Legends of the Lost Causes

by Brad McLelland

Turner pulled his handgun. He ordered the posse back onto their horses. Everyone complied except Goodlet, who refused to budge from the ground. Turner scowled at him.

  “Don’t just sit in the dirt, deputy.”

  “But I ain’t got my horse!”

  “Mount up with me, then. Till we find your mule, leastways.”

  The deputy shook his jowls. “I ain’t goin’, Bose! That foul prisoner ain’t natural!”

  “If you don’t mount up, you’ll go straight back to Big Timber, where you’ll be known as a coward.”

  “Dandy!” the deputy bawled. “Just don’t make me enner them woods again.”

  Turner waved at the posse to gather behind him. “I have no time for yellow-bellies,” he declared, and led the young riders off the trail and toward the hill.

  Keech glanced back at Goodlet—but the man was now racing up the Swift Hollow road, the very way they’d come.

  * * *

  Hordes of trees cluttered the hillside, but Turner was quick to find the surest path. Once they made the top, Keech spotted Goodlet’s horse, standing lost and bewildered, at the bottom of the other side. Ballard’s pony and Claymore’s mustang stood a few yards away. The bandit was nowhere in sight.

  When the group reached the horses, Turner noticed something in a thornbush ahead of them and dismounted. He walked a few feet—then halted in his tracks.

  “Keep away, boys!” he gasped, staring down into the brush.

  They didn’t have to move closer to see the pair of slender brown boots sticking out of the undergrowth. The toes of the boots pointed straight up to the heavens, frozen, lifeless. Though Keech couldn’t see the man, he knew the body was Deputy Ballard.

  “Deputy!” cried Duck.

  The young riders hopped off their horses. Upon seeing the motionless feet in the brush, John Wesley turned a ghastly shade of white.

  Turner knelt beside his fallen deputy, slipped off his hat, and took a moment to collect his emotions. “So sorry, old friend,” he said to the man in the brush, then rolled Ballard onto his side. The sheriff looked up, surprised, and said, “He’s lying on a full holster. Claymore rushed off so quick he forgot to steal Jake’s revolver.” He reached beneath the body and tugged. The handgun snagged inside the holster, but after a strain it came free.

  Something on the ground caught Keech’s eye—a curious hunk of meat lying near his boot in the dead grass.

  “Um, Sheriff?” He pointed to the white lump. “What is this?”

  Turner walked over and dropped to his haunches. His face scrunched.

  “That, Mr. Blackwood, is a thumb.”

  Turner picked up the severed digit and held it up to the hazy sunlight. It looked like a fat, white slug in the sheriff’s glove. A glimpse of the gruesome discovery made John Wesley heave.

  Turner inspected the grimy digit. He peered back up the wooded hill.

  “What do you think happened?” Nat asked.

  Turner tossed the horrid thing back into the grass and wiped his glove on his trousers. “It appears our prisoner bit off his own thumb.”

  The young riders groaned.

  “Why would he do such a foul thing?” Cutter asked.

  “So he could slip a hand out of his shackles,” Turner replied. “I’m guessing the moment Jake turned his back, that rascal whipped him in the head with the fetter. Looks like he then used the chain to strangle him.”

  Duck pointed to a row of trampled weeds nearby. “There! He left a trail! A powerful obvious one, too.”

  Keech grew excited when he saw Claymore’s path. Two winters ago, Pa Abner had taken him and Sam on a hunting expedition through Swift Hollow, so this whole swath of land was familiar. These particular slopes formed a rough circle, a loop of forest so thick the hills themselves offered little for good hunting. It was only when Pa had led them into the midst of the circle, a glade full of poppies and wild onions, that they had found the small game they wanted.

  Based on the track left behind by his peg leg, Tommy Claymore was taking the easiest path available to him. Most likely without knowing, he was headed straight for the glade.

  Turner gripped a revolver in each hand. “Listen up,” he said. “The slopes will wear the horses down, so we’ll leave them here. We’ll keep together and watch each other’s backs.” He then leveled a concerned gaze at Nat’s Hawken. “Don’t bother with that rifle if you see Claymore. If my Colt couldn’t kill him months back, cracking off a musket shot certainly won’t either. We’ll act together, tackle him down as a team.”

