by Ralph Cotton
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Peerly, yet he made no move to stop her.
Battered and half-drunk from the whiskey she’d been forced to drink, she winced from the pain in her swollen face and said, “Look at me. You got what you wanted. You’re through with me. What good am I now?”
Peerly chuckled, “Hell yes, I’m through with you anyway. You wouldn’t look so bad if you hadn’t tried to be so tough. You was asking for a beating.”
“Fuck you sonsabitches,” said the woman, turning away and heading on for the front fly.
“Did you hear that?” Peerly asked Reese, appearing shocked.
“Sounds like she ain’t learned nothing through all this,” Reese said, looking surprised.
Peerly raised his pistol and cocked it, aiming at the center of her back. “Stop right there or you’re dead, so help me,” said Peerly.
In the far corner the young girl sat shivering and whining aloud, raising her hands over her eyes to keep from seeing what was about to happen.
“Go on and shoot,” the woman said without even looking back. “I don’t really give a damn.” She continued on out of the tent.
“I hate hearing a woman using foul language that way,” said Peerly, chuckling again. “It’s not at all becoming.” He raised the gun, uncocked it and put it away.
“Yeah, me too,” said Reese. He looked back down at the money on the table. “Where was we?”
“We were finishing up counting the money so’s we’ll know what our shares come to before we head on back to Umberton, gawddamn it,” he said, angry at the thought of having to ride back ahead of the others and wait for his cut of the spoils.
At the end of the block, the parson walked into the one-room school, still under construction, and looked at Plantz, who sat staring at the naked woman lying on the rough wooden floor in a dark pool of blood. Upon a closer look, the parson saw the wooden handle of a wood chisel standing between her breasts.
“My my,” said the parson, taking off his hat and running his fingers back through his long hair. “What have you done here?”
“Nothing, Parson,” said Plantz. “She got ahold of it from those tools.” He gestured a nod toward a pile of tools sticking up from a carpenter’s wooden tool tray. “Before I could stop her, she held it against herself with both hands and lunged forward.”
The parson stood in silence for a moment, then said, as if dismissing the incident, “Well, it’s turning daylight. We’re through here . . .” He let his words trail.
“Pretty gawddamn insulting,” said Plantz, his eyes pinned on the naked lifeless body. “A woman does something like this, just when you’re getting ready to enjoy yourself on her.”
“You mean you didn’t even touch her?” the parson said, looking more surprised. “You’ve been sitting here all this time, just staring at her?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing,” said Plantz, keeping his eyes on the woman’s body. “Don’t tell anybody.”
“Of course not; I wouldn’t,” said the parson.
“You saw this coming, didn’t you?” Plantz asked.
“No, I didn’t see this coming . . . not this,” the parson replied.
“You saw something,” said Plantz. “That’s why you said what you said, that you were against me doing this. You saw something bad happening.”
“That was about something different all together,” said the parson, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve been seeing a woman from a long ways off bringing trouble down on us. But now that this has turned out the way it has . . . I don’t think this is the woman I’ve been seeing.”
“Then what the hell woman have you been seeing?” Plantz asked, getting impatient. “This is a long ways off for all of us.”
“But this ain’t her, because none of us died tonight,” said the parson.
“So, you’ve seen some of us die, because of this woman from a long ways off?” Plantz pried. “How many of us?”
“I don’t know,” said the parson, clearly not liking to talk about it. “Maybe one, maybe all; I just don’t know! I can see death in my premonition, but I can’t see the ending.” He paused, then put his hat back on. He tugged it down and looked again at the body lying on the rough plank floor. “Do you know what that means?” he asked with a grim expression.
“No, what does it mean?” Plantz asked, staring at the dead woman.
“If I can’t see the ending, it means I’m the one who’s going to die,” said the parson.
