Deserter

by Paul Bagdon

  He reined in atop a small rise. Behind him the fires put a pale glow into the night. Ahead was wind and rain-swept darkness. Near the town the railroad tracks glinted wetly in the orange-yellow light of the blazes. He listened for a full five minutes but heard none of the sounds of horses and riders coming toward him from town, and the balance of the Night Riders headed to Galvin’s ranch were far ahead. He stroked Mare’s neck. Her breathing was more regular now, and she danced a bit in place, wanting Sinclair to cue her to do something other than standing still in the cold rain, looking at and listening to nothing, knowing there was a dry stall, fresh water, and good hay awaiting her at the end of her night’s work.

  One of the lookouts the Night Riders had posted stepped out from behind a set of young pines, rifle over his shoulder, appearing ghostlike in the darkness. Mare had caught his scent before Jake saw the man, but his Colt was in his hand by the time the nighthawk showed himself.

  “The boys say it went real good, Jake. They tol’ me you’re quite a hand with that dynamite.” His face wasn’t completely distinct but the whiteness of his teeth in a broad grin was clear.

  “It went well,” Jake said. “Far as I could tell, all of us who went out came back, and we hit Mott pretty hard.”

  “Lou said that new sheriff’s office purely went up like a Fourth of July rocket. I wish’t I could have been there to see it. Next time out, I’ll be ridin’ with you, Jake.”

  “Anybody mention if they saw Mott?”

  “Nobody did. The boys, they figure he was servicin’ one of them whores of his an’ everything was over by the time he got his drawers up.”

  “Could be,” Jake said. “You watch careful now. That crew isn’t going to take real kindly to what happened tonight.”

  “I’ll do that, Jake.” The lookout grinned. He offered a casual salute. Jake’s right hand began to rise automatically, without conscious command, to return the salute. He stopped it halfway and made an unnecessary adjustment to his slicker.

  First salute I’ve seen since just before Pickett’s charge.

  There was a nonmilitary joviality in the Galvin barn that reached Jake on the far side of the structure, in Mare’s stall, where he was rubbing her down with an empty grain sack, cleaning away rain, sweat, and mud from her coat. There was a tad too much laughter, a little too much hilarity for the men to share, considering it wasn’t a battle they’d just won, but a quick skirmish without the intense engagement that he knew would come later on in the conflict. Still, he chided himself, these fellows aren’t trained fighters and they did well. They drew some blood, followed orders, got the thing done. What’s the harm in them letting off the tension with a few too many hits at the bourbon bottle and telling one another how brave they are?

  Jake tugged a short-bristled brush from the collection of grooming tools Galvin and his men had assembled in a tattered four-quart basket and used it on Mare’s legs. He was just finishing up when Lou Galvin walked down the aisle carrying a lantern.

  “The boys are wondering where you are, Jake,” he said. The whiskey on the man’s breath reached Sinclair a moment after the words did. “They did a good job tonight, didn’t they? I think they’d like to hear that from you, though. Tellin’ each other gets old after a couple of times.”

  “They did fine. I was planning on coming right over, Lou,” Jake said. “Soon as I looked after Mare.”

  Jake placed the basket next to a pair of grain barrels and the two men walked toward the gathering. “Do you think we accomplished much of anything with this raid?” Galvin asked. “Anything that’ll make any difference?”

  “We kind of declared war, Lou—joined the battle. Everything is going to go faster now. I can guarantee you that Mott isn’t going to swallow his jail being blown to hell again, and a couple of his men wounded or killed.” He stopped walking and Galvin did too, turning to face him. A wave of laughter ebbed and then receded.

  “I need to make clear to the Riders that things have changed, that they need to watch themselves and their families. A little too much booze has flowed tonight for me to get through to them right now, but I want to bring them back in a day or so. And if Mott starts attacking farms and ranches, I want the men to come here, to bring their families and be ready for a siege.”

  “I don’t know how you’ll convince them to leave their homes, their land, their stock, Jake.”

