BORDERLAND
BY
S.K. EPPERSON
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 1992 S.K. Epperson
All Rights Reserved. Digitally published by Shevan Productions. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PROLOGUE
Kansas-Colorado Border, 1868
The traveler from the east left his wife and son in the wagon and told them he would be only a moment. His wife nodded her dust-caked head and gave him a weary but hopeful smile. It would be nice to bathe in fresh water and sleep on clean sheets after the long, hot days on the trail. The price to stay in a rooming house would eat away precious and already dwindling assets, but a single night of peace would be worth the cost. Rumored and real attacks along the border had left her anxious and awake for many nights. The eastern farmer's wife knew what happened in these attacks for she had survived three of them in her life: once as a child in Massachusetts, once in her teens in Ohio and again this week when their group of four wagons, all families from the east, fell under attack on the moonlit Kansas prairie.
Her brother and his young wife were murdered in their sleep. Of the two other families, only a small infant escaped the slaughter by white men dressed as Indians. The farmer's wife saw the faces of the men as they drove away the horses; she saw their pale eyes and hairy limbs from the specially built hiding place in the floor of her wagon. Her husband had laughed when she insisted on his building the false bottom, but he was grateful for her past experiences on the morning after the attack, when they crawled from their hiding place to discover the corpses of their loved ones and fellow travelers gone. Their attackers had returned during the night and taken the bodies. The wife's insistence that the three of them remain in the wagon's floor until dawn had once again saved their lives.
The surviving baby was found in the tall buffalo grass on the camp's perimeter. He lived only a few hours. After burying the infant, her husband set off on foot to find the horses. He soon crossed the path of a tiny band of travelers headed south to Texas. A deal was made, and her mother's ruby brooch and four sacks of flour bought them two skinny, swaybacked horses with cracked hooves. To make the animals fit for travel her husband sealed the cracks with mud, but both horses were soon dangerously lame. It was decided they would stop in the first settlement they came to and dip into the savings yet again to obtain a decent team. They had no other choice.
The rooming house looked so inviting, so cozy with its soft lanterns and gingham curtains. Delirious with longing, the farmer's wife vowed to part with even her mother's ruby earrings if they would buy sleep in a real bed for just one night. Her husband had grudgingly agreed.
He returned to the wagon with a dirt-creased smile on his tired face. "They have a room," he told her. "But wait till you hear the best part. I told the man about our lame horses and he agreed to let me have the room for the team. I can't imagine what he would want with them, but I didn't argue. He said there's a stable on the edge of town where we can buy a fresh team tomorrow."
The wife sat still. Town? There was a house, a barn and two buildings in the distance. This was no town. And what kind of man would take two lame horses in lieu of regular payment?
Her husband nudged her. "Come on. He said there's some supper left. His wife is heating it up right now."
Something, a tingling in her extremities, warned the wife that all was not right, but her wariness evaporated upon meeting the owner of the rooming house. He was a round, cheerful man with bushy whiskers and a thick accent she thought to be German. His wife was just as round, just as pleasant, and the stew, biscuits, and blackberry preserves she served them tasted like heaven. Their children, a boy and three girls, played nicely with her son and were quiet as mice around the adults.
While they were finishing up their meal with coffee, the owner sat down with them and asked their destination.
"California," said her husband. "My older brother died and left me property there. He went west over twenty years ago, before the Sutter's Mill business, and did very well for himself. His land belongs to me now."
The farmer's wife listened dubiously to the pride and certainty in her husband's voice. She had left a solid home, close relatives and good friends behind to accompany her man to the west. In her heart she knew they were both going to be disappointed. Farming was all he knew, and she failed to see how he was going to farm land stripped bare over the years in a continuing search for nonexistent gold. She herself had an aunt in California, rumored to be running an opium den near San Francisco. If worse came to worse, she supposed she could call on her.
After the supper dishes were cleared she inquired about the other guests and was told that most were already in bed, but that some had elected to join in a card game being played in the stables. The farmer's wife frowned at this, but the owner was quick to assure her that the game was friendly and would in no way disturb her tired family. She could even have a nice, long bath if she cared for one.
She did care for a bath, and after a quick inspection of the beautifully clean room they had been given she asked her husband if he would like to bathe first. He yawned and shook his head.
"I'll use the water in the pitcher for the boy and myself. You go on."
She thanked him and went downstairs to find the owner's wife waiting for her. The woman showed her to a small room off the pantry and pointed to a large claw-foot bathtub in the center of the floor.
"My father brought it on the boat," she said in the same accent as her husband. 'It's lovely, isn't it?"
The farmer's wife assured her that it was. When the tub was half full she told the round smiling woman the water was sufficient and that she preferred privacy while bathing. Still smiling, the woman pointed to a clean towel and excused herself.