Chapter 19
Julie noticed a difference in herself when she’d headed back for her farmland near Umberton; yet she could neither identify nor understand that difference. It was something she felt deep inside, something that Baines Meredith had made her see. Baines Meredith . . . She smiled to herself thinking about the aging gunman. Over the past few weeks she’d come to realize that Baines tried hard to be exactly the kind of person he admitted to being.
Baines didn’t claim to be good, she’d come to understand. He only claimed to be right. He was a gunman, a hired killer, no more, no less; yet, in the darker matters of life and death, she found his logic to be sound. Somewhere deep in her core, she had hesitated to shoot Peerly that day in the barn, because her conscience had not given her permission to do so beforehand. Baines, as if speaking to her as a wise, all-knowing father, had given her that permission. He not only permitted her to kill, for her own sake; he demanded it of her.
She had gone into the livery barn armed, she recalled, seeing clearly the picture of Nez Peerly taking the gun from her hand. “Armed but unprepared,” Baines had pointed out. That was one mistake she would never make again.
She stopped long enough to look at the burnt remnants of the barn, and the deserted looking homesite from seventy-five yards away. “I’m home, Pa,” she whispered, gazing over to the right of the house at the three wooden grave markers standing in the sunlight. Then she gave her horse a nudge, pulled the pack mule forward by the lead rope and rode on to the colonel’s headstone.
Moments later she left the graves of her father, Shep Watson and her father’s beloved wife, Laura Nell. She walked the short distance to the house, leading both animals to the hitch rail. At first she avoided looking at the burnt barn, or at the place on the ground where Plantz and his men had flung the bodies of her father, Shep and the Shawler boy.
But then she coaxed herself to look closely at that terrible spot, and even take a long look at the other spot a few feet away, where the militiamen had forced themselves upon her. For a chilling moment she could hear their voices, smell them, feel their rough cruel hands upon her tender flesh. An illness began to stir low in her stomach.
“It’s only dirt,” she told herself aloud, feeling her breath grow labored in her chest; yet, looking at the ground, the burnt barn, the many boot and hoofprints still thinly visible in the dirt, she wondered if she would ever be able to live here without the past haunting her day and night. This might have been a mistake, she heard herself telling Baines Meredith in her mind. But Baines’ image only stared at her, his unyielding expression telling her to stick tight to her plan and not waver.
She nodded and walked away, her fingers going to her throat for a second, idly seeking to touch the necklace that was no longer there. At the hitch rail, she took down her saddlebags, drew a Winchester repeating rifle from the saddle boot and patted the black’s withers when he blew out a breath and tried nudging her with his head. Beside him, the pack mule scraped its hoof in the dirt and swung its ears back and forth. “Don’t worry,” Julie said to the restless animals. “You’ll both get your grazing in before nightfall.”
Inside the house, she’d found things in good order, the way Baines had left them when he’d returned and buried her father and Shepherd Watson. The chairs were back around the table. The furniture had been righted and the cupboard stood back up against the wall. The broken china had been swept up and discarded. Only those who knew otherwise could say that anything had happened out of the ordi
nary, Julie thought. She felt a slight oncoming chill that caused her to back away for a moment.
When the chill had passed, she took two sets of rope hobbles from her saddlebags with nervous hands, turned and walked back outside to the animals. She dropped the supplies from the pack mule and the saddle and bridle from her horse. Using the mule’s lead rope she led them both away from the hitch rail to a small stand of wild grass surrounding the woodlands.
Julie hobbled both animals and left them to graze beside a thin spring running along the edge of the woods. Returning to the house, she busied herself intentionally, to take her mind off things until she got used to being there. But instead of her apprehension settling, it only grew worse throughout the afternoon.
She knew she could let the horses graze all night without fear of them wandering off; yet, before darkness set in, Julie walked back to the animals, her rifle in hand and pistol in its holster, and led them back to the hitch rail to spend the night. Back inside the house, she hastily went from window to window closing the wooden shutters and bolting them. Then, in spite of the rear door being bolted, she took a chair and tipped it beneath the door latch.
