The Last Manhunt by Ralph Compton

Author:Ralph Compton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2011-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

An erratic wind shredded the rain into shards of splintered glass that hammered March with cold stings.

Beside him the woman sat, head bent, her child in her arms, making the soft, soothing sounds that women knew and men didn’t.

Booker was shivering, his knees drawn up to his chest, but whether from cold or fever, March couldn’t tell.

The campfire, built in the shelter of an overhang, fluttered and sizzled, spreading little light. Blanket-wrapped men had sought what shelter they could find; only English McGill was awake, the Kiowa in him enduring. Of the Gravedigger, there was no sign.

“Mrs. Rowantree,” Booker said, “I’m so sorry.”

The woman looked at him with dry eyes. “Sorry for what?”

“That we couldn’t save you.”

“Save me from what?”

“From . . . from what happened in the woods.”

“If you’d tried, you’d have gotten your fool head blown off. But thanks for the sentiment.” The woman looked closely at Booker, piecing him together in the inky dark. “What’s your name?”

“Lester, ma’am, Lester Booker.”

She almost smiled. “Funny, I took you for an Archibald.”

“It seems that many people out west make that same assumption, Mrs. Rowantree.”

“Call me Eliza. That Rowantree name doesn’t set well with me.”

“You experienced a terrible ordeal. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry for a lot of things, ain’t you, Lester?”

Eliza held Judith closer, trying to shield her from the worst of the downpour.

“When Jeb Rowantree found me, I was working as a two-dollar whore on a hog ranch south of Santa Fe. There isn’t anything a man can do to me that hasn’t been done a hundred times before.”

“But you were raped,” Booker said. “Repeatedly.”

“Good for you, Lester. Not many men think like that.”

“Like what?”

“That a woman who sells her ass for two dollars can be raped.”

Booker felt his cheeks burn and was grateful for the darkness.

“The man who hit me”—Eliza’s fingers strayed to the bruise on her cheek—“what was he talking about, that he won’t raise me to life?”

“You mean you don’t know who he is?” March said.

The woman shook her head.

“He’s the Gravedigger.”

“Oh my,” Eliza said, hugging Judith closer.

“You’ve heard of him?” March said.

“Jeb told me about the Gravedigger. He buries people alive, even children.”

“We’ll get out of this,” March said.

“How?” Eliza looked around frantically. “Maybe I can throw myself on his mercy. Maybe I can beg—”

“Mrs. Rowantree . . . Eliza . . . the Gravedigger is mad,” Booker said. “He has no mercy.”

“I’ll think of a way,” March said.

“Mister,” Eliza said, “that’s big talk from a man with his legs in shackles and no gun.”

“Why, don’t you know, Eliza? This is the famous lawman Ransom March, fearless Prince of the Plains.”

Booker had laid on his sarcasm with a trowel, but the woman ignored him and clasped Judith closer to her.

Above the rattle of the rain, March thought he heard sobs, but couldn’t tell if they came from Eliza or the child.

Either way, he felt helpless.

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