Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1) (9 page)

“You come any closer I’ll blow his brains out,” Joe said through clenched teeth. “Then I’ll kill
you
.”

The man pulled up on his horse’s reins, bringing it to a stop. “And what would that get you, scavenger?” He looked at his men who surrounded Joe. “A bullet through the heart, that’s what. I’m offering you a chance to live. Let go of my friend, and we will take you to the Warlord. He will decide what happens to you.”

Joe didn’t like the sound of this
Warlord.
Seemed to him like it was a prolonged death sentence. If Joe let go of this man, he would give up any power he might have had over the situation. But wouldn’t he be doing the same thing if he killed the man? Joe cursed silently at his predicament. Finally, he pulled the gun away, leaving a small circle imprinted on the man’s forehead. Joe stood to his feet and put his hands in the air. Thoughts passed through his head. He was a sharpshooter. He could take out six of these men before any of them registered he was firing his gun. Joe was limited only by the amount of cartridges in his pistol. Reloading is where the others would get him. If he had cover, there would be no problem until he was finally out of ammunition.

“Don’t even think about it, scavenger,” the leader on the horse said. He seemed to know what Joe was contemplating. “I assure you, your chances are far better with the Warlord than in a fight with us.”

The man was right, Joe knew, and he hated the fact. Joe wasn’t one to give up so easily, but he also knew when he was beaten. He swore and tossed his pistol to the ground as he stood over the man he had just been straddling. He fully expected one of the fighters to send a bullet his way, but the shot never came. Instead, a few others got off their horses and walked up to Joe. They reached for his wrists first and then someone kicked the back of his knees, forcing him back into a kneeling position. Finally, he was in ropes—a prisoner among a group of people that he knew nothing about.

The man on the ground stood up nervously and picked up Joe’s six-shooter from the ground. He looked at Joe with loathing in his eyes, most likely contemplating using Joe’s own weapon against him, when his leader called for the gun. The man on the ground did as he was told, released the hammer gently, and handed it to the leader.

“Get him on a pony, and take him back to camp. The Warlord waits.”

They took Joe to a tree just outside the Renegade camp and chained him to it. He sat against the trunk, each wrist clasped with a large, metal band, the chain making a full wrap around the tree. His hands weren’t free enough to try and pick the lock, and pulling did nothing but hurt his arms. He was stuck in this strange land forced to listen to the sound of celebration in the camp at a distance. Apparently, the Renegades had just won a major battle against the Crimson Army. Clive, the man who had talked Joe away from the Renegade he had meant to kill, had told Joe this.

“I’m not going to let you spoil the Warlord’s victory celebration,” Clive had said. “But eventually I’ll need to let him know that you’re out here. He’ll want to question you himself.”

“Question me about what?” Joe had asked.
 

“You don’t have a side. You ain’t a Renegade, and you ain’t Crimson Army neither. Yet, we found you in the middle of the battlefield pretending to be dead. To me that raises some questions.”

“Why does it matter?” Joe had asked. “Why don’t you just let me go?”

“Been a lot of attempts on the Warlord’s life as of late,” Clive had said. “If you’re one of the Crimson Army assassins working for the president, then you’re in a heap of trouble.”

Clive hadn’t let Joe ask anymore questions. He had just turned and left at that point. Now, the sky was dark and Joe watched the fires in the distance as the Renegades danced and sang loudly with drunken, almost maniacal laughter. There was no one watching Joe. There was no need. He just wondered why he had stumbled into this part of Galamore. Why had he found himself in the middle of a war torn field? Was there a purpose to the book he stole from the safety deposit box or was it just random chance that put him at the mercy of the Renegades?

