Prairie Song (23 page)

“You owe me nothing. What I did, I did for Cherish—not you, Yankee. If I hadn’t seen your kindness toward her, I’d have left you as breakfast for the buzzards.”

Grayson smiled. “You care a lot for that little gal, don’t you?”

Brant shrugged, trying to make his reply casual, but he didn’t fool Grayson. “I want her to be happy. She could never be with me. There’d always be some kid coming up looking to claim my bounty money or make a name for himself by killing me. I sometimes have nightmares that she’ll see me gunned down. No matter how much I want her, I can’t have her. So I’m going to take you back and let you watch over both women. You might say saving your life is my good-bye gift to her.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Maggie doesn’t want me within a hundred miles of her.”

Brant laughed as he stood. “Now that, my friend, is your problem. I’d sooner face a regiment of seasoned Yankee guerrillas than that woman, and I’ve only heard about her.”

“I’ll figure out a way.” Grayson closed his eyes and tried to make his head stop throbbing. “If I live through your doctoring.”

Margaret tucked the blankets tightly around Hattie’s bed. The old woman was little more than a flesh-covered skeleton. Her mind rarely touched reality now, and Death waited only a step away to walk with her. The only comfort for her seemed to be the box she kept tightly clenched in her arms: her treasure of letters. Father Daniel had been to see her almost every day in the month that Grayson had been gone. Several times he’d asked that the room be cleared so that he could hear her last confession, but each time her screams brought Maggie back to comfort her and the priest was forced to leave.

“I’ll sit with her awhile today,” Bar said as he sank into the chair by her bed and propped his boots on the footboard. “When Grayson comes back he said we’d have work to do outside, what with pulling all the boards off the windows and everything.”

Maggie straightened her shoulders. “Grayson isn’t coming back. It’s been more than a month and to hope now would only be foolish. If he were coming, he’d be here by now.” Her tone was as emotionless as her face. Only the tight grip she held on the bed frame gave away the depth of her pain.

Bar tilted his head and studied her. Her prim and proper manner didn’t deceive him. “You want him to come back, don’t you.” He said the words as fact.

It was too simple a statement to be denied. She wanted him back with every fiber of her being, but she’d learned a long time ago that wanting something and getting it were different things.

She was saved from answering by a pounding at the door. Maggie hurried to see who it was even though she’d learned over the past month that the caller was usually unwanted.

Much to her displeasure, Mr. Wallman was standing on her porch with yet another paper in his hand. His face looked pale and his eyes were puffy and red.

“‘Morning, Mrs. Alexander.” He had an irritating habit of starting to remove his hat then placing it back on his head with a quick tap. “I’ve been talking with your husband and he’s …”

“My husband is dead.” She fought the urge to snatch the hat from his head and give him a quick lesson on how to greet a lady.

“Now, Mrs. Alexander, don’t start that again. We both know full well your husband is alive and recovering over at the hotel. Fact is, I’m thinking he’ll be good as new in a few days. He’s eating regular and healthy enough to walk down to the bar every night for a drink.”

“He’ll be dead if he sets foot on my property.”

The lawyer shuffled as though his shoes had suddenly become too big and he was trying to keep them on. “That’s another point of fact you seem to ignore. By law this house is half his. He has as much right to be in this place as you do and now that that giant of a hired man has left, there is little you can do but accept the facts. I’m sure if you two spent some time together, you’d work things out like most folks do.”

Margaret took a step toward him and the little man stumbled backward. “Now don’t go yelling at me, Mrs. Alexander. Your husband would have already been by to claim his rights if it weren’t for his untimely injury and the fact that we seem to have a little trouble getting the sheriff’s cooperation these days. But Westley wanted me to let you know that he’ll be here tomorrow to claim his rightful place as lord of the house, and there isn’t a legal thing you can do about it.”

Margaret was so angry she had to bite her tongue to keep from yelling. After several breaths she said, in what she thought was a low voice, though it shook the panes on the windows behind her, “If he comes, please ask him to wear whatever clothes he wishes to be buried in.”

The little lawyer was too shocked to reply. He stood, like a lazy frog, with his mouth wide open.

“Good day, Mr. Wallman.”

