And the Hills Opened Up (18 page)

Yet, plagues had come before in which burning the bodies were necessary, and plagues would come again.  What had happened below in Red Earth was simply one more test of the Lord.  Lynch had no plans to join the other men in their hunt once they reached Rawlins—he was not made to be an instrument of vengeance, even if such a thing was possible.  No.  He was sixty-two years old.  He would simply test the winds and move on to a new town, where the living still prospered and sought the comfort of the Lord.  To live a few more years in peace would be enough.

At dusk, they went over a rise and the path started to decline.  They lost sight of Red Earth and would not see it again along the road.  They rode until twilight turned to black night and made camp just off the road in a small clearing, each man relieving himself in the woods and dragging deadwood back.  They built a small fire in a natural hollow in the ground and laid their bedding around it.  The air felt chilled but was not near as cold as the night before, the wind having dropped to naught.  The sky was clear and filling with stars, with a thin sliver of a new moon rising above the mountains.  They collected more deadwood and stacked it at the foot of the fire.

“Should last through the night,” Elwood Hayes said.

Milo Atkins stepped back and glanced at the worn-out horses. 

“I’ll water them back at that stream.”

“Sure.”

Atkins walked off into the dark, carrying no lantern.  Lynch heard the horses snort at the sheriff’s approach and drift down the mountain road.  He turned to Hayes, who was sliding into his blankets with a whiskey bottle and a hunk of bread.

“You may not have known him long, but Milo Atkins is a changed man today.”

“That right?”

“Just yesterday morn, he was strutting about camp like a rooster.”

“Yes, sir, there might have been something of a strut to him when I first met him,” Hayes said, tipping the whiskey bottle back.  “This ugliness has taken the starch right out of him.”

“You think it’s only sorrow?”

“What else would it be?”

“I don’t know.”

Lynch bent over their saddle bag of provisions.  He dug out a block of hard cheese and a stump of venison and slid inside his own blankets, glad for the fire.  He took turns chewing the cheese and the venison, mixing the flavors in his mouth.  “Didn’t realize I was so hungry,” he said when he’d finished both.  “Didn’t think I’d ever be able to eat again.”

“Yeah,” Hayes said.  “But you did.  And someday our buddy Atkins will find himself hungry, too, and he’ll be eating.”

“You’re saying life moves onward, even after terrible events.”

“That’s right.  It does.”

Father Lynch lay back to regard the stars.  “I am sorry for the loss of your brother and friends, Mr. Hayes.”     

Elwood laughed and turned onto his side. 

“Jesus.  What am I going to tell my pa?  That old bastard will never forgive me, no matter what I tell him.  There’s no right way to tell any of this.”

An ember popped in the fire.  A spruce owl called from the trees.  Lynch imagined Milo Atkins leading the horses down to the mountain stream and watching them drink, the thought of his murdered wife and child like an anchor tied round his neck. 

The horses would know their way back, Lynch supposed.  Even in the dark.

“Elwood.”

“Yes, Father?”

“When the Charred Man killed Ingrid, the last patch of scab fled from his cheek.  I saw it go with my own eyes.”

“Fled?”

“Disappeared, like.  One second it was there, next it was gone.  He gave off a shine, too.  Like a new penny in the sun.”

The spruce owl started in again with its inquiries.  Lynch closed his eyes, blocking out the stars yet still feeling the firelight warm against his cheek.  He hadn’t slept out of doors for a long time.  The crispness of the air resembled ice shavings in his lungs and the hard, rocky ground felt like a wooden plank.  The mountain spun gently beneath him, lifting him toward the sky. 

Atkins returned with more wood for the fire.  Some time after that, Father Lynch heard the lawman sobbing softly beneath his bedding.  The sobs came from deep in the young man’s chest, rising up all cracked and stifled.  Lynch felt his left arm turning numb, though he was not lying on it.  The priest was on his back, burrowed under a heavy mound of blankets.  He felt the numbness grow quickly, passing through his arm and into the other aching corners of his body, shortening his breath and making it come in little gulps, then not at all.  

And the young man, still weeping. 

