Deserter (20 page)

“Make sure you sing out loud and clear, Jake,” Lou warned. “Those fellas are primed and ready to fire.”

Jake nodded. “I didn't see Moe Terpin here tonight,” he said. “Why's that? He seems like one of our biggest supporters in all this.”

“He is. Thing is, his wife—Ivy—took sick a couple of months ago and she's in a bad way. Could be Moe couldn't leave her. In fact, I'd bet on it, Jake. Nothing else would keep him away from riding with us.”

“I see.” Jake started back into the barn. “Come on along with me while I saddle my horse. Tell me,” he said as they began walking, “is there an undertaker in Fairplay? And more importantly, is he with us?”

“Sure—Isaac Wells is our undertaker. Has a parlor and a furniture store right down Main Street. Ike's too old to ride with us, but he's dead set against Mott and with us every inch of the way. I've known him for a slew of years.”

“Good,” Jake said, hefting Mare's saddle, blanket, and bridle he'd set next to her stall. “That's real good. Can someone get a note from me to Moe first thing tomorrow?”

“Well—sure. What do you have in mind?”

“Just an idea now. I'll stop at the house after first light to write my note, OK?”

Jake considered borrowing a horse from Galvin's string, but Mare seemed to have recovered completely from her earlier work. He arranged the blanket, set his saddle, and pulled the cinches. As Lou walked to his house, Jake stepped into a stirrup and reined Mare toward the woods to the east of the Galvin spread. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, at times more of a mist than a rainfall. The footing remained poor, but
scudding clouds frequently allowed illumination from the moon and stars—a break that hadn't occurred earlier in the night. There was a stiff, swirling breeze that smelled more of snow than rain, and that cut twisting paths through the mist.

Jake called out and a Night Rider answered. Jake jogged his horse up to the man and drew rein. “I'm going outside the circle,” he said. He turned in his saddle and gazed through the damp darkness. Galvin's house was a hulking mass with the dimmest of lights showing in a couple of windows. He turned back to the guard. “I'll try to come straight back in and I'll be shouting out to you.” He grinned. “Do your best not to shoot me.”

The Night Rider's face didn't change. He remained grim. “Archie and Todd were my friends, Jake—'specially Archie. We been fishin' and huntin' together since we was sprouts. I'll tell you this: Somebody's gonna die for stringin' him an' Todd up.”

Sinclair nodded. “And Billy Galvin, too. We'll see to that,” he said. He nudged his horse ahead toward the woods, using the breaks in the mist and fog to attempt to determine where the executions took place. Finding the two men wasn't something Jake looked forward to, but he wanted to cut them down before their friends saw them. The thirst for revenge would run hot enough and high enough without the Night Riders seeing two of their number with their necks broken, dangling from the end of some outlaw's frayed ropes.

There was an eerie stillness to the woods, as if the moisture in the air somehow drowned out the natural, normal sounds. Mare's hooves sucking at the mud with each stride seemed far louder than they should. Jake squinted his eyes, peering into the woods from the periphery,
where he rode. The breeze freshened, clearing some of the mist.

The two men weren't far into the woods. The huge oak they hung from was at the edge of the forest. Mare huffed and danced as the scent of death reached her. Sinclair calmed her by talking to her, stroking her neck. The branch—a thick one, perhaps a foot in diameter—was eight or nine feet above the ground. The men, side by side with their hands bound behind them, moved slightly as the wind touched them. The ropes creaked against the bark of the branch. Jake took his pocketknife from his pants and urged Mare to the corpses. She argued a bit, shying from the dead men, but Jake was able to goad her into position. Their boots were about three feet or so off the ground. Jake, in the saddle, had an easy reach to sever the ropes above the stretched necks. He moved his knife toward the nearest rope and then stopped.
If I cut them down now I'll have to leave them on the ground until I get back with a cart. If I do that they'll be fair game to the coyotes, the foxes, the bears—any meat-eater. A bear any larger than a yearling could still pull them down, but those boys are better off where they are for now.
As grotesque as the thought was of leaving the corpses hanging, the alternative was worse. He'd seen many dead men—and parts and limbs and heads—of dead men in the past two years. Death—violent death—was no longer a stranger to him, no longer carried that same shock, the quick sense of revulsion, it once had. Men who fought in the battles a war generated were sometimes killed. So were men who fought against outlaws. That was a fact of life. All this Jake Sinclair
knew to be true.
Why, then,
he asked himself,
am I sitting here on my horse staring at these two corpses as if they were going to come back to life and explain whatever it is I'm feeling to me?

