Song of Oestend (13 page)

ghost,” he mumbled as he did. “Guess you don’t like art.”

The pencils were all broken in half. That wasn’t the end of the world. Short pencils

worked as well as long ones. But when he found his penknife, his heart fell. “Son of a bitch!”

he cursed.

The knife was ruined. The handle was little more than splinters. The small blade was

bent, and the tip broken.

Having pencils did him no good if he couldn’t sharpen them.

He gathered up the pencils and put them back in the satchel. He wrapped the pieces of his penknife in his handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. He collected the pages of his sketchbook. Some of the drawings had been torn in half, but most of the pages were still intact, if slightly crumpled. He smoothed them out as well as he could and tucked them back between the covers of the book. A few drawings had escaped the ghost’s wrath, including the one of the bull he’d been drawing the day Deacon had given him permission to move into the house.

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Looking at the drawing, he realised it actually was pretty good, considering it was only of a bull. He also realised it was probably the bull that was now contained in the corral, sick with either the fever or the froth. Somehow, that seemed ominous.

Once the pages were all put away, Aren put the pad back on the armoire and headed

for the courtyard in search of Deacon. It took some hunting, but he finally found him in the barn. He was in a stall, examining the leg of one of the horses.

“Is something wrong with him?” Aren asked.

“
Her
,” Deacon corrected. “She’s been limping a bit, but I ain’t sure yet why.” He came out of the stall, smiling at Aren. “You looking for work?”

“Not today,” Aren said. “I was wondering if there’s a trip to town any time soon?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. We’re leaving day after tomorrow. Gotta drive some cattle into market. Hire that new hand you said I could have. Put out word we’re looking to buy a bull. Why?” Deacon grinned at him. “You want to come along? Feeling lonely out there in your house?”

Women. It always came back to women. “No,” Aren said. “But I need a knife.”

“You don’t need to buy one. I got plenty of knives.” Deacon reached into his boot and pulled out a bone-handled blade at least eight inches long. He offered it handle-first to Aren.

Aren eyed the monstrous thing. He pictured himself trying to sharpen his pencils with it. He’d probably sever a finger or three in the process. “I’m sure that’s very effective for…

something.” What, he wasn’t exactly sure and probably didn’t want to know. “All I need is a penknife. Something like this.” He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and showed Deacon the pieces.

“What the hell happened to it?” Deacon asked as he re-sheathed his giant knife.

“Uh…” Aren realised too late he’d led himself into a trap. He didn’t want to tell Deacon it was the ghost, because he knew Deacon would want him to move out of the house. “I dropped it.”

Deacon’s eyebrows went up. “You
dropped
it? Then what? Rolled a boulder on top of it for good measure?”

It
had
been a stupid excuse. Dropping it wouldn’t explain the many pieces it was in. “I mean, I dropped it, then I stepped on it. But, you know, not on purpose or anything. It was an accident.” He knew he was babbling, and he forced himself to stop. Deacon’s eyebrows SONG OF OESTEND

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rose a bit higher. His eyes were full of good-natured laughter, and Aren found himself becoming annoyed. Not least of all at himself. “Look, can you get me a new one or not?”

“‘Course I can,” Deacon said, but that was as far as he got. He was interrupted by a

commotion in the courtyard—what sounded like a giant crash, followed by men yelling.

Simon burst through the barn door. “Deacon, get out here! That bull just busted right through the gate.”

“Son of a bitch!” Deacon swore. He turned to Aren. “Go to Jeremiah’s office and get his gun. Top right drawer of his desk.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He and Simon were grabbing lengths of rope off the

hooks on the wall of the barn.

The courtyard was chaos. The bull was in the centre, waving its head back and forth,

snorting. Men were coming out of the barracks and the outbuildings with ropes, trying to surround it. Garrett was already swinging a lasso over his head.

Aren stayed close to the buildings, glad that in the chaos nobody would be looking at him. Nobody would see how much the thing scared him. He ran quickly up to Jeremiah’s office and found the gun where Deacon had said it would be. It was a large pistol, and it was far heavier than he expected. He had no idea how touchy the trigger was, and he kept it pointed away from him. There was a box of bullets next to it, and he grabbed those, too.

