by Ron Schwab
Karl walked slowly to where Mandy lay, dazed and bleeding and struggling to get back on her feet, but unable to summon the strength. He leaned his rifle against a tree and stuck a hand in his trousers and fished out a small penknife. “This will serve the purpose,” he said, as he pressed out the blade
“Stop right there,” came a firm menacing voice. Mandy recognized it instantly as her father’s.
Karl Wainwright turned to face Ian Locke moving deliberately toward him along the base of the canyon wall. Karl dropped the knife and started to reach for his rifle and then thought better of it when he saw the Colt revolver leveled steadily at his midsection and the smoldering eyes of its bearer. He stepped away from the gun and raised his hands. “I’m not armed. I’m not armed,” he whined. “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“Is that right?” Locke said, as he lowered the pistol, squeezed the trigger and fired a bullet into Karl Wainwright’s right kneecap.
35
Ian
KARL WAINWRIGHT WRITHED in pain, sobbing and moaning, as he tried to staunch the blood that streamed through the fingers that clutched his shattered knee. I picked up the man’s rifle and slung it safely out of reach. “Stay put,” I said needlessly, as I knelt at my daughter’s side.
I placed my hand gently under Mandy’s head and raised it slightly, and her eyes fluttered open. “Dad,” she mumbled. “I knew you’d come.”
I tugged a kerchief from my pocket and wiped the blood away from her scalp. A nasty gash. Doc Mason might need to take some stitches to close the wound—or George could do it in a pinch. I took off my shirt and ripped it into strips with my knife and then fashioned crude compresses to seal the laceration. Momentarily, George appeared with TJ following not far behind.
George’s dark eyes took in the scene. “I heard the gunshot. Looks like it was yours.”
“I disabled the bastard. He won’t give us any more trouble. I got here just in time. He was going to take a knife to her. If I hadn’t heard TJ yowling out there in the timber, I might have been too late.”
Mandy slowly lifted herself to a sitting position. She was filthy and bruised and blood-spattered, and I thought her the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I clutched her to my chest and held her, and she shuddered and suddenly let loose with a mournful wail that turned to wave after wave of unrelenting sobbing. My own tears streamed silently down my cheeks as I stroked her hair softly and repeated again and again, “It’s all right, Princess. It’s over. It’s all right.”
George gathered up the remains of Locke’s shirt and left for a short time. When he returned, he had the horses in tow. He handed a canteen and some wet rags to me and then walked over to Karl Wainwright, who leaned against a sandstone boulder weeping and groaning in agony, his previously pale face now drained of all remnants of color.
“Help me. Help me,” Karl pleaded.
George spat a gooey string of tobacco in the man’s face. “Shall I finish him off, Ian?”
“No, he and I need to have a chat. See if you can stem the blood flow. I’d just as soon he didn’t bleed to death . . . yet.”
Mandy’s composure slowly returned, and I encouraged her to slowly sip at the canteen while I washed the dirt and blood from her face and arms. I retrieved her clothes from the saddlebags and suggested she put on her things. When she was dressed, I thought, with the exception of her battered face and head, she seemed physically the same old Mandy. I could not bring himself to ask the question that weighed most heavily on my mind.
TJ came over and rubbed against Mandy’s legs, purring as if this were just another routine day in cat life. “TJ is a hero, Dad. He saved my life. He made a racket outside the shack just when . . . and it startled the albino and gave me a chance to get the sharp tool and stab him.”
“The albino?”
“That’s what I called him in my head. I didn’t know who he was. Do you know him?”
I looked over at the weakened form of Karl Wainwright. George had used an ash stick and a strip of cloth from my shirt to improvise a tourniquet above the knee. The blood flow had ebbed noticeably. “Yes, Mandy, I know him.”
