Lost Nation (52 page)

It was Isaac Cole. Damn it thought Blood. If it’d been him I blew open this morning all the rest of those peckerheads would’ve scampered. Cole hiding back in the bushes to see if they could take me. Some fearsome leader. Blood grinned again. And remained silent.

Below he could hear Cole stamping back and forth by the door. Someone across the yard called something he couldn’t make out and Cole answered only with a grunt. Then it was quiet. A short time passed that was near peaceful. If only Isaac Cole would get the hell off his doorstep it would be so.

Then Cole pounded again on the door. “Blood,” he called. “Blood? You wounded? You need help? Make the least noise and I’ll call up men and we’ll axe-in the door and tend you. Blood? You hear me?”

Well, he didn’t want that. Blood took up his belt knife laid on the floorboards before him. Above were strung a pair of stout leather thongs that ran to the gunport-shutter that opened at the front of the tavern. Lifting the knife he brought the edge against the tethers that held the shutter closed. The leather was taut and dried from the summer heat. The blade went through and the shutter collapsed down in a brilliant clap of report. Blood could see a group of men gathered out at the stream-edge, more than he’d hoped for but less then he’d feared. All recoiled against the sound from the house. He liked that moment, when all ducked or cowed and one even broke for the meager cover of the streambank. From here he could see it all. But for the man before his door.

He called out, “Cole!”

Nothing.

He cried again. “Cole. If you stand where you are you’re safe. If you walk away I swear to God I’ll put a hole through you could pass a fist. You hear me?”

Blood saw the group of men coming together now, swiveling one and all to watch. Some brought their rifles up against their chests. They didn’t worry him. Shooting from where they were at the narrow opening their shots would angle high over where he lay and pass through the shingles. If it rained he’d be uncomfortable and that was about it.

He waited. He couldn’t hear but could sense the man below him, suddenly pinned against the side of the tavern. Likely worrying that Blood could work his way forward and reach to touch the top of his skull with the muzzle end of a weapon.

Cole said, “You’re bringing bad to worst, Blood. All we wanted was to talk.”

Blood said, “Step back so I can see your face and talk then.”

Quiet again. Then Cole said, “I don’t trust you for that Blood.”

“Why a course you don’t. Recall that it was me assembled this army of men to put you in jeopardy. Recall it was me arranged this meeting at daybreak. It was me that brought the militia down on you, not just the second time but the first one too. Think on it hard Cole and you’ll recall it was me not only advised but led the group of you to Lancaster to break that poor bastard from the jail there. As if it did him any good. How it strikes me, Isaac Cole, is that you’re the last to speak of trust to me.”

Another long silence. During which Blood thought Well nobody likes to hear the truth but goddamn I’ve done it now. There idn’t any good way he can respond to that, not with all his fellows watching.

Cole rabbited. A hopeless helpless awkward zigzag toward his men. Blood took in a breath and raised his rifle halfway, let his eye settle on the scooting man, then brought the rifle the rest of the way to come to rest aimed at a blank point in the yard. Blood breathed out and at the edge of his vision saw Cole flounder into the space allotted him and Blood pulled the trigger and the hammer went down. In the moment before the loft filled with smoke Blood saw Cole stretch both hands over his head and drop the rifle he was carrying, his arms stretched as if to carry him away, a rending of his shirtback occurring also that lifted him for a moment as if his body would follow his arms and then he folded like a thing discarded and draped over the earth.

Blood already had the rifle down and was stretched low and flat himself when the men across the yard brought their weapons up and fired back. Many shot too fast and struck the outer logs of the building but a half-dozen shots came through the opening and as Blood had guessed busted holes in the shingle roof. A rain of froe-riven cedar-shingle splinters fell over him. He lay with his eyes shut. The chips fell against him soft as needles from the shingle-memory of the trees they came from. Even while they fell his hands were moving over the rifle, from pouches and back to the gun, reloading, still lying pressed flat. Lay right there and see what happens next. He opened his eyes.

