The Immortal Conquistador

by Carrie Vaughn

  One storefront had light shining through the windows, faint with the dawn but still visible. The sign said “SALOON” and “ROOMS TO LET.” There, he’d go there.

  The edges of the peaks sheltering the town lit with golden sun. Ricardo didn’t look, he just moved, drawing the very last bit of life in him, very nearly flying down the main street to the saloon door, stumbling inside and slamming it behind him, as the light outside grew.

  Inside seemed darker than it should, the lanterns weak and the furniture brown and stained. The mirror behind the bar was dusty. But there were people here, a few who’d stayed up all night drinking and playing cards. They might continue through the day. Three men at a faro table, another at the bar. One behind the bar who might have been the proprietor, and at the back door a matronly looking woman who seemed to be just getting started for the day. For the most part, despite their tired eyes and roughshod appearances, they smelled good. Full of warm blood, and he was hungry.

  Except—the man behind the faro table smelled ill.

  They all glanced up at him and stared. Ricardo imagined he looked a mess. At the best of times he presented a handsome, aristocratic figure, with dark hair, a firm jaw and fine nose. But now he was dusty, grimy, and probably had a panicked gleam in his eyes. He noticed a spatter of blood on his beige shirt from shooting Bandita, and his dark pants were torn. He looked like a man in trouble.

  He reminded himself to breathe, so as to appear normal. Straightening, he settled his saddlebags firmly over his shoulder and convinced himself—and the rest of the room, he hoped—that he knew what he was doing.

  Stepping up to the bar, he told the man, “I’d like a room. One without windows if you have it. Or a corner of the cellar if you don’t.” He set coins on the polished surface of the bar.

  The barman stared at him. Swallowed visibly and stammered. “We . . . I mean . . . what do you mean . . . no windows?”

  “I mean I’m sensitive to the light. No windows.”

  “I—I’m sorry. We’re all full up.”

  “You are not all full up, Frank. Sell the man a room, why don’t you.” The faro dealer spoke with an accent—light, lilting, southern.

  The barman really couldn’t seem to decide what to do. He glanced back and forth between Ricardo and the dealer like one of them was holding a gun to his head, but he didn’t know which. Ricardo didn’t have time for this—he couldn’t look that terrible, could he? Surely a town like this had seen worse.

  Fine. They couldn’t do this politely, Ricardo would manage in his own way. He leaned in; Frank gripped the edge of the wood, almost as if he knew what was coming. He watched Ricardo, which made it very easy for Ricardo to catch his gaze. Catch his gaze and fall into it, grabbing hold of a corner of the man’s will and twisting.

  “You’d like to give me a room with no windows. You have something for me, don’t you? My money’s good here. You’re happy to help out.” He spoke low, persuasively, and his words filled the man, whose gaze softened. He nodded with understanding.

  “We’ve got . . . something. Not much of a room. More like a closet. But it ain’t got windows.”

  “That’d be fine. I’ll take it, and I want to be left alone.”

  “Right. Sure. Upstairs. Second door on the left.”

  “And no one will bother me.”

  “Of course not, sir. Of course.” He reached under the counter for a key and slid it across the bar. Ricardo took it gratefully. Only a few more moments and he could collapse. Worry about blood tomorrow.

  He turned to the stairs, and out of the corner of his eye saw the faro dealer nod to his players, stand, and nonchalantly make his way over, as if he just happened to want a stroll across the room at that moment, and they just happened to meet at the base of the stairs. The man glanced into the tumbler of whiskey he held, swirling the amber liquid. He also held a handkerchief, which he’d coughed into a couple of times already. Lungs rotting from the inside out—Ricardo could smell it.

  Ricardo waited. The man obviously wanted to say something.

  “Remind me never to sit down to cards with you, sir,” he said finally. His grin seemed amused.

  So, the faro dealer noticed that, did he? Ricardo hadn’t planned on playing cards; most games of chance weren’t, and he wasn’t interested. But did this man really understand what he had seen? The hair on the back of Ricardo’s neck stood up. “I’m not much for cards myself.”

