The Wolves of Seven Pines

by E. L. Ripley

  Carpenter couldn’t reply; he couldn’t get enough air to speak, and it was all he could do to stay upright.

  “I can take that,” Silva said.

  “Bill don’t mind it. Besides, a fella that behaves shouldn’t have to carry anything,” Al told him. “That’s just common sense.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  No one had come out unscathed, and that was the only reason Carpenter made it as far as he did. Yates was lean enough, and not of much stature, but the sack of gold made up the difference. He could barely manage what might be called a shamble, but the others, hurting as well, weren’t inclined to hurry.

  It never ceased to surprise Carpenter how sure he felt that each step would be his last, only for another to follow as the day wore on. Going down the slope was the worst, but more than once Murphy caught his elbow and helped him. Everything that came out of Murphy’s mouth was mean-spirited and meant to be taken as the jests of a man without care, but what he did was practical. He wasn’t the leader so much as he was a sort of shepherd, finding ways to keep Al and Two-Eye doing more or less what he wanted them to do.

  Carpenter recalled having to do that very thing during the war with the younger men, and then again in the factory. It was the most exhausting work of all, a hundred times worse than swinging a hammer, and there was no part of him that missed it.

  And he didn’t miss a word that was said. It sounded as though Twin Falls was the intended destination, and that was a good fifteen days away, provided they could get on horseback fairly soon. Worse, the bounty hunters intended to stop only once to resupply at a place in Nevada that couldn’t be closer than three days.

  He started to try to muster the air and will to make his voice heard, to tell these men that wouldn’t work. Yates would never last. They had to go to the nearest possible doctor for him to have a chance, but that was where it fell apart.

  Carpenter saved his breath. The bounty hunters didn’t care if Yates lost his leg. They didn’t even care if he died, and in fact they were probably counting on it. The only reason they hadn’t killed him themselves was that the longer he lived, the longer it would be before he started to smell.

  “Bill,” Yates said. It was mostly pain in his voice, not weakness, so that was a comfort. The blood from his wound had seeped into Carpenter’s shirt and dried, leaving half of it a rusty brown color.

  “Yeah?” Carpenter grunted, choosing his footing carefully. If he took a bad fall, he knew he wouldn’t be getting back up.

  “You gonna ask me why I’m to hang?”

  “No.”

  Carpenter struggled on, and for several steps, there were just labored breathing and the rustling of the three bounty hunters, all following at a safe distance behind.

  “After they died, I wasn’t right.”

  No one ever was, but Carpenter didn’t have the breath to tell Yates that. A fly was crawling on his face, making it itch madly, but his hands were tied. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, his sweat stinging his eyes.

  “The captain brought me back and gave me work, and it helped me. Having a place to belong and something to keep me busy. I liked prospecting better than I ever liked trapping.” There wasn’t much spirit in the words, but it didn’t sound as though Yates was fading. He was tough, and the wound could’ve been worse. If it was real bad, he’d have bled out a good while ago.

  “But it weren’t enough,” Yates said.

  “Hold on, now,” Al called out, but Carpenter had already seen it. There was a steep drop ahead, and it looked treacherous. He stopped, getting what air he could as the bounty hunters went by. Al and Murphy moved up for a closer look, and Two-Eye stayed where he was, watching them with his rifle cocked.

  Carpenter spared a glance for Silva, but there wasn’t much change since he’d seen what had happened to Rene. Carpenter didn’t know if it was a new thing to him or if it only took him back to seeing Maria with that knife in her chest. Either way, the boy’s murder had knocked Silva over the head in a way that no punch ever could.

  “Drink?” Carpenter asked, though his throat was dry and his lips were starting to crack. “Or was it the opium?”

  “Whatever I could get,” Yates said. Under different circumstances, there might have been some shame in the words. “I had to have it, Bill. I couldn’t do nothing without it. I was nothing.”

  Carpenter didn’t say anything to that. Even if he could, what was there? He just watched the black birds lining up on the tree limbs above them, looking down in silence.

