Hell's Marshal

by Chris Barili

  He turned a bright red and reached for his pistol.

  “Steady, Jack,” Smith said. “No need for shooting. Yet.”

  Frank took off his gun belt and handed it to Spike.

  “You and her stay here,” he said, nodding to Camille. “Me and Batcho will check on O’Kelley.”

  Spike and Camille gave him dubious looks, but nodded and faced the men. Frank leaned down and whispered in the hooker’s ear.

  “If they look to come in, let ‘em. All they can do is send me back where I came from. Don’t give up your chance at staying here for me.”

  She nodded again.

  Frank turned to Smith. “I’m ready.”

  “The dog stays outside,” the town boss said. “Never did trust a mutt.”

  Batcho stepped forward, teeth bared.

  “He’s a coyote,” Frank said, moving past Smith without waiting for permission. “He does what he wants, and I don’t advise trying to stop him. Not if you like your throat.”

  Smith huffed and stomped up the stairs behind Frank.

  The jail was tinier inside than it looked, with just enough room for a wood stove, a desk, and two narrow holding cells. Wanted posters dotted the wall, and a sawed off shotgun stood in one corner.

  Sitting on the floor in one cell was Ed O’Kelley. His dark hair sat in a tussled mess on his head, as thin as weeds, and an undergrown handlebar moustache twitched as he watched the strangers approach. His thin frame seemed folded up on itself, and his beady brown eyes studied them.

  “Don’t look like much, does he?” Smith asked, a cruel grin distorting his mouth.

  “That the weapon?” Frank asked, pointing to the shotgun.

  “Yep, sure is. He fired both barrels. Damn near beheaded the man who killed Jesse James.”

  Frank froze. “Ford killed James?”

  Smith nodded. “We told him to leave town, but he insisted on re-opening his saloon in a tent after the fire.”

  “And O’Kelley killed Ford?”

  “Yep.”

  Frank walked to stand before the cell, staring down at O’Kelley. The killer stared back.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  O’Kelley shrugged. “Felt like it at the time.”

  Batcho sat on his haunches, tongue lolled to one side, regarding the murderer calmly. That told Frank all he needed to know. He pivoted on his heel and strode for the door, Batcho and Smith close behind.

  “He knows you’re coming,” said O’Kelley as they strode away.

  Frank froze, looking back over his shoulder. “What did you say?”

  The murderer shook himself, as if he’d been daydreaming, and looked at Frank with confusion on his face.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You said he knows I’m coming. Who?”

  O’Kelley shrugged. “I never said that.”

  Frank moved like lightning, reaching through the bars to grab O’Kelley by the collar and smash his head into the iron bars. The prisoner flinched and let out a pathetic whimper.

  “Who?” Frank shouted. “Tell me!”

  O’Kelley said nothing, but Smith touched the cold, hard barrel of his pistol to the base Frank’s skull.

  “Let my prisoner go,” he whispered. “Now.”

  Frank released O’Kelley and Smith lowered his gun. Rising, Frank straightened his shirt and moved to the door, Batcho trailing.

  “You at least could have growled at him,” Frank mumbled at the coyote.

  Batcho whined and tucked his tail.

  Outside, Camille and Spike faced the toughs, rifles at the ready, muscles tense. Camille glowered at the men, while Spike looked worried. The gunmen were just as wound, and the whole thing felt like a powder keg ready to blow.

  “He’s gone.” Frank kept his voice low as he strapped his gun belt back on. “O’Kelley’s not possessed now. But he killed the man who killed Jesse James, so we’re on the right trail.”

  “I think the problem now is that our trail—correct or not—goes through these gentlemen.” Spike fingered his shotgun as he spoke.

  Frank looked over the six men before them, calculating ways to kill them before they killed him. All other onlookers had gone, leaving just the gunmen with their six shooters and scowls. In the distance, a train whistle blew.

  “You’ll all want to be on that train,” Smith said, coming up behind them. “It leaves town in an hour.”

