Chapter 39
KODIAK
Three canvas tents. A wagon. Cookfire smoking low. A man sits sharpening a blade beside a crate marked SHERMAN CO. The others nod to him like they all know the drill.
They shove me toward the central tent. Inside, it’s neat. Sparse. A chair, a canvas cot, a lantern hung from the ridgepole. One man stands there already, hands behind his back. Neat mustache. Shirt without a wrinkle. Boots too clean for the trail.
Not Sherman, but one of his hounds.
He glances over his shoulder. “This him?”
“That’s the one,” says the man with the busted lip.
The man with the mustache turns to fully face me. Eyes pale and slow-moving, measuring me—not with anger, with interest.
I spit at his feet. “Ain’t polite to stare, unless you’re plannin’ to ask me to dance.”
He ignores my taunt, rolling his eyes and turning to the other one. “Virgil’s coming,” he says. “Wants to see for himself.”
They sit me in the chair and tie my ankles to the legs. I don’t bother struggling. Ain’t no leverage in rope this tight. They leave me tied to that chair long after the fire’s gone to embers. The night hums with crickets and the low mutter of men on watch, boots crunching soft over pine needles.
Sherman’s a no-show. Maybe he’s on the road. Maybe he’s back at some polished desk, sipping bourbon and smiling.
I breathe deep, but it don’t fill my lungs, like my ribs are too small, the rope too tight. I lean my head back and stare at the seam where the tent poles cross.
Lord, don’t let Alice think I ain’t tried. Don’t let her think I wouldn’t travel from Galveston to her doorstep on foot if I had to, just to get back to her.
Maybe this is my fate. This is what the stars had in mind to teach me a lesson. I’ve taken more than my share in this life. Robbed men blind. Told myself I was a decent man so long as I didn’t kill nobody who wasn’t asking for it.
But sitting here now? I don’t feel like a decent man, and I fear Alice’ll think I took her favor and ran off with it.
She might even doubt if I ever loved her at all.
Lord, what kinda lesson is that? What kind of universe blesses a man like Virgil?
Puts me in his net to have the satisfaction of taking me down after all the Shermans have done.
Shawnee blood’s just as red as mine. A man like him will take what he wants from a tribe in broad daylight, then sit in the front pew on Sunday without anyone questioning him.
But a man like me, who steals from men like him…
got to slither on our bellies in the dark lest we end up some fool’s pair of ugly boots.
Either way, the son of a bitch ain’t here yet.
And that means I still got time.
I work at the rope with my fingers till they bleed, till one loop feels loose.
Outside the tent, voices drift in and out like smoke.
I test the chair legs, rock gently side to side.
One creaks, just a hair. Dry pine. Maybe split somewhere near the base.
I lean into it, careful not to tip, just enough to feel the give.
Then I freeze.
Bootsteps, crushing the earth right outside the tent.
A shadow breaks the light, one of the men peering in.
I go still. Head slumped like I’m half-dead.
He watches a moment, then moves on.
When his steps fade, I press hard into that weak leg. It groans again. Then cracks. Not loud, but noise enough I quit breathing.
No one comes.
I twist the chair, angle it sideways, and slam my weight into the seam where the seat meets the leg. Once. Twice.
Snap.
I’m free of one side.
The rope fights me, but I’ve got leverage now. I wedge the broken chair leg under the binding, twist hard till the cord slices deeper into my wrist. My fingers are slick with blood when it finally gives.
It’s pitch-black outside the tent. I crouch by the flap, listening.
Three men. One near another tent—maybe an armory. One pacing the wagons. One just outside my tent, dozing upright, chin tucked to his chest. Rifle strapped to the bastard.
I wait.
Count ten breaths.
When the wind stirs again, I move.
Slipping out from under the flap into the moonless night, I keep to the tent’s shadow. My hand wraps the broken chair leg slick with blood. Not much of a weapon, but it’ll do up close.
I get behind him. One hand covers his mouth, the other jams the wood hard against his throat. He struggles, but sloppy—half sleep, half stupid. I hold till his weight slumps into mine, front of his shirt painted dark. Then I ease him down gentle.
Now I’ve got his rifle.
I drag him out of view behind the tent, cover him with the edge of a tarp. His canteen’s full, his belt’s got a knife and three cartridges, his satchel has some coin and the box of matches the bastards stole off me. I take all of it.
The man pacing the wagons is next. He walks a loop—confident. No idea someone’s missing. I wait for him to pass the tents again. When his shadow slips out of sight, I duck behind the wagon, rifle ready.
A lantern hangs from a hook near the rear, with two small tins of lamp oil resting beside it on a crate. I tip one over the wagon’s sideboards, the other across the firepit’s half-dead logs.
My lamb’s match flares soft between my fingers. I touch it to the wagon and walk away without a backward glance.
A beat.
Flame finds oil, loosing a hungry whoompf. Fire races up the soaked wood, leaping tent to tent like the whole camp had been built to burn.
“What the hell?” someone shouts. A gun cracks wild into the night.
“Fire! Get the barrels!”
Too late. The crates pop as the heat reaches whatever they had stashed. Black powder? Ammunition? Don’t matter now. Flames bloom like hellfire, lighting up the pines.
I’m gone, headed for the horses.
Four of them, still tied. They shuffle, nervous at the scent of smoke, the flash of fire. I choose the black one—stocky, already saddled—and let the others loose.
She huffs once as I mount.
Someone’s yelling names, kicking tents, cursing in half-sleep.
I’m already galloping, the black mare’s hooves digging deep into the night while the world burns down behind us.