“Which leg did you say, Harry?” Forrest said.
“I figured it was the only one,” came the reply, and all except Forrest laughed uproariously.
CHAPTER TWO
THE loss of consciousness that had come mercifully to Jamie when the agony of the smashed kneecap drove home his total incapacity was abruptly ended as a bucket of cold water was sloshed into his face and an open handed slap stung his cheek.
“Wake up,” Forrest demanded harshly. “You got something to tell me and the boys.”
Jamie opened his eyes and looked into the ugly face of the sergeant, who was studying him with a grim expression of evil intent. Behind Forrest Jamie could see the house and barn, corral and white picket fence with the wheat field beyond. But it was not the same as before. Every window pane was broken, the barn doors were open and of the eight horses that had been in the corral there was now only the old plough mare and a young foal. But it was the dead body of Patch, his blooded eye staring sightlessly at the same scene, that suddenly gave Jamie total recall of the events since the six soldiers had ridden up to the farmstead.
And now he saw the other men, near the barn, transferring their saddles and bedrolls from their own mounts to the backs of fresh stock from the corral. But then, in the next instant, as the breeze gusted a cloud of dust across the parched ground, other sensations crowded into Jamie’s awareness. He was held direct against the live oak, secured by a single length of rope that bound him tightly at ankles, thighs, stomach, chest and throat: except for his right arm left free of the bonds so it could be raised out and the hands fastened, fingers splayed over the tree trunk by nails driven between them and bent over. The pressure of the nails and the bruises on his hands where the revolver butt had missed their mark and even more agonizing cause of pain than the shattered kneecap. But Jamie gritted his teeth and looked back at Forrest defiantly, trying desperately to conceal the twisted terror that reached his very nerve ends.
“All right, boy,” Forrest said. “You can see the position you’re in. While you were taking your rest me and the others searched the place. But we couldn’t find no money. Now, if you just tell us where you’ve salted it away, we’ll cut you loose, make you right comfortable in the house and send a doctor out from town.”
The others had finished saddling the fresh horses now and moved into an expectant bunch over to the tree. Jamie saw it as a mere disconnected movement from the corner of his eye, for he was riveting his attention on the face of Forrest, channeling all the hate he could muster in his continued effort to hide his pain and fear. But beads of sweat coursed down his forehead to sting his eyes, making him blink.
“There’s no money here,” he tried to yell at the man, but what came out a rasping whisper, which Forrest ignored without a flicker of interest.
“There had better be, boy,” he answered. “Or you’re dead. Back up.”
The final demand was directed at the five other soldiers, who did as instructed, giving Forrest space enough to put ten feet between himself and Jamie. The boy saw that while Forrest looked at him with odd mixture of impatience and indifference, the others appeared excited at the prospect of imminent entertainment. One of them, a tall, lean man who had discarded his forage cap for a black Stetson, was taking fast swigs at an almost empty whisky bottle.
“You got four fingers and a thumb on that right hand, boy,” Forrest said softy. “You also got another hand and we got a lot of nails. I’ll start with the thumb. I’m good. That’s why they made me platoon sergeant. Your brother recommended me, boy. I don’t miss. Where’s the money?”
The world went a strange color for Jamie and he saw it out of perspective. Forrest seemed to diminish in size while the gun in his right hand grew to gigantic proportions. And the grinning faces of the other five men seemed to rush forward in stark clarity. The boy realized he was close to hysteria and he tried with all his weakened strength to tear his hands free of the nails.
Then the enormous gun roared and Jamie could no longer feel anything in his right hand. But Forrest aim was true and when the boy looked down it was just his thumb that lay in the dust, the shattered bone gleaming white against the scarlet blood pumping from the still warm flesh. Then the numbness went and white-hot pain engulfed his entire arm as he screamed.
“You tell me where the money is hid, boy,” Forrest said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard above the sounds of agony, but still empty of emotion.
Jamie knew where it was. Had carefully over the years of the war carried each slim package from the stage station to the farm and hidden it with the others, counting it each time and keeping a tally. Two thousand dollars in all. Joe and he could really do things with the farm on two thousand dollars. Another barn, some new equipment: might fence off some pasture land to the north and get a few head of cattle. That would be nice.
The gun exploded into sound again and this time there was no moment of numbness as Jamie forefinger fell to the ground, on top of the thumb, disturbing the flies at their feast. The agony reverberated throughout his entire body and this time his scream emerged as a mere croaking sound from deep in his throat. He knew he was in a hairs breadth of telling Forrest of the moneys hiding place, but he didn’t, but he was hanging onto the belief that Joe was not dead, and so would need the money. To Jamie it did not matter, for he would surely be killed whether he talked or not. But he had to keep faith with Joe.
“Don’t hog it all to yourself, Frank,” Billy Seward shouted, drawing his revolver, “You weren’t the only crack shot in the whole damn war.”
He drew a bead on his target and Jamie watched him through a red sea of pain that blurred his vision, set him apart from what was happening. The crack of the revolver had a distant sound and this time there was hardly any new pain, merely a sting on the cheek as the bullet missed its mark, dug splinters from the trunk, which flew into the face of the boy. Jamie suddenly loved Billy Seward and felt a warm wetness in his trousers as the relief relaxed his muscles.
“You stupid bastard,” Forrest yelled as he spun around. “Don’t kill him ...”
Every other man had drawn his gun and all but one lowered their weapons, their wills bent to the fury of Forrest. But the man with the whisky bottle suddenly flung it from him, his eyes bleary and his hand unsteady from the pint of hard liquor he had drunk during the search of the house. He fired from the hip, the bullet whining past Forrest’s shoulder to hit Jamie squarely between the eyes, the blood spurting from the fatal wound like red mud to mask the boy’s death agony. The gasp of the other men told Forrest it was over and he did not turn round to look. His Colt spoke for the fourth time that evening, the bullet smashing into the drunken man’s groin. He went down hard into a sitting position, dropping his gun, splaying his legs, his hands clenching his lower abdomen as if he thought he could staunch the flow of crimson that spread a widening stain across his filthy uniform pants. He looked around imploringly as those around him, his mouth working but emitting no sound, and nobody moved to help him. Then, without speaking, Forrest walked across and scooped up the fallen gun, jammed it into his belt as he holstered his own revolver.