I stared at him. His expression was smug. I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess—seven hundred pounds or so?”
Remi smiled sweetly.
Mossman moved the horse sideways with the tap of a bootheel. “Go on, then.”
And as the old cowboy discussed matters with his horse, from time to time clicking his tongue or tapping with his bootheels and only occasionally moving the reins, that cowpony slowly backed us all the way up to the top.
“Holy shit,” I murmured, as Remi and I rolled the bike onto level ground.
Remi slipped the rope, dropped it aside, and the cowboy began to coil it up. “It was an honor, sir, to see a fine horse at work.”
“He’s got plenty of arrows in his quiver.” Mossman fastened the coiled rope beside the saddle horn once more. “You a Texas boy? You got the sound of it.”
“Yessir, I am,” Remi confirmed. He poked a thumb in my direction. “He’s not. He’s one of those Oregon Trail boys.”
I thought I saw a faint smile in the mustache. Couldn’t be sure, though. “You’ve done us a favor,” I said. “And we appreciate it. But if it’s okay, I’d like to ask another.”
He resettled himself in the saddle. “Askin’ never got nobody killed. Well, most days.”
I asked Remi if he could steady the bike, and when he nodded I looked at Mossman. “May I see your gun, sir?” And before Remi could tell me I was a damn fool for asking a man to give up his gun, I lifted mine out from under my arm, popped the cylinder, dumped the rounds into my hand, spun it to show all chambers were empty, clicked it closed and held it with the barrel pointed in a neutral direction. Just as Grandaddy had taught me many years ago. “I would be glad if you took a look at mine.”
Burton Mossman considered me a moment, as if weighing my worth. Then the mustache twitched as he worked his mouth, and he unholstered his weapon. He did not unload it, but did offer it butt-first.
We swapped out, while I wondered why he’d left his loaded. It wasn’t sound gun handling; the custom was to unload first. And then I forgot all about weapon safety, because I held in my hands a genuine 1873 Colt Single Action Army pistol, the famous SAA Peacemaker. The steel was bright, like new; the walnut grips characteristically dark, but with a little grain showing. Almost two-and-a-half pounds of steel, and a big seven-and-a-half-inch barrel.
Considering the gun was nearly a hundred-and-fifty years old, it was in outstanding condition. “Damn fine weapon,” I murmured, and smiled up at the cowboy. An old man with an old gun. “I’ve never seen an original model in person, let alone held one.”
His eyebrows twitched faintly. “It’s what we’ve got, out here. You a city boy?”
I nodded, reversed the gun and offered it butt-first. He recovered it, handed mine back. “It’s a mite puny,” he said. “Out here you’d do best with a bigger weapon.”
I reloaded, smiling, held up two rounds. “Bullet,” I said, “and shotgun cartridge. Two for the price of one.”
He considered that a moment, narrowed his eyes at me. “That’s just downright foolish. I don’t hold with newfangled weapons when all a man needs is a Peacemaker in his hand.”
I grinned. “And for a long gun, a Winchester ’73. Two excellent guns introduced in the same year.” He seemed a little mollified by my tribute. “Thanks again, Mr. Mossman. I appreciate the help.”
He bent his head in acknowledgment. “Now, you young men take care. Some of the bad boys from the Hashknife outfit’s been rustlin’ again, since I turned fifty-four of ’em off the ranch just the other day, sent ’em on their way. It’s why I’m up here. You see any loose cattle, I’d be obliged if you sent a telegraph to the Aztec Cattle Company, up Holbrook way north of here. I’m the supervisor there; they’ll get word to me.”
I got stuck on the concept of rustling cattle in this day and age, but what did I know about modern ranching? Meanwhile, something else had Remi’s interest. His tone was odd. “Hashknife outfit?”
Mossman stretched his back in the saddle. “You bein’ from Texas, you probably don’t know ’em. Some are comin’ to no good. But we ain’t had a killin’ here since last summer. Most of ’em been Hashknife boys or old hands that used to work for the outfit.” He nodded at each of us. “I will wish you a good day.”
