The man laughed easily, as if he and Robert were sitting at a bar trading dirty jokes. Robert imagined a sun-damaged face, a dark polyester blend suit and rotting cowboy boots. A cheap cigar smoldering in an ashtray.
“Sorry Robert, I didn’t mean no harm by it. I was just making a friendly observation. I completely understand how you might feel. And I won’t be taking any points away just because you might talk a little rough. A man in your position can’t always be expected to keep a cool head.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want you to listen to my instructions.”
Robert slid down the wall to the floor, head pounding as he fought off the dope still coursing through his veins. He wanted to hurt this stranger who’d stolen his family from him, draw it out until the man was incapable of ever having another humorous thought before he did him the favor of sending him to hell…
“You need to prove to me they’re still alive.”
CHAPTER 3
Central Oregon – 1880
Wind howls across the high desert plain. It has just rained and the sharp tang of juniper dominates the cool night air. A torso of dark clouds and lightning continues to thrash along the far slopes of Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Hood. Arms thick with rain stretch eastward, brandishing ocher fists high above a badly weathered farmhouse where a group of three men and a boy prepare to carry out an execution.
Standing below a large tree with his arms tied behind him is the owner of the farmhouse, Jared Horn. He’s a tall man, with piercing green eyes and long white beard. Blood seeps from a gunshot wound to his right armpit, soaking the sleeve of his gingham shirt. He is remarkably calm for a man about to die.
Two of his executioners, Arvin and Palmer, carefully fix a noose around Jared’s neck. A large man named Hemmel shoves more firewood below Horn’s feet, and the small jostling causes the rough hemp rope to tighten. Horn only smiles when the ring around his throat starts to burn. He turns his head to see a young redheaded boy named Stu walk out of the front door of his home carrying a leather sack stuffed with valuables. The bag is too heavy for the boy, and he soon lets it scrape against the ground. Stu meets Horn’s eye only briefly, before turning his attention to the task of strapping the load to his horse.
The men finish their work and back away from Horn quietly. Stu joins them as soon as he’s done. He cups his hand, puts a match to a cigarette and coughs.
“Be careful boy, those things will stunt your growth,” says Arvin, grinning.
Stu takes another drag to show he can take it, but a coughing fit causes him to double over. He drops the cigarette on the ground and puts it out with his toe. When he looks up, his eyes are watering and the others are all chuckling softly.
“Jump in a lake, fellas. I bet you all puked after your first smoke.”
“You got yourself an iron stomach, boy? I guess we’ll just have to see about that,” says Palmer.
“He’s just like his daddy was,” says Arvin. “Always trying to show he’s tougher than an oak shithouse.”
Palmer produces a bottle of whiskey to pass around in the lantern light. Their eyes are already bloodshot from too much of it, but they pass it around anyway. They’ve spent the entire day getting shit faced, so there’s no sense in tapering off now, especially now.
Raised several feet above them on a pile of split firewood, Horn stares down at the men, smiling.
“What are you so happy about, Jared?” says Palmer. “This time you’re finally going to get what you deserve.”
Jared laughs, spits a bloody wad at their feet. “Looks like the whiskey must have given the so-called vigilantes some courage. But you still look like a bunch of cowards from up here.”
Stu finishes a hearty slug and passes the bottle to Hemmel. The boy pie-eyed and his speech is slurred. “Just watch us you son-of-a-bitch. We’re gonna do you like a murderer and a witch.”
“No, you’re the murderers, lad. This ain’t no court of law.”
“It’s good enough for us,” shouts Palmer.
Hemmel picks up a rock and throws it at Horn. It strikes him in the temple, causing a thick flow of blood to run down the side of his face. “We’re sending you back to hell where you belong,” Hemmel says in a thick German accent, “And we’re taking what you owe us for the trouble of doing it.”
“Wherever I go, I’ll certainly have you devils as my company. And that’s a promise boys.”
Palmer removes a matchstick from his teeth and takes a wobbly step closer toward Horn. “And we promise to kill the rest of your kin if we ever find them.”
Horn shrugs his shoulders “Do what you must, but when I see you again, you’ll sooner be hung by the neck twenty times than suffer what I shall bring upon you.”
“I’ve heard enough,” says Arvin. “What the hell are we waiting for? We’ve still got a long ride home tonight and I’m afraid it won’t be a dry one.”
Palmer picks up one of the kerosene lamps and throws it at Horn. The lamp bursts into flames and sets the pile of wood on fire. Jared screams and tries to kick away the burning wood, but every movement he makes causes the rope around his neck to choke him more.
Stu picks out a flaming chunk of firewood and tosses it through the open door of the farmhouse. Flames soon erupt inside, followed by the sounds of exploding glass.
“Goodbye, Jared Horn,” says Hemmel. He leans forward and spits on the ground.
Thunder crackles above them, and when they look up they see an enormous blue-black cloud hovering in the sky above. Rain first patters gently against their hats and leather jackets, then swiftly builds intensity. Hissing tendrils of steam wind upwards as Horn’s body spasms above a glowing mound of coals. Flames lick up the rope attached to his neck toward the gnarled limb above.
Stu is on his hands and knees vomiting up what little food he’s eaten today. The smell of Horn’s burning flesh has made his stomach lurch. It wasn’t as if he’d never smelled burning meat before, he keeps reminding himself. When he was eight he and his uncle were forced to put down several rabid horses and cows. They’d had no choice but to shoot them all in the head, roll them into a pit, and set them on fire.
But this was different. More foul than Stu could ever imagine. The smoke had worked its way up his nostrils like a severed pair of dead man’s fingers and slid down his throat and knotted in his gullet.
Arvin pats Stu on the back and offers a hand to help him up. The boy can’t take his eyes off the figure wheezing with fire. One of Horn’s hands remained raised and his blackened index finger has curled as if he were beckoning Stu to come closer. The boy watches, trembling.
Arvin puts his arm around his nephew and turns him gently around. “He’s dead, boy. He ain’t ever coming back to cause us harm.”
The ranchers walk back to their horses as the rain turns to hail stone. They mount their horses and stare soberly at the body of Horn one last time before riding off into the darkness.
CHAPTER 4
Robert drove to the vet’s to pick up Nugget. Dr. Jordan had told him over the phone that his dog was doing much better.
“I thought she might have had a concussion,” he’d said, “But she appears to have made a full recovery. To be honest, I’m kind of surprised.”
“She’s a tough customer,” Robert replied.
Nugget also had strong family instincts. Back when Connor was learning to ride his bike a teenager on a skateboard had bumped into him accidentally and sent him shooting out into traffic. Peggy and Robert were too far away to do anything about the oncoming truck, but Nugget took charge and put herself in front of the vehicle. Luckily the driver saw her and screeched to a halt. Nugget hadn’t flinched—just bared her teeth and growled at the surprised driver until Connor was safely out of harm’s way.