Home to Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 3) (5 page)

Chapter Eleven

     
M
ark Elgerson looked out from the porch at the boarding house in Barite, but did not see the unkempt grounds or the picket fence sagging along the road. The day was damp and dull around him, the sky a deep grey with dark clouds blocking out all sun.

      In his mind he could see Stavewood as it would have been just a few days ago. He could see the big table in the formal dining room with its lace tablecloth white and crisp, falling nearly to the floor and gathered on each end with sprays of dried roses. He remembered gathering the flowers in the late summer every year and hanging them to dry in the attic there. There would be massive brass candelabras so filled with candles the room would warm from the flames. He could almost smell the baking plum puffs, the hard squash and the roasted chestnut stuffing that Rebecca would always start so early in the morning.

      The men would have been out earlier and he never knew Timothy to fail to bring down a fat and hearty wild turkey. He would have watched their patterns all year, choosing the best one months ahead of time. Now it would be golden brown, on a massive platter, in the center of the table.

      He could see Loo’s eyes light up and hear little Phillip’s gasp. He could imagine the voices, the joking, the tales, and Timothy losing yet again at charades as they sat on the floor in the parlor watching one another act out the scenes and laughing at the frantic guesses.

      He pulled his lips together tightly and walked towards the telegraph office. He had missed sending a message for the holiday, but he would do it today. All it would say would be “Happy Thanksgiving, Mark.”

      In a few weeks Sam’s parents would deliver his gifts to his family. He and Sam had made birdhouses, perfect replicas of Stavewood and the Vancouver house, packed carefully in bright boxes. He’d also left toys for the children. “Merry Christmas from Mark.” He had lettered it carefully on every card and left instructions for them to be delivered on Christmas Eve.

      He was not looking forward to missing another holiday.

      “I sent one the other day,” Sam said as they met outside of the telegraph office. The two walked along the street deep in thought. "It was nice that your folks asked mine to Stavewood for dinner. I guess with just the two of them, my folks might have gotten depressed.”

      “Aren’t you?” Mark looked up at his companion frankly. “You never talk about home. Don’t you miss them?”

      “Sure, I miss them sometimes,” Sam admitted. “I miss a lot of stuff. I just don’t think this place is so bad is all. You never talk about your family either,” he continued, a bit defensively.

      “I guess not,” Mark sighed. “I do miss them though.”

      “I saw Buck last week. He said he was setting up the still again. Let’s take a ride up.”

      Mark looked up the street. It was quieter than usual, and a light rain had begun to fall. “Alright,” he said.

      The boys pulled the rope handle that hung on the door and entered the dimly lit shack silently. Cobwebs filled the corners and the fireplace lay cold.

      “Here’s the jug,” Sam found the crock in the corner and swished the liquid inside.

      “I don’t think he’s been using this at all,” Mark observed. “Did he tell you where the new still was?”

      “No, he just said to come up here and he’d leave some for us and find us. He said it would be hard to explain exactly where it was.”

      Mark figured it was just as well. He didn’t care much for Buck and he had no desire to spend any time with Swallow.

      Since the still seemed abandoned and the rain had begun to fall steadily, they decided to remain inside the shack and, as the day slipped into an early darkness, so the boys slipped as well into a drunken stupor.

Chapter Twelve

    
 
E
lliot Catslip emerged from the woodland and listened for voices. He had heard them whispering as they had ridden up the trail and was certain that this was where he could find them. His daughter had been slipping off and he had searched the forest for days, determined to find where she had been going. She’d leave for hours, sometimes even overnight, and he knew she was up to no good. He thought she might be hanging out with the McHerlong clan, but he expected she knew better than that. Everyone knew, especially if you were family, that you never had anything to do with those McHerlongs. Now that he saw the two men return he was certain they were the ones she was meeting. She was not with them now, but he was sure they knew where she was. Maybe they had her tucked away somewhere in another shack. He’d have gone to the law, but they were all tied in with those McHerlongs, he thought. No, he knew his girl was keeping company with these men. They’d had her for a while now, but he’d get her back.

      He planned his confrontation carefully, hiding his weapons in the underbrush and scouting several places where he could conceal himself. He would draw them out and confront them. If they refused to show him where the girl was he knew he could hold his own against either or both of them. They were wearing city clothes, he had seen that. He could take on any man used to city living. Eventually they would talk.

      Mark staggered to his feet in the cabin and leaned against the wall.

      “Where are you going?” Sam sat up blearily.

      “Outside for a minute.” Mark pushed open the door, stepped out of the shack and stumbled towards the woods. Sam stood up, shaking his head, and fumbled in the darkness for the doorway. He leaned there for a moment and heard the blast and felt the impact as a barrel full of rock salt hit him hard in the chest.

