by Brett Riley
Ford could not make out McClure’s expression. You trackin me?
You rode too fast for us to catch you.
Well, why were you tryin?
You got a nice ass.
Quit it. This is serious.
Last night, we seen some Crusaders take Vacla across the bridge.
Ford rubbed his strained, sleepless eyes. I was afraid of that. Is he at the base?
Yep.
How’d you get over there without the guards seein you?
The dog rolled onto his back. McClure came over and rubbed his belly. Didn’t try to get inside. Folks was moanin and screamin, so it didn’t seem like a good place to visit. But it didn’t matter. Just before sunrise, they carried Vacla down to the river and dumped him in.
Anger bloomed in Ford’s belly. You mean they drowned him like a stray cat?
No. He was already dead.
Ford sat on a crate, the hot and dusty air scratching his throat and nose. Sorrow squeezed his chest, making it even harder to breathe. I’ve known Vacla most of my life. Worked beside him for years. Ate at his table.
I know.
I wonder why they took him.
When them fellas was walkin back from the river, I heard one of em talkin about a Troubler in your camp. Somebody high up.
Ford took the girl by the shoulders. What did they say exactly?
McClure tried to pull away. Take it easy, she said. Bandit growled, low and ominous.
I need to know, Ford said, still gripping the girl. They’re takin my people and leavin me be. This is on my head.
McClure stared at him, silent. The dog stood, his hackles raised. After a moment, Ford released the child, who rubbed her shoulders. Damn, Santonio.
I’m sorry. But please. Tell me.
McClure scratched the dog’s back. Bandit lay back down.
Well, one of em said, That guy was tough. If they did to me what they just did to him, I think I would have talked, whether I was guilty or not. And the second man said, He must have been guilty. Clemens said he fought hard, even before he knew he was in trouble. And the first guy said, I guess Clemens was right. And if he isn’t, I won’t be the one that corrects him. And then they passed outta range.
Ford sat on the grimy floor, legs crossed beneath him. Vacla knew he was dead as soon as they kicked in his door. And even while they were killin him, he stayed true. How could I have ever thought about lettin folks like him die, even to save my soul? He blinked away his tears. He had no luxury for mourning, for indulging his shame.
No use in crossin the river, he said.
I reckon not. I’m sorry about Vacla.
Let’s get outta here. I’m sick of this air.
McClure clucked her tongue. Bandit shook his head and scratched at his jawline. Then he tensed. His hackles rose again, and he growled deep and low in his throat, looking at the door.
McClure raised a finger to her lips. Ford nodded. Bandit woofed softly, more like a grunt than a bark.
Ford went to the door and peeped out. The darkened sky shrouded the city. Streetlights fragmented the gloom. Candles danced in windows. He listened, slowing his breathing so not even his own body would mask a sign of trouble, but nothing sounded out of place. He waited and watched another five minutes. Bandit kept grunt-growling. McClure shushed him.
Finally, Ford motioned to the girl. I don’t think we can wait anymore. Get this information to LaShanda, okay?
McClure joined him, ready to move. First chance I get, she said.
They stepped outside, Ford going first, followed by Bandit and then McClure, who eased the door closed. The night air washed over them like a tepid shower.
Four men rushed them, two from each side of the building. One man in each pair held a lantern high above his head. On their shoulders, the burlap sacks they had used to hide the glow. Each man carried sidearms. The two without lanterns had already skinned theirs and pointed them at Ford and McClure.
Bandit barked at the men, loud and rapid-fire, standing between them and McClure. Easy, boy, she said. Stay.
You should hide your horse better next time, the tallest man said.
One of the lantern carriers, a fat man wearing an eye patch, grinned. And look who it is. Mister Chief Hunter hisself, plus some kid, meetin in secret and sneakin about. Looks like we got two more Troublers, boys. Just like that skunk, Troy.
Hatless and bearing his lantern at eye level, the third Crusader shook his head. You can’t trust anybody these days. Why are you sneaking around in the dark with a kid and a dog, Ford? Does your heathenism extend to perversion?
