The Last Guardian

CHAPTER SEVEN

Of all the seasons God had granted it was the Spring that Shannow loved above others, with its heady music of life and growth, its chorus of bird-song and richly coloured flowers pushing back the snow. The air too was clean and a man could drink it in like wine, filling his lungs with the essence of life itself.

Shannow dismounted before the crest of a hill and walked to the summit, gazing out over the rippling grass of the plain. Then he squatted on the ground and scanned the rolling lands before him. In the far distance he could see a wandering herd of cattle, and to the west several mountain sheep grazing on a hillside. He moved back from the skyline and studied the back-trail through the mountain valley, memorising the jagged peaks and the narrow ways he had passed. He did not expect to return this way, but if he did he needed to be sure of his bearings. He unbuckled the thick belt which carried his gun scabbards and removed his heavy topcoat, then swung the guns around his hips once more and buckled the belt in place before rolling his coat and tying it behind his saddle. The stallion was contentedly cropping grass and Shannow loosened the saddle cinch.

Taking his Bible he sat with his back to a boulder, slowly reading the story of King Saul. He always found it hard to avoid sympathising with the first King of Israel. The man had fought hard and well to make the nation strong, only to have a usurper preparing to steal his crown. Even at the end, when God deserted him, Saul still fought'gallantly against the enemy and died alongside his sons in a great battle.

Shannow closed the book and took a long cool drink from his canteen. His wounds were almost healed now, and last night he had cut the stitches with the blade of his hunting-knife. Although he could not yet move his right arm with customary speed, his strength was returning.

He tightened the saddle and rode out on to the plain. Here and there were the tracks of horses, cattle and deer. He rode warily, watching the horizon, constantly hitching himself in the saddle to study the trail behind.

The plain stretched on endlessly and the far blue mountains to the south seemed small and insubstantial. A bird suddenly flew up to Shannow's left. His eyes fastened to it and he realised that he was following its flight with the barrel of his pistol; the weapon was cocked and ready. He eased the hammer back into place and sheathed the gun.

A long time ago he would have been delighted with the speed at which he reacted to possible danger, but bitter experience had long since corroded his pride. He had been attacked outside Allion by several men and had killed them all; then a sound from behind had caused him to swivel and fire… and he had killed a child who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That child would have been a grown man by now, with children of his own. A farmer, a builder, a preacher? No one would ever know. Shannow tried to push the memory from his mind, but it clung to him with talons of fire.

Who would want to be you, Shannow} he asked himself. Who would want to be the Jerusalem Man?

The children of Allion had followed him during his nightly tours, copying the smooth straight-backed walk. They carried wooden guns thrust in their belts and they worshipped him; they thought it wonderful to be so respected and feared, to have a name that travelled the land ahead of you.

Is it wonderful, Shannow?

The people of Allion had been grateful when Jon Shannow put the brigands to flight — or buried them. But when the town was clean they had paid him and asked him to move on. And the brigands returned, as they always did. And perhaps the children followed them around, copying their walks and fighting pretend battles with their wooden guns.

How far to Jerusalem, Shannow?

'Over the next mountain,' he answered aloud. The stallion's ears pricked up and he snorted.

Shannow chuckled as he patted the beast's neck and urged him into a run over the level ground. It was not a sensible move, he knew; a rabbit-hole or a loose rock could cause the horse to stumble and break a leg, or throw a shoe. But the wind in his face felt good and life was never without perils.

He let the horse have his head for about a half mile, then drew back on the reins as he saw wagon tracks. They were fresh, maybe two days old; Shannow dismounted and examined them. The wheels had bit deep into the dry earth — a family moving south with all their possessions. Silently he wished them good fortune and remounted.

By mid-afternoon he came upon the broken wheel. By now he knew a little of the family: there were two children and a woman. The children had gathered sticks and dried cattle droppings for fuel, probably depositing them in a net slung under the tailboard. The woman had walked beside the lead oxen; her feet were small, but her stride long. There was no sign of a man but then, thought Shannow, perhaps he is lazy and rides in the wagon. The broken wheel, though, was a mystery.

Shannow studied the tracks of the horsemen. They had ridden to the camp and changed the wheel, then returned the way they had come. The woman had stood close to one of the riders, and they had walked together to a boulder. By the wagon tracks Shannow found six brass caps, still with their fulminates intact. At some time during the encounter someone had unloaded a pistol.

Why?

He built a fire on the ashes of the old one and sat pondering the problem. Perhaps the caps were old and the woman — for he knew now there was no man with them — had doubted their effectiveness. But if the caps were old, then so would be the wads and charges and these had not been stripped clear. He read the track signs once more, but could make no more of them — save that one of the horsemen had ridden to the right of the main group, or had left at a different time.