George came over and placed a gentle hand on Mandy’s swollen face. “We’re sure glad to finally catch up with you. I think you made that hombre wish he’d never tangled with a Locke, though.” He turned to me with a glint of humor in his eyes. “What you did to Karl’s knee is nothing compared to what this young lady did to his privates. I think smart folks would think twice and maybe a third time before taking on one of your kin.”
I was in no mood to banter. “I want Mandy home before nightfall. And with swollen creeks and mud, it might take some time to get there. I’d like you to take Mandy to the Lazy Key and leave her off if Cam’s there. Maybe you could send Willow or Martha over to see to her till I get home. I won’t be far behind. If Cam’s not there, take her to your place.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you take her back? She’s been through a lot. She needs to be with her father now. I’ll stay behind and have that little talk with Mr. Wainwright.”
My eyes met George’s evenly. “We’ve already settled this, George. Debate’s closed.”
36
Casey
CASEY MCGLAUN AND Cameron Locke sat on leather-upholstered chairs in the parlor of the Lazy Key ranch house. They sipped at cups of coffee, poured from a steaming pot Cam had brewed after their arrival. Both fidgeted nervously and took turns getting up and peering out the window, as if that would somehow speed up the arrival of Ian and Mandy. While Ian Locke was a man of patience and persistence, Mandy noted Cam Locke was obviously more impulsive and inclined to action, damn the consequences.
Physically, the twins were mirror images, but, temperamentally, there were great differences. Cam was a gregarious man who moved comfortably among strangers, smiled easily and, under normal circumstances, would be fairly easily seduced from work to play, Casey surmised. He rode like a Comanche born to a horse, and their race to the ranch had given way to an undeclared competition, which Casey narrowly won, she remembered with a measure of satisfaction.
As they waited in the parlor, Casey told Cam what she knew about Karl Wainwright and the role he had played in the trial and explained how she had come to know Ian Locke—but not how well she knew him. “Ian’s a very interesting man,” she remarked.
Cam cocked his head and studied her appraisingly. This tilting of his head when he pondered something was a charming mannerism, Casey thought, but it also put her on guard, because it frequently preceded some outlandish observation.
“Are you in love with my brother, Casey?”
She was not easily surprised, but the question took her unaware. She hesitated some moments before responding. “A rather personal question, don’t you think?”
He gave her a sheepish, boyish smile that smothered any annoyance she might have harbored. “Yeah, I suppose so. Are you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to really examine my feelings about your brother.”
“Well, it won’t do any good to analyze it like a lawyer tearing into a legal problem. Ian’s the family philosopher, but I know a few things about love, and I can tell you it’s not susceptible to rational examination. So forget about that. When the idea of living your life without that other person drives you insane, you’ll know you’re dealing with love and fighting a losing battle. Best give in to it at that point.”
“It’s nice to be able to get advice from an expert.”
“I’ve been smitten by the same woman for fifteen years now. I cannot imagine life without her. She’s a gifted artist among other things. That’s one of her paintings above the mantle.”
Casey studied the painting. She had admired it on her previous visit and had meant to inquire about it. The setting was Weeping Springs and Mushroom Rock. An Indian warrior, clad only in breechcloth sat on a stone shelf, back propped against a tree. His sinewy-muscled buttocks and thighs peered from beneath his loincloth, and an
gry red scars from battles past marred an otherwise perfect body. His weary eyes were locked with those of a maiden scantily clad in buckskins who was picking up his bow and quiver, her dark eyes warm, seductive. The artist favored rich pigments and sharply drawn subjects. The painting evoked a strange mix of emotions, melancholy and sadness, hope and love, all woven with a thread of eroticism cast against a backdrop of wild, stunning beauty.
“She called it ‘Warrior’s Return.’ She and the kids came with me on a visit a few years back. When Pilar got a glimpse of Weeping Springs, she had to take her easel and paints down to the springs. She did several paintings with that setting, but this one was especially for Ian.”
“She has a rare talent.”
“She’s a rare woman.”
“Tell me about Ian and the war. I sense that it was somehow defining for him.”
