Lost Nation (38 page)

“I got no problem with you.”

Sally lifted his cup and drank. Set it back before him. “I don’t really care,” she told him. “If you like me or not. But you lying to me idn’t going to help any of us. I been honest with you. I been trying my best with Fletcher. Maybe—” she paused and took the cup back and drank and set it again before him—“maybe the time’s upon us, that you was honest about me.”

Cooper took up the cup. Did not drink but turned it in his hands, the light revolving along the rim. Then looked at her and said, “I been fair with you. Honest enough.”

It was hours after nightfall and bitter cold. The stars whitened the night, a spread of layers with some sporadic brighter glitterings. Blanched smoke rose straight toward the stars from the kitchen side of the center chimney. None at all from the tavern side. Time to time the smoke would break and fragment, then sparks would spew as someone pokered the fire and added logs.

Blood crouched in a stand of big hemlock across from the tavern where Perry Stream ran under the bridge. His arms crossed, hands under his armpits, his fingers senseless as stone. Three times in the dense backcountry he’d passed the fire-rubble of burned houses and barns but skirted these, tempting as they were for warmth. There’d been no sign of any survivors of these disasters but he expected none; those not arrested or killed outright would be with neighbors or more likely down at the more populated territory along the First Lake, near the mill and tavern. What he feared was anyone lurking to watch for such as himself. Or himself especial. What cabins he passed still standing were dark but this did not indicate they were empty—indeed throughout the entire country Blood felt a drifting presence of alerted inflamed men. Only twice did he encounter any—or rather heard small bands along the trails afoot and both times he slid into the brush and they passed without detecting him. Both times the men silent, tramping with the weary sideways gait of men stripped to senseless motility by the events of the day, weapons over their shoulders at angles of exhaustion. Blood not breathing while they passed. Earlier, at the fade of day he’d found and uprooted a dead ironwood—slender trees that die standing—and snapped the trunk about a yard above the gnarl of root. So he had a club of sorts.
Not much weapon and less desire to use it. Unless he’d no choice and then it would be fearsome in his hands. Or would’ve been before his hands grew so cold his fingers groped and clutched at odd angles.

The tavern was all wrong. Not burnt and not abandoned and yet with no trade at all, certainly, if left standing by the militia, not the crowd of dispossessed incensed men he’d thought to expect. But not the girl alone either. Twice the figure of a man had come forth to stand and piss on the bare ground, even in the starlight the piss steaming in the cold. He could not say for sure if it was the same man or a number of men. Too tall to be Gandy, even if Gandy was so bold. There was no hint of Sally. Both times Blood could hear the solid thump as the door was barred.

Swiftly he’d hiked up to the mill. He could smell the char before he saw the heaps of embers, what was left of the Cole cabin and the Chase house. The mill alone stood and he stopped in the roadside brush and could hear the voices from people gathered there, the survivors, women and children come in from their burnt-out homes, their men mostly gone in arrest. What Hutchinson had warned, and the viewed land revealed, this small huddle confirmed. A small group of men stood in the cold outside the closed mill doors and he saw the faint glimmer of starlight on metal but the men hunched together not so much on guard as in parley. Or yet stunned. He’d halted before they saw him, kept to the roadside and retreated to his grove opposite the tavern. The inexplicable tavern.

If he were to hammer upon the door and was not admitted what then? Or, if opened, to what numbers? What weapons? At least his own if nothing more. Not counting his clumsy club. Silent he cursed the girl and then stopped—it was possible she was at Van Landt’s and the events of the day had forced them to wait. It was possible she’d taken his money and fled the country. He considered the hike up to Van Landt’s but discarded the notion. He would not walk so easily from what was his. It was also possible Sally was held within.

Slowly he moved across the road, within the tree-shadow, and circled along the kitchen side away from the front. He could hear nothing but did not expect to through the log walls. Nor be heard, even the faint crunch of his boots in the mud-crusts of the yard. Except for the dog—Luther would hear that. So he stepped deliberate and eased alongside the wall and waited, hoping the dog would smell before hearing him.
Even so, there was the chance of being given away. He could see the great hound rising and lifting his ears, tipping his nose toward the wall beyond which Blood crouched. So he waited but it was quiet. It was all not right. Luther, he decided, must be with Sally and so she must be gone.