The water was cold, but after living on the hot, dusty trail the farmer's wife welcomed the chill. She soaked and scrubbed until the water turned brown and her flesh began to wrinkle. As she was toweling off she heard sounds beyond the window in the pantry: male voices, loud and boisterous. Quickly she slipped her dress over head and picked up her shoes. Her wet hair dampened the back of her dress as she tiptoed into the pantry and peered out the window.
The males were young, in their teens, and they were gathered around a wagon… hers. They were pulling out her bundles of linen and tossing pieces of furniture to the ground in a drunken frenzy. Enraged, the wife gathered up her skirt and nearly collided with the owner's wife.
"How was your bath?" the woman asked.
"Do you see what they're doing?" the farmer's wife cried. "Those boys are looting our wagon!"
The round woman smiled and clucked her tongue. "That's against the rules. I'll speak to my husband about this."
"And I'll speak to mine!" The farmer's wife pushed past the still clucking and smiling woman and headed for the stairs.
Her bare feet suffered splinters as she rushed up the steps. Flustered, she momentarily forgot which room they had been given. The first door she opened revealed a bed crowded with people, all of them motionless and appearing to be asleep. An entire family, she decided, and she briefly wondered what kind of people would sleep in their clothes on a decent bed. The next door she opened was the correct one. Her husband lay prone on
the bed. She rushed in and shouted his name. When he didn't stir she went forward to shake him awake. As she rolled him over she saw that the sheet beneath him was soaked in blood. Her horrified gaze traveled from the crimson stain on the linen to his face. His brown eyes were round with surprise. His throat had been slit from ear to ear.
She couldn't scream. Nothing would come out of her gaping mouth. A swift, panicked search showed no sign of her son. She bolted into the hall and went to the darkened room next door to rouse the sleeping family. The first arm she touched told her of her mistake, the limb beneath her fingers was stiff and as cool as the water in the claw-foot tub downstairs. The smell in the room was horrible. She snatched her hand back and sucked in air as her eyes adjusted. She knew these people. The man on the edge of the bed was her brother. Beside him was his wife.
On the landing she found her voice long enough to scream her son's name. A shrill cry from somewhere downstairs answered her. She crashed down the stairs and rushed through the dining room into the kitchen, following the sound of her son's distress. The owner's wife looked up as she entered, still smiling benignly as she held the red-faced, struggling boy on her lap.
The child screamed when he saw his mother. The round woman promptly placed a large hand over his mouth.
"Hush now. This is useless, you know. It’s useless to fight. It'll all be over soon."
The mother of the child wasted no time in finding a knife in the large kitchen. She pointed the long, gleaming blade at the smiling woman and told her to release the boy. The owner's wife shook her head and chuckled.
"So messy tonight. So messy. It'll take me a week to clean up the place. I shouldn't let them drink, you know. They forget themselves."
The farmer's widow shrieked in rage and charged the woman. After three steps her feet kept moving forward but her head was caught in two terribly strong hands from behind. There was a slight pressure at her throat, and then she saw the front of her dress change color and become as crimson as the sheet beneath her husband upstairs. The knife in her hand clattered to the floor. The pleasant, bushy-whiskered owner of the rooming house stepped from behind her and gently lowered her to the floor. The last thing she saw was his beaming, sweat-dampened face. The last thing she heard was the hoarse screaming of her son.
CHAPTER 1
What Nolan Wulf knew about little girls would fit into the ashtray of his pristine '68 Buick Wildcat convertible—the same ashtray two dark-haired, dark-eyed little girls were now filling up with wrappers and wads of chewing gum.
"Hey," he said in a loud voice, but they didn't hear him. The radio was cranked up to bass-in-the-bones level. Nolan stalked back to the house and caught one of his bandaged hands on a nail in the rickety frame of the screen door. The gauze tore and left white threads on the nail as he threw open the door.
"Vic, would you come on? We haven't even left yet and they're already tearing up my car."
Vic put his hand over the phone and stood up to look out the bare picture window. He handed the phone to Nolan. "They put me on hold. Be back in a second."
Nolan put the phone to his ear and watched as the dark-haired, dark-eyed Vic strode out to the car and took command of his spawn.
His daughters' faces were pouting as they slid out of the car. The younger one slammed the door hard enough to make Nolan wince.
Mean little shit.
This was going to be loads of fun. Oh yeah. He must have been—no, he knew he was drunk when he agreed to this. Drunk and stupidly sentimental when it came to good old Vic. Sure, he felt sorry for him. But those little girls were a different saga. Nolan wished there was some way to immobilize them for the duration of the trip, give them something like those tranquilizers you could get for dogs and cats. It might save his upholstery.
He was still holding the phone and watching Vic deliver a lecture to the two sullen girls when he saw the bright yellow two-seater MG pull into the drive behind his Buick.
"Oh shit," he said into the receiver. Love of classic automobiles aside, there had been little regret on Nolan’s side when he left her place that morning. Her take was obviously different.
Nolan wanted to hang up the phone and hide, but at that moment a voice in his ear said, "Pardon me?"
"Sorry," Nolan said. "The 'oh shit' wasn't for you."
