The last of the desperadoes stepped out of the burning house. He was holding a black revolver. He held it up to his boss and said, “Lookit what I found, Master.”
Squinting up from where he lay on the ground, Keech saw it was the Colt Dragoon.
Bad Whiskey accepted the weapon with glee.
“I told you I’d be gettin’ that back,” he crooned at Pa. He then turned with a grin to watch the fire spread.
Sweltering heat pressed against Keech, as if he were lying at the mouth of an oven. The whitewashed walls of the Home peeled, blackened. Frames and shutters cracked as the fire consumed everything.
Thick smoke billowed through the door and for one second, Keech caught a glimpse of Sam. He was standing inside the house, his face lit orange by nearby flames.
Sam lifted his hand, quickly moved his fingers to toss three quick signals at him: Escape. Hide. Run to Big Timber.
A desperate plea telling Keech to save himself.
The flames kicked up and a wooden beam splintered and crashed across the doorway, sealing off the Home. All sight of Sam was lost. His brother was trapped and doomed to die alongside the rest of his family.
All because of Keech’s plan.
The remaining number of Bad Whiskey’s gang stood side by side, torches in hand, and watched the fire. Their horses chomped and shuffled at the shakepole fence, worried by the wall of heat. The heavy thrall, Bull, casually pulled the awl from his arm and tossed it aside. He made no move to tend his injury.
Keech watched Bad Whiskey hand the silver shard back to Scurvy, who pocketed the pendant, again careful not to touch the glowing metal. Despite his care, it was obvious the charm was causing the thrall considerable distress.
Bad Whiskey stepped over to Pa Abner. The outlaw smiled at the sight of the man brought low. “Sit up, Raines.”
“You leave him alone!” Keech yelled. He tried to rise to his knees and scurry to Pa, but Rance approached and held him down with a boot.
Pa moved at a defeated pace. He straightened his legs and pushed himself up on his hip. He clasped his hands together and lifted his eyes, looking like a man deep in prayer. “You didn’t have to murder my family.”
Bad Whiskey looked amused. “Family, he says.”
A cough racked Pa Abner. Beads of blood painted his lips. “There was no need.”
Bad Whiskey tilted his head, his face inches from Pa’s. “Here’s yer deal, Raines: Tell me where to find the Char Stone. And give me the location of the other Enforcers. You tell me those two things and I spare this boy’s life.”
Pa Abner shook his head. “I don’t know about the others.”
“Don’t tease me. Horner, O’Brien, Jeffreys. Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Pa said. “We parted ways forever.”
Bad Whiskey laid his gloved hands on Pa’s head. “I believe ya ’bout the other Enforcers. But I’d wager you do know where the Stone is.”
“I don’t. I swear.”
Whiskey removed his hat, revealing a head of slicked-back hair. In some places the hair had fallen out in clumps, revealing yellowish patches of scalp beneath. He waved the brim of the hat beneath his pointed goatee. “That fire has sure turned this property to a furnace!” he sang, and wafted his overcoat. He turned and looked at the bearded thrall who had removed Pa Abner from the Home. “Dixon, what were the terms I just now offered?”
The creature named Dixon looked dumbstruck. “I think ya said, ‘Tell me where to find the Stone and I’ll spare the boy’s life.’”
“Yes, I thought so. Too bad. You had yer chance, Raines.”
Bad Whiskey raised his Dragoon.
Pa held up his hands in desperation. “I don’t know the Stone’s whereabouts, Whiskey! I’m not lying! After the shoot-out at the Blackwood place, I had it hidden! It’s lost. Even from me.”
Keech flinched at the mention of his last name. He had never heard Pa mention a shoot-out. Especially not one at the home of his mother and father, before he was orphaned.
“Hid even from you?”
“My mind was clouded. I remember nothing. I swear!”
Bad Whiskey shrugged. “That’s a cryin’ shame.” He thumbed back the hammer.
Pa screamed, “Wait, Whiskey! A sullied place. A place of death. I don’t remember details, but even now I can feel its wickedness pulling at me from the west.”
