The Hunted Page 9

  Charlie’s team crested the wide-topped rise, and the wagons ahead were easing down a slight hill before leveling off, when he heard a scream from behind. He turned in the seat, but given the twist in the trail and the rise, he couldn’t see beyond Mabel-Mae. Even as he set the brake and clumsily began climbing down from the wagon, his thoughts were of hordes of savage Indians setting upon the women.

  He hustled past his mule, his legs stiff and numb more from sitting all day than from his icy dunking, and bellowed to the women. “Hester! Delia! Hey!”

  Within seconds he caught sight of them, still down close to the stream. They’d made it across, but that was about it. The horse had collapsed on top of Delia, looked to have pinned one of her legs. Hester was cradling her sister’s head and kicking at the horse, but the animal’s legs trembled, one hoof clacked feebly on a flat stone. The one horse’s eye that Charlie could see was wide and bugged, and her lid quivered twice as fast as her wheezing breath.

  “Oh, Charlie, help!” Raw fear had stretched Hester’s features.

  Charlie hustled down to them, assessed the situation quickly, and dropping to his knees, he jammed his hands far under the horse’s side, behind the old saddle’s cantle, and lifted hard with his wide upper body. Despite the fact that the horse was a shadow of its old weight, the effort was a hard one. But he managed to raise the bony beast up enough. “Drag her out!” he wheezed as Hester slid her sister to safety. Charlie lowered the horse and stood up.

  Hester had already raised her sister’s skirts and was feeling the girl’s left leg. Charlie couldn’t help noticing the girl wore long-handle drawers on her legs. He also couldn’t help noticing that the girl wasn’t much put out by the ordeal. She had a worried look, but not nearly as much as her sister.

  “Is she okay?” Charlie kneeled and looked at the sickly young woman. “Delia? Can you hear me?”

  “Nothing feels broken.” Hester pulled down the girl’s skirts.

  “Maybe she’s in some numb state. I seen it before. This drover tumbled off his mount . . .”

  Hester shook her head. “No, it’s the laudanum. She’s numb from that.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” said Delia, a smile threatening her face.

  Charlie and Hester traded looks.

  “How’s Angel?” said Delia.

  “Who?” said Charlie.

  “She’s our horse.” Hester nodded toward the trembling creature. “Can you help us get her up? I think she’ll be okay if we get her on her feet again, let her calm down.”

  “Ma’am . . .” Charlie lowered his voice and said close to Hester, “That horse is played out.”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “She needs her rest—”

  “No, Hester. She’s done. I should have made you listen yesterday.” He kneeled and ran a hand along Angel’s quivering neck.

  “No, no, Charlie. You can’t be right.” She dropped down beside him and put her face to the horse’s.

  “If he told you that horse has reached the end of her road, missy, then he’s right as rain.” Everett walked down the slope to them. “Heard the ruckus. I am sorry to say this, but Charlie’s right, girly. Trust me when I say it. I been around beasts all my life, and that horse is done.”

  Hester stood, pulled her ragged shawl tight around her shoulders. “How long do you figure she has, then?”

  “’Bout as long as it takes for me to pop her one.” Rollie walked down to them, already pulling his Colt revolver.

  “Ain’t nobody going to fire off no guns in Injun country, you hear me?” Everett’s voice barked at his nephew.

  “We can’t let her suffer, Everett,” said Charlie, not pleased that he was sort of agreeing with Rollie.

  “For once, I agree with Big Boy.” Rollie offered a toothy grin to Charlie.

  “No, no, and no, I tell you. Ain’t going to happen.”

  “Oh yeah?” Rollie thumbed back the hammer and fired off a round, straight up into the darkening sky. He did so twice more, all the while keeping his eyes squarely on his uncle’s trembling face.

  The wheezing horse spasmed with the sound of each shot.

  The old man had clapped a gnarled hand on the scarred grip of his Colt Navy.

  “You want I should keep on firing, Uncle Everett?” Rollie dragged the name, made the name sound like a taunt.

  “Go ahead!” Everett dragged on his gun, but Charlie stayed his hand.