The gunman to Ford’s left said nothing. His eyes were shadowed, his breathing calm.
He’s the dangerous one. The others are just blowhards.
Me and this girl are old friends, Ford said. Where and when we talk ain’t your business.
Mister Tall sneered. Envoy Royster might feel differently. Cuff em.
Ain’t you a daisy, McClure said, winking at Mister Tall.
You’re makin a big mistake, Ford said.
Mister Tall just laughed. Eye Patch and Hatless moved forward, while Mister Tall and Mister Silent kept watch.
Y’all were warned, McClure said.
The child drew her gun and shot Hatless twice in the head. Her third shot destroyed the lantern before Hatless’s body hit the ground.
Mister Tall and Mister Silent opened fire as Ford dove sideways, drawing in the air. He hit the ground and rolled into a crouch and shot Mister Tall in the shoulder. The man cried out and fell. Eye Patch dropped his lamp and fumbled with his pistol, muttering, Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord until Ford shot him in the throat. He fell to his knees, gurgling and clawing at the wound. McClure ran across the yard as Mister Silent tracked her and took aim. He opened fire, but McClure dove for cover behind Eye Patch. The bullet took Eye Patch in the back, and he fell onto McClure, who fired as she went down, knocking off Mister Silent’s hat.
A shape thundered by in the dark. Rachel galloped down the road, dragging the limb to which Ford had hitched her, and disappeared into the night. Damnation! I was afraid of that, Ford thought.
Mister Tall sat up and shot at Ford, who evaded in a semicircle as the bullets whined past. A line of heat on his right shoulder blade—a graze. Pay attention. Rachel can take care of herself. He returned fire and hit Mister Tall in the mouth. Teeth, blood, brains, and bone exploded from the back of the Crusader’s skull. He fell and lay still.
McClure struggled to get out from under Eye Patch as Mister Silent stood over her and cocked his gun. Say hello to the devil for me, the Crusader said. You Troubler piece of—
Bandit sailed through the air, hitting Silent in the chest. Silent’s gun went flying. It hit the ground and went off, blowing a hole in the archive’s wall. Bandit landed on top of Mister Silent and sunk his teeth deep into the man’s throat and shook his head back and forth. The man gurgled and tried to scream and beat at Bandit’s head. Ford got to his feet and stood over them. McClure shoved Eye Patch’s body away and joined him. By then, Mister Silent’s feet were beating a weak tattoo on the ground, his hands falling away as Bandit ripped out his arteries and a chunk of his esophagus.
Once the Crusader stopped flopping, McClure, Ford, and Bandit stood around the body, panting. Then the girl knelt and hugged the Rottweiler. The dog’s tail thumped the ground. Gore dripped from his jaws.
Good boy, she said.
We better get outta here before the rest of the Crusade comes down on our heads, Ford wheezed. Will y’all be okay alone? McClure gave him a look. Sorry, he said. Hey, you heard anything from Gabe? Or about him?
No, McClure said, breathing hard. But I’m keepin my ear to the ground.
Let me know when there’s news. Take care.
But the girl and her dog were already fading into the shadows, and for all his ski
ll and experience, Ford could not even hear them.
He set off in the direction Rachel had run. If the Lord was with him, she would not have gone far.
The next day, Ford woke to pounding on his door. He sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes. Outside, only darkness, not even the gray light before dawn. No birds sang. No crickets or frogs babbled. He reached for the glass of water he had left on the nightstand and drank, using the sheet to towel off his sweat.
I hope I live to see cool again.
The pounding continued.
He picked yesterday’s shirt and trousers off the floor, pulling them on as he moved out of the bedroom and down the hall, through the den, to the door. When he opened it, LaShanda Long stood there, six-guns holstered. Behind her, two stone-faced outlanders carried shotguns, bandoliers crisscrossing their chests. Their horses were hitched to his post. The animals, like the men, were stolid and quiet, just shapes in the dark.
Howdy, Ford said. Did I forget an appointment?
Long turned to the Crusaders. I’ll be out in a bit.
They saluted her. She strode past Ford. He closed the door and followed her and lit one of his lamps.
