Die trying, p.17
Die Trying, page 17
“Correct,” Lonely Cloud said. He reached around behind him, pulled a waterskin from a hide bag and tossed it to him. “My gift to you on your journey. However long it may be.”
Without further word, he rode off.
“What do you suppose that means?” Katie asked. She looked at the waterskin in her hand.
“I don’t know,” Chris said, shielding his eyes as he watched Lonely Cloud ride away. “But we’ve got to get there. We don’t have a choice.”
If there was something out there, it was hours of walking away. But they would reach the town or perish in the attempt.
“Come on,” Katie said. “Death’s waiting for us.”
* * *
* * *
Reuben Selt hadn’t found water. He drank snake blood to stay alive and now he was struggling to focus on his surroundings, his eyesight shot to pieces. He rubbed at his face, which felt as numb as if it were coated in rubber. Sometimes he thought he saw something from the corner of his eye and now he kept hearing a voice. It wasn’t loud or intrusive, but it spoke to him when indecision clouded his thoughts and urged him on in his pursuit. A small, tiny whisper, not in his ears, but in his head.
Don’t let them get away, Rube!
“I won’t,” he growled, swatting at his head in irritation. “Quit gettin’ on at me.”
But you need tellin’, don’t you?
“No, I don’t. I know what I’m doing,” Selt shot back. “I ain’t the damned amateur around here.”
The voice laughed.
Selt came upon the rocky outcropping he’d seen the previous day. Even with his tricky vision, he was able to see the markings on the ground, the unmistakable sign of boots scraping through the dust and dirt. Here and there he identified a clearly visible boot print. Then he saw the remains of the fire that had burned the night before. The outcropping hung over a recess and he got down on his hands and knees to look in it. Selt smelled the water before he saw it. He heard it dripping from above, collecting in a pool. He clambered over to it, desperate, and lowered his entire face in it to drink. The water was bad somehow, but still he drank anyway. He gulped it down, almost choking on the bitter chemical tang that lit up the back of his throat and irritated his nose. He didn’t care. It was cool and wet, and that was all that mattered.
Having consumed most of the water in the pool, Selt ran his tongue across the rough stone, lapping up the dregs of what was left. Then he collapsed on his back, panting for breath, feeling the water begin to restore him.
No time to lie here, the voice berated him. You’ll lose them.
“Just for a minute,” Selt said, succumbing to his own exhaustion in the cool shade, all concerns cast aside.
They’re getting away.
“Not for long,” he said, and passed out.
* * *
* * *
The suggestion of buildings emerged from the haze. Then, as they drew nearer, the rough outline of a ramshackle town appeared.
“He was telling the truth,” Katie said.
“I never doubted he was,” said Chris.
If there was one thing he always took away from encounters with Indians like Lonely Cloud, it was the sincerity in their words. It was the whites who were duplicitous in their dealings with Indians, not the other way around. Whether it was driving them from the prairies, the pastures or the deserts, the white men took what was not theirs and claimed it as their own.
Not for the first time, Chris wondered where Lonely Cloud had journeyed from and where he was going. He felt some kinship for the man. He too had wandered most of his life, avoiding home because it no longer was home in anything but name.
“Looks shot to hell,” Katie said. She paused to drain the last of the water from the skin, ringing every drop from it. “Hope they have water.”
“I don’t think it’s inhabited.”
They were less than a mile away now and could see the town had been left in ruins. Every building was blasted by cannon fire or peppered with bullet holes. Most of the structures were falling in on themselves.
“What happened here?” Katie asked.
“Same as Burnham’s Rest, I reckon,” Chris said. “Only this time, the war completely destroyed the place. People must be all gone.”
They passed between the shells of two buildings and picked their way along a scrappy road littered with debris and rubble to what must have passed for the town square. A well sat at its center and Katie wasted no time in working at the winch to lower the bucket into whatever remained at its depths. To their relief, when she brought the bucket back up, it was filled to the brim with fresh drinking water. They quickly refilled their skin and then drank until they could drink no more, then collapsed to the ground.
“I’m beginning to see what he meant by death,” Katie said, glancing about. “This town is deader than any I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. Wonder if there’s anything to eat in this place . . . ,” Chris said, looking at the detritus and destruction around them.
As if he’d conjured it, a lone chicken appeared from behind a pile of rubble, fluttered its wings and landed on top of the pile, assessing them with its red eyes.
“Am I hallucinating?”
Katie looked at Chris. She held a finger to her lips while she drew her pistol and cocked the hammer back. “Don’t spook it,” she whispered, taking aim.
* * *
* * *
Reuben Selt looked up at the man watching him from a ridge, trying to decide what his next move should be. Simply walk on and hope the stranger let him alone? At first, he’d thought he was imagining the man on the horse, but he soon realized that he was really there.
“What do you want?” he called hoarsely.
The man made no move. Did not answer. Just looked back at him.
