Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  “Get the torch out, ya idiot. That’s how they’re seeing us.” The bannerman grabs the torch from the ground and hurls it out into the arroyo where it lands in a patch of dry shrub.

  The sniper shoots again and one of the horses falls, giving Craw and the guidon more cover. Craw snatches the saddlebags from Cinnamon and, in the low light, sets to emptying the safe.

  “Why ain’t that rifle shooting?” George says.

  “He can’t see anymore.”

  “We can.”

  We raise the guns and start firing, sending Craw and the bannerman to the dirt. The torch ignites the dry shrub that turns quick to a small inferno, giving the sniper more light to work with. The rifle shot rings out, and pings off the safe.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Owens says. “On the right.” I turn right and look down our side of the berm and make out two men in blue working their way up the wreckage toward our position. One crouches behind a train wheel and peers down a rifle.

  “Everybody down,” I shout, and then I see a muzzle flash and hear a bullet whistle overhead. A woman screams. The old woman.

  “Chester. Oh dear God.” I let my weight slide me down the hill, belly scraping over the sand and come to a stop in a dark shadow. The shooter abandons his position, and slinks along the boxcar to the edge of an upturned Pullman, close enough to see his unshaved cheekbones. I let out half a breath and squeeze the trigger. His face caves in on itself and he falls back, dead. That springs the second soldier into action. He rises from behind a pile of debris and fires his pistol in my direction. The sand explodes next to me. Three guns, all different, boom from atop the berm. The man lurches once and falls down. I look back and see George, Owens and Ballentine each with a smoldering gun in his hand.

  “My kill, gentlemen,” Ballentine says.

  “Hell it is,” George countering.

  “Who gives a shit, he’s dead,” Owens says.

  * * *

  “Stop them others,” I say, racing up the berm. My friends turn in unison and take cover at the top. The brush fire burns hot, the whole landscape glowing bright like a fallen sun. Craw works from a crouch, shielding himself from the sniper with a gelding. He hoists the saddlebags, laden with gold, onto the mare and runs alongside it, using every inch of cover until the last second, when he swings up into the saddle, heels her in the ribs, and steams off. The bannerman struggles with his horse and nearly falls off his saddle, but he gets him running. They all start blasting beneath the steady echo of the sniper’s rifle. The guidon fires wildly at us, just enough to earn a pause from our weapons, but then his back arches and he drops his gun.

  The rifle booms again and the horse squeals, but keeps running. It changes direction and heads straight for the burning scrub. Then the horse veers again, avoiding the fire, but the banner—the inverted Stars and Stripes—kisses the flame. Hungry fire consumes the Union flag—bars of red and white glowing orange and blue and then nothing, as the churning air of a horse at full gallop breaks the flag apart, piece by burning piece. Pounding hooves carry horse and rider deep into the darkening night, a fiery trail in their wake. Then the guidon slumps and falls to the ground. The horse never breaks stride. The flag burns, feeding on itself—sinking into blackness—and then it is gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Looks like they’re pulling out,” George says. All down the line, the clarion call of Craw’s escape—punctuated by a flaming standard that was hard to miss—makes its way through the remaining Dazers in the form of catcalls, whistles and shots fired into the air. The burning wreckage of the Santa Fe illuminates a haphazard exodus. Bandits in both directions break for the nearest horse with whatever pillage they can carry and light out across the desert in pursuit of their departed leader and the loot that brung them here in the first place. A few men ride two to a horse and something about that bothers me, but in the excitement I can’t figure why.

  We crouch down in the darkened shadow of the berm, guns ready, as the riders from the front of the train blow past at full gallop. I count no more than eight or nine in total, and while we’re braced for a fight, the truth is they don’t seem much fussed about us at all. George peers down a pistol, steadying his hand against the berm, and I reach over and ease the barrel down.

  “Let ’em go.”

  “The hell’s wrong with you,” his eyes narrowing.

  “If you miss, you give ’em reason to turn around.”

  “I weren’t planning to miss.”

  “You ain’t making that shot in a month of Sundays,” Owens says.

