by Lee Collins
"What if I am?" Wash asked, scowling at her from beneath his hat. "Ain't that always what happens when two legends meet?"
That earned him another good laugh. "I ain't sure about my own legend, Wash Jones," she said, "but I know I ain't never heard of you before. Ain't the two legends supposed to be legends before they have their showdown?"
The gunman's blue eyes burned with anger. "I'll lay you out right here for that!"
He jumped to his feet, his hand reaching for the pistol at his belt. Before the barrel could clear the holster, Cora placed her palms on the edge of the table and shoved. The table fell toward Jones, catching him just above the knees. Coins clattered to the floor as he toppled forward, his head slamming into the tabletop. The revolver fell from his hands as Cora jumped over the table. Before Wash Jones could pull himself together, she gave him a solid smack behind the ear with the butt of her Colt. He collapsed in a heap.
"Damn pups," Cora said, holstering her gun. The other players stared at her as she bent over and recovered a few coins from the mess on the floor. Walking over to Boots, she tossed them on the bar. "Here's for the mess, Boots."
"Thank you, Cora," the bartender replied.
"While you're at it, have yourself a drink," Cora said. "You look like you got a bear standing on your toes."
"A drink, yes," Boots said, favoring her with an odd grin. Cora paid him no mind as she headed for the door with a wave to her fellow gamblers. Stepping out into the street, she breathed in the cold smell of falling snow, then turned her boots toward the marshal's station. Duggan needed to know that there was a new roughneck in town looking for trouble. If nothing else, sorting Wash Jones out would keep the lawman busy while she and Ben took care of the wendigo.
There was a slight bounce in her step as she walked to the station. Her bones might have protested the cold air, but she could still lick a young sprout when one needed licking. Maybe she and Ben had a few more years left in them before they had to start that print shop of his.
• • • •
Wash Jones came to on the floor by the Pioneer's big fireplace, his head ringing from that woman's pistol butt. Groaning, he sat up and took stock of his surroundings. The saloon was still quiet, waiting for the evening flow of miners to bustle through the door. Boots stood behind the bar, diligently wiping it down with a cloth. Wash pulled his feet under him and stood up, gripping his forehead as it throbbed in protest.
"Tough day," Boots said without looking up.
Wash nodded, his eyes closed. He stood with his head down until he heard the sound of a glass being placed on the bar. Opening an eye, he watched Boots fill it with whiskey and nod at him. Wash smiled his thanks, walked over, and tossed it back.
"That Cora Oglesby made a fool of you."
The young gunman didn't appreciate the remark, but his head hurt too much to teach the bartender a lesson. He could only nod again, fingering the empty glass. To his surprise, Boots refilled it. Wash shot him a questioning look.
"I can't imagine that sits very well with you, Mr Washington Jones."
"Ain't you a sharp one," Wash said.
"I pay attention." Boots leaned on the bar. "As it happens, I have an interest in her myself."
"What sort of interest?"
"An interest in seeing her dead."
Wash looked up at him in surprise. The bartender returned his gaze, eyes gleaming as a grin spread across his round face. "You see, she once made a fool of me as well. I've been looking for her for a long time so I might settle the score. Now I've found her at last, but I will need help in bringing her down. As you may have noticed, she is a formidable opponent."
Wash stared into his glass, not sure if the whiskey or the smack on the head was causing him to hear what he was hearing. He looked at the bartender again. The same gleam burned in that red face, regarding him with a sinister intelligence.
"You ain't just a bartender, are you?"
The grin widened. "Not anymore."
EIGHT
"Well, we wasn't expecting much, anyway."
Cora stood in the post office, a small box in her hands. The letter attached to it was from Father Davidson in Boston. Ben picked it up and read it aloud.
To Cora Oglesby,
Greetings in the name of our Holy Father and His Son Jesus Christ. I have enclosed with this letter twelve bullets blessed by the shaman of our local Indian tribe. I will send more if I am able. Until then, please take these weapons and use them to strike down the unholy abomination plaguing the town of Leadville. I will pray for your success.
Yours in Christ,
Father Abraham Davidson
"Only twelve?" Cora opened the box. A dozen points of light glimmered from their bed of crumpled newspaper. "That priest must want us to die."
"Maybe he just has a lot of faith in us," Ben said.
"A little too much, I reckon." She picked up one of the rounds and rolled it between her fingers. "Oh, hang it all. These are .45s."
"Are you sure?" Ben leaned over to look.
"Of course I'm sure," Cora said. "Shot them for years, didn't I?"
"You still got that old gun?"
"Sure, in a box in San Antonio. I left it back there when I got the new .38." She dropped the bullet back into the box. "You ain't got your .45 with you, do you?"
"Back in the room," Ben said.
