II

Matthew stood outside the front door, shivering in his wool coat, resting his chin against the cool stock of his rifle. It was his duty to wait patiently, always waiting. Waiting for the snow to thaw. Waiting for his little sister to bring the buckets of water from the river. Waiting for the negroes to plow the fields, or shovel the shit for the hotbeds. Waiting. It was his duty.

If only they had waited a few more hours in Fredericksburg. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to wait outside Hardy Fletcher’s house for his rotting corpse to rot further. Even from beyond the threshold, Matthew could still catch a whiff of the bloat.

He heard his name called from inside, and groaned quietly to himself as he loosened his grip on his rifle, and trudged back through the doorway.

“We gotta look for Sheryl, boy,” his father said.

“Why? Ain’t she dead?”

“Watch your mouth,” the sheriff barked. “We don’t know until we know. Stranger things have happened. What I want you two to do right now is figure out what happened here. I’m going to go outside and take a look around. Good?”

“Good,” Emmett said.

The sheriff brushed past Matthew, who remained still. Waiting for additional orders. He watched as his father sniffed at the walls, rubbed fingers along the wood and then against each other, and sniffed the fingers. He watched as his father turned over pots, rolled up the carpet, and lifted the bed.

Matthew took in the sight once more. Every drawer, every cupboard in the house was either open or on the floor. The few windows were intact, save for the gap where the wind whistled. Beeswax candles lay cut in half—or snapped—on the floor.

“Pa, you notice anything missing?” Matthew asked.

Emmett looked up and around. “No rifles. Take a look at his hands, would you?”

Matthew walked over to the body, using the barrel of his own weapon to maneuver the palms upward. Black soot covered them.

“There any charcoal in the stove?” Matthew asked. Emmett shook his head. Matthew leaned in to smell his hands. “Don’t smell like gunpowder.”

“It’s cold, but not cold enough for a smell like that to last for days. By the looks of him, he’s been dead a while.”

“Still a heavy load of powder to be on a man without anything being in the stove. And all on his hands? Nowhere else?”

“I get a sense he was shooting at something. Hardy wasn’t one to go down without a fight. Question becomes—”

“Where are his guns?” Matthew finished. He and his father stood there, looking around the whirlwind house. “They ain’t here.”

“Not inside, no,” Emmett agreed. “But I’m not sure that’ll give us any heading on Sheryl anyway.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be figuring out how Hardy died?”

“That’s Mr. Fletcher to you. He might be dead, but you still show respect. And no, it was a wolf, or a bear. One of the two.”

“You think maybe Mrs. Fletcher took off with them?”

“Mrs. Fletcher knew how to shoot, but she couldn’t carry that much firepower. She’d be slowed down. I suspect we’re looking for a body anyhow, she would have gone to Jim if she were alive.”

“Unless she killed him,” Matthew said.

Emmett crossed the room in two strides and slapped his son across the face. Matthew could tell the swing was restrained, but still felt the sting seeping through his skin and the heat rise against the cold of the room.

“I knew this woman nearly my entire life,” he barked. “Ain’t no way she murdered her husband. Do you understand me?”

Matthew nodded. Emmett placed a calloused hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s time we start looking outside. Right?” Matthew nodded again.

They stepped out into the pattering rain. Sheriff Sheckle had already come back, and was tying up his horse once again.

“Your timing couldn’t be better. Anything?” he asked.

“Found something, but why don’t you tell me first?” the sheriff responded.

Emmett nudged Matthew. “I mean aside from the candles that look like they’ve been ripped apart and the blood, no rifles.”

“He noticed it first,” Emmett said. “I had him check Hardy’s hands, he’s got unwashed soot all over them. Didn't see any coal in the hearth. Blood is still running, too. Maybe it’s the rain?”

“You think Hardy would have built a home that couldn’t stand a little rain?”

“Doubt it. Maybe it was a big bear, knocked the roof loose.”

“You two follow me,” the sheriff said, his eyes ambivalent. “Before you start going on about the wild, I want you to see something.”

They took off on foot through the muddy field east of the house. As they neared, he realized how quiet it had become. Not a pig squealing, not a bird chirping. His steps across the muddy ground barely squelched, as if the earth itself was trying to keep quiet.

“I see it on your face, son,” the sheriff said. “The Fletchers ran a pig farm. Where are the pigs?”

“Always hated hogs,” Emmett said. “Dirty animals.”

The barn doors were already open. Matthew noticed the pig pens were as well, not a single animal inside.

“Where’d they all go?” he asked.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, but we’ll search for them,” the sheriff said. “For now, just look up.”

He did. In the rafters of the barn were four rifles and a pistol hanging, each with their barrels pointed down.

“Don’t step under them,” Sheriff Sheckle said. “Don’t want a misfire.”

