Four Live Rounds

  “Of course I’ve thought about it.”

  “Then why don’t you send him on out, and you and me can keep talking.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just…I can’t.”

  Mitchell heard footsteps outside the door. He got up quickly, glanced through the peephole just in time to see the battering ram swing back.

  He stumbled toward the bed as the door exploded off its hinges and slammed to the floor, two men standing in the threshold—the sheriff with the shotgun trained on him, a deputy with a flashlight and a handgun.

  Mitchell shielded his eyes, specks of snow blowing in, luminescent where they passed through the LED beam, couldn’t see the man behind the light, but the sheriff’s eyes were hard and kind. He could tell this even though they lived in the shadow of a Stetson.

  The sheriff said, “I don’t see the boy, Wade. Mitchell, let me see those hands.”

  Mitchell took a deep, trembling breath.

  “Come on, Mitch, let me see your hands.”

  Mitchell shook his head.

  “Goddamn, son, I won’t tell you—”

  Mitchell swung his right arm behind his back, his fingers wrapping around the remote control jammed down his boxer shorts, the room fired into blue by the illumination of the television, the laugh track to Seinfeld blaring, Wade screaming the sheriff’s name as a greater light bloomed beside the lesser.

  Sheriff James flicked the light, felt the breath leave him, blinking through the tears.

  He leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped inside the bathroom.

  The cheap fiberglass of the tub had been lined with blankets and pillows, and the little boy was sitting up staring at the sheriff, orange earplugs protruding from his ears.

  The sheriff knelt down, smiled at the boy, pulled out the earplugs.

  “You okay, Joel?”

  The boy said, “A noise woke me up.”

  “Did he make you sleep in here?”

  “Mitchell said if I was a good boy and kept my earplugs in and stayed in here all night, I could see my Daddy in the morning.”

  “He did, huh?”

  “Where’s my Daddy?”

  “Down in the parking lot. We’ll take you to him, but I need to ask you something first.” The sheriff sat down on the cracked linoleum tile. “Did Mitchell hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t touch you anywhere private or make you touch him?”

  “No, we just sat on the bed and watched about spiders and stuff.”

  “You mean on the TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that?” The sheriff pointed to the notebook sitting on a pillow under the faucet.

  “Mitchell said to give this to the people who came to get me.”

  Wade walked into the bathroom, stood behind the sheriff as he lifted the spiral-bound notebook and opened the red cover to a page of handwriting in black ink.

  “What is it?” Wade asked.

  “It’s to his wife.”

  “What’s it say?”

  The sheriff closed the notebook. “I believe that’s some of her business.” He stood, faced his deputy, snow melting off his Stetson. “Get this boy wrapped up in some blankets and bring him down to his dad. I gotta go call Lisa Griggs.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Wade?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You throw a blanket over Mr. Griggs before you bring Joel out. Don’t want so much as a strand of hair visible. Shield the boy’s eyes if you have to, maybe even turn the lights out when you carry him through the room.”

  The deputy shook his head. “What the hell was wrong with this man?”

  “You got kids yet, Wade?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Well, just a heads up—if you ever do, this is how much they make you love them.”

  An introduction to “On the Good, Red Road”

  This story takes place in the universe of my third book, ABANDON, and is a companion piece to that novel. It works fine as a standalone, but will be a richer experience for those who have read ABANDON, as this one explores how Oatha Wallace came to the mining town in the autumn of 1893, delving into the doomed journey from Silverton to Abandon, which turned this pacifist into a murderous outlaw.

  on the good, red road

  October 1893

  San Juan Mountains

  Southwest Colorado

  If Durango was on the road to hell, Silverton had already gotten there and staked a claim—enough whorehouses, dancehalls, and gambling halls to service a city ten times the size.

  Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of bootstomps on floorboards. Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a corset grinning at him.

  “Bet you could use a trim,” she said.

  “Not tonight.”

  She went on through the crowd, availing her services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind the bar.

  He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell out you wanna drink in this shithole!”

  Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by dirty, chin-length yellow hair. At the table sat three men, and the one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial damage.

  “Happy to share.”

  Oatha relinquished his place in line and threaded his way through the crowd to the table, where they’d already pushed out the last remaining chair. Oatha sat, extended his hand across a filthy set of playing cards and a pot of tiny pokes, a few crumpled dollars, a double eagle, and a voucher for fifteen minutes with a whore called Grizzly Sow.

  “Oatha Wallace.”

  “Nathan Curtice. This is Marion McClurg and Daniel Smith.”

  “Boys.”

  McClurg, a larded beast of a man, reached forward and pulled the pot toward his corner of the table while Dan eyed Oatha.

  “Play cards?” Nathan asked.

  “Not often.”

  Nathan poured a whiskey, pushed the glass to Oatha, who took it up and tossed it back with a fleeting grimace.

  “Two dollars gets you in on the next hand.”

  “Well, I’m trying to save my money—”

  “For what?”

  “A horse.”

  “A horse.”

