Deserter

by Paul Bagdon

  “He’ll figure that the men close to you are members and he’ll be watching those who work and live in town. And he’ll obviously know about what’s going on here. See, the battle lines were drawn last night, Lou. I know hauling the men and their people to your place is a big move, and a hard one for the families. There’s no way around it, though. They’d be as vulnerable as newborn babes out there on their farms and ranches.”

  “Good thing most of the harvest is in. I guess most of the stock out on pasture will survive until this is over.” Lou sighed. “Won’t be all bad having some kids and women around again. Been lots of years since my Billy was a boy and even more years since his mother died. A ranch becomes too much like one of those factories back East without some young life on it, Jake. I was planning on a passel of grandchildren. I wanted Billy to stay on here—build himself a house and start to take over the ranch for himself and his family. He was too independent for that. He bought that piece of land of his and he and his wife lived in a damned log shack while he was building their home. Wouldn’t even accept materials from me. He was into Moe real big on credit, but Moe knew he was good for it. Now . . . well . . .” He didn’t finish the thought.

  In the silence Jake finished his coffee and set down the empty mug. “If you’d get that pen and paper for me,” he said, “I’ll get on with things.”

  “I’ll put you at my desk, Jake, let you pen your note there.” He met Jake’s eyes. “I’ve got a stick of sealing wax around somewhere, too. I’ll find it and bring it in to you.” He stood from the table. “Might as well get to it,” he said.

  The big rolltop, littered with bills and invoices and the other paperwork of a working ranch, was set in a small room—once a nursery when Billy was a newborn, probably—had a single window that allowed the burgeoning morning light into it. The lamp Lou carried along was almost unnecessary. Jake cleared an area on the surface of the desk, dipped the pen into the ink pot, and began to write. As he did so, Galvin placed an unused stick of red wax and a few lucifers and an envelope on the desk and left Jake alone. Within ten minutes the note was written and the envelope sealed. Jake carried it and the lamp downstairs.

  “I’ll have this carried to Moe right away,” Lou said.

  “Good. Will you take care of changing the guards?”

  “You want lookouts during the day, too?”

  “There’s no choice in the matter, Lou. None. You need to keep in mind we’re at war here, and we’re under siege. In fact, let’s get a few extra men out riding between the guards—make sure we’re covered everywhere, all the time.” His voice sounded even to himself harder and more stringent than he intended, but he didn’t soften his words.

  Galvin nodded wearily. “I guess you’re right. I’ll see to it.”

  Jake extended his hand to the older man. Now his voice was lower, calmer. “Keep in mind we’re at war here, Lou. We don’t want any more surprises like we had with the two men out in the woods.”

  “No. We don’t.” They shook hands.

  Jake rattled and banged the wagon across the pastureland toward the woods. He stopped at the first guard he reached. “You’ll be relieved before long. Nothing going on here?”

  “Nope. All’s been quiet. Coffee’ll taste good. Maybe tonight the fellas posted out here could get breaks—have someone spell them for a bit, let them ride in to the house and drink some coffee. What do you think?”

  “We’ll do just that,” Jake said. “Good idea. I should have thought of it last night.”

  The nightguard grinned. “I’ll tell you what, Jake—you just keep on thinkin’ on how to kick Mott’s ass for good, an’ the rest of us will take care of stuff like givin’ guards a break.”

  “Fair enough,” Jake said. He slapped the reins lightly on the gelding’s back, starting the horse forward.

  The day was promising to be a fine one—cool, clear, the air tinged with the scent of fall. The bird sounds from the forest reached Jake as he slouched on the wooden slab seat of the wagon, directing the horse every so often to avoid the deepest ruts and largest rocks in their path. A quick rustle of branches straight ahead caused Jake’s right hand to drop to the grips of his Colt. A flash of the gray-white tail of a squirrel as it leaped to another perch quieted Jake’s pulse.

