The day was slipping to a cold, early darkness. Rounding the deep gully on the trail had stolen some time, but the posse galloped through the forest to make it up. Keech noticed a strange warmth, a heat that was far from comforting. It was the heat of cinder and flame, drifting like a dragon’s gasp over the land. He knew the feel of fire in the air too well.
The group soon emerged onto a flat valley, separated by a narrow river. Alongside its bank stretched a wide gravel road, choked on each side by runs of high thistle. Turner gazed up and down the road. “This path looks familiar, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been in these parts.”
“This road is called the Old Meriwether,” Keech explained. “Up ahead is the Whistler cutoff. We’ll have to cross the river, but the waters should be low enough.”
The sheriff steered the posse up the Old Meriwether till the forest dipped to the river. The broad trench created by the dip churned with muddy water. This was the opening to the river that would lead them to Whistler.
“Everyone hang on,” Turner said.
The posse drove their horses into the river. John Wesley sucked in a loud breath as icy water filled his boots. “I don’t like water none,” he said, but continued on. One by one they trudged across the channel, the horses whickering at the harsh bath.
“The settlers here nicknamed this river the ‘Little Wild Boy,’” Keech said, as the group navigated the channel. “It loops around the countryside and feeds into the Platte River.”
“That’s dandy,” said John Wesley. “But the Little Wild Boy’s freezing my gizzard.”
Moments later the horses made the opposite bank. As they slogged up the shore, Keech saw the first signs of billowing smoke, just over the western tree line.
“We’re too late,” he said.
Crackling thunder spoke of rain as they galloped into the settlement. Though their quarry was nowhere in sight, Sheriff Turner pulled his revolver and held it close to his side. “Stay alert,” he told the group. He tossed a pressing glance at Nat. “You’re the only one who can offer backup if I get into a gunfight. How fast are you at the reload?” He pointed to the Hawken in Nat’s hand.
“Fast enough,” Nat said.
Buildings blazed on each side of Whistler’s main thoroughfare, and behind the buildings, rows of beleaguered cabins and tents smoldered and sputtered. Only a couple of structures remained untouched: a decrepit tack-and-saddle shop and a leaning white gazebo standing in the middle of Main Street.
Beneath the gazebo, a dozen of the residents huddled together under blankets, watching the fires incinerate their village. It was a desolate sight. One of the settlers noticed the posse and cried out in terror. He exclaimed something in another language—German, Keech reckoned—and the townsfolk uttered a collective shriek. They bolted out of the gazebo and scattered to the hills.
Cutter’s eyes widened. “Why are they running?”
“They think we’re part of Whiskey’s gang,” Nat said.
Duck gazed at the village in disbelief. Reflection from the fires turned his small face into a wavering mask of sorrow. “Poor folks never knew what hit them.”
“What was Whiskey even doing here?” John Wesley asked.
Keech knew it was now time to divulge the rest of Pa Abner’s information. If he kept the rest of what he knew silent, it could end up getting someone hurt. Or worse.
“He’s hunting an object called the Char Stone,” he told them. “He wants it more than anything.”
John Wesley frowned. “What in heck’s a Char Stone?”
Cutter wiped grime off his face with the back of his hand. “That dead man with the wood leg spoke of it. Back in the clearing. He called it ‘life.’”
“You’ve heard your pa speak from dreams about Rose,” Keech told Nat. “Did you ever hear him mention the Char Stone?”
Nat and Duck exchanged a quick look, then Nat said, “Our pa never spoke about his past. He didn’t speak much at all.”
Never spoke much except to betray Pa Abner, Keech thought sullenly. Instead he said, “Whatever it is, my pa believed it to be cursed, a thing that shouldn’t be touched by man. Whiskey came here to sack graves for it. There was nothing to find, so he’s headed to the next graveyard up the trail.”
“Bone Ridge,” Turner said.
Keech nodded, but a skeptical look had returned to the lawman’s face. “This is all real, Sheriff,” Keech added. “My pa died protecting this thing’s location.”
“Magic stones and dead outlaws walking about.” Turner shook his head. “Let’s just look for wounded, shall we? There could be someone in need.”
