Legends of the Lost Causes

by Brad McLelland

  “We should ride while we still have some light left,” Keech said.

  “But we have to help the survivors!” Duck scolded. “Their lives are ruined because your pa told Whiskey to head west.”

  Boiling anger suddenly flooded every vein. Before he could stop himself, Keech bounded two steps closer and shoved the kid.

  Duck lost his balance, tripped backward, and landed in the mud beside a gravestone. His clumsy blue hat rolled off his head, exposing the brown fuzz of his hair. “Why’d you go and do that?”

  “Don’t you blame my pa for this,” Keech said. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s your yellow-belly father.”

  A large fist came flying at his face and struck Keech square on the cheek. He tumbled to the ground on his rump. A loud ringing, like Granny’s supper bell, fluttered through his ears.

  Nat loomed over him. “Don’t you talk about our pa like that,” he snarled. “And never lay a hand on Duck again.”

  Keech blinked up, dazed. “You hit me.”

  Duck jumped back to his feet and grabbed his hat, ready to rejoin the battle. “Our pa was no yellow-belly! If you say it again you’ll get another fist!” He stuffed his hat back on.

  “But I’m telling the truth.”

  Nat raised his fist again, then hesitated. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father ratted on my pa, is what.” Keech rubbed his throbbing cheek. “He told the Gita-Skog where to find my home.”

  “Liar!” Duck screeched.

  “It’s no lie. Your father betrayed my whole family.”

  Nat reared back to let knuckles fly again. But this time Turner stepped between them. “Stop this now! There’ll be no more dissension in my outfit.”

  “But Sheriff—” Nat began.

  “Back away,” Turner said. “Right now.”

  The rancher raised his hands and complied. “You don’t understand, Sheriff. I just didn’t like Keech shoving my sister.”

  The past two days had been plenty confusing, but Keech couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why Nat had called Duck his sister. But then he considered Duck’s heavy hat, the short haircut, the green scarf knotted up to the chin, and sudden awareness dawned.

  “Wait a danged second! You’re a girl!” Keech sputtered.

  “I know,” said Duck.

  “But you’re dressed like a boy!”

  “I reckon that’s the point,” said Duck.

  A tickled laugh filled the air. Keech turned to see John Wesley bent over, shaking. “I saw Duck was a girl the second I met her,” he cackled.

  “Truth be told,” said the old man, Mayor Twiggs, “I thought she was a boy, too.”

  Nat put a hand on Duck’s shoulder. “It’s hard enough riding with a kid,” he explained. “But at least no one thinks twice about a boy. I keep her dressed like that, and her hair short, to keep her safe.”

  Duck shoved her brother’s hand away. “I keep my own self this way, thank you,” she said tartly. “And I can handle whatever you can, Nathaniel.”

  Nat frowned at her, then turned to Keech. “You can go hang, Blackwood. We did just fine before you came along.”

  “You were the ones who tackled me!” said Keech. “I never asked for you to show up!”

  “For Pete’s sake, get your heads on straight,” Turner said. “You’re all acting like a bunch of toddlers. Remember who the real enemy is.”

  Another drop of rain plunked on Keech’s nose. The grumble of distant thunder ripped across the valley.

  “Rain’s coming,” Turner said. “You boys calm?”

  Nat shrugged. “I reckon.”

  Keech wanted to shout at the whole gang to jump in a lake. He had suffered too much misery to be chided like a naughty kid. Of course, throwing tantrums would only prove he was a child. And when he thought about it, these kids were suffering their own fears and losses, so everything they were feeling was just as defensible as Keech’s anger.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said.

  Then a heavy crack broke the evening air.

  Keech thought a lightning bolt had struck nearby. But then a circle of dark red blossomed on Sheriff Turner’s left shoulder.

  “Keech?” Turner said, and slumped to his knees.

  The sheriff had been shot.

  “Get down!” Nat hollered, as a second gunshot boomed over the valley. A lead ball crashed into the graveyard wall, sending chips of gray stone flying.

  Keech dropped to his stomach. John Wesley froze, unsure what to do. Another shot fractured the sky. Mayor Twiggs, already in the act of pitching forward in the mud, avoided the lead ball just in time.

