When he opened his eyes, his face was pressed against the cold, wet ground and it was daylight. He sat up and wiped his cheek on his sleeve. The fire had gone out and he wrapped his arms around his chest to warm himself. He turned around and did not see his horse.
Folsom stood up and called out for it and whistled and made clicking sounds with his mouth. He cursed himself for being an idiot and not hitching the horse before he’d sat down. If the horse was gone, his journey was ended, and all was lost.
He headed toward the tents and found Hates the Rain with his head bent down, chewing on grass. Folsom patted the horse on the neck and smiled with relief. “Good boy,” he said. He mounted the horse and rode.
Folsom arrived at the sheriff’s office an hour after sunrise and saw that the sheriff’s horse was not out front.
This was a good sign, he thought. If the sheriff had left his post, it meant that his prisoners must be gone as well. The marshals must have come for them overnight, while Folsom slept. Sheriff Reuben had probably gone to his home to get some well-deserved rest.
But as Folsom sat in front of the sheriff’s office pondering his next move, he looked down at the ground and realized something was wrong. There were no wagon tracks. There were horse tracks and the impression of men’s boots, but no wagon tracks. How would the marshals transport two men chained at the hands and feet if not in a wagon?
They certainly would not be riding in the saddle behind one of the marshals, Folsom thought.
Even worse, at the bottom of the steps there were no footprints of two shackled, shuffling men. Such footprints would be unmistakable.
He got down from Hates the Rain and hitched him to a post. He went up the steps to the sheriff’s office and paused a moment to listen. There was no one inside, he was sure, but he knocked anyway. The door swung inward. It had been left unlocked.
Folsom pushed the door in the rest of the way and stood looking in from the porch. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, and both cells were empty. Had Sheriff Reuben taken the prisoners by himself to meet the marshals somewhere? The sheriff had not seemed to be made of stern enough stuff to attempt such a thing, but perhaps he had misjudged the man.
Folsom went inside to inspect the cells. All was as it should have been. Their locks were intact and untampered with. Whoever had opened them had been in possession of the key, Folsom thought. So it had been Reuben, after all.
“I owe you an apology, Sheriff,” Folsom said aloud. “I misjudged the strength of your spirit.”
He turned to leave and saw that the gun rack mounted next to the office door was empty. Both shotguns were now missing. Folsom closed the office door to get a better look at the gun rack. It made no sense for Sheriff Reuben to take one, much less both.
A lawman with only one prisoner and one shotgun was at a disadvantage, Folsom thought, let alone with two of each. A shotgun required both hands, whereas a sheriff moving a prisoner or helping him get onto a horse or into a wagon would have only one free hand. And because a shotgun barrel was so long, it was always within reach of the prisoner.
Many a prisoner in chains had pretended to fall or have some injury that prevented them walking correctly, causing many a lawman to lay down his shotgun or prop it up against something in the interest of grabbing the prisoner to get him moving again. It had often ended in disaster.
Men like Canada and McGinty would have been waiting for just such an opportunity. Hell, they’d probably planned for it and capitalized on it several times before.
Even if Sheriff Elliot Reuben had been valiant enough to try to transport both prisoners, yet stupid enough to take a shotgun, he most certainly would not have taken two, Folsom thought.
So what other possibilities were there?
He inspected the empty gun rack and pressed his fist against his mouth in thought. If the marshals had come, or Reuben had found a friend to help him do the transport and the two of them had taken shotguns, it did not explain the fact that there were no wagon tracks and no footprints of men in chains leaving the office. Which left only a few possibilities.
One, Reuben had betrayed his badge and released the two prisoners, then fled. Perhaps they’d paid him, or promised him some kind of reward, for his betrayal. But it was difficult to imagine what two desperate men like McGinty and Canada would be able to offer or that anyone would be foolish enough to believe they could deliver it.
Two, men loyal to McGinty and Canada had shown up and sprung them from jail. But if that were the case, there would be signs of a disturbance or bloodshed. Even if Reuben had been a coward and handed his prisoners over without a fight, it would have been in everyone’s best interest to kill the sheriff instead of leaving him around to tell the marshals what had happened.
The third possibility was the only one that made sense, but it was also the one that Folsom could not wrap his head around. Someone else had let the prisoners out of their cells and they had walked away, free men, without a struggle. As a bonus, they’d taken both shotguns with them.
If Reuben had not let them out, who had? The answer was both obvious and puzzling. The Red Priest.
Why? What would two dangerous killers be willing to do in order to keep from being handed over to certain death? Almost anything that was asked of them, Folsom thought.
What would a false holy man with a small army of devoted followers and two killers armed with shotguns do, especially when there was no lawman in the area to stop him? Whatever his sick mind desired, Folsom thought.
* * *
* * *
Mirta brought the wagon to an abrupt stop and Odell had to pull on his horse’s reins to stop along with her. Before he could ask what she’d stopped for, four men rode into the center of the road to block their path.
They were dressed in white robes that hung over their bare legs. They stared at Mirta and Odell with grim-looking faces.
