“There’s the fire,” said Stamper, as smoke swirled around himself and the other six men. A line of trees was ablaze about a half-mile ahead, and the dry wind that had picked up was blowing it in their direction. As they watched, they could see hungry flames jumping from tree to tree. “Lightnin’ strike either last night or early this mornin’,” he said. “That timber’s dry, gonna flare up in a hurry.”
The smoke was thickening, burning both the eyes and the lungs. Bovie coughed some of it out and said, “Trail keeps on goin’ that way. What’ll we do, Stamper?”
“I don’t like bein’ out here with a fire comin’. That damn thing jumps, it’ll get all around you. Could be the skins turned in another direction.” He looked past Magnus at Royce. “What do you say, Griff?”
“I say we follow the trail. If it turns, we’ll see it.”
“Keep goin’,” was Foxworth’s advice. “Come too far not to get ’em.”
“Fire’s movin’ this way,” said Stamper, a muscle working in his jaw. “Could be it’s already burned their trail up, we’ll never find ’em.”
“We won’t find ’em by standin’ here.” Royce looked up at the dark gray sky. “Maybe it’ll rain, put the flames out. Come on,” he said impatiently, “we’ve got to move.”
“Don’t like that fire,” Barrows said, angling his good eye at the others. “Wind’s pickin’ up, too. Not sure we ought to—”
He was interrupted by the sound of a baby crying, off to their right. Instantly all firearms were aimed in the direction of the dense thicket, but nothing alive could be seen in there. The crying noise went on for perhaps five or six seconds, ending with what sounded like a harsh sob of despair.
There was silence, but for the noise of the distant fire eating its way through the wilderness. All the men were frozen in place. Then Magnus heard something coming through the woods…something big and heavy. “Listen!” he said, and heard his own voice tremble: “Listen!”
Whatever it was, it was crashing through the underbrush and coming fast. Royce retreated, standing behind and to Gunn’s left with his musket raised and ready. Foxworth backed up until his spine met a tree. Barrows’ single eye had widened. Stamper and Bovie both stood their ground, as smoke swept past and the devil’s dry wind blew toward the River of Souls.
Magnus’ finger was on the trigger of the rusty pistol. He hoped it wouldn’t explode in his hand…but whatever was coming, it was going to need more than a pistol ball to stop it.
From the dark, smoke-swept woods burst into the torchlight not just one beast, but three.
Magnus fired. So too did Gunn, Barrows and Stamper, nearly at the same time. Bovie, armed with only the sword, let out a holler and slashed at the first creature that came through…a large buck with a spread of antlers, followed by two does. In the clouds of blue gunsmoke, the buck staggered under the impact of the shots but kept going past the men.
Perhaps two seconds later, Royce’s musket went off. Joel Gunn’s forehead blew out as the ball that had entered the back of his head made its exit.
“Christ, man!” Stamper shouted. Gunn’s knees were buckling, blood streaming down the wreckage of the face. The torch fell from the left hand and the body pitched forward into the brush, shuddered a few times and was still. “Christ!” Stamper shouted again. His face had gone as pallid as gray clay. “Are you crazy? You killed him!”
“My gun misfired!” Royce shouted back. “I was aimin’ at that thing…pulled the trigger and the pan didn’t flash! Then he stepped in the way just as it went off! You all saw it! Didn’t you?” He looked around with wild eyes, his chest outthrust as if to dare them to disagree, and Magnus Muldoon realized that it might have happened as Royce said, but it was a mighty good way for Royce to take advantage of the moment. With Gunn dead, so had died someone who knew too much.
Stamper started to protest again, but a man who’d already killed another one on this jaunt didn’t have much room for indignation. “Damn!” he said, and he took his hat off to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a dirty sleeve. “Royce…I don’t know about this…Fitzy dead…that fire comin’…now this…I don’t know.”
Royce was already reloading his still-smoking musket. He had poured an amount of black powder down the muzzle and was now using a ramrod to drive the ball home. “Somebody get Joel’s musket,” he said, his voice tight. “Bovie, it’s yours.”