“A place of death. To the west. Interesting.” Bad Whiskey hesitated, his mouth twisting up to a smile. “Perhaps a boneyard? Or the site of a terr’ble battle?”
Pa wavered, his face full of despair. “It’s a feeling of death and desolation pulling at my heart. That’s all I know.”
“Give me the name of the nearest bone orchard to the west. Speak or it’ll be the end of Jim Bowie.”
Keech looked into Bad Whiskey’s good eye. He saw death behind it.
Frantically, Keech reached into his coat and drew forth the telegram. “Wait!” He held it out as a desperate distraction. “What if I gave you a secret letter?”
“Keech, don’t!” Pa bellowed.
Lowering the Dragoon, Bad Whiskey accepted the telegram. He unfolded it and quickly read over the stack of numbers listed down the paper. He shook his head in frustration. “This ain’t nothin’ but gibberish.” Nevertheless, he stuffed the page into the pocket of his overcoat and then raised the Dragoon toward Keech again.
“Good-bye, pilgrim.”
Despite his wounds, Pa jumped to his feet and lunged. He wrapped his hands around Bad Whiskey’s throat.
Keech pushed up to his own feet. The other desperadoes had turned their attention to Pa and Bad Whiskey. Two of them struggled to pry Pa’s fingers off their boss’s throat, but Pa’s grip was immovable.
“Run!” Pa shouted.
For a second Keech’s eyes locked on Pa’s, and the piercing gaze of his father revealed the ghosts of future memories they would never share. In some way, Keech had always known this moment would come, but he had hoped it wouldn’t come till Pa was very old and lying in his quiet bed.
Keech turned to run and found Rance blocking his path with a rifled musket. Without thinking, he grabbed the rifle. Just that morning he had faced Sam on the banks of the Third Fork and they had played this very game.
He tugged on the rifle and Rance pulled back. The thrall was strong and his weight threatened to yank Keech off his feet. So he moved exactly as his brother had moved that morning. He pivoted on his inner foot and twisted his hip. Then, before his opponent could adjust, Keech yanked hard on the musket.
The weapon tore free. Rance’s feet slid out and he tumbled backward, landing on his haunches.
Keech spun in time to see the gaunt Scurvy descend upon him. There was no time to aim and fire, so he swung the musket. The long barrel smashed across the thrall’s head, driving him to the ground. A flash of orange light caught Keech’s eye. Pa’s charm, dangling from Scurvy’s pocket. Keech dropped the musket and grabbed the cord. The pendant ripped free of the pocket. A chill burst up his hand.
Grunting, Keech spun on his heel and bolted for the white elm trunks, risking a backward glance to see if Pa had managed to strangle Whiskey. The thralls tugged at Pa, but he refused to let go. As he passed the tree line, Keech saw the outlaws yank Pa Abner away and push him to his knees.
Bad Whiskey pressed his Dragoon against Pa’s chest.
Keech heard three words:
“So long, Enforcer.”
A shot echoed across the night.
The gunshot hollowed Keech’s soul. He drew a long breath to howl, but stopped himself before the scream could fly. If he was to survive, he had to stay sharp, remember his lessons.
In the distance he could hear the one-eyed murderer shout curses at his leathernecks. “Get the shard, you fools! The Reverend’ll have our heads!”
Away from the burning house, the world was raven black. Keech found one of the trails he and Sam had cut the summer before and stumbled through the brush. He slung the charm over his
neck and tucked it inside his shirt.
At last he made the gully and dragged himself into the shallow riverbed. His boots filled with toe-numbing water. The desperadoes were just behind him, beating the branches, calling out with mocking voices. As they stomped to the bank, one of them muttered, “He’s close. I can feel it.” Their torches cast eerie spindles of gold over the water.
At the riverbank, Keech stretched himself flat, submerging his body, allowing only his face to break the water’s surface. The cold was bracing, but bearable, much like the river’s bite earlier that morning. The worst of the cold seemed to be coming from the silver charm, which radiated an otherworldly chill upon his chest, as it did when he was a toddler in Pa’s arms.
