“No,” said Luke. “I think this is it.”
“What are you talking about?” Tom said.
“That artifact. The one that gives Jeb the power he stole from Bobby.” Luke walked over to the steps and laboriously began to climb.
Tom came to his side. “Well, don’t go up there. Leave it be.”
“Don’t you see? The Stranger told me that the way witchery works, Jeb has to be using something of Bobby’s.” He looked back at Tom, his lips twisted with anger. “How much you want to bet that’s the rope they hung Bobby with.”
Tom’s expression now mirrored Luke’s. “The bastard.”
“That’s right,” Luke said, climbing the next step despite his body’s complaints. “Betrays him, steals his gun, then uses the very rope he was hanged with to steal his talent.”
“So what do we do?” Tom asked. “Take it down?”
“We burn it,” Luke said stepping up again.
“In this downpour? How do we manage that?”
“You still got your matches?” he asked.
“A couple, but they’ll just get wet,” Tom replied, following him up to the platform. The majority of the black mist was gone, but a few tufts still hung stubbornly to the wood. Tom reached out to touch one of them, then thought better of it.
Luke stood below the noose. El Estrangular’s pull was strongest here. He felt its hunger. He felt the urge to place his head inside.
“Don’t get so close to that,” Tom warned.
“You’re right,” Luke replied, taking a step back. “Get out your matches.”
Tom reached under the coat to his inner jacket pocket. “They’re just gonna get-. Hey!”
Luke grabbed the hat off of Tom’s head and held it out next to the noose. Tom, his head now dripping, lifted the small box under the hat and took out a match. His luck held and it lit the first time he tried.
Luke moved the hat slowly. “Just be careful and get it over to the rope.”
“Okay, but it’s not gonna light.”
He was wrong. The moment the tiny flame touched the waxed rope it caught ablaze. The effect was so bright and immediate, the boys stumbled backward, coming close to teetering off of the edge. The flames engulfed the noose and ran up the rope. A screaming hiss issued from the knot.
“Let’s get down from here,” Tom decided.
He placed the hat back on his head and put his arm around Luke, helping his friend down the stairs as quickly as he could. Despite the heavy rainfall, the fire spread quickly, engulfing the gibbet and lapping up the clinging bits of blackness as if they were made of oil. When they reached the bottom, the entire platform was on fire.
They walked away from the blaze and Tom looked around. “Where’s Sandy?”
He ducked his head into the sheriff’s office and saw that the Constable was gone as well, as were Katie and the tall deputy. “Couldn’t they have said something?” He turned and saw Luke hobbling through the mud towards Main Street. He hurried to catch up to him. “What are you doing? Are we all splitting up now?”
Puerta Muerte was in chaos and the Kid was having the time of his afterlife. He danced carelessly through the rain, appearing and disappearing at will and he reached out with his witchery, feeling the balance of the world around him and unbalancing it. Whenever he sensed something he could manipulate, he pulled, prodded, squeezed.
Banditos fell down loose stairs. Others’ guns went off in their holsters or, for one unfortunate soul, down the front of his pants. Pressure in wine bottles built up and caused them to shatter. Oil lamps broke. Fires were started.
But mostly, people slipped. They slipped on wet steps or out in the street. Most of these falls were harmless, some were not. Bones were broken, ankles sprained. Guns were covered with mud.
The Kid paused. Something tickled his mind. Nearby there was something unstable. In a warehouse across the street from the bank was a crate and inside that crate was dynamite. A lot of it. The Kid had no idea how these bandits had come across it, but he had no choice but to reach out a finger.
*Flick*
The resulting explosion blew the roof and street-side wall into the air. The concussive blast that followed crumpled the side of the bank, shattered windows along the street and sent shards of wood through the open doors of the nearby saloon and cantina.
The Stranger continued his march of fear, his horse with fiery hooves sending men fleeing with terror. As he went, bits of flesh fell from him and his horse alike, adding to his ghostly horror. His power surged as people fainted away before his maniacal laughter.
