Squire's Quest

by Judith B. Glad

  "Hell, why waste a bullet. He's a goner. Let's go. I want a drink."

  He slid off the horse and landed on his head.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  "Mister? Mister, you alive?"

  He heard the voice from a great distance. He tried to answer, but his mouth was too dry, his tongue too swollen. All he could manage was a hoarse, formless noise.

  "You're in bad shape. Who shot you?"

  The man--boy?--muttered sounds that refused to shape themselves into words. All the while he was pushing and pounding and twisting and raking at Merlin's helpless body, until no square inch was free of the pain he was inflicting.

  "How far...mutter...crawled...mutter...can't ride...mutter...take a chance..." Something hard pressed against his shoulders, just below where a knife-sharp pain came and went.

  "Aaah!"

  "Sorry. Let me...mutter...mutter..."

  He felt himself roll to the side, smelled fresh blood. Recognition seemed to clear his mind.

  "Mister, I've skinned my kill and laid you on the hide. I can't lift you, and I'm afraid to, anyhow. So I'll...mutter mutter..."

  The fog returned, and this time it was too thick to see or hear through.

  Warmth along one side roused him out of the red world of pain. He opened his eyes to darkness. The panther. Is he gone? My eye! I can't see. Pa? Pa, help me.

  "Mister, I've made some broth." The boy who slid an arm under his shoulder was too young to shave, and so hollow-cheeked he looked to have missed more meals than he'd eaten. "Can you swallow it?"

  When something touched his lip, he opened his mouth. Although more went down his chin than inside, he got enough of the thin-flavored broth to wet his tongue. "'Anks," he croaked. "'Ood." The second sip went mostly inside and he felt its warmth all the way to his belly. "Good," he said again.

  The lad fed him the whole cup, and when he'd swallowed the last, laid him back down. "I've got to go back for the meat," he said. "We need it. Will you be all right alone?"

  Alone with the smell of cooked meat steaming into the cold air to tempt every hungry critter for miles around. "Gun?"

  "I took your pistol out of your holster so it wouldn't get lost like the other one must've. Will it be enough? I've only got three more bullets for the rifle, and I daren't waste them."

  "Load it. I'll manage." Speech was getting easier. "Knife in my boot."

  "I'll be back quick as I can. It's only about half a mile."

  "I'll be fine. Go."

  Once he was alone, he realized he had no idea who his savior was, or where he'd come from. He wasn't even sure where he was, for all that. Wherever it was, they were on lean rations.

  * * * *

  When the wagon jerked to a halt, Callie fought the miasma holding her mind captive. Her eyes wanted to roll in their sockets and her tongue felt too big for her mouth. After a while she made sense of the shapes above her, around her. She was lying on something hard, under leafless trees.

  Why? It's wintertime. I'm cold.

  Her bed rocked. A man's face, dirty, unshaven, ugly, appeared above her. He did something that left her feeling even colder. And then he did something else, to her hands and to her feet. By the time he stopped fiddling, her shoulders and knees screamed from strain, her blood-starved hands and feet were numb. The pain drove away the miasma, though, and she recognized the hulk who'd carried her from her cabin.

  Rough hands sat her upright. "The boss says to let you take a piss, so get over there and do it."

  She tried to move, despite the throbbing in her arms and legs. Her bladder was full to bursting. But her arms and legs were lifeless sticks that refused to do her bidding. Tears leaked from her closed eyes. Would they let her wet herself?

  "Can I help her, Mr. Smith?" The speaker sounded young, little more than a boy. His voice broke on "her". "She's likely real stiff from bein' tied up."

  "Go ahead, but be quick about it. I want to be in Hillsdale in plenty of time to catch the Express." That sounded like her-- No! No, please!

  As she was being carried into the brush at the edge of the clearing, the hulk said, "The Express don't stop there."

  "It will for me." Pa sounded smug. "I've made arrangements."

  The young man set her on her feet and held her until she stopped swaying. More or less. "Can you manage, miss?"

  "I'll be fine. Just...would you turn your back? Please." The words came out sounding like she had a mouthful of hot mush.

  He did, but he remained so close she could have reached out to touch him.

