Storm's Thunder (24 page)

“That's all he's got,” the fireman says.

Cross shakes his head. “Step away from him.” Teddy and the fireman back off to the rear. Then Cross says to the fireman, “You, with the pistol. Point it at him.”

“That ain't in my line, sir.”

“He shovels coal for a livin',” Carter adds.

“And he will again, in short order. It's just a precaution.”

The fireman has no training as a sentry—much less holding a man at gunpoint—but his unfamiliarity with a gun makes me feel worse, not better. With reluctance, he raises the pistol at the vicinity of my back.

“Sorry, fella. Nothing personal,” his voice shaking.

“It's all right,” I say. “I ain't gonna make a murderer out of you.”

“I 'preciate that.”

“Mister Van Zant?” Cross says.

“Got you covered.” The graybeard called Van Zant steps sideways to give himself a clear shot. “He moves strange, I'll cut him in two.”

Cross holsters his pistol and strides up to me. He stops a foot in front of my face, close enough that I see the flecks of yellow in his eyes that break up the brownness, and the slender crucifix around his neck.

“I'm going to take the gun you've got hidden in your trousers now.” He sticks his hand down the front of my waistband and retrieves the pistol. He clucks his tongue, emptying the bullets on the ground and tosses the pistol backward onto the pile. And now, with his subject of interest thoroughly disarmed—he starts to look at me for real. His head comes in close to mine and he sniffs the air. Stepping back, he lets a thin, satisfied grin curl his mouth.

“
Yá'át'eeh Diné
.”

He addresses me in the way of the Navajo, with none of the warmth, but with cold and hateful accusation. I don't bite and that makes his smile vanish.

“Don't play games with me, boy. Surely your White Man charade hasn't wiped every word of your native tongue from that thieving Navajo mind of yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about, sir?” Ballentine incredulous.

“Harlan ain't no Navajo,” Owens protesting. But the damage is done. Cross's smile returns.

“Harlan. Har-lan,” Cross dragging out the syllables. “Haven't you gotten cozy with these nice people? Defiling a good Christian name with your lies. Too bad they don't know you like I do.”

“You don't know me.”

A darkness flickers behind Cross's eyes. He moves—his knee flying up—straight into my balls. I drop to the ground, the air sucked out of me. His boot kicks me sideways. I rise, throwing a punch that grazes his temple, knocking that stupid bowler off his head. But Van Zant is there in a flash, the butt of the shotgun crashing hard into my skull, lighting bolts of pain charging through my spine. Everything goes twinkly. The sandy ground scrapes against my cheek, a boot heel pinning my neck to the dirt.

* * *

I come to a few seconds later, still on the ground, my wrists and ankles bound in iron.

“The railroad authorities are aware of your predicament. The army is en route to assist you. This man is the mongrel fugitive, Harlan Two-Trees, wanted in connection with the Sangre de Cristo Massacre.”

“Get out of town,” George says. “That's Harlan? You gotta be shittin' me.”

“I assure, I am not,” Cross bristling.

“Well I'll be dipped in heifer shit. You're famous, Harlan. Why didn't you say nothing?”

Cross answers for me. “Because he's a killer of white men. But he's not a threat to you anymore.”

“Come now,” Ballentine says. “Surely this can all get sorted out at a later time. Do you understand what has happened here? Hundreds are dead.”

“If you will take the woman and children down off the ridge,” Cross says, “we will conclude our business and be on our way. You can retrieve your weapons after we've gone.”

“What are you talking about
business
? What are you getting at, Cross?”

“This man is a fugitive of the law.”

“You said that,” Owens, hands on hips. “Now what are you planning on doing?”

“They're fixing to kill me.”

“Hell they are,” George says.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Ballentine finger-wagging, “Every citizen is entitled to due process of the law.”

“If he were a citizen, he would be,” Cross countering. “Now sir, you will take the woman and the children back down below. This is nothing they should see.”

“You ain't got the foggiest notion what them youngsters seen,” Owen says. “Ain't you got your eyes open, fella? Take a look down yonder. This here's been a shit storm of a robbery.”

