Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1)

by Luke Bauserman

  Some Dark Holler

  Luke Bauserman

  Contents

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  1. The Devil’s Finest, 1865

  2. Pistol Kisses, 1872

  3. Barefoot Nancy

  4. Molasses and Moonshine

  5. Ace in the Hole

  6. Wayfaring Stranger

  7. Foxglove Tea

  8. Jailhouse

  9. Isabel

  10. The Reverend’s Coffee

  11. The Snake and the Shovel

  12. Wanted and Unwanted

  13. The Sinkhole

  14. Burning Scent

  15. The Hurricane Timber

  16. Hunger

  17. Omen in the Suds

  18. A Hatful of Regret

  19. The Clearing

  20. Shallow Grave

  21. Ma

  22. An Unsettling Notion

  23. The Funeral

  24. Phidity

  25. Reckon with the Devil

  26. Trotter Head

  27. A Couple of Sinners

  28. Evil Eye

  29. Sellout

  30. Iron Balls for Ruination

  31. Peyton

  32. Ol’ Reelfoot

  33. Cut Off Day

  34. Horse Thief

  35. The Bear Trap

  36. A Thing So Old

  37. Earth and Worm

  38. Butcher Holler

  39. The Pale Horseman

  Enjoyed Some Dark Holler?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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  Read the fascinating history and folklore that inspired Some Dark Holler in, Six Tales from Sixmile Creek. You can get a copy FOR FREE when you sign up to join my Reader’s Group. To get started, go to: www.lukebauserman.com/sixtales

  1

  The Devil’s Finest, 1865

  Death’s horse limped through the snow on three legs. A severed head dangled from the saddle horn, bouncing with every lurching step.

  The rider slumped over his steed, snoring into the silver river of his beard; the black hood had fallen back, exposing hair as pale as moonlight. His cloak was draped in inky folds over the pearl-white flank of his horse. Dark trees choked the path, making way for the horseman and closing immediately behind.

  A drift barred the way ahead. The horse floundered as it entered the deep snow, the stump of its right foreleg pumping in space. It snorted and reared onto quivering hind legs.

  Death awoke. His head bumped a snow-laden bough, showering him in chill flakes. “Whoa, Isham,” he said, pulling back on the reins.

  The horse came down, flanks heaving.

  Death slid from the saddle, landing thigh-deep in the drift. He wiped his eyes with pallid hands and yawned. Reaching into a leather saddlebag, he drew out an ear of corn as black as coal. He pried loose a handful of kernels and held them out to the horse.

  Isham nuzzled his master’s palm, raking the kernels into his mouth with fleshy lips.

  Death ran his hand over the saddle and tested the girth strap. He glanced at the severed head, its frozen mouth leering around the rawhide thong worked through its jaws.

  Some fool’s always trying to outrun his own shadow.

  Death cinched the strap tighter. The Devil had a surprise coming tonight.

  Isham snorted and raised his head, breathing a great gout of vapor into the night. A ghostly limb sprouted from his legless nub, barely visible in the moonlight. He flexed the unearthly leg and stomped.

  “That ought to get us to this infernal meeting a little quicker,” Death said. He put his foot in the stirrup, swung back into the saddle, and clucked his tongue. Isham sprang forward, clearing the drift with ease.

  The path grew thin and soon disappeared altogether. They moved through the snow-clogged bracken and creaking trees into the heart of the forest. At length, Death saw an orange light quivering in the darkness. He urged Isham toward it, and they emerged into a clearing ringed by a black wall of pines, a fire blazing at its center. The snow had drawn back from the heat, leaving a damp ring of ground.

  Three figures were gathered around the flames. At Death’s approach, a small, finely dressed man rose from his perch on a stump.

  “Welcome, Pale Rider.” He lifted a cane in greeting and removed his top hat.

  Death fixed the smaller man with a gaze as cold as ice, then turned his head and spat in the snow. “Scratch, you’re a thorn in my side, you know that?”

