by Ralph Cotton
“Hell, I don’t know,” said Bright. “Everybody else heard it; why didn’t they mention it?”
Plantz didn’t answer. Instead he gave the parson a knowing look. Then he turned to the men gathered in the yard and called out, “Goff Aimes! Get mounted and get up here!”
A tall man with a black powder burn tattoo on his right cheek stepped quickly into his saddle and gigged his horse forward, sliding to a halt in front of Plantz. “Yes, Captain?”
Plantz grinned and said to Bright, “See, that’s the attitude a man needs to have around here.” To Aimes he said, “Circle this yard a good ways out. If you come upon any fresh tracks, hoof or foot, follow them till you know who made them.”
“Then kill them,” Aimes stated, as if issuing himself an order. Without having to hear another word from Plantz, Aimes turned his big roan and kicked it up into a trot out across the yard toward the hill line.
“See? Gawddamn it, Bright,” said Plantz as Aimes cut his horse back and forth, his head lowered, searching for prints in the dirt. “That’s what I need more of.”
“I follow orders, Captain,” Bright said in protest. “If you are unhappy with how I—”
“Kenny,” said Plantz, cutting him off, “I think you’d do well to join another band of riders. This war is nothing but killing and torture.”
Chapter 3
Jed Shawler did not hear his brother Avrial call out his name before Plantz’s bullet resounded out across the woods and hollows. But even if he had heard Avrial, he would have been powerless to help him. Earlier, when the militia riders swooped down onto the Shawler farm, their gunfire shattering the predawn stillness, Jed had been tucked away in the cover of a downed cedar, keeping vigil on a large squirrel’s nest high up in the bare branches of a sycamore tree.
Upon hearing the gunfire, he had run back to the edge of the woods and looked down into the clearing where the Shawler farmhouse sat beneath its rise of morning wood smoke. Seeing the riders circle the house, some of them splitting off to the barn and dragging his brothers out into the dirt, his first instinct had been to raise his squirrel rifle to his shoulder and draw a bead on the leader of the hooded riders.
“Damn you, Plantz, I’ll kill you!” he’d said aloud to himself, recognizing Ruddell Plantz’s big dun horse and the man himself, in spite of the grainy light and the white flour-sack mask over his face. The shot would be difficult at this distance, but he’d made harder shots in the course of his short years, bringing down both deer and elk for the Shawlers’ dinner table.
As he took aim, he instructed himself to calm down, breathe deep and make the shot count. He knew how many shots he carried in the leather shooting pouch draped over his shoulder. He’d brought seven loads, enough to bring home seven squirrels for the noon meal. But would seven shots be enough to draw the militia away from his family? Enough to save his family from Plantz and his killers?
He didn’t know, Jed told himself, centering his rifle sights on Plantz’s chest as the man came to a halt out front of the farmhouse. He only hoped that seeing their leader fall might scatter the rest of the men, or draw them hurrying up toward him, giving his family a chance to arm themselves. He felt his right index finger begin its slow, steady squeeze on the hammer. Now, he said to himself, knowing from experience at what point the hammer would fall and the stream of fire would belch forth from the barrel.
Yet, before that thin deadly second arrived, his hands began to shake violently; his steady breathing suddenly became tight jerking gasps. He watched Plantz wobble back and forth in his sights until he finally lowered the rifle barrel an inch, bat-ted his eyes and tried to settle himself. It’s a whole different thing killing a man, he recalled Avrial saying when he’d returned from the war. The image of his brother and his blank lifeless eyes came to his mind. He clenched his teeth with determination and raised the rifle back into position.
“Please, God,” he said aloud. But his shaking hands and his trembling knees would not allow him to make the shot. You’ve got to do it! he demanded of himself, trying desperately to calm his shaking hands. Yet, even as he’d struggled for self-control, he watched Plantz swing down from his saddle and step out of sight into the farmhouse.
