Prairie Song

by Jodi Thomas

  With sweat pouring from his face, Grayson ground his teeth together and pulled the bandanna from his neck. He tied a knot over the leg wound. The blood from his shoulder seemed to be everywhere, dripping hot over his chest like tears.

  He heard horses riding toward him. Then gunfire seemed all around him, bouncing like thunder in the hollow canyon. He pulled his rifle up and forced his head to clear enough to look over his rock fortress. Three men were climbing toward him, but someone hidden across the canyon was firing on them each time they advanced.

  Grayson leaned back and tried to make sense of the battle. Being shot at didn’t seem so insane, but someone fighting to save him didn’t fit into his logic at all. He always traveled alone. That was part of the job. He’d learned a long time ago never to depend on anyone but himself. But someone was out there, attempting to keep his attackers from reaching him and finishing the job they’d started.

  The firing continued until dark; then Grayson heard the sound of horses riding further back into the canyon. He relaxed against the rock, knowing they’d given up until daybreak. A low rumble rattled from his chest as he laughed, finding it somehow funny that he’d cheat them by dying before they could return to kill him.

  Suddenly a body swung over the wall of his tiny fortress and slammed into Grayson. Before Grayson could raise his rifle to fire, the weapon was kicked from his grip. He reached for his pistol only to have it follow the path of his rifle.

  “Stop trying to shoot me, damn it!” snapped a voice filled with anger. “I didn’t spend all evening keeping the vultures off you to have you shoot me in gratitude, Yank.”

  Grayson’s gaze narrowed, barely discerning the face of the thin shadow of a man before him. “Brant?”

  The stranger grunted. “I’ve been trailing you for a week. You leave tracks a blind squaw could follow.”

  “I hadn’t thought anyone would be looking for me.” Grayson watched the outlaw closely. “So, why were you?”

  “I knew you’d get yourself killed if I didn’t.” Brant knelt down beside Grayson and touched the blood covering the huge man’s shoulder. “Damn near succeeded. Don’t get me wrong, Kirkland, I could care less if you live or die, but Cherish thinks a lot of you.”

  “You rode all the way out here just because Cherish wanted you to keep an eye on me?”

  Brant laughed. “I’m crazy, but not that crazy. Maybe I just don’t happen to like the men who tried to gun you down. Some folks give us outlaws a bad name. I recognized them. The leader, now with a plug of lead in his leg, looked like a weasel of a man who practices law back in Fort Worth. I heard he was real disappointed when Margaret showed up to claim the house. He thought it would be his by spring. The other two were just hired guns, and not very good ones at that.”

  The pain in Grayson’s shoulder was clouding his thoughts but he unclenched his teeth long enough to ask why.

  Brant leaned against the rock beside the Union officer as if they had nothing better to do but chat in the darkness. “They should have killed you with one shot. That was very sloppy. Then, when I showed up, they ran. But they’ll come crawling back about daybreak. We’ll have to wait until the moon’s high before we move. Fortunately, it’ll be a rustler’s moon tonight so the light won’t be very bright.” Brant moved swiftly in the darkness. “I’ll tie up your wounds as best I can and then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  As Brant worked, Grayson questioned him again about his interest in whoever hired these men to kill him.

  For the first time in his life, Brant told the true story. “Back before the start of the war, I got involved with a group of men known as the Knights. Most were good, God-fearing men who went a little crazy with panic thinking about how the blacks were going to rise up and kill all the whites. The Knights got some money together and loaded it and all the slaves they could buy or steal into a boat leaving Galveston one night. The plan was to start a slave state in South America.”

  His voice lowered as he remembered. “I was only a little older than Barfield. Daniel was two years older than me. We were about three days out when cholera broke out. The slaves went loco, all moaning and crying about dying. There were seven men in charge; Daniel and I were just along for the ride. The men got together and decided what they were going to do. There was only enough room in the one longboat for seven men and the gold. They chained Daniel and me together so we wouldn’t cause any trouble. They said it was part of a code agreed upon by all the men. We thought they were just going to leave us afloat. Then they opened fire on the slaves.”

