Legends of the Lost Causes

by Brad McLelland

  “Have mercy!” Bad Whiskey shrieked. “I just wanted peace!”

  Keech put a hand on Cutter, pausing their attack. The words he spoke next were from Ezekiel 7:25. He spoke them calmly.

  “Destruction cometh, Whiskey Nelson. ‘They shall seek peace, and there shall be none.’”

  Then, with two strong tugs, Keech and Cutter ripped the remains of the overcoat off Bad Whiskey’s body.

  The amulets tumbled from the outlaw’s pocket as the garment split into pieces, landing feet away from the outlaw. No sooner did they land than the Reverend’s crows released a mind-shredding noise, as if dozens of frantic clocks had suddenly bellowed a nightmarish hour. They descended upon Bad Whiskey like mad vultures.

  “Boss, no!” Bad Whiskey screamed. He held up his single arm, a desperate attempt to ward off the giant birds. The crows feasted on their prey, attacking every inch of him, stripping away Whiskey’s flesh with their scythelike talons.

  “The amulets!” Cutter shouted, as the mayhem of crows churned around them. “If we don’t get them, we’ll be torn apart!”

  The boys dived under the cackling cloud. A pair of warped talons scrabbled for Keech’s neck. He rolled sideways, barely escaping them. When he looked up, he was face-to-face with a howling Bad Whiskey, engulfed by a whirlwind of black feathers.

  The outlaw no longer resembled a human being. The crows had picked him down to nothing but bone. For Keech, time seemed to halt. The monster’s black skull gazed at him and grinned.

  “With a row de dow,” the outlaw skeleton sang, “he pays all his debts with a roll of his drum.” And then Bad Whiskey’s song was buried by the cackling of the crows.

  A bright orange illumination filled Keech’s vision. The amulets lay nearby. He reached and wrapped his hand around a freezing charm. A few feet away, Cutter had done the same and was retreating back to safety.

  The boys held the charms aloft, two fists against the onslaught.

  The baleful flock flapped wildly away from the charms, an explosion of fleeing birds.

  Across Bone Ridge Cemetery, the Tsi’noo crumbled.

  The rotted sinew and muscle Bad Whiskey’s dark magic had woven together turned to dust and blew away. Bones cracked and fell apart, bodies collapsed. The victims of the Withers returned to their eternal slumber.

  Nearby, John Wesley and the Embrys staggered to their feet. They gazed around, surprised. Keech looked up and saw the Reverend’s birds continue their retreat into the dark October sky. In the place where the crows had descended, nothing remained of Bad Whiskey Nelson.

  * * *

  The young riders reunited, bleeding and bruised, at the center of the graveyard. The murder of crows continued to circle above them, but they kept their distance, watching.

  “Why did they back off?” Duck asked, gazing at the sky.

  Keech and Cutter held out their hands and showed her the shards. They were still glowing, but only faintly.

  “The crows won’t come near them,” Keech said.

  “But the crows tore Bad Whiskey apart. Why would Rose kill his own man?” John Wesley asked.

  “I’m not so sure Whiskey was Rose’s man,” Keech replied. “He used to be a loyal member of the Gita-Skog. At least till the day he died. Till Screamin’ Bill—my real pa—killed him. But something changed. When Bad thought he’d found the Stone, he boasted he was gonna use its power to regain his life and soul and free himself from the Reverend.”

  Nat shook his head. “So Bad Whiskey had planned to betray Rose?”

  Keech shrugged. “I’m not sure he planned to use the Stone for his own purpose. Not till he realized he could use it to restore his own life.”

  “That must have been the final straw,” Duck said.

  Cutter scurried to the place where Bad Whiskey had perished. “My knife!” He picked up his lost blade and slipped it back into its sheath. “I thought it was gone for good.”

  John Wesley frowned. “Now what?” Small cuts covered his face and neck from battling thralls, but all his normal color had returned.

  Before Keech could answer, a lonely voice drifted across Bone Ridge.

  “Keech.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. He spun around, in search of the voice.

  With Bad Whiskey’s defeat, every thrall had keeled over, lifeless. The idea that one might somehow still be alive had never occurred to him.