  “No, Mr. Meecher. That won’t solve a thing. One more shot won’t make a whit of difference. Give me the gun and I’ll do for the old girl.”

  The three men stood facing each other for a long moment. Then Meecher lifted his hand free and Charlie took the pistol. The old man was so angry he shook uncontrollably. Rollie’s nervy eyes twitched, but he holstered his gun.

  “Get gone back up there. I’ll tend to things here,” said Charlie to the pair of them, his big voice startling even himself.

  He watched the men climb back up the hill, Rollie first, his uncle a few paces behind. Everett’s hands clenched and unclenched as if grasping for something that wasn’t there. Once they passed out of sight, Charlie stuck the pistol in his trousers top.

  “Hester, not much time now. We have to get going. Say your good-byes to Angel. I’ll take Delia up to the wagon.” He bent and lifted the girl before her older sister could protest. Delia, still in the grip of her pain medicine, seemed far enough gone that she still wore her almost-smile.

  Hester regarded Charlie, who nodded at the horse.

  “Go on, then,” he said. “We’ll wait for you.”

  He couldn’t watch. This was a black afternoon, to be sure. Hester kneeled, smoothing the trembling horse’s cheek and whispering. Charlie hoped she was saying enough for both women. She kissed the horse, then stood, her eyes wet but not tearing, and nodded to him.

  They trudged up the hill and Charlie laid Delia on the ground beside the wagon. “I’ll be right back.” Charlie headed back down the hill.

  “Charlie,” said Hester. “I . . . need to get our things.”

  He nodded, smiled. “I’ll bring them back up with me, don’t you worry.”

  He strode back down the slope, kneeled by the confused, played-out horse, and gently slipped off the hackamore. As he ran the back of his hand along her face and offered her what he hoped were soothing sounds, Charlie vowed he’d somehow make sure this sort of foolishness never happened again. “Won’t happen in my valley, Angel. I’d not have let this happen there. I wish I could have brought you there, old girl.” He pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out. The horse groaned, her breath rasping harder now.

  Charlie stood and cocked the revolver all the way back, bent to the horse, and said, “Your suffering’s all gone, girl.” Quickly he placed the barrel on her temple, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. As he opened his eyes, she sighed out her last, her trembling limbs relaxing.

  Her eye filmed even as he reached to close it. He lifted her head, did the same with the other; then before he set to work stripping off the rest of the women’s meager gear, he used the saddle to drag the horse as far to the side of the trail as he could. The saddle wasn’t much to speak of, the blanket beneath a threadbare thing, and the two carpetbags tied behind were not in particularly good repair.

  In death, stripped of her burdens, the old horse looked mighty frail. And Charlie again felt the pangs of guilt sicken him. He should have made them do as he had bade the day before. Thankfully they’d have to now. He trudged up the hill without looking back.

  “We’ll need to fix Delia a place in my wagon,” said Charlie as he strode up to Mabel-Mae and plunked their gear on the ground, trying to ignore Rollie and Everett at the front of the wagon, still fuming at each other, arguing about something Charlie didn’t care to hear.

  “I don’t think so, Big Boy.” Rollie pushed by his uncle and stoo
d facing Charlie, the women between them. “No way a woman is riding in this here wagon. No passengers but us freighters. Besides, they’re bad luck—look what they done to that horse. No, sir, ain’t no way those two are going to tire out my team.”

  “Your team?” Everett shoved his nephew hard, pushing Rollie into the wagon. “Who died and made you king of my mountain?”

  “You old goat! Bad enough we got them womenfolk along this trip, we didn’t never cipher ’em into our plans—you said so yourself!”

  “Yeah, but that was before all this. Besides, they ain’t hard to keep.” He thrust a finger at Delia sitting on the ground. “That girl’s sickly, you fool.”

  “You can say what you want to, Rollie, but that girl”—Charlie pointed a big finger at Delia—“is riding in that wagon.” He pointed at his wagon. “And that woman there”—he pointed at Hester—“is riding on that mule there.” He pointed at Mabel-Mae, who flicked an ear at all the commotion. “And that is that. Now shut up, the both of you.”