  “If this gets real bad—and I think it will—they won’t have a choice. There aren’t more than a few hundred men within thirty or so miles of Fairplay, Lou. It won’t be hard for Mott to figure who’s a Night Rider. And if he burns a couple places and kills a few innocent men, it won’t bother him. You’ve got to realize—”

  Two distant reports—a shotgun from the sound of them—stopped the conversation. Sinclair’s and Galvin’s eyes met in the harsh light of Lou’s lantern. “That ain’t good,” the older man said. Jake held up his hand for silence. A moment passed during which the wind-driven rain outside and the laughter and carousing of the Night Riders were the only sounds.

  “No answering fire,” Jake said. They waited another full minute. There was no further gunfire.

  “Might be one of the boys maybe heard an animal in the brush and let his imagination get the best of him—fired before he thought it over.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Jake answered dubiously. “Even so, I’m going to saddle up and go out and take a—”

  A voice reached them, and even in the distance and over the wind and rain, the note of fear—of panic—was clear, although the words were indistinct, more of a wail than a sentence or statement. The voice sounded again, this time closer. “Mr. Galvin! Jake! We got bad trouble!”

  The group heard that even over their celebration. Their drinks and tales forgotten, they rushed out the front door of the barn to where Jake and Galvin stood, Lou still holding his lantern. The splashing of a horse at speed reached them a heartbeat before they saw the rider—one of the three lookouts who’d been posted, his rain slicker whipping about him, his horse’s chest frothy in spite of the rain. “Those bastards strung up Archie an’ Todd!” he shouted, voice breaking. “They hung ’em from an oak an’ they’re both dead!”

  Jake hustled to the rider and grabbed at his reins. “Tell us what happened,” he demanded. “Calm down and tell us what happened—come on, climb down. We need to know exactly what happened out there, Jim. Get hold of yourself!”

  The rider swung down from the saddle, his doublebarreled shotgun still clutched in his hand. He drew air in shuddering gasps, his eyes wide with panic, sweeping over Sinclair and the other men but not focusing. Jake took the shotgun from his hand and checked the breech. Both barrels had been fired. Lou Galvin stepped forward and put his arm over the rider’s shoulder. “Tell, us, Jim,” he said. “This isn’t the time to lose control. Just tell us what you saw, what happened.”

  Jim struggled with his fear, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as if he were gulping water after a long thirst. “Yessir,” he croaked. He swallowed hard a couple of times, his hands dancing in front of him almost spastically, as if trying to pull words from the rain that fell on the group. Galvin took his arm and led him into the shelter of the barn. The others followed silently, their faces now pale, the hilarity of a few moments ago swept away by the rider’s fear.

  “Me an’ Archie an’Todd was posted out just like we was supposed to be, maybe a hundred or so yards apart, keepin’a good watch—or as good as we could on a night like this. We’d talked it over earlier, and we was goin’ to keep in touch with each other, give a owl hoot every so often jus’to let each other know we was OK an’ awake an’ all.” He gulped some air and swept rain from his face with a hand.“Go on,” Jake said quietly.

  “Yessir. Well, it seemed like I hadn’t heard no owl hoots from either of those boys in some good time. I hooted myself a few times but didn’t get no answer. I got a little worried an’ decided I’d work myself over to where Archie was, off to my right. See, I was kinda in the
middle of the three of us. I got to where Arch had been—as close as I could figure, anyway. He wasn’t there. That scared me some and I started over to Todd’s position. It was darker’n a son of a bitch and still raining hard, but my eyes was pretty used to it. I went on by my position and then I come upon a big oak maybe halfway between me an’ Todd an’ there they was, hangin’, dead, twistin’ at the end of ropes when the wind hit them. Their hands was tied behind them and they was gagged with cloths. Even in the dark an’ rain I seen there was nothin’ I could do for either of them boys. I guess I kinda . . . I run off, then, run to my horse an’fired off my shotgun for a warning an’rode on back here at a gallop. It’s a goddamn wonder I didn’t kill my horse an’ me, both.” He sucked some more air and then looked away from Sinclair and Galvin and the group of Night Riders, focusing on the hard-packed dirt floor in front of him at his feet. His voice took on a defensive tone. “Wasn’t nothin’ I could do—nothin’ at all, ’cept get back here an’ give the alarm.”

