by P McCormac
‘Can you see the bastard?’
‘No sign of him!’
‘Keep looking, he can’t have gone far.’
‘Don’t kill him. We want him alive.’
‘Do you hear me, Benedict? You’re dead meat! But before that we’ll make you suffer.’
Turlough heard the shouted threats. He lay perfectly still, unaware that no one could see him. The branches and leaves that had showered down when he fell camouflaged him, breaking up the outline of his body. By keeping still he blended perfectly with his surroundings. The reason he was afraid to move was the terror engendered by the slow gargantuan movements beneath his bruised and winded body.
‘Plug!’
Beside him in the mud, a small orifice puckered and a puff of marsh gas vented into the air. Escape or not, Turlough could not move. His body was locked in the paralysis of fright. He lay motionless and felt the slime of the swamp seeping into his clothing and creeping across his body. Slowly he opened his eyes, which up till then he had been keeping tightly shut. Around him the peace of the woodland was gradually restored as the marauding gunmen searched further afield for their quarry.
‘Plug!’
Another whiff of gas escaped. A mental picture of the bog opening its swampy mouth and sucking him into its black interior was conjured up in his mind.
Turlough chewed over his fate. If he stayed where he was, spread-eagled on the swamp, he would slowly sink into the black mass of mud. It would be an unhurried suffocation. Mud creeping into his eyes, mouth, ears and nose. He contemplated the final gasping struggles as he tried to keep his mouth and nose free from the invasive mud.
He sighed – a huge shuddering sigh. Perhaps it was all for the best. It would certainly be a less frightening death than awaited him if captured by the men hunting him.
The woods were quiet now. Turlough raised his head slightly. He was terrified to move any other part of his body. His eyes flicked around as he contemplated his surroundings. Not far from his outstretched arms, he spied something that raised a faint flicker of hope. A long tapering root had forced its way out of the overhang from which he had fallen. In its search for nourishment, the root had stretched down into the swamp. This root, thin and fibrous, offered a glimmer of hope.
Could it be . . . would it just be possible to grasp that rootlet and use it to pull himself free of his glutinous plight? He began the tentative movement of one hand towards that slender tendril of uncertain salvation.
A nerve-wracking half hour later, Turlough pulled himself hand over hand up that fibrous root. Near the top of the overhang, his fingers scrabbled for a grip and found long coarse grass that gave him some purchase. Only the great strength in his arms and hands finally took him over the rim.
For long agonizing moments, he lay at rest with his legs hanging out over the edge. Then gradually he wriggled the last few feet to safety. He rolled over on his back and just lay there, his chest heaving and sweat and mud drying on his body.
In time, Turlough was able to roll back on to his front and clamber to his feet. If he was to survive he had to find the man’s cabin and kit himself out with supplies. He regretted the stranger’s death, for he was certain the raiders would have killed him. For long moments he stayed where he was, listening, but there was nothing to indicate the hunters had returned. Birds called from high up in the trees and an animal coughed somewhere over to his right. In the place of the raucous incursion of the human hunters, the sounds of nature were gradually reasserting itself.
Cautiously, Turlough retraced his steps to the place he had last beheld the stranger being beaten. The body was still lying where it had fallen and he slid down the side of dip where it was located. There was nothing he could do for the poor soul but odious as it was, Turlough needed to search the body for some clue as to where the man had been living, though that seemed unlikely. Maybe there might be something useful to be found, like a knife or tobacco. He cast around without much hope for the man’s rifle but without result. At last he knelt by the motionless form lying face down.
The youngster tugged at the jacket, pulling it from underneath the body. In one pocket he found cartridges and a few pieces of leather. In an inside pocket he found a well used Bible and strips of rawhide. At last he found the makings and sat by the body and built himself a smoke. While he smoked, he idly opened the Bible. Inside the name Milo Halkias was printed. Beneath the name were the words D.O.B. 27 May 1851.
