Legends of the Lost Causes
Page 22
John Wesley stood behind Duck. He held up his right hand. A warm golden light glowed in his palm. He smiled.
“I do.”
Keech felt a roar of triumph in his soul as John Wesley stepped forward, the radiant charm tied to his hand by a thin cord. With each step he took, Bad Whiskey retreated, gritting his teeth in rage. The surrounding thralls inched closer, but the large boy wheeled the charm wildly, brandishing its otherworldly light.
“Tell them to back off!” he shouted.
The outlaw flung his arm skyward, more a gesture of panic than surrender. “Stop, you worms, stop!” he squealed to his army. “Come no closer!”
Every thrall in Bone Ridge turned to regard their master.
“Tell them to go back to their holes,” John Wesley demanded.
Bad Whiskey hesitated, his good eye sizing up his opponent. Slowly, he dropped his arm. “You ain’t gonna kill me. Wanna know why?”
John Wesley wavered, uncertain.
“Let me show ya.”
Keech felt his boots leave the earth. The graveyard tilted in his vision; then he found himself flying through the air. Pa had picked him up and heaved him at John Wesley. Keech flailed, hoping somehow to change his course, but Pa’s toss had been dead-on. He smashed into the large boy and they toppled to the ground.
Keech struggled to untangle himself, and when he rolled aside, he saw that John Wesley had taken a mean blow to the head and been knocked unconscious. He looked up to see Bad Whiskey bending to retrieve his Dragoon. Stepping almost gingerly toward Duck, the outlaw once again positioned the massive revolver.
“This fight is over,” he said.
“Don’t you hurt her,” came Nat’s voice.
A pair of thralls had dragged the rancher, bleeding and bruised, into the torchlight. The battered boy dropped to the ground, his furious eyes locked on Whiskey.
“Don’t you hurt my sister.”
Duck smiled at her brother. “Don’t worry, Nathaniel, I ain’t afraid to die.”
Bad Whiskey pursed his lips. “You should be, little’un. The other side is pain and torment.”
“For the likes of you,” Duck spat.
Snickering, Bad Whiskey cocked the Dragoon’s hammer. He looked at John Wesley, who was groaning back to a dizzy sort of consciousness. “Toss away the shard, hero. You’ve got till the count of three.”
Even in his daze, John Wesley recognized the danger. He pulled the glowing charm free from his palm, looked at it once, then threw it aside.
“Good boy. Now all of ya, on yer feet. I’ve decided not to kill ya after all.”
From where he lay in the dirt, Keech had a perfect view of the hunter’s moon over the surrounding black locust trees. Riding across the moon’s face were dozens of crows. The terrible flock cut sharp arcs across the sky, observing the struggle but making no move to intervene.
They hate to be close to the amulets, Keech thought. A thrall could bear the amulets as long as the silver didn’t touch flesh, but perhaps the birds were more sensitive. He remembered the monstrous crow that had landed on Bad Whiskey’s shoulder at the Home. The way Whiskey had taken five steps back after Pa revealed the shard. Maybe the steps hadn’t been for Whiskey. Maybe they had been a precaution for the crow.
A series of screeches fell from their beaks. Something was upsetting them. “The crows seem anxious, Bad,” Keech said. “What happens when your clock is up?”
“You should worry about what’ll happen when yers is up,” Bad Whiskey muttered. He peered at the cobalt sky. A hint of fear spread across his face. “To yer feet,” he said to Keech, his tone desperate. “Wake Herrera.”
The Tsi’noo approached, surrounding the young riders. Keech winced at the sight of Pa Abner, his eyes hollow and full of nothingness, standing beside Whiskey.
Kneeling at his side, Keech lightly slapped at Cutter’s cheek. The boy’s eyes fluttered. He gazed around, confused. “Did we win?”
Keech shook his head.
His hand safely gloved, Bad Whiskey scooped Duck’s shard from the dirt and tucked it into a pocket inside his tattered overcoat. “We got some work to do,” he said. “Raines, the code.”
Pa Abner ambled over, extended his hand, and thrust the crumpled telegram back into Keech’s palm. Keech tried to look the thrall in the eye, but Pa refused to gaze back.
