Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  “Here they come now,” says the rider in George’s coat. By his place on horseback, and his proximity to the leader, I make him for the colonel-major’s second-in-command. I even detect a resemblance in their jawline and squarish features. Brothers again.

  Always with the brothers. Good or bad, I have about run out of patience for bilagáana fraternity. I don’t know what it is about the frontier that breeds trouble among male kinfolk. More than likely, the seeds of trouble were there to begin with, but then, once migrated to the frontier, flowered in its lawless opportunities. In the Sangres, I fought side-by-side with three brave Germans—Frey was the family name. But short of them, most sets of brothers I come across find a reason to have a problem with me, and those problems put many of them in the ground.

  * * *

  A mule labors up from the front of the train, dragging a travois, accompanied by a handful of Dazers who take great pains to keep the animal from losing its cargo. As slow as the mule moves, an even slower parade lags behind. Two Dazers push a reluctant prisoner up along the wrecked train toward the awaiting colonel-major and his horsemen.

  I find myself unattended during the distraction and shimmy over toward Owens and fall in between him and Ballentine, the three of us shielding our conspiracy by never looking directly at anyone or anything.

  “I heard the name Craw,” I say.

  “I’m thinking short for Crawford, maybe,” Owen picking up the thread.

  “Back home, we had a Crawley, so I made that assumption,” Spooner chiming in. “Although I’m starting to think the commander’s commission is of spurious pedigree.”

  “They’s phonies, all of them.” Owens says. “They ain’t army, least not anymore. No, it’s the Crazy Dazers, stake my life on it.”

  “Don’t say that!” Clara May’s voice—her name coming to me—sizzles in admonition. “You trying to get yourselves killed?”

  “It’s all right, darling,” Owens quieting her. “They don’t want us dead.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Spooner says, “But I wish I knew what it is they want.”

  I can see from here what they want. The answer’s being drug behind that mule.

  “Money,” I say. The others turn and notice the heavy black cube weighting down the travois. “In that safe, there.”

  “My. Not very big, is it?” Spooner taken by the object’s diminutive size, no bigger than a steamer trunk.

  “No,” I say, remembering the riches confined to a small space in Garber’s office. “But you stuff it with gold, you can fit half the army’s pay in there.”

  “So that’s it,” Owens marveling. “All this for one lousy safe.”

  The Apache, standing over Skip’s body, wipes the blood from his knife on the dead man’s hair, then looks over at the approaching captive. Annoyed by the prisoner’s slow progress, the Apache leaps onto his horse, bolts over and snatches him from his Dazer escorts. The once dignified Pinkerton expressman—dressed waist up in only his tattered shirtsleeves, hands bound behind his back—looks like a bomb went off in front of his face. His white hair stands straight up in all directions, giving the Apache an easy handle as he grabs a fistful and canters the man—feet struggling to keep him upright—over to the others. The Apache stops abruptly and flings the expressman down into the dirt at the colonel-major’s feet.

  The safe arrives atop the travois a few moments later.

  “Children, you keep your eyes closed now,” Owens voice soothing into prescience of things to come. “You too, Clara May.” The men unload the safe from the travois and stand it upright, with the lock plate facing the Pinkerton.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Craw says to the expressman, but loud enough to make it a show for all in attendance—the luxury of time again. “You’re gonna spit out the numbers for that there strongbox, or you’re gonna spit out what’s left of your teeth one by one.”

  The expressman can’t shake the stunned look on his face and gives no assurance that he understands. Then I squint, and in the dying sun, make out the puddles of deep red pooling in his ears.

  The second blast deafened him so hard his drums burst. The colonel-major might as well be speaking Diné, but that hardly matters. Any expressman standing against his will in front of the safe he’s sworn to protect knows damn well what’s being asked of him. The only variable is his tolerance for pain. The colonel-major nods to his second and the man in George’s coat swings down and puts himself square in the face of the Pinkerton.

  “Feed me them numbers,” the second pointing to the dial, then back to the Pinkerton. “Feed me them numbers for the safe, I says.”

