The Christmas Trespassers

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “Austin!”

  “I know, Peg.”

  “You think he heard?”

  “If he didn’t, he will. I better get down there and latch up that door.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Austin . . .”

  “What?”

  “Put on your shoes so you don’t step on some nail or something.”

  “Okay . . . damn.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Can’t find the other shoe.”

  “Here it is.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back. Davy, okay?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Be right back.”

  Shad Parker came out of the door of the cabin and staggered against the wind and rain. He slipped and nearly fell but walked on. A skirl of lightning ripped the hillside and was followed by a bellow of thunder that reverberated and echoed across the night.

  He stopped and stood defiant. His face turned upward toward the churning heavens with a million needles of water whipping against him, bleached again by lightning and pounded by the blast of thunder.

  The night had become his Armageddon, and Shad Parker flung up both arms and screamed a challenge with all the screams that were pent up inside of him.

  “I’m here! Go ahead!”

  He swayed against the elements, his hands still uplifted, and cried out.

  “Strike me down! Damn you! ‘Cast forth the lightning! Shoot out thine arrows and destroy!’ Here! I’m here!”

  Austin had seen nothing like it before. The boy stood watching from the doorway of the barn, paralyzed at the terrifying tableau out of a Walpurgis Night.

  Shad Parker’s eyes boiled, imploring, daring to be struck down. A ghastly figure framed against the graveyard darkness. Then he twisted suddenly as a burning, blinding branch of lightning split a wheelbarrow just beside him, scorching his body and knocking him face-first into the swamp of mud.

  Austin shuddered.

  A deafening roar of thunder followed after the bolt of lightning. He waited through the terrible echo, thinking that he, too, would be struck down by the next inevitable blow. How long he stood and waited he did not know.

  But it did not come.

  Shad Parker lay motionless, a twisted, unconscious pattern, half his face sunk in a muddy puddle. The rain continued to pour into the puddle and the inert figure sank deeper, and closer to death.

  Still trembling, Austin came out of the doorway, through the rain and mud, toward the fallen man. The first thing he had to do was to get the man’s face from beneath the surface of the dirty puddle or it would be too late to do anything. Maybe it already was. Maybe the man was already dead from the lightning bolt, or had already drowned.

  The boy reached down, took the man by both shoulders of his coat, and managed to roll him faceup. Water eddied out of the man’s mouth and nostrils, his eyes were closed but he still breathed. Austin tried to pull him out of the puddle, but the man’s weight and the gluey mud were too much for him.

  Austin, with all his strength, shook the man fiercely, trying to revive him. The man coughed and vomited but remained unconscious. It took all of Austin’s strength to roll him just out of the puddle and on to his side so he wouldn’t choke in his own vomit.

  “Austin! Austin!” Peg’s voice came from the doorway of the barn. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Austin hurried as fast as he could through the rain and mud back to the barn. When he got there, Davy was standing next to Peg.

  “What happened, Austin?”

  “I think he got hit by lightning. Fell into that puddle, but he’s alive . . . so far.”

  “We can’t leave him out there . . .”

  “We’re not going to.”

  “Austin, we can’t lift him. We just can’t, not even the three of us.”

  “No, but we can move him.” Austin looked around the barn and settled on a canvas tarp folded on the bed of the wagon. “Both of you’ve got to help. Come on!”

  He grabbed the tarp and ran outside. Peg and Davy followed.

  Austin dropped the canvas next to the man and started to unwrap it. Peg and Davy stood watching.

  “What’re you doing, Austin?”

  “Help me get this tarp unfolded. Spread it out close to him. Try to get some of it underneath.”

  The three of them spread the already soaked canvas onto the ground close to the man’s body.

  “That’s it,” Austin said. “That’s good. Now, come on, roll him over onto the tarp.”

  They were on their knees in the mud, reaching, grabbing, pulling at the dead weight of the man until they finally managed to maneuver him onto the layer of canvas.

  “Okay,” Austin gasped, “I’ll take the front end, you two on each side. Keep him on the canvas.” Austin pointed to the door of the cabin, which was level to the ground. “Pull!”

  Another crack of lightning split and lit up the sky, but farther away this time, still illuminating the three children and the man on the canvas for just a moment, and then the drumbeat of distant thunder.

  They strained against the mud and rain, pulling the canvas sled across the sucking mire, tugging with all of their cumulative effort, themselves slipping and falling into the muck, then rising again, but slowly, inch by inch, foot by foot, edging the water-soaked load closer to the cabin.

  Chapter 26

  There was some slight movement of his head, then his eyes opened, but they were dull and unfocused.

  Shad Parker lay on the kitchen floor, covered by a blanket, his face illuminated by the morning sunlight, head resting on a rolled-up shawl.

  Davy sat on a chair nearby, biting into an apple and watching him. The man breathed heavily and then groaned with pain at the breath. His eyes closed then opened slowly, trying to focus toward the corner of the ceiling. It seemed that he tried to move his arms but for the moment could not. His body relaxed and sought to gather strength as well as consciousness.

