“How’d you know?” Homer was a little disappointed that he hadn’t been the one to bring the news, but he was still excited. “Yellow Rose tell you?”
“Nope. Spotted ’em when they rode in.”
“You spotted ’em from clear over here in the near-dark?”
“Homer, that’s my job. I see the faces on every dodger we got in my dreams.”
“Well, what are we gonna do?”
“We’re gonna do our job. Bring ’em to their milk—and collect the reward. Dead or alive.”
“You and me?”
“That’s right, Homer. You and me. With a little help from a friend. Now, sit down, check your weapons, and listen . . .”
Homer Keeler sat down, checked his weapons, and listened.
Half an hour later all the lamps were turned off in the sheriff’s office. Hinge and Keeler stood in the darkness and looked out across the street as Stella Bright, the homeliest of the three saloon women, walked unsteadily out of the Appaloosa’s door with Charlie Reno’s arm around her shoulder. Though Elwood and Homer couldn’t hear her, she told Charlie she needed some fresh air before they went upstairs, then proceeded to vomit all over his boots. She excused herself, saying she had to go see the doc, and walked away. Stella Bright could make herself vomit anytime she wanted to.
Charlie Reno stomped his boots a few times and went back into the saloon. At the same time a buxom silhouette in the upstairs window of the Appaloosa moved a lamp away from the window and farther into the room. The silhouette belonged to Yellow Rose.
That was the signal.
With their badges out of sight beneath their coats, Sheriff Elwood Hinge and Deputy Homer Keeler walked toward the Appaloosa, armed.
They entered from the kitchen and nodded at Hooter. Hooter took a fresh bottle of whiskey over to Borden and Charlie Reno, who sat at a table by themselves. Frank Chase was the leader and Johnsy Reno came second in the pecking order, so Frank had first call on Yellow Rose and Johnsy got Francine Needle, who was an obvious choice over Stella Bright.
Since Stella had bowed out, Charlie, who was third in the pecking order, had to sit down with Borden and wait his turn.
“This bottle’s on the house,” Hooter said to Charlie Reno and Red Borden, as he set it on the table in front of them. “Help yourselves till your friends are finished upstairs.”
As Charlie and Red turned their attention to the fresh bottle, each of them was slammed across the back of the head by the butts of separate shotguns. Each was cuffed with their hands behind their backs, gagged, even though both were out cold, and relieved of their sidearms, which were given to Hooter, who in turn handed Elwood and Homer a key apiece.
Nobody in the place said a word as Elwood and Homer walked up the stairs.
Two keys turned in two locks. Two doors opened. Two naked men sprang for their holsters as two naked women rolled out of bed away from the open doors. There were blasts from two shotguns. Two men, Frank Chase and Johnsy Reno, died.
The other two, Red Borden and Charlie Reno, were still in jail behind Sheriff Elwood Hinge’s office waiting for a federal marshal.
That was the end of Hooter’s four-drink story.
Deek, Tom, and Bart Keeshaw drank up their drinks and thought things over.
Chapter 5
It was almost dark as Shad Parker drove his wagon within sight of the NO TRESPASSING sign on the post in front of his property.
For an instant he had thought of lunging at the sheriff, who would have had no choice but to squeeze the trigger on the shotgun and blow the life out of his attacker.
That would have broken it to a finish. It would have been over, ended. The strife, the memories, the pain.
But he hadn’t lunged. Something held him back. What?
Was he somehow punishing himself? Or was it because no matter how cruel the strife, how bad the memories, how deep the pain, the truth is that every living, breathing thing wants to go on living and breathing?
If he couldn’t bring himself to end his life, why hadn’t he let the sheriff do it for him?
The blood had now matted into his hair and dried along his neck. The blow from the sheriff’s shotgun probably would leave a scar. One more visible scar to go with all the others his body had suffered, and with the scars that were not visible.
