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

by Andy Monk

  “He’s a dangerous man, I think,” the Mayor said as Felicity slipped away from his grasp to fill her glass again, “you should be careful.”

  “He seemed fine to me.”

  “Oh, I can assure you Cecilia, when it comes to bad men; I’m an excellent judge of character.”

  Felicity giggled behind her.

  “Thanks for the advice; I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “I’m sounding like your father again, aren’t I?”

  “A little.”

  “How is young Sye?”

  Cece cocked an eyebrow, “Are you sure you’re not watching me?”

  “Of course not, the whole town has noticed the big puppy eyes he makes every time he is around you.”

  She felt her cheeks flush, which irritated her deeply.

  “Is he dangerous too?”

  “Oh goodness no, he’s a very sweet boy.”

  “I’m sure he would be delighted to be described like that.”

  The Mayor let out a low little laugh as Felicity returned, this time she leant over the piano rather than the Mayor. She did have a remarkable amount of cleavage, Cece couldn’t help but notice.

  “He’s been looking for a wife for a while…”

  “I’m not the marrying kind,” Cece replied curtly. She hadn’t quite known what to expect from the Mayor, a fumbling attempt at seduction would have been her best bet, but she wasn’t at all sure what he was up to.

  “What kind of girl are you then?”

  “The kind that plays songs.”

  “You’ve travelled a long, long way just to play songs Cecilia. A very long way I think.”

  “I like to travel.”

  “Very commendable.”

  Cece brushed her fingers across the keys, “Should I play something else for you?”

  “That would be delightful, perhaps something more up tempo?”

  “Very well…”

  The Mayor held up a finger to stop her, “There is one song I like in particular, maybe you know it?”

  “Perhaps, how does it go?”

  The Mayor started snapping his fingers, after a couple of clicks Felicity began banging her palm on top of the piano in accompaniment and the Mayor threw back his head and began to belt out the song. Felicity hummed along, tossing her head from side to side. She was pounding the piano forcefully enough to make the ice in Cece’s glass tinkle.

  Cece felt a cold hard stone form in the pit of her stomach.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know that one,” she said after the Mayor’s rough deep voice faded away.

  “Really?” The Mayor bestowed a bright vivid smile, “I thought that old one was well known back east?”

  “New to me.”

  “I believe it’s called I Can’t Get No Satisfaction…”

  Cece kept her face blank and shook her head.

  “You do surprise me, I’d have thought a wanderer like you would have come across it somewhere…” the Mayor loomed over her and she fought the urge to shy away as he leaned forward, his eye burning dark and fierce, “…but I guess no moss grows on a rolling stone, eh?”

  Who the hell is this guy?

  Distantly Felicity giggled…

  The Clown

  Mr Wizzle was meandering reluctantly back to town, though he was trying to take as much time in getting there as possible. He always felt reluctant to leave the grass, but he couldn’t stay out here forever, not really.

  He had thought about it more than once, there was plenty of empty land out here after all, plenty of room for a man to build a little cabin for himself away from all the noise and hullabaloo, where he could just listen to the grass whisper and talk to God.

  Unfortunately, there were souls to save back in town and as nobody else was doing much in that regard, as far as he could see, it fell to him to give them the Lord’s word. If he could just persuade them to stop drinking and whoring for long enough anyway.

  Maybe one day he’d just come out here and stay. Truth was he didn’t have enough money to build himself a place. Wood was expensive given there were so few trees about. Of course, he could just bring a tent, his needs were decidedly modest after all, but the winters were too harsh for that. Beautiful of course, but harsh. Mr Wizzle didn’t really like the cold.

  He was walking through the long grass, occasionally he would let his fingertips brush the tops of the stems, and he kept his eye out for anything new. Anything that might be a sign from God, or just that people were about changing things. People had a habit for that, never leaving alone. He’d noticed a new barn on the Rodgers place as he’d skirted by the corn fields. Big and bright red. Bright red? He could understand why a man might need a new barn, but bright red? It stood out here, between the lush green of the grass and the vivid blue of the sky. Garish and thoughtless.