      Sam slumped down against the shack grumbling and cursing from the sting of the salt.

      “Where is my girl?” Elliot Catslip called out.

      “What girl? You mean Swallow?” Sam tried to crawl back into the shack.

      Elliot ran from the woodland and stood over Sam, and pointed his shotgun directly at the boy’s chest.

      “I don’t know where she is,” Sam cried, covering his face and cowering on the ground.

      “You have her, I know you do!” the man bellowed.

      Mark circled around the shack and took a deep breath. He jumped from the cover of the woods and sent Elliot sprawling, his weapon firing harmlessly into the night.

      The man leapt to his feet, pulled a pistol and trained it on Mark.

      The younger man kicked his feet in the dirt. Had his mind been clear Mark was certain he could have overtaken the man easily.

      “You boys are going to take me to my daughter, and if you don’t I will put a bullet in both of you.”

      “We haven’t seen her in days,” Mark spat. “The last time we saw her she was with Buck. We don’t know where he is either.”

      “You’re McHerlongs?” the man growled.

      “What?” Mark responded.

      “Get up,” Elliot Catslip commanded and they stumbled to their feet. “You are both coming with me. Until I get my girl back you’re staying where I want you.”

      He retrieved his hidden rifle from alongside the shack and marched them through the woodland, threatening and jabbing them with the barrel, prodding them to cut through the woods.

      The moon rose high and the clouds parted, casting eerie shadows and bright light through the trees. Mark stumbled alongside the stream and his heavy boot slipped into the water. He stumbled to his knees and stopped to catch his breath, trying to formulate a plan to overtake the man. He looked up across the creek and there, under the overhang, he saw her lying completely naked and pale white in the moonlight, partially covered in a thick layer of moss.

      Elliot Catslip ran to her, bellowing loudly and lifted her from the water.

      “You killed her!” he roared. “You animals killed my daughter!”

      “No!” the boys yelled.

      “We didn’t kill her, sir,” Samuel tried to explain.

      Elliot Catslip set his daughter down on the bank of the stream and lifted his rifle slowly.

      “Run, Sam! Split up!” Mark yelled and darted into the woods.

      The first bullet struck Mark and he felt it tear through the flesh along his neck. Instantly his blood ran warm, flowing down to his shoulder. He did not slow his frantic running and tried to put as much distance between himself, the man and Sam as he could. He knew that the girl’s father could not pursue them both.

      Catslip ran to where he knew the bullet had found Mark and squatted down, sliding his fingers through the thick smear of blood in the mud. He chuckled to himself, satisfied that one of his targets had been badly hit and would not get far. He turned to hunt down the other.

      Sam ran towards the tree line and stumbled, falling several times onto the forest floor and wrestling the painful grip of his lingering intoxication. He fought to keep his footing amid the tangled roots and thick underbrush, struggling to stay upright and put distance between himself and his pursuer. At one point he found a hollow tree and crawled inside it briefly, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his head and fighting to quiet his breathing. As if petrified, he held perfectly still, trying to get his bearings. If he could make it back to where they had tied their horses he thought he might be able to escape. Suddenly he was sure he heard footsteps approaching and he was overcome with absolute fear. In his panic he struggled out of his hiding place and tried again to run.

      Just at that moment the clouds parted and the full moon lit the woods brilliantly. Sam’s silhouette against the bright meadow was unmistakable and stood out black against the field. Catslip took careful aim and squeezed the trigger with cold precision. The bullet found Sam’s back and he crumpled to the ground.

      Elliot Catslip walked up guardedly and prodded the man with his boot. When he got no response he pushed harder, rolling him over. Sam lay at his feet, desperately gasping for air. Catslip raised his pistol, but, before he could fire, Sam sighed his last breath. His head rolled to one side and his glazed and lifeless eyes reflected the moonlight.

      Catslip spit on the ground beside him. He felt no remorse over killing a McHerlong. In his mind this man had killed his daughter, and likely violated her as well. He spat again and turned to continue his pursuit of the other murderer.

      Mark Elgerson sucked in deep breaths of air and slumped beside a tree on the edge of the clearing. When the moon again appeared he could see that the blood that had run down his arm looked thick and as black as tar. His head swam and he pressed his hand against the wound on his neck. He squinted in the light and thought he could make out a barn in the distance, nestled in the valley floor. He waited, fighting the pain and dizziness, and, when a large cloud covered the full moon, he stumbled down the ravine.

