9 Tales Told in the Dark 11

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  Those hardly qualified as cities, Coop thought, at least in the European sense. He only shook his head. “I don’t know, rightly, so I can’t say. You’d have to talk to John Murphy on that.”

  “John Murphy’s a fool,” Greene said bitterly.

  John Murphy and Joshua Greene had a long standing grudge from years ago, when John agreed to sell a house to Greene, only to turn around and sell it to relatives of his from Ireland for next to nothing. Unwelcome at the saloon, Murphy went and opened up his own tavern across town, and undercharged his customers. These days, the saloon was a ghost town, and Joshua Greene was on the verge of bankruptcy.

  “He might be,” Barney said, “but I’m curious.”

  “Well go and drink at his place then if you’re so damn curious,” Greene spat.

  “Now, he didn’t mean anything by that,” Coop said. “He just wants to know. I can’t say I don’t, neither.”

  Coop wasn’t a curious man by nature, but it was his duty to know what was going on in his town. He figured he’d make his way over to John Murphy’s place later on and ask him about the German. The least Coop could do is know when he was coming so he could meet him and officially welcome him to town. People liked that sort of thing. It made them feel good, like they were a part of the community, and people who were a part of the community were less likely to commit crimes against the community.

  “I’m sorry,” Greene said finally. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Barney. I’m just feeling the heat, is all.”

  “That’s okay,” Barney said. “I don’t hold it against you.”

  Coop chuckled. "Glad you boys..."

  The hard slam of the batwing doors against the wall cut Coop off in mid-sentence.

  "Sheriff!" Pastor Hanskill roared, "I demand you arrest that woman!"

  Coop sighed. Of course, he knew Hanskill would eventually find him, but he thought it'd take the old grump a lot longer.

  "What woman would that be, Pastor?" Coop asked, gesturing for another drink.

  "Mimi Baker," Hanskill said from his position at the door. He wouldn't actually cross the threshold; he'd never set foot in a saloon, so help him God. It was beneath him.

  Pastor Hanskill had been the local spiritual leader in Alura since 1855, holding forth nonstop on sin and damnation from the Methodist church on Railroad Avenue. He was what Coop thought of as a zealot, very strict in the law and order of his faith. Coop respected the man and made every effort to defer to him, but he couldn't say he liked him. In fact, he didn't, not after all but forcing the admittedly tiny Chinese community out of Alura the previous summer, saying they were running opium dens and other types of nonsense. Any man who'd do that wasn't a man of God; he was a man of hatred.

  And this week, his hatred was directed at Mimi Baker, the widow of Roy Baker, who died six months ago in a mine collapse. Somehow, Pastor Hanskill became convinced that Mimi was running a bordello. "Men and women come and go at all hours of the night," Hanskill said the day before, after barging into Coop's office in a sanctimonious huff. "I insist you act."

  Coop didn't believe for a minute that poor Mimi Baker was doing that sort of thing, and the thought of bringing it up to her made him blush. But if Hanskill kept on, he'd have to do something.

  Coop sighed. “Alright, Pastor, I’ll talk to her. I doubt she’s really doin what you say, but I reckon I gotta at least check into it.”

  “I suggest you do that,” Hanskill nodded, his teeth bared, “rather than sit here in the dark like a common sot.”

  With that, the holy man departed, letting the doors swing closed behind him.

  Barney chuckled. “That man’s out for blood.”

  “He’s worse than John Murphy,” Greene said. Hanskill wasn’t kind to Greene, on account of him being Jewish. The two had never gotten along. Good thing Greene spent most of his time in the saloon, where Hanskill refused to go.

  “He’s a very religious man,” Coop said cautiously, “and you can’t blame a feller for a thing like that.”

  “He’s an ass,” Greene said.

  “Maybe,” Coop replied. He threw back the whisky Greene sat before him during the confrontation and stood. “I better get goin. I’ll see you fellers later.”

  “Count on it,” Barney said.