  “Your wisdom impresses me.”

  The gambler stood out with his precise way of speaking, his polite bearing, and his fine clothes. Shirt starched, jacket pressed, tie neatly knotted. He drew the eye, a calm pool in the grungy saloon. A man like him didn’t have to go out and dirty himself in the mines and the town, when people would come to him and hand over their money.

  “Thank you, Mr.— ”

  “Doctor, if you please, sir. Doctor John Holliday.” The handkerchief disappeared in a pocket, and he held a hand for shaking.

  Ricardo knew that name. Everyone knew that name. “A pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine. Gratifying, meeting a fellow man of manners way out here.”

  “Indeed. My name is Ricardo Avila.”

  “You are from Mexico?”

  “Spain.” Really, though, he’d only spent the first seventeen years of his life in Spain, and the next two centuries in Mexico. He sometimes said the latter, when the situation warranted. In this place, he judged it would be better to be from Spain. “Though I have not been back there in some time.”

  “Won’t you have a drink with me, sir? I suspect you have some fine tales to tell of your recent travels.” He gestured at his whiskey, nodded to a chair, and Ricardo lamented that it was sunrise. He was dead on his feet, nearly.

  “My deep apologies, sir. I need to rest after the night I’ve had. Can I take up your invitation tonight?”

  “Just after sunset, maybe?” Holliday suggested.

  And wasn’t this ominous? Ricardo had to remember to draw breath in order to answer, “That’ll do nicely.”

  “Tonight then, sir.”

  Holliday watched him rush up the stairs.

  As he’d been informed, the closet had a bed, a chair, barely enough room to navigate around both—and no windows.

  Ricardo locked the door, propped the chair in front of it for good measure, and collapsed just as the coming day pulled him out of consciousness. Somehow, he’d made it through another night.

  Hours later, the sun set, and he awoke in darkness, uncertain where he was until he retraced his steps. He’d had to kill Bandita. He’d managed to find shelter. And Doc Holliday was dealing faro in the saloon downstairs.

  Well then.

  His veins burned, his mind throbbed. He didn’t get hungry, but his heart gaped, empty. He’d gone several days without new blood. The situation would not stand—he could feel every heart in the place. The saloon had filled with patrons. He didn’t just hear their voices echoing against the floorboards. He could hear their hot, beating hearts, and he wanted them all.

  He had not lasted this long by not being very careful at times like these.

  Even without windows or a lantern, he could see a little. He straightened his clothing, rubbed a hand on his stubbled face. He needed to get cleaned up. He took the chair away and carefully opened the door to look out in the hallway. Fortunately, he only had to wait a moment before the matronly woman from last night appeared, climbing up the stairs.

  “Oh sir! You’re awake! Been waiting to hear from you—you were quiet as the dead in there.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “If I could trouble you for a few things? A lantern maybe, some water?”

  “Sure thing, give me just a minute.”

  He learned that her name was Hannah O’Shea, she was the barman’s wife, and they made a decent living running this place. When she came to set a basin and lantern on the chair, which was also a washstand apparently, Rick carefully closed the door behind her. She turned at the sound, and he caug
ht her gaze. Murmured words of comfort until she drifted into a stupor, settling on the bed as if she slept. He took her wrist and drank from it.

  Not much. Not enough to do serious harm. A few swallows of rich blood, which filled him with fire and life. The burning in his veins settled, the thirst quenched. Hannah might be a little dizzy for the evening, but he held her gaze and reassured her that all was well, she just needed to drink some water and eat a little something, it was probably the heat made her feel a little off. She agreed, apologizing for nodding off like that, and he gently sent her off to the rest of her business.

  It was not a perfect system, but it worked well enough in emergencies. He could now safely move among the saloon’s patrons without fear of losing himself. Time was, he had friends who knew what he was and were willing to offer up some of their blood for him. He’d been so grateful—not just for the blood but for the companionship. Now—he’d been alone in the wilderness too long.

  Denver. Denver would be different.

