Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  “Right, twelve.”

  “Go on, what’s after that?” Craw unimpressed.

  “Left, ff—ff—-.”

  Craw bends all the way forward, his face hovering over the Pinkerton’s sputtering mouth. “Fuck your mother!” Then the Pinkerton busts into a laugh—a full, deep gut-buster.

  “Cut him already,” I hear George say. But Craw stands frozen, caught in a haymaker of disbelief, until he explodes.

  “Turn him over. Turn him over!”

  Lon scrunches his mouth, confused. “What?”

  “Turn him over. We’re going through the back, so it hurts more!” Craw cuffs Owens across the head, ordering him to let go. Owens slackens his grip, I and the others do the same. And in a fluid motion Craw himself grabs the laughing Pinkerton and flips him over like a slab of dough. “Hold this bastard tight,” the four of us resuming our positions with the opposite limb. Craw snatches up his handle of the blade, Lon’s already poised above the Pinkerton. They maneuver the center teeth over the midpoint of his spine, holding it there, a foot above him, until Craw’s signal.

  Then Craw nods. The blade drops straight down, of its own weight, and I clamp my eyes shut, Jeremiah’s leg convulsing against my cheek. A sound like no other—the kind of agony that equalizes all men—rings out in a curdling shriek that shatters the twilight.

  And then the blade begins to move. It takes less than a full swipe to crunch through the spine, and only half that to end the terrible screaming.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They pull the body of Jeremiah McLeash off the safe and one of the Dazers drags it a piece—until the little flap of muscle holding the torso to the legs tears off—and then the man says to hell with it and lets it drop. Vultures can do the rest. The Dazers take far greater care with the saw, wiping it down and leaning it against the berm to dry. The four of us get ordered back to sit with the others, while Lon sends Red Flannel to bring more rope. I suspect now they plan to tie us all up, at least the men, but for now George and I sit at Lon’s feet, the four-ten swaying above our heads. Craw parlays with his inner cadre, near the horses, close enough that I hear the urgency in his voice.

  “Be pitch dark in half hour. Hell if I want to be blasting a strong box by torch light. Fetch the gelignite.”

  Owens lifts his head, concern heavy on his brow. He sits with his family. Clara May paws at his shoulder to keep quiet, but something about the new plan has him all worked up. The bannerman fumbles through a satchel and comes out with a leather pouch and a small wooden box. He hands them to Craw, who opens the box and stares down, frowning, at a square of gray clay.

  “How much, you think? All of it?”

  “The fella sold it said half oughta do, for most things,” Eagle Feather says.

  “All right then,” Craw opening up the pouch. His hand returns with a blasting cap, the kind we used to play with as kids.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Owens raises a finger to speak and Clara pulls it down, hissing in his ear.

  “Sit your ass down,” Lon stepping toward him. The second Lon moves, I glance up and meet George’s eye looking straight into mine—an entire conspiracy passing between us without a word. First chance we get, we fight. And fight heavy. Half a dozen barrels swing onto Owens. He swallows hard, his arms raising, palms out.

  “Sir, my name is James Owens.”

  “What do you want?” Craw says.

  “I am a engineer of demolitions, in the employ of Anaconda Mining Company.”

  “Anaconda?” Eagle Feather says. “That’s the Hearst outfit.”

  “That’s right, sir. And I believe my talents can be of assistance to you. I see you got a batch of gelignite there.”

  “What of it?” Craw growing impatient.

  “Well, sir. Thing is . . .” Owens choosing his words careful. “As I’m sure you know, a chunk like that’s enough to blow us all to kingdom come. The gelignite’s powerful material. State-of-the-art. Also prickly as all get-out. And if not laid just so, every inch of lead in that safe becomes a cannonball, shooting in all directions.”

  “That so?” Craw says. “Guess we’ll need to watch ourselves, then. Quarter oughta do it.”

  “It’ll also incinerate whatever’s in that safe.” Bull’s-eye. Smart fella, Owens. Craw looks at him, greedy-eyed, the gears turning.

  A horse cries out, far down the line, and a cold shudder drips down my spine. Wood splinters off in the distance, followed by shouting. The rest of the Dazers are cutting their way through the cars. But I know every sound Storm can muster, and that was not the stallion. Not yet, anyway. Craw confers with Eagle Feather, the flag-bearer listening and nodding, not much else.

