Power in the Blood (13 page)

Grabbing her wrist was easy; subduing the rest of her was not. She twisted like a pinioned snake, and hissed like one. Tully was in no mood for gentleness; it was open war between them now, and the fault lay with Zoe for rejecting him, the ungrateful little bitch. Who had arranged for her to be on this trip west, if not Tully? Who had shown her every respect, even to the point of proposing marriage, if not Tully? And what had his kindness got him but contemptuous looks? She thought he was dirt beneath her dainty feet, and that angered Tully, who was used to success with women. It was to redress the harm done to this picture of himself that Tully decided to make a painful example of Zoe Dugan. He’d show her with his cock that what she’d done was not acceptable, not to a man like him, and after it was done she’d very likely come around to his view of things, as was right and natural. Once she learned her lesson Zoe might be enjoyable company for a while, but first she needed the hard lesson. Tully would be her teacher.

He began hitting her with his closed fist, the other hand occupied with keeping Zoe’s knife away from him. Zoe attempted with her free hand to scratch and claw. Tully could feel her nails sliding off his face; was he sweating so much? It was soaking his shirt, soaking him all the way to his waist. Suddenly he felt weak, and began to worry that his grip on Zoe’s wrist might give out; she could stab him again. She had already stabbed him once; that was why he was so angry, he reminded himself, and knew then that it was only the anger that had allowed him to hold her off; he was weak, so weak his breath wouldn’t come. She had stabbed him, and it was bad. The sweat was not sweat, but blood.

Tully’s head began to swim, his ears to hum, and the hum deepened to a low droning, like wind echoing through a cavern. He was unable to see clearly. The girl beneath him was shining, shining with blood, her body as drenched as his, and seeing her that way, Tully knew he was dying. It didn’t matter now that her knife hand finally pulled away from his fingers; he couldn’t even feel those fingers anymore, or his feet. He fell back, hearing someone close by breathing hoarsely, then realized it was himself, a panting beast, slaughtered, dying quickly now, the sound of his slowing blood a distant rushing noise. She had killed him with one poke of her stupid little knife, and all because he asked her to marry him. Tully wished he had the strength to snap her neck and take her with him to hell, but it was too late for revenge against Zoe, close as she was; he couldn’t move a muscle, could do nothing but lie in a widening pool of blood and feel the life gushing from him with faraway metronomic thuddings, the dying heartbeat that became everything for a short while, then was gone.

Zoe hadn’t made a sound throughout Tully’s dying, and was afraid to open her mouth even when it was over. The thing she had done was too big, too awful to encompass with her thoughts. Zoe’s predominant emotion was not regret, however, but fear for herself. Murderers were hanged by the neck, and she had murdered Tully, even if he deserved it for ignoring her warnings.

She had somehow to remove herself from proximity to the deed, had to be far away when the body was found, but first had to clean the blood from her dress, her blanket, the very earth around them both. When it was done she would sneak away into the darkness … no, she would bury Tully first, so no one would even know he had died. It was incredible to her that Aspinall was still asleep despite what had occurred mere yards from his wagon. Zoe remembered then how very silent a struggle it had been, no more than gruntings and pantings while they wrestled each other for control of her knife. Tully hadn’t said another word after she stabbed him. Zoe didn’t wish to recall any more of the event. She must concentrate—bury the body; clean up the blood; escape.

It was too much. She could never hope to accomplish it alone. Zoe knew what she must do. It was not so much a choice as a surrender to circumstance. She went to the wagon and called Aspinall’s name until he woke.

“What?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“I killed him.”

“Who?”

“Tully. I cut him and he bled. I told him not to touch me.”

“You cut him?”

“He’s dead! Get up!”

“You killed Tully? Do I hear you right?”

“I don’t know what to do. He’s dead. He came over to touch me. I warned him not to a long time ago.”

Aspinall dragged pants over his union suit, pulled on his boots and climbed down from the wagon. He lit an oil lamp and turned up the wick—the sudden splash of light revealed everything.

“Jesus God Almighty … You did this?”

“I
told
him not to touch me.…”

“You’re sure he’s gone?”

