A God of Many Tears (Hawker's Drift Book 4)

by Andy Monk

  As soon as Gramps’ rifle barked, Henderson flung himself down behind some old water barrels. For a big man, he sure could fall down quick.

  She fired off a couple of shots into the wall of the barn to make sure he didn’t get ideas about moving anywhere else for a bit.

  Before she could look for another target, the storm shutter shuddered under the impact of a bullet.

  She jumped away from the firing slit. The wood was thick and at this distance more than capable of stopping a bullet, but her heart was still halfway up her throat all the same as she tried not to work out the chances of a shot coming clean through the slit. Most of all, though, she just felt a righteous affront someone was shooting at her.

  Chiding herself for being a scaredy cat, Dorry raised the rifle again, but as soon as the muzzle poked out of the shutter a fusillade of shots rattled around the window.

  Someone was clearly paying attention.

  She fired off a couple vaguely in the direction of the south barn, to let them know she was still here, left the rifle propped by the window and scooped up the spare.

  Whether they were observant enough to tell the difference she didn’t know, but the more rifles firing at them, the more people they might figure were in the house. Clearly, they were sitting back and taking note of numbers. They were ugly, but she hadn’t seen anything suggesting they might be stupid as well.

  Quick as she could she run into the next room and snuck a look through the shutter. She couldn’t see Henderson from this angle, but there was another one hunkered down behind an old wagon, peering up at the house from beneath a dented black derby. She was starting to think they’d got a bit negligent with the ranch, at least in terms of leaving too much junk around for assholes to hide behind anyway.

  They’d been another three sneaking this way, but she couldn’t spot any of them now.

  She took aim at the Derby man and squeezed off a shot which sent splinters of old wood flying and he instantly ducked down behind the wagon. She reckoned she hadn’t missed him by much, but she was already scurrying out to one of the back rooms when shots started peppering the window she’d been firing from.

  “What’s going on?” Gramps hollered.

  “Keeping heads down!” she shouted back without pausing.

  “Hit any of em?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Naw. Think I winged our haystack though.”

  She reached the window in time to see two of the raiders scurrying across the yard towards the back door.

  “Shit!” Dorry cursed, lifting her rifle and firing wildly.

  The two men were running, half crouched, but they were only twenty yards or so from the house. Caught in the open with no easy cover to hand they had little choice but to keep going forwards.

  Her third shot brought one of them down. It seemed at first he’d stumbled as he didn’t make much of a sound, his crouch just got lower and lower till his face ploughed right into the hard-packed dirt.

  He didn’t move anymore once the rest of him got down there.

  The second man reached the house, making the angle too steep for her to get a shot at him.

  She stood panting, forcing her eyes from the prone figure in the yard. His hat had tumbled away to reveal a shock of tangled red hair. She dimly registered there had been no returned fire, so no one had been covering these two. Maybe not so smart after all.

  Still, one of them had made it right up to the house. Both doors, back and front, were heavy, locked and barred. A man with an axe would get through in time, but she wasn’t planning on giving him much time. S1he didn’t like any of em being this close to her.

  Like Matthew Loughery, this young fella was in need of some dissuading.

  She checked the pistol stuck into her belt hadn’t fallen out in all the excitement as she run down stairs.

  “Dorry?”

  “Keep shooting!”

  The house was gloomy with all the shutters closed, and darker downstairs as the firing slits on those ones had their own little doors so no sneaky fellow could get a shot inside through an unattended window. Her forefathers had put some thought into building Coll Ranch.

  Despite the deep shadow, she moved easily enough. The days of her life she hadn’t spent any time in this house were countable without the need for removing socks.

  She paused in the kitchen doorway, the room’s familiar outlines suddenly alien and foreboding in the fuzzy light that managed to snick around the shutters.

  The kitchen door rattled.

  She took a quick step back and had to stop herself blasting it with lead.

  The door rattled again, harder. He seemed the kind that didn’t pick up on a hint too easy.

