A Wolf in the Fold

Wedging myself in, I reached behind me, cupped the dirt I had dug, and covered my head and back as best I could until exhaustion caused me to collapse. I lay completely spent, scarcely able to breathe, as the crackling and hissing swelled to the roar of an inferno.

The heat was unbearable. I felt like I was being fried alive. Sweat poured from me in great drops, soaking me, drenching my clothes. I swore I was giving off steam. Just when I could not take it anymore and was about to scream in torment, the roar began to fade. I was hot, ungodly hot, but I did not grow any hotter.

I lapsed in and out of consciousness until after a while I opened my eyes and the roar was gone. But not the hissing. And not the acrid odor of burned wood and burned other things.

I stayed where I was. It would take hours for the wreckage to cool enough for me to make my way out of the root cellar. As weak as I was, I was content to stay put, and to marvel at my deliverance.

But I was putting the cart before the horse. Suddenly I heard the clomp of feet, and the person I hated most in this world barked orders.

“Look everywhere! He has to be here. There won’t be much left, but I want to see what there is with my own eyes.”

“Why go to all this bother over a Bible thumper?” a cowboy responded. “We know he didn’t get out.”

“It’s too hot,” another said. “We’ll burn ourselves.”

“Do as I tell you!” Gertrude commanded. “It’s important I find him. Chester, you poke around in that corner. Brewer, over by the stove. Sutton, you take the root cellar.”

Boots clomped closer. “What a mess,” the man who had to be Sutton said. “My pants will be so black they’ll need washing.”

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.