The horses picked their way single file along the steep brook-trail, slick with a light freeze on the mossed boulders and hardpack mud of the trail. As they came down the final incline into the broad confluence with Perry Stream they heard again a single shot, muffled by the stream and the trees alongside the road but clear enough coming from downstream. The tavern. They heard also the return of fire, a volley of ragged firing. Then silence. Cooper was in the lead and he pulled his horse up and sat listening. When there were no more shots he turned in the saddle and said, “I guess we know who the one shot come from.”

Sally said, “Let’s ride down there.” She kneed the bay around them. Cooper stretched and caught up the bridle of her horse. “Slow down girl,” he said. “Let’s consider a moment. What do you think, Fletcher? It sounded like a bunch, that last volley.”

Fletcher said, “It did.”

Sally swung her horse around out onto the road down along the stream. Fletcher kicked his chestnut up and Cooper came after. Then all three rode silent side by side. Quiet with their thoughts, private plans. But a party joined.

They went down the road. It was a pretty morning. The sun was up enough to raise a light steam from the stream and dapple in through the leaves, splashing bold color and cutting thin slantwise shafts across the road. Time to time they rode through one of those beams and were blinded a moment, blind and warmed at once. All three felt pitched, keen, and the horses read this through the rider’s bodies and anticipation trembled and filled the horses as well.

They came upon the oxbow just above the tavern. It wasn’t yet visible but the open land on the other side of the stream ran all the way down to the tavern and Sally could see the backside of the barn and somewhat closer the ruined garden plot. She reined in her horse and said, “This is a good spot to pause. Any farther and we’ll be seen. But it’s close enough I can tell what’s going on. I been up and down this path all summer.”

Fletcher said, “I hate the idear of leaving her here alone. We don’t have the least notion of who’s where. Or who might be coming along.”

Sally said, “I’ll be fine. I got the rifle and this horse can get me away from most anything I need to be saved from. But one thing you got to know, going in.”

Fletcher said, “What’s that?”

“Blood’s tougher than all those fellers mobbed up, is my guess. But there’s this also. There idn’t nothing I seen makes me think that when Blood’s in a corner he thinks about any skin but his own. Not anyone. You hear me?”

Fletcher said, “I already know that.” He looked at her a long moment and then turned his horse from her and kneed it forward. He looked back once. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or his brother.

Cooper said, “I got to go.”

“Get along,” she said.

“Sally,” Cooper said.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Two reports. One, then perhaps fifteen seconds later, another. The brothers were still in sight and Cooper turned in the saddle and looked once again at her. She raised her hand. A flat gesture, saying nothing. Signaling only she’d heard the rifle fire as well. She sat her horse in the middle of the trail and watched the brothers as they went slowly around the bend. At that point she guessed they had another minute, perhaps two before they came into view of the tavern—and the view of the men there. She turned the bay horse back up the trail to the head of the oxbow where the bank was steep on this side but the water was shallow enough for a ford over stippled rocks. She had to sit the horse at the bank-edge as it considered the descent and the water beyond. She was patient. She knew the horse would go. After a thought about it, he did.

* * *

The body of Cole lay slumped out in the brown wreck of the yard midway between the tavern and the streambank. The remaining men had retreated down for the shelter of the bank and the screen of brush. It was Peter Chase who first grasped the ineffectual angle from which they fired at the narrow gunport in the second story of the tavern. All they were doing was shooting holes in the roof. Proud of his thinking. He waded the stream to the far bank and found there a stout hemlock with good limbs for climbing and cover. He checked the charge of his long gun and set to climbing the tree, to bring himself level with the slit-opening of the tavern.