We watched him turn his red horse, head on past us going north. He started singing, something low and sweet. The horse flicked its ears back as if listening. Maybe he was.
Remi frowned after Mossman, took two long steps as if he meant to call him back. But he didn’t. He stared after him, then looked at me. He was clearly trying to knit ideas together, and his tone was still odd. “You said the Colt was an original?”
“Yup. The Peacemaker, produced in 1873.”
“And in good condition.”
“Like new.”
Remi nodded after more thinking. “I have heard of the Hashknife outfit,” he said. “Aztec Cattle Company was founded with cattle and horses from the Continental Cattle Company in Texas. That’s how come I’m familiar with the story, and some of what came after. Even as far as knowin’ dates.”
I took my place at one side of the bike again. We still had to get it out to the trailer. “If you say so.”
“Those boys all got fired.”
I had no clue where he was going with this. “That’s what he said.”
“In 1898.”
It took me a moment, and then my head snapped up. “But he said he fired them—” I paused, and together we finished.
“—just the other day.”
And he carried an original model of a gun first produced in 1873, twenty-five years before he fired the Hashknife boys. Twenty-five years before his now.
Remi cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mr. Mossman! Mr. Mossman, sir!”
The horse and cowboy had not gone far, maybe twenty yards. Mossman reined in, turned his horse in silhouette, looked back at us and lifted his arm in farewell. “I cannot stay,” he called. “I have got cattle to find.”
And as they stood there, as a long-dead cowboy sang low and sweet, and the big red cowpony bobbed his head, horse and rider turned muddy. The color of them, the color in them, bled away, leaving behind a dull afterimage like an old-style sepia photograph; a fading photo of a man and a horse born in and of a time much older than ours.
A man and a horse that now we could literally see through . . . see through to the trees behind them, green leaves fluttering, until the photograph faded from sepia to transparency and man and horse were gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For long moments, I just stared at the spot where Mossman and his cowpony had stood but a few minutes before. Then I blinked hard, bent down and scooped up a stone, tossed it into the now-blank space. The stone didn’t disappear through a black hole, a wormhole, a mole hole, or any kind of hole at all. It just fell to the earth and lay there being a rock, proving Newton’s Theory of Universal Gravitation all over again.
I cleared my throat. “Was that a ghost cowboy?”
Remi’s tone held an undercurrent of amusement coupled with disbelief. “With his ghost horse.”
We stood on either side of my bike, holding it upright. I turned my head and met his eyes. “But he was corporeal. I think. Wasn’t he?”
“The rope sure was,” Remi said. “And you handled his gun.”
Yeah. All two-and-a-half pounds of it. I’d felt the steel, touched the walnut grips. Definitely corporeal.
“I thought demons were taking over all the ghost stories, the tall tales,” I said, feeling aggrieved. “They’re changing the rules on us. That what isn’t real, that what is merely legend, is made real only because the surrogates are inhabiting the monsters. I mean, we’ve been discussing whether Jack the Ripper’s soul has been brought back to life by a surrogate inhabiting him, or if he was a demon in the first place when he butchered all those women in 1
888 and apparently now is back for seconds.” I was struck by something, turned it over in my head. “What if they’ve been demons all along, all the so-called imaginary monsters like vampires and werewolves, urban folktales? And murderers like the Ripper. What if they’ve all simply been waiting for Go-Time?”
Remi’s brows went up. “You mean—like demonic sleeper agents?”
“Well, yeah. That sums it up. We were told many were cast up from hell just recently, with all the earthquakes and hell vents. But others as sleeper agents, sure. They’ve been here among us, but dormant.”
Remi did not reject the theory. “And now they’ve been awakened.”
Possibly I would not sleep that night. “Okay. So. You said you knew about the Hashknife guys and the cattle company. You ever hear anything about the boss man becoming a ghost after he died?”
“I don’t recollect it off the top of my head,” Remi replied, “but I can look it up. In the meantime, I’d venture he isn’t a demon.”
“So he’s a ghost ghost? A legitimate living ghost—” I waved my hand dismissively before he could give me a hard time, “—or, well, you know, a legitimate dead ghost. Who’s going around helping people.” I scratched at the back of my head. “’Course there are stories of benevolent ghosts, like Martha the Nurse. I just didn’t ever expect to meet one in the flesh, so to speak.”
