An Occurrence in Crazy Bear Valley (2 page)

They walked up the hill towards the shack, leaving Stephens to grumble and moan to himself about always getting the shit jobs. Their pace was arrogant and leisurely. They moved without care—and without fear. They trod on the wildflowers as they walked, crushing the fragile petals beneath their dirty boot heels. Gunderson spat tobacco juice on green ferns. Johnson and Parker swatted at bees.

Now that the gunshots had finally faded, the ringing in their ears subsided and silence once more returned to the clearing. Morgan still didn’t like it. He preferred the wide open plains and deserts to these dank, shadowy woodlands. Here, the trees grew too closely together, and you never felt the sun on your face. You couldn’t see if someone was coming for you, and there was always the sensation of being watched.

They pulled their weapons again as they neared the cabin. None of them expected trouble. They were all in agreement with their boss that the shack was deserted. But each of them had survived this long by playing it cautious, and their actions now were part of a learned response, as natural to them as sneezing, chewing, spitting, or shitting.

Morgan nodded silently at Gunderson and Johnson, both of whom spread out and approached the porch. While Morgan, Parker, and Clara fanned out in front of the cabin, Gunderson and Johnson positioned themselves on either side of the door. Then, Gunderson opened it and peeked inside. When he wasn’t greeted with gunshots or screams, he stepped inside. Johnson followed him, clutching his weapon with his good hand while clenching his burned hand into a gnarled fist. They disappeared from sight. No sound came from inside the shack.

“All clear?” Morgan called out after a moment, mildly annoyed that they hadn’t yet reported back.

There was no answer.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “I swear, Johnson ain’t been right in the head since that mule kicked him back in Cheyenne.”

Clara grinned. “He might not be right in the head, but the rest of him still works fine.”

Scowling, Morgan cupped one hand over his mouth. “Johnson? Gunderson? You all clear or what?”

“We’re all clear,” Johnson shouted back, “but it ain’t deserted, boss.”

“What?”

“I said it ain’t deserted. Best come see for yourself.”

Morgan frowned at the others. “What the hell’s he talking about?”

He plodded up the stairs, followed by Parker and then Clara. Morgan paused as he stepped through the door, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The first thing he noticed was the stench—sour sweat, wood smoke, feces, urine, unwashed blankets, and meals cooked atop the woodstove had congealed over time to form a permanent and cloying miasma. The smell made Morgan’s eyes water. He struggled with his gorge.

“Christ,” he gasped. “Let’s get some windows open in here. Damn place smells like Stephens’s ass.”

Morgan glanced around the shanty while Clara and Parker crowded in behind him. The shack wasn’t much. Describing it as ‘rustic’ would have applied too much charm to the interior. ‘Shit hole’ was much more apt, in Morgan’s opinion. The cabin consisted of a single centralized room that appeared to function as kitchen, living quarters, bunkhouse, and outhouse all in one. The floors and walls were built out of rough, uneven, un-sanded planks, and the cracks between them had been sealed with dried mud and grass to keep the cold out. A cast-iron cook stove occupied one corner. It was dirty and covered with soot, and the stovepipe leading up to the roof was dented and dinged. The lumberjacks had left the fire burning inside, and wisps of smoke snaked from the dents in the pipe. A few rusty pots and pans sat atop the stove. Spider webs hung in the corners and from the ceiling. A scattering of tiny wasp’s nests dangled from the rafters. Mouse and rat droppings dotted the floor.

The lumberjacks didn’t have much in the way of personal belongings. There were several crude cots with straw-tick mattresses, heaps of soiled blankets and bedrolls, and not much else. A dog-eared copy of the Holy Bible was lying atop a wooden chair. A kerosene lantern hung from a nail in a post. The kitchen table—nothing more than the sawed trunk of a massive oak tree—held a few tin cups, some bowls, and wooden utensils. Some meager food stores—sacks of grain, flour, and beans—occupied some rough-hewn pine shelving. A wooden potato bin sat next to it. Most of the potatoes inside of it were already sprouting thin, greenish-white tubers. A rusty, dented tin pail occupied one corner. Judging by the stench wafting from it, the lumber-jacks had been using the bucket to piss and shit in. There were very few weapons—just a shotgun, a long rifle, and some ammunition for both, along with a few knives of varying size and length. The only other items in the shack were the lumberjacks’ clothing, footlockers and some spare tools leaning against the walls.

