“We have to keep moving,” he said. “The door out of here is close, I know it.”
“Can’t we rest up a second?” said John Wesley.
This time it was Duck who answered. “Keech is right. There’s no time,” she said. The girl stood and pointed to a stand of tall brown thistle behind her. A narrow footpath, no wider than a deer trail, led through the weeds and farther up the remaining peak of the mountain, away from the stone mound that had just crumbled.
She smiled. “I think I found our doorway.”
Duck led the gang up the path, which was almost invisible under the wall of thistle. The tall weeds had been swept back in several places, a sign that someone might have traveled through here, and not long ago.
The footpath ventured upward, winding in a rough semicircle around the tallest point of the mountain, till it appeared to stop abruptly at another wall, a craggy barrier that blocked their way.
“Okay, so what now?” asked Cutter.
Duck pointed to a fallen oak trunk as wide as a horse leaning against the stone wall. The wood was near black with rot and slick from Floodwood’s constant rain.
“That log ain’t what it looks like,” she said.
Despite the trunk’s rotting black bark, the dead oak looked as solid as the stone it leaned against. Duck rapped on the trunk with one knuckle. Keech was surprised to hear a dull echo inside.
“How can a log be a door?” Nat asked.
“Not sure, but I think it’s man-made,” said Duck.
John Wesley stepped to the massive trunk and knocked on it. There was no mistaking the hollow clunk that resonated back. “Maybe it’s just a rotted-out tree.”
Keech stepped up and ran a hand along the wet bark. His fingertips dipped into a dark fissure. The indenture was oddly notched, as if it had been cut. As he felt inside the groove, the image of Pa Abner using the silver pendant to open the wooden chest in the study came to mind. He felt a dizzying flood of excitement. He had seen woodwork like this before. Pa Abner frequently used the bark of old trees to finish furniture. This was no rotted log; this was Pa’s handiwork. Only the finest woodworker in Missouri could build a door disguised as a fallen oak trunk. Robby would have been proud.
Duck had apparently been thinking similar thoughts. She pointed to the fissure where Keech had slipped his fingers. “A key,” she said almost breathlessly. “It’s for a key.”
Keech pulled the shard from his coat. “You mean this?”
Holding his breath, he thrust the pendant, jagged edge first, into the deep indent. The match was precise. The quarter moon slid into the furrow with no resistance. There was a click as the charm found a stopping point. Less than an inch of silver jutted from the cavity, but it was enough to give Keech a handhold.
He gazed proudly at Duck. “You were right!”
“Go ahead,” said Nat. “Open ’er up.”
Keech twisted the pendant clockwise. There was a clonking noise as a set of wooden cogs turned with a loud grind behind the hollow wood.
“It’s working!” Duck said.
When the charm stopped, a deep rattling sound reverberated from the other side of the trunk. Keech felt a second of panic when nothing else happened. But then a large section of the log swung inward, receding into the stone wall behind the trunk. A cloud of gray dust flew all around them. As Keech’s vision cleared, he saw a large circle of black.
A long, deep darkness burrowed into the hillside.
“Ain’t that swell,” said John Wesley. “Our door out of Floodwood is a cave.”
CHAPTER 21
CUTTER’S DECISION
Keech dared to make the first step into the darkness.
“The floor is solid,” he said. “I think it’s safe.”
As he took another step into the cave, Cutter yanked at his coat sleeve. “Don’t go in. It smells like skunk-water in there.”
Keech sniffed at the darkness. At first, all he smelled was old cave grime. But then he perceived a scent beneath the grime, an odor that reminded him of Claymore.
Nat appeared beside him in the opening. “There’s something dead in there. Some critter, most likely.”
“How would it have gotten in?” asked Duck. “The door was shut tight before we got here.”
John Wesley backed away. “I got me a bad feeling.”
“Ditto,” Cutter said.
“We don’t have a choice,” Keech said. “We have to find a way out of Floodwood, and if the rockslide didn’t work, Bad Whiskey will still be on our trail. Whether we like it or not, this cave is our path.”