“Martha the Nurse?”
“Yeah. Thirty years after her death she was supposedly still working the wards, telling new nurses to check on specific patients who were in trouble. It was always recent nursing graduates, like she wanted to make sure the new kids performed their jobs well.”
“So, not a demon, either.”
“Apparently not. What time is it?” I checked my watch; the afternoon growing late. “We should get the bike on the trailer, hauled into the Harley shop. And then we can grab dinner at the Zoo. I’m getting peckish.” A tactile memory popped up, and I smiled broadly at Remi, wishing he could share the pleasure. But he was a knife man. “That Peacemaker was a thing of beauty. Ghost gun or not, I’ve now handled an original.”
Remi slapped a hand against the bike seat. “Then let’s head ’em up and move ’em out, get us some grub.”
Sometimes I wondered if what Remi said and how he said it was actual cowboy lingo, or if he was overdoing it for effect. He had mentioned the latter once. And his drawl had definitely deepened when speaking with the Mossman ghost.
Mossman ghost.
I shook my head; God, my life had gotten weird.
In sync, we shifted our weight into the handbars and began to push the bike. Or push half the bike. We dragged the back half, since the wheel was all bent.
“I never thought I’d say this,” I admitted after a few minutes “but this job would be easier with a good horse.”
Remi hooted long and loud. “That is the truth of it. Glad to hear you know it.”
We pushed in silence for a bit, and then Remi began to sing, as was his habit. I did not recognize the song. Country, of course. Something about a mighty herd of black, red-eyed cattle, and hooves made of steel, burning brands, and horses snorting fire.
And yippie yi yays and yippie yi oohs, of course. Remi sang the yippie yi yays and oohs with particular vigor.
“What is that? That song. What’s with the red-eyed cows?”
He broke off the chorus to answer. “‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’ Old song. Bunch of dead cowboys chasing the Devil’s Herd forever through the ragged, endless skies.”
I pursed my lips and nodded. “Huh. Colorful, yet depressing.”
But he was singing the swooping, mournful yippie yi yays and yippie yi oohs again and didn’t comment.
* * *
—
When we got the bike unloaded at the Harley shop and went inside to handle paperwork, the guy behind the counter gave me a look, gave Remi and his hat a harder look, then turned his attention back to me. “Twin sons of different mothers, huh?”
Even as Remi sighed, I grinned at him. “You could say that.”
He was an older guy, maybe mid-50s. Brown eyes. Carried a pot belly, had old acne scars on his cheeks, wore his gray-brown hair ponytailed and a folded blue bandana tied around his head. Grew scruff in place of a beard. Walked with an odd swinging limp.
He saw me notice it. “New hip,” he said. “Helluva way to slow down an old biker.” He poked around on a computer with two fingers in a hunt-and-peck style. “I’m sorry Kenny couldn’t get out to you boys today to pick up your bike out of that ravine. But you’re here, and we’ll get her broken down for you, give you a call after we’ve had a real close look. If you’re not up for a full rebuild, we can always buy her off you and part ’er out.”
I shook my head. “Whatever it takes, man. She’s special.”
“Okay, then.” He hunted and pecked on the keyboard again. “Well, I’ve got your information, so I’ll be in touch when we know something. Might take a couple of days, though.” He scratched thoughtfully at his scruff. “Would you be interested in a loaner? You’d have to pay insurance, sign a waiver, but we won’t charge you for it.”
I brightened. “Now that is a good man. What model is it?”
His eyes slewed to mine. “VW Beetle. The old orange bug. Last I looked, 45 was her best speed.”
I scowled, and he grinned at me. “No, huh? Well, I’m sorry we can’t give you a bike, but we’ll do our best to get yours back to you soon. Depends on parts.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I pulled the spare key off my ring, slid it across the counter. “Anyone ever take you up on your offer of the bug?”
“Hell, no. I haven’t met a biker yet who’d hit the road in one of those things. Now, you’ve got questions, give us a call. Ask for Cisco. That’s me.”