Shannow walked out along the trail and a hundred paces from the camp he saw a hoofprint from the lone horse which had overstamped a previous print. So then, the lone rider had left after the main group. He had obviously sat talking with the woman. Why did they not all stay?

He prepared himself some tea, and ate the last of the fruit from Shir-ran's store. As he delved at the bottom of the sack his fingers touched something cold and metallic and he drew it out. It was like a coin, but made of gold, and upon the surface was a raised motif that Shannow could not make out in the gathering dusk. He tucked the coin into his pocket and settled down beside the fire. But the tracks had disturbed him and sleep would not come; the moon was bright and he rose, saddled the stallion and rode off after the horsemen.

When he came to their camp-site they were gone, but a man lay with his head in the ashes of a dead fire, his face burned. He had been shot several times and his boots and gun were missing, though the belt and scabbard remained. Shannow was about to return to his horse when he heard a groan. He could hardly believe life still survived in that ruined body. Unhooking his canteen from the saddle, he knelt by the man, lifting the burnt head.

The man's eyes opened. 'They gone after the woman,' he whispered. Shannow held the canteen to his lips, but he choked and could not swallow. He said no more and Shannow waited for the inevitable. The man died within minutes.

Something glinted to Shannow's right. Under a bush, where it must have fallen, lay the man's gun. Shannow retrieved it. The caps had been removed; he had no chance to defend himself against the attack. Shannow pondered the evidence. The men were obviously brigands who had shot down one of their own. Why? Over the woman? But they had all been at the camp. Why leave?

A group of men had come across a woman and two children by a wagon with a broken wheel.

They had mended the wheel and left — save one, who followed after. His pistol had been tampered with. But then surely he would have known that? When he arrived his… friends?… had shot him.

Then they had headed back to the woman. There was no sense in it… unless he had stopped them from taking the woman in the first place. But then, why would he unload his gun before returning?

There was only one way to find out.

Shannow stepped into the saddle and searched for the tracks.

'Why did God kill my Dad?' asked Samuel, as he dipped his flat baked bread in the last of his broth. Beth put aside her own plate and looked across the camp-fire at the boy, his face white in the moonlight, his blond hair shining like silver threads.

'God didn't kill him, Sam. The Red Fever done that.'

'But the Preacher used to say that nobody died unless God wanted them to. Then they went to Heaven or Hell.'

'That's what the Preacher believes,' she said slowly, 'but it don't necessarily mean it's true. The Preacher used to say that Holy Jesus died less than four hundred years ago, and then the world toppled. But your Dad didn't believe that, did he? He said there were thousands of years between then and now. You remember?'

'Maybe that's why God killed him,' said Samuel, "cos he didn't believe the Preacher.'

'Ain't nothin' in life that easy,' Beth told him. 'There's wicked men that God don't kill, and there's good men — like your Pa — who die out of their time. That's just life, Samuel; it don't come with no promises.'

Mary, who had said nothing throughout, cleared away the dishes, carrying them beyond the camp-site and scrubbing them with grass. Beth stood and stretched her back. 'You've a lot still to learn, Samuel,' she said. 'You want something, then you have to fight for it. You don't give ground, and you don't whinge and whine. You take your knocks and you get on with living. Now help your sister clear up, and put that fire out.'

'But it's cold, Ma,' Samuel protested. 'Couldn't we just sleep out here with the fire?'

"The fire can be seen for miles. You want them raiders coming back?'

'But they helped us with the wheel?'

'Put out the fire, snapper-gut!' she stormed and the boy leapt to his feet and began to kick earth over the blaze. Beth walked away to the wagon and stood staring out over the plain. She didn't know if there was a God, and she didn't care. God had not helped her mother against the brutality of the man she married — and, sure as sin, God had never helped her. Such a shame, she thought.

It would have been nice to feel her children were safe under the security of a benign deity, with the faith that all their troubles could be safely left to a supreme being.

She remembered the terrible beating her mother had suffered the day she died; could still hear the awful sounds of fists on flesh. She had watched as he dragged her body out to the waste ground behind the house, and listened as the spade bit into the earth for an unmarked grave. He had staggered back into the house and stared at her, his hands filthy and his eyes red-streaked. Then he had drunk himself into a stupor and fallen asleep in the heavy chair. 'Jus' you an' me how,' he mumbled. The carving-knife had slid across his throat and he had died without waking.

Beth shook her head and stared up at the stars, her eyes misting with unaccustomed tears. She glanced back at the children, as they spread their blankets on the warm ground beside the dead fire. Sean McAdam had not been a bad man, but she did not miss him as they did. He had learned early on that his wife did not love him, but he had doted on his children, played with them, taught them, helped them. So devoted had he been that he had not noticed his wife's affection growing, not until close to the end when he had lain, almost paralysed, in the wagon.