“You think they’re loaded?” Matthew asked.

“I think with the rain and them hanging upside down they all probably had a cap pop, but I don’t wanna be burying you or your father along with Hardy.”

Matthew took a step toward the wall where the beam met the floor. He unslung his own rifle and handed it to his father, and wordlessly pulled himself up to a support beam. He found his footing, and climbed again, all the way up until he was at the top of the barn. He drew the knife that he had taken from the house, and cut loose the firearms.

“Thank you, son,” the sheriff called. “Keeping an old man from breaking his neck, you doing that.”

Matthew drew the pistol up to him rather than cut it down, and stuffed it in his pocket alongside the knife.

“I’ll tell you what, if you help me find Sheryl, you can keep that pistol,” Sheriff Sheckle said. “I bet James got no use for it anyhow.”

“Guns slung up, huh?” Emmett cut in. “What do you make of that?”

“I make that it wasn’t no goddamn wolf and no goddamn bear, that’s what I make of it,” the sheriff replied. “And look at this.”

Matthew dropped off the last beam just in front of the older men. He took his rifle back from his father and smiled at the sheriff, grateful that Sheckle hadn’t started explaining until he was ready.

“You see this here?” Sheriff Sheckle pointed to a circle of blood. “We saw the inside of the house. Covered roof to floor. What about here?” “Hog blood. So what?” Emmett asked.

“When all the pens are open? Why? You and I could have taken these pigs in, Sheryl could have lent them over to us, if she were alive. But there ain’t no other sign of blood in this place, except…” he walked over to the barn door. “...right here.”

Three straight long lines lay against the frame. They were bright against the wood, but unnatural.

“That’s blood?” Matthew asked.

“Yes, son, it is. Now tell me, does that or does that not look like a hand?”

“It can’t be a hand,” Emmett said. “Too long, if those were fingers, where’s the rest of it? And there would be another right here,” he pointed to a large gap where the finger for a ring should sit.

“Maybe,” the sheriff said, “but follow me further please.”

He led them back out into the field. Pointing out blades of grass or patches of dirt with spots of blood on it. None of it heavy, just sprinkles, most of it washed away by the rain. Patches of ice still lay in pockets spread throughout the area where the red lay encased.

“That’s why I think this happened days ago,” the sheriff said. “When was the last snowfall?”

“Five days ago? Six maybe?” Emmett replied.

“It’s been cold and windy, with sprinkles of rain here and there. But this? This is still

here. It’s been five or six days at least.”

They continued through the field until they hit a large patch of dirt. The blood here was thicker. It wasn’t droplets as it had been along the way, but soaked through the land.

“Now look here,” the sheriff said. “We’ve got one waypoint, and three directions. One leads back the way we came, we saw droplets here and there coming from the barn. But look at this line.” He pointed to a streak of blood that ran nearly parallel to the direction they came from. “This one is thicker, it runs almost directly back to the house.”

“You think that’s Sheryl?” Emmett asked.

“No, I don’t. I think someone grabbed a pig, killed it or nearly killed it out in the barn,

and tried to carry it off. Hardy heard, grabbed a rifle, and shot whoever did it. That person then attacked Hardy, took his wife, released the pigs, slung up the rifles, took his prize pig and ran off again.” He pointed to a trail of blood leading into the woods.

“Meaning you believe this to be a cold-blooded murder. No animal attack. No wolves, no bears, someone came in here from another farm and tried to take one of his pigs.” Emmett shook his head. “I think you’re clutching at straws.”

“Look at the winter we’ve been having. Didn’t you tell me that you boys accompanied Hoffsteder out to Fredericksburg for a pig? Maybe the poor bastard lost another one?”

“Gerald wouldn’t go killing for a pig. He certainly wouldn’t be stealing one from the Fletchers. They’ve been here almost as long as the Hoffsteders, he probably could have just asked for one.”

“And why kill it? If he needed a pig he would have needed it alive,” Matthew said. “Mr. Hoffsteder put some chains on his barn anyhow, right? Pa didn’t you help him with that?”

“I did, and he’s got his negroes watching over it through the night. Paranoid. Point is, only other pig farm around here isn’t gonna challenge the Fletchers. Not like this, anyhow.”

“So maybe it was one of them tribes in the mountains?” Matthew suggested.

“No, we pushed them out generations ago,” the sheriff said. “You see one or two occasionally, like you boys did last summer, but most of them live closer to Tennessee and stay out of the mountains if they can. Too spooked to come near us.”

“Maybe it was just some man living in the mountains then? Just living out there on a homestead, hungry after a harsh winter?”

“Boy, if it is, we got a bigger problem on our hands,” the sheriff said. “But here’s what I want for now. You two head off after that trail. I won’t be far behind, don’t go too deep into those woods without me. Just keep an eye on the path while I take one more look around the farm.”