Water? he asked.
No. We ain’t got much time.
He gestured toward the door. Who were they?
She shrugged. Folks I’m supposed to lead. They all look alike. Big, ugly, quiet, and loyal to Royster.
So she’s only a figurehead. She’ll hold office till she questions an order or New Orleans floods, whichever comes first.
So what brings you here so blasted early? he asked.
She sat and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were bloodshot and heavy. You, she said. Your people. Royster wants Charters’s contact, dead or alive. And they don’t believe it was Quintus Vacla.
Ford snorted. Didn’t stop em from killin him, though, did it?
No. And unless we give em somebody, they’ll rip your territory to pieces.
Ford watched her, letting the moment stretch out. She held his gaze, arms crossed, the deerskin shirt and pants clinging to her solid, muscled frame, her hair trailing halfway down her back. She looks tired, but bigger somehow, more there. It’s like the office made her grow. Did it do that to Gabe back in the day? I can’t remember.
They’re tearin the whole town apart, he said. Or hadn’t you noticed?
She glared at him. It’s my city as much as yours.
Is it?
Don’t put on airs with me. You rode down Gabe just like I did.
I remember. I also recall some secret meetings. There was a woman there. Looked a lot like you.
She looked away, whether from guilt or shame or exasperation he could not have said. The shadows seemed to press in on them.
They’ll come for you, sooner or later, she said.
You mean you’ll come for me.
They’ll kill you. Just like they killed Vacla. What are you gonna do about it?
I reckon I’ll die.
Plenty of folks in these neighborhoods ain’t what you’d call innocent. Others have met in secret too.
Ford sneered. I don’t aim to save my own skin by lettin em make a rug outta somebody else’s. Would you save yourself that way?
She stood, crossed the room, and got in his face, poking his chest with her index finger. Yeah. I would. You know why? Because everybody expects us to lead em outta this mess. The Lord knew sacrifices are necessary. He sent His own son, just like Abraham took his up that mountain. Are you better than them?
He knocked her hand away. That was different, and you know it. I won’t ask somebody to die in my place.
Yes, you will. Because this city needs you. You’re chief hunter because you’re the best person for the job. If you die, everybody else’s chances drop that much more. Would you rather sacrifice one soul or the whole lot?
Others can lead.
Not like you. Out of all the orphans who chose order as their life’s work, Gabe picked you. Our people follow you because they see what he saw. If you ever cared about him, about any of us, you’ll honor our faith in you. Especially when it’s hard.
Ford looked out the window. The citizens in his charge walked by on their way to fields, woods, forges, stalls. Fisherfolk headed for the riverfront or the lake carried poles and rods and baskets. Some rode horses as lively as any mounts ever were. But all of them were already dead—shot, ripped open from crotch to sternum, drowned, starved. Long claimed only he could lead them from that path, as if when the flood came, he could part it, like Moses, or raise them above it, like Noah. That was nonsense, but LaShanda was right about some things. Troy picked him for a reason. Martyring himself seemed like folly at best, hubris at worst.
Or maybe that was his coward soul talking.
Ford passed a hand over his face. I don’t know what to do.
Long put a hand on his shoulder. Pick somebody. Or I will.
We could just rise up with what we got and let the Lord sort it out.
We need more fighters and time to organize em. This buys us some.
I don’t know if I can live with that.
She squeezed his shoulders. You got no choice. She sat back down in the chair, unblinking, irresistible. As if someone had carved her out of obsidian while Ford slept, rounding off the angles but leaving the edges sharp.
Maybe we can blame it on a Troubler, he said, wincing at how weak he sounded.
Long’s voice softened. No. It’s gotta be somebody they know we trust.
Damn all this to hell, he spat. Long said nothing. Her face was stone. No help there, or anywhere. There’s somethin else, he said. Last night I took a walk. Got too near the river bridge. Four guards tried to arrest me.
She looked at him for a long time. These’d be the four guards we found dead this mornin.
Unless four more got killed in that part of town. He said nothing of McClure. Let whatever happens fall on me. I owe the child that much and more. Besides, those guards had taken pleasure in the prospect of his torture and death, as if they were hell’s own executioners. He would not mourn them.
