Crucifixion River Read online

  “Do you think the slough’s passable yet?”

  “Water seemed to be settling when I looked out earlier, but it’s still running high and there’s a lot of debris. I’ll know better when it’s light. We’ll ferry the stage across as soon as it’s safe.”

  She lay quietly again for a time. Then: “Nesbitt?”

  “Too many people here now for him to do much except bide his time.”

  “If he doesn’t speak to you right away, bring it out into the open yourself. We have to know what his intentions are.”

  “I will.”

  Blackbirds cried noisily somewhere outside-a sure sign that the weather had improved. When it was quiet again, Sophie said: “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

  “You have to. If Nesbitt’s bent on using that sidearm of his…”

  “No. We’ll put Annabelle on the stage in Pete’s care, but I’m staying here. No matter what happens. I won’t run again, Thomas, any more than you will.”

  I made no reply. I had told her about Boone Nesbitt last night, when we were alone in bed, and she’d said the same thing then-no more running and hiding, for either of us. There was no point in trying to argue with her when her mind was made up. Whatever happened with Nesbitt, we would face it together.

  Eight years. Eight long, difficult years. We’d sought to convince ourselves that after so much time, this day might never come. And yet we’d never quite believed it. Patrick Bellright was a relentless, bitter, vengeful man with unlimited funds; he would never stop hunting me until his dying day. There would be a reward on my head, a large one, and it would carry no stipulations or caveats. Wanted-dead or alive.

  It was a monstrous miscarriage of justice, the result of an accident that was not my fault, that I could not have avoided. A Sunday afternoon drive through Jackson Park in a rented carriage, a small child chasing a ball out of a line of shrubs and yelling loudly enough to frighten the horse. Thrashing hoofs, a scream, a crushed form sprawled in the roadway. We had rushed the child to the nearest doctor, even though Sophie and I were sure there was no life left in her. Marissa Bellright. Seven years old, and Patrick Bellright’s only child.

  The rest was nightmare. Dire threats, a murderous assault by one of his hirelings that I’d barely escaped. And then flight, again by bare escape, and arduous travel across country to this isolated backwater and a new, hardscrabble life as ferrymaster and innkeeper-labors as far removed from my former position as newspaper reporter and columnist as Chicago was from Twelve-Mile Crossing.

  I had been a fool to submit my sketches for publication in San Francisco. Yet of all the possible ways I might be found by Bellright’s hirelings, my pseudonymous writings had seemed the most remote. There was no way I could have anticipated a man like Nesbitt, whoever he was, making the connection between Harold P. Baxter and T.J. Murdock. But it had happened, and now it was too late. For me, but not, I vowed, for Annabelle or Sophie.

  The dawn light was brightening. Sophie and I both rose, washed up, and dressed. She went to the kitchen to make coffee and get breakfast started, and I went to check on Hoover again. Mrs. Devane and Rachel Kraft were both with him now; the two women seemed to have developed a comradeship. There was no change in Hoover’s condition.

  Nesbitt was alone in the common room, stoking up the fire as he must have done throughout the night because the room was still warm. There was no sign of the peddler, Shock. As I crossed to the front door, Nesbitt stood up.

  “We need to have a talk, Murdock,” he said.

  “Yes, but not right this second. I have work to attend to.”

  “Soon, though.”

  “I’ll be around,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I didn’t suppose you were.”

  Outside, the yard was rain-puddled and littered with leaves and branches. The levee roads on both sides of the slough seemed to have survived intact, so far as I could see, although down toward where the slough bent to the south, the water level was only a couple of feet below the surface of the Middle Island road. Both embankments appeared to have held without crumbling. The slough waters were chocolate brown, frothy, still running fast and bobbing with tree limbs and other detritus from the storm.

  I slogged through the mud to the landing. The barge was as I’d left it, moored fast, and the strung cable and windlass had come through undamaged. As I finished my examination, Pete Dell appeared from the direction of the barn. I went to meet him.

