Flynn’s mind raced. No matter how he tried to calm his thoughts or even slow them down, they circled faster and faster in the same relentless paths, like the hogs from his slaughterhouse days in St. Louis. In the wintertime he would work the slaughterhouses when railroad work dried up; the farmers would drive them into the holding pens and then go off for their pay and their dram while the hogs circled and circled, not really looking for a way out, just circling as if the movement itself could keep them from the hammer.
Now he understood their impulse, but tried to keep himself still in his chair to avoid showing fear. But the more he sat, the more impossible his situation appeared.
Marie lay at his feet, her head propped against the table leg, a bright welt creasing her forehead and running into her hairline. At least she wasn’t dead, or so he supposed. Hard to tell. But no, there was a slight rise and fall of her chest.
And Turner against the wall, watching him. What to do? Shoot him? Didn’t seem right, not with him just sitting there, unarmed and immobile. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
Hell, they all deserved it.
The only creatures that didn’t deserve it were the dead cattle out in the pasture. Wasn’t that the laugh, just dumb creatures doing what cows do, grazing on whatever came to them, whatever was sweet and tasty, whether it was meadow grass or a poison branch. Born to eat and die, they were. But to die on man’s schedule, not nature’s. They had to die when and where we chose, not out in some lonely corner of the woods where their flesh would rot and their milk curdle inside them. It was all about the time and place, when to die, not whether.
He needed a plan.
If the woman died—
If the woman died the plan would be to run like hell and never stop. The county line would be the first mark; once he reached the county line the sheriff would have no call to pursue. From what he’d seen, this sheriff wouldn’t pursue if he got past the yard fence. That old bastard knew the game. His job was to collect taxes and run the courthouse, not chase people across creation.
Now Turner—
Their eyes met across the room. Watching his every move, that one, watching for his chance. To do what? Charge him, seize the shotgun? Not likely. He could measure the distance. Watching for a chance to make the door. So why not let him go? Or just walk out the back himself, take the wagon, and go, leaving Silas Do-Good here to tend the bitch?
Because this one, this one would pursue him. Or he’d want to. He’d not let him leave in peace, he’d chase him to California if he could, out of some grand notion that he was sent to cure the ills of the world small and large.
But if she lived—
If she lived, by God, he’d set right back up and all the people in Daybreak could go straight to hell. Who were they to tell him how to run his home? If they didn’t like it they could stay on their side of the river.
No, there was Ferguson and the debt. As soon as word reached town that the cattle were dead, he’d be down here seizing everything he could haul off. He’d take the land, too, or the Daybreak people would take it and throw him off. Either way, there was nothing in it for Michael Flynn but a lifetime as a tenant farmer at best and a pauper at worst. Better to light out with whatever he could take and start over somewhere else. He could send word to the woman later.
So his choices were to run like hell or to run like hell.
Flynn’s head hurt and he was exhausted. A full day’s work yesterday, little sleep last night, and now this. Where was that woman Charlotte? Once she got here he could turn Marie over to her and slip out, take the wagon and go.
The shotgun was too heavy to hold up any longer. He crossed one foot over his knee and laid the gun across his level shin, but that was an uncomfortable pose and he knew he couldn’t hold it for long.
“Girl, fetch me that ladderback chair,” he said to Josephine, still crouched in the corner. She got up slowly and slid the chair across the floor toward him from its place by the window, then backed away, her eyes never leaving him. Flynn positioned it in front of him and rested the shotgun barrel on one of the slats, aimed at Turner’s chest.
But where to run? Not through town, that was sure. He’d never make it to the other side. Arkansas? Arkansas was a wasteland these days, and an Irishman coming from the north with a wagonload of goods would find himself feeding the crows. No, he’d need to head east first, get across the county line, then the state. Illinois, that would be his ticket. Once there, sell the goods, find work. Maybe the Pacific railroad. That was it. Work his way west, and once the railroad was done, settle out wherever they finished, Nebraska or wherever. They were giving away land to the veterans, he’d heard.
Now, he needed to keep his eyes open and his wits about him. The next few days would be the trial. But Lord in heaven he was tired.
Lord in heaven.
What would the Lord say to him? He’d promised Father Tucker not to strike his wife in anger, and broken that vow time and again. And here she lay, dead or dying, the sin on his head as plain as a pickaxe. He was bound for hell, no question. So was she, most likely.
Or maybe not. What was it that Father Tucker said, there is no sin for which there is no absolution. Perhaps they were not entirely lost, although he surely felt like it now. Anyway, being bound for hell didn’t mean he had to rush to get there.
If only he could rest for an hour before striking out across country. They’d done it many times during the war, lie down wherever they happened to stop, post one or two sentries and sleep on the ground, no blanket or bedroll, before rising to march or fight again. A wandering soldier had once come across them in such a state after a battle and thought them all dead until the sentry began to rouse them. An hour would be all he needed. The county line was what, twenty miles away? And a hard twenty at that, swinging south to avoid the town. He’d need a day and a half, more if the horse had trouble with the wagon. And then two more counties to the river, the state line, the life he would start over.
He could feel the slackness of sleep come over him, his arms growing limp, his fingers loosening on the grip of the shotgun. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall right off the chair. Where was that woman? All he needed was for her to show up, tend to Marie, and occupy everyone while he stepped out the door. He’d be gone an hour before anyone paid mind.
His eyes fell shut. And then the girl sprang at him from the corner, wielding a carving knife that she had concealed within the folds of her dress, and the gun went off.