“What do you reckon this is all about?” Odell whispered.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Are they highwaymen?”
“Never saw any highwaymen dressed like that before,” Odell said. He folded his arms on the saddle horn and called out, “Hello there!”
The men did not answer. Their robes did little to hide what lay beneath them, so Odell could see they carried no weapons and their saddles bore no bags or scabbards.
“Any particular reason you’re all standing in the middle of the road?” he asked.
The men in the robes began to ride toward them. Mirta turned in the wagon’s seat to reach for the Spencer rifle tucked in the back next to Connor. Odell stopped her by saying, “Hang on. Not yet. Let’s see what we can learn from them first.”
When they came close enough, Odell held up his left hand and said, “That’ll do for now. Who are you gentlemen?”
“We are the ones who serve and we are the ones who seek,” the rider in the middle said. Odell realized this man’s robe was different from the others’. It was the same color, but on the chest was a symbol that Odell could not make out at first. The others wore plain robes, and Odell nodded at the man in recognition. Every army has rank, Odell thought. And everyone with rank wears something a little different from the rest.
“What can we do for you, sir?” Odell asked.
Two of the men rode to either side of Odell and Mirta, circling them from opposite directions. Mirta reached toward the back of the wagon once more. Odell was about to tell her to wait, but saw that she was covering Connor up with the rest of the blanket to hide him from sight.
“Where are you coming from?” the one with the symbol said. “And who were you with?”
Odell turned back and forth to look at the men who’d flanked them. He gave a quizzical smile. “We’re just passing through. Me and my daughter here. We weren’t with anyone.”
When the rider next to Mirta came closer to peer over the side of the wagon, she drew h
er knife from her belt and aimed it at him. “Lay one hand on me or this wagon and I will feed parts of you to that horse.”
The other three riders tightened in on them. Odell glanced at Mirta, silently begging her not to try for the rifle. She wouldn’t be able to get it free, much less shoot it, before the other riders were on top of them. He nodded at her reassuringly, letting her know that he would get them out of it. All she needed to do was give him a chance. He waved his hand and said, “Okay, everybody just calm down a second. I’m sure we can all be of service to one another. We have nothing to hide.”
The rider bearing the symbol said, “What is your name?”
Odell paused, then said, “It’s Bob Bookman. This is my daughter Frannie.”
“She’s a Mexican,” the rider said.
“Nope,” Odell said. “She ain’t Mexican. Her mother’s Italian. You think she looks Mexican?” Odell did a double take at Mirta, then said, “If she’s Mexican, boy, I’ll tell you, her mother and I got some talking to do.” He forced himself to smile and nodded at Mirta to let her know to smile along with him.
“You are too old to be her father,” the man said.
“That’s what I thought too,” Odell said. “But here we are. Guess I had a little too much sugar in my coffee that day. Got myself all riled up.”
The two men in front of him turned to confer with each other and Odell interrupted them. “Now I’ve told you who we are and answered some personal questions. I’d like to know what this is all about if you don’t mind. Otherwise, we’ll be going and you boys can stay here standing in the middle of the road as long as you like.”
“What do you know of a woman named Jesse Sinclair or her son, called Connor?” the leader asked. “Or the daughter of a man named Lorenzo Escalante?”
“Well, actually”—Odell glanced at Mirta, then back at the men—“not a damn thing. Those are names of people I ain’t never met.”
“You are coming from the same direction as their ranch,” the man said.
“We passed a lot of ranches, to be honest,” Odell said. “I couldn’t tell you which was which. Why are you all looking for this Sinclair lady anyway?”
“We are trying to help her.”
“Is that right? Help her do what?”
With Mirta’s attention on Odell, the rider closest to her shot his hand forward and grabbed her wrist to wrestle the knife away. As they struggled for control, the man grabbed the knife by its bare blade with his free hand. Mirta twisted and turned the knife as much as she could, trying to sever his fingers, but he clamped down and held on to the blade so hard that his hand shook. His blood streamed down over her hands.
Finally, she was forced to let go and the man tossed the knife into the weeds.
The leader sat up on his horse and his robe flattened against his chest, enough for Odell to finally make out the symbol drawn there. It was the same one he’d seen at the bar in Boldfield, of a spear being thrust into a snake. Before he could say anything, the leader said, “Search the wagon. They are lying.”
“Now hold on,” Odell said.
Mirta whipped around to grab the rifle and the man with the bleeding hands leapt from his saddle to grab her before she could reach it. Mirta struggled fiercely and managed to palm her left hand against the man’s face. She dug into the flesh of his forehead with her fingernails and clawed downward as hard as she could, until she drew blood. The man’s eyes were fixed on hers and did not waver, even as his own blood cascaded past them. Mirta drew back her hand and prepared to stab the man’s eyes this time, when a gunshot went off over their heads that made everyone stop.
Edwin Folsom rode toward the group with his pistol drawn and smoking. He circled behind the robed riders to take stock of how many there were, and what had befallen the two travelers. When he brought his horse to a stop, he sat up very straight to make sure his badge was on full display. “What seems to be the problem here?”