Pecos Bill’s storm did the most damage, though. Most of the bandits, instead of staying in the streets to prevent the Red Star’s escape huddled in buildings, waiting for the windy deluge to pass. Lightning strikes peppered the town, setting more buildings on fire than the Kid’s tricks and in parts of the town, the rain was replaced by hail the size of silver dollars.
That was just the beginning.
Tom stayed by Luke’s side until about half way up Main Street, when hailstones began to fall like rocks hurled from God’s great sling. He pulled his friend into the safety of a darkened building and when he turned around, Luke was gone.
“Where did you-? Luke!” Tom said. The building was a run-down whore house and from the sounds that came from behind some of the doors, it was still in use. Tom saw wet footprints and followed them down a darkened hallway, repeating in his loudest whisper, “Luke!”
A door slammed open behind him and Tom spun, drawing both his revolvers. Standing in the doorway, his shirt gaping open, was “Cinco” Chavez, the current leader of Santos’s banditos. The five scars that gave him his nickname were clustered on his bare chest. He was well known for having survived those five bullet wounds. He had a pistol held limply in one hand.
“Say, that’s you, innit, Tomass Dunnn?” he slurred. A chuckle escaped lips wet with either drink or vomit. Tom thought he must have come here right after the hanging. Maybe he had even been drinking before, to numb the guilt of betraying his leader. “You got away from the sherff. Well, not me.”
He lifted his pistol. Both men fired quickly, emptying their guns. Bullets smacked into the wall all around Tom. Tom’s aim wasn’t much better. His bullets scattered down the hallway, one striking the head of a bandit that ran out of the room to see what was happening. Fortunately, he had twice as many bullets to get lucky with.
Cinco looked down at his torso to see three new holes. “Not again,” he said weakly before collapsing.
Tom, out of bullets, holstered his guns and ran down the hall, bursting out of a door that led to an alleyway. The hail had stopped, replaced by a lighter mist of rain. Standing in front of Tom, having entered the alleyway for the partial shelter provided by the overhanging roofs of the two buildings, were two horses. One was a palomino stallion. He was nudging the mare next to him in an interested fashion.
“Bitey!” Tom said, embracing the beast. He wasn’t sure if Bitey’s snorted response was from joy or irritation at his presence.
He climbed into the saddle and noticed that the mare looked familiar. He was certain that it was Luke’s horse, though it did have an odd half healed wound in its hindquarters. “Well-well. My luck is running strong today!”
Shouting rose in the building behind him. It started to hail again.
Jeb Wickee was in a state, his heart still pounding with fear and his mind full of fury as he huddled in a barn near the edge of town, away from the hail. This was supposed to be his day of triumph. He had finally rid himself of his only competition. The boys who had humiliated him were in his hands. He had shot and killed a legendary lawman. How had it all fallen apart?
He listened to the maddening patter of ice hitting the roof above him and thought back to what that terrifying specter had said. He knew about the noose. He knew about the stolen talents. What had it been? Was it somehow sent by Bobby as revenge?
Surely not, but then, as Jeb had been running away, he had felt somet
hing like fire running through his mind. His connection with El Estrangular had been lost. The power that he had already absorbed from the artifact still coursed through him, but once that was gone, how would he replace it? Then the thought of what was under the specter’s eyepatch entered his mind again. He shuddered.
“No!” he stomped his foot and punched a stall door. He had to regain control. Pushing the spectral images from his mind, he tried to focus on the positives. Santos was still dead. He still had unprecedented control over this town. He’d just have to be more subtle in his manipulations. He had done that before.
Jeb took a deep breath. The one remaining loose end was the Red Stars. They had likely escaped from the jailhouse, but surely they wouldn’t get out of the city. For all he knew they were in a shootout with other outlaws right now.
A laugh burst from his mouth. Now that he thought about it, this was very freeing. With El Estrangular gone, there was no pressing need to hang the boys. Let them be shot. It was simple. In fact, he should be out there leading the charge.
The hail storm had passed. It was just rain now. Jaw set, he opened the barn door and stepped out into the street.
