Savage Hellfire

by Jory Sherman

He saw Ben draw his pistol, and smiled. He continued his quiet stalk until he was only a few feet away from his friend. He slid behind a pine tree and spoke.

  “Put your pecker away, Ben,” he said, and watched Ben jump and whirl.

  “John? That you?”

  “If that’s not your pecker, you can put it back in its holster.”

  “Damn, you scare a man half to death. I thought you was—”

  “Wait here,” John said.

  A few minutes later, he came up with Corny in tow.

  “You ain’t dead, neither,” Ben said to Corny. He was sweating like a horse at a county race.

  “Let’s get back to the mine and sort this all out,” John said.

  Corny stumbled along between them, his hands still tied behind his back. They crossed the shallows and stood by the shot-up campfire, looking at the shredded blankets, the bullet-scarred rocks, the gouges in the sand, the pockmarks on the bluff’s face.

  A white face appeared, peering over the precipice.

  “That you, Ben?” Whit asked.

  “Be up in a minute, kid. Keep your shirt on,” Ben said.

  The face disappeared.

  John pulled his knife from its scabbard on his belt and cut Corny’s bonds.

  Ben’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in surprise.

  Corny felt his hands drop free. It took him a moment to realize what had happened, and then he slowly brought his hands around to his front and started rubbing his wrists.

  “You’re free to go on back up to your camp, Corny,” John said.

  Ben spluttered.

  “You lettin’ that murderin’ scalawag loose, John?”

  “He has his choice,” John said. “He can go back to his bunch or throw in with us.”

  “You’ve gone plumb loco, Johnny,” Ben said.

  John looked Corny in the eye, measuring the man, waiting to see if he had any backbone at all.

  “I ain’t goin’ back with them,” Corny said. “But I got nothin’ to offer you, neither.”

  “John—” Ben started to say.

  John held up his hand to stop Ben from protesting.

  “I’ll have cattle up on the plateau by tomorrow night,” John said to Corny. “Be a lot of work, and little pay. You might pan some with us on slow days and earn yourself a little pocket money. I can probably give you a bedroll and grub. That’s about the size of it.”

  “I-I’ll stay with you, mister. I can’t go back to them.”

  “What the hell?” Ben said, scratching the back of his bare head.

  “That bunch tried to kill Corny here, Ben. They probably think they killed all of us.”

  “Why’d they try to kill their own man, you reckon?”

  “I think we got us a pretty bad bunch up creek,” John said. “Maybe they wanted to put the blame on Corny for killing us. Or maybe they had no more use for him. What do you think, Corny?”

  Corny heaved his chest as he drank in air. He shook his head solemn-like and his eyes got wet.

  “Thatcher,” he said, “is as mean as they come. They say he once rode with Quantrill and murdered some folks back in Illinois. Him and Krieger and Ferguson stretched a man’s neck up in Wyoming about a month ago when he caught them cheatin’ at cards. So, I don’t reckon they got much use for me.”

  “How’d you get hooked up with them?” John asked.

  “I was swampin’ at a saloon on Larimer Street over to Denver. Them boys come in all the time, made it their private waterin’ hole. One day, they said they was goin’ prospectin’ and said they could use a hand to cook and wash their clothes and such. They put a double eagle in my hand when I was flat broke and I just took up with ’em. I found out later that they killed two men in Cherry Creek and stole their minin’ claims. Thatcher said if I ever told anyone, he’d cut out my gizzard.”

  “So, he had a reason to kill you tonight,” John said.

  “I told him I would never tell nobody about what him and Ferguson done.”

  “You can’t trust a man like that,” Ben said.

  “No, I reckon you can’t,” Corny said.

  “Grab up some of those shot-up blankets,” John said to Corny, “and climb that ladder up to the mine. Ben, you help him.”

  “You think they’ll be back tonight?” Ben asked.

  “No, but they’ll be back. Unless we get them first.”

  “Huh?” Ben scowled.

