The Fang of Bonfire Crossing

by Brad McLelland

  “That man talked like he hates him,” Duck added. “I bet this pony’s been rustled.”

  Keech reached over the gate. He expected the animal to withdraw, but the horse nosed his fingers instead, then licked his palm. A memory of Felix nudging his hand in Pa Abner’s barn nearly overwhelmed his heart.

  “I wish I had an apple for you, Hector. That’s your name, right? Like the Trojan warrior?”

  The white horse snorted, flashing eyes as blue as Nat’s and Duck’s.

  Nat tapped Keech’s shoulder. “He’s a swell horse, but we have to go.”

  “You don’t belong in this horrible place,” Keech whispered to the stallion. “I’ll come back for you.”

  The trio hurried out of the stable house. On their way past the pen, Henrietta charged the fence again, rattling the wood and gouging the air.

  Duck patted Keech on the back. “That critter hates you something fierce.”

  “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”

  After sprinting down another alley, they paused for a breath in front of a brown stucco building. The windows of the place had been boarded over, the front door sealed shut by planks. Shattered chairs had been piled in the yard, as if someone had built a pyre but forgot to light it. A streetlamp stood just beyond the clutter, revealing a snow-dusted street.

  Keech glanced at the front of the stucco building. A dingy sign hung by two chains from the overhang:

  SHERIFF’S OFFICE

  CITY JAIL

  OBEY THE LAW!

  Peering through a narrow gap in one of the boarded-up windows, Keech could see a small room of holding cells, their iron-bar doors wide open. The building had been abandoned, the lockup empty. If Sheriff Strahan were still alive, he was being held elsewhere.

  “What now?” asked Duck.

  Nat pointed to the snowy street. “Since this is the sheriff’s office, I’m guessing that’s Main Street. Let’s cut back south, closer to the town center. Look for signs of another lockup. If we don’t find Strahan there, we’ll need to head back to the ravine. I bet Doyle’s hour is nearly up.”

  They scurried toward the heart of town, keeping to the shadows of tightly clustered storefronts. They passed a blacksmith shop, a mercantile store, and a barbershop. The businesses were all vacant, their windows and doors planked up like the sheriff’s office. Just ahead, the street veered east, forming a sharp left turn in front of a massive three-story building, a whitewashed edifice that blocked any view of the rest of the town.

  The building was a hotel with a long balcony on the second story that looked out over the dismal street corner. It appeared to be the sole place in town that was awake. The amateur piano playing and raucous laughter that Keech had been hearing for the last hour rolled out of the hotel’s batwing doors. Muffled light shone out of the portal. Smoky shadows moved beyond the curtained windows in the rooms above and below.

  Hanging from the hotel’s balustrade was a large yellow sign that read WISDOM SALOON, only someone had scratched out the town’s name and painted BIG SNAKE over it.

  “Let’s move closer,” Keech whispered.

  The trio stopped at the front porch of a telegraph office. They hunkered in the cold darkness and stared down the street at the Big Snake Saloon.

  “That place sure is spooky,” Duck said.

  Keech studied the hotel’s windows and balcony. The sounds and movement within reminded him of a grim circus—relentless swirls of bleak music and clownish cackles. “Maybe they’re holding Strahan in there.”

  “That’d be my guess, too.” Duck took a step forward.

  “Wait.” Nat reached out to stop her, his voice sharper than a knife. “Do y’all notice anything?”

  Keech peered around the empty street, but everything was buttoned up.

  From the ground floor of the Big Snake Saloon, the twisted sound of the piano called out a refrain that Keech recognized as the Moonlight Sonata. It drifted like snowfall down the street and mingled with the shadows trapped along the sidewalks.

  Granny Nell used to hum that piece to him when he would awaken in the night from horrible dreams. Hush now, Granny would tell him as he cried to the sound of her humming. Listen to the moonlight and fret no more.

  It dawned on Keech what Nat had seen—or rather, what he hadn’t seen.

  Duck voiced his thought: “No activity, no movement.”

  “Right.” Nat raised an eyebrow. “The street’s wide open. The saloon looks busy enough, but the town’s quiet. I ain’t seen a thrall guard on patrol for a good while.”

  Suddenly, a hard chill sparked inside Keech’s coat. He grabbed for the amulet.

