Soul Catcher (9 page)

Cain headed back to his horse and removed his rifle scabbard and then from his saddlebags got a section of oilcloth as well as the wooden case containing his gun supplies. He went over and sat near the sputtering balsam-wood fire, trying to coax some of its frail heat into his chilled bones. He draped the oilcloth over himself and his lap so as to keep out the rain while he worked. He methodically cleaned and oiled his Sharp's rifle, then put it back in the leather scabbard. Next, he set about reloading his pistol, concerned the powder might have gotten wet in the damp weather; he didn't like to take the chance of its not firing if called upon to do so. The Walker Colt was a large, heavy gun, .44 caliber with a nine-inch barrel and ornate engraving along the side. Designed for Captain Walker by Sam Colt himself for the war in Mexico. Cain had had it since '46 when he'd joined the fray. It was a good and dependable gun, one that shot true and didn't jam, and it had seen him through some close calls both in the war and after. He first melted lead in a frying pan over the fire and then poured the molten metal into his bullet mold. When the lead had hardened sufficiently, he clipped off the bullet's sprue and polished the round with a cloth. After that, he cleaned and dried the gun, then poured fresh powder into the chambers and rammed home the six large-caliber balls and topped off each chamber with lard to prevent flashover. After that, he placed the percussion caps in place, all except for the sixth chamber, which he kept open. He'd seen men accidentally shoot themselves in the foot because of such an oversight. For all that his life was a thing of wild disorder and impending mayhem, when it came to the tools of his trade, his gun and horse and saddle, Cain was a precise and careful man. Cautious. Even fastidious. Someone who didn't know him well--and few did-- might have said he was timorous of heart or that he set too high a value upon his own neck. He wasn't and didn't. The truth was he simply took pleasure in his small rituals, in doing a thing the right way, just for its own sake. Do it right the first time and it would stay done, his father had taught him. One of the few tidbits of wisdom that his father had given him that he held on to. Finished, he wiped the gun lightly with a greased rag and slid it into the holster on his hip and covered it beneath his greatcoat.

Then he reached into an inside pocket, grabbed hold of the flask, and took a long draft of laudanum, hoping to quiet the throbbing ache in his bad leg. He thought of his father again. He had not seen him, had not so much as exchanged a written word, since that night he'd run off to join the fight down in Mexico. Cain could still recall the moment vividly. His father had been in his study perusing ledger books. The man's life had been governed by such things, shackled by lists of expenses and profits, penned in by crop and livestock prices, feed and grain costs, the purchase and upkeep of his slaves. He had his head down in concentration and didn't see his son standing out in the hallway trying to work up the gumption to tell him something of importance. Cain, who was to be married in less than three days' time, had wanted to talk to his father. He'd wanted to tell him . . . what? That it was a mistake, that he didn't love the woman he was about to tie his future to? That the life his father had, more or less, chosen for him was not the one he himself wanted? That he'd envisioned another sort of life, one that he could not even shape into words, let alone words his father would understand? That he was planning on going off and fighting in a war that had nothing to do with him in the least? Of course, he couldn't have told him any of that. His father would have understood that about as readily as if he'd told him he was going down to the slave quarters and telling them they all had the next day off from working in the fields. So, instead, he'd turned and walked away. Just walked away. Left everything he'd known or cared for--home and family, a soon-to-be bride, an inheritance, a way of life. That night he'd packed a few things, borrowed fifty dollars from the cash box in his father's study, saddled his dependable roan gelding, and lit out for the Texas border. Since then, Cain had ceased to exist for his father, might well have died there on that battlefield of Buena Vista for all the man cared.

Glancing up from his reverie, Cain saw above the fire that the boy was staring at him. The flames seemed to consume his coat, flaring up with the blood on it as if it were turpentine.

"C-c'mon, Preacher," said Little Strofe. "Reckon he's had enough."

Preacher turned savagely on Little Strofe. "I'll damn well say when he's had enough and not before."

"I j-j-j--" Little Strofe stammered.

"You j-j-j what?" Preacher mimicked. He was always mocking Little Strofe, teasing him about his stutter. "What in the Sam Hill you j-j-jabbering about?"

"I'm only s-sayin' he m-might come 'round now." Little Strofe turned solicitously to the boy. "You ready to t-talk, ain't you, boy?" The Negro's eyes angled sharply to his right, staring at Preacher's knife, which glistened in the firelight.

"He right, nigger?" Preacher said. "You fixin' to tell us where they at?" The boy looked at Preacher, and slowly moved his head in such a way it might be interpreted in the affirmative.

Preacher started to untie the rope holding the gag in place.

"Now I'ma ask you only one more time, boy," Preacher said. "I'm done foolin' with you."

As soon as the gag was out of his mouth, a remarkable change came over the boy. His expression altered, the fear seemed suddenly to leach out of his eyes and the other thing in them, the one Cain had noticed earlier, took over completely. The boy stared at Preacher, his gaze honed to an edge that would cut. Cain hated this. The whole bloody thing. Hated Preacher for his mindless cruelty. Hated the cold nights, the long days in the saddle, the rain which made his leg ache. Hated these dark, gloomy mountains. Hated the boy for his race and for being stubborn and not giving in to the simple logic of pain. This was why he liked to work alone. He didn't have these problems when he was by himself. He preferred using his wits rather than violence or force to get the job done whenever possible. But in any case, this would be the last of it, he reminded himself again. After this, he would be finished with his foul profession. Of course, he'd said that before, many times, in fact, and then reneged as soon as he had need of money, as soon as his gambling debts or the drinking or womanizing placed him at the mercy of others and his will was no longer his own. But this time he meant it. He would find some other more suitable employment. He might head out west and have done with this gray, dismal land once and for all.