“What if me and John Wesley refuse?” murmured Cutter.
“Why would you refuse?” Keech asked. “You know what’ll happen.”
Cutter flashed a malicious grin. “That’s easy. We kill El Ojo.”
Keech couldn’t take any more of Cutter’s pride. “No. We all die. And you’ll be the first to go.”
Cutter tried to remain stoic, but Keech saw a flash of fear in the boy’s eyes.
One by one, the young riders climbed through the hollow trunk. Once they were inside, John Wesley shut the door. The primitive hinges squealed as he did, and there was another turbulent clack as the old wood panel lodged back into place.
Whether or not they liked it, they were locked in.
The gang set out into the darkness, prodding at the greasy limestone walls. The cave’s mouth opened to a small chamber, no bigger than Pa’s barn, but Keech got the feeling eyes could deceive down here. The chamber might be much larger than it looked.
They moved through a darkness blacker than any Keech had ever experienced. The nagging, buzzing heaviness in his head seemed even worse down here, perhaps because the dying light and the enclosed space made him dwell on it all the more.
When their path had completely vanished into the black, Nat called the troop to a halt. “We best make a plan before we go farther,” he said, his voice echoing as though he’d spoken into an empty cask.
“This is powerful dangerous,” John Wesley said. “We should light torches.”
“Where are we gonna find torches?” Duck asked.
“I’ve got my arm on the right wall,” Nat said. “Everyone line up. Put your hand on the shoulder of the person in front of you.”
Duck positioned herself behind Nat. Keech found Cutter’s back and moved his grip to the boy’s shoulder. In turn, John Wesley’s heavy mitt landed on Keech’s arm.
“Ow! Ease up.”
John Wesley’s nervous clutch loosened. “Sorry.”
“Everyone ready?” Nat asked.
Their boots scuffed across the invisible ground. The path curved and each step felt like a leap of faith. After a few moments of blind shuffling, Keech felt Cutter come to a stop.
“John Wesley’s right, this ain’t too smart,” Cutter said. “We should turn and fight.”
“Cut, we’ve been through this,” Nat answered. “They got firepower.”
“So what? You got Turner’s thumb buster. I got my magic knife.”
“That knife ain’t no more magic than my little pinky,” Duck said. “Besides, weapons are useless against Whiskey’s thralls.”
“But our amulets aren’t,” Keech said. He lifted Pa Abner’s pendant over his head.
No sooner did he weave the leather cord around his palm than two deafening gunshots rumbled through the cave. The salvo came from everywhere and nowhere. The disturbance jarred the walls, sprinkled dust from the ceiling.
Duck groaned. “How’d they find us?”
“Maybe those blasted crows showed him the way,” Cutter said.
“Maybe so. But five of us stomped over that trail and around Pa’s door,” Keech said. “Whiskey may be blind in one eye, but he’s not blind. We should’ve been more careful about our tracks.”
The young riders began to shuffle faster through the cavern. A number of unseen steps led them down a mild slope. When they reached the bottom, the pressure in Keech’s ears changed and he sensed they were en
tering another chamber. A strange chattery noise pervaded the blackness here, like the rustling of a thousand leaves.
Cutter’s shoulder dipped, so Keech ducked low. When he swiped through darkness and brushed against the unseen wall, his fingers touched something spongy. He yanked his hand back, only to feel something flutter on the brim of his hat.
“What’s that noise?” Cutter asked.
Up ahead, Duck said, “Bats.”
John Wesley clutched at Keech’s shoulder. “Tell me you’re joking. I hate bats!”
“They’re all over the walls,” Keech said. “Don’t make any sudden moves.” Gingerly he brushed at the bat fidgeting on his head. There was a tiny protesting screech. Then the critter went flapping away into the darkness.
The chattering never ceased as the troop traversed the invisible chamber. In fact, it grew louder the deeper into the cave they traveled.
Without warning, Cutter stopped again, making Keech bump into him.
“Dangit all, what’s wrong now?” he asked.
“I thought I heard something. A growl.”