Two hours dragged on and Joe figured they were just going to leave him there through the night. His mind wandered and he thought about the possibility of hungry animals taking an interest in his legs. Kicking and screaming wouldn’t do much if an animal was starved enough. The more he thought about it, the more it made him nervous, so he tried to think about something else. He thought about Nate and wondered if the bounty hunter got to him. He thought about the snake, Tyler Montgomery, who had set them up. Well, maybe hadn’t been a setup. Maybe this was something else. Whatever it was, Joe aimed to find him and make him pay. He had to be around here somewhere. Then there was Stew and Ralph. Where could they have gone? Wouldn’t everyone have awoken in the same spot Joe had? Perhaps not. All Joe knew was that none of them were here now, so he had to get used to the fact that he was completely alone. When it came down to it, Joe was just scared. He wasn’t afraid to admit it. He couldn’t help but wonder if he should have started shooting when Clive and his Renegades had come up on him. There might have been a chance to shoot a few key fighters and get away. But it was too late now.

Hours went by, perhaps four or five, and this left Joe feeling groggy. His back ached as he rested against the tree, and his wrists were sore. He had accidentally dozed off once or twice, but most of the time he tried to keep himself awake. He figured it was only a couple of hours before dawn when Clive and three other men came up to him, their faces lit only by a single lantern.

“Unchain him,” Clive commanded one of the men. He looked down at Joe. “Don’t make any sudden movements or we’ll put holes in you.”

Joe noticed the other men carrying carbines. He believed they would love nothing more than for Joe to make a sudden movement. The men looked wild, mostly dressed up in brown pants and dirty shirts that probably used to be white. Their faces were bearded or rough with stubble. Most of them let their hair grow unkempt and some even had mud smeared on their faces. Clive presented himself as the most tame of them all, yet the others seemed to respect everything he said. His clothes were about the same, but he lacked the bloodlust that the other men exuded. His eyes seemed somber, his beard cropped short and even. Clive was…put together.

When Joe’s wrists were free, he was sure to stand to his feet slowly. He instantly felt the relief of blood rushing to his numb limbs as he was allowed to move. With guns pointed at his back, he followed Clive toward the camp slowly and with calm, measured steps.
 

Most of the men in the camp were dozing next to the fires, a lot of them with empty glass bottles and overturned jugs nearby. Only a few times did Joe get a look from a Renegade soldier who didn’t already know about his existence. With each heavy step he took through the camp, he wondered if he was marching to his grave. Would this Warlord simply take one look at him, ask a couple of questions, and order him to be executed?
 

When they came to one of the larger tents in the camp, Joe swallowed hard. Clive gave him a long look—one that seemed to tell him that he better not even think of trying something. He looked back at the guards behind Joe and waved them off. Without a word, the others backed off a few feet. Clive motioned for Joe to step forward. He took one step.

“The Warlord is ready for you,” Clive whispered. “You will speak only when spoken to. You will answer any question he asks you with truth. The moment he senses you are lying, he will kill you. He doesn’t have time for liars. Do you understand?”

Joe didn’t say anything.
 

“I’m trying to help you,” Clive said. “You do as I tell you and you might survive the night.”

“Who is this Warlord?” Joe asked nervously, though he stuck out his chin to feign confidence.

Clive studied him for a long moment, then sighed as he shook his head. He stepped forward and opened the flap to the tent, motioning for Joe to step through. “After you, scavenger.”

Joe took a few short steps forward. Fear grabbed ahold of his stomach and wouldn’t let go. His fingers started shaking as he moved forward. The tent was mostly dark but for the other side where a large figure stood near a lamp. The man wore a white tunic and brown pants, but next to him, on the floor, was a pile of neatly folded clothes, battle garb decorated with stitched emblems and symbols of authority. The large man looked at Joe and he smiled. His face was clean shaven and his head was bald. Joe noticed that the flames from the lamplight danced with shimmering reflections on his waxed scalp. He was probably Nate’s age, maybe a couple of years older. The only imperfect part of his face was a long scar that went from his ear all the way down his neck—an injury Joe was sure took some time to heal.
 

“So, this is the scavenger you told me about, Clive?” The Warlord’s voice was low and gravelly. His gray eyes seemed constantly narrowed with suspicion.

“Yes, Warlord,” Clive said.
 

“Clive tells me you were in the fields, playing dead,” the Warlord said. “If you are a friend, not an enemy, why would you play dead?”

“I ain’t a friend or enemy,” Joe replied. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The Warlord lifted an eyebrow. “A couple of hours after a bloody battle you accidentally found your way to the middle of it?”