She hadn’t noticed her fearful behavior until she’d loaded an armful of kindling and small logs into the fireplace, and found herself hesitating to start the fire and prepare herself a warm meal.
This is nonsense, she heard a voice sounding very much like Baines Meredith’s say inside her head. You’re right; it is nonsense, she said to herself as if answering to that voice. She walked back to the fireplace, started the fire and cooked a meal of beans and jerked venison that she’d taken from her supplies. After she’d eaten her dinner, she poured her second tin cup of hot dark tea from a pot she’d boiled.
At length, she relaxed, with her boots off in front of the glowing fireplace, but she did so with both rifle and gun belt close at hand. “Go on about your business. Don’t let them rattle you,” Baines Meredith said somewhere between her consciousness and her dream state.
“I won’t . . . ,” she heard herself whisper in reply, drifting onto a guarded sleep, fully dressed. The last sound she heard was that of the empty tin cup falling from her hand and clattering lightly on the stone hearth.
The next thing she heard, upon awakening after sunrise, was the sound of birds circling and calling out to one another in the soft morning sunlight. Standing up, she stretched, ran her fingers back through her hair and looked all around her quiet, peaceful home. There had been nothing to fear in the night, only dark shadows, and darker memories.
But that did not mean that her fears from the night before had been unfounded, she reminded herself. Her fears were real; they would remain real as long as Plantz and his men were alive. “So, back to work,” she told herself with resolve.
She swung the gun belt around her waist, buckled it, adjusted it and tied it down around her thigh. She slipped the big Colt up and down in the holster, keeping it loose and ready. She looked wistfully at the empty coffeepot hanging in the hearth. First things first, she could hear Baines say.
Glancing at the ray of sunlight through the shooting ports, she picked up the rifle and walked to the door with purpose, clearing her mind. She knew that this morning, like every morning for the past four weeks, there would be a dozen targets awaiting her out there. A dozen bottles, limbs or rocks—whatever could be found on hand— would be waiting out there, waiting to kill her, she told herself somberly . . . if she didn’t kill them first.
Nez Peerly and Delbert Reese had been back in Umberton only two days before restlessness began to get the best of them. The townsfolk in Umberton seemed to disappear from the town’s only saloon when the two militiamen came in for a few drinks. Card games broke up quickly and the players drifted away, reminding themselves of other things they had to do.
“I say we take a couple bottles with us,” Delbert said drunkenly, leaning on one elbow at the bar. “We ride out and meet the others along the trail, tell them everything is just like it always is here—dead and stinking!” As he spoke he turned a harsh glare toward a thin young bartender who shrugged, as if to say, Don’t blame me!
“You want to send Plantz into a killing fit, that would be the best way I can think of to do it, Delbert,” Peerly warned him. “Showing up drunk alongside the trail will get you killed quicker than a snakebite.”
“We’ve scouted this place like he told us to,” said Reese. “There’s nothing going on here, same as always.”
“Yeah,” Peerly agreed. “The only thing different is that a sheriff is back in town . . . for now anyway.” He raised a shot glass and tossed back a mouthful of fiery rye whiskey. “His name’s Colbert Daltry. Rumor has it he was run out of Santa Fe without his trousers, in broad daylight, by a piano player who caught him fornicating with his wife.”
“I have never seen a piano player try to kill anybody in my life,” said Reese.
Peerly just stared at him blankly for a moment, then said, “We’ve got to ride out and check on the colonel’s place. Make sure nobody’s squatting there.”
“Today?” Reese asked. “Damn, I hate doing anything but drink today. What’s Plantz care about that place anyways?”
“I think he likes that place,” said Peerly. “Now that the colonel’s daughter is gone, don’t be surprised if Plantz moves in there.”
“What if she comes back?” Reese asked.
“She ain’t never coming back,” Peerly said with confidence. He poured himself another drink, grinned and raised his glass as if toasting himself. “I scared that woman so bad, she’s still running!” He laughed. “Hell, she’s somewhere in Canada by now, still ain’t about to slow down.”