Zoe nodded. The area seemed to have been sprayed with blood, buckets of it; her own hands were red and sticky, her face and hair plastered with blood. Aspinall squatted to examine Tully. “Neck artery, looks like. Must’ve emptied like a spigot.” He stood. “You never led him on?”

“No!”

He studied her face, the lamp held close.

“Well, then, you get in the creek and wash yourself down, and your dress. Take the blanket too. Wash everything.” He gave her the lamp. “Go.”

Zoe hurried away. Aspinall piled wood onto the fire’s embers, then fetched a shovel from the wagon. Omie had slept through the entire incident, and was sleeping still.

By dawn it was done. Tully was buried a short distance along the creek. Aspinall left no mound, carried the excess earth back to camp and spread it over the bloodied ground beside the fire. Zoe—naked, nursing Omie—was wrapped in a dry blanket inside the wagon. Her wringing wet dress and underthings were suspended on hooks from the wagon hoops, and her damp blanket was spread over the canvas cover outside to dry in the sunlight already creeping across the sky. Aspinall had the team harnessed, the fire covered, before full daylight arrived. He inspected the scene carefully, then climbed aboard and set his wagon moving along the road to Kansas City, while his stomach growled for breakfast.

“You stay back there till you can get dressed again,” he told Zoe.

“I wasn’t going to do anything else,” she said.

Zoe resented the hold Aspinall had over her; having been assisted in disposing of Tully, she was in his debt. She supposed his actions made Aspinall her accomplice, but this gave Zoe no comfort. It was distressing to be beholden to the man.

“Was he your friend?” she asked.

“Tully? Acquaintance, I’d say. Never had much time for him. He paid ten dollars just to come along. Five was for you.”

“I told him to keep away from me.”

“It’s been done now. He’s been judged. I believe he brought it on himself, so just quit talking about it now. I don’t want trouble holding me back from where I’m going.”

“Nor me.”

It seemed an appropriate basis for understanding between them. By afternoon, when Zoe was able to dress, the atmosphere of panic had been replaced by awkwardness. Both parties to the crime were confirmed noncommunicators, had barely spoken to each other since the trip began, except through Tully, who had also filled the extended silences with his prattling. Tully had been the grease enabling them to rub along day after day; without him, Zoe and Aspinall grew cautious of each other. Aspinall did go so far as to ask Zoe if she wouldn’t call him Bryce, just to ease their mutual anxiety. Zoe said she would, but found no opportunity to do so for another hour.

“Bryce, I’m hungry.”

He stopped, and they prepared their first food for the day. This commonplace act brought them together as no amount of argued justification for their predawn collusion could have. Bryce revealed that he liked to cook, and was a better than average hand at it.

“My ma ran a restaurant in Cleveland. She taught me how. A man that doesn’t cook, he’s a useless man, that’s what she said. She didn’t want me to be a cook for a living, though. It’s not a man’s work, she said. She got me to being a stonemason’s apprentice. There was a fellow used to come in and eat there regular, and he took me on. She died before I finished the apprenticeship. I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Zoe lied. She had assumed Bryce was at least forty because of his receding hair.

“Tully,” said Bryce. “I thought you and him were together, you know. He begged me to take you along. I didn’t want to, then he gave me the money. You don’t hold that against me, I hope.”

“No.”

“It’s a long way to go, just by yourself.”

Bryce slept on the ground, leaving the wagon for Zoe and Omie. He did this night after night across western Missouri, and during all their days together asked not one question regarding the baby’s father, or Zoe’s own origins. It was not that he lacked interest; Zoe could see curiosity backed up behind his eyes whenever he looked at her. Bryce Aspinall’s glances in her direction were always fleeting, and it dawned on Zoe the man was shy. She hadn’t encountered this quality in a male before, and its discovery made her shy herself, deepening the silence between them.

They paused in Kansas City only for necessary supplies. Zoe contributed her few dollars. “Thank you,” was all Bryce said, but she could tell he was grateful. The man Tully had called stingy was simply poor; beyond his wagon, team and tools, he had little of worth.