“Crack the cipher,” Bad Whiskey said. “Time to find my Stone.”
“And what happens if we do?” Keech asked.
“Then, little pilgrim, we do us some real magic.”
CHAPTER 26
TREASURE HUNT
A freezing wind gusted as the young riders stumbled, defeated and weary, across Bone Ridge’s broken hills. Behind them, Bad Whiskey rode his chestnut horse, his left thumb tucked into his gunbelt. In front of the horse walked Pa Abner, holding Duck’s broom-handle torch.
The outlaw had commanded the Tsi’noo to build their own lights, so now they carried gruesome torches made from stray bones or tombstone planks. The flames burned ghostly red, reminding Keech of the night Granny Nell and his orphan siblings perished.
Since the fourth verse from the telegram had already been discovered on Abraham Nell’s marker, Bad Whiskey had forced Nat and Cutter to dig up what remained of the grave. The Tsi’noo had thrown the boys two old shovels, and Bad Whiskey had ordered them to jump into the hole. The only thing Nat and Cutter had turned up was the dead man’s empty coffin, its heavy lid smashed to splinters by Mr. Abraham himself.
“There’s nothing here,” Nat growled, his face grimy with dirt.
“The Stone must be in one of the other three graves,” Bad Whiskey said. “Let’s move west.”
The Tsi’noo shoved the young riders across the boneyard. The entire gang looked on the verge of collapse. Keech looked at Nat and Duck. The siblings were bruised, skinned up, exhausted, but they nodded at him nonetheless—a signal that they were ready to fight again when the time was right.
A staggering number of tombstones stretched before them, bathed in ruddy moonlight. Many of the graves had opened when Bad Whiskey spoke his chant, but many more remained intact. At the end of every row Whiskey stopped and sent thralls to the graves to inspect the tombstones for writing. Most times the creatures returned, grumbling, “Nothin’, Master.” One thrall shambled back and described a Scripture verse from Revelation, but Keech only shook his head. They resumed their search.
The longer the hunt dragged on, the more desperate Bad Whiskey seemed. “I’m warnin’ ya, pilgrim, don’t mess with me. If we don’t find the right graves soon, I’m gonna start fillin’ some empty holes with yer friends.”
“There’s too much ground to cover,” Keech said. “It’ll take the whole night to search every tombstone.”
“You ain’t got all night,” Bad Whiskey said. “You got an hour. The girl will take the north end and Herrera will scout the middle. You, rancher”—he pointed at Nat—“take your hefty friend and search the west. Jim Bowie will stay with me. Now, go fetch my Stone.”
The Tsi’noo separated the young riders to each corner of the boneyard. Because the landscape was hilly, Keech couldn’t make out where the thralls took Cutter and Duck. As he walked off, John Wesley stumbled a few times, still befuddled from the earlier blow to his head. Nat was a short distance off, shuffling through the graves, guarded by five or six thralls. Like the others, he carried a broken shovel. If they discovered one of Pa’s verses, their orders were simple: Dig the grave or die.
As they waited, Bad Whiskey snatched the telegram from Keech. He studied the letter again. “Four verses, four graves. But why would Raines mark four?”
“Maybe he broke the Stone into pieces.”
Bad Whiskey regarded the silent Pa Abner. “Impossible. The Char Stone contains ancient magic. It ain’t some simple object that can be cracked. No, we’re missin’ a connection.”
Bad Whiskey’s last word sent a quick idea fluttering through Keech’s head.
Connection.
&n
bsp; He gazed across the moonlit hills, hoping to see the answer.
A murmur nearby, followed by a shout, broke his concentration. Nat was arguing with one of his thrall guards. Bad Whiskey grinned at the commotion and closed his good eye. His body went rigid, and Keech realized the outlaw was reaching into the thrall’s head.
If there was a good time to attack, it would be now. But before Keech could act, Pa Abner’s heavy hands gripped his shoulders, holding him in place.
Bad Whiskey opened his eye. “Splitting you boys up worked like a charm. Already the rancher found the Ezekiel verse. And our pal Herrera found Malachi over yonder.”