Not understanding how this too would pass.

31

They buried the priest on the mountainside.  The soil was shallow and pitted with stones and all they had to hack at it with were sharp rocks and sticks.  They ended up covering the priest with pebbles and piling rocks on top of that, rock after rock, until Father Lynch looked like he’d become part of the mountain itself.  “We should fill the cracks,” Elwood Hayes said.  “So the buzzards won’t get at him.”

Milo Atkins, who didn’t care one way or the other, started scooping handfuls of sand.  He took his time pouring it down into the cracks, covering the small patches of black cloth that showed between the rocks.  Far as he was concerned, they could spend all day burying the priest.  They could spend the rest of summer adding to the mound, building it up into a tower of rocks and sand until it reached fifty feet high.

When they’d packed the rocks tight, Hayes brushed his hands off and stood back to inspect their work.

“That’s a comely tomb, ain’t it?”

Atkins nodded, staring over the rock pile and into the woods beyond.  He’d found the spot for the priest’s burial that morning when he’d returned with the horses to the mountain stream they’d watered at the night before.  The horses were at the stream yet, tied to the trees as they drank and mulled about, nibbling at grass and wildflowers.

“Funny how he kicked like that,” Hayes said.  “Survived a goddamn massacre only to go in his sleep a day later.”

Atkins kicked a stone and sent it tumbling into the ravine below.  Violet and Billy had gone in their sleep, too. 

Well, Billy, anyhow.  Violet had come to as he dragged the razor across her throat, opening her soft skin like it was soft cheese.  Her eyes wide and scared and fast awake, as if she’d been expecting the razor, even in her sleep. 

Expecting it, yes, but not from him. 

A roar filled Milo Atkin’s mind, making it hard to hear whatever Hayes was saying now.  He was reading from Father Lynch’s Bible, his mouth forming words as his eyes glided across the onionskin pages.  This was the funeral: the two of them, standing over a pile of rocks covering the body of a good man.  The July sky clear and blue above the trees, the sun rising in the sky, the birds singing in the trees, the horses watering at the stream, the air smelling like spruce needles and dirt.  Slight rattlings in the forest as the squirrels jumped from branch to branch and the deer followed their old, well-worn trails to feed and bed. 

Atkins touched the pistol holstered on his hip, seized by a strong urge to fire into the piled stones.  He’d found his gun returned after he’d finished his work in the bedroom.  He’d expected to find the Charred Man still at his table, grinning and death-eyed, but he’d already departed.  Nothing else had changed in the room except for the reappearance of Atkins’ revolver, glowing silver as it sat on the kitchen table.

Hayes said amen and set the Bible on top of the stones.

“Hope you can ride fast, Sheriff.  We’ve got some catch up ahead of us.”

Atkins dropped his hand and started toward the stream, pushing the roar to the back of his mind.

“I’ll fetch the horses to the road.”

“Good man,” Hayes said behind him, like he meant it.

The road climbed to one final summit before dropping steeply again, revealing a grassy plain that stretched into the horizon.  Rawlins was forty miles to the north, an easy ride if they stuck to beat down cattle trails.  They rode as fast as they dared coming down the mountain, keeping in mind they had two extra horses.  Atkins allowed his mind to return to the steady roaring, letting his horse do the work, seeing but not seeing Hayes riding in front of him and the road beyond that, the corners of his eyes filling with tears he did not bother to wipe clear.

Past noon they reached the bottom of the mountain, leaving the last patch of the Sierra Madres for a level dirt road.  The horses scared a flock of grouse into running, their brown and white feathers fluttering with agitation.  Hayes threw up a hand, slowing his horse and the horse he was leading.  Atkins slowed as well, noticing the stream curling up to the cattle trail for the first time.  Its waters were muddy and low and it turned east again almost as soon as it reached the trail’s edge, as if ashamed of its poor quality.

“No clear mountain stream,” Hayes said, dismounting.  “But parched horses ain’t so choosy.”

Atkins swung his leg around and dropped from his saddle.  They led the horses to the stream and dropped the reins, letting them dip into the water at their own pace.  Hayes dug into the saddlebags and pulled out a can of peaches. 