  There were more shots outside and Gramps rifle barking back a reply. How long before this guy’s friends made it up to the house too? Padding across the kitchen she laid her rifle out on the table. The door rattled again. Sounded like a shoulder charge this time.

  His shoulder was going to give out a lot quicker than the door was.

  Dorry drew the pistol, which was old and heavy, but one of Gramps many habits was regularly cleaning and firing their guns so she had no doubt it’d discharge if needs be.

  There were two small windows in the kitchen, either side of the door that was shaking – a little – as the idiot on the other side tried his hardest to shatter his shoulder against it. The right-hand one was above the sink and so somewhat awkward for shooting fools out of, so she took the left-hand window.

  It probably wasn’t necessary to walk on tiptoe and hold her breath, but she really didn’t want the man to realise he was attracting so much attention to himself.

  Tongue gripped between her teeth she flicked back the catches of the firing slit and let the little door fall inwards. She’d intended to let it down nice and gentle, but was somewhat startled by the two bloodshot eyes staring back at her. He seemed somewhat startled too, first by her sudden appearance and then by the bullet she shot him in the face with.

  The muzzle of the pistol tapped gently against the wooden shutter as her hand shook.

  She didn’t need to check if the man was dead, nobody was getting up from a bullet in the face, but she wanted to make sure there weren’t any more of them sneaking up to the back door. There wasn’t. The man she’d shot was on his back, what was left of his face pointing at the sky. The red-haired man still lay in the yard. If he was going to get up he would have done so by now. She couldn’t see anyone else.

  Dorry slammed the firing slit closed, grabbed her rifle off the table and headed back towards the stairs. Maybe it was her imagination but the shooting seemed to have taken on a more urgent retort. She’d reached the foot of the stairs when she heard the front door rattle. At least one of the raiders had managed to get past Gramps’ fire.

  Well, the trick had worked well enough once, and the fella she’d shot sure wasn’t going to be mouthing off to spoil the surprise.

  The door had stopped rattling, so maybe this guy was a bit smarter than the one at the back.

  Guess he’ll be just as dumb with a bullet in the brain though.

  She managed a couple of paces towards the door before it exploded.

  *

  Dorry was dimly aware of voices, muffled and distant, obscured by a ringing noise.

  She felt hands on her. Rough and uncaring. Half dragging her, half carrying her. She couldn’t understand the voices, though there was laughter too. She could make that out. She tried opening her eyes, but everything was swimming so she closed them again. The hands released her and for a moment she was flying; then she hit something soft and giving.

  Reaching out she felt smooth, well-worn linen. Her bed. It had been too warm for blankets. She was on her bed. She must have been dreaming, she recalled something about shooting her rifle. Had she been dreaming about killing Mary again? The nightmares about putting that poor old horse down had persisted for months, though none for ages. No, she didn’t think so. She’d been shooting something else.
It didn’t matter. She was waking up, must be time to go make breakfast for Gramps.

  But if she was waking up in her bed, why could she hear voices? Voices of men.

  Someone slapped her face. Hard.

  “Time to wake up bitch!”

  She didn’t want to wake up. Suddenly, she was certain she wasn’t going to like what she’d see…

  Henderson.

  The name came flooding back along with everything else once she could focus on the gnarled face leering over her.

  He looked even worse up close. A broken nose and a vivid scar slashing diagonally across his lips. Puffy, bloated skin and red-rimmed eyes peering hungrily from behind hooded lids. His hair was roughly shorn and the scabs between the greying bristles suggested he’d done the job himself with a blunt knife. Probably when he’d been drunk.

  “And she’s back boys!” Henderson shouted, “Just in time for the party!”

  “You sure that’s a girl?” a voice asked above the whooping, “Chorley don’t fuck no boys.”

  “Can’t you tell the difference fool?” Henderson laughed, spraying rank spit bombs, “See here if you don’t believe me.”