“These men have detained us and now they’re trying to search our property,” Odell said.
“Lies!” the one with the symbol on his robe said. “We were simply offering our assistance and they attacked us.”
Folsom looked at the acolyte with the claw marks on his forehead and the fresh blood running down his face. “What was it you were offering assistance with?”
“We are searching for a woman and her son,” the man said. “We fear that they are missing.”
“I do not see them here,” Folsom said. He holstered his gun. “Perhaps you should be on your way and keep looking elsewhere.”
“Perhaps you are right, sir,” the man said, with a slight bow. He turned his horse around and the others followed him.
Odell watched them leave and said, “That symbol he was wearing, I’ve seen it before.”
“As have I,” Folsom said. “It is a thing of grave evil.”
“It seems we owe you our thanks, Mister.”
“I am Officer Edwin Folsom. You do not owe me anything. One of the girls from my reservation was taken by a so-called holy man who I believe those men follow. I have been searching for their camp for days but I can find nothing.”
“A holy man?” Odell whispered. He looked at Mirta and said, “What would a holy man want with Jesse and Connor—and you?”
Connor coughed and Mirta swiveled in the seat to remove the blanket from his face. Connor was pale and soaked with sweat. “Give me water,” she said.
Before Odell could get his cantina free, Edwin Folsom handed her his. Mirta poured some water into her hand and let it trickle down over Connor’s forehead, then ran her wet fingers through his hair.
“How long has he been like this?” asked Folsom.
“Days,” Odell said. “We were trying to get him home to his mother, but someone burned their house to the ground and she’s missing. The ones those people in the robes are looking for?” Odell pointed at Connor, then Mirta, and said, “That’s him, her, and his mother, Jesse. Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Officer?”
“No,” Folsom said. “But if we share everything we know, perhaps it will help.”
“I’m not usually one for talking to the law,” Odell said, “but at this point, I’ll try anything.”
* * *
* * *
They moved off the road and exchanged stories. As Odell told Folsom what they’d seen at Boldfield and the destruction they’d found at Edna’s Prayer, Mirta found her knife.
Folsom told them about the Red Priest who’d taken Kakìdsha and his journey to find her. He told them of the prisoners he’d seen at Sheriff Reuben’s office and how, when he returned, the prisoners, the sheriff, and two shotguns were missing. “I think they are with the Red Priest now,” Folsom said.
“Well, if they are, that’s bad news all around,” Odell said. “How many men did you say this priest has?”
“At least twenty.”
“That’s practically a damn army. Plus, now he’s got them outlaws on his side? What’s he need all these people for anyway?”
“To find Jesse, Connor, and me,” Mirta murmured.
Odell shook his head and rubbed his beard in thought. “That symbol on his robe, you said you’d seen it before too?”
Folsom took a deep breath before he began. “I feel strange saying it out loud. I think I’ve been trying to convince myself it was some kind of dream. I was in the forest a few days ago and I found a man’s body with that symbol carved into his chest. Then I heard laughter, but it was unlike any I’d ever heard before. It was the laughter of the mad. It was a woman.” Folsom hesitated before adding, “I think she had been eating the man.”
Mirta screwed up her face in disgust, but Odell nodded and asked, “Was she naked?”
“Yes,” Folsom said.
“They’re called the Children of the Forest,” Odell said. “Lunatics that live out in the wood
s and eat people.” He nodded toward Mirta and said, “Your father and me and Ash ran into them and barely got away with our lives.” He snapped his fingers. “Them folk we found all burned up at Jesse’s house were naked too. I bet that was them.”
“We must find Jesse and Miss Rena,” Mirta said. “They are in more danger than we thought.”
“And I must find Kakìdsha,” Folsom said. “Good luck on your journey.”
As Folsom made to leave, Odell grabbed his arm and said, “Now hold on. Where do you think you’re going?”
“I will go speak to those four men who stopped you on the road. They will tell me where the Red Priest is.”
“You’re going to take on all four of them by yourself?” Odell said.
“I will do whatever I have to,” Folsom said. “I only need to keep one of them alive so that he will talk.”
Mirta was inspecting her knife and slicing blades of grass. “Those men will not tell you anything,” she put in. “They are fanáticos. I looked in that man’s eyes when he grabbed my knife. There was nothing there. It does not matter how you hurt them. They will bite off their own tongues before they tell you anything. And if one of them escapes, he will alert this Red Priest that you are coming, and then they will be hunting you as well.”
Folsom cursed under his breath. “I am Kakìdsha’s only hope and I am failing.”
“Now listen, young man,” Odell said. “All is not lost here, not by a damn sight. My daughter, Jesse, can take care of herself. If them bastards are still looking for her, that means they ain’t got her yet. As far as the girl you’re looking for goes, if she’s in these woods somewhere, you’re in luck.”
“How?” asked Folsom.
Odell clapped his hand on Mirta’s shoulder. “This girl is the finest tracker I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been tracked by the best in the whole damn country. Plus, she tracked us through them same woods not too long ago, all by herself. If this Red Priest is holed up in there, she’ll find him.”
Hell Snake Page 18