  Scratch raised an eyebrow. “My, my, what a foul humor you’re in tonight.” He shrugged. “No matter. This won’t take long. William, quick and orderly as he is, has given me two contracts already signed in blood. His own, which is due for renewal, and one for Amos, our newest recruit.” He reached into his coat and withdrew two pieces of parchment and a pen. “All we need is your signature, and you won’t be bothered for another seven years.”

  Death scowled. “Save it. I found something that belongs to you.” He unhooked the rawhide thong from the pommel and tossed the severed head onto the ground. It rolled to a stop at the Devil’s feet.

  Scratch turned the grisly offering with his boot, examining the face. He clucked his tongue. “Henry tried to run, did he?”

  “I chased him clear across Arkansas!” Death leveled a finger at Scratch. “From one side to the other. You know how long that took me? Four days to hunt him, and three days to ride here. That’s seven days that I’ve had to abandon my duties, all on account of your failure of a servant. You know why it took that long to catch him? In every campfire the fool made, he crossed two sticks and poured salt over them.” Death folded his arms. “Tell me, where’d he learn to do that?”

  Scratch spread his hands in a gesture of innocence, diamond cuff links winking in the firelight. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe you let it slip in front of him like you just did in front of these two mortals.” He pointed to the two men waiting on the other side of the fire.

  Death squinted, taking in the mortals for the first time. They both wore the gray uniforms of soldiers. The first, a middle-aged man, squatted by the flames, his palms held out to catch the heat. He met Death’s gaze and smirked. At his side, a gangly youth sat on a log, bouncing one knee, hands tucked into his armpits, steadily avoiding Death’s eyes.

  Death snorted. “If they’ve got any sense betwixt the two of them, they’ll see just how useful that little trick was to their friend.” He patted Isham’s neck. “There isn’t a soul on this earth my horse can’t run down.” He looked back at Scratch and waved dismissively. “I’m done cleaning up your leavings, Scratch. I won’t be signing these deals.”

  Scratch shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Death pulled on the reins and wheeled Isham away from the fire. This felt good; he should have done it centuries ago. He’d been a fool to let the Devil push him around in the first place.

  “How’s dearest Maude?” Scratch asked.

  Death stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. How did Scratch know about Maude? He pulled Isham back to face the Devil.

  Scratch arched a perfect black eyebrow. “Thought you had a secret, didn’t you? That’s right. I know you’ve been holding her back from the Judgment.” He wagged a finger. “Naughty, naughty.”

  “I make no distinction between saints and sinners.” Death spoke through clenched teeth. “The Judgment is no concern of mine, and Maude is no concern of yours.”

  “I’ve never accused you of dividing the goats from the sheep.” Scratch winked. “The only prejudice I’ve ever known you to show is your eye for redheads. But contrary to your c
laim, Maude is very much my concern. By the way, have you had any luck finding her?”

  Death’s hand leaped instinctively to the reaping hook sheathed alongside the saddle. “Scratch! If you had anything to do with her disappearance, I swear I’ll—”

  The Devil laughed, holding up his hands. “Whoa, slow down, Pale Rider. I don’t know where your sweetheart has run off to.” He paused, his eyes glinting with malevolence. “Or who with.”

  Death’s nostrils flared, and he pulled the reaping hook halfway out of its sheath.

  “Put it away, Death. You know it’ll do you no good here. I was merely going to point out that before you took a shine to her, the girl was destined for my neck of the woods.” Scratch rubbed his chin. “It had something to do with her burning the cabin down with her uncle inside.” His face grew serious. “And if I find her first, well…,” his eyes narrowed, “I keep a special place in Hell for pretty faces.” He held up the contracts. “Then again, if I ran across the girl and you and I were on good terms… I might be persuaded otherwise.”

  Death released the reaping hook, his fingers balling into a fist. He bowed his head. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

  A grin spread over Scratch’s face, erasing every ounce of menace from his features. “I thought you’d say that.” He held out the pen and papers.

