Sinclair looked back out the window. “Guess I’ll just go live in the mountains and starve to death until the buzzards come eat me, then. Is that what you all want?”
The sheriff drew on his cigar and blew the smoke out toward the cabin’s roof. “It’s a free country, last I heard. For now anyway.”
* * *
* * *
The stagecoach driver opened the small window into their compartment and leaned down. “Sheriff? We’re almost there.”
“Very good,” Sheriff Reuben said. “Has anyone noticed us?”
“A few minutes ago I saw a man on a horse and I gave him the signal like you said. He spun around and headed back toward town. Looks like they’re starting to line up along the road ahead.”
“Excellent.” Sheriff Reuben reached past Sinclair and raised the window shade all the way up to make sure everyone could get a good view. “Your return is all anyone has been able to talk about these past few days.”
Sinclair turned his head and saw a woman standing in front of an old shack. She clutched her broom in her knotted hands and shook it at him and shouted, “Murderer! Thief! We don’t want your kind!”
“We didn’t forget you, scum,” someone else called out. “Get the hell out of this town!”
The calls became a chorus of invectives that grew louder the closer they drew to the center of town. No one approached or threw anything at them, but Sinclair could see they wanted to. He wondered what he would have done to any one of them, or even all of them, only a few years before. They shouted at him with hatred, but he could tell most of them were afraid to come too close. He suspected if they only knew he could hardly walk, let alone defend himself, they’d have dragged him out of the stagecoach and stomped him to death.
The driver stopped in front of the jailhouse and Sinclair looked at the crowd of people waiting. All of them were shouting.
Sinclair turned toward Reuben. “You couldn’t have given me one moment’s peace? I paid my debt. Judge said I owed you twenty years for what I done and I gave it. You couldn’t give me just one moment’s peace?”
Sheriff Reuben opened the door for Sinclair. “What on earth makes you think a man like you deserves peace?”
Sinclair lowered himself down the steps. He was dressed in tattered rags that hung loose from his withered frame. Farmhands and deputies and store clerks glared at him.
Reuben got down from the stagecoach behind him. He put his hand on Sinclair’s bony shoulder and said, “It doesn’t matter what direction you go in, Mr. Sinclair, as long as you go. No one will interfere with you. But so help me God, if you ever show your face around here again, I’ll sic this entire town on you like hungry dogs on an injured rabbit. Now, get!”
The sheriff raised his foot up behind Sinclair and kicked him hard enough to send Sinclair sprawling face-first into the dirt.
Sinclair struck his chin and felt his teeth clap together so hard, he feared they’d cracked. Before he could get his elbows inward, he saw the sheriff coming again. Reuben cocked his leg back and punted the toe of his boot into Sinclair’s exposed right side.
Sinclair rolled over, clutching the side of his stomach in pain. Above the shouts telling him to get up and be gone, he heard a woman cackle so loud, it sounded like she was screaming.
Sheriff Reuben ran up and kicked him again. Sinclair flipped over and scurried to get away, crawling on his chest in the dirt like some kind of bug. Rocks pelted him. The people surrounding him were closing in, and Sinclair forced himself to get up, and he did his best to run.
* * *
* * *
By nightfall a cold wind rose throughout the woods and it sapped him of any strength to go on. There was hardly any light from the thickness of the trees above that blocked out most of the starlight. He sat down against a tree and shivered so hard, his teeth chattered. He had no idea where he was, other than that he’d been walking in the woods for hours and still hadn’t found any water.
Even twenty years ago, he’d only been vaguely familiar with the region. Twin Oaks was just one of a hundred towns he’d ridden through in those last few years. If they had banks, he’d come in to rob them, but then he’d cleared out and stayed as far away as he could. It wasn’t like he stuck around and drank in the local saloon.
The Venom Snakes had always made camp out in the woods, but as their leader, he’d always had underlings to attend to the fire and food and necessities of life in the rough. Now Sinclair understood the value in such men. Lorenzo Escalante, who’d eventually risen to be Sinclair’s second-in-command, had spent his first years with the gang as their cook. He knew if Escalante had been there, he’d have found them water, made a fire, and cooked a nice roasted rabbit in less than an hour.
Instead, Sinclair leaned back against a tree and felt the bark stick him through his thin shirt. He shifted around, trying to find one smooth surface on the tree that wasn’t filled with prickles and snapped-off lengths of branch to stab him, but he couldn’t. He gave up and leaned back and let it stab him. The wind left him with a deep cold seeped into his bones throughout his entire body. His hands ached and he pulled his arms in through his sleeves and wrapped them around his bare chest. He stuck his face down into his shirt and exhaled into it, just trying to get warm.
If there were any caves he could find, he might have tried to sleep in one, despite his deep aversion to them. It would be worth it just to get out of the wind. He’d always preferred sleeping outside to venturing into a cave. Caves run deep with too many corridors to explore fully and you can never be sure there’s nothing else inside the cave with you. Pick the wrong one and you’d find yourself sidling up against a grizzly bear. Even shivering and desperate for something to drink and eat he had no great desire to get mauled to death.