Like a hundred other such places they’d encountered from El Paso all the way to Cheyenne, and Philadelphia to Kansas City, the cabin was wholly unremarkable. What
was
remarkable was the woman tied to a post in the center of the room.

Johnson and Gunderson moved aside, allowing Morgan to fully enter the cabin. Clara and Parker followed him inside.

“Jesus,” Parker gasped. “Would you look at her.”

Johnson grinned. “Like we said—it ain’t exactly deserted. Them lumberjacks was nice enough to leave us a present. She’s a real beauty, ain’t she?”

Clara frowned at this, but said nothing. Parker and Gunderson held their tongues, waiting for Morgan to speak. He didn’t. Instead, he simply stood there, expressionless, quietly appraising the captive. They’d all seen this look before. Morgan wore it when he was playing cards, sizing up an opponent, or getting ready to kill someone. Quite often, those things were one and the same.

The captive woman was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and she would have been beautiful under better conditions. It was obvious to Morgan that her current situation had been less than optimum. She was nude except for a coarse, moldering burlap bag. Mold grew in sprawling patches on the fabric. Holes had been cut in it for her arms, head and neck. It stretched from her shoulders to just above her belly button. Her arms were tied above her head with bailing twine, and bound around a rusty nail sticking out of the post. Another length of bailing twine encircled her ankles. Her pale skin was covered with yellow-purple bruises and various scratches, cuts and scabs. Her long blonde hair was dirty and matted, the curls more like barbed wire than anything remotely feminine. The girl’s lower lip was split in the center. The wound looked fresh. Tiny traces of dried blood and snot crusted her upper lip and nostrils. She stared at Morgan and the others, her eyes wide and panicked.

“You got a name?” Morgan asked.

The girl moaned. Morgan crossed the floor, grabbed her chin, and pulled her face up. He stared into her eyes.

“Name,” he said again. “Do you have one? Answer me, now.”

Boot heels sounded at the door. Stephens walked into the bunkhouse, paused, and glanced around the room in confusion. He gaped at the naked captive. His gaze darted down to her exposed lower half and then back up to her face.

“Who the hell’s this?” he asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Morgan said, turning to face him, the girl’s chin still cupped in one hand. “You take care of them bodies like I told you to?”

Stephens nodded. “Sure did, boss. I strung them up just like you said. Hung them in a little copse of pines on the edge of the clearing. I figure that way, we can shoot at whatever comes sniffing around from inside of here. No sense standing out there at night. I reckon it gets downright cold in these woods come nightfall.”

If Morgan heard all of this, he didn’t acknowledge it. He’d already turned back to the girl.

“I’ll ask you one more time. What is your name, girl?”

The girl licked her swollen lips. “Are y’all here to rescue me?”

Sighing, Morgan struck her hard with the back of his hand, simultaneously answering her question and demanding an answer to his own. The girl cried out as her head rocked to one side. She let her chin rest on her chest as she began to sob. None of the others moved. They watched, impassively. Morgan seized the girl’s chin and raised her head again.

“You want me to hit you again?”

“C-crystal,” she stammered. “My n-name is Crystal.”

“Crystal.” Smiling, Morgan released her chin and softened his tone. “Now that’s more like it, Crystal. Is that your Christian name?”

“I don’t know what that means. Please don’t hit me anymore.”

“It means was that the name you were born with?”

