by Jeffrey Lent
He advanced slowly, going around the table along the wall toward the door by degrees and the yard revealed itself. He could see two men down, the one shot and one of the others he’d struck. A couple of men leaned over them. When he appeared in the doorway a rifle went off and he dodged back but heard the bullet strike the log wall outside the door. He stepped back into the door and sighted the horse pistol at the two men over their comrades. He fired and heard a yelp and again a rifle fired. He stepped back and kicked the door shut and got the bar up.
He was panting and his lungs ached and there was powder burn under one eye but his leg didn’t hurt at all. He went to the table and recharged both pistols. Then stood thinking. That last rifle fired, that had not been either of the men still standing. Or the shot before that. It could be the other two or three but them he imagined back in the bushes. He’d caused some harm with the goad. What it was, he decided, was more than what he saw. More men beyond that initial handful. And clear as sight he saw more on the way.
His first thought was he’d missed it. That yesterday he should’ve loaded himself before going up the trail to the marsh to warn the children. And gone from there in the last golden light of day off into the woods where all he needed was the sun or stars to lead him.
Aloud he said, “Fuck these bastards. Let em come.” There was not a man among them equal to him on his worst day. Blood was far from his worst day. He left his loaded weapons on the table and went to the tavern and cursed the locked storeroom and the lost-forever keys but worked the fullest of the hogsheads from the counter and rolled it across the floor and through the doorway where he bent and heaved to push it upright and press against the door—a barricade of weight against the bar already in place.
He pulled the ladder to his loft away from the wall and went up to push back the trap door and back down for his long rifle and the horse pistols and the pouches of powder and shot. Working without hurry but steady, focused. He wanted everything laid out beside him. He built up the fire so the heat would rise and warm the loft. Last thing he took the kettle and filled it with coals so he would have fire to light the match-fuses for the small cannon. If he needed it. He doubted he would. It was the only way to think.
In the loft he stretched on the floor and listened. His leg throbbing now, a bright cry of his body to keep him fully alert. He wouldn’t open the gunport until he had to. Until he did, no one outside would know where he was. So he sat listening to the wrinkle of the stream and the fluting birdsong of morning. Beyond that, under it, he heard the lilt and tilt of voices. Once the bristled cry of a horse greeting another and the curse and slap of a man stilling the horse. Blood grinned. He thought You out there. You’re already out of surprise.
At the marsh they were up and moving about to break camp and load the horses when they heard the gunfire, clear as if it were at the edge of the marsh in the unmoving morning air. A smattering of barrage, then silence then three final shots, spaced evenly each a breath apart. All three looked to the others, halted in their tasks.
“That was right down to the stream,” Fletcher said.
“No,” Cooper said. “That was to the tavern.”
Sally said, “Oh. No.”
Both boys looked at her, not speaking what each thought.
Cooper said, “All right. What we got to do. Is keep right on. Make sure everything is packed tight just how we want it. The last thing we need is to tear off down there and have something come loose or forget where something is.”
“I’m ready,” said Fletcher.
Cooper turned to him. “Well good for you. Now you can just double-check yourself and we’ll all be set.”
Sally said, “I’m most ready also.”
Fletcher said, “I’m riding down there.” He turned and caught up the reins of his horse and turned his back to mount when Cooper took him by the shoulder. Fletcher turned.
Cooper said, “You given any thoughts to how a one-armed boy’ll ride in to whatever it is and be much good?”
Fletcher stood silent.
Cooper nodded. He said, “Just check your rigging one last time. Make sure your knots is tight. Let that horse get the wind from his belly and I’ll cinch that saddle one more notch. All right?”
“All right.”
Cooper turned so he addressed Fletcher and Sally at once. “We got three guns between us. I figure we ride down close by, then Fletcher and I’ll ride ahead and scout it. We got no idear however many men there is. If Father’s dead they’ll all be congregated at the tavern I expect. But if he idn’t, men could be strung out a ways. So each one of us gets a gun. I’ll take a long rifle since I can ride and shoot and load at the same time. That fancy pistol will do Fletcher more good than a long gun.” He looked at Sally. “You can handle a rifle?”
“Blood showed me. But I ain’t about to set back hiding while you fellers ride in.”
Cooper said, “You’re looking at it wrong. We ain’t planning to hide you out. Just you set up the road a piece and let us see what’s there. If Fletcher and me run into trouble, we’re heading right back up that road. Where you’ll be waiting.”
She turned and finished tightening her bundle on the cantle. Then without looking swung up onto the bay. She reined the horse in a sharp circle to calm it and brought it up short. “I don’t like it,” she said. “But there idn’t time to argue it.” Cooper studied her a pause as if she complied too easily. She met that gaze. He handed up the rifle and the pouches.
Fletcher mounted also. Once up he said, “Pass me the pistol.”
Cooper took up the pistol, checked the charge and handed it to Fletcher. Who said, “Pass me up the axe too. I want it.”
Cooper looked at him. “How do you expect to carry it?”
“That’s my business.”
