Wraiths of the Broken Land (32 page)

Right hand upraised, Dolores matched her father’s deft footwork, twirling for three and two-beat durations. “You can do it good.”

“Thanks.” John Lawrence Plugford smiled. “And you’re a better dancer than Patch Up.”

“Bigot,” said the negro.

The patriarch alternated the direction in which he twirled his daughter and fluidly guided her alongside his sons and their partners.

Brent looked away from his widow and appraised his father’s footwork. “You’ve got it all the way correct.”

“This ain’t easy natural to a man like me,” John Lawrence Plugford remarked, “but I learned how, and take real pleasure in doin’ it proper.”

Dolores knew that this comment was about more than just dancing.

Darkness expanded.

“Doloressssss.”

Darkness thickened. The face of John Lawrence Plugford wailed and coughed up blood. Fluid dripped from his wrinkled eyes.

Darkness receded.

“Doloressssss.”

Sitting upon Patch Up’s stool with her face pressed to the wall, Dolores awakened. The molten potbelly stove was dark, and the fort was cold and dim. She lifted her head.

“They’re riding toward us,” said Long Clay. “Put your gun in the slit.”

“Okay.” The redheaded woman glanced at her father and Patch Up, both of whom had been alive in her dream only ten seconds earlier. They were still and filled with chill night.

“Let’s get this goddamn Gris for permanent,” Stevie remarked from the far side of the south wall.

Dolores raised her rifle, pointed the barrel outside and looked at the moonless night. “I can’t see hardly anything.”

Long Clay exhaled through his nose and aimed his telescopic rifle. “Neither can they.”

Chapter V
The New Constellations

Brent Plugford watched a broad shadow emerge from the southern woodlands. Even with the powerful magnification of his spyglass, it was impossible for him to discern how many riders comprised the opposition, although it was clear that they rode at a full gallop, directly toward the fort.

“You don’t like what we did to your amigo, do you?” taunted Stevie. “Don’t like what we done to his tamale.”

The dark mass poured across grasslands that were slick with dew.

Brent asked, “How does Deep Lakes fit into this plan?”

“He improvises.”

“Okay.”

Three stars that were muzzle flashes twinkled within the charging horde and shone light like a photographer’s powder flash. Brent saw approximately fifty riders as well as several horse-drawn vehicles.

“Looks like nearly three score men are comin’.”

The announcement poisoned the air.

“Goddamn.”

Dolores swiveled upon her stool. “Brent?”

“Yeah?”

“When…when I was a whore in Catacumbas, I thought about…about ending it every day. You’ve got no idea of how bad it really was—‘specially after I was crippled.” The redheaded woman turned back to her opening and gazed out at the dark world. “But I didn’t kill myself…‘cause…well…it ain’t easy, and ‘cause I thought maybe you all would rescue me someday like you did. But if Gris got me again…I wouldn’t even have that small hope.” She paused, and the silence that filled the fort was heavier than the world. “I can’t go back there. I can’t. Never.”

Unable to respond to his sister’s terrible request, Brent stared through his spyglass at the charging enemy, who were three-and-a-half miles distant.

“They won’t get you,” Stevie said, “I won’t let ‘em.”

“Brent,” Dolores prompted, “you know what I’m askin’ you to do.”

“I know and I’ll do it,” agreed the cowboy, shuddering.

“Thank you.”

Stevie looked over. “Brent?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for sayin’ that stuff ‘bout you. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“It’s okay. This’s a hard time for every Plugford.”

The riders careered onto the pale weedy terrain and became sharp silhouettes. Galloping horses elongated and shortened twice per second, and vehicles vibrated upon invisible wooden wheels. The tattoo of hooves sounded like distant rain.

“If we survive,” Stevie asked, “could I maybe come cowboy with you in your outfit? I ain’t gonna run the ranch without Pa and Patch Up there with me.”

“We gotta make sure Dolores and Yvette are situated good.”

“After they’re settled, can I come?”

Brent did not believe he would live to see any of these imagined scenarios, but he did not want to diminish his brother’s hopes. “Okay. I’ll hire you.”

“Thanks. I’ll work hard and behave, and I promise I won’t drink.”

Less than two miles south of the fort, horses and wagons sped across the terrain.

“Okay.”

Long Clay squeezed his trigger, and light cracked. At the vanguard of the charging crew, a brown horse bucked. Even though the riders hunched forward in their saddles, their backs remained exposed because of the incline. The gunfighter flung his bolt, and a spinning shell clinked upon the stone.

“That’s still well over a mile,” remarked Stevie.

Long Clay adjusted his aim and fired. A man fell from a black colt to the ground, where his linear form was trampled until it became circular.

After a stentorian cry, the riders poked white holes into the night. Bullets hit the terrain far below the trench or climbed uselessly into the air.

Stevie fired.

“Save it,” Brent said, “they’re not in range of our guns yet.”