When they reached Nat, Keech saw that he had indeed discovered a wooden grave marker that bore the words of Ezekiel 7:25. Like Abraham Nell’s marker, this one too had been fashioned in the shape of a cross:
DESTRUCTION
COMETH
AND THEY SHALL SEEK PEACE
AND
THERE
SHALL
BE
NONE
Nat stood in the hole, throwing out wet dirt with his spade. His feet rested on the base of a split, empty casket.
“Anything?” Bad Whiskey asked.
Nat knelt and rooted around with his hands. He came up empty-handed. “Satisfied?” he hissed at Whiskey. “Your precious Stone ain’t here.”
Bad Whiskey grumbled and went deathly still. At the same time, Pa Abner rocked back on his boots like he’d been jolted by lightning. Pa’s left eye jittered, then calmed, like a spinning marble coming to rest. The outlaw’s lips pursed into a quivering line.
Keech realized Whiskey was trying to read Pa’s mind, but couldn’t. He smiled at the outlaw’s frustration.
As soon as Bad Whiskey released his hold on Pa, he slammed the back of his hand into Keech’s face, knocking him sideways. He felt his bottom lip split and tasted blood. Down in the hole Nat cursed, but Whiskey’s outburst drowned every word.
“How deep did Raines bury my treasure? Keep diggin’!”
Keech squinted up from the ground, his face stinging. He struggled to his feet and gazed toward the center of the graveyard, at the distant silhouette of a tall angelic statue that stood upon a low hill. The idea he’d gotten a few moments before fluttered back.
Pa Abner’s Bible verses were connecting points. But the points were not plainly visible. Two ways to look at a thing, he thought. To see the connections, he had to look at Bone Ridge a different way, as if flat on a map. He had to take the bird’s-eye view.
Keech now understood. Cutter, Duck, and John Wesley would find nothing. All four of the graves bearing Pa’s verses were, in fact, empty. But he said nothing aloud. In fact, he didn’t want to blink for fear of betraying one secret thought:
I know the location of the Char Stone.
Bad Whiskey stared at Keech with piercing interest. “You solved it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Speak, or I’ll bury the rancher alive.”
“Keech, don’t give this yellow-belly anything!” Nat shouted.
“Shut up,” Bad Whiskey said. With rattlesnake fury, he wrapped his hand around Keech’s wounded arm and squeezed the aching flesh. Keech dropped to his knees.
“Where is the Stone hid?”
“I’ll never yield!”
“I’ve got the strength of ten men, boy.”
Keech twisted in agony. “And I’ve got the endurance of twenty.”
Cursing, Bad Whiskey released his grip. Keech fell backward, clutching the injured arm. Whiskey glared at the crows in the sky.
“The endurance of twenty men, ya say? Let’s put that to the test.”
Keech steadied himself for what was to come. Bad Whiskey aimed to torture him. One of Pa Abner’s most critical lessons had concerned the presence and reality of physical pain. When you’re faced with suffering of the body, Pa had said, place all of your mind in a box, the tiniest box you can imagine, and nail the lid shut. Don’t let anything through.
Keech imagined the box where he would hide.
But then Bad Whiskey turned to Pa Abner and said, “Break yer orphan.”
Pa Abner loomed over Keech and began to swing his heavy arms. His fists struck without mercy. Keech backed over rows of graves, his arms raised to shield his face, but Pa was a tornado, relentless and blinding. Somewhere in the background Nat was yelling, and Bad Whiskey was cackling, but all other sounds were secondary to the vicious, inhuman grunts that came from Pa.
“Please, Pa, stop,” Keech begged.
But the blows kept coming. Pa’s fist slammed into his gut and Keech dropped to his knees. A heavy curtain began to close over his vision, fetching a darkness both gloomy and welcoming.
“Enough, Raines.”
Pa Abner stepped away and Bad Whiskey leaned over him, scowling.
“You ready to talk yet, boy?”
“Never. You’ll just have to kill me. At least you’ll never find the Char Stone.”
“Maybe I will kill ya, pilgrim. Then I’ll raise ya like I did Raines, search yer mind for the answer. I’d imagine you don’t have the guards on yer thoughts like he does.”
Bad Whiskey pulled his Dragoon.
In an instant, Keech realized he was defeated. There was no way he could stop Bad from uncovering his solution to the code. The only chance he had of beating the fiend was to keep on living and wait for a better plan to form. He raised his hands. “You win. No point in dying if you can just get the answer anyway.”