  He grabbed her shirt, ripping it open before she had time to struggle, “Ain’t much I grant you, but there’s enough to fill your hand.”

  “You got damn small hands,” Chorley shot back.

  “He’s sure got a small prick to go with em!” Someone added.

  More laughter, though not from Henderson, who half turned away from her, “Why don’t you-” His words were cut short as she raked his face with her nails.

  “Fuckin’ bitch!” Henderson screamed, backhanding her hard enough to knock the ringing noise out of her head.

  She tried to roll off the bed, but Henderson caught her, pushed her back down and sat astride her, his weight making her.

  The others were laughing; braying, nasty laughter that stung her almost as much as Henderson’s hand had. Mixed with the laughter was the sounds of drawers being opened and furniture shoved aside. She heard things crunching underfoot.

  Catherine Coll’s china cups that she’d kept atop her dresser to remind her of the mother she’d never known. Being ground to grit beneath uncaring boots. One of the men seemed more interested in looking for loot than her. Sadly, the others didn’t.

  She looked around for something, anything, she could use, but Henderson pinned her down, gripping her wrists hard enough to keep her arms still. She tried to find his groin with her knee, but he was across her midriff and all she could do was kick uselessly at empty air.

  “You got her down good,” another voice said, “but how you gonna get her legs open like that?”

  More laughter.

  “Leave her be!”

  That was Gramps. He was here to save her!

  Henderson twisted around atop her, allowing her to see the five rough looking men in the room behind him... and Gramps.

  She stopped struggling.

  One of the men had Gramps’ arms pinned behind his back, he was slumped forward as if he wouldn’t be able to stand without the man holding him up. His shirt was soaked with blood and his face was ashen grey. Gramps’ eyes were wide and terrified.

  “Now you keep quiet old timer,” Henderson told him, almost amiably, “as you did for three of my boys, I’m letting you live long enough to watch us break your girl in proper, but you make a nuisance and Larry there will have to cut your tongue out before we slice your throat. Comprende?”

  The old man’s head lolled forward.

  “Gramps...?” she whispered.

  “Don’t you fret about him Missy. He’s old and weak and we’ll be doing him the service of putting him down soon enough. You, on the other hand, have got to think about your future. You prove you’re a strong girl and can please me and the boys, then you can live. The Scourge needs strong girls. What’d ya say?”

  She spat in Henderson’s face. Much to the amusement of his men.

  “Hey Sancho, go and find some booze” Henderson laughed, wiping his face, “I need some fuelin’ to go with my lovin’.”

  “Why me?” Sancho protested, “I want some of her!”

  “Do as you’re fuckin’ told, and don’t worry, there’ll be plenty for all of us.”

  Still muttering Sancho left the room.

  Henderson shuffled down her, releasing her hands so he could work on getting her belt off. She took the opportunity to club him around the side of the head and try to buck him off her. He had a holstered gun, if she could get hold of it… her mind was strangely calm, though her body thrashed seemingly of its own accord. She focused on the gun and not Gramps or what these bastards were going to do to her. What they were going to try to do to her.

  Catherine Coll hadn’t birthed no quitters and Gramps hadn’t brought one up neither.

  There were five men in the room now, Henderson was on top of her, Larry was holding Gramps, plus Chorley and two others, a bald man with a cross tattooed across his scalp and a leering young man in a derby. Sancho had gone downstairs to find some booze. He was going to be sorely disappointed as Gramps had run a dry house since her father had drunk himself to an early grave.

  Henderson had said three of his men were dead, the two she’d shot, plus one other. Presumably Gramps had managed to hit something other than their haystack. How many had there been? No need to take off your shoes and socks Dorry! There’d been ten. That left one more. The guy guarding the horses?

  Just get Henderson’s gun.

  None of them were holding their weapons. They thought their shooting was done for the day. If she could grab that gun she might get an opportunity to prove em wrong. Not much of a chance, but maybe.

