“All packed and ready,” Willingham murmured. “Quite a tale to learn here. This took some work.”
They settled against the wall and peered through the chinks. The back door of the house was open, and in the lantern light from inside they could see Turner, sitting stiffly in a chair by the front door, and what appeared to be part of Flynn’s back and arm at the table. A woman’s legs and feet could be seen between them.
“She’s alive, anyway,” Willingham whispered. “Otherwise he’d be out of here by now.”
“And what happens when Mrs. Turner and boy come back?”
They sat silent for a minute. “He won’t shoot her. He ain’t that crazy.”
“Fact is, he’s the man with the gun and he’ll shoot who he wants,” Charley said.
“I cain’t argue that point,” Willingham said. “But it’s also a fact, he hates you, and he don’t seem to care for James Turner. So if I had to lay odds on who ain’t getting shot, I’d put my money on Mrs. Turner.”
“That’s reassuring,” Charley said dryly. “So what’s your plan?”
“It ain’t exactly a plan,” Willingham replied. “But I figure it this way. Old Flynn in there has messed up good, and he’ll see that soon enough. A gal hurt bad on the floor, and even if it is his wife, there’ll be a price to pay for that. Looks like he was loading up to move ’em all out when something interfered. So….” He rubbed his face and peered through the crack. “Either he shoots Mr. Turner, or he don’t. Either way, he’ll break for this wagon. And if he throws down his weapon, or if he ain’t carrying it too careful, we’ll knock him down and tie him up.”
“And if he’s still got the gun?”
Willingham squinted at him. “Then we try to quiet-talk him. He can’t shoot us both without reloading.”
Charley sniffed. “Some plan. You should have let me bring my pistol.”
“Son, I got a family to feed, and them soldiers is long gone,” Willingham said. “We ain’t busting in there with guns a-blazing. If this old boy turns himself in, or somebody brings him in, it’s a dollar a day to jail him up, and good money, too. But there ain’t no pay in shooting and getting shot at.”
They turned their attention to the house, where Turner had not moved. “Wish I knew where the child was,” Willingham said. “I might venture some other little stratagem. But when there’s a gun pointed at you, you’re best not to take chances.” He paused. “Guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
Charley didn’t answer. He was calculating the distance from the barn to the house. With all the excitement of the day and evening before, Flynn couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours’ rest. If there was some way he could signal to Turner, whose face was half-turned in their direction through the door, to let him know whether Flynn had fallen asleep, he could make his way to the house, screened by the back wall, and in a quick rush fly in and disarm him. He’d seen it during the war, men so exhausted by excitement and effort that nothing could rouse them, men sleeping even as the charge rushed toward them.
He glanced at Willingham out of the corner of his eye. He could talk him into it, if they waited here another half hour or so. But Willingham’s attention seemed focused elsewhere.
“Listen,” Willingham said.
“Okay.”
Willingham put his fingers to his lips. “No,” he said. “I mean listen.”
So Charley stilled his mind and listened. And in the silence of the morning he heard a voice, a child’s voice, Newton Turner’s voice, away toward the river, and it was calling, “Mama! Mama!”
Chapter 24
After the skiff had been pulled under, Newton had climbed the spokes of the slowly turning wheel, desperate to stay above water, until the boat had caught on one of the pilings; with a groan and a shudder the wheel came to a stop. Now he sat atop the pitted and bird-beshitted piling, his terror gone but replaced by despair.
He had failed his endangered father and failed Mrs. Marie, who was probably dead by now. He had imagined himself a storybook hero and instead was nothing but a fool. He would jump into the river if it wasn’t for his fear.
As Newton called out, he alternated between hope and further despair. People would be out doing their morning business by now; when he woke up in the morning, he usually had to run for the woods. Surely someone would hear him. But then he thought of the distance to the houses and doubted.
Then from the bank, hardly more than fifty yards downstream, a canoe emerged, skimming toward him. Where had it been? He hadn’t seen anyone walk through the fields. It was as if the canoe had sprung from the bank itself, from his heart’s own wish.
The boat slid close, and kneeling in the stern was Dathan. They peered at each other for a moment.
“Well, climb on down,” Dathan said. “Easy now.”
Newton worked his way down the spokes of the water wheel and gently lowered himself into the canoe. As Dathan paddled upstream to the landing, relief at escaping from what felt like certain death came over him, and he suddenly began to shiver.
“Took your daddy’s boat out for a little play time, and now you’ve got some trouble ahead,” Dathan said with a note of sympathy in his voice.
“Oh, Mr. Dathan!” Newton cried out. “That ain’t it at all! My daddy sent me over to fetch Mama. He’s at Mr. Flynn’s, and Mr. Flynn is holding a shotgun on him, and he’s hurt Mrs. Marie but let me come over to get Mama to tend her but won’t let daddy out of his house!” He stopped his babble and covered his face with his hands to hide the threatening tears.
Dathan’s tone changed. “How she hurt?”
“Mr. Flynn hit her in the head is what Josephine said. She’s knocked out.”