  He washed, shaved, put on his spare shirt—smelled a little of horse, but he aired it out the best he could. Put on his coat. He trusted he made a presentable enough picture.

  At last, he emerged. He probably didn’t look too awful.

  The saloon was exactly what he expected, full of miners and cowboys, workmen and itinerates finishing their day by drinking and gambling the money they’d earned. The place was popular, the bar and tables full. Several card games were in progress—and yes, Holliday was still at the table against the far wall. A crowd two deep gathered to watch. Man had a reputation, after all.

  Ricardo sidled up to lean against the bar, to take stock of the place, to think for a minute about what he needed to do next. Get a horse, get to Denver, settle in. Place like this ought to be just a stop on the road. But he was intrigued. He’d met legends before and known he was seeing something special.

  “Get you a drink?” asked the barman—Frank, Ricardo remembered.

  “Whiskey,” Ricardo said. “Just a bit.” He didn’t drink—not in the usual sense, anyway—but it was good to have something in hand to blend in. Frank poured him a shot, and Ricardo had a thought. He asked, “How long has Holliday been in town?”

  “Just a few days. On his way to Leadville I hear, but there’s plenty of action in town, he decided to stay for a few.”

  “And you get the usual cut?”

  He grinned happily, and Ricardo thought about all those miners and prospectors working to get rich at entirely the wrong end of things.

  Ricardo leaned in. “You have any work needs doing around here? I’m looking to earn some cash before I head out. And I wouldn’t mind sticking around to see the action.”

  The barman nodded in perfect understanding. He could charge admission to watch Holliday deal faro. “Been a little shorthanded. What all can you do?”

  “Anything,” Ricardo said.

  “Tend bar? Clean the place? Deal with riffraff?”

  “Oh yes,” Ricardo said, a curl on his lip. He didn’t even have to catch the man’s gaze and twist his will to make him believe. Holliday brought in business, but he brought in trouble, too, and they were trying to balance the both. A strong young man behind the bar might help with keeping folks in line.

  So, Ricardo had a job.

  Four nights in, Ricardo had become familiar, part of the furniture. He’d demonstrated his value to Frank—after that first shot of whiskey, he didn’t take another drink. Nothing better than a sober barman. He’d stopped two fights already without fuss or trouble. Just grabbed the miscreants by their collars, looked them in the eyes, and walked them out the door. Had a knack for it, Frank observed happily, and gave Ricardo a bonus both times it happened. If regular folk felt safe in his place, they’d come spend their money.

  Ricardo could bend this whole town to his will. Gather to himself a whole collection of servants who worshipped him. This was what his kind normally did, what they were made to do.

  He’d heard the arguments, and he did not like them. He didn’t want servants, he wanted friends, just a few. But they died so quickly, and the older he got, the quicker they died. More than three centuries, and the paradox of his existence was still revealing itself to him.

  Holliday was always at his table when Ricardo emerged for the night and rarely retired before he did. Coughing kept him awake, he said, and if he was awake, he might as well be making money. Every couple of hours he’d come to the bar to refill his drink, and he’d talk. Each night, a little more.

  “I have heard of some folk having a sensitivity to sunlight,” Holliday said, drinking off the last from his tumbler and holding it out for more. Ricardo obliged. “Your condition appears to be most severe.”

  They had done this dance for four days. Somehow, Holliday knew what he was and seemed to be watching for bodies stashed under the bar, studying Ricardo’s mouth for a glimpse of telltale fangs. But Ricardo was very careful.

  “I manage,” he said. He could always find a man or two in back sleeping it off. A couple of girls he could pay for an hour of company. None of them remembered what he did to them. He never drank from anyone twice. He was able to gather some strength before the next leg of his journey. “As a medical man, you must see that kind of thing a lot.”

  “Oh, not so much. You have to know what to look for.”

  “And of course, you do.”

  The man’s mustache shifted as he grinned. “Of course.”

  “It’s a topic you’re interested in, I gather.”