Selt’s hand itched over his holster. “I said, what the hell d’you want?”
Still no answer.
But then the man atop the horse reached for something. Selt didn’t wait to find out what that could be. He pulled his pistol free and shot him. The stranger clutched at his chest, then fell sideways from his horse, rolling down the incline and coming to a stop at the bottom on his back.
Cautiously, Selt approached, gun at the ready to deliver another devastating blow, but it was not needed. The man had a jagged scar running from one side of his chest down to his navel and where the scar ended there was a huge hole, blood pooling around it. The man grimaced as Selt’s shadow fell over him. He saw now what the man had been reaching for—a water pouch. “I’ll take that.”
He bent down, picked it up and poured it greedily into his mouth, gasping with relief as the cool water rushed down his throat.
“I tried . . . to help you,” the man said, his voice labored.
“That’s where you went wrong. Shoulda rode on, pardner.”
Selt hurried to claim the man’s horse. He got ahold of it and calmed it down enough to mount. The stranger’s face twisted in pain. “You are the devil,” he murmured.
Selt smiled. He ran his hand along the horse’s neck. “Got that right.”
* * *
* * *
He went looking for the tracks he had been following, and when he caught the trail again, he pressed his heels against the horse’s sides, urging it on. It was liberating to feel the breeze on his face, the powerful movement of the horse between his knees. He was getting somewhere now, gaining momentum.
The man bleeding out where he’d left him was little more than a passing concern—another body left in his wake, joining those who had preceded him and those who would follow. He’d forget about him just as he’d forgotten about the rest—the world moved on and so, too, did Reuben Selt. He looked ahead of him as the faint outline of a town formed on the horizon. He could taste copper on his tongue.
The voice returned to him, weaker now but still very much there. No escape for them this time, it said, and Selt was more than inclined to agree. Run ’em down.
“I will.”
PART FOUR
GHOST TOWN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Day Before
The train screeched to a halt at the next station. Sheriff Forster assumed control of the situation, ordering the stationmaster to call for the local law and not to dillydally. “I got dead agents aboard and I wanna get them off before they start attractin’ flies, sir, so don’t drag your heels now.”
The stationmaster ran straight off to follow Forster’s orders.
The sheriff walked into the ticket office and removed his hat. Running his fingers through his thin white hair, he caught sight of his own reflection in a cracked and dusty mirror on the far wall.
Damn, I got old fast, he thought.
“Can I help you?” the lady behind the counter asked.
“I think so,” Forster said, sitting down on one of the benches with a sigh. “What’s the name of this stop?”
“This station is Hunseker, sir. The town behind—you might have seen it as the train came in—well, that’ll be Hunseker, too.”
The sheriff smiled. “That makes sense,” he said, trying not to laugh.
It felt strange to experience anything like humor when he’d just been through a huge shoot-out, had trodden over the bodies of men who’d died defending the passengers of the train and had nearly been killed himself in the process of facing down the hired gun chasing Chris Burr and his partner.
No idea where that son of a gun went to, Forster thought, running a hand over the prickly white stubble covering his jaw.
“Is there anything else?” the lady behind the counter asked him, no doubt noticing the distant look in his eyes.
“Actually, there is. Do you know where I can find a map around here?”
“A map?” she asked, frowning. “What kind?”
Forster made a circling motion with the index finger of his right hand. “A map of this place. The surrounding country.”
“I get you,” she said. “As it happens, we don’t have one. But I know where you can find one. A big one. You won’t do better.”
Forster leaned against the counter. “And where would that be?”
* * *
* * *
Bob Forster headed down the little main street of the town and found his way to what the lady at the station had called “our little museum.” He’d always thought that museums were for viewing relics from the last couple of centuries or even thousands of years ago. Hunseker didn’t seem that well established as far as towns went. What possible history could it have that wasn’t readily accessible through conversation with some of the town’s elders? Still, he pushed through the doors and made a quick sweep of the different artifacts and oddments, from the town’s early days as a mining hub to its establishment as a town in its own right, complete with a doctor’s office, a saloon and a theater.
Forster clucked his tongue as he took it all in. He’d never seen anything like it, nor had he seen a map so large as the one behind glass on the back wall. There was plenty of light in the room from the windows surrounding him, the dust swimming in the sunshine as he stood there examining the map. It covered the thirty or so miles in either direction, including the railway line as it came to the edge of town and then continued on its way.
A big red pin indicated his own position on the map. Forster wondered how accurate the map was and if he could take its measurements and markings for granted. And to figure out just where they’d been when the train was halted, Forster decided he needed to know how fast the train had been traveling.
He turned to leave, to head back to the train to bring the driver along. An attendant made himself known, waving hello and grinning. “I hope you are enjoying our presentations,” he said. “We take a lot of pride in—”
“Yes, very good,” Forster said, cutting the man off. He pointed to the massive map on the wall. “Does that come down at all?”
