Lonnie Gentry

by Peter Brandvold

  Lonnie scowled, incredulous. “Why in hell should I do that?”

  Under the circumstances, he thought he was due a curse or two. His mother seemed to agree, because she ignored it, saying, “Because I want you to.”

  “He’s a bank robber, Momma,” Lonnie said. “Why should I help him?”

  “Because by helping Shannon, you’ll be helping me.”

  Lonnie found his tongue tied for nearly a minute as he stared in bafflement at his mother. May Gentry couldn’t hold his gaze for even half that long. She lowered her eyes in shame.

  “Momma,” Lonnie said gently, her miserable expression touching his heart. “You aren’t really thinkin’ you’re still gonna marry him, are you?”

  “Lonnie, we all make mistakes.”

  “You think robbin’ whatever bank he and them other two men robbed was just a mistake?”

  “He’d been drinking,” Lonnie’s mother said, her eyes desperate, pleading. “When Shannon drinks, he does things he wouldn’t do otherwise. I think those other two men, Fuego, especially, got him drunk and then, once he was good and pie-eyed, talked him into stealing this money. I don’t think Shannon would have done such a thing otherwise. He promised me he wouldn’t!”

  Lonnie didn’t know what to say to that. What his mother was spewing was nonsense. But she was not usually a nonsensical woman. The fact was she was lonely. So desperately lonely that she was sitting here spewing nonsense in defense of the bank robber she’d fallen in love with.

  Lonnie had known she was lonely. Until now, he hadn’t realized how lonely and sad she really was. A hand reached into the boy’s chest and twisted his heart counterclockwise, and he had to swallow the hard knot in his throat to keep from sobbing.

  He set his plate on the floor and dropped his boots down to the floor, as well. He sat beside his mother, wrapped an arm around her waist. “Momma, I—”

  He stopped when she turned her fear-bright eyes on him. “Lonnie, if lawmen come for Shannon, they’ll take me, too.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Lonnie, word has gotten around about me an’ Shannon. Folks know he comes by here from time to time. The lawmen who come for him will think I provided a place to stay for him and the other two, knowing what they’d done. They’ll think I’m part of it. They might even think you are, too.”

  Lonnie shook his head. “We’ll tell them otherwise, Momma.” But then he remembered the lawman he’d killed, and fear jolted him like a lightning bolt striking a lone pine on a high mountain ridge.

  He looked toward the night-dark windows reflecting the wan lantern light, and he saw the twisted, thick-lipped, black-eyed faces of a thousand demons staring in at him, laughing. Silently teasing, jeering. A shudder racked him.

  His mother wrapped an arm around him and gave him a squeeze as she said, “Please, Lonnie. Before first light, ride on out of here and deliver these saddlebags to the marshal in Arapaho Creek. Tell Marshal Stoveville you found them along the trail or in the line shack up on Eagle Ridge. It’s not right to lie, but under the circumstances, I don’t see any other way.”

  Lonnie brushed a tear from his cheek. His mother’s desperation deeply pained him. “Are you sure you’re not just doing this for Dupree?”

  “For him,” she said, smiling thinly and giving a slight nod. She knew how lame it was to feel something for a worthless owl hoot, but because of her loneliness, she couldn’t help herself. “But for us, too.”

  “He’ll find it gone first thing in the mornin’.”

  “He won’t stir till noon. None of them will. Not after all they drank. It’ll be all right.”

  “No, it won’t. He’ll be mad. He’ll hurt you.”

  Lonnie’s mother gave a weak smile and placed a hand on her belly. “He won’t hurt me, son. I’m carrying his child.”

  That was like a fist buried deep in Lonnie’s gut. He gaped at his mother. He felt the blood rush to his face. He was at a total loss for words.

  “I can handle Shannon, Lonnie,” she said. “You worry about gettin’ to Arapaho Creek. Once you’ve returned the money, don’t come back to the ranch right away. Spend a night or two at the line shack.”

  “What are you gonna do, Momma?”

