Harpe pointed at the thick white bone sticking out of his thigh. “I can’t even feel that,” he said. “Reckon I’m in shock. God be praised.” Harpe laughed again, but his chest was clogged with dirt and smoke. He spat something yellow into the dirt and propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Franklin Carlisle’s body. “Got yourself another one? Racking up quite the little body count, aren’t you? Honestly, you don’t look too good Marshal. You fixing to check out on me now?”
McParlan heard three Elijah Harpes speak and saw twice as many. His eyelids fluttered and he nearly pulled the trigger, but was able to shake his head enough to focus on Harpe’s sweaty, snickering face staring at him. “Don’t know how long we’re gonna be out here, Elijah, but I bet that shock is only going to last a little while. Pretty soon, you’ll start screaming for your mama and that thought is what’s gonna keep me hanging on.”
Jem Clayton looked at the tall tower of black smoke rising over the peaks of Coramide Canyon and strapped the destriers across their hides to move them toward it. Harlan Wells leaned against the window beneath Jem’s feet and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Some sort of crash down in the Canyon. I’m going to check on it real quick. How’s Adam?”
“Seems all right. He woke up, but he’s sweating like a dog. I think the heat is getting to him.”
Jem smelled burnt fuel and plastic, but there was another smell, the kind that lingers around kitchens. Jem worked the animals up the path to the overlook, and peered down at the canyon below. He eased the animals down the path, drawing one of his Defeaters and cocking the hammer back. There were two men lying together at the edge of the crash site, one wearing shackles, and the other pointing a gun at that man’s head. Neither of them were moving. Buzzards circled overhead, waiting to feast.
Jem stopped the carriage at the bottom of the path and knocked on the rear door. Harlan opened it an inch and frowned. “You aren’t going over there are you?”
“Just to see if there’s any survivors.”
“What if it’s a trap?” Harlan said.
Jem looked at the crash site and then up at the canyon, checking for snipers. “Doesn’t seem likely. Hell of a set-up just to hope somebody comes across this mess. I think this is genuine. You want to hold onto one of my guns just in case?”
Harlan shook his head no and closed the carriage door. Jem removed both weapons and headed for the bodies.
There were dead buzzards scattered across the ground, their carcasses blown to pieces. Jem saw that the old man was holding a Balrog 6K pistol. Standard issue for PNDA Marshals, Jem thought. He crouched beside the old man and tapped him on the shoulder with his gun. “You alive, friend?”
McParlan groaned and he tried squeezing the Balrog’s trigger. The gun slipped from his grasp and he muttered, “Not yet, damn you. Get your claws off me until it’s finished.”
Jem picked up the Balrog and slid it into his belt. He rolled McParlan onto his back and inspected him. The old man’s lips were white and cracked. Jem waved over to the carriage and called for Harlan to “Bring the water. Hustle up.”
McParlan’s eyes rolled back in his head. “I can’t go with you. Not unless he goes too. It isn’t finished…”
Harlan carried two canteens over and handed one to Jem. Jem unscrewed the cap and poured a little onto the old man’s grizzled face, letting it trickle between his lips. Harlan went to pour water into the mouth of the prisoner but Jem said, “Keep away from that one until we figure out what’s going on.”
McParlan’s eyes fluttered open. “Keep it coming,” he rasped.
“In a minute,” Jem said. “Not too much at once or you’ll choke.”
The Marshal cursed Jem and started to cough. Jem waited for it to pass before he slowly poured another few capfuls of water into his mouth.
Jem let McParlan lay back down and carried the canteen over to Elijah Harpe. He squatted down next to him, keeping his pistol ready. “Give…me some…you son of a bitch,” Harpe croaked. Jem splashed him in the face and Harpe swiped his tongue around his mouth, sucking in every drop. Jem held Harpe’s head up and poured a little more water into his mouth.
While both men nursed their canteens, Jem had Harlan bring the carriage closer to them. He kicked a few of the feathered corpses out of the carriages way and said, “You shoot all these buzzards?”
“Bastards kept trying to eat us,” McParlan grunted. “I’m obliged you came along when you did.”
Jem looked back at him. “You with the PNDA?”
McParlan nodded. “I’m Marshal James McParlan. This here piece of human waste is Elijah Harpe.”
Jem’s eyes narrowed, “Harpe? You’re kidding me. I read about those boys.” He turned to look at the other body, “Is that his brother?”
“No. Just the unfortunate soul who happened to be transporting us.” McParlan’s face twisted in pain as Jem pulled him to his feet. He draped an arm around Jem’s shoulders and limped toward the wagon. “No matter what, you cannot let that man out of your sight. If he tries to run, kill him. He’s done things you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares.”
Jem looked at the empty socket of McParlan’s missing eye. “I’ll make sure to keep my eye on him.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” He helped McParlan into the carriage and walked back over to Elijah Harpe. “Is all that stuff they put in the paper about you and Little Willy true?”
Elijah squinted up at him. “Like what?”
“That you some wild boys who go about raping, killing, and pillaging whatever you please. Real barbarians. Take whatever and don’t care who stands in your way. That might be my kind of party.”
“Well, then I reckon the good Lord has delivered me into the hands of an angel.”
“Amen to that,” Jem said.
“You believe in the Lord, our God?”
“You better believe it,” Jem said, crossing his heart.
“My brother, here is what I want you to do then. Go put a bullet into that heathen of a Marshal’s head and send him to judgment. Then me and you can get out of here and figure out a way to signal Little Willy. Parties? Shoot. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Jem glanced over his shoulder at Harlan, who was leaned over the carriage, watching them carefully. “What about the old man? He’s got his son along with him. I expect they’ll be in the way.”
“How old’s the boy?” Harpe said.
“Why?”
“Thought you might want to keep him. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck out here? Any port in a storm, so they say. A man’s physical needs must be fulfilled so that he might do the good work, my brother.”
Jem nodded and reached down for the knob of bone sticking out of Harpe’s leg and twisted it like a doorknob. Harpe clawed at Jem’s hands, trying to wrench them away, but Jem slapped him and twisted again until Harpe screamed and beat his fists against the dirt.
When Jem let go, Harpe laid there panting and said, “You son of a bitch.”
“There will be no more speaking from you unless you are spoken to, understand?” Jem said. “You so much as look at that boy and I will cut out your eyes. Speak to him and I’ll take your tongue.” He waited for Harpe to nod and then heaved him to his feet. Harpe stood there, waiting for assistance, and Jem just pointed at the wagon. “Move it. You’re riding up front with me.”
Harpe pulled himself into the carriage’s forward carry and tried to shift his injured leg inside without bending it. He collapsed into the seat and groaned, muttering a prayer as sweat dripped down the tip of his nose and stained his shirtfront.