Some Dark Holler

by Luke Bauserman

  They stood there for a moment, Ephraim and Silas, locked on the brink of eternity. The very night around them seemed to be holding its breath.

  A branch snapped.

  Molly lurched.

  An explosion split the night. The barrel flashed, and the acrid smell of black powder filled the air. Ephraim’s ears rang.

  Molly reared up on her hind legs, throwing Ephraim from the saddle. The pistol flew from his hand. He connected with the packed earth of the road and rolled to a stop, lying on his belly.

  Silas gave a sharp cry and clutched his chest. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground in a slack-shouldered heap. A dark stain seeped across his shirt.

  Peyton stared down at his brother, eyes bulging. “Silas!” he cried, his voice high and strange. He fell to his knees and cradled his brother’s head in his hands.

  Silas gasped, a gurgling sound.

  Peyton put his hand over the bloody hole in his brother’s shirt. “Hold on, Silas! We’ll get help!”

  Silas’s chest rose and fell, rose again—and fell one last time, with a drawn-out sigh.

  Ephraim held his breath, hoping that somehow the wound was superficial. Hoping that Silas’s chest would rise again.

  Peyton shook his brother’s shoulders. “Silas? Silas!” He lowered his ear to Silas’s lips and listened. Then he looked up at Ephraim, his eyes wide. “He—he’s dead.” He clenched and unclenched his bloodstained hands, nostrils flaring. “You killed him, Ephraim!”

  Something shifted in the leaves at the roadside. Ephraim pushed himself off the ground and stumbled back. The stranger in the Confederate coat stood at the edge of the woods, a broken branch underfoot, staring at Ephraim from beneath the shadow of his hat. He still had the cake basket tucked under one arm and the torn page clutched in his hand. Had he been there before? He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  Ephraim turned his back on the scene and ran like he had never run before.

  Ephraim burst through the door. The fire popped and crackled around a new stack of logs. Ma paced back and forth in the orange light of the blaze. The mug of foxglove tea sat on the table.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I shot him.” Ephraim walked the length of the cabin. Everywhere he looked, he saw Peyton kneeling next to Silas: inside his head, in the crackling flames, and in the face of his mother, who took a deep sigh and shut her eyes, savoring the moment.

  She opened her eyes. “You sure he’s dead?”

  Ephraim didn’t respond. He couldn’t think straight. That stain blossoming on Silas’s chest— He looked down at his still shaking hand.

  “Where’d you hit him?”

  Ephraim placed a hand over his heart.

  Ma turned and stared into the flames. “Ephraim, you have done me proud.” She whispered. “Justice is served.”

  “Ma, how am I goin’ to take care of you now? Folks’ll be—”

  She pushed past him and opened the door. “Don’t worry about me. You’ve given me everythin’ I could ask from a loyal son. Now go hide. Quickly!” She pointed to the woods.

  Without another word, Ephraim ran outside, into the dark trees. He didn’t stop until the cabin was out of view behind him. Then he ran his hands through his hair and tried to block the image of Silas falling in the road. Had he meant to pull the trigger? He’d pointed the gun at Silas. Then, the explosion of powder. When had he actually decided to kill the man? Had he really ever decided at all?

  He looked from side to side. Where should he go now? If he was caught…

  Ephraim closed his eyes. Dark prophecies poured into his skull, darting across his mind like rodents through the underbrush. A torch-bearing group of Silas’s kin. Them wrestling him from the cabin. A noose looped over his neck and tightened. His legs, kicking as they left the ground. His face turning blue. Ma rocking in her chair by a stone-cold hearth, her face pale, an empty bowl in her lap.

  Ephraim opened his eyes and exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The darkness rushed in on him, pinning him under the weight of what he had done.

  He heard voices coming from the direction of the cabin. Ma was there, alone. He couldn’t leave her to deal with this by herself.

  He retraced his steps until he could see the cabin. Manson Owens stood by the door, lantern in hand. Jubal Early, Franz Akers, and Ernest Williams were with him, each carrying a rifle. Ephraim crouched behind a large tree to watch and listen.

  Manson knocked on the cabin door.

  “Lucretia, it’s me, Manson.”