“The fugitive Two-Trees at the heart of yet another bloodbath. And alive to tell about it. My, how fortune favors him. I have no doubt you gentlemen have been duped by his conspiracy, but I assure you, this is no coincidence. Now take the woman and children down.”

“I will not,” Ballentine firm.

“Neither will I,” Owens agreeing.

Cross, over his shoulder, “Captain Carter, please escort—”

“We are not going anywhere,” Mrs. Whitehurst erupting, the children clinging tall to her dress.

“Very well,” Cross respecting the resolve. “You can watch him hang. Mister Van Zant.”

A volley of dissent shatters from my friends. They move en masse toward Cross. He draws his pistol, the barrel leveled an inch from George's face.

“Advance and you die,” Cross's challenge stopping them cold. “That goes for any of you,” Van Zant comes in around from my leg. He grabs the iron and the back of my collar and pulls me up to my knees.

“On your feet, or I drag you.”

I get up slow, the blood rushing from my head. Far off near the horizon, a swath of dust, miles across, rises from the desert floor and breaks up the clear morning sky. I squint to make it out and Van Zant jams the shotgun below the ribs and gets me shuffling toward the edge where the tracks stop.

“Up ahead oughta work,” he says to Cross. Cross backs away slow from the others. We march in somber procession toward the precipice, where a splintered ghost of the trestle frames the remaining road, the heaviest wooden beams still bolted to their moorings beside the tracks. Van Zant and I lead the way, followed by Cross, alone, then the others. Carter and the trainmen bring up the rear. Every step brings more into view the grisly panorama of destruction, until the Santa Fe herself lies unobscured below like a discovered tomb.

* * *

Only then—with the ribbon of wood and steel, that a day before was America's monument to progress, now coiled and smoldering upon itself—does Jacob Cross permit the scale of the calamity to register on his face. He pushes past me, walking ahead to the edge, where he stops.

“Oh, dear God,” touching the crucifix on his chest. He closes his eyes, muttering a prayer, and crosses himself. The engine crew, eager to share their grief with anyone who will hear it, fall in next to him.

“Those are our brothers down there,” Carter's voice finding strength. “We got to go down and look for survivors.”

“We are the survivors, son,” Ballentine consoling. “We're all that's left. And if it weren't for Harlan here,” his voice pointed at Cross, “we'd be as dead as those bleeding hunks out yonder.”

I think about breaking for the cliff and taking my chances with the fall. Van Zant doesn't catch me on his best day, and I have the jump on Cross. But they'd shoot me in the back. And with my arms and legs bound, the only change to my current situation would be crossing over to death with a bag of broken bones. That won't do.

* * *

My gaze drifts out to the horizon, the dust cloud swirling closer—horses that number in the hundreds. With the First People locked up on reservations and all the buffalo dead, there's only one thing left on the frontier covering that much ground that fast. And right now it's my best hope.

Van Zant pushes the back of my knees and they bend me to the ground. He comes around to the front, at the base of the trestle, and takes off his coat. He wears a thick rope, coiled across his torso like a sash. He slips the rope over his head and folds the end of it back on itself and then starts to count off the loops that complete the noose. Jumping seems like a good idea again.

If that old silver-haired Apache has patience, maybe Storm will warm to him over time. Apaches know horses. Hell, the stallion could do worse—a lot worse—and it ain't like I'm going to California without him. I hear Mexico has fine grazing, even up in the hills where the Apaches hide out. I sure would like to feed him a couple more apple slices, though. And see his tail flick up when he chews on them. That's as close he gets to saying thank you, but we got our way of talking. Maybe they got apples in Mexico. I know if they do, he'll sniff them out in no time.

“Harlan, you got to confess and ask for mercy or do something,” Ballentine pleading.

“I can't confess to what I ain't done.”

“Well, I believe these men intend to hang you.”

“There ain't no doubt about that.”

“Shut up,” Van Zant losing count of his loops and starting over, annoyed.

