Zeke and Ned (48 page)

“Dern, there's a body roped to that bay,” Jerry Ankle said. “I expect it's Ev.”

Beezle could not talk, due to a badly swollen mouth. He loped over and caught the bay. The body roped to the bay was indeed that of Everett Dane, the man Tailcoat had dispatched to catch the missing Miller boy, a mission that had obviously failed. All Ev Dane had caught was a bullet, and upon inspection the bullet turned out to have been well placed.

“Right in the heart,” Jerry Ankle said nervously. “I expect he was shot at close range.”

“This fool wasn't shot at close range, but
you
will be if you don't improve your tactics,” Tailcoat informed him. “Some of you other marshals will be shot at close range, too, if you keep stumbling around in the morning, shining lights for people to see.”

He had his pistol out, and was clicking the hammer in vexation. The men hung well back, and kept their eyes down. They only had to look at Jerry Ankle's forehead to see what could happen when Tailcoat Jones grew vexed enough to click the hammer of his gun. The six-inch slice across Jerry's forehead had been hastily stitched up with a darning needle and some heavy thread. Jerry himself had stopped complaining of blindness, and now complained of double vision. It did not require double vision, however, to tell that Tailcoat Jones was in a dangerous mood.

“I'm glad somebody shot this lagging imbecile,” he said, after a brief inspection of the wound in Everett Dane's body. “He couldn't even catch a boy on a colt.”

“I guess the boy had too much of a start,” Jerry ventured.

“Yes, a fine start,” Tailcoat said. “You boys lit up the hills like Christmas with your damn lanterns and your coffee fires. That damn impudent woman saw the lights and slipped that boy off. Christie's probably gone on the scout by now—we may have to chase him for a month, and he still might get away.”

Tailcoat proceeded on at a high lope. If at all possible, he wanted to catch Ned Christie at home. The prospect of having to pursue him deep into the woods and thickets did not appeal to him.

When they finally came in sight of the Christie farm, Tailcoat called a halt. The Miller boy's colt was grazing in plain sight, but the boy was not in plain sight, nor were any other humans.

“All right, now, watch what you do,” Tailcoat instructed. “They say Christie's such a fine squirrel hunter that he don't even hit the squirrel when he shoots—he hits the limb under the squirrel, and just picks the varmint up when it falls. Saves meat. All you boys are a lot bigger than squirrels. If he sees you, I expect he'll hit you—if he chooses to fight, that is.”

“Why wouldn't he fight?” Dick Sabine asked. Dick hailed from Little Rock, and had hair the color of straw. He carried a shotgun rather
than a rifle. He was so shortsighted that he had once shot his own horse by mistake, after which he gave up trying to use a rifle.

“Why, he might believe he's innocent and prefer to take his chances in a courtroom,” Tailcoat said. “Otherwise, the odds are nine to one.”

He angled off into the woods above the farm. Ned Christie, from what he had heard, was the most formidable of the five men he had been sent to arrest, which was why he had come after Ned first, before his force became depleted in battle. Now the depleting had already begun.

Once Tailcoat's men were well spread out among tree stumps and logs, Tailcoat himself settled down behind a thick oak stump and watched the house for a while. It soon proved to be a boresome tactic. Nothing stirred in the farmyard, except a bloody shoat, a few chickens, and the Miller boy's colt. No one came out of the farmhouse. Somebody would usually be stirring around on a farm; chopping firewood, mending harness, plucking a chicken. Tailcoat had a spyglass, which he took out and trained on the windows of the farmhouse. He hoped to catch a glimpse of Ned Christie, or one of his women, but he saw nothing. If the house was inhabited, the inhabitants were being careful to stay away from the windows.

An hour passed, and the situation did not change. Though bored, Tailcoat was patient. He had been a sharpshooter in the War, and spent many a day watching and waiting for an enemy to reveal himself. In this case, the only vexation was flies, which swarmed with a vengeance in the heavy woods. They had to be continually swatted away.

Beezle had not been born with the gift of patience. He hated to spend a day sitting in the hot underbrush swatting clouds of flies away from his bloody, wounded mouth. He had already sucked in several, which irritated him so that he put aside caution and approached Tailcoat Jones.

