The wind rushed down off the high peaks of the Samaria Mountains
Inside, the wind moaned and whistled through cracks in the walls and roof, but with it no longer directly in their faces the men straightened and sighed with relief. They set about unpacking supplies for their evening meal, lighting a small fire on the hearth, and fetching water, all with hardly a word spoken. Not until they had set coffee to boil and potatoes to fry did Tom Mulvehill say, “God damn, I could use a drink.”
Cash grunted, and Dove Ed responded not at all but with a fork stirred the pan of potatoes over the fire. From his saddlebag Tom withdrew a whiskey bottle, all but empty. He extracted the stopper and held out the bottle. “Anybody?”
Cash took the whiskey and swigged, then offered it to Dove Ed. The boy shook his head, keeping his attention on his cooking. Cash passed the bottle back to Tom, who drank it dry in two deep swallows. “That’s better,” he said, jamming the stopper in and banging the bottle on the table.
Eyes brighter now, he appraised their surroundings: the collapsing roof, the unchinked walls letting in the chill wind, the door that wouldn’t close completely, the smoke swirling out from the choked chimney, the black vault door propped against the wall. “What I wouldn’t give to be in that saloon right now, instead of this shithole,” Tom said.
Cash ignored him. He had heard a good deal of this kind of talk in the past couple of days, and was getting tired of it.
Tom went on, “I’d get the finest meal, the best whiskey, the biggest bed in the hotel, and the prettiest woman in town to share it all with me.”
“Drinking? Whoring? We ain’t got but two dollars left. Wouldn’t buy you much of either.”
“Then I’d start at the card table. Run up a stake first.”
Cash scoffed. “I seen you play cards, Tom. Two dollars wouldn’t last you two minutes.” By the fireside, Dove Ed gave a sour chuckle. Tom glared at the back of his head.
“I’ll settle for the whiskey,” he said. “Two dollars’ll buy plenty of that.”
“What about the food, and the bed, and the whore?”
“Oh, I can sleep and eat anywhere. And who needs to pay for a woman when there’s that young lady right there at the saloon?”
Cash saw Dove Ed’s head come up, and although he didn’t look around, he stopped stirring the potatoes.
Tom went on, “I wouldn’t mind getting myself a piece of that. Besides, a poke don’t feel better just ‘cause you pay for it, am I right?”
Dove Ed stood up and turned, the fork clutched like a dagger in his hand. Tom straightened at the same moment, his own hand empty but dangling by the holster on his belt. They stared at each other, until Tom said softly, “Something wrong, boy?”
Dove Ed hesitated, then threw down the fork and brushed past Tom and Cash, heading for the door. Cash said, “Where you going?”
“Privy,” the boy said, and banged the door aside on his way out.
“Bring back the other bottle from the wagon while you’re at it,” Tom called after him.
Cash retrieved the fork, wiped it on his pants. He crouched to tend the pan. “Why don’t you lay off him, Tom?”
“Because he’s getting too big for his britches, even if he is just a little prick.” Even without seeing his face, Cash could hear the smirk in Tom’s voice. He shook his head, but let it go. Sometime soon Dove Ed would rise to one of Tom’s jibes with a gun in his hand instead of a bare fist; Cash only hoped he wouldn’t be between them when it happened.
From outside came a sharp cry, and the heavy sound of a body falling. Cash looked over at Tom, who had also heard the noise. “What the hell has that imbecile done now?” Tom said. He reached the door two steps ahead of Cash and yanked it open.
The short, flat slap of a pistol shot sounded nearby. Splinters of wood erupted from the doorjamb, spraying into Cash’s face. Almost instantly another shot followed. Tom’s heavy body collided with Cash as he recoiled from the open door, and both men fell to the dirt floor of the cabin. Cash scrambled backward, shouting, “Jesus Christ!” and clawing for his pistol. Tom put his back to the wall beside the doorway and drew his own weapon as yet another shot tore the air. They both heard the ball bury itself in the cabin’s outside wall.
Cash and Tom locked eyes. He didn’t think he was hurt himself, but Cash could see blood on the side of Tom’s face. If the injury pained him, though, Tom didn’t let on. Instead he yelled, “Dove Ed! What the hell are you playing at, boy? You could have killed me!”
The laughter that answered him did not belong to Dove Ed, nor did the voice that shouted back, “Sorry about that, Tom! Come on out and we’ll shake hands, make peace!”
“Who the hell is that?” Cash said, keeping his voice low.
Tom gritted his teeth. “Putney,” he said, then yelled, “Jacob? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Tom! How you been keeping?”
“I’m well, thanks! And you?”
“Oh, fine! Are you sure you’re all right? I didn’t get a piece of you, did I?”