Dathan didn’t speak but dug the paddle in deeper as he pushed against the current. Newton gripped the sides of the canoe, which was framed in maple, with canvas stretched over the framing and coated with thick layers of pitch so that it was a dull black, inside and out. It felt limber but solid. “What kind of boat is this?” he asked.
“Built it myself, years ago,” Dathan said. “Took a long time, but it don’t leak a drop. Times of trouble, like these, I go out and sleep in it. Ain’t nobody find you and you can slip away, no trace.”
“I never saw it before.”
“Ain’t nobody ever saw it. There’s a bank overhang I keep it under, can’t see it from above nor across.” He chuckled. “Me and the muskrats gotta share the spot, but the muskrats don’t seem to mind.”
Before the canoe reached the landing, Dathan stepped out and lifted Newton onto the bank. “Enough chitchat,” Dathan said. “Let’s find your mama.”
They raced through the village, and soon Newton was repeating his story to his mother, who stood frowning in front of the house with an apron full of grain for the chickens. She scattered the grain with a quick flip of her apron and turned toward the house, where Adam was standing in the doorway with his finger in his mouth.
“You,” she said to him, with the ask-no-questions look that both boys recognized. “Make the beds and sweep the floor, and then wait for me at the Wickmans’. I shouldn’t be long.”
Adam disappeared inside.
Charlotte strode toward the crossing, her brow furrowed as they passed the other houses in the village. “So Flynn sent you to find me,” she murmured.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So he’s not unreasoning. And the girl? Where is she?”
“Sitting in the corner.”
“Has she been harmed?”
“No, ma’am.”
As they passed the last house, Charlotte stopped and looked back at the village. “No,” she said to herself after a moment. “Word would spread, and the last thing we need is a crowd around that house right now.” She turned to Dathan. “All right, let’s cross over. And how do you come into this?”
“Just out in the morning and seen the boy, ma’am,” he said.
“I see,” she said.
“And the sheriff and Charley Pettibone are over the
re, too!” Newton rushed in. “I run right into them.”
“Ran,” Charlotte said.
Gingerly, they climbed into the canoe, Charlotte kneeling near the bow, Newton crouching in the middle, and with the current behind them they crossed the river in a dozen hard strokes of Dathan’s paddle. As they reached the eastern bank, he stepped out quietly and guided the boat the last few feet. “Pardon,” he muttered, then lifted Charlotte to the shore. He did the same for Newton, gripping him under the armpits with his large hands and putting him ashore with an almost playful toss.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he said. “Or close by. May tuck under some bushes.”
Charlotte took a small fistful of Dathan’s shirt. “Please,” she said. “Come with us. I have the feeling that I will need you up ahead.”
Dathan looked into the distance, as he always did when a conversation veered into troubling territory. “Ain’t disagreeing,” he said. “But it seems I draw as much trouble as remedy it these days.”
She pulled him closer. “I will need you,” she repeated. “And anyone who tries to harm you will have to harm me first. You have my word on that, and I am sorry that’s all I have to give you. But that you have.”
Dathan sighed. “All right, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll lag behind some, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded briefly and took Newton’s shoulder. “Let’s go, then.”
Newton forgot his resolve to act the man, and reached up to take her hand. And hand in hand they walked down the lane to Michael Flynn’s house.
Chapter 25
Flynn’s mind raced. No matter how he tried to calm his thoughts or even slow them down, they circled faster and faster in the same relentless paths, like the hogs from his slaughterhouse days in St. Louis. In the wintertime he would work the slaughterhouses when railroad work dried up; the farmers would drive them into the holding pens and then go off for their pay and their dram while the hogs circled and circled, not really looking for a way out, just circling as if the movement itself could keep them from the hammer.
Now he understood their impulse, but tried to keep himself still in his chair to avoid showing fear. But the more he sat, the more impossible his situation appeared.
Marie lay at his feet, her head propped against the table leg, a bright welt creasing her forehead and running into her hairline. At least she wasn’t dead, or so he supposed. Hard to tell. But no, there was a slight rise and fall of her chest.
And Turner against the wall, watching him. What to do? Shoot him? Didn’t seem right, not with him just sitting there, unarmed and immobile. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
Hell, they all deserved it.
The only creatures that didn’t deserve it were the dead cattle out in the pasture. Wasn’t that the laugh, just dumb creatures doing what cows do, grazing on whatever came to them, whatever was sweet and tasty, whether it was meadow grass or a poison branch. Born to eat and die, they were. But to die on man’s schedule, not nature’s. They had to die when and where we chose, not out in some lonely corner of the woods where their flesh would rot and their milk curdle inside them. It was all about the time and place, when to die, not whether.
He needed a plan.
If the woman died—
If the woman died the plan would be to run like hell and never stop. The county line would be the first mark; once he reached the county line the sheriff would have no call to pursue. From what he’d seen, this sheriff wouldn’t pursue if he got past the yard fence. That old bastard knew the game. His job was to collect taxes and run the courthouse, not chase people across creation.
Now Turner—
Their eyes met across the room. Watching his every move, that one, watching for his chance. To do what? Charge him, seize the shotgun? Not likely. He could measure the distance. Watching for a chance to make the door. So why not let him go? Or just walk out the back himself, take the wagon, and go, leaving Silas Do-Good here to tend the bitch?