Back in the courtyard, some of the men had managed to rope the bull. One rope was

around its neck, another around one of its huge horns. More were around its front feet. It had been pulled to the ground, but it was far from being secure. It was kicking and bellowing.

Red, Ronin and Sawyer were already holding ropes, leaning back to put as much weight on them as possible. Garrett, Deacon and Simon held the others. The rest of the men were standing back a bit, waiting for instruction.

“Frances,” Deacon yelled, “take Simon’s rope! Calin, take Garrett’s.”

Neither Calin nor Frances looked too sure of themselves, but they both stepped

forwards and took the ropes they’d been ordered to. Garrett immediately grabbed another length of rope, holding the loop loose in his hand.

“Hold those tight!” he yelled. “I’m going in close to try to get those back feet.”

“Simon,” Deacon called, “Aren’s got the gun. You want to do it, or want me to?”

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“I’m faster than you, old man,” Simon said. Aren suspected it was supposed to be a

joke, although it came out a bit flat.

“Aren,” Deacon said, “give Simon the gun.”

Aren’s hands were shaking, and he wasn’t even one of the men fighting to secure the

animal. He watched as Simon checked the pistol. It must have been loaded already, because Simon handed the box of ammo back to Aren and tucked the gun in his belt before grabbing another rope. Garrett had managed to wrap another rope around one of the bull’s hind legs, and was handing the other end to Miron. The bull had less room to move now, and Aren watched with his heart in his throat as Simon darted closer to throw another length of rope over the beast’s horns.

They were out of men, not counting Aren, but the bull still wasn’t secure. It suddenly seemed to find its second wind. It bucked hard, kicking out with its feet, tossing its head, and a few men were pulled to the ground.

“Hold tight!” Deacon yelled.

It lurched to its feet, but the ropes tripped it up. The men who were still standing

pulled, and it toppled back to the earth with a crash and an angry bellow. Men were trying to get up, trying to get farther away while still holding the ropes.

All but one.

Frances was frozen. He stood in wide-eyed fear, his rope slack in his hands, staring at the raging bull.

“Hold that line, Frances!” Deacon yelled.

But it seemed Frances couldn’t hear him. He was staring at the bull with mute horror in his eyes. The men next to him were obviously straining to keep their lines tight.

“I said,
hold that fucking line!
”

Frances didn’t drop the line, but he didn’t snap out of his daze, either. He was frozen, his mouth open, his eyes fixed on the bull. The bull lurched to its hind feet again, bucking against the rope. Miron, whose rope was around one of the beast’s hind legs, was pulled closer to the bull.

“Deacon,” Miron yelled, “I’m losing it!”

“God damn it!” Deacon yelled. He looked next to him at Ronin, who was holding his

own line without obvious strain.

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“Go,” Ronin told him. “I’m fine.”

Deacon tossed his line to Ronin and ran for Frances, not bothering to verify that Ronin had caught the rope.

The bull tossed its giant head around, kicking out with its front legs, trying to get them free of the rope so it could stand. Calin and Sawyer had the ropes that held its front feet, and they both pulled backwards, trying to pull the bull off its feet.

“Don’t—” Miron started to yell, but his words were cut short. As the bull fell forwards, it kicked out with its one free hind leg, hitting him hard in the gut and knocking him backwards out of the circle of hands. He landed a few feet away. He wasn’t moving, and his entire front seemed suddenly to be covered in blood.

Deacon pushed Frances out of the way. He grabbed his line, pulling it tight. “Aren, grab Miron’s line,” he yelled, and although his heart pounded in his chest and his knees felt like rubber, Aren dropped the box of bullets he was holding and did as he was told. He knew he wasn’t as strong as the other men, but he grabbed it and pulled, leaning back in order to put his weight into it.

The ropes went tight, and the huge animal again crashed to the ground.

“Tighter!” Deacon yelled, and all the men leaned into their lines, pulling hard. The bull stopped thrashing. It was breathing hard, and Aren was sure it was only catching its breath before trying again.

“Now!” Deacon yelled to Simon.