  * * *

  I feel a presence slide in behind me and George. I don’t dare turn around, but I catch a whiff of aftershave that I make for the older fella travelling with his wife. A man’s voice, nearly inaudible and shaking with age, begins to speak.

  “Now listen, boys. There’s no need to do anything rash. I overheard these fellas talking and they aim to keeps us alive. See, the railroad company will pay to get us back. We’re first-class. Rich even. The rail company can’t let the respectable sort get kidnapped.” I am not rich anymore, but I let him keep talking. “So the plan is, we go with these fellas, and at the appropriate time, they’ll sell us back to the company.”

  “And if the company don’t pay?” George says.

  “Of course they’ll pay. And if not, our families will.” Through his whisper, the man sounds hopeful, even cheery.

  I bit down on a wave of sadness, but don’t have the luxury or time to debate the old fool. I have no doubt he heard what he says he heard. Whether it was spoken in truth to keep us calm, or a lie to mask some darker course, I cannot say. But no matter how many times I unfold it and look at it, I can’t figure how any sensible outlaw—even a reckless outfit like this—allows twelve witnesses to walk back into civilization knowing the faces of their captors. What would more likely happen, if they don’t slaughter us here, is we become the last-chance bargaining chips in case the army tracks the Dazers down before they get back to their hideout. Maybe the army strikes a deal, maybe not. But my value, rest assured, wouldn’t amount to a pile of pennies once the rail barons sniff out the true color of my blood.

  “Just thought I’d make you boys aware. It’s all gonna be okay.” I dip my head, letting him know I hear him clear. The gritty sand shuffles behind me and I feel the presence retreat back to its starting place.

  “I ain’t got no family’s gonna pay to get me outta this,” George says.

  “Me neither.” And our plan, what there is of it, remains unaltered.

  * * *

  “That your kin with you?” Craw pointing to Owens’s family.

  “Yes, sir. My wife and children.”

  “All right then,” Craw says. He waves Owens forward, Clara May tugging on his shirt.

  “No, James, don’t. Please!”

  “Darling,” he cradles her trembling face, eyes full of love. “Let me give them what they want. It’ll be all right.” He kisses her, like he did on the train. She lets him go, sobbing into her hand. Owens bends down and hugs both children at once, and when he tries to break away they won’t let go, screaming in his ear to stay.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Craw says. Clara May pulls the children’s arms—like stubborn vines—off their father. The old woman slides over to help with the children, who are inconsolable. Owens takes the wooden box from Craw and before handing him the detonators, Craw says, “You burn up my money, I’ll roast your family and make you watch.”

  * * *

  They move us back, over the top of the berm, into a tight line for easier guarding. We are in fact, twelve, counting Owens—the only survivors, far as I can see. But only the men have their hands bound behind the back. The thin rawhide cord digs into the skin, but when I stretch it, there is play in the knot. George pulls at his too, every chance he gets. Red Flannel tied it with a mix of grannies and overhand kno
ts that no respectable cowpoke would use beyond the age of nine. These bandits aren’t soldiers and they sure as hell ain’t horsemen. So who are they?

  Eyes of a hawk.

  Ears of a buck.

  Nose of a wolf.

  They’ve already told me plenty.

  Craw and his inner sanctum peer over the berm, same as we do, with a handful of soldiers—six by my count, all heavily ironed with shotguns and repeating rifles—minding the captives. The horses stand unattended at the base of the berm behind us, not far from the drying two-man. One of the horses meanders over and gives the saw a lick. All along the line of the gutted Santa Fe, the sounds of blasting and sawing and chopping continue unabated as the rest of Craw’s men go about their pillage. Fires dot the bluing dusk, made blacker by the thick smoke of burning wood and the glowing coal of the tender car.

  On the other side of the berm, at the edge of the arroyo, Owens makes for a lonely island. He sits cross-legged atop the safe, working upside down by the flickering light of two torches planted into the ground. The strongbox door faces away from us, out into the arroyo. We stare at Owens’s backside, but such nervous anticipation hangs in the air, you’d think us a crowd of picnickers what had camped itself too close to the impending fireworks on the Fourth of July. Even for a robbery, the prospect of something blowing up proves too enticing to look away.