  "I'm Burdie," he said, when he picked her up to carry her back to the wagon. "You just call out to me, should you want help or anything."

  "Thank you." She wondered why she should be thanking a man who'd been party to at least two murders. Why she wasn't helpless with terror.

  More than likely it was the laudanum she could still taste. It seemed like there was a gauzy curtain between her and everything around her.

  Or maybe it's because there's only one thing worst could happen to me. Just one, because if they kill me, I'll be out of danger.

  "Hold on a minute there," Pa said, when Burdie had set her on the bed of the wagon. "She might as well get dressed now, whilst we're hid." He tossed a bundle at her. "Put these on."

  Her hands were too slow. The bundle rolled off her lap before she could catch it.

  "Pick it up and untie it, Burdie. Turn around, boys."

  Burdie gave her the bundle and all four of the men turned their backs. Her fingers were clumsy as she folded back the outer layer. My coat? I didn't see them bring anything out of the cabin. But it was indeed her coat, her ugly gray dress, one threadbare wool petticoat, and her old boots. No stockings. Moving as quickly as her still awakening arms and legs would allow, she pulled the petticoat and dress on over her nightgown, for the more layers of clothes she wore, the warmer she'd be when she escaped.

  If she escaped.

  The boots were as cold as her feet, no longer numb, but throbbing with returning blood.

  Her father turned back when she was easing on the second boot. "Climb on in there. Burdie, tie her hands and feet, but not so tight it cripples her." He sent a glare at the hulk. "Frisco, you're an idiot."

  With her hands tied in front of her and the rope to her feet long enough so she could lie stretched out, Callie was merely miserable, rather than in pain, as they bumped along. Burdie had wrapped a faded quilt around her, so she wasn't too cold. Still, it was a relief when they pulled up beside a towering water tank and he helped her out of the wagon.

  "Bet you're hungry," he said, keeping his voice soft.

  "Not much, but I'm thirsty."

  "I'll fetch you a drink. Mr. Smith, he says we'll eat on the train. I'll see you get some."

  "Get over here, Burdie," the third man, who'd spoken not at all since she awoke, called. "Give me a hand with this team."

  "Let him be, Deed," her father said, "unless you want to play nursemaid."

  Callie stayed close to the side of the wagon, wanting to be no closer to the hulk or the evil-faced Deed than necessary. When Burdie brought her a tin cup of water, he untied the rope between her hands and feet. "There's a place you can sit over there, miss. Once you've drunk your fill, I'll help you there."

  The water tasted faintly of laudanum, but she drank it anyway. It would keep the terror at bay, for she knew days might pass before Merlin could come to her rescue. "What are you doing with these bad men?" she whispered while she could still talk. "You're not wicked like them."

  "I'm a wanted man," he said, and she heard pride in his tone. "Killed me a man up in Rapid City, and one in North Platte, besides woundin' a couple others. There's a price on my head. Three hundred dollars!"

  She hadn't noticed the two low-slung pistols he wore, handles shiny evidence of much use.

  This time when she shivered, it wasn't from the cold.

  The man named Deed led the horses away, and the hulk pushed the wagon close against the base of the water
tower. It was a decrepit thing, and she wondered where they'd stolen it.

  * * * *

  There was some critter rustling in the brush across the draw, but it never came close. He laid there, tense and waiting for an attack, until he heard the quiet thump-thump of approaching footsteps. Two feet, not four. Even so, he gripped the six-gun a little tighter.

  "Mister, it's me."

  Smart lad. "Come on in."

  The lad was bent under his burden, two haunches, venison or antelope. He couldn't tell. What the skin he'd been dragged on had come from didn't matter.

  "Something was at the carcass. I've got to go back."

  "Go. The sooner you do, the better." He refused to think of how much having two bloody haunches nearby increased his chances of being attacked by a hungry predator.

  "I'll hurry."

  "Go," he said again. As the lad faded from view, he dug in his heels, shoved himself a few inches higher against the boulder behind him. In a week or two he'd be sitting up straight, at this rate.

  Not being able to see out of his one eye bothered him. He wished the lad hadn't bandaged it. Surely whatever the wound, it had stopped bleeding by now.