  “How’s she look out there, Murdock?”

  “It should be safe enough for the stage to cross in another couple of hours.”

  “Good enough. I’m so far behind schedule now, couple more hours won’t make any difference. Some wild night, eh?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “That peddler, Shock, is over in the barn hitching up his wagon.”

  “Already? He must be eager for an early start to River Bend.”

  “So he says. I don’t much like that fella, tell you the truth.”

  “I would have said the same before he put an end to Luke Kraft’s terrorism last night.”

  “Even so. But then, I never much liked Kraft, neither. His death’s likely to cause a stir up Isleton way, even if he did deserve what he got.” Pete stretched and blew on his hands. “Coffee ready?”

  “Should be. Breakfast, too, just about.”

  We went on into the house. Two hours, I was thinking bleakly, and part of another for the stage to cross. And then Nesbitt. And then, one way or another, an end to my freedom.

  James Shock

  I finished harnessing Nell to my wagon, hauled the Murdocks’ buckboard to one side of the runway, opened the doors, and led Nell out of the barn. Bitter cold this morning, but I scarcely felt the bite. The $3,000, nestled inside my coat, provided warmth aplenty.

  As I drove across the muddy yard, the ferrymaster stepped out of the roadhouse and hailed me. I drew to a stop, arranging my face in an expression of gravity. “I was about to stop in,” I lied, “to ask after Mister Hoover.”

  “He’s awake and taking nourishment. He passed a comfortable night.”

  “Well, he’ll soon enough have the attention of a doctor.”

  “Good of you to make the trip to River Bend, Mister Shock.”

  “Not at all. I know my duty.”

  “Will you have breakfast before you go? Or at least a cup of hot coffee?”

  “Thank you, no. I’ve no real appetite this morning, and I’d just as lief make tracks while the weather is dry. How much do I owe for the night’s lodging?”

  “Not a cent, under the circumstances.”

  “Christian of you, brother, but I insist on paying for your hospitality.”

  “As you please. Two dollars, then.”

  I leaned down to pay him. He thanked me and wished me Godspeed, and I touched my hat and gigged Nell up the muddy embankment. The wagon’s wheels slipped a bit, but the old plug held her footing and soon enough we were on the levee road, headed in the direction of River Bend. I cast no backward glance.

  Even if the money were missed, no one at the ferry crossing could be sure that I’d taken it; not even Nesbitt, if he was a lawman, would have cause or impetus to chase after me. I had only to pass through River Bend and I was safe. Sheriff, doctor? Hah! I wouldn’t tarry in the town long enough to wave at a passer-by. Straight on through and back to Sacramento as quickly as I could get there.

  I felt a song welling up in me and began to hum and then to sing softly. Later, when the day warmed a bit, I would bring out my banjo to celebrate properly my good fortune. $3,000, more than I’d ever had at one time. What a man could do with that much money! Why, I might just board Nell in a livery, put the wagon in storage, and take passage on one of the river packets to San Francisco. Yes, that was just what I’d do. A room in the city’s best hotel, fine food, champagne, a pretty lass for company and bed. Heigh-ho! Life’s bounties in abundance.

  After a mile or so I passed a weed-infested side roa
d that meandered off onto a long peninsula. Ahead was a sharp bend, both sides of the levee road shaded by sycamores. The road’s surface was less slick here and we were clomping along at a right pert pace when we reached the bend and started through.

  I didn’t spy the downed tree until we were almost upon it. It lay blocking the road from one side to the other, its root-torn bole jutting high and its upper branches drooping down into the slough. I yanked back hard on the reins. Nell shied and the wagon slewed sideways, and, when that happened, just before we slid to a halt a few feet from the sycamore, something shifted and clattered inside. I could scarcely believe what I heard then-the startled, pained cry of a woman.

  I set the brake, jumped down, ran to the rear of the wagon, and pulled open the doors. And lo, there she was, asprawl on the floor among a small litter of items dislodged from their hooks and cubbies, the hem of her traveling dress twisted up to reveal her drawers.