  ***

  Outside, in front of the saloon, Justus Cooper stood for a long, indecisive moment. The sun was high and bright in the clear California sky, and the heat washing over the town was incredible. Coop was a Boston boy, born and raised, and no matter how much desert heat his skin absorbed, he couldn’t seem to get used to it. When he was a younger man, Coop fought the Rebs in Georgia during the summer of 1864, and the humid heat, pressing over you like a wet blanket, was miserable, but nothing could compare to the dry heat of the Mojave. It was like...well, Coop didn’t know what it was like. Hell, maybe. Yeah. That worked. He doubted there was a single drop of moisture in hell; that’s what the desert felt like.

  Finally, after a full five minutes, Coop decided he’d save talking to Mimi Baker for later. First, he wanted to see Doc Washington, and, since he was headed that way anyway, he’d stop in and see John Murphy, if he was still in.

  Decided, Coop went off in the direction of Doc Washington’s house, which sat on a long street of comfortable houses a mile from the railroad.

  Coop smiled to himself at the thought of Doc Washington. When Coop first came to town, he was taken aback by the tall, Negro doctor. He was even more surprised to learn that Washington was not only a doctor, but also very well-respected in the community; he had more white patients than Negro, which was unheard of back east.

  Still smiling, Coop stopped at an intersection and waited for a horse-drawn cart to pass by, closing his eyes at the dust its clunky wheels kicked up in its wake.

  Passing stores and the bank, Coop tipped his hat to the ladies and nodded to the men. In just the past two years, Alura had grown significantly, adding perhaps three hundred souls to its name. He didn’t instantly recognize everyone, but he was as sweet as honey to them anyway.

  A lot of people called Coop’s way “liberal.” He didn’t know if it was of if it wasn’t, but it was his way, and he thought it worked. So did Governor Jackson. In a way, Coop took a lot away from his time under General Robert Jackson; Jackson was good and kind and fair to his men, and Coop was good and kind and fair to his people. No one likes a policeman with a nasty disposition. In fact, being a policeman with a nasty disposition caused you more problems, and Coop didn’t particularly care for problems. Oh, he’d handle them when they came, no doubt about that, but he didn’t go out looking for them. No need. There was enough without him adding to it.

  At the corner of Main and Oak Street, Coop took a left and crossed into the residential part of town. Doc Washington’s house sat at the end of the street, flanked by a colonial on one side and a cabin on the other. Tall and stately, like its owner, the house was done in the so-called Victorian style, with gables, gingerbread trim, and dormers. The porch was deep and leafy, boasting every type of plant you could hope to see; Washington was a botanist, and particularly enjoyed flowers.

  At the door, Coop straightened his jacket and sniffed his armpits.

  Then he went in.

  ***

  Doctor Josiah Washington poured himself a glass of water from the wash basin and drank it slowly, savoring its coolness. It had been a busy morning, what with the Richardson boy breaking his arm, and Washington had neglected to stay properly hydrated.

  Tall and thin and going on thirty-four, Washington was what even some white women would call handsome, with light mahogany skin, short black hair, and a soft, sensuous face.

  He had been the sole doctor in Alura, California, since 1871, when the previous doctor, Abraham Johnson, passed unexpectedly away. Johnson, of New York City, had been a fierce abolitionist before the war, and was a firm believer in equality, unlike so many of his ilk. Josiah, always a free Yankee, met him in 1860, when he was eighteen-years-old, selling newsp
apers on a street corner. Johnson took a liking to him, and hired him on as a personal assistant; over time, he learned enough about medicine to practice himself, which is what he found himself doing after Abe died.

  At that time, there were no other doctors in Alura, and with a mean typhoid epidemic sweeping the town, the people couldn’t afford to wait for one to be shipped in from somewhere else. At first they accepted the Negro doctor only to save them and theirs from the plague, but by the time it was over, he’d wormed his way into their hearts. Perhaps it was his bedside manner, or his extensive knowledge. Maybe it was even his humor and his tenderness. In fact, he knew, he was a lot like his predecessor, who was universally beloved. Perhaps Alura only accepted him because they saw him as an extension of Abe Johnson.