  “Peg! Peg!” Davy jumped from the chair and pointed with the apple toward the man. “He’s comin’ round!”

  Peg was at the stove, frying eggs and bacon. She moved the skillet off to the side.

  “All right, Davy. I see.” She left the stove, taking a kitchen towel with her, crossed to the rear door, opened it, and called out, “Austin!”

  Austin was feeding the chickens and clucking back at them. The morning was cool, but clean, bright, and beautiful.

  “Austin,” Peg called again from the doorway. “Come inside.”

  “Breakfast ready?”

  “Just about, but he’s coming to.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He flung out the remainder of the chicken feed, set down the pan, and walked toward the cabin, “How is he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just coming to.”

  “Well,” Austin walked past Peg and into the cabin, “let’s find out.”

  Peg closed the door and followed her brother.

  Shad Parker, dazed, hurt, and confused, managed with a mighty effort to prop himself up on one elbow and look around, then up toward the three children who stood close to him. His body ached and he wiped at his mouth, swallowed the sour taste there, and finally managed to speak.

  “How . . . how’d I get in here?”

  “We brought you,” Austin said simply.

  “Just you . . . kids?”

  Austin nodded. So did Davy.

  “I . . .” As Shad Parker tried to sit up the blanket fell from his upper body and revealed that much of his left side, including his shoulder and arm, was scorched, blackened, and covered with a greasy patina.

  He looked at the injured arm for a moment and touched his upper left arm with his right hand.

  “Lightning burned you,” Austin said. “We put some lard on it after we brought you in.”

  The enormity of their endeavor sank into Shad Parker’s still-dazed brain. He recalled the whiskey, the letter, the noise from outsid
e. The rain, lightning, and thunder. His curse and challenge to be struck down. Then a blinding flash. Instinctively turning away. A burning bolt through his body and soul. Then sinking. The sensation of sinking into a wet, black, bottomless pit. And relief. Relief that it was over at last. But it wasn’t over. They had saved him even though he didn’t want to be saved.

  They had reached into his welcomed grave and raised him up and out. Somehow three children, from God knew where, appeared through the stormy night and brought him back to life.

  If they expected thanks, none would be forthcoming. Not from him.

  But they didn’t seem to expect anything. They just stood there, the three of them, until the girl moved to the table, which was as he left it.

  She picked up the letter near the metal box to clear some space.

  “Put that down!” Shad Parker said. Not loud. But hard. “Put it down.”

  She dropped the letter and took a step back, away from the table and him.

  Silence.

  “We was just fixing some breakfast,” Austin said after a moment. “That’s all.”

  With a major effort, Shad Parker managed to rise some more, propping himself up with his right hand. As he did, he noticed Molly O’s shawl, which they had placed under his head.

  “Mister . . .” Austin said, “you better . . .”

  But the man turned abruptly and looked at the boy, who changed his mind about offering any further advice.

  Silence again.

  “Are we gonna stay here?” Davy, still holding the core of the apple, finally asked. “Are we?”

  For a moment there was only the scent and sizzle of the bacon.

  “Eat your breakfast,” Shad Parker said. “And get out.”

  Chapter 27

  Charlie Reno hadn’t slept all night. Red Borden had seen to that. But Charlie was sleeping this morning, as if he had been drugged. He lay facedown on his bunk, exhausted, breathing heavy, dull breaths.

  When Elwood Hinge came back to check on his prisoners, Borden whispered that he had something important to tell the sheriff. It was about the six thousand from the Garden City Bank, but he wanted to go out front and talk to the sheriff where his erstwhile partner couldn’t hear.

  “Just let me come out for a couple of minutes, Sheriff. You won’t be sorry,” Red muttered.

  “No, I won’t,” the sheriff said. “But even look sideways and you will.”

  Elwood Hinge had gone back to his office for the key and his shotgun, returned to the cell, opened it, and nodded to Red.

  Charlie Reno continued to sleep.

  “What’re you doin’, Sheriff?” a startled Deputy Homer Keeler inquired as he entered from the street and saw Elwood Hinge and the prisoner come from the cell into the office.

  “Take ’er easy, Homer.” The sheriff smiled. “Everything’s in order. It’s just that Red here’s got something he wants to talk about, away from his ol’ pal. Right, Red?”

  “That depends.”

  “Don’t depend on anything, Red. Either you talk and talk now or you’re going right back there.” Hinge pointed to the cells with his weapon.

  “Maybe we can make a deal . . .”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “All I want is a little . . . consideration.”

  “For what?”

  “For tellin’ where the six thousand is hid. Don’t you think that’s worth somethin’?”

  “Sure . . .”

  “Good.”

  “If you tell us, maybe they’ll hang Charlie first and let you watch.”

  There was no denying the disappointment in Red Borden’s face.

  “On the other hand, if you don’t tell us I got a feeling that Charlie will, and he’ll get to watch you do the strangulation jig. Take your choice.”

  “Not much of a choice.”