Bovie reached down and retrieved the weapon. Then he had to get Gunn’s leather bag of powder and shot from where it had been slung around the man’s shoulder. He worked at this for a moment, grimly, as Foxworth shambled forward to get the torch before it could burn up any more brush. He stomped out the fire on the ground, but the fire in the trees was gaining on them. They could begin to feel some heat within the smoke, which was becoming thicker.
From the woods that had expelled the deer came the crying sound, closer now. It again went on for a few seconds and once more ended in the harsh, eerie sob.
Magnus did not believe in curses nor spirits, vengeful or otherwise, but even he felt shaken. He reloaded the pistol, which had performed admirably in spite of its rust, and everyone else with an empty firearm also hurriedly reloaded with powder and lead ball down the muzzle, then a small measure of powder in the firing-pan to prime the weapon.
Stamper had put his hat back on. The raven’s feather was crooked. Sweat glistened on his face as he lifted his torch and stared into the wilderness from which the crying had come. His musket was aimed and ready, but his nerve had broken with the second cry. He said, “Royce…I’m clearin’ out. It’s not worth it…” He was already backing away. “Not worth it, to die out here.”
“He’s right!” said Barrows, the white eye shining. “I’m clearin’ out too…gettin’ back to the river.”
“Hold on!” Royce protested, but even so his voice had weakened and he too had the tightness of fear on his face.
The smoke was making eyes water and bringing up coughs. “We can’t go any further,” Stamper said. “I ain’t goin’ any further. Royce, it’s got to be given up. The skins are likely dead by now. If not…they will be soon. Anybody wants to go with me, come on. Findin’ Corbett and gettin’ out of here, ’fore this fire spreads and full dark falls.” He turned and started walking to the southwest, toward the river. Barrows followed, then Bovie, Magnus and at last Foxworth.
“Stamper!” came the shout.
Magnus turned, as did the others, to see Royce holding the musket aimed at Stamper’s belly.
“We can’t give it up!” Royce’s face had reddened and seemed swollen by blood, and in the drifting smoke he appeared a green-eyed devil from Hell. “We can’t let those skins just get away! Nossir! They’ve got to pay for what they’ve done! Abram the most! Stabbin’ her down like she was a damned dog, and her such a fancy lady too good to hardly speak to anybody! And flouncin’ around there to draw all the attention and all those black eyes lookin’ at her, and wantin’ her! You could smell that they wanted her!” His mouth was twisted, his face contorted into a picture of utter, raging hatred. “Teachin’ him to read, they say! To read! That wasn’t what they was doin’ in that barn, night after night! Well, that sweet innocent little girl wasn’t so damned sweet and innocent! I watched her, the way she teased! Readin’, they say! Those animals want only one thing from a white woman! One thing! My Pa found that out, too! And then he paid for it with a cut throat!” He blinked suddenly, realizing something had spilled out from a deep wound. “I mean to say…” He hesitated, not knowing what to say. He tried again, with an effort. “It’s that…you’ve got to be strong with ’em. Keep ’em whipped and scared. If you don’t, they’ll rise up…burn your house…and everything gone.” He looked from one man to another. “Don’t you understand that?”
A silence stretched. Then Stamper asked quietly, “You gonna shoot me too, Griff?”
Royce looked down at the musket as if it were an object from another world. He lowered it. “No, Stamper,” he said with a hideou
s grin. “I’m not gonna shoot anybody.”
“You can come with us if you like or stay out here. Your choice.”
They could hear the trees burning now, a dull roar, and hear the popping of pinecones like little explosions. The dry wind blew and smoke billowed through the woods.
“I’ll come with you,” said Royce, and he walked past Magnus to the front of the group. Magnus turned to follow them, and saw that Foxworth had gone over to kneel beside Gunn’s body. Foxworth was scavaging Gunn’s knife in its sheath from the dead man’s waist. The others were moving on, and only Magnus saw it happen.
Something on four legs lurched out of the woods. Magnus’ eyes burned, he couldn’t see it clearly for the smoke, but he had the impression of a large animal that was maybe a panther…its flesh brown but blotched and streaked with black, its black head misshapen and unnatural. Foxworth saw it coming and gave a hoarse cry of terror. He tried to get to his feet or get the torch between them, even as the beast reared up on its hind legs, took two strides forward and fell upon him.
