Four Live Rounds (5 page)

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.

Nathan 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.