  Annabelle Murdock.

  “What the devil are you doing in my wagon?”

  “Please don’t be mad at me, James Never Jim Shock. Please!”

  “Answer me, girl.”

  “I had to get away. I couldn’t stay any longer. You’ll let me come with you, won’t you? I’ll do anything you say…”

  “How did you get in there? The doors were locked.”

  “No, they weren’t. I slipped out of the house and into the barn while it was still dark and the doors weren’t locked, and I found a place to hide…”

  Damnation! I must have neglected to lock them when I brought out my banjo last night. Fury rose, hot and thick, in my chest and throat. Everything proceeding so well, and then the downed tree across the road and now this stupid priss of a girl. I wheeled away and stomped ahead to look at the sycamore. Blocking the road for fair, and a thick-trunked bugger it was. It would take a crew of men with axes and saws to cut it up and clear away the debris. The fury rose higher; my head commenced to throb with it, my hands to palsy some.

  Annabelle had come out of the wagon and was standing, small and fearful, next to Nell. And fearful she should be, the little bitch. As if the blocked road wasn’t enough of a trial, now I had this rattlebrain to contend with.

  “You won’t send me back?” she said. “Please say you won’t send me back.”

  Send her back? Hell, no, I wouldn’t. It was only a mile or so to the roadhouse, a short and easy walk, but once she arrived, there was no telling what she might say or the Murdocks might think. She may already have been missed. They might believe I’d enticed her away or, worse, kidnapped her. It was a risk I couldn’t afford to take.

  “James Never Jim Shock? Say you…”

  “Don’t call me that, you little bitch. Shut your damn’ mouth and let me think.”

  A stifled gasp, and she was still.

  Take her with me? I couldn’t do that, either, even if the road were free for passage. She was a tender morsel, right enough, but under the age of legal consent. If I were caught with her, it would mean prison.

  Turn the wagon around, drive it back to the crossing, take the ferry to Middle Island and points south? That was the logical choice, except for the $3,000. The money might already have been discovered missing, or the discovery made before I could make the crossing. Murdock, Dell, Nesbitt-a damned lawman, I was sure of it-and all of them armed. No, returning to the roadhouse was a fool’s choice.

  Nell. Unhitch her, ride her bareback over the obstruction, and into River Bend where I could secure better transportation. But she was old, slow, and anything but sure-footed, and the sycamore would have to be jumped rather than stepped across. And abandoning the wagon with all my wares and possessions was a galling prospect.

  In my mouth was a foul taste, as if I’d been force-fed a plate of cowshit soup. What the bloody hell was I going to do?

  “Mister Shock?” Timid now. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “Didn’t I tell you to keep your lip buttoned?”

  “Are you going to send me back?”

  No, I thought, I’m going to put a bullet in your silly head and dump your body in the slough. Be rid of one problem, at the least. I’d never killed a woman before, but there’s a first time for everything, and she was a burden I couldn’t bear. I eased back the tail of my coat.

  “If you take me with you,” she said, “I’ll tell you how we can go on.”

  “Go on? With this blasted tree blocking the road?”

  “There’s a way around, another road that intersects with this one about a mile farther south.”

  “What road? You mean the one we passed a ways back?”

  “Yes. It leads out to Crucifixion River.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s…a kind of ghost camp.”

  “Nobody lives there?”

  “Nobody.”

  “And the side road continues through it and back to the south of here?”

  “No. There’s another road in the camp, a track the people who lived there used.”

  “Easy to spot, this track?”

  “It’s overgrown. But I know where it is…I can show you.”

  “You’re not lying to me?”

  “No! I swear it.”

  I stared at her, long and hard. Her blue eyes were guileless. Some of my rage began to ease and I let the coattail fall closed. Her death sentence had been reprieved-for however long it took us to reach Crucifixion River.

