A freezing wind gusted as the young riders stumbled, defeated and weary, across Bone Ridge’s broken hills. Behind them, Bad Whiskey rode his chestnut horse, his left thumb tucked into his gunbelt. In front of the horse walked Pa Abner, holding Duck’s broom-handle torch.
The outlaw had commanded the Tsi’noo to build their own lights, so now they carried gruesome torches made from stray bones or tombstone planks. The flames burned ghostly red, reminding Keech of the night Granny Nell and his orphan siblings perished.
Since the fourth verse from the telegram had already been discovered on Abraham Nell’s marker, Bad Whiskey had forced Nat and Cutter to dig up what remained of the grave. The Tsi’noo had thrown the boys two old shovels, and Bad Whiskey had ordered them to jump into the hole. The only thing Nat and Cutter had turned up was the dead man’s empty coffin, its heavy lid smashed to splinters by Mr. Abraham himself.
“There’s nothing here,” Nat growled, his face grimy with dirt.
“The Stone must be in one of the other three graves,” Bad Whiskey said. “Let’s move west.”
The Tsi’noo shoved the young riders across the boneyard. The entire gang looked on the verge of collapse. Keech looked at Nat and Duck. The siblings were bruised, skinned up, exhausted, but they nodded at him nonetheless—a signal that they were ready to fight again when the time was right.
A staggering number of tombstones stretched before them, bathed in ruddy moonlight. Many of the graves had opened when Bad Whiskey spoke his chant, but many more remained intact. At the end of every row Whiskey stopped and sent thralls to the graves to inspect the tombstones for writing. Most times the creatures returned, grumbling, “Nothin’, Master.” One thrall shambled back and described a Scripture verse from Revelation, but Keech only shook his head. They resumed their search.
The longer the hunt dragged on, the more desperate Bad Whiskey seemed. “I’m warnin’ ya, pilgrim, don’t mess with me. If we don’t find the right graves soon, I’m gonna start fillin’ some empty holes with yer friends.”
“There’s too much ground to cover,” Keech said. “It’ll take the whole night to search every tombstone.”
“You ain’t got all night,” Bad Whiskey said. “You got an hour. The girl will take the north end and Herrera will scout the middle. You, rancher”—he pointed at Nat—“take your hefty friend and search the west. Jim Bowie will stay with me. Now, go fetch my Stone.”
The Tsi’noo separated the young riders to each corner of the boneyard. Because the landscape was hilly, Keech couldn’t make out where the thralls took Cutter and Duck. As he walked off, John Wesley stumbled a few times, still befuddled from the earlier blow to his head. Nat was a short distance off, shuffling through the graves, guarded by five or six thralls. Like the others, he carried a broken shovel. If they discovered one of Pa’s verses, their orders were simple: Dig the grave or die.
As they waited, Bad Whiskey snatched the telegram from Keech. He studied the letter again. “Four verses, four graves. But why would Raines mark four?”
“Maybe he broke the Stone into pieces.”
Bad Whiskey regarded the silent Pa Abner. “Impossible. The Char Stone contains ancient magic. It ain’t some simple object that can be cracked. No, we’re missin’ a connection.”
Bad Whiskey’s last word sent a quick idea fluttering through Keech’s head.
Connection.
He gazed across the moonlit hills, hoping to see the answer.
A murmur nearby, followed by a shout, broke his concentration. Nat was arguing with one of his thrall guards. Bad Whiskey grinned at the commotion and closed his good eye. His body went rigid, and Keech realized the outlaw was reaching into the thrall’s head.
If there was a good time to attack, it would be now. But before Keech could act, Pa Abner’s heavy hands gripped his shoulders, holding him in place.
Bad Whiskey opened his eye. “Splitting you boys up worked like a charm. Already the rancher found the Ezekiel verse. And our pal Herrera found Malachi over yonder.”