  He’d considered going and knocking on old man Rodgers’ door and pointing out that a red barn was entirely inappropriate, but he’d decided against it. It would mean a long detour unless he trampled through the farmer’s crops. He somehow doubted old man Rodgers would appreciate that. He didn’t want to get shot at again after all.

  Instead, he ploughed on across the wild grass heading for, if he was right, Drake’s Crossing where he could get a ride on a wagon back into town.

  He had tried to talk Amelia into coming with him, but she’d laughed him off and said she could barely walk to the end of her yard anymore.

  They’d talked for hours, though he hadn’t really understood what she’d been reminiscing about. She seemed to think they were old friends and he knew all the people she was referring to, he didn’t like to be rude, unless someone was involved in Godless shenanigans of course, but Amelia seemed like a nice, if somewhat deluded, old lady so he’d just nodded and smiled and kind of drifted off as he’d watched the grass sway and listened to the soft purr of Amelia’s voice.

  Most people had voices that annoyed him sooner or later. The world would be a much better place if people just shut up and listened to the wind a bit more rather than just rabbiting on about nonsense, but Amelia had a sweet voice. Soft and soothing, he’d found he rather liked the sound of it, it reminded him of someone reading a bedtime story to a child, all soft and warm and no bad words. Mr Wizzle didn’t like bad words.

  Like bright red barns, they were entirely unnecessary.

  Anyway, he’d found Amelia’s voice so soothing in the warm sunshine that his eyes drooped and his head dropped despite his very best efforts to stay awake. He hadn’t wanted Amelia to think he was bored as she’d seemed so genuinely pleased to see him. Whoever she was.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he’d awoke with a start to find Amelia gone. He’d jumped up and looked around to see where she was, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was sure he’d only nodded off for a moment and there weren’t exactly a lot of hiding places between him and the vast horizons, but there was no sign of the old lady.

  He’d sat down and munched an egg for lunch and thought about it. Perhaps he had been dreaming after all, it seemed a strange and vivid dream, but that would explain why he didn’t know her and she knew him.

  You got odd stuff like that in dreams.

  The Gunslinger

  The day had been long, hot and utterly pointless.

  He’d ridden out of town before dawn, with only the faintest smear of light on the eastern horizon and the stars still shining coldly overhead. Hawker’s Drift had been deserted and despite checking back over his shoulder a few times he hadn’t seen another soul.

  Perhaps he wasn’t pretty enough for the Mayor to bother having followed.

  He’d struck out north of the town and as he had the previous day he rode slowly; scanning the long flat horizons for possible hiding places and trying not to think about Molly.

  By late afternoon he’d failed spectacularly in both regards.

  It had been his intention to sleep out for the night; the air was warm and the sky clear of all but a few unthreatening fluffs of scatt
ered white cloud. It would be a fine night to sleep under the stars, not that such a thing held any mystery to him given he’d slept outside most nights since he’d ridden away from the burnt out shell of his home in search of Severn and his men all those years ago.

  By the time he’d sat in the grass and eaten his lunch of bread and ham he’d become less enamoured with the idea that he should stay out. There was no real hurry after all; he had the best part of three months to search the surrounding land. He was paying for a bed as it was, it would be a waste to have that lay empty in favour of a night on the hard earth.

  And he’d be able to pop in and see Molly if he went back of course.

  He lost count of how many times he called himself a fool, but the more time he spent with her the more and more she reminded him of Megan, save for the cussing of course. Megan had never had much time for bad language.

  It was her hair mostly, if Molly had been blonde he’d barely have noticed the resemblance, but she had the same wild, fiery locks spilling down her back that he had so loved about Megan.

  He was only torturing himself of course. Molly wasn’t Megan and he certainly wasn’t the man she’d married all those long years ago. No, he was something else entirely now.