Simon handed his rope to Garrett, taking only a moment to make sure his friend had a

firm grip. Then he pulled the giant pistol from his belt. He ran into the circle and placed the muzzle against the side of the beast’s head. He pulled the trigger, and the bull at last lay still.

The shot was still ringing in the air when Deacon turned on Frances. Before Aren was

even able to drop his own rope, Deacon punched Frances hard in the face. Frances’ head ricocheted back, his face covered in blood. Deacon didn’t stop. He hit him again, hard, knocking him to the ground.

It was so sudden and so horrifically violent that Aren felt his bile rise. He couldn’t stand to see such brutality. It reminded him of all the other times he’d seen bigger men beating up weaker ones. He wouldn’t let it happen to Frances! He started to move towards them, thinking to stop Deacon, but Simon grabbed him.

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“Don’t interfere.”

“Let me go!” he said, trying to pull away, but Simon was too strong.

“Stay out of it,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

Frances’ face was covered in blood. He tried to roll away from Deacon, but Deacon

leaned over and grabbed his shirt. He pulled him part of the way up off the ground and punched him again.

“He’ll kill him,” Aren said.

“No, he won’t,” Simon said, and it seemed he knew what he was talking about, because

right at that moment, Deacon released Frances, letting him fall roughly to the ground.

Deacon leaned over him, pointing his finger menacingly in his face. “Wagon leaves day after tomorrow,” he said. “You got till then to decide if you got the balls to do this job or not.

‘Cause I’m telling you here and now, if you ever fail me like that again, I’ll beat your fucking head in, and I won’t blink an eye about doing it, either. Do you understand me?”

Frances covered his face with his hands, moaning. “I’m sorry,” he cried, although it was barely intelligible through his bloody hands. He tried to roll away, but Deacon grabbed him.

He lifted him up, drawing his other fist back to punch him again.

“I said,
do you fucking understand me?
”

“Yes!” Frances sobbed. “Yes! I understand! I’m sorry!”

Deacon dropped him, backing away, and Simon finally let Aren go. Aren went to

Frances, who was curled in a ball, sobbing quietly. When Aren tried to touch him, he flinched away.

The brutality was more than Aren could stand. Deacon was so big and so strong, and

just like every other big man, he thought it was acceptable to bully other men who happened to be smaller than him.

“You didn’t have to hurt him!” Aren yelled, standing up and turning on Deacon. He

pushed him hard in the chest, although the big cowboy barely budged. “You didn’t have to humiliate him like that!”

Deacon’s jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists at his side, and for a moment, Aren thought Deacon was going to punch him. “I didn’t have to
hurt
him?” Deacon asked, his voice like ice. “Is that what you said?”

The threat in his voice was clear, but Aren wasn’t going to back down. “You heard me!”

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Deacon moved so fast Aren barely saw his fist coming. He didn’t punch him, but he

grabbed him by his upper arm hard enough that Aren yelped in spite of himself. “Come

here,” Deacon said, dragging him bodily towards where Miron lay on the ground,

surrounded by Olsa, Daisy and Shay. “Look at him,” Deacon said, shoving Aren forwards.

Aren didn’t want to look. He could see blood. He could smell…something. Something

he couldn’t quite identify. Whatever it was, every instinct he had was to look away. He dug in his heels, tried to turn away from the bleeding, moaning body on the ground, but Deacon was too strong. He pushed him forwards again, harder this time. “I said,
look at him!
” he yelled, and Aren obeyed.

It was horrific. Even looking, Aren couldn’t quite tell what it was he saw. Everything from Miron’s chest to his groin seemed to be red. And wet. He was covered with shredded pieces of something that might have been clothing or might have been skin or might have been something else.

“His bowel is torn,” Deacon said. Aren turned to look at him—anything was better than seeing Miron’s broken body on the ground—and he realised there was more in Deacon’s eyes than anger. There was pain there, too. “Even if the women could sew his guts back together, there’s no amount of medicine in the world that can keep the infection away.” His voice was quieter now but no less intense. “No morphine on hand, either, so we can’t even make him comfortable. Only Olsa’s tea, and that will barely touch this kind of pain.”