Cora led the way back to the hotel room. Once inside, she knelt by the bed and pulled out their traveling trunk. After a few moments of rummaging, she finally found what she was searching for. A moan that was half disgust and half dismay rose from her lips as she picked up what the rust had left of Ben's revolver. Grimacing, she tried to pull the hammer back. It was locked in place. The cylinder refused to rotate.
She glared up at him. "Ain't you been oiling this regular?"
Ben looked sheepish. "Well, I thought I had been."
"You should go see the priest about this. Why, this is profane, treating a weapon of the Lord's work like this." She tossed the rusty Colt back in the trunk and stood up. "Well, now we're in a fix. We got a monster we can't kill unless we use bullets we can't shoot."
"Maybe the marshal could loan us one of his pistols," Ben said. "He's got plenty."
"If he doesn't, you're buying me a new gun," Cora said. "Let's go."
Cora stormed down the stairs and through the snowy streets. She burst through the door to the marshal's station, giving Deputy Victor Sanchez a fright. His pistol was nearly clear of his belt before he saw who it was and stopped himself.
"Ah, señora, you scared me," he said, sitting back down at the desk. A moment later, he jumped to his feet again when another bang echoed from down the hall.
"Sanchez, what the hell was that?" Mart Duggan stood in the doorway of his office.
"Just us, marshal," Cora said. "We got a favor to ask."
"What might that be?" Duggan asked.
"Well, we're in a bit of a fix. That priest from Boston sent us those special rounds like he said he would, but they're too big for my gun. Ben here don't keep his up, so we're looking to borrow a .45."
The marshal's eyes flicked over her shoulder. "Is that right? I thought you had a peacemaker same as me."
"Sure do, but it's a new one," she said, pulling her revolver from its holster. "This here's a .38. Easier to handle, though she don't pack as much of a punch."
Duggan walked over and took the gun from her. "Since when did Colt make lady guns?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.
"Since recently," Cora said. "I picked me up one to make my life easier. She don't kick like the .45, so aiming's easier. The size of the bullet ain't what kills what I shoot at, so I figured why not."
"Well, I'll be damned," the marshal said, handing the gun back to her.
"She's a lady, all right, but she can't handle what we need to shoot this time," Cora said.
The marshal placed a hand on the gun at his hip. "You sure your new bullets will whip this thing?"
"Ain't no guarantee,
but they're better than what I got."
Duggan pulled the Colt from his holster and dumped the bullets out onto the deputy's desk. He snapped the cylinder back into place, twirled the gun in his fingers, and handed it to her, grip first. She took it from him and spun it once. "Funny how quick you forget their weight."
"I expect that gun back on my desk by tomorrow sunrise," the marshal said.
"With any luck, you'll have it, marshal," Cora said. "Even better, you'll have us on the next train out of here."
"All the better," Duggan said, turning back toward his office. Cora turned to leave as well when his voice stopped her. "Oh, by the way, that feller you mentioned the other day?"
"You mean Wash Jones?" she asked, turning back to him.
"That's the one." Duggan crossed his arms. "I stopped by the Pioneer this morning, and Boots told me Jones had already lit out of town."
"Is that right?" Cora asked with a snort. "Boots say where that sniveling little weasel was headed?"
Duggan shook his head. "Not a word about it," he said, tugging at his beard as he thought. "Boots seemed a mite touched his own self, though."
"How's that?"
"Kind of cold and mean," the marshal said.
"I heard tell he was shook up from the other night when the wendigo paid you all a visit."
"Could be." Duggan didn't sound convinced.
"Well, after tonight, he can sleep easy," Cora said, rotating the Colt's cylinder and grinning at the tiny clicks it made.
"You'll be heading up the mountain, then?"
"Maybe." Opening the door, Cora stuck her head outside and sniffed the air. "Maybe not," she said, turning back to the marshal. "Smells like another storm's brewing. If the path up to the cabin ain't snowed in yet, it will be soon. I'd rather not get stuck up there with nothing but a dead wendigo and my fool of a husband for company."
"He'll be riding with you?"
"Well, I reckon he's welcome to tag along," Cora said, throwing Ben a look. He grinned back at her. "Like I said, though, I think we'll be staying in town tonight. Wait for the spook to come to us."
Duggan's brow drew downward. "If it comes back here, it will kill people."
"Could be," Cora said, "but there's also more fire and less frost here. Father Baez said this thing was a creature of the cold, so I figure riding out into a snowstorm at night to face it by ourselves ain't the best way to lick it."
"By yourselves," Duggan repeated. "So you'll be wanting our help in town, then?"
"Don't fret about it," Cora said. "I just figured you could tell the townsfolk to keep a bit of fire handy, just in case. Never hurts to be prepared."
"This town's scared enough as it is," Duggan said. "I don't want you bringing that thing back here."
"Well, we ain't riding out into the cold night to fight it," Cora replied. "We've only got the twelve bullets, and if we run out or it kills us, your townsfolk will be a sight worse off than just scared."