Down the far end of Main Street stood a small white church, a building Keech had seen before, back when he and Pa had paid their visit. Heavy smoke billowed from the church’s busted-out windows.
“The church,” Keech said. “There’s a graveyard behind it. I’d wager Bad Whiskey aimed his search there for the Char Stone.”
“All right, let’s check it out,” Turner said.
The fire in the church had strengthened by the time they arrived. Keech skirted the property on the blaze’s windward side, watching for signs of a shift in the wind. Behind the church stood a crumbling fieldstone wall, no higher than a man’s thigh. The Whistler cemetery lay on the other side. Several yards beyond the cemetery snaked the Little Wild Boy, meandering off through the valley.
The posse dismounted. Leaving their horses untethered at the wall, they moved quietly into the graveyard. At least two dozen graves had been disturbed. Tall mounds of earth stood beside each hole, resembling tiny mountains all along the pitted ground. Stepping to a grave, Keech looked down. At the bottom of the hole rested a wooden casket, smashed open. The rotten corpse inside had been turned over, almost crushed to pieces. Horrific proof that Bad Whiskey knew no bounds of decency.
Standing over another pit, Duck shouted, “Nobody’s in this one!”
“Same goes here,” Cutter called, peering into a third grave.
Waiting at the boneyard’s entrance, John Wesley asked, “Why would some of the bodies be missing?”
Keech understood right away. Bad Whiskey had lost half his gang when Pa Abner faced them. Not only had he come to search for the Stone, he’d come to replenish his army.
“He turned them into thralls, like Claymore,” he said.
“Swell,” John Wesley mumbled.
Nat pointed to a stand of oak trees beyond the graveyard. “Look!”
An old man with a mess of shaggy white hair had emerged from behind the brush. He took slow, deliberate steps toward them, favoring his right foot from a slight limp. He wore a pair of ragged bib overalls, the kind with the apron sewn to his trouser waist. The right side of his head trickled blood.
“Hello, the graveyard!” the stranger called.
Turner raised his Colt. “That’s far enough, mister.”
The stranger held up his hands but didn’t stop walking. “Don’t shoot! I don’t mean no harm!”
“What were you doing out there in the trees?” Turner asked.
“Ran for cover when them others started shooting up the town,” the old man said. He stumbled over a small root. “I confess to having little pluck. I ain’t no gunfighter.”
“Your name?”
The stranger shuffled to the cemetery wall. Now that he was close, Keech could see the blood was running from a terrible gash across his hairline.
“Melvin Twiggs. I’m the mayor here. I gather y’all ain’t with that one-eyed feller?”
Turner lowered his revolver. “No, sir. My name’s Bose Turner, sheriff over to Big Timber. These are my”—he glanced around at the boys—“deputies. We’re here to bring the men responsible for this to justice.”
Mayor Twiggs shook his wounded head. “You’re a bit tardy, I’m afeared. Them long riders done already come and gone.”
“How long ago?” Nat asked.
The old man considered. “No more’n a half hour, I’d say.”
“We’re close!” Duck said.
“Did you see which way they rode?” Keech asked.
Mayor Twiggs pointed across the river, to a deep, ominous-looking wilderness. Thunderclouds filled the dusky sky and cast dark shadows over the valley. The idea of riding into that horrid thicket under rain and lightning made Keech’s skin crawl.
The old man pulled a yellow kerchief out of his overalls. As if he had just realized he was cut, he began to wipe the blood off his brow. “You can’t mean to pursue ’em,” he said.
Turner nodded. “We do.”
“But your posse’s just kids and such!”
“We’re no more kids than you’re a mayor,” Cutter grumbled. He glanced back at John Wesley and chortled.
Turner glared at the boy. “Be cordial. He’s been hurt.”
Mayor Twiggs shrugged at Cutter. “Whatever ya say, kid. There’s a problem, anyhow. That forest where the gang rode…” An uncomfortable pause hung on the next word, as the old man drew a fear-soaked breath. “It’s known as Floodwood.” He sighed bitterly, as if the name explained everything.
