Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (19 page)

Raymond Whitt backed away and made quick progress retreating down the stairs, his spurs tangling together. “Tennessee?”

“Yes. Chattanooga.”

*****

Hughes was standing behind the door, listening, when Leighselle returned to the room. “You clever, clever girl,” he said, shaking his head in astonishment. “That’s what I call an out-foxing maneuver.”

“I was afraid you’d come out, guns a-blazing.”

“Boy, did I want to,” Hughes said, twirling the loaded chamber of his Colt. “Biding my time is best. I plan on catching them off guard when they’re not on the hunt. But you—you deserve an honor—what a brilliant performance.”

“I think on my feet. Coming up with a spontaneous plan when there’s trouble brewing can mean the difference between life and death.”

“I’ll remember that.” Hughes moved to the side of the window, the chiffon curtain lifted a fraction. “The other brother’s out there—guessing the one I gut-shot. He’s not sitting too tall in the saddle.”

He watched the man as he exited the saloon and mount his horse. Then, the two Whitt brothers aimed their horses north out of the French Quarter, the horses galloping hooves splashing through the rain puddles that rutted the muddy lane.
 

“March is still cold at night. Take warm clothes. Did you pack a blanket?”
 

Hughes smiled at her. “Yes, mother.”

Leighselle winced. “I’m not your mother,” she said, piercing him with a sharp look.

“I’m sorry. What did I say?” Hughes looked stricken.

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m concerned about you.”

“I appreciate your concern. I grew up roughing it when Okwara would let me tag along on hog hunts. I think I can handle Texas in the spring. Come here.” He wrapped his arms around Leighselle, then kissed the top of her head. “I owe you my life. If you ever need anything, I’m forever in your debt.”

“Will you be coming back?”

“I don’t know. Father made it clear that after what he called my
‘
latest shenanigans,’ that I’m not welcome at home. He stuffed my pockets full of money and then showed me the door. Thank God my brother brought me here.” He shrugged his shoulders, his amber eyes clouded with pain.
 

“You’re always welcome at my door. Come, I’ll walk you downstairs. You’ll need that bottle of whiskey when it comes time to changing those bandages.”

Hughes sprinted the four blocks to the livery stable to fetch his horse, not wanting to put too much time between himself and the Whitts. Holding his side, feeling lightheaded, he fought off waves of mind-splitting pain and gut-emptying nausea.
 

*****

Smitty rubbed his dirty hands down his apron, the fire box behind the anvil glowing bright orange. He picked up a red-hot horseshoe with heavy wrought-iron tongs and lay it on an anvil. After giving it a few whacks with a flat-headed hammer, he immersed it in a bucket of water. Steam rose in a gray circle that eclipsed his round, bald head.
 

“They were here,” said Smitty. “Asked if I knew you—asked how long since you left for Tennessee. I said, ‘Tennessee? Hell, he didn’t go to Tennessee. That boy went to Texas.’ I think that confused ’em a bit.”

Hughes led his mare out of the stall and threw his saddle across her back, wincing as he did so, tying the blanket and rain slicker behind the cantle. “I wonder which way they went.”

“Oh, they argued. Almost came to blows. One said Tennessee, but they sure as hell didn’t leave here headed east. The other’n, the one with the gut shot and leg wound, said Texas. Guess he’s the boss. They rode west.”

*****

Their trail proved too easy to follow. Hughes reined his horse back a few times so as not to ride up on the reckless pair who left careless clues. Crickets, owls, and coyotes filled the frosty night with their songs as stars filled the expansive darkness from corner to corner with their sparkling light. Spring was still a few weeks away. The cooling of the earth at night left a heavy dew on the ground, making a wet snaking track where the horses passed.

Hughes yawned and stretched, ignoring the pain still pulsing hot on his side. He thought of changing the bandages as he touched his wound, feeling a wet stickiness through his shirt. He would have changed it if the Whitts ever stopped to rest, but it appeared as if they planned on riding all night. The other wound from the superficial grazing of the bullet just above his right ear left a faint scar, his hair already growing over and hiding it.

Dawn washed the eastern horizon in shades of night-dissolving pink, the forest sounds hushing as the sun rose into a silent sky. The Whitts pulled off the trail and led their horses into a thicket of old-growth pine so dense the sun’s rays strained to reach the ground. There they made camp.