  May Gentry sighed as she set the saddlebags on the floor and slid them under Lonnie’s cot. On one knee, she squeezed her son’s hand reassuringly. “Like I said, I know how to handle Shannon. When he gets all that poison out of his brain, he’ll come around. He’ll know he done wrong. He doesn’t want to lose me. He doesn’t want to lose our child.”

  “Momma,” Lonnie said, slowly shaking his head, dead certain that she was wrong but knowing he couldn’t convince her.

  His mother picked up his plate and glanced at the untouched glass of milk on the chair. “Finish your milk, son. I’ll fetch you out a bag of biscuits and jerky for the ride to Arapaho Creek. I’ll throw in some food to tide you at the line shack. There won’t be time for breakfast tomorrow.”

  And then she left. She returned a few minutes later with a small croaker sack of trail food, which she set on the counter. She kissed Lonnie’s forehead, and left again, and Lonnie turned down the lamp and lay on the cot, staring at the dark ceiling, thinking.

  When the maniacal thoughts in his head finally tired themselves out, he drifted off … only to be awakened by what felt like a blackfly stinging the underside of his chin.

  Instantly awake, he swatted at the unseen insect.

  The back of his hand hit something unyielding before him. The blackfly stung him a little harder, then he smelled the stench of sweat and whiskey. In the wash of pearl moonlight angling through the tack room windows, Lonnie saw the silhouetted face of Shannon Dupree hovering over him.

  The moonlight winked off the wide, silver blade in Dupree’s fist. That’s what was stinging Lonnie. Not a blackfly. Dupree was holding the up-curved point of a bowie knife against the underside of Lonnie’s chin.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dupree’s eyes, framed by his blond hair, were as black as black marbles. He stretched his lips back from his teeth that appeared unusually large in the darkness, and he said quietly, “You call out, I’ll cut you from ear to ear.”

  Lonnie lay stiff as a board, head tipped back and away from the razor-edged point of the massive blade. The blade looked as wide as Lonnie’s thigh. The boy drew shallow breaths, felt sweat bead on his upper lip.

  The money, he thought.

  Dupree had seen Lonnie’s mother remove the money from under the bed in the cabin. Lonnie saw no reason to be a hero. Dupree would find the money on his own if Lonnie didn’t tell him, so Lonnie was about to tell him it was under the cot, when Dupree said, “Wanted to have a little chat with ya, Squirrel. About tomorrow.”

  Lonnie was puzzled. Mostly, though, he was horrified, and the point of the knife digging into his jaw wasn’t helping matters.

  He waited, drawing shallow breaths as he stared into the cold, black, dead eyes of Shannon Dupree.

  Dupree said, “Tomorrow, me an’ the boys are gonna ride on out of here … with your mother. She don’t know it yet, but she will in the mornin’. I wanted you to know so you don’t make no trouble, understand? You stay out here in the barn and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Why … why’re you … takin’ … M-Ma?”

  “Insurance,” Dupree said, spreading his mouth with self-satisfaction. “You make any trouble, I’m gonna take out this big ol’ bowie knife and cut your throat from ear to ear. Nice wide gash, understand?”

  Lonnie stared at those dead eyes, speechless. His heart sputtered, hiccupped.

  Dupree said, “And then I’ll kill her, too. Same way. Hate to do that, her bein’ such a fine-lookin’ woman. But I’ll do it. You know I will.” That grin again. “So you just stay out here until me an’ the boys an’ your ma have rode away. All right?”

  “All … all right,” Lonnie said, wincing as Dupree pressed the point of the blade a little more snugly against the underside of Lonnie’s chi
n. Lonnie felt the point pierce the skin. He felt a blood drop grow around the stinging point. The blood was cool and wet.

  Dupree pulled the blade away, and straightened his legs. He was so tall that his head disappeared into the darkness above where the moonlight was angling through the tack room window behind him. He hiked a boot onto the chair beside the cot, and there was the soft screech and snick of the bowie knife being returned to a sheath inside of the boot.

  “Good boy, Squirrel. Play your cards right, you might make a man someday.”

  Dupree tussled Lonnie’s hair with menace. Turning, he stumbled drunkenly, and for a second Lonnie thought the man was going to fall on top of him. There was a sharp, sickening stench of whiskey and sweat. Lonnie slid to one side and threw up his hands to shield himself from the big man’s body. Then Dupree got his feet beneath him and, chuckling, stumbled on over to the door and went out without closing the door behind him.

