Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 (10 page)
“Excellent,” Halladay said.
He took a long drag and blew the smoke up into the air so that it stung his eyes, “To start searching anew for the wily Mr. Phillips, correct?
But this time, for real, as you said.
It’s about time we had someone push his weight around here and frighten the townspeople into giving up what they know.
Nothing like a little fear and bullying to get the locals in line.”
Sam swished the whiskey around his mouth and said, “Now, you know I’m not like that.”
Halladay nodded and said, “Do you remember when Erasamus Willow’s wife died?”
Sam nodded and drank again.
“Now, bear in mind that as the funeral director, Erasamus has seen more death than anyone in the settlement.
He has stuck his hands inside of more dead bodies and molded the mask of decomposition back into a thing of beauty more times than I could count.
Mrs. Willow had been sick for years when she finally passed, but Erasamus did such a fine job on her that she looked like an eighteen year old beauty queen lying within the confines of that casket.”
“I remember,” Sam said.
“That always did make the hair stand up on the back of my neck, him wanting to work on his own wife like that.”
Halladay shrugged, “Regardless, that is a man who possesses a keep familiarity with death.
On the day after his wife’s funeral, I visited the Willows and saw young Anna standing on the front porch.
The child was rocking back and forth violently, holding herself tight with both arms.
There was an enormous column of smoke coming up from the back of the house, and as I ran around the side, I saw Erasamus standing over a massive fire.
He was chopping his own furniture to pieces and tossing it into the flames.
‘What in the world are you doing, Erasamus?’ I asked him.
‘Burning up the past,’ he told me.
He took a hatchet to his bedframe and started to hack up the headboard when I ran over to him and snatched the hatchet out of his hands.
He tried to fight me, but I managed to knock him down and I said, ‘Erasamus Willow!
When little Anna was first learning to walk and she fell down, did she cry immediately or did she look at you and your wife first?’
And he looked up at me in complete confusion and said, ‘I reckon she looked at us first.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘To see what we would do.’
I held out my hand to him and helped him to his feet.
‘She looked at you because she was using your reaction to determine how badly she’d been hurt.’
I handed him back his axe and said, ‘And she still is, you damn fool.’”
Halladay stubbed out his cigarette on the porch step and said, “Well, time for me to be getting back to the missus.
I’ll tell her what you said, minus the part about being a busybody.
Goodnight, Sam.”
Sam watched his friend walk down the steps and into the meadow.
“Goodnight, Doc,” he said.
He went to take another sip but stopped and looked at the bottle for a moment.
He walked over to the edge of the porch and dumped the rest of his liquor into the dirt, then screwed the cap back on and went inside.
They put her in a cage.
A hollowed out wagon with barred windows and no seats.
Filthy, bug-infested straw littered the bare floorboards.
Ruth’s voice was nothing but a bloody scratch on the inside of her throat, worn out from shrieking at the sight of Willard Davis’s body flopping violently on the ground as the savage sliced through his forehead.
Willard lived throughout the ordeal, even as the Beothuk grabbed the last handful of loose skin and ripped it free then held it up in the air like some kind of trophy.
Willard screamed until finally one of the other natives walked over and put a bullet through his forehead.
Ruth wished she could cut the image out of her eyes.
It was like they’d become camera lenses and stayed open too long gawking at the sight of Willard’s agony until it was burned into them like photographs.
She wrapped her hands around the rusted bars covering the wagon’s windows and looked out at the natives on destriers surrounding them.
All of the women were packed inside of the caged wagon with her.
Elizabeth Hall had vomited all over her shirt and the stench made Ruth’s eyes water.
She tried to see what had happened to the men from their church but could not see anything past the bare-chested riders.
They must be alive,
she thought grimly.
I haven’t heard any more screaming.
Elizabeth shoved Ruth out of the way and pressed her face against the iron bars, “Let us out!”
She yanked and pulled on the bars feverishly but it did little more than knock the rust off the bars until specks of it glittered in the sunlight.
Ruth got to her feet and laid her hand gently on Elizabeth’s elbow.
“Do not give up your faith, sister,” she whispered.
Elizabeth’s face filled with rage, “What faith?