  Caroline Devane

  Rachel was standing at Mr. Hoover’s bedside when I went in to check on him. From her expression it was plain that she was upset and trying to hide it, but the reason was not her lover’s condition. He was conscious, although not fully alert, and his color was good and his eyes clear. And his pulse, when I checked it, was strong.

  The dressing on his wound needed changing. I removed the old one and was relieved to find no sign of infection. He would be all right until the doctor came from River Bend, and eventually, I thought, he would mend good as new. I put on more sulphur powder and a fresh bandage. His grimace prompted me to ask if he was in pain.

  “Some,” he said weakly, “but it’s tolerable.”

  I gave him a spoonful of laudanum anyway, to help him sleep. He needed to rebuild his strength, and rest was the best remedy.

  When I was done, Rachel squeezed his hand and whispered something to him that I deliberately did not listen to. Then she plucked at my sleeve and gestured toward the door. Whatever was upsetting her, she didn’t wish to discuss it in front of Hoover. As soon as we were in the hallway, with the door closed, she said: “It’s gone, Caroline.”

  “What is?”

  “The money. The three thousand dollars I took from my husband’s safe. Joe had it in his belt pouch and now the pouch is empty.”

  I vaguely remembered seeing the pouch when Mr. Murdock and I had taken off Joe Hoover’s jacket and shirt, but in my urgent need to extract the bullet and clean and dress the wound, I’d thought no more about it. “When did you learn this?”

  “A few minutes ago, just before he woke up.”

  “Perhaps the Murdocks removed it for safekeeping.”

  “I don’t think so. They’d have said something to me.”

  Yes, they would have. In the chaotic aftermath of Luke Kraft’s sudden intrusion, I had forgotten his mention of the $3,000 and I suspected the Murdocks and the others had as well. All except one… and there was only one person among us that could be.

  Rachel realized it at the same time. “James Shock,” she said. “He took it last night.”

  Of course. Shock had slipped into the room, late, and talked her into leaving him there alone. Out of the goodness of his heart? Hardly. He was a cold-blooded opportunist, perfectly capable of taking note of the rancher’s words and Hoover’s belt pouch, and conniving to steal the money.

  “Yes,” I said, “but it’s too late to confront him. Mister Murdock told me he drove off early to summon the doctor from River Bend.”

  “The money’s gone for good, then. H
e won’t stop in River Bend.”

  “Mister Murdock and Mister Nesbitt might be able to catch him on horseback…”

  “Why should they bother? It’s not their place.”

  Footsteps, coming quickly from the family’s quarters. Sophie Murdock appeared, her mouth set in grim lines.

  “Have either of you seen my daughter?”

  “Not at all this morning,” I said, and Rachel shook her head. “She’s not in her room?”

  “No, and some of her things are missing. Clothing and her carpetbag.”

  “Oh, Lord. You think she may have run off?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. She’s young and restless, she dislikes her life here, and after what happened last night…”

  I recalled the adoring looks Annabelle had lavished on James Shock. Was it possible that he’d sweet-talked her into leaving with him? Or that she’d decided to join him on her own?

  My face must have betrayed what I was thinking. “What is it, Missus Devane?”

  Sophie Murdock asked. “Do you have an idea where Annabelle’s gone?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m afraid I do.”

  Boone Nesbitt

  I was out in the livery barn, watching Murdock help Pete Dell harness the stage team, when Mrs. Murdock came rushing in. The look of her was both frantic and frightened. “Thomas,” she said to her husband, “Annabelle’s gone.”

  “What do you mean…gone?”

  “She’s nowhere on the property, and some of her clothes and her carpetbag are missing. But that’s not all. Missus Kraft just told me Joe Hoover was carrying three thousand dollars in a belt pouch, the money her husband was shouting about last night, and that’s missing, too.”

  “My God, you don’t believe Annabelle stole it?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “She’d never do such a thing. She’s not a thief.”

  Mrs. Murdock was looking at the stalls. “The saddle horses…they’re all here.”