  All he had in him now was bitterness and hatred. It was what kept him alive, kept him moving on from one ramshackle little town clinging to the world to the next.

  He should just keep riding, not just for one night, but for every night. He should not be getting involved with Molly, he shouldn’t be helping her, he certainly shouldn’t be thinking about her.

  He was still glumly trying not to think about Molly when he came upon a crossroads, he’d ridden across country and stumbled on a little road cutting up from a cluster of distant buildings all but lost in the haze. He’d sat on his horse for a few minutes looking to the north; he could check the buildings out or follow the road south, which would return him to town and back to Molly.

  Eventually he’d pulled his horse to the south and followed the road till he reached the crossroads, two intersecting rutted little tracks of no particular note save for a tubby man in a faded and worn yellow and black checked suit and a battered derby hat, who was sitting in the grass eating, what appeared to be, an egg.

  “Mr Wizzle,” Amos said, pulling his horse to a halt, “you’re a long way from town?”

  Mr Wizzle swallowed the last of his egg, pulled himself to his feet and doffed his hat, “I’ve been looking for angels,” he explained, before picking egg crumbs off his jacket’s lapel.

  “Angels?”

  “Yes, you can see them out here, though they didn’t reveal themselves to me this time. I did meet Amelia Prouloux though, which was nice. Care for a pickled egg?”

  Amos declined the crumpled bag Mr Wizzle produced from his pocket.

  “I don’t believe I know her.”

  “Me neither, but she was very nice,” Mr Wizzle repositioned his hat and took a step towards Amos before adding in a lower voice, “though I think she might be a little bit mad.”

  Amos stopped himself from commenting that there was a lot of that about in Hawker’s Drift.

  “Where are you heading?” he asked instead.

  “Back to Hawker’s Drift, just waiting for a farmer’s wagon to hitch a ride on.”

  “I’m heading back to town, my horse can manage both of us,” Amos said, before considering what the pickled eggs might have done to Mr Wizzle’s breath.

  “That’s terribly kind,” Mr Wizzle beamed, “but, unfortunately, I get a bit nauseous on the back of a horse, all that swaying and up and downing I think.”

  “Well if you’re sure.”

  “No, really, I wouldn’t want to sick up eggs all over your back.”

  Amos nodded, smiled and decided not to offer again.

  He swivelled around in his saddle; there was no one else in sight coming down the roads in any direction.

  “Are there many wagons that come this way?”

  “Oh plenty, one or two a day at least.”

  “And if there isn’t another one today?”

  “Then they’ll definitely be one tomorrow. I’m in no hurry. I still have a couple of eggs.”

  Amos looked at the small canteen slung across Mr Wizzle’s chest, “Do you have any water left?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said glumly giving the canteen a little shake.

  Amos pulled off one of the two large canteens strapped to his saddle and handed it to him, “I’ve got plenty, fill yours up, you don’t want to spend a night out here without water.”

  Mr Wizzle beamed and accepted the canteen, “You see, God will always provide whenever you are in need, either through the bounty of nature or the kindness of strangers!”

  As Amos waited for Mr Wizzle to fill his canteen he noticed half a dozen crows erupt from the grass, startled by some critter or another he assumed.

  Mr Wizzle followed his gaze as the birds circled overhead and wrinkled his nose, “”Not terribly nice,” he sighed, “even if they are God’s creatures it did spoil my day a little when I stumbled across them.”

  “You don’t like crows?”

  “It’s what they are doing that I’d rather not have seen. It tarnished the beauty of my day somewhat…”

  “What are they doing?”

  Mr Wizzle pulled a face as he handed the canteen back.

  “Eating the dead horses…”

  *

  The air was thick with flies and the stink of rotting flesh while the cawing crows taunted him like Severn’s maniacal laughter.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Mr Wizzle sighed, standing a pace behind Amos’ shoulder, languidly waving his hat back and forth in front of his wrinkled nose.