Then he wondered if there were any big cats in the area. In the darkness, it wasn’t hard to imagine a prowling man-eater creeping toward him, coiling its muscular frame to leap onto his back and pin him to the ground with its big nasty claws that were like knife blades, while it sank its fangs into the back of his neck. He doubted he’d have the strength to fight a mountain lion off under the best conditions. Now he knew he’d be able to do little more than lie on his belly and wait for the release of death.
Even if there were no big cats and no bears, certainly there were wolves. Great packs of ravenous wolves that would set on him and rip him to pieces. It didn’t matter. The cold was making him so tired, he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Damned wolves, he thought. Come and have me.
Something big crashed through the brush nearby, which sent Sinclair scrambling to get away. It thrashed a pile of dry leaves and sticks and Sinclair threw up his arms and cried out in fright. A deer burst from between the trees and landed directly in front of him. By the time Sinclair lowered his arms, it had leapt back into the woods and disappeared.
Sinclair laid his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Instead of wolves, now he saw the townspeople of Twin Oaks. All of them naked and crawling along the ground, sniffing for his scent. They had glowing red eyes and were coming for him. They wanted to tear him apart with their hands and teeth and scatter his bones in the dirt and none of that mattered either.
His mind eventually slipped somewhere far off, the same way it had when the prison guards had beaten him too much and the pain became too great. It felt like whatever was happening to his body was in some other place. He could see it and know what it was and still be terrified at the horror of it all, but it happened at a distance so vast that he was never sure if he’d ever come back from it.
This time, he was certain he wouldn’t. He’d travel so far from his own self that he’d come untethered from his physical form and keep going until he dissolved into nothingness. That was all right, he figured. It wouldn’t be long before the animals in the woods discovered his body and disposed of him in their own fashion. After all those years of animals provid
ing him with so many meals, he’d finally return the favor and give them one in return.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t care one way or the other.
What he realized then was how unfortunate he’d been all those years ago when Judge Gilstrap sentenced him to prison instead of hanging him right then and there. This was a slow death that went on and on with torture never ending. If he could go back in time, he’d have pulled the hangman’s lever himself. He’d have draped that noose around his neck and cackled like that old lady when the sheriff kicked him earlier. He’d have run off the stage laughing and leapt high into the air, clicking his heels, just waiting for the rope to snap his neck, if it meant being spared every single thing that had happened to him since.
But it hadn’t spared him. He pulled his knees to his chest and lowered his forehead against his arms and hoped he never woke up.
* * *
* * *
Birds chirped in the trees all around him, and it made Sinclair open his eyes and look up. The woods were deep blue and full of mist. His clothes were damp with dew and the morning was humid and less cold than it had been the night before. Sinclair rubbed his eyes and tried to orient himself. The damn birds would not shut up. How he hated them.
He’d spent twenty years waking up in a prison cell, waiting for the day he’d be free. In all that time, it had never occurred to him that being surrounded by four walls and a sturdy roof and guaranteed food, even if it was stale water and moldy bread, and even with the guards and their whips and their cruelty, was something he’d have never left if he knew what waited for him outside.
* * *
* * *
He wandered until the sun was high over his head and he still hadn’t found water. The closest he came was when he passed through a field of tall wheat that was wet with rot. There was something following him, he knew. He hadn’t seen it, not in full. Just passing glances in the woods beyond. Shadows shaped like a hunched-over beast. He could hear it snarling in the distance, disguised by the wind rustling the leaves. It moved with the other creatures, hiding its footsteps with the hooves of the deer as they ran. He could smell the beast, though. It smelled exactly like the rotten wheat field. Damp and rancid and full of decay.
As he neared the end of the field, he saw a dark, billowing haze over the tops of the trees ahead. He shielded his eyes from the sun to see it better. It was smoke, he realized. He staggered toward it.
Twigs snapped beneath him and he forced his way through thick branches covered in thorns, more afraid to lose sight of the smoke than he was worried about the thorns.
He could smell the smoke. It was rich and fragrant. Something good was cooking on those flames, he realized. The deep ache in his stomach worsened, but it was nothing compared to the dry cracks in his throat that needed water. He started to run, pushing on until he burst through the trees and saw a decrepit shack with misshapen walls and a crooked roof with smoke coming out of a makeshift chimney. There were wooden racks set on either side of the door with animal skins stretched out across their frames. Lying on the ground next to the racks were multiple sharp instruments and tools with curved blades covered in blood.
An old instinct whispered that he needed to grab something with a sharp blade to use against whoever was waiting for him in the cabin, and if the cabin was empty, then later on down the road. Having a weapon was the first step toward getting the things he needed. It was just a passing thought. The instinct was dull and did not persist when he ignored it.
He opened the door and looked in. There was a fire in the corner with a metal pot. Stew was bubbling inside and filled the shack with a fragrance so strong and good, it made his eyes water. His eyes fell first on a table in front of the fire with a chunk of bread and cheese and a jug of water. The bed in the corner was empty. He looked behind the door and saw nothing but more tools and filthy clothes.
