Deserter (24 page)

Jake had started up a gradual rise when blood erupted from the left side of Mare's neck and spurted into the breeze generated by her gallop. The horse stumbled half a step, shook her head violently from side to side, but recovered her gait, blood still flowing freely. It was then that the deep, hollow boom of the high-powered weapon reached Sinclair. He spurred Mare over the top of the rise and dragged her to a sliding stop, out of the saddle and on the ground at her head before she was fully halted. It was a flesh wound, he saw—a furrow about four inches long dug into Mare's neck muscle a half foot below her ear. She'd bleed a bit, but it didn't look like the major artery that ran through the set of neck muscles had been hit. He grabbed the hobbles from his saddlebag, fastened them onto Mare's front legs and shoved her a bit more down the grade. Then, hauling the Sharps from the back of his saddle, he threw himself to the ground, crawled ten feet or so, and peered back at the riders pursuing him.

Ten or a dozen men rode in a foolishly tight cluster, firing even though now they had no visible target. One rider sat his still horse fifty yards behind the group. The sun sparkled off the breech of his rifle as he raised it to his shoulder. Jake fed a bullet into his Sharps, aimed, and plucked the marksman out of his saddle with a hole in his chest the size of a large man's palm. The outlaw's rifle spun up and away from him and raised a
puff of grit when it struck the ground. Jake reloaded. The knot of men had spread out and one of them had pulled ahead of the others, reins in his teeth, riding hell-for-leather, cranking the lever on his rifle and shooting at the gun smoke that rose from Jake's last shot. Sinclair fed his Sharps with steady fingers, quickly but not hurriedly. The leading, hard-riding outlaw's horse—a shiny bay with a good long stride, continued on for several yards before he realized that he no longer had a rider and then broke sharply to the side, shaking his head, reins flailing, keeping pace with the other riders for a few moments and then slowing to a stop, sides heaving. The man was a crumpled figure facedown in the dirt, the back of his shirt already saturated with blood.

Sinclair reloaded and set his sights on the buffalo gun in the dirt and grass a couple of hundred yards away and fired. Dirt, rock, bits of gleaming metal, and shards of wood burst from the ground and a second report followed the bellow of Sinclair's round. Again, the grim smile appeared. There must have been a round in the chamber and that's what Jake's shot had found. He no longer had to worry about the big gun, nor the man who'd fired it at him.

Jake got the hobbles off Mare's legs, barely avoiding a slashing hoof as the horse, now almost frantic with the pain from the gash in her neck and the heavy smell of her own blood, reared, squealing, eyes wide. He scrambled as close to Mare's side as he could get, rifle clenched in his right hand, saddle horn and reins in his left, and danced a clumsy, unbalanced two-step with her until a misplaced hoof and a half stumble gave him the momentum he needed to haul himself
into the saddle. He used his heels against Mare's sides to urge her into a gallop, letting her drain off her panic through exertion. He held the gallop for a mile or so and when he checked the mare to a lope, she responded as always, her fright left behind. He turned in the saddle to check on his pursuers. They were stopped, clustered again, over a mile behind him. He rode on at the lope, letting Mare pick her way through the scrub.

Why did they rein in? There was still a good bit of ground to cover before he reached Galvin's place. The outlaws couldn't catch him, not unless his horse went down—which was certainly a possibility, given the terrain. Why, then—why didn't the outlaws push him, hoping a rock or woodchuck hole would grab a hoof, snap a pastern or a leg? It didn't figure. Jake rode on and when he began to hear his mount's breathing become heavier, he reined her down to a canter. The furrow on her neck was still weeping blood, but the wound had already begun to form a crust along its length, the blood clotting well.

He scanned a line of trees ahead and picked out a watchman in a tree. He waved and watched the look-out's hat wave back. Jake swung Mare toward him and stopped under the tree. “Something caught my eye,” he called up into the branches. “A bit of light.”

The lookout shifted his position on the branch he sat on, leg on either side, and looked down at himself. “I don't see what . . . son of a bitch!” His eyes—and Jake's—came to rest on the guard's belt buckle, a fancy, Sears catalog-ordered model in silver, embossed with the Union Eagle, the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece. “Damn,” he said. “My wife give this to me a couple years
ago for Christmas.” He nodded to Sinclair. “You got a good eye on you, Jake.” He set his rifle carefully across his thighs, released the buckle, and began hauling the belt through the loops in his pants. “I'll jus'put this away till this whole deal is over.”

