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

by Luke Bauserman

  The man gasped. His knees buckled.

  William reached behind him, grasped the handle of the knife sticking out of his back, and wrenched it free. He cast it aside and grabbed his would-be-murderer by the shirtfront, hauling him up until their faces were separated by mere inches.

  “You read my almanack, didn’t you?” he hissed through bared teeth. “You thought iron would kill me this night. You went through all the trouble of finding me, Reuben. You picked the right weapon, and you picked the right night—but in the end, you didn’t stick me in the heart.” He wrenched the tomahawk free and pushed Reuben to the ground.

  Death watched Reuben’s soul trickle out of his body.

  William gazed at the man for a moment, chest heaving. Then he ran a hand through his hair and wiped the blade of the tomahawk on his pants. He turned to Scratch with a smirk. “I told you the night wasn’t over. You’ll have your prize, and I’ll have mine.”

  The Devil grinned and shook his head. “William, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “Hands up, Reverend!” shouted a new voice.

  Death turned to see a young man kneeling in the snow, aiming down the barrel of an old-time musket. “I’ve got this loaded with an iron ball!” he yelled. “Where’s Isabel?”

  38

  Butcher Holler

  The moon illuminated Butcher Holler with a ghastly light. Ephraim kept the barrel of Ruination on Boggs’s chest as he surveyed the scene. Reuben’s lifeless form made him feel sick. His eyes flicked to the two figures behind Boggs: a man in a black cloak on a white horse, and a small man wearing a suit and top hat. The back of his neck prickled.

  “Ephraim! Ephraim!” Isabel’s voice rang across the hollow. “I’m over here! Boggs doesn’t have me!”

  Ephraim lost his focus for a split second. Isabel? Where was she?

  The moment’s hesitation was all Boggs needed. He bounded forward in a blur of motion and swatted the musket from Ephraim’s hands. The gun pinwheeled into a thicket, and Boggs threw an elbow into Ephraim’s face.

  Stars exploded across Ephraim’s vision. He fell back in the snow, stunned, and his ears were filled with a ringing. But Boggs didn’t press his advantage, and as Ephraim sat up, blinking away the pain, he saw why. Boggs had gone after Isabel instead. He held her by the hair and dragged her closer, stopping a few feet from Ephraim.

  He pulled a tomahawk from his belt and showed it to Ephraim. “If you move from where you lie, I’ll split her skull with this before you can blink!”

  Ephraim didn’t move.

  “Now boy, I’ve given you just about every chance to join me and Scratch willingly. And here we are, fast approaching midnight on the Cut Off Day. So this is your last chance. Sign yourself over, or the girl dies.”

  Ephraim’s heart sank. “All right. I’ll do it!” he said.

  “I thought you’d see things my way,” Boggs said, smiling. He released Isabel’s hair and motioned to Scratch. “What did I tell you? The boy’s ready to sign the contract.”

  Ephraim locked eyes with Isabel, who motioned downward with her head slightly. He looked down and saw that she had her fingers curled around a stick. Understanding what she planned, he nodded.

  Isabel threw the stick into the woods. It struck the trunk of a tree with a thunk.

  Everything happened in a blur. Boggs spun toward the sound, tomahawk at the ready. Ephraim didn’t hesitate, didn’t even think—he launched himself at the preacher from behind, catching the man by both knees. Boggs tumbled forward, the tomahawk falling from his grasp, and Isabel snatched it up. Ephraim threw himself onto Boggs’s back with a ferocity borne of true desperation. He grabbed the back of the preacher’s collar, lifted Boggs’s head, and slammed it violently onto the frozen ground. The preacher went limp.

  “Well done, Ephraim!”

  Ephraim looked up. The man with the top hat clapped his hands in obvious glee.

  “You are truly vicious. A man after my own heart!” The man folded his hands behind him and walked over to where Ephraim sat straddling Boggs’s prone form. He stuck out a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Scratch. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  Ephraim stared at Scratch’s outstretched hand. An involuntary shudder ran through him.

  Scratch shrugged and let his hand fall to his side. “I’m thinking the two of us should dispense with this intermediary; he won’t be around for much longer anyway. Let’s strike a deal, boy!”

