by Ralph Cotton
When Jed made no reply, Julie left the plate beside him and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
In the crushing quiet, Julie felt a deep sense of foreboding begin to close in tightly around her. She looked all around at the windows, making sure the wooden bolts were in place. Through the shooting ports in each wooden window shutter facing west, the last rays of grainy sunlight stood slantwise across the plank floor. Were there eyes watching the house from the shadows along the woods line? She started to walk to one of the shuttered windows and peep out, as if to see if eyes might be watching the house from within the dark woods. But catching herself in time, she stopped and let out a breath.
Stop it, she told herself, not wanting to let herself fall into the clutches of some unfounded fear. Her father and Shep knew she would be all right here; otherwise they never would have left her and the Shawler boy here alone. At length she stood up, but she did not go peep out through one of the shooting ports. Instead, she walked to the rifle leaning against the wall near the front door. She picked it up, checked it, then leaned it carefully back in its same position.
On her way across the floor to where the shotgun stood in a corner near a window, she heard Jed Shawler say in a quiet tone, “If they come while we’re here . . . I don’t know if I can help you defend us.”
“They won’t come here,” she said, hoping she sounded confident. She looked over at him and saw his cheeks glisten with tears. She picked up the ten gauge and turned it back and forth in her hands. “You heard what my pa and Shep said about it. These men are back in hiding somewhere by now.”
“I turned coward,” Jed blurted out, seeming to pay no attention to her words. For the past few moments he’d sat silently recounting the grisly scene of his family dying in their front yard while he tossed away his squirrel rifle and fled to save himself.
“I’m sure you did all you could,” Julie said, trying to console him.
“What I did was let everybody die,” Jed said. His clenched fists trembled violently. Julie watched, not knowing what to do for him. “All the people who loved me . . . who trusted me,” he continued. “I had a gun, I—I could have done something . . . but I didn’t! All I did was drop my gun and desert them without even firing a shot!”
Julie interceded, saying, “You’ve been through an awful lot in one day. Maybe after a good night’s rest, things will look a little better to you.”
“Nothing will ever look better to me until the men who killed my folks are dead,” Jed murmured, his voice turning bitter and hard.
“They will be,” said Julie, seeing that only his rage for his family’s killers seemed to keep him from breaking down and sobbing aloud. “My pa will bring the army and they’ll see to it justice is done.”
But her words didn’t seem to console the boy. He turned his face away and stared into the flames, withdrawing back into silence.
Another silent hour had passed before Julie saw the boy move a muscle or utter another sound. When he finally stood up on unsteady legs and turned toward the rear door of the house, Julie walked toward him, seeing him lift the door’s wooden latch. “Jed,” she said quietly but firmly, “don’t go out there. We’re supposed to both stay inside until my pa and Shep return.”
Without turning to face her, Jed replied in a flat, lifeless tone, “I’m going to the privy,” and continued out into the darkness as if nothing she could have said or done would have stopped him.
“Please hurry back,” Julie called out, keeping her voice guarded and low, walking over to close and latch the door he had left standing wide open behind him.
With the door shut and securely latched, she leaned back against it and looked at the battered wind-up clock standing atop a table in a corner of the room, making it a point to keep track of time. As she waited, she moved away from the door, picked up the shotgun from its place beside a window and held it close across her stomach.
When the boy had not returned after a full ten minutes, she cracked the door a few inches and called out to him through the shadowy darkness beneath a half-moon sky. Listening closely, hearing nothing from the direction of the weathered plank outhouse, she called out again. But this time when she heard no reply, she could think of nothing else to do but close the door softly, latch it and stand there alone. Pa, she thought to herself, as if in that ringing deathlike silence the colonel could somehow hear her, I wish you’d taken us both with you . . .
Twelve miles away at the Shawler farm, all that remained of the house were a few charred piles of ash-covered timbers and bits of household scraps that had been blown away from the flames by the bellowing force of heat. In the flicker of a torchlight that Shep held above them, Colonel Wilder shook his head slowly and flipped the corner of a wool army blanket over the faces of the dead they had dragged to one spot and lined up along the ground.
“The men who did this are no better than animals,” the colonel said, standing back away from the dead and dusting his hands together.
“Colonel, there’s not even enough rock or board around here to cover them with until we bring the army back,” Shep commented, looking all around the dark yard.
“All the more reason why we must hurry, Sergeant,” said Colonel Wilder, turning to the horses.
With his boot sole Shepherd Watson smothered out the torch’s flames on the ground. “Yes, sir,” he said, hurrying, joining the colonel at the waiting horses.
The two started to turn their horses toward the thin trail leading up across the stretch of low hills between the Shawler land and the wider main trail running toward Umberton. But before they could do so, they both halted abruptly, hearing the quick thunder of horses’ hooves rush in close around them. “Steady, Sergeant,” the colonel said to Shep, seeing the old soldier reach for the army Colt holstered on his hip. “Hold your fire . . . Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he whispered in a lowered voice.