  “He ain’t gonna stay sitting there when it pop, is he?” Craw asks.

  “Says it’s the safest place to be,” Eagle Feather shrugging.

  “His funeral,” Craw snorts, a chorus of laughter following. “How much longer?” yelling to Owens.

  Owens doesn’t look up from his work, and only answers because it’s Craw asking. “Just another minute. These detonators are very old,” his voice in deep concentration.

  “I’ll be sure and parlay that to the dead man what sold ’em to us.”

  * * *

  Owens wipes his brow on his sleeve and breaks off a dab of gelignite, then he breaks off two pieces from that and stuffs them into his ears.

  “Children,” he says. “Plug up your ears and look away.”

  “When’s it gonna blow?” Eagle Feather asks.

  “Now.”

  Something fizzles on the front of the safe. Owens covers his ear and spins on his butt and has hardly moved at all when—

  An explosion, almost elegant in its clean precision, BOOMS from beneath him. A minor panic spreads through the crowd, faces kissing the dirt. I keep one eye trained over the berm. The safe door shoots straight out, spinning like a top, a hundred yards into the arroyo. And when the smoke clears, James Owens, chief demolitions engineer of the Anaconda Mining Company, sits cross-legged atop an open safe that hasn’t moved an inch.

  “Hot damn!” Craw bounds over the berm and charges down the hill, the cadre stumbling after him in raucous exaltation. My first look is at George. He separates his wrists—just enough to show me his freedom—then pushes them together again, preserving the visual effect of his bondage.

  “Y’all stay put,” Lon and the four-ten remindful of their proximity. Owens climbs down off the safe and brushes off the dust.

  “Oh, thank God,” Clara May crumbling with relief. Craw and the others blow past Owens without so much as a pat on the back and Owens starts up the berm toward us.

  Craw peers into the safe and more hoots and hollers come with it. He reaches inside and pulls out two solid gold bricks.

  In triumph, he hoists them over his head, “Lord, ain’t that a beautiful sight—SONOFABITCH THAT’S HOT!” and throws them down, hopscotching in pain, with seared fingertips. The other boys fall about themselves laughing, and even Craw is too rich and happy to fret the insult.

  “Guess I shoulda warned ’em they’d be hot,” Owens smirking as he crests the top of the berm. Clara May is there to meet him with a slap to the face, which he knows he had coming. She falls into his arm and they set about kissing again.

  “You’re an artist, Owens,” Spooner says, slapping his back. A cloud of dust poofs from the fabric. “Most impressive. If the South had a few pounds of that stuff, Fort Sumter’d be sitting at the bottom of Charleston Harbor.”

  “Hey,” Lon calling to Red Flannel, “Get him tied up again.”

  “Yeah, you ain’t gotta turn my hands blue this time.” Owens says.

  “I’m out of cord,” Red Flannel says. “You got any?”

  “Idiot,” Lon unable to hide his contempt.

  “Where the hell am I gonna go?” Owens shrugging. Red Flannel edges closer, hefting a rifle.

  * * *

  Craw and his four most trusted men stand together, admiring their newfound riches. The guidon removes his hat and fans out the smoke from the safe, cooling whatever is inside.

  Both the torches blew out in the blast and Eagle Feather uproots one of them and brings a match to it. The torch flares and he uses that one to light the other. The bannerman pulls up the second torch and brings it close to the safe.

  “There must be twenty of ’em,” the guidon marveling. “Twenty bricks. And a shitload of paper, too!”

  Craw slaps his hands together—victorious—as the enormous effort of his caper yields a bounty far beyond his dreams. Eagle Feather, his broad, smiling face bathed in fiery orange light, puts his hand on Craw’s shoulder and says, “We done it, boss. We done it.”

  Eagle Feather’s head twists hard to the side, half of it blowing off in a trail of pink mist. The Dazer next to him staggers backward, a soupy, red hole erupting from his chest.

  Two men lay dead before the sound of the rifle even hits us.

  “Sniper!”

  And then the real panic starts.