Cooper took the axe from where it leaned against a young beech and handed it up. Fletcher took the pistol for a moment between his teeth and used his free hand to rein tight the horse and transferred the reins to his bound-up hand, wrapping them hard and knotting them onto his wrist. So he could guide the horse no-handed. He took the axe by the heft under the head and gripped it in the same hand as held the reins. So the long handle rode down along his right leg and the bit of the axe was riding on the knuckles of his right hand. Where he could get it easy with his left hand. He reached up and took the pistol from his mouth and said, “I got every intention of being a warrior if it’s called for.” His face grim.
Cooper then mounted his own horse and took a last look about the camp. He held the long rifle across his chest, crooked in the elbow of his reining hand. He turned to the others and said, “We ride down slow and look sharp all the way. Nobody hurries. All right?”
Sally said, “Let’s go.”
Fletcher said, “You lead us brother. Set the pace.”
It was quiet in the loft. Less quiet outside. Blood straining hard to hear. From time to time he heard a murmur of exchange, once the splash and curse of a man misstepping a rock in the stream, the ring of metal as a rifle barrel struck another, even the slithery wet swipe of a ramrod driving home a charge. The muffled snorts of horses and the creak of leather as a man stepped either off or onto a horse. He was far from alone but the men outside, impossible to number, had at least one dead and some wounded to consider. However many there were of them, Blood imagined they considered the tavern a considerable daunt. Briefly he worried they’d consider fire and then ruled it out—they were men after all and their grudge against him would be measured hard against greed for his stores. So far he considered himself in the superior position.
After a time he heard bootsteps breaking in the softening mud of the warming day as they crossed the yard: one man. Blood lay without moving.
Below he heard the man heave against the door.
Knock, Blood thought, and smiled.
The man pounded on the door.
Again in his head Blood said I’ll be right there. You fucking idiot.
The man called out. Blood’s na
me, twice. Blood thought he knew the voice.
More silence.
Blood thought Pick your words.
After a bit the man cried, a tone both defiant and solicitous, “All we’re after is talk, Blood. There idn’t a one of us that don’t mistrust you but you know us all. Blood, we want to hear your side of things. We come first thing in the morning because we was afeard of just this sort of misunderstanding. Now you killed one man already and grievous wounded two more. It all adds against you but we been talking and we can see how from your view it looked like mischief of the worst sort. But all we’re after right this moment is talk. Talk. Blood? You hear me? Blood?”
It was Isaac Cole. Damn it thought Blood. If it’d been him I blew open this morning all the rest of those peckerheads would’ve scampered. Cole hiding back in the bushes to see if they could take me. Some fearsome leader. Blood grinned again. And remained silent.
Below he could hear Cole stamping back and forth by the door. Someone across the yard called something he couldn’t make out and Cole answered only with a grunt. Then it was quiet. A short time passed that was near peaceful. If only Isaac Cole would get the hell off his doorstep it would be so.
Then Cole pounded again on the door. “Blood,” he called. “Blood? You wounded? You need help? Make the least noise and I’ll call up men and we’ll axe-in the door and tend you. Blood? You hear me?”
Well, he didn’t want that. Blood took up his belt knife laid on the floorboards before him. Above were strung a pair of stout leather thongs that ran to the gunport-shutter that opened at the front of the tavern. Lifting the knife he brought the edge against the tethers that held the shutter closed. The leather was taut and dried from the summer heat. The blade went through and the shutter collapsed down in a brilliant clap of report. Blood could see a group of men gathered out at the stream-edge, more than he’d hoped for but less then he’d feared. All recoiled against the sound from the house. He liked that moment, when all ducked or cowed and one even broke for the meager cover of the streambank. From here he could see it all. But for the man before his door.
He called out, “Cole!”
Nothing.
He cried again. “Cole. If you stand where you are you’re safe. If you walk away I swear to God I’ll put a hole through you could pass a fist. You hear me?”
Blood saw the group of men coming together now, swiveling one and all to watch. Some brought their rifles up against their chests. They didn’t worry him. Shooting from where they were at the narrow opening their shots would angle high over where he lay and pass through the shingles. If it rained he’d be uncomfortable and that was about it.
He waited. He couldn’t hear but could sense the man below him, suddenly pinned against the side of the tavern. Likely worrying that Blood could work his way forward and reach to touch the top of his skull with the muzzle end of a weapon.
Cole said, “You’re bringing bad to worst, Blood. All we wanted was to talk.”
Blood said, “Step back so I can see your face and talk then.”
Quiet again. Then Cole said, “I don’t trust you for that Blood.”
“Why a course you don’t. Recall that it was me assembled this army of men to put you in jeopardy. Recall it was me arranged this meeting at daybreak. It was me that brought the militia down on you, not just the second time but the first one too. Think on it hard Cole and you’ll recall it was me not only advised but led the group of you to Lancaster to break that poor bastard from the jail there. As if it did him any good. How it strikes me, Isaac Cole, is that you’re the last to speak of trust to me.”
