Farther off a puncher remarked, “Folks won’t take kindly to a man of the cloth being killed.”
“They’ll string us up for sure if they find out,” said another.
Gertrude did not appreciate their comments. “Hush up, both of you. There’s not a shred of evidence to link us to this. Quite the contrary. The arrow we’ll leave will point the blame at hostiles.”
“Isn’t that a Kiowa arrow, ma’am?” Chester asked.
“Yes, it is,” Gertrude confirmed.
“Where did you get it, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“We can thank my late departed husband. His cousin gave it to him. We’ll leave it where it’s bound to be found. Seton will add the icing to the cake, as the saying goes.”
Laughs and snickers greeted that tidbit. I wondered why. And why the name Seton was vaguely familiar.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, ma’am. You’ve thought of everything.”
“I always do,” Gertrude stated matter-of-factly. “I’ve had a lot of practice. My husband was next to worthless when it came to making decisions. I made the LT what it is today, not him.”
The cowboys did not say anything.
“Lloyd was lily-livered. Remember those nesters we drove off back in seventy-seven? I gave the order, not him. And those rustlers we hung? Lloyd would have turned them over to the law. But not me. I believe in handling my own problems. Like these wretches we’ve just exterminated.”
“Their rustling days are over,” a cowboy remarked, and again all of them laughed.
“Yes. The cows,” Gertrude said.
I was so intent on what they were saying that I had forgotten about Sutton, but I was reminded of him when I heard him cough. He was close, very close, and I tensed, thinking he would find me and call out to the others. But much to my amazement, he didn’t. Instead, Gertrude called down to him.
“Anything down there?”
“No, ma’am. A lot of burned boards and burned food, but that’s all.”
“Come on up, then. Powell, give him a hand.” Gertrude paused. “I don’t understand it. Where can the body be?”
“Maybe the reason we can’t find it is because there’s nothing left of him,” someone suggested.
“No, there is always something,” Gertrude informed them. “Bones. Teeth. Remains of some kind.”
She was right. I once had occasion to burn out a squatter, and when I sifted through the ruin, I found a thigh bone and the brittle bones of one hand and his teeth. Oh. And his glass eye.
“We can search all night if you want, Mrs. Tanner,” a cowpoke said. “But that fire could be seen from a long ways off. We might have visitors.”
“Unfortunately, we just might,” Gertrude conceded. “To our horses, then, gentlemen. We will avoid Whiskey Flats and return to the LT with no one the wiser. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll ride into town and be suitably shocked when I hear about the massacre.”
Approximately ten minutes later the thud of hooves filled me with relief. It was short-lived. I started to twist but couldn’t move. Not through any fault of mine. I was pinned.
Now I understood why Sutton had not found me.
The floor had caved in, and I was buried under it.
Chapter 15
I twisted my neck around to take stock and nearly gouged an eye out on a thin spine of charred wood that had once been a floorboard. I discovered I had been wrong. Only part of the floor had caved in, a wedge-shaped section that had collapsed within an inch of my cranny and within an inch of crushing my skull like an eggshell.
Gathering my strength, I rolled over on my other side. It was a tight squeeze, but by worming my body a bit deeper into the niche, I succeeded. I placed both hands against the still very warm boards, and pushed. They would not budge. Panic gripped me at the thought I might be trapped. To die of hunger and thirst had always struck me as a horrible way to cash in one’s chips. I would much rather go quick, with a bullet or a blade to a vital organ.
A crossbeam held the section of floor together, but the crossbeam was loose; I could see it jounce and shake when I pushed.
I tried a different board. It and two others next to it were the most badly burned. Sheer joy coursed through me as, creaking loudly, it gave way. Not a lot, maybe a foot or so, but it was enough that when I pushed the other two boards, I created a gap wide enough for me to wriggle through.
The effort cost me, though. I lay still and spent, caked with sweat. My chest did not hurt, which surprised me. I wanted to examine the wound, but it would have to wait. Presently I felt strong enough to sit up. I gazed at where the steps had been only to find them gone. They had been burned to ashes. Again panic stabbed through me. I could not possibly jump high enough to hook my elbows over the edge and pull myself out. Then I noticed a smoldering mound that had once been stockpiled provisions.
Bracing myself against the fallen wedge of floor, I slowly stood. It took everything I had. I leaned against the blackened boards until I could shuffle to the mound and gingerly lift my foot. It was spongy but solid enough to support me. With my hands on the dirt wall, I rose high enough to poke my head and shoulders out of the root cellar.
A cool breeze fanned my face, a breeze so wonderfully welcome and refreshing that I was content to stand there and do nothing but breathe deeply for a while. Stars speckled the firmament, and by the position of the Big Dipper I figured it had to be close to two in the morning. Were it not for the east wall of the cabin, which was still burning, I would be in total darkness.
It was strange. Fires are fickle beasts. The roof was gone, the west and north walls had been burned to the ground, yet most of the east wall and part of the south wall were largely intact. Parts of the floor had been burned through; other parts were barely scorched.
I had to get out of that hole. I extended my arms over the edge as far as they would go and attempted to lever myself out, but the instant I put my weight on my chest, agony racked me. I nearly blacked out.
It was some time before I could focus my thoughts. Obviously, I wasn’t going to climb out. I needed something to hold on to. The stove was still standing, but it was out of my reach. The only piece of furniture left, oddly enough, was a chair, but it, too, was too far away.
I noticed that I was close to a corner of the root cellar. Carefully raising my right leg, I found that I could brace my boot against the other wall. Moving slowly so as not to tire myself, I poked and jabbed at the earth. My intent was to make a foothold I could wedge my boot in, but the fire had somehow hardened the dirt and jabbing at it was like jabbing at rock. Brittle rock. I persisted, sweating torrents. Twice I had to stop to catch my breath and wait for my head to stop spinning. But at last I had a roughly round hole I could stick part of my boot into.
Pressing my forearms flat, I thrust upward with my leg. Again my chest protested and my head swam, but I slid up and over the rim and crabbed forward until I lay spent and hurting on the floor.
More minutes went by. I might have lain there longer, but the odor of charred flesh roused me. In the center of the east wall the badly burned door hung open on one hinge. Just inside, consumed by the flames where he had fallen, was the body of Sam Butcher. I could tell it was him because he had been the shortest and slimmest of the men.
I forgot my own condition in my concern for the Butchers. Or, rather, one of the Butchers. I stood up. My legs were like mush and I swayed as I walked, but I made it out the door, wary of the flames that continued to lick the wall.
I nearly tripped over another body sprawled just outside. It was Hannah. The fire had blistered her feet, but the rest of her was untouched. She was riddled with bullets and must have been dead when she fell. Powder marks on what was left of her brow suggested that after she was down, someone had walked up to her, put the muzzle of a gun to her forehead, and blown the top of her head off.