  Lonnie heard the outlaw chuckle once more, and his stumbling footsteps dwindled away until for a time there were no more sounds except for a slight breeze pushing against the barn and the frogs croaking down along the creek.

  Lonnie lay frozen, bathed in cold sweat, staring up at the dark ceiling relieved in shadows cast by the pearl moonlight. When he heard the faint, muffled scrape of the cabin door closing, he scrambled up out of the cot, stepped into his boots, donned his hat, and grabbed the Winchester. Vaguely, he noted the sting on the underside of his chin, and brushed a couple of knuckles across it. They came away lightly blood-smeared. He’d live.

  At least, the slight cut beneath his chin wouldn’t kill him. If Dupree looked beneath Lonnie’s mother’s bed to reassure himself the loot was still there, and he was given no such reassurance, Lonnie and her mother were likely wolf bait.

  That’s why Lonnie rummaged around for a box of .44-40 cartridges, and loaded the carbine. When he had it fully loaded, he pumped a cartridge into the action and positioned the hammer to off-cock. All he had to do was pull the hammer back, aim, and fire …

  He drew a light denim jacket on over his shirt, and left the barn. He closed the doors behind him and stood with his back to them, where the barn’s shadow concealed him. He stared toward the cabin. No lamps were lit. All was dark and quiet.

  So far ...

  Lonnie had to make sure his mother was safe.

  To that end, he ran at a crouch across the yard, trying to stay out of the moonlight as much as he could. When he gained the foot of the porch, he moved around to the cabin’s left side and hunkered down outside the window of his mother’s bedroom. He was in the moonlight here, but Dupree’s men were in the bunkhouse on the other side of the cabin, so there was no one out here to see him skulking around.

  Lonnie pressed his right shoulder against the cabin’s rough log wall. He held his breath and pricked his ears, listening. Inside, there was nothing but silence. Dupree must have gone back to bed as soon as he’d gotten back inside the cabin. Lonnie’s mother was likely asleep. She was a sound sleeper, always had been.

  But Lonnie wanted to make sure Dupree didn’t check under the bed for the stolen money. If he did, things would go even farther south around the Circle G than they already had. If he did find the stolen money, Lonnie would enter the cabin and shoot the man before he could harm May Gentry. Then he’d likely have to deal with the other two men—Fuego and Childress.

  Probably easier thought about than done …

  Lonnie looked down at the rifle he held in his hands. It quivered slightly. Could he shoot straight if he had to? If he had to, by criminy, Lonnie would shoot Shannon Dupree like he was nothing more than a Thanksgiving turkey that Lonnie had come upon in the forest.

  If he had to …

  But it looked like he wouldn’t have to shoot tonight. After he’d been outside the window no more than two minutes, Lonnie heard Dupree’s long, raking snores. He listened for a time, making sure they continued, and then he hotfooted it back to the barn, and sat on a saddle tree, thinking through his options.

  His main concern was for his mother. What would happen to her if Lonnie did her bidding and hightailed it with the stolen money? Dupree had threatened to kill her if Lonnie impeded the plans of Dupree and “the boys” in the morning.

  What would stop him from killing Lonnie’s mother when he found out she’d tricked him and sent Lonnie to Arapaho Creek with the money? Likely, the child she was carrying. Despite his threat earlier, no man could harm a woman carrying his child.

  Still, to be sure, Lonnie’s best option would be to go into the cabin and shoot Dupree as he slept. But what if he missed Dupree and shot his mother instead? And even if Lonnie was able to kill Dupree—which was a long shot, for he’d never intentionally shot another man before today and he wasn’t sure he really had the nerve to do such a thing—what about Fuego and Childress?

  Lonnie paced in front of the barn doors.

  After he mulled the situation over for a good twenty agonized minutes, he decided to follow through with his mother’s plan. He just had to hope Dupree didn’t kill her when he discovered the ruse. Chances are he wouldn’t because there would be no point except revenge. And, again, she was carrying his child. Besides, Dupree would want to come after Lonnie as fast as he could, and overtake the boy before he reached the marshal in Arapaho Creek.