  He raised his hand. Touched the bandage.

  Only it wasn't a bandage. It felt like leather. There were strings attached to both sides of it. No! One of the strings snapped when he tore at it.

  He stared at the thing he held in his left hand. An eyepatch. Leather. Soft with frequent use. He touched what had been hidden under it.

  An empty socket, a sunken lid, and deep scars all around.

  "I'm blind." With shaking hands, he ran his fingers over the skin of his face. A scar, long-healed, ran from the outer corner of his eye down his face to the angle of his jaw. His eyebrow was misshapen, with a bald spot in the middle, where raised flesh was evidence something had torn--not cut, but torn--through.

  "I'm blind." For a long time. Years.

  "I don't remember."

  But he did, sort of. A bleating lamb, separated from its mother and crying for her. A tawny shape on a branch, ready to leap. He had yelled, waved his arms, just as his pa had told him to do. "A cat will like as not run if you show yourself big enough."

  He hadn't been big enough. The panther had leapt. Had taken him down. Its foreclaws had raked his face, ripped through his shirt. Its teeth had fastened around his head. He'd slashed and stabbed with his knife, even as he'd felt the cat's hind claws tearing at his heavy britches.

  And suddenly it had collapsed against him, hot and bloody and...and dead.

  "Who killed it?" He couldn't remember, nor could he recall what had come next.

  Or who he was.

  His vision had dimmed with the weight of the great cat heavy on his chest. In the darkness, he'd felt strong hands lifting him. a hoarse, shaking voice saying, "My God, son... Oh, my God."

  But no name. His father had not named him then, nor within his memory.

  A coyote slunk along the edge of the brush but came no closer. It would, eventually, once it decided he wasn't going to shoot at it.

  He waited, but while he did, he scrabbled on the ground. Gathering small stones until he had two handsful ready to fling.

  The coyote grew bolder, was tensed for a charge at the meat, when he heard the lad approach. It froze, turned its head from side to side, and took off like a stone from a sling.

  "I'm back."

  "Good. How's the wood supply?"

  "I dunno. Maybe enough for an hour or two. Why?"

  "We'll need to keep the fire going all night long, if you want to have meat to take home come morning."

  "There's no more wood around. I scrounged everything I could find."

  Well, hell. "Got any rope?"

  "Huh?"

  "Rope. Line. The stuff you use to tie things up."

  "Oh. Sure. I got the line I was going to tie the meat together with."

  "Hang the meat." He tried to get up, so he could show the lad what he meant, but something was wrong with his leg, It wouldn't do what he told it to.

  "What's your name?"

  "I'm Rye. Zachariah Bates. Who are you?"

  "I'm..." His name was there, buried just beyond reach. "I don't know--

  "I don't know who I am."

  * * * *

  Someone shook her awake. "We're gettin' off here."

  When Callie tried to stand, nothing happened.

  "Pick her up, Frisco," her pa said.

  If the conductor hadn't called out the town's name, Callie wouldn't have known it was Sidney. She didn't ask why they were getting off.

  The man carrying her was the hulk who'd taken her from the cabin. Once they were on the platform, he said, just loud enough for her to hear, "Yore pa says I can have you if'n you give him any trouble. I'd like that. I'd like it a lot."

  Nothing would have made her more docile, even if she hadn't still been limp from the laudanum. The hulk terrified her. He was the most evil, merciless creature she'd ever encountered. Even compared to her father.

  The men walked in a tight-knit group for a block, turned to the left and traveled another three. At the entrance to a tall, narrow house, her father stopped and pulled out a set of keys. "You boys check around back. Frisco, bring her in this way."

  He unlocked the door and waved her inside. The entry smelled of raw wood and tobacco smoke. Its floor was bare, its walls empty of decoration, and painted white. A pair of doors broke the blank plaster wall on one side, and a set of double doors were set in the opposite wall. Several feet back from the entrance, a stairway half the width of the hall led into a dark second floor. Everything looked newly-built, raw.