"I'm so glad," was the chilly reply. "How may I help you?"
Nolan had no idea. "Who is this?" he asked.
"Will you be connecting or disconnecting service?"
"I'm not sure…wait a second, okay?" Nolan put his hand over the phone and yelled for Vic. The lecture ceased and Vic moved toward the house, a seriously pissed off Carrie right behind him. Her red hair looked flat on one side, which made Nolan smile to himself. She must've rolled out of bed, read the note, and hopped in the car. He recognized the steely look of determination in her face. He was in for an ass-chewing of epic proportions.
He tried not looking at her as Vic took the phone, but Carrie put herself directly in front of him, making it impossible not to see the dark flecks of dried mascara under her sleep-puffed eyes.
"You forgot these." She shoved a pair of worn Nikes at him. "They were under the bed."
"Thanks," Nolan said. He tucked the Nikes under his arm and waited. It didn't take long.
"You bastard. You leave me a note? A three-line note after three months?"
"Sshh!" Vic turned his back on them and went on talking to whomever from wherever.
Nolan fought hard not to shrug; he knew she hated it. "I told you where I was going and why."
Carrie put a hand on her hip, and Nolan suddenly realized it wasn't a cute little summer romper she was wearing. She was still in her pajamas.
"You failed to mention when you were returning and just why you'd packed up all your things. What is this, Nolan? What's going on?"
Nolan turned his head to look out the window and give himself time to think of what to say. Vic's oldest girl was sitting on the hood of Carrie's MG. The little one was behind the wheel. He rubbed his mouth to hide his smile.
"I'm just going, Carrie. All right? I've still got a month of disability left and Vic's invited me to spend it with him at his dad's place out west. His dad left him a stud farm or something."
"You should fit right in," Carrie said. "And why shouldn't he invite you to stay? They repossessed his car, so he had to sucker someone into giving him a ride out to collect his inheritance." She ignored Vic's sudden glare. "What about your hands, Nolan? You're supposed to be letting them heal."
"We're going to take turns driving."
Carrie put her other hand on her hip. "When are you coming back to Kansas City? I want a specific date."
Nolan let his chin do the shrugging. "I'll be back when my disability is up in August."
"And what happens when you come back? Will you be moving in with me again?"
"Why don't we talk about that when—“
He left Carrie standing slack-jawed as he bolted for the door. The MG was in the middle of the street and the brakes of approaching cars were screeching as he reached the shrieking little girls. The one on the hood was crying, and the one behind the wheel was trying to climb out over the driver's door. Nolan shoved her back in and plucked the bigger girl from the hood. He wasn't aware he was shouting until both of them stopped crying and stared at him.
"You never ever touch an emergency brake or anything else!" he railed above the honks of the waiting cars. The girls looked at each other as he started the car and drove back up into the drive. They decided to cry again as their white-faced father flew out the screen door.
"We don't wanna go with him," wailed the little one. "He yelled at us, Daddy."
Vic swatted her on the bottom. "I'll do more than yell at you. Get your butts in the house right now."
The bigger one stood firm. "I didn't do anything. Andy did it."
"Christa, go. I mean it." Vic turned to Nolan. "Dammit, I'm sorry. I don't know how to thank you."
"Don't worry
about it." Nolan was watching Carrie, the insurance investigator. She was examining her car for signs of damage. He hadn't seen her come out of the house. "Well?" he said when Vic returned inside.
Carrie's lip curled in a way that he'd initially thought was kind of cute. Now it grated on him.
"They were lucky," she said. She took a tissue from her purse and wiped something that looked like snot from the passenger seat. "I can't believe you're doing this, Nolan. Are you leaving just to get away from me?"
"No," he said. "Jesus, Carrie, I haven't had a real vacation in ten years. Give me a break, would you?"
"I will," she said. She got in the car and started the engine. "What should I do with your mail?"
They both knew he didn't get any, maybe the occasional newsletter from the fire department or a reminder from his dentist to come in for a checkup. His checks went directly into his account.
"I'll call you when I get there and give you the address," he said.
"You do that," she said with a sniff. Then she backed out of the drive.
Nolan was glad. She looked awful when she cried. He walked back into the house to find more tearful females. The bigger one—she was nine or ten, Nolan couldn't remember which—was wiping her eyes and trying to look tough. The little one, five or six, was boo-hooing with fervor. He was tempted to return to the yard, but Vic asked him for help in hauling out three suitcases and a dozen bulging sacks.
"We can't take all those," Nolan said, pointing to the sacks. "What's inside?"
"Toys," Vic said. "Girls, pick out one sack apiece. The rest we'll leave for the Salvation Army truck."
More sobbing ensued.
An hour later the Buick was loaded down and Nolan was behind the wheel. "I figure we can take 1-35 to Wichita and then head west," he said to Vic.
"What day is it?" Andy asked from the back.
"Saturday, dummy," Christa answered.
Borderland Page 1