Soul Catcher (48 page)
Then the man leaned toward him, as if he were wary of being overheard, though there was not a soul in sight. "He got him a coupla mean-ass dogs. You'll want to be mindful a them. Remember, none a this you heard from me, mister."
Cain thanked the man and moved on.
He reached the farm at twilight but waited until it was fully dark before making a move. It was set back from the road about a half mile. There was a main house and barn, several outbuildings, acres upon acres of rolling pastureland, with woods behind leading down to the river. Cain was upwind, and he didn't want those dogs to get his scent and commence to barking. So he circled around and, by the light of the stars, made his way along the river, then approached from downwind, through the woods. He quietly entered the barn through a back door. It was dark inside and he tripped over something and nearly fell. Several of the horses stirred in their stalls. He lay still for a moment, letting the noise settle, permitting his eyes to get used to the darkness. Luckily, he hadn't alerted the dogs. He got up and made his way cautiously over to the stalls. As much by feel as by sight, Cain tried to pick a horse with some grit. He slipped his hand into the stalls and felt each horse's neck and shoulders. There were several large plow horses, strong but plodding animals, a blaze gelding who tried to nip him when he placed his hand on the horse's withers, a bay whose neck was too thin for its squat body. He finally settled on a strong-looking roan mare. She wasn't that big, only thirteen hands or so, but she had a good chest and legs, and she looked like she could run some. He went over to the tack room and grabbed a bridle, a blanket, and a well-worn saddle, then returned to the mare.
"It's all right, girl," he reassured her. "I'm just going to borrow you."
She remained calm as he tacked her up.
Before he left the barn, he happened to find a hatchet on a workbench, and he slipped that in his trousers' waist. Then he led the horse out the back and through the woods toward the river. When he was some distance from the house, he pulled himself with difficulty into the saddle and, by starlight, picked his way carefully through the tangle of trees and undergrowth. He'd almost reached the river when he heard the dogs commence to barking. This was followed by other noises, the startled, angry voices of men calling to one another in the night. At the riverbank, he paused for a moment to take stock of things, assessing the distance across and the water's speed, and picking out an especially high pine tree on the far bank that would serve for purposes of navigation. Then he led the mare down into the river. When the water reached his thighs, he shuddered and slid off the horse, to allow her to swim freely. With his right hand Cain clutched onto a handful of the horse's mane, while in his left, he held the pepperbox aloft so the powder wouldn't get wet. The horse didn't hesitate at all but moved confidently into the river. She was soon over her head, swimming hard, instinctively keeping her nose upriver against what proved to be a strong current.
"Atta girl," he said, urging her onward.
He kept his eyes on the pine tree, using it as a beacon. As he moved through the dark water, his body slowly grew accustomed to the cold. In fact, he actually found the water refreshing, and his wounds, for the time being, almost ceased to ache. The water seemed to act as a poultice, soothing and comforting and restoring him. Above the river, to the east, he could see the night sky filled with stars, scattered like grains of salt over a black tabletop. They appeared so low he felt he could almost reach out and pick them up, put the salty particles on his tongue. He recalled the night sky in the desert in Mexico, how cold and clear and orderly the universe had seemed to him then, not the chaotic doings of men but the perfect physics of sky and space and objects. Several notions pressed in upon his mind as he crossed the river. He thought of what the old couple had said to him, that he was either running from something that scared him or toward something that beckoned. He thought of what the Negro swineherd had told him, that he only wanted to find her so he could bring her back for his own profit. And then, he thought of what Hettie, the woman back in Connecticut, had said to him the night before she took her own life:
Remember not to let anything happen to Rosetta.
The mare came out on the far bank and shook herself. Cain placed his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle again. As he rode up the bank through some tangled undergrowth, he startled a covey of quail. They exploded in a confusion of wings as they darted in all directions. When he made the road, he took off at a full gallop, able to make out the way ahead only by starlight. He pushed the mare for all she was worth. She wasn't as smooth-gaited as Hermes, but she had a powerful hind end and a generous nature, willing to give all she had and then some. She lowered her head and lengthened her stride, and Cain got up in a half seat and held her high on the neck, whispering to her.
"Gitup, girl," he said, making clicking sounds, urging her onward. "Gitup, girl."
He rode her hard through the night, stopping only once to let her drink some water from a creek. When Cain dismounted, he felt feverish, sick to his stomach. The burning, throbbing pain in his side had come back with a vengeance. He retched a few times, managing to draw up only a thin bile. When the nausea passed, he felt suddenly exhausted, felt an irresistible urge to lie down on the ground and sleep, perhaps for just a few minutes, just enough to catch his wind. But he knew that if he did, he might never get up, so he forced himself back in the saddle and rode on, guided only by the stars and the occasional light of a house or cabin. The mare had more than proven herself to be a good, dependable animal, so he gave her her head while he leaned forward onto her withers and surrendered to his weariness. Into her ear, he whispered, "Take me to her, girl." The rhythmic motion of the mare's gait gradually eased the pain some, and he found the lathered smell of the horse soothing. A hush fell over the night as he rode headlong into it. Somewhere along the line, he must have drifted into a drowsy, somnolent state that wasn't quite sleep, for he could still feel and smell the horse under him.