  The weakened voice called again. “My boy, I’m here.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CUT FROM THE REINS

  Keech found Pa Abner kneeling between two graves, his head lowered, his arms draped over a pair of crumbling headstones. Whatever second life Bad Whiskey had bestowed on him was quickly draining.

  “Pa,” Keech panted. He hooked his arm around Pa Abner’s waist and tried to lift him to his boots.

  Pa sank back to his knees. “Lean me against one of these tombstones.”

  Moving the man was a struggle. The other young riders ran up. Nat took one of Pa’s arms and helped prop him against one of the stones. Pa looked at Nat and smiled. “I know your eyes. You must be Bennett’s son.”

  “I am,” Nat said, his face slightly troubled at the use of his father’s real name. He shuffled back. Keech noticed that all four of his trailmates had taken off their hats.

  “Keech, listen to me,” Pa Abner said. “There are things I must tell you. My memories have returned, but you must listen before this false life slips away.”

  Keech stooped to one knee. “Go ahead, Pa.”

  “It is vital you find the Char Stone before the Reverend Rose. As we speak, his Gita-Skog are closing in. For years they’ve been scattered across the Territories, hunting down the Enforcers, hunting down the sacred objects we hid, the dark objects Rose had stolen from ancient grounds. But what happened here tonight has focused the Reverend’s eye. His sights are set.”

  “On what?” Keech asked.

  “On the path of a man named Red Jeffreys.”

  Keech glanced back at the others, but none of the young riders had apparently heard the name.

  “He was one of the other Enforcers who knew the whereabouts of the Stone,” Pa said. “Like myself, he took the Oath of Memory. Or, at least I thought he did.”

  “What’s the Oath of Memory?” Keech asked.

  The question made Pa Abner sigh. “I knew this day would come. The day that events would force me to impart my very last lesson, the most important lesson of all.

  “There is a place you must go, Keech. It’s called Bonfire Crossing. I’ve taught you about the Osage clans who dwell in the riverlands. The Crossing is one of their best-kept secrets. Not for its size, but for the kind of knowledge that dwells within. At Bonfire Crossing I took the Oath of Memory, the ritual that cleansed my mind and obscured the Stone’s burial place from the Reverend’s eyes.”

  “The Osage taught you to forget?”

  Pa Abner’s breathing was ragged. “That’s right. The Reverend, and many of his disciples, can reach into minds and take what they wish. The Oath of Memory veiled the whereabouts of the Stone. As well as other sacred objects.”

  “My pa performed this ritual, too?” Nat asked.

  “He did. He also had the idea of leaving clues before our memories of Bone Ridge were gone.”

  A strange notion occurred to Keech. “The cursed Floodwood. It was part of that protection?”

  Pa Abner hesitated, as if buried under a mountain of returning memories. “Floodwood, yes, Floodwood was a precaution,” he said. “There’s so much to tell you, Keech.” His body slouched farther down the stone, as though he wanted to fall asleep.

  “It’s all right, Pa.” He spoke a different question now, this time more urgently. “Who were my parents, really? And why are they buried here?”

  Pa smiled feebly.

  “Your mother, Erin, was a strong woman, Keech. She met your father while the Enforcers were riding through the plains, seeking shelter. Your father was a fierce fighter. Terror of the West. The Osag
e didn’t call him Bill, though. They called him Zha Sape, ‘Black Wood,’ on account of the way no enemy could find him while hunting him in the forest. You bear his name to preserve his honor.”

  “He knew the Osage?” Keech asked.

  Pa Abner managed another smile. “My boy, he was Osage. Half, at least. His father—your grandfather—was a tribesman in the village known as Naniompa, the Village of the Pipe. Your grandmother was a trader’s daughter from St. Louis.”

  Keech sighed, feeling a lonely kind of warmth.

  Pa drew another tattered breath and continued. “When your folks died, I feared the Reverend Rose would raise them for his wicked schemes. So I carried them here to Missouri along with you and the Stone. I found refuge in the village of Snow, up the ridge. The place was long abandoned, a perfect hideout. But you were hungry, frightened. I knew I couldn’t linger. I decided to hide them in Bone Ridge Cemetery.”