  The bounty hunters were picking their way through the brush, trying to find a way down.

  “There was this man in Saint Louis. We was in a house, in his house.”

  Carpenter didn’t ask what he’d been doing for Hale in Saint Louis. All in all, he was probably happier not knowing.

  “And he wouldn’t sell me no more.” Yates cleared his throat, and even that much movement made Carpenter’s knees wobble, even leaning against a tree. He could barely feel his feet. “Though I had the money.”

  Carpenter wished that Yates would stop talking, but he wouldn’t.

  “I wasn’t thinking about it, Bill. I wasn’t thinking at all. I didn’t mean him no ill. I just followed him out into the street, and I told him I needed help. I told him to help me. But he didn’t even look back.” A pause. “Reckon he’d seen a lot of fellas like me. I wasn’t angry, Bill. But I shot him. In the back.”

  Silva had his back turned, and it was hard to know if Two-Eye was listening. He was watching, sure enough. A breeze came, and Carpenter closed his eyes as it cooled him.

  But then it was gone, and with the stillness came the quiet.

  “I do not know,” Yates said at last, “how much money the captain spent to get me out of that fix.”

  A rustling in the underbrush likely meant Al and Murphy were on their way back up. Two-Eye was looking at something, and Carpenter followed his gaze to see a flash of white through the trees. For a moment he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Could it have been that same stag?

  Yates didn’t see it, though.

  “And I wonder,” he went on, “how much it was. It must have been a lot. And I wonder if that ain’t why it’s so tight for him now.”

  “Could be,” Carpenter replied, swallowing with a throat that felt like it was full of rocks.

  “I had to get him, Bill. I had to get Silva and round him up. And you. I had to,” Yates said. “I had to pay him back. You understand, don’t you? Bill?”

  “I understand,” Carpenter told him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  There was still at least an hour of daylight good for travel, but the bounty hunters were finished. It wasn’t out of kindness that they unburdened Carpenter; the reality was that he had value to them as a pack mule, and that didn’t incline them to mistreat him.

  The spot they chose to camp was a pretty one: on the north face of the mountain, where a clearing gave way to an unobstructed view of what looked like the whole range. There were no fewer than four peaks in sight.

  Murphy tied a cloth around Yates’ leg and made him drink some water.

  The bounty hunters were on their guard now, and they kept their prisoners far back from the edge of the cliff, in the shade of the trees. That was all well and good; Carpenter was content to breathe without a sack of gold hanging around his neck, and the notion of doing anything more than that was beyond him. Silva sat in silence, and Yates had nothing more to say. He was in pain, but he still seemed strong enough. His leg was bad, and it would only get worse, but he wasn’t yet feverish. He would make it through the night, and at the moment that was the best Carpenter felt he could hope for.

  “Pretty stream,” Murphy noted, pausing at the edge to look down.

  Al was building the fire. “If the big’n don’t drag his feet, we might reach Michael by this time tomorrow.”

&nbs
p; “With luck.”

  It would take more than luck for Carpenter to last another day. Murphy paused nearby, lighting his smoke with a match. He looked Carpenter over, his eyes lingering on the burning welt across his throat, where the rope had bitten into his flesh.

  “You old rebels loved having your slaves to do your work for you,” he said tiredly, blowing smoke out through his nose. “Reckon you don’t so much love being one.”

  Carpenter didn’t respond to that. It wasn’t the present that bothered him; it was the future—that was where the trouble was waiting.

  If he collapsed, there wouldn’t be anyone to carry him. They might make a sled to drag Yates, dead or alive, but they wouldn’t bother with someone as big as Carpenter, not when they didn’t know if he was even worth anything. Chances were good that they’d just shoot him, or maybe they’d save themselves a bullet and let Al do it with his knife. Then what? Would Silva have to drag Yates the rest of the way? He’d have to, and he was up to it. He still hadn’t quite come back from wherever the sight of Rene’s open throat had sent him, but Silva wanted to live. His only chance was for the bounty hunters to take him to the law. They wouldn’t be pleased when they found he wasn’t their man, but Carpenter had to hope they wouldn’t do anything wrong in front of witnesses.

