Shepherd

by Catherine Jinks

  As soon as the change was in his pocket, he always moved on quickly. ’Twas important, he said, to be well out of reach before the fraud could be discovered.

  He was as cunning in a tavern as I am in a covert. But one evening he’d dropped his false coin, which had rolled off the counter and landed near the barmaid’s foot. On picking it up, she’d looked at it twice.

  The landlord caught him before he was even out the door.

  ‘One mistake,’ Rowdy said to me, on the day of our first meeting. ‘A single misstep and it ruined me life.’

  One mistake. Have I made that mistake now, in not leaving this farm? Will we both be killed as a consequence?

  Is that Rowdy’s voice I hear, raised in torment?

  The first thing I do is snuff the lantern. The next thing I do is rub dirt into my hair so it won’t gleam in the moonlight. Then I fling my spade into the bush and grab the carbine, which has been sitting against a tree.

  Someone is still screaming.

  I head across the southern paddock, keeping low and straining my eyes in the dark. Though the moon is full and the sky clear, the shadows are dense and black—blacker without Gyp here to help me. I stub my toe. I turn my ankle. I flush a small creature that bolts away through the long grass.

  Drawing closer to the kitchen, I have to shoulder the gun and drop to my hands and knees. Down here I can smell poor Buttercup, off to my left. She’s beginning to rot like that dead black tucked in the tree.

  The grass is just high enough to conceal me when I crawl, but if I don’t raise my head above it sometimes I can’t see where I’m going.

  ‘Help! Help me!’ The screeches are becoming words now. Shrill, desperate words. I don’t recognise that voice. It doesn’t belong to Rowdy, who’s over by the stables, a dark shape flattened against its southern wall.

  Thank God he had the sense to douse his lantern.

  A light is showing in the kitchen’s rear window—and also spilling from its front door, which I can’t see from here. A long, thin, golden strip lies across the ground. I’m sure I shut that door when I left. Did Rowdy open it again? Did someone else go in?

  The back door is nailed shut. I hammered the nails in myself.

  ‘Take it o-ho-hoff!’ There’s that voice again, coming from the kitchen. I know who it is now. That’s Cockeye’s voice. ‘Ple-e-ease!’ he wails. ‘Help me!’

  Rowdy sidles up to the stable door, which is standing open. He flattens himself against the wall and cranes his neck to peer inside, his pistol cocked and raised.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God…’ Cockeye gurgles. ‘Carver! Come here! Come here and help me!’

  Carver. He’s not in the kitchen, then. What if he’s in the stables? I should warn Rowdy.

  But just as I start to rise from the grass, my gaze snags on Cockeye. His head appears, then his shoulders, then his chest as he slowly crawls out of the kitchen and emerges from behind its northern wall. He passes through the strip of golden light, using his elbows to drag himself along.

  He has a pistol in one hand.

  As he lifts his gaze, he spies Rowdy. Rowdy sees him, too. They’re both holding identical pistols.

  Fire, damn you, fire!

  I’ve already cocked my carbine when Cockeye reaches out. ‘Rowdy,’ he whimpers. ‘Please. Help!’

  That’s when I realise. Just look at their faces.

  They know each other.

  How do they know each other? From a ship? From a barracks? From a stockade? From Carver’s gang?

  Slowly I sink back into the long grass. Rowdy didn’t recognise the horses. He didn’t know where Mr Barrett kept his guns. He appeared out of nowhere yesterday, just before Carver did. He was wearing a red flannel shirt. Where did that come from? It wasn’t government issue.

  ‘My leg…’ Cockeye groans. ‘Rowdy, please…’

  Rowdy looks terrified. He hesitates. Suddenly an invisible chicken squawks and flaps somewhere over by the house.

  Christ. Is that Carver? Is he coming?

  Rowdy doesn’t wait to find out. He panics and darts into the stables, brandishing his gun.

  ‘Rowdy!’ Cockeye shrieks. He’s in full view, now. The bear trap’s jaws are clamped around his ankle, the chain and peg trailing along behind him. He’s left a meandering smear of blood in his wake.

  That looks bad. I didn’t realise…

  He’ll lose his foot.

  ‘Rowdy!’ he screams, sobbing with pain.