Long Clay fired his telescopic rifle. A sombrero took flight, and a hatless rider tumbled into the dirt. Again, the gunfighter fired. A man grabbed his neck, fell from his saddle and struck the ground, where his head was kicked, cracked and crushed by hooves.

The riders extended their hands and conjured crackling white constellations. Plumes of dirt blossomed at the foot of the incline, and wild bullets whistled toward the sky.

Long Clay fired. A red dot burst upon the white neck of a horse, and the beast veered wildly, spilling its rider. The gunfighter emptied the chamber, loaded a new round and fired. A fallen man was trampled by a brace of horses and had his legs shorn at the knees by wagon wheels.

The opposition extended elongated arms and conjured crackling constellations. Dirt blossomed and wild rounds whistled.

Long Clay pulled the cartridge from the bottom of his rifle, slotted a fully-loaded replacement, drew a bullet into the chamber and fired. A man’s hand turned into a red flower.

Half of a mile separated the charging crew from the fort.

“Start firing,” ordered the gunfighter.

Brent set down his spyglass, raised his rifle, monitored the galloping opposition, pointed his barrel at its center and squeezed his trigger. White fire flashed before his eyes. A fleck that was too small to be a person dropped from the equine tide. Presently, Stevie and Dolores sent rounds.

Across the vanguard of the advancing horde, gunfire flashed.

Brent leaned back from the opening. Bullets struck brick or whistled into the sky or clicked against the mountain wall. From the ceiling of the fort, old dust sifted down.

The cowboy flung his trigger guard forward, and the spent shell clinked against the wall and floor. He leaned to the slit, aimed at the vanguard, and fired. The round whistled. A rider yelled, tumbled from his horse and was dismembered by hooves.

Thirty guns flashed.

Brent put his back to the stone wall, as did his siblings and the gunfighter. Bullets hissed overhead and cracked against the facade.

One of the captives shrieked, “¡No dispares, no dispares!”

The inverted Midwesterner yelled out, “We’re still alive! Don’t shoot us!”

“¡Ayudame, por favor, ayudame!” pleaded another inverted hostage.

The distant riders yelled and cursed.

“¡Diablos!”

“¡Animales!”

“¡Bárbaros!”

Although he did not know Spanish, Brent felt that he fully comprehended these imprecations. Presently, he heard the sound of crackling tinder that was Long Clay’s ugly laugh.

Brent returned to the slit, aimed at the vanguard and fired. Atop the roof of a turquoise stagecoach, a rifle flashed. A bullet cracked into the stone directly beside the cowboy’s opening.

“Hell.” Brent leaned back from the opening and announced, “They’ve got a marksman.” His heart was pounding. “Atop the turquoise stagecoach.”

“I’ll get him.” Stevie pointed his rifle through the adjacent slit, fired, flung his trigger guard and aimed.

Brent slammed into his brother and knocked him west. A shot whistled through the slit and impacted the door of the prisoner’s cell. The siblings struck the west wall, and their rifles clattered upon the floor.

“Double goddamn!”

“You gotta shoot and hide while they got that sharpshooter,” Brent said as he retrieved their weapons.

On the far side of the fort, Dolores fired, leaned to the wall and flung her trigger guard. “Got somebody.”

“Which one’s the turquoise stagecoach?” asked Long Clay.

“The green-looking one,” said Stevie.

“Tell me its position,” clarified Long Clay, who was loath to admit that he could not see colors.

Brent surveyed the charging enemy, gleaned the turquoise stagecoach, fired his gun and hid. “On the right. The furthest on the right.”

Long Clay shot, stepped away from his opening, jettisoned the spent shell, filled the chamber, went to a different slit, aimed and fired. “The sharpshooter’s done.”

Dolores fired and leaned back to the wall. “Got another.”

“That’s a Plugford woman!” Stevie fired.

Outside, fleet hooves thundered.

Brent raised his gun, aimed at the egg yolk that was the top of a yellow hat, pulled his trigger, blinked, flung his lever, watched the shot rider tumble and reveal a blonde man who wore a beige suit, fired, blinked and witnessed a gory corsage burgeon upon the man’s left lapel.

Long Clay put down his telescopic weapon, raised his repeater rifle and sent bullets, alternately squeezing and fanning. Brent, Stevie and Dolores pulled magazines from their gunstocks, slotted replacements and sent three magazines at the enemy. Upon the stone floor, spent shells clinked like coins from a slot machine. Five members of the opposition tumbled to the sere terrain.

The siblings slotted new magazines.

“Hold fire,” said the gunfighter. “Let them come.”

All of the vehicles and five of the riders slowed their approach, but the remainder of the opposition, twenty-six horsemen who were hunched low in their saddles, hastened onward, toward the trench that laid one hundred and ten yards south of the fort.

The Plugfords and Long Clay watched.

Hiding behind the necks of their galloping steeds, the riders yelled obscenities at their enemies within the fort.

One of the inverted captives shouted, “¡Ayudame, por favor!”