  That was the trouble with it out here, all this land and all this quiet. There was no one to see. The law was just a word.

  Carpenter was too hot and exhausted to have any appetite, though he hadn’t eaten all day. The hunger pains would probably come on suddenly and hatefully when he was about to fall asleep. The only thing worse than a day of hell was a day of hell and fatigue from lack of sleep, and chances seemed reasonable that was exactly what he would get.

  “What are you thinking about, Bill?”

  “Tomorrow,” he replied to Yates.

  “You was always thinking ahead.”

  “Someone had to.”

  “I suppose.”

  Something had changed in Yates. His anger was gone, and he almost appeared to be in good spirits. Maybe there was some peace in knowing what was coming, some comfort in no longer having a say. Carpenter knew how it felt; that was why he was telling himself there was only one thing he could do: put one foot in front of the other. If it couldn’t be easy, at least it could be simple.

  At least, that was what he’d have liked to believe.

  “Mr. Silva,” he said, summoning all the normalcy he could into his voice.

  Silva had been staring off into space, but he looked up. He took a deep breath, and made the same effort, speaking as though they weren’t here but rather back at the lodge, sitting over a chessboard with a bottle of whiskey at hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Carpenter?”

  “You feeling all right?”

  “Oh, I think it would be rude of me to complain, under the circumstances. As Mr. Murphy so insightfully brought to our attention, it is not as though no one has ever had it worse,” Silva said.

  Carpenter twitched.

  “Damn Yankees,” Yates muttered, but he was smiling.

  “Yeah, Silva. Get off that high horse,” Carpenter told him.

  “Oh, two against one, is it?”

  Carpenter’s throat hurt too much for him to laugh. “This is my just deserts, then,” he said.

  “That is correct,” Silva replied, leaning back and closing his eyes.

  “I believe that makes me feel a little better.”

  “That was not my intent.”

  “I know that, Mr. Silva.”

  “Are y’all enjoying yourselves?” Murphy asked, gazing over the fire at them.

  “Are you?” Carpenter replied, keeping his eyes on the sky. He couldn’t see the sunset, but from the colors that were coming into the sky in his view from the west, it had to be one to remember. For Yates, if for no one else—he had to be thinking it: it was likely the last he’d see.

  Murphy chewed on his cigarette for a moment, then shrugged. “I seen worse days,” he said finally. “Bill Carpenter was your name?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The Mexican can carry the gold tomorrow,” he said, glancing at Silva. Then he put on a face of great politeness. “Provided he don’t object, naturally,” he added.

  “I do not, sir.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Murphy made a gracious gesture and smiled at Carpenter.

  “Mighty decent of you,” Carpenter told him, clearing his throat.

  “Well, when you hang and go up above,” Murphy said, flicking the remains of his smoke into the fire, “you put in a good word for me. Al?” He looked over his shoulder. “Al, what are you doing?”

  Two-Eye didn’t react; he just kept stirring whatever he was cooking over the fire.

  Al was on his hands and knees near the edge, peering down. He didn’t reply.

  “Al,” Murphy repeated, louder.

  “Mind your business, Murph!”

  For a moment, Murphy considered that. He glanced at Two-Eye, then groaned and got to his feet. Brushing himself off, he joined Al at the edge, where the other man motioned for him to get down.

  Murphy swore. “Who’s down there?” he hissed.

  Carpenter and Yates exchanged a look, and Yates moved to sit up a little straighter. Two-Eye still didn’t seem interested in anything but the food, but Carpenter had seen his eyes move when Yates did. The man was odd, but he was attentive. Carpenter’s jaw still hurt from how attentive he was, and if he had a mirror, he’d likely find half his face black-and-blue.

  “You see her?” Al asked.

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Well, I believe she intends to bathe in that stream,” Al drawled.

  Murphy snorted, then spoke, sounding taken aback. “You’re right. Might be the first time. I guess you’re obliged to watch.”