When they reached Nat, Keech saw that he had indeed discovered a wooden grave marker that bore the words of Ezekiel 7:25. Like Abraham Nell’s marker, this one too had been fashioned in the shape of a cross:
DESTRUCTION
COMETH
AND THEY SHALL SEEK PEACE
AND
THERE
SHALL
BE
NONE
Nat stood in the hole, throwing out wet dirt with his spade. His feet rested on the base of a split, empty casket.
“Anything?” Bad Whiskey asked.
Nat knelt and rooted around with his hands. He came up empty-handed. “Satisfied?” he hissed at Whiskey. “Your precious Stone ain’t here.”
Bad Whiskey grumbled and went deathly still. At the same time, Pa Abner rocked back on his boots like he’d been jolted by lightning. Pa’s left eye jittered, then calmed, like a spinning marble coming to rest. The outlaw’s lips pursed into a quivering line.
Keech realized Whiskey was trying to read Pa’s mind, but couldn’t. He smiled at the outlaw’s frustration.
As soon as Bad Whiskey released his hold on Pa, he slammed the back of his hand into Keech’s face, knocking him sideways. He felt his bottom lip split and tasted blood. Down in the hole Nat cursed, but Whiskey’s outburst drowned every word.
“How deep did Raines bury my treasure? Keep diggin’!”
Keech squinted up from the ground, his face stinging. He struggled to his feet and gazed toward the center of the graveyard, at the distant silhouette of a tall angelic statue that stood upon a low hill. The idea he’d gotten a few moments before fluttered back.
Pa Abner’s Bible verses were connecting points. But the points were not plainly visible. Two ways to look at a thing, he thought. To see the connections, he had to look at Bone Ridge a different way, as if flat on a map. He had to take the bird’s-eye view.
Keech now understood. Cutter, Duck, and John Wesley would find nothing. All four of the graves bearing Pa’s verses were, in fact, empty. But he said nothing aloud. In fact, he didn’t want to blink for fear of betraying one secret thought:
I know the location of the Char Stone.
Bad Whiskey stared at Keech with piercing interest. “You solved it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Speak, or I’ll bury the rancher alive.”
“Keech, don’t give this yellow-belly anything!” Nat shouted.
“Shut up,” Bad Whiskey said. With rattlesnake fury, he wrapped his hand around Keech’s wounded arm and squeezed the aching flesh. Keech dropped to his knees.
“Where is the Stone hid?”
“I’ll never yield!”
“I’ve got the strength of ten men, boy.”
Keech twisted in agony. “And I’ve got the endurance of twenty.”
Cursing, Bad Whiskey released his grip. Keech fell backward, clutching the injured arm. Whiskey glared at the crows in the sky.
“The endurance of twenty men, ya say? Let’s put that to the test.”
Keech steadied himself for what was to come. Bad Whiskey aimed to torture him. One of Pa Abner’s most critical lessons had concerned the presence and reality of physical pain. When you’re faced with suffering of the body, Pa had said, place all of your mind in a box, the tiniest box you can imagine, and nail the lid shut. Don’t let anything through.
Keech imagined the box where he would hide.
But then Bad Whiskey turned to Pa Abner and said, “Break yer orphan.”
Pa Abner loomed over Keech and began to swing his heavy arms. His fists struck without mercy. Keech backed over rows of graves, his arms raised to shield his face, but Pa was a tornado, relentless and blinding. Somewhere in the background Nat was yelling, and Bad Whiskey was cackling, but all other sounds were secondary to the vicious, inhuman grunts that came from Pa.
“Please, Pa, stop,” Keech begged.
But the blows kept coming. Pa’s fist slammed into his gut and Keech dropped to his knees. A heavy curtain began to close over his vision, fetching a darkness both gloomy and welcoming.
“Enough, Raines.”
Pa Abner stepped away and Bad Whiskey leaned over him, scowling.
“You ready to talk yet, boy?”
“Never. You’ll just have to kill me. At least you’ll never find the Char Stone.”
