The Burden of Souls (Hawker's Drift Book 1)

by Andy Monk

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  Her tongue felt like it was sticking to the roof of her mouth from the sickly fumes that filled the room; her head had started to throb too. Though that might just have been from the whiskey she’d drunk earlier.

  “You will have a substantial debt to work off; you’ll need to be flexible.”

  “How flexible?”

  “Well, the customer’s upstairs in Jack’s always appreciate a flexible girl…”

  “What!? You expect me to-”

  “Symmons!”

  “Yes sir.”

  Molly gave a startled little cry as Symmons appeared at her side, his hand curling around her elbow.

  “Mrs McCrea will be leaving now, please see her out.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good day Mrs McCrea, it’s been a pleasure, but please do excuse me, I must catch up on my work,” the Mayor smiled pleasantly before hooking his feet back up on his desk and fading away into the shadows of his chair.

  Molly tried to protest, but found herself back out on the landing looking at the door Symmons had closed behind them.

  “I hope you found the meeting satisfactory?” Symmons asked, gently sliding between Molly and the door.

  “Well, I guess I know where I stand now,” she managed to say without spitting.

  Seeing no point in making a scene (she’d become terribly responsible in recent years) Molly followed Symmons glumly down the stairs.

  “Well, good day, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon,” Symmons said.

  “I don’t think the Mayor wants me bothering him again.”

  “Actually, the Mayor is most accommodating. Always,” Symmons insisted, “but that’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh?”

  “I shall enjoy seeing you when you’re working upstairs at Jack’s,” Symmons said in the kind of tone you would use to discuss the weather, before adding with the faintest ghost of a snigger, “I have a feeling you’ll make a most fetching and comely whore.”

  With that he gave a shallow nod of the head and slammed the door in her face.

  The Gunslinger

  A little knot of people, there weren’t really enough to constitute a crowd, had gathered to gawp in the square.

  Amos didn’t have much time for gawpers; people should have better things to do than stand around with their jaws dangling in the air. However, as he crossed Pioneer Square, which was the official name of the mud patch that housed the town’s gallows, he found himself joining in with the slack-jawed time-wasters to stare at Molly.

  She was standing in front of the Mayor’s grandiose pile of bricks, bent almost double as she screamed profanities at an apathetic and unresponsive front door.

  The little gathering was shuffling about in the semi-solidified mud that the sun had been gently baking, muttering like gossips at the back of a church congregation, unable to hold their tongues till the sermon was over.

  Amos hovered behind the townsfolk, their curiosity and amazement were making the air hum like over tightened guitar strings.

  “That girl’s got some temper,” one of the gawpers commentated, spitting black chewy-looking phlegm at the ground, “…some mouth too…”

  “I heard she owes the Mayor a goodly sum of money,” a lumpy woman in a floral dress replied.

  “I’m guessing she just found out the Mayor ain’t for writing off what he’s owed,” the old spitter added with a chuckle that died instantly when no one else took it up.

  “Why should he?” The woman snapped, “just cos she’s a looker don’t see why she should get off owing money. Just ain’t fair.”

  The old man nodded, “Mayor’s always fair, gotta say that, good titties or not…”

  His fellow gawpers muttered their agreement and made sure everybody could see how vigorously they were nodding their head.

  “You folks here all like your Mayor then?” Amos asked.

  The gawpers grew still and said nothing; a few glanced his way, but most kept their attention firmly fixed on the foul-mouthed widow. Amos was reminded of the feeling he got just before someone he was facing went for their gun. Given none of the townsfolk were carrying anything more dangerous than a loaf of bread he decided he was safe.

  “Not so popular then…”

  The old man swivelled sharply around, his eyes hooded against the glare of the afternoon sun, jawing furiously upon his chewing tobacco, “No one said that son…”

  “People don’t seem to want to talk about him much.” Amos remembered the way John X had grown silent when the Mayor had cropped up in their conversation.