The attendant tilted his head to one side, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Come . . . down?”
“Yes, off the wall. I need to make use of it.”
“Absolutely not. I’m afraid we don’t touch the items in the museum, sir,” the attendant said, his tone just the other side of patronizing.
“Hmpf. You got a stool, then?”
* * *
* * *
The train driver surveyed the map, scratching absently at a rash on the back of his neck.
“How fast were we goin’ after we started up again?” Forster asked, tapping the glass.
The driver pulled a face. “About fifty through there.”
“Right,” Forster said. He sat down on one of the benches and rolled a cigarette. “And how long did it take to get from where we stopped to the station?”
“An hour, sir,” the driver said.
“An hour . . . ,” Forster repeated, lighting the cigarette and smoking as he assembled his thoughts. He looked at the attendant, who seemed to hover near the map as if any of them might attempt to steal it or do something heinous to it. “You there. This map to scale?”
“Why, yes, I believe so. And please, no smoking in here.”
Forster removed the cigarette from between his lips. “Huh?”
“To protect the artifacts.”
“Man’s a killjoy,” Forster grumbled, stubbing his cigarette out and getting back up. He took to the stool the attendant had provided and traced the rail line with his finger, making an estimation for the fifty miles they’d covered after stopping. “So we would’ve stopped right around here. At this point.”
“Sounds right to me,” the driver said.
Forster hopped down and studied the map, arms folded in front of him. “Nothin’ around for miles and miles. They’re on foot. In that heat, no supplies.”
“There is an old town,” the attendant said offhandedly.
Forster frowned at him. “What did you say?”
“I said there is a town. It’s abandoned now, though. There’s nothing there. Not since the war destroyed the place. Our own little town barely escaped the same fate, in truth.”
“Whereabouts on the map would that be?”
The attendant climbed up on the stool and pointed to the spot on the map. “There. You wouldn’t see it from the rail. But a day or so by foot or on horseback and you would for sure. No question about it.”
“Well, what d’you know . . . ?” Forster said, slapping the man on the back. “Now I’ll be needing a copy of that there map. D’you have one for sale?”
The attendant drew himself up, offended. “This is a museum, sir. Not a general store!”
Forster grabbed an information leaflet and asked the driver for a pencil. He pressed them into the attendant’s hands. “Get sketching.”
“Well, I never—”
Forster turned at the sound of horses thundering up to the museum. He stepped outside to greet Hunseker’s local law officers, a middle-aged man with black muttonchops and a deputy who seemed older even than Forster, with a potbelly and white fuzz on his head. The stationmaster rode up on a small chestnut mare and hitched her to the post at the rear of the station house.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said. “The sheriff and his deputy were dealing with something outside of town. I was told you were up here with the driver.”
“No need to apologize,” Forster said. He shook hands with the sheriff and his man.
The other lawman tipped his head. “Sheriff Wade Burns. This old coot here is my deputy, Norm Sturgeon.”
“Good to meet you,” Forster said. “Sheriff Bob Forster.”
“What town you from, Sheriff?”
“New Kingston.”
Burns nodded slowly. “You’re a ways from home.”
“That I am, sir. You might’ve heard about the trouble we had. One of the trains that passes by New Kingston got robbed.”
“I did. I heard marshals are heading in to take it on.”
“As did I, but you know marshals. I had a lead to follow and couldn’t afford to just sit on my hands if you catch my meaning.”
Burns smiled. “I do. We got post gets delivered here sooner than it’d take a marshal to ride into town.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Forster said. “Don’t it always fall to us old lawmen to deal with these things ourselves?”
“It does,” Burns said, cocking an eyebrow, “though I ain’t sure about the ‘old’ part.”
“Well, speak for yourself. My old bones sure do.”
Burns smiled. “What do you need from us?”
“I was in a shoot-out on that train,” Forster said, flicking his head in the direction of the train waiting on the tracks. “You got a slew of dead agents aboard who are gonna need shifting before that locomotive goes anywhere. A lot of frightened folk aboard.”
“A shoot-out? With who?”
“I was tailing two criminals responsible for the train robbery outside of New Kingston. I caught up with ’em in Burnham’s Rest. Boarded the train after them to make my arrest. But I was intercepted by a hired gun. He shot at me, I shot at him and, in the chaos, the two thieves cut loose.”
“From a moving train?” Burns asked in disbelief. “Ya gotta be kiddin’ me.”
Forster raised both hands. “I’ll swear on whatever you like, Sheriff Burns. It’s the truth, the whole truth and nothin’ but the truth, so help me God. Those two crooks leapt from a moving train and I tried to catch up with that hired gun, but he’d already shot up half the train and fled himself.”
Burns turned to his deputy. “Get on over to that train and make an assessment, Norm,” he said, eyeing the stationmaster. “Burt, go tell old man Shipley he’s gonna be busy building caskets the next few days. He’d better get to the station fast and collect the dead.”
