Chapter 33: The Bushwhackers

The click of the holster strap sounded like a gunshot in the humid silence of the thicket. Elias Thorne didn’t move, his fingers frozen against the worn leather of his belt as he watched a single bead of sweat track a slow, salty path down the side of Silas’s neck. Silas remained perfectly still, his rifle angled toward the dense wall of scrub oak and loblolly pine that hemmed in the narrow deer trail. 

Neither of them breathed. They couldn’t afford to. Not with the heavy, rhythmic thrum of horses moving somewhere off to the west—not the steady trot of travelers, but the uneven, stop-and-start cadence of men who were looking for something. Or someone.

Silas shifted his weight, his boots making the faintest crunch against the dry pine needles. He cut his eyes toward Elias, a silent command to stay low. The air in Cypress Bend had grown stagnant, thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and the metallic tang of an approaching storm. 

“How many?” Elias mouthed.

Silas held up four fingers, then slowly extended a fifth. 

Five men. Too many for a fair fight, and exactly the right number for an ambush. The Bushwhackers didn’t ride under any flag but their own greed, scouring the edges of the disputed territory like crows picking at a fresh carcass. They wouldn’t care about the ledger Elias carried tucked against his ribs, unless they realized the paper was worth more than the horse he rode. To them, blood was just a lubricant for theft.

The sound of a horse blowing its nose drifted through the trees, startlingly close. Following it came the low rumble of a voice—coarse, amused, and devoid of any scrap of mercy.

“Found a fresh pile of dung back there,” the voice said. “Still warm. They’re dragging a heavy load, or they’re riding tired. Either way, they ain’t more than a half-mile out.”

Elias felt the cold pressure of the ledger against his chest. It felt heavier now, a millstone of names and numbers that could either save Cypress Bend or burn it to the ground. He looked at Silas. The older man’s face was a mask of weathered granite, his eyes narrowed as if he could see through the trunks of the trees. Silas didn’t have a ledger to protect. He only had the grit in his teeth and the long-barreled Hawken he’d carried since the Creek Wars.

“They’re coming up the draw,” Silas whispered, the words barely a vibration in the air. “If we move now, we can hit the ridge. If we wait, they’ll pin us against the creek bed.”

“The creek is flooded,” Elias whispered back. “If we get pushed in, the current will take the horses.”

“Better the river than a rope,” Silas muttered. 

He didn't wait for a response. He began to back away, his movements fluid and unsettlingly quiet for a man of his size. Elias followed, mimicking the placement of Silas’s feet. Every snapping twig felt like a betrayal. Every rustle of his coat sounded like a shout. Behind them, the voices of the Bushwhackers grew clearer, the jangle of harness hardware cutting through the afternoon haze.

They reached the horses, tied deep in a stand of river birch. The animals were restless, their ears pinned back, sensing the tension radiating off their riders. Elias grabbed the reins of the bay, leaning his forehead against the animal’s velvet nose for a fleeting second. 

“Easy, girl,” he breathed. “Don't you make a sound.”

As he swung into the saddle, the sky finally broke. A low moan of thunder shook the ground, followed by the first heavy, disparate drops of rain. It wasn't a cleansing rain; it was a drenching weight that turned the dust to slick clay in seconds.

“Move,” Silas said, no longer whispering. 

They kicked the horses into a trot, heading upward. The ridge was a jagged spine of limestone and tangled briars that overlooked the bend of the river. If they could get high enough, they could see the hunters before they were seen. But the rain was coming down in sheets now, obscuring the horizon and turning the woods into a landscape of grey ghosts.

Halfway up the slope, a shot rang out.

The bullet tore through the leaves inches above Elias’s head, showering him with shredded green pulp. The bay screamed and reared, pawing at the rain-slicked air. 

“Go!” Silas roared, twisting in his saddle to level his rifle. 

He fired. The boom of the Hawken was massive, a physical force that seemed to push back the encroaching woods. Somewhere down the slope, a man yelped in pain, followed by a chorus of curses. 

Elias didn't look back. He leaned low over the bay’s neck, his spurs digging into her flanks. They broke through a thicket of blackberry bushes, the thorns tearing at Elias’s trousers and drawing thin lines of fire across his shins. The ridge opened up, a narrow plateau of rock that offered no cover but gave them the advantage of height.

He pulled the bay up, his chest heaving. Silas climbed up behind him a moment later, his face splashed with mud and his eyes wild. 

“You hit one?” Elias asked, his voice shaking.