The boy coughed once, hawking phlegm into his mouth. Cain thought, No, he won't. A stone would have more sense than that. And yet, Cain was already mulling over the consequences of what the boy was about to do, parsing out what Preacher would do and what his own response would be. A split second before Cain could cry out Don't, the boy spit what he had in his mouth at Preacher, hitting him squarely in his narrow snake-face.

"Why you black devil!" he cursed, punching the boy viciously several times in the face. Then Preacher grabbed him by his ears and started to slam his head against the tree. "I'll learn you to spit on me, nigger." The boy was calling out something, something distorted by his head being whacked against the bark. But they were more than a mile away from the boy's village, and well out of hearing range of anything but gunshot. As his head struck the tree trunk, his eyes rolled back into their sockets so only the whites could be seen.

Cain glanced at Strofe, who was sipping on his applejack. "You going to stop him before he kills the boy?"

Reluctantly, Strofe called to him, "That'll be enough, Preacher."

"But the dang nigger spit on me." Preacher cursed, continuing to slam his head against the tree.

"You kill him, we won't get nothin' outa him."

"I won't kill him. Leastways not before he talks," Preacher said. He shoved the gag back into the Negro's mouth and tied it there with the rope.

The boy, his face now a bloody, swollen mess, looked at his tormentor, then angled his gaze toward Cain once more. Cain held the boy's gaze for a moment, then released it and glanced away. He told himself he had nothing to do with this. With Preacher and the others. They were Eberly's concern. Not his. His job was to find the girl and bring her back. He took out his flask again, and had another pull at the laudanum. This time, as always, the effect was far less dramatic. Like an itch that had been scratched too often and no longer brought relief, it was just its own form of pain now.

Instead of stopping, though, Preacher ripped open the boy's shirt and began to cut on him. He'd make these little slashes in the boy's flesh, like designs someone might carve in a piece of wood. Each time he was cut, the boy would jerk and strain violently against the ropes that held him fast. He cried out but only a muffled noise emerged from his mouth.

After a while, Cain couldn't ignore it anymore.

"All right, that'll be enough," Cain called over to Preacher. When he didn't even acknowledge him, Cain hobbled stiffly over to him and aimed a kick at the man's leg, not hard enough to do any real damage but enough to get Preacher's attention.

"The hell you doin'!" the man cried, jumping up and confronting Cain like a bantam rooster in a cockfight. As Cain was well over six feet tall and with Preacher barely five eight, the top of the smaller man's hat reached only to Cain's chin; Preacher had to angle his head back to stare up at him. The blond man was so close that Cain could smell his scent, a hard, metallic odor like the musk of a gutted buck. In his hand he still clutched the bloody knife, and Cain knew if he made a move for his gun, the last image he'd have on this earth would be Preacher's black serpent eyes smiling at him as he shoved the blade into his guts.

"I told you to stop," Cain advised him.

"I don't give a good gawddang what you told me. I ain't some cur to be kicked by the likes of you."

"Then don't act like one."

"I won't abide any man layin' a hand on me."

"I didn't lay a hand on you," Cain said, pointing out the distinction. "And if I had, you wouldn't be in a position to talk about it now."

Preacher glanced down at his own right hand, the one holding the bowie knife, then back up at Cain. He smiled arrogantly, the way a man does who knows he can kill another with impunity. Cain had seen the same sort of expression on men in battle, a kind of boyish glee as they sighted down their barrels just before pulling the trigger.

"If'n you've a mind, go for that fancy gun a yourn," Preacher said, staring up at him. "I'd be happy to oblige you, Mister Cain."

Cain didn't say anything, just continued to stare levelly at him. Like a dog discomforted by a man's stare, Preacher finally wavered and looked away.

"Aw, to hell with you," he cursed at last. Then he turned and marched over to where Strofe was sitting. He snatched the bottle of applejack from the other and took a long, angry drink.

"Uppity sum'bitch," he mumbled under his breath.

Cain knelt down in front of the boy.

"You thirsty?" he asked.

The boy just stared at him. Cain released the rope that held the gag, then he reached into his pocket and took out his flask. He unscrewed the top and put it to the boy's lips, which were swollen and bloody from Preacher's blows. He swallowed a little, then began coughing.

"Easy," Cain said. "It's strong."

He held the flask to his lips again, and the boy took another sip.

"What's your name?" He hesitated, so Cain added, "Don't worry, we not after you."

Finally, the boy mumbled, "Joseph." It was one of those biblical names fugitives took on after running north, trying to put their slave identities behind them. How many runaway Josephs and Jameses and Thomases had he come across?

"How long have you lived here, Joseph?" The boy looked over at Preacher, who sat near the fire, slugging down the applejack.

"Five year," the boy replied.

"Where did you live before that?"

"Kentucky. But I haves my papers. I'm a free man now."

"We're not after you. Do you have kin in the village?"

Fearing that he might be endangering them if he said anything, he remained silent.

"Never mind. We're looking for a pair of runaways. You tell us where they are and we'll be on our way."