  “How ’bout you go blow yourself up, college boy. Less you need to help your friends.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Now fellas, settle down,” Spooner stepping in, but more in front of Owens than George.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bag the loot up for ’em, tie it in a bow.”

  “Put it through your head, kid,” Owens holding his ground. “Getting them bastards their money is what got them gone. And nothing else.”

  “Didn’t have to make such a damn show if it,” George heaving, plenty of fight left in him and nowhere to put it. But I can’t think about that now, one thought only crashes through my brain.

  Storm.

  “The point ain’t to help them sons-a-bitches.”

  “The point is to stay alive,” I say, grabbing George by the shoulder. “I have to check on the stallion.”

  “I’ll go with you,” George says.

  “Need your muscle here, with the injured, case they gotta be moved. These fires could flare up.”

  Ballentine steps forward. “There’s safety in numbers, Harlan. I’ll come with you.”

  “I move faster alone.”

  “You don’t know they’re gone. You don’t know what’s out there.”

  “I know them Dazers ain’t letting too much distance get between them and their share. No point to sticking around, unless they’re hurt. If they’re hurt, I’ll deal with ’em.”

  “We should have some kind of signal,” Owens says. “Case there’s trouble.”

  “Two quick shots in the air, that outta do it.” I swap a fresh magazine into the repeater and check the pistol again, remembering that I haven’t needed it yet. The men nod their agreement and I head off down the berm, walking in measured paces, head on swivel. Then Storm pops into my head again and I start to jog, and by the time I hit flat ground, I find myself in a full run.

  * * *

  The boxcars, and what’s left of the palace cars, smolder—black and ash-gray embers wheezing a thin, stinging smoke that hampers visibility. But the brushfire finds new life and showers the gutted Santa Fe with enough light for me to find my way and keep an eye out for an ambush. The cattle have stuck around in surprising numbers, optimistic that some human will point them toward water, at least until dawn, when they’ll go off to find it themselves. A few weeks from now, this forgotten corner of desert will have its share of skinny cows and fat wolf pups.

  I see the stock car up ahead, upturned and split down the middle like a melon. But it hasn’t burned. Cows meander back and forth, blocking the path. I slap the hides and get them moving and make my way to the edge of the car. A bad feeling sinks in my gut. Two men to a horse. I know why it bothered me now. No spare horses. Enough cattle milling around to feed a regiment and not one unclaimed horse. It means the Dazers, for their lunacy, had the forethought to wrangle any stray mounts, like a sniper collecting his spent brass.

  I whistle, hard and sharp, waiting for a sound that doesn’t come. The stock car sits off to itself, hard to miss. Another bad sign. Something glimmers against the ground in the orange light, a twisted mass in shadow behind it. I cock the hammer on the rifle and step soft.

  It is a man, the shimmer coming from the blood puddled around his head.

  Charlie.

  Shit.

  The English horseman lays on his belly, his head busted open. An axe maybe, but the weapon is gone. Charlie’s arms
stretch out before him, fingers spread into the dirt. A trail of claw marks stretches from his hands to an open space beneath the car, big enough to hide in. But not quite. They dragged him—clawing the ground—out from under the car and killed him. Charlie died next to the creatures he’d sworn to protect.

  You tried. I know you tried.

  I move past him and climb up the side of the stock car.

  “Storm.” I hold still, tasting the air for any reply at all. Reaching the top, I lean over the side and peer into the empty cavern where the cattle had been. A few dead, broken cows—blood and manure and filth. Storm’s hold lies farther down, and I walk along the top edge of the car until I am directly over it.

  It is dark, but the fire light shines through the slats and I can see all the way down to the matted hay at the bottom. I keep staring, like it would somehow change the outcome and make Storm appear.

  But the stallion is gone.

  Yet all at once a bolt of hope shoots through my heart as I spot his saddle, upended in the far corner of his stall. His saddle is here. I know there is absolutely zero chance that Storm let one of those untrained hillbillies ride him off bareback. I could imagine one trying and getting so frustrated that I’d find Storm sprawled out with a bullet hole in his head. But that didn’t happen. And he didn’t die in the crash. This much I know.