“Winged him,” Silas spat, thumbing a fresh charge into his rifle with practiced, trembling hands. “It won’t stop ‘em. It’ll just make ‘em meaner.”

Below them, the woods were alive. The Bushwhackers had fanned out, realizing their prey was cornered on the heights. Elias could see them now—dark shapes weaving through the timber. They were dressed in a mismash of stolen uniforms and homespun wool, the quintessential look of men who belonged to nothing but the chaos of the times.

One of them stepped out into a small clearing at the base of the ridge. He was a tall man with a jaundice-yellow beard and a hat pinned up on one side by a decorative silver brooch that had clearly once belonged to a woman’s dress. He looked up, squinting through the rain.

“Thorne!” the man called out. His voice carried a mocking, singsong quality. “We know what’s in that satchel, boy! Hand it over and we let the old man crawl away. Keep it, and we’ll see what your guts look like in the daylight!”

Elias reached inside his coat, his hand closing over the leather binding of the ledger. He thought of the faces in Cypress Bend—the widows waiting for land grants, the farmers trying to prove their titles, the children who didn't know their futures were written in 
faded ink. 

“They know about the ledger,” Elias said, his voice dropping an octave.

“Of course they know,” Silas said, not looking away from his sights. “Someone in town talked. Someone always talks. This ain’t about the war no more, Elias. This is about who gets to own the dirt when the smoke clears.”

“I’m not giving it to them.”

“I know you ain’t,” Silas said. A grim smile touched his lips. “That’s why I’m still standing here instead of riding for the ford.”

The man with the yellow beard raised a carbine. Before he could level it, Silas’s rifle barked again. The shot struck a tree trunk right next to the man’s head, spraying him with bark and forcing him to dive for cover. 

“That’s the only warning they get!” Silas yelled. 

A hail of return fire peppered the ridge. Elias threw himself off his horse, dragging the bay down with him behind a low shelf of limestone. The air was filled with the whine of lead. He pulled his own pistol—a Navy Colt he’d never actually fired at a living soul—and felt the weight of it, cold and indifferent in his hand.

“They’re flanking us!” Elias shouted, pointing toward the eastern edge of the ridge where the slope was gentler. 

Two men were scrambling up the rocks, using the boulders for cover. They were fast, moving with the practiced coordination of wolves. 

Silas cursed and swung his rifle around, but he was trapped in an exchange with the men below. Elias realized with a jolt of pure, icy terror that the flankers were his responsibility. 

He crawled through the mud, his fingers slipping on the wet stone. He reached the edge of the shelf just as the first man’s head appeared above the rim. The Bushwhacker had a jagged scar running through his eyebrow and a mouth full of broken teeth. He started to grin, raising a heavy-bladed knife.

Elias didn't think. He didn't weigh the morality of the act or the weight of his soul. He leveled the Colt and pulled the trigger. 

The recoil jarred his arm up to the shoulder. The man didn't scream; he simply vanished backward, falling into the grey mist of the rain. 

The second man froze, his eyes widening as he saw his partner disappear. He hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough for Elias to cock the hammer again. But the man wasn't a fool. He dropped back down the slope, sliding and scrambling into the brush.

Elias slumped against the rock, the smell of burnt powder stinging his nose. His hands were shaking so violently he nearly dropped the pistol. 

“Elias! To the horses!” Silas’s voice snapped him back to the present.

The Bushwhackers below had used the distraction to advance. They were nearly at the base of the final climb. Silas was already on his feet, leading his stallion toward the far side of the ridge where the ground dropped away toward the creek.

“We can’t go down there!” Elias cried, scrambling up and grabbing the bay’s reins. “The creek is a torrent!”

“It’s the only way they won't expect!” Silas shouted over the roar of the rain. “Mount up!”

They leaped into their saddles and spurred the horses toward the precipice. It wasn't a cliff, but it was a terrifyingly steep grade of loose shale and mud. Elias gripped the horn, leaning back until his spine touched the bay’s rump. 

“Hah!” Silas urged, and they plunged over the edge.

It was a controlled fall. The horses shifted their weight, their hindquarters skidding, their front legs stiff as they fought for purchase. Rocks tumbled around them, bouncing into the dark treeline below. Halfway down, Elias heard the shout of the yellow-bearded man from the ridge above, followed by a frantic, poorly aimed shot that went wide into the trees. 

They hit the bottom of the draw with a bone-shaking jar. 

The creek was no longer a trickle. It was a brown, churning monster, choked with downed branches and foaming debris. The water had breached its banks, turning the surrounding bottomland into a swamp.