  I feel sick. Rowdy. Was he lying to me? Does he know Carver? But Carver tried to kill him. Did he defy Carver somehow? Betray him? Escape from him?

  I could shoot Cockeye now, before Carver comes. I’ve a clean shot from here. Cockeye’s lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. He’s laid his head down. He’s moaning, his empty hand stretched towards the stables, clawing at the dirt.

  I’m shaking so much that I can’t take aim—and if I miss, I’m in trouble.

  Perhaps I should just creep away like a little mouse. Let Rowdy have the horse and the supplies. Let Rowdy decide what to do about Cockeye.

  But I swore I’d kill Carver. I swore it.

  A rustle in the long grass makes me throw myself onto the ground. Holding my breath, clutching my carbine, I wait as the rustle approaches. My gun’s cocked. I’m well hidden. If that’s Carver…

  No. He’s too heavy to move so lightly. And if he was crawling, he wouldn’t be so quick.

  Down here the grass is too thick for the moonlight to penetrate. Even so, I can just make out the wild dog when he passes. His eyes glint as they swivel towards me, but he doesn’t break his stride. He’s carrying a dead chicken in his jaws. Mrs Munns, by the look of her.

  He seems to dissolve into the shadows. The grass sways and closes up behind him. He leaves a few feathers and a faint, feral smell.

  So Carver wasn’t over by the house after all.

  A terrible scream rips through the night. I bob up to look, heart racing, and see that Cockeye’s not the one who screamed. He’s raised his head and is staring at the stables, eyes bulging, teeth clenched, face a knot of pain.

  Another scream—fainter this time—and God help us, that’s Rowdy.

  He’s in the stables. Carver must be in there with him. Oh God, oh God—if I shoot Cockeye, Carver’ll know I’m here. It might distract him from killing Rowdy, but what if he doesn’t come out? What if he waits for me to come in?

  There are two cartridges in my pocket, plus one in the breach. That’s one for Cockeye and two for Carver.

  What am I going to do?

  I can hear someone gasping and sobbing and grunting. Suddenly Woodbine emerges from the stables, all saddled up. Carver is leading her, but not from the front. He’s using her as a shield, keeping level with her shoulders so that I don’t have a clear shot

  How does he know I’m over here?

  He doesn’t. He’s leading Woodbine with one hand and Rowdy with the other. He’s guarding his left flank with Rowdy, who’s stumbling along in double-irons. I’m only catching glimpses, as Woodbine stamps and jibs, but Rowdy seems to have blood on his temple. Perhaps Carver struck him there…

  Rowdy yelps when Carver tugs him forward.

  ‘Carver…’ Cockeye rasps. He lifts his head, white-faced and sweating. The muscles stand out in his neck. ‘’Twas in the floor,’ he gasps, gesturing at the bear trap. ‘I can’t get it off…’ Carver takes a step forward. Rowdy cries out and God ha’ mercy, there’s a hay hook in his shoulder, just beneath the collar bone. Carver’s tied a rope to it. Half of Rowdy’s white shirt has turned as red as the flannel one he used to wear.

  Carver is dressed in George Trumble’s coat.

  ‘Help me,’ Cockeye pleads faintly. He’s losing strength; his blood is soaking into the dirt.

  Nudged along by Carver, Woodbine advances a step. So does Carver. So does Rowdy, who chokes back a sob.

  I peer down the barrel of my carbine and try to take aim. But I don’t want to hit Woodbine. I’m no marksman
—not with a gun I’ve never fired.

  Besides, my hands are still shaking.

  ‘That’s a bear trap,’ says Carver, cool as ice. He’s standing over Cockeye, gazing down at the savaged limb. ‘You’d need a clamp to get that off.’

  Yes, and I’ve hid the clamp, Dan Carver. I’ve hid it well.

  ‘Oh God,’ says Cockeye. He’s looking worse than Rowdy, who looks bad enough. Now and then I catch sight of Rowdy as Woodbine shifts her weight; he’s swaying a little and gasping for breath, his face as bleached as Cockeye’s. His eyes remind me of Gyp’s just after she was shot.

  If he ever did run with Carver, he’s regretting it now.

  ‘Seems to me the bone’s broke.’ Carver is still studying Cockeye’s leg. ‘What do you think, Rowdy?’