“Maybe I will kill ya, pilgrim. Then I’ll raise ya like I did Raines, search yer mind for the answer. I’d imagine you don’t have the guards on yer thoughts like he does.”
Bad Whiskey pulled his Dragoon.
In an instant, Keech realized he was defeated. There was no way he could stop Bad from uncovering his solution to the code. The only chance he had of beating the fiend was to keep on living and wait for a better plan to form. He raised his hands. “You win. No point in dying if you can just get the answer anyway.”
“Keech, no!” Nat yelled.
Keech spoke through a pained gasp. “Digging the other graves will be useless.”
Bad Whiskey sneered expectantly. “Yes?”
Holding his aching stomach, Keech began to draw in the dirt.
“There is your rotten Char Stone,” he said once he was finished. “Hidden at the cross.” He pointed to the center of the drawing.
Bad Whiskey started barking orders, instructing the other kids to find and stand at the four graves that were indicated on the telegram code. Then he commanded Pa Abner to drag Keech to the center of the X.
* * *
The Tsi’noo gathered, carrying torchlights, at the foot of the granite angel Keech had spotted earlier. Overgrown mounds of witchgrass blanketed the ground, obscuring most of the graves.
Keech rubbed his pounding temples. His ribs screamed from Pa’s blows.
Holding a fresh bone torch, Bad Whiskey muttered to himself as he stomped around the base of the angel statue. Two thralls approached, leading Duck. Another group escorted Cutter toward the illuminated area. Keech grew worried when he saw no sign of John Wesley—the boy had been badly dazed when they last saw him.
Duck grimaced in concern. “Keech, are you dying?”
Keech slowly stood. He looked to the south. “Not dying. Just awful sore.”
“Why’d the thralls bring us here?” Cutter asked.
“Because I want ya together when ya die.” Bad Whiskey stepped out from behind the angel. Pa Abner marched dutifully behind him. In one hand Pa held the coded telegram, in the other a pickax. “I reckon the son of Screamin’ Bill might be tryin’ one last trick,” Bad Whiskey said, “so I want me some prisoners to kill if we don’t find the Stone.”
Confusion rocked Keech. “Who is the ‘son of Screamin’ Bill’?”
Bad Whiskey spun on his heel and laughed in Keech’s face. “You mean Raines never even told ya the name of your own rotten padre? Screamin’ Bill Blackwood, terror of the West!”
Cold prickles danced down Keech’s spine. Hearing the name of his father for the first time, spoken by a devil, left his mind feeling tangled. He wondered what sort of emotions he ought to have and why he only felt a sort of nauseous panic in his gut.
“I see yer all shook up,” Bad Whiskey said. “Raines shoulda told ya, boy. Yer pa was an Enforcer for Rose.”
Keech glanced at Pa, wounded that he had never heard the truth.
Pa’s face remained coldly empty.
Bad Whiskey jerked his head at Pa, who tossed the pickax at Keech’s feet. “Well, pilgrim, you can ponder that final betrayal as ya set to work.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Keech asked.
Bad Whiskey pointed to the tall angelic statue. “Fetch my Stone.”
Keech lifted the pickax with a pained grunt. He shivered when he looked up at the stone figure. The sculpture was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, like something he’d dreamed in a perfect sleep. The angel’s granite hair flowed down her crumpled robes like frozen water, and she was praying, her hands cupped together in mute supplication. Her wings were folded inward, almost touching at their feathery tips, as if protecting her hands from curious enemies.
While Keech moved around the angel’s stone pedestal, studying the granite for strange cracks or openings, a third group of thralls brought Nat over to sit with the captive Duck and Cutter.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Keech is gonna uncover the Char Stone,” Cutter said.
Bad Whiskey stalked behind Keech, his bone torch and foul breath just behind his ear. The outlaw peered at the sky and mumbled a curse. Dozens of crows dissected the clouds, a swarming mass that made the night sky look alive.
“Hurry up. Quit stallin’.”
