Tatum kicked in the dirt with the heel of his boot and jerked a disconsolate thumb toward the mounded, rock-strewn, blossom-littered burial site. “Well, puttin’ them cactus flowers on their final restin’ place was a fine, thoughtful gesture. Must admit, rough as it is, the gravesite does look right nice. Glad you thought to add the flowers.”
I nodded.
“Still and all, feel as how these pitiful folks deserve to have their pathways to Heaven greased, just the least bit, with some high-soundin’ words, Lucius. Even if we don’t happen to have a Bible along with us. ’Specially them three buttons, you know. Hell, I trust your memory. Willin’ to bet these folks would appreciate whatever you can do for ’em by way of talkin’ with God. Figure anything you’d care to offer up’s better’n nothing at all.”
I cast a corner-of-the-eye glance at the graves. Let my chin rest on the damp upper part of my shirt for some seconds, then swept my hat up from the sandy riverbank. I nodded and, followed by the closest friend I had in the world, we ambled back to a spot near the foot of the mass grave.
With broad-brimmed hats lodged in a spot of honor over our hearts, I cleared an emotion-parched throat. After a bit of pinch-browed hesitation and thought, I began—slowly, reverently. As reverently as I knew how.
“Our most gracious heavenly Father,” I said, “neither Boz nor I knew these traveling unfortunates. Pretty good chance we may not ever know who they were. Sure enough didn’t find much in the wagon to identify any of them. But that don’t matter. Can’t begin to imagine what they did to deserve such an unspeakable departure from this earthly life. Especially the children. Whole dance is sad beyond our meager ability to understand. But, as a poet of some note once wrote many years ago, ‘To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.’ Sad but true, what that feller said applies to innocent kids as well.”
I hesitated for a second, gulped, then scratched at an unwilling throat. Kind of lost my train of thought there for a right uncomfortable stretch. Twirled my sweat-stained Stetson around in both hands, by the brim, while I searched for the right words.
I coughed a time or two then added, “That stealthy ole Thief of Souls has most certainly passed our way today. Sent this poor man and his innocent family beyond any earthly aid we might have rendered. Genuinely regret as how our arrival on the scene didn’t occur early enough to prevent such a terrible outcome, Lord. Sincerely pray the entire family was delivered into the safety and comfort of Your divine care and affection. Now, my friend and I come to You in humble supplication and ask that You gather their sad spirits to Your righteous bosom and see to their heavenly comfort for the rest of eternity. We appeal for that eventuality in the name of the only Son You sent to cleanse us all of our earthly sins and pave our way into Your presence. Amen.”
Still felt right uncomfortable. I shifted, back and forth, then stuffed my hat on a soggy head. Turned Tatum’s direction, seeking something of a complimentary reaction from my longtime compadre by way of acknowledgment for my prayerful efforts. The expected nod and grin of approval he usually provided proved nowhere in evidence.
Openmouthed, unspeaking, and flush-faced, Boz pointed a shaky finger toward the knife-edged ridge of sloped, lifeless dirt some sixty or so yards away. The shallow bowl’s steep rim almost completely encircled that riverbank hollow of lush greenery, violent death, and freshly departed souls where we stood and gazed up slack-jawed.
Staring down on us from the forty-foot-high crest of crumbling earth stood a girl—fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Hell, what little I knew of young girls at the time, she could’ve been a lot older or a lot younger.
Gal swayed like a creekside weeping willow in the hot breezes that hissed over the sun-scorched earth beneath her feet. Wisps of shoulder-length, straw-colored hair fluttered across a pretty, grime-smeared face. Her flowered cotton dress flapped around equally filth-encrusted legs.
Under my breath, I mumbled, “Lord above, Boz. Looks as if she’s trying to chew a thumbnail all the way up to her elbow. Snapping and biting like a rabid dog. Spitting out the bits.”
His flabbergasted gaze locked on the ghostly, ethereal apparition, Tatum shook as though in the throes of malaria and muttered, “Sweet merciful Jesus, how’s this possible?”
Air rushed from between clenched teeth when I hissed, “Looks most like the child’s been living underground. Killers had to have missed her. She escaped. Found a hidey-hole somewhere close, I’d be willing to wager.” Pretty sure I might’ve sounded as if I was questioning my own reasoning.
Boz moved to take a step in the specter’s direction only to witness the girl turn and vanish from view. By unspoken agreement, we heeled it for a steep, slanted wash nearby. The craggy, earthen cut was the only ascending access within close proximity that led to the crest of the dirt bluff.
I managed to scramble to the sheer bank’s disintegrating summit a few steps ahead of Boz. A quick survey of the rough, table-like expanse of Turkey Mesa, as it spread away from the river, revealed that the child had scampered near a hundred yards, stopped, then stared back at us again.
Boz huffed and puffed his way to a spot beside me. Wheezing from the unexpected exertion, he sucked air like a winded racehorse. He waved and, between gasping breaths, called out, “You come on back now, girl. Won’t harm you. We’re here to help.” He got no response.
I shrugged, then said, “We’d best go round her up, Boz.”
Soon as we started her direction again, the urchin bolted like a frightened deer. For half an hour the fleeing child scuttled over the rock-strewn, rattlesnake-, cactus-, and scorpion-littered landscape with us clumsily clambering along behind. The chase finally brought us to the entrance of an ugly, deep, funnel-like gash in the earth’s hoary hide. An abbreviated, canyon-like wound that our prey had no chance of escaping.
At the bottom of the narrow ravine, the cornered waif wedged her back against the fissure’s farthest and highest wall. Arms flung wide against her earthen prison, she crawfished from side to side in agitated terror. Let out a piteous howl, like some kind of wounded, terrified animal.
Eyes the size of ten-dollar gold pieces and panic-deepened to a shade of blue near those of a pharmacist’s cobalt-colored drug bottles, she glared up at Boz and me from the floor of her dusty refuge. The angry, defiant, and sullen look etched into her panicky visage appeared fully capable of wringing tears from a Civil War veteran’s glass eye.
Of a sudden, the girl seemed to mine the depths of some unseen inner strength and assumed the stance of an ancient, witchy crone. She made strange, incomprehensible sounds and gestures at us. Things that didn’t sound of this earth came from her mouth. Then, in a voice sheathed in ice and death, she growled, “Come down here, and I’ll kill both you sons a bitches.”
My God, but her surprising, raspy warning sent icy shivers up and down my sweaty spine.
10
“MY DADDY DIDN’T RAISE ANY COWARDS . . .”
I MOTIONED FOR my out-of-breath partner to stay put. Then, one careful, hesitant step at a time, I advanced on the agitated child. Held my hands out, palms upturned in supplication. And, in the manner one might use when speaking to a frightened animal, said, “No need to be scared, girl. Not gonna hurt you. Swear, we’re not gonna hurt you.”
The troubled youngster flashed a bug-eyed, brittle gaze at me that was filled with needle-pointed daggers. A tormented groan reverberated in her narrow, heaving, child’s chest. From somewhere amidst the folds and pleats of her tattered, print dress, she produced a glistening, heavy-bladed butcher’s knife. The wooden-gripped weapon’s curved, razor-sharp edge gleamed in the advancing sunlight that sloshed into the narrow pit from above.