  Despite her blows and struggling Henderson was still laughing, which hurt almost as much as anything.

  “Come on over boys, this is a feisty one, hold her down for me!”

  “Can’t even manage one little girl?” the man in the derby who’d been wrecking her room replied, though he came over as eagerly as the others.

  Then there were more hands on her, forcing her down. Hands on her wrists, hands on her ankles. Henderson shifting his weight as he unbuckled himself. Other hands were on her belt, roughly undoing it, tugging at her pants.

  Oh God!

  The men became a blur of leering, distorted faces. Braying laughter, flying spittle, bulging eyes, coarse hands on her skin, pulling her legs apart, Henderson easing himself down so his knees were between her legs, pulling himself free with one hand. Someone was grabbing her left breast, dirty ragged nails digging into her flesh.

  How can I get his gun? How can I get his gun?

  The thought ricocheted around her mind. Someone was trying to kiss her, stinking, rancid breath, laughing as she tried to bite him. Distantly she could hear Gramps sobbing.

  “Dorry… please… Dorry… Dorry…”

  Her attackers seemed to merge together, no longer individual men acting independently, but one huge, feral, multi-faced monster. All grasping hands and gaping mouths. Fingers grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. Maybe that was a mercy. Better not to see.

  Catherine Coll didn’t birth no quitters…

  Her pants were coming off, the denim clinging to her legs in their own futile act of defiance until they came away with a final yank and a cheer from the men. She opened her eyes. Someone bit her breast. She shut them again. She struggled, she tried to kick, she tried to pull her hands free, she tried to butt, she spat, she screamed, she cried, she cursed. She opened her eyes.

  What was worse, seeing or not seeing?

  Catherine Coll didn’t birth no quitters.

  How do I get his gun?

  She screwed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to see.

  The gunshot was like a thunderclap in the room.

  The bastard shot Gramps!

  The thought tore through her, the pain worse than anything they’d done to her. Anything they could ever do to her.

  The gun boomed once more. Then again and agai
n. Her face was suddenly wet with something besides her tears. Her hands were free and no one was keeping her legs apart.

  She opened her eyes.

  Henderson was swivelling around, his cock bouncing beneath his gut. A man she hadn’t seen before was crossing the room towards them, unlike the others he wasn’t wearing a black sash. He had a rifle strapped across his back, a pistol in his hand and murder in his eyes.

  Henderson was trying to draw his gun. She pulled her leg back and kicked him in the balls at the same time the stranger pistol-whipped him. Henderson spun off the bed, crashing to the floor hard enough to set the room shaking.

  Henderson managed to push himself up onto his knees, but before he could grab a weapon, the stranger had holstered his gun and slid a long-bladed hunting knife from its sheath.

  He stepped behind Henderson, wrapped his left hand around the raider’s forehead and pulled his head back an instant before slashing the knife deeply across the man’s gulping throat.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  The stranger stood over the dying man, his eyes fixed and unblinking as Henderson’s blood spurted halfway across Dorry’s bedroom. He was panting and the knife had started to shake in his hand.

  Five corpses littered the room. Gramps was slumped on the floor against the wall, one hand pressed against his shoulder.

  “Dorry… Dorry… Dorry…”

  She rolled off the bed, naked save for her ripped shirt, scampering and slipping over the blood-soaked floor before enveloping the old man in her arms. His face was soaked with tears. She ran a hand through his silver hair, patting it and smoothing it down. He always hated it when his hair stuck up.

  Larry was sprawled at their feet, apart from his brains which were mostly over the wall.

  She raised her eyes towards the stranger standing over Henderson’s twitching corpse, his eyes so distant it seemed he saw something else entirely.

  Apart from the lack of a black sash he didn’t look so different from the others. His features were weathered-hard and fading bruises discoloured the left side of his face. He was a killer, like them. Except when he finally looked up there were tears in his dark and impossibly sad eyes.