Lost Nation (53 page)

The riders swung onto the river road, crossed the bridge and still at a hard gallop came into the tavern yard and pulled their horses to a churning stop. The horses moving back and forth as the riders swept the streambank now before them with their weapons, the boys both silent and grim and quick. The men remained crouched by the stream. It was all a development none could quickly grasp.

Cooper swung his horse so he half faced the tavern. Loud, his voice without waver, he cried, “Blood?”

There was no response.

Fletcher was reining his horse back and forth, the pistol up level with his chest, the short weapon held in such a way he could aim any direction quick.

Cooper cried, “Father?”

Then Blood spoke. From where she was Sally heard him plainly yet it seemed his voice was low, calm and intimate. He said, “You boys ride on. This idn’t your affair.”

“That idn’t how we see it,” Cooper called back.

Cooper turned his horse back toward the stream and rode forward. He spoke to the men crouched there. “You’ve denned the wrong fox, boys. He idn’t the one you’re after. He don’t care. But he’ll sting you bad. It looks like he already has.”

One spoke. “How come you to know so much about it?”

Cooper said, “I know all I need. Of him. And of the rest of you too. That man Blood idn’t the rot among you. Look to yourselves and leave him be.”

“Is that right?” the one crouched asked. “He someone special to you, you know him so well?”

“You’re goddamn right he is.” Fletcher moving forward toward his brother.

Blood called, “Cooper. Fletcher. Both of you. Get back up in the yard. Get back toward the house.” The boys were directly between Blood and the stream, their horses and the boys themselves obstacles, obstructions, leaving Blood ineffective.

This comprehension seemed to spring from the ground rather that emit solely from Blood. Fletcher jerked his horse back as men came out from the brush. But a group were along both sides of Cooper’s horse before he could move. A half-dozen men either side. Grimed streaked faces, some bloodied or powder-blackened or both, turned up at him. Hands reaching up over him to hold him in place, hands over the bridle, hands taking the long rifle from him as if it were a gift he bestowed, the men keeping the horse aligned straight so any attempt by Blood would risk more the boy or the horse than any of them.

Fletcher was back twenty feet from his brother, out in the open, near the body of Cole. His horse fought to gain ground away from the dead man, either forward or back or sideways. Fletcher had the pistol swinging slow over the group of men. One of them grinned at him. He looked quick over his shoulder and saw he blocked his father still. Jerking steady with his bound hand, each jerk a painful cable to his shoulder, the axe swinging and the bit-edge raking his knuckles, he backed the
horse some few feet away from his brother. Looked again and guessed his father now had clear range to the group.

It was quiet in the yard. The only sound the blowing of Fletcher’s horse.

Sally crowded against the side of the barn, her fingers tight white gripping the rifle. Thinking if she rode in right then it could work for or against Cooper. Thinking she wasn’t any good where she was. Trying for the nerve to run for the backside of the tavern, where she could work around the corner and be close enough to shoot. There would be ten, at most a dozen feet where men could see her run. She wasn’t afraid of them shooting. She was afraid of losing her surprise. She was afraid of pressing the men who held Cooper. Her legs were trembling and aching with wanted action.

Fletcher feinted sideways with his horse, leveled the pistol at the man closest to him. “Let him go,” he said. “Let him go.”

From above Blood spoke. “Be quiet boy.” Then in the same mild tone he said, “Let the boys go. Let them ride off. Once they’re gone from sight I’ll come walk out there.”

One of the men said, “No.”

Blood waited.

Fletcher moved his horse back another step. As if aware he was more danger to Cooper the closer he was.

The man spoke up again. “You walk out, Blood. With your hands empty and we’ll let these boys ride as fast as they can. That’s the best we’ll give you Blood. There idn’t another choice. It’s not haggling we’re after here. Not no more.”

Cooper booted his horse hard. It had been shivering and sidestepping back and forth against the men holding it and the boots were all it needed. It lunged cruelly forward and Cooper jerked the reins free and harsh-turned the horse so men spilled away against its surge. Cooper called out his brother’s name as his horse broke free of the men.