‘Well, Milo Halkias, if this is your writing that makes you thirty-three. Seems a mite young to die. Another seventeen years and you could have seen in the new century. I guess I brought this on you, seeing as the men as killed you were seeking me and found you instead. The least I can do is give you a decent burial.’
Turlough thought of the swamp he had just escaped from and wondered if it was disrespectful to bury the dead man in that. It would certainly save a lot of digging considering he had no tools at hand.
‘What am I to do with you, Milo? I’d like to think I would do the right thing by you. Firstly I rob you of your life by bringing Clive Carter and his band of killers here and now I’m stealing your possessions. You must think me an ornery piece of lowlife.’
Turlough sighed deeply. Finishing his smoke, he gripped the body and flipped it over. He saw the handle of a Bowie knife and plucked that from a sheath attached to a leather belt. On reflection he undid the belt and tugged that free. As he did so he noticed something poking out from under the shirt. Curious, he undid the shirt and was surprised to find a money belt.
‘I wonder what you keep in this,’ he grunted as he undid the belt and tugged it free. Moments later he sat back on his heels and whistled.
‘I’ll carry a mule to Kentucky!’ he exclaimed.
The pockets were stuffed with banknotes. And while he wondered about his good fortune, the dead body he had been robbing groaned.
CHAPTER 4
Turlough sank back on his heels and stared at the face of the man lying so pale and still.
‘By the dead, but you’re still alive.’
How easy would it be to snuff out that flickering candle, he thought. He could walk from here a rich man and buy himself a new existence far away from the death that even now was somewhere out there stalking him. With the money in the belt he could even hire bodyguards to protect him from his enemies. But something stayed his hand – like conscience or some misguided sentiment. With a sigh, he set to work to move Milo to a more sheltered place.
After some effort of sweat and hurt he managed to drag his charge to the very place he himself had lain last night. When he had made Milo as comfortable as possible, Turlough retraced his steps to the stream where he had originally encountered Milo. He submerged his face and drank before filling the man’s hat with water and trudging back again.
The youngster bathed Milo’s face and then trickled water into his mouth. As the water went in his patient gulped a time or two and swallowed convulsively but did not awaken.
‘Well, fella, by rights you should be dead but somehow you ain’t. By rights I should be dead but I ain’t.’ Turlough chortled mirthlessly. ‘We may be not in great shape but at least we are rich, or at least you are. Much good that will do us out here. What we need is a few medical supplies and several bottles of bourbon but I can’t see no store hereabouts.
‘I need to find your hidey-hole. I guess you have food and stuff hoarded up there that would make life a mite easier for us both. I’ll have a scout around and see if I can locate it.’ Turlough stood, feeling his aches as he did so. ‘Just you lie there quiet like and I’ll be back when I can.’
After going round in circles without finding any sign of a dwelling, Turlough gave up and returning to his patient, squatted down beside him.
‘Guess we’ll just have to go without. I’m no tracker or I should have found your den by now. Your chances of survival are considerably lessened the more you have to lie out here.’
Turlough’s stomach rumbled and he massaged it,
trying to tone down the hunger pains.
‘Sure could do with some decent food and drink. I guess we’ll both perish sitting out here on this damn hill.’
He glanced down at Milo and was surprised to find a pair of cold blue eyes regarding him.
‘You awake, fella?’
He got a groan in reply and Milo tried to lift his head but groaned again and dropped back.
‘I can take you to your shack, wherever that is. Just give me directions and I’ll do my best to get you there.’
He caught a whisper of sound and bent close.
‘How can I trust someone as steals my money belt?’
Turlough glanced guiltily at the money belt. He had been fiddling with it as he contemplated his chances of survival.
‘I . . . I thought you were dead. I was just keeping it safe for you. Look, you’re hurt bad. I need to get you to shelter. Get you warm and get some food in you.’
There was no reply and Turlough anxiously studied the injured man’s face.