“Might as well feed the fire,” he said, prying the can open with his knife.  He skewered a slice of peach with the tip of his knife and stuck it in his mouth.  Atkins could see Hayes’ jawbone working as he chewed, the skeleton beneath the skin.  Hayes speared another slice of peach and offered it to Atkins.

“No.  I ain’t hungry.”

“You don’t like peaches?”

“I like peaches fine.  I just don’t feel like eating them.”

“How about some hog?  We’ve got salted.”

Atkins shook his head and lowered his gaze to the horses, who seemed content with their muddy stream and the flies circling their heads and the sun beating down on their shiny, dun-colored hides.

“You can’t live on air, Sheriff.  Believe me, I tried that for a spell last winter.  Did nothing but make my stomach hurt and my legs weak.”

“I’ll eat when I see fit,” Atkins said, scowling.  “If I do so or not is none of your goddamn business.”

Hayes laughed and tipped the rest of the peaches into his mouth, no longer bothering with the knife.  He chewed the mouthful like a prized cow, juice leaking from the corners of his mouth as he smiled. 

“You’re right, Sheriff.  It is none of my business.  I don’t want you keeling over on me like the good father is all.  I figure two is better than one when you’re tracking down hell’s own.”

The horses lifted their heads from the stream, as if they heard something the men could not.  Grasshoppers buzzed through the air, slinging themselves back and forth with mindless abandon.  Atkins wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.  He’d changed into another fresh shirt before they left Red Earth—this was his third and last.

“We’re not going to track him down, Elwood.  You’re just spinning a tale.”

“The hell we aren’t.  He’s headed for Rawlins as sure as I’m standing here.  All we need to do is follow the trail of dead and keep our guns ready.  He won’t be expecting us to come after him.”

“Rawlins is a big city.”

Hayes snorted.  “Hell, it ain’t that big.  It ain’t like Denver or Chicago.”

The horses, having gotten their fill of the muddy water, returned to the men and stood beside them in expectation.  Hayes chucked his empty tin into the air and they watched it flutter back down like a wounded dove.  He dug into the saddle bags and came out with two flat cuts of cured ham.  He handed one to Atkins and started gnawing on the other, frowning as he watched the younger man.  “If it’ll shut you up, then,” Atkins said, tearing off a hunk with his teeth and chewing on it.  The ham expanded on his tongue, sliding slowly down his throat and dropping into his empty stomach.  It was the first thing he’d eaten since returning from the slaughter at the Copper Hotel, covered in blood and trembling from the shock of it.  Violet had heated water for him.  She’d scrubbed him clean with hot water and soap and the sharp tip of her thumbnail.

Atkins took another bite.  Hayes nodded his approval and they stood on the plain, eating their lunch while the sun-baked horses hassled the high grass.

They rode throughout the long afternoon.  The sun arced slowly through the cloudless sky, revealing every prairie dog, every draft gliding hawk, and every blade of Wyoming grass.  Around five, they noticed a four-in-hand stagecoach on the horizon but rode for several miles more before they came upon it, sitting motionless in the center of the trail, the horses still harnessed and standing. 

Atkins stayed in the saddle while Hayes dismounted, letting the reins of his horse drop and hang free.  Atkins hailed the coach, but no reply was given from the passenger compartment.

“Unsettling sight, ain’t it?” Hayes said, drawing his pistol.  “I wonder where the driver’s got to.”

Hayes went round the stage and pulled back the passenger hold’s curtains. 

“Four dead.  Two ladies, one feller, and a girl.”

Atkins dropped his head.

“Throat’s cut?”

“Throat’s cut.”

Hayes went round to the four coach horses and stroked their necks, murmuring sweetly to them.  “He must have dropped the driver first, then come round for those in the hold.  Don’t look like they put up much of a fight.” 

Hayes started freeing the coach horses from their harnesses.  Atkins’ horse shifted its weight, curious. 

“So he didn’t linger to give them a proper carving?”