  “I ain’t strikin’ no deal with you,” Ephraim said.

  Scratch laughed. “At least hear me out, son. This is an opportunity most will never get.” He crouched down, so he looked Ephraim straight in the face. “Listen—to prove to you how willing I am to negotiate, why don’t you name the terms? You serve me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  Ephraim said nothing.

  “All right then, how about I propose a few things for your consideration? I have a knack for finding offers that are quite enticing.” Scratch rose and squinted pensively at Ephraim for a few moments. “You don’t strike me as a young man with an unquenchable desire to be a legendary fiddle player—I’ll forego that offer.” He glanced at Isabel, who still clutched the tomahawk. “But love…? Ah, yes. If you agree to serve me, I’ll cut her in on the deal. Immortality for the both of you, and we’ll piece it out in fifty-year segments, plenty of time for unending love. How does that sound?”

  Ephraim looked at Isabel.

  She shook her head.

  Scratch pulled out a pen and a piece of parchment. “Just a moment,” he said, scribbling. “I’ll draw up something here, we can review it, and if it’s agreeable, we’ll all sign.” He turned and motioned to the pale man. “Death, come over here.”

  “Why me?” Ephraim asked.

  Scratch looked up from the paper. “Pardon?”

  “Why did you send Boggs after me? Why do you want me to serve you so much?”

  Scratch folded the parchment and tucked it back into his coat. He motioned for Ephraim to stand. “Walk with me.”

  It was the last thing Ephraim wanted to do, yet somehow he found himself striding through the snow alongside the Devil. They stopped out of earshot of Isabel and Death. Scratch faced Ephraim and cleared his throat.

  “Ephraim, if there’s one thing God and I have in common, it’s that we both can sense great potential.” He stuck out a finger. “And you, my boy, have it. Just like your father before you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you have a gift. People trust you, even when you’ve committed horrible crimes.” Scratch pointed at Isabel. “Does she know that you’re a murderer?”

  Ephraim nodded.

  “And she’s here, trying to save you! Ephraim, I’ve been around for a long time, so believe me when I say that the girl loves you. Look at her!”

  Ephraim looked at her.

  “She’s a churchgoing, hardworking girl, the daughter of good parents, and yet she’s in the middle of the woods at night, risking her life to be with a criminal, a man worthy of the gallows! Why?”

  Ephraim hung his head.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Scratch said. “You can kill, you can steal, you can run off with an honest man’s daughter, but when people look at you they see goodness. Most men are tainted by their sins, and people sense that—they recoil from it. It’s a gift to be able to do the wrong things for the right reasons. Even with blood on your hands, you can look people in the eye. You could be a tempter without guile, Ephraim. You could reach souls I never could. And I will reward you handsomely for it.”

  The weight of Scratch’s words was more than Ephraim could bear. Self-loathing enveloped him. He wanted to be with Isabel more than anything. She was the one ray of sunshine in a life that had been clouded over since the death of his father. Yet through his longing, he knew that she deserved better.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I ain’t worthy of her.”

  “That’s beside the point, boy. What red-blooded man w
ould turn away a woman like that? She wants you! You want her! Take what’s yours to claim. The courage to act makes you worthy of it!”

  Visions of a life with Isabel flickered through Ephraim’s mind, promising untold sweetness, like the smell of a baking pie. He remembered the feel of her hand in his, the way his heart beat faster every time she sat next to him.

  Scratch produced the pen and parchment again, and pushed them into Ephraim’s hands. “Go on. Sign, boy. You’re almost there.”

  Ephraim’s gaze flicked to Reuben’s lifeless body. He was just a father who loved his son. How many boys like Amos had Boggs corrupted?

  Ephraim thought of the desperate evil glinting in the preacher’s eyes as he’d held the tomahawk over Isabel’s head. If I sign this, that’s what I’ll become. He shuddered. Isabel could never love someone that evil. Surely a pact with the Devil would end in bitterness far worse than any he’d experienced.

  With a deep breath, he turned to Scratch. “I made a mistake that ruined everythin’ I care about, but servin’ you ain’t goin’ to set things right.”