  Keech remembered the feelings of déjà vu when he had glimpsed the ruins of Snow. He had, in fact, been there before. As a toddler.

  “I brought you to their graves, Keech. Just before we left for Big Timber. You were afraid of this place. You cried so hard, till I showed you the angel. You touched her robes and your tears dried.”

  Keech imagined standing there all those years ago, gazing at the sculpture. “Is that when you met up with the other Enforcers?” he asked.

  “Soon after. We traveled to Big Timber, you and I. Then Bennett found me, and not long after, Red Jeffreys and Milos Horner. We formed our plan to hide the Char Stone. We scattered the clues that led back to this place. Then we turned to the Osage at Bonfire Crossing to take the Oath of Memory.”

  Pa Abner took a short breath. His eyelids began to slip. “There’s something else,” he said, and pointed to the silver pendant. “The amulets are sacred. They can hold the Reverend’s power at bay. I shattered the original piece into five. The other Enforcers have the other fragments. Find the shards, Keech, and unite them.”

  Pa Abner closed his eyes.

  “No, Pa, wake up!” Keech pleaded.

  But Pa Abner didn’t seem to hear. “I am a wild horse cut from the reins,” he murmured. “Let me run to the mountains.”

  A tear filled Keech’s eye. “Pa, don’t go. You have to tell me how to get to Bonfire Crossing.”

  Pa Abner’s eyes fluttered open, but only a hair. “Ride west, my boy. The Crossing moves, so follow the rivers, the bending trees. Beware of the crows, and hold the amulets close. The People of the Middle Waters await.”

  He closed his eyes again. “Remember, my young warrior. Remember who you are.”

  As he spoke, he lifted his hand and pointed a shaking finger to the hunter’s moon.

  “You are the Wolf,” Pa whispered in Keech’s ear.

  Then Abner Carson stirred no more.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE LAWMAN’S BLESSING

  Keech stood in silence over Pa Abner’s body. A freezing wind raised goose bumps on his neck, but like the pain that racked him, he ignored the chill.

  After a time the young riders approached. Keech asked them for help burying Pa. They collected shovels and spades, and dug a large hole beneath the angelic statue, beside Bill and Erin Blackwood’s grave.

  Keech spotted a small object in the dirt. It was the doll that his mother had been holding. He picked it up, gave the doll a long study, and then stowed it inside his coat pocket.

  When the digging was done, the young riders lowered Pa Abner into the hole, packed the earth, and helped Keech refill the gravesite. Afterward he stood over all three graves and pondered what to say.

  At first he could think of nothing. But then, as the night wind swirled the broomsedge, Keech’s eyes floated up to the towering angel. Though her praying hands had been severed, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. As he gazed at her, the tears dried in his eyes.

  He realized he had words to say after all.

  “I never knew who you were,” he said to the three graves. “You’ve been a mystery to me. But you’re all my family. You’ll always be with me.”

  Cutter walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice words,” he said. Then a curious expression came over his face. “So, you’re Osage.”

  He smiled at the boy. “I’m Keech. And you’re Cutter.”

  Cutter returned the smile. “It’s Miguel,” he said. “Miguel Herrera.” He looked as if he wanted to add something else, but John Wesley spoke first.

  “Look!”

  Beyond Bone Ridge’s iron gate, a trio of lights crossed the narrow footpath, one behind the other. The lights seem to float in the air as they approached the graveyard.

  Duck frowned nervously. “What are they?”

  “Spirits!” Cutter said. He crossed himself, and Keech wondered if the boy could be right. Maybe the lights were the spirits of his folks and Pa Abner, wandering the edges of Bone Ridge, fulfilling Keech’s desire that they would stay with him forever.

  “It ain’t spirits,” Nat said. “It’s three riders.” He seized one of the pickaxes. “Could be more of Rose’s men. Stand ready.”

  As the lights passed through the gate, Duck said, “It’s travelers, all right. There’s a team of horses behind them.”

  Details of the horsemen were scarcely visible, but Duck was right. Following close behind the ghostly trio was a pack of horses attached to lead ropes.

  A booming voice rumbled across the graveyard.

  “This is the Big Timber sheriff! If you’re armed, drop your weapons! If you’re peaceful, state your names!”