  Nat nodded.

  The posse started through the forest, up the next hill. Nat, Duck, and John Wesley moved close behind Turner, but Keech held back, letting them move ahead. There was a cutoff to the glade. He could stop Claymore in his tracks. No one else would have to get hurt.

  Cutter was the last in line to follow the others. He saw Keech lingering, and jogged back. “What are you up to, Lost Cause?”

  “You go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Cutter gave him a suspicious look. “You aim to track this demonio yourself!”

  “I know these woods like the back of my hand,” Keech replied. “Now go. I’ll cut him off at the next hill and push him back to you fellas.”

  Cutter lingered a moment longer, frowning, then hurried away to rejoin the others.

  The moment the posse disappeared, Keech ran back to Felix and grabbed the silver pendant from his saddlebag. He slung its cord around his neck and stowed the charm inside his coat. Then he bolted toward the cutoff around the hill. He knew Turner would scold him for going off on his own, but if it meant capturing Claymore, Keech would take his chances.

  It was time to get information.

  Thick branches crossed overhead, blocking out the gray sky. To the untrained eye, there was no obvious path here—it was really nothing more than a jackrabbit run—but Keech’s eye had been trained to read the trail toward the clearing. He sprinted over the land, putting Turner and the troop a good distance away.

  All the red poppies that had once peppered the glade were dead, but the wild onions were still in bloom, giving the dell a rowdy fragrance. Surrounding the area was a thick ring of tall redbuds. The cool glow of the late afternoon sunlight fumed through the branches, filling the space with dusky hues.

  Keech paused beside one of the redbuds to catch his breath. Claymore had to be close.

  Unnatural cold suddenly burned his chest. Gasping for breath, Keech ripped at the front of his coat. His first thought was that he’d been shot through the heart. But then he realized it was the silver charm stinging him. He snatched the pendant out of his shirt. Though the light was dim in the glade, the shard yielded a bright yellow and gold in his hand, even as it sent icy pulses over his flesh.

  He stuffed it back down into his shirt, grimacing, the cold on his skin sharper than ever.

  “Howdy, boy,” came a voice from behind him.

  The speaker had taken him by surprise, but Keech’s mind and body flashed back to his training. Pa Abner swinging the tomahawk.

  Keech ducked.

  No sooner did he move than a whooshing sound droned over his head, followed by a loud clunk. The black iron of a shackle cuff had bitten deep into the bark of the redbud he’d been standing beside.

  Keech wheeled around to see Tommy Claymore before him, grinning. The thrall had just swung his shackle like a spiked metal ball. The iron was stuck, buried in the wood.

  “I’ve been waitin’ for ya,” the bandit said. “I felt ya comin’.” He tugged at the iron, but the cuff held firm in the trunk. “You’ve somethin’ the Master wants.”

  “Claymore,” Keech hissed. “You’ll pay for killing Deputy Ballard.”

  “You foolish waif. Hand over the shard.” He yanked at the iron again. The cuff tore loose, showering splinters across the ground. He swung the shackle back and forth, a deadly pendulum.

  Keech looked left and right. Redbud trees and thick underbrush were blocking the clear paths on each side.

>   The bandit loomed closer. The shackle whooshed back, building cruel momentum.

  Pa’s voice sounded in Keech’s mind: Watch the eyes, the shoulders. Keep your feet steady. Mindful of his stance, he concentrated on the sway of the iron. No different from the training woods beyond Low Hill. He lifted one arm to shield his head, knowing the iron would demolish every bone in his wrist and forearm, but hopefully it would be enough to protect his skull if the shackle struck.

  Claymore’s iron came whistling down, a near invisible arc. Visualizing Pa’s tomahawk, Keech sidestepped to the left, keeping his breath composed. The cuff mauled the ground beside his boot. The bandit pulled back, yanking fresh earth with the metal, and began swinging the chain all over again.

  “Stand still!” Claymore growled. The claw dropped again, this time clipping the redbud so hard a limb sheared away.

  Keech heard a vicious yell and saw a figure leap out of the redbud thicket. The figure slammed into Claymore’s side. The thrall and the assailant tumbled to the ground.