Hughes rode his mare in the opposite direction a safe distance away, putting her on a picket line to graze. Then, wrapping himself in a blanket, he lay down next to where his horse was tied. He fell into a light, feverish sleep.

The screeching of a hawk high overhead awoke him, the sun halfway through its arc across the sky. Hughes sat up, listening to the piney woods, orienting himself. The pain in his side radiated out in fiery hot fingers that tugged on every nerve. A gulp of whiskey from the bottle in his saddlebag numbed the pain and cleared his head just enough.

He’d change the bandages later. It was time to see what was happening at the Whitt camp. Guns in hand, he sneaked through the woods, careful not to make a sound.
 

Hughes smiled and thanked the stars above for making this so easy. Raymond and Monroe Whitt lay on the far side of their fire next to a rocky outcropping, an empty bottle of whiskey between them. The injured man moaned in his blanket, which was bloody and wet with a rusty brown stain, the small campfire offering up a thin string of pale gray smoke.

“I’m cold, Raymond. Get up and stir that fire back to life.” Monroe’s voice sounded raspy and weak. “And I’m thirsty. Gimme a sip of whiskey.”

Raymond Whitt rolled over, the blanket that was covering him falling away. He sat up, cursing. “Well, shit. Can’t a man even get some sleep?” He hobbled over to the fire and began to poke it with a stick. “Ain’t no more whiskey.”

“I’m thirsty, brother. I’m hurting. Just put a bullet in me and get it over with,” Monroe begged.

“Hold your horses. I’m stirring the fire.”

Hughes crept in further, ducking behind the trunk of an enormous pin oak tree. Assessing the situation, forming a plan, he picked at the dirt under his nails, scraping them clean with a twig. Go on, Raymond, he thought, give your brother some water. Step on over there, nice and close.
 

“I’m thirsty. . . ” Monroe’s voice faded away to a whimper.

“Well, I’m cold. I want coffee.” Raymond busied himself with the task at hand, stirring the ashes, the fire crackling to life once again.

“Water. Now.”

“Damn it, Monroe, we should a headed to Tennessee.” Raymond spun around, stir stick in hand, thrusting it in the air for emphasis. “That bitch at the tavern said that’s where Lévesque went. But no. You took the blacksmith’s word. We’ve been in goddamned Texas a day and a half now and ain’t seen a single sign. Not a one. Now you’re dying, and it’ll be on me alone to find Lévesque and kill him, wherever the hell he is. We should a gone to Tennessee.”

“I’m the one with the gut wound and you’re the one bellyaching—”
 

“Tennessee,” insisted Raymond. “Tennessee.”

“Put a bullet in me and get it over with. At least I won’t have to listen to you harp on about Tennessee.” Monroe, feverish and moaning, rolled back and forth in his blanket, clutching his distended belly that was oozing blood. “Water. I’m thirsty . . .”
 

“You got a gun. Do it yourself,” said Raymond over his shoulder.

“Goddamn you,” moaned Monroe. “Suicide’s a sure ticket to hell.”

“I think murdering your brother’ll get you there, too.”

Hughes watched as Raymond picked up a canteen and rose to his feet, shuffling to where Monroe lay shivering on the ground. He opened the canteen and lifted his brother’s head with one hand, pouring a trickle of water into his mouth.

Now
.
Go
.
 

Hughes rushed from behind the oak tree, a pistol in each hand. He covered the distance to the Whitts in long, ground-clearing strides. “Get your hands in the air, both of you,” he shouted, “or I’ll shoot. I’ve had enough of all your fucking arguing.”

Raymond dropped both the canteen and Monroe’s head, then stood up, hands in the air. “Don’t shoot, mister.”

“You on the ground, ease your hands out of that blanket. Let me see them. Nice and slow.”

A noise coming from behind, twigs snapping, a horse nickering, caused Hughes to divert his eyes to the side a fraction of a second. In that moment, Raymond drew his gun, fumbling, pulling the trigger too soon. The bullet struck the ground at Hughes’s feet, spraying dirt into the air. Hughes fired back, the bullet ripping a hole through the heart of Raymond, sending him sprawling backward, spread-eagle to the ground.
 