With this thought his anger organized. He took up position by the blind side of the door, where there would still be shadow from the firelight thrown out next the door was opened. Some bastard pissing away his rum. And squeezed his fists hard enough to feel the nails gouge his palms. Making pain was the best he could do to bring his hands to life. He stood then with the club held up against his chest and waited.

It was a strange thing. To hope a man drank enough to need to piss. Blood thought. Whoever it was hadn’t yet thought of paying. Soon.

Do stars move if watched? Can a planet be tracked against the deeper field? Blood clutched his club and kept his eyes to the shut door, as if his eyes could assist his ears. Gaze into a half-full bucket and what looks back? Peer into a well and what then? He waited.

Somehow he missed the footsteps but heard the whisk of the bar being lifted and the thump as it was placed on end beside the door. He brought the club higher and the door opened and with an uneven caution the younger brother with the shaven face rocked in the jamb and stepped forward. Blood brought the club down, missing the proud young head but cracking hard against the side of his neck, collarbone, shoulder. The boy had his hands before the buttons of his flies and when Blood struck he lifted his hands as to seek something just beyond reach. Then gave a rending groan and heaved face first onto the frozen earth.

Blood leaped into the doorway, his club up again. Sally sat at the table, looking at Blood. Then she spoke his name as a curse as she rose from the table. Once up she stood trembling, her fists up. Blood gazed on her, not sure if she feared his attack or was about to launch her own. Perhaps she did not know herself. No matter. Blood had been diverted.

For at the same time the other youth, the older brother, spun from where he’d been standing fireside and snatched in a deadly smooth motion a long rifle leaned against the fireplace stones. Even as the boy was swinging and Blood saw the black eye of the muzzle grow as it came upon him, he was thinking, What was their name? As if it was the most important thing to know at the moment. The black eye flashed orange,
the room convulsed and Blood was down. Then he heard the sound. There was no pain but he couldn’t move. It was almost peaceful. As if he’d been relieved of all duties and he considered that if he was not dead he might soon be. Sally ran toward him but not to him, instead flying over him as if he were not there—an encumbrance only, a log of felled wood perhaps. He saw the white passage of her legs under her skirts from a boundless distance and then, as if brought or left by her passing, pain rose over him and for a blessed moment, the first in years, he did not know where he was or why. And then truly knew. A crimson and black-bloodied tide. Blood himself the wrack spread on beach shingle after a storm.

From outside, beyond his failing sight, he heard Sally beg to know if the boy was all right. From a strange distance Blood heard the boy respond, his voice striving to be measured, reasonable, and knew the boy was as concerned with her fear as with his own pain. Until that moment he hadn’t comprehended that Sally was gone from him.

The boy said, “I’m struck down is all.” His voice a-flutter.

Across the room the rifle was being reloaded, the slick swipe of ramrod driving home the charge a sound as pure a pain as if run into Blood. Into the hole in his right thigh where all pain spread from. Then footsteps.

The boy with the beard stood over him and looked down, the muzzle of the long gun swinging back and forth inches from Blood’s chest. The boy said, “Have I killed you?”

Blood thought about it. Looking up at that boy. He said, “I know you.”

The boy nodded. “It’s Cooper.” A voice simple, unbearably full.

“Yes,” he said. “I know now.” Hating his slippery falter, hearing some plea in it.

Cooper’s face appeared fluid, an emotional teem. His voice cracked like a much younger boy. All he said was, “How you doing Father?”

“Not so good just now. And yourself?”

Cooper said, “I couldn’t say.”

“Failure”—Blood paused to groan, a sound involuntary. Clenched his teeth, released them and continued—“failure’s hard to face. Be a man about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s always harder to finish a botched job. But you’re set. Just don’t torture me with words is all.”

The boy said, “I didn’t know who was coming through that door. I acted without forethought. But it wasn’t you I meant to shoot. I got no plans to kill you. This country is all gone crazy.”

Blood groaned again. He said, “I hadn’t figured you to be soft.”

Cooper stood a long moment, his face a puzzle. Then, understanding something, he leaned to place his rifle against the door. “Father—”

Blood roared, a rejection absolute. His body pierced, fragmented with pain.