“I think war is defining for most men who experience it. Everything in your lifetime either happened before the war or after the war. It’s a benchmark. But some men, maybe because of their unique encounters or just because of the men they are, carry more ghosts than others.”
“And Ian carries ghosts.”
“Oh, yes. As you know, Ian was at Gettysburg. He fought with the Eighth Ohio infantry near Cemetery Ridge. He’d made sergeant by this time, and by afternoon of that day, he was the only officer of any kind left in his company. He received orders to hold a slope that led to the crest of the ridge at all costs. If you know Ian, you know he’s damn stubborn when he makes up his mind. He had his men dig in on that hill . . . no more than thirty of them. When the Confederates began their advance, there were close to three hundred gray suits moving up that hill. Time after time, Ian’s men beat back the charge. It went on for hours and Ian’s soldiers dropped one by one till there were just a few left. The Confederates regrouped for a final bayonet charge and they finally overran the Eighth’s position. The newspapers said Ian personally killed over fifteen Confederates by saber, bayonet and pistol in that final charge, that bodies were piled around him like sandbags. Then Federal artillery fire targeted the hillside and the enemy ranks broke and crumbled and they ran for safety. Ian and three other men from his company survived. The other survivors were badly wounded. Ian didn’t have a scratch on him. I don’t think he ever forgave himself for that.”
“My God. I suppose he does wonder why he lived to remember it.”
“Yep. He fought the whole damn war that way. Like he was untouchable. Maybe he used up all his luck during those years. Since then he’s lost the boys and a marriage, faced financial ruin . . . and now this. Me, I took a few Yankee mini-balls during the war . . . still got one lodged in my back . . . but otherwise the saints have blessed me. Two fine sons and a daughter who have never had more than the sniffles. A wife who can melt me with a wink.”
“You fought for the South?”
“Yes, ma’am. Cavalry. I rode with General James Ewell Brown Stuart. Old Jeb. I was at Gettysburg too. But that’s another story.”
“The two of you are different.”
“We don’t think so much different. Ian and I almost always come to the same conclusions. We just get there different ways sometimes. The war was an exception, but even that had more to do with where we lived at the time than what we believed in. Ian and I never had nastiness over our personal choices, but I’m not sure the Judge has forgiven me yet for being a Johnny Reb.”
“You’re not nearly as intense as Ian.”
“He was always the serious one. It’s funny. Not more than a few minutes separated our births, but the Judge and Mother both anointed Ian firstborn and burdened him with all the responsibilities that go with it. I always got by with more when we were growing up. Ian was the scholar, the writer. Oh, I never had a problem with school, but I never had as much expected of me. I always had more fun. Still do.”
“It’s amazing you’ve stayed so close.”
“It’s always been that way. Strangely, we never fought like most brothers. We just pursued our own interests, went our own ways. But Ian . . . next to Pilar . . . is my best friend. And I know I’m his best friend, although I wouldn’t begrudge him another.” He looked at Casey meaningfully.
Casey got up and poured another cup of coffee and stepped over to the window, surveying the undulating waves of grass that danced over the rolling hills to the south. “What if something terrible happens to Mandy? What will that do to him?”
Cam spoke in a voice that was just above a whisper. “The man who does her harm will never know a night’s rest. The word ‘quit’ is not in Ian’s vocabulary. Ian would hunt him down like an animal.”
“Would he kill him?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“But he’s a lawyer. He’s an officer of the court.”
Cam shrugged.
“After that,” Casey said. “After he did whatever he decided to do with the man. What then?”
“Some way he would persevere. He would go on. People endure terrible things, but somehow most eventually pull themselves together and go on down the road of life. Not a happy road, perhaps, but they survive.”
“He’s due for a change of luck, wouldn’t you think?”
“If ever a man deserved it, my brother does.”
