“I feel—” The fellow clutched his stomach and rose to his feet. “I need a latrine.”
“Behold the self-motivated man!” The dapper salesman threw his hands to Heaven for emphasis.
Mr. Linderson ambled toward the swinging doors, and Bess Hack walked toward wanting inebriates at the far end of the bar.
Yvette looked at the dapper salesman. “Thanks for helpin’,”
“You are quite welcome. And please call upon me, Samuel C. Upfield IV, at Hotel Adams, should you wish to purchase a supply of the elixir.”
“Okay.” The choirmaster walked after the organist, paused and looked back at the ebullient, articulate and pretty little dandy. “You should come on over to church if you want to connect with some good folks and God. I know that the life of a traveling salesman can be lonesome.”
“Thank you for your invitation.” Samuel C. Upfield IV replaced his elixir bottle within his jacket and ruminated momentarily. “I have not been to church in several months, and I feel an absence.”
“I’ll be there too,” stated Yvette.
“Then I have absolutely no choice, but to attend.” Samuel C. Upfield IV looked directly into Yvette’s eyes and smiled brilliantly.
The woman’s pulse quickened.
Darkness receded.
Wind blew upon Yvette Upfield’s forehead and snapped the fabric of her damp blanket. Beneath her spine, heavy hooves rumbled like boiling water. The emaciated woman opened her eyes and saw the triangular bronze face of the man who carried her. Cold blue gems glinted beneath his iron eyebrows, and a slender silver mustache sat atop the slit that denied her requests for medicine. The sun glared, tiny and hostile, upon his right shoulder.
Shielding her eyes from the burning orb, the woman looked south and saw, upon the white stallion, her dead father, far larger than the mountain range that laid behind him.
“How long’ve I been out?” Yvette’s mouth was dry and pasty, and the air was hot.
“Two hours. How do you feel?”
“My head hurts bad.”
“Are you hungry?”
Yvette tasted the sour chicken soup upon which she had subsisted for the last eight months and shuddered. “No.”
“Drink slowly.”
A canteen appeared. Yvette took the vessel, removed its stopper and poured cool water into her dry, empty body.
“You must rest.” Gloved hands reclaimed the canteen.
“I’m not tired.”
The tall narrow man pulled the blanket over the world. “Rest.”
“I’m not tired.” Yvette’s eyelids drooped. “I’m not tired.” Hooves boiled, darkness expanded, and in a dream that was reality, the wagon bench pressed against her back.
Chapter II
A Brief Respite for the Troglodytes
Pincers pricked Nathaniel Stromler’s soft palate, and spindly legs poked his cheeks. For the fifth time in thirty seconds, the tall gentleman from Michigan coughed as hard as he could.
“I think the dandy’s chokin’ to death,” Stevie remarked from atop his cantering colt.
Nathaniel reached his left index finger and thumb into his mouth, pinched the prickly scorpion corpse and pulled. The tail slid up his throat and its folded legs blossomed like a hideous flower.
Dolores yelled.
“Goddamn!”
“Does he need help?” Patch Up asked from the front of the rumbling wagon.
The gentleman flung the scorpion to the brown dirt, attempted to speak, felt a sharp pain in his throat, coughed up an insectile leg, spat it out and shook his head.
“He don’t,” replied Stevie.
Nathaniel had dislodged two of the ingested scorpions, but the third was no longer a presence within his throat or stomach and had descended into his intestines. The journey and ultimate emergence of the dead arachnid was not a pleasant thing to ponder.
On the northern horizon, creosote bushes, yucca trees and black grama expanded like spilled paint. The stand of vegetation was far taller and broader than anything Nathaniel recalled seeing on the journey down and engendered a new concern.
He spat bile and oil and hastened his horse forward, toward the wagon. The tan mare, exhausted and carrying a bullet in its hindquarters, strained to close the distance.
“Your horse ain’t doin’ much better than you,” remarked Stevie.
