Sathow's Sinners (12 page)

N
ate woke up covered in sweat, stinking of stale smoke and aching in every joint in his body. He'd slept as he had the night before: curled into a half ball with his legs tucked in close to his chest and his head cocked at an awkward angle. A beam of sunlight pierced through a split in the smokehouse wall. It was the same split he'd been digging his fingers into all night long in the hopes of widening the crack enough for him to be able to break open a hole in the wall. All he'd gotten for his trouble were bloody fingers.

It was no easy task to get back to his feet. The effort involved a whole lot of grunting and groaning, pushing and struggling before he was finally standing inside the cramped space. “What the hell kind of idiot savages use a thing like this as a goddamned jail?” he grunted to himself while rubbing the aching kink in his neck.

His hand balled into a fist and he started pounding on the door. Every thump against the wooden boards was a reminder of how infuriatingly solid the door was. Pounding on it even harder, he shouted, “Where's my damn breakfast?”

So far, Nate had only been given food twice and, even if combined, it wouldn't have been enough to call a meal. Even though he could gladly go hungry rather than eat that trash, he still liked to make a fuss about getting it, if only to make his jailers regret the fact that he was there. It wasn't a surprise when nobody responded to him. After a few more loud reminders of his presence, he gave his throat a rest and pressed an ear against the door.

Listening for information on his captors had yielded even fewer results than banging on the door. Everything he'd needed to know had been gleaned in the first minute or two after he'd seen Ross and the other one the very first time. The fact that they'd barely blinked when shown the badge he'd been carrying told him there was no reasoning with them. Even though the badge didn't represent any genuine authority, most folks at least gave it a moment's consideration. But these regulators were already bought and paid for by someone who was an expert in buying the loyalties of petty men.

Nate peeled his ear away from the filthy door and immediately put it back again. Just before he'd moved it, the sound of voices drifted through the air outside. After a few moments, he found the voices again and concentrated on making out what was being said.

He couldn't hear them clearly enough to piece any words together, but Nate swore he recognized one of the voices as Deaugrey's. After a short scrap of conversation, the squat regulator groused angrily about something as the familiar voice hurried to defend himself in a steady string of syllables. That was Deaugrey, all right.

Grinning, Nate pushed his ear even harder against the door to listen for anything at all that might tell him what Deaugrey had up his sleeve. The conversation quickly tipped in the regulator's favor as he snarled, “Now git the hell outta my sight!”

Nate strained to hear past the door, hoping to hear a signal from Deaugrey or something to let him know that the crazy man was doing more than just annoying someone out there. Instead, what he heard was the scrape of something against the smokehouse itself. Nate recoiled and looked around, certain that some piece of the wall had fallen off or possibly come loose after all the beatings he'd given it. The interior was still intact, however, even as something else scraped against the sides of the cramped little structure.

“Who's out there?” Nate asked in a voice that he hoped didn't carry too far. There were more scrapes, this time followed by the rattle of wagon wheels approaching the smokehouse.

“Hey!” the squat regulator shouted. “Get away from there!”

While Nate may have finally been able to hear the outside voices clearly, he was in no position to celebrate. His entire world was quickly turned on its ear as several scrapes came from all four corners of the smokehouse at once and the entire thing began to tilt. The more of them he heard, the more familiar the scrapes sounded. When they took on a more taut sound, Nate realized what they were.

Ropes.

There were ropes being tied around the smokehouse that were now cinching in tight to—

Completing Nate's thought for him, the smokehouse tilted once again before tipping all the way over so the door was now angled toward the sky. It was all Nate could do to brace himself using all four limbs against whatever surface he could reach. The smokehouse didn't tip all the way over, but it did tremble as the edge that was digging into the earth dug a rut as the structure was pulled from the spot where it had been rooted.

“What in the . . . ?” Nate hollered as he was jostled around inside that box like a single bean in a jar.