Jed swung the rifle to a new target, but he realized the moment had slipped away. His hands shook uncontrollably. His breathing remained shallow and tight. The world had begun to swirl around him. He heard his mother scream; then he heard her scream cut short by gunshots from inside the farmhouse. “Noooo!” he shrieked in a muted, almost dreamlike voice, feeling what little was left of his nerve and his self-control slip completely away from him. In his hysterical condition, he suddenly hurled the squirrel rifle away, turned and ran wildly, mindlessly deeper and deeper into the woods. . . .
In the front yard of the farmhouse, Delbert Reese heard a sound on the trail and turned quickly, his pistol already raised and cocked. “Captain,” he shouted to Plantz, “we’ve got riders coming!”
Plantz and the others turned their attention toward the sight of two horses coming across an open stretch of land between the Shawler farm and the Umberton Trail. “At ease, everybody,” said Plantz. “Hold your fire. It’s just Peerly and Conlon.”
“Yeah. I wonder what the hell brings them here?” asked the parson, staring intently at the two approaching riders as they galloped into the yard.
“Looks like we missed all the fun!” Peerly called out, looking all around at the bodies, the pillaged barn and house.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” Plantz said in a grim tone, stepping over closer to the horses as the two stopped. “I thought I told you two to stay put, keep an eye on Umberton for us?”
“Oh, you did. But you’re going to be damn glad to see us today, Plantz!” said Peerly.
“I doubt it,” Plantz said sharply. “And it’s Captain Plantz to you.” As he spoke he grabbed Peerly’s horse by its bridle and held it firmly. “Do you understand me, Peerly? Or am I going to have to give you something to hold on to as a reminder from now on?”
“No, sir, Captain Plantz.” Peerly’s attitude changed instantly; his demeanor turned serious. “My apologies, Captain.” He nodded at Clarence Conlon. “We saw the colonel bring three strings of horses into Umberton. We knew you’d want to know about it right away. So we came running!”
“What about Tolan?” Plantz asked. “When was I going to hear from that hay-pitching son of a bitch?”
“We saw him.” Peerly shrugged. “I reckon he would’ve told you about it first chance he got.” Peerly smiled proudly. “But I knew you’d want to know right off. So I wasted no time. Was I right to do that?”
Plantz nodded his approval, turning loose of Peerly’s saddle. “Yeah, you two did right bringing that information to me.”
“It was all my idea,” Peerly quickly pointed out, not wanting to share any recognition with Conlon.
But Plantz, having gone into rapt contemplation, appeared not to hear him. The parson spoke to Peerly and Conlon, saying, “You two go water your horses.”
“Wait,” said Plantz, seeming to snap out of his deep thoughts. A sly smile came to his face. “That old colonel is just testing me, that son of a bitch.” He turned his eyes back to Peerly and Conlon. “Who did the colonel have riding with him?”
Conlon sat slumped and uninterested in his saddle. Peerly responded quickly, “Two wranglers! One was—”
“Shepherd Watson,” the parson said flatly, cutting in and finishing his words for him.
Looking taken aback, Peerly gave the parson a curious look. “How did you—?”
“Because old Shep is always with the colonel,” said Plantz, sounding unsurprised. “Who else?”
“You ain’t believing this, Rudde—I mean Captain Plantz!” he said, correcting himself. “He had a young woman riding with him!” He blurted it out quickly about the woman on the outside chance that once again the parson would finish his reply. When the parson said nothing, Peerly gave him a passing glance, then said, “She wa
s dressed like a man and sat her horse like a man. But she was a woman, no mistaking that. Was there, Conlon?” he said, turning to the big hulk of a man for support.
“She was the prettiest thing I ever saw,” Conlon grunted, rising to the question.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Peerly said, taking over. “Fact is, she was a might on the plain and manly side, for my taste.”
“A woman wrangling for the colonel,” said Plantz. He turned his amazed expression to the parson. “What do you make of it?”
The parson looked flatly at Peerly and asked as if he already knew the answer, “How old do you say, early to mid-twenties? Dark eyes, dark hair?”
“Yes, that’s her,” said Peerly, impressed and unable to conceal it. “How’d you know that?”