Tom put his hand to the right side of his neck, where a trickle of blood had soaked his collar. “Nope!” he called, and beckoned Cash over. In a murmur, he asked, “How bad is it?” Cash pulled the fabric away and found a small nick in the skin, the bleeding already sluggish.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Flying splinter maybe.” He scuttled along the wall, trying to find a place where enough of the chinking between the logs had fallen away to get a look outside. But night was falling, and the scudding clouds had brought with them a premature dusk. He could see nothing.
“Jacob!” Tom yelled. “Dove Ed all right out there?”
“He met with a bit of an accident,” Putney said. “When he opened the privy door he hit his head on a short-handled shovel. Twice. But don’t you worry none, he’s got a thick head. He’ll be fine soon as the sheriff gets back.”
“What the hell’s he talking about?” Cash said. Tom waved him to silence.
“See, you boys are wanted for the robbery and murder of Bennett Sloane down in Corinne,” Putney continued. “Sheriff, he found your wagon out here and went back to town to fetch his deputies, told me to arrest you if you showed up. So throw your guns out the door and come on out with your hands up.”
Cash frowned over at Tom. “Did you or Dove Ed shoot Sloane when I wasn’t looking?” he said. “I seem to recall he was breathing when we left.” Tom gestured furiously at him, mouthing “shut up” over and over until Cash subsided.
“I expect it was Putney himself,” Tom said. “But the sheriff don’t know that. If he’s telling the truth about that, we got to get out of here before they get back. Go see if there’s a back window or a hole in the wall we can use.”
Cash scrambled to the rear of the cabin, looking for any gap in the walls they could slither through. If there was a window, though, it was buried under the debris of the roof, which had sagged down in a thick tangle of beams and rotted thatching, too constricted for a man his size. He heard Tom yell, “Tell you what, Jacob. We’ll wait in here till the sheriff arrives. Then we’ll give up.”
Cash drew his hunting knife. The thatching consisted of widely-spaced wooden rafters, supporting thick bundles of straw bound with cord. If enough of the bundles were cut apart, he might create a gap wide enough to escape, then take Putney by surprise. He began to saw at the bundles and cords, turning his face from the choking dust he raised in the process. Through the front door of the cabin, the parley continued; he had to hope Tom could stall Putney long enough for his plan to work.
“No good,” Putney was saying. “You got to come out, otherwise that potato-eater sheriff will claim the reward for capturing you.” His voice took on an ironic pleading tone. “A thousand dollars for the men who killed Bennett Sloane. You can see what a thousand dollars would mean to a fellow like me, can’t you? Help me out here, Tom!”
“Nothing I’d like better. But if we was to walk out there, I believe you might just shoot us down. That would strain the bonds of our friendship somewhat.”
Putney barked out a laugh. “Might could be I’d do such a thing in different circumstances, Tom, but not today.”
“Why not?”
“The reward, I said! It’s for ‘capture and conviction’, not ‘dead or alive’! You got my guarantee on it. What do you say?”
Over the sound of rustling straw and snapping cords, Cash heard that chuckle of Tom’s he’d grown to know so well: the irritating, know-it-all laugh that so got under Dove Ed’s skin. Tom said, “I say you could teach stupid to a stump if you think I’ll surrender to you, Jacob. You want me, come on in and get me!”
Several strands parted at the same time, and now Cash had a hole about big enough for his head. Cool night air rushed in, and peering up he could make out the black clouds marching across the sky. He redoubled his efforts, trying to make room for his shoulders to follow.
“No, I think you’ll come out, Tom,” said Putney. “See, your boy Dove Ed here…” Cash heard a sound like a mallet striking a sack of grain, and the wind carried on it a feeble moan. “Your boy looks like he might be trying to make a break for it.”
All at once Cash caught his drift and froze, waiting to hear Tom’s response. He remembered Putney’s expression when they left him in the shed behind the saloon in Corinne. Cowardice mixed with hatred. Like many cowards, Putney would be vicious to those weaker than himself; Cash didn’t doubt for a moment that he would shoot a helpless prisoner.
Tom said, “No he ain’t. He’s knocked cold.”
“You’re wrong, Tom. If you don’t come out, talk some sense into him, he’s gonna get shot trying to escape.”
“So? I ain’t about to get shot for that little pissant. Kill him, for all I care.”
Cash shoved the hunting knife back into its sheath. He pulled his revolver, then with both arms reached up through the slit he had created, getting his elbows well outside. He kicked off with his legs and at the same time levered himself up with both elbows. His head and chest burst through the narrow opening, leaving his legs dangling under the sagging roof. Ominous creaking noises came from the damaged beams beneath him, and the rustling and tearing of the thatch seemed deafening in his ears.