“Sure thing, sheriff,” Emmett said. As simple as that, Matthew was no longer waiting. He followed his father as they picked up the track, and noticed he was holding his weapon closer.

“What do you think?” Matthew asked.

His father didn’t respond.

He led them to the edge of the property. The line was thick when they started, but soon Matthew was on his hands and knees in the tall grass, looking for leaves in the brush with just a hint of blood. Excitement crept over him, the sensation of stalking a doe that he knew he wounded came quickly. Through the snapping of sticks and the crunching of snow, Matthew eventually spotted what they were looking for.

A clearing lay ahead. He could see it through the trees, light spilling out from the clouds as the drizzle turned to a mist. His father held him back.

“Slow down. If Jim is right…” he trailed off. Matthew nodded, pulling his rifle to his shoulder. His father pulled his pistol, and broke the treeline first.

A pig carcass lay in the center. Flies buzzed around it, its innards exposed to the air. The rump was gone, gnawed on, Matthew could see the teeth marks embedded in the meat, and traced them with his finger. Bone was cracked under pressure, but the head was untouched.

“You see that?” Emmett asked, pointing to the bite marks. “You remember what your momma told you about raw meat?”

“If the meat is off it might give you fever,” he replied. “Or worse.”

“Everybody knows that. Now why would a man go eating raw meat?” “Maybe it wasn’t a man or a wolf,” Matthew replied. He caught the sharp glance that came from his father, and noted the stiffness of his forearms as he clenched his fists. He braced for a hit that never came.

“Maybe,” was all his father said. “Let’s get going, there’ll be no more trail.”

As Matthew turned to walk away, something else caught his eye. A flicker in the stillness. He looked around as his father moved toward the way they came, but saw nothing. He heard nothing. True silence. Just like the barn, there wasn’t a bird singing, a cricket chirping, not even the wind spoke.

“You coming?” his father called.

Matthew turned toward the direction of the farm. A sudden need to shoot the carcass erupted from within him. He’d found a pig instead of a woman, naturally. As was his luck. He ignored the urge and began the trek back through the woods, keeping his finger on the trigger of his rifle, ready to fire upon anything that stepped out of hiding. He wanted it. He was tired of waiting.

They made it back to the farm before Sheriff Sheckle made it into the woods. He had just untied the horses and was working his way across the fields.

“Tell me you found a body?” he asked.

“Of a pig, sure. No woman.” Emmett took Buckeye’s reins and drew himself up into the saddle. Matthew did the same with Opal.

“So it wasn’t Sheryl that drew that pig off then? Couldn’t imagine it was her anyway,” the sheriff said.

“There was something strange about it,” Matthew said. “Pa, you saw it too?”

“Someone was eating off the carcass. Not cutting it up and cooking it, just eating. We saw the bite marks.”

“All right, easy solution then. Find someone with fever or a… looseness of the bowels, shall we say?”

“The flux, you mean?” Matthew asked, with a smile.

“Sure, son. Someone shitting liquid, how about that? We find someone shitting liquid and we’ve got our killer, and hopefully they’re keeping Sheryl alive too.”

“With everything you’ve seen here, do you believe that?” Emmett asked. Silence from the sheriff was his answer, and sent the hair on Matthew’s neck standing.

“I think it’s time we go home. Don’t you say? I’ll have to go to the court and get this figured out, make sure you two get some pay for today. That sounds all right?”

“You don’t need help digging a hole?”

“Not without his wife. Not yet, at least.”

“Well, call us when you’re ready, Jim,” Emmett said. “Come by when you have more and I’ll have Caroline cook you up something.”

Sheriff Sheckle gave the two a flick of his hat—back atop his head—and rode off. He rode hard, harder than Matthew thought he meant to, but he felt the urge just the same. There was something on his back, creeping along, ready to grab him. If he stayed too long, if he were there alone, he wouldn’t be himself. He knew it deep, and he was tired of waiting.

“Let’s get home,” he said.

The two rode off the farm together, side by side. It wasn’t until they hit the main road that Emmett allowed them to slow down.

“Did you hear that rustling?” he asked. “In the bushes? After Jim left?”

“No,” Matthew said. “Back in the woods, by the pig, did you see anything in the woods? Like a flickering candle?”

“No,” Emmett responded. His voice was tight. His body tense. Matthew took note and released the tension within himself, letting his legs loosen and his arms fall.

“You said it ain’t a man… so what was it?”

“It wasn’t no man.”

“Then what? No wolf hangs a man’s rifle.”

Emmett waited, and for the first time all day, Matthew recognized the music of the world coming back.

“I’ll tell you this. I don’t know what it was, but for the first time in my earthly life, I felt as if we saw something we were not meant to see.”