Follow The Stone

by John Locke

  But there was somethin’ more.

  Phoebe had taken up a defiant stance on the driver’s bench. Her body was coiled like a rattler ready to strike. She was on the verge of jumpin’ out of the wagon to help Rose. In that moment, for the first time since layin’ eyes on her, I saw Phoebe in a new light. She’d come a long way in a short time, as women will when they must, and that vision of her crouched on the edge of the wagon, ready to take on a wild bull if need be, is a sight I’ll never forget.

  But there was also a heavy sadness in Phoebe’s face, and when she jutted her chin toward a heap of clothes a few feet to the right of the bull, I saw why.

  It was Scarlett’s body.

  Lyin’ face down on the ground.

  I felt terrible about Scarlett, but I didn’t want Phoebe to jump in the fray. I motioned her to back up. Then, keepin’ an eye on Rose and the bull, I strode quietly but steadily to the wagon. The others saw me and everyone started whisperin’ at the same time, and pointin’ to Scarlett. I put my finger over my lips, signalin’ them to quiet down. When they did, I whispered, “Where’s Hannah?”

  “We don’t know,” Hester whispered back.

  “Scarlett took her to do her necessaries,” Emma said. “Then we heard a thud, and saw the bull goring Scarlett.”

  I looked around. There weren’t much cover, but there was some. Hannah was likely hidin’ behind the low bushes twenty yards to the right of Scarlett’s body. Knowin’ Scarlett, she probably drew the bull’s attention away from Hannah to protect her. That’s just the type of woman she was. If she was dead, I’d miss her terribly. On the other hand, I knew Scarlett to be a tough, capable woman. I wondered if she might be playin’ possum.

  I looked at the mound of clothes.

  “Has she moved or made a sound?” I whispered.

  The women shook their heads.

  “How many times did he butt her?”

  Hester and Emma looked at each other. Emma said, “Four times? Five?”

  Hester nodded.

  My heart sank. This was a thousand pound bull. No one could have survived that much punishment.

  “She never cried out?” I said. “Even the first time?”

  They shook their heads.

  “She was a helluva woman,” I said, but shouldn’t have, since it set Monique to wailin’.

  “Hush!” Rose cried out. Her back was to us, and she was standin’ a mere ten feet away from the bull. I put my hand on Monique’s forearm and she quieted down enough for me to hear Rose cooin’ softly at the bull. She was speakin’ some sort of language I’d never heard before.

  “What’s going to happen?” Hester whispered.

  I held up my rifle.

  “You’ll be safe,” I said.

  Hester didn’t seem so sure, which proved her a good judge of the situation.

  “What about Rose?” she said.

  I shook my head. Things didn’t look good for Rose.

  I didn’t know what to do. If I made a move toward the bull, he might charge the wagon and knock it over. A bull this size could kill half the camp if he got the women on the ground. But if I did nothin’, he would surely kill Rose.

  The bull blew a snort and stumbled a few steps. He seemed ill. His tongue was all swole up and hung out the side of his mouth like it was too big to fit. Apart from mating, bulls don’t generally rear up on their hind legs like a stallion, but this one tried to do just that. The effort made him fall to the ground, where he rolled around in a dusty panic until he shakily got to his feet. His muscles trembled and twitched, as if he’d experienced a sudden tremor. Then he lowered his head and charged sideways, and gored Scarlett’s corpse.

  Monique screamed.

  In all my time around cattle, I’d never seen a bull act like this. He was crazed, seemed possessed by the devil. When he raised his head, I saw why: foam was drippin’ from his mouth.

  “What is that?” Phoebe whispered.

  “Hydrophobia,” I said.

  In the mountains, on the plains, and especially in the woods, I’d seen Rose do a hundred things no one else could do. I’d trust her to survive a winter in the wilderness ahead of any trapper or mountain man. But she and I both knew she weren’t gonna talk this bull down. It was gonna charge, no two ways about it.

  I could only think of one thing to do, and it wasn’t gonna work. But I had to do somethin’. I jumped into the wagon, hopin’ not to distract the bull ’til I could punish him for bein’ distracted. I stood on the seat next to Phoebe so I could squeeze off a shot from the highest possible angle.