Although he faced the farmyard, his head was still lower than the roofline outside. Cash extended his arms up toward the peak, dug into the straw bundles and pulled with all his might. Dry, sun-baked straw tore loose under his fingers and poked into his face, arms and chest but as he forced himself higher up the roof he could see Putney in the dim light of the yard below. The man had taken cover by the corner of the barn which held their wagon. At his feet lay a huddled shape, unmoving. That had to be Dove Ed.
At Putney’s position a white-orange flash illuminated the man’s face for a split second, and Cash thought he had shot Dove Ed. Then the noise of the shot reached him at the same moment something struck the thatch to his right, throwing bits of straw to the wind, and Cash realized Putney was shooting at him. He ducked behind the roofline as Putney fired again, and again, blowing holes through the roof but somehow not hitting Cash. More shots sounded directly under him and he knew that Tom was firing back from the doorway; he hoped Dove Ed would not be hit by accident and wondered if Tom even cared.
It came to Cash that Putney had not fired for a second or two. He cocked his pistol and did his best to remember where he had seen Putney. He would have time for one shot, two if he was lucky, and he wanted to waste no time searching for his target. Cash pulled his left arm under his chest and searched for firm purchase with his legs, then drew a deep breath and shoved hard with his left hand. As his head rose above the roofline again, he caught sight of Jacob Putney aiming a pistol at Dove Ed’s head. Cash pointed his own pistol, knowing he would be too late to save the boy.
The world lurched, and with his legs still stuck through the thatch up to his knees, Cash flailed his gun arm for balance. Below, the creaking of the roof beams resounded with the snapping of wood strained beyond the breaking point. Then the roof collapsed, carrying Cash back down into the cabin in an avalanche of straw and beams. He could hear someone—Tom, he thought—yelling, “Holy Christ!” before noise and dust and darkness overcame him.
* * * * *
“God damn!” said Putney.
A plume of dust and wisps of straw rose above the fallen house, swirling and dissipating on the wind as the noise died away. He stared at it with his mouth open in awe and appreciation, then burst out in raucous laughter.
“Did you see that?” he said to Dove Ed, but the boy still lay unconscious at Putney’s feet, the blood streaming over his face growing black as the flying dust caked it.
It had been a frustrating vigil, waiting amid the cottonwood thicket for Tom and his friends to return, even with the thought of a reward to comfort him. So when he saw the three men ride up and enter the cabin, Putney made his move. He crept down to the farmyard, grabbed a spade from the wagon and hidden inside the privy to wait, peering through the cracks until he saw Dove Ed approaching. As the boy opened the door, Putney struck him square in the face with the flat blade of the shovel. His head snapped back and he reeled away from the door, stumbling to his knees, and Putney followed him out into the farmyard, where he wound up and swung with all his strength, fetching another blow to the boy’s head. Putney smiled in satisfaction at the meaty sound, the tremor of impact along the shaft of the spade like a maul applied to the skull of a steer in an abattoir. Dove Ed fell and did not move. On his belt, Putney found the revolver stolen from him back in Corinne and hefted it with pleasure.
The rest of the encounter did not go quite so well. He missed his shot at Mulvehill and had to take cover by the barn, dragging Dove Ed along as a hostage. He had Tom and the other one cornered, but that wasn’t good enough; Putney wanted them dead, not captured or arrested. He had no doubt that before the sheriff returned they would try to escape the cabin and flank him. He had to look sharp, and get them to come out.
While he bantered with Mulvehill, Putney found himself staring at the roof of the cabin. It occurred to him that he could smoke them out by setting a light to the straw thatching. Either the smoke would force them out and he would shoot them, or they would burn. He frowned, wondering where he could lay hands on a torch or a brand without leaving the front doorway unattended.
A loud rending, crackling noise from the rear of the cabin drew his gaze, and a moment later he saw a face appear at the peak of the roof. Putney swore and fired his revolver at the man on the rooftop, three shots and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He dropped the spent weapon and drew one of Sloane’s bone handled dragoons, but before he could take aim the entire cabin shuddered and the roof vanished from sight, dropping down into the room below and taking his target with it. Over the racket of cracking beams and the rattle of masonry from the falling chimney, he thought he heard cries of dismay or pain. It was a beautiful thing to behold.
Now Putney advanced, holding the pistol at the ready. Tom or his friend might be shamming, and he wanted to make sure. Along with the chimney, the roof had pulled over most of the right-side wall, so Putney avoided the front door and peered over the jumble of logs into the wreckage beyond. He sensed no sound or movement but the soft crackle of the cook-fire in the hearth, now partially buried under the chimney-stones. Tendrils of smoke rose there, and Putney wondered if it would set the fallen thatch ablaze, or if he should help it along. He patted his pockets for his matchbox.