  “I’m traveling on to Abandon. Got a job with the Godsend Mine.”

  “No shit,” Nathan said. “I’m headed that very direction myself to visit my brother. He’s sheriff up there. Maybe you heard of him…Ezekiel Curtice.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Yeah, I can’t quite believe what that outlaw’s become myself.”

  McClurg shuffled the cards while Dan refilled the tumblers.

  “You been to Abandon?” Nathan asked.

  “First time.”

  “What I heard, even across lots, it’s a twenty mile ride through hard country.”

  Oatha felt the cards sliding under his fingers, McClurg already dealing.

  “Don’t wanna play.”

  “Few hands won’t kill ye,” Nathan said.

  Dan muttered, “Man bought you two drinks already. ‘Less you some boiled shirt, least you can do is play a hand.” Oatha looked over at Dan, the man thin as a totem, gant up and blanched like he carried some parasite. Oatha reached into his leather pouch, selected several pieces of hard chink, and tossed the coins into the middle of the table.

  Two hours later, Oatha stumbled out of the saloon, and he barely made it into an alley before spewing his supper against the clapboard.

  N
athan stood chuckling behind him. “You can’t play cards for shit.”

  “Yeah,” Oatha groaned as he leaned against the wall, bracing for the next round of nausea. “And I got barely the money for a horse now.”

  “Wouldn’t fret.”

  Oatha spit. “Why’s that?”

  “Like I said, me and the boys headin to Abandon in two days. Travel with us, you want. Dan’s got a mule you can ride.”

  “A mule.”

  “Mean son of a bitch name a Rusty.”

  Oatha straightened, tried to center himself over his feet, the world tilting. On the second floor of a false-fronted building across the street, a headboard smacked repeatedly into a wall and bedsprings squealed like ravenous pigs. Against the dark, Nathan was just a silhouette.

  “You sure?” Oatha asked.

  “Yeah, you don’t wanna be takin that trail to Abandon on your own anyhow. Wild country out there, bad people in it.”

  “I’m obliged,” Oatha said, though he wasn’t. Last thing he wanted was these men for extended company.

  “You get yourself home?” Nathan asked.

  “Believe so.”

  “I’m gonna go scare up a little snatch.”

  Nathan wandered off toward Blair Street, an assured elegance to his drunken gait, and Oatha sat down against the back of the saloon to let his head clear, get his bearings straight for the long stagger back to the hotel.

  He woke stiff and cold some hours later, still sitting up against the back of the saloon, his

  gray frockcoat glazed with a heavy frost. The throbbing at the base of his skull was his

  pulse, and it quickened as he struggled to his feet in the thin air.

  The predawn sky held a deep lavender tint, the surrounding peaks stark black against it, like patches of starless space, and aside from the candleflames in the windows of the cribs, this boom town stood as still and dark as a man might hope to see it.

  Oatha bought a lineback canelo from a greaser at the livery, an old saddle, and provisions for two days, including tobacco and a quart of whiskey. Struck out of Silverton in the late afternoon, even as the sun perched on a jagged ridge of peaks in the west.

  At dusk, he was three miles out of town, camped along a drowsy stream downsized to a trickle in these dry weeks of autumn. Oatha lay smoking on his bedroll, staring up through the spruce at pieces of the night sky, moonless and starblown. If he rode hard, he’d make Abandon by nightfall. It all seemed like the start of something for him, a new direction. He was fifty-one, and maybe it was time he got his life right, started walking that road his friend, Sik’is, had always talked about.

  The restlessness of the horse tore him out of the dream, and Oatha sat up before his eyes opened. It was light out, though still early, maybe an hour past dawn. He got up, walked over to the mare and rubbed her neck.

  In the near distance, a twig snapped, followed by the clink of bits and leather saddles creaking in the cold. Oatha spotted movement through the trees. Though he’d star-pitched fifty feet off the trail, he now realized he was still in easy eyeshot of any passersby who happened to glance in his general direction.

  He counted three riders moving up the trail and was debating whether to hail them or just let them pass, none the wiser of his presence, when a voice called out, “Got breakfast ready, Oatha?”

  Now Nathan was coming toward him through the trees astride an apron-faced gelding.

  “Hello there, boys.” Oatha mustering more enthusiasm than he felt, something unnerving about being in proximity to Nathan Curtice in the middle of nowhere that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Nathan, Dan, and McClurg rode up, and Nathan dismounted, walked over to Oatha, glancing at his bedroll, his horse, as if he’d caught him stepping out.

  “Got yourself that new horse,” Nathan said.

  Oatha nodded.

  “You know you’ve hurt Rusty’s feelings.”

  “Who?”

  McClurg snorted.

  “Oh, the mule. Came looking for you boys yesterday,” Oatha lied, “see if you wanted to start out a day early.” The way Nathan stared into his eyes bothered Oatha, like the man was looking through his head, reading the scrawl on the back of his skull.

  “You not think we’d make fit traveling companions?” Nathan asked.

  “Course not.”

  “What then?”