  Rowdy answers with a grunt.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ Carver jeers. ‘You never bin lost for words before…’

  He jerks at the hook and Rowdy screams.

  I was right. They know each other.

  ‘Aye, well—there’s allus someone worse off.’ Carver releases Woodbine, bends down and plucks the pistol from Cockeye’s hand. Creeping sideways towards the kitchen, I find I can see the murderous bastard much better. He has two muskets on his back, their straps crossed on his chest. Rowdy’s pistol is sticking out of his coat pocket. But this is still a bad angle. If I fire from here, I might hit Rowdy.

  ‘Damage like that,’ says Carver, shaking his head, ‘is why you’re better putting a beast out of its misery.’

  He raises Cockeye’s pistol.

  ‘No wait!’ Cockeye shrieks, just as Carver, wearing a look of feigned sorrow, shoots him in the face.

  11

  DAN CARVER used to claim that he’d once been a butcher. It could have been true. Whenever we needed a fresh supply of mutton he would always do the slaughtering, for he was a dab hand at cutting throats and tying up entrails. He could skin a sheep in five minutes flat.

  My father also had a way with knives, like most of the men in Ixworth. He could skin an eel or a rabbit in the dark. Though he’d tear the skin when plucking feathers, he had enough skill to gut a hind, if pressed. He often called himself a butcher when asked how he earned his livelihood; a good many poachers do.

  You’d be surprised how many butchers there are in some Suffolk villages.

  But Carver outdid my father because Carver enjoyed butchering. He was always happy when he had meat to slice. He laughed about chopping off chickens’ heads and nicking the arteries of pigs. He talked with relish of beating men to death.

  He never mentioned shooting anyone. I would have thought it too quick an end, for a man of his tastes.

  By Carver’s standards, a ball in the brain can only be seen as an act of mercy.

  ‘Tom Clay!’ Carver shouts. ‘I know you’re out there. Rowdy Cavanagh told me so.’

  He lowers his smoking pistol and shoves it into his waistband. Then he grabs Woodbine’s reins, taking a step backwards.

  Rowdy gasps and hisses. Cockeye lies still.

  ‘He’s a weak one, is Rowdy,’ Carver continues. ‘Ran away from his road gang because he couldn’t take it. Ran away from me because he couldn’t take it—’

  ‘He’s mad, is why!’ Rowdy suddenly exclaims. ‘He killed a logger—’

  Carver yanks at the hook buried in Rowdy’s shoulder. Rowdy squeals like a pig. Hobbled by his leg-irons, he staggers and nearly falls.

  My teeth are clenched tight.

  ‘…and he was going to run away from you because he couldn’t take it,’ Carver adds. I can’t see him anymore. He’s backing up, pulling Woodbine’s head around, forcing her into a tight circle. Her haunches are shielding him now. I creep towards the stables, keeping low, on the lookout for a clean shot.

  From somewhere behind Woodbine, Rowdy screeches again. Every tug of the hook must feel like a flaming brand.

  ‘But you’re made o’ flint, ain’t you, Tom Clay?’ Carver says loudly. ‘You won’t run. Not if I’m killing this here horse.’

  God ha’ mercy. Squinting down the barrel of my carbine, I wonder if I should shoot Woodbine and have done with it. Better a quick death than a slow one. But then Carver would know where I am. He’d come after me; he might reach me before I had time to reload…

  ‘I was thinking I’d kill Rowdy first, but I know you’d choose the horse over him any day.’ Carver’s almost reached the stable door. Perhaps if I can get closer to the kitchen, the angle would improve. I’d still be scared of hitting the others, though.

  ‘Fire away Tom,’ Carver cries. ‘Or don’t you want to show me where you are?’

  No, I don’t. He has three guns, and I have one. Besides, I can’t see him. He’s shielded. I might have a chance from the other side of the kitchen.

  ‘I ain’t got no use for spineless folk like Rowdy,’ Carver says, ‘but you and I could deal together, Tom Clay. If you’ve the bottom for it.’

  Strike a bargain with you? And have my head caved in the moment my back was turned?

  I’m holding my breath as I squat in the long grass, motionless. My eyes are screwed up into narrow slits so they don’t catch the light. I’m glad I’ve cocked my gun. I wouldn’t want Carver to hear the hammer click.