  “Feel you? I can’t hear nothing. Feel you what?” The expressman yelling as if separated by the length of a barn.

  “No, feed . . . aw, you blitherin’ idjut. Just tell me the damn numbers.” To make his point he spins the dial hard to the right. “Now you tell me where to stop.”

  “Never!” The Pinkerton defiant.

  The Apache, his fuse ever shortening, jumps down from his horse and moves in behind the expressman. He raises his club and swings it down, over the top, onto the Pinkerton’s collarbone, dropping him to his knees.

  “Damn you to hell, ya bastard,” the Pinkerton howling. He collapses onto his side, trying to get past the worst of the pain.

  “Too bad the ’pache don’t believe in hell,” the man in George’s coat says. “If he did, he’d probably gut you for that. Now tell me where to stop.” The Pinkerton rolls onto his knees again, steadying his breath. He manages a look and sees the second spinning the dial once more. He shakes his head.

  “You can’t do it. I gotta do it. The dial is . . . particular.”

  An uneasy quiet over the scene, the Dazers unsure of what comes next. But it won’t be good. I learned a thing or two from the greatest safe man of all time, and even the Snowman himself would defer to the pointlessness of trying to work the dial on a time-lock safe—the kind that only spreads her legs once a day—at a preset hour—which I strongly doubt is now. The second in command looks to his brother. Craw thinks a moment, grimacing, then nods toward the Pinkerton.

  “Cut him free.”

  The Apache, eager for any use of blade or club, steps in and slices the cord that binds the Pinkerton. I feel Owens’s head inch toward mine.

  “It’s a time-lock.”

  “I know.”

  “Pinkerton damn well knows it too. All he’s gonna do is get them angry, get us all killed.”

  I agree with Owens. Only thing opening that door is dynamite—a tool for which the Dazers have not shown much subtlety or precision. The Pinkerton expressman rolls his wrists, limbering the joints. His right arm stays mostly straight, down by his side. I suspect his collarbone is broke, rendering the arm useless as he shuffles up to the safe. The Apache and the second pull in close beside him, the second watching his turning hand, the Apache eyeing the rest.

  “Get back from it,” the second admonishing, “I need to see what you’re doing.”

  “I ain’t got my spectacles,” the Pinkerton says, his face mere inches from the numbered dial. The colonel-major moves over on his horse, the whole scene shrinking to the tiniest of stages against the vast backdrop of the Malpais.

  “Left thirty-seven,” the second relaying what he sees. “Then around the right . . . twice around to the . . . what’s that, twelve?”

  The Pinkerton nods, hunched over the dial, his left hand fingering the dial from memory. He starts it back the other way, and the Apache looks up at the colonel-major, conveying something in broken English. The colonel-major nods, but there’s an impatience, like the Apache hasn’t said anything he didn’t already know.

  “I can’t read that last,” the second bringing his head closer to the dial, and when he does the Pinkerton expressman slides his dead arm into his boot and snaps upward, his dead arm all at once alive and armed with a short knife that plunges into the eye of the second in command. The second reels back, squealing in horror.
The Apache springs into action. He swings the club and hits the Pinkerton on the head. The little expressman slumps and the Apache grapples him from behind and throws him to the ground. He stamps on his neck and pins him there, then the Apache looks back at his commander, pleading for permission to kill.

  Swift rage consumes the colonel-major. He flies off his horse, mouth agape, as if he can’t comprehend what his own eyes just witnessed. Three Dazers run over and start at once kicking the prone expressman all over his body. The colonel-major glances over at his second, now on his knees in a spill of blood that can’t mean more than a minute or two more among the living.

  “You lost your mind?” Craw demanding, “You think you gonna change the way this goes, you black damned fool? Look at my brother. Look what you done. And for what? For what, huh? Let me see his face.” He marches over to where the expressman lays on his belly, covering his head with his arms. The Dazers stop kicking him. “You think we ain’t gonna get that money?”

  “Hell with you. Hell with all you bastards!” The expressman, red-faced, shouting through a blood-filled mouth pocked with dark voids of missing teeth.

