Storm's Thunder (18 page)

“Looks like a game is forming,” Hannah resting her fingers on the edge of the façade. “Who is that man, telling the others what to do?”

“That's Spooner Ballentine, lawyering fella. He's a square fella, but there ain't a penny in the world he don't add his two cents to.”

“I can see that. Let me take that for you.” Hannah eases the empty plate from my hand and sets it down on the roof. I made such quick work of the sandwich I hope I didn't embarrass myself.

“You tell that cook he ain't need to fiddle his sauce none.”

“I'll let him know,” she says, a smile coming to her.

Skip returns from inside the train, his arms loaded with half a dozen leather gloves that he flings about to the men and boys gathered around George, though most of the players seem content to carry on barehanded. The butcher boy appears behind Skip, enlisted into service lugging the heavy wooden club, which George promptly takes from him. I don't pretend to have much notion on how this base game gets played, though I reckon the open space of the lawn suits the playing better than the confines of the bar car, as some of the men drift back a hundred yards or more and seem downright lonely, so removed from the action.

“Surprised you're not down there joining them,” Hannah says.

“I prefer to gather up the particulars on a game before jumping in with the playing.” A current of surprise splashes behind her eyes before melting into sweetness.

“I suppose baseball is still a novelty on the frontier. Back home, the boys were always starting a game after church. But this is the first one I've ever seen break out here. They say all you need is a patch of dirt.”

“Fine evening for it.”

“That it is.” I feel the closeness between our elbows shrink in the softening light. A breeze passes through, and in the corner of my vision I see her hand brush that same unruly strand of hair back into place.

“You bring any other men up here?” I don't know what compels me to ask that, but she turns and gazes up at me, her brow crinkling.

“Mister Harlan, I resent that question. I don't even bring the other girls up here.”

“Why me then?”

She hesitates, the water beneath the ice swirling deep and green. “I knew you'd follow me.”

“Men would follow you anywhere. You know that. The West ain't nothing but dogs and wolves.”

“Dogs and wolves would not get an invitation.” A wave of shame boils up my belly and leaves me feeling downright small and regretful.

“In that case, thank you for inviting me, Miss Clinkscale.” I remove my hat and with a bowed head, offer my hand. “And for the considerable pleasure of your company.” She stares down at my hand, not ready to give in just yet. She crunches her mouth up and after a long moment, takes my hand in hers.

“You are very welcome, Mister Harlan,” adding a small curtsy. I feel the rest of my name forming on my lips. I want to tell her all about myself. But I hold back.

“You know I'm getting on that train in less than an hour and we'll never see each other again.”

“Well, then, you'll just have to write a letter someday to Miss Hannah Clinkscale, care of Fred Harvey, Harvey House, Coolidge, Territory of New Mexico.”

“I reckon I will.”

“And as for our remaining hour, perhaps you'll wisely spend it as my viewing companion for the baseball contest. That is, if you can comport yourself not to say something else foolish.” Her eyes turn outward again, taking in the game, and as she resettles against the ledge, she narrows the distance between our hands—close enough to charge the hairs on my arm with her electric proximity. The breeze shifts, searing the fullness of her scent into memory. A hint of lavender soap rides atop. Beneath it, competing for attention, lay a dozen other traces I will be forever unpacking.

Over the western mountains, the big yellow eye touches the summit, splitting the valley, half in shadow and half in the gleaming gold of a majestic spring evening. George hefts the wooden club, choking his grip down toward the skinny end. He takes a few swipes, building in speed and power and, even to my unfamiliar eye, wields that particular tool as an extension of himself. Spooner has perched himself close behind George and off to the side, and by his ceaseless instruction to all involved, appears to have appointed himself the game's commissioner. In between them, a stocky young hayseed rolls up his shirtsleeves and squats down behind George, extending his glove outward to receive the ball.

Skip works the ball into his palms as he marches out about twenty paces and stops, surveying the positions of the other fellas who have fanned out across the field, and offering some modest suggestion on their alignment. Then he turns to face George and leans in. An expectant hush befalls the gathered crowd. Skip's smile fades, his arm hanging loose at his side, fingertips dancing on the ball. George taps the bat to the ground and, with his feet spread in the balanced posture of an athlete, cocks the slab of lumber over his shoulder like it were made of paper. A toothpick bounces from one corner of his mouth to the other. The fielding players crouch into readiness. Even Spooner, his grapefruit of a belly protruding over the belt line, bends at the knees and peers in, lightly touching the squatting man who serves as his shield.

Skip straightens, and then twisting up onto one leg, rears back and uncurls his body toward the batter. The ball flies through the air—George tensing, then slackening in an instant—and smacks the leather glove of the catcher with a resounding snap.