  Once more, the two chastened men did as Big Charlie bade. He turned his attention to arranging a spot for Delia in the bed of the wagon, taking care to ensure that nothing might jostle on the trail and fall on her. Once he had blankets and an extra canvas tarpaulin laid out over his own gear, he lifted the sick girl in and nodded to Hester to take care of her.

  While she attended to Delia, Charlie rigged up their saddle on Mabel-Mae, who didn’t seem to care one way or the other what was happening.

  “Charlie, I appreciate what you’ve done,” said Hester. “But I’ll walk alongside just fine.”

  He sighed and turned to face her. “Ma’am, I ain’t offering. I’m telling. This here’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Her face hardened and she thrust out her lower jaw.

  “Now, you can shoot daggers at me all you like with them pretty green eyes of yours, but I’ll heft you up onto Mabel-Mae if I have to. You understand me?” It was some moments before he realized his face was inches from hers, and it was but a few moments more when he realized what he’d said about her eyes.

  “Fine, then.” She strode to Mabel-Mae, a beast a bit taller than Angel had been.

  “You want a hand?”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” Charlie climbed up into the wagon’s seat. Behind him he thought he heard Delia giggling. He didn’t look back but was relieved to hear the telltale saddle squeak of a seated rider.

  Chapter 15

  Not long after the sisters’ horse expired, the sky darkened—a full hour before it should have—and snow began to fall. Not pleasant, easy flakes, but stinging granules, hard like sand. Another hour later, they made it to a sloping meadow butted to a decent pine stand. Just into the trees, they picketed the animals and made camp.

  By the time they had a fire crackling and tarps arranged off the wagons, the snow still hadn’t amounted to much, but the wind had increased, playing hell with the fire. They managed to keep it lit, and had stockpiled a decent stack of wood, enough for the night.

  Charlie noticed that Everett kept to himself. Every time he tried to speak with the man, Meecher all but growled at him, and Charlie saw that he hadn’t simmered down at all from the hubbub earlier on the trail. It was as if he couldn’t stand being told off by his nephew, nor told what to do by Charlie.

  The old grump finally sat off by himself, barely close enough to the fire to benefit from any warmth, and the entire time he held his hands stiff by his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists. Charlie wished he hadn’t given him back his gun.

  Norbert had sufficiently recovered throughout the day, enough that Rollie decided they should all celebrate. He cracked a fresh bottle of no-label snake juice, and he and his chums all hit it hard. Soon they were singing and hooting into the stiffening wind. The snow had begun to accumulate in the curl of leaves and against rocks, in the folds of the canvas.

  “Here,” said Rollie, thrusting the half-filled bottle at his uncle. “Take yourself a swig and calm your old-man nerves. You’re making all of us nervous.”

  This struck Rollie and the others as humorous and their sudden laughter made Charlie groan. About the only good thing happening this night was that Hester and Delia had decided Charlie wasn’t such a horrible person and sat with him on the other side of the guttering fire.

  In the midst of this latest burst of laughter, Everett lashed out and knocked the bottle of whiskey from Rollie’s outstretched hand. He followed it by springing to his feet.

  “Oh no,” said Hester and Charlie at the same time.

  It was as if the fight of the evening before was unrolling once again at their feet. But this time, Everett Meecher was stone sober and angrier than Charlie had seen any man. In the firelight, he saw a blue vein thick like a finger, pulsing down the middle of the old man’s forehead. Spittle flecked from his mouth, his hands formed stiff claws, and he held his entire body tense like a lion ready to pounce.

  Rollie matched him in stance, but he was taller, younger, and looser from drink. He still regarded it all as a joke. “Look at you! All crazy and wasting my good whiskey.” His right hand lashed out and slapped his uncle’s left cheek. The entire camp held its breath. Rollie laughed and followed with a hard smack to the other cheek. His uncle, eyes impossibly wide, screamed through clenched teeth and made to lunge at Rollie. But his hands grabbed at his own chest instead. His face sagged and he dropped to his knees as if poleaxed from behind.