  “Get him up.” For all his anger, the man called Craw shows little regard for his dying brother’s condition or even easing his pain. All his attention sits focused on the Pinkerton—and a different kind of suffering. “Lay him out, over the safe.” The Dazers huddled over the Pinkerton reach down and get control of his arms and legs. A small man, the Pinkerton, but the fight not nearly out of him. He sets to flailing and kicking for his life and even shoots a hard boot heel into the knee of a young man half his age. The injured Dazer hops off, swearing a streak, and the two remaining Dazers and the Apache drop their knees into the Pinkerton’s back, hoping to let him flap about to the point of exhaustion. But Craw incites a flurry of activity.

  “Fetch my two-man,” barking to the Dazer in red flannel. “It’s with the mules.” The Dazer races off toward a clutch of mules and horses back up the arroyo. Something about the order causes unrest among the more senior members of the colonel-major’s gang. Sergeant Lon and Eagle Feather intercept him in front of the bannerman.

  “You do it this way, he’s gonna kick,” Lon says.

  “Four of you hold him down. Hell, use the whole team, let him kick all he wants. He’ll stop kicking when he sees the two-man.”

  “What I’m saying,” Lon making his case, “is if we hold him down, who’s gonna watch them?” Lon jabs an elbow toward us and the colonel-major looks up, an idea flowering in his head.

  “Even better,” Craw says. “You.” He points right at me. “And that one there,” indicating Owens. Lon starts my way, Eagle Feather heading for Owens. Clara May sets to protesting before the plan has even formulated.

  “No, no. Please.”

  “On your feet,” Lon approaching, the four-ten steady. I stand up and step toward him as Eagle Feather rouses Owens.

  “Go with mamma, now,” Owens passing boy to his mother. “You be brave, son.” The boy wails, liquid bubbling from nose and mouth as he reaches for his departing father with a small, outstretched hand. Owens—his entire family howling in tears—lets Eagle Feather push him toward the safe and we bump elbows as Lon steers me in similar fashion.

  “Two more,” Craw appraising the survivors in earnest now. “That old timer’s got some pluck, get him in here.” I think he means Ballentine, but I can’t be sure.

  Red Flannel returns, winded, with a mule so loaded up with gear the animal seems near collapse. The Dazers get off the Pinkerton’s back and bring him to his feet, but if they were to let go he’d drop straight back down again. Two Dazers escort a third into my periphery and I look over and see Ballentine, his ruddiness faded to an ashen gray.

  “Need one more, boss,” Lon using the four-ten barrel to guide me to a position at one corner of the safe.

  “That young buck, there,” Craw pointing to George. “He can hold a leg.” Eagle Feather doesn’t like the idea.

  “That one’s trouble, boss.”

  “He makes trouble, he’s next,” Craw speaking up so George hears him plain. “Come on, get him up.” Eagle Feather leads a small contingent over to where George sits motionless.

  “You hear that?” Eagle Feather warning him. “Any lick of trouble and it’s over for you. Now on your feet.” George complies as they pull him up and lead him over to the opposite corner of the safe. Only then does Eagle Feather cut the rope that binds him.

  “Where’s my mule?” Craw growling as he stomps toward his gear.

  “All right, rest of you, get back to work,” Eagle Feather commanding, but a ripple of nerves undercuts his voice. “Be dark soon. Every car’s gotta be checked. Go on now.” The bulk of the Dazers head off, grumbling, back to their duties of looting the rest of the train and, most likely, executing any survivors. I think about the stallion again. The fight in him might just get him killed, if he ain’t dead already. But the thought that burns the most is—what if the shock of the last hour has rendered him bashful, even docile? After the strongbox, Storm is the most valuable thing on this train. And if he’s in one piece it won’t take a trained eye to recognize that. I don’t like any of it, not at all. The four-ten jabs my kidney, pulling me back to now.