  “I can’t imagine,” Amos muttered, though he could make a fair guess.

  The crow’s feast consisted of a horse and two mules. Each animal, as far as he could tell, had been dispatched by a shot to the head. It was hard to say exactly how long they’d been dead, but given the amount of flesh that had been stripped away and the degree of decay a couple of weeks at most seemed about right.

  Around the same time Tom McCrea had fallen off of his horse in other words.

  A man might shoot a horse that had broken it’s leg, which wasn’t that unusual if you were riding hard across country, but the chances of three animals all breaking their legs at the same time was so high as to be non-existent. People didn’t kill horses and mules without a damn good reason; they were far too valuable for that

  So why else would three healthy animals be killed?

  Because if they were ever taken back to Hawker’s Drift someone might recognise them as animals that had been sold to Tom, and a dead man’s horse turning up with someone else might raise awkward questions.

  Amos couldn’t think of another explanation as much as he tried.

  He walked in a slow wide circle around the dead animals, scanning the grass for anything that might give a clue to whoever had done this. A silver star for instance.

  “Are you looking for something?” Mr Wizzle asked, trailing in his wake through the grass.

  “Just wondering what kind of a fool kills three good animals?”

  “It’s a terrible world. People do all kinds of things that make no sense…” Mr Wizzle muttered, “…like old man Rodgers painting his barn bright red!”

  Amos didn’t ask.

  They’d almost completed a full circle when something caught Amos’ eye a little way off in the grass. At first he thought it was just a bit of old wood until he remembered there were few trees out here.

  “Is that a rifle?” Mr Wizzle asked as Amos pulled the blackened and twisted remains of the weapon from the grass.

  “It used to be,” Amos replied. The butt had burned away leaving only the scarred remains of the barrel, he kicked around in the grass for the trigger guard and lever, but found nothing more.

  Destroying a rifle made even less sense than killing horses and mules.

  The ani
mals might have been recognised by the livery and Amos was pretty sure John X would recognise a rifle that he’d sold; he seemed like that kind of man. The other provisions Tom had bought (shovels, pans, food, etc.) would have been much less incriminating to dispose of.

  There was no sign of fire blackened grass, so whoever had burned the rifle hadn’t done it here. The horses had been led out here, into unfarmed grassland where they were unlikely to be stumbled upon anytime soon and killed, the rifle remains tossed away into the grass too. Given the endless plains that surrounded the town whoever had did it could have found a more remote location, they were only a hundred yards from the crossroads after all. Perhaps they didn’t think they needed to be that careful, or they were just lazy.

  “It’s a bit of a mystery isn’t it?” Mr Wizzle asked once they started back to the road and Amos’ horse, which he’d tethered to a marker post.

  Amos stared at his feet pushing through the long unbroken stems of grass before replying, “Best you don’t mention this to anyone back in town.”

  “Oh, no one really listens to anything I say, even when I give them the Lord’s words.”

  “Even so…”

  “Somebody didn’t want the poor horses and rifle ever to be found?”

  Amos looked at Mr Wizzle, with his tufts of red hair sticking out from under his battered derby and his faded clown’s suit.

  He wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

  “I think so.”

  Mr Wizzle tapped his nose, “Won’t say a word, it’ll be our secret.”

  “Sure you don’t want a ride back to town?” Amos asked when they got back to his horse and he’d stowed the ruined rifle in his blanket roll. He still didn’t fancy getting eggy sick down his back, but Mr Wizzle might be in danger if the wrong person came by and found him so close to the carcasses.

  “Thank you, but no. A wagon will come along soon enough. The Lord will provide for me, as always.”

  “Take care then Mr Wizzle,” Amos said, hoisting himself back into the saddle.

  “And you too, your kindness will not go unrewarded!” Mr Wizzle pulled off his hat and gave a little wave; “By the way, I don’t believe I know your name?”