Cooper stepped back, his face changing again. The puzzle adjusting again. He said, “All right. But all you got is a flesh wound, it looks to me. You don’t bleed from laziness, you’ll be fine.” He bent close, examining the wound, began to reach to touch it, then took his finger away. He said, “You don’t want help with that anyway, do you? Leastways not mine.”

Blood was silent. He looked away from the boy, let his eyes go up. The rafters were smoke-darkened bars against a blacker field.

Then Sally came through the doorway, standing near Blood, who shifted his eyes to her. She ignored him, her eyes on Cooper, her face white and clamped. She said, “Fletcher’s hurt bad. I can’t tell if it’s his skull that’s broke or what. I need help.” Then her eyes flickered down to Blood, the wound in his leg, blood pooling and thickening, the soaked fabric over his thigh.

Blood could not help himself. The word croaked. “Sally.”

Sally opened her mouth. Silently breathing, looking down at him. Then low as if the words would barely come said, “Blood. I can’t.”

Blood gained a bit. “So that’s how it is.”

She stood a moment more. Then, oddly, shook her head. As if to deny what he already knew. Turned and went out the door.

Cooper took the gun up again, cradled across his chest. Prepared but free of threat. From outside there came a string of murmur from Sally and small gasps from the other boy. Cooper looked over Blood, out the door. Then back to his father.

He said, “That boy out there’s my brother. He’s the one gets the help right now. Your son also. One you never knew of. Or would’ve denied if you had. But he’s my brother sore hurt. It’s like you can’t quit, idn’t it?” And stepped over Blood to the door.

Blood lay so the door could not be shut and Cooper again leaned his rifle. He knelt and eased Blood’s legs aside, holding them just above the knees so they moved together with pain remarkable so gentle and thoughtful was his touch. He squatted like that a moment, his hands resting on his father, Cooper looking only at where his hands lay, Blood breathless again. Then the boy stood. He did not look at his father but took up the gun and reached one hand to grip the open door. The bitter air flowing around him, his breath the smoke of life.

Blood said, “Wait.”

Cooper turned only his head over his shoulder. They looked at each other. Cooper stepped out and shut the door.

Blood lay some time. From beyond the door he could hear undertone voices and the groans of the boy he’d struck down. A single shrill yelp as he guessed the boy was brought to his feet. More murmuring. Then silence.

He probed with his finger the sticky rend to his thigh and found there was a topside and bottom. The ball had gone through. The wound was on his right leg, in the thick muscle along the inside of his thigh. Best he could tell it had missed the bone. At such short range if the ball had struck bone it would have shattered and he guessed he’d not be awake to know it. Even so the pain was a red rage encasing him as if he were nailed through to the floor. His neck a warped iron bar striving to hold his head off the floor. He studied the blackened beams overhead and tried to assemble himself. The wound was bleeding, not greatly—no artery had been struck—but enough blood to soak through to pool on the floorboards. He had to clean the wound and stanch the flow. Such a wound he knew could either heal clean, or fester and suppurate and rot the limb. It was chance mainly. He could help luck but not by laying on the floor.

He rolled to his left side and got his good leg out from under the bad, the knee bent so he could push with his left foot and so shoved himself by clenched inches until his head was against the table trestle. He reached with both hands and grasped the trestle to pull himself upright. Enough to get his weight onto his left foot and rise the rest of the way. Stood panting with both hands flat on the table as the room swam and gave
about him. When his eyes came back he held the ladderback chair, rested himself against it and then pushed it forward, hobbling a hard hitch toward the fire. The crane was swung out but the kettle was upon it and he prayed for water and the kettle was half full. He pushed the crane back over the fire and while the water heated he faltered against the chair into the girl’s room and one handed dug through her meager clothing and found a newer dress he guessed was clean and pressed on back to the fire, the dress held between his teeth. He positioned the chair where the kettle would be in reach once swung out and gimped around the chair. He got his belt knife out and eased himself down into the chair so his wounded leg was stretched before him. Again for moments he could not see, the pain an elastic upheaval from whatever core lay in the midst of him. When this passed he discovered the dress still clamped in his teeth and he kept it there, reaching down with the knife to cut away his trouser leg above the wound. The cloth was infused with blood and keen as the blade was he had to saw to split the fabric. More dilations of pain; then the cloth was gone and his leg was bare.