  Sheriff Bose Turner cantered through the graveyard, flanked by two young men escorting five horses in single file.

  The past two days had nearly destroyed his body, but Keech took off running anyway, hurtling toward the lawman. The other young riders followed, limping and laughing.

  “Sheriff!” Keech yelled, then noticed Felix, his pony, standing among the five escorted horses. The other ponies belonged to the rest of the gang—Nat and Duck’s Fox Trotters, John Wesley’s fat gelding, and Cutter’s palomino mare. When the other young riders caught up to Keech, they hooted for joy.

  Turner and his two companions clucked and whistled for the team to stop. The men were holding farm lanterns in one hand, percussion revolvers in the other. The sheriff’s left arm was folded in a white sling—dressing for the wound he’d suffered back at Whistler.

  At the sight of the desecrated graves and piles of lifeless thralls, a look of horror crossed Turner’s face. “Dear heaven, what happened here?” he said.

  Petting Felix’s muzzle, Keech said, “Bad Whiskey kept us busy, Sheriff.”

  “I can see that. What happened to him?”

  “Long story.”

  Turner scratched his face. “Why don’t we start from the beginning.”

  * * *

  Turner’s companions were two German brothers from Whistler. They didn’t know a lick of English, so they held their lanterns and remained silent as Turner explained his half of the story. Keech noticed one of the brothers wore a brown holster that contained Deputy Ballard’s Colt.

  “It took these fellas a whole day to round up your horses,” the sheriff said. The group had moved back to the gate, and as Turner spoke, the young riders kept busy patching cuts and tending bruises. “They were scattered all over the countryside. When we found your horse, Nat, we were sure happy to see this.” Turner reached into a long leather bag and pulled out Nat’s Hawken rifle.

  “You found it!” Nat grabbed the rifle and checked its sights.

  Turner went on to explain that after the kind Whistler family had patched his shoulder, he and the German brothers had set out through Floodwood to find everyone.

  “Did the forest trap you?” John Wesley asked.

  Turner frowned. “Trap us? No, we were able to ride straight through. We found the town of Snow a couple hours after we set out.”

  The young riders looked at each other with fascination. Apparently the
curse had been lifted by the time Turner and the Germans had entered.

  “My friends, it sounds as if your path was much more treacherous than mine,” Sheriff Turner said. “I do apologize I couldn’t be there to help.”

  After recounting their part of the journey and how Bad Whiskey had met his end, Keech told Turner about Pa’s final instructions to seek a place called Bonfire Crossing.

  “There hasn’t been an Osage village near our parts for decades,” Turner said. “If such a place does exist, it would be farther south in Kansas Territory, along the Neosho River.”

  “Pa said we’d have to go west.”

  Turner rubbed his mustache. “So you intend to keep going? Even though you almost got yourselves killed?”

  “Big Ben is still out there,” Nat said. “That monster killed our folks.”

  “And we intend to hunt him down,” Duck finished.

  Turner looked at Cutter. “What about you? You have no more vengeance to seek, now that Whiskey’s dead.”

  Cutter sneered, though Keech could tell there was so much more to his story, so much more that Miguel Herrera had not told them. “You know what they say, Sheriff. The wicked never rest.”

  Turner shifted his gaze to John Wesley. “And you, son?”

  With a low voice, John Wesley said, “My mother’s killer is still out there, too. If I don’t hunt him down, she’ll never rest in peace.”

  Turner gave each youth a long, serious look. At last he said, “I can’t allow you to run off wild and act like a bunch of vigilantes.”

  Each of the young riders groaned.

  “But,” Turner said, “if you were deputized, you wouldn’t be vigilantes, now, would you?”

  He called the young riders into a huddle. At the southern edge of Bone Ridge, under the light of three farm lanterns and a full moon, he ordered them to raise their right hands. They didn’t have a Bible to swear on, but the sheriff said extreme cases called for extreme measures. After a few momentous words about duty and honor, he pronounced the words that made them official deputies of the Law.

  “Apologies that I don’t have stars to give you,” he said. “Maybe when you all come back, I’ll do it proper. Till then, consider yourselves appointed officers.”