Marcia Muller - Crucifixion River

“We need to have a talk, Murdock,” he said.

“Yes, but not right this second. I have work to attend to.”

“Soon, though.”

“I’ll be around,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I didn’t suppose you were.”

Outside, the yard was rain-puddled and littered with leaves and branches. The levee roads on both sides of the slough seemed to have survived intact, so far as I could see, although down toward where the slough bent to the south, the water level was only a couple of feet below the surface of the Middle Island road. Both embankments appeared to have held without crumbling. The slough waters were chocolate brown, frothy, still running fast and bobbing with tree limbs and other detritus from the storm.

I slogged through the mud to the landing. The barge was as I’d left it, moored fast, and the strung cable and windlass had come through undamaged. As I finished my examination, Pete Dell appeared from the direction of the barn. I went to meet him.

“How’s she look out there, Murdock?”

“It should be safe enough for the stage to cross in another couple of hours.”

“Good enough. I’m so far behind schedule now, couple more hours won’t make any difference. Some wild night, eh?”

“In more ways than one.”

“That peddler, Shock, is over in the barn hitching up his wagon.”

“Already? He must be eager for an early start to River Bend.”

“So he says. I don’t much like that fella, tell you the truth.”

“I would have said the same before he put an end to Luke Kraft’s terrorism last night.”

“Even so. But then, I never much liked Kraft, neither. His death’s likely to cause a stir up Isleton way, even if he did deserve what he got.” Pete stretched and blew on his hands. “Coffee ready?”

“Should be. Breakfast, too, just about.”

We went on into the house. Two hours, I was thinking bleakly, and part of another for the stage to cross. And then Nesbitt. And then, one way or another, an end to my freedom.

I finished harnessing Nell to my wagon, hauled the Murdocks’ buckboard to one side of the runway, opened the doors, and led Nell out of the barn. Bitter cold this morning, but I scarcely felt the bite. The $3,000, nestled inside my coat, provided warmth aplenty.

As I drove across the muddy yard, the ferrymaster stepped out of the roadhouse and hailed me. I drew to a stop, arranging my face in an expression of gravity. “I was about to stop in,” I lied, “to ask after Mister Hoover.”

“He’s awake and taking nourishment. He passed a comfortable night.”

“Well, he’ll soon enough have the attention of a doctor.”

“Good of you to make the trip to River Bend, Mister Shock.”

“Not at all. I know my duty.”

“Will you have breakfast before you go? Or at least a cup of hot coffee?”

“Thank you, no. I’ve no real appetite this morning, and I’d just as lief make tracks while the weather is dry. How much do I owe for the night’s lodging?”

“Not a cent, under the circumstances.”

“Christian of you, brother, but I insist on paying for your hospitality.”

“As you please. Two dollars, then.”

I leaned down to pay him. He thanked me and wished me Godspeed, and I touched my hat and gigged Nell up the muddy embankment. The wagon’s wheels slipped a bit, but the old plug held her footing and soon enough we were on the levee road, headed in the direction of River Bend. I cast no backward glance.

Even if the money were missed, no one at the ferry crossing could be sure that I’d taken it; not even Nesbitt, if he was a lawman, would have cause or impetus to chase after me. I had only to pass through River Bend and I was safe. Sheriff, doctor? Hah! I wouldn’t tarry in the town long enough to wave at a passer-by. Straight on through and back to Sacramento as quickly as I could get there.

I felt a song welling up in me and began to hum and then to sing softly. Later, when the day warmed a bit, I would bring out my banjo to celebrate properly my good fortune. $3,000, more than I’d ever had at one time. What a man could do with that much money! Why, I might just board Nell in a livery, put the wagon in storage, and take passage on one of the river packets to San Francisco. Yes, that was just what I’d do. A room in the city’s best hotel, fine food, champagne, a pretty lass for company and bed. Heigh-ho! Life’s bounties in abundance.

After a mile or so I passed a weed-infested side road that meandered off onto a long peninsula. Ahead was a sharp bend, both sides of the levee road shaded by sycamores. The road’s surface was less slick here and we were clomping along at a right pert pace when we reached the bend and started through.

I didn’t spy the downed tree until we were almost upon it. It lay blocking the road from one side to the other, its root-torn bole jutting high and its upper branches drooping down into the slough. I yanked back hard on the reins. Nell shied and the wagon slewed sideways, and, when that happened, just before we slid to a halt a few feet from the sycamore, something shifted and clattered inside. I could scarcely believe what I heard then-the startled, pained cry of a woman.

I set the brake, jumped down, ran to the rear of the wagon, and pulled open the doors. And lo, there she was, asprawl on the floor among a small litter of items dislodged from their hooks and cubbies, the hem of her traveling dress twisted up to reveal her drawers.

Annabelle Murdock.

“What the devil are you doing in my wagon?”

“Please don’t be mad at me, James Never Jim Shock. Please!”

“Answer me, girl.”

“I had to get away. I couldn’t stay any longer. You’ll let me come with you, won’t you? I’ll do anything you say…”

“How did you get in there? The doors were locked.”

“No, they weren’t. I slipped out of the house and into the barn while it was still dark and the doors weren’t locked, and I found a place to hide…”

Damnation! I must have neglected to lock them when I brought out my banjo last night. Fury rose, hot and thick, in my chest and throat. Everything proceeding so well, and then the downed tree across the road and now this stupid priss of a girl. I wheeled away and stomped ahead to look at the sycamore. Blocking the road for fair, and a thick-trunked bugger it was. It would take a crew of men with axes and saws to cut it up and clear away the debris. The fury rose higher; my head commenced to throb with it, my hands to palsy some.

Annabelle had come out of the wagon and was standing, small and fearful, next to Nell. And fearful she should be, the little bitch. As if the blocked road wasn’t enough of a trial, now I had this rattlebrain to contend with.

“You won’t send me back?” she said. “Please say you won’t send me back.”

Send her back? Hell, no, I wouldn’t. It was only a mile or so to the roadhouse, a short and easy walk, but once she arrived, there was no telling what she might say or the Murdocks might think. She may already have been missed. They might believe I’d enticed her away or, worse, kidnapped her. It was a risk I couldn’t afford to take.

“James Never Jim Shock? Say you…”

“Don’t call me that, you little bitch. Shut your damn’ mouth and let me think.”

A stifled gasp, and she was still.

Take her with me? I couldn’t do that, either, even if the road were free for passage. She was a tender morsel, right enough, but under the age of legal consent. If I were caught with her, it would mean prison.

Turn the wagon around, drive it back to the crossing, take the ferry to Middle Island and points south? That was the logical choice, except for the $3,000. The money might already have been discovered missing, or the discovery made before I could make the crossing. Murdock, Dell, Nesbitt-a damned lawman, I was sure of it-and all of them armed. No, returning to the roadhouse was a fool’s choice.