She nodded, sniffling. Tears rolled down her dirty, bruised cheeks.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Crystal.” Morgan tipped his hat to her. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a faded handkerchief, and wiped her face and eyes. His nose wrinkled as he leaned close. Her burlap garments smelled musty, and the girl obviously hadn’t bathed in a while. Crystal winced when his fingers brushed against her lips and nose. Morgan shushed her, his tone apologetic, and finished wiping the grime and her tears away.

“My name is Morgan,” he said, and then motioned to the others. “These are my associates—Mr. Parker, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Gunderson, and Mr. Stephens. The lady is named Clara, except that her Christian name ain’t Clara, and she isn’t a lady. Unless you count lady of ill repute, that is.”

Clara threw back her head and cackled at this. The others snickered, their eyes flicking back and forth between their boss and the captive girl.

“Are you folks here to rescue me?” Crystal asked again, her voice hopeful.

Morgan frowned, as if considering her request. “Well now, I reckon that depends. Mind telling us who tied you up like this, and why?”

“O’Bannon and his boys did it. They keep me like this while they’re out working during the day.”

“And O’Bannon would be one of the tree jockeys down yonder?”

She nodded. “Is he…is he dead?”

“Well, I’m not sure which one he was, but yes, they’re all dead.”

Crystal’s body sagged on the hook. She sighed. Her expression changed from doubt and fear to one of relieved elation.

“They only let me loose at night, and then I had to… to service them.”

“Fuck them, you mean?”

She nodded. “Mostly. Sometimes I’d cook or clean, but mostly it was sex.”

“And did you mind doing that?”

Crystal shrugged. “I didn’t mind, I guess. It kept me alive. They kidnapped me from a whorehouse I was working in down near Big River. Not much of a difference.”

“Well,” Morgan said. “I reckon there’s no harm in letting you go, provided you do for me and my associates what you were willing to do for the lumberjacks. After all, it’s like you said—anything to stay alive. Am I right?”

She glanced at the others, studying their reactions, and then looked back to Morgan.

“No. I mean. yes. I don’t guess that would be too bad.”

“Good. Gunderson, you got your knife on you?”

“Sure do, boss.”

“Hand it here.”

Gunderson reached down, rolled up his pant leg and reached into his boot, withdrawing a knife from the side. He surrendered it to Morgan without a word. Morgan raised the blade. Crystal cowered, cringing as he sliced through the bailing twine around her wrists. Then, as she stood their rubbing her hands together to restore the circulation, he freed her ankles and handed the knife back to Gunderson.

“Thank you,” Crystal murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” Morgan said. His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Lincoln freed the slaves. I reckon we should all live by that example.”

“Should I… start servicing you now?”

“Damn girl! I like your spirit.” Chuckling, Morgan shook his head and sniffed. “But no. Get cleaned up first. Enjoy your freedom. Make yourself at home. There’ll be plenty of time for thanking us later. We ain’t leaving here for a while.”

TWO

“You sure about the posse, boss?”

Morgan, Parker, Johnson and Stephens were seated around the table, playing a hand of cards with the lumberjacks’ deck and eating some of the dead men’s beans and potatoes that Clara and Crystal had cooked up. Clara now lounged on one of the musty cots. Crystal sat nearby, her eyes darting back and forth between each of them. Gunderson sat by the window, a long rifle in his hands. Although he was listening to the conversation, he kept his attention focused on the group of pine trees where Stephens had hung the bait earlier.

“Understand,” Parker continued, “I don’t mean to disagree with you or anything like that. I’m just nervous is all.”

“Nervous?” Johnson laughed. “I’d dare say scared is more like it. Ready to shit your britches at the thought of hanging.”

Parker’s ears turned red. “Fuck you, Johnson. I ain’t afraid of hanging.”

“You damn well should be,” Morgan said around a mouthful of beans, “because if they ever catch us, we’ll hang for sure. After all the shit we’ve done across this country? No doubt about it, boys. We’d hang. But I don’t think they will catch us. I think the posse has given up already.”

Stephens drew a card from the deck. “After what we did back in that last town? You really think they’d just let us go?”