  “Keech, what’s wrong?” Duck asked.

  “Doyle’s spell! I don’t think it’s working anymore!”

  No sooner had he said the words than he glanced over his shoulder and saw a nightmare vision.

  A massive man with a split red beard stood behind the Embrys, as though he had just materialized out of the November wind.

  “Behind you!” Keech yelled.

  “Hello, little lambs,” Big Ben said.

  The outlaw caught the siblings by the sides of their heads and slammed them together. Keech heard a dull clonk, and Nat and Duck crumpled to the filthy snow at the man’s feet.

  Big Ben looked down at their unmoving forms with a smirk. “The children of Bennett Coal.” His baritone voice rumbled like a cattle stampede. He rolled his wide shoulders and stretched his back, as if he needed to work out a kink.

  “No!” Keech started toward the man, but rough hands seized his coat collar from behind and wrenched him backward. Yanked off his feet, he dropped flat onto his back.

  The hideous face of a rotting thrall emerged over him. It wore a blue-and-white uniform the same as the other thrall they’d seen, and its horrible mouth drooled a dark ooze.

  Keech reached for the shard, but the dead patrolman shoved both of his hands to the ground. “Don’t even think about it,” the thrall muttered.

  Stepping over the bodies of Nat and Duck, Big Ben plodded toward Keech. The wind kicked up and ruffled the killer’s long tan coat, giving him the appearance of a drifting mountain. His boots crunched on the packed snow.

  “You’re the little orphan lamb the Reverend has spoken of. The son of Screamin’ Bill.” Big Ben squatted beside him. “Your troop survived my Chamelia. Impressive. Raines trained you well. But not well enough.”

  Keech strained against the thrall’s grip, but the dead man pushed his wrists down as Big Ben dug thick fingers into Keech’s coat, found the silver shard, and pulled the charm free. The man licked his lips. “You were wrong to think a protective spell on your shard could hide you. I can reach past your tricks.” He slid a bare finger across the fragment, then stuffed the amulet into his own coat. When his hand came out, he grunted, squeezed his fingers into a tight fist, then cracked his knuckles. Keech didn’t think the shard had just caused the man pain. Faulty bones, perhaps, but not the silver.

  Then Big Ben rifled again through Keech’s pockets. “What else have you hid in there?” The killer’s eyes went large when he pulled out the whistle bomb and examined it. “Now where did you find this? Young kids shouldn’t play with explosives.”

  Keech shouted out to Nat and Duck, but the siblings didn’t budge. Big Ben lifted a threatening hand to silence him. An intricate dark circle scarred his flesh. The Devil’s mark. “The Reverend will be thrilled to learn you kids walked right into our hands. We’ve been preparing for another visitor, but you three are a special treat.”

  Keech looked up at the sky and saw dozens of crows lining the rooftops of Wisdom’s downtown buildings. They would have been invisible but for the glow of Main Street’s lamplights illuminating their silhouettes. The creatures didn’t move or make a sound; they simply watched from the eaves, like spectators at the grim circus.

  Big Ben planted a boot on each side of Keech, straddling him.

  “Good night, little lamb,” he said, and brought down a massive fist
.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE FOURTH PRISONER

  Keech has sunk to the bottom of a dark ocean.

  He’s never seen a real ocean, but he knows he’s fallen into one. He feels the icy water press against his flesh, pushing him down as if a giant has stepped on his back and is grinding him into the sandy floor. He wants to open his eyes, but he can’t pry his eyelids open. His lungs scream for breath. His ears detect a clanging, the pounding of hammers against anvils.

  “It’s okay, Keech.” The voice is gentle, free of all troubles. The voice belongs to Sam, the Rabbit.

  Though his eyelids refuse to open, Keech can see his brother’s face, the wry smile, the blond shock of hair. He wants to reach out for the boy, but his body is paralyzed. A polar fear has flooded his veins, his bones, every muscle in his body.

  “Remember what Pa taught us about fear,” Sam says.

  Pa Abner’s lesson runs through Keech’s mind: Fear is a tool. Use it to guide caution in dangerous times. Never allow fear to use you.

  “Who are you, my brother?” Sam asks.

  “I am the Wolf.”

