Wraiths of the Broken Land (22 page)

Patch Up spun around, and his face filled with anger. “Does he look savvy?” The negro pointed a pair of bright medical scissors at Brent’s wound. “Is that what head trauma usually yields? Clear-thinking?”

“I didn’t think it—”

“And which one of you shoved oats into the wound?”

“He did that himself!” tattled Stevie.

“Heat up some water,” Patch Up said to the youngest Plugford. “I need to flush this clean before I can mend it.”

Stevie jumped out of his saddle, bounded three strides, clambered into the wagon and opened a crate.

“Keep the fire small,” Long Clay ordered, “and disperse the smoke.”

“I will help.” Nathaniel held his stomach and climbed from his mare.

Stevie raised a tin kettle of boiling water from the three-tongue fire and carried it toward the wagon. Nathaniel dispersed smoke with a mildewed shirt that smelled far better than did he.

Underneath the canopy, Patch Up received the steaming vessel and set it beside his patient. “You stay in the vicinity in case we need to brace him.”

“I will.” Stevie stared at his brother, concerned.

Patch Up dropped a white cloth into the pot, wrung out the excess water and pressed the hot fabric to the hairy raspberry cobbler that was the side of Brent’s head. The cowboy flinched, but did not awaken. “Oats,” lamented the negro. The circus dog yawned derisively.

Nathaniel saw a white splinter that he recognized as a skull shard and turned away from the grim ministrations.

Sitting atop a flat stone on the opposite side of the three-tongue fire was Dolores. Her legs were concealed beneath the hem of the lavender dress into which she had just changed, and in her lap was a water canteen.

“How are you feeling?” inquired the gentleman.

“Weak, but okay…considerin’.” Dolores looked at the fire. “I want to apologize for hittin’ you—back in Catacumbas. And yellin’ at you.”

“I had completely forgotten about that.”

“I was real drunk, but it was wrong and I’m sorry I did it.”

“You are forgiven.” Nathaniel dispersed smoke with the mildewed shirt. “Your assault was quite mild compared to the violence I have seen and experienced these last two days.”

“I’m glad you ain’t holdin’ no grudge.” Dolores drank from a canteen and handed it over to him.

“Thank you.”

“You got yourself a woman?”

“I do.” Nathaniel drank from the canteen.

Dolores adjusted the hem that covered her mismatched legs. “Is she pretty?”

“She is pretty.”

“I bet she’s got culture, too. Speaks good English and knows all about which forks to use at dinner and Europe and things like that, don’t she?”

Nathaniel felt that it would be unkind to articulate Kathleen O’Corley’s many virtues to Dolores. “She is a good woman.”

“You married her?’

“We are engaged to be married.”

“That must be real nice,” Dolores said, “to have all that to look forward to.”

The woman’s statement contained a note of defeat, and the gentleman was unable to do anything but nod an affirmation as if he were mute.

A man yelled.

“Hold him!”

Nathaniel and Dolores looked over at the wagon.

Stevie braced Brent’s shifting shoulders as Patch Up guided the needle through skin and air.

“Do you fellows need any assistance?” inquired the gentleman.

“We got him,” said Stevie.

Nathaniel turned back to the three-tongue fire, raised the mildewed shirt, and saw a dusty figure emerge from the yuccas.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dolores.

Presently, the gentleman recognized the new arrival. “Deep Lakes has materialized.”

“Greetings,” hailed the native, as he approached.

“Greetings,” replied Nathaniel and Dolores.

Two bird carcasses hung from Deep Lakes’s denim vest, and his right hand gripped the strange bow, which had seven holes arranged in cruciform upon its belly and three strings. Dark brown poultices sat like huge leeches atop injuries on his left ear and shoulder.

Dolores pivoted upon her stone and looked up at Deep Lakes. “Thanks for helpin’.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”

The woman shut her eyes and nodded.

“We leave in five minutes,” Long Clay announced from beside his black horse. “Brent will stay in the wagon.” The gunfighter pointed at the gentleman. “Ride his mustang instead of your mare.”

“What is our destination?”

“An outlying part of the New Mexico Territory.”

“And what exactly shall we do there?” pressed Nathaniel.

“I can’t accurately answer that question until I’ve gauged our opposition.” Long Clay turned away from the gentleman.

“Do you intend to treat them as kindly as you did those horses and that pregnant woman?”

Upon sharp black boots, the gunfighter strode directly toward his critic. “Would you like to proffer some advice on how I should run things?” The viperous visage loomed, radiating the smells of iron, blood and cinders. “Please opine, Mr. Stromler.”

Nathaniel would not be bullied. “Do not try to intimidate me. I deserve truthful and clear responses. After what I have suffered, I demand them.”

“Let me clarify the hierarchy.” Long Clay unbuckled his gun belt.

“Don’t,” said Dolores.

The revolvers landed upon the dirt.