“You do that,” Jake said. “Fine-looking buckle, though.” He rode on, holding Mare at a walk.

When Sinclair reached the Galvin barn he was hungry, very thirsty, and his Sharps needed cleaning before the acids released by the firing could set into the rifling of the barrel, but Mare put all that into the background. He rubbed her down, avoiding the wound, checked the set of all four of her shoes, and offered her a half bucket of fresh water, which she sucked at enthusiastically. He left her stall as she munched a scoop of crimped oats from her feed box and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of alcohol, a tin can of bag balm, a pan of hot water, and some strips of clean white cloth provided by the ladies in the kitchen. One of them—the woman who had embarrassed him so thoroughly several days ago with her comment about Doc, stood on her tiptoes and used a washcloth to clean the stippling of burnt powder from his face, commenting that “you need a wife to keep you tidy an'keep your rooster crowin',” again bringing a bright rush of blood to his face.

Mare crunched half an apple as Jake wet a strip of cloth with alcohol and gently but very thoroughly cleaned the wound. She shied away from the burning, but the other half of the apple calmed her down. The wound was less serious than it had looked when it was bleeding freely. The separation of the edges of flesh wasn't wide enough to warrant sutures. There'd be a
scar—proud flesh would form—but that would happen with or without stitches. He spread the viscous, medicinal-smelling bag balm the length of the furrow, considered wrapping Mare's neck, and decided against doing that. Fresh air was often the best medicine for horsehide cuts, and the cloth wrapping would cause the horse to rub her neck against any surface she could find in her stall or out in the pasture.

Lou Galvin met Jake as Sinclair was leaving the barn, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. Jake accepted one gratefully, blew over its surface for a moment, and took a mouthful. It was better, just then, than the finest Kentucky bourbon, fragrant, rich, and strong enough to dissolve a musket ball. He drank again, nodding his thanks.

“Let's go inside, talk a bit,” Galvin said.

Sinclair noticed how drawn the older man looked, how the dark half-moons under his eyes sagged, the tight set of his mouth. They walked side by side silently, around to the front of the house and into the parlor. The room was a formal one, Jake saw, probably used only on holidays when neighbors visited, to lay out corpses for mourners who called, and when the preacher came by for a meal. The furniture was ponderous, stuffed to an almost rock-hard firmness, the surface of the fabric as scratchy as dried straw. A symmetrically neat arrangement of logs was set in the fire-place, kindling in place, awaiting a match. The hearth was immaculate; there hadn't been a fire in the room in a long time. Lou sighed as he settled into an armchair facing the couch where Jake sat.

“How'd it go?” Galvin asked.

Jake considered for a long moment before answering.
“Not bad. I dropped a couple outlaws. One had a buffalo gun. I got lucky and blew up the rifle.”

“I doubt much luck was involved, Jake. Seems to me you handle that big Sharps awful well.” He paused for a moment. “What about Mott?”

Jake held his friend's eyes. “I had a shot—a clear one. I didn't take it.”

Lou's face hardened. “He pulled the lever that ended my son's life, Jake.”

“I know that.”

“Let me get this straight,” Galvin said, setting his coffee cup on the floor in front of him. “You had Mott in your sights and didn't pull the trigger? Why the hell not?”

Jake shook his head. “It would have been an execution, Lou—not something done in a battle. I've done more than enough of . . .” He let the sentence die, unfinished.

Galvin's voice rose. “An
execution
? Jesus Christ, didn't that animal execute Billy? Tell me the difference, Jake—go ahead and do that.”

Sinclair looked down at his boots.“I can't, Lou. There wouldn't have been any difference. But I couldn't do it.” After a moment, he added,“I'm sorry, Lou.”

Galvin shook his head in disgust. “You could have ended the whole thing today and you say you couldn't take the shot.” He made the word “couldn't” sound like a vile disease. “Shit!”