  I raised my rifle to my cheek.

  Rose turned her head and gave me a look that weren’t fright, but it weren’t confidence, neither. She seemed confounded, like for the first time since I’d known her, she’d didn’t have a solution for the problem. She shifted her gaze behind me, as if somethin’ was approachin’ from the rear. So intense was her look, I turned my head for a split second, to see if Hannah was back there.

  But I saw nothin’.

  The bull snorted, and pawed the ground again. Behind me, Major whinnied.

  Rose locked her eyes on mine and set her jaw. Rose ain’t the type that needs to rely on anyone else, but now, seconds away from death, I felt like, for once, she was relyin’ on me.

  You don’t bring down a crazed Longhorn bull with a single shot, and there wouldn’t be time for two. My only chance was to hit him in such a manner that Rose could get out of the way when he charged.

  And that didn’t seem possible.

  Unless…

  I’ve shot some buffalo in my day, and bear, too. And I learned there’s only one shot that can stop ’em in their tracks.

  The heart shot.

  Like a buffalo, a bear’s heart is big, but well-protected by its shoulder and leg. You can’t shoot low, or forward, or you’ll have a wounded, angry bear to deal with. I ’spect Texas Longhorn bulls are built similar to buffalo and bears, and would be just as surly if shot poorly. But if I could get this Longhorn to turn his head slightly and take a step forward, he’d expose the area I needed to hit. Unfortunately, even a heart-shot buffalo can run a hundred yards before dyin’. And while a bull ain’t exactly a buffalo or bear, this was one helluva big Longhorn, and I’d be awful damn lucky to kill it with one shot in such a way that Rose could get away.

  And one shot is all I figured to have.

  The bull cocked his head at Rose and pawed the ground one last time before chargin’.

  I was standin’ on the bench, surrounded by snifflin’ whores who I hoped were tryin’ hard not to cause movement in the wagon. Time seemed to stand still while I waited for the bull to turn sideways enough for me to shoot his heart.

  At that precise moment, several things happened at the same time.

  Shrug appeared from the far side of the trail, and hurled a rock at the bull’s face.

  The bull charged Rose, but turned sideways a split second when Shrug’s rock hit him.

  I fired my rifle.

  In the space of a heartbeat, two things were clear. First, I’d made a perfect shot. And second, it didn’t make a difference.

  The bull never slowed as it attacked Rose.

  And that didn’t matter either.

  Because by the time the bull got to where Rose had been standing…she was no longer there.

  31.

  Everythin’ happened so fast, it seemed a blur. The bull stopped a few feet beyond where he would have gored Rose, had she been there, and now he looked around, stupefied, tryin’ to locate her. I took that opportunity to squeeze off another shot to his heart, and two more to his lung. The bull shuddered twice, took a step toward Shrug, then buckled to his knees, and fell.

  Phoebe shouted, “Wayne!”

  I lowered my rifle and swept the area with my eyes, lookin’ for Rose.

  “Was she gored?” I said.

  “She just…disappeared!” Leah said.

  Apparently Mary hadn’t seen Shrug ’til that moment, because she su
ddenly yelled, “What in the name of God is that thing? Shoot it, Emmett!”

  Phoebe jumped out of the wagon and ran toward him. They embraced briefly, which caused Mary to say, “What is she doing? Hugging it?”

  I said, “That’s Shrug. He saved her life recently.”

  “Jesus!” she said.

  Shrug and Phoebe realized everyone was watchin’ ’em. They backed away from each other, suddenly self-conscious about their public display. Then Shrug ran to check on Scarlett. As he turned her over, Phoebe shouted, “She’s alive!”

  There was more. Little Hannah was underneath her, safe and sound.

  I put my rifle in the wagon, and we all ran over to see.

  Scarlett had always been a big gal. Bein’ unconscious made her heavier still. But me and Shrug and the women managed to get her in the wagon anyway. She was in bad shape and gettin’ worse, and I only had one hope for her survival.

  “Where’s Rose?” I said. “Anyone see what happened to her?”

  Shrug looked where she’d been, then up in the sky, then back at me, and shrugged.

