A Wolf in the Fold

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.

Only one person despised the Butchers that much.

The next body was a few yards farther. Kip had been shot in the chest, stomach, and thigh. Spent shells showed that he had fought on after he was down.

The rest made it across the clearing. Carson had dropped a few steps into the trees. A hole the size of an apple in his right temple had proved to be the fatal wound. He had been scalped.