Blood lay where he was, watching the man climb the hemlock. Even though the climber kept as much as possible to the far side of the bole Blood was able to identify him. It didn’t matter in that all were adversary now but Blood thought It’s the right man for the job. It was a complicated bit of thought—admiration for the one who understood the mechanics of elevation along with a sense of rightness that it was the brother of the one Blood held most responsible for all this, more so even than Sheriff Hutchinson. Hutchinson was clever; Emil Chase had proved not to be. Blood considered it likely that with Cole dead and Peter Chase now climbing to what Blood already knew was his death, there was a good chance the others would just plain quit. If not, he guessed that a load of balls from the cannon might be all that was needed for their final conversion. He could imagine the havoc of terror the blast would bring to those crouched in the brush and bank-cover. Young trees would be stripped, chopped through, clods of earth would blister up and blind and smear the men hiding. It was all timing. And patience. Perhaps a half an hour at most, altogether. Then another hour of waiting and watching to make sure none remained for ambuscade. Which he doubted.

He admired Peter Chase as he climbed. The man was doing a good job, working his way up slow, keeping hid as well as he could. Blood wondered if Chase regretted his white blouse or if he’d even given it thought.

As Chase came near level Blood studied what lay directly in front of him. The sun was striking the front of the tavern now. So there was
a slender long bar of light just inside the gun port. Which meant Chase would not be able to actually see him. Chase would be shooting blind. So would select the middle of the port as the best bet. Blood wormed slow to one side so he was lodged up tight against the swivel gun on its crude carriage. He guessed where Chase would stop and raised his rifle so there would be no last-moment flash of metal to alert the sharpshooter. It was hard to hold the rifle in place so he rested it, still up, only awaiting final adjustment when Chase selected his spot. Then he waited.

Chase found his site. A little high, Blood judged it. Blood took his rifle firm against his shoulder. Chase had his own rifle rested over a bough of the hemlock. But had to lean out to sight along it. He took a long time doing this. Long enough so Blood wondered why he was waiting to let the climber shoot first. And realized it was not only because he knew Chase had misjudged. But also to allow Chase that one small moment to recognize his mistake.

The report. Splinters were torn up from floorboards near five feet from where Blood lay. A puff of smoke drifted away from the hemlock. When it was gone Blood sighted on the white shirt. He could see Chase’s face over the bough, peering toward the building. Then Blood let out his breath and like laying his hand on a child’s cheek pulled the trigger. There was the flash in the pan and then the concussion. And smoke around him as well. So he couldn’t see Chase fall. But heard him. Blood wondered if from within the dim recess of his redoubt that flash had been visible to Peter Chase. He hoped so.

After she forded the stream she rode the bay at a hard trot in an angled line to the back of the barn, keeping the barn between her and the yard before the tavern, riding out away from the stream as well, riding quick but watching all around her. As she went she heard the shot come from the trees beyond the tavern, heard the return and saw briefly something crashing from the big hemlock, a tumbling white weight that she realized was a man. Then was hidden by the barn. She pulled up and turned the horse so she was looking not only at where she’d come but also the streamside, where if any had seen her coming she guessed they would appear. She doubted anyone was watching much of anything but the
tavern itself. It had been a considerable amount of shooting and that last shot assured her Blood was alive. Her as well as the swarm of men.

She tied the horse to a lone post behind the barn. Inside, the oxen were heaving and moaning in their stall. She took a moment she felt she didn’t have and talked to the horse, running a hand over his neck up to his ears as she’d learned from Cooper, telling him to set tight, it would be all right, there wasn’t anybody after him. Told him to wait right there for her. Then with the rifle held crossways against her breast she eased around the side of the barn. From here she could see the backside of the tavern and a slice of the yard before it. She could see a couple of horses tied and thrashing down in the shelter of the streambank and after peering a bit could make out a few men, white faces in the underbrush, all gazing away from her, all focused on the tavern. What she also saw was that the little window-shutter on the backroom that had been hers was open.

Then came the sharp clatter of hooves as Fletcher and Cooper came fast down the road across the stream. She guessed since the last shooting they’d been holding back, looking things over. Now they raced their horses down the road, both pressed low. The men along the stream swung around to watch them pass behind. One man raised his rifle to shoot but did not. Perhaps because the riders were moving too quickly, perhaps because the man recalled the position Blood held behind him. More likely, Sally guessed, none of the attackers knew the boys, might even assume they were help arriving. In any event the man lost his boldness and sank against the bank again.