The Empire of Shadows (35 page)

“Sure you want to do this?” he heard his grandfather say. “The trout does not jump into—”

“Told me that one already,” Tupper interrupted.

“—the bear.”

“Give it up old man. I'll be careful,” Tupper said, shrugging the old ghost out of his head.

He started retracing his steps. Night was falling. He didn't have much time.

Tupper made his way back, going with extra care and using the trees and undergrowth to cover him. He did not follow his old trail, but a parallel course, so he'd stand little chance of running into someone head-on. In about half an hour he came to the edge of a ravine. It was almost pitch-dark in the bottom and not much better above. Tupper sniffed the air.

There was the smell of death down there, and he recoiled as from a hot stove. Tupper made sure of his rifle, and wedged an extra three bullets between the fingers of his left hand, ready to reload. A groan came up from the darkness. The hair on the back of Tupper's neck stood straight up and gooseflesh pebbled his arms.

“Two dead white men. Another soon.
Shondowek'owa,
the death herald, is waiting,” his grandfather said close beside him, which startled Tupper almost as much as the groaning. “I see their spirits. They are confused.”

Another groan drifted up out of the ravine. Though Tupper shuddered, he went forward. He was almost upon the first body before he stopped. Kneeling close, he examined it, a man he'd never seen before, a man with half his head gone and a brass star pinned to his vest. A Winchester .44-40 lay beside him.

Tupper dropped his rifle and rummaged in the man's pack, coming up with a box of shells. He checked the rifle, which was loaded and looking as though it was working perfectly. Tupper grinned while he searched the pack for food. Once he had whatever he could use, including cash from the sheriff s pockets, he went to see about the one who was groaning.

Tupper started forward, but instead of going further into the ravine he skirted it, working his way down the edge from tree to tree. Outlines were indistinct. Regardless of what his grandfather had said, he couldn't see any bodies. He didn't have to see them to know they were there, though. He could smell the gun smoke and the stink of loosed bowels.

The groans continued. They seemed to follow, calling him; but he wasn't about to rush in. That was the way of the fool. There would not be much he could do for the man, anyway, except perhaps to put him out of his misery. Tupper thought these things as he worked his way around the ravine.

Maybe his thoughts distracted his attention for an instant, but Owens was there, seeming to materialize from the gloom. He was bent over a body, checking the man's pockets. Tupper put his rifle to his shoulder without really aiming it, thinking Owens was a friend, but taking no chances.

Owens straightened, bringing his rifle around, perhaps seeing Tupper's movement from the corner of his eye. He had his rifle on Tupper for a split second then he hesitated. He recognized Tupper. Letting the muzzle drop a fraction, he smiled and nodded. Tupper nodded back, dropping his rifle from his shoulder. When he did, Owens fired.

 

Tom and Mitchell ducked down. The reports cracked through the dark forest, seeming so close the shots might have been directed at them. In a second it became clear they weren't. Although close, they were not that close. Mitchell stood and signaled to Tom, who came and stood beside the guide.

“Not far. Maybe quarter mile or so. We go slow.”

Tom just nodded and followed Mitchell, who now seemed to measure every step and place each foot with exaggerated care. Tom tried to do the same, as sweat rolled down his back in little rivulets. He wondered if Mitchell was as scared as he was. Mitchell didn't show it, but only a fool wouldn't be scared.

It was further than Tom had imagined from the sound of the shots. It took at least a half hour before they came to the ravine. It was becoming so dark, they were in it before realizing they were hemmed in on either side. Mitchell held up one hand and Tom stopped behind him.

They listened, and Tom thought he could smell the residue of gun smoke. Mitchell sniffed too, peering into the dark as he did, crouching then for a better sight line, but seeing nothing. It was then they heard a long groan. It seemed to come up from just beneath their feet. The sweat on Tom's back went suddenly cold and every hair on his body seemed to stand straight out. He couldn't see Mitchell's reaction, but after a second he signaled again and they went forward.

The groaning man was a little way down the ravine, propped against a rock. Mitchell approached him with great caution, circling behind, keeping the shotgun on him. When he got close enough to see, it was clear the man was near gone. From his belly on down he was red with blood. His head hung on his chest. His hands gripped his middle.