Nathaniel positioned his feet as he had during his college fencing tournaments, but he raised fists instead of a rapier. Although he was certain that he would lose, he would do his best to land a few satisfying blows.

“Clay!” Patch Up shouted from deep within the wagon. “If you punch the dandy, you’ll lose your cook and your doctor.”

Long Clay paused.

“And if you get yourself shot,” the negro elaborated, “you’ll hear some heartless nigger whistling gay tunes while you bleed to death. That’ll be me.”

Long Clay snorted.

“You know I don’t bluff.”

The gunfighter picked up his weapons. “I am aware.”

Relieved, Nathaniel lowered his fists.

“The dandy deserves to have his questions answered,” stated Patch Up. “Tell him the plan.”

The gunfighter refastened his belt and looked at the gentleman. “Our pursuers are invested in us, and they’ll give chase until there’s a violent confrontation. We need to kill all of them or diminish their number until they are cowed.”

Nathaniel’s stomach sank. “The well-considered plan is to have a shootout with however many men are following us and…and…hope that we are victorious?”

Long Clay’s mouth became a thin line. “J.L. and I located a fort that will give us a big tactical advantage. That’s where we’re going. If you don’t approve of this plan, I suggest that you ride off and see what follows you home.” The gunfighter strode away.

Nathaniel felt helpless, as if he were stuck in the middle of a war between two foreign countries. “I am not going to kill anybody.”

Seated upon the back of the wagon, Stevie inquired, “What’re you gonna do while we’re throwin’ bullets into Mex’cans? Play chess with the dog?”

“Be quiet you ingrate,” hissed Patch Up. “Respect that this man’s already suffered overmuch for a bunch of damn strangers.”

“You should take one of Pa’s guns,” suggested Dolores.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Nathaniel walked away from the three-tongue fire. He approached the assigned mustang and recalled the day, twelve years ago, when his father had summoned the entire family to the library.

Mother, Grandmother, Isabella and Nathaniel seated themselves upon the sofa, and the silver-haired patriarch dropped his English wool jacket directly onto the floor, which was a unique occurrence in the history of the Stromler household. The perspicacious youth knew that something was terribly amiss.

“There was an incident at the bank,” announced Howard Stromler. “A…dreadful incident.”

“Were sums taken?” asked Nathaniel.

“What has occurred?” Mother’s voice trembled.

Howard Stromler wiped his gleaming forehead with a French cuff. “I was in the vault, alone and with the door open, when I first heard the disturbance. It emanated from the lobby. The clamor grew louder, and I heard someone scream.

“I took the emergency rifle from the wall, and an angry man yelled, ‘Everybody get on the ground!’ and there was a gunshot, and I heard a man cry out in pain.

“I drew a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle and slid the bolt forward, slowly and quietly, so that I would not be discovered. The mechanism clicked, and the bullet was in place.

“A woman got hysterical, and the angry man said, ‘Shut her up or I will!’ and I heard people try to quieten her, and I heard the angry man yell, ‘Take me to the vault!’ and I pointed the gun toward the hall, and I heard footsteps on the floor, and I saw a shadow rise up on the open door, and I saw the angry man walk into the vault, and…

“And…

“I squeezed the trigger. The bullet went over his arm, hit the metal door and ricocheted.

“And I heard the teller scream.”

Nathaniel was stunned.

“Two people shot the angry man in the back, and the other robber was overpowered, but I could not move. I just held the rifle and stared at the smoke that rose from its muzzle until it was invisible.

“I heard someone yell, Candace Carter is dead!’ and I knew that it was my bullet that had killed her. I killed her. I took a human life.”

“It was an accident,” protested Nathaniel.

“I killed an innocent woman.”

Nathaniel’s father never again returned to work. He became tacit and replaced his daily meals with increasing amounts of whisky. At night, he wandered through the snow-covered woodlands and became violent if anybody tried to stop him. On one occasion, the forty-six-year-old man had disappeared for a period of three days, and when his family finally recovered him in a neighboring town, he failed to recognize them.

Five months after the incident, Howard Stromler was discovered in the bank vault. The barrel of the security rifle was in his mouth, and the steel walls were splashed with his red guilt. Soon thereafter, the remaining Stromlers moved to a different town in Michigan and took no more trips to Europe.

“He’s mended.”

Nathaniel looked into the wagon. Patch Up rested Brent’s bandaged head upon a rolled-up towel, and Stevie buttoned his brother’s shirt.

“Get to your horses,” ordered Long Clay.

“Mr. Stromler.”

Nathaniel looked over at Dolores.

“Will you help me onto mine?”

Long Clay said, “Stevie will assist you.”

“I’ll get her.” Bearing red keepsakes from his brother upon his sleeves, Stevie hastened from the rear of the wagon, toward Dolores.

Nathaniel knew that the interference had been deliberate (Long Clay clearly did not want the gentleman to have any more allies in the crew), but he would not remark upon such a triviality. He walked toward the brindled mustang previously ridden (and stained) by the cowboy.