  “We just keep our business to ourselves in this town,” the old man snapped, returning his attention to the woman who was still hurling curses at the Mayor’s door.

  “Anyone told her?” Amos nodded towards Molly, but when he didn’t get a response he pushed on. He usually liked being ignored, but something was gnawing at him about this town and its Mayor.

  “Has he been Mayor here long?”

  “What’s it to you?” the florally decorated woman demanded, taut hostility in her voice.

  “Nothing,” Amos shrugged, “just passing through looking for work. Thought the Mayor might be a good place to start.”

  The tension eased a little and the woman’s voice softened as she spoke, “I think he’s got all the help he needs.”

  “Ma?” A boy next to the floral woman tugged her sleeve. He was clutching an epic sandwich; two roughly hewn slabs of bread enclosing a great drooping lump of pink fibrous meat.

  “Yes dear?”

  “What’s a mother-cunting, son of pox-ridden cum rag?”

  His mother considered the question, before replying, “I’m not entirely sure dear, but it sounds like she’s met your father.”

  The boy nodded, bit into his sandwich and eventually worried a chunk off.

  And then they were gone, like a sudden gust of wind whipping away smoke from a fire, the only sound being the choking noise the young boy made as his mother dragged him across the drying mud.

  Amos was puzzled by their sudden dispersal until he saw the widow stomping across the square directly towards him, her face flushed to a furious red and her hair bouncing about her like the mane of a charging lion.

  He wasn’t entirely sure if she was heading straight for him because she’d grown tired of insulting a wooden door and wanted to scream at something more rewarding, or he just happened to be planted in the middle of her wild trajectory between the Mayor’s front door and her destination; which he figured, through a combination of simple geometry and the little he knew of her, was probably the saloon.

  He took a few hurried steps to the left, and as she whistled by her eyes flicked in his direction. Amos tapped a finger against his hat in greeting, “Yeah, I know, I’m an asshole.”

  At least she didn’t shoulder charge him this time; whooshing past him in silence, leaving only a hint of lavender and whiskey to mingle in the air with the mud and horse dung.

  As he suspected, she was making for the saloon.

  He’d been heading there himself, but now wasn’t sure whether or not to change his plans. Company was something he tried to avoid; a foul-mouthed liquor swilling widow shouldn’t be any different.

  Except…

  He noticed two men sauntering across the square, not quite treading in her footsteps, but pretty much taking the same route. They’d been lounging on a bench outside the livery, but were now heading for the saloon too. Despite the afternoon heat they wore long unfastened coats that billowed enough as they walked to reveal their guns. They both strolled with arrogant casual ease. Both had the roughly hewn, weathered faces of men used to a life in the saddle and stubbly half-formed beards. One of them had been in the saloon the previous day when he’d chatted briefly to the widow. He knew them well enough, or their type at least. Violent and not overly bright; he’d killed plenty just like them.

  They noticed him watching, neither acknowledged him,
but both let their eyes wash over him for a few seconds before dismissing him.

  He watched them follow the widow into the saloon then looked around Pioneer Square. The townsfolk were going about their business; two boys squatted by the gallows playing a game with coins, a wagon with a couple of farmhands trundled by, women carried groceries, old men chewed the cud on street corners, a man was grooming a horse outside the stables. Nobody seemed much bothered about the two men who’d followed Molly across the square.

  Two killers wearing silver stars.

  Amos’ eye was pulled back towards the Mayor’s residence, one of the first floor windows was open and a man leaned out, his arms braced on the ledge, he was leaning out so far, that, for a moment, it seemed that he was going to dive straight out into the square.

  He wore a cream jacket and an eye patch, his hair was slicked back and he sported a short, neat beard. He was grinning from ear to ear too. He seemed singularly pleased with the world.

  “Mr Mayor, I presume…”

  His gaze snapped down upon Amos as if he had heard his name, and the grin slowly faded as he cocked his head to one side. The gunslinger touched his hat in greeting. The Mayor made no response; instead, after a moment, he slid back into the shadows as if he’d been lying on a wheeled trolley, and the window slammed shut once his face faded into the darkness.