  George pivots and explodes from the hips, throwing an uppercut that lands true on the belly of Red Flannel. I hear an expulsion of air, bodies scuffling. I turn and run straight at Lon, the shotgun rising toward me. I lower my shoulder and crash into his chest, both of us flying down the backside of the berm. The four-ten booms near my head, the shock wave rippling against my skin. We hit the ground hard, rolling now, knotted together, down the berm until we crash into something. Lon screams—a terrified shriek. I peel off him, rising to my knees. Lon lays twisted against the two-man, the jagged teeth buried deep in his side. He paws for the shotgun. Without thinking, I throw myself into him, impaling him further against the saw. He coughs, blood spurting from his mouth. I rear back and throw my weight once more. The breath goes out of him and he stops fighting. In death, he looks like a boy. Like they always do.

  Amid the pandemonium—screaming voices and counterfire—the report of the sniper’s rifle echoes, unabated, through the darkening canyon. I flop onto my back and shimmy my bound arms down the back of legs, over the boots, and around the front. I scrape the rawhide cord against of the saw’s teeth, shredding the hide in an instant. Something about that rifle fire—the comfort of the sound—slows my racing heart. I draw the pistol from my trousers, scoop up the four-ten and bandolier, and charge back up the hill, double-fisted.

  Red Flannel flies down the berm, unable to protect his fall. He hits awkward and comes to stop near my feet, clutching what’s left of his throat. George ripped the meat of it out with his bare hands. George stands high up the berm, his fists and forearms covered in blood.

  “Down!” I shout, raising the shotgun.

  George flattens to the ground and I empty the last barrel into the chest of a charging Dazer. He falls back. George picks up Flannel’s fallen rifle and smashes the butt into his face, crushing the skull. He turns toward me with the rifle.

  “I can’t hit shit with this.”

  “Trade me,” handing him the four-ten and the bandolier. He snaps it open and reloads.

  “Like bird hunting,” he says, nodding.

  “Aim at the middle. Don’t gotta be perfect. And steer clear of the Apaches.”

  I stow the pistol and check the rifle, the magazine nearly full. Three Dazers lie prone atop the berm, guns pointed up into the canyon, but not at any s
pecific target.

  “Where’s it coming from?” one of them shouts.

  “Up on the ridge,” comes the reply from down in the arroyo. Craw.

  “I ain’t see no muzzle flash,” another says, his voice trembling.

  “Nah, he’s cloaking it somehow,” Craw annoyed. “Cinnamon! C’mon here, girl,” followed by a sharp whistle. A mare below us hears her name and breaks up the berm. We slip in behind her and hide our approach until one of the three Dazers finally looks behind him. The dizzying effect of the sniper fire has caused such confusion the bandits have neglected their captives.

  “Guns! They got guns!” the four-ten cuts him down, and as the two others roll over, I shoot them with the rifle. The mare charges over the top of the berm toward her master. He falls in with the dead Dazers and I peek over the edge. Craw crouches behind the safe, pinned down by the sniper, but as far as cover goes he could do a lot worse. No bullet is piercing the walls of that strongbox. The guidon huddles tight behind Craw, but Craw has the prime location, leaving the bannerman well aware of his exposure. Directly below us, the Dazer in George’s coat hides behind a rock, his backside unprotected from my vantage. I settle in, using the berm as cover, and aim down the rifle.

  “Don’t mess up my coat,” George says.

  I shoot the Dazer in the head. Craw spins our way, blasting a pistol that kicks up dust into our faces. We hug the berm. George pulls the guns from the bodies behind us and distributes them with a toss to our fellow survivors.

  “Take these, keep an eye out both ways. Them Dazers come sneaking up train-side to get out from that sniper.”

  “Much obliged.” I know Ballentine’s voice anywhere. Unknown if he has killing in him, but if he wants a chance to gun down a Union uniform, he won’t get a better one.

  “Who is it? Who’s shooting?” Clara May asking. She and Owens form a barrier around the children, whom they have hunkered down so close to the berm they may as well be buried.

  “Dunno,” George says. But I know. I’ve known since the first shot rang out.

  * * *

  The mare called Cinnamon skips down the berm toward the safe and all at once three other horses come scampering over the berm, not wanting to get left behind. The horses swirl around Craw and the bannerman, weaving in and out of the pale light of the one remaining torch.