Keech stood in silence over Pa Abner’s body. A freezing wind raised goose bumps on his neck, but like the pain that racked him, he ignored the chill.
After a time the young riders approached. Keech asked them for help burying Pa. They collected shovels and spades, and dug a large hole beneath the angelic statue, beside Bill and Erin Blackwood’s grave.
Keech spotted a small object in the dirt. It was the doll that his mother had been holding. He picked it up, gave the doll a long study, and then stowed it inside his coat pocket.
When the digging was done, the young riders lowered Pa Abner into the hole, packed the earth, and helped Keech refill the gravesite. Afterward he stood over all three graves and pondered what to say.
At first he could think of nothing. But then, as the night wind swirled the broomsedge, Keech’s eyes floated up to the towering angel. Though her praying hands had been severed, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. As he gazed at her, the tears dried in his eyes.
He realized he had words to say after all.
“I never knew who you were,” he said to the three graves. “You’ve been a mystery to me. But you’re all my family. You’ll always be with me.”
Cutter walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice words,” he said. Then a curious expression came over his face. “So, you’re Osage.”
He smiled at the boy. “I’m Keech. And you’re Cutter.”
Cutter returned the smile. “It’s Miguel,” he said. “Miguel Herrera.” He looked as if he wanted to add something else, but John Wesley spoke first.
“Look!”
Beyond Bone Ridge’s iron gate, a trio of lights crossed the narrow footpath, one behind the other. The lights seem to float in the air as they approached the graveyard.
Duck frowned nervously. “What are they?”
“Spirits!” Cutter said. He crossed himself, and Keech wondered if the boy could be right. Maybe the lights were the spirits of his folks and Pa Abner, wandering the edges of Bone Ridge, fulfilling Keech’s desire that they would stay with him forever.
“It ain’t spirits,” Nat said. “It’s three riders.” He seized one of the pickaxes. “Could be more of Rose’s men. Stand ready.”
As the lights passed through the gate, Duck said, “It’s travelers, all right. There’s a team of horses behind them.”
Details of the horsemen were scarcely visible, but Duck was right. Following close behind the ghostly trio was a pack of horses attached to lead ropes.
A booming voice rumbled across the graveyard.
“This is the Big Timber sheriff! If you’re armed, drop your weapons! If you’re peaceful, state your names!”
Sheriff Bose Turner cantered through the graveyard, flanked by two young men escorting five horses in single file.
The past two days had nearly destroyed his body, but Keech took off running anyway, hurtling toward the lawman. The other young riders followed, limping and laughing.
“Sheriff!” Keech yelled, then noticed Felix, his pony, standing among the five escorted horses. The other ponies belonged to the rest of the gang—Nat and Duck’s Fox Trotters, John Wesley’s fat gelding, and Cutter’s palomino mare. When the other young riders caught up to Keech, they hooted for joy.
Turner and his two companions clucked and whistled for the team to stop. The men were holding farm lanterns in one hand, percussion revolvers in the other. The sheriff’s left arm was folded in a white sling—dressing for the wound he’d suffered back at Whistler.
At the sight of the desecrated graves and piles of lifeless thralls, a look of horror crossed Turner’s face. “Dear heaven, what happened here?” he said.
Petting Felix’s muzzle, Keech said, “Bad Whiskey kept us busy, Sheriff.”
“I can see that. What happened to him?”
“Long story.”
Turner scratched his face. “Why don’t we start from the beginning.”
* * *
Turner’s companions were two German brothers from Whistler. They didn’t know a lick of English, so they held their lanterns and remained silent as Turner explained his half of the story. Keech noticed one of the brothers wore a brown holster that contained Deputy Ballard’s Colt.
“It took these fellas a whole day to round up your horses,” the sheriff said. The group had moved back to the gate, and as Turner spoke, the young riders kept busy patching cuts and tending bruises. “They were scattered all over the countryside. When we found your horse, Nat, we were sure happy to see this.” Turner reached into a long leather bag and pulled out Nat’s Hawken rifle.
“You found it!” Nat grabbed the rifle and checked its sights.
Turner went on to explain that after the kind Whistler family had patched his shoulder, he and the German brothers had set out through Floodwood to find everyone.
“Did the forest trap you?” John Wesley asked.
Turner frowned. “Trap us? No, we were able to ride straight through. We found the town of Snow a couple hours after we set out.”
The young riders looked at each other with fascination. Apparently the curse had been lifted by the time Turner and the Germans had entered.
“My friends, it sounds as if your path was much more treacherous than mine,” Sheriff Turner said. “I do apologize I couldn’t be there to help.”