“It’s the colonel’s daughter,” he said confidently to Plantz, ignoring Peerly.
“Begging your pardon, Parson,” said Peerly, thinking he had caught the parson in a mistake, “but it’s a known fact that the parson’s wife was barren of child.”
“Peerly’s got you there,” Plantz said to the parson, as if standing neutral between the two in some kind of mental sporting contest. “It is widely known about the colonel’s wife.”
“The colonel’s wife had nothing to do with it,” the parson retorted, his confidence unwavering. “This daughter of his came from a whore named Sudie . . . one of the camp followers from back during the Indian campaigns. She took up exclusive with the colonel for a whole winter and got her belly blown up. By the time the baby was born, the colonel was gone on back to Texas. Instead of hat-pinning herself, or knocking the baby in the head when it was born, Sudie decided to keep the girl child.” He grinned. “You never know what’s in a whore’s heart.”
The men stared in silent fascination at the parson.
The parson grinned, liking the attention. “She named the child Julie, but being from Wildwood, Virginia, Sudie liked to call the girl her Wildwood Flower.”
“Damn, Parson,” said Plantz. He shook his head slightly in wonderment. “I just don’t see how you come up with so much.”
“It’s a gift,” said the parson, shrugging it off. “Sudie’s little Wildwood Flower has been the colonel’s deep and best-kept secret.”
“Except for you knowing about it,” said Plantz.
“Of course,” said the parson, a bit smugly, “except for me knowing about it.” Pausing as if to reward himself, he pulled a twist of tobacco from inside his uniform coat, bit off a plug and rolled it over into place inside his left jaw.
“A gift? Jesus!” said Plantz, with total and unquestioning belief. “I don’t know what to think of you sometimes.”
“Nor do I, sometimes,” said the parson. He grinned, spit and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. Looking back and forth at the other men as if they had become his audience, he went on. “Sudie died young of consumption as many of her occupation do, still working the flesh circuit—railroad camps mostly. But early on she’d told her little bastard daughter all about the colonel. Of course he’d only been a captain when she knew him.” He looked off as if in deep contemplation for a moment, then said, “She built him up to be a hero. Must’ve wanted her child to grow up and try to better herself, I suppose, knowin’ she’d come from such good stock.”
Looking at the men and seeing their undivided attention to the parson’s words, Plantz suddenly grew restless and said, “All right, Parson, before you go passing a collection plate. Let’s get everything gathered up here and get going.”
The parson gave him a look. “Don’t you want to hear more about our Wildwood Flower? What she’s done all her life? What’s she apt to do?”
“Later maybe,” said Plantz, seeming to have snapped out of the parson’s spell. “Right now, it’s time to go.”
“But it’s always best to hear these things while the information is fresh and pouring through me,” said the parson. “There are things about this woman,” he cautioned, raising a half-gloved finger.
“I said, put it away for now, Parson,” Plantz said, a bit sharply. “It’ll make for good entertainment around the campfire. Right now I’ve got other things to do.”
Put it away . . . ? The parson stared flatly at him, not allowing Plantz to see how offended he’d become. “As you say, Captain,” the parson replied submissively.
“Captain?” asked Conlon. “Are we riding back into Umberton? Make the colonel pay tribute?” He’d straightened upright in his saddle at the prospect of riding right back to town and finding the young woman.
“Hush up, fool,” Peerly growled at him in a lowered voice. “It ain’t your place to ask such a thing.”
Ignoring Peerly, Plantz said to Conlon, “I think not. We’ll let the colonel complete his horse sale.” He grinned. “We know the way to his house . . . He’s not getting away with anything.”
Chapter 4
On the trail back from Umberton, Julie, her father and Shep nooned in a stand of white oak trees near the base of a stretch of low hills bordering the rolling plains. The colonel watched proudly while Julie stooped down onto one knee and watered her big buckskin bay by pouring water into her tall-crowned hat and holding it to the horse’s muzzle. To old Shep, who sat nearby, trimming himself a slice of jerked elk, he said quietly, “Tell me, Shepherd, how does a child—especially a girl-child—who grew up without me, remind me so much of myself?”