  The harsh reality—the brutal starkness—of the pair of corpses hanging from the branch of the oak, their faces now a pale, ghastly, fish-belly hue, the flesh of their necks a good several inches longer than normal due to the bodyweight stressing the dead flesh—sapped the beauty from the day. Jake stopped the gelding ten feet away from the oak. The image of Jason Mott appeared in his brain, and Sinclair’s fists closed tightly. He tried to shake off the picture, but it didn’t work. His body tensed and the tension in his jaw locked his teeth together hard enough to cause pain. Hatred was a new sensation to Jake, but one he recognized immediately. It surged through him, powerful, encompassing, demanding. “I won’t forget what I’m seeing right now, boys,” he whispered hoarsely. “When I take Mott down I’ll see all this again.” He took a long, deep breath, let it out, and urged the horse forward. Did I hate the blue bellies I killed? No—hell no. They were the enemy, but I didn’t hate them. They were men just like me who were on the wrong side of what we both considered a just battle. This—he looked again at the hanged men—is different. There’s no justice in what Mott and his men are doing, no good in it at all. It’s pure pain and evil. That’s where the difference is, and that’s why it has to be stopped in any way I can stop it.

  The gelding shied from the corpses, eyes wide, the scent of death heavy in his flared nostrils. Jake pulled against the bit hard enough to give the horse something to concentrate on and wrapped the reins around the brake handle. The air around the bodies was fetid and rank. Their bowels and bladders had long since released and their skin gave off the smell of raw meat. Birds, Jake saw, had already gotten to the men’s eyes, but not much damage had yet been done. He stood on the bed of the wagon and sawed through the rope of the man closest to him. When the rope parted Jake caught the weight of the body and eased it down on its back. He placed the second man next to the first. The corpses had stiffened during the night and they looked strangely artificial stretched out on their backs, as unnatural as men standing at strict attention in a nonmilitary situation. Jake tried without success to close their eyes. Then he pulled the tarp he’d brought over the two cadavers, climbed back onto the driver’s seat, and turned the wagon away from the oak tree.

  The lookout, standing on a knoll a hundred yards away as Jake drove past, took off his hat and held it over his heart until the wagon lumbered by his post.

  There was a large hay wagon backed up to the front of the barn as Jake drove in. Three boys, all blond and dressed pretty much alike in denim pants and flannel shirts, ripped around the corner of the house yipping like Indians on the warpath. The oldest looked to be seven or eight years old, the other two a year or so younger. Jake’s gelding started a bit as the youngsters raced past and then he settled down. A girl of twelve stood by alternately watching the boys and eying Sinclair. Jake tipped his hat to her. The girl blushed prettily and smiled at him. When she turned away to rush after the boys he noticed that her auburn hair was tied into a neat braid that reached below her waist.

  Jake guided his wagon to the back of the barn. He was about to leave the driver’s seat to slide open the door when one of the Riders—a fellow named Zeb—pulled it open from the inside. “I seen you coming, Jake,” he said. “I cleared out some space in the tack room for Archie an’ Todd till Ike gets here. Pull the wagon right on in.” Three blond heads peeked around the edge of the barn. “Get outta here, ya whelps, or I’ll take a switch to ya!” Zeb hollered. “Ain’t notin’ to concern you boys here. Go on, now!” The heads disappeared. “Grandkids,” Zeb explained.

  “Nice-looking boys,” Jake said, simply for something to say.

  “Damned if they don’t get into everything, though,” Zeb said, the pride in his voice obvi
ous. “Good boys, though. That’s their sister out front—the girl with the braid. She’s supposed to be keepin’ watch on her brothers.”

  “Looks like a big job.” Jake eased the gelding and wagon through the door and Zeb closed it behind him. Jake wrapped the reins around the brake handle and stepped down. Zeb nodded toward a doorway. “Right in there,” he said. “I guess we’ll have to put ’em on the floor, but I swept it out real good.” They carried the corpses one at a time into the tack room and covered them, once again, with the tarp. “Hell of a thing,” Zeb observed. “I’m sorry you had to go out alone to fetch ’em in, Jake. I didn’t know you’d left till you was gone. I’da come along and give you a hand.”

  “Not necessary, Zeb. Thanks anyway.” Jake backed the wagon out of the barn, pleased with the good training of the gelding. Some—many—farm horses knew as much about backing a cart or wagon as they did about Egyptian history. Zeb pulled the sliding door shut. Sinclair drove around to the side of the barn, parked the wagon, set the brake, and freed the gelding from the reins and tack. He took the horse into a stall, gave him half a bucket of water, and rubbed him down. The gelding grunted with pleasure as Jake worked on him, bringing a small smile to the man’s face. Jake left the horse with a thick flake of hay and a stroke of thanks on his neck.