  Charlie jumped to his feet, and made it to Everett’s side as the man flopped over onto his shoulder, half facing up, his purpled face already gone gray.

  “Everett?” He lightly tapped the old man’s cheek. “Everett? It’s me, Charlie. You’re gonna be okay, now, you hear?”

  Hester bent close, stroked the man’s forehead, but Meecher’s eyes fluttered and his breath threaded to a trickle.

  Charlie looked at Hester. “What do we do?”

  She shook her head knowingly, aware of something he did not want to hear, not again this day, not again so soon. As if to confirm the awful truth, Meecher’s head sagged to the side, and spittle trickled from his mouth. His body finally went limp in what Charlie guessed was the first time in years.

  Charlie looked up at Rollie, who stood swaying, staring down at the scene, wide-eyed and puzzled. “You did this! You did this, you damn whelp!” He jumped over Meecher’s body and drove a hard backhand at Rollie’s face. “How do you like it?” He gave him another. “Huh? Feel good to you?”

  He kept on for a minute or more until he felt arms tugging at him. He reached with his other hand, ready to deliver a fist to whoever was trying to stop him, but saw it was Hester. A haze of red, as if a wash of blood, dropped away before his eyes and he recognized the determination and fear warring on her face.

  “Stop now, Charlie. He’s beaten. You beat him.”

  Charlie lowered his throbbing hands and looked down at the whimpering, bloody Rollie, collapsed in a crying pile behind the log. Norbert, Bo, and Shiner had melted back against the log on which they sat, their own hands raised before their faces, in defense of the beating they were sure they were about to get from the enraged mammoth man.

  Charlie smoothed his sleeves, said, “I’m all right now,” to Hester, and regarded Everett Meecher’s body at his feet. The dropped form reminded Charlie a lot of that old horse of earlier in the day. Once unsaddled of the burdens of life, both spirited creatures were nothing but frail old things good for little else but the boneyard. He bent to the old man and scooped him up. He almost gasped at how little Everett Meecher actually weighed.

  He’s half clothes and half nerve, thought Charlie. And one-half of that mix is gone.

  He pulled down one of the tarps and with Hester’s help, rolled the old man in it, then placed him carefully under one of the wagons.

  They returned to their side of the fire, keeping an eye on the four somewhat s
obered men on the other side of the wavering blaze. Much to Charlie’s surprise, Rollie didn’t have much to say. The men cracked open a fresh bottle of booze and hit it pretty hard. As the evening wore on, Rollie’s face puffed up something fierce.

  But they didn’t make any moves toward Charlie’s side of the fire. They did talk in low whispers, and that convinced the big man that he had better not let his eyes shut that night. Hester tended to her sister, dosing her with some of the laudanum. There didn’t seem to be much to say or do. Everett Meecher, cantankerous, but oddly likable old man, was dead.

  The more Charlie thought on it, the more convinced he was of his equal responsibility in the death, along with Rollie. If he hadn’t shouted the old man down earlier, made him give up his gun and all but ordered him to shut up, hadn’t shamed the man as he did, might be Meecher would still be alive.

  Deep inside, he knew that Rollie was as much to blame, maybe more, and the old man hadn’t helped matters either, being as tight-strung as he was. The thoughts yarn-balled in Charlie’s mind and left him even more tired and more confused than ever.

  Despite his best efforts, Charlie’s weary eyelids lost the battle with vigilance and he nodded off, his back against a pile of gear. The breeze had died down a bit during the night, and between the wool blanket and the waning warmth of the fire at his feet, he was downright comfortable.

  • • •

  Charlie woke as stark early light cracked through the cold-stiffened pines. The snow hadn’t amounted to much after all. A warning shot, he reckoned. Low sounds like voices whispered, grunted, shushed each other, and he heard a dragging sound. Charlie ground his stiff hands into his eyes, shook his head to dispel clinging sleepiness. No sign of life anywhere else in the camp. The fire was blackened, dead, and cold. Dead. . . . And then he remembered the scene of last night. Everett Meecher, dead.