Duck made a gasping noise. “Bats don’t growl. Do they?”
“That was my stomach,” John Wesley said. “I’m starving.”
“How can you think about grub at a time like this?” Cutter asked.
Nat said, “Stay focused.”
The gang trudged onward. After a while, Keech stopped trying to make sense of the darkness. The gloom only made him think he was seeing shapes when he knew there was nothing there at all.
The faintest orange glow appeared on his palm.
John Wesley gripped his shoulder. “Keech, your amulet! It’s glowing!”
Sure enough, Pa’s pendant was pulsing with a strange light, as if it were turning to hot cinder, though the metal felt cold.
The group huddled around his hand. As they watched, the light of the shard grew brighter. Within seconds, it was glowing enough that they could see each other’s faces.
“Duck, fetch your charm,” Keech said.
There was a shuffling sound as Duck retrieved her pendant. When she laid it across her palm, the same soft orange glow emanated from the shard.
“Why are they glowing like that?” John Wesley asked.
“The pieces react when Bad Whiskey’s magic is near,” Duck said.
As if to prove her theory, a ragged holler echoed out from the black tunnel: “Keech Blackwood! I know yer near, pilgrim! A pile of rocks can’t stop me!”
Over his shoulder, Keech saw traces of a flickering light shimmering in the distance. Whiskey and at least a few of his goons were approaching. They had brought torches to light their way. The glow of the amulets intensified as the torchlight grew brighter.
“We have to go,” Nat said.
Keech seized the opportunity to canvass their surroundings. They were shuffling through a long, narrow corridor with a low ceiling. There were no bats here, but the ground sloped up as the corridor progressed, building toward a massive ridge.
Keech noticed something else: the stink of decay was stronger here.
Venomous laughter filled the hollow places. “I’m comin’, pilgrim! I can feel ya near! As long as you hold the shard, I’ll know where to find ya!” They could hear footsteps, scuffling over limestone.
Nat took his sister’s free hand and pulled her along. “Maybe we can find someplace to hide.”
Keech and John Wesley moved behind them, but Cutter remained where he stood. “Go ahead and hide. I’m staying,” he said.
Nat and Duck spun around. “No, you’re not. We go together,” Nat replied.
“Just because I ride with you don’t mean I take your orders.” Cutter pulled his knife. “Don’t try to stop me, Embry.”
At the sight of the blade, Nat placed his hand on the grip of Turner’s revolver. “You want to be careful,” he said. “I’m in no mood.”
“My brother ain’t fooling. I’d listen if I was you,” Duck said.
John Wesley tugged on Cutter’s coat. “Stop it, Cut. We have to go.”
Cutter hawked a ball of spit in the direction of Nat’s boot. “He’s a yellow-belly. I came to kill El Ojo, not hide in the shadows. We’ll take ’im down together, me and you, like we always planned.”
John Wesley looked confused about what to do. “We can’t just leave them,” he told Cutter. “Back at the rocks they didn’t leave us, did they? We’re all a team now.”
Cutter scowled. “I do better on my own.”
“Cutter, think about what you’re doing,” Keech pleaded. “You’re closed in, no high ground. There’d be no way to escape.”
“I don’t want to escape,” the boy said. “I want El Ojo to pay.”
“You’ll get gunned down if you stay here!” John Wesley said.
“Least I’ll die taking a stand. Not running like a coward.”
“This isn’t running,” Keech said. “This is surviving.”
“Leave me be, Lost Cause. This is something I gotta do. For my friend Bishop.”
Nat took a step closer. “If you’re gonna be lunkheaded, at least take a weapon of some use.” He offered the sheriff’s revolver to Cutter.
The boy looked surprised, but he shook his head. “My knife can take him down.”
“Hang your silly knife!” Duck said. “You can’t throw a knife at a bullet.”
“No, let him have his way.” Nat placed the gun back in its holster. “Let’s go.” Turning back around, he led Duck and a hesitant John Wesley up the corridor.
Keech gave Cutter one last pleading look. “Don’t do this.”