  Death snatched the documents. A quick glance confirmed that Scratch was offering these mortals his standard contract: their “might, mind, strength, and soul” in exchange for seven years of protection from the grave. Death bit his lip as he scrawled his name, then thrust the papers back at Scratch.

  The Devil accepted the documents. “Everything’s in order, then.”

  Lifting Isham’s reins, Death prepared once again to leave.

  “Not so fast.” Scratch raised a finger. “We have to take care of my newest recruit.” He tucked the papers into his coat and turned to the gangly youth. “Are you ready for your first assignment, Amos?”

  The young man stood and rubbed his palm on the patched knee of his pant leg. “Y-yes sir,” he said, walking toward Scratch with jerky steps.

  Scratch handed Amos a sealed envelope. “You’ll be traveling north, to the lumber camps on the Great Lakes,” he said. “The specifics on the boy you’re after are inside.”

  Amos accepted the envelope with trembling hands.

  “You have seven years from today to persuade him to join my service. As my servant, you’ll be immune from Death. If you’re successful, you can choose to take another assignment, good for another seven years free from Death. If you fail, well…” Scratch glanced at the fallen head. “You’ll be subject to the Dread Horseman, just like dear Henry. Any questions?”

  Amos shook his head.

  “Very well.” Scratch placed his hand on the boy’s back and pushed him forward. “Death, remove your imprint.”

  Amos stumbled toward Isham’s flank, quaking. Death seized the boy’s shoulder and shut his eyes. Amos gasped and went rigid.

  The boy’s mortal imprint was a kind of long shadow that trailed from his being and connected him to Death. Every human was tagged with one from birth. It kept Death from having to personally collect each mortal when their appointed time came.

  I just wasted four days hunting down one of these, and here I am creating another, Death thought. He cursed himself for his weakness. He cursed Maude for her hair, red like the sunset, and for smelling of lavender when she tucked her head under his chin. He resolved to let her go, and in the same thought, he knew he could not.

  With a sigh, he detached the imprint from Amos and released him. The young man staggered away.

  Scratch grinned and thumped Amos on the back. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  Amos looked back at Death and shuddered.

  “On your way then,” Scratch said. “No time to waste.”

  Amos nodded vigorously and struck out from the fire, striding with purpose.

  “North is that way,” Scratch said, pointing in the opposite direction.

  The youth did an about-face, stammering an apology.

  Scratch chuckled. “All nerves, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll have more to worry about once I come to collect him,” Death said.

  The third man spoke for the first time. “Not all of us are as blundering as Henry.”

  Death turned in the saddle to face William. He was taken aback by the man’s gall. “What did you say?”

  William crossed his arms. “You talk as if the boy is sure to fail, and yet here I stand, a servant of Scratch for over ninety years.”

  “That’s bold talk for a mortal.”

  “Indeed,” Scratch said, stepping between William and Death. “William, it’s not your place to goad the Reaper. Are you ready to earn another seven years?”

  William locked eyes with Death. “Always.”

  Scratch produced an envelope and handed it to William. “I’m sending you after a boy named Ephraim Cutler. I’m quite eager to recruit him. Don’t let me down.”

  William rubbed his thumb over the envelope. “Master, it only took me four years to persuade Amos.” He inhaled deeply. “I’ll deliver this Ephraim Cutler to you in three and a half years, in exchange for fourteen years of your protection. That’s half the time for twice the reward. What do you say?”

  Scratch laughed—a mocking sound. “You are ambitious, I’ll give you that. But no, I’m afraid your request exceeds the bounds of our arrangement.”

  William’s eyes flashed. “But Master, I—”

  Scratch held up a hand. “That’s enough, William. You’re free to leave.”

  William swore, and stalked off into the trees.

  Death watched him go. He lifted his black hood over his head. “I don’t care how much time it takes, Scratch, I look forward to beheading that one.”