Spooner rises and proclaims, “The pitch is low!” in full judicial timbre. A muted applause breaks out anyway. Skip snags the throw-back and sets into his windup again. He comes over the top this time and when he lets fly, the ball digs downward in a steep curve. But George, bending with it, muscles an uppercut that nicks the ball and sends it high into the air behind them. The direction must not mean much because the only pursuers are some small boys who run giggling after it while the players hold their ground and spit tobacco juice into the dirt.

“That ball is foul,” Spooner says. The catcher lobs the ball to Skip who snatches it, jawing to himself in disgust. George points off in the distance and says something back to him.

“I wonder what he's on about, that one,” Hannah says.

“He said,” and I recite it back to her word for word, “‘hurl that junky curve again, I'll knock it out past the cow patties.'”

Hannah turns to me. “You heard all that?”

“Yep. But I ain't pretending to know what it means.”

Skip brings his glove to his face, lets out a breath, and then coils up into his windup once more. He explodes outward, his arm coming straight down from the top again, only now the ball bites through the air at a ferocious angle. George, hesitates, fully relaxed, his head locked motionless on the ball. His movement starts with his back foot, like squishing a bug, and travels up the chain of his body to the hips, where a quick pivot explodes the full force of his power down through his arms and into a focused point—where bat and ball converge in perfect union. A sharp crack splits the air as the ball fires straight out in a blistering flash, to the aah-ing amazement of player and spectator alike. The deepest fielder, manning the outmost reaches of the property, about-faces and breaks into a dead run, his hat flying from his head, as the ball passes high above him, takes one mighty bounce on the hardpacked dirt beyond the lawn and then, finally, of its own accord, rolls to a stop on the other side of the corral fence.

George lopes easy around the lamppost and then continues in a square course that brings him back to where he started, his head high, amid the cooing delight of a half dozen Harvey Girls. But not one of them holds a candle to the vision turning before me.

“I'd say he got all of that,” Hannah says.

“Take a look over yonder.” She turns back toward the corral, and there in a lope all his own, is Storm. Charlie runs alongside, holding the rope as the stallion works out the stiffness from his legs. “That's Storm. He's with me.”

“What a magnificent animal.”

“Yeah, he'd be in agreement on that.”

“Well, Mister Harlan, you certainly have an eye.” Hannah leans against the ledge, the slope of her shoulder bending in tandem with the purpling hill behind her.

“I wish I could say I picked him out. Truth is, one day you look down and you got what you got.” I hardly feel like I spit out what I meant to say, but just then the engineer lays into the whistle, scattering the game, and signaling the end of one thing and the beginning of another.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kirby Farlow struck a match against the heavy cast and thought,
at least this damn hunk of plaster's good for something
. He sucked flame through a plug of fresh tobacco and, easing the chair back, deposited his busted leg onto a stool. It felt better to have the thing elevated; Old Doc Marbry had been right about that. As for the doctor's second directive—plenty of bed rest—Kirby had been less compliant. And now, throbbing pain boiled out from his femur, radiating up the spine and down through the ankle. But the pain had been worth it. Sweet mother lode, had it been worth it.

Tomorrow he would send for Doc and order up two shots of laudanum and maybe tip the old sawbones a twenty to let him hang on to the vial afterward. If Kirby couldn't ride out with the boys and square things with that half-breed Injun the way he wanted to, he could at least savor the image of the slippery Jew's lying face right before he drilled him full of lead—
There's no money here! Oh, THAT safe? There's only papers inside. It's been so long, I've forgotten the combination.
Funny how a couple of shattered fingers can jar a stubborn memory. As for the How's Your Uncle he laid on that tasty nigger bitch—that was just a bonus. After he'd worked her over, he was happy to let Linus have a crack. It seemed to calm his brother down, Linus not being a natural to this kind of business like Kirby was. If they were splitting fifty-fifty, it meant all the way down the line. Too bad his other brother, Deke, had decided to ride out with Lem. The three Farlow brothers could have chopped the Heeb's booty in thirds then passed that shine's cunny around like a peace pipe. Ah well, it meant more for Kirby this way. After all, he was the one gimping around in plaster.

“That there's two thousand,” Linus said, only halfway through the pile of coins spread out before him. “And I ain't even got to the gold dust yet.”