The lawyer looked skyward as if giving up a hopeless fight and turned to limp away. Maggie thought of asking about his injury, but decided she couldn’t stand him on her property any longer than necessary.

She remained on her porch until he was down the hill. With the carriage of a queen, she turned and went inside, then collapsed behind the door and whispered one word as though it were a prayer: “Grayson.”

Then, slowly, she straightened her back and walked to the kitchen to fetch her rifle. She might go to jail for what she planned to do if Westley came tomorrow, but she’d go to jail as a widow. There was no room in her heart, or in her house, for him.

That night no one in the house could sleep. They all knew that tomorrow would bring trouble. Maggie paced her room, trying to think of something, anything, she could do besides gun Westley down when he stepped on the porch. Bar positioned himself at the front door with his old rifle and refused to budge. His theory was simple. Anyone wanting to get to Maggie or Cherish would have to pass through him first and he didn’t plan to make that easy.

Cherish checked each door and window downstairs. Grayson had boarded up the house so completely that it was like a fortress ready for attack.

About midnight they all tried to settle down and sleep, but the wind whistled through the boards on the windows, making a long
woo
sound and the old walls on the second floor creaked as though they were crying in agony. An evil crept through the empty hallways on feet as light as spiderwebs, silently shaking any feeling of safety from everyone’s mind.

Cherish tried to ignore the sounds of the wind, but gradually a
tap-tapping
picked its way through the other noises to bother her. Without rhythm, the tapping began to knock against her worried mind. Pulling on her wrapper, she picked up Grayson’s Colt and tiptoed down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs, where the door leading into the basement was hidden in the shadows of the hallway, she heard the
tap-tapping
louder—a cry now, not a whisper. For a moment she just stood staring into the shadows as if waiting for the blackness suddenly to take form.

“What you think it is?” Bar asked, making Cherish jump and almost drop the Colt.

She glanced to her side and found him only an inch behind her. The look of fear in his dark eyes held back any angry words she might have blasted him with for sneaking up on her. She lifted the gun carefully into her pocket and tried not to allow her voice to show her fear.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s someone behind the lock, for the tapping seems too random.”

The tapping came again, making them both step back. The irregular patterns somehow were far more frightening than any rhythm might be.

Bar straightened as if proving he wasn’t afraid. “It could be them ghosts Azile used to tell us about. She said they walked these halls because so much wrongdoin’ has gone on in this place. Maybe when we locked the door a month ago, we trapped one of them down there in that cellar.”

Cherish smiled, hoping he couldn’t see her face in the darkness. “Bar, there are no ghosts. And if there were, they could pass through things like a door. A lock wouldn’t stop them. Also, ghosts like dark places. They wouldn’t be afraid of the cellar. It would be a great place for them.”

Bar shrugged his bony shoulders. “It don’t comfort me none when folks always start off tellin’ me there ain’t no such thing as ghosts and then proceed to list their habits. How come everyone knows all about them if there ain’t no such thing?”

Cherish saw his point, but wanted to ease his fears. “Maybe it’s wind traveling through the tunnel and making the tapping sound.”

Bar nodded, accepting that as a possibility. “Well, if the door by the barn is open a little, I’ll go out back and close it.”

“No, that could be dangerous. Remember, we both encountered Westley out by the barn.” She tried to make her voice sound like the problem was only minor. “I’ll go through the tunnel and close the outside door. I can find my way in the dark without any problem.”

Bar looked worried. “You’re not goin’ down there alone. I’m comin’ along.”

Cherish didn’t argue. She touched her fingers to the Colt in her pocket and unlocked the door before her courage dwindled. Both froze for a moment and leaned backward slightly, as if bracing themselves for something when she opened the door. But only the cold blackness of the basement greeted them.

They were as close as Siamese twins when they passed onto the landing and closed the door behind them. Bar took the lead, feeling his path from step to step as they inched their way down the dusty stairs. Cherish lost her ability to judge how far apart the steps were. If it hadn’t been for Bar’s guiding hand on her arm, she would have felt lost in the blackness. They crawled down the stairs on their hands and knees, like two-year-olds afraid to risk stepping from one step to the other.