  In the blur, Keech spotted a red sash and a blue bandana.

  “Cutter!” he yelled. The boy had emerged from the same path Keech had used to get ahead of Claymore. He must have backtracked and followed.

  After hog-rolling the bandit onto his back, Cutter planted a fist between the thrall’s eyes. Claymore squawked and flailed his arms, trying to squirm free.

  “Back in Big Timber I beaned this monster with a shovel,” Keech said. “You have to hit him hard enough to really clean his plow.”

  Cutter dropped his fist a second time, then a third. At last Claymore stopped thrashing and he fell back, dazed and muttering, into the wild onions. Chest heaving, Cutter stood. He brushed dirt off his coat, then smirked at Keech.

  “Thanks for the tip, Lost Cause.”

  Keech would have been cross at the nickname were he not so relieved. “Much obliged for the help.”

  “Nothing to it,” Cutter replied. “Now, let’s get some answers before Mr. Lawdog finds out we slipped away.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE INTERROGATION

  The stench wafting off the bandit made Keech’s eyes water. He wrinkled his nose.

  “Ugh, what a stink,” Cutter said, lifting his bandana over his mouth.

  “It’s worse today. It’s like he’s falling apart.”

  Cutter noticed the holes in Claymore’s chest. “Blackwood, he’s been shot! How can a man still breathe with holes in his heart?”

  “Because this is no man.”

  “What is he, then?”

  Back at the Home, Bad Whiskey had used a name that sounded like See-New, but Keech only knew them as one thing. “He’s a thrall.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An abomination. A dead man Bad Whiskey raised from the grave, and commands. And unless we stop him, Whiskey will use more like him to kill every last person in his path.”

  Cutter crossed himself.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Keech said, and kicked the dazed bandit’s wooden stub. The creature’s eyelids fluttered. He lifted his hand as if to block the sunlight, saw he was missing his digit, and gave a confused bluster.

  “Where in tarnation’s my thumb?”

  “You bit it off,” Keech said.

  “I don’t recollect doin’ that.”

  Keech dared one step closer. Again, he became aware of the pulsating chill inside his shirt.

  The thrall’s dark eyes started wide as Keech moved in. Claymore scurried backward on his rump, his flimsy arms flailing. “Don’t come any closer!” he screeched. He scooted till his back ran against a redbud. Having nowhere else to go, he thrashed his head and kicked his left leg.

  “I’m not going anywhere. You’re gonna tell me about Bad Whiskey.”

  Claymore paused his flailing to give Keech a curious look. “The Master?”

  “Yes, your rotten master. What’s he planning?”

  Claymore looked off into the woods.

  “Speak, Claymore. I’m warning you.”

  “Warn all ya want! I shall not bend. The Master won’t allow it.”

  Keech wondered if the creature had any measure of his own free will. During the raid on the Home, Whiskey’s demons had appeared to be acting of their own accord, without the outlaw having to compel them.

  If thralls could indeed make their own choices, perhaps friendly reason could work.

  “Bad Whiskey left you back in Big Timber to rot in jail,” Keech said. “All he wants is to command you, turn you about like a branded steer. He couldn’t care less if we killed you for good and left your body for the buzzards. Defy him, Claymore. Tell me what he’s planning. If you do that, maybe Sheriff Turner can even take you back to Gentry County, where you can start a new life, find some purpose.”

  Claymore lowered his filthy brow, as if considering the offer. But just as quickly, the frown turned to a hateful smile.

  “Foolish boy. The Master is my purpose.”

  Keech reckoned thralls made their decisions only to serve the one who had called them forth. He would have to try a different tactic. “You’re falling apart, Claymore. Your master must not be feeding you any more life. How do you feel about that?”

  “The Master raised me from the pit. He won’t let me rot and die.”

  Cutter’s hand dropped on Keech’s shoulder. “My turn,” he said, and drew his long blade. A devilish grin flashed behind his bandana. It took no imagination to know exactly what Cutter wanted to do.

  The bandit hawked a ball of black spit between Cutter’s boots. “You won’t bend me neither, kid! Yer all gurgle and no guts!”