  The young riders broke for cover. Nat and Duck dived behind the yard wall and John Wesley joined Keech on his belly. Back by the horses, Cutter drew his knife. He looked curiously calm and dangerous, even though he held the wrong weapon for such a long-distance attack. “Come out and fight!” he snarled at their unseen attackers.

  The sheriff’s face was already turning pale. Laboriously, he lifted his revolver, took aim in the direction of the barrage, and pulled the trigger. The gun didn’t fire. Gritting his teeth, Turner slapped the side of the Colt against his thigh, re-aimed, and squeezed off again. This time the gun bellowed, lobbing a wild bullet across the valley.

  Keech shuffled to Turner on hands and knees. He grabbed the arm not wounded and hauled the big man to his feet. They reached the graveyard wall in a matter of seconds and ducked behind the fieldstone. “Rifles, long range,” Keech huffed, then peeked over the barrier.

  Fifty yards to the west, on the other side of the river, stood a wall of black locust trees—the entrance to Floodwood. The forest was menacing and bleak, and somewhere in that cluster of dark wood lurked the gunmen. Judging by the gunfire roaring from different angles, there were at least two men out there.

  Another volley erupted from the trees. Slugs pinged into the stone wall.

  “It’s a bushwhack!” Mayor Twiggs yelled from the mud.

  Hunched next to Duck, Nat said, “Looks like our outlaw’s come to us.”

  “Your Hawken’s with the horses,” Duck told her brother. “We need to get to it.”

  Turner pressed a hand against his wounded shoulder. “We have to ride for better cover!” he called out.

  All at once, the attack ceased. A peculiar silence hung in the air. The assailants were most likely reloading. Which meant the posse had little time to escape the graveyard. The longer they tarried by the wall, the more likely they were to get trapped.

  “Sheriff’s right. We have to ride,” Keech said.

  Nat looked at Duck. “Ready to skedaddle?”

  The girl nodded. Mayor Twiggs hopped to his feet, panting heavily, but he looked ready.

  “What do I do?” cried John Wesley, still flattened on his belly. “I’m the biggest target!”

  John Wesley was right—they would aim right for him—but there was no time to debate. “I’ll stay and help the sheriff,” Keech told the boy. “Get to the horses. Take Mr. Twiggs.”

  Nat waved at John Wesley and the flustered Mayor Twiggs to head back toward the burning church. Once John Wesley was back on his feet, the group began to zigzag through gravestones to reach the exit. Keech dared another glance over the wall at the Floodwood tree line, then turned back to watch the others flee.

  Cutter was sprinting back toward the village, chasing their horses. The animals had panicked at the gunfire and were racing back to the east.

  “Our ponies!” cried Duck as she ran.

  “Don’t stop! Keep going!” Keech yelled.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sheriff Turner, drooping against the wall.

  “The horses. They spooked.”

  Keech winced in panic when Mayor Twiggs stumbled to one knee on the road beside the church. John Wesley scooped low and hauled the man back up to his feet.

  Once he saw that the gang had reached a safe distance, Keech looked out again across the river. Standing in the open were two of Bad Whiskey’s th
ralls. One wore a long frock coat, the other had what appeared to be a golden ring glinting from his nose.

  The gunmen were none other than Scurvy and Bull.

  The brewing thunderstorm at last ruptured. Sheets of hard, steady rain poured from the sky, turning Whistler’s graveyard to instant slop.

  “Blackwood!” Scurvy bellowed. “We’ve come to claim ya!”

  Though the thralls were quite a distance off, Keech could still see they were holding long Harper’s Ferry muskets. The dead men had to be decent marksmen to hit Turner.

  Propped against the wall, Turner said, “I’m sorry, son, but I’m afraid they’ve taken me out of the hunt.” He touched Keech’s arm apologetically.

  Keech swallowed back a lump. “It’s all right, Sheriff.” He peeked over the wall. The thralls were lurching steadily toward the graveyard. Soon they would enter the shallow river and then trudge up the bank. Once they reached the wall, the desperadoes would kill Turner where he sat. Then they would finish the young riders and all the other survivors at Whistler.