  “Tell you what, Red. You draw us a map to where the money’s stashed and I’ll write a letter to the judge back at Fort Smith, praising your cooperation, give it to the federal marshal when he picks you up. You get a good lawyer and maybe they won’t hang you. Maybe they’ll settle for a couple of corpses and Charlie. Maybe you’ll get off with life and maybe you can bust out again. Maybe.”

  “Yeah.” Red Borden nodded.

  “It beats letting Charlie tell us and you swinging for sure.”

  “Goddamn, I’ll do it!”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “There’s an old abandoned mill of some sort less than a dozen miles to the east . . .”

  “I know the place.” Homer nodded.

  “I’ll draw you a map to right where the money’s buried, still in the sack from the bank . . .”

  “That’s smart,” the sheriff commented.

  “Well, we didn’t expect to get caught,” Red said in defense.

  “We took some of it to have a good time in town, then we was goin’ back for the rest of it . . .”

  “Yeah. Well, the best-laid plans of mice and men . . .”

  “What’s mice got to do with it?”

  “Nothing, Red. You draw the map and I’ll write the letter.” Hinge handed Borden paper and pencil and pointed to the chair near his desk. “Homer, when he’s done, you ride out and pick it up.”

  “Sure thing, Elwood.”

  “Charlie shouldn’a tried to double-cross me, not after all we been through together.”

  “Yeah, but this way it just might work out to your benefit, Red,” the sheriff observed as Borden drew on the paper.

  “I guess so,” Red Borden said, “but I just might kill the son of a bitch anyhow.”

  * * *

  “Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.” Hooter counted out and placed ten one-hundred-dollar bills on the table in Rosalind DuPree’s room. “One thousand dollars.”

  “So Amos Bush did come through.” Rosalind DuPree smiled.

  “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

  “What does that mean, Hooter?”

  “Well, it means . . . I’m not supposed to tell anybody, but, hell, Rose, I never had no secrets from you and I know you won’t say anything to anybody . . . ol’ banker Bush bought into the Appaloosa, a silent partner. You know he owns the building anyhow.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What do you think, Rose?”

  “Hooter, I’m through thinking about the Appaloosa and anything to do with it.”

  “Yeah, I reckon so. Oh,” Hooter removed a piece of paper from inside his coat pocket, “Rose, would you mind signing this, just to make things . . . official?”

  “Did Amos Bush draw it up?”

  Hooter, half-embarrassed, half-sheepish, nodded.

  “Sure, Hooter. I’ll sign it . . . gladly.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, Hooter . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.” Rosalind DuPree kissed her ex-partner on his left cheek. “You’re a good man. Just take care of yourself.”

  She signed the paper.

  * * *

  Amos Bush walked toward Hannah Brown’s buckboard in front of Inghram’s General Store. The buckboard had already been loaded with supplies and Bush had watched and waited from the bank for his opportunity.

  She walked out of the store with Pete Inghram and handed a few coins to the boy who helped load.

  “Morning, Amos,” Inghram said as Bush approached, then quickly went back into the store. Pete Inghram was not unaware of the relationship between Bush and the young widow. Besides, Bush owned that building, too.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Brown.”

  The widow nodded.

  “Quite a storm we had last night. But it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful Christmas, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”

  Bush smiled pleasantly and looked both ways to make certain nobody could hear.

  “May I help you aboard?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  “Speaking of circumstances . . .”

 
“Yes, Mr. Bush?”

  “Uh, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Business?”

  “Well, yes. You might say that . . .”

  “Do you want me to come over to the bank?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary. I guess it can wait until . . . later.”

  “All right.” She started to move to the wagon.

  His right hand reached out and touched her, but withdrew quickly when she looked directly into his eyes.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I believe we can . . . amend the . . . mortgage agreement . . . in your favor. So that it can be paid off sooner.”

  “And more often?” Her candidness startled the banker.

  “I beg pardon . . .” Bush didn’t know what else to say, under the circumstances.

  “Are you saying that you want to collect more than once a week?” Her voice was not quite soft enough to suit Bush.

  A couple of people passed by and Amos Bush was relieved that they apparently hadn’t heard, or at least, reacted.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Mrs. Brown,” Bush managed. “We can discuss this another time.”

  “Whenever you say, Mr. Bush.”

  “Good day.” Bush tipped his hat.

  “Good day.” She mounted easily onto the buckboard. “Oh, and Mr. Bush . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks again for offering . . . to help. I’m always interested in listening to a favorable business proposition.”

  As the buckboard pulled away, Amos Bush tried but failed to repress a smile.

  As Hannah Brown’s buckboard rolled through the muddy main street of Gilead near the New Heidelberg, the Keeshaw brothers stepped out of the restaurant, first Deek, then Tom and Bart. Deek puffed on his pipe and Bart spiked a toothpick at what was left of his teeth.

  Deek spotted Amos Bush standing in front of Inghram’s looking toward the handsome woman as she moved past the brothers.

  “There’s Mr. Bush.” Deek pointed with his pipe.

  “So it is,” Tom acknowledged.

  “Let’s pay our respects,” Deek suggested, and moved. Tom and Bart followed.

  Amos Bush still stood savoring his thoughts as the threesome approached.