“Hell, if I'd known how much gold that snip-cock was hoarding, I'd have swiss-cheesed him years ago.” Kirby drew smoke deep into his lungs and let it tumble slowly from his mouth in the low, orange glow of the fireplace. The light danced across the dirt floor and the stone walls and the table where Linus sat, counting. Kirby had won this little adobe hut in a card game a while back and it sure came in handy after a score—tucked out on the edge of town, like it was, and with no meddling neighbors to come poking around. The roof kept out the rain and there were two doors—Kirby liked that—in case he had to make a hasty exit.

“Grab the scale and help me weigh out this dust,” Linus said, drawing the lantern closer. Kirby just smiled and closed his eyes.

“You're the bean counter, little brother.” Kirby didn't mean it as an insult, even though most things out of his mouth came off that way. In this case it was true. Linus punched tickets for the railroad and that made him the bookkeeper of the two. Kirby was the muscle and the idea man. Been that way since they were kids.

“It would just make it go faster, is all.”

“Don't be so nervous. Ain't nothing tying us to that Jew. Besides, the only two bastards saw us go in that house is dead. She is dead, ain't she?”

“I told you I took care of it. Why you keep asking me about it?”

“'Cause choking a bitch out is unreliable, especially if killing ain't your strong suit. I'da blown her head off.”

“Well that ain't my way, okay? But it don't mean I'm soft. That uppity cherry-nigger showed me up too. Sassing off like a White Man. Half this plan was my idea, remember.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You didn't see the way he stared me down, out there at Lamy. I'm tellin' ya. I don't think Deke and Lem's coming back.”

“Give Deke some credit. He's got ice in his veins, same as I do.”

“That Injun weren't glaring at me like there was survivors. I saw it in his eyes.” Outside the adobe, a twig snapped.

“Shh!” Kirby silencing him. He cocked an ear toward the shuttered window. “You hear that?” Linus froze where he sat. Kirby grabbed the rifle and hoisted himself up, grimacing as he teetered to the door.

“You think it could be Deke?” Linus wondered, still wanting to believe. He picked up a six-shooter off the table and tried to keep it steady as he stood behind his brother. Kirby opened the door and peered out into the dusk, the cool air alive and sparkling.

“Deke, that you?” Kirby aimed his rifle at the darkness. He took a step outside and listened for movement, Linus hugging so close behind him, Kirby could feel his breath. High in the treetops, an owl hooted. A pack of coyotes, far down in the arroyo, sounded off as it closed in on a meal. But there was no sign of humans. No horses. “Shit, brother, now you got me all squirrely.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Kirby lowered the rifle and slowly turned back to the hut. “Grab a couple logs, will ya?”

Linus went over to the woodpile and set the pistol on top of the stack and scooped up an armful of split cedar. He'd come back for the gun. Keeping the fire going meant they were going to stay up all night, which was fine with him, because he didn't think he could sleep if he tried. Kirby reached the door and slumped against it, the pain worse than ever. Linus hated seeing him like this.

“I'll get your crutch. You stay put.” Linus slid in behind his brother and crossed to the fireplace and dumped the logs on the hearth. Then he grabbed the crutch and brought it to the door. “Here, trade ya,” taking the rifle from Kirby and situating the crutch under his brother's shoulder. Linus dangled the rifle at his side and pulled the door closed behind him. He turned back to his help his brother, who stood motionless in the center of the room, staring at the far wall. Linus looked up and saw that the back door was wide open. He opened his mouth and, before he could speak, a brown figure stepped from the shadows.

“Arms high, gentlemen,” Cross said. “Any strange movement otherwise will be your last.” The forty-caliber perched unwavering in his steady hand. “You, Linus.” Linus swallowed hard when he heard the man speak his name. “Place the rifle on the table, butt-end first. Do it slowly. Keep your left arm where it is.” Linus set the stock onto the table and lowered the barrel down. “Now slide it to me. Easy does it.” Cross kept Linus on the edge of his vision, but his gaze stayed unflinchingly on Kirby. Any trouble would come from him. Cross knew that, and Kirby knew that he knew. The stranger's predatory stare left no ambiguity. Cross saw Linus tense his arm to shove the rifle, but then hesitate. “Linus, discard that thought you are entertaining presently.”

“It's all right, brother. Send it,” Kirby meeting Cross's gaze with his own. The rifle sailed across the table—toppling stacks of carefully counted coins—and came to a stop against Cross's hip. A sachet of gold dust fell open, its priceless powder dribbling to the ground as the coins on the table rattled to rest.

“You're a sneaky sum'bitch, ain't you?” Kirby said. “That, or this cocksucking leg's got me off my mark. Hell with it. You got the drop, so take your damn money and leave.”

“All money is damned. When will you people learn that?” Cross picked up the rifle and leaned it against the wall behind him. “On your knees.”