  “Let’s find out,” Cutter said.

  But as he moved in, Keech held up his arm. “No. Put the knife away.”

  “Step aside, Lost Cause. I can get us every answer we need.”

  “Poking him with that blade will do no good. A thump on his head can clean his plow, I reckon, but back at the Home I wounded two of these monsters and they just kept coming. They don’t care much about pain.”

  “He’ll feel this, all right. My blade is special. It’ll make this snake talk.”

  Keech considered his next action carefully. There was something in Cutter’s eyes, a kind of fretting darkness that looked ravenous for blood. And if what he’d said about his friend Bishop was true, that Bad Whiskey had murdered him in cold blood, Cutter had as much right to seek revenge as the next person. My amigo, my one true friend, Cutter had said. If Keech appreciated one thing, it was the power of brotherhood and friendship. He would not leave Cutter in the dark for the sake of lone retribution.

  “There’s another reason we don’t need the knife,” Keech said.

  Cutter smirked. “What’s that?”

  Keech rummaged down the neck of his coat and fished out Pa’s pendant. The freezing silver captured the wan sunlight and glowed a fiery golden-orange.

  “If anything can get him to talk, this will.”

  A peculiar look crossed Cutter’s face. The hand holding the knife dropped to his side.

  He’s seen this before, Keech thought, but before he could ask about his expression, Tommy Claymore jumped to his one good foot, shoved Keech off balance, and hobbled off through the forest.

  The boys didn’t have to run far. They pushed the thrall back on his rump, against another redbud. For the moment, Keech forgot all about the look on Cutter’s face when he saw Pa’s charm.

  “It’s time you talk, you filth.” He nodded at Cutter. “Grab him.”

  Cutter seized the bandit’s arms.

  Keech leaned in close, resisting the impulse to turn away from the smell. “You should have minded,” he told the thrall, and dangled Pa’s pendant in front of Claymore’s face.

  Numbing cold traveled up the cord and infiltrated Keech’s palm. Claymore let loose the most despicable scream Keech had ever heard, a cry that would surely bring Turner running. Though it could have been a trick of the light through the branches, Keech thought he could see spiderwebs of b
roken black veins appear along Claymore’s face and neck.

  “Get it away!” the thrall shrieked.

  “Give me answers, I remove the charm.”

  “If I talk, the Master will know!”

  Cutter made a huffing sound. “Your master ain’t here.”

  The black veins along the thrall’s face and neck were now pulsing, as though on the verge of bursting. “The Master knows all!”

  Keech drew back the charm. He needed the thrall to give answers, not spit curses and warnings. The black veins stopped pulsing and Claymore slumped, exhausted.

  “Has Bad Whiskey found the Char Stone, Claymore?”

  In the distance there came a loud call, booming across the forest. Sheriff Turner was shouting Keech’s name.

  Cutter gave him a confused look. “What’s a Char Stone?”

  Keech ignored the boy’s question. “Has he gone to Whistler? Has he found the Stone there?”

  “I shan’t speak another word,” Claymore said.

  Keech shoved the pendant forward again, to where the silver almost touched the bandit’s cheek. The creature screeched in pain.

  “Talk,” Keech growled.

  “The Master is done at Whistler!” Claymore hollered.

  Keech’s heart gave a stutter. The posse was too late. Bad Whiskey had already found Whistler, and had finished his work there.

  “He’s movin’ on to the Sullied Place!” the bandit sputtered. “Where all men wither!”

  Keech knew what Claymore was suggesting, and his blood ran cold at the thought of it. But there was one last question to ask.

  “The Char Stone, Claymore. What is it? Is it a weapon of some sort?”

  There was a silence. Then the thrall answered, “Life. The Stone is life.”

  Life? Perhaps the Stone was some kind of healing charm?

  Keech opened his mouth to pose his next question, but then something strange fell over the thrall’s expression. A delighted sort of smile, as if he was seeing someone he hadn’t seen in a long time. He twisted his face toward the sky and beamed. His eyes rolled like marbles in their sockets. The pendant began to pulse again, pushing cold deeper into Keech’s hand.

  Cutter took a step back. “We should get out of here.”