“I've swallowed so many flies I'll soon have a bellyful,” he informed his captain.

“Well, that'll save grub,” Tailcoat said politely.

“Why can't we just go arrest the fellow, and not do all this waiting?” Beezle inquired. He wheezed a little when he talked, due to a swollen tongue.

“Because he's a competent rascal,” Tailcoat said. “He might resist.”

“But there's nine of us,” Beezle said. “I doubt he'll try to whip nine of us, if he knows there's that many of us.”

“Oh, he knows—that is, he does if he's home, and I suspect he's home,” Tailcoat said.

“One of the boys says he's got a pretty wife,” Beezle said. “If he ain't home, we could whop her till she tells us where he is.”

Tailcoat had heard about the pretty wife from other sources himself. Before the posse left Fort Smith, Judge Parker had specifically warned him to go easy on the womenfolk over in the Going Snake District. The warning had been so sharp, in fact, as to verge on insult.

“You're to leave the women alone,” the Judge said pointedly, as he looked over the rough posse he was about to dispatch. “I just paid for three new hang ropes. If I hear of any raping, I'll be ready to do some hanging.”

“Why, Judge—is that a threat?” Tailcoat had asked.

“Not a threat, sir—that's a verdict,” the Judge answered, before turning and walking away.

Now, through the sultry afternoon, as Tailcoat Jones lay behind the oak stump swatting black flies and watching the farmhouse below him, his thoughts began to dwell upon the pretty woman that was said to be married to Ned Christie. He had already let one woman off easy on this trip, the insolent wife of Tuxie Miller, who deserved a good horsewhipping for her treachery. If Ned Christie's wife was as pretty as she was said to be, he might let the men have some sport with her— though not, of course, until her dangerous husband was thoroughly dead. It would be a way of showing the old judge how little he cared for his orders, or his verdicts.

Jerry Ankle came over, as the afternoon was tending toward dusk. He, too, was much vexed by the flies.

“I don't think he's there, Tail,” he said. “I expect that boy warned him, and he went on the scout.”

“Well, then, why don't you just go knock on the door, Marshal Ankle?” Tailcoat suggested, in a dry tone. “Knock polite, and ask if the master of the house is in.”

“What?” Jerry said, puzzled. It was not the response he had expected.

“You heard me—just go knock,” Tailcoat repeated. “You'll find out
soon enough who's there and who ain't. If you're lucky, he'll just crack you across the noggin a time or two, like I done—you can enjoy a few more stitches.”

“You think he's there, then?” Jerry Ankle asked.

“Yep,” Tailcoat replied. “I think he's there, and I would bet that his rifle's loaded.”

“It's going to get dark pretty soon. It's shadowy here in these hills,” Dick Sabine remarked. He had crept over to join the parley.

Tailcoat Jones said nothing. He was bored with the company, but comfortable behind his stump. Waiting had never bothered him; in point of fact, he enjoyed it. Patience was a necessary quality in a sharpshooter. Sooner or later, most men got restless and showed themselves. Tailcoat did not get restless. His concern, though, was that his opponent, the squirrel hunter Ned Christie, did not appear to be the restless sort, either. Most of a long day had passed, with no movement from the house.

Tailcoat watched closely. He had a sense that Ned Christie was watching back, perhaps just as closely.

Jerry Ankle, after some deliberation, decided that he did not want to go knock on the Christie door. He was still seeing double, and felt that it would be foolish to risk another lick on the head.

“What's the plan, then, Tail?” Beezle wondered.

“Spread our pallets, and wait till morning,” Tailcoat informed him.

“You mean make camp?” Beezle asked.

“No—no goddamn camp,” Tailcoat said, a little annoyed. “Just spread your pallets, and wait.”

“You mean we ain't to eat?” Jerry Ankle said. “No coffee, even?”

“Not unless you can milk it out of your teat,” Tailcoat said. “I don't want no fires or no lanterns, this time. No lights at all. I plan to forgo my smoke, and I expect the rest of you men to do the same.”

“We ain't even to smoke?” Beezle said, appalled at the dismal prospect that lay ahead. Tobacco smoke put the black flies off; without it, they could expect a night of terrible buzzing.