“So?” Turner said.
“Ain’t you heard?” The old man flashed a single brown tooth. “Floodwood is cursed.”
The company swapped a mixture of concerned and confused looks. Cutter wagged his head. “Nuh-uh, no way I’m riding into a cursed forest. Bad enough I gotta follow walking, talking dead men.” He spun on his heel and stomped back to his horse.
“That’s the biggest load of codswallop I ever heard,” Turner said to the old man.
“No, sir, it’s true!” said Mayor Twiggs. Heaving with the effort, he lifted one leg and struggled over the fieldstone wall. Keech put a hand out to help him over. After gaining his breath, the old man continued. “Past ten years, nobody who’s rid into Floodwood has ever come back to Whistler.”
“What makes it so dangerous?” John Wesley asked.
“Yer guess is as good as mine,” Mayor Twiggs replied. “I’ve never stepped a toe in there. But some folk claim they’ve heard a monster’s roar come from the heart of that forest.”
A fat drop of rain plopped on Keech’s cheek. He looked up at the dark clouds. The rains would douse the remaining fires in Whistler, but the damage had been done. The village was now just a memory, a ghost story to be shared around a campfire.
“We should ride while we still have some light left,” Keech said.
“But we have to help the survivors!” Duck scolded. “Their lives are ruined because your pa told Whiskey to head west.”
Boiling anger suddenly flooded every vein. Before he could stop himself, Keech bounded two steps closer and shoved the kid.
Duck lost his balance, tripped backward, and landed in the mud beside a gravestone. His clumsy blue hat rolled off his head, exposing the brown fuzz of his hair. “Why’d you go and do that?”
“Don’t you blame my pa for this,” Keech said. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s your yellow-belly father.”
A large fist came flying at his face and struck Keech square on the cheek. He tumbled to the ground on his rump. A loud ringing, like Granny’s supper bell, fluttered through his ears.
Nat loomed over him. “Don’t you talk about our pa like that,” he snarled. “And never lay a hand on Duck again.”
Keech blinked up, dazed. “You hit me.”
Duck jumped back to his feet and grabbed his hat, ready to rejoin the battle. “Our pa was no yellow-belly! If you say it again you’ll get another fist!” He stuffed his hat back on.
“But I’m telling the truth.”
Nat raised his fist again, then hesitated. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father ratted on my pa, is what.” Keech rubbed his throbbing cheek. “He told the Gita-Skog where to find my home.”
“Liar!” Duck screeched.
“It’s no lie. Your father betrayed my whole family.”
Nat reared back to let knuckles fly again. But this time Turner stepped between them. “Stop this now! There’ll be no more dissension in my outfit.”
“But Sheriff—” Nat began.
“Back away,” Turner said. “Right now.”
The rancher raised his hands and complied. “You don’t understand, Sheriff. I just didn’t like Keech shoving my sister.”
The past two days had been plenty confusing, but Keech couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why Nat had called Duck his sister. But then he considered Duck’s heavy hat, the short haircut, the green scarf knotted up to the chin, and sudden awareness dawned.
“Wait a danged second! You’re a girl!” Keech sputtered.
“I know,” said Duck.
“But you’re dressed like a boy!”
“I reckon that’s the point,” said Duck.
A tickled laugh filled the air. Keech turned to see John Wesley bent over, shaking. “I saw Duck was a girl the second I met her,” he cackled.
“Truth be told,” said the old man, Mayor Twiggs, “I thought she was a boy, too.”
Nat put a hand on Duck’s shoulder. “It’s hard enough riding with a kid,” he explained. “But at least no one thinks twice about a boy. I keep her dressed like that, and her hair short, to keep her safe.”
Duck shoved her brother’s hand away. “I keep my own self this way, thank you,” she said tartly. “And I can handle whatever you can, Nathaniel.”
Nat frowned at her, then turned to Keech. “You can go hang, Blackwood. We did just fine before you came along.”
“You were the ones who tackled me!” said Keech. “I never asked for you to show up!”
“For Pete’s sake, get your heads on straight,” Turner said. “You’re all acting like a bunch of toddlers. Remember who the real enemy is.”