Sinclair hoisted the jug over his open mouth and drank. He swallowed so much water, he thought he might drown. He drank until he choked and had to clutch his stomach for fear it might burst. When he set the jug down, he ripped off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth and chewed it as fast as he could, only to get it wet enough to swallow.
He grabbed the cheese and bit a chunk of it off and swallowed that too. Then more water. He sat down on a chair at the table and closed his eyes with relief. He ripped off another piece of bread and ate it. He finished the water in the jug and let it rest in his lap. He was out of breath. The fire warmed his back and shoulders, and the ache inside his bones lessened. He did not care if he ever moved again. He stayed that way for a long time, warming himself, aching from having drunk so much water so fast and not caring, and then the door opened and the shack’s owner stood there glaring at Sinclair, and he was holding a knife.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sinclair set the jug on the table and wiped his mouth. “I’m sorry I broke into your home. You don’t need that knife. I mean you no harm.”
Gareth McClusky had deep lines in his face like his skin had been baked into clay by the sun and a thick white beard tangled with leaves and sticks. He watched Sinclair and did not move.
“I just needed some food and water,” Sinclair said.
McClusky closed the shack’s door behind him. “Did you get enough?”
“I ate all your bread and some of that cheese. I finished off your water. I’ll go fill up the jug if you show me where you get it.”
McClusky went around the table and checked on the stew cooking in his pot. He picked up a wooden spoon and stirred it. “You touch my stew?”
“No.”
“Mmm,” McClusky said. “I let it cook all day so that when I get home it’s ready. It’s got meat and onions and potatoes and a few carrots I found.”
“It smells good,” Sinclair said.
“It’s beaver,” McClusky said. “You ever eat beaver meat?”
Sinclair said that he hadn’t.
“I don’t hunt, but I use every little bit of whatever animals I take in my traps. I’ll skin it, eat it, use its parts for oils and ointments, and sell the bones for jewelry and ornaments if I can.” McClusky picked up a wooden bowl and put his knife down on the table, just a foot away from Sinclair’s hand. He turned his back and bent down in front of the stew pot to fill up the bowl. Sinclair’s hand crept toward the knife.
McClusky turned and set the bowl in front of Sinclair. “Eat that. You look like you need it.”
Sinclair put his hands on the bowl and raised it to his lips. He smelled it. Beaver meat or not, at that moment, it smelled better than anything he’d eaten in his entire life. When he started to slurp from the bowl, McClusky went into the corner and grabbed a rolled-up hide of thick fur. He rolled out the fur on the floor next to the table and said, “I’ll go fetch us more water. If you want to lay down, lay down on this. The bed’s mine and I don’t share it with nobody since my wife passed away. You can sleep on this, though. I reckon it’s better by this fire than it was out in the cold last night.”
Sinclair watched McClusky pick up the empty jug and head back out through the door. He closed it behind him, leaving Sinclair alone in the cabin again. He picked up the bowl and sipped what remained of the stew. It was piping hot but so good, he poured it into his mouth and let it burn from his mouth down into his gut.
Run now, Sinclair’s mind said. Take that knife. See if there’s any money or anything else you can grab. Wait for the old fool to come back, put the knife to his neck, and tell him to give you everything he has.
That’s what the voice in his head told him, but Sinclair was too tired to listen. After eating and drinking until his belly was full, he couldn’t hardly keep his eyes open. He looked at the thick fur rug spread out on the floor and was overcome at the idea of how soft it would feel against his skin.
Sinclair got up from the table and spread himself out on the rug. He felt the warmth of the fire on hi
s head and he let sleep overtake him. Whatever meanness he could manage to work himself up against, McClusky would have to wait.
* * *
* * *
When he woke, Sinclair smelled something so rich and savory, he thought he was still in prison. His first few years, he’d dreamed about being freed. That the governor had pardoned him or they’d found some loophole in the law that let him out. A few times, and these were his favorites, he dreamed that his men showed up to bust him out. The dreams had been so vivid, he could still picture Lorenzo Escalante coming up over the hill with his rifle held high and his long black hair flowing in the wind. He was leading a charge of a hundred men, all stone killers, coming to break Sinclair free. But they never came. For all Sinclair knew, Escalante and the rest were all dead. They’d been hunted by the law or thrown from their horses or shot in the back after beating some fool at poker. That was what he dreamed of the first few years.
On occasion he also dreamed of women. Women he had known on the road. Women he had known as a youth. Women he had never met. Sometimes, he dreamed of his wife.
He’d married Edna when they were both too young to know better. He was already riding with the Venom Snakes, but she wasn’t aware of how he earned his living. All she knew was that he would go off for days on end and come home stinking drunk with his pockets stuffed full of cash and stolen jewelry. It didn’t take her long to figure out what she was married to. By the time she was ready to leave him, she was already pregnant. After that, he stayed away for longer periods of time. He would always come back with money and tell her to get herself something nice, but after a few days, he’d be gone again.
In Sinclair’s dreams about Edna, she was easier for him to talk to. She understood him better. Sometimes, he’d wake up in the middle of the night and swear he could see her standing at his cell, looking down at him. He’d call out to her, but she’d be gone. Those dreams eventually passed too.
Ralph Compton Face of a Snake Page 3