“Deep Lakes.”

The native looked at the gunfighter.

“Poison the site.”

“I shall.”

Stevie inquired, “What’re you leavin’ behind?”

Deep Lakes extricated a crackling sack from a burlap bag. “Datura and caladium leaves soaked in lard.”

“I hope them Mex’can horses are hungry.”

Nathaniel grabbed the saddle horn and pulled himself atop Brent’s brindled mustang. A pain shot across his stomach, but he remained silent.

Stevie scooped Dolores from the ground and carried her to the pale palfrey.

“Poison some potatoes and a rasher of bacon,” Long Clay added, “and leave it in a victual sack by the fire, like we forgot it. We might get more than just horses.”

Nathaniel turned the mustang north so that he did not have to look at the loathsome gunfighter.

Chapter III
Defining the New Mr. Plugford

Lying upon the rattling wagon bed, Brent Plugford awakened, turned his head to the left and looked at the huge man who laid directly beside him. A wheel struck a stone, and blood sluiced across the goggles that covered the eyes of John Lawrence Plugford.

The cowboy turned away from his deceased father, lifted his stitched head, looked past the brass tips of his brown boots and saw grass that was colored gold by the twilight sun. Atop the metallic flora cantered the horses that bore Dolores, Stevie, the dandy and Long Clay.

A groan emerged from the black trunk.

Brent slapped the portable prison. “Quiet.” He had completely forgotten about the captive. “We didn’t forget about you.”

The man gurgled.

“Patch Up,” said the cowboy.

“Yes, Mr. Plugford?”

“Why’d you call me that? I ain’t no Mr. Plugford. I’m Brent.”

“You’re the man of the family now.”

“Long Clay is in charge.”

“He’s running the tactics, but you’re heading up the family.”

“Same thing.”

“There’s a difference.” Patch Up whipped a sluggish rump. “Long Clay was your father’s partner for a long while, but he isn’t family.”

“That’s certain true. But you’re family—Pa always said so.”

There was a long pause. “I know that he did.”

Brent looked at the recumbent patriarch and remembered his forgotten question. “How come Pa’s still got his mask on? It’s full up with gore.”

“Once we’ve settled at the fort, I’ll clean him properly. He deserves—” Patch Up stopped speaking.

Brent twisted around and looked toward the front of the wagon.

Patch Up turned away.

“You okay?” asked Brent.

The negro nodded, but did not finish his statement.

Useless tears began to fill the cowboy’s eyes, and he became angry. “Don’t blubber!” he said, reprimanding both Patch Up and himself. “Ain’t no use in it.”

“You’re right.”

Patch Up set the bulb of the whip in its socket and turned to Yvette, who was curled up on the bench beside him like a kitten. Kindly, he caressed her forehead.

A sharp concern twisted Brent’s guts. “Does she know…who we got in here? In the trunk?”

“No. She hasn’t been awake more than a few minutes, and he’s been quiet.” Patch Up wiped his nose. “What do you intend to do with him?”

“Don’t know.” Brent considered Yvette’s religious views and her absurd capacity for forgiveness. “Maybe we should just execute him be—”

An appendage thudded within the trunk.

“You keep quiet,” the cowboy hissed, “or I’ll do what I did in Colorado.”

The man was silent.

Brent returned his gaze to Patch Up. “Maybe we should execute him before Yvette gets lucid. We’re long past using him for barter with Gris, and it’s certain definite that Dolores—when she learns what he done—will want him dead and would kill him herself, and Stevie and I want him dead, and Pa would’ve tore out his throat in six different states if me an Stevie hadn’t’ve stopped him every time.”

“That’s all true,” said Patch Up.

“But…” A consideration troubled Brent. “Yvette ain’t hardly herself right now—she’s like a ghost. And she might want him alive. Even with all that he did, she might still want him.”

“That’s true.”

Brent glared at Patch Up. “What in the hell kind of counsel is that?”

“I’m not counseling you Mr. Plugford, I’m—”

“Don’t call me that. I’m Brent.”

“No. You’re Mr. Plugford.”

“Hell.” The cowboy snorted. “He should be killed a hundred times for what he did. For what happened to my sisters and my Pa and them horses too. But—” He shook his head. “But I can’t give Yvette another grievance. I can’t hurt her in any way, even if it’s doin’ right by Dolores and Pa and all the rest of us. I just can’t hurt her no matter what.”

“That is a thoughtful and kind decision, Mr. Plugford.” Patch Up stroked Yvette’s forehead.

“Dolores and Stevie ain’t gonna swallow it easy.”

“They aren’t.”

The cowboy looked at the black trunk. “Your wife is gonna have the decision on what happens to you.”

From behind the wood, Samuel C. Upfield IV gurgled two muffled wet words that might have been ‘thank you.’

“If she don’t forgive you, we’re gonna throw rocks at you ‘til you’re dead. The whole family is.”