“Don’t appear that way.”  Hayes unbuckled the last harness, lifted it off the horse’s neck, and gave the horse a swat on its flank.  The horse, a big white Appaloosa with a patch of brown spots on its right shoulder, swished its tail and joined its friends, the whole lot looking confused and disconsolate in their sudden freedom. 

“Git,” Hayes shouted, waving his arms.  “Go find a sweet tasting stream and mind the coyotes.” 

The horses drew back and scattered, running off in a herd toward the west.  Hayes remounted his horse and spurred it on, drawing his second horse behind him.  They rode only a half-mile further before coming to a body lying in the grass.  It was a man, slim with his skin reddened from the sun.  His face was crushed, the forehead caved and jaw hanging loose like he was still screaming.  They rode in a circle around the corpse, both men leaning from their saddles for a better look.  If the body smelled yet, Atkins couldn’t tell.  His nose was still stuffed with Red Earth.

“The horses pulled for a half-mile without a driver?”

Hayes shrugged. 

“Maybe they caught our friend’s scent.  I don’t know about you, Sheriff, but that burnt smell alone would send me running a mile or two.”

“Stop that,” Atkins said.  “Don’t call me Sheriff.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I ain’t the sheriff anymore.  Nobody is.  You can’t sheriff for the dead.”

Hayes laughed and spurred his horse. 

“I can’t argue with that, Mr. Atkins.”

They returned to the trail, allowing the bodies of the stagecoach driver and his passengers to remain where they lay.  It was three or four miles further along before Atkins wondered, briefly, if they should have buried them.

At dusk the cattle trail they’d been following merged with a dirt road.  They halted at the joining and ate a cold dinner of venison, hard tack biscuits, and blackberries they found growing near the crossroads.  They watered the horses at a small, clear pond, hand fed them from a sack of oats, and let them crop a short while before remounting, switching their weight to the fresher horses.  They started down the dirt road, which was the official southern road into Rawlins, while the last of the pink and gold light faded from the sky and the stars came out.  Atkins focused on breathing the cool night air, the wind against his face, and on Elwood Hayes, riding before him with his second horse on a short lead.  He let the weariness of the long, sun-cooked day flow through him, muddling his thoughts.  He tried not to think of his lovely wife, rocking by the fire, or his boy playing on the cabin floor, giving life and noise to his cornhusk dolls.

But when he raised his head to the stars, Atkins could see their faces in each white-dotted patch.  Their names rolled onto his tongue and burned there like hot coals.  He wanted to shout them into the sky and have them taken by the wind.  He wanted to be rid of their names and faces, the memory of their touch, and he understood that his love for them was like a curse, a great, eternal curse as strong and wicked as anything a demon could devise.  He could have fought.  He could have been struck down right there, in his own kitchen, but how quickly he had given in to the Charred Man’s unnatural will, going so far as to carry out his own heinous duties for him. 

He could only imagine what his father would say, if the full story ever reached him in Wichita.

They arrived at Rawlins in the blue light of false dawn, approaching from the south.  The city had grown since Atkins had last been through two years before—more homes had grown up south of the railroad tracks, more businesses to the north.  A handful of yellow lights burned in the middle of town, glowing like steady June bugs.

“I’d heard they’d got electricity here,” Elwood said, slowing his horse to ride at Atkin’s side.  “Give a man a clear stream and the railroad and he’ll hunker down anywhere, I reckon.”  

To the east of them, past the houses, was the smelter where the Dennison Mine had shipped its raw ore in haul wagons for refining.  The copper that came from that got packed into a boxcar and shipper further down the line, where they’d make something useful out of it in Denver. 

“How long you figure it’ll take them to figure out the mine’s shut?”

“Few days still,” Atkins said.  “Last haul wagons went out on Friday.”

They passed the outskirts of town and crossed the railroad tracks, the horses stepping carefully over the steel rails, the sound of their clopping hooves loud in the morning hush.  They turned down Front Street, passed a livery stable, and circled back to it.  An old Mexican was sleeping on a stool inside the livery’s entrance, leaning back against a wall.  A kerosene lamp burned near his feet, ripe for the kicking, and the dirt ground was covered in straw.