Duggan scowled at her, not wanting to give in to any more of her outrageous demands. His refusal was on the tip of his tongue when he reminded himself that she would be gone as soon as she killed the wendigo. Whatever helped her toward that end was worth it, he figured. After a moment, he nodded. "I trust you'll do your best to keep it from eating too many townsfolk."
"Well, of course," Cora said. "We're in the business of helping people, not getting them killed."
"Don't forget it," the marshal said.
Cora tossed her hands up and headed for the door with Ben at her heels. "Next time we help a town," Cora said as they walked back to the hotel, "let's find one where the local law ain't as ornery as the monsters we're killing."
Cora swayed atop Our Lady of Virginia as the mare plodded along the dark streets. Snowflakes drifted down from the black sky to settle in Our Lady's mane. The horse seemed indifferent to the nighttime excursion, but the hunter's eyes were alert, peering into every shadow as they rode. Her right hand clutched the marshal's big Colt, the hammer at rest for the moment. The revolver's cylinder held six of the blessed bullets from Father Davidson, and the other six were tucked into her ammo belt.
Ben rode beside her in silence. He'd wanted to bring a torch along, but she'd insisted that the flames would ruin her ability to see in the dark, so he'd settled for her Winchester. The rifle sat in the crook of his arm, the magazine filled with the Catholic-blessed silver rounds. Cora had thought to bring it along as a backup if she needed to reload her revolver during the fight.
Around them, the town of Leadville slept restlessly. From time to time, Cora saw a curtain draw back and a worried face peer out into the darkness. Mart Duggan had his deputies spread the word throughout the town that citizens should keep a torch or firebrand within easy reach. News of the wendigo's attack had already been whispered on every doorstep and in every room, making the people eager to follow the marshal's advice. If she and Ben failed to bring it down, at least it wouldn't find many easy meals tonight.
Of course, there was no promise that the creature would even make an appearance. It had been nearly a week since its last attack. She figured that would be enough time for it to work through the scare Duggan had given it and come out on a hunt, but she could have been wrong. If she was, they'd have no choice but to head back up to Bartlett's mine to root it out. Cora groaned inwardly at the thought.
As they passed the Purdy brothel, Cora noticed a figure seated on the hitching rail, his back against the wall. A torch mounted above him cast his face in shadow. Curious, she nudged Our Lady over toward him.
"Evening, Mrs Oglesby." It was Jack Evans.
"Evening, deputy," Cora said. "Enjoying the weather?"
The shadow shook its head. "No, ma'am. I'm standing watch."
"On the marshal's orders?"
Jack shook his head again. "No, the marshal done told us to patrol on horseback with torches."
"So why ain't you on horseback with a torch?" she asked.
"He's got enough men doing that, but ain't nobody protecting the Purdy till I come," Jack said.
Cora grinned. "So you're holding the line for the whores."
"Yes, ma'am. Way I figure, they ain't set to look after themselves, so somebody's got to do for them."
"Maybe so," Cora said, leaning over the saddle horn.
"Or maybe you're sweet on a whore yourself and are looking to make an impression."
She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was blushing. "Well, what if I am?" he asked.
"Then you'll get your heart broke," Cora said, "but that ain't my business." She tapped her heels into Our Lady. The mare shook her head and plodded back into the street. Behind her, Cora could hear Jack Evans muttering to himself.
After a short distance, she turned a grin on Ben. "I reckon I upset him."
"The boy's a fool if he thinks he can win over a whore," Ben said.
They rode in silence for awhile. Occasionally, one of Duggan's deputies would ride by with a torch held high. Each would call out to them as they rode past, and Cora returned each greeting with a silent wave.
After over an hour, Cora pulled back on Our Lady's reins outside the Northern Hotel. The mare came to a halt as another deputy rode past, his torch throwing orange shadows along the street.
"If that thing don't show, it's the fault of them puddingheaded deputies," Cora said. "Ain't they ever laid a trap before?"
"Maybe Duggan is trying to drive it away, make us chase it down."
"It takes a fool to lead more fools, I guess," Cora said. She watched the snowflakes fall in silence for a minute. "Why don't you get back upstairs and sleep for a spell?"
Ben's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"To keep fresh," Cora said. "I'll stay out for another hour or so, then come fetch you so you can take a turn at it."
"What if it shows while I'm asleep?"
"Then I'll whip it." Cora pulled the Winchester from the crook of his arm and slid it into Our Lady's saddle scabbard. "Go on, now."
"I don't like
leaving you out here by yourself," Ben said, setting his jaw.
"The longer you fret about it, the less sleep you'll get," Cora said. "No need for both of us to wear out at the same time. Now, if the wendigo shows, I'll run fetch Duggan's boys right quick and send one of them to rouse you."
Ben sighed through his nose. "You got the extra rounds from Father Davidson?" he asked.
"Right here," Cora said, patting her ammo belt with a gloved hand.