that he didn’t go out of his way to assault Tom as some of the others did. He didn’t kick his prisoner in the ribs to announce his food plate was there. He didn’t place Tom’s water bottle just out of reach and laugh at Tom’s feeble attempts to reach out for it.
Shiloh wasn’t a man who believed in tormenting another. And thus far he’d been the only one who’d made an effort to communicate with the old man who lay sleeping fitfully, chained to the barn floor. Tom was rolled up in the fetal position and not even aware he was doing it.
It was a move of self-preservation his subconscious mind had adopted after being kicked so frequently in the two previous days.
Since Tom was sleeping, Shiloh had no one to talk to.
Since he couldn’t sleep, he was restless.
And since his stomach was crying out in pain from the indignity of being served too-spicy chili, he couldn’t get comfortable.
Normally he and Stan, the man on guard at the barn door, had a regular routine.
One man would guard the barn door for half of their eight hour shift.
The other would nap on the hay bales, ten feet from their shackled prisoner.
At oh-four-hundred hours, four a.m., they would switch places.
It was a system that worked well over the previous months. For Tom wasn’t the only prisoner who’d been shackled in chains and chained to the floor. There had been several others who’d gotten on the wrong side of Jack Payton and had to pay for their indiscretions. Or who’d been taken hostage or held for ransom for various reasons and things.
Knowing that probably wouldn’t have surprised Tom much.
But knowing that very few of those prisoners ever left the big barn alive might have distressed him a bit.
By splitting their shift in half and switching places halfway through it, both Shiloh and Stan typically got in some good sleep without the boss finding out about it. Their routine called for the doorman to call in whenever someone was approaching.
The doorman would stick his head into the barn and yell out, in a loud voice, “Hey, bring me a cigarette, would you?”
Shiloh knew what the words would really mean, if he happened to hear them on this night. They wouldn’t mean that Stan wanted a smoke. For Stan didn’t smoke anymore. He gave them up a year after the blackout, when they became so stale he lost the taste for them.
No, those words on this night would mean, “Get your ass up, Shiloh. Someone’s coming, and it may be the boss.”
The plan had worked perfectly in recent months and had saved them from getting fired or having their asses chewed. And knowing that made it easy for Shiloh to lay upon the hay bales and relax.
He couldn’t sleep. The upset stomach took care of that. But lying there with his eyes closed sure beat standing on his feet and watching out into the darkness.
A song popped into his head, as they are sometimes wont to do. A little ditty from his favorite movie, which he’d watched in the den of the ranch house a couple of evenings before.
It was called My Rifle, My Pony, and Me . It was sung by Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson in the John Wayne classic Rio Bravo . And since Shiloh couldn’t get it out of his head and couldn’t sleep, he did the next best thing.
He covered his face with his Stetson, closed his eyes, and whistled the tune to amuse himself and pass the time.
-22-
Tom and Sarah heard the whistling, coming from within the barn. At first Sarah thought it might be Tom, since Tom was a whistler too. She didn’t know it would be a long time before Tom would be able to whistle again, through his busted lips and shattered front teeth.
“Listen,” she whispered. “Do you think that might be Tom, trying to send us a
Shiloh wasn’t a man who believed in tormenting another. And thus far he’d been the only one who’d made an effort to communicate with the old man who lay sleeping fitfully, chained to the barn floor. Tom was rolled up in the fetal position and not even aware he was doing it.
It was a move of self-preservation his subconscious mind had adopted after being kicked so frequently in the two previous days.
Since Tom was sleeping, Shiloh had no one to talk to.
Since he couldn’t sleep, he was restless.
And since his stomach was crying out in pain from the indignity of being served too-spicy chili, he couldn’t get comfortable.
Normally he and Stan, the man on guard at the barn door, had a regular routine.
One man would guard the barn door for half of their eight hour shift.
The other would nap on the hay bales, ten feet from their shackled prisoner.
At oh-four-hundred hours, four a.m., they would switch places.
It was a system that worked well over the previous months. For Tom wasn’t the only prisoner who’d been shackled in chains and chained to the floor. There had been several others who’d gotten on the wrong side of Jack Payton and had to pay for their indiscretions. Or who’d been taken hostage or held for ransom for various reasons and things.
Knowing that probably wouldn’t have surprised Tom much.
But knowing that very few of those prisoners ever left the big barn alive might have distressed him a bit.
By splitting their shift in half and switching places halfway through it, both Shiloh and Stan typically got in some good sleep without the boss finding out about it. Their routine called for the doorman to call in whenever someone was approaching.
The doorman would stick his head into the barn and yell out, in a loud voice, “Hey, bring me a cigarette, would you?”
Shiloh knew what the words would really mean, if he happened to hear them on this night. They wouldn’t mean that Stan wanted a smoke. For Stan didn’t smoke anymore. He gave them up a year after the blackout, when they became so stale he lost the taste for them.
No, those words on this night would mean, “Get your ass up, Shiloh. Someone’s coming, and it may be the boss.”
The plan had worked perfectly in recent months and had saved them from getting fired or having their asses chewed. And knowing that made it easy for Shiloh to lay upon the hay bales and relax.
He couldn’t sleep. The upset stomach took care of that. But lying there with his eyes closed sure beat standing on his feet and watching out into the darkness.
A song popped into his head, as they are sometimes wont to do. A little ditty from his favorite movie, which he’d watched in the den of the ranch house a couple of evenings before.
It was called My Rifle, My Pony, and Me . It was sung by Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson in the John Wayne classic Rio Bravo . And since Shiloh couldn’t get it out of his head and couldn’t sleep, he did the next best thing.
He covered his face with his Stetson, closed his eyes, and whistled the tune to amuse himself and pass the time.
-22-
Tom and Sarah heard the whistling, coming from within the barn. At first Sarah thought it might be Tom, since Tom was a whistler too. She didn’t know it would be a long time before Tom would be able to whistle again, through his busted lips and shattered front teeth.
“Listen,” she whispered. “Do you think that might be Tom, trying to send us a
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