  “I know one thing, Ben. It’s no longer a case of live and let live. Thatcher and his bunch have attacked us. He wants our claim. He didn’t ask to buy it, or trade for it. He was just going to take it. If we’d been sleeping down here, we’d be dead now. And they’d be picking us clean in the morning, like a flock of buzzards.”

  “So, what do you aim to do?”

  “I’m going to have to think on that, Ben.”

  “For how long?”

  “Not long, I reckon. First off, I want to find a way to let Thatcher know that we’re still alive. Give him something to chaw on for a time.”

  “And then what?”

  “I guess that one day I’ll have to call the bastard out.”

  “A man who sneaks up on a sleepin’ man in the dark ain’t gonna mix in a fair fight, Johnny.”

  “No, he’s not. I said I was going to think about it. I want him to think about something, too.”

  Corny was gathering the riddled blankets, tucking them under one arm.

  “What’s that?” Ben asked.

  “I guess I want him to think about hell.”

  “Hell’s a long way off,” Ben said.

  “Not his hell. It’s real close.”

  “Sometimes, John, you plumb give me the shivers. I thought we was through with all that when we rubbed out Hobart.”

  “As long as there are men like Thatcher, we won’t ever be through with it. I can see that now.”

  “Once’t you thought that gun of yours was cursed. Do you still think it is?”

  “I don’t know, Ben. Maybe it’s me that’s cursed. You go on up to the ledge with Corny. I’ll be along directly.”

  Ben turned and guided Corny to the ladder. “Here, give me one of them blankets,” he said, and grabbed one. “You climb on up, Corny. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The two men started climbing the ladder. Whit waited for them.

  John walked some distance from the fire and looked at the bubbling creek with its dark waters, its riffles shining with stars. He looked around, beyond to the trees and downstream where the waters disappeared.

  The darkness changed everything, he thought. It carved out its own shapes and made a man look up at the sky and feel small. It also brought out the hunters and the prey. He was tired of being prey for men like Thatcher and Ferguson. He didn’t like killing, but he didn’t like being hunted, either.

  He knew that it would not be easy to fight those men up creek. They were dangerous. And they were men who had no conscience.

  Those were the worst kind.

  They weren’t afraid to kill and they weren’t afraid to die.

  Such men had no feelings whatsoever.

  They were just men without souls, without hearts.

  He tapped the Colt on his hip.

  Maybe it did carry a curse in its iron muscles, its veins.

  If so, he thought, he hoped that curse would hold for the days ahead.

  He looked up at the stars and walked back to the dwindling fire, looked at the scarred rocks where bullets had ricocheted or flattened to lumps of lead.

  Then he began to climb up to the cave that had once saved his and Ben’s lives.

  15

  EVA AWOKE TO AN EMPTY HOUSE. THE LOGS AND FLOORS TICKED with that emptiness. Her mother’s bed was made, and she smelled the heady aroma of Arbuckle’s coffee, the faint scent of cinnamon. Her mouth was pasty with night phlegm and, as she dressed, her stomach groaned with the sounds of hunger.

  “Ma,” she called as she laced up her boots. The edge of her small cot creaked as she stood up,
releasing her weight.

  There was no answer, and Eva felt a wave of apprehension wash through her, tightening the muscles in her abdomen and cloaking her senses with a vague feeling of abandonment.

  The cabin still reeked with the smell of pine and the logs, with their pine knots, made her feel as if they were eyes watching her. She wished they had pictures or samplers to hang on the walls, calendars, even, to cover those pine knot eyes. She walked outside and felt better for it. It seemed so quiet and peaceful with all that land stretching out and greening up, the trees so green they shone like emeralds in the sunlight.

  Her mother was sitting on a felled tree near the fringe of the woods, a tin cup of steaming coffee in her hand. Her mother almost never made coffee for herself, only for Manolo or her father, when he had been at home. Yet there she was sitting on that log, her long dress covering her legs, a faded shawl over her shoulders. She looked old and tired, Eva thought, hunched over like that, staring down the long valley.

  “Ma,” Eva called.