  “Of course there wasn’t anything you could do, Jim,” Lou said. “I’m just glad they didn’t . . . glad you got back here safely.”

  Jake stepped back from the other men and clapped his hands to get their attention. “We don’t have time to talk right now,” he said, his voice hard. “I want armed men in a ring around Lou’s house and barn. If there’s any trouble—if you see anything—fire twice.” Without questioning him, the men started for where they’d left their rifles and shotguns.

  “Wait,” Jake said, stopping them. “If you hear the alarm—the two shots—don’t leave your post. You hear? Don’t leave your post. I’ll be there to tell you what needs to be done.” He paused for a second, meeting the eyes of several of the Riders. When he continued, his voice was quieter but still tight and emphatic. “I know many of you have families you’re worried about. They’ll be OK for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll bring your people into Lou’s house and barn. The women can sleep in the house with the youngest children. Men and boys will bunk in the barn.”

  A quick buzz of conversation—questions—began. Jake held up his hand. “We don’t have time to discuss anything just now. Get out there and take your positions. We’ll talk at first light. Now move!”

  If they were going to question Jake, he figured it would be now. The men with wives and kids unprotected wouldn’t like the idea of leaving their people alone overnight. Hell, I wouldn’t like it either, he thought. Would I obey the order? He watched the men, not quite realizing he was holding his breath. When they turned away and hustled to fetch their weapons, Jake exhaled. No, he thought, I’d be riding hard for my home and the hell with Galvin, Sinclair, and the Night Riders. He glanced at Lou, who met his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’ll be riding inside our line through the night. I’ll call out and identify myself every so often,” he called to the backs of the men.

  “Make sure you sing out loud and clear, Jake,” Lou warned. “Those fellas are primed and ready to fire.”

  Jake nodded. “I didn’t see Moe Terpin here tonight,” he said. “Why’s that? He seems like one of our biggest supporters in all this.”

  “He is. Thing is, his wife—Ivy—took sick a couple of months ago and she’s in a bad way. Could be Moe couldn’t leave her. In fact, I’d bet on it, Jake. Nothing else would keep him away from riding with us.”

  “I see.” Jake started back into the barn. “Come on along with me while I saddle my horse. Tell me,” he said as they began walking, “is there an undertaker in Fairplay? And more importantly, is he with us?”

  “Sure—Isaac Wells is our undertaker. Has a parlor and a furniture store right down Main Street. Ike’s too old to ride with us, but he’s dead set against Mott and with us every inch of the way. I’ve known him for a slew of years.”

  “Good,” Jake said, hefting Mare’s saddle, blanket, and bridle he’d set next to her stall. “That’s real good. Can someone get a note from me to Moe first thing tomorrow?”

  “Well—sure. What do you have in mind?”

  “Just an idea now. I’ll stop at the house after first light to write my note, OK?”

  Jake considered borrowing a horse from Galvin’s string, but Mare seemed to have recovered completely from her earlier work. He arranged the blanket, set his saddle, and pulled the cinches. As Lou walked to his house, Jake stepped into a stirrup and reined Mare toward the woods to the east of the Galvin spread. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, at times more of a mist than a rainfall. The footing remained poor, but scudding clouds frequently allowed illumination from the moon and stars—a break that hadn’t occurred earlier in the night. There was a stiff, swirling breeze that smelled more of snow than rain, and that cut twisting paths through the mist.

  Jake called out and a Night Rider answered. Jake jogged his horse up to the man and drew rein. “I’m going outside the circle,” he said. He turned in his saddle and gazed through the damp darkness. Galvin’s house was a hulking mass with the dimmest of lights showing in a couple of windows. He turned back to the guard. “I’ll try to come straight back in and I’ll be shouting out to you.” He grinned. “Do your best not to shoot me.”

  The Night Rider’s face didn’t change. He remained grim. “Archie and Todd were my friends, Jake—’specially Archie. We been fishin’ and huntin’ together since we was sprouts. I’ll tell you this: Somebody’s gonna die for stringin’ him an’ Todd up.”