Don’t you understand?
Willard was wrong!
He was wrong about everything!”
“I don’t believe that.”
Elizabeth choked on her words as she staggered back and put her hand against the wall to keep herself upright as the wagon rocked them side to side.
She grabbed handfuls of her hair and bellowed, “Let me out of here!”
Ruth returned to the window to see what effect Elizabeth’s frantic screeches had.
None of the Beothuk seemed to notice.
***
Toquame Keewassee looked back at the wagon and frowned.
“Do they have water?”
The warrior next to him nodded and said, “There are skins inside of the wagon, but they will not drink them.”
Comee turned around in his saddle and said, “The ugly one is screaming again.
Do you want me to make her silent?”
“No.
That will send the others into a panic.”
“White women,” Comee said bitterly.
Keewassee touched the necklace of colorful crystals around his neck that he’d taken from the wasichu’s dead body.
There was a yellow strand of hair tangled in the stones, the same color as the mass of blonde, bloody hair dangling from his saddle.
He picked up the scalp and turned it over to inspect the ruined flesh along the underside.
He spread the skin out on his saddle to dry in the sun and said, “We will meet up with the masked one past the mountain.
They will be silent soon enough.”
***
The wagon stopped and Ruth immediately lifted her head, “What’s going on?”
The other women were asleep on the floor, curled up to one another with the dark hay scooped up against them, drawn in like birds building a nest.
Ruth pulled herself to the window.
The sun was setting.
The sky was luminescent in blue and purple and the Beothuk were tending something over a lit fire.
They’re going to eat us,
Ruth thought.
She opened her mouth to scream and stifled it with her fist.
She looked back at the other women and her first thought was,
If I let them sleep, they’ll stay closer to the door for when the savages come to drag the first one out.
The horror of her own thoughts overwhelmed her and she slid away from the window and covered her face with her hands to pray.
What’s happening to me?
I don’t want to die
.
Where has my faith gone?
Elizabeth has lost faith.
Then let her be the one who goes first!
The back door of the wagon flew open and the women inside sat up and screamed, clawing their way across the floor to get away from the angry looking man standing at the rear who held a flaming torch.
Ruth sank down behind them and cowered in the corner, begging him not to take her.
The man heaved something into the wagon with a thud before he slammed the door shut and re-locked it.
“What is it?” Elizabeth Hall screamed, covering her eyes and diving into Ruth’s lap.
Ruth pushed Elizabeth away from her and leaned forward.
She inhaled and said, “I think it’s food.”
She touched the hunk of meat with her finger.
It was still warm.
“They killed something and gave us some to eat.”
The women slowly came out of the corner, moving toward the roasted meat.
“Is it safe to eat?” one of them said.
Ruth ripped off a chunk and smelled it.
“It smells good.”
She put it in her mouth and began to chew.
“They’re feeding us?” Elizabeth whispered.
“Why would they feed us if they’re going to kill us?
Don’t you understand?
We’re going to live!
The Great Spirit has blessed us.”
Ruth looked at Elizabeth with disdain as she chewed, waiting until it became tender enough to swallow.
“For now, at least.”
***
They rode into open country that stretched out in front of them like sheets of dark red soil, shimmering purple in the light of the twin moons.
Toquame Keewassee held up his hand and all of the riders in the group instantly halted their destriers.
The caged wagon rattled to a stop and two Beothuk on either side of the formation dismounted and ducked into the shadows, their movements only indicated by the soft click of their rifle hammers cocking back.
Comee looked out across the landscape and saw nothing but an enormous tree looming in the distance, its bare branches bent over like the curled fingers of an angry god.
Beside him, Keewassee leaned forward in his saddle and sniffed the air, then raised his fist and pointed at the tree ahead.
All of the Beothuk drew their weapons and began to move.
Wind blew through the tree, carrying the scent of decay past the rattling branches.
The shadows of multiple objects hanging from the tree, their bare feet swaying side to side in the breeze.
It was a dozen Beothuk strung by their necks.
Keewassee peered into the darkness past the tree, searching the shadows until he made out the figures of the men hiding there.
He saw light reflecting from their gun barrels and laid both of his hands on the neck of his destrier.