  Cockeye lies not twenty yards away. His head is spread across the trodden earth in sprays and clumps of red.

  I can’t look at him.

  ‘You want ’em to die, then?’ says Carver, with a shrug in his voice. ‘As you please. I’ve no objection.’

  He retreats into the stables, pulling Woodbine and Rowdy along with him. The smell of fresh blood is making Woodbine skittish; she’s rolling her eyes and champing at the bit. Rowdy squawks in pain.

  As the stable door closes behind him, Carver adds, ‘This horse won’t thank you, Tom Clay. Don’t think I’d baulk at killing it just to save meself a long walk.’

  The door shuts.

  He’s going to torture Woodbine. He’ll do it for his own pleasure. Then he’ll kill Rowdy and take his time about it.

  Breathe, Tom, breathe. Stay calm. You can’t walk away; Gyp wouldn’t. She was brave as a lion. She’d never have left a horse to be butchered or a friend to be murdered—if Rowdy is a friend. He’s been lying to me. He’s been keeping things from me. He was going to ride off without me, unless I’m greatly mistook.

  But he doesn’t deserve to die at Carver’s hand.

  Besides, if I walk away, I’ll never be free of Carver. I’ll never be able to close my eyes without worrying that he’s in the shadows, waiting to attack. I need to finish this one way or another. The question is: how?

  Think, Tom. What will Carver be doing at this moment? He’ll be loading his guns. He has four of ’em. One will be pointed at the stable door. Another will be pointed at the hayloft. He knows about the hayloft; he’ll be expecting me to sneak in through there.

  I sling my carbine over my shoulder and scurry back towards the kitchen, skirting the rear of the farmyard until I’m a couple of yards from my old hut. A quick dash across open ground brings me to the hut’s eastern wall, which faces away from the stables. I’m safe here for the moment. Carver can’t see me.

  From the stables comes a muffled whinny, very high and shrill, then a furious thumping noise. God ha’ mercy, what’s that devil doing to Woodbine?

  Perhaps he’s not doing anything. Perhaps he’s holding a gun on Rowdy and Rowdy’s doing it. That’s how I’d arrange matters if I were Carver. I wouldn’t run any risks.

  Now for the next leg. Luckily, the garden fence stretches all the way from the kitchen to the house. Bent double, I scamper along behind it until I reach the shelter of the next slab wall, then circle the house, feeling my way in the darkness and praying I don’t disturb any dogs or chickens. The slightest sound would be the end of me.

  My sheepskin boot-soles, though very worn, are still soft enough to keep my tread silent on the veranda boards as I creep through the front door and into the house. Outside there was moonlight; in here
I have to feel my way, patting the walls, groping with my feet, wincing at every creak of the floor and every crunch of broken glass. This feels like the old days when my father would come home late from the beer shop. Drink always put him in a bad temper; I used to wait behind a collapsed pigsty until I could hear loud snoring from inside my grandmother’s house. Then I would sneak through the door and slide into bed, hoping not to rouse him.

  The difference here is that the house is bigger—and that my father, for all his faults, never favoured torturing folk. He certainly never stuck a hook through a man. The only living thing that he ever hooked was a fish.

  At the end of the corridor I turn into Mr Barrett’s bedroom. Like a blind boy I fumble about until I find the campaign chest and count the drawers from top to bottom. The looking-glass is in the bottom drawer, which squeaks slightly when I pull it out. I wince, stop, listen.

  Far away in the stables, Woodbine squeals.

  God damn you to hell, Dan Carver.

  My questing fingers fasten on something smooth and cold. Yes: the looking-glass. I slip it into my pocket, hurry to the back door and peer out at the stables. A thin golden line marks the edge of the stable door, still firmly shut.

  Good.

  Keeping low, I slip down the back stairs into the garden, threading a path between the bean poles and turnip beds, trampling over the collapsed corner of the fence until I arrive at the kitchen door. Here I can see everything, because the door is wide open; light spills through it, engulfing me as I plunge inside.

  Of course I step over the empty hole in the floor, trying to ignore Cockeye’s blood. Then I head straight for Lady Jane; I’m glad I forgot to release her.