  Out the corner of his eye, Frank saw movement in a nearby building. A tiny, freckled face disappeared, replaced by a still-swinging white curtain.

  “We’re not quite finished yet,” he growled at Smith, his hand hovering near his Colt. “I’d like to get a look at the scene of the killing, maybe talk to some—”

  “That won’t be possible,” Smith said, stepping closer. “Tent saloon’s torn down, and the witnesses were all interviewed. They had nothing interesting to say.”

  Frank started to protest, but Smith cut him off. “The train, friends. Now.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ten minutes later, Frank and his crew stood amidst a swarm of flies in front of the Creede depot, tickets in-hand. Smith’s men had positioned themselves around the area, and a small crowd milled around on the platform, waiting to board a train consisting of three passenger cars, two boxcars, and a caboose.

  “So, where do we go now?” Spike asked.

  “I say we just get to Alamosa and figure things out from there,” replied Camille. Her face was dusty now, giving her a hardened kind of beauty, like she was part of the land. Frank caught himself staring at her and looked away.

  At that moment, Batcho went rigid and growled at the far end of the platform. An instant later, the coyote calmed himself and sat, panting in the heat.

  “You might be the dumbest coyote ever.” Frank turned to the others. “Unless Spike has an objection, we’ll head to, uh…”

  He realized he didn’t know where.

  “Minnesota,” came a small voice behind him. “Northfield, Minnesota.”

  Frank turned and looked down at a scrawny boy, nine or ten years old. Soot marred his cheeks and forehead, but Frank recognized his freckles.

  “You were watching us earlier, in the window.” One of Smith’s men took notice, so the boy held out his hand, winking. Frank dug a penny from his pocket and gave it to the boy. The gunman relaxed.

  “What are you talking about, son?” Frank asked.

  The boy bit down on the penny, then slipped it in his pocket.

  “The one you’re looking for,” the boy answered. “He said he was going to Northfield.”

  Camille squatted in front of the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If you tell us more, there’ll be more money.”

  For emphasis, she jingled the purse at her waist.

  The boy shook his head. “This information costs more than coins.”

  “You can tell us or it’ll be unpleasant for you,” Frank grumbled.

  This time the boy laughed out loud. “All I gotta do is yell out and those men with the guns will come down on you hot as bacon sizzling.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Spike said. “Go on, get lost now before I kick your—”

  “He’s not alone anymore.” Suddenly, the boy had Frank’s complete attention. “I know who he’s with, what they look like, and what they’re up to. Overheard it all.”

  He crossed his scrawny arms and turned his back on Camille.

  “You got grit,” Frank told him. “What’s your askin’ price, then?”

  The boy spun, a smile curving up the corners of his impish mouth. “Take me with you.”

  “No chance.”

  “That’s the price for everything I know about the new James gang. At least, that’s what they’re calling themselves.”

  Frank knew the boy was baiting him, but it still worked—he was interested.

  Camille stood and turned to Frank. “This is no trip for a child. He’ll slow us down or get himself killed.”

  “It’s a chance we g
otta take,” Frank replied. “We need this information. Bad.”

  Spike started to object, but Frank cut him off and turned to the boy.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Curtis. Curtis Sheets, sir.” He rubbed a soot-covered finger under his nose, leaving a smear.

  “And what would your mom and dad say about you going with us?”

  Curtis shrugged. “Nothing. They died a few years back and left me to my uncle. He sold me to the mining company to work in the shafts.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nine. I’m small for my age, but I fit better in the shafts that way. Makes me more useful.”

  Batcho nudged his head under Curtis’s hand and let the boy scratch his ears.

  Camille fingered the handle of her Bowie. “I’d like to have a word or two with this uncle of yours.”

  “Can’t,” Curtis said. “Got a telegram last year sayin’ he died in a gunfight in Missouri. I got no one here.”

  Frank looked at both Camille and Spike. Neither objected.

  “Looks like we’re your best hope, then,” Frank said. “But you do what I say and you stay out of the way. This is dangerous business, not child’s play.”

  Curtis puffed out his chest. “I know how dangerous he is. I saw him. When no one else could.”

