Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (19 page)

Brad drew up behind the trailing wagon and scanned the carnage that lay all around him—the dead horses, the bloody corpses of the women and children. Their clothes flapped in the wind. Their faces were wan and tear-streaked, their eyes blank as smoky marbles, staring sightlessly into nothingness.

His stomach tightened into a hard knot and bile rose up in his throat.

Thor rode up beside him, looked around at the slain women and children, then began to scan the woods.

“They might still be somewhere close by,” Sorenson said. “Schneck could be watchin' us right now.”

“Let the bastard watch,” Brad said. “Let's see if anyone here is still alive.”

Brad could hear his heart beat. It throbbed in his chest like some night thunder and pounded in his ears like a slow triphammer pounding a bell, thick and dull as cotton. His stomach swirled with the sickness of sudden and terrible grief, as if his own wife lay among the dead and dying. He struggled to find words in his mind that could explain the deep sense of loss when he looked at the small children, children who would never laugh, or skip rope, or run though summer meadows, or swim in blue mountain lakes ever again. His eyes blurred with tears as he dismounted and looped his reins around the silent and stolid wagon wheel.

“You keep an eye out, Thor,” Brad said, his voice choked with intolerable emotion. “I'm just going to . . .”

Just then, they both heard a sound from the woods. The sound of someone retching.

“What was that?” Sorenson asked in a loud breathy whisper.

“It sounded like somebody throwing up his chow,” Brad said.

“I'd better go check,” Sorenson said. He holstered his pistol and jerked his rifle from its scabbard. He jacked a shell into the chamber and rode off into the timber, proceeding at a cautious pace.

Brad walked around, looked at the dead men and at the pitiful sight of the women and children. He heard a low moan from beneath the supply wagon and stooped down to take a look. His heart sank like a lead weight when he saw the woman.

It was Leda, and she lifted one arm when she saw Brad. She looked like a drowning woman stretching her hand out to a would-be rescuer.

“Brad,” she breathed, and blood bubbled from her mouth.

“Leda,” he said and crawled beneath the wagon. The front of her dress was drenched with blood, though he could not see a wound. He grasped her hand and squeezed it to try and give her some kind of comfort.

“Where are you hit?” he asked, whispering the words close to her ear.

“I—I do not know,” she gasped. “It hurts to breathe, and my left arm has no feeling. My fingers do not move.”

“Just lie still,” he said. “I'll see if I can find where the bullet hit you. It may hurt some.”

“Ooooh,” she moaned as he touched her shoulder then traced a finger over the mass of blood. He stopped when his fingertip dipped into a hollow depression. He gently pulled apart that section of her dress and saw a blue-black hole in her olive skin.

“You got hit there,” he said as her eyes closed, and she looked as if she would fall into a swoon.

She moaned and opened her tear-filled eyes. He looked at them and could see the pain and grief of a thousand years in each of them. She looked old and tired, but there was a fierceness in her expression, too, an age-old wisdom of those who have suffered much in their lives and carried the sadness of a cast-down race in their bloodstream. He saw all that in her eyes and face and was overwhelmed with sadness that mingled with an anger toward whoever had shot her down like a stray dog. Leda was still a young woman, but she had aged in the past few minutes, and he thought how cruel it was to rob a woman of her beauty and dignity with a single gunshot, as if she didn't matter and would not be missed by a single soul in her life.

“Brad,” she moaned, “tell Mikel I tried to save the children.”

His throat filled with unbidden sobs, and he squeezed her hand.

“You can tell him yourself, Leda. I can maybe patch up that hole, hitch our horses to a wagon, and get you back up to the valley.”

To his surprise, she squeezed back, but her hand was weak and he barely felt the pressure of her fingers.

“No,” she said, and her voice had turned husky. “I am not long for this world. I know. My fire is dying. I can feel it get small, and there is no longer any fire to keep me warm.”

“Don't say that,” he whispered. “You can't die right now. You are too young. And you are too beautiful.”

“I go to meet my husband,” she said. “I know he is waiting for me. I—I can hear him call my name. I hear him calling, Brad. You say good-bye to Mikel for me. You are my hero.”

It was a long speech for a dying woman, he knew. She was dying, though, and there was nothing he could do about it. Her life was ebbing away, and soon she would be still and cold like all the others who lay strewn about the rocky road like outsized dolls tossed from a child's toy box.

“I wish you would stay, Leda. You are a wonderful woman. Please stay with us.”

“No,” she said, and the husk in her voice had turned to a raspy whisper. “We each have our time in life. My time has gone. There is one thing you can do for me, Brad.”

“Anything,” he said.

“Vivelda,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I—I pushed her from the wagon. She ran into the trees. Find her, please. Tell her . . .”

That was all Leda said, all she could say. He thought he could see her breath leave her body just as those ancient Greeks said it did, in a thin vapor that was her soul, her psyche. Her eyes closed and her breath left her, never to return. Her hand went limp in his, and her chest stopped rising and falling. The blood ceased to flow from her wound as her heart stopped.