  Amos turned and headed for the saloon.

  *

  “You’re all going to burn in hellfire and damnation!”

  “Probably true,” Monty Jack replied, wiping his hands on his apron, “but save your preaching for the church or the street corner or whatever fucked up circus you came from, not my saloon!” With that he and his young barman, Sonny, retreated back inside, leaving the man sprawled unceremoniously where he’d landed in the square after the pair of them had dragged him out of the saloon and tossed him off the boardwalk.

  “Anything broke?” Amos asked, offering him a hand up.

  “Nope,” the man peered up at him, his expression more curious than suspicious, “Don’t know you, do I?”

  “New in town,” Amos replied, his hand still outstretched, “just passing through.”

  “Guess you’re probably alright then,” he sniffed, accepted his hand and let Amos haul him back to his feet, it seemed like the charitable thing to do as the man was old, exceedingly fat and was wearing, what appeared to be, a clown’s suit.

  He went through the motions of brushing himself down, but his baggy yellow and black checked three-piece was so covered in dirt, dust and stains of various hues that the only effect was to shift some of the grime around a bit. He wore a battered derby from under which bright red tufts of spiky hair protruded, while a paper rose hung limply from his lapel. It had once probably been red, but the sun had long since faded it to a dirty pink, which was ironic as his face seemed to have travelled in exactly the opposite direction and was so red that it fell only a little short of beetroot.

  His face floated above several chins, and small restless eyes looked out from behind a nose that, despite being red and bulbous, was unmistakably his own. Comedy noses tended not to be covered in blackheads and crisscrossed by networks of broken veins.

  Amos glanced down at the old man’s boots, which were worn, scuffed and down at heel, as well as elongated enough for the slightly curled up toes to be resting on top of Amos’ own more conventional footwear.

  “Obliged,” the man said, producing an over-sized handkerchief that might once have been spectacularly multi-coloured, but was now too filthy to wipe a pig down with. He dabbed his face with it, though whether it was his face or the handkerchief which got any cleaner from the act, Amos couldn’t really be sure.

  “You’re welcome,” Amos replied, torn between asking the man why he’d been thrown out of the saloon and why he was dressed like a clown.

  The old man shoved his handkerchief away and grinned, “Anyway, must dash, parties to be hosted and sinners to be saved! If you ever need anything, do feel free to ask.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Yes, you do that,” he stuck out a hand from a frayed and grubby sleeve, “the name’s Mr Wizzle, by the way.”

  “Wizzle?”

  “’cos I’m a guy that’s gotta lot a fizzle!” He pumped Amos’ hand and held it tightly as he laughed heartily enough to send drool bombs rocketing from his big fleshy lips.

  Amos smiled, the man was clearly not dealing from a full deck, but he seemed harmless enough.

  “Anyways, I really gotta go, have to entertain the little kiddies, don’t want ‘em spit-roasted on the devil’s pitchfork before I get there. Do we, eh?”

  Well, probably harmless.

  Mr Wizzle’s hand sprung open and he waddled off down the street, whistling something tuneless, his hands still flapping at his jacket as if he could just pat it down hard enough he might just get some of the dirt to fall off.

  *

  Inside the saloon Amos let the miasma of smoke and warm beer fumes replace the stink of drying mud, horse dung and Mr Wizzle’s body odour (in that department, at least, he certainly did fizzle).

  Molly the widow was perched at one end of the bar; the usual suspects were clustered together at the other end. It looked like they’d all either shuffled along to avoid her or they’d been an impromptu meeting of the local barfly steering committee called.

  Her two dark little shadows had taken up residence by the door. Neither were drinking, both were staring at the bar. The more he looked at those two, the less he liked them. Their eyes were cold, feral and almost unblinking. Predators stalking fresh meat.