  Scratch’s smile disappeared. “Think about your decision, Ephraim. I never begin negotiations with threats, but hear me out now: all murderers are eventually mine. You will be mine. Serve me now, and I will remember your obedience for eternity. Deny me, and I will make sure that Hell lives up to its reputation.”

  Ephraim’s heart beat so fast he thought it would burst. He shook his head. “I’ll never do it.”

  Scratch scowled. “So be it. But know that the Devil gives no second chances.”

  “Ephraim!” Isabel yelled.

  An explosion of black powder shook the night.

  Ephraim spun around.

  Boggs was on his feet, Ruination clutched in his hands, the end of its barrel weeping smoke.

  Ephraim instinctively looked to Isabel. Was she all right?

  Isabel covered her mouth with her hand. Both she and Boggs were gazing at Death.

  The pale man had an odd expression on his face. He raised a hand to his chest, coughed, and toppled off his horse. When he hit the ground, he lay still, his black cloak a disembodied shadow against the whiteness of the moonlit snow.

  Boggs charged forward and leaped onto Death’s steed. It reared, trying to throw him, but Boggs hung on grimly. He gained his seat and seized the reins. The horse wheeled and bucked. Boggs jerked the reins viciously, bringing the horse under his control. He dug his heels into the steed’s pearly flanks and flogged it with the reins.

  Ephraim watched in disbelief as Boggs galloped off down the hollow.

  “Well, I never…” Scratch looked at the still form of Death, then up at the spot where Boggs had disappeared among the trees. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and shook his head slowly. A grin crept across his face, and he started to laugh. “Oh my, Death’s going to have quite the time sorting this out!” His laughing grew louder, filling the hollow.

  And as Ephraim watched, the Devil’s form began to fade. Just before he vanished, Scratch tipped his hat. “It’s a shame we couldn’t do business. I’ll be waiting for you at the Judgment, boy!”

  39

  The Pale Horseman

  Ephraim crumpled the Devil’s contract into a ball and dropped it on the ground.

  “Is he dead?” Isabel asked as Ephraim joined her by the fallen figure of Death.

  “Sure looks like it.”

  “But…I thought he was Death.”

  “That iron ball must’ve killed him. Look, Boggs hit him right in the heart.”

  “Iron ball?”

  “Yeah, today you can kill any supernatural thing with iron, least that’s what the almanac said. I was goin’ to use it on the hellhound.”

  Isabel looked alarmed. “How’s the bite? Tonight’s the full moon.”

  Ephraim rolled up his sleeve and showed her his arm.

  Isabel seized his arm and examined it. “Ephraim, you’re healed!” She drew him into a hug. “Thank the Lord! It’s over!” She took a step back and looked into his face.

  But Ephraim couldn’t meet her gaze. “No,” he said softly. “This isn’t over. It’ll never be over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ephraim remained silent for a moment, unsure if he could speak over the breaking of his own heart. “I have to leave Sixmile Creek. I can’t see you anymore. I’m damned.”

  Isabel studied him. “I knew you couldn’t stay here, Ephraim. Not with Peyton and everyone hunting you. That’s why I made up my mind.” She wrapped her hand in his. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, Isabel. Didn’t you hear me? I’m damned. I’m still a murderer. The Devil said I’ll be his when I die.”

  “I don’t care. I love you.”

  Ephraim looked into Isabel’s eyes. “I love you too, and that’s why I can’t do this to you. You deserve better.”

  Tears filled Isabel’s eyes. “Don’t say that, I—”

  The crack of a rifle echoed down the hollow, and Ephraim felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The impact drove him back a pace, and he realized he’d been shot.

  Peyton Henson stepped out from behind a tree, racking the lever on his rifle.

  Isabel screamed.

  Peyton walked toward Ephraim, his rifle raised.

  Isabel stepped in front of him. “No! Peyton, don’t!”

  “Out of my way, Isabel! This ain’t your fight. I beat Jake Fletcher till he told me where y’all were, and I ain’t about to let you stop me.”

  “You’ll have to shoot me too!” Isabel said. She stood tall, though she was shaking.