I nodded, checked him over again. “You ever ride with anyone?”
He knew what I meant. “I was a one-percenter maybe all of a week,” he said with a crooked smile. “Turned out I didn’t have the stones for it after all.”
I answered before he could ask. “Just a H.O.G. with a hog. But I did get the bike off a one-percenter. He taught me everything I know about motorcycles. When cancer got him, he left his ride to me.”
Cisco bobbed his head. “We’ll take good care of her for you and for him, God rest his soul.” He glanced at Remi again, then turned back to me. “If you feel like a drink among your kind, so to speak, there’s a bar down the road called Hot Tamale, God only knows why. They don’t serve ’em. Northeast corner of Route 66 and Steve’s Boulevard. You’ll see the bikes. Bring your cowboy friend, too.”
Remi’s tone was smooth as butter. “Thank you kindly, but I’m setting up at the Zoo Club. Protective coloration.”
Cisco nodded with a glint in his eye. “You are welcome, you know. It’s not where the outlaws hang.”
Remi nodded his appreciation, but we both knew he wouldn’t be going. I thanked Cisco again, and the cowboy half of the partnership walked outside with me.
We were up in his truck and on the way to the Zoo when he asked it. “What’s H.O.G. mean? Some kind of biker gang?”
“Harley Owner’s Group,” I told him. “The 99% that aren’t outlaw bikers. We’re tame, and we have good manners. Mostly. Probably some are RUBs, but most of us just really love bikes. Some are hardcore without quite being outlaws. That whole Sons of Anarchy TV schtick.”
“RUBs?”
“Rich Urban Bikers.”
“Ah! Like ‘drugstore cowboys.’” Remi braked, waited for traffic to clear so he could turn into the Zoo’s parking lot. It was beginning to fill up. “You have your outlaws, and we had ours back in the day. Like the Hashknife boys Mr. Mossman fired. Nowadays, though, you say outlaws to a cowboy and he thinks Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson. Outlaw country music.”
He found us a parking place ov
er by the side of the building. We got out, slammed doors, headed for the entrance. I pulled open the big door for Remi. “We need to ask some questions.” I let him go by, fell in behind him. “Such as who actually runs this place. Grandaddy? Ganji? Someone else we haven’t met? And maybe we need to meet the cooks and the servers.”
We skirted the dance floor. Once again, live country music filled the place to the high beamwork and beyond to the pitched tin roof. I smelled whiskey, beef, and beer. “We should introduce ourselves,” I continued: “‘Hi there, we’re heaven’s attack dogs. Don’t mind us if we come back bloody.’”
We made it to the bar. It wasn’t the weekend, so not as crowded as it could be. We cut through to the far end, to the station where servers picked up drink orders, and waited until Ganji saw us. He drifted down our way as he wiped his hands on a bar towel.
“Lookin’ for Mary Jane,” Remi said. “She go upstairs, or hangin’ out down here?”
Ganji tipped his shaven head, raised his brows. “That one likes to dance. See?” He gestured with his chin toward the parquet.
I looked. Remi looked.
Mary Jane Kelly was dancing with a well-dressed young man, handsome as a Hollywood star, his features clean and pure, his smile blinding, his blue eyes bright. He spun her one way, spun her back the other. Blond hair, long, loose, and shining, fell around his face.
“Shit,” I said.
Remi said worse.
Kelly saw us, and her face lit up. She took hold of her partner’s wrist, led him through the crowd to us.
Her eyes were shining. “This is Yaz,” she said, “He’s a ballet dancer on his way through town. He tells me he can out-pirouette Baryshnikov, but I haven’t talked him into showing me yet.”
Again with the twelve pirouettes. The guy had a fixation. I went ahead and cut to the chase, looking straight at him. “And how long will you be here before you have to leave?”
He knew what I meant, but his eyes were guileless. As old as he was, he’d had plenty of time to perfect his expressions. “Some time yet.” He made a sad face. “But always, the time is too short.” Then he leaned close to Mary Jane, spoke into her ear, and pulled her back onto the dance floor.
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