  Steam hissed from the locomotive and the conductor bellowed for boarding.

  “Go get yourself a ticket to Denver,” Frank said, offering Curtis a silver dollar.

  But the boy stared over Frank’s shoulder, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. Beside him, Batcho growled.

  Frank turned. People scattered from the platform, either boarding the train or hurrying into the depot building. Stomping up the stairs and onto the wood planks of the platform was the old prospector. He’d straightened his bent frame now, standing over six feet tall, the pickaxe dragging in his left hand. In his right hand gleamed the Navy revolver, but as bright as it shone, nothing could draw Frank’s gaze from the midnight black of the old man’s eyes. They bore into him, slicing through him, making him feel exposed and alone. Part of him recoiled, but another jumped at the chance of a fight, something he understood.

  Frank drew his pistol. “About time we got to the shootin’ part. Spread out!”

  Spike and Camille fanned out to either side, and Frank shoved Curtis behind him

  The old man fired first, the round whizzing past Frank’s ear. His second shot took Frank in the left shoulder with a hollow whump sound but no pain, just the feeling of being punched in the shoulder.

  Frank returned fire, his shot tearing through the prospector’s chest and exploding out the back in a shower of flesh and bone. The old man didn’t slow, instead firing again. This shot ricocheted off the engine, and the fourth struck Frank in the thigh. This time, pain exploded in his leg and up into his hip, nearly making him fall.

  Spike finally brought the shotgun to bear and fired both barrels, rocking the prospector backward, tearing off his left arm and sending the pickaxe flying. The damage didn’t last, though, as the severed arm reattached itself in a heartbeat, bone and sinew weaving together of its own accord. The old man took aim at the barkeep, and Frank used the moment’s distraction to push Curtis toward the railcar.

  “Get on the train, boy! Now!”

  The boy did as he was told, disappearing into the passenger car.

  Camille had joined the fight now, opening fire from behind a post. At least two of her rounds struck the prospector, one knocking him sideways, almost making him fall. The old man let out a wail of fury so loud Frank felt it in his chest, as if someone had stuck him with a sandbag. The prospector turned his pistol toward Camille.

  Even as Frank raised his Colt, he knew he was too late. Time seemed to slow, the old man’s gun coming up inexorably, Frank’s own motions slowed like he was stuck in a vat of molasses. He couldn’t make it in time.

  The prospector fired again and everything returned to normal, Frank’s run picking up steam, even as the train pulled away from the platform. The first shot pinged off the light post where Camille hid, and before the prospector could fire another shot, Frank drove his shoulder into the old man’s ribs. They tumbled to the planks, Frank rolling away as the prospector slid on his side the other direction.

  Frank came to his feet, gun drawn, and fired one shot, hitting the old man in the center of his chest. Flesh spattered the train car behind him as the prospector teetered on the edge of the platform, then fell between it and the moving train.

  For a solitary, still moment, everyone froze, holding their breath as if letting it out would breathe life back into the old man.

  “Hurry!” Curtis yelled from inside the first boxcar. “Get on before it leaves!”

  Camille moved first, Spike following, both running for the open door.

  Batcho yipped and jumped onto the car, slipping past the boy. Camille was just grabbing the rail to pull herself on when movement caught Frank’s eye. A hand grasped the edge of the platform, and the prospector hauled himself onto the planks.

  “Go!” Frank yelled to the others. He ran, watching as Camille climbed aboard. Spike struggled, being hefty and slow. The big barkeep huffed, arm extended in a futile effort to grab the moving handle.

  Frank’s leg screamed in pain, but he managed to get close enough to shove Spike in the back, giving the man just enough of a boost to stumble onto the car.

  Frank’s fingers brushed the cool brass handle as the end of the platform neared. He had just enough space—

  A shot rang out and fire stabbed him between the shoulder blades. He stiffened, stumbled, and fell from the end of the platform. He took the three-foot drop hard, smashing into the baked earth, his breath exploding from his chest. He lay stunned for a heartbeat, then he was up and running, pulling air back into his lungs with all his might.