  Brant was silent for so long that Grayson wasn’t sure he would, or could, continue. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I still hear those folks screaming. It was that high, hollow scream that comes when anyone knows he’s going to die. Most of the male slaves were chained and there was nowhere for them to run. One woman, blood covering her face, fell into me and Daniel. I tumbled to the deck, dragging him with me. I guess the men thought they’d shot us. With her blood spilled all over us they didn’t check too closely. They loaded the gold in the longboat, threw a lantern against the galley door, and disappeared over the side.

  “I was unconscious, but Daniel pulled me to the edge of the deck. We hit the water about the time the whole ship caught fire. The slaves who hadn’t died during the shooting were screaming as they burned. It was years before I could get that smell out of my lungs; and still I wake myself up sometimes, thinking I’ve heard them scream again.”

  Grayson finally saw where the story was leading. “So you decided to hunt down the seven Knights and kill them one by one.”

  Brant laughed without humor. “No. Daniel did. While I went off to scout for the Confederacy, he took it as some kind of crusade. Only we looked so much alike, folks guessed it was always me. Before I knew it I had quite a name as a gunman, and every hotheaded kid in the state wanted to call me out. I wasn’t living a saint’s life, so the handle fit. Murder became like a drug to Daniel. He’d wear the robes till he found one of the men, then he’d take great pleasure in killing him. With each murder, his mind slips a little more and I get a grander reputation, which I couldn’t disclaim without endangering him.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Grayson’s pain-riddled mind couldn’t make any connection between Brant’s story and his attackers except that both were somehow tied to the Knights.

  “I don’t know, Yank. Maybe I figure you’ll be dead by morning so you’re a safe person to tell. Maybe I’ve lived with the secret too long. In my own way, I’m probably as crazy as Daniel. I even tried to stop him on the last murder and Lord knows that bastard deserved to die. But when we both ran from the scene, guess who got the blame? Hell, if they find your body I’ll probably get stuck with your death, too. I’ve killed enough men to hang ten times, so what difference does it make?”

  Grayson tried to stand. “I have no intention of dying and causing you more problems, Coulter.”

  He would have fallen if Brant hadn’t caught him. With one mighty heave, Brant lifted Kirkland onto his back and started down the rocks. “Well, if you’re not going to die, I might as well get you out of this canyon.”

  Grayson was blinded by the pain. He felt like his arm was being ripped from his shoulder and his leg felt deadly cool, but he didn’t cry out. He ground his teeth together and listened to Brant’s cursing.

  “Next time I save a damn Yankee’s life, I’ll pick a smaller one.” He let out a string of obscenities as he kept walking toward his horse. “I can’t believe how much you blue-legs bleed from a couple of little holes.” Swinging Grayson none too gently over his saddle, he added, “The guys shooting at you took your horse with them. I’ve got to get you hid out before dawn; then I’ll see if I can’t steal your mount back. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll find the body of that lawyer.”

  Brant grabbed the reins of his horse and started walking toward the cliffs. “Yank, it would sure help if you’d stop bleeding. You’re leaving an easy trail. Hell, if you ain’t the eas
iest man to follow in Texas.”

  Grayson’s last thought was that he’d like to kill Brant Coulter. He remembered all the wonderful things Cherish said about the outlaw and decided she must have him mixed up with someone else. Grayson was sure if there was any good in this man it would have to be picked out of him with tweezers.

  Brant didn’t slow down until they’d climbed for an hour. He knew Grayson had passed out from loss of blood and only hoped the man would stay that way until he could get them to someplace they could defend. Finally, he spotted a crack in the wall wide enough for a horse to go through. He led his mount through it to the other side of the canyon wall and then backtracked to cover the entrance with brush.

  He took the time to wrap Grayson’s wounds in hopes of stopping any more bleeding. He slowly led the horse down the back side of the cliff and into a wooded area thick with hundred-year-old cottonwoods and elms.