Long rubbed her eyes. Well. In time, you’ll have to justify those killins before God. But I ain’t Him. Right now all I’m worried about is gettin Royster off your scent.
Ford thought of Vacla. Please, Father God. If I’m goin along because I’m a coward, strike me down. And if she’s right, lift this burden from my heart. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. No matter what I do, he said, I feel dirty and wrong.
Me too.
Ford shook his head. More weight settled on his shoulders.
They sat in his oven of a house and talked, and with every passing moment, peace and happiness moved farther away than he had ever thought possible this side of hell. Later, they knelt together, hands clasped, their foreheads touching. They prayed silently, and then they prayed aloud, taking turns beseeching the Most High for guidance. They pleaded and despaired, wept and gnashed their teeth like the worst penitents, their immortal souls hanging over the fiery pit on gossamer strands. Ford exhausted himself and felt no better about anything. When Long rode away, taking the Crusaders with her, Ford watched them go from his porch, heat enveloping him like hellfire.
25
Troy had been living in the wilderness for close to two weeks, but he had not acclimated. As lord of order, he had always deferred to Santonio Ford as soon as brick and mortar gave way to trees and thicket and swamp. Everyone knew Troublers built houses on stilts and hummocks, that they fished and frog-gigged and trapped, that they somehow fended off disease-ridden bugs and vermin, mosquitoes you could see from ten yards, and nutria big enough to saddle and ride. He had assumed the heathens had a communication protocol—familial units, small paramilitary cells, individuals who seldom saw their nearest neighbors, larger settlements nestled deep in the wilderness, all of them planning an
d acting in concert—but he had seldom considered the ingenuity required to maintain it, despite the shifting waterways and soil erosion.
Since the bridge, he had learned of Troubler nests in the city, of other outposts in the woods and swamps and small towns around New Orleans, of a worldwide network moving slowly but efficiently from hamlet to town to major city to outlying swamp or wood. He now knew enough to dumbfound any lord of order, enough to understand the Troublers’ true threat for the first time. The Crusader still stubbornly clinging to life inside him shuddered whenever he considered the scope and efficacy of their operation. If he had discovered it all before Dwyer, before Royster and Rook’s orders and the river bridge and his own dawning horror at what the Crusade had become, would he have welcomed the chance to remove so many Troublers, his lifelong enemies, from the field at any cost? Would this knowledge have been enough to silence his conscience? Would he have let New Orleans drown?
That’s fear talkin, not righteousness, Troy thought. Lord, keep me on your path, even when I’m scared.
Moving across the water, past safe houses and pickets, he had seen many familiar faces, Crusaders he had passed every day on the streets before Royster’s arrival. Single men here, two or three women there, whole families bearing bags of heirlooms and bladed weapons and clubs, most of them shocked to see him, all of them happy. As if his presence eased their fears about their own souls.
They were all under guard, but they were being fed and sheltered. Better treatment than those chained wretches in the city, by far.
They seen what was comin and ran. Didn’t even have to be turned. The Crusade did the Troublers’ work.
Troy sat on the porch of the cabin they had given him after he and Stransky completed that long canoe ride through the bayous, a hip-deep slog through bogs too overgrown for boats, a mosquito-laden walk up the high hill on which the cabin sat. His right leg, still stiff, was propped in front of him, the calf and foot resting on an old, rotting chair. The shack overlooked the Irish Bayou Lagoon. Down by the water, a handful of gators sunned themselves on shore. One of them had to be ten feet long. It lay with its mouth wide open, as if waiting for some fool to come along and stick his head in. The heat felt like a malignant presence, despite the shade trees. If a hurricane hits this place just right, them trees will smash this cabin into kindling. But no one had asked his opinion. Since leaving the sisters’, he had subsisted on tasty swamp gumbo the Troublers brought him, on fire-grilled fish, on frog legs and fried gator, on tough bird flesh gamey enough to get up and fly away, and on vegetables grown in the swamps or smuggled out of the city.