‘I don’t think I can make it,’ the whisper came again. ‘Are you strong enough to carry me?’
‘I guess so. I been knocked about a bit but if it ain’t far I’ll do my best.’
With Milo slung across his back, Turlough got to the hideout which turned out to be a cave screened by a dense growth of bush and tree. He staggered inside and collapsed, rolling over to dislodge his burden. It was several minutes before he recovered enough to examine the refuge.
In the faint light that filtered in he found a lamp which he lit and looked around him. By the entrance was a blackened circle of stones and a store of dry wood so he got a fire going. There was very little smoke but he was nervous all the same, thinking of the men hunting him.
Turlough propped Milo up and tried to get him to drink some hot coffee but most of it dribbled down on his shirt. The colour had gone from his face and his breathing was hardly discernible. He wrapped him in blankets, thinking the warmth might help him. For himself he heated beans and chewed jerky, dousing the fire when he had finished cooking. It was only then that he explored the cave.
He was immediately rewarded by finding a Smith & Wesson revolver in a holster. When he found Milo confronted by Carver and his men, there had been no sign of the rifle he had been carrying. Turlough could only speculate that his attackers had taken it. He searched for, and found shells for the handgun and the rifle. Pushing the gun inside his waistband, he continued searching. There was food enough to last some days if he eked it out. Then he discovered an almost full bottle of whiskey labelled Coffin Varnish.
‘I guess that about suits this predicament I find myself in,’ Turlough muttered as he pulled the cork and took a swig.
If he had taken a mouthful of kerosene it might have tasted better, but Turlough managed to swallow it down, feeling it burn a track all the way into his belly.
‘Wow!’ he gasped, his eyes watering as he bent over trying to catch his breath. ‘I reckon a fella has to get used to this kinda rotgut.’
He gazed speculatively at the man covered over with blankets and then back at the whiskey bottle in his hand.
‘I wonder if. . . .’ Turlough hunkered down by his companion and eased his head up. ‘There now, buddy, this is kill or cure time.’
He offered up the bottle to Milo, pressing it between his lips and gently tipping so some ran into his slack mouth. It was much the same result as with the coffee. Some went in his mouth but most dribbled down his chin and on to his shirt. Turlough sensed a movement behind him and turned quickly.
A huge shape loomed up and he saw something swing towards him. He tried to duck but there was not time. He felt a tremendous blow on the side of his head and was falling. Even as he hit the rough floor, he was clawing at the Smith & Wesson in his belt. The gun was kicked from his hand and he was picked up and thrown against the wall of the cave.
His senses swimming, he crawled towards the entrance but something crunched into the back of his head and he went down. His face hit the rocky floor and there was an intense flare of numbing pain before he passed out.
CHAPTER 5
His head was a throbbing cauldron of agony – his mouth was stuffed with cotton wool and a saw was ripping slices off the top of his skull. Turlough whimpered as waves of nausea swept through him. Slowly he opened his eyes and recollection returned as he made out the interior of the cave.
Something had attacked him as he ministered to the wounded stranger. From his fleeting glimpse of the bulky shape, he suspected it was a bear. He kept perfectly still but it was to no avail. The creature must have heard his moan as he came to, and there was movement within the cave and the thing loomed over him. Turlough closed his eyes again and feigned death which was easy enough as that was how he was feeling – more dead than alive.
It was to no avail. Something gripped him by his shirt front and hauled him upright. Turlough kept his eyes tightly closed. That did not work, either. Something that felt like a hunk of beef hit him across the face.
‘Damn it,’ he groaned and opened his eyes to see the ugliest countenance it had ever been his bad luck to encounter.
‘You’re gonna pay for this,’ a voice like a coffee bean grinder in action told him.
Again that wedge of beef hit him, only this time his eyes were open and he could see it was not beef but the meaty hand of the man holding him upright. The world went out of focus and his head wobbled about on his neck while the contents of his skull broke loose and rattled about, causing excruciating agony. As if to even up the beating he was hit on the other cheek, loosening some teeth as well as causing him to drift towards unconsciousness once more. There was more of that grinding interrogation, mostly unintelligible.