  Jake watched the activity at the front of the barn. Another freighter-sized wagon had pulled in, the four draft horses that had pulled it snorting, sniffing the air, catching the scent of other horses. The wagon was apparently a two-family venture; a pair of women ordered a herd of children of various ages about while two men unloaded barrels of salted pork, flour, and dried beans. The aroma of brewing coffee drew Sinclair to the Galvin kitchen. He was surprised only for a moment when he found four women in the kitchen, a large pot simmering over a hot fire on the stove, and a vat of eggs cooking in a large black spider next to it. A chuck wagon–sized coffeepot rested on the warming grate of the stove. He stood, hat in hands, watching the activity. One of the women, a stout, pretty lady of about forty, glanced over at him, a smile beginning on her face. “Help you with somethin’?” she asked.

  Jake nodded at the coffee. “May I?” he asked.

  The woman laughed. “May I? Last time I heard a man say the word may, it was old Doc Richards jus’ before he lowered my drawers to check my plumbing, when my Calvin was about to be birthed. I swear that man had fingers as big as tree trunks. Jammed one up my little back passage and I near hit the ceiling.”

  “Rosey,” another of the women said, “you’re gonna scare this poor fella talkin’ like that. Lookit him—he’s blushin’ already.”

  Jake forced a smile, feeling heat in his face. “I . . . uhh . . .” he stuttered.

  “Git your coffee an’ clear out,” Rosey ordered. “We got people to feed an’ no time to admire a stud horse jus’now.” The women tittered at Jake’s discomfort as he poured himself a mug of coffee and carried it back to the door. “Thank you, ladies,” he said. For some reason that phrase brought on more laughter. He was glad to put the kitchen behind him.

  His sleepless night and the somber task this morning began to catch up with Sinclair as he stood in the sun sipping his coffee. His eyes were gritty and a sort of general fatigue, like a weighty blanket, settled over him. Lou approached from behind and Jake started as Galvin greeted him.

  “The fellow I sent to Fairplay with the message should be back before long, Jake. I told him to stop in and drink a beer at the saloon—see what the talk was about, try to get a feeling for what’s going on with Mott.” He looked more closely at Sinclair’s face. “You look like you need sleep,” he said.

  “Yeah—I do. I’m going to my room. Would you send somebody for me as soon as the rider gets in? I want to talk with him as soon as he gets here. Same thing applies if the undertaker pulls in, too. OK?”

  “I’ll see to it, Jake. It’s Rip Daniels I sent. He’s a sensible fellow—a good friend of my Billy, and about Billy’s age. Rip will learn what he can without being obvious. You go on and get some shut-eye.”

  The room Jake had been using was small and sunny. He stretched out on the bed, listening to the corn shucks complaining under his weight. He didn’t expect deep sleep; instead, he planned to doze for an hour—perhaps two at the outside—and then to go down and await both the message carrier and Isaac Wells, the undertaker. If the messenger had gotten to Moe Terpin at the mercantile as Jake planned it, the undertaker would be hauling a pair of coffins in his hearse to Lou’s place very soon. Jake closed his eyes. The fall sunlight streaming through the window was like a loving mother’s touch on his face. It was mid-afternoon when Lou Galvin touched Sinclair’s shoulder, bringing him instantly awake.

  “Jake? Ike Wells is here. I sent him around to the back of the barn, told him where the bodies are. You wanted to talk to him, right?”

  Jake swung his legs off the bed and stood.“Yeah, I do. Thanks, Lou. Maybe you should come along, too.”They hurried down the stairs and through the kitchen to the barn. Wells had pulled into the barn through the back door, and his hearse now stood outside the tack room.

  Ike Wells didn’t look like any undertaker Jake had ever seen. Wells was portly, dressed in a good business suit that looked tailored to his rather rotund form, and he was ruddy cheeked and smiling as he extended his hand to Sinclair. His gray hair was neatly parted in the middle and pomaded to the contours of his skull. His eyes, a deep chestnut, looked like he was coming to a birthday party rather than to haul off two unjustly hanged men. Jake took his hand. The grasp was firm, warm, and dry. Wells’s smile broadened.