'Sorry, Beth,' he whispered.

'Nothin' to be sorry for. Rest and get well.'

For an hour or more he had slept, then his eyes opened and his hand trembled and lifted from the blanket. She took hold of it, squeezing it firmly. 'I love you,' he said. 'God's truth.'

She stared at him hard. 'I know. Sleep. Go to sleep.'

'I… didn't do too bad… by you and the kids, did I?'

'Stop talkin' like that,' she ordered. 'You'll feel better in the morning.'

He shook his head. 'It's over, Beth. I'm hanging by a thread. Tell me? Please?'

'Tell you what?'

'Just tell me…' His eyes closed and his breathing became shallow.

She held his hand to her breast and leaned in close. 'I love you, Sean. I do. God knows I do. Now please get well.'

He had slipped away in the night while the children were sleeping. Beth sat with him for some time, but then considered the effect on the children of seeing their father's corpse. So she had dragged the body from the wagon and dug a grave on the hillside while they slept.

Lost in her memories now she did not hear Mary approach. The child laid her hand on her mother's shoulder and Beth turned and instinctively took her in her arms.

'Don't fret, Mary love. Nothing's going to happen.'

'I miss my Pa. I wish we were still back home.'

'I know,' said Beth, stroking the child's long auburn hair. 'But if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. We just got to move on.' She pushed the girl from her. 'Now, it's important you remember what I showed you today, and do it. There's no tellin' how many bad men there are

'twixt here and Pilgrim's Valley. And I need you, Mary. Can I trust you?'

'Sure you can, Ma.'

'Good girl. Now get to bed.'

Beth stayed awake for several hours, listening to the wind over the grass of the plain, watching the stars gliding by.

Two hours before dawn she woke Mary. 'Don't fall asleep, girl. You watch for any riders and wake me if you see them.' Then she lay down and fell into a dreamless sleep. It seemed to last for only a few moments before Mary was shaking her, but the sun was clearing the eastern horizon as Beth blinked and pushed one hand through her blonde hair.

'Riders, Ma. I think it's the same men.' 'Get in the wagon. And remember what I told you.' Beth lifted the flintlock pistol and cocked both barrels; then she hid the gun once more in the folds of her skirt and scanned the group for sign of Harry. He wasn't with them. She took a deep breath and steadied herself as the horsemen thundered into the camp and the man she remembered as Quint leapt from the saddle.

'Now, Missy,' he said. 'We'll have a little of what old Harry enjoyed.'

Beth raised the flintlock. Quint stopped in his tracks. She loosed the first barrel and the ball took Quint just above his nose, ploughing through his skull. He fell back into the dust with blood pumping from a fatal wound in his head as Beth stepped forward.

The sudden explosion had alarmed the horses and the four remaining riders fought to setde them as Quint's mount galloped out over the plain. In the silence that followed, the men glanced at one another. Beth's voice cut into them.

'You whoresons have two choices: ride, or die. And make the choice fast. I start shooting when I stop speaking.' The gun rose and pointed at the nearest man. 'Whoa there, lady!' the rider shouted.

'I'm leaving.' 'You can't take all of us, bitch!' shouted another, spurring his horse. But a tremendous explosion came from the wagon and the brigand was whipped from the saddle, half his head blown away.

'Any other doubters?' asked Beth. 'Move!' The three survivors dragged on the reins and galloped away. Beth ran to the wagon, took her powder horn and reloaded the flintlock. Mary climbed down from the tailboard with the shortened rifle in her arms.

'You did well, Mary,' said Beth, ramming home the wad over the ball and charge. 'I'm proud of you.'

She took the rifle and leaned it against the wagon, then cradled the trembling child in her arms.

'There, there. It's all right. Go and sit at the front; don't look at them.' Beth guided Mary to the driving platform and helped her up, then walked back to the bodies. Unbuckling Quint's pistol belt, she strapped it to her own waist and then searched the body for powder and ammunition.

She found a small hide sack of caps and transferred them to the wagon, then took a second pistol from the other body and hid it behind the driver's seat. Scan McAdam had never been able to afford a revolving pistol; now they had two. Beth gathered the oxen, hitched them to the wagon and then walked to the brigand's horse, a bay mare, and pulled herself into the saddle.

Awkwardly she rode alongside where Mary sat.

'Take up the reins, child. And let's move.'

Samuel clambered up beside Mary and grinned at his mother. 'You look just like a brigand, Ma.'

Beth smiled back at him, then transferred her gaze to Mary who was sitting white-faced, staring ahead.

'Take the reins, Mary, goddammit!' The girl flinched and unhooked them from the brake. 'Now let's go!' Mary flicked the reins and Beth rode up alongside the lead ox and whacked her palm across its rump.

High above, the carrion birds had begun to circle.