Spiny fear clawed at Keech’s skin. It filled his mouth with a sour tang, like a bite from an unripe persimmon.
A memory of Pa Abner’s training in the wild flashed through his mind. A warm night in the early spring. Pa had shaken Keech gently awake. During the night, a small pygmy rattlesnake had curled up under Keech’s blanket. Pa had carefully removed the blanket and placed it beside them. The sight of the rattler coiled in the crook of his legs had sent Keech’s heart racing beyond any fear he’d ever felt. His first instinct had been to spring up from the ground and run before the rattler sank its fangs into his thigh. But Pa had held him in place with a firm hand on his shoulder and whispered over and over again: Stay in the moment, Keech. Accept the danger. Doubt sparks panic, and panic sparks death. After a time, Keech relaxed. Now, son, remove the danger, Pa had said. After a seemingly eternal process of maneuvering his hand down his thigh, Keech had scooped up the comfortable, unsuspecting snake, as gently as a feather grazing a pebble, and tossed the critter aside.
Remembering the lesson, Keech took a deep breath to calm himself.
Sam gripped his shoulder in a panic. “What do we do?”
“We need to get off this hill,” Keech said.
“And go where?”
“Back to Copperhead Rock to hide the horses.”
After moving down to the far side of Copperhead Rock, the boys led the ponies a few paces into the forest so they would be invisible from the road. They tethered the mounts to a large pignut hickory, the same tree where Keech had once carved the head and face of his favorite animal, a wolf, into the bark. The horses fretted against the tree, unhappy to be so close to home and yet not properly stalled. Keech patted their muzzles and whispered for them to be patient.
“What now?” Sam asked.
“Let’s sneak back over the peak, follow one of our trails. Pa will need our help.”
Sam nodded.
As they hurried over White Elm Peak and plunged into the trees, a fragment of moon cut through the clouds. Sam muttered, “They’re surrounding the house!”
“We better punch the breeze, then.”
Over the years they had explored every inch of the orphanage territory. They had spent countless hours in the woods with Pa. They knew how to move without snapping a twig or disturbing a nesting bird. They knew which paths offered the best cover and which paths would get them to the bottom of White Elm Peak the fastest.
They ran the switchback in silence, letting the moon guide them.
As soon as they were closer, the boys crouched behind one of the sagging weigela bushes that flanked the front yard. They paused on their haunches not fifteen feet from one of the torch-wielding outlaws. The brute was one of eight men surrounding the front door. They formed a semicircle in the front yard, while the rest of the invaders had disappeared around the back.
There was no light inside, and Keech wondered if Pa had cleared everyone out. Then he noticed the faintest blush of light flickering in the second-floor window and realized Pa hadn’t had a chance to hide the family in the woods. He’d probably sent the kids and Granny Nell upstairs to take cover.
Sam pointed through the bush at the nearest bandit. The man wore a thick leather coat buttoned tight against the wind, and a heavy Pocket Revolver on his right hip. His hat brim was wide, casting smoky darkness across his face. His torch reeked of pungent tar, and shadows danced across the uneven dirt.
“That man is just like Tommy!” Sam whispered.
“Quiet,” Keech mouthed, but Sam was right. The brute was as pale as a corpse, another moving dead man like Tommy Claymore. I can’t shake a terrible feeling, Sam had said back in Big Timber. Like that fella didn’t have a soul.
Near the man in the leather coat stood a towering fat man with a craggy beard and a mouth that dripped black tobacco juice. A flash of metal glinted on the plump man’s face. A gold loop. It hung from the center of his nostrils, reminding Keech of a newspaper cartoon drawing he’d once seen of a big Jersey bull wearing a thick ring in its nose.
Most of the desperadoes possessed the same pasty flesh as Claymore. Even the bull-man with the nose hoop had the look of the recent dead upon him.
Keech tapped Sam on his boot and the boys crawled on their hands and knees behind the clusters of weigela and firethorn, careful not to upset a single leaf or branch. They stopped when their line of sight fell even with Bad Whiskey, who stood bathed in the dancing light of his goons’ torches.
The outlaw’s black overcoat rippled in the cold zephyr. He coughed onto the back of his gloved hand, and Keech’s fists tightened when he caught a glimpse of the dead left eye.
A high-pitched whistle sounded from the opposite side of the Home. “That’s the signal, boys,” Bad Whiskey said. “The others are in place round back.”
Sam grabbed Keech’s arm in desperation. Keech raised his palms, both facing downward, and lowered them slowly: the hand gesture for Stay calm.
Bad Whiskey shouted at the Home’s front door. “Isaiah Raines, come on out!”
The house remained quiet.