“Into the water!” Silas ordered. “Follow the line of the willows! The ground is firmer there!”

They forced the screaming horses into the flood. The water rose to the horses’ chests, the current pulling at them with invisible hands. Elias held the ledger high with one hand, his other white-knuckled on the reins. The cold was an immediate, stinging shock, soaking through his boots and trousers.

The bay stumbled, her head dipping beneath the surface. Elias hauled back, screaming encouragement. “Up, girl! Get up!”

She lunged forward, her hooves finding a submerged root. They battled the current for what felt like hours but could only have been minutes. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit had faded, muffled by the relentless drumming of the rain and the roar of the creek. 

They emerged on the far bank, a mile downstream from where they’d entered. The horses were spent, their flanks heaving, white foam flecking their bits. Silas led them into a deep cedar hollow, where the thick canopy offered a small reprieve from the deluge.

He dismounted and immediately began checking his horse’s legs for injury. He didn't speak for a long time. 

Elias stayed in the saddle, staring at nothing. The adrenaline was ebbing away, leaving a hollow, aching fatigue in its wake. He looked down at his hand—the one that had held the Colt. It was stained with mud and a dark, greasy smear of gunpowder.

“You did what had to be done, Elias,” Silas said softly, not looking up from his work.

“I killed him,” Elias said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“He would have pinned your hide to a barn door for the silver in your pocket,” Silas said, finally looking up. His expression was weary. “Cypress Bend is Changing. The law is a long way off, and the men coming for what’s ours don't care about the rules of engagement. You saved that book. And you saved me.”

Elias reached into his coat and pulled out the ledger. It was damp at the edges, but the wax-sealed cover had held. He opened it to a random page. The ink was still clear—columns of names, dates of survey, the very skeleton of the town.

“Is it worth it?” Elias asked.

Silas stepped over, laying a heavy, calloused hand on Elias’s knee. “Ask the people whose names are in there. Ask the ones who’ve got nothing else.”

Elias closed the book and tucked it back into its hiding place. He felt the weight of it again, but the terror had been replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He wasn't the same man who had ridden out of town three days ago. That man wouldn't have survived the ridge.

“We can’t stay here,” Elias said, his voice firming. “The rain will wash out our tracks, but they’ll head for the crossing. They know where we’re going.”

“Then we don't go to the crossing,” Silas said, a slow, dangerous light returning to his eyes. “We go through the Devil’s Throat.”

Elias swallowed hard. The Devil’s Throat was a narrow canyon of jagged rock and unpredictable mudslides, bypassed by every sensible traveler in the territory.

“If we get caught in there during this storm…” Elias started.

“We won't get caught,” Silas interrupted. He swung back into his saddle, the leather groaning under his weight. “Because they’re too scared of the Throat to follow us in. We take the high ground inside the canyon, wait out the worst of the surge, and we’ll be in the Bend by dawn.”

Elias looked back toward the ridge they had fled. The sky was turning a bruised, sickly purple as evening approached. Somewhere out there, the man with the silver brooch was still hunting. 

He didn't say another word. He turned the bay’s head toward the dark mouth of the canyon, the ledger pressed tight against his heart like a shield.

As they rode into the deepening shadows of the rock, the wind picked up, howling through the narrow gap with a sound like a woman screaming. Elias didn't flinch. He kept his eyes on Silas’s back, watching the way the old man leaned into the storm. 

They were halfway through the Throat when the first landslide hit.

A rumble like a freight train began somewhere high above. Silas didn't even look back. He just kicked his horse into a gallop. 

“Run!” he screamed.

Elias spurred the bay, the world dissolving into a blur of falling mud and crashing timber. Behind them, the path they had just walked vanished under a thousand tons of earth. 

They didn't stop until they reached the narrow ledge that marked the exit of the canyon. Below them, the lights of Cypress Bend flickered in the distance—tiny, fragile sparks of hope in a vast, drowning wilderness.

Elias looked at the town, then back at the ruined canyon behind them. The path was closed. There was no going back now, not to the life he’d known or the man he’d been.

“We’re almost home,” Silas said, his voice thick with exhaustion.

But as Elias watched the flickers of light in the valley, he saw a third light—a larger, orange glow that didn't belong to a house or a streetlamp. It was the unmistakable, leaping hunger of a building on fire. 

He didn't wait for Silas’s command. He broke into a gallop, the ledger a heavy weight against his ribs, praying that he wasn't arriving home just to watch it burn.