“I’ll be all right, Lost Cause. The very least, I’ll slow El Ojo down, give y’all a fighting chance to get out of this place and find the Char Stone.”
Shaking his head, Keech hurried down the path to join the others. Before rounding the next curve, he ventured a look back. Cutter had spun around to face the other direction. A few yards beyond, chaotic torchlight flickered on the cave walls. Cutter disappeared in the darkness as he hurried toward Bad Whiskey.
CHAPTER 22
WASAPE
As Keech followed the others up the limestone aisle, he listened for gunshots or even screams, but only the sounds of their footsteps touched his ears.
Beside him, John Wesley muttered, “I don’t get it. Why can’t we hear any fighting?”
Nobody had an answer.
The gang’s faces were still lit by the amulet shards, but the light had dimmed somewhat, suggesting they were gaining distance from Whiskey. They continued shuffling along. Soon they emerged into a large, circular room. The stink of death was much heavier in this chamber, and the faintly glowing shards revealed five or six passages that forked away from the room.
“This place is a maze,” Nat said.
Keech scrunched his nose. “I think it’s something’s home.”
Swarms of flies buzzed around the room, filling the air with a sickly haze. Beneath the insects, a monstrous carpet of animal bones lay scattered on the floor.
“Just dandy,” John Wesley groaned. He raised his boot heel, noticed he was standing on a dingy jawbone, and hopped back with a whimper.
Nat crouched to examine a hefty pair of antlers wedged in the mud. “Mule deer,” he said. “Been dead a long time.”
“That’s what’s making that awful smell?” asked John Wesley.
A small scream gave Keech a jolt. “There!” Duck pointed at something across the room.
Slouched against the far wall, still covered in places with flesh, was a human skeleton. Flies surrounded the carcass like a black cloud. The victim’s grimy skull gazed across the room. One bony arm reached out beside the body, as though grasping for the darkness.
“Now we know what lives down here,” Nat said, grimacing. “A man-eater.”
A bundle of cloth lay around the corpse’s legs—a pair of deerskin trouser sleeves and a buffalo-hair breechcloth covered in thick, dried blood. Beside the body lay a slender longbow. Slung over the corpse’s
shoulder was a quiver made from raccoon pelts. Tucked inside was a single dogwood arrow, its feathers white and brown.
Duck pinched her nose. The light from her shard cast an eerie luster of orange over the skull. “I wonder who it was?” she said, her tone now more curious than frightened.
Keech examined the longbow. He had seen such a weapon many times. He and Pa Abner had constructed one, in fact, on Keech’s eleventh birthday.
“He was an Osage warrior.”
“How can you tell?” asked John Wesley.
“The bow is made from the wood of a hedge apple tree, and the breechcloth has the Osage design. My hunch is, this fella got lost in Floodwood. He found the cave and got more than he bargained for. But he went down fighting, see?” Keech gestured at the lone arrow inside the quiver. “I’d wager his killer got more than it bargained for, too.”
“How’d he get past the door?” Nat wondered.
“Fellas, look!”
Duck pointed to the dead warrior’s hand. The bony index finger appeared to be gesturing at the cave wall, directing their attention to a ragged picture painted in dried blood across the mudstone:
When Keech saw it, cold dread rippled down his neck and spine.
“What the heck is it?” asked Duck, squinting at the bloody sketch.
“Wasape,” Keech said. “The warrior must’ve died before he could finish the paw.” He recalled his vision inside the evergreen ring, the night story etched in the stars.
John Wesley gulped. “What does ‘Wasape’ mean?”
“Our friend here is telling us what killed him,” Keech answered grimly. “A bear.”
John Wesley said, in a rushed breath, “Then we have to get out of here. We’re standing right in its den!”
“Maybe it’s a black bear,” Duck said.
“It would have to be a mammoth,” Keech said, “to take down a skilled brave with a full quiver.”
John Wesley gazed at the network of limestone passages. “One of those tunnels has to lead back to the surface. How else could the bear get outside to hunt?”
Legends of the Lost Causes Page 17