“Who the hell's this?” Tom whispered. “This isn't the deputy, nor the sheriff, either.”

Mitchell prodded him with his shotgun but got no response. Bending low, looking at the face, he thought the man looked familiar. Mitchell got out a match. He struck it, holding it close.

“Zion Smith!” Mitchell said.

The eyes fluttered open. “Fuckin' right,” Smith said.

Mitchell jumped back out of his crouch. The match went out.

“Skeered ya, huh?” Smith wheezed. “Don' worry. 'Bout dead, I guess.”

Mitchell bent close again, striking another match. Tom was at his side, holding a pistol on the man.

“Zion, what happened?”

“You know this man?” Tom asked. Mitchell nodded. He had known Smith in the logging camps. Though Mitchell had never warmed to the man, he knew him as a solid hand in the woods and a steady man on a hunt.

“Got shot,” Smith said. “Water.”

Mitchell got his canteen and gave it to Smith, who sucked at it, letting half pour down his chest. Smith collapsed against the rock. The canteen fell into his lap.

“Thanks,” Smith said, then added, “Sorry.”

“What?” Tom said.

“Zion, who shot you?” Mitchell asked. Smith said nothing at first. His head hung low, so they could hardly see his eyes, and it almost seemed as though he'd died right then. After a moment, though, he picked is head up and pulled his hands away from his belly. They looked as though he'd dipped them in red paint. He looked down at himself as if there was an answer in the red apron around his middle. Smith shrugged and held his hands out with his palms up.

“What the hell,” he said, wheezing out the words, “I'm dead already. May's well tell it true. I was with Owens.”

“Huh? Owens left us two days ago, said he had a client,” Tom said.

Smith ignored this. “He got the sheriff. I shot the other one, but ended up he got me.”

“Owens? Ex Owens?”

Smith nodded.

“But what were you two—” Tom stopped, unable to understand what had gone on.

“How the hell you shooting at the sheriff?” Mitchell said.

“It was Tupper shot the sheriff,” Smith said. “That's how Owens wanted it to look.”

“What?”

“Owens,” Smith said, raising his voice. “He killed the girl and Busher, too. Some fella in New York. Not sure who else.”

“What the hell girl are you talking about?” Tom growled. “Lettie Burman, the maid at the Prospect?”

“Owens,” Smith groaned, nodding. “He done 'em. Makin' it look like Tupper.”

Tom sat back on his heels. His mouth hung open, his eyes went blank. He could not grasp what Smith had just told them. Mitchell, too, was confused, and he took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Things seemed loose in his head, swirling like bits of grass in a tornado. Smith coughed, holding his middle.

“Oh shit,” Smith said, “pissed my pants.”

Tom gave him another drink. Smith revived a bit.

“What about the girl and Busher?” Tom said.

Zion looked at Tom. “You're the city police, ain't ya? That boy's yours? The one they think killed her?”

“Yeah,” Tom said.

Smith groaned again and there was a gurgling in the back of his throat. “Damn, but he shot me good. My own fault. Thought he was gone.”

“Zion, you helped Owens ambush the sheriff, make it look like Tupper done it?” Mitchell said. “Is that what you're tellin' us?”

Smith just nodded, not looking Mitchell or Tom in the eye. “Ex said he'd cut me in. He's got a deal with some lawyer in the city. One got away, I think. Ex might be shot, too. Dunno.”

Coming out of his shock, Tom said, “Which one got away?” his brain screeching to a halt like a train braking hard, his thoughts turning to Chowder. “Where's the other deputy?”

“Other deputy? Ain't seen 'im.”

“Zion, why?” Mitchell said. Smith didn't try to explain. He probably didn't have the breath for it.

“You got somethin' ta write with?” Zion said, his voice sounding weaker.

“Huh? What you gonna write?”

“Confession. This my dead-bed. That'd make it legal in court. God damn Owens fer getting' me inter this. Not gettin' a cut o' anything 'cept perdition now. Do good while I'm able.”