  Washington took another sip of his water, and sighed contentedly.

  “Hello?”

  Washington nearly dropped the glass.

  “Justus? I’m in here.”

  A moment later, Justus Cooper appeared in the threshold. Slightly shorter than Washington, Coop was a solidly built man who carried himself with pride and vigor. His face was deep and craggy, his luscious lips hidden by a bushy brown mustache salted with gray.

  “Hi,” Coop said.

  Washington went to him. Instead of shaking, or even hugging, they kissed, long, slow, and sweet.

  “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

  Coop and Washington had been spending more nights together than not in the past month. It was a slippery slope, Washington knew the first time, and, after several nights, he became all but dependent on having Coop next to him in bed. The previous night, Coop stayed at Margret Brown’s boardinghouse, where he rented a room; Washington missed him so badly that he couldn’t sleep, and wound up spending most of the night pacing the floors.

  “I wanted to see you,” Coop said.

  Washington grinned. “Can you stay long enough for a glass of water?”

  Coop shook his head. “I got too much to do.”

  Washington was disappointed. “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back later on,” Coop promised. “Early, even.”

  Washington smiled.

  ***

  John Murphy was in the sitting room of his large office, drinking a brandy, when Sheriff Cooper knocked at his door.

  “Come in!” he called.

  “Hi, there, John,” Coop said as he ducked his head in the door.

  Murphy smiled wanly. “Hello, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, nothin much. I was just curious about that German feller who bought the Carter place.”

  Murphy’s smile turned into a frown. “What about him?”

  “Who is he? When’s he comin? You know, the usual. I wanna personally welcome him to Alura.”

  “He should already be here.”

  Coop was taken aback. “Already?”

  Murphy nodded. “He should have arrived yesterday.”

  “Gee, I feel kinda bad now. Maybe I should just head on up there and do it now.”

  “I don’t think he wants to be bothered.”

  “One of those unsocial kinds, huh?”

  Murphy nodded.

  “Well, I don’t wanna step on his toes, then. What’s his name?”

  “Frederick Barnes.”

  “Okay. I guess I better get on outta here.”

  “You do that.”

  Coop left, no doubt scratching his head. John Murphy wasn’t the surly sort.

  But today was different. John Murphy wasn’t himself. In fact, he was afraid. No. not just afraid, but in something approaching mortal terror. Since early that morning, he’d been sitting in his study and drinking brandy, the alcohol having no effect whatsoever.

  What had he done?

  He thought of the man with whom he’d conducted all the business pertaining to the Carter house. Mr. Blutsauger, Frederick Barnes’ manservant. Blutsauger was a tall, severe man as broad as he was long, his face hard and wrinkled and his eyes a dirty shade of gray. Murphy never liked the man. There was something...queer about him, sinister even. But a deal’s a deal, and he went through with it, even though the German inspired fear and loathing in his soul. Now, Blutsauger and his master were in residence, and, last night, Murphy dreamed that something came into his room, something with bright glowing red eyes and a long, bloodless face, something reeking of rot and ruin, something stinking of death and the grave. When he woke, he was weak.

  And there was blood on his blanket.

  ***

  Frederick Barnes left Germany on the first day of spring onboard the Berlin, a cargo ship bound for Boston and, eventually, Newfoundland. His manservant, masquerading under the name Blutsauger, was already in America, waiting for his arrival.

  The Berlin was at sea for nearly a month. Sickness spread through the crew like fire through a forest, men wasting away and dying in days. On May 19, the Berlin, crewless and adrift, was found by an American naval patrol, twenty miles off the coast of Virginia, far off its original course.

  In Virginia, Barnes met with Blutsauger, who had arranged for passage to California.

  On May 25, Blutsauger left Richmond onboard a train headed west to Indiana. He traveled lightly, with only a bag and a large, oblong crate.