  The prospector followed on his heels, fetid breath hot on Frank’s neck. Frank’s leg slowed him down some, but he still managed to reach the door of an empty box car and grab the hand rail. He was about to lever himself into the car when the prospector dove and grabbed his right ankle, making him stumble.

  Frank clung to the rail with one hand while the train built speed, his left foot dragging on the ballast. The prospector began to climb up his leg, reaching his knee in one lunge. His midnight eyes drove railroad spikes of terror into Frank’s heart. He kicked at the old man, but he held on with hands of iron.

  Frank tried to draw his pistol with his left hand, but couldn’t reach. The prospector lunged again, his arms now around Frank’s thigh, his mouth bent into a savage grin. The old man drew his pistol, holding onto Frank with one arm, and pushed it into the existing wound. Frank screamed and almost lost his grip on the rail.

  “So long, gun fighter,” the prospector wheezed. “Jesse sends his regards.”

  Something streaked over Frank’s head, and a pickaxe impaled itself through the prospector’s eye, rocking his head back. Curtis grabbed Frank’s wrist and held on while Batcho leaned out, his forepaws on Frank’s chest, and clamped his jaws down on the old man’s wrist. The prospector lost his grip on Frank’s leg. With a scream, he rolled under the box car behind them and disappeared.

  Curtis and Batcho managed to tug Frank inside, and the three lay on the cold floor, chests heaving. Batcho’s tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, spitting out chunks of dead flesh.

  Frank reached out to scratch the coyote’s ears. “Looks like you ain’t so useless.”

  Batcho bared his teeth in response.

  As they watched, the bits of prospector meat coalesced into one larger chunk and crawled out the door. Frank and Curtis exchanged a look, and ran to the door, both peering out behind the train. There, a half-mile back, stood the prospector, watching them go with his dead, black eyes.

  “Something tells me we’ll be seeing him again,” Curtis said.

  Frank grunted assent and turned away.

  “Thanks for saving my hide,” he muttered. “Now let’s find the othe
r two and figure this out.”

  Curtis pointed at Frank’s leg. “We’d better take care of that, too.”

  Frank winced as the pain returned, but shrugged it off. “I’m already dead. What harm’s a little hole gonna do?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Frank rested his head against the supple leather cover of his seat’s cushion, closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the sharp pangs of pain in his thigh while Camille cleaned his wound with a foul-smelling brown whiskey they’d bought from a fellow passenger. Frank hadn’t offered the whiskey Buzzy had given him—he didn’t think it would have the same effect.

  “Amazing,” she muttered, looking up for a moment, her cold, blue eyes avoiding his. “The wound is healing itself so fast the bullet fell out. If all our bodies do this, we might have a chance at surviving.”

  He could feel his flesh mending, weaving fibers together as if it had a life of its own.

  Outside the window, the gray and brown hues of the Rockies streaked past, a blur of drab earth tones with splotches of green here and there for variety. The sun set behind them, distorting shadows, melting the purple and black of the sky into the surrounding countryside. Inside the train, a solitary fly buzzed, the rest of the swarm left behind.

  “Makes sense if you think about it,” Spike said, watching her work, wincing with every move as if she were working on his leg. “Our souls brought our bodies back from the dead and healed years of decay. Bullet wounds are light work.”

  The barkeep sat across from Frank in their private compartment, with Curtis beside him, trying not to look at the blood. At their feet lay Batcho, seemingly asleep, though the occasional twitch of his ear hinted he was aware of more than he let on.

  Once she’d cleaned his wound, Camille handed Frank the needle and thread.

  “I ain’t your seamstress,” she said. “Mend your own damned pants.”

  For an instant, he saw something dark dancing behind the ice of her eyes, something shadowed and frightening. Then she smiled, locking eyes with him, and sat on the bench, leaving a fist’s width between them.

  He thought for just an instant it had been more than just a smile, like she’d saved it just for him. But that was silly, so he shook it off and looked at Curtis.