  The resistance Keech feels drains away. If now is his time, then so be it. Death only means he will join his family. There is nothing to fear.

  He welcomes the water in.

  * * *

  Keech sucked in a deep breath, and stale air filled his lungs. His eyes fluttered open, and dim light flickered across his vision. The chill of ocean water from his dream was replaced by a cold dirt floor pressed against his cheek. A terrible ache screamed across the side of his face.

  After a short time, he dared to roll over and look around.

  He was lying in the corner of a dank cellar. A candle set on the floor burned near a flight of wooden stairs that led up to a closed trapdoor. Flat boards covered the walls, and cobwebs dusted the shadowy recesses. The muffled moaning of cattle touched his ears.

  “Keech,” a small voice called out.

  In the corner farthest from the stairs, Duck hunched against the wall. The left side of her grimy face was moist with blood. The girl held her knees close to her chest, as if she were trying to squeeze herself into the smallest space possible, but her eyes were focused and keen. Iron manacles bound her bare feet, and a heavy chain locked her to the wall. Her boots, socks, poncho, and hat had been tossed across the chamber into a sloppy pile, right alongside Keech’s belongings.

  Keech sat up, hearing the clank of metal as he did. Shackles clamped around his wrists and chains bound him to the wall. He lifted a hand to his tender cheek and winced at the touch.

  “You’re awake. Good.” The faint voice belonged to Nat. The rancher stood nearby, tethered to the wall in a pair of rusted handcuffs. He had also been stripped of his gear.

  Keech breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?”

  “Been better,” Nat said, bleary-faced. The chains binding him to the wall were too short to allow for sitting, so the rancher slumped on his feet. “I think we’re in one of the holding cells Quinn mentioned.”

  That explained the cattle noises Keech heard. Quinn had told them the holding cells were built to the east of the town, where the stockyards were located. “Big Ben took my shard.” Keech tried not to sound too defeated. “The whistle bomb, too.”

  Nat jangled his chains. “What a disaster. I hope the others are doing better.”

  Duck tugged against her leg bindings. She lifted her small face to the filthy ceiling and screamed to the unseen Big Ben, “You killed our ma and pa! I’m gonna make you pay!”

  Nat’s face sagged in the flickering shadows. “Save your strength, sis.”

  Across the room, an unmoving lump lay stretched out on a bed of dirty hay, the body of a fourth prisoner. The fellow had been rolled toward the wall, and his breathing sounded raspy and hollow.

  Keech called out to the man. “Hello? Mister?”

  “We’ve tried to get his attention, but it’s no use.” Duck sat cross-legged and began rubbing her bound ankles.

  “Do you reckon that’s Sheriff Strahan?” Keech asked.

  “I can’t tell if he’s missing a hand,” Nat said.

  A terrible ruckus clanged against the trapdoor at the top of the chamber stairs. The hatch flipped open, and torchlight shone down.

  A slender fellow descended. He wore a spotless white shirt with frilly trimmings around the cuffs and a pair of perfectly starched trousers. The man had long white hair that nearly matched the color of his shirt, and his Adam’s apple was so big, it looked like a bullfrog was wedged inside his throat. In one hand he held a torch, which sent devilish light dancing across his bony cheeks. His other hand clutched a fat mutton shank that he gnawed with yellow teeth.

  “The name’s Friendly Williams. Welcome to my prison.” He pointed the greasy chop at each of them. The man’s neck bore the blackened brand of the Reverend Rose, just like the skinny cowpuncher. “I’ve been hearing about you rotten little trespassers. Children of Enforcers, eh? To tell the truth, I don’t know what Enforcers are, but you seem to be a big deal to my associates.”

  “Your associates,” Duck spat. “You mean Rose’s disciples, the so-called Big Snake.”

  “A bunch of no-good killers,” Nat added.

  Friendly smiled. “Maybe so. But they’ve shown me worlds, things I couldn’t have possibly imagined.” The man rubbed the back of one hand over the Devil’s mark as if the brand brought him a perverse pleasure.

  “You’ve sold your soul to Rose,” Keech said, disgusted.

  “You’re a passel of ignorant kids. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  Friendly stripped one last chunk off the mutton chop, then dropped the gristle-ridden bone to the dirt floor. “There’s still some meat on there if yer hungry.” With a laugh, he kicked the greasy thing in Keech’s direction. “Eat up, then get some sleep. You’ll wanna be rested.”