Every inch of the statue appeared to be solid. Keech inspected the pedestal again, but only piles of witchgrass surrounded the slab. “It’s not here.”
Bad Whiskey dropped his torch and grabbed the pickax from Keech’s grasp. “It has to be!” With his one arm he swung the tool at the angel’s robes, her wings, the sandaled feet upon the pedestal. Slivers of granite flew. The pickax severed the angel’s hands. They landed at the base of the pedestal and shattered below the statue’s feet.
Keech glanced down at the broken palms and fingers. Two small squares of blackened cypress peeked up from the ground, barely visible under the witchgrass.
He pushed aside the grass, revealing two identical grave markers. They lay flat against the earth, side by side, and judging by the way the ground had all but swallowed them, their presence was intended to go unnoticed.
Bad Whiskey stopped midswing, his face frantic. “What is it?”
“Two graves,” Keech said.
Dropping to his knees, he cleared the loose witchgrass from one of the graves.
The hasty, knife-cut engraving on the cypress marker caused his heart to thump. It read simply:
BILL
My father, Keech thought, feeling those nameless emotions steal over him again.
Still holding the pickax, Bad Whiskey charged over and shoved Keech out of the way. He leaned in and read the name, then staggered back a step, as if the mere sight of it threatened to knock him off his feet. Bad Whiskey bared his black teeth. He pointed to the second wooden marker. “Move the weeds.”
Keech swept away the witchgrass. At first he thought the second marker was blank. Then he noticed four letters, carved into the center, obscured by dirt. He rubbed the dirt away with his thumb.
“Erin,” he read. He felt he had heard the name before, somehow, somewhere.
“She was yer mother,” Bad Whiskey said. He glanced at Pa Abner. “Clever, Raines, to hide the Blackwoods here.”
Keech swallowed a heavy lump. This was the place, then. The resting place of the Char Stone. Inside the gravesite of parents he had never known. Erin and Bill. Screamin’ Bill, Bad Whiskey had called him. Terror of the West.
Pa Abner had claimed that his parents had died a decade ago in a gunfight with Bad Whiskey. Why were they buried here, in the Withers graveyard?
Pa stood by, silent, but there could have been the slightest hint of sadness, the tiniest suggestion of returning memories, on his face.
Keech glared at the outlaw. “You killed them, you snake. You killed my parents.”
Bad Whiskey cast his one good eye up at the growing swarm of crows. “Start diggin’, pilgrim, or I’ll raise ’em to join the Tsi’noo,” he said.
“I’ll unearth your blasted Stone if you just confess,” Keech said.
Bad Whiskey gave a rattling sigh. “I did know yer parents, boy. I rode with Screamin’ Bill. We followed the Reverend in search of eternal life. But after we all uncovered the Char Stone, Screamin’ Bill turned against Rose. He led Raines and the other backstabbers against the Reverend.”
Keech stared off in wonder. His father had led the revolt.
“And so you killed him.”
Bad Whiskey tossed back his head and laughed.
“Pilgrim, I never killed yer pa. Screamin’ Bill was the one who killed me. Got me straight in the eye with an arrow. Now get to diggin’.”
His mind reeling with a thousand baffled thoughts, Keech hacked at the hard earth with the pickax. The young riders struggled in the clutches of the Tsi’noo, but Keech paid them little attention. Only Pa Abner captured his eye. Pa’s face had taken on the expression of someone trying to wake from a terrible dream.
Bad Whiskey grew impatient. He commanded the Tsi’noo to thrust Nat, Duck, and Cutter into the hole Keech had started. Three shovels tumbled in after them. “Hurry!” Bad Whiskey ordered, and together the four of them dug.
Bad Whiskey looked around, confused. “Where’s the other pup? The chubby one?” The attendant thralls shrugged. He closed his eye and stilled for a moment. When he opened it again, he screamed at a trio of skeletal creatures, “Go find him!”
* * *
After what seemed like an eternity, Keech’s pickax struck something. He frowned with worry. Next to him, Duck’s shovel clacked on a second hard surface, and she tossed Keech a nervous glance.