  A few moments of silence passed. Manson rapped on the door again.

  “Lucretia, open up. We need to talk.”

  The door creaked open. “What’s your business?” Ephraim’s mother asked. “Comin’ up here in the middle of the night?”

  “Your boy just gunned down Silas Henson.”

  She said nothing.

  “You better tell us what this is all about,” Manson said. “Peyton Henson just woke me from a dead sleep, demandin’ a hangin’. I convinced him to let us come here, while he stays at my place, but I don’t reckon he’ll stay there very long.”

  “There’ll be no hangin’, Manson. Justice ain’t a crime,” Ma said.

  “How in the Sam Hill was killin’ Silas justice?”

  “Silas was a Yankee. Yankees killed my Josiah. Now I’ve cut down one of them. An eye for an eye.”

  “You put Ephraim up to it! Lucretia, it weren’t Silas that killed Josiah—you know that.”

  “One Yank’s the same as another to me.”

  Manson slammed his fist against the door frame. “I fought in the war too, that don’t mean I can go around shootin’ anyone that was a Yank! The war’s over!”

  Ma snorted.

  Manson blew out a breath. “I hope you’re happy, Lucretia. You just bought Ephraim a trip to the gallows. Josiah would never approve of you makin’ a killer out of that boy. He ain’t even full grown yet!”

  “You can’t take my son, Manson. Truth be told, I don’t even know where he is.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s squattin’ in that smokehouse yonder?” Ernest Williams said.

  “He run off after he killed that Yank.” Ma stepped outside, walked to the smokehouse, and opened the door. “Take a look for yourself—he ain’t here.” She folded her arms. “You can search the cabin, too. He ain’t there neither.”

  Ernest stepped forward. “Listen, Lucretia, we ain’t fools. The boy’s in the woods somewheres.” He turned to Manson. “Let me handle this.” Then he jabbed the end of his rifle barrel into the small of Ma’s back. “Get them hands up, widow!”

  She stiffened and cried out.

  “Ernest!” Manson whipped out his revolver and pointed it at the man. “You got no right to do that to the woman!”

  “Hold your tongue, Manson,” Ernest said, pushing Ephraim’s mother toward the woods. “I’m only doin’ what needs to be done.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ephraim!” he bellowed, facing the dark forest. “I know you’re out there! I got your ma here. If you don’t give yourself up, I’m goin’ to throw her in the jail, and I’ll make sure she stays there until somebody finds your murderin’ hide!”

  “He’s already gone!” Ma said. “Ain’t none of you goin’ to catch my boy!” Her skeletal arms shook as she spoke.

  Ephraim’s mouth went dry. He cursed himself for ever picking up the pistol. Ma was frail; she wouldn’t last long in jail.

  He made his decision. He stood up and walked from the trees.

  Manson shook his head and stepped forward. He grabbed the barrel of Ernest’s rifle and wrenched it from his hands. “You’ve done enough tonight, Ernest,” he said, his eyes flinty. “Go home.” He turned to face Ephraim with a heavy sigh.

  Ephraim lowered his head, unable to meet the blacksmith’s gaze.

  Manson took a deep breath through his nose. He strode over and laid a thick-fingered hand on Ephraim’s shoulder. “Come on, Ephraim. We got to get this sorte
d out.”

  Jubal and Franz stepped forward. They each took Ephraim by an arm, and Manson led the party across the yard to the road.

  Behind them, Ephraim heard his mother let out a wail.

  8

  Jailhouse

  Sixmile Creek’s tiny jailhouse had a rough wooden floor, and a single-barred window in the door was the only source of light. Manson made a pallet of flour sacks in one corner for Ephraim, then stepped outside and locked the door. He stood on the porch with Jubal and Franz, and the three of them discussed guard shifts.

  When Ephraim heard the men go suddenly silent, he moved to the door and peered through the bars in the window. Peyton Henson was marching toward the jail, pistol in hand.

  Manson backed up against the door, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

  “You promised me justice, Manson! Let me have him!”

  “Put that gun down, Peyton,” Manson said.

  “This ain’t none of your affair! He killed my brother!”