  “Get that shirt off him,” Craw yelling from behind his mule. I can’t see what he’s up to, but the rage in his voice shows no sign of letting up. The four of us stand around the safe, surrounding the Pinkerton, and behind each of us is an armed Dazer. The Apache makes the fifth wheel, the last word come trouble. The sound of cursing and gear being tossed about rises up from behind the mule, and in the window before the tempest Ballentine catches the eye of the Pinkerton.

  “What’s you name, friend?”

  “Quiet,” Lon says. The Apache steps in and cuts down the back of the expressman’s shirt. The rest of it rips off easy, revealing a torso eaten up with bloody gashes. The beating he took already would kill most any man half his age, and here he stands, meeting Ballentine’s eye through blue-black slits nearly swollen shut. Toughness to a fault—that’s a Pinkerton, for you.

  “McLeash.” The man straightening with pride. “General Jeremiah McLeash, Army of the Cumberland.”

  “Jeremiah, give ’em what he wants. Ain’t a man here think less of you.”

  “I said shut up,” Lon slapping Ballentine across the head. Spooner absorbs the blow and, with a shudder, comports himself. Even at gunpoint, his chin and dignity stay high as summer corn.

  The big eye pulls the last of its fiery redness down behind the ridge above the arroyo, draping us in the cold shadow of dying day. So much dying. The colonel-major works his way back from the mule, something long and heavy slowing his approach. A Dazer moves behind him at the same speed, an unwavering distance between them.

  And then I see the saw blade—six feet of steel, slightly bowed, like a grin—every tooth nearly two inches of razor sharp destruction. A thick, wood dowel juts up from each end, forming the pair of handles that leave no doubt how the “two-man” earned its name.

  “Oh, dear God,” Spooner reeling as the saw’s full presence unfolds. “Jeremiah, ain’t no number of Union dollars worth dying for. Help yourself, man.”

  “Listen to him, fool,” Craw’s voice coolly resigned in its meanness. “That flouncy reb’s makin’ sense. I’m asking for the last time. You tell me how to crack that box, or I’ll saw you in half.”

  There lives, in the heart of every White Man, an expectation of privilege. And even staring down the barrel of death, sometimes the message that a dire situation has slipped from bad to worse falls on deaf ears. Now this small, broken old man thinks the color of his skin, or the company he works for, or some forgotten title from a fading war might pluck him from his predicament. But if a talker like Ballentine can’t crack the code, then the cold sand of a dry arroyo swallows up another body.

  “I give an oath to Mister Pinkerton himself. I survived Andersonville. I survived Comanche. I can sure as hell survive the like
s of you.”

  “Suit yourself. Lay him down.”

  “You four,” Lon says, “each of you takes an arm, or a leg. You let go of that arm or leg, we shoot you dead.”

  George steps forward and shoves Jeremiah McLeash backward. He falls back over the safe, his chest facing the sky, and I reach down and grab one of his legs, George locking up the other leg.

  “It ain’t gotta be like this,” Owens whispering as he secures the old man’s arm in his own. “Just tell ’em you can’t open it.”

  Ballentine is the last to wrap up his duty, having to sit flat on his backside instead of kneeling like the rest of us. He doesn’t move well, but once he gets a good enough grip, Craw steps in with the saw. Lon stores the four-ten in his belt and picks up the opposite end. The two of them heft the blade up and let it hang there for the Pinkerton to see. I can’t help but look up at it, the bluish light finding a sliver of shine on the dirty, crusted steel. That saw has been through the paces, whatever they are, but cutting men in two weren’t part of its recent past. The sweet smell of pine sap—unmistakable—flavors the air, confusing every sense of the landscape. No pinyon tree takes root within a hundred miles of here.

  “Now or never, old man,” Craw says.

  I feel McLeash tense as the teeth of the blade settle over his vision. What man wouldn’t? And a breath more like a whimper slips out of him before he can stop.

  “Okay,” the Pinkerton’s voice a shell of what it had been. Craw leans in, listening, but otherwise fully committed to letting the saw speak. “I’ll tell you.”

  “Get to it, then.”

  “Left thirty-seven.”

  “Yeah, we got that much.”

  “Right . . .” Jeremiah choking back a sob.

  “No, no.” Owens muttering, close to his ear.