In the thin light of the half-moon, they both watched the loose circle of horses draw tighter around them until directly before them, the colonel heard the familiar voice of Ruddell Plantz call out, “Who’s there? State your business here, and be quick about it.”
Colonel Wilder had an idea that Plantz already knew whom he and his men had ridden in on, yet he answered anyway, trying to keep his voice level and his temperament in check. “I am Bertrim Wilder, U.S. Army Colonel, retired, sir,” he called out as a matter of formality. “To whom am I speaking?”
Plantz chuckled menacingly and nudged his horse forward until the colonel and Watson could see him clearly in the pale moonlight. “Oh . . . I think you damn well know who you’re speaking to, Colonel,” he said. He gave a broad gesture of his arm and brought the rest of his circled men in closer. “Now, the question is, what the hell are you and this old fool doing out here, traipsing around in the middle of the night?”
“We came to see your handiwork firsthand, Plantz,” the colonel said with disgust.
“It’s Captain Plantz to you, Colonel Wilder,” Plantz said. “Being a former military officer yourself, I’m sure you want to extend the courtesy that a gentleman’s rank demands.” He grinned secretly to himself in the shadowy moonlight. “Even though as I understand it, your petition for a command was turned down on grounds of mental incompetence.”
“Damn you! You are no officer, and certainly no gentleman, sir!” Watson blurted out, unable to control himself at Plantz’s accusation. “Colonel Wilder’s mental competence was never in question!”
“As you were, Sergeant,” the colonel said to Shep in a firm tone, quieting him. To Plantz he said, “I won’t argue trivial matters with you, Plantz. You have some serious explaining to do when I inform the army about the bodies of the Shawler family that you and these rats slaughtered.”
“Whoa, now, Colonel,” Plantz said. “It appears to me, you and Shepherd here are the ones with some explaining to do. You’re the ones we’ve found riding away from this place. Perhaps I need to report this to the army and let them sort things o
ut.”
A dark chuckle went up from the circle of men.
“I realize that’s ordinarily the way you operate, Plantz,” said the colonel. “But this time you’ve slipped up. We have a living witness who will tell the army exactly what happened to the Shawlers.” He nudged his horse forward confidently. “Now move aside! We’re coming through.”
“Easy, Colonel,” Shepherd Watson whispered, even as he put his horse forward beside his commander.
“We have no choice, Shep,” the colonel whispered in reply. “Stay close to me and sit boldly. This is not the first time we have had to buy a pot for ourselves.”
“Indeed not, sir,” whispered Shepherd Watson, sidling close beside him, rifle in hand, cocked and ready. “We’ll be just fine.”
For the first hour Julie had chastised herself for letting Jed Shawler go out into the darkness alone. She had given her word to her father to stay indoors no matter what, but she couldn’t stand by idly, not knowing what had happened to the boy. Surely the colonel would understand, she thought, turning the shotgun back and forth restlessly in her hands. Finally she could wait no longer. She’d taken a lantern down from the mantel over the hearth, lit it and unlatched the door. Here goes, she’d told herself, walking out with the shotgun in her right hand.
Julie did not want to admit to herself that Jed Shawler had taken off into the night; however, when she’d held the lantern up along the path across the side yard, she chastised herself even more as she’d looked down at Jed’s boot prints in the dirt leading out into the woods.
Hoping against hope, she’d called out his name in a guarded tone. At length she had no choice but to accept the fact that the Shawler boy was gone; her wandering around outside in the dark was not going to help matters.
Turning, she carried the lantern low at her side, hurried back inside the farmhouse and latched the door behind herself. “Pa,” she murmured, slumping back against the closed door, “it looks like I’ve made a poor job of things here.”
Throughout the night, even though she knew the boy had left, she’d tried her best to stay awake and keep her attention turned toward the outside, in the direction of the woods beyond the privy. But in spite of her best effort, she eventually leaned the shotgun against a wooden chair next to where she sat and laid her head down on the wooden table.
In the first silver-gray light of dawn she was awakened by the sound of a voice calling out to her from the far side of the yard. “Pa?” she said, snapping awake and batting her eyes as if it might have all been a dream. She sat tensed for a moment until she heard the sound of horses walking into the yard from the trail. Then, she jumped up from her chair, ran to the shooting port of a front window and peeped out.
At the edge of the yard the colonel and Shepherd Watson came into view, their horses walking slowly toward the house. “Thank God!” Julie said aloud, hurrying to the door, unlatching it and running out off the porch to meet them. “Oh, Pa!” she called out. “You can’t imagine how glad I am that you’ve made it back so soon!”
As she ran to meet the two horses coming toward her, she noticed no change in either her father’s or Shep’s stoic expressions. “Pa?” she said, coming to halt, seeing for the first time the red blood stains on their chests, the paleness of their faces. “What’s happened to you?” she asked, already feeling herself being overcome by dark realization.