Alone again, Shad began to unload the provisions from the wagon. But he was not exactly alone. As the sun dropped beneath the rim of the hill, three young faces peered through the gathering darkness from the opening of a cave that nature long ago had carved high near the crest.
Austin, Peg, and Davy watched until it was too dark to make out the figure of a man they had never met.
Not yet.
Chapter 6
Shad Parker sat like a colossal stone statue in the big chair facing the fireplace. In his grasp, a whiskey bottle half-empty. He stared at the crackling blue and yellow flames, as he had done so many nights before, until the fire burned itself out and the memories burned deeper.
Some nights the visions of Molly and the children prevailed. Those were the worst times, and other nights, nights such as this, the battlefield of his mind recalled the bloody battlefields that claimed the men of blue and gray and smeared and seared them both with red.
Geography and fate destined the Shenandoah Valley to be among the bloodiest of battlefields. The valley, more than 150 miles long and 10 to 20 miles wide, was nourished by the Shenandoah River, winding 170 miles, rising in two main forks, flowing northeastward, uniting near Front Royal and then onward to the Potomac at Harper’s Ferry. The Virginia valley, rich in farmlands, orchards, and pastures, between the Blue Ridge on the east and the Alleghenies on the west, was a region of varied scenery and natural wonders.
Unfortunately, it was also the ideal avenue of approach between the forces of the North and South. The Shenandoah Valley was the passport to victory or defeat for both sides.
Ironically, many of the generals from both sides were Virginians; most prominent of those who chose to fight for the Confederacy were Robert E. Lee, Joseph E. Johnston, and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. But not a few Virginians remained loyal to the Union, including Winfield Scott, George H. Thomas, and David G. Farragut.
Thomas Jonathan Jackson had served with distinction under Winfield Scott in the Mexican War, then from 1851 to 1861 taught at the Virginia Military Institute. In May of 1861 he was given a brigade in Johnston’s army and made a Confederate brigadier general. Shad Parker was part of that brigade.
At the First Battle of Bull Run, Jackson’s stand earned him the sobriquet “Stonewall” and a promotion to major general. Lieutenant Shad Parker was with him and earned a promotion to captain. Captain Parker was also with Stonewall Jackson when they routed Banks at Front Royal and Winchester, driving him across the Potomac.
And Parker was with Jackson and the famous “Foot Cavalry” against Pope late in August 1862, which set the stage for the crushing victory at the Second Battle of Bull Run, and in the Antietam campaign, and helped seal Lee’s victory at Harper’s Ferry.
But Shad Parker was also with Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville, where Jackson, in the coarse darkness, was mortally wounded by the fire of his own men. Major Parker helped to bury his fallen commander, then joined General Jubal A. Early at Cold Harbor.
Jubal Anderson Early, another Virginian, graduate of West Point, Indian fighter against the Seminoles in Florida, and veteran of the Mexican campaign, studied law and practiced at Rocky Mount, Virginia. Early had voted against secession at the Virginia Convention in April 1861, but when war broke out he accepted a commission as colonel in the Virginia troops. He won victories and promotions at Salem Church, in the Wilderness Campaign, and defeated Lew Wallace in the Battle of Monocacy.
Parker was with him when Early burned Chambersburg after the Pennsylvania town refused to pay a ransom.
In September of 1864 General Philip H. Sheridan moved against Early at Winchester and Fisher’s Hill, driving Early, with Parker,
deep into the valley, and at Cedar Creek what was left of their small force was overwhelmed and broken by General George Custer of Sheridan’s army.
That opened the way for Sheridan’s holocaust. Philip H. Sheridan was a small man, with the largest part of his head forward of his ears. He was restless, combative, and not politic in language. He had the reputation of being sharp and peppery, a self-reliant man of courage and decision. He had decided that in order to end the war the Shenandoah Valley had to be destroyed. He made rubble of the principal towns, Winchester, Front Royal, Luray, Staunton, Waynesboro, and Lexington and laid waste the fertile countryside.
In his report Sheridan stated “even a crow flying over the Shenandoah would have to bring his rations with him.”