  "You'll have a room on the third floor. For now. As long as you behave." Pa opened the double doors and disappeared into the dim space beyond. After a moment she saw the flare of a match, followed by the steady glow of a candle. It came toward her, and for an instant she had the impression it was being carried by an invisible hand, until her father came into view. Looking past him, she got the impression of dark red walls, a lot of gilt and shining brass, and too-plush furniture scattered in small groups around a big room.

  "Take this," He handed her the candle. "Don't make any noise. I'll tend to you when I'm ready."

  Her first impulse was to smash the burning candle against his face, or Frisco's. Instead she said, "Yes, sir," and meekly started up the stairs. She had to hold tight to the handrail, because her legs were still weak and trembling.

  She was at the top of the first flight when he spoke again. "Girl, there's something you should know."

  She waited.

  "You're my daughter, and I won't put you to work here. Not as long as you don't give me any trouble. But rile me and you'll regret it. I can always use another girl on the second floor."

  He looked up at her, his gaze intense. "Don't you forget it."

  With those words, she knew what sort of a house she was in.

  "Do you understand?"

  "Yes," she said on a sigh. "Yes, I understand."

  The stairs to the third floor were narrow and steep. She had to crawl the last few. At the top, she looked back down while she rested. What kind of man was her father, to threaten his only child with a life of shame?

  A monster. He was a monster.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rye agreed the snow was a good reason to stay put. The tree--perhaps the only tree in this part of Wyoming taller than fifteen feet--had branches strong enough to hold all four quarters of the deer out of the reach of coyotes and cats. The lad claimed there were no bears in the area, but his voice had sounded more hopeful than positive. "Leastwise we never saw none," he said, when pressed.

  Mister--the name he'd adopted as his own, wasn't convinced--but until he saw one, he'd take Rye's word. He'd a memory of a bear-killed calf, and didn't want either of them to suffer that fate.

  Why, when I can see that calf as clear as day, can't I recall my own name? Or anything that's happened to me since... Since when?

 
; He could see, in his mind's eye, children playing along a river, riding across a meadow single file. A big black man laughing aloud, a tall, fair man in buckskins quietly chuckling beside him. They were both kin, but how?

  Sometimes, when he forgot to strive for memories of the life he'd lived before, he saw a sweet face, eyes as green as spring leaves, a loving smile.

  Or was it only a dream? For the woman's face had no more of a name attached to it than the children or the men.

  The piercing pain in his head was constant, but he would not die of it. A bullet had plowed a furrow across the side of it just above his right ear. Either he'd been clubbed or dropped on the top of his head too, because there was a long cut and a goose-egg on his crown. All around the cut, his scalp was puffy, swollen, and tender. Was the bone underneath intact? Great God, I hope so. It felt solid.

  His shoulder was more a nuisance than a danger, for the bullet had gone though muscle, leaving a ragged hole but doing little damage. His arm didn't work the way it ought, but he knew in time he'd regain strength. The massive bruise to his hip put a hitch in his git-along, but he knew it would heal, eventually.

  The second day he found movement marginally easier, although he still couldn't take more than two or three steps without falling to his knees with dizziness. "Go," he told the lad after they'd fed on meat skewered on sticks and cooked over the scanty fire. "Take one of those haunches and hightail it home. Send somebody back with a horse."

  Rye's mouth turned down and he looked anywhere but at Mister. "I can't." He kicked at a stone. "We got no horses. Just two milch cows and half a dozen goats."

  "No horses? How the dickens did you get clear out here without horses?" He didn't know what the nearest town was, but somehow he knew it was a couple of days' ride.

  "Walked. We took the train to Cheyenne. Pap thought Laramie looked closer, leastwise on the map. But Father Jacob had said Cheyenne, so that's where we came."

  No amount of argument would convince Rye to leave him. Finally the lad went off to look for more firewood. "Maybe I can find something to make you a crutch," he said, with the incurable optimism of the young.

  He returned along toward sundown, when Mister was beginning to worry something had befallen him. His scrawny arms held a bundle of wood, most of it short sticks, but not all. He dumped it next to the firepit, where not even embers remained of this morning's fire. "Look what I found. It ain't long enough to make a crutch, but I reckon it might make a fine cane." The stick he held up was thick, nearly as big around as the lad's wrist, and waist high to him.