The colonel’s blank lifeless eyes stared straight past her as he wobbled slightly in his saddle. “I’m dead, you silly girl.”
Julie gasped, hearing the voice, knowing it was not her father’s, and realizing at the same time that her father was not seated in his saddle under his own strength. “Oh no!” As she stiffened in fear, ready to bolt back to the house, she saw her father and Shep both being flung sidelong to the ground by the two hooded men hidden behind them.
“My my, but don’t you feel foolish!” said Nez Peerly, the nasty grin on his face hidden within the loose flour sack. All Julie saw were piercing eyes staring out at her through roughly cut eyelets.
Upon seeing her father’s and Shep’s bodies, Julie turned quickly toward the house. But it was too late. She’d been trapped. Between her and the open door three more hooded men had stepped down from their horses and stood blocking her way. She turned quickly to her right, but saw two more hooded men step down, facing her in the grainy dawn light. Behind her she heard a muffled voice call out, “We came for the Shawler boy. Give him to us!”
“He’s—he’s not here,” Julie replied, keeping her voice steady even though her knees grew weak with fear.
Ruddell Plantz, whose voice she’d heard from behind his hood, stepped forward. “If you’re lying to us, you’ll get worse than the colonel or his flunky got.”
Julie stood firm as Plantz came nearer, his eyes glistening from within the eyelets like those of a wild animal. “You can search the house, if you don’t believe me,” she said. “He left during the night to use the private house and never returned.”
“Must’ve fallen in over his head,” Peerly quipped behind his hood.
“Shut up, Private!” Plantz said in a strong tone, turning rigidly toward Peerly. Then to Julie he said, “We will search the house . . . and we will burn it to the ground if we find you’re lying to us.” He gave a hand signal to the men standing in front of the house, prompting them to turn and run in through the open door. After a moment of rummaging, the men came out, one of them carrying the rifle and the shotgun.
From near the front of the outhouse, another man called out, “There’s boot prints here leading out into the woods, sir.”
“Nobody in the house, sir,” the one carrying the guns called out.
“Good work, men,” said Plantz. Turning back to Julie he said, “So, maybe you are telling the truth. He’s gone, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t hidden him somewhere. Now, where is he?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Julie.
“Should we spread out and start searching for him?” one of the men asked.
“In a minute,” said Plantz. “I think she’s lying to me.” As he spoke he stepped closer, peeling his leather riding glove from his left hand. “But I don’t mind a little lying, because I enjoy getting to the truth.” Before Julie saw it coming, he slapped her hard across her face with the glove, the impact and sting of it staggering her. But she only staggered for a second before the glove lashed back across her face, this time drawing blood from the corner of her mouth.
A small ivory comb slipped loose from atop her head and allowed her long, gathered hair to spill down around her face. Plantz quickly grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked down, causing her to bow forward as he dragged her back and forth in front of the leering men. “Getting at the truth can go on for as long as it takes,” he said, liking the feel of having this young helpless woman under his total control. “We can all take part in it, right men?”
The men moved forward in a tighter circle, nodding their approval.
“See, this is why you men were especially chosen to ride tonight, instead of some of the others,” Plantz called out. Dropping his gloves, he swung Julie in such a manner as to step behind her and jerk her head back against his chest. His free hand reached around and ripped the front of her cotton riding blouse wide open, exposing her firm breasts in the silver morning light. “Some of them have no taste for this sort of work.” He ran his rough gloved hand back and forth over her breasts. “But I’m betting you men do!”
Chapter 8
The last thing Julie clearly remembered was the cry of pain one of the hooded men let out when she sank her teeth into his cheek. She remembered the taste of his blood in her mouth; she remembered her red tooth prints—blood soaking through the flour sack—as he pulled back away from her and threw his hand to the side of his face. The rest of the men hooted and laughed, two of them holding her down, another holding her naked legs spread wide apart. The others stood watching, those who had already taken their turn with her, and those still waiting.
“Now spread her open, gawddamn it!” she heard him say to the man at her ankles as her senses slipped away from her. She ceased struggling and felt her world turn black, and numb and mindless around her.
Hours later, as she awoke in the midmorning heat, recollection came back to her, but not clearly at first, only vaguely, as if seeping back to her through a thin, cloudy veil. “I’m not—” she rasped incoherently, unable to finish her words.
“Not what?” Peerly chuckled, pulling his flour sack back down over his face barely in time to keep her from seeing him. In his gloved right hand he held the silver rose on its chain, its clasp broken from where he’d grabbed it and ripped it from around her neck.
“I’m, I’m not—” she forced herself to say through her stiff aching jaw. But again her words failed her.
“Hear that, fellows?” said Peerly, adjusting his flour sack mask. “It’s not.” He laughed and stuffed her silver rose necklace in his shirt pocket.
“Not what?” asked Conlon, leading both his horse and Peerly’s over to where Peerly stood looking down at Julie. She lay bruised, battered and naked in the dirt at their feet.