Pitchfork Annie

29

Many hands grabbed at him, pulling him and dragging him backward. Even in their emaciated, tortured states, there were too many for him to fight against. Not unless he resorted to fists and these women had suffered more than enough at the hands of their captors for Henry to add to their injuries. The hammer and chisel fell from his hands as the women dragged him into the shadows and then surrounded him, the stench of their unwashed bodies filling his nostrils.

"I thought Murcies couldn't come out during the day!" His hissing thought became muffled beneath the press of bodies. "Are they not Murcies?"

"Not all of 'em, Mister. But they got ways of movin' unhindered in the light, anyways." A thin-fingered hand pressed against his mouth. "Now shush! Don't speak none."

Even beneath the women, Henry could see the light fall into the barn as the approaching captors opened the doors wide. He had no sense of the fresh air that now flowed into the barn, and only had the most bare of views of those that had entered, but he could see they were men. All of them. One carried a bullwhip in his hand, but, apart from that, Henry saw little else.

None of the men said a word as they took casual steps into the barn and the women surrounding Henry, hiding him, scuttled back, pushing him further away from the men. Were it any other time, Henry's face would have reddened at the close proximity of so many female bodies, but he found no arousal in these circumstances. Instead, he felt an impending sense of dread that threatened to overwhelm him.

"That one. Right there." The voice of the man held an amusement to it. A sense of lascivious excitement and the women huddled closer. "Separate her from the rest and take her to the milking barn."

Bile crept into Henry's throat at the thought of what insidious fate awaited the chosen woman. Even now, he struggled to reach for the butt of his pistol, or the handle of the scythe. He was not a fighting man, but he could not countenance further harm befalling these women. The close quarters of the women, however, stymied any attempt to reach his weapons.

"Say! Did one of you boys forget to put the tools away?" Another voice, noticing the hammer and chisel Henry had dropped and it caused all the warmth to pass from Henry's skin. "And a lantern? Come on, fellas! Do you want these fine ladies escaping? Do you want to tell the Boss why we done lost his prime cattle?"

"Weren't me." A third voice.

"Reckon it weren't none of us. Lookit. Sack cloth." The first voice again, the words coming in a slow drawl as thoughts passed through his mind. "We got us a saviour for these girls. Spread out an' if any of these cattle get in the way, beat their asses to the ground."

A panic began to pass through the women but Henry could not allow them to suffer for him. He began to push the bodies aside, apologising in his mind for any unwarranted touches. They tried to stop him, to keep him hidden, but he placed every ounce of his strength into revealing himself and saving them further punishment. With one last effort, he scrambled to his feet, pistol rising, only to find the men otherwise occupied.

Annie had returned.

One of the men had already fallen to her large knife, sightless eyes rolling into the back of his head, but, even as she withdrew the knife, the man with the bullwhip had already turned, flicking his wrist to send the taut leather rolling out in a wave from his side. Annie had moved, spinning to the side and lowering her pitchfork toward the second man.

A crack thundered in the close, thick air and the pitchfork became ripped from Annie's hands, dragged away by the receding whip and falling to the rotting straw to the side. Her hand fell across her waist, reaching for her pistol, but the whip cracked again, leaving a red welt across the back of her hand. Her cold, green eyes narrowed as she bared her teeth, ready to charge toward the bullwhip bearing man even as he coiled the whip in his hands to strike again.