“Good!” Bad Whiskey said.
“Whiskey, you’re a fool,” Nat said, wiping his brow. “If the Stone is so powerful, you won’t be able to control it.”
“If we’re lucky,” Cutter added, “it’ll turn him to dust.”
“Ignorant pup, the Char Stone is life,” Bad Whiskey said. “It’ll restore me. I’ll finally be whole again. Free.”
Suddenly, the outlaw’s true intentions came clear. Keech saw that all the grand talk of loyalty to the Gita-Skog, the high banter about devotion to the Reverend, was nothing more than hot air.
“You plan to betray Rose!” Keech said. “You want this thing for yourself!”
Something like terror dropped over Bad Whiskey’s face. His eye drifted up to the circling crows, and when he looked back at Keech, the eye was full of desperation. “You don’t understand, boy. The Reverend took my soul. He brought me back, but left me empty. The Char Stone’s the only thing that can save me.”
He muttered under his breath for a moment, then turned and screeched at his Tsi-noo. “Get ’em out of the grave!”
The mumbling corpses hauled the young riders out of the hole. As soon as the gang had cleared the pit, Whiskey leaped inside. His boots thudded on the lid of a coffin. With his one remaining hand he scooped aside the ancient dirt. Wood splintered as Whiskey broke open the lid of a pine casket. Inside rested the skeletal remains of a man—Keech’s father.
“Howdy, old friend,” Bad Whiskey muttered to the corpse. “Remember me?”
The sight in the box made Keech’s heart stutter. The long years had corrupted most of Screamin’ Bill’s burial clothes, but Keech could still make out the traces of a breechcloth and buckskin tunic, secured around the old bones with frayed cords. Upon the Enforcer’s chest lay a lone tomahawk, the cracked wooden handle studded with brass and animal teeth, the iron blade degraded to black rust.
Bad Whiskey hunkered over the corpse and peered at the tomahawk. “Where’s your trusty bow, Bill?” he asked the dead man. After a malicious chuckle, he knocked the tomahawk from the corpse’s chest and began to search the box in earnest. Keech gritted his teeth till they hurt, wanting to shout at Whiskey to halt this desecration, but the words stuck in his throat.
After a minute more of digging, the outlaw stood and brushed off his tainted fingers. “Nothin’.” He turned his attention to the matching box beside Screamin’ Bill. “Maybe this one, eh?” His ragged nails clawed at the wood.
“Don’t you touch her!” Keech yelled.
Bad Whiskey ignored him and continued his prying. He ripped open the coffin.
Keech prayed he would see something other than the remains of his mother—a trick of the eye, a counterfeit body—but the corpse of Erin Blackwood, the mother he couldn’t remember, lay inside the box. Her skeletal hands were folded over each other like the angel’s and reposing upon her chest. She wore a plum-colored, ankle-length dress, the ragged frills of a petticoat peeking through the frayed, moldy fabric. The ornate neck of the dress was high, blooming out like a flower and reaching just below his mother’s chin. Keech had thought he would feel trepidation when he looked upon her, the fear of seeing his own mother, perhaps a mirror of himself, lying in the coffin, forever still. Instead, the feeling was that of peaceful sorrow.
Then he noticed that his mother’s hands were folded over a small object and his breath stopped.
Bad Whiskey noticed the object as well, and gave a triumphant cry.
“At last!” he said. “I am no longer yer dog, Rose!”
A terrible silence filled the air of Bone Ridge. Even the legion of crows had stopped their cawing and cackling to watch, to see what lay inside Erin Blackwood’s hands.
Bad Whiskey leaned over the corpse to retrieve the object. Keech expected something frightful—the blast of a horrid curse or a lightning bolt that would strike their very hearts. Nat and Duck held on to each other, and Cutter clutched his bandana.
But nothing happened.
Bad Whiskey held the object up to the torchlight.
“No,” he breathed. “It can’t be.”