  “Just started out early is all.”

  Nathan gave a nod, though it didn’t appear to be one of understanding. He glanced back at Dan, as if to say something, but stopped himself.

  “You care to ride on with us?” Nathan asked.

  “I’ll probably just catch a few more winks and then—”

  “How about you saddle your horse right now, come along with us like you said you was goin to.”

  Oatha rode between McClurg and Dan in the early morning cold, the trail winding up a long drainage through a dense stand of spruce. By midday, a thick cloud deck had darkened the sky, and when the men stopped to lunch at timberline, tiny flakes of snow stood out on the wool of Oatha’s coat. They were making a leisurely go of it, no chance of reaching Abandon by nightfall at this pace, but Oatha held his tongue, even as they lounged for two hours, smoking and nipping from Nathan’s jar of whiskey, the men fair drunk by the time they finally decamped.

  It was cold riding, and Oatha’s glow soon faded.

  They climbed out of the trees, the snow blowing sideways over this exposed, open terrain. The Teats, those twin promontories Oatha had been using as a guide since yesterday, had vanished in the storm.

  They camped miserable, cold, and wet just below timberline in a grove of dead spruce, got a sheet of canvas strung up between the trees, a fire going underneath, but even the whiskey jar making the rounds couldn’t lift Oatha’s spirits. He sat leaning against a spruce, watching the snow pour down and the light recede, thinking he should be in Abandon by now.

  “How much you figure they keep on hand?” McClurg asked.

  “Few thousand. Ten if we’re lucky,” Nathan said.

  “Enough to make it worth our trouble,” Dan said.

  Oatha cut his eyes at the three men, and McClurg noticed, said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Nathan smiled. “Nobody told him he felled in with road agents.”

  The men laughed.

  “What do you do for a livin?” Nathan asked.

  Oatha’s mouth had run dry. “Been prospecting, bar mining, picking up work in the mines where I can—”

  “Like honest work, do you?” Dan said.

  “I guess.”

  “But the question,” McClurg said, “is how you feel about dishonest work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well think on it, get back to us.”

  The men laughed again and Nathan swiped the jar from Dan, tilted it back. McClurg hoisted a log onto the fire, a spray of ashes engulfing Oatha. He rummaged through his satchel, located the loaf of sourdough he’d bought before leaving Silverton.

  “Break me off a hunk a that,” Nathan said, and Oatha tore off a piece.

  “Got a round a cheese in here, too.”

  “Don’t be stingy.”

  They cut cheese onto the bread, set the slices on hot stones in the fire’s vicinity to let it melt.

  The storm brought a premature night, and in the firelight, Oatha watched the snow fall without respite. They played cards until the fire ran out of wood, won the last of Oatha’s money, drank up his quart of whiskey, smoked all of his tobacco.

  As the other men snored, Oatha lay awake. If it hadn’t been snowing so hard, he’d have attempted to sneak out of camp, resaddle his horse, and get the hell away from Nathan and the boys. He didn’t want to look it in the eye, but the truth of the matter was that he’d backed himself into a bind, and if he didn’t slip away from them tomorrow, he’d probably never reach Abandon.

  Oatha’s eyes opened. As he sat up, his vision sharpened into focus and he saw the gray-white madness
of the blizzard, the canvas sheet sagging to the ground at one end, the snow piled up three feet around the boundary of their little shelter.

  He held his hands toward the low fire, his head throbbing again, a whiskey hangover that wouldn’t die until noon at the earliest.

  Nathan looked at him, shook his head.

  “My horse and yours are dead. We’ve caught a bad piece a luck here.”

  They stayed under the canvas all day, taking turns venturing out to gather wood from the abundance of rotted spruce and melting snow in the emptied whiskey jars, a tenuous proposition, the fire and ice resulting in shattered glass in two out of three attempts.

  By evening, the snow had quit but the wind raged on through the night, and the sound of limbs cracking kept Oatha from the depths of restful sleep.

  The second morning dawned cloudless and bright. They saddled the two remaining horses and broke camp as the first rays of sunlight struck the Teats, Oatha clinging to

  Dan, Nathan to the substantial girth of McClurg.

  A quarter mile out from the shelter, Dan’s horse stopped in its tracks and refused to take another step, snow to its belly, nostrils flaring in the thin air.

  “I’ll make you go!”

  He dismounted, grabbed the bridle strap and fought to drag the horse forward, but it wouldn’t budge, even when Dan drew his Colt and smacked the animal across the bridge of its nose.

  “Enough,” Nathan said. “These animals ain’t built for this.”

  “Maybe just one of us should take a horse, try to make Abandon,” Oatha said.

  “Who, you?”

  “To what end?”

  “To get help. Bring back a sled or a—”

  “Snow’s too deep,” Nathan said. “Hell, it’s just early October. We’ll get us a warm spell in a couple days. Good sod-soaker.”

  “We’re almost out a provisions,” McClurg said. “We’re just supposed to wait around?”

  “I ain’t in control of the weather, Marion.”