Cherish tried to remember how many steps it had been across the room, for she knew the entrance to the tunnel was on the opposite wall, hidden in the shadows between two rows of shelves. Once at the tunnel entrance, they’d only have to cross maybe thirty feet and they’d reach the outside. She silently decided she’d risk the run back to the house across the courtyard, then remembered that the house would be locked against her.

As they neared the end of the steps, Bar suddenly shoved her down, covering her shoulder with his thin arm. His breath brushed against her face as he whispered, “Quiet! I hear somethin’.”

Cherish turned her head toward where she knew the tunnel was and listened. For a moment, her blood throbbed so loud against her temple that she couldn’t hear anything. Then sound crept to her from somewhere in the darkness. Someone was feeling his way along the wall of the underground passage. They could hear his feet shuffling and his fingers sliding along the uneven corridor. His breath was labored and his footsteps clumsy.

A match was struck and for an instant the passageway glowed as orange as a harvest moon on a frosty horizon. Then all was black again and a voice swore, “Damn, that was my last match.”

Cherish bumped heads with Bar as they both moved toward each other. He whispered the name already forming on her lips: “Westley!”

Somehow, Westley had found the entrance to the tunnel. Her mind thought back to the night in the barn. Maybe that was what he’d been looking for when she’d stumbled upon him. Fear twisted in her spine as she thought of what might have happened if he’d found the tunnel and the door unlocked while they’d been asleep upstairs.

Bar started inching his way up. Cherish followed suit. They had to get to the top and lock the door before Westley made it out of the tunnel. And they had to do it without a sound.

Halfway up the steps, Cherish stopped. She could hear Westley’s breathing. He’d reached the end of the passage and was stepping out into the large, empty space. The air was already thick with the smell of his sweat. She inched her way up another step, afraid now to open her eyes, even though she knew she wouldn’t even be able to see her hands in front of her. It would only be a matter of minutes before he found the stairs.

Like dawn’s first glow, a light radiated from somewhere deep in the tunnel. Within seconds it filled the entrance with an unnatural yellow-orange radiance. Bar once more covered her as completely as he could with his arm. They were far enough up the stairs to look down on the light, but if someone looked up, he couldn’t help but see them, even in the shadows.

“Who is it?” Westley shouted as if someone were entering his land unlawfully.

A thin man in black stepped through the tunnel with the skill of one who’d walked it many times. “I wondered how long it would take you to find this entrance.” The stranger’s face was still a mystery, but his voice was low and familiar. The light reflected off his highly polished knee boots.

“The others told me about it at the poker game, but they didn’t bother with details,” Westley answered. “This house and everything in it is mine, so don’t start bothering me. I rigged the game to win it, but the banker started to get suspicious. So I passed the winning hand and the deed to the old man. I figured I could buy it back if I got him drunk enough, but I finally had to kill old Tobin when he wouldn’t see reason. I know there’s a treasure in this old place and I aim to find it.”

“There’s no treasure. The men at the game just wanted to up the pot that night. They knew you wouldn’t be interested in this place without the lure of the treasure. Only problem was you believed it—enough to kill for it. So you can stop looking. The only treasure lies in a dying woman’s insane hopes and dreams.”

Westley huffed up like a toad swelling to sing. “If there isn’t any treasure, how come you and the other Knights are so anxious to get your hands on this house? You’re the ones trying everything to frighten the women away. I’d be mighty happy to let the women live here once I get the treasure.”

The stranger set the lantern down. “Sure, you’d let them live here. Tell me, Westley, how many times do you plan to catch Cherish in the barn and beat her, until she dies from one of the assaults like the girl at Holliday’s almost did?”

Westley snorted. “Hell, I can think of other things than a beating I plan to give that uppity girl. She didn’t ever press charges, so I figure I can do whatever I want to. When I get tired of riding my bony wife, I might just give Cherish a time or two. It’ll be quite a setup: two women to keep me happy and all that gold Hattie hid before the war.”

The stranger moved so fast it seemed like it all happened in only a blink of the lantern. A long, silver blade flashed as he pulled it from his boot. A moment later, Cherish heard the unmistakable sound of metal being thrust into flesh … Westley’s flesh.