  “She was standin’ there one minute,” Leah said, “and the next…she was gone.”

  “She’s a witch,” Mary said. “I knew it the minute I met her, and nothing’s happened to change my mind ever since. Especially this.”

  “She must a’ got hit by the bull,” I said. “She’s slight, and could’ve been butted a good distance. Let’s spread out and check the grass on the other side of the trail. Maybe she got knocked into a hole or somethin’.”

  “Someone should stay in the wagon with Scarlett and Hannah,” Phoebe said. I noticed she was strokin’ Hannah’s hair. It seemed to calm her.

  “How about you stay with her then,” I said.

  Phoebe nodded.

  I looked at Hannah. She hadn’t said a word, had no expression on her face.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I said.

  “She’s in shock.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  “Would you be?”

  I didn’t answer, but figured I probably would, had I gotten this far, like Hannah had. Whatever terrible things had befallen this tragic girl, she seemed to weather it pretty well. In the shit hole that was Hannah’s life, this was just another turd.

  “We’ll hope for the best,” I said.

  From behind us a voice called out, “We’ll take your whores, now, and your water, and any money you got.”

  We turned to find four gunmen on horses enterin’ the camp. One had a pearl-handled six shooter in his hand, and he was aimin’ it at the center of my chest. The others had shotguns trained on Shrug and the women.

  The guy with the hand gun did the talkin’. He was slim and sat tall in the saddle, and had on a brown derby hat. His eyes were enormous, twice the size of a normal man’s, and crazy lookin’. They put me in mind of a stone killer named Bose Rennick, who used to travel with Sam Hartman. Hartman was a regular curly wolf, often considered the cruelest man who ever lived. I’d seen Bose once, six years ago, when I was ridin’ through Jacksboro, Texas. He was chained to a tree on the edge of town, with three lawmen guardin’ him. I only saw him a few seconds that day, but he had the same giant and crazy-lookin’ eyes as this hombre. Somehow Bose managed to escape from Jacksboro, and he and Sam lit out for Mexico, where they raised a ruckus ’til the Federales threw ’em in prison. I heard they were killed tryin’ to break out, which meant the guy in front of me weren’t him.

  But that didn’t make his eyes any less frightenin’ than Bose Rennick’s. If there was anythin’ on the other side of this man’s eyes, well, he weren’t sharin’ it with the rest of us.

  The first time he’d spoke, his voice was rough and scratchy. This time it was clear as a bell, and the words came out of his mouth rich and deep, and sounded like they’d been basted in honey. It was far and away the nicest voice I ever heard on a man.

  “I’m Bose Rennick,” he said. “And this here’s Sam Hartman.”

  “Never heard a’ you,” I said.

  Sam Hartman pulled the hammer back on his shotgun. He looked—not just eager, but like he couldn’t wait to pull the trigger. I thought about the look in Rose’s eyes just before the bull charged her. She must have seen, or sensed these fellers comin’ up behind us.

  Bose cast a watchful eye on Shrug. His eyebrow went up.

  “What the fuck happened to him?” he said, his voice as sweet as if he’d sung the words. You hear Bose Rennick’s voice and decide the good Lord must a’ felt the need to make it up to him for puttin’ them double-sized crazy eyes on his face.

  Sam Hartman said, “Who gives a shit about the cripple?” To me, he said, “You and him, get the dead one and the kid outta the wagon. Then hitch it up and put the whores in it, and two of the water barrels.”

  “Them barrels are mostly empty,” I said.

  Bose flipped his gun toward the supply wagon as casually as I might shoo a fly, and shot a hole in one of the barrels. When no water spurted out, he said, “You got water somewhere.”

  “We’ve got some,” I said.

  “Put what you have in the wagon, along with your canteens,” he said.

  “We’ll be needin’ them canteens for our journey,” I said.

  Sam and Bose looked at each other.

  “I’m afraid your journey has come to an end,” Bose said.

  I marveled at the man’s voice. It was so full and deep and rich, it would almost be worth getting’ shot just to hear him talk about it afterward.

  Almost.

  I glanced at Shrug, but he seemed fresh out of ideas. I kicked a clod off the bottom of my boot and looked back up at Bose Rennick.