  In Indiana, Blutsauger and his baggage switched trains, and rode to Texas. In the town of Arlen, Blutsauger was met at the station by a half dozen Mexican bandits he’d hired several weeks before. Blutsauger and the banditos loaded the crate into the back of a highly polished black carriage, and set off for Alura, California.

  The Mexicans knew the land and the natives well, and the trip across the vast Sonoran Desert went smoothly, save for an attack on June 6 by Apache warriors; that night, at camp, the Mexicans watched suspiciously as Blutsauger poured a chalice full of their blood, which he had collected earlier, into his crate.

  On the last night of the journey, one of the bandits let his curiosity get the better of him; talk and rumors ran wild with his comrades, and he set out to disprove the more fanciful claims made far away from Blutsauger’s ears.

  At dusk, as Blutsauger relieved himself in the desert, the enterprising youth lifted the lid of the crate; when his friends found him, his eyes had been gouged out and his face had been mauled. A coyote, Blutsauger said, his eyes twinkling with malicious glee.

  The odd procession, an ornate funeral carriage flanked by four horsemen, arrived at the Carter property at noon the next day from the back, Blutsauger insistent that they could not go through the town.

  The Mexicans unloaded the crate (which they had taken to thinking of as a coffin), and left it in the yard, refusing to take it into the crumbling house.

  “God only knows what we have done,” their leader said in halting English. “We will do no more.”

  Blutsauger only grinned, his toothy smile reminding the leader of a shark. “Vaya con Dios,” he spat, and, as the stunned Mexicans looked on, picked up the crate as if it were an empty box and carried it inside.

  The leader took out the six thousand dollars Blutsauger had given him during the trip and flung it into the dirt. None of his comrades tried to retrieve it.

  “God help us,” he said as they rode off.

  Now, on the 28th of June, Frederick Barnes watched night fall over the town of Alura below, the sky ascending shades of pink, purple, orange, and blue.

  “Murphy,” he said.

  ***

  Doctor Josiah Washington dined alone that night, his pork tasting wooden and dry. As night drew on, he lit a lamp and moved into the parlor, where he sat by the window, watching for Justus.

  Washington had never been so fervently in love with a man before, not even with Abe Johnson. Johnson, for his part, knew nothing of Washington’s unusual love for him, and, to this day, Washington regretted never expressing it to him.

  But what he felt for his mentor paled in comparison to his all-consuming devotion to the sheriff. Just thinking of him made Washington’s heart flutter.

 
“Justus Cooper.”

  Washington smiled. Merely speaking his name made him warm.

  “Juuuusssstttuuusss.”

  Washington giggled like a girl. In fact, he felt like a girl. Washington had never felt that way, especially for a man so rugged and, well, manly. There was something else, something more. His kindness. His compassion. His body was an afterthought, but what a fine afterthought it was!

  Washington sighed. Outside, a horse clip-clopped by, going in the direction of Main Street. It was starting to get late. Maybe he’d go up to bed and read a little until...

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Washington sat up straight. “Come in!”

  The door opened, and Justus Cooper appeared in the archway, dressed in a brown overcoat replete with gun belt and silver badge, and a white hat so dirty and worn that it could almost pass for yellow.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Washington smiled.

  ***

  As the doctor and the sheriff made love several streets over, John Murphy, the realtor, thrashed in his bedclothes, asleep but in turmoil. In his dream, he watched as four horsemen rode over Alura, bringing death and misery (in exactly that order) in their wake. At one point, he cried out, and came briefly awake.

  Someone was standing over him.

  Something.

  He screamed.

  ***

  The feeble amber light of dawn crept silently over the town, questing like fingers of God. Pastor Hanskill was awake and dressed, sitting by his parlor window and spying on the house across the street.

  Hanskill hadn’t slept the night before. He was too busy praying and speaking with God.

  Sin and vice were a part of the world, for the world belonged to Lucifer, but here, in his town, on his very street, whores were committing the most disgusting sin of all, and here he was, almost powerless to stop it. Sheriff Cooper was too damn soft to move against Mimi Baker, so she’d continue doing what she was doing unabated and unchecked, like the whore she was.