  “You got out, boy. That’s a good horse, that’s a damn good horse.” I start figuring he might be close by. I stand upright and shoot a whistle out in all four cardinals, every sense of my being peeled to maximum alertness. “I’m here, amigo. And I ain’t leaving.”

  Something moves, close behind me. I snap the rifle up, sighting on a pile of splintered boards. A solid sheet of lumber lay across the top, motionless. I stay locked on, trusting my eyes. The corner of the board dips, juts a hair, and then rises—the rhythm of breathing. I stay locked on, edging my way back down the lip of the stock car to where the ground is high and I can jump off without lowering the rifle. I land easy and start toward the pile, finger itching the trigger.

  “Come outta there.” I stop and wait. The board settles, the life beneath it holding its breath. “I know you’re under there. I swear, you don’t come out, I’ll light you up.”

  A fragment of sound—a whimper—seeps from the pile and then swallows itself. I may just blast it anyway, but I creep forward, now wondering how any grown man could contort himself into such a small confinement. Maybe a rat or some other scavenger. More likely though—a trap—the last stand of some injured Dazer, fixed on taking one more out with him.

  Better to shoot first. But shooting blind gives away my position, and if I don’t kill him clean—and he’s waiting with a scattergun—the advantage swings his way. No, I need to see.

  I float forward, barely touching the ground, and swing my leg at the board. It flies off. I lean in—trigger half pulled—and meet the frightened gaze of a child. He makes no move to recoil, or even cover himself, at the sight of a rifle aimed at him. His only defense—an effective one—is a guileless faith in the protective instinct an adult feels when confronted by the innocence of children. I lower the rifle.

  He wears a torn waistcoat, his face blackened with ash. A thick dusting of pale gray ash covers him head to toe, leaving no trace of his hair or skin color. Only when he blinks, and a tear fall from his pale blue eyes and cuts a pink trail down his cheek, can I make him for white.

  “You speak English?”

  He dips his head in the affirmative.

  “You hurt?”

  “No.” The mouselike voice creeping out of him bears only a ghostly resemblance to when it last passed my ears, aboard the train, slinging candy and sandwiches with the engaging patter of a born showman. The butcher boy.

  “You can come out now. Ain’t no one gonna mess with you.” I hold out my hand and he takes it, his grip small but strong. He climbs over the pile of scrap between us, and when he gets close enough I pick him up—light as a bird—and set him down on firm ground. I pat the front pocket of my waistcoat and somehow I still got my folded-up bandana in there, so I snap it open and hand it to him.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  The butcher boy wipes his face, the gray sloughing off him in a powdery cloud. I take a knee in front of him and brush off his shoulders and hair. He dabs the bandana on his forehead and down his arms and gets to looking almost pink again. Then he hands it back to me.

  “Best you hang on to that for a bit. Fella don’t want to get caught short with a sneeze in front of the ladies.” The corners of his mouth rise, not a smile yet, but getting into smile territory. “My name’s Harlan. What’s yours?”

  “Reggie.”

  “Well, Reggie. I reckon the Santa Fe Railroad owes you a big ol’ pile a candy. Probably a pay raise and a new suit of clothes. Come to think of it, they owe me a new suit too.”

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Me too, pal.” I nod back toward the scrap pile where he’d been hiding. “You been in there the whole time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That was good thinking.”

  “I climbed under there when I see them soldiers set fire to that car.”

  “They weren’t soldiers. They was outlaws, pretending to be soldiers.”

  “Why would they do that?” The orange light frames the boy’s face in frozen bafflement.

  “Tell the truth, there ain’t a lick of sense on most things they done.”

  “I’ll never look at a solider same way again.”

  “I ’spect none of us will.” We set to thinking about that, and as the breeze shifts, bringing the coolness of the desert night across winnowing fire, I say, “There was a horse in this stall, here. Did you see what happened to him?”