“You can't even smoke,” Tailcoat said. “Just rest, and think—if you
can
think.”

“Then what?” Jerry asked. “What if the man sneaks off in the night?”

“He won't sneak off,” Tailcoat said. “I doubt he'd want to leave that pretty wife.”

“What are we going to do?” Beezle asked, impatient. “Just sit here until the man decides to go milk his cow?”

“Why, no, Beezle . . . no,” Tailcoat answered, calm. “I expect to spend a restful night, and I hope you do the same. Along about daylight, we'll all whip up and go pay Mr. Ned Christie a visit in his home.”

N
ED WATCHED THE POSSE FILE INTO THE HILLS FROM A TINY CRAWL
space he had constructed at the top of his house, just under the roof. He had removed the chinking from between two of the logs, to allow himself a nice peephole. He could shoot through it, if necessary, though nothing that drastic had ever been necessary. His father, Watt Christie, had urged him to leave the little space just under the roof. Watt Christie's belief was that the Cherokee people could not be too careful. It was always better to have a space in your house where you could watch the trails without being watched yourself.

The space was so small that Ned had to slide into it and out of it, flat on his stomach. He could not raise up or turn, but it was so cleverly hidden behind a beam that a person would have to know it was there to find it.

“Be a good place to hide children in case there's war,” his father had said, after taking a look at the crawl space. Watt Christie could only look; he had grown too bulky to fit into the space himself.

What Ned saw as he watched the posse convinced him that he had been right not to leave the women. The men in long coats looked hard—every single one of them. And their leader, the tall man in the dusty long coat, looked the hardest of all.

The men seemed well armed, too, which was worrisome. Ned saw the stocks of new Winchesters protruding from their rifle scabbards. Somebody—the government, probably—had put up the money to equip a force of professional killers, and the posse had not stinted on weaponry. Of course that did not mean all the men could shoot. Ned felt confident that he could outshoot most of them, for his own guns were excellent weapons, and well maintained. In his opinion, the low death count in local conflicts was mainly due to the fact that half the guns involved would not discharge with any regularity. He knew he could not count on that advantage with this posse.

He stayed in his crawl space most of the morning, watching the posse position itself among the stumps and logs on the hill above his house. It surprised him a little that the men had not simply ridden up and demanded his surrender. After all, they were nine to one, and the tall man in the dusty coat had not looked like the fearful sort—why was he waiting?

The nine men were hidden by foliage, but by careful watching, Ned was able to establish the position of most of them. He watched the birds, and saw the spots they avoided. Also, the men were restless— no doubt, the flies were a vexation. Now and then, one would stand up to swat or scratch, revealing a hat, or an arm. The only posseman Ned could not locate with some exactness was the leader. That man had ridden up the hill, and vanished. He did not stand up. If he scratched, he did it with a minimum of movement.

In the afternoon, when the crawl space got so warm he was soaked with sweat, Ned slid out backwards and went down to Jewel and Liza. He had instructed them both to stay well away from the windows. He did not want so much as a shadow or a flicker of life to be visible to the men on the hill. Jewel and Liza were scrunched up by the fireplace with fearful looks on their faces. Lyle Miller, his stomach full of flapjacks, slept peacefully on the floor.

During his time under the roof, Ned had noticed what looked like smoke far away to the west toward the Millers' place. Of course, it could have been smoke from a lightning-struck tree; trees were often ablaze on the ridges of the hills in the time of summer storms. But it might be smoke from the Millers' house itself—a somber thought. If the posse had burned the Millers out, it would explain why Dale had not showed up, wanting to make certain her boy was alive and safe.

The fact was, the Millers themselves might not be alive. The man in the dusty coat had looked plenty capable of raw murder, and worse.

He did not mention that possibility to the women. They were already frightened enough. Jewel wanted to stir up the fire and cook a meal for them, but Ned forbade it.

“I don't want that posse to see smoke coming out of the chimney,” Ned told her. “I expect they know we're here, but let's keep 'em guessing as long as we can. Let them think they've staked out an empty house.”

“What about the milk cow?” Jewel asked. “Her bag's going to swell, if we don't milk her soon.”