  The solution to their situation was now obvious. Keech saw no other choice.

  “I have to draw them away.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Turner shouted, then coughed.

  “Those monsters are here for me. I reckon once they kill me, they might leave the rest of you alone.”

  “Stop talking like that.”

  “I’m not gonna get everyone killed today.”

  Turner shook his head. “There’s a better way. If you could get past them, you could hide in the forest. They’ll double back and give chase. That’ll give us time to collect ourselves and prepare an ambush while you’re hiding.”

  Keech knew it was a better plan than simply walking out to meet his death. He didn’t figure the odds were good for skirting the thralls, but he could try. He readied himself to stand and run.

  “Wait. Take this.” Turner held out his revolver.

  Keech pushed the gun aside. “No, Sheriff, you’re wounded. You’ll need it. Besides, I have this.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s all I need.”

  Again he prepared to stand, but Turner seized his wrist. “Mr. Blackwood,” he said, drawing Keech closer. “Keep fighting. Be strong. Don’t give up.”

  Keech folded a hand over Turner’s glove. The knuckles were crimson with the sheriff’s blood. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Saying no more, he stripped off his bowler hat and stood. Across the river Scurvy and Bull quickened their pace, raising their muskets the moment they spotted him.

  Be with me, Sam. Show me the way of the Rabbit.

  Gripping his hat tight, Keech ran. He vaulted over the graveyard wall and sprinted toward the river. To anyone looking, it may have appeared he was running straight for them, but the map in his mind was certain: One more moment and he would run a diagonal line for the northern curve of the river. On their side, Scurvy and Bull were almost to the bank. By the time the thralls made the water, Keech would take the river’s curve and the thralls would lose sight of him.

  A hornet sounded near his left ear. Another rifle shot, but no lead touched him. He twisted north along the bank and toward the river’s curve. The thralls cursed when they realized his course. They wheeled back around.

  Keech was fully exposed now. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Scurvy and Bull had taken the bait. They had dropped their muskets and were now shuffling with revolvers held out.

  Rainwater soaked his body as he ran. He slid down a short slope and lost the thralls from his view. Floodwood forest was just across the river.

  He dived into the freezing water and began to swim, praying with every stroke that the others were taking advantage of his distraction. All around there were treacherous sounds: the slosh of the river, the grumble of thunder, the bellow of gunfire. The thralls were approaching the shoreline, the place he would end up once he reached the bank. Keech paddled harder. Another slug whizzed by overhead.

  His boots raked gravel bottom. He dug into the murk and propelled himself out of the river.

  Scurvy and Bull were now so close he could see their horrible decay, much worse today than their pale ghost faces back at the Home.

  Keech dashed across the field. A lead ball nibbled his coat sleeve. He pushed his legs harder. Dodge, weave, run, Pa used to say. Movement spoils even the best aim.

  The dark line of black locust trees loomed ahead.

  Floodwood is cursed, Mayor Twiggs had warned.

  Cursed or no, Keech had to get to cover. He sprinted for the gloomy tree line.

  CHAPTER 16

  FLOODWOOD

  The moment he entered the woods, Keech knew the forest felt wrong. A terrible pressure filled his head, as if someone had crammed his ears with sawdust, and a dull, relentless murmur tainted the air, too low to be a whistle, but too high to be thunder. It reminded Keech of a bumblebee stuck on a windowpane.

  He stopped to clear his head and catch his bearings. But then Whiskey’s thralls appeared less than ten yards away, muttering to each other at the wood’s edge. The blustery sky silhouetted their ragged clothes and raised revolvers. Keech dived behind a tree. He waited, motionless, and realized he was no longer holding his hat. He looked around frantically and spotted it lying in the wet leaves a couple of yards away, in plain sight.

  The dead men shambled closer, inspecting the wooded border, kicking around the riverbank grass. So far they made no attempt to cross Floodwood’s threshold.

  “He’s close,” murmured Scurvy, his frock coat rippling in the hard wind. “I can feel the amulet shard. Strange, though. My skin feels pulled in two directions.”

  Inside Keech’s shirt, the silver began to seep its uncanny chill.