“Hang on!” someone shouted from above and behind the smokehouse. Since the ropes must have been tied to the wagon that Nate had heard, the man speaking now must have been its driver. The voice was vaguely familiar, but was getting washed away by the wagon wheels, the grinding of the smokehouse against the ground and the growing number of men shouting on all sides.

Just when Nate thought things couldn't get any more chaotic, a shot cracked through the air to knock a hole through the top edge of the smokehouse. Sunlight stabbed through the bullet hole and wood splinters rained upon his face. “Shit!” he cried out as that single shot grew into a volley.

For the most part, the gunshots were behind the smokehouse. Every so often, however, some would come from up high and send a bullet to drill into Nate's cell. After the second round had been driven through one side of the smokehouse and out the other, Nate tucked himself into a tight ball and covered his head with both arms. From there, all he could do was shout obscenities into his sleeves and absorb the impact of his body against the jostling back wall of the smokehouse.

After a minute or so, the gunshots became distant enough for Nate to move his arms and take a look at the walls around him. There were a few more holes, but most of them were at the edges of the smokehouse that would have been the top front corner if it were standing upright. The jostling slowed to a stop as a brake was hastily set to keep the wagon from rolling another inch.

“Who's out there?” Nate shouted. “What the hell's goin' on?”

“Do me a favor and lean against the front of that outhouse instead of flapping your gums so much.”

“That you, Pete?”

“Yeah. Now would you like to keep talking or can you help me set this thing upright?”

Nate didn't have to think for long about that one. Digging his heels into the floor, he threw himself at the door as he'd done so many times since it had been shut on him for the first time.

“One more time,” Pete grunted in a strained voice. “On three. One . . . two . . .
three!
”

Nate charged the door as best he could. This time, the wooden box shifted forward to set itself back into the position for which it had been built. Now that he was standing, Nate only had to stoop a bit to look through one of the fresh holes that had been shot through the door. A second later, the light coming through that hole was eclipsed by a body stepping directly in front of it.

“Get this door open, Pete!” Nate said.

“Stand back.”

He may not have had very far to go, but Nate shuffled backward until he hit the rear wall and then pressed himself into a corner. The next gunshot that he heard was a lot closer than the rest, but he greeted it with a wide, expectant smile.

“Damn,” Pete grunted.

“What is it?”

“This is one solid door.”

Nate used both arms to push himself up. “Shoot it again!” he said.

“Stand b— Shit!”

Before Nate could ask what was keeping Pete from taking another shot, he heard another volley of gunfire erupt from not too far away. Bullets whipped through the air so close to the smokehouse that Nate could hear them through the thick walls. This time, however, he didn't care. Instead, he propped himself in place as best he could while driving the bottom of one boot into the door. It rattled slightly in its frame, but was nowhere close to opening. Nate could even see a spot where one or both of Pete's rounds must have landed but kicking there didn't help his cause one bit. Staring at the unmoving barrier directly in front of him, Nate sighed. “Good Lord. Who built this damn thing?”

The gunshots grew into a storm that closed in once more on all sides. Pete returned fire, but was forced to do so at a slower, more calculated rate. “Grey!” he shouted. “Hurry up and get your ass over here!” Slamming against the outside of the smokehouse, Pete said, “We were afraid of this, Nate. That outhouse looked pretty damn sturdy. It's been reinforced and won't come open easy.”

“Keep shooting it,” Nate demanded. “Kick it! Find a hammer!
Anything!
”

“No time for that. But don't worry, we'll get you out of here.”

“You gonna drag me all the way out of camp?”

“Wouldn't be fast enough. We got another— Ah! Here it comes now. Just hang on and get ready for some more jostling.”

“I don't care if you turn this thing upside down!” Nate said. “Just crack it open!”