General Philip Henry Sheridan was not prone to exaggeration.
The flame in the fireplace had burned out. The empty bottle had fallen from Shad Parker’s hand.
This night he had fallen asleep.
Chapter 7
It was still dark when Shad awoke. Predawn, December-morning dark. Reb, the rooster, had not yet cackled reveille. The cabin squatted peaceful and silent, soaking up the night juices.
The time of the night creatures—the owl, the bat, the possum, and the raccoon—more mysterious and arcane than the daylight denizens—was nearly done. They had crept and crawled, flown and hunted—and were hunted. The survivors had filled their stomachs and were returning to their daylight sleeping places, to rest the day and return to the business of survival another night.
Soon the day creatures would stir, cat and bird, bird and insect, snake and rodent, fish and worm, and every hunter with tooth and claw would begin the daily adventure of eating and avoiding being eaten.
To these hunters every day was the same, a dangerous game of life or death. But the nights were longer and colder in autumn and winter.
Shad knew it was close to Christmas. He didn’t know exactly how close, nor did he want to know.
Holidays and other special days—anniversaries, birthdays, and the like—only boiled up the memories and heated up the hurt. He seldom if ever looked at a calendar. He didn’t keep one in the house. He didn’t want to be reminded of the dates that he and Molly and later, the boys, celebrated together. His and her birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, the day they were married—the thirtieth of June—the days that the two boys, Sean and Shannon, were born—the twenty-first of March and the first of October—two and three years later.
He wanted all the days remaining in his lifetime to be the same, just the same as are the grains of sand in an hourglass—and just as indistinguishable. He wished his life were an hourglass, that he could turn it over just once and watch the grains drop into the bulge below—and know how much time he had left, instead of waiting and wondering how many times the hand of fate would turn over the hourglass of his life while he endured, until that inevitable, merciful hour.
For the first time in three days Shad Parker washed and shaved. As Reb roused the feathered inhabitants of his domain, Shad walked shirtless across the chill, first light of the farm to the well with soap, razor, and towel in hand and used them in that order after he brought up a bucket of stone-cold water from twenty feet below.
He washed his face and hair, getting rid of the dried blood on both. Then shaved without benefit of mirror, with the long-since unsharpened razor causing more blood to appear on his cheek and throat. He soaked the soap and water and blood from his face with the towel, then hung it out to dry in the clear, cold light of dawn.
After collecting the daily quota of eggs, Shad scrambled up four of them and fried six fat strips of bacon that he had sliced. The coffee was black and strong, the last two cups laced with a couple dollops of whiskey. Then Shad began the day’s work.
* * *
Austin had heard Reb’s wake-up call. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a second or two to recollect just where it was that they had slept. In fact, Peg and Davy were still sleeping, huddled close together facing the jagged wall of the sheltering cave.
In the days and weeks since they had run away from the Faith, Hope, and Charity Orphanage under the command of old Miss Stritch, Peg, Davy, and Austin had slept most of the nights without roof, except for a couple of barns and twice under wagons. The thought of old Miss Stritch sent a chill through Austin’s already chilled bones.
“Old Miss Stench” is what the kids called her—but not when she was within earshot—or “smellshot” as they sometimes said, also out of earshot. She was a string-thin old woman who appeared brittle, but was stone hard and with a voice like scratching chalk. She was seldom seen without a yardstick that she seldom used to measure anything except the number of whacks some wayward child could endure before tears would appear.
Old Miss Stritch had aversions to children and bathing, so naturally she was put in charge of the orphanage by her brother Silas, the mayor of Palestine. Old Miss Stritch was not yet forty, but to the children of the orphanage, most of whom were not yet ten, she was an old woman—a smelly, mean, old woman. Her hairline was well above the upper curve of her forehead and the bone of her skull shone through the frizzled palomino-colored fuzz that poked out of her head.