(The young man was not Nathaniel’s favorite Plugford.)
Presently, the tan mare overtook the wagon until the gentleman and the negro rode abreast. Upon the bench beside Patch Up was the unconscious body of Yvette, whom Long Clay had deposited an hour earlier.
The negro said, “It’s the dandy,” and smiled sadly. Underneath the canopy, the circus dog barked.
“This is not the way we came,” observed Nathaniel.
“You’re correct.”
“Why are we not riding directly for Leesville?”
“Do you want to lead whoever’s following us into a town filled with innocent folks? To your fiancé?”
Nathaniel became uneasy. “Is it a certainty that we have pursuers?”
“You’re much smarter than that question, Mr. Stromler.”
Creosote leaves slapped the legs of the horses, and stalks of dry black grama crackled underneath the wagon’s wheels. The tan mare bucked, unhappy with the flagellant flora, and Nathaniel gripped the horn to steady himself. Upon the bench, the bundled body of Yvette stirred.
“Goddamn,” Stevie cried, “lookit Brent!”
Patch Up rose from the bench and gazed over the canopy; Nathaniel faced south. The cowboy was slumped forward in his saddle, unconscious.
“We gotta get him before he falls!” Dolores reined her palfrey toward her brother and her red hair flashed south.
Brent wobbled in the saddle of the cantering mustang.
“Wake up!” Stevie drove spurs into his spotted colt and rode hard. “Get the hell awake!” His horse thundered.
Creosote leaves slapped Brent’s dangling right arm.
“Wake up!” yelled Dolores. “Brent!” Her palfrey galloped.
A bramble snatched a glove from the unconscious rider’s dangling hand.
“Wake up!” Stevie, twenty yards distant, fired his shotgun into the air.
Brent slid from the saddle.
A shadow grabbed the cowboy’s collar and resettled him. “Everyone hold here!” Long Clay snatched the brindled mustang’s loose reins.
Nathaniel slowed his horse; Patch Up pulled tack; Dolores and Stevie rode beside the gunfighter. Hooves and wagon wheels crushed irritating flora and stopped.
The negro stood from his bench and turned around. “Is he bleeding?”
“Not currently,” replied Long Clay.
“Bring him here—I’ll fetch my needles and snippers.”
The gunfighter, trailing the white stallion, the brown palfrey and the brindled mustang, approached the wagon, followed by Stevie and Dolores. Ambitious black grama blades harassed the pendulous limbs of John Lawrence Plugford and his wounded son.
Long Clay dropped from his horse, lifted Brent from the brindled mustang and set him inside the canopy, beside the pile of iron tabards.
“All of you are troglodytes!” Patch Up proclaimed from deep within the wagon. “Imbecilic troglodytes!” The circus dog barked a confirmation of the more descriptive rejoinder.
Long Clay, Dolores and Nathaniel silently accepted the insult.
After a moment, Stevie said, “He told us he could ride.”
Patch Up spun around, and his face filled with anger. “Does he look savvy?” The negro pointed a pair of bright medical scissors at Brent’s wound. “Is that what head trauma usually yields? Clear-thinking?”
“I didn’t think it—”
; “And which one of you shoved oats into the wound?”
“He did that himself!” tattled Stevie.
“Heat up some water,” Patch Up said to the youngest Plugford. “I need to flush this clean before I can mend it.”
Stevie jumped out of his saddle, bounded three strides, clambered into the wagon and opened a crate.
“Keep the fire small,” Long Clay ordered, “and disperse the smoke.”
“I will help.” Nathaniel held his stomach and climbed from his mare.
Stevie raised a tin kettle of boiling water from the three-tongue fire and carried it toward the wagon. Nathaniel dispersed smoke with a mildewed shirt that smelled far better than did he.
Underneath the canopy, Patch Up received the steaming vessel and set it beside his patient. “You stay in the vicinity in case we need to brace him.”
“I will.” Stevie stared at his brother, concerned.