Jake pocketed his knife and swung his horse away from the scene of the murders, back toward Galvin's spread.

By the time he'd situated Mare back in her stall and hitched one of Galvin's cart geldings to the traces of a small farm wagon, the first colors of day were chasing off the melancholy of the night, and with it, the rain.

There was a light on in the kitchen of Lou's house and Jake drove the wagon to it, tying the gelding to the hitching rail outside. Galvin heard him and opened the door before Jake could knock.

“Coffee's ready,” the older man said. “Come on in and sit down.” He glanced beyond Sinclair and saw the wagon. “I guess you're going out to bring in Archie and Todd,” he said. “That's a sad piece of work. I was planning on doing it this morning. You want me to ride out with you, give you a hand?”

“It's a one-man job, Lou. I can handle it.” Jake sat at the big kitchen table and Lou brought two mugs of coffee from the stove. He sat across from Sinclair.

“The boys will be bringing their families in today,” Lou said.

“How's the food situation?” Jake asked. “There's no way to tell how long the folks will be holed up here.”

“Food's the least of our problems. We have plenty stored and we can slaughter a beef whenever we need to. I've already stockpiled flour, salt, canned goods, coffee, and the like for the winter. Moe always puts together
a big order for me about this time of year—enough staples to get me and my men through until spring.”

“Good. After we finish our coffee I'll ask for a pen and paper to write that note I mentioned to Moe at the mercantile. I'll ask him to arrange for the undertaker—Wells, Ike Wells, right?—to come out, too.”

“You don't need to write a message, Jake. I can have one of my men ride into town and talk with Moe and Ike.”

Sinclair shook his head. “I know that, Lou. And I know your men are loyal to you.” He hesitated for a moment. “But starting today, we have to play everything real close to the vest. The less Mott knows about what we're doing, the better off we'll be.”

Galvin drank from his mug. “Yeah. I suppose.” After a moment he asked, “What do you suppose Mott's going to do now, Jake? He can't shut down the town—he still doesn't know how many Night Riders there are or who they are.”

“He'll figure that the men close to you are members and he'll be watching those who work and live in town. And he'll obviously know about what's going on here. See, the battle lines were drawn last night, Lou. I know hauling the men and their people to your place is a big move, and a hard one for the families. There's no way around it, though. They'd be as vulnerable as newborn babes out there on their farms and ranches.”

“Good thing most of the harvest is in. I guess most of the stock out on pasture will survive until this is over.” Lou sighed. “Won't be all bad having some kids and women around again. Been lots of years since my Billy was a boy and even more years since his mother died.
A ranch becomes too much like one of those factories back East without some young life on it, Jake. I was planning on a passel of grandchildren. I wanted Billy to stay on here—build himself a house and start to take over the ranch for himself and his family. He was too independent for that. He bought that piece of land of his and he and his wife lived in a damned log shack while he was building their home. Wouldn't even accept materials from me. He was into Moe real big on credit, but Moe knew he was good for it. Now . . . well . . .” He didn't finish the thought.

In the silence Jake finished his coffee and set down the empty mug. “If you'd get that pen and paper for me,” he said, “I'll get on with things.”

“I'll put you at my desk, Jake, let you pen your note there.” He met Jake's eyes. “I've got a stick of sealing wax around somewhere, too. I'll find it and bring it in to you.” He stood from the table. “Might as well get to it,” he said.