  “It would be rude not to,” Al replied.

  They continued to watch, Murphy in mild amusement, but Al a bit more intently. Carpenter didn’t like the feel of this, but his hands were behind his back and done up tighter than ever.

  Two-Eye spared a glance for Silva, whose face was one of open disgust at the nature of the chatter from the men at the edge of the cliff. Carpenter felt the same way, but he couldn’t summon up much outrage, even if there’d been any point to it. There was too much worry.

  Al abruptly straightened up.

  “I believe I’ll pay a call on her.”

  Murphy looked over at him sharply. “What?”

  “I won’t be but an hour.” Al came back to the fire and picked up his rifle. “Maybe two. She is handsome.”

  “Al, don’t be stupid,” Murphy warned, suddenly concerned. “Her husband can’t be far off.”

  “I’ll see to him.”

  “Al, it ain’t what we’re here for.”

  “Where’s the harm in it, Murph? We’re packed in for the day,” Al said, jerking his chin toward the fire. “I even got a bump on my head, remember?”

  Murphy, making an effort to stay calm, took a breath. “The notion of it all is that we ain’t the ones who hang,” he explained tightly.

  “Aw, hell, Murph. Can’t you see I been invited?” He gestured meaningfully at the cliff. “If she’s gonna show off right out in front of the whole sky, it can only be her design. I can’t be rude. I ain’t rude, Murph,” he said, grinning as he put his rifle over his shoulder.

  “Damn it, Al, I’m telling you no.”

  “Oh, shoot me in the back, then. Or are you worried?” Al asked, indicating the prisoners. “The big one’s half dead, and old Stanford Yates has only got one leg. I reckon you and Two-Eye can handle the Mexican.”

  With that, he started to pick his way down and was lost to sight. Murphy stood in place, mouth tight, a vein throbbing visibly in his neck.<
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  “Two-Eye, that man’ll be the death of us,” he muttered, and Two-Eye nodded without looking up. Murphy shambled back to the fire and started to roll another smoke.

  Silva hissed in pain, and both men looked over at him.

  “Something bit me,” he reported, shifting his position and looking over his shoulder. “I may be on an anthill.”

  “Well, you stay right there,” Murphy warned, pointing with his cigarette. “Ants won’t kill you, but I will.”

  “There’s men in Antelope Valley that wouldn’t take kindly to that,” Carpenter suggested. “They would prefer to do it themselves.”

  “They ain’t my concern,” Murphy grumbled.

  The minutes went by, and the sky darkened.

  They didn’t have long to wait, though. Carpenter flinched as the shot echoed up from below. Murphy rubbed his face in frustration, and Two-Eye kept eating. Yates looked stony, and Silva appeared to be dozing. Murphy wasn’t paying attention to them in any case.

  The second shot made him look up in surprise. He frowned and got to his feet, hurrying to the edge to look down, his own rifle in hand.

  “Ain’t you going to help him?” Carpenter demanded, loudly enough that it startled Two-Eye, who looked up with a frown. “He’s your friend, ain’t he? He’s in trouble,” he said.

  “Be quiet, Bill,” Murphy said, putting his rifle to his shoulder anxiously.

  “Al’s in trouble,” Carpenter pressed.

  Two-Eye got uncertainly to his feet, and it was the last mistake he ever made. Carpenter unfolded his legs and kicked the silent man’s feet from under him. People noticed he was tall when he was standing, but they didn’t give much thought to how much reach he had when he was on the ground.

  Two-Eye fell on his back into the fire, and Yates was ready, rolling himself nearer and dropping his good leg squarely on the man’s chest as he struggled and tried to get up. He couldn’t properly pin him with just his leg, but he kept him in place long enough for the fire to do some of the work.

  Murphy had turned and taken aim, but the scattered sparks and smoke blocked his view. The world was Silva’s chessboard, and all the pieces were where he wanted them. He’d kept quiet and to himself, making these men all but forget him. He’d even positioned himself a moment ago so that he could get up quickly, and done so in a way that didn’t arouse suspicion.