He felt the tears sting his eyes as he let her hand fall from his.

“Good-bye, Leda,” he said in a voice choked with emotion.

He wondered if he should say a prayer for her. No, she did not need any prayer from him. Leda knew where she was going; she was probably already there.

He crawled out from under the wagon and took off his hat in reverence for Leda. He slapped it against his leg as if he did not want to be caught crying or showing sympathy for a woman he hardly knew.

But there was no one there to see him.

He put his hat back on and walked toward Ginger.

That's when he heard a shout from the timber and a rash of angry words flying between two men. One of the voices was Sorenson's.

Then he heard two quick shots.

His blood quickened as he pulled himself up into the saddle.

He heard a crash and wondered who had fallen. Or what had fallen.

A horse neighed, and the stillness of day engulfed him as if the dark clouds had descended and smothered the world around him in a thick, fluffy shroud.

Brad drew his pistol once again and thumbed the hammer back to full cock.

“Thor,” he called.

But there was no answer.

LouDon's stomach contents splashed onto his boots, his stirrup, and part of his trouser leg. There wasn't much food left from supper the night before, but there was the stale stench of coffee and the stinging scent of digestive juices.

He knew he had made a mistake, throwing up like that so near to the road.

His horse sidled away from the mess that had splashed on the ground. The animal took just one step sideways as if to avoid the poisonous substance so near its hooves.

LouDon straightened up and wiped his soiled mouth on his sleeve. His stomach still boiled, and he tried to put the stark images of the bullet-ruptured children out of his mind. He could still hear their frantic screams, could still feel the terror in their voices as the rifles cracked and dropped them one by one. He could see the fear on their faces as they ran in all directions as if fleeing from a fire.

Nor could he forget the dark-skinned women and blot out their shrill screams as the rifles barked and bullets punched holes in their breasts, their heads, and their hearts. Such a waste of womanhood, he thought, such a horror.

He had shot the horses, and to see such fine animals destroyed by his bullets was a terrible thing to behold. Yet he had been caught up in the moment and after his first shot, he did not think, did not try to balance death with what he knew of life. He had just done what Schneck told him to do, and it was like shooting elk at first when he could only see the hairy hides and not the entire target.

It was only after he saw the horses go down and saw the blood that he felt the pangs of regret course through his body. And when Sweeney had shot the two outriders, he hadn't felt any remorse. Instead, he had put mental distance between him and the two riders as they had been torn from their saddles by the force of rifle bullets. They had seemed like large mannequins pulled from their mounts by an invisible string. He had not felt anything. Those men were foreigners. They were sheepherders. They were his mortal enemies.

The first child had been a small boy. Jackson had seen him jump from the second wagon and run straight toward him. He yelled words in a language LouDon did not understand, but he thought he recognized the word “mama” just before he squeezed the trigger, felt his rifle buck against his shoulder, and saw the bullet smash into the little boy's chest just below his young throat.

The boy had collapsed in a tumbling heap, arms and legs flailing wildly, blood gushing onto the ground and soaking into the sand and gravel. LouDon squinched his eyes until they were almost shut, but the pandemonium incited him to pick out other targets and swing his rifle barrel to pick them up, one by one, lever another cartridge into the firing chamber, and squeeze the trigger when his front sight, the muzzle of his rifle, picked up the figure and blotted it out just before he fired his gun.

It was carnage he realized now. None of those women and children had a chance in hell of escaping the slaughter.

He had been a part of it, and now he could not get the pictures of those innocent little kids out of his mind. He was sick beyond sickness, and his empty stomach was now raw and twitching as if it had been scoured with iron files, the lining scraped clean and left to fester. He knew he had to get out of there before they spotted him. He turned his horse and let the animal creep away a step at a time so it would not make too much noise. He headed for some place deeper into the timber, away from the road. He looked over his shoulder and listened to the soft voices of the two men until they either stopped or faded in the distance between him and them.

He had not traveled more than a hundred yards or so when he heard a noise behind him.

He could not see well through the myriad of pine trees and spruce trees, the white scarred trunks of the aspens, but he knew someone was following him. He resisted the urge to bury his spurs in his horse's flanks and ride away at high speed. Some instinct told him to go slow and perhaps he could slink away into the forest and get the hell out of there without being seen.

He patted his horse on the neck and leaned over the saddle horn so that he had some protection from a bullet in the back.

Then he heard the voice from behind him, and his blood froze.

“Where you goin', LouDon?”

LouDon recognized the voice. He sat up straight and turned around.

There, riding through the trees at a slow pace, was a man he knew, a man he did not want to know he had seen with the Sidewinder.

He pretended not to know and let out a sign of relief.

“Howdy, Thor,” LouDon said as he hauled in on the reins and stopped his horse. “What in hell are you doin' way out here?”

Sorenson kept coming toward him. Closer and closer.