Turlough felt himself being dragged across the cave floor and propped against the wall. As he tried to gather his wits – an almost impossible task with the agonizing throbbing in his head, he reluctantly opened his eyes to see the brute squatting in front of him.
‘Don’t hit me again,’ he pleaded, slurring his words because his mouth was hurting so much along with everything else in his body.
‘Start talking. How did you find us? Did someone blab on us?’
‘No, no it wasn’t like that. That man – your friend, Milo, was helping me when we were attacked. I was trying to take care of him.’
The large head turned slightly as the brute glanced over his shoulder.
‘Why’d you steal the money?’
‘Look, you got this all wrong. Some people were chasing me. Milo rescued me but they beat him pretty bad. I dragged him in here to try and save him.’
Turlough’s head banged against the wall as he was hit again. This time it took longer for his eyes to focus.
‘You’re lying. You beat him to make him tell about the hideout and the money. Once you got him in here you needed to find out who else was in on it, but he passed out afore you got all the information. You were feeding him whiskey to revive him so as you get the dope on his accomplices. Who are you? Are you a bounty hunter?’
‘Hell, no! It’s as I told you. I was pretty far gone when Milo found me and patched me up,’ Turlough babbled. ‘Then these other fellas came and roughed him up. They wanted to find out about me. It was only as I was trying to revive him I found the money. I weren’t stealing it, I was taking care of it for him. One good turn deserves another. I could have left him out there to die but I didn’t do that. He told me how to find this place so I carried him in here. That’s the truth so help me God.’
Turlough was talking as fast as his stiff and aching jaws would allow, fearful of another bone-jarring slap from his interrogator. Eyes like black opals gazed steadfastly at him and Turlough felt they could see into his very soul. This close up he could see a face much disfigured by old wounds. As if the face had been smashed up and patched together again.
One scar ran at an angle from the hairline across the top of the nose and into the opposite cheek. One eye seemed at a different level from its mate. The nose h
ad been broken in two places and jutted angularly in different directions. Another scar ran from the left ear and disappeared into the corner of the mouth. It was a face from a nightmare and it was inches from Turlough’s own. In spite of himself he shuddered.
Helplessly Turlough stared into those gimlet eyes and saw death lurking there. That big scarred hand reached out and closed around Turlough’s throat. It was like being gripped by a cast iron manacle. Turlough kept very still. He knew this man could squeeze the life from him as easily as he would squash a bug.
‘Give me one reason why I should believe you. Or give me one good reason why I should not kill you.’
‘I . . . I could help you take care of Milo – until he recovers that is. He’ll tell you I’m speaking the truth.’
Turlough knew his voice was quaking with fright but could not help it. Even the men pursuing him did not engender as much terror as this indomitable creature squatting before him – seemingly ready to snuff out his life as easily as he would extinguish the flame of a guttering candle.
The clamp on his throat tightened and Turlough stopped breathing. As he felt that bone hard grip on his windpipe he thought of all the things he wanted to do but would never do now.
He had dreamed of going East and walking through the streets of a big city. What would it be like to stand on the eastern seaboard and look out over the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean? He had never felt the softness of a woman’s touch on his body. And then he wondered if anyone would miss him. He had left his family back in Gold Point. Now he would never see them again.
The vice tightened and Turlough’s regrets ended and he struggled helplessly against that iron clutch that bit by bit was choking off his breathing.
CHAPTER 6
The choke grip loosened and Turlough sagged against the cave wall, sucking in life-giving air. He watched apprehensively as his nemesis turned without a word and moved away. If he thought he was being spared he was mistaken. The big man returned with a coil of rawhide. Roughly he gripped Turlough’s hands and deftly bound his wrists together and then did the same to his ankles.