  “You got a damn fine voice, Mr. Rennick,” I said.

  “Fuck you!”

  No doubt about it, we were in a bad way.

  I’d left my six gun and derringer in my saddlebag last night. I would’ve had the derringer, but was afraid I might accidentally shoot Gentry while rollin’ around on the ground with her. So I was unarmed, Shrug was on the wrong side of the shotguns, and Rose had disappeared into thin air. The only thought that gave me comfort was knowin’ Gentry was still on the hill, safe and sound. While she didn’t have much frontier experience, she was resourceful. If worse came to worse, she ought to be able to make her way back to Springfield.

  As if readin’ my mind, Bose motioned toward the hill where Gentry and I laid together fifteen minutes earlier.

  “There ain’t but three trees on that hill,” Bose said, “but your yaller-faced girlfriend is tied to one of ’em. Earl Grubbs is fuckin’ her at the moment, but in ten minutes, if we ain’t back, his orders are to shoot her.”

  I wanted to rush him. If I did, would he and the others be startled enough to start shootin’? If I could draw their fire, maybe Shrug would have enough time to pull some stones from his pouch. Shrug was fast and deadly, and he might be able to kill one or two of ’em and get away. If that happened, he might be able to save the women. Maybe Gentry, too.

  It weren’t a great plan, but it was worth a try. They’d kill me, but they were gonna kill me anyway.

  As I got ready to make my move, several things went through my mind. I wondered how far I’d get. Would I make it to Rennick’s horse? I didn’t think so. Bose was a lightning-quick, deadly shooter, and I’d get no more than four feet.

  I hesitated.

  It was a poor plan. I wouldn’t live long enough to draw fire from the other two. Unless I could come up with a way to make all three gunmen concentrate on me.

  The odds weren’t high, but they weren’t impossible, neither.

  “Get them outta the wagon or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Bose said.

  I took a deep breath.

  It was now or never.

  I reminded myself to turn sideways as I attacked, to give ’em a smaller target. Maybe I’d point at somethin’ or shout before runnin’ at him. That might distract the others. And Shrug would take the cue, right? Of course he would.
He was always alert, always ready.

  I looked up at Bose.

  That’s what I’d do, shout somethin’. Shout somethin’, then rush him, fast and furious as possible.

  I made my move, and I did manage to get the shout out.

  But before I could rush Bose Rennick, all hell broke loose.

  32.

  It started with Rose, who came from—well, I don’t know where the hell she came from, but I felt her hand on my shoulder, and when I turned to look, her mouth was movin’ fast as lightnin’.

  But no words were comin’ out.

  She weren’t starin’ at me or Bose or Sam or the other guy, just straight ahead. I heard Bose yell “What the hell?” and then his horse started twitchin’ and shiverin’ uncontrollably. Its nostrils flared and its eyes bugged out. Then it reared up. Then the other horses reared. Then they started wheelin’ around in tight, fast circles.

  I looked at Rose again and had to jump back. Her lips were still makin’ silent words, but her eyes had turned yellow, with black pupils that went vertical, like a snake’s.

  The gunmen tried to calm their horses, but couldn’t. The horses were so out of control, the riders had to use both hands just to hang on. Their guns clattered to the ground as they attempted to still their mounts.

  But the horses were havin’ none of it. For some reason—and I’m pretty sure it had to do with Rose—they were spooked out of their minds. They whinnied and stamped their feet and bucked and spun.

  And then, for no reason I could determine, they turned and galloped away, despite their riders’ best intentions to make ’em stop.

  I looked at Rose. She was still starin’ at somethin’ I couldn’t see.

  “Where are they goin’?” I said.

  She kept starin’ and movin’ her lips as though she didn’t know I was there. I said, “Rose! What happened with the bull? Where were you? How’d you keep from gettin’ gored?” But she never responded, never stopped movin’ her lips.

  There were lots of questions I wanted answers to, but they could wait. Gentry couldn’t.

  “Watch the women!” I yelled to Shrug, and bolted across the camp toward Major. As I untied his lead I heard Phoebe say, “Why didn’t they just jump off their horses?”