Amid the thunder of shots being fired as quickly as triggers could be pulled, Deaugrey let out a holler that sounded like a cross between a wild Apache and a rabid coyote. A good amount of gunfire was still being sent toward the smokehouse, blasting holes through the walls every now and then. Only now did Nate realize that not every hit put a hole into the smokehouse. And even the spots that had a few holes in them wouldn't give way to Nate's pounding fists. As he shifted his furious efforts from the wall to the door, he could feel a difference in the thickness of lumber used to build them. The true curse was the iron lock that kept the door shut. Nate had gotten a few quick glances at it on his way in and out of the jail, which was enough to tell him the lock was a formidable mechanism.

Another set of wheels rolled past the smokehouse to come to a stop behind it. By the sound of them, they were attached to something larger than whatever had dragged Nate this far. He could hear latches being opened and a wooden gate swinging down amid the squeal of old hinges. Footsteps scrambled around the smokehouse, followed by a few hasty slaps against the door.

“Ready?” Pete asked. “Here comes!”

Without counting to three, Pete shoved against the front of the smokehouse as the ropes that were still wrapped around it strained taut. It tipped back to fall farther than it had before and landed upright with a jarring slam that Nate felt through every last bone in his body. Now laying almost completely horizontal, Nate struggled to get up. His efforts were hindered by the impact, which felt like being kicked by three mules at once to knock all the breath from his lungs.

The gunshots kept coming.

The smokehouse was now starting to sway back and forth, up and down.

So many sounds washed through Nate's ears. Too many. The snap of leather. A woman screaming. Horses whinnying. Something hissed in Nate's ear like a hornet flying past. He rolled onto his side and knocked his head against both walls of the corner into which he'd landed.

Nate's stomach felt like it was sloshing around inside of him, not attached to much of anything. His throat was raw from so much swearing and shouting. His head was splitting, and his body felt as if it had been run over by a wagon instead of being dragged behind one.

When the gunshots started to fade, Nate wasn't sure if they were getting farther away or if he was simply losing consciousness. Whichever it was, he just lay where he was and let it happen.

Before he could get too comfortable, the wheels that were moving him along hit a rut that was so deep it sent Nate an inch or two in the air before dropping him straight down again. So much for laying back and enjoying the ride.

The gunshots had all but faded away. Before much longer, the ride became smoother and the team pulling the wagon was given some extra incentive. Nate could feel speed building up, and he could hear the rumble of another horse's hooves thundering to catch up to the wagon. A few seconds later, a second horse raced to catch up to them.

“He in there?” Deaugrey shouted.

Pete responded from somewhere nearby. “Of course he's in there. Where the hell is he gonna git to?”

“Is he . . . alive?”

After drawing a breath that hurt his ribs worse than a solid punch, Nate said, “I'm alive.”

“You are?” Deaugrey said. “After the beating this outhouse took and all the shooting, I thought—what I mean is—glad to hear it.”

The light streaming into the box was blocked by someone standing close to the side wall. “You hurt?” Pete asked.

Looking toward the sound of Pete's voice, Nate told him, “I've had better days, that's for certain.”

“It looks like them regulators and the rest of the folks that were shooting at us have given up on trying to bring you back, so we've got some time to try and get that door open. Shouldn't take long.”

Strictly speaking, Pete was correct. Even so, the couple of minutes required to bust that lock and pry open that door felt like an eternity to the man who'd been tossed around within those four wooden walls for far too long. Every so often, the sound of their efforts to break the lock was interrupted by the crack of a rifle and the metallic rattle of a fresh round being levered into place. By the time the lock finally gave way and the door was pulled open, Nate was too tired to get up and greet his rescuers.

The light flooding into the cramped space caused Nate to pinch his eyes shut and lift a hand to shade them. Even that hurt.

“Rise and shine, Sathow!” Deaugrey said.

“You . . . crazy son of . . . a bitch!” Nate said as he struggled to lift himself up so he could grab the hand that was being offered to him.

“I may be crazy,” Deaugrey replied while pulling Nate out of the battered jail. “But at least I never got locked in an outhouse for so long that it caused all of this ruckus.”