      Elliot Catslip searched the surrounding woodland until he was completely exhausted. His prey had stumbled in and out of the creek and he lost the trail. He returned to the place where his daughter lay, pulled off his soaking shirt and placed it gently over the girl. He sat beside her and hung his head. It would do him no good to go to the local sheriff, he reasoned. His father had always told him that the law was on the side of the McHerlongs. They wouldn’t go looking for the other one. The only thing to do was to handle this himself. He’d wait and he’d find him again. Then he would kill him.

Chapter Thirteen

    
 
T
he straw was damp and heavy where it was piled against the door and Colleen Muldoon struggled to pull it open. The sun shone bright outside of the barn, but when the girl stepped inside she had to strain to see into the darkness. The barn was largely unused since the newer one had been built, but the loft was dry and secluded and it was there that she would steal away sometimes to read.

      Colleen’s father did not care for her reading. He wanted her to be like the women from home.
The Old Country
he called it. He wanted her to learn to be a good wife and a hard worker. Reading was for the rich and idle and he did not want his daughter growing up with dreams of a life she would never have, embittered by the reality he was sure she would always face.

      “You’re a milkman’s daughter,” he’d remind her, “not a princess. Put down that book and I’ll tell you a tale.”

      “Da,” she would say to him. “At least come up with a new tale. I’m tired of your stories about home. Tell me a tale about America, and anything except the war!”

      “America,” he would sigh. In America he had been defeated in a great war of secession. America had taken his wife and left him with this girl to raise alone. He had even considered letting her go for adoption once, but did all he could to bring her up himself. He’d done his best, but his daughter was feisty and outspoken and not the well behaved young woman his wife would have wanted. She rarely kept her opinion to herself the way he believed a well-behaved child should. She was a hard worker and without her he could not have delivered the milk as long as he had, but he worried. The girl had no interest in any of the young men that had come calling for her. He thought she was certainly pretty enough, but too independent. Even a particularly nice Irish lad he had met at the pub didn’t catch her eye.

      He often asked himself what would become of her if he weren’t around. Regardless of her bullheaded opinion he could not imagine that she could run the milk business alone. Although she did nearly all of the work now, he worried who would do business with the girl. It just wasn’t right, he thought.

      Colleen tucked her skirt up into her apron band at her hip and climbed the old ladder. On the third rung she looked down into the hay and stopped suddenly.

      A heavy leather boot protruded from the straw. The girl backed down the ladder quickly.

      “Get up!” she hollered. “I’ll not have you sleeping off your stupor in my barn.” It was not the first time that one of the mountain people had found the farm while intoxicated in the night. She wanted nothing to do with that worthless, drunken clan up the hill, not them or their feuding neighbors.

      Colleen pulled a pitchfork from the wall and poked the boot hard.

      “Wake up!” she yelled, leaning over the straw.

      The boot did not move. She cautiously pulled away a handful of straw and jumped back.

      He was completely passed out, but she knew he was not just drunk like the others. This man was dirty, yes, but his hair was long and shone clean in the sunlight that streamed through the crevices in the barn walls. He was pale and barely breathing, but he was not one of the hill men.

      Colleen ventured closer and when she saw the deep gash in his neck she knew he was severely injured. She turned to run towards the house and stopped. If her father thought he was another drunkard from the hills he would throw him out. The wound was certainly a gunshot. If he returned to the hills whoever had shot him might still be out there looking to finish the job. And if he had gotten mixed up in the McHerlong-Catslip feud the culprit would not give up the hunt easily. That was how the vendetta worked. For generations, her father had said, even when they couldn’t remember why they fought, they would kill one another again and again. Sent stumbling out into the woods he could end up dead before the day was out.

      She ran back across the field to the house and opened the door silently. Her father sat, propped in the chair, his stocking feet propped before the fire, snoring loudly.

      She pulled a wool blanket from the wooden chest, filled a cask with fresh water and gathered several tins from the shelves along the wall. She mixed a few herbs in a mash with hot water and slipped back outside.

      Colleen washed the wound thoroughly and packed the poultice against the young man’s neck. She lifted his head gently and poured a little of the water into his mouth, but he did not stir. She ran her finger curiously along his jawline. He was young, she thought, and his features were fine. She suspected that he might be tall, but it was hard to tell. His clothing was odd, not like that of the hill people, and not like the people in town either. She lifted his hand and examined it. It had been calloused once, but now it looked as if he had not done heavy work in some time.

      He looked thin and helpless to her and she shuddered at the thought that someone wanted to kill him. Although he did not move, somehow he looked friendly and kind to her. She tucked the blanket around him and left the water where he might find it if he woke. Colleen ran back to the house and slipped inside as her father began to stir.