Mitchell and Tom rummaged in their packbaskets but found no paper or anything to write with. Tom went to check the sheriff's pack and came back a few minutes later with a map. “This's all I could find,” Tom said. “No pencils, ink, or nothing.”

“Whittle me a stick,” Smith whispered. “Little one, like a quill.”

“There's no ink, though,” Mitchell said, then stopped himself, understanding what Zion was thinking.

It took some time for Smith to write his story. Tom and Mitchell huddled close while the night engulfed them, lighting matches for Smith to see by. Zion's hand was none too steady, and the pen none too good. It left lots of drops and blotches before he got the hang of just how much blood to use. When he needed fresh he'd take his hand away from his belly and dip the makeshift quill into one of the oozing holes.

Smith and Mitchell both held the map steady, and soon there was a border of bloody fingerprints all around the edges. In the feeble light it almost looked pretty, like pictures of flowers on fancy stationary.

Tom could see that Smith was fading fast. His words ran in hills and valleys across the map. His eyes fluttered as he tried to concentrate. Tom gave him water, but its effect to revive Smith became less and less. When Smith was close to done, he looked up for a moment in thought, maybe searching for the right word or bit of information. His face in the flickering light was gaunt, almost insubstantial, as if his body was fading, too.

“Who's the old man?” he said, his body swaying as in a storm at sea. Tom glanced over his shoulder.

“Who? There's nobody there,” Tom said. Smith shook his head. The match went out.

 

Tupper didn't know exactly what happened at first. He found himself on his back, looking up into a dark canopy of leaves and sky, so dark he almost thought he couldn't see. His head ached and pounded. He had no idea how long he'd been there, nor at first why he was there at all. When he moved to sit up, the trees started to spin and blood dripped down the front of his shirt. He put a hand to his scalp and felt a burning furrow maybe two inches long on the right side.

There was hardly any dried blood, so he reasoned he couldn't have been down for long. He tried to remember what had happened, how he'd been hurt, when suddenly he remembered Owens's face, the smile and the nod of recognition. The shot he didn't remember, but checking his rifle, he found that he'd let loose a round, too. Owens was nowhere to be seen, so Tupper figured he hadn't hit anything.

He got to his feet and stumbled off in the night. He didn't know exactly where he was going, didn't really care just then. It seemed important to go, though, and not be caught with the dead sheriff and the others his grandfather had said were there.

There was a point when he thought he heard a twig snap somewhere off to his left. He crouched low, nearly falling over his head spun so much. There were other sounds that he took for men in the woods. He waited for some time until there was total silence, then he got up and moved away as quietly as he could. He walked for some time, his head clearing little by little, but still throbbing and bleeding. He put a bandana around his temple and that seemed to help.

Over and over he asked why, repeating the word like a chant, an incantation. If his grandfather knew, he wasn't saying. He stood in the blackness, a wisp of gray, no more substantial than a moonbeam, motionless, mute.

“Why, old man?” he asked his grandfather. “Speak to the dead. Tell me,” Tupper said, his hands held out like a beggar. “You can speak to them, Grandfather. You can learn the truth.”

The spirit seemed to shift, becoming ragged as if blown by an unseen wind.

“There was one who was Owens's friend. Has gone where I cannot follow,” his grandfather said, the words like a bell in his head.

“You are spirit, Grandfather. Surely you can—”

The old man held up a white hand and Tupper's voice left him.

“He has gone to
ganos'ge,
the house of the tormentor, the abode of
Hanisee'ono,
where there is no end to pain.” Tupper shuddered as he stood on wobbly legs. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. He said a prayer and felt better for it.

Though he could not understand why, it was clear enough that Owens was behind his troubles. Owens had wanted him to escape, wanted him to run. That's why he'd kicked the damn horse to help him get away from the cop. Again,
why
was a thing he couldn't fathom, but it appeared true.

The more Tupper thought about it, the more confusing it seemed. If Owens had wanted him to escape, why shoot at him now? Why kill the sheriff? Though Tupper hadn't actually seen it himself, it appeared clear that Owens had done it. And how had Owens even found the sheriff? Tupper figured he'd have to have set an ambush, so he must have known where they were heading.