The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,74

he had a good grip, then he pulled. At first, the gun wouldn’t budge. He pulled again, and to his joy he felt it give. He continued to pull, easing the barrel up out of the limbs until the trigger was beneath his fingers. While he didn’t know how this would help him, he felt better for it all the same.

But the sense of satisfaction was short lived. When water began lapping at his moccasins, he started to curse. By God, he wasn’t ready to die after all. In a sudden fit of rage, he screamed Parson’s name.

Parson hadn’t stopped at Three Pines. Even as he was telling himself that he’d never find Henry in all this rain, he was moving through the trees and up the trail he knew Henry favored. Within seconds, the rain became a blinding downpour—each raindrop splattering like a rifle shot on the canopy of leaves about his head before catapulting to the ground. The sound was deafening. Over and over, he called Henry’s name as he went, but the words were thrown back in his face. A verse from an old church song popped into his head—something about being lost and then found. He started to pray.

“God, one of Yore sheep is lost. I’m a tryin’ as hard as I know how to bring him in, but I reckon I could use Yore help.”

Less than a hundred yards in front of him, a shaft of lightning suddenly struck a tree, shattering it into thousands of pieces. Parson dropped to the ground on his knees, his eyes wide and filled with awe.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” he moaned, trembling in every muscle of his body. “I heard you but I just ain’t sure what that meant.”

The evidence of the splintered tree was impossible to ignore. Shaking in every muscle, he got to his feet. Maybe God was telling him not to go any further. Then he nodded his head. Yes, that made sense. He picked up his gun and started retracing his steps. He walked and walked until he’d lost all sense of direction, and still couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Just when his hopes were all but gone, he heard a cry through the storm—like a ghostly wail coming up from the depths of hell. He yanked off his hat so that the splatter of raindrops upon the leather would not detract from what he heard. It could have been anything, but every instinct he had told him it was Henry. He stood without moving, straining to hear, praying it would come again.

And it did.

At that moment, hope sprung, bringing with it a new set of fears. Even though he could hear Henry’s voice, it was impossible to tell the direction in which it was coming from.

He shouted with rage, shaking his fist at the elements that were tearing through the mountains. Rain plastered his long, graying hair to the shirt on his back and matting his beard to his chest like a tattered lace veil. His eyes glittered with anger as he fought back a sense of frustration. Somewhere out there his partner was hurting. That made Parson hurt, too.

He turned in a circle, listening, listening, trying to get a fix on the direction, and in doing so, his rifle bumped against the trunk of a nearby tree. To him, it was like God giving him a quick thump on the shoulder to remind him it was there.

He stared down at the rifle then started to grin. Without hesitation, he lifted it to the sky and fired off a round. Although the sound was muffled by the rain, he knew it would carry far better than his voice. A few moments later, he heard what sounded like an echo of his own shot off to his right.

He started to run.

It wasn’t until Henry heard the shot that he started to laugh. He shouted at the mountain, and the storm, and at fate.

“By God, ain’t none of you gonna get old Henry yet!” He started to yell then, knowing that Elmer would follow the sound of his voice. “Help! Help! I am here!”

Water was up to his waist and rising and he knew now why the dead fall was so large. The curve in the creek was a natural snare for anything caught in a flood. Already a new batch of debris was being added to what was already here. But he needed to be found before his bones were added to the pile.

Time passed and