  There seemed no risk-free solution to the mountain of trouble before the boy. But heading to Arapaho Creek seemed his best bet. He’d recognized neither of the lawmen up on Willow Run, so he didn’t think they were from Arapaho Creek. He didn’t think that Marshal Stoveville had any deputies, as the town was small and relatively quiet. Without a doubt, Dupree would follow Lonnie there—possibly all the way to the town and maybe even right on up to the doorstep of Marshal Dwight Stoveville, whom Lonnie would warn ahead of time.

  Lonnie looked out between the barn doors.

  It was still good dark. Maybe around three, three thirty. It wasn’t safe to ride out in the dark, but he was too eager to get to Arapaho Creek to wait around for dawn. He certainly wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore tonight. Besides, the moon would light the northeastern trail until the sun rose in a couple of hours.

  As quietly as he could, his heart drumming anxiously in his ears, Lonnie saddled General Sherman. He set the saddlebags filled with Dupree’s precious loot over the top of another pair of saddlebags filled with trail supplies. Lonnie hung his cavvy sack, filled with cooking paraphernalia, from his saddle horn. There was no telling how long he’d have to be away from home.

  Lonnie led the General out of the yard, wincing with each of the big horse’s heavy footfalls. When he was a hundred yards beyond, he mounted up and put the horse into a spanking trot. Lonnie headed along the northern trail while casting anxious glances behind at the eerily silent ranch yard growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared altogether, and he was very much alone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Later that day, after he’d ridden a good ten miles from the Circle G, Lonnie sat on a rock by the small fire he’d built.

  He fished a blackened tin cup from the canvas cavvy sack on the ground by his feet and used a small leather swatch to pad the hot handle while he poured coffee from the dented pot. The dark-brown brew sent its fragrant steam wafting into his face with small white ashes from the burning pine branches.

  The smell was one of the best Lonnie knew. It complemented the forest smells. He sipped the coffee and then opened the two-pound bag of jerky his mother had packed, and started eating. When he finished a ragged strip of jerky, he ate a biscuit. When he’d had two strips of jerky and three small biscuits, he poured a fresh cup of coffee.

  The General whinnied. Lonnie jerked with a start, and the hot coffee sloshed over the brim to burn his hand through his leather glove.

  He winced as he jerked his head up, looking around.

  The General was craning his neck to look behind him, edgily switching his tail.

  Lonnie had left the main trail that ran through the bottom of the can
yon to set up camp here on the side of the ridge, out of sight from the trail. He hadn’t wanted to be pestered. The trail was a hundred yards back down the slope, but now Lonnie heard what the General’s keen ears had picked up—the slow thuds of approaching horses.

  A man said something. The thuds grew louder. There was the clang of a shod hoof kicking a rock. Still looking behind him through the trees toward the bottom of the canyon, the General whinnied again. Lonnie reached for the carbine leaning against a tree to his left, and, rising from the rock, slowly levered a live cartridge into the action.

  He glanced at the saddlebags containing the stolen money. They sat at the base of a tree on the other side of the fire, near the General, one pouch slumped against the other. Both pouches bulged curiously. Lonnie wanted to run over and hide the bags in some shrubs, but he could see three horseback riders approaching along the shoulder of the slope behind the General. If Lonnie tried to hide the bags now, they’d see him and grow suspicious of what he was hiding.

  Lonnie’s pulse throbbed in his fingers.

  Three riders …

  He stepped back away from the fire and over to where he could get a better look at the men approaching. His knees were warm and weak. For a second he thought they would buckle from the overwhelming wave of fear washing over him. Then he saw that it was not Dupree. The lead rider had long, dark-brown hair and a mustache. The man behind him was older and potbellied and he wore an old, ratty, bullet-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. He was old—maybe in his fifties, even older.

  The man behind the old one was younger. He was older than Lonnie but not by much, and he was blond and wild-looking, with bright green eyes and thick lips stretched back from small, brown teeth. His face was heavily freckled. He looked like he might have been soft in the head.