Free Soul Catcher by Michael C. White Page B

fields. So, instead, he'd turned and walked away. Just walked away. Left everything he'd known or cared for--home and family, a soon-to-be bride, an inheritance, a way of life. That night he'd packed a few things, borrowed fifty dollars from the cash box in his father's study, saddled his dependable roan gelding, and lit out for the Texas border. Since then, Cain had ceased to exist for his father, might well have died there on that battlefield of Buena Vista for all the man cared.
    Glancing up from his reverie, Cain saw above the fire that the boy was staring at him. The flames seemed to consume his coat, flaring up with the blood on it as if it were turpentine.
    "C-c'mon, Preacher," said Little Strofe. "Reckon he's had enough."
    Preacher turned savagely on Little Strofe. "I'll damn well say when he's had enough and not before."
    "I j-j-j--" Little Strofe stammered.
    "You j-j-j what?" Preacher mimicked. He was always mocking Little Strofe, teasing him about his stutter. "What in the Sam Hill you j-j-jabbering about?"
    "I'm only s-sayin' he m-might come 'round now." Little Strofe turned solicitously to the boy. "You ready to t-talk, ain't you, boy?" The Negro's eyes angled sharply to his right, staring at Preacher's knife, which glistened in the firelight.
    "He right, nigger?" Preacher said. "You fixin' to tell us where they at?" The boy looked at Preacher, and slowly moved his head in such a way it might be interpreted in the affirmative.
    Preacher started to untie the rope holding the gag in place.
    "Now I'ma ask you only one more time, boy," Preacher said. "I'm done foolin' with you."
    As soon as the gag was out of his mouth, a remarkable change came over the boy. His expression altered, the fear seemed suddenly to leach out of his eyes and the other thing in them, the one Cain had noticed earlier, took over completely. The boy stared at Preacher, his gaze honed to an edge that would cut. Cain hated this. The whole bloody thing. Hated Preacher for his mindless cruelty. Hated the cold nights, the long days in the saddle, the rain which made his leg ache. Hated these dark, gloomy mountains. Hated the boy for his race and for being stubborn and not giving in to the simple logic of pain. This was why he liked to work alone. He didn't have these problems when he was by himself. He preferred using his wits rather than violence or force to get the job done whenever possible. But in any case, this would be the last of it, he reminded himself again. After this, he would be finished with his foul profession. Of course, he'd said that before, many times, in fact, and then reneged as soon as he had need of money, as soon as his gambling debts or the drinking or womanizing placed him at the mercy of others and his will was no longer his own. But this time he meant it. He would find some other more suitable employment. He might head out west and have done with this gray, dismal land once and for all.
    The boy coughed once, hawking phlegm into his mouth. Cain thought, No, he won't. A stone would have more sense than that. And yet, Cain was already mulling over the consequences of what the boy was about to do, parsing out what Preacher would do and what his own response would be. A split second before Cain could cry out Don't, the boy spit what he had in his mouth at Preacher, hitting him squarely in his narrow snake-face.
    "Why you black devil!" he cursed, punching the boy viciously several times in the face. Then Preacher grabbed him by his ears and started to slam his head against the tree. "I'll learn you to spit on me, nigger." The boy was calling out something, something distorted by his head being whacked against the bark. But they were more than a mile away from the boy's village, and well out of hearing range of anything but gunshot. As his head struck the tree trunk, his eyes rolled back into their sockets so only the whites could be seen.
    Cain glanced at Strofe, who was sipping on his applejack. "You going to stop him before he