  Just after dawn, the pain pulled Grayson from his dreams. He opened his eyes to see Brant leaning over him with a knife in his hand. Brant’s face was twisted in concentration as he pointed the knife at Grayson’s shoulder.

  “I’m not finished yet,” Brant whispered moments before his fist slammed into Grayson’s jaw, sending the injured man back into unconsciousness.

  Grayson didn’t open his eyes again until late afternoon. Now, not only his shoulder and leg were throbbing, but his jaw felt like it had been stung by a hundred bees. He noticed Brant several feet away and wondered if he’d already died and this was his hell. He’d always figured hell would be full of rebs.

  Brant frowned at Grayson as he tried to move. “I patched you up best as I could. I sure wish Maggie or Cherish were here.”

  Grayson moved his unharmed arm and rubbed his jaw. “So do I. Your bedside manner leaves a little to be desired.”

  Brant shrugged. “Sorry, but I couldn’t have you yelling to high heaven while I cut the bullet out.”

  “I’m not in the habit of yelling because of a little pain.” Grayson’s blue-gray eyes studied him closely, wondering if this man had come to save him or kill him.

  Brant propped one of his long legs up on the rock beside him. “Yeah, I figured that. But by then, you were already out cold.”

  Grayson cradled his bandaged arm. “I don’t know whether to thank you or call you out.”

  “You owe me nothing. What I did, I did for Cherish—not you, Yankee. If I hadn’t seen your kindness toward her, I’d have left you as breakfast for the buzzards.”

  Grayson smiled. “You care a lot for that little gal, don’t you?”

  Brant shrugged, trying to make his reply casual, but he didn’t fool Grayson. “I want her to be happy. She could never be with me. There’d always be some kid coming up looking to claim my bounty money or make a name for himself by killing me. I sometimes have nightmares that she’ll see me gunned down. No matter how much I want her, I can’t have her. So I’m going to take you back and let you watch over both women. You might say saving your life is my good-bye gift to her.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “Maggie doesn’t want me within a hundred miles of her.”

  Brant laughed as he stood. “Now that, my friend, is your problem. I’d sooner face a regiment of seasoned Yankee guerrillas than that woman, and I’ve only heard about her.”

  “I’ll figure out a way.” Grayson closed his eyes and tried to make his head stop throbbing. “If I live through your doctoring.”

  Chapter 25

  Margaret tucked the blankets tightly around Hattie’s bed. The old woman was little more than a flesh-covered skeleton. Her mind rarely touched reality now, and Death waited only a step away to walk with her. The only comfort for her seemed to be the box she kept tightly clenched in her arms: her treasure of letters. Father Daniel had been to see her almost every day in the month that Grayson had been gone. Several times he’d asked that the room be cleared so that he could hear her last confession, but each time her screams brought Maggie back to comfort her and the priest was forced to leave.

  “I’ll sit with her awhile today,” Bar said as he sank into the chair by her bed and propped his boots on the footboard. “When Grayson comes back he said we’d have work to do outside, what with pulling all the boards off the windows and everything.”

  Maggie straightened her shoulders. “Grayson isn’t coming back. It’s been more than a month and to hope now would only be foolish. If he were coming, he’d be here by now.” Her tone was as emotionless as her face. Only the tight grip she held on the bed frame gave away the depth of her pain.

  Bar tilted his head and studied her. Her prim and proper manner didn’t deceive him. “You want him to come back, don’t you.” He said the words as fact.

  It was too simple a statement to be denied. She wanted him back with every fiber of her being, but she’d learned a long time ago that wanting something and getting it were different things.

  She was saved from answering by a pounding at the door. Maggie hurried to see who it was even though she’d learned over the past month that the caller was usually unwanted.

  Much to her displeasure, Mr. Wallman was standing on her porch with yet another paper in his hand. His face looked pale and his eyes were puffy and red.