  “I feel it, too,” said Bull, his voice dark, cavernous.

  Scurvy sniffed at the rain and cocked his speckled white head. “What’s this?” He pointed to a dollop of dark red liquid on a grass blade.

  Keech hadn’t noticed a moment ago, but now he realized his right arm was stinging just above the elbow. He touched the injured spot and winced. Wet crimson returned on his fingertip.

  The lead ball at the river had not merely nicked his coat.

  He had been shot.

  Scurvy dabbed at the blood drop. “I knew I hit ’im!” he crowed. “He’s powerful close.” The thrall started toward the tree line, but his partner hesitated, as if scared to enter Floodwood.

  “Master said to stay outta the woods till we kilt the Blackwood boy.”

  “How we gonna kill ’im if we don’t go in?” Scurvy said. He stretched a rotting black finger to Bull’s face, snatched the gold nose ring, and yanked the thrall forward. Bull yelped in surprise, but followed Scurvy across the boundary.

  Pa Abner had once said fear was the most binding of all emotions. Keech appreciated those words all too well now. He tried to remember Pa’s training, the lesson of the rattlesnake in his bed—Stay in the moment, accept the danger, doubt sparks panic, panic sparks death—but a blinding fear padlocked every muscle in his body.

  There was nowhere to run.

  He took a deep breath. To stay in the moment you had to take in your surroundings, find anything useful for survival. A piece of black locust bark lay between his boots. It wouldn’t serve as a weapon, but the bark was tough and heavy, perhaps a fine distraction.

  He stooped and grabbed the bark. Angling the chunk to fly south, Keech flicked his wrist. The pain from the gunshot wound was sharp, but he managed not to make a noise. The bark snickered through the woods. Over the pounding rain, the sound of the bark splashing in a puddle was enough to grab the monsters’ attention.

  “Over yonder!” Scurvy yelped. The creatures lumbered south.

  Keech ran as hard as he could. He counted every yard he traveled—a habit taken from Pa Abner’s lessons. Soon he lost sight of the thralls.

  Before long, Keech’s eyes began to fall upon perplexing land markers in the forest, and he found himself too distracted to remember his yards. The
first curious thing he saw was a twisted willow tree, standing out nearly sideways on a steep hill. The drooping leaves of the willow were a strange color, neither green nor brown, but a dull gray, like a wilted dandelion. Keech stopped to investigate. He went to pull one of the leaves toward his eyes but stopped, and yanked his hand back.

  The leaves were covered in silvery prickles. Tiny spikes that seemed to be alive, moving as if blown by a wind that did not disturb the leaves themselves.

  Keech backed away. He had never seen a tree like this before. It was like the willow belonged to another world.

  He pressed on. Farther north, he stumbled through a patch of black locust trees and up to a small clearing. He pushed back a few branches and found himself at a muddy gray beach. A tiny pond lay a few feet away, its water so black it could have been wagon grease. He stepped across the beach to the water’s edge. The pool was still; no bubbling foam at the edges, no ripples or waves, not even a splashing fish. A terrible odor wafted off the water, a smell like burned gunpowder. He suspected it was nothing but poison, and that if he walked into it he would not come out the other side alive.

  Keech’s boots shifted in the mud. He realized he’d sunk all the way to his ankles. The beach was dragging him toward the smelly water. He struggled backward, almost losing his balance. He tugged his feet up enough to spin around and took three lumbering steps over the beach. He lunged back for the wood line.

  Poison ponds and tainted willows? Floodwood truly was cursed.

  He had to push on, especially if he hoped to find a safe shelter before the evening’s last light snuffed out.

  He continued north till his trek brought him to another peculiar landmark, this time a steep embankment where a tall stone outcropping stood at the top, a red mountain of rock that climbed as high as Floodwood’s trees.

  Keech stopped and stared at the mountain. Something seemed familiar about it. He couldn’t put his finger on what, but the red stones, the embankment, the outcropping gave him a dark, lonely feeling.

  He groaned at the thought of climbing that long slope. But a high vantage point would offer a good lookout. The rock afforded a meager overhang, as well, so he could rest up there and tend his wound.