Another drop of rain plunked on Keech’s nose. The grumble of distant thunder ripped across the valley.
“Rain’s coming,” Turner said. “You boys calm?”
Nat shrugged. “I reckon.”
Keech wanted to shout at the whole gang to jump in a lake. He had suffered too much misery to be chided like a naughty kid. Of course, throwing tantrums would only prove he was a child. And when he thought about it, these kids were suffering their own fears and losses, so everything they were feeling was just as defensible as Keech’s anger.
“I’ll be okay,” he said.
Then a heavy crack broke the evening air.
Keech thought a lightning bolt had struck nearby. But then a circle of dark red blossomed on Sheriff Turner’s left shoulder.
“Keech?” Turner said, and slumped to his knees.
The sheriff had been shot.
“Get down!” Nat hollered, as a second gunshot boomed over the valley. A lead ball crashed into the graveyard wall, sending chips of gray stone flying.
Keech dropped to his stomach. John Wesley froze, unsure what to do. Another shot fractured the sky. Mayor Twiggs, already in the act of pitching forward in the mud, avoided the lead ball just in time.
The young riders broke for cover. Nat and Duck dived behind the yard wall and John Wesley joined Keech on his belly. Back by the horses, Cutter drew his knife. He looked curiously calm and dangerous, even though he held the wrong weapon for such a long-distance attack. “Come out and fight!” he snarled at their unseen attackers.
The sheriff’s face was already turning pale. Laboriously, he lifted his revolver, took aim in the direction of the barrage, and pulled the trigger. The gun didn’t fire. Gritting his teeth, Turner slapped the side of the Colt against his thigh, re-aimed, and squeezed off again. This time the gun bellowed, lobbing a wild bullet across the valley.
Keech shuffled to Turner on hands and knees. He grabbed the arm not wounded and hauled the big man to his feet. They reached the graveyard wall in a matter of seconds and ducked behind the fieldstone. “Rifles, long range,” Keech huffed, then peeked over the barrier.
Fifty yards to the west, on the other side of the river, stood a wall of black locust trees—the entrance to Floodwood. The forest was menacing and bleak, and somewhere in that cluster of dark wood lurked the gunmen. Judging by the gunfire roaring from different angles, there were at least two men out there.
Another volley erupted from the trees. Slugs pinged into the stone wall.
“It’s a bushwhack!” Mayor Twiggs yelled from the mud.
Hunched next to Duck, Nat said, “Looks like our outlaw’s come to us.”
“Your Hawken’s with the horses,” Duck told her brother. “We need to get to it.”
Turner pressed a hand against his wounded shoulder. “We have to ride for better cover!” he called out.
All at once, the attack ceased. A peculiar silence hung in the air. The assailants were most likely reloading. Which meant the posse had little time to escape the graveyard. The longer they tarried by the wall, the more likely they were to get trapped.
“Sheriff’s right. We have to ride,” Keech said.
Nat looked at Duck. “Ready to skedaddle?”
The girl nodded. Mayor Twiggs hopped to his feet, panting heavily, but he looked ready.
“What do I do?” cried John Wesley, still flattened on his belly. “I’m the biggest target!”
John Wesley was right—they would aim right for him—but there was no time to debate. “I’ll stay and help the sheriff,” Keech told the boy. “Get to the horses. Take Mr. Twiggs.”
Nat waved at John Wesley and the flustered Mayor Twiggs to head back toward the burning church. Once John Wesley was back on his feet, the group began to zigzag through gravestones to reach the exit. Keech dared another glance over the wall at the Floodwood tree line, then turned back to watch the others flee.
Cutter was sprinting back toward the village, chasing their horses. The animals had panicked at the gunfire and were racing back to the east.
“Our ponies!” cried Duck as she ran.
“Don’t stop! Keep going!” Keech yelled.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sheriff Turner, drooping against the wall.
“The horses. They spooked.”
Keech winced in panic when Mayor Twiggs stumbled to one knee on the road beside the church. John Wesley scooped low and hauled the man back up to his feet.