“Jeb Wickee,” said a familiar voice.
Jeb turned to see Luke Bassett, leaning against the wall of the barn. He looked terrible, one eye swollen shut, his shooting hand in splints. And he was soaked to the bone. He looked like a drowned rat.
“Luke,” Jeb said. “You got out.”
“I had a promise to keep,” Luke replied, pushing away from the wall with obvious effort. He hobbled toward the sheriff.
“You want to try to shoot me, Luke? Go right ahead.” Jeb spread his arms wide, his shotgun clenched in his right hand.
Luke’s right hand moved surprisingly fast. He reached into his hidden shoulder holster and pulled out a revolver. Using the side of his splinted hand, he fanned the hammer six times. Jeb felt the bullets whizz past him, smiling as another gun appeared in the man’s hand, pulled from behind his waist.
Luke emptied this gun, too, then dropped it onto the ground next to the other spent one. “You know, you broke the wrong fingers. I’m better with my right.” He reached across his body to pull his Smith and Wesson from its holster on his left side, hobbling a couple steps closer.
Luke raised this gun more deliberately this time, focusing down the sights from just ten feet away. Six more bullets bent around Jeb. Luke winced, but didn’t seem particularly surprised that he missed. “You know, I burned your gallows down. That noose that killed Bobby? It’s gone, and all that power you stole with it.”
Jeb lowered his arms, no longer amused. He turned his shotgun on Luke.
The young gunslinger, hobbling just seconds before, moved far faster than should have been possible. He darted forward and got his splinted hand under the shotgun before Jeb’s finger found the trigger.
Luke knocked the barrel up in the air just as Jeb’s gun went off. At the same time, his right hand found Jeb’s gun holster. The next thing the sheriff knew, Bobby Estrella’s gun was pointed against the side of his head.
“Try bending this bullet,” Luke said, and pulled the trigger.
Jeb’s power tried. The bullet entered his skin at the side of his head and bent around his skull, carving a deep furrow in his cheekbone. It then tore through flesh and cartilage and exited the side of Jeb’s nose, taking his right nostril with it.
Jeb’s head was rocked. He stumbled to the side, in shock, his vision swimming. What had just happened? Did he still have a face? It was all so numb, yet it burned at the same time. His left eardrum, blown out by the closeness of the blast, rang.
“I shot you, Jeb,” said Luke, twirling the gun in his hand. “And I’ll do it again.” He stepped forward.
“Stop!” Jeb shouted, his voice amplified by Santos’ power still inside him.
Luke stopped.
Jeb shook his head and saw the blood falling. He could taste it in his mouth, but his face was still numb. He realized that his shotgun was still in his hand. He hadn’t dropped it. “On your knees!”
Luke fell to his knees, gasping from the pain the short fall sent through his bruised body.
“Don’t move,” he said, using the last gasp of his power. Jeb raised the shotgun and pressed it against Luke’s face. “We’ll see how you like it.”
“Jebediah Wickee!” said a voice from up the street.
Jeb saw Sandy Tucker standing there, his rifle pointed right at him. “You’re here just in time to see Luke lose his face.”
“The Witch of the Rio Grande sends her regards,” Sandy said.
Jeb blinked, lowering his shotgun. “How would you know about that?”
“She told me how your gift works. She also told me about mine. Wanna know what it is?” Sandy asked.
“No,” Jeb replied.
“I don’t miss,” Sandy replied.
“I wonder what happens when a man who thinks he can’t miss tries to shoot a man who can’t be hit?” Jeb asked.
“Here’s the thing, Jeb,” Sandy said. “You’ve already been shot. This will just be the second time.” He pulled the trigger.
For that brief second, Jeb Wickee’s confidence faltered. Sandy’s eyes followed his bullet as it entered the hole in Jeb’s nose Luke’s shot had already made. This time it went clean through.
The sheriff fell.
Sandy sighed, a weight lifting off his shoulders. He jogged to Luke’s side and helped him to his feet. “You got to shoot him with Bobby’s gun. That was great!”