  The sensible thing would be to go to his room, take a nap, polish his boots, clean his gun while daydreaming about emptying the chamber into Severn’s chest. Pretty much anything. He had no need to get involved in the widow’s business. But he really didn’t like those two men at all; they made his brain itch, like he had itsy-bitsy spiders scuttling about behind his eyes…

  And there was something about her too, but he tried not to think too much about that.

  She didn’t look up when he sat next to her, though her eyes momentarily flicked in his direction. He got his beer and free whiskey off of Sonny and slid the shot glass in front of her without asking.

  “I’m off whiskey,” she nodded at the beer glass in front of her.

  “Probably best, that stuff just gets folk drunk enough to cause a scene. We wouldn’t want that.”

  “No,” Molly agreed, before downing the whiskey in one and adding through her grimace, “not twice in one day.”

  “What was that all about, in front of the Mayor’s?”

  “I failed my audition for citizen of the year,” her hands curled back around the beer glass, “I handle disappointment badly.”

  “There’s always next year.”

  She snorted and half turned to look at him, “Oh, I’ll be eligible for all sorts of new categories next year,” she was trembling slightly, anger and fear Amos sensed. They were buzzing around her like agitated wasps.

  “Use of creative language?”

  She smiled, just a little, and shook her red mane, “You should steer clear of me, follow the example of the rest of the town,” she looked pointedly down the bar, “even the town drunks have that much sense.”

  “Your beloved Mayor?”

  “Yeah…” she twitched a shoulder and drained her beer, “he’s a real piece of work.”

  “Tell me about him and I’ll get you another.”

  “Not a good idea,” she forced a smile and started to slip from her stool.

  “Be careful Molly, those two men want to kill you,” he said in a low voice before he could stop himself, nodding discreetly towards the two deputies who’d followed her in.

  Molly froze, one foot on the ground, her eyes fixed upon him, “They’re just making sure I don’t skip town, the Mayor has plans for me.”

  “Maybe that’s what they’ve been told… but those kind of men have a habit of doing what they want,
eventually.”

  “I know well enough the kinds off shit that goes on inside men’s heads. Don’t mean they’re ever going to do anything about it.”

  “Maybe… but be careful all the same.”

  “You got an interesting way of hitting on a girl Mister,” she forced a weak smile and slipped off the stool.

  Amos pursed his lips, “I’m not hitting on you.”

  I’m not, am I? God help me…

  “Just a good Samaritan then? Or a guardian angel perhaps?”

  “No, far from it… I’ve just seen the things men like them are capable of…”

  She hesitated, her fingers still resting on the seat of her vacated stool as her eyes turned briefly towards the two men by the door. When she saw they were both watching her intently, she looked sharply away, focusing on the bottles lining the shelf behind the bar rather than meeting Amos’ stare.

  “The one on the left is called Blane, been a Deputy since Tom and I came here. Never spoken to him. Never actually seen anyone speak to him much for that matter. The other one is new, hasn’t been in town long I guess, but they’re both working for the Mayor now.”

  “Is everyone employed by the Mayor a killer?”

  Molly shrugged, “Men with guns – all pretty much the same. No offence.”

  Amos just smiled. She was probably scared enough already.

  The Songbird

  She held the last note long after the ratchety untuned piano had fallen silent, when she finally peeled open her eyes the crowd was hushed, so quiet the only sound she could hear was her own heart; no murmuring, no clinking of glasses, no laughter, no tortured protests from the ill-fitting floorboards. Only rows of faces, hundreds of eyes fixed upon her, like a huge pride of lions surrounding an unfortunate gazelle.

  Had they not liked her final song of the evening?

  Then the applause started, not a ripple building to a crescendo as people joined in, but a sudden explosion of noise as if everyone in the saloon had been awaiting some specific instruction. Cece fought down the urge to see if one of the saloon girls had appeared behind her holding up a whopping great placard with the word “APPLAUSE!!” written on it, which was a stupid notion for several reasons, most notably the fact that most of the room probably couldn’t read.