Once he saw that the gang had reached a safe distance, Keech looked out again across the river. Standing in the open were two of Bad Whiskey’s thralls. One wore a long frock coat, the other had what appeared to be a golden ring glinting from his nose.
The gunmen were none other than Scurvy and Bull.
The brewing thunderstorm at last ruptured. Sheets of hard, steady rain poured from the sky, turning Whistler’s graveyard to instant slop.
“Blackwood!” Scurvy bellowed. “We’ve come to claim ya!”
Though the thralls were quite a distance off, Keech could still see they were holding long Harper’s Ferry muskets. The dead men had to be decent marksmen to hit Turner.
Propped against the wall, Turner said, “I’m sorry, son, but I’m afraid they’ve taken me out of the hunt.” He touched Keech’s arm apologetically.
Keech swallowed back a lump. “It’s all right, Sheriff.” He peeked over the wall. The thralls were lurching steadily toward the graveyard. Soon they would enter the shallow river and then trudge up the bank. Once they reached the wall, the desperadoes would kill Turner where he sat. Then they would finish the young riders and all the other survivors at Whistler.
The solution to their situation was now obvious. Keech saw no other choice.
“I have to draw them away.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Turner shouted, then coughed.
“Those monsters are here for me. I reckon once they kill me, they might leave the rest of you alone.”
“Stop talking like that.”
“I’m not gonna get everyone killed today.”
Turner shook his head. “There’s a better way. If you could get past them, you could hide in the forest. They’ll double back and give chase. That’ll give us time to collect ourselves and prepare an ambush while you’re hiding.”
Keech knew it was a better plan than simply walking out to meet his death. He didn’t figure the odds were good for skirting the thralls, but he could try. He readied himself to stand and run.
“Wait. Take this.” Turner held out his revolver.
Keech pushed the gun aside. “No, Sheriff, you’re wounded. You’ll need it. Besides, I have this.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s all I need.”
Again he prepared to stand, but Turner seized his wrist. “Mr. Blackwood,” he said, drawing Keech closer. “Keep fighting. Be strong. Don’t give up.”
Keech folded a hand over Turner’s glove. The knuckles were crimson with the sheriff’s blood. “I’ll see you soon.”
Saying no more, he stripped off his bowler hat and stood. Across the river Scurvy and Bull quickened their pace, raising their muskets the moment they spotted him.
Be with me, Sam. Show me the way of the Rabbit.
Gripping his hat tight, Keech ran. He vaulted over the graveyard wall and sprinted toward the river. To anyone looking, it may have appeared he was running straight for them, but the map in his mind was certain: One more moment and he would run a diagonal line for the northern curve of the river. On their side, Scurvy and Bull were almost to the bank. By the time the thralls made the water, Keech would take the river’s curve and the thralls would lose sight of him.
A hornet sounded near his left ear. Another rifle shot, but no lead touched him. He twisted north along the bank and toward the river’s curve. The thralls cursed when they realized his course. They wheeled back around.
Keech was fully exposed now. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Scurvy and Bull had taken the bait. They had dropped their muskets and were now shuffling with revolvers held out.
Rainwater soaked his body as he ran. He slid down a short slope and lost the thralls from his view. Floodwood forest was just across the river.
He dived into the freezing water and began to swim, praying with every stroke that the others were taking advantage of his distraction. All around there were treacherous sounds: the slosh of the river, the grumble of thunder, the bellow of gunfire. The thralls were approaching the shoreline, the place he would end up once he reached the bank. Keech paddled harder. Another slug whizzed by overhead.
His boots raked gravel bottom. He dug into the murk and propelled himself out of the river.
Scurvy and Bull were now so close he could see their horrible decay, much worse today than their pale ghost faces back at the Home.
Keech dashed across the field. A lead ball nibbled his coat sleeve. He pushed his legs harder. Dodge, weave, run, Pa used to say. Movement spoils even the best aim.
The dark line of black locust trees loomed ahead.
Floodwood is cursed, Mayor Twiggs had warned.
Cursed or no, Keech had to get to cover. He sprinted for the gloomy tree line.