After recounting their part of the journey and how Bad Whiskey had met his end, Keech told Turner about Pa’s final instructions to seek a place called Bonfire Crossing.
“There hasn’t been an Osage village near our parts for decades,” Turner said. “If such a place does exist, it would be farther south in Kansas Territory, along the Neosho River.”
“Pa said we’d have to go west.”
Turner rubbed his mustache. “So you intend to keep going? Even though you almost got yourselves killed?”
“Big Ben is still out there,” Nat said. “That monster killed our folks.”
“And we intend to hunt him down,” Duck finished.
Turner looked at Cutter. “What about you? You have no more vengeance to seek, now that Whiskey’s dead.”
Cutter sneered, though Keech could tell there was so much more to his story, so much more that Miguel Herrera had not told them. “You know what they say, Sheriff. The wicked never rest.”
Turner shifted his gaze to John Wesley. “And you, son?”
With a low voice, John Wesley said, “My mother’s killer is still out there, too. If I don’t hunt him down, she’ll never rest in peace.”
Turner gave each youth a long, serious look. At last he said, “I can’t allow you to run off wild and act like a bunch of vigilantes.”
Each of the young riders groaned.
“But,” Turner said, “if you were deputized, you wouldn’t be vigilantes, now, would you?”
He called the young riders into a huddle. At the southern edge of Bone Ridge, under the light of three farm lanterns and a full moon, he ordered them to raise their right hands. They didn’t have a Bible to swear on, but the sheriff said extreme cases called for extreme measures. After a few momentous words about duty and honor, he pronounced the words that made them official deputies of the Law.
“Apologies that I don’t have stars to give you,” he said. “Maybe when you all come back, I’ll do it proper. Till then, consider yourselves appointed officers.”
“Wonders never cease,” Cutter said. “I’m a lawdog now.”
The German brothers offered the gang a supply of spare tack and blankets and rations they’d brought along. Turner helped them pack the provisions and check their saddles. Meanwhile, Keech stowed Pa Abner’s charm back around his neck, while Noah Embry’s amulet piece went back to Duck. As long as they held the shards, the Reverend’s crows would let them be. The birds would always be up there somewhere, watching from a distance, but they knew better than to attack.
Once the preparations were done, Nat called the group into a circle.
“Listen up. The wind is hard and the clouds are heavy. Best we get some miles under us before we make camp. I want this rotten graveyard as far away as we can get it.”
“But where do we go next?” John Wesley asked.
“There is a town in Kansas Territory, southwest of here,” Turner said. “Wisdom, it’s called. It’s a free settlement like Big Timber, no slavers, no hooligans. The sheriff there, Strahan, is a good man. He’ll feed you, provide weapons, put you up. He knows the Osage and how they travel. Maybe he’ll know a thing or two about Bonfire Crossing.”
Keech said, “To Wisdom, then.”
“To Wisdom,” Nat replied.
Sheriff Turner and the German brothers mounted their steeds. Before reining their horses back toward Whistler, Turner offered the young riders one final word of caution.
“If you ever need to send a message, never use your real names. Your identities are precious, so you should pick a name for your group.”
“The Lost Causes,” Keech said at once, and looked at his trailmates.
Turner pondered the words. “It’s a good name,” he said. Before riding out, the sheriff shifted back on his saddle. He gazed at each of them and told them, smiling, “Go, Lost Causes. Go be legends.”
Once Turner and his companions had ridden back into the forest, the gang mounted their horses and sat in silence, and the sheriff’s words settled around them. Keech looked to the east. Hues of purple and gold began to dawn over the distant trees. The long, terrible night was at last surrendering to a new day.
“So,” Nat said. “The Lost Causes.”
Keech nodded. An image appeared in his mind. An image of a sign, hanging strong and proud against the wild of the wilderness. A symbol of family. A symbol of strength. Protect us, St. Jude, from harm.
They were five strong now, they were a team. This was their new calling. Their new home was the trail. They would learn by it. They would study it.
And once they were strong enough, they would face the Reverend Rose.
For now, they were cold and a little scared.
So Keech Blackwood decided to do for his Lost Causes what he used to do for Sam, on the nights when Sam needed comfort, on the nights when Sam needed his friend.
He sang “Ol’ Lonesome Joe” to comfort their souls.
Ol’ Lonesome Joe, come ride next to me.
Let’s roll, ol’ Joe, to the Alamo Tree.
Lonesome in the heart, lonesome as can be.
You won’t be so lonesome at the Alamo Tree,
When you sit next to me, when you sit next to me.
THE END