  “You look a little incredulous, Jake,” he said. His voice was pleasant, masculine, without the darkly somber tones undertakers tended to employ. “I’m apparently not at all what you expected?”

  “That’s for sure, Mr. Wells,” Jake admitted. “No disrespect, but you don’t fit the image of your profession.”

  Wells laughed delightedly. “I hope not, young man. Because I tend to the dead doesn’t mean I’m in constant mourning—and call me Ike.”

  A cluster of three or four Night Riders opened the back door and started toward the hearse. Wells stepped forward to meet them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “out of respect for Archie and Todd, I’m going to have to insist that only Jake and Lou here assist me. You’ll soon see your friends after I’ve done my work. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the others out, too.”

  Jake nodded as the men shuffled back out and pulled the door shut after themselves. “Thanks for that, Ike,” he said. “Moe reached you?”

  “Oh yes. He sure did. Shall we unload?”

  The coffins, constructed of pine and stained black, rested on the floor of the hearse side by side, their brass fittings catching the light. Jake hopped into the hearse and shoved at the rear of a coffin; Ike stood at the back gate and took the weight as Jake eased the box and himself out of the hearse. Galvin raised his eyebrows, a grin starting on his face. “Sure seems to be a heavy coffin,” he observed. “’Specially since it’s empty an’ all.” They placed the first coffin on the floor of the tack room and the second next to it. Ike took a narrow, flat tool from the hearse and used it to pop the four nails holding each of the coffin tops in place. He and Jake lifted the first top and set it against the wall. Lou looked inside the box and whistled. Four small wooden cases—each labeled

  DANGER

  MASTERS & THOMAS EXPLOSIVES, INC.

  WARREN, NEW JERSEY

  MINING LOAD DYNAMITE—60 STICKS

  DANGER

  rested in a snug line inside. The second coffin contained four similar cases, along with a long parcel wrapped in several turns of oilcloth. “Moe sent this along,” Ike said, grabbing the parcel. “Said he’d had the damned thing for over a year with not a single customer showing the least bit of interest in buying it.” He handed the package to Jake.

  Jake had handled such parcels before. That it was a rifle was no surprise. But as he felt the weight of it, he drew a breath. When he broke
the twine holding the oilcloth and unwrapped the weapon, he drew another breath. “Holy God,” he said quietly. “An 1859 Berdan Sharps .54-caliber carbine.” His voice was reverent, as if he held a sacred icon. The cherry wood of the stock and forepiece was rich and polished and without blemish, smooth to the touch, but not featureless, like glass. Rather, the wood was warm, almost like the flesh of a living creature, a natural feel to it. The blued barrel, breech, and trigger guard were coated with thick shipping grease that smelled a bit like lantern fuel.

  “You’ve seen one of these before,” Galvin said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Jake nodded, not taking his eyes from the rifle he held in his hands. It wasn’t exactly the weapon he was used to, the one he’d carried and used up until Gettysburg. That Sharps was the 1862 model, with the dual trigger system. This 1859 version was a bit more basic, but it was the same stunningly powerful caliber: .54. And, like the ’62, it was completely capable of firing a thumb-sized slug that would carry unerringly to its point of kill for a mile.

  “Moe sent along a sack of ammunition for that buffalo gun, too,” Lou said. “It was tucked next to a dynamite case.” He hefted the cloth bag. “Feels like a sack of rocks,” he said. “I guess you need a hell of a load to take down an animal that big.” He paused for a moment. “Jake? Jake? What’s . . . you OK? You look—”

  “Yeah. I’m OK,” Sinclair said, rewrapping the rifle. He tied the twine over the oilcloth carefully and set the Sharps outside the tack room, on a stack of bales of hay. “Let’s get the men into the coffins and onto the hearse. No offense, Ike, but the sooner the bodies are off the place and headed for town and your parlor, the better the morale around here will be.”

  The bodies had gone past the stiff, unyielding rigor state and were now flaccid, loose jointed. Ike and Sinclair completed their grim task quickly and the undertaker placed the tops on the coffins. “No need to nail them down till after the viewing in town,” he said. “I’m not carrying anything but dead men this next trip.”