Another long silence. During which Blood thought Well nobody likes to hear the truth but goddamn I’ve done it now. There idn’t any good way he can respond to that, not with all his fellows watching.
Cole rabbited. A hopeless helpless awkward zigzag toward his men. Blood took in a breath and raised his rifle halfway, let his eye settle on the scooting man, then brought the rifle the rest of the way to come to rest aimed at a blank point in the yard. Blood breathed out and at the edge of his vision saw Cole flounder into the space allotted him and Blood pulled the trigger and the hammer went down. In the moment before the loft filled with smoke Blood saw Cole stretch both hands over his head and drop the rifle he was carrying, his arms stretched as if to carry him away, a rending of his shirtback occurring also that lifted him for a moment as if his body would follow his arms and then he folded like a thing discarded and draped over the earth.
Blood already had the rifle down and was stretched low and flat himself when the men across the yard brought their weapons up and fired back. Many shot too fast and struck the outer logs of the building but a half-dozen shots came through the opening and as Blood had guessed busted holes in the shingle roof. A rain of froe-riven cedar-shingle splinters fell over him. He lay with his eyes shut. The chips fell against him soft as needles from the shingle-memory of the trees they came from. Even while they fell his hands were moving over the rifle, from pouches and back to the gun, reloading, still lying pressed flat. Lay right there and see what happens next. He opened his eyes.
The horses picked their way single file along the steep brook-trail, slick with a light freeze on the mossed boulders and hardpack mud of the trail. As they came down the final incline into the broad confluence with Perry Stream they heard again a single shot, muffled by the stream and the trees alongside the road but clear enough coming from downstream. The tavern. They heard also the return of fire, a volley of ragged firing. Then silence. Cooper was in the lead and he pulled his horse up and sat listening. When there were no more shots he turned in the saddle and said, “I guess we know who the one shot come from.”
Sally said, “Let’s ride down there.” She kneed the bay around them. Cooper stretched and caught up the bridle of her horse. “Slow down girl,” he said. “Let’s consider a moment. What do you think, Fletcher? It sounded like a bunch, that last volley.”
Fletcher said, “It did.”
Sally swung her horse around out onto the road down along the stream. Fletcher kicked his chestnut up and Cooper came after. Then all three rode silent side by side. Quiet with their thoughts, private plans. But a party joined.
They went down the road. It was a pretty morning. The sun was up enough to raise a light steam from the stream and dapple in through the leaves, splashing bold color and cutting thin slantwise shafts across the road. Time to time they rode through one of those beams and were blinded a moment, blind and warmed at once. All three felt pitched, keen, and the horses read this through the rider’s bodies and anticipation trembled and filled the horses as well.
They came upon the oxbow just above the tavern. It wasn’t yet visible but the open land on the other side of the stream ran all the way down to the tavern and Sally could see the backside of the barn and somewhat closer the ruined garden plot. She reined in her horse and said, “This is a good spot to pause. Any farther and we’ll be seen. But it’s close enough I can tell what’s going on. I been up and down this path all summer.”
Fletcher said, “I hate the idear of leaving her here alone. We don’t have the least notion of who’s where. Or who might be coming along.”
Sally said, “I’ll be fine. I got the rifle and this horse can get me away from most anything I need to be saved from. But one thing you got to know, going in.”
Fletcher said, “What’s that?”
“Blood’s tougher than all those fellers mobbed up, is my guess. But there’s this also. There idn’t nothing I seen makes me think that when Blood’s in a corner he thinks about any skin but his own. Not anyone. You hear me?”
Fletcher said, “I already know that.” He looked at her a long moment and then turned his horse from her and kneed it forward. He looked back once. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or his brother.
Cooper said, “I got to go.”
“Get along,” she said.
“Sally,” Cooper said.
“Go,” she said. “I’l
l see you soon.”
Two reports. One, then perhaps fifteen seconds later, another. The brothers were still in sight and Cooper turned in the saddle and looked once again at her. She raised her hand. A flat gesture, saying nothing. Signaling only she’d heard the rifle fire as well. She sat her horse in the middle of the trail and watched the brothers as they went slowly around the bend. At that point she guessed they had another minute, perhaps two before they came into view of the tavern—and the view of the men there. She turned the bay horse back up the trail to the head of the oxbow where the bank was steep on this side but the water was shallow enough for a ford over stippled rocks. She had to sit the horse at the bank-edge as it considered the descent and the water beyond. She was patient. She knew the horse would go. After a thought about it, he did.
* * *
The body of Cole lay slumped out in the brown wreck of the yard midway between the tavern and the streambank. The remaining men had retreated down for the shelter of the bank and the screen of brush. It was Peter Chase who first grasped the ineffectual angle from which they fired at the narrow gunport in the second story of the tavern. All they were doing was shooting holes in the roof. Proud of his thinking. He waded the stream to the far bank and found there a stout hemlock with good limbs for climbing and cover. He checked the charge of his long gun and set to climbing the tree, to bring himself level with the slit-opening of the tavern.