  Her mother turned and held up a hand. Then, she beckoned to her daughter with a slight movement of that same hand, and Eva walked toward her.

  “What are you doing out here all by yourself, Ma?”

  “I am by myself. Manolo’s way down there and you were fast asleep.”

  “And drinking coffee. You almost never drink coffee, except when Pa’s home.”

  “I felt like coffee this morning. I had a restless night.”

  “Dreams?”

  “No, well, some, I guess, but I can’t remember them much. Noises. Imagined noises, maybe.”

  “What kind of noises?” Eva sat down beside her mother, brushing the bark of the tree in case there were spiders or eggs or grubs on it. They were in the sun so she was not cold, although she wore a thin muslin shirt and a cotton dress with daisies on it, no stockings.

  “I thought I heard firecrackers, you know, like those we always heard on the fourth of July, when we lived in Shreveport.”

  “I hated Shreveport,” Eva said.

  “Well, that’s what it sounded like. The sounds were very faint, and I walked outside in my nightgown and did not hear them again.”

  “So you went back to sleep?”

  “No, I couldn’t sleep. I made coffee and thought about cherry trees and persimmons and how we could never have them up here. Even the garden we planted is a sorry one. We can’t plant pumpkins or watermelons up here.”

  “We planted corn and beans and peas and radishes, cabbage. Isn’t that enough?”

  “We don’t know what winter is like up here, Eva, but we know the spring and the summer will be short. Manolo said this will all be covered in snow for months and nothing we plant can grow past the first snow.”

  “Did Manolo hear the firecrackers?”

  Emma turned her head to look at Eva.

  “He did. He said they were gunshots. Far away. He said that sounds carry far up in these mountains at night.”

  “Gunshots?”

  “That’s what he said. There were a lot of them. I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from, but Manolo could.”

  “Where were they coming from?”

  Emma pointed to the edge of their world, where the valley table sloped and disappeared.

  “He said down by the creek. Where Whit is. Where those two men are. There were a lot of shots, if that’s what they were.”

  “Manolo was sure they were gunshots? Maybe they were firecrackers.”

  “Manolo said gunshots and he marked the time. Late. Before midnight. I’m worried about Whit. Maybe those men shot him. Killed him.”

  “Ma.”

  “I just don’t know, Eva.” She sipped her coffee and stared toward the end of the valley. Eva looked and saw something move. She squinted her eyes and shaded them from the sun.

  “There’s Manolo now,” Emma said.

  Eva saw Manolo walking out of the woods. He carried a scattergun, an old one her father had given him, what he had called a “Greener.” It was double-barreled and the sun glinted off those patches where the bluing had worn off, exposing the silvery metal.

  Emma stood up. Manolo was breaking into a run, waving one arm above his head.

  “Look, Eva.”

  Eva stood up. “He’s running,” she said. “And waving.”

  “My heart’s nigh stopped,” Emma said.

  “It looks like he’s smiling, Ma.”

  Emma put a small fist to her chest, over her heart.

  “I feel faint,” she breathed.

  Eva put her arm around her mother to keep her from toppling over.

  “Don’t faint, Ma.”

  “They are coming,” Manolo shouted.

  “Who’s coming?” Emma said, recovering from her near swoon.

  “I don’t know,” Eva said. “Maybe Whit and John and Ben.”

  “Whit?”

  Emma sounded addled.

  Manolo was still some distance away, but he was running fast. He was no longer waving his arm. He bounded over the grass like a deer, his shirttail flapping, the brim of his straw hat bending back against the crown.

  “They are coming,” he yelled again. “The cattle.”

  “The cattle?” Emma said.

  Eva thought for a moment.

  “Of course,” she said. “John said he was bringing a herd of cattle up here. That must be what Manolo’s yelling about.”

  “Oh, my,” Emma said. “Cattle. Why, yes, of course. I just didn’t expect them so soon.”

  “He said about two weeks. Whit has been gone about that long, Ma.”

  “Is Whit coming with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Eva said, and then Manolo was in front of them, panting and grinning.