Seconds later, the thralls appeared only a few steps away. “The shard is near,” one of them grumbled. Keech spotted a thorny bush slowly drifting in the water. He moved the bush over his body and face. Mercifully, the moon remained hidden behind heavy clouds, bathing him in near pitch darkness.
Through the bush he saw Scurvy, standing so close he could have touched his boot. Keech held his breath.
One of the thralls, the scoundrel named Dixon, hissed, “Anything?”
Scurvy paused, his speckled white scalp tilted toward the water. “Can’t tell.” The thrall’s black eyes skimmed over the trickling surface. “Show yerself, chickabiddy. You can’t hide.”
A few yards away, a second voice called out, “There’s tracks over yonder.”
“But he’s close!” Scurvy spat.
“Forget him. The Master calls,” Dixon shouted.
“We can’t leave,” Scurvy said, running the toe of his boot over a submerged river rock. The boot grazed the thorny bush and threatened to knock it out of Keech’s grasp.
“You fool,” the second voice said. “His tracks are yonder!”
“The kid’s long gone,” Dixon said. “Master wants us to report back.”
Grumbling, Scurvy backed away from the water. He turned his gaze once more to the riverbank, scowled, then stomped away into the woods.
Keech waited, unwilling to emerge into a trap. Time refused to pass. Every sound was the crack of a boot or the splash of a killer. He waited till he could no longer feel his arms and legs. Only when he realized his body was no longer cold, but instead sleepy, did Keech decide he needed to escape the water.
He bumbled across the gully, slipping on dead feet, and crawled up the bank. The ground was stone-hard, but his wet hands and soaked sleeves turned the dirt to mud. He struggled to his knees, wrapped his arms around an elm trunk, and pulled himself to his feet. After a few minutes, his blood thawed enough for him to risk taking a step.
He didn’t get far before collapsing again, this time into a thick veil of unconsciousness. For hours he found himself fading in and out, wondering if the terrible night was just a dream. When he finally gained enough strength to stay awake, Keech judged the day’s first light would arrive soon, maybe in less than an hour.
Shivering, he stumbled back toward the Home. Along the way he pulled Pa’s pendant out of his shirt and clutched the metal close to his chest, the way Patrick used to grasp his toys.
When Keech emerged from the trees, he saw that Bad Whiskey’s fire had turned the Home to a smoldering mountain of wood, a terrible heap that crackled and collapsed into itself. Even after hours of cold night, legions of bright red sparks and embers still sputtered in the air. Keech shuffled closer, barely feeling himself move. Heat from the ruin washed over him, driving back the river chill. Thick white smoke rose into the early morning sky. He dropped to his knees.
Bad Whiskey and his gang had ridden away, taking the bodies of their own dead with them. They had taken Pa Abner as well. The place where he’d fallen was a dark crimson, but Pa’s body was gone.
Keech watched as the heavy streams of smoke circled the air. He remembered his final glimpse of Sam, standing in the center of the flaming Home, beseeching him to run and hide. Even as he faced death, Sam had thought only of the welfare of his brother. Sam had once laughed and played with the wildest vigor. He had cherished all life, from the foxes in the woodland to the tadpoles in the puddles. He had been Keech’s best friend and brother.
And now he was gone. Forever.
Keech stood and brushed off his knees. Slipping Pa’s charm into his coat pocket, he stared in silence at the smoke and the ash. He didn’t cry, though destruction had come.
He was alone now. But he wasn’t scared. For the first time in his life, Keech had a purpose.
First, he would find the remains of Sam, Granny Nell, and his other siblings, and give them proper rest.
Then, because he was the Wolf, he would hunt.
There would be no peace for Bad Whiskey, and no peace for his wicked men.
One by one, Keech would send them to their doom.
PART 2
THE YOUNG RIDERS
INTERLUDE
WHISKEY ON THE TRAIL
The crow stood motionless on the lowest branch of the oak.
Its wings were folded inward, as birds do when not in flight, but these wings were so abnormally long their tips jutted well below the branch. To Whiskey Nelson, they gave the crow a barbed, carving-knife appearance.