George throws his crutch to the ground and gets Cross's attention. “I don't need no gun, mister. How 'bout you and me settle this 'tween us?”

“Young man,” Cross turning away from the cliff, his eyes wet with sadness. “I choose to forgive you.”

“I ain't ask for no forgiveness.”

“‘Keep far from false charge, and do not kill the innocent or the righteous, for I will not acquit the guilty.'”

“The hell's that mean?”

“Exodus twenty-three seven,” Cross says. “It means open your mouth again and I'll kill you.”

Van Zant throws the rope over a trestle crossbeam and looks back at me, measuring in his head. They mean to shove me off the edge of the cliff with enough rope to snap my neck, and leave me dangling over the arroyo until I stop kicking.

Cross and Van Zant confer among themselves. I catch Spooner's eye and flick my head and he trots over, bending down to keep our voices low.

“You got to stall,” I say. “Army's on the way. They're ten minutes out.”

“I don't see anything,” peering beyond my shoulder.

“They out there. Trust me.”

“Harlan, I don't know how to reason with this man. Can't you tell him you're innocent?”

“I ain't talked more than twenty seconds straight in my life. Need you to get a good streak going, till the scouts get here.”

Spooner's eyes dart side-to-side, his intellect alive and firing. “Retain me.”

“What?”

“Retain my services, as your lawyer.”

“I ain't got no money.”

“I'm sure we can work out amicable arrangements at a later time.”

“Get away from him,” Van Zant snapping. He marches over, a piece of black cloth in his hands. Cross draws his pistol again. Van Zant aims to blindfold me. Spooner eyes me in the waning seconds of my vision, his tongue curled in anticipation.

“You're hired,” I say.

“NOW SEE HERE, SIR!” Ballentine rising, his body emboldened, like he's slept twelve hours on a soft bed. “I am Shelby J. Ballentine, Esquire. I am licensed to the bar of the Commonwealth of Virginia, the District of Columbia and the Carolinas. This man is my client and I demand to be heard.”

“You're a world away from the Carolinas, friend,” Cross says. Van Zant ties the blindfold around my eyes, leaving a sliver of sight down at my feet the only scope of my vision. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Point of order, sir, I have litigated in federal court and I have presented oral arguments before the Supreme Court of this land. And as this territory falls under federal provenance, it would be a vexatious miscarriage of justice to forgo the right of counsel.”

I hear Cross sigh. “All right, say your piece then.”

“I believe the first issue before us is one of national sovereignty. It was the case of Calhoon vs. the State of Delaware, 1841—”

“Mister Van Zant,” Cross interrupting. “Proceed.”

“I haven't finished my opening remarks.”

“I'd be quick then,” Cross says. “Unless your intent is to increase your client's suffering. “Go ahead, Mister Van Zant. Just enough to get him started.”

All at once a sack hood swoops over my head, cutting all light. And then comes the rope. I hear Ballentine arguing, his voice strident, Owens and George shouting their protest. The noose fits snug under my chin, Van Zant giving it an extra tug and then walking off, satisfied. My pulse quickens, breath rising and blowing back against my face from the stale confinement of the cloth sack.

Still on my knees, a good ten yards from the drop, I feel the rope tightening. It goes taut, pulling me over, everyone screaming, their voices indistinct and muffled beneath the hood.

I suck in breath, the dry cloth filling my mouth as my lungs crave fresh air. The tightness around my neck grows unbearable, yet my hips and legs drag across the ground. So this is it—a slow strangulation, worse than a proper hanging. Fire rages in my lungs. My skull wants to burst. I suck in one last breath. Cigarette smoke, deep in the fabric of the hood. The vestige of a previous wearing, a condemned man's last smoke. The tobacco—Hannah's tobacco.

Hannah.

What is she doing here? And jasmine flowers, yes. She smelled of jasmine beneath her cigarettes. Exploding blooms of red fill my vision against a field of black. And then all that falls away, and I see that band of freckles, running like a constellation across the bridge of her nose. She smiles. And then everything in my world goes—