  Ephraim had never seen Peyton like this. Muscles and veins strained in his face. His hair stuck out at odd angles, held in place by the grease that usually kept it slicked back. A lump rose in Ephraim’s throat. He doesn’t deserve this.

  “I’m sorry, son. I truly am,” Manson said. “But we’re goin’ to keep Ephraim till we can get a circuit judge—”

  Ephraim took a deep breath. “Manson,” he said. “Let me talk to him.”

  The blacksmith glanced over his shoulder, deliberating. “All right,” he said finally, motioning for Peyton to step forward. “I’ll be havin’ that gun, though. There’s been enough murder in this town for one night.”

  Peyton passed his pistol to Manson with a glare and stepped in front of the jailhouse door. His chin quivered. “You’re goin’ to hang for this, Cutler!” He spat the words.

  Ephraim took a shaky breath. “Peyton, I’m sorry. I—”

  Peyton jammed his hand through the bars and seized Ephraim by the throat. “Or maybe I’ll just strangle you right now!” His grip tightened, digging into the gristle of Ephraim’s windpipe.

  Ephraim grabbed Peyton’s fingers and tried to pry them free.

  Peyton throttled him, bashing his head into the bars.

  “Whoa there!” Manson grabbed Peyton by the collar and pulled him back. “None of that now!”

  Ephraim stepped back from the door, rubbing his throat.

  Peyton’s eyes never left Ephraim. His face contorted in hatred. A sick feeling rose in Ephraim’s stomach. He closed his eyes, shutting out Peyton’s burning gaze.

  “You’re goin’ to rot in hell, Cutler! And when you’re dead, I’m goin’ to plow your grave under and plant my corn over it!”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Manson said, pushing Peyton away from the door. “There ain’t goin’ to be no hangin’ until we’ve had a fair trial.”

  Peyton threw his hands wide. “Squire Barrett isn’t due in Sixmile Creek until next month! You expect me to wait that long?”

  Manson crossed his arms. “We’ll wait until the law arrives, Peyton.”

  Jubal and Franz stepped forward to stand silently on either side of Manson.

  Peyton backed away. “Well, if it’s a judge you want, I’ll go fetch Squire Barrett myself, and I’m bringin’ my kin back with me.” He raised his voice. “You hear that, Ephraim? I’m fetchin’ the judge tonight!” He spun on his heel and left.

  Manson shook his head. “Well, if this ain’t the biggest mess I ever seen.” Turning to face Jubal and Franz, he sighed. “Jubal, you got first watch?”

  “Yep. Ain’t no way I’ll be sleepin’ after all this.”

  Ephraim lay down on the pallet and stared into the darkness. Anger swept over him in a hot flood. Why had he listened to Ma? Let her back him into a corner like she had? She was crazy, but he wasn’t! He should’ve forced the tea from her hands, thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of corn, and carried her to see Reverend Boggs. Surely the preacher could’ve talked some sense into her. The events of the night had taken on the disjointed quality of a nightmare. He covered his face with his hands and willed himself to wake up.

  9

  Isabel

  “Ephraim? Did you say Ephraim Cutler shot Silas Henson last night?”

  Isabel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She knew Ephraim had left the dance without saying goodbye. He’d seemed upset, sure, but not murderous. She folded her arms.

  “I heard it from Manson,” her father said. The small man finished tying the strings of his coffee-sack apron and walked behind the counter to the storeroom door.

  Isabel followed him, shaking her head. “How do you know he’s telling the truth? I saw the Fletcher boys selling liquor last night. Mr. Owens might’ve had some.”

  Her father opened the door to the storage room, releasing the scents of salted meat and water-ground meal into the store. “Isabel, you’d be hard pressed to find a reputation better than Manson’s in this town. You know that.”

  She clenched her fists and stomped her foot on the floor. “He’d never do that. I don’t believe it, Pa! I’m going to ask Mr. Owens myself.” She ran from the store, letting the door slam behind her.

  The midmorning street bustled with wagons, buggies, buckboards, mules, and chickens. Isabel marched straight through them, heedless of those she cut off.

  Several horses stood at the hitching rail outside Manson’s forge, awaiting new shoes. Isabel shouldered through the animals’ owners, who were gathered in a murmuring knot just inside the shop. Manson stood at his bench, sawing a length of board. Isabel felt confused at the sight of the blacksmith engaging in carpentry. She stopped on the other side of his bench, arms crossed.