Fletcher brought the pistol to bear upon a man and fired. At the same time Blood fired from above, once with the rifle and then again with both pistols, firing and feeding the loaded pistol into his right hand and firing again. Two men were down unmoving and a third was crawling
improbably toward the body of Cole, a dark smear of blood and urine staining the ground.

Cooper was partway to the road when he wheeled his horse. “Fletcher,” he called. His brother was on the far side of the yard, away from the road. The attackers were retreating back into the streambank but were still between Fletcher and the road. Cooper called his brother again.

There came a shot from the retreating men and Cooper bent in the saddle, his torso flat against the crest of his horse’s neck.

Sally broke then and ran, not even thinking of cover. Partway toward the tavern a man saw her coming, turned and fired at her and she veered for the back of the tavern.

Blood was reloading his rifle when he saw Cooper fall forward. The horse stopped, as if suddenly empty of command. Blood watched Fletcher kick his horse forward and ride toward his brother. The remaining men had formed into a tight group. Blood saw one raise a rifle toward the boys. He dropped his own half-charged rifle and dragged the pot of coals toward him and took up a fuse match, pressing the strip of twisted rope into the live coals, pushing hard for the sudden flare and dense smoke that would show the fuse was lighted. His hand was burning.

Cooper sat upright. He said, “Fletcher get Sally.” The front of his blouse was a great ragged rose. He went off the horse sideways. When he fell the horse stood a moment and then turned and lowered its head to study the boy.

Blood roared. “No!” The fuse was beginning to faintly smoke and he took it from the pot and jammed it into the touch-hole of the swivel gun.

Fletcher jerked his horse around and charged upon the group of men, the axe up in his left hand.

Sally stepped from the corner and fired at the entire group, wanting to kill them all even as one raised his rifle and shot the charging boy out of the saddle. Fletcher driven back right off the horse that never paused but surged on. The axe swinging up a lazy slow arc in the air before dropping flat-bladed against the earth a scant useless dozen feet from where Fletcher lay. Again from the tavern the roar of Blood. This time not a denial or beseechment or whatever that first No had been but this time a simple awful anguish pure as the sound a soul might make forced from a body.

Then the cannon went off.

* * *

Sally stood a moment. The noise was unlike anything she’d ever heard. It struck the hills around and came back and back and back again. But saw only first Cooper and then Fletcher, over and over. She couldn’t see where they lay in the mire of the yard. Just each going down from their horses. As if forever they would be struck from those horses. The cannon pulping the men across the yard was something she would only recall later, never clear enough for her satisfaction. Then she turned and ran for the back of the tavern.

There were still men moving. Some thrashing and others working their way toward the safety of the stream. The boys lay, one face up, the other down. And the ones uncountable, the ones Blood had not been able to see escape altogether as he fought to work in the bitter smoke filling the loft. His eyes ran water. Then he was up, draped over the hot gun, fighting it in its carriage to raise the angle a little so he could destroy the streamside and whoever hid there. Even as he did this he saw one man in midstream struggle onto a crazed horse and whip the horse across the stream and up the road. One getting away. His boys Goddamnit. He jerked and prodded at the gun, forcing it loose in its carriage. Doing what the discharge could not. Moving it by a scant third of an inch. All he needed or wanted in this world. Or any other. His mouth was on fire and he spat out the burned-up match and set another in the pot of coals to light. Those boys rode in, boys coming for their death. And began to recharge the gun. Ripping open the seal on the powder cask, tearing the beeswaxed linen with his fingers. Dead trying to forestall his own dying. Breaking nails against the wood staves of the keg, his fingers bleeding. God damn those boys. A great charge this one would be, double the powder and double the load of musket balls. If it split the gun so be it. Dead in the yard below. He wanted to destroy everything he could see.