Then he froze, listening. From inside the cabin he had heard something, a cough, a sneeze, a word? He waited and it came again, a soft groan, a half-uttered oath. Putney stepped carefully through the shifting, settling debris, searching every shadow over the sights of his gun for the source. Amid the darkness, the smoke and dust, the chaos inside the walls were a thousand places big enough to conceal a man. Picking his way among them, Putney found Tom Mulvehill by practically stepping on him: a beam under his boot shifted and a loud groan issued from beneath it. With a start, Putney cast his gaze in the direction of the sound and saw a hand poking out from a tangle of thatch at his feet. He bent and twitched the matted straw aside.
“All right, Jacob, we’re caught,” said Tom as the wind hit his face. He lay pinned under roofing and fireplace stones, and somehow the big black iron door had come to rest on his legs. Only his head and right arm moved freely. Blood streaked his face, but not much of it; he didn’t seem badly hurt. He grinned ruefully up at Putney. “Wasn’t quite fair of you to drop a house on us.”
“The hell with fair,” said Putney. “Where’s your friend?”
Tom shrugged as best he could with a beam over one shoulder. “Under there somewhere, I guess.”
“Don’t move, while I look.”
“Whatever you say.”
Putney moved off, unconcerned. He had seen Tom’s empty holster. In minutes he returned and stood atop the iron door, watching as Tom grimaced against the increased pressure on his legs.
“Found your friend,” he said. “Or at least his feet, sticking out from under the roof over there.”
“He alive?”
“Don’t know. He didn’t move when I kicked at his boots.” Putney rocked up and down, from heels to toes, causing the door to bounce slightly. “Hell, I ain’t ever sure they’re still attached to the rest of him.”
Tom winced each time the door compressed his legs, but his voice stayed even as he said, “Would you mind stepping off there, Jacob?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Putney, staying where he was. “Hurts a little, huh? Not as much as a bullet along the ribs, though, I bet. Wound like that makes a man think he’s dying, but you’re just a little uncomfortable, huh?” He rocked a little harder, smiling as Tom pressed his lips together and turned his eyes skyward.
“What’re you doing with this anyway?” Putney said.
“Using it for a bedroll, at the moment.”
Putney stopped rocking. He moved a step closer to Tom, bringing more weight down upon him. “None of your sass,” he said. He took another step, standing squarely on the door’s edge, above Tom’s chest. Sweat stood on Tom’s face and his breath came in labored gasps. With his free arm he pushed up on the door, but with no leverage his efforts came to nothing. Putney felt the slight rise and fall of the iron door, Tom’s lungs struggling to expand, and he crouched to bring his face closer to the trapped man. “What’s the matter, Tom? Ain’t you got nothing to say?”
Putney held up Sloane’s pistol, sighting along the barrel into Tom’s face, pulling it back when Tom grabbed feebly at it with his free hand. He thumbed back the hammer.
“Thought it was…capture…and conviction,” Tom wheezed.
“I know. I had you all safely arrested, but when I recognized you as one of the Innocents, you resisted. Set upon me, tried to kill me. I had to shoot you. Self defense.”
“Liar!” The word burst out, carrying all Tom’s wind with it.
“Senseless, ain’t it, Tom?” He rose to his feet once more, keeping the muzzle of the revolver trained on Mulvehill’s head.
A rumbling sound reached their ears and Tom looked at the sky again, though the last daylight had faded and the clouds obscured the stars. The only light came from the ruins of the hearth, where the fire licked at the pieces of the cabin that had fallen close by. Both men paused and listened.
“Thunder?” Tom gasped.
“Horses,” Putney said.
The rumble did not die away. It went on and on, growing louder, closer: several mounts approaching, riding hard. The sheriff, no doubt accompanied by his deputies.
“They’ll be here soon,” said Putney and shrugged, then resumed his aim. “Well, Tom, no hard feelings I hope.”
In that instant, pain and noise exploded in his senses, a pistol shot from nearby that embedded a ball in the big muscle on the left side of his chest. Putney’s hand convulsed on the trigger of the dragoon, the shot howling off the iron door into the darkness, away from the cringing Tom Mulvehill. Putney himself reeled, trying to turn and find his assailant, but his foot turned on the uneven rubble and he fell heavily. His gun flew from his grasp. He tried to reach for its twin in the left side holster but his arm would not work. With his right hand he fumbled for the gun, for some reason unable to find the butt. He looked down for it and gaped instead at the dark red stain spreading across his shirt front. His pulse roared in his ears, and through it he heard the scrape of a clumsy, dragging footstep. Into the uncertain firelight lurched Dove Ed, a smoking pistol dangling in his hand and his face a mask of dirt-caked gore, leaning where he could on the remainders of the cabin wall.
The two regarded each other, one unable to reach his pistol, the other unable to raise his, both listening as the clatter of the approaching horses reached them from the old farm road.
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