  “‘Morning, Mrs. Alexander.” He had an irritating habit of starting to remove his hat then placing it back on his head with a quick tap. “I’ve been talking with your husband and he’s …”

  “My husband is dead.” She fought the urge to snatch the hat from his head and give him a quick lesson on how to greet a lady.

  “Now, Mrs. Alexander, don’t start that again. We both know full well your husband is alive and recovering over at the hotel. Fact is, I’m thinking he’ll be good as new in a few days. He’s eating regular and healthy enough to walk down to the bar every night for a drink.”

  “He’ll be dead if he sets foot on my property.”

  The lawyer shuffled as though his shoes had suddenly become too big and he was trying to keep them on. “That’s another point of fact you seem to ignore. By law this house is half his. He has as much right to be in this place as you do and now that that giant of a hired man has left, there is little you can do but accept the facts. I’m sure if you two spent some time together, you’d work things out like most folks do.”

  Margaret took a step toward him and the little man stumbled backward. “Now don’t go yelling at me, Mrs. Alexander. Your husband would have already been by to claim his rights if it weren’t for his untimely injury and the fact that we seem to have a little trouble getting the sheriff’s cooperation these days. But Westley wanted me to let you know that he’ll be here tomorrow to claim his rightful place as lord of the house, and there isn’t a legal thing you can do about it.”

  Margaret was so angry she had to bite her tongue to keep from yelling. After several breaths she said, in what she thought was a low voice, though it shook the panes on the windows behind her, “If he comes, please ask him to wear whatever clothes he wishes to be buried in.”

  The little lawyer was too shocked to reply. He stood, like a lazy frog, with his mouth wide open.

  “Good day, Mr. Wallman.”

  The lawyer looked skyward as if giving up a hopeless fight and turned to limp away. Maggie thought of asking about his injury, but decided she couldn’t stand him on her property any longer than necessary.

  She remained on her porch until he was down the hill. With the carriage of a queen, she turned and went inside, then collapsed behind the door and whispered one word as though it were a prayer: “Grayson.”

  Then, slowly, she straightened her back and walked to the kitchen to fetch her rifle. She might go to jail for what she planned to do if Westley came tomorrow, but she’d go to jail as a widow. There was no room in her heart, or in her house, for him.

  That night no one in the house could sleep. They all knew that tomorrow would bring trouble. Maggie paced her room, trying to think of something,
anything, she could do besides gun Westley down when he stepped on the porch. Bar positioned himself at the front door with his old rifle and refused to budge. His theory was simple. Anyone wanting to get to Maggie or Cherish would have to pass through him first and he didn’t plan to make that easy.

  Cherish checked each door and window downstairs. Grayson had boarded up the house so completely that it was like a fortress ready for attack.

  About midnight they all tried to settle down and sleep, but the wind whistled through the boards on the windows, making a long woo sound and the old walls on the second floor creaked as though they were crying in agony. An evil crept through the empty hallways on feet as light as spiderwebs, silently shaking any feeling of safety from everyone’s mind.

  Cherish tried to ignore the sounds of the wind, but gradually a tap-tapping picked its way through the other noises to bother her. Without rhythm, the tapping began to knock against her worried mind. Pulling on her wrapper, she picked up Grayson’s Colt and tiptoed down the stairs.

  At the foot of the stairs, where the door leading into the basement was hidden in the shadows of the hallway, she heard the tap-tapping louder—a cry now, not a whisper. For a moment she just stood staring into the shadows as if waiting for the blackness suddenly to take form.

  “What you think it is?” Bar asked, making Cherish jump and almost drop the Colt.

  She glanced to her side and found him only an inch behind her. The look of fear in his dark eyes held back any angry words she might have blasted him with for sneaking up on her. She lifted the gun carefully into her pocket and tried not to allow her voice to show her fear.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s someone behind the lock, for the tapping seems too random.”

  The tapping came again, making them both step back. The irregular patterns somehow were far more frightening than any rhythm might be.