Patch Up dropped a white cloth into the pot, wrung out the excess water and pressed the hot fabric to the hairy raspberry cobbler that was the side of Brent’s head. The cowboy flinched, but did not awaken. “Oats,” lamented the negro. The circus dog yawned derisively.
Nathaniel saw a white splinter that he recognized as a skull shard and turned away from the grim ministrations.
Sitting atop a flat stone on the opposite side of the three-tongue fire was Dolores. Her legs were concealed beneath the hem of the lavender dress into which she had just changed, and in her lap was a water canteen.
“How are you feeling?” inquired the gentleman.
“Weak, but okay…considerin’.” Dolores looked at the fire. “I want to apologize for hittin’ you—back in Catacumbas. And yellin’ at you.”
“I had completely forgotten about that.”
“I was real drunk, but it was wrong and I’m sorry I did it.”
“You are forgiven.” Nathaniel dispersed smoke with the mildewed shirt. “Your assault was quite mild compared to the violence I have seen and experienced these last two days.”
“I’m glad you ain’t holdin’ no grudge.” Dolores drank from a canteen and handed it over to him.
“Thank you.”
“You got yourself a woman?”
“I do.” Nathaniel drank from the canteen.
Dolores adjusted the hem that covered her mismatched legs. “Is she pretty?”
“She is pretty.”
“I bet she’s got culture, too. Speaks good English and knows all about which forks to use at dinner and Europe and things like that, don’t she?”
Nathaniel felt that it would be unkind to articulate Kathleen O’Corley’s many virtues to Dolores. “She is a good woman.”
“You married her?’
“We are engaged to be married.”
“That must be real nice,” Dolores said, “to have all that to look forward to.”
The woman’s statement contained a note of defeat, and the gentleman was unable to do anything but nod an affirmation as if he were mute.
A man yelled.
“Hold him!”
Nathaniel and Dolores looked over at the wagon.
Stevie braced Brent’s shifting shoulders as Patch Up guided the needle through skin and air.
“Do you fellows need any assistance?” inquired the gentleman.
“We got him,” said Stevie.
Nathaniel turned back to the three-tongue fire, raised the mildewed shirt, and saw a dusty figure emerge from the yuccas.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dolores.
Presently, the gentleman recognized the new arrival. “Deep Lakes has materialized.”
“Greetings,” hailed the native, as he approached.
“Greetings,” replied Nathaniel and Dolores.
Two bird carcasses hung from Deep Lakes’s denim vest, and his right hand gripped the strange bow, which had seven holes arranged in cruciform upon its belly and three strings. Dark brown poultices sat like huge leeches atop injuries on his left ear and shoulder.
Dolores pivoted upon her stone and looked up at Deep Lakes. “Thanks for helpin’.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”
The woman shut her eyes and nodded.
“We leave in five minutes,” Long Clay announced from beside his black horse. “Brent will stay in the wagon.” The gunfighter pointed at the gentleman. “Ride his mustang instead of your mare.”
“What is our destination?”
“An outlying part of the New Mexico Territory.”
“And what exactly shall we do there?” pressed Nathaniel.
“I can’t accurately answer that question until I’ve gauged our opposition.” Long Clay turned away from the gentleman.
“Do you intend to treat them as kindly as you did those horses and that pregnant woman?”
Upon sharp black boots, the gunfighter strode directly toward his critic. “Would you like to proffer some advice on how I should run things?” The viperous visage loomed, radiating the smells of iron, blood and cinders. “Please opine, Mr. Stromler.”
Nathaniel would not be bullied. “Do not try to intimidate me. I deserve truthful and clear responses. After what I have suffered, I demand them.”
“Let me clarify the hierarchy.” Long Clay unbuckled his gun belt.
“Don’t,” said Dolores.
The revolvers landed upon the dirt.
Nathaniel positioned his feet as he had during his college fencing tournaments, but he raised fists instead of a rapier. Although he was certain that he would lose, he would do his best to land a few satisfying blows.