A white-hot, searing pain tore through Hughes’s left shoulder—the flashing of a gun—the loud pop echoing in his ear. The force from the blast spun him around, knocking him off his feet.
 

On the ground, Monroe crawled out from the blanket, gun in hand. He stood but sank down to his knees, struggling to hold the weight of the weapon. He brought the pistol up, gripping it in both hands slippery with blood. Unsteady, shaking, he blinked his eyes in rapid succession in an apparent effort to keep his target in focus.

Rolling over on his belly, ignoring the pain underneath the bloody bandage on his side, Hughes took quick aim. He fired, sending Monroe Whitt to join his brothers in hell.

The whoosh-click of a shotgun being readied just behind his head caused him to freeze—and then to comply with the “get up on your feet and put your hands in the air” command. The voice was patient and pleasant, gentle yet assertive, the kind of voice that could talk a kid into giving up a piece of candy or convince a hornet into not stinging.

“Toss your guns over here, then hands in the air,” said the pleasant voice.

Hughes stood and did as he was told
.
Two men he could see, one with the shotgun, another behind in the trees
.
He tossed his guns on the ground, shoved his hands in the air.

“What’s your name, mister?” The tall, thin man stood under a large brown hat that hid his eyes and the top half of his face, his thick, black mustache covering his mouth and the bottom half. His slow, easy words dripped like thick, rich molasses.

“Hughes Lévesque.”

“Where’re you from, and why are you here?” he asked with a nice tone to his voice.

“New Orleans. Tracking these outlaws.”

“You’re as sparse with your words as you are your bullets.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Looks like you tracked them all right—tracked them to the gates of hell.”

“They tried to kill me first. I shot in defense. My plan was to take them back to New Orleans where their brothers Dalton and Arthur paid the same price for trying to kill me. These two are Raymond and Monroe Whitt.”

“We know who they are, son, and saw what happened,” said a gravelly voiced man stepping out from the trees. “We’ve come from Orleans. Heard what happened there. We suspected it might be you who was following these two.”

“We’ve been after the Whitts for some time,” said the pleasant, hatted man holding the shotgun. “Looks like you made tidy work with them in short order.”

“Hell, I didn’t know who they were until two days ago. I had no quarrel with them, until what happened to Monique. Then I had a quarrel.” Hands still in the air, Hughes’s shoulder throbbed. He ignored it.

“Well, son, you did us a favor,” said the man with the gravelly voice. “Seems you have a knack for tracking and killing. You ought to think about joining up with us.”

“I’m not some common brigand looking to join up with an outlaw gang,” said Hughes, the wound to his shoulder dripping with blood.

“We’re not outlaws, son. We’re Texas Rangers.”

*****

September 28, 1860

The train pulled into New Orleans Station, its shrill whistle drawing Hughes out of a deep sleep. He pressed his forearm against the foggy window, swiping a clear circle, allowing a watery, distorted view of the platform. John-Pierre stood shivering, hands in pockets, hat pulled down, coat collar turned up against the autumn chill. He never did take to the outdoors. It wasn’t even that cold outside
.

Hughes stepped onto the platform and the brothers shook hands, then embraced in a quick hug. Exchanging pleasantries, they made their way to the station’s café where they spent an hour drinking coffee, telling stories, and reminiscing.

Before long, John-Pierre pulled his watch from his pocket, apologizing for having to leave so soon. Business demanded it. The two brothers embraced again—longer, tighter—before John-Pierre departed, disappearing through the crowd of uniformed soldiers milling about the train station.

Hughes sat a while longer and sipped another coffee. Everywhere he looked, he saw soldiers. Young, fresh-faced boys pumping fists in the air, eager for excitement, eager for adventure, eager for the chance to prove their manhood.
Eager to die
.
 

They spoke about going to war, their voices filled with the enthusiasm and energy of youth, as if “War” were a welcoming place to put your bags down and stay a while. Some would stay—for eternity. But maybe there wouldn’t be a war. Maybe this next presidential election would steer the country away from that. These boys should stay boys a little longer.

Hughes saw lovers kissing lingering good-byes, mothers and fathers embracing sons eager to pull away and board the trains, and teary-eyed wives and children waving as soldier-fathers disappeared into thick crowds. A feeling that he was missing out, that he was not reaching for something that he should take a tighter hold of, washed over him as he thought about his brother.