Still, he jerked awake, clutching the reins just before he'd have fallen off the horse. It was still dark, but dawn was pushing up against the night. He could tell by the way things were getting edges, separating themselves from the anonymity of night. He heard, too, the early cries of mourning doves off in the woods. He kicked the mare into a gallop and rode hard for some time. "Just a little more, girl," he said, prodding her on. She'd already given him all she had, and he hated to push a horse beyond its limit, but he had no choice. He came up over the crest of a hill, and daylight spilled suddenly across the eastern horizon like a cool fire burning the treetops. He paused, squinting against its radiance.
The mare looked back at him, as if to ask if they were through, but he kicked her again into a gallop and she rode on unstintingly. Fortunately, they had been riding only for a short time when, off in a stand of black locust trees on the side of the road, he spotted a dull reddish gleam. As he approached, he saw that it was the dying embers of a campfire. He dismounted quietly and tied the mare to a locust. Drawing the pepperbox, he crept slowly up to check things out. On his way into the woods, he saw horses penned in a makeshift corral made of ropes and branches. He recognized the black horse with the limp and the swaybacked roan and the two bays, but he didn't see Hermes. He cocked the pistol and removed the hatchet from his waist, and thus armed, quietly entered the camp.
Several empty bottles littered the ground, and the camp had the familiar sugary stink of corn liquor. He saw the three sleeping forms tucked beneath their bedrolls. They emitted the sodden, deathlike snores of men who'd collapsed into sleep after a night of riotous behavior. Rosetta lay next to the leader, the one named Clayton. He had his right arm draped over her. A blanket haphazardly covered the pair's legs, yet Cain could see her blue dress, or what was left of it. It was torn across her chest, exposing her shoulders and breasts. Cautiously, he squatted down and looked at her, to see if she was all right. She wasn't moving at all. Her face was toward him, but it was in shadow, and for a moment, he thought her asleep, perhaps even dead. But then he saw her blink several times in the predawn light. A message? he thought. Was she trying to warn him of something? Then he saw that she wasn't blinking so much as she was throwing her gaze down toward her left wrist. That's when he noticed the shackle. He followed the chain from her arm and saw that it went to Clayton's right wrist. The bastard had chained her to him in sleep so she couldn't run away. In reply Cain nodded and put his finger to his lips. With her chained as she was to him, Cain knew he would have to take care of this one first, or Rosetta would be in danger.
He crept around behind the leader. Raising his hatchet, he was about to bash his head in when he heard a noise behind him. Spinning around, Cain saw that it was the one with the skunk beard. He had sat up and was staring at Cain from fifteen feet away.
"Who the fuck--"
Cain fired. Though he'd aimed at the man's face, the weapon shot low. The round smoked through his beard and entered just above the Adam's apple. The man grabbed at his beard frantically, as if a wasp had gotten caught in there and was stinging him. Then he began coughing, spitting up blood. Despite the wound, he was still able to reach for his weapon, and Cain had to expend another shot. But this time he adjusted for the gun's shooting low. The second round took him flush in the middle of his forehead and the man tottered momentarily, then collapsed like a bale of wet cotton, spilling over onto his face. Now the old man came running at Cain with what looked like an ancient cavalry saber. Before he could get close enough to do him any harm, Cain fired, striking him in the chest. The old man swore once, then fell to his knees as if in prayer. He still had enough left in him that he tried to raise the saber. With his boot, Cain shoved him backward, and he toppled over onto the ground and lay still.
Awakened from what must have been a drunken stupor, the one named Clayton had had a chance to scramble to his feet. However, he found himself entangled in the chain attaching him to Rosetta, and it took him a few seconds to get free. When he was finally unencumbered, he made the mistake of going for the gun in his right holster but found that wrist still attached to Rosetta, who remained on the ground, a deadweight. By the time he thought to reach for his other Tranter, it was too late.
"I'd rethink that if I were you," Cain warned, sticking the pepperbox in the man's face.
"Hell, you're just going to kill me anyway."
"Maybe. But I will for certain if you go for that gun."
This seemed to hold out some promise for the man and adjusted his thinking accordingly. He pursed his lips and nodded, then let his hand drop at his side. His body seemed to untense itself.
"You're a mighty hard fellow to kill, friend," the man said.
"Some have tried before."
"You got more lives than a damn cat." Then, looking over toward the old man on the ground, he called out, "Pap? Hey, Pap?" When he didn't get a response, he looked at Cain. "Why'd you have to go and kill the old man?"
"He was fixing to do me some harm," Cain said.
"He couldn't hurt anybody. He was just a sick old man."
"Should have had the sense to get himself a new profession then, one less demanding."
"You corncracker son of a bitch." The man didn't cry, but his eyes got runny and he clenched his jaw, then hawked something up and spit it on the ground. "There wasn't any call to shoot him."
"Shut up," Cain commanded. "Where's my horse?"
"Sold it."
"Who to?"
"Traveling medicine man. His horse was all used up."
"Little broke-back fellow? Dark skinned?"
The man seemed amazed at the fact that Cain had guessed correctly. "That be him. Dr. Some Damn Thing or Other. Full of gabblement."
On the one hand, Cain was struck by the coincidence. Then again, everything seemed to have a hidden connection on this trip.
"Where was he headed?"
The man shrugged.
Cain pressed the barrels of the gun against the man's forehead. "I'm not going to ask you a second time."