“Clay!” Patch Up shouted from deep within the wagon. “If you punch the dandy, you’ll lose your cook and your doctor.”
Long Clay paused.
“And if you get yourself shot,” the negro elaborated, “you’ll hear some heartless nigger whistling gay tunes while you bleed to death. That’ll be me.”
Long Clay snorted.
“You know I don’t bluff.”
The gunfighter picked up his weapons. “I am aware.”
Relieved, Nathaniel lowered his fists.
“The dandy deserves to have his questions answered,” stated Patch Up. “Tell him the plan.”
The gunfighter refastened his belt and looked at the gentleman. “Our pursuers are invested in us, and they’ll give chase until there’s a violent confrontation. We need to kill all of them or diminish their number until they are cowed.”
Nathaniel’s stomach sank. “The well-considered plan is to have a shootout with however many men are following us and…and…hope that we are victorious?”
Long Clay’s mouth became a thin line. “J.L. and I located a fort that will give us a big tactical advantage. That’s where we’re going. If you don’t approve of this plan, I suggest that you ride off and see what follows you home.” The gunfighter strode away.
Nathaniel felt helpless, as if he were stuck in the middle of a war between two foreign countries. “I am not going to kill anybody.”
Seated upon the back of the wagon, Stevie inquired, “What’re you gonna do while we’re throwin’ bullets into Mex’cans? Play chess with the dog?”
“Be quiet you ingrate,” hissed Patch Up. “Respect that this man’s already suffered overmuch for a bunch of damn strangers.”
“You should take one of Pa’s guns,” suggested Dolores.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Nathaniel walked away from the three-tongue fire. He approached the assigned mustang and recalled the day, twelve years ago, when his father had summoned the entire family to the library.
Mother, Grandmother, Isabella and Nathaniel seated themselves upon the sofa, and the silver-haired patriarch dropped his English
wool jacket directly onto the floor, which was a unique occurrence in the history of the Stromler household. The perspicacious youth knew that something was terribly amiss.
“There was an incident at the bank,” announced Howard Stromler. “A…dreadful incident.”
“Were sums taken?” asked Nathaniel.
“What has occurred?” Mother’s voice trembled.
Howard Stromler wiped his gleaming forehead with a French cuff. “I was in the vault, alone and with the door open, when I first heard the disturbance. It emanated from the lobby. The clamor grew louder, and I heard someone scream.
“I took the emergency rifle from the wall, and an angry man yelled, ‘Everybody get on the ground!’ and there was a gunshot, and I heard a man cry out in pain.
“I drew a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle and slid the bolt forward, slowly and quietly, so that I would not be discovered. The mechanism clicked, and the bullet was in place.
“A woman got hysterical, and the angry man said, ‘Shut her up or I will!’ and I heard people try to quieten her, and I heard the angry man yell, ‘Take me to the vault!’ and I pointed the gun toward the hall, and I heard footsteps on the floor, and I saw a shadow rise up on the open door, and I saw the angry man walk into the vault, and…
“And…
“I squeezed the trigger. The bullet went over his arm, hit the metal door and ricocheted.
“And I heard the teller scream.”
Nathaniel was stunned.
“Two people shot the angry man in the back, and the other robber was overpowered, but I could not move. I just held the rifle and stared at the smoke that rose from its muzzle until it was invisible.
“I heard someone yell, Candace Carter is dead!’ and I knew that it was my bullet that had killed her. I killed her. I took a human life.”
“It was an accident,” protested Nathaniel.
“I killed an innocent woman.”
Nathaniel’s father never again returned to work. He became tacit and replaced his daily meals with increasing amounts of whisky. At night, he wandered through the snow-covered woodlands and became violent if anybody tried to stop him. On one occasion, the forty-six-year-old man had disappeared for a period of three days, and when his family finally recovered him in a neighboring town, he failed to recognize them.
Wraiths of the Broken Land Page 19