“Judgment has come, Raines! Face it like a man!”
The bitter wind howled across the property, then came to a stark rest, as if the world itself had stopped to catch a breath. The last hint of moonlight hid its face behind the dark clouds.
The front door of the Home for Lost Causes opened.
Pa Abner stepped out onto the porch. He was holding his Model 39 Carbine rifle. He planted his boots shoulder-width on the porch boards. Keech recognized Pa’s silence. He was taking a moment to size up each of the invaders crowding the yard.
At the edge of the half circle, the nose-ring monster—Keech could only think of him now as Bull—placed his hand upon his sidearm. The other desperadoes did the same, fingers inching toward their lead chuckers, but moving slowly to avoid any violent misunderstandings.
Pa Abner locked eyes on Bad Whiskey. “I made it clear you were to stay away.”
Bad Whiskey shifted his weight. He fanned back his overcoat, revealing a holstered Navy revolver. “Reverend’s orders. I don’t leave Missouri without the Char Stone.”
Pa ignored his remark. “I see you found a new hand cannon. Smaller than the Dragoon I took.”
“The Dragoon ya stole. I’ll be wantin’ that back. I brought me a fistful of thralls. You don’t stand a chance.”
Pa Abner grimaced. “Did the Reverend raise them?”
“Nope. I command the Tsi’noo now.”
“I see. You’ve borrowed the Prime. Your soul’s sunk deeper into rot than ever, Bad Whiskey. I reckon you don’t even have a soul anymore. I have a mind to put you down right here. You know full well I can.”
Bad Whiskey grinned, his smile all gaps and rotten teeth. “You think you can outdraw me?”
“A wobbling toddler could outdraw you, Bad.”
“Maybe yer faster, maybe you ain’t. But we both know burnin’ powder on me won’t make a lick of diff’rence.”
“Would this?” Pa lifted his left hand. Tied across his palm was the silver pendant. The orange light from the gang’s torches reflected in the metal and made it look as if Pa held a flame.
The grin withered on Whiskey’s face. He glanced at his banditos, as if seeking reassurance. They all backed away at least five steps.
Pa Abner seized the opportunity. “These mongrels see your fear, Bad. Get off my land or I’ll send you to your doom.”
Keech threw a hopeful glance at Sam. But his brother was gazing at something else in the yard and didn’t notice. His mouth had gone slack with disbelief.
A monstrous crow had landed on Bad Whiskey’s shoulder.
It was twice as big as any crow Keech had ever seen. Its beak was unnaturally long, like the jagged end of a scythe, and it moved its malformed head back and forth, as if examining the situation. The creature stood on a pair of whopping talons more suited for a bald eagle. But the frightful part was not the size or shape of the thing, but the way it leaned its massive body toward the outlaw’s ear.
Keech rubbed his eyes, not believing his own sight.
“Is that crow whispering to Whiskey?” Sam mumbled.
Bad Whiskey took another five steps back. Then he began to speak. Not to himself or his gang, but to the bird perched upon his shoulder.
Around him the torches burned, sending tar-scented vapors into the night sky.
“The Reverend sends a message,” Bad Whiskey told Pa. “He says surrender all the sacred objects and give up the hidin’ places of the Enforcers.”
As he spoke, the giant crow turned to look at Pa. It screamed a loud Ack! and Whiskey smiled, his courage renewed. His dead eye sparked yellow in the torchlight as the flames sliced in the wind, each flicker causing his foul features to pale and then darken, like a demon’s heartbeat.
“Reverend says comply, or none escape this night alive.”
Pa Abner raised his left hand, the silver gleaming like a bright candle on his palm as if the charm itself were glowing. “Ride out this minute or I’ll lay you low.”
Bad Whiskey sighed impatiently. “Raines, this needn’t get ugly. Give me the sacred objects or I’ll compel ya.”
The anger that flashed across Pa’s face convinced Keech that those words would be the outlaw’s last. He was sure Pa was about to lunge for the one-eyed villain and beat in his ugly face.
Instead, Pa jumped back into the house and slammed the door. The move was so unexpected, the desperadoes didn’t know what to do.
A deafening squawk split the night as the crow released Bad Whiskey’s shoulder. It took mad flight across the yard, its wings lashing the air, and swooped down the center of the front porch. Keech heard the sound of slashing as the crow’s talons scored lines into the planks. He tried to keep the crow in sight, but the creature charged up at the porch’s edge, spiraled high into the October sky, and vanished into the darkness.
Bad Whiskey tilted his head. “Very well,” he muttered. “Violence, then.”
He peeled off one glove, brought his fingers to his mouth, and blew a shrill whistle.