“Yeah, I heard about it,” said Reese, raising his glass in unison with Peerly’s. “Here’s to shy ladies everywhere.”
The two drank their rye and set their glasses on the bar. “So,” Peerly said, expectantly, staring at him.
“So what?” said Reese.
“So, are you ready to go?”
“Hell, I guess so,” said Reese, taking the bottle off the bar to carry along with them. “It’s a long ride. We leave here now or we’ll never get there before dark.”
“I know it,” said Peerly, stepping away from the deserted bar. “We’ll ride as far as we can, camp overnight and get there come morning.”
They left the saloon, mounted and rode out of town, under the curious gaze of Sheriff Colbert Daltry, who stood watching them through his dusty office window. “That’s right, look all around, you sneaking son of a bitch,” the old sheriff whispered, seeing Peerly glance back along the empty street before the two rode out of sight. “Now that this war is over, I can’t wait to see you step over the line.”
He took his eyes away from the window and looked down at a pocket watch he’d reached down and pulled from his vest pocket. A half hour would be about a safe following distance, he decided, mentally marking the time of day and dropping the watch back into his vest.
Across the street, through the window of her boardinghouse, Constance Whirly had also watched the two militiamen leave town. Before turning away, she saw door to the sheriff’s office open and Colbert Daltry step outside and close it behind him. “Please don’t be coming here, you aggravating old bastard,” she murmured under her breath.
But before she’d hardly gotten the words out of her mouth, the sheriff stepped into the street and started walking straight toward the boardinghouse. Well, she knew how to handle the situation, she told herself. She hurried to a hall closet, took out an apron and put it on quickly. Then she mussed her hair just a little, picked up a rug beater and stepped out onto the porch as the sheriff grew nearer.
“Evening, Constance,” Colbert said, stopping a few feet away.
“Evening, Sheriff,” Constance replied. She looked toward the west and said, “Evening already? And I still haven’t gotten all my work done.”
Daltry gave her a look, as if he knew that she might be posturing. “Don’t worry, Constance, I didn’t
come for coffee or to take up your time. I wanted you to know that I’m keeping an eye on those militiamen, like I promised you I would.”
“Promised me, humph,” said Constance. “If we had any real kind of law, I wouldn’t need to get your promise. You’d have already had those vermin in your gun sights.”
Daltry stared at her. “I’ve only been back three days, Constance. What do you expect me—”
“I don’t expect nothing from you, Sheriff,” said Constance, with a sting in her voice. “I never have.”
The aging sheriff started to turn and walk away, the same way he had the last time she’d displayed such a nasty attitude toward him. But before leaving, he stopped and said, “I don’t know what happened to you since I left to make my rounds to Spotsworth. If we were both still young and foolish, I’d swear there’s been another man marking himself a spot here.”
“Get out of here, Colbert,” said Constance, “before I jerk in the welcome mat altogether.”
“All right then, I’m going,” the sheriff said. “But I don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”
Constance’s anger relented. “Oh, Colbert. I know you don’t. I just haven’t been myself lately. I’ve had things on my mind.” She managed to offer him a tired sliver of a smile. “I’ll get over it. . . . Pay me no mind.”
“I’m a pillar of patience, ma’am,” the old sheriff said, touching his wide hat brim, “so long as I know you’re not pining for another.” He returned her slight smile, with a questioning gleam in his eyes.
“Go on with you,” said Constance, waving him away with her rug beater and giving him an embarrassed look. “Who would have either of us old relics?”
“You forget your rug,” said Daltry, smiling, nodding toward the rug beater. With his fingertips still to his hat brim, he turned and walked away.
Chapter 20
Had Peerly and Reese only ridden another three miles the night before, they would have arrived at the Wilder farm shortly after dark. But being too drunk to ride any farther, Reese pitched sidelong from his saddle and laid along the edge of the dusty trail until Peerly managed to circle back unsteadily and plop down beside him. It was there the two made their camp.