Luke put the shining pistol into the shoulder holster under his jacket. “Yeah, but you got to kill him.”
“You can’t have everything,” Sandy replied.
“There you two are!” shouted Tom, rounding the corner on horseback, pulling two more horses behind him. “Hurry! Hurry! I got trouble behind me!” He reached them, and stared down at Jeb’s body on the ground. “Well I’ll be damned. You did it.”
“And you found my horse,” said Luke with a lopsided smile. “What a team we are.”
“Shut up and get on,” Sandy said, helping to boost him up. “What kind of trouble is behind you?”
“All of it! Go! Go!” Tom urged and rode forward.
Sandy swung his leg into the saddle just as a group of banditos rounded the corner firing. The Red Stars spurred their horses past the barn and out of town, a hail of bullets following after them.
“What did you do to get so many on your tail?” Sandy asked. They were just riding out of the rain-wrapped portion of the storm, the stinging spray replaced by battering wind.
“I kind of turned Cinco into an Ocho!” Tom yelled. “But that’s not the biggest problem!”
He pointed westward into the storm and Sandy saw a tornado bearing into town just behind them. It plowed into the remnants of their pursuit, flinging them through the air. Sandy’s eagle eyes followed the tail of the tornado from the ground up its length. There he was, half way up, hooting and hollering and having a grand old time. Pecos Bill was riding the twister.
Katie stumbled up the hillside. She was out of the rain, but still soaked and confused. It was all a blur to her. She had been trapped in the jailhouse with the Red Star Gang. Things went fuzzy. That strange old man had somehow taken her out of Puerta Muerte safely, but then they had gotten separated in the storm.
She stopped and looked back at the town in the distance, smoke rising from fires in several places. She stared in awed surprise as a tornado plowed through the center of town, blasting buildings to kindling. “Unbelievable.”
Katie took a step backwards and caught her heel on a rock. Her ankle crumpled. The next thing she knew, she was tumbling down an incline, dirt and debris clinging to her wet clothes. She came to an abrupt stop at the bottom, her chest striking the ground.
“Oof!” Groaning, she looked up and found herself face-to-face with a rattlesnake. It rattled. She tried to back away. The snake reared back, ready to strike, when a pair of boots appeared behind it.
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br /> A slender hand descended and smacked the top of the snake’s head. “No-no, you ornery little thing,” said a woman’s voice. It’s rattling stopped and it twisted to face the newcomer. “Scoot now,” she demanded. “Go on!”
The snake obediently slithered away. The woman nodded her head at it, then turned her attention to Katie. “Now you look a bit worse for wear.”
Katie pushed herself to her knees and looked the woman over, sizing her up. The woman looked to be a bit older than she was and a real beauty, though she wore no makeup. She was dressed in rugged trail clothes that looked like they just might fit Katie. How lucky for her. Here was her chance to get out of her soaked clothes. Even injured, she figured she could take the woman down.
Katie smiled back at the woman “You probably saw me take that tumble down the hill. Twisted my ankle up something fierce,” She reached out to the woman. “Thanks for scaring off that rattler. You mind helping a girl up?”
The woman held out her hand. Katie gripped it, pulled herself to her feet and launched herself at the woman, intending to tackle her to the ground. To her surprise, the woman didn’t go down with her. In fact, it was as if the woman wasn’t there at all. Katie ended up striking the ground chest first once again, while the woman still stood there unmoved.
Katie lay there for a moment, stunned. Then scrambled to her feet, limping as she turned back to the woman. “How’d you do that?”
The woman gave her a look that was both amused and assessing. “My-my. What a feisty little prospect you are. Gotta admire your spunk. Though you need some refinement.”
Katie swung a punch at the woman’s face. Most ladies didn’t expect a move like that. This one, however, caught her fist effortlessly in an outstretched palm. Katie punched out low with her other hand, going for a belly blow. Her fist disappeared into the woman’s midsection.
Katie jerked back her hand and staggered backwards on her injured leg, nearly falling again. “My hand went right through you like you weren’t even there.”
Noose Jumpers: A Mythological Western Page 39