Claymore along. If the mangy mutt sinks in a bog, we’ll know it ain’t safe.”

  Turner nodded. Ballard grabbed the prisoner’s chain, spurred his pony with a loud “Giyyap!” and pulled the mumbling thrall and his mustang up the hill.

  Turner pointed at his other deputy. “Goodlet, you follow.”

  The heavy lawman snorted displeasure. He peered over his shoulder at John Wesley. “That one craves adventure. Let him go.”

  “Don’t make me say it again,” Turner said.

  Clucking at his horse, Goodlet rambled into the woods to join Ballard. Soon the two deputies and their prisoner disappeared over the hill and into the shivering gloom of the forest.

  Once the men were gone, the sheriff turned back to the young riders. “This gives us time to speak private.”

  Keech and Nat exchanged a curious look.

  Turner slid off his mount and smoothed a wrinkle from his riding coat. On Nat’s orders, all the boys followed suit and stood by their ponies.

  “Sheriff, if this is about us riding in the posse—” Keech began.

  “No, it’s not about that,” Turner interrupted. “It’s about something Claymore said, back at the jail. And about something I’ve seen.”

  “We’re all ears, lawdog,” said Cutter.

  Turner lifted his hat and patted sweat off his brow. “Claymore didn’t speak just about the attack on the orphanage. He mentioned another raid. Something he couldn’t have possibly known, because he couldn’t have been there. Last night he mentioned the storming of a ranch that took place in September. Talked as if he’d been there himself. But I shot and killed Tommy Claymore four months back in Gentry County.”

  “What do you mean, you killed him?” asked Nat.

  “You weren’t just putting on about him being dead?” Duck asked Keech.

  “I tell you, it’s the end of days!” said Cutter. He looked at his closest trailmate, but John Wesley kept silent.

  “Never mind all that,” continued Turner. “This ranch attack of which Claymore spoke. It happened all the way down the state. In Sainte Genevieve.”

  Keech felt his heart take a giant leap. Sainte Genevieve was the place where Pa’s letter was to be telegrammed.

  “Which brings me to the second matter,” Turner said. “When I first met you boys, I noticed a symbol on your breast pocket, Nat.” He pointed to the brown-and-yellow patch on Nat’s coat.

  “I bought this old thing in a store for a penny,” Nat said. “Don’t know why it’s a bother.”

  “I sure was surprised to see it,” said Turner. “’Cause I have seen that symbol before. Ten years ago, when a stranger came calling on Big Timber.”

  “Ten years ago?” Keech said. “That would’ve been the year Pa took me in.”

  Turner nodded. “In fact, this stranger was seeking Abner. Said his name was Noah Embry, though I recognized the face from a government poster, and the name on the poster was Bennett Coal, who was wanted for murder across three territories.”

  As Turner spoke, Nat’s and Duck’s faces turned the same pale color. Keech noticed Nat’s hands had tucked into fists, and Duck’s eyes looked on the verge of tears.

  Turner continued. “Strange thing is, that fella who claimed to be Noah Embry wore a brown-and-yellow patch on his pocket. One that looked just like that.” And again he pointed to the colorful emblem.

  “What you’re wearing, son, is the badge of the Cattleman’s League of Sainte Genevieve. The badge a man wears when he builds a ranch in Sainte Genevieve County, pays his fees, and joins the League.”

  Nat hitched a breath. “Now wait a second, Sheriff.”

  “Which tells me,” said Turner, allowing no interruption, “you have a connection to that old murderer, Bennett Coal. And I’ve got a feeling I know what that connection is.”

  The sheriff said nothing more. But there was no need. The answer struck Keech at once.

  “You!” he exclaimed to Nat and Duck. “You’re Noah Embry’s kids!”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE ESCAPE

  More answers tumbled into place in Keech’s mind. Ten years ago, 1845, Noah Embry—whose real name was Bennett Coal, just like Pa’s real name was Isaiah Raines—had come to northwest Missouri to find Pa. Both men had already said good-bye to their old lives, and had taken on new names, new identities. Noah Embry had tracked Pa back to Big Timber, because they’d stolen something from the Reverend Rose and had to conceal it.

  They had to bury the Char Stone.

  Now, Bad Whiskey’s boss was back. Your standing here tells me the Reverend’s woken in the Palace, Pa Abner had said to the man. Wherever this “Palace” was, Rose was now awake there and sending his militia across the country to hunt his property. The Gita-Skog had killed Embry before Pa could send the warning telegram.

  Keech could tell Nat and Duck were feeling a perplexing sort of rage—the same rage he too had felt after Pa’s secrets had been laid bare. But how much did the boys know? How much had their father, Noah Embry, told them about his old life as an Enforcer for Reverend Rose?

  Duck responded to this unspoken question by jabbing a finger at Bose Turner.

  “Pa was no murderer! He died a hero!”

  Turner gave the boy a firm but sympathetic look. “Your father was a wanted man, Duck.”

  Nat growled at Keech, “And just what do you know about our pa, Blackwood?”

  “Nothing that can help.”


  “You’re a fighting liar.”

  “Now, boys, let’s be civil,” said Turner.

  “Nat, believe it or not,” Keech said, “our fathers knew each other.”

  Nat appeared to reach deep back into his memories. “Pa never mentioned yours at all,” he said. “Not a word.”

  “I believe they rode together, a long time ago. They worked for a man named Rose.”

  Nat suddenly frowned. “Rose,” he murmured, the same way he had spoken the word back at Copperhead Rock. “This name I do know. I’ve heard it in whispers.” He looked to Duck, but the small boy only shook his head. “Pa had bad dreams. He talked in his sleep. He used to mutter things about a ‘Rose’ and a place called ‘the Palace.’”

  “My pa mentioned that place, too,” Keech said.

  “You best tell us everything you know,” Nat demanded.

  Turner said, “Yes, Mr. Blackwood, no more secrets.”

  The only peaceful solution at this point was to reveal the telegram. Pa had been very specific about keeping the letter secret, and Keech didn’t know whom to trust yet, but there was nothing for it. If he didn’t talk, there would be trouble.

  Before he could begin, a loud squeal tore across Swift Hollow.

  “Help!” a voice caterwauled.

  The posse spun around to see Deputy Goodlet, running on foot down the big hill. His pony was nowhere in sight.

  Turner sprinted toward the deputy. Keech dashed after him, the four young riders close on his heels.

  “What’s happened?” Turner hollered.

  “Murder!” Goodlet screamed. At the bottom of the hill the heavyset deputy tripped on a root and skidded in the dirt in front of Turner. A miserable grunt spilled out of the man.

  “For God’s sake, Goodlet, find your wits,” Turner said.

  The deputy rolled onto his back and pointed up the hill. “He—he killed Jake!”