The creature would have been invisible in the night, had Whiskey not held one of the burning torches used on Raines’s orphanage. In the firelight, he could see the crow staring at him, its eyes black as gunpowder, peering into his mind.
The P’mola, the Reverend Rose called them. A name derived from the Abenaki tribes who had once welcomed him into their villages—till the Reverend’s lust for power betrayed their trust. The P’mola were his emissaries, the darkest of all creatures. When the Reverend had awakened in the Palace of the Thunders, they were the first things he had created.
You lost the amulet shard, the crow said now. The words were not spoken aloud, but came to Whiskey as a terrible rasp—the Reverend’s rasp—deep inside his head.
“I’m sorry, boss,” Whiskey muttered. He had fallen to his knees to address the crow. “It won’t happen again.”
No. It will not.
Whiskey had taken his gang southwest down an all-but-forgotten Indian buffalo trail. It would be the quickest route to the village of Whistler, the location of the nearest graveyard, according to information acquired from one of the P’mola. The gang had only half a day’s ride to reach Whistler, and with any luck, the resting place of the Char Stone.
You let a boy defeat you, the crow said.
“The kid’s a green bean,” Whiskey said. “He splashes in rivers and plays with sticks.”
He was raised by Isaiah Raines, taught the ways of the Enforcer.
“And I took Raines down,” Whiskey said, then promptly regretted the boast. To speak to the messenger crow was to speak to the Reverend, and the Reverend cared little for arrogance.
In response, the crow flapped its immense wings. Careful how you speak to me, Nelson. I could have this P’mola tear you limb from limb.
“The boy’s just a pup, boss.”
The crow cackled. You fool. The boy is Blackwood’s son.
The voice in Whiskey’s head was terrible, but hearing that old name—Blackwood—was somehow worse. His entire body went rigid at the sound of it. “That’s impossible!” he croaked.
When Raines fled with the Char Stone, he must have taken the boy as well.
Whiskey fell silent. His good eye dropped to the dead leaves swirling between his boots. He could hardly believe it. The foolish pup with the claw hammer was the son of Screamin’ Bill Blackwood.
The crow shifted slowly upon the oak branch. After a moment, the Reverend’s terrible voice raked across Whiskey’s mind again.
You failed me.
“No, boss, I’m close!”
The crow screeched. You have dined on my vitality for too long, Nelson.
“I just need to raise more thralls!”
I gave you the Prime. I taught you the Black Verse. And you failed me.
The Prime is mine for the giving. You are no longer worthy.
Whiskey felt the stone of his heart skip two beats. “Boss, no! Don’t take it!”
The P’mola screeched again, an agonizing noise that speared Whiskey’s brain. This time a cold, watery sensation trickled through his veins, filling his body with hollows. Memories from his childhood flickered, and then snuffed out, lost forever. He wobbled upon his knees, struggling not to pitch over.
He knew what had just happened. The Reverend had begun to drain the invisible essence that kept him whole, the force known only as the Prime, the darkest of all the chaos magics.
Terrified, Whiskey remembered the happiest song from his youth, the song his father had taught him when he was a young boatsman on the Mississippi. He clung to the memory as if it were gold treasure:
How happy the soldier who lives on his pay,
And spends half a crown on six pence a day;
He fears neither justices, warrants nor bums,
But pays all his debts with a roll of the drums …
The song began to slip. He tucked it down, his only possession, his only connection to the old life.
The Reverend Rose could enter a man’s head, round up his thoughts, and burn his sweetest memories to ash. The Reverend Rose could tread on a man’s soul and cut it to ribbons with the rowels of his spurs.
But Whiskey could not let the Reverend have everything.
“Don’t drain me, boss!” he pleaded. “I’m sorry! I’ll make it right!”
The crow cawed, then took flight, rising high above the oak tree, high above the Missouri forest, and vanished into the wild darkness.
Whiskey climbed back to his feet. He took a tall breath to calm his mind.
“Master?”
Whiskey spun, his hand dropping instinctively to his Dragoon. The speaker was Dixon, one of the first thralls he’d ever raised. The other thralls lurked behind him.
Legends of the Lost Causes Page 7