The big rolltop, littered with bills and invoices and the other paperwork of a working ranch, was set in a small room—once a nursery when Billy was a newborn, probably—had a single window that allowed the burgeoning morning light into it. The lamp Lou carried along was almost unnecessary. Jake cleared an area on the surface of the desk, dipped the pen into the ink pot, and began to write. As he did so, Galvin placed an unused stick of red wax and a few lucifers and an envelope on the desk and left Jake alone. Within ten minutes the note was written and the envelope sealed. Jake carried it and the lamp downstairs.

“I'll have this carried to Moe right away,” Lou said.

“Good. Will you take care of changing the guards?”

“You want lookouts during the day, too?”

“There's no choice in the matter, Lou. None. You need to keep in mind we're at war here, and we're under siege. In fact, let's get a few extra men out riding between the guards—make sure we're covered everywhere, all the time.” His voice sounded even to himself harder and more stringent than he intended, but he didn't soften his words.

Galvin nodded wearily. “I guess you're right. I'll see to it.”

Jake extended his hand to the older man. Now his voice was lower, calmer. “Keep in mind we're at war here, Lou. We don't want any more surprises like we had with the two men out in the woods.”

“No. We don't.” They shook hands.

Jake rattled and banged the wagon across the pastureland toward the woods. He stopped at the first guard he reached. “You'll be relieved before long. Nothing going on here?”

“Nope. All's been quiet. Coffee'll taste good. Maybe tonight the fellas posted out here could get breaks—have someone spell them for a bit, let them ride in to the house and drink some coffee. What do you think?”

“We'll do just that,” Jake said. “Good idea. I should have thought of it last night.”

The nightguard grinned. “I'll tell you what, Jake—you just keep on thinkin' on how to kick Mott's ass for good, an' the rest of us will take care of stuff like givin' guards a break.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said. He slapped the reins lightly on the gelding's back, starting the horse forward.

The day was promising to be a fine one—cool, clear, the air tinged with the scent of fall. The bird
sounds from the forest reached Jake as he slouched on the wooden slab seat of the wagon, directing the horse every so often to avoid the deepest ruts and largest rocks in their path. A quick rustle of branches straight ahead caused Jake's right hand to drop to the grips of his Colt. A flash of the gray-white tail of a squirrel as it leaped to another perch quieted Jake's pulse.

The harsh reality—the brutal starkness—of the pair of corpses hanging from the branch of the oak, their faces now a pale, ghastly, fish-belly hue, the flesh of their necks a good several inches longer than normal due to the bodyweight stressing the dead flesh—sapped the beauty from the day. Jake stopped the gelding ten feet away from the oak. The image of Jason Mott appeared in his brain, and Sinclair's fists closed tightly. He tried to shake off the picture, but it didn't work. His body tensed and the tension in his jaw locked his teeth together hard enough to cause pain. Hatred was a new sensation to Jake, but one he recognized immediately. It surged through him, powerful, encompassing, demanding. “I won't forget what I'm seeing right now, boys,” he whispered hoarsely. “When I take Mott down I'll see all this again.” He took a long, deep breath, let it out, and urged the horse forward.
Did I hate the blue bellies I killed? No—hell no. They were the enemy, but I didn't hate them. They were men just like me who were on the wrong side of what we both considered a just battle. This
—he looked again at the hanged men—
is different. There's no justice in what Mott and his men are doing, no good in it at all. It's pure pain and evil. That's where the difference is, and that's why it has to be stopped in any way I can stop it.

The gelding shied from the corpses, eyes wide, the
scent of death heavy in his flared nostrils. Jake pulled against the bit hard enough to give the horse something to concentrate on and wrapped the reins around the brake handle. The air around the bodies was fetid and rank. Their bowels and bladders had long since released and their skin gave off the smell of raw meat. Birds, Jake saw, had already gotten to the men's eyes, but not much damage had yet been done. He stood on the bed of the wagon and sawed through the rope of the man closest to him. When the rope parted Jake caught the weight of the body and eased it down on its back. He placed the second man next to the first. The corpses had stiffened during the night and they looked strangely artificial stretched out on their backs, as unnatural as men standing at strict attention in a nonmilitary situation. Jake tried without success to close their eyes. Then he pulled the tarp he'd brought over the two cadavers, climbed back onto the driver's seat, and turned the wagon away from the oak tree.