“That’s right,” Joe said.
 

“You better start explaining yourself.”

Joe considered the truth, but thought it would seem too bizarre. And if it seemed too bizarre then the Warlord would think he was lying. Then, Joe would be killed. He decided to lie.
 

“I heard the battle,” Joe said. “I was traveling, but I’d run out of supplies. I waited for the battle to calm down before I went in.”

“To be a scavenger?” he asked.
 

“That’s right,” Joe answered. “I’ve been traveling on foot. I thought a battle might give me a chance to take a horse.”

“Where are you headed?”

“South.”

“Where south?”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t know. Just south. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“Just traveling?”

“That’s what I do.”

“Why?”

Joe racked his brain. Why would someone be traveling with no aim? Then it hit him. Why not tell him the truth? Just leave out the part about the book he stole and falling through the sky.

“Because I’m an outlaw,” Joe said. “I’m a wanted man.”

The Warlord’s eyes narrowed even more if that was possible. He placed his hands behind his back and started pacing. “How much are you worth?”

“A few thousand,” Joe said.

The Warlord seemed surprised. “What’s your name? Surely I would have heard of someone worth so much to the government.”

“Joseph Cole. Most people just call me Joe.”

“Joe.” The Warlord stared at him intensely. Joe wondered if he was simply trying to determine whether the newcomer spoke the truth or not. The man walked to the side table where the lamp was, opened and drawer, reached in, and pulled out Joe’s pistol and belt. “What kind of crime did you commit?”

“Robbery,” Joe said.
 

“What were you trying to steal?”

Joe didn’t know what he should say next. He didn’t want to come across as a thief who would be willing to steal from anyone. He needed to be calculated. He needed to think like the people he was around. Who would these Renegades appreciate Joe stealing from? The innocent? Maybe. Banks? But Clive and the Warlord both mentioned something about a president—both of them said something negative. The president, it seemed, was the enemy.
 

“Weapons,” Joe finally answered. “From the president’s soldiers.”

“Seems brave. Or stupid.”

“Well,” Joe said, “those guns are worth a lot of money to the right people.”

“Why don’t you have a horse?”

“It died a few days ago,” Joe answered. He was starting to sweat even though he didn’t feel cold. How much longer was the Warlord going to ask him questions?

“Do you have a stash of weapons?” the Warlord asked.
 

This was it. This would determine whether Joe was going to live to see dawn or die before daybreak. The Warlord wasn’t asking him questions to see what kind of person Joe truly was. He was asking Joe questions because he wanted to know if he could get any use out of him. Joe’s next lie would be enough to keep him alive for a few days at least.

“What if I told you I did?” Joe asked.
 

The Warlord grinned for the first time that night. “Then I would say you’d bought yourself a pardon. That is, if the treasure you claim to have is legitimate.”

“Well, it is.”

“What do you have?”

“Guns. Lots of guns. Rifles. Handguns. Gatling guns. You name it, I’ve got it. The president has no idea where I’ve stashed it all. I can only sell a little bit of it at a time so I don’t get caught.”

“Too late for that.”

“As it would seem, yes.”

“You have canons?”

Joe shook his head. “Too heavy to steal. I’d need a crew for that kind of loot.”

The Warlord walked back to his end table and reached into the drawer and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment. He then walked to another table on the other side of the tent, bringing his lamp with him. He unrolled the parchment and motioned for Joe to come next to him. When Joe stood only a foot away, he could see that the parchment was a map. At the top, the letters read
Galamore
in perfect calligraphy
.
So, this was it. This was where he was. The land that Tyler Montgomery had been after was here.
 

“Show me where you’ve stashed it,” the Warlord said.
 

“I can show you all you want,” Joe said, “but you won’t be able to get to it without me. There is a particular way to get there. You’ll need me.”

“Show me on the map.”

Joe looked down at the dirty, cream-colored parchment, searching the entire map. To the others it may have seemed like he was trying to decide whether or not to actually tell him the truth. But in all honesty, Joe was simply looking for a place he thought might be farthest from them. The longer the journey, the more time he would have to think of an escape. He took a deep breath and pointed to a random spot.