Chapter 30
Conn and Sheffield rode on and on.
Conn had expected to reach Poncha Springs by day’s end, but travel was slowed by rocky stretches where they lost the tracks of the outlaws.
This mountain trail was not a single road but rather a braid of numerous paths that wove in and out, breaking apart, fading away, meeting new trails that rose up through the scrub and lodgepoles to further confuse the way.
Multiple times, they had to double back after realizing they had followed the wrong tributary.
Then, as afternoon was giving way to evening, they saw where Toole and his men had clearly plunged down a side trail through heavy pines toward the valley below.
Conn stopped his horse, staring at the tracks and scanning the valley below.
“Change of plans,” Sheffield said.
“Looks that way,” Conn said.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe they rode down there and holed up in a farmhouse.”
“One way to find out.”
They followed the steep trail down into the trees, where everything was dim and quiet and redolent of pine.
Under different circumstances, it would have been a very pleasant passage. But Conn spent his time peering into the gloom, wanting to make sure they were still following the right trail.
They rode out of these trees into mixed forest, a thinner woods that blended dark ponderosas and skeletal hardwoods that had already dropped most of their leaves.
Then, as they moved lower, the forest thinned further, giving way to sagebrush and sand and stony outcroppings as they rode into the valley, a sweeping, beautiful spot that reminded Conn of his brother’s homestead.
Right down to the burnt home beside the creek.
What had once been someone’s cabin was now an untidy heap of ash and charred timbers. Smoke lifted faintly from one corner. Conn guessed the place had burned yesterday, maybe late in the day.
The tracks of Toole and his riders went straight toward the devastation.
Were they still hanging around?
He doubted it but held his shotgun against his saddle horn as he rode up for a closer look.
Sheffield, gripping his lever-action, hung back, watching everything like a supremely deadly hawk.
Conn circled around to the back of the place. Toole and his men were nowhere to be seen, but they had certainly left their calling cards: the burnt house, a busted corral, and dead steer missing a hunk of one shoulder.
They’d killed a full-grown steer to fill their bellies and ride on, too stupid to even claim the tenderloins.
Toole and his friends embodied the worst of humanity. They were chaos and destruction. Nothing more. Just reckless, soulless men on a bloody rampage.
Then, following their tracks away from the destruction, Conn saw something that made him forget all about the steer.
A man hung from the lower branches of a cottonwood along the creek. For just a second, Conn saw Cole’s face all over again. He instantly broke into a cold sweat.
Then, he turned in his saddle and called to Sheffield, who came riding over and looked at the dangling corpse and shook his head and spat.
“Pack of rabid dogs,” Sheffield said. “We gotta find these men and put them down.”
“Yes, we do,” Conn agreed, “but first, I reckon we gotta get this man down out of that tree and give him a proper burial. He didn’t deserve this.”
They rode over and cut him down. Sheffield did the cutting, and Conn caught the man, not willing to let him drop. The man wouldn’t feel anything, of course, but it just didn’t seem right, treating his body that way.
It was gruesome work.
They stretched him out on the ground and closed his eyes and went into the corral to hunt for shovels. An orange cat trotted out of the shadows, mewing plaintively.
Conn squatted down and loved up the cat, who set to purring. She was just a little thing. Not young but little.
“You all right, girl?” he asked. “You a good mouser?”
Then he grabbed a couple of shovels and walked back out to where Sheffield was staring solemnly down at the body. Every step of the way, the little, orange cat weaved between his feet.
When he stopped beside Sheffield, she rubbed against Conn’s legs, lifting up on her hind legs to run her head above his boots just below his knee.
He reached down and picked her up. She was as light as a feather.
“You sure do got a loud purr on you,” he told the cat, who rolled over on her back in his hands and blinked up at him.
Sheffield reached over and put his hand on her belly. She grabbed him with her paws and pretended to bite him while she kicked her hind legs, raking her feet against his wrist, apparently without unsheathing her claws based on Sheffield’s chuckle.
“You’re a little fireball,” he told the cat. “Well, Sullivan, let’s dig this grave and put this poor man to rest. The sooner he’s in the ground, the sooner we can take after those monsters.”
Conn nodded but looked up at the sky, which was growing dim. “We won’t get far tonight. But we can’t be more than ten or fifteen miles from Poncha Springs now. If they kept going that way.”
“Wherever they went, I’m following them,” Sheffield said. “I’m gonna kill these men or die trying.”