“Keech, no!” Nat yelled.
Keech spoke through a pained gasp. “Digging the other graves will be useless.”
Bad Whiskey sneered expectantly. “Yes?”
Holding his aching stomach, Keech began to draw in the dirt.
“There is your rotten Char Stone,” he said once he was finished. “Hidden at the cross.” He pointed to the center of the drawing.
Bad Whiskey started barking orders, instructing the other kids to find and stand at the four graves that were indicated on the telegram code. Then he commanded Pa Abner to drag Keech to the center of the X.
* * *
The Tsi’noo gathered, carrying torchlights, at the foot of the granite angel Keech had spotted earlier. Overgrown mounds of witchgrass blanketed the ground, obscuring most of the graves.
Keech rubbed his pounding temples. His ribs screamed from Pa’s blows.
Holding a fresh bone torch, Bad Whiskey muttered to himself as he stomped around the base of the angel statue. Two thralls approached, leading Duck. Another group escorted Cutter toward the illuminated area. Keech grew worried when he saw no sign of John Wesley—the boy had been badly dazed when they last saw him.
Duck grimaced in concern. “Keech, are you dying?”
Keech slowly stood. He looked to the south. “Not dying. Just awful sore.”
“Why’d the thralls bring us here?” Cutter asked.
“Because I want ya together when ya die.” Bad Whiskey stepped out from behind the angel. Pa Abner marched dutifully behind him. In one hand Pa held the coded telegram, in the other a pickax. “I reckon the son of Screamin’ Bill might be tryin’ one last trick,” Bad Whiskey said, “so I want me some prisoners to kill if we don’t find the Stone.”
Confusion rocked Keech. “Who is the ‘son of Screamin’ Bill’?”
Bad Whiskey spun on his heel and laughed in Keech’s face. “You mean Raines never even told ya the name of your own rotten padre? Screamin’ Bill Blackwood, terror of the West!”
Cold prickles danced down Keech’s spine. Hearing the name of his father for the first time, spoken by a devil, left his mind feeling tangled. He wondered what sort of emotions he ought to have and why he only felt a sort of nauseous panic in his gut.
“I see yer all shook up,” Bad Whiskey said. “Raines shoulda told ya, boy. Yer pa was an Enforcer for Rose.”
Keech glanced at Pa, wounded that he had never heard the truth.
Pa’s face remained coldly empty.
“What do you expect me to do?” Keech asked.
Bad Whiskey pointed to the tall angelic statue. “Fetch my Stone.”
Keech lifted the pickax with a pained grunt. He shivered when he looked up at the stone figure. The sculpture was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, like something he’d dreamed in a perfect sleep. The angel’s granite hair flowed down her crumpled robes like frozen water, and she was praying, her hands cupped together in mute supplication. Her wings were folded inward, almost touching at their feathery tips, as if protecting her hands from curious enemies.
While Keech moved around the angel’s stone pedestal, studying the granite for strange cracks or openings, a third group of thralls brought Nat over to sit with the captive Duck and Cutter.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Keech is gonna uncover the Char Stone,” Cutter said.
Bad Whiskey stalked behind Keech, his bone torch and foul breath just behind his ear. The outlaw peered at the sky and mumbled a curse. Dozens of crows dissected the clouds, a swarming mass that made the night sky look alive.
“Hurry up. Quit stallin’.”
Every inch of the statue appeared to be solid. Keech inspected the pedestal again, but only piles of witchgrass surrounded the slab. “It’s not here.”
Bad Whiskey dropped his torch and grabbed the pickax from Keech’s grasp. “It has to be!” With his one arm he swung the tool at the angel’s robes, her wings, the sandaled feet upon the pedestal. Slivers of granite flew. The pickax severed the angel’s hands. They landed at the base of the pedestal and shattered below the statue’s feet.
Keech glanced down at the broken palms and fingers. Two small squares of blackened cypress peeked up from the ground, barely visible under the witchgrass.
He pushed aside the grass, revealing two identical grave markers. They lay flat against the earth, side by side, and judging by the way the ground had all but swallowed them, their presence was intended to go unnoticed.