“¡Nuestros amigos están aquí!” cried another hostage. “¡Triunfo, triunfo!”

The vanguard reached the line. Two hesitant animals tumbled into the trench and snapped their necks, but the majority of the horses hurdled the narrow gap. Hooves impacted the pregnant ground and the sun exploded from the earth. Steeds and men were hurled into the air, shrieking, atop a welter of white fire, shrapnel and dirt. Brent and his siblings were shoved from their slits by the blasts.

Myriad thunders echoed across the mountain wall.

“Go to Hell!” Dolores shouted from beside her toppled stool.

“They’re on their way!” enthused Stevie. “Barbecued!”

A small amount of hope entered Brent’s chest.

Beyond the cowboy’s slit, the blackened pieces of steeds and men rained to the ground. A writhing vaquero struck the dirt, detonated another land torpedo and was wholly consumed by a bright white flash.

Five riders emerged from the cloud of smoke and continued their charge. Seared, deaf and blinded by grit, they fired wildly to the north, west and east.

Brent aimed his rifle at the nearest rider, fired and saw the dusty hombre fall. Long Clay shot two fellows from their saddles and sent an additional bullet into each man’s skull when he landed. Stevie and Dolores fired upon and killed the remaining pair.

The cowboy surveyed the terrain that laid in-between the fort and the opaque curtain of smoke that hung seventy yards to the south. In that dark region, he saw no immediate threat.

“Guns forward,” Long Clay ordered, “but hold until you’ve got something to shoot at.”

Brent flung his trigger guard and snapped it back. In the eerie silence of the aftermath, the sound of the mechanism seemed especially loud and sharp. He looked at the sky and saw that the eastern horizon was a tiny bit brighter than the surrounding vault. Dawn approached.

Stevie and Dolores slotted new magazines.

One of the captives began to weep.

Brent raised his spyglass and inspected the terrain. The smoke dissipated, revealimg a score of jet-black craters that looked like holes in reality. Along the south side of the trench sat both stagecoaches and all three wagons. The vehicles were parked in a continuous line and had their sides forward.

“They made a wall with the wagons,” announced Brent.

“Stevie,” said Long Clay.

“Yessir?”

“Get to the west wall. Dolores.”

“What?”

“Get to the east wall.”

Stevie returned to the opening that overlooked the cemetery, and Dolores scooted her stool beside the slit that faced the well.

“Watch the ground,” Long Clay advised, “there are probably survivors. Playing possum. Hiding.”

“We will,” said Stevie.

Brent monitored the terrain. Two blind horses stumbled amidst craters and incomplete corpses. South of the carnage, the line of vehicles sat still and quiet like an abandoned locomotive.

Immediately outside the fort, somebody sneezed. Brent stiffened—although none of the captives had their hands free, the sound had been muffled. “Back away from your slits,” the cowboy whispered, “someone’s out there.”

The Plugfords and Long Clay leaned their backs to the wall. Silently, the gunfighter slung his rifle and drew a black revolver. The quartet waited, listening, for a very long minute.

Outside the fort, a pebble clicked.

Long Clay thrust his gun barrel through a slit and into an eyeball; he squeezed his trigger twice. The reports were dim, muted by the man’s brainpan. As the gunfighter withdrew from the wall, and the man with the seared mind thudded to the ground outside. “Watch for them.”

Brent returned to his opening and raised his spyglass. Through the lenses he saw the luminous dark blue teeth of a charred horse, the prostrated body of a dead man who had been pierced by shrapnel, a leg with no owner and the rim of the foremost crater.

Within the dark hole, something moved.

Brent adjusted his lenses and said, “I see—”

A muzzle flashed.

The cowboy flew backwards, and a gunshot resounded.

“Brent!” yelled Stevie.

“No, no, no!” shouted Dolores.

The floor slammed into Brent’s shoulders, spine and buttocks. Fire flared across his shot left arm. “In the crater!”

In one fluid motion, Long Clay leaned to an opening, trained his rifle, fired twice and retreated.

Stevie ran to Brent.

“Stay on the wall,” the cowboy said, “I ain’t that bad off.”

“No. You can’t lose no more blood.” Stevie knelt, withdrew a large handkerchief, folded it thrice and pulled it around his brother’s left forearm.

“Hell!” The pain that burst from the wound almost knocked Brent unconscious. “Hell.” His left hand twitched and clenched.

Stevie tightened the tourniquet and knotted its ends. “There.”

Brent could not feel his left hand, but the wound was stanched. “Thanks.”

“You’re we—”

“Get to your slit,” ordered Long Clay. “Now!”

“I’m goin.’” Stevie rose to his feet and glared at the gunfighter. “And you don’t have to talk to me that way, neither. You can break all my limbs if that’s real important to you, but if my brother or any of my kin get hurt, I’m helpin’ them out no matter what.”

A shadow covered the opening directly behind the young man.

Brent’s stomach sank. “Stevie! Drop!”

Outside the darkened slit, a gun flashed.