She had never disliked Bryce, but Zoe was disinclined to trust any man. She was not aware of consciously waiting for Bryce to stumble and reveal his true nature—she was fairly sure she’d already seen that—but she was not actively seeking his friendship, nor anything else. There was room in Zoe’s life for Clay and Drew and Omie, and that was all. She was not unappreciative of Bryce’s help, acknowledged he was indeed a good man, but there her contemplation of Bryce Aspinall ended. There was no point in going further. It would have made little difference had he been taller and more handsome, possessing a full head of hair; Zoe had her itinerary, her need, and it seemed unlikely that a man with a trade like Bryce’s, requiring a permanent workshop, could ever fit into her overall plans.

Zoe knew Clay wouldn’t have lingered in Kansas; mountains were the thing he’d always wanted to see. But the mountains were a long time coming. The plains were endless. Twice a day, and again at night, trains swept by their plodding progress beside the railroad tracks they now used as their guide west. Bryce worried about buffalo. “They roam in herds of thousands, and if they stampede they run down everything in their way.” They saw occasional herds in the distance, never numbering more than a few hundred. Bryce was surprised, even disappointed. “There should be more,” he said. He knew they were killed for their hides, but was unaware of the slaughter’s full extent. They saw no Indians; not one.

Zoe asked him, “Are you going to stay in Wichita or one of the big towns to get work?”

“I might just go through to Colorado. There’s plenty of stone there to work with. Headstones are my specialty.”

She had expected, since killing Tully, to be haunted by the memory of that deed, but Zoe experienced no guilty dreams, no regret. This prompted her to question whether she lacked a conscience. Could she really be so incomplete? Even her self-doubt lacked conviction, because it had no useful role to play in her plans.

The guns were at eye level, a matched pair of .45s, the metal deeply blued, the handles plain, beautifully marked with a natural wood grain. Seeing them behind the glass, Clay knew he must have them. He had wandered around Kansas City for three days, never thinking to visit a gun store, but the window display drew him that morning like a magnet. He had known even before he was close enough to see the twin Colts that something awaited him behind the sun’s reflected glare. He went inside.

“Help you today, sir?”

“The Colts in the window—I’d like to see them.”

The presentation case was lifted out and set before him. He picked up the first gun, then the second. They felt like extensions of himself. Edwin Delaney’s old cap-and-ball pistol was a thing from antiquity, a blunderbuss compared to these finely balanced beauties.

“Finest we’ve ever had in stock,” said the salesman. “Very handsome appearance. Twelve-inch barrels. Not too many of these around.”

Clay cocked the hammers, sighted at various objects out in the street, lowered the hammers again and set the weapons down. “I’ll need a gun belt,” he said.

“Yessir, twin holsters. We have a fine selection available right over here. You’re probably thinking of the regular open-ended model to accommodate those long barrels, but then you face the problem of the front sight getting caught on the edge when you draw your pieces. That won’t occur if you select a specially crafted long holster set with closed ends. No snagging, and it keeps dirt from drifting up your barrels. Leg ties for hard riding, and hammer ties too, so your guns won’t go bouncing around and fly right out of the holsters. Comes the time you need to use them, just pop the ties off and you can whip them out fast. We have unadorned leather, or a fancy hand-tooled Spanish style—a work of art, I think you’ll agree, sir. Or if you prefer, we have the cavalry model, with complete over-the-top flap to keep your gun in and grime out.”

“The other kind, the open holsters. Not the fancy ones.”

“Yessir, I believe this is definitely the one for you, or should I say two, ha ha—just my little joke for the day, sir.”

Clay knew his holed cheeks were being studied throughout the sales talk. “How much?”

“Forty dollars even. These are special weapons.”

“Take off five dollars for the box the guns came out of. I don’t need it.”

“That’s genuine cherrywood, sir, finest display box available, and real velvet, soft as a damsel’s touch.”

“I don’t need it. Take five dollars off or I won’t buy any ammunition from you. I need a thousand rounds.

The salesman fetched boxes of ammunition down from the shelves behind him and placed them on the counter, then watched Clay draw a money belt from beneath his shirt, open it and count out cash.

“Wrap it all up,” Clay said.

“Wrap it up, sir?”

“When I know how to use them, I’ll wear them.”

“Yessir.”

“Keep it here for me. I’ll be back in an hour.”