Old Miss Stritch, being a “miss,” of course never had any children of her own. That being the case, it was a puzzlement to all the children at the orphanage how she came to dislike other people’s children so much. She seemed to go out of her way to find fault with the “inmates,” as she called them, and to make corrections with the ever-present yardstick. She had a knack for finding bare skin with that yardstick even in the wintertime when the inmates wore heavier clothes. She managed to whack uncovered arms, necks, and the sides of little skulls, sometimes applying punishment to two inmates simultaneously.
Even though it was obvious that she felt no affection for her little charges, she seemed to resist letting them go. Several times she had talked potential adoptive parents out of going through with the adoptions. Once Austin was sure that a nice-looking couple, Mr. and Mrs. Ketchum, had made up their minds to take him and Peg and Davy home with them, until old Miss Stritch had a long talk in private with the Ketchums, then they left the orphanage without even saying good-bye.
Another time a couple seemed willing to adopt all three and after conversing with old Miss Stritch they decided they wanted only Austin—until he made such a commotion, even acting crazy, talking gibberish, and pulling out his hair, so they changed their mind about him, too.
Finally the children figured out that old Miss Stritch was protecting her job. If there were no orphans, there would be no orphanage, and if there were no orphanage, there would be no place for old Miss Stritch to work, so she had to keep enough inmates at Faith, Hope, and Charity to keep the orphanage operating.
Faith, Hope, and Charity wasn’t all bad. There was food enough, such as it was, and in the winter there were blankets, worn as they were, and also there was Mrs. Grady, a widow who volunteered to teach the children to read and write and do their sums. And best of all to tell stories about knights and dragons and the magic kingdom, where, at the end of each story things would always come right and everybody lived happy ever after.
But there wasn’t much happy ever after with old Miss Stench around, and after she whacked Davy again with the yardstick, this time busting his lip because he was slumping in his seat, Austin decided that they had had enough and the three of them took off in the middle of a moonless winter night.
Somewhere there must be a better place for the three of them. Davy kept asking if they were going to find the magic kingdom. Both Peg and Austin avoided a direct answer. And now it was nearly Christmas and the three of them had spent the night in a cave without food or blankets.
Davy woke up cold and crying.
Peg’s arm was around him, her other hand wiping the tears from his cheeks.
“It’s all right, Davy, don’t cry. We’re all here together and everything’s all right. Did you have a bad dream?�
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Davy nodded.
“Well, it was just a dream. Nothing bad’s going to happen. See, Austin’s right over there and we’re way far away from old Miss Stench and pretty soon we’re going to find a place to stay and stay together. Isn’t that so, Austin?”
Austin nodded, but not very emphatically.
“I’m hungry.” Davy ran the back of his hand across his eyes. “We didn’t have no supper.”
“Didn’t have any supper.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Look what I got.” Austin pulled an object out of one of his pockets.
“What?” Davy asked.
“What’s it look like?” Austin held the object closer to Davy.
“Looks like a potato.”
“Yep, that’s what it is, all right. It’s also breakfast.”
“A potato for breakfast?” Davy questioned.
“Sure. People eat potatoes for breakfast all the time.”
“How you going to cook it?” Davy inquired. “We don’t have no fire.”
“Not going to cook it.” Austin then pulled a pocketknife from another pocket. Knives weren’t allowed at the orphanage, but Austin had managed to hide it from old Miss Stench. “Going to peel it and eat it raw. Tastes good.”
“It does?” Davy wondered.
“Sure it does. Pa used to eat raw potatoes all the time . . . before you were born . . . Didn’t he, Peg?”
Peg hesitated.
“Didn’t he, Peg? Before Davy was born, didn’t Pa used to eat raw potatoes? You remember.” Austin nodded toward Davy.
“I guess.” Peg nodded, also not too emphatically.
“Sure he did.” Austin started to peel.
“Austin?” Peg looked at the potato.
“What?”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Get what?”
“The potato.”
“Oh, that. Well, Mr. Jones give it to me . . . for us . . . just before he left . . .”
The Christmas Trespassers Page 4