  “He took it.” A cold knot sinks in my belly.

  “Who did, a soldier?”

  The boys shakes no. “Injun.”

  My knees buckle, the ground below turning to quicksand, and I plant the rifle to steady myself. The Apaches. All at once the new reality crystalizes in my brain, the memory of the departing Dazers repeating over and over. There had been no Apaches among them. Of course not. No Apache trusts gold enough to go chasing after it, and the White Man’s dollar means even less. His prize is what he can use—a woman, rifles, livestock.

  “This Injun, he have long black hair, half down his back?”

  “No. I saw that one. He come through too, but he ain’t the one took the horse. That one had silver hair.”

  Silver hair. An old Apache. He probably saw the stock car, went right for it. And if he knows horses—and find me an Apache who don’t—he’d have taken one peek through those slats and seen his prize. A prize so rare, he’d ignore the cattle that could feed his people and take off straight away.

  “Which way did he go?” Reggie thinks a moment and points off to the south.

  “You sure?”

  The boy nods and I believe him, because it makes sense. Mexico.

  Those other two Apaches, the younger ones, they might even be jealous and feel like they ain’t got their fill yet. The thought hardly has time to settle when two quick shots ring out. The boy bristles at the gunshots and turns for the pile, but I scoop him up.

  “Come with me,” and I start running the way I came.

  * * *

  The Pullman gives good cover in the flats just short of the berm. I crouch behind the edge and see two horses headed toward us. Even through the darkness, I can spot the two Apaches by the way they ride. I put Reggie down and he scampers straight for the shadows beneath the wheels of the Pullman. The lead horse breaks up the berm, the rider holding something bulky and alive in his rein hand and firing backward with a pistol at his pursuers, who run on foot, shouting. But the second horse—weighted with a heavier load—struggles for purchase in the soft sand of the berm. I bring up the rifle and sight the lead rider as he passes through the orange glow of burning sage. The short-haired Apache has Owens’s little boy clutched under his arm. If I miss,
I’ll hit the child, so I take aim at the horse and put him down hard with one shot.

  The Apache hops off the horse before it hits the ground and runs up along the berm, using the boy as a shield and squeezing off a pistol shot that don’t come close.

  Behind him, the long-haired Apache urges on the second horse, his progress powerful slowed by the tug-o-war he finds himself in with Owens. Owen’s little girl is the rope. She twists in midair—stretched taut as a board between her father and the Apache, screaming with red-faced fury. The Apache has Clara May’s body—slack and unconscious—draped over his lap. He steers the horse with his legs while swinging the club at Owens’s face with one hand and holding on to the little girl’s ankles with the other. Owens pulls on his daughter’s arms, absorbing countless grazing blows from the club but doing his best to stay upright and avoid a knockout blow.

  Ballentine trudges up the rear, threatening a pistol, but far too afraid to shoot.

  Short-hair Apache reaches the top of the berm, carrying the boy. All at once, George appears, charging over the top from the other side. He hefts the shotgun like a baseball bat, swinging the stock-end into the Apache’s knee. Short-hair spins, falling back, the pistol coming up. George flips the shotgun around, but the pistol fires first. George howls, the impact twisting him sideways, clutching his side. The shotgun falls to the ground.

  Short-hair gets to his feet, hopping on one leg, and the boy kicking and clawing to break free of his grip. But the Apache holds on, and with a busted leg hobbles toward the top of the berm to hook up with Long-hair. I have a feather of a shot and take it without thinking. The Apache never stops moving and I hit him under the shoulder—not where I wanted—but maybe enough for a drawn-out death.

  Long-hair, nearly to the top, lands a decisive blow against the side of Owens’s head. The mining man falls back, but keeps his grip locked on the little girl, and as he falls, she falls with him, slipping from the Apache’s hand. The Apache lets her go and instead takes the boy from Short-hair as Short-hair throws himself onto the back of the horse. Then Long-hair kicks the horse up in earnest, and I try to sight a kill shot, but the horse—burdened with four bodies—crests the berm and vanishes down the other side.