Casey caught sight of movement in the distance, barely discernible objects skirting the steeper hills and winding their ways like tiny ants in the direction of the farmstead. “Cam,” she said. “There are riders headed this way.”
The two of them rushed out onto the veranda and watched together as the riders came into view. Two riders and a spare horse. Casey could feel her heart racing. There should be three. When the riders galloped into the yard, Casey and Cam ran out to greet them. George and, thank God, Mandy, with TJ clinging to the saddle in front of her. But where was Ian? Her heart sank with cold fear.
At the sight of Cam, Mandy stared at him quizzically, and then gave a half-smile with the side of her mouth that was not swollen. “You’re Uncle Cam, aren’t you?”
“That I am, young lady,” Cam replied as he reached up and plucked her off Dancer, with TJ clutched in her arms, and carried her toward the house.
“You’re not more handsome than my dad.”
Cam laughed loudly. “I think your old man’s been poisoning your mind, young lady. You just haven’t seen me gussied up yet.”
Casey held back and spoke with George. “Ian?”
“He’ll be along.”
“It was Karl?”
George nodded.
“And you caught him? Where is he?”
“He’s having a visit with Ian.”
“A visit?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Will Ian be taking him to the sheriff?”
“Can’t say. But I think it’s more likely Karl will be taking a trip down the river . . . with the flooding, New Orleans, maybe.”
“I don’t understand.” But then she did.
“Ma’am, I’m going to mosey over to my place and have the women folk fix me up a hot tub. Then I’m going to eat till I’m near sick. I’ll send Willow and Rosemary over with some grub. But I’m done answering questions for the day. I’d just like to leave you with a bit of advice.”
“What’s that?”
“When Ian comes back, forget you’re a lawyer. No questions. Ever. But hold him close. He could use that.”
37
Ian
I UNSADDLED HEMLOCK and tethered him in a lush meadow that edged the stream. The big gelding had served me well and had been on his best behavior, so he was entitled to a respite before we headed back to the Lazy Key. Besides, I was in no particular hurry to deal with the unpleasant business that faced me.
I found Karl Wainwright’s bay mare hitched in some plum thickets about a hundred yards from Mandy’s hideout, and I removed saddle and bridle from the animal and set her free. She carried the brand of a livery that operated out of Apple Center, a village some five miles west of here, and she would likely show up at a neighborin
g farmer or rancher’s place and eventually get delivered to her rightful owner. I would have George make discreet inquiries and anonymously make it right with the livery if the animal didn’t return to inventory.
I had left Karl whimpering on the rocky ground in front of the cave opening, and having tended to the horses, I made my way back now to address remaining issues with Mandy’s abductor. As I approached the suffering man, I noted that Karl had not budged an inch in the half hour or so that had passed during my absence, not that there was much chance he would get far with the mangled knee. I kicked off some rotting edges on an old tree stump and made myself a seat a dozen feet from the injured man. Karl watched me with terror-filled eyes as I positioned myself on the stump.
I slipped my colt from its holster and punched a cartridge in the vacant chamber. I sighted the pistol at Karl’s head and then lowered it, letting the weapon dangle loosely in my hand. “I’m going to ask some questions,” I told him. “You’re going to answer.”
“I’m hurt. I’m hurt bad. I need a sawbones. I’m not saying anything unless you promise to take me to a doctor.” The man tried to straighten his back in a desperate act of defiance, but yelped in pain when he tried to shift his body against his stone backrest.
“I don’t think you understand, Karl. You have no cards. Not one.” I pointed the pistol at the man again. “Now you can buy yourself some time. Take a chance that my kinder nature will win out. Or we can just get it over with and I can be on my way.”
Karl Wainwright’s eyes seemed to search mine for a clue, and I suspect he found no mercy there. His brief flirtation with bravado collapsed. “You’re insane. You’d kill an unarmed man? In cold blood?”
“No more than you’d rape and murder an innocent girl.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You raped and murdered the Morgan girl five years ago, didn’t you?”