Magnus fired his pistol at the thing, but the distance was more than twenty feet and the ball thunked into a tree. He heard the wet sound of flesh being torn. He saw the beast twist its hideous head and come up with a dripping red mass in its jaws. Its face, somehow deformed and monstrous, turned toward Magnus, who for the first time in his life let loose piss into his trousers.
“Kill it! Kill it!” shouted Stamper, crashing back through the woods and lifting his musket to fire. But the beast leapt forward into the thicket, moving not smoothly like a panther but with a strange jerking motion that was like nothing Magnus had ever seen before. Stamper’s musket boomed…too late, the beast had gone into the smoke.
“Foxworth!” Barrows had come back, and Bovie too. They stood over the old man, whose legs still moved in an attempt to escape. Magnus and Stamper joined them, and saw that under the bloodied beard Foxworth’s throat had been ripped open. Foxworth’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, and he was trying to hold the spurting gore in with both hands. He tried also to speak, but only a harsh rattling came out.
“He’s done!” Bovie backed away, scanning the woods on both sides, his face sweating. He had the musket in one hand and his sword in the other, but fear was his greatest enemy. “He’s done, that thing’s out here with us, he’s done!” His voice sounded near breaking into a sob. “Christ Jesus…save us!” He retreated to where Royce was standing, impassive, his face blank of expression.
Foxworth reached up. Magnus leaned over, took one of the bloody hands and clenched it, and he, Barrows and Stamper watched the old man die.
“Did you see it?” Stamper asked Magnus.
“I saw…I don’t know what it was. A panther, maybe. Big. But…its head…somethin’ was wrong with it. I don’t know.”
“We’ve got to move. Now.” Stamper had seen limbs in the nearby trees starting to catch fire. The wind was still blowing toward the river, sweeping across the grasslands from the northeast, driving the flames before it. “Now,” he repeated, and turned away as Magnus worked his hand free from the dead man’s. Magnus retrieved the torch. Then he backed away also, watching the woods to right and left, not daring to stop to reload the pistol, but thinking that night was going to catch them out here and yet the night could hardly be darker than the day. Still he refused to offer his back to the beast. Finally he had no choice, for the earth was rugged and unforgiving, and here in this brutal wilderness even a giant might fall.
Three
Ball or Blade?
Seventeen
As Matthew, Quinn and the three runaways made their slow progress toward the river, Magnus found himself pushing through the woods beside Griffin Royce. He had reloaded the pistol and kept it in his grip, and he thought that if he really was walking with Sarah’s killer—and it seemed to him so, according to Matthew, Granny Pegg’s story and the cruel ease with which Royce had executed Gunn—then he would stay alert for a musket to be trained on himself, as Royce must realize Magnus shared Matthew’s knowledge. Even so, Magnus couldn’t help but throw the man a little rope with which he might further fashion his own noose.
“Sarah was my friend,” Magnus said, as they moved through the underbrush. Still the smoke pursued them, curling and writhing in the air like the vengeful souls that supposedly haunted this realm. Burning trees crackled at their backs. “I can’t believe she was doin’ anythin’ in that barn but helpin’ Abram learn to read,” he went on, when Royce failed to respond.
“Little you know,” Royce said tersely.
“You ever go into the barn and see for yourself?”
“Muldoon, I don’t want to talk to you, understand?” The hard green eyes took Magnus in and then dismissed him. “That thing out here…and my friend dead, by my hand. Can’t even get his body back for a Christian burial. I don’t want to talk, hear me?”
“I hear,” Magnus replied, pushing a branch out of his face with an elbow as he moved forward, “but still…doesn’t make sense that Abram killed her. Why would he? Like Matthew said…it’s unproven.”
“Gunn saw him standin’ over her body with the knife in his hand. Seems like everybody’s forgettin’ that.”
“Not forgettin’ it,” Magnus pressed on, “it’s just that…seein’ him standin’ over her with a knife is not seein’ him use the knife. He might’ve just picked it up when he came out of the—”
“Muldoon,” said Royce, and the musket’s barrel swung a few more inches toward the black-bearded mountain. Royce’s face was reddening and was further blotched by insect bites. “The black skin ran. If he wasn’t guilty of murder, then why would he run? Why would his blood have stepped in to help him?”