Not crying, her face dry and hard-set, she did not pause to reload the rifle but left it leaning against the logwall. Then reached and jumped and her fingers scraped the bottom of the shutter. Jumped again, this
time as if it were the last thing she might ever do and caught the edge of the opening with first one hand and then the other. Lay hanging against the side of the building while she secured her grip. Working one hand at a time until she would tear the wall down before letting go. Then kicked with her legs against the walls until one foot found purchase against a log and she lifted and the other foot pressed sideways into a space between two other logs. Up once more and just like that she was peering into her old room. She got her arms through and then her head and shoulders. It was a tight fit. There was only one way and that was face-first and down. Eight feet to the rough floor. She wished the bed was under the window. And saw again the brothers going off their horses and cursed silent her own fear and squirmed her way in. There was a moment where her waist held her balance, exactly half in and half out. She reached for the floor below and gave a last squirm and went down.

It took her breath. Her left hand was in great pain and she’d struck her head hard enough so her vision jogged and floated a moment where she lay on the floor. But she was up, still unsteady but up. Her wrist was all right. It hurt but she could use it. For a moment she looked at the bed. The bearskin cover. Blood had been sleeping there. The room stank of dirt, the dirt of man, a sourness of decay.

She went into the kitchen and saw the hogshead against the door. Good. She had no thought of opening the house to the scum outside. This work was hers.

She stood quiet a moment. Above she could hear Blood moving, a hard rough sound as if he pushed himself about. The loft ladder was in place. She heard Blood talking to himself, a steady flow of bile and hatred, not words but some keening beyond language.

There was a fire in the hearth. A stack of firewood. She spread the fire with the poker, spread it so it came out onto the hearth. Then piled the firewood, all of it, evenly over the coals, each log set so there was space for air to draw through and build the flames and draft for the chimney. So the firewood trailed off the hearth and up against the walls either side. It began to catch but was too slow. She turned back to the room.

She took the stool and added it to the fire. Then the ladderback chair. The fire was gaining but still too slow. She turned to the table. There was a blanket roll, some weapon pouches, on the table. Blood had intended
to leave. She reached and with one hard push cleared the table. It made a noise as everything struck the floor. She stood still.

Upstairs the crooning continued. She upended the table and let it down slowly so it rested against the fire. That was better. She studied it a moment. She thought This idn’t going to be fast enough.

And saw Cooper again. The awful rose-smear of his blouse. His words Fletcher Get Sally. And saw Fletcher and the axe again, both somehow joined in her mind, a loathsome beauteous pinwheel in the air.

Upstairs the cannon went off again. Dirt sifted from the rafters and stung her eyes and she couldn’t hear a thing. The sound so great it went through her as a wave. It seemed to her the walls trembled but it could have been her eyes. The fire collapsed a bit. It was all too slow. She thought He’ll do it first, himself by accident, madness.

Overhead the keening rose to a moan, a curious sound—a jubilation—as if at last Blood had identified and extinguished all enemies. Each and every one. Almost, she thought, as if he were happy.

Without thinking she went forward and took up a stick of firewood, one burning well. She lifted it high over her shoulder and went to the ladder and using her free hand went up. Her head and shoulders followed the burning stick through the opening. Blood was lying over the top of the swivel gun as a man lies spent on a woman. His head turned away from her, turned to the narrow slit view outside. His head was nodding up and down in a crisp slapping motion, someway in time to the sound that came from him.

She spoke his name.

If he heard her there was no indication.

Her raised hand was burning. Just beyond Blood were the kegs of powder and shot he’d hauled up. She had spied this place before. She calculated her throw.

Her hand was burning.

She cried his name. This time loud, a harsh indictment of him. All of her condensed into the single word. Even as it came out of her she recognized it to be some uneven twin to his own song.

This time he heard. He turned slow and saw her. His face twisted and burned. An awful smile for her.

She threw the burning stick. It went away from her, turning over and over in the air, rising to strike the rafters where it angled down hard,
away from the kegs, toward Blood himself. She did not wait to see it strike. She lifted her feet from the rung and held the sides of the ladder and went down fast. Now she was crying and her hand still burned, was only beginning to burn.

In the kitchen the wall behind the chimney was on fire. The smoke so thick she wrapped her head down into the crook of her arm. The smell there fear. And the death of all the place, all those who ever had entered, had even so much as passed by.