Something moved in the undergrowth beneath the tree.
The cat sprang away as Conn turned and drew his Remington and dropped to one knee, training his weapon on the bushes.
Likewise, Sheffield scampered to one side, grabbing his rifle and pointing it at the same spot.
“Come on out, or we start shooting,” Conn said.
“Please don’t shoot, Mister,” a tiny voice said, and a boy maybe seven years old emerged from the weeds. He was in rough shape, pale and puffy eyed. He stumbled forward then stared in horror at the man on the ground. “Oh, Pa…” he cried.
Conn frowned and took off his coat and draped it gently over the dead man’s face as a kindness to the boy, who was sobbing now.
Conn went to him and crouched down and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
The kid flinched and looked at Conn warily. “Are you good men?”
“Yes,” Conn said. “We are good men.”
“You aren’t like those other men?”
“Not at all.”
“They killed my daddy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And they hurt Mama.”
“Is she around?”
The boy nodded but said no more, looking wary again.
Guessing at the boy’s thoughts, Conn said, “Son, like I told you, we are good men. We are chasing the men who did this. They did the same thing to my family. We are going to find them and make sure they never do this to anyone else. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. You’re going to kill them?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, I do.”
The boy nodded. “That is good.”
“Yes, it is. Now, if you tell me where your mama is, I will try to help both of you.”
The boy hesitated for a second then nodded again and took Conn’s hand and led him across the creek and back into the trees, where a woman in a torn dress sat staring into nothing.
Conn didn’t know how bad she was hurt. Both her eyes were blackened, and he saw bite marks on her neck and where her dress was torn.
“Ma’am,” he said in a soft voice, “my name’s Conn Sullivan, and I am here to help you and your boy.”
She just sat there.
Wanting her to have her dignity, Conn turned to the boy. “Son, do you think you could get your mama’s sweater off? I’m thinking you should put it on her backwards and cover her up where they ripped her dress. That’ll keep her warm.”
“Yes, sir. That’s a good idea.” The boy went to his mother and did as Conn said.
Through it all, she just stared emptily like a life-sized doll.
Maybe they busted her brain, but Conn figured her wounds were more psychological than physical.
Once the boy had covered her up, Conn went over and squatted down and spoke to her again.
She blinked at him.
He reached out and took her hand gently in both of his and gave it a light squeeze. “What’s your mama’s name, son?”
“Esther Meyers,” the boy said. “I’m Simon.”
“It’s good to meet you, Simon. I’m Conn. Is there a town we might go to?”
“There’s a village a couple miles that way,” Simon said, pointing east.
“All right. Are there nice people there?”
“Yes, sir. There are some nice folks there. I would have gone to them, but I didn’t want to leave Mama alone in case they came back.”
“You did the right thing, staying with her,” Conn said. “And everything’s going to be all right.”
He hoped that was true.
He gave the woman’s hand another squeeze. “Esther? Can you hear me? Esther, Simon needs your help, ma’am.”
The woman blinked more rapidly. “Simon?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Conn said. “Simon needs your help now.”
Esther Meyers shook her head and looked at Conn, really seeing him for the first time and pulled her hand free with a shriek. She scooched up against the tree, staring at him with terrified eyes.
“Mama!” Simon said, hugging her. “It’s okay. Conn is our friend.”
Conn kept his distance and nodded and spoke softly. “Simon’s right, ma’am. I am here to help you folks. I would like to feed you and take you to the village and find somebody to look after you until you get back on your feet. I’ll set things up and make sure you have some money, all right?”
She blinked at him, obviously having a hard time dealing with reality.
He didn’t want her slipping back into a daze, so he said, “Ma’am, you go ahead and talk with Simon. I’ll be just over yonder if you need some help, okay?”
She said nothing but seemed to relax a little.
Conn went back to where Sheffield was digging and grabbed the other shovel and worked alongside him. They were almost finished when the boy and his mother emerged from the trees.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” Esther Meyers said. “Thank you for helping us.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Conn said. “I’m sorry about what happened here. These same men killed my brother and burned his home. After we get you to the village, we’ll get on their trail again.”
“You’ll kill them?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fire came into her eyes then. “Good. Kill the short one twice.”
“Ma’am?”
She shook her head and frowned. She stared for a time at her dead husband then looked back to Conn, her face softening. “God bless you, Conn. God bless you.”