  Sinclair nodded. “And Billy Galvin, too. We’ll see to that,” he said. He nudged his horse ahead toward the woods, using the breaks in the mist and fog to attempt to determine where the executions took place. Finding the two men wasn’t something Jake looked forward to, but he wanted to cut them down before their friends saw them. The thirst for revenge would run hot enough and high enough without the Night Riders seeing two of their number with their necks broken, dangling from the end of some outlaw’s frayed ropes.

  There was an eerie stillness to the woods, as if the moisture in the air somehow drowned out the natural, normal sounds. Mare’s hooves sucking at the mud with each stride seemed far louder than they should. Jake squinted his eyes, peering into the woods from the periphery, where he rode. The breeze freshened, clearing some of the mist.

  The two men weren’t far into the woods. The huge oak they hung from was at the edge of the forest. Mare huffed and danced as the scent of death reached her. Sinclair calmed her by talking to her, stroking her neck. The branch—a thick one, perhaps a foot in diameter—was eight or nine feet above the ground. The men, side by side with their hands bound behind them, moved slightly as the wind touched them. The ropes creaked against the bark of the branch. Jake took his pocketknife from his pants and urged Mare to the corpses. She argued a bit, shying from the dead men, but Jake was able to goad her into position. Their boots were about three feet or so off the ground. Jake, in the saddle, had an easy reach to sever the ropes above the stretched necks. He moved his knife toward the nearest rope and then stopped. If I cut them down now I’ll have to leave them on the ground until I get back with a cart. If I do that they’ll be fair game to the coyotes, the foxes, the bears—any meat-eater. A bear any larger than a yearling could still pull them down, but those boys are better off where they are for now. As grotesque as the thought was of leaving the corpses hanging, the alternative was worse. He’d seen many dead men—and parts and limbs and heads—of dead men in the past two years. Death—violent death—was no longer a stranger to him, no longer carried that same shock, the quick sense of revulsion, it once had. Men who fought in the battles a war generated were sometimes killed. So were men who fought against outlaws. That was a fact of life. All this Jake Sinclair knew to be true. Why, then, he asked himself, am I sitting here on my horse staring at these two corpses as if they were going to come back to life and explain whatever it is I’m feeling to me?

  Jake pocketed his knife and swung his horse away from the scene of the murders, back toward Galvin’s spread.

  By the time he’d situated Mare back in her sta
ll and hitched one of Galvin’s cart geldings to the traces of a small farm wagon, the first colors of day were chasing off the melancholy of the night, and with it, the rain.

  There was a light on in the kitchen of Lou’s house and Jake drove the wagon to it, tying the gelding to the hitching rail outside. Galvin heard him and opened the door before Jake could knock.

  “Coffee’s ready,” the older man said. “Come on in and sit down.” He glanced beyond Sinclair and saw the wagon. “I guess you’re going out to bring in Archie and Todd,” he said. “That’s a sad piece of work. I was planning on doing it this morning. You want me to ride out with you, give you a hand?”

  “It’s a one-man job, Lou. I can handle it.” Jake sat at the big kitchen table and Lou brought two mugs of coffee from the stove. He sat across from Sinclair.

  “The boys will be bringing their families in today,” Lou said.

  “How’s the food situation?” Jake asked. “There’s no way to tell how long the folks will be holed up here.”

  “Food’s the least of our problems. We have plenty stored and we can slaughter a beef whenever we need to. I’ve already stockpiled flour, salt, canned goods, coffee, and the like for the winter. Moe always puts together a big order for me about this time of year—enough staples to get me and my men through until spring.”

  “Good. After we finish our coffee I’ll ask for a pen and paper to write that note I mentioned to Moe at the mercantile. I’ll ask him to arrange for the undertaker—Wells, Ike Wells, right?—to come out, too.”

  “You don’t need to write a message, Jake. I can have one of my men ride into town and talk with Moe and Ike.”

  Sinclair shook his head. “I know that, Lou. And I know your men are loyal to you.” He hesitated for a moment. “But starting today, we have to play everything real close to the vest. The less Mott knows about what we’re doing, the better off we’ll be.”

  Galvin drank from his mug. “Yeah. I suppose.” After a moment he asked, “What do you suppose Mott’s going to do now, Jake? He can’t shut down the town—he still doesn’t know how many Night Riders there are or who they are.”