“Fuck you,” Kirby's mouth wet with spittle. “I'm hobblin' on a crutch here. I ain't getting on the ground.”

Cross angled the pistol an almost imperceptible degree downward. “When I blow out your other knee, you'll wish you'd gone down of your own accord.”

“Just do what he says,” Linus already sinking to the floor.

“You goddamned son of a whore.” Kirby steadied the crutch in front of him and slowly grunted his way down. He rested on his good knee and left the cast extended straight outward. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Jacob Cross.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“It means everything to you. Your life. Your death. Your suffering.”

“Just do whatever you're going to do. I ain't got time for horseshit.”

“My friend, time is all you have.”

“Damn it all to hell.” Kirby put his weight into the crutch, his muscles straining. Cross snatched up the scale from the table and cracked Kirby across the head as he tried to get up.

“The only damnation is your wretched soul!”

Kirby fell back, howling. “Jesus, fuck me. Jesus FUCK ME!”

Cross's face drained of all expression. He aimed the pistol at Kirby's cast and fired, exploding the plaster on the backside of the knee as the bullet exited. A scream came out of Kirby that shook the windows. His mouth stood open, fixed in agony as the sound bleated, unwavering. Cross picked up a small sachet of gold dust and shoved it into Kirby's mouth, muffling—but not silencing—the horror. Then he placed a boot into Kirby's chest and flattened him onto his back. Cross turned to Linus, who had wet himself, and was kneeling, arms raised, in a puddle of his own creation.

“Don't kill me, please. I'm begging you. Please, God!” Cross shot his left hand forward and throttled Linus by the throat.

“God is as deaf to your begging as you were to hers.”

“Who?” Linus wailing through gritted teeth. “I don't know who you're taking about.” As the ticket man pawed at Cross's wrist, Cross slammed the pistol butt down onto the bridge of his nose.

“God's creature, that's who!” Cross sailing another blow into the meat of his cheek—the skin splitting—and yet another into the orbital bone below his eye. He heard the bone crack. “Oh, yes, the negress
lives
. By God's merciful power, she lives.” Cross released the pulpy mass from his clutch and Linus crumpled to the ground.

“Linus, I swear . . .” Kirby flinging the spit-coated bag of dust to the floor, his once ruddy face now ashen gray, but his voice steeled with measured certainty.

“Quite understandable, Mister Farlow,” Cross said. “Why trust a killer's job to a ticket puncher. I doubt that's an oversight you'll repeat.” Cross turned to face Kirby, and when he did, Kirby swung the crutch and hit him across the face. Kirby was up with a roar, firing on pure rage. He lowered his shoulder and barreled into Cross, sending them both hurtling into the wall. A breathy grunt escaped Cross as the weight of the heavier man knocked the wind from him, but still he held his pistol. Kirby's arm shot up, pinning Cross's arm and gun against the wall. The two of them fought for control of it.

“Linus, shoot this cocksucker in the face!” Kirby hissing as he dug his heels into the table. His forearm crunched against Cross's neck, but the little man fumbled his free hand down toward his belt. Linus slapped at his own belt and then remembered—the woodpile. He leapt to his feet and ran to the door and opened it and saw a man with a shotgun standing there. Van Zant fired and blew Linus back across the room. Then he turned and took aim at Kirby but could not fire, as the spray of buckshot would kill Cross. Van Zant went for the pistol he kept on his hip.

Kirby wrested control of the forty, ripping it from Cross's hand as Cross yanked his free hand upward. Kirby stepped back and brought up the pistol and then felt the cold shock as his belly opened up and his intestines emptied onto the floor. Puzzled, he looked at Cross, and saw that the cord around the man's neck held only the top half of the crucifix he'd been wearing. The lower half jutted from Cross's hand, where a needle-point blade dripped red with blood. Then Van Zant fired and blew half of Kirby's skull onto the wall. Cross steadied himself on the table and rubbed his neck. He glared at Van Zant.

“Sorry,” Van Zant said. “I cut that a little close.”

Cross wiped the blade clean and gently reunited the two pieces that embodied his faith. He brought the assembled crucifix to his lips and kissed it, solemnly. Then he picked up his pistol, stepped over Kirby's body and walked to where Linus lay on his back. Linus ground his boot heels into the dirt, as if there were somewhere to go.

“The Indian, Harlan Two-Trees. Where is he?” Cross standing over him.

Linus Farlow gazed up at the ceiling and wondered what was beyond. He thought about his mother. Cross repeated the question, which he rarely did, and saw Linus trying to speak.

“On . . . train.” Blood bubbled from his mouth. Cross nodded and leaned down and spoke in a clear voice.

“Which way is he headed?”