  Keech couldn’t resist the bait. “For what?”

  “We’re gonna put on a show tomorrow. The Reverend wants to see you at the gallows.” The slender man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he cackled in delight.

  Keech exchanged a distressed glance with Nat and Duck.

  “Best I be off now. The boss will want to know you’re awake. He’d like a chat.”

  Grinning, Friendly turned back to the wooden stairs, but Keech stopped him. “Your bounty hunter, Sunrise Albert…”

  “Ah, yes, my friend Sunrise! One of my best trackers. Did he ever find that rotten runaway, Oscar?”

  “He’s buzzard food. One of Rose’s monsters killed him. They’ll do the same to you when you’ve served their purpose.”

  Friendly’s grin faltered, and his eyes dulled with uncertainty. “Scorn all ya want, sparrow. You’ll meet your maker either way.” Then he stomped up the stairs, kicking dust into the air. Once he had disappeared above, he slammed the trapdoor shut.

  The room sat in silence as the quivering candle flame caused shadows to dance across the cell walls.

  Then the silent body across the room shifted.

  “Look,” Duck said. “He’s awake.”

  The prisoner on the bed of hay rolled over onto his back, revealing a grizzled face that smiled feebly at them. He was a lean fellow with a thin black mustache and terrible bruises all over his angular face. Perhaps the man had once been handsome, but he had suffered such a severe beating that his face was a mangled mess. His bare feet were muddy, and the flesh of his ankles was rubbed raw from a pair of heavy manacles that chained him to the wall.

  Keech felt a heavy blow of disappointment. This wasn’t Strahan. Both of the man’s hands were intact. “You ain’t the sheriff, are you?”

  Rising on one elbow, the bruised captive coughed into his fist. “No, I’m not Strahan.”

  “But you know of him?” Keech asked.

  “I knew him well. He was a good friend.”

  Nat spoke urgently. “We’re looking for him, sir. We’re deputies of the Law, and we’ve been sent by Sheriff Bose Tur
ner of Big Timber, Missouri. If you have information—”

  “I’m afraid you won’t find him,” the stranger interrupted. He struggled up to a sitting position. “Tom Strahan is dead. They killed him two days ago, just before the wagon trains lit out west with all the townsfolk.”

  The prisoner’s news about Strahan’s death drenched Keech in pure despair. But that wasn’t the only bad part. If all the townsfolk were gone, that would mean Quinn’s aunt Ruth was no longer in Wisdom.

  The trio fell into a black silence. Keech’s hope of finding Bonfire Crossing sank like a stone tossed into a deep lake.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” asked Duck.

  “I’m sure, kid. I saw it happen. But listen, I must know something—” Now the captive spoke with a sharp edge of desperation. “The slaver, Friendly Williams. He mentioned you were the children of Enforcers. Is that true?”

  Nat answered, “We are. My name’s Nat Embry, and that’s Duck. Our father was Noah. He was better known by his Enforcer name, Bennett Coal.”

  “I can see the resemblance. You’re both the spittin’ image of Rowdy Bennett.”

  “Rowdy Bennett?” said Duck.

  The stranger chuckled, then looked at Keech. “And who are you?”

  Keech recalled Sheriff Turner’s advice to be wary using real names on the trail, but the chained fellow looked utterly incapable of harm.

  “I’m Keech Blackwood,” he said, his lips trembling.

  “Well, I’ll be! The son of Screamin’ Bill,” the man said. “I thought I sensed the approach of allies in the area.”

  The response stunned Keech. “Mister, who the heck are you?”

  The prisoner sidled closer to them, as near as his chains would allow. “My name is Milos Horner, and I, too, came to Wisdom to find Tom Strahan.”

  “Milos Horner.” Keech had heard that name spoken recently. Before dying, Pa Abner had mentioned the name Horner when telling his story of how the Enforcers had hidden the Char Stone and taken the Oath of Memory. Bad Whiskey had also uttered the name at the Home. Give me the Stone now, or tell me the name of the Enforcer who’s got it. Does Horner have it? O’Brien? “My pa talked about you. You’re an Enforcer.”