“Too scared to think straight, maybe.”
“Scared of what, if he hadn’t killed Sarah? But tell me this, Muldoon…if he didn’t kill her, who did? Corbett have any ideas about that? And what’s all this about somethin’ he found on her body? What was he doin’, pokin’ around on that girl’s body?”
“Mrs. Kincannon gave him permit,” said Magnus calmly. “And yes, he did find somethin’ of interest.”
“What might that have been?”
“Best he tell you himself—or show you—when we get back.”
Stamper, in the lead just ahead, suddenly called out, “Hold up!” and the others paused. “Here’s where we left Corbett and the girl,” he announced. “Wait a minute…looky here! We’ve got a new trail! Somebody’s draggin’ a leg. Damn me if it don’t look like…three men walkin’ close together. Side-by-side, looks to be. Bovie, you see this?”
“I see it,” Bovie said. “Headin’ toward the river.”
“Three men?” Royce moved forward, past Barrows, to get a look at the wide trail of broken brush. He was no woodsman, but even he could follow a trail this obvious. “The skins? Got Corbett and headin’ back? Why would that be?”
“Don’t know,” said Stamper. “Maybe he talked ’em into givin’ themselves up.”
Magnus took note of Royce’s sudden silence. Royce stared at the ground, as if reading his future in the crushed earth.
“We’ll find out further on,” Stamper said. “Let’s keep movin’, and everybody keep a sharp eye out. No offense meant, Barrows.”
“None taken,” said the other man. “I just want out of this damned hell and back to my wife.” He looked over his shoulder, through the gray smoke, at the fire that was following them and spreading out to burn a wider path. From the heart of the flames a dry wind blew, sending ashes and embers flying and making the fires jump from tree to tree. They had already seen animals—more deer, rabbits and two good-sized brown panthers—fleeing the oncoming conflagration.
They went on at a faster pace, their advance made easier by the trail that had already been broken before them. After another thirty minutes the ground began to become swampy again, indicating the river was near. Gray pools of water stood here and there under the massive gnarled oaks and weeping willow trees, as smoke from the fir
e behind them coiled in the branches.
“Bootprints over here!” Stamper said, motioning to the prints in the mud. “Five people. One lamed, for sure. Can’t be more than a half-mile ahead.”
“I’ve been holdin’ my guts,” said Bovie, with a pained expression. “I’ve gotta take a shit!” He put down his sword and musket, opened his trousers, pushed them down to his ankles and squatted. “Ahhhh!” he said. “Oh my Christ, what a—”
He let loose a scream that might have been heard in Charles Town, and suddenly he was scrambling through the mud with his trousers still down. “Somethin’ bit me!” he shouted. “Got me on the balls!”
Magnus saw the ugly brown snake writhing away into the high weeds from where Bovie had rudely disturbed its place of rest. Water moccasin, he thought. Bovie had seen it too, and now he struggled to his feet and pulled his trousers up and looked at Stamper with a fear-blanched face. “Bastard bit me, Stamper! It ain’t a poison one though, is it? Say it ain’t a poison one!”
“Cottonmouth,” said Royce, before Stamper could say otherwise.
“Wasn’t no cottonmouth!” Bovie shouted angrily. “It was a black snake, wasn’t no cottonmouth!”
There was a moment of silence, and then Stamper said, “We ought to be movin’ on.”
“It was a black snake!” Bovie insisted. “Got me on the damned balls, but I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right, won’t I, Stamper?”
“Let’s keep movin’,” Stamper replied, and he went on.
“I’m feelin’ all right!” Bovie’s eyes were too wide and too glassy. “Stings a little bit, that’s all!” He retrieved his weapons and started after Stamper, with Barrows following, then Royce and Magnus. “I’m gonna be fine!” he announced to the others, with a crooked grin. “Laugh about it when we get back!”
Magnus thought that there was nothing funny about being bitten on the balls by a venomous cottonmouth, and even now the poison was moving in Bovie’s blood. But he said nothing else, and he kept his head down and watched where he stepped because there might be nests of the things in here somewhere.
The River of Souls Page 19