  “Pa says you told him that Ephraim shot Silas last night.”

  Manson kept his eyes on his work. “He did, Isabel. Silas is dead.” He gestured with his chin to a wagon on the far side of the shop. A long object lay inside, covered by a shroud.

  “What’s that?” Isabel asked, her heart beginning to beat faster.

  “Silas. This is his casket I’m makin’.”

  “No. Ephraim’s the nicest boy I know.” Isabel marched to the wagon and grabbed the top of the shroud.

  A hush grew over the crowd by the door. Isabel felt all eyes on her.

  She lifted the shroud and stared down at the pale face of the corpse beneath. Blood stained his chest. Her head swam.

  Isabel released the shroud and clutched the edge of the wagon, her knees buckling. “No,” she whispered.

  Manson stopping sawing. “You all right, Miss Isabel?”

  The room lost focus. Isabel felt like she had fallen down a well and was looking out. Her grip on the wagon weakened.

  The old blacksmith’s bushy eyebrows shot up in alarm. He dropped the saw and ran toward her.

  The ground rushed up to meet Isabel, and everything went black.

  The next thing she knew, she was staring up into the bearded face of Mr. Owens. He was sitting on the floor, her head cradled in one arm, fanning her with his free hand. “Stand back,” he said to the men gathering around, “give the girl some air. She just took a shock is all. She’ll come ’round.”

  Isabel groaned and sat up. Her ears were ringing.

  “Steady there, miss. Don’t go standin’ up too fast, you’ll only wind up down here again.”

  Isabel’s face burned with embarrassment. She’d fainted right in front of all these men. She got to her feet, assured Manson that she was all right, and hurried back to her pa’s store.

  Ignoring her father’s questioning glance, she ran upstairs to the living quarters and threw herself on her bed. A lump formed in her throat. She thought of the look on Ephraim’s face when Peyton had asked her for the last dance. He’d been jealous. She hadn’t thought it’d amount to anything; in the moment, it’d felt kind of nice to know that the two most handsome boys in town were interested in her. Now she felt guilty.

  The vision of Ephraim’s face, reddening wh
en she’d asked him to dance, filled her mind. Then the cold, lifeless face of Silas replaced it.

  Isabel began to cry.

  10

  The Reverend’s Coffee

  A fly buzzed in and out of the slats of early afternoon light that leaked through the cracks in the jailhouse walls. Ephraim heard voices outside; they sounded like Peyton and Manson. He rose from his pallet, moved to the door, and pressed his ear against the metal.

  “Squire Barrett didn’t come back with you?” Manson asked.

  “He didn’t,” Peyton said, “but he sent this.” Paper rustled, and Peyton continued, “Read it, Manson. Read it loud, so that everyone can hear!”

  Something pounded on the door of Ephraim’s cell, and he pulled back, rubbing his cheek. “Get over here where you can listen to this, Cutler!” Peyton shouted, pounding the door harder. “Your fate’s been written!”

  Manson began to read. “Go—on—and—hang—him,” he said haltingly. “Sanc—sanctioned—by—de… de…”

  The paper rustled as if it had been snatched from Manson’s hand, and then Peyton’s voice sounded loud and clear. “By decree of Judge Sam Barrett,” he read. “Look right there, if you don’t believe me—that’s the judge’s seal.” He pounded the door again. “Hear that, Cutler? We’re goin’ to stretch your murderin’ neck!”

  Ephraim slumped against the wall. Squire Barrett had decided his fate without even bothering to come and ask questions. He was probably doing it as a favor to the Hensons. Ephraim imagined they had considerable political clout in Durant County, and the judge was running for reelection, after all.

  Manson cleared his throat. “When do you plan on doin’ it?”

  “Tomorrow at dawn,” Peyton said. “We’ll string him from the big oak at my place. My folks are on their way over from Durant County. They’ll be arrivin’ sometime tonight.”

  Ephraim slid to the floor. He thought of Ma. His guts ached with something that needed to come up. Saliva flooded his mouth. He gagged, and the bitter taste of bile washed over his tongue.