  Ephraim watched Peyton with an odd sense of calm. His shoulder burned with pain from the rifle shot, but it felt purifying in a way—a clean agony, cauterizing the ulcer of guilt in his soul. “Move, Isabel,” he said. “Let him through.”

  Isabel looked back at him, and Peyton stepped past her, sighting down the rifle. “There’s no mercy for you here, Cutler! I’ve come to settle this.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to ask you for mercy,” Ephraim said. “You deserve justice.” He spread his uninjured arm wide. “Hit me in the heart this time.” He felt empty, numb, unable to mourn his own demise.

  Peyton’s eyes were black with hatred. He laughed. “You think I’m goin’ to make it that quick? I want to watch you hurt!” He lowered the barrel of his gun and shot Ephraim in the leg.

  Ephraim gasped and collapsed to the ground.

  “I’m going to stretch this out!” Peyton yelled into the night, racking the lever of his rifle.

  “Stop!” Isabel stepped in front of Peyton again, this time grabbing the end of the barrel.

  “Let go,” Peyton hissed.

  “No! You both deserve better than this!” Isabel started sobbing. “Look!” She pointed to Reuben’s body, cooling in the snow. “It’s not justice you’re after,” she said, “it’s revenge! That man spent his life on revenge, every day of it since the war. Look at what it got him—nothing! Killing Ephraim isn’t going to bring Silas back. The only thing it will do is turn you into a murderer too.”

  Peyton bit his lower lip, staring at Reuben’s body.

  “Revenge won’t make anything better,” Isabel said quietly. “But forgiveness will.”

  Peyton’s eyes flashed at Ephraim. “I can’t forgive the scum that cut my brother down!”

  “Then just let him go,” whispered Isabel. “And give it time.” Her eyes sparkled with tears.

  Peyton shifted uncomfortably. The barrel of the rifle dropped slightly.

  Death moaned and shifted in the snow.

  Isabel and Peyton jumped back.

  The pale figure groaned. He rubbed his chest, shook snow from his beard, and got to his feet. He scowled as he looked around the clearing. “Where’s Isham?” His ice-cold eyes seemed to pierce the young folk. “Where’s my horse?”

  Ephraim and Isabel glanced at each other.

  “Boggs took him,” Ephraim said.

  Death spat in the snow.
“They’ve gone and done it this time, Scratch and his blasted servants!” He looked around the clearing again. “Scratch left, didn’t he? He never stays around to clean up after himself.”

  Ephraim nodded.

  “I thought you were dead,” Isabel said.

  Death snorted. “Dead? That iron sure stung, it knocked me into the netherworld, but I’m no more dead than a rabbit thrown into a briar patch.” He studied the ground, his eyes settling on the path of hoofprints in the snow. “I swear I’ll make Scratch pay for this,” he muttered to himself, walking in the direction Boggs had taken.

  “Wait,” Ephraim said.

  Death turned around. “Yes?”

  “Before Scratch left, he said that all murderers would eventually be his. Is that true?”

  Death shrugged. “I reckon so. The judgment of souls is no concern of mine.”

  Ephraim thought of Isabel’s words to Peyton. Forgiveness can make things better.

  “You said you travel the path between this world and the netherworld. Could you let me ask the man I killed to forgive me?”

  Death’s eyes narrowed.

  “He was an innocent man,” Ephraim said. “I want to make things right with him.”

  The pale man shook his head. “That’s impossible. The dead have no business with the living. I’ve never allowed such a meeting. It goes against the natural order.”

  “But, you could do it?”

  Death eyed Ephraim warily. “I don’t know. Doing so would require the full exercise of my power. I would need my reaping hook and horse, both of which are currently missing.”

  “Oh.” Ephraim hung his head.

  Death turned and continued to follow Isham’s tracks. Then he stopped, bent down, and retrieved a crumpled wad of paper from the snow. The contract Scratch had written. Death unfolded it and scanned the page.

  He turned back toward Ephraim, a pensive look in his eyes. “Scratch offered you this deal?”

  “Yes.”

  Death looked down at the paper again, his brow furrowed. “He offered you fifty years free from death in exchange for your service?”