Old Shep didn’t venture a reply. Instead he watched Julie water her horse and said, “She’s a top hand with horses.”
“Yes, isn’t she though.” The colonel smiled, watching his daughter rub the buckskin’s muzzle with her gloved hand.
Standing up beside the buckskin, Julie slapped her hat against her leg and held it at her side as she looked off along the base of low hills where a short stream of dust drifted upward and away on a warm breeze. “Colonel,” she said, keeping her eyes on the dust as she spoke, “there’s something coming our way.”
“Oh? Man or beast?” The colonel smiled and gave Watson a look, proud of his daughter’s trail ability.
“Could be man . . . somebody on foot,” Julie replied in her husky but pleasant voice.
Not seeming too concerned, the colonel looked off in the same direction, judging the distance of the small billow of dust. “Well, whoever it is better hurry if they expect to catch up to us.”
Julie said, “I just figured, you carrying money and all.”
“That was sensible thinking on your part, but this money is as safe as it is in a bank,” the colonel replied. “Safer,” he added. “There’s three of us here, well armed. No bank has that kind of protection.”
“I expect you’re right, Colonel.” Julie nodded. She glanced again toward the short rise of dust, then appeared to dismiss the matter. She walked the buckskin over to where the other two horses stood hitched to a small white oak sapling.
As she hitched the buckskin, the colonel said, “Julie, come on over here and rest yourself beside me. I’ve got something I want to give to you.”
She walked over to where the colonel and old Shep sat in the shade of a towering oak tree and eased down onto one knee, the same position she’d taken while watering her horse. “All right, Colonel,” she said, facing the two from four feet away. “What do you want to show me?”
The colonel noted the space between them, but smiled to himself as he reached down into his shirt pocket. “Just a little something I thought fitting for a lovely young lady.”
Julie felt herself blush, and she lowered her eyes. She was not used to such talk, or to such kindness. She was not used to the warmth and trust of kin. She had to remind herself that this man was her father in order to coax herself forward.
“There now,” said the colonel, “you needn’t be bashful with me, young lady.” He liked the self-protective caution in Julie’s character, but he wondered at what cost she had developed such a trait. They had grown closer since her arrival, yet that growth had been slow in coming.
&nbs
p; Where have you been, my daughter? He asked himself, capturing her dark eyes for a moment. Where has this life taken you?
At times the colonel reminded himself of a man befriending a young wolf cub. He saw a deep aching need in his daughter; in spite of Julie’s strong self-reliance and independence, the colonel saw that his wild, beautiful wolf cub yearned to belong, to something, to someone. She had been drawn across the wilds to him as if following the scent of the kindred blood coursing through their veins.
“I want you to have this,” the colonel said. He raised his closed hand from his pocket and, opening it, allowed a silver necklace to spill from his calloused hand and dangle from his fingertips. On the chain a silver medallion the size of a quarter swung back and forth gently; in its center a single engraved silver rose glistened in the flickering sunlight through the leaves of the white oak.
“For me?” Julie whispered in a hushed tone. “Colonel, I can’t have something like this.” Her words faltered for a second. I—It’s—It’s too fine a thing for the likes of me.”
“Too fine a thing for my daughter?” the colonel said with mock reproach. “Nothing is too fine for my daughter.” As he spoke, he reached out with the necklace, as if insisting she take it. She did so, reluctantly.
The colonel’s voice softened. “Julie, by all rights this necklace has belonged to you your entire life.”
Without a word, Shepherd Watson stood up and moved quietly away, giving the two the privacy he felt they needed.
Julie removed her stained trail glove and allowed the colonel to lower the medallion into her hand. She lifted her gaze from the silver rose and searched the colonel’s eyes for his meaning.
“It belonged to your mother,” the colonel said softly, “or, that is, it would have.” After an awkward second’s pause he said, “I bought it for her from a Mexican silversmith and had her name engraved on the back.”