  “Certainly. I’ve heard such good stories. Like yours. Traveling ’cross the Rockies on horseback at night? Why ever would you do such a thing?”

  “The train was all booked up.” In fact, the train had been watched, and he couldn’t risk getting cornered. After what had happened on this trip, he might risk it next time.

  Holliday chuckled. “I can tell you are a man who always finds a way. A survivor.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “I am that.”

  “Any advice? For someone who might like to survive?” He waved a hand in a casual gesture, and Ricardo had a strange thought. Holliday was dying, that was clear. Cough by cough, his life ebbed. Ricardo could smell it, a miasma that hung about him—unlike everyone else in the room, he didn’t smell like food.

  He had no advice. Not really. “I keep to myself. Try not to bother anyone.”

  “And if they bother you?”

  Ricardo glanced at Holliday sidelong. Holliday had never once met his gaze. He looked in his glass, he studied the crowd, traced the grain in the wood of the bar. But he knew better than to look in Ricardo’s eyes. Ricardo just about came straight out to ask, How? How did he know?

  “Well then,” Ricardo said. “I send them on their way as politely as I can.”

  “Amen, sir.”

  Ricardo had been in Central City for ten days when he figured it was time he moved on. Holliday had made noise about doing likewise. As fascinating as this stop had been, as much as he was sure there were more stories to learn, Ricardo was starting to get a reputation, and people were starting to know him. This was too small a place for that to be healthy for him. He’d been through about as much of his food supply as he could without doubling up and raising questions. Best to get a horse and head on out.

  One more night, he decided. One more night of watching Holliday, of watching people watch Holliday, and then maybe he’d have his own story to tell about the man. Holliday had been dealing for an hour or so already. His regulars and more than a few folk passing through surrounded his table and took part in the action. The night was perfectly normal. Which made it all the more jarring when a chair clattered back as a man stood up from the faro table and shouted, “You cheat! You’re a lying cheat!”

  A young cowboy type stood pointing at Doc Holliday. He was not a regular.

  Ricardo set down the cloth he’d been using to wipe down glasses and moved around the bar. The room had gone still, conversation falling quiet, everyone looking over.
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br />   A space had formed around the table—a number of players took up their cash and rushed away and couldn’t be faulted for it. That left the cowboy type, a beardless kid in boots, trousers, a plain shirt, and bandana around his neck, sandy-colored hair brushing his ears, and a fiery look in his eyes. He wore two six-shooters in holsters on his belt.

  Ricardo had a feeling this wasn’t about faro.

  Holliday hadn’t moved. He sat straight as always in his chair, one hand holding his ubiquitous handkerchief, the other tapping on the box from which he’d apparently dealt a double, if Ricardo read the board right. Banker won half the stakes on a double, and Ricardo wondered how many pairs Holliday had dealt out of that box. Didn’t really matter, faro was an easy game to cheat at, and in any case you didn’t just stand up and call Holliday a cheater. At least, most folks didn’t.

  “Might you repeat yourself, sir? I don’t think everyone heard you clear enough,” Holliday said, leaning back.

  “You cheat! You fixed the deck!”

  The corner of Holliday’s lip curled up. “You’ve been betting so little, how do you even notice you’ve lost?”

  The cowboy looked like he wanted to lunge across the table at him, but he restrained himself. Ricardo watched, fascinated.

  “Doesn’t it bother you? Me calling you a cheater?”

  “Boy, I’ve been called so much worse. You seem quaint to me.”

  The young man snarled. But still, he didn’t start the fight Ricardo was sure was coming. He was ready to grab whichever fist shot out first.

  “Doesn’t this blowhard bother any of y’all?” the cowboy called out to the rest of the room, to his fellow players who’d pressed even farther away. “You sit here every night and let him take your money! Why?”

  “Kid, you know who that is?” a voice hissed from the crowd, and the cowboy’s hard gaze turned straight back to Holliday. Of course he knew exactly who Holliday was. It was why he’d come here, and his expression twisted, trying to come up with something to say that would get the gunfighter out of his chair.