Because this one, this one would pursue him. Or he’d want to. He’d not let him leave in peace, he’d chase him to California if he could, out of some grand notion that he was sent to cure the ills of the world small and large.
But if she lived—
If she lived, by God, he’d set right back up and all the people in Daybreak could go straight to hell. Who were they to tell him how to run his home? If they didn’t like it they could stay on their side of the river.
No, there was Ferguson and the debt. As soon as word reached town that the cattle were dead, he’d be down here seizing everything he could haul off. He’d take the land, too, or the Daybreak people would take it and throw him off. Either way, there was nothing in it for Michael Flynn but a lifetime as a tenant farmer at best and a pauper at worst. Better to light out with whatever he could take and start over somewhere else. He could send word to the woman later.
So his choices were to run like hell or to run like hell.
Flynn’s head hurt and he was exhausted. A full day’s work yesterday, little sleep last night, and now this. Where was that woman Charlotte? Once she got here he could turn Marie over to her and slip out, take the wagon and go.
The shotgun was too heavy to hold up any longer. He crossed one foot over his knee and laid the gun across his level shin, but that was an uncomfortable pose and he knew he couldn’t hold it for long.
“Girl, fetch me that ladderback chair,” he said to Josephine, still crouched in the corner. She got up slowly and slid the chair across the floor toward him from its place by the window, then backed away, her eyes never leaving him. Flynn positioned it in front of him and rested the shotgun barrel on one of the slats, aimed at Turner’s chest.
But where to run? Not through town, that was sure. He’d never make it to the other side. Arkansas? Arkansas was a wasteland these days, and an Irishman coming from the north with a wagonload of goods would find himself feeding the crows. No, he’d need to head east first, get across the county line, then the state. Illinois, that would be his ticket. Once there, sell the goods, find work. Maybe the Pacific railroad. That was it. Work his way west, and once the railroad was done, settle out wherever they finished, Nebraska or wherever. They were giving away land to the veterans, he’d heard.
Now, he needed to keep his eyes open and his wits about him. The next few days would be the trial. But Lord in heaven he was tired.
Lord in heaven.
What would the Lord say to him? He’d promised Father Tucker not to strike his wife in anger, and broken that vow time and again. And here she lay, dead or dying, the sin on his head as plain as a pickaxe. He was bound for hell, no question. So was she, most likely.
Or maybe not. What was it that Father Tucker said, there is no sin for which there is no absolution. Perhaps they were not entirely lost, although he surely felt like it now. Anyway, being bound for hell didn’t mean he had to rush to get there.
If only he could rest for an hour before striking out across country. They’d done it many times during the war, lie down wherever they happened to stop, post one or two sentries and sleep on the ground, no blanket or bedroll, before rising to march or fight again. A wandering soldier had once come across them in such a state after a battle and thought them all dead until the sentry began to rouse them. An hour would be all he needed. The county line was what, twenty miles away? And a hard twenty at that, swinging south to avoid the town. He’d need a day and a half, more if the horse had trouble with the wagon. And then two more counties to the river, the state line, the life he would start over.
He could feel the slackness of sleep come over him, his arms growing limp, his fingers loosening on the grip of the shotgun. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall right off the chair. Where was that woman? All he needed was for her to show up, tend to Marie, and occupy everyone while he stepped out the door. He’d be gone an hour before anyone paid mind.
His eyes fell shut. And then the girl sprang at him from the corner, wielding a carving knife that she had concealed within t
he folds of her dress, and the gun went off.
Chapter 26
Charley and Willingham, peering through chinks in the barn wall, leaped back at the roaring explosion from the cabin, but an instant’s glance showed no flying splinters, no wounds. For a moment they paused, wondering; then Flynn burst through the back door of the cabin, running toward them, his shotgun in one hand and the other hand pressed against his face. He kicked open the barn door and rushed to the wagon.
Flynn flung a valise from the wagon, and as it hit the ground it burst open, women’s clothing springing onto the packed earth of the barn floor. He grabbed a chemise from the suitcase and pressed it to the side of his face, and as he turned to climb into the wagon seat, Charley could see that he was bleeding from a long slash across his cheek and neck. And for the first time, Flynn noticed the two men standing against the wall.
He pointed the shotgun in their direction, a wild look on his face. But his voice was calm.
“I have one charge left,” he said. “Who wants it?”
Willingham and Charley wordlessly raised their hands.
“I thought so,” Flynn said.
He couldn’t manage to climb into the wagon with the shotgun in one hand and the cloth held against his face with the other, so he finally laid down the cloth and let himself bleed while he mounted. Then he pressed it to his face again while unwrapping the reins from the brake handle.
“They’re all yours,” he snarled to the men. “See you in hell.”
Then he chucked the reins, the horse strained against the load, and within moments he was out the door, past the house, onto the road, and turning east, away from Daybreak.
Charley dashed to the cabin, entering through the back door at the same time that Charlotte came in through the front. She too had rushed up from the river landing at the sound of the shot, and they paused, panting.
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