  “Where are they, Manolo?” Emma asked.

  “They are coming from that other valley, lots of cattle. I saw them. Many of them.”

  “Did you see Whit?” Emma asked.

  “No, I do not see him. But there are men driving the cattle and they are coming this way.”

  “What about John and Ben?” Eva asked. “Did you see them?”

  Manolo shook his head.

  “No, just the cattle and some Mexicans driving them. They are in no hurry. But there are many of them.”

  “Well, get yourself a drink of water, Manolo, or have some coffee. There’s a pot on the stove, still warm, I expect.”

  “No, I wait for the herd. But I will put the shotgun away.”

  “Manolo,” Eva said, “did you hear firecrackers last night?”

  “No. I did not hear the firecrackers. I hear the gunshots. Many of them. I think they come from the creek. I could not tell. Many shots and then I heard nothing.”

  “You’re sure they were gunshots?” Eva asked.

  “Yes. I am sure. I thought it was an army.”

  Eva sighed, waved Manolo away. He trotted off toward the cabin.

  “Do you believe me now, Eva?”

  “Yes, Ma, but John and Ben might have been shooting at targets.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Maybe bears.”

  “Whit said he was beaten up by some mean prospectors. Maybe—”

  “Ma, you’re just guessing. I’m sure when we see John again, he will clear it up.”

  “You can’t get that man out of your mind, can you, Daughter?”

  “What about you, Ma? You mention his name a dozen times a day.”

  “I do not,” Emma snapped.

  “You do, too. I think—” Eva clamped her mouth shut, afraid of what she might say.

  “What do you think?”

  “Nothing,” Eva said.

  “You’re sweet on that man, aren’t you?”

  “I am not. But you are.”

  Emma’s face flushed.

  “You watch your mouth, young lady.”

  “What are you going to do? Slap me?”

  “I just might.”

  “Then, you do care about John Savage, don’t you, Ma?”r />
  Emma’s expression turned livid. Her lips flattened against her teeth and her eyes flashed fire. She raised her cup and, for a moment, Eva thought her mother was going to throw hot coffee on her. Instead, Emma just glared at her daughter in raging silence, the anger in her seething just below the surface of her countenance.

  “That man killed your father, Eva. My husband. Don’t you ever forget it.”

  Eva seethed, too, but controlled herself by breathing through her nose.

  “It doesn’t matter, Ma, who killed Pa. He was a bad man and he deserved to die.”

  Emma raised a hand as if to slap her daughter, but something caught her eye. She turned and looked down the plateau. A few head of cattle were streaming in from the trees, but beyond, at the far edge of the tableland, three figures on horseback emerged on the horizon.

  “Is—is that Whit?” she stammered, her eyes squinted to dark slits.

  Eva turned to look. She saw the cattle and then the three riders. More cattle ambled onto the grasslands and began to fan out. The figures on horseback grew larger.

  “Yes, Ma, that’s Whit. He’s riding up with John and Ben.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Who else could it be?”

  “Oh, my goodness. I look a fright.” Emma patted her bunned hair and turned toward the cabin. She broke into a trot. Then she turned her cup over and emptied it as she ran.

  “See, Ma, you do care about John,” Eva called after her.

  Emma didn’t answer. In a few moments, she disappeared inside the cabin. Manolo walked around the house and headed toward Eva. He no longer carried the shotgun, but had changed into a clean shirt. He slept in a small three-sided hut in back of the house. He was still building on it in his spare time.

  Eva wondered if she should put on some perfume or rouge her face and lips. No, that would be too obvious, she thought. Let her mother throw herself at John Savage for all she cared. She remembered that first look between them. John looking at her, she looking at John. She burned now with the memory of it. That look, she thought, she would never forget it. That look was forever.

  Her heart beat fast as she waited to see John again.

  Her stomach was full of fluttering butterflies and her pulse raced like a thundering wind at her temples. She took in a full breath of air, and her chest swelled under her dress as Manolo came up beside her, silent as a cat.