  Scratch sighed and patted Isham’s muzzle. “He can be insolent, but in the end, he’s only a man. William fights so hard against his fate. Death, Heaven, Hell—he isn’t satisfied with any of it. But how I love to watch him struggle.” He grinned at Death. “Don’t be so mulish about these dealings, my friend. Recruiting mortals to do your work makes eternity pass most delightfully. You really should try it sometime.”

  2

  Pistol Kisses, 1872

  Ephraim inhaled the cool night air. A hoot owl called from a stand of post oaks to his left. The big moon bathed the frosty creek bottom in a soft yellow glow. The thrill of the hunt pulsed through him. He glanced at the other men who made up the hunting party, a dozen in total, and each gripped his rifle in anticipation.

  “It’s a sixteen-shooter, seventeen if you have one in the chamber,” Peyton Henson said. He held his lever-action rifle out to Ephraim and tapped the brass tube magazine.

  At a head taller and two years older than Ephraim, Peyton had the air of a freshly minted dandy. His leather boots were as well-oiled as his rifle, and his hat had yet to weather a single rainstorm.

  Ephraim shouldered his battered single-shot and curled his toes through holes in the soles of his brogans. “A coon hide with sixteen holes in it ain’t worth much,” he said.

  Peyton snorted. “You don’t use ’em all at once. A gun like this, you load on Sunday and shoot all week long.”

  Off in the trees, the hounds began to bay.

  Peyton slapped Ephraim on the back. “Sounds like they found us a coon.”

  The hunting party waded into the forest, through the ferns and bushes, whooping to their dogs. Manson Owens, the local blacksmith, raised his lantern so high it knocked the brim of his hat sideways. “Who-e-e-e!” he shouted. “Give it to ’em, Lonnie!”

  They made their way downstream and found the hounds gathered in a knot on a sandbar, sniffing around. One dog, young and gangly, splashed into the water, headed for the far bank. He came out of the creek, shook the water from his coat, and cast about, searching for the trail. He disappeared into the thick timber, and a moment later his excited voice made the forest ring. The other dogs
lifted their heads and followed suit, fording the creek and crashing through the brush in a tumult of soprano howls.

  “Did you see that?” Peyton said to Ephraim. “Clyde picked up the scent before all the others! And tonight’s his first time trailing a live coon.”

  “You say he’s a purebred Redbone?” Ephraim asked.

  “Yeah. Pa got him for me last week, for my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Sure is a fine-lookin’ animal.”

  The hunting party crossed the water in pursuit of the hounds. The whole woods rang with the sound of the chase. Peyton ran ahead with his older brother Silas, leaving Ephraim with Manson Owens.

  On the far side of the creek, they encountered a steep hill. Ephraim slowed his pace to match Manson’s, falling behind the other hunters. The old man reminded him of a locomotive he’d seen once, climbing the slope one steady chug at a time. He looked at Ephraim. “You ever been past the old Sherman cabin in Butcher Holler?” he asked between breaths.

  “Not for a long time.”

  Manson nodded. “It’s best to stay clear of that place, ’specially when you’re out huntin’ alone.”

  They crested the hill and came to the head of Butcher Holler. The voices of men and dogs floated up the slanted ground. Mason peered down into the bowl of the hollow. “By golly, that coon knows folks don’t like this place, so he run down there!”

  Leaves, slick with frost, plastered the ground. Ephraim and Manson picked their way down until they came to an abandoned cabin. Naked vines of poison ivy lined the spaces in the log walls and skirted the eaves. The door and shutters had long since given way before mountain winds.

  Ephraim peered inside. Dry leaves and other woodland debris littered the floor, making the single room look like the cavity of a dead tree.

  “I’m gettin’ old and fat,” Manson said. He leaned against a hitching post, took off his hat, and fanned himself. Beads of sweat trickled down his face; even his bushy mustache had the sheen of perspiration. He studied the abandoned cabin, his nose wrinkling. “This place gives me the all-overs. I never could figure why Ol’ Wes Sherman chose to live out here on the backside of nowhere. I bet he kept a possum for a yard dog and owls in his henhouse.”