The peace that the formal parlor offered earlier had been sucked out of the air by Lou Galvin's words, by his anger. Both men sat in the stifling quiet. From outside, the only sound that reached them was a quick burst of childish laughter.

Galvin drew a breath. “Look,” he said, “maybe you
have some sort of strategy in mind, something I don't understand. Is that it?”

Sinclair shook his head in the negative.

“Look,” Galvin said again, “I didn't figure you were a virgin when you came to us. You're a fighter—I could see that in you. You've killed before—I can see it in your eyes, Jake. You might as well have a sign around your neck saying ‘Killer.' ”

Jake began to rise to his feet.

“Sit, damn it,” Galvin snapped. “I'm not through yet. You think I didn't know you weren't the usual saddle tramp or drifter? You're military, Jake—probably Reb, but definitely military. The way you take care of your gear, your horse, carry yourself, take command—all that tells a story.” Lou sat back in his chair. “You showed up not long after the bloodbath at Gettysburg. I figure you're a deserter.”

Again, Jake started to rise, but Galvin went on. “That doesn't mean anything to me. Why you walked away isn't my concern. I can't judge you or any other man. I doubt I could have stayed with either side after the carnage you boys had seen.” His voice became a whisper. “Thing is, you had that son of a bitch in your sights and you didn't—”

“I was a sharpshooter in the army of the Confederate States of America,” Jake said. “You're right about me being military.” On his feet now, Sinclair looked down at the older man.“I had lots of men in my sights, just like I did Mott. I killed those other men. Today I killed a couple of outlaws who were chasing me, shooting at me. That's what made all the difference. That's why I rode away from Gettysburg on a horse I
salvaged—stole, I guess. I couldn't be an executioner any longer. I'll protect myself and I'll protect people who are important to me, but I won't be like Mott, the man who pulls the lever—not for you or your Night Riders, not for anyone or anything.” He took a step toward the door.

“Sit down, Jake,” Galvin said quietly. “Give me a minute.”

Jake stopped and, after more than a couple of seconds, turned back and took his seat on the couch once again.

“What you've done in the war and who you've done it for doesn't matter a hoot to me. Reb or Union, it seems to me that we have a whole generation of good men killing each other over bullshit an' politics. I read in
Harper's Illustrated
that a boy—a Union private—put a bayonet through his own brother's chest—a Reb private—at Manassas. That was . . . well, hell, Jake—I'm wandering here. Point is, without you, those outlaws would go on doing what they were doing as long as they wanted to. I got to thank you for that.” He shook his head a bit. “Passing on the opportunity to drop the man who hanged my son won't ever set right with me, Jake. I guess you can understand that, and you'll understand it even more if you ever become a father. But I know you had your reasons, and I guess that'll have to be good enough for me.”

“Thanks, Lou,” Sinclair said quietly.

The silence returned to room, this time almost funereal rather than tense, as if neither man quite knew what to say or how to end the meeting.

“One more thing,” Galvin finally said. “You mentioned
Mott's men were chasing you. What stopped them? Seems like your gunning a couple of them would have heated them up so they'd ride hard to get you.”

“I wondered about that. Then I thought about it as I rode back here. What's happening is this, I'm pretty sure: Mott gave his men orders to chase me a bit but not to follow me here for a fight. He's not a fool. He's thinking he has the town in his hand and fighting a pitched battle here would only cost him some men and some time. Hell, why not just sit back and keep running Fairplay exactly as he has been? It's worked for him for several years. There's no reason it won't keep working. Sit tight, run whores, swill booze, and be the goddamn king of Fairplay is a fine way to go, at least in his mind. Why bother with a bunch of farmers holed up on a ranch miles away from town?

“He knows the men can't stay here forever, Lou—that eventually they'll have to go back to their homes, their own spreads. That's when he'll hit them. Here, they're like an armed and guarded encampment, but separately they're easy prey for Mott's gang of cutthroats. They can wipe out your boys one by one, family by family, attacking whenever Mott cares to.”

Galvin leaned forward and picked up the now cool cup of coffee he'd set on the floor earlier. He sipped from it and grimaced. “Cold,” he said. “I'm going to the kitchen to freshen this. Give me your cup—you can use a refill, I'm thinking.”