Marcia Muller: Crucifixion River

After Murdock’s wife took young Annabelle inside the roadhouse, he thanked me again for helping her. I said the pleasure was all mine, and it was true in more than one sense. What she’d told me on the way confirmed my suspicions. Now it was time to prod Murdock and gauge his reaction.

When he offered to put my horse up in the barn, I said: “I’ll come along and give you a hand.”

“Lot drier and warmer inside, Mister Nesbitt.”

“I don’t mind helping out.”

“Suit yourself.”

He climbed up on the buckboard seat and I followed along on foot, leading the piebald I’d hired in Sacramento. Stage or steamer passage would have been more comfortable, but I prefer my own company in situations such as this. There’d be plenty of time for comfort and pleasure later on.

Thunder rumbled, loud, and jagged forks of lightning seemed to split the black sky in two. The time was not much past 4:00 p.m., but daylight was already gone and the wind-whipped rain seemed thick as gumbo. If it weren’t for the lightning flares, I wouldn’t have been able to see the barn until we were right up to it.

Murdock jumped down, and I helped him get the doors propped open. A pair of hurricane lanterns flickered inside, throwing light and shadow across the Concord coach and the slab-sided peddler’s wagon that took up much of the runway between the stalls. There was just enough room for the buckboard. Once he’d drawn it inside, it took both of us to drive the doors shut against the force of the storm.

Cold and damp inside, the combined smells of manure, hay, harness leather, wet animals were strong enough to make a man breathe through his mouth. A bearded oldster was busy unharnessing the stage team, putting the horses into the stalls. He paused long enough to say: “Pete Dell. Wells Fargo driver.”

“Boone Nesbitt,” I said.

Dell eyed my horse. “Foul weather to be out on horseback.”

“That it is.”

He shrugged and went on about his business. Murdock began unharnessing the wagon horse. I took my saddlebags off the piebald first, then I removed bridle and bit, uncinched the saddle, and rubbed down the horse with a burlap sack.

Murdock said conversationally: “Don’t recall seeing you before, Mister Nesbitt.”

“That’s because I’ve never been in the delta before.”

“You’re seeing it at its worst. It’s a good place to live and work most of the year.”

“I prefer cities. San Francisco.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“No. It’s my home at present, but I’m a native of Chicago.”

Murdock stiffened. His hand froze on the bay mare’s halter.

“Fine city, Chicago. You ever been there, Mister Murdock?”

“No,” he said. He finished unharnessing the bay without looking at me, led it into one of the remaining stalls. I ambled over next to Murdock as he measured out a portion of oats. Pete Dell was out of earshot, with the rain beating hard against the roof and walls, but I kept my voice low anyhow.

“Your daughter told me you’re the T.J. Murdock who writes sketches for the San Francisco periodicals.”

The look he gave me had a mask on it. “Now and then. A hobby.”

“I’ve read some of them. Reminiscent of Ambrose Bierce, but with a distinctive style all your own. Very distinctive, as a matter of fact.”

“If you think so, I’m flattered.”

“The one in the Argonaut about the Crucifixion River sect was particularly good.”

“That was several years ago,” Murdock said warily.

“Yes, I know. I looked it up after I’d read some of your more recent sketches. You wrote it from firsthand knowledge, I understand.”

“That’s right. The sect established itself on the peninsula southwest of here.”

“Buildings still standing?”

“Mostly.”

“Ghosts. The past is full of them.”

He had nothing to say to that.

“Funny thing,” I said, “how the past can haunt the present. I wonder if the sect members are haunted by their failure here.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I’ll wager some of them are. Some folks just can’t escape their past failures. Or their past sins.”

A muscle jumped along his jaw. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind. The mask was back in place, tight as ever. He finished rubbing down the roan, slung a blanket over the animal, and called to Pete Dell: “Going inside now, Pete! Come on in for some hot grub when you’re finished.”

“I’ll be there. Pour me a whiskey to go with it.”

“Done. You planning to spend the night in the common room or out here?”

“Out here. Prefer my own company at night, you know that.”

“It’ll be pretty cold and damp. This barn’s drafty.”

“Warm enough for me inside the coach.”

“Suit yourself.” Murdock started toward the doors, glanced back at me long enough to say: “You coming, Mister Nesbitt?”

“Right behind you.”

He went on with his shoulders squared, slipped out through one door half, closed it after I followed, and set off in hard strides to the roadhouse. Walking, not running. He was through running, one way or another-we both knew that now.

T.J. Murdock? Not by a damned sight. His true name was Harold P. Baxter and he was a native of Chicago, same as I was. And after eight years, purely by chance, I was the man who’d found him, I was the man who stood to collect the private reward of $10,000 on his head.

The common room had never seemed so alive! Two women sitting by the fire, a good-looking man with a banjo slung over his shoulder helping himself at the buffet, another fellow drinking whiskey at the table, and Mr. Nesbitt and my father and Pete Dell yet to join us. Everyone was subdued by the storm, but as glad to be out of it as I was. This much company was a rare treat; we seldom had more than two or three guests. There were only two guest bedrooms, for ladies only if the company was mixed, and it was seldom that both were occupied for a night.

I’d changed clothes in my bedroom and dried my hair as best I could. Dratted hair-when wet and damp, it curled and tangled and looked like a mare’s nest. Yet another reason I hated this backcountry. At least my dress was pretty; I’d put on the blue gingham with the lace collar for our company.

I looked around at the stranded travelers. The women by the fire had their heads together in earnest conversation-stage passengers, surely. The man drinking whiskey at the table looked to be a farm or ranch worker dressed up in his Sunday best. The other man at the buffet, the one with the banjo, had his back to me, but I’d gotten a close look at him when I came in. My, he was handsome in his brown butternut suit. And much nearer to my age than Mr. Nesbitt. Mother came out and placed a basket of fresh-baked bread beside him, and he smiled and nodded his thanks before she returned to the kitchen.

The door opened and Dad came in. His face was tightened up like it got when he’d fought with me or Mother, and he moved in an odd, jerky way. He didn’t even look at me as he shucked out of his oilskins and then walked through the room toward the kitchen. It made me cross. I hate to be ignored, and it was particularly annoying after the soaking I’d gotten and the wheel almost coming off the buckboard. Then Mr. Nesbitt came in, and he nodded to me as he took off his wet slicker.

I went to the buffet for coffee, and greeted the man with the banjo. Oh, yes, he truly was good-looking-slender, with chestnut brown hair and a nice smile and a rakish gleam in his eyes. And tall-I had to tilt my head to look up at him. I like tall men, probably because I’m short and a man half a head taller makes me feel protected.