Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name

by Edward M. Erdelac

  Tetchy the bartender moved toward the back room, attracting Hoodoo’s attention as well as those of his two bodyguards (both who wore city marshal bands pinned on their hats).

  “Hang on Tetchy,” said Hoodoo. “Where’s Dodgy today?”

  “He ain’t been here in two days, Hoodoo.”

  Hoodoo’s eyes went to the Rider for the first time. There was a hint of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

  “Who’s this dude?”

  “A friend of mine from Georgia,” Doc said. “He’s alright. Rider, this is Hoodoo Brown, esteemed Justice of the Peace.”

  The Rider nodded.

  Hoodoo sucked his teeth.

  “What’s your interest here, Rider?”

  “My pistol was stolen last night.”

  “Take Dirty’s then, and call it even.”

  “It’s a very rare pistol, your honor,” said the Rider, “and an heirloom besides. I’m disinclined to let it go.”

  Hoodoo raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, awright. Let’s all go back to my office and sort this thing out.” He turned to go, and touched the arm of one of his men. “You stay here. Open up a tab with Tetchy. See if Dodgy shows his face.”

  The slim, dark haired marshal nodded and went to the bar.

  * * * *

  Hoodoo Brown’s office door, situated in the adobe town hall, bore the legend ‘Hyman Neill, Justice of the Peace, Coroner.’ When the six of them had entered and closed the door behind them, Dirty was flung into a chair facing Hoodoo’s big polished desk, and Hoodoo sat down and laid his big knuckled hands flat on the green blotter, where a folded copy of the Las Vegas Daily Optic lay.

  “I always played you fair, haven’t I, Dirty?” Hoodoo said.

  “Fair enough,” Dirty agreed, wiping his bloody face with his sleeve.

  “And I played Bullshit and Dodgy and those others the same. When you all robbed the Barlow and Sanderson stage outside Tecolote I didn’t ask to wet my beak, not even when you hit it again a couple weeks later.”

  “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” Dirty muttered.

  “You make a fair to middling constable and a handy gun for a burg like this, but as a liar you’re tits on a bull. You know the terminus is in New Town. That makes the train my jurisdiction. It don’t get touched without my permission.” He picked up the paper and slapped it with the back of his hand. “The goddamned city fathers are already complainin’ about our lack of subtlety. Then you go and steal two thousand dollars off the alcalde’s cousin....”

  “There was two thousand dollars in that bag?” Dirty interrupted, almost choking.

  “You gonna tell me you didn’t know how much he was carrying? Gonna tell me you boys didn’t know about him comin’ from California with all that money? I’ll be lucky they don’t sic the goddamned Pinkertons on me.”

  “Hell, I thought he was just another high hat Mex, Hoodoo! Honest! I didn’t even get a chance to count that damn money. I swear I didn’t know that Mex was nobody. The whole thing was Dodgy’s idea! Him and the Professor!”

  “Who is the Professor?” Doc asked.

  “Some skinny, suit wearin’ Englishman,” Hoodoo said dismissively. “Too big for his goddamned britches. He’s been in town for two weeks, throwin’ a lot of money around, buyin’ up my men, apparently.”

  “What’s his line?”

  “Who knows? I can’t keep track of every dude that blows in off the rails. We had him figured for a speculator, not a goddamned mastermind.” He turned on Dirty. “Where are those idiots now? They’re not in town, or we’d of found them by now.”

  “They’re up at a little place on Elk Mountain. It’s an old miner’s cabin.”

  “Elk Mountain’s a lotta ground. You know where?”

  “They drew me a map,” Dirty said, taking a crumpled piece of paper from his hip pocket and smoothing it out on Hoodoo’s desk. “I never been up there myself. I only went along on the train for the swag.”

  “No shit,” said Hoodoo, squinting at the chaotic geometry of the creased map.

  “No, I mean, they wasn’t even interested in robbin’ the passengers. All they wanted was the damn signalman’s lanterns and the spare globes.”

  “What for?”

  “Got me hangin’,” said Dirty, shrugging. “We was only supposed to get all the lanterns and the boxes of red glass globes in the caboose. We was supposed to ride straight for Elk Mountain after that, but it was easy to cut loose from them in the dark. Only I grabbed the wrong goddamned sack, like I said.”

  “What did you do with the lanterns?” the Rider asked.

  “I slung ‘em in the ditch out back of the Rincon Hotel. They was just lanterns. I was waitin’ at Bill’s for Dodgy to come along so I could get my money, or else pawn Doc’s pistol, come out with somethin’ for myself.”

  “What the hell would those idiots want with all the lanterns on a train?” Hoodoo mused.

  “Maybe they jumped some poor bastard’s claim,” Doc suggested. “Maybe they’re usin’ the lights for the tunnels.”

  “It’s likely a working mine would have its own lighting in place already,” the Rider said. “Why did they only grab the red glasses?”

  “What about it, Dirty?” Hoodoo pressed.

  “All’s I know is we was supposed to meet at a cabin on Elk Mountain. They never told me what the lights was for, nor mentioned nothin’ about no mine. Hell, I didn’t care. I’d planned to cut out on ‘em anyway.” His eyes flitted for a moment. “I was gonna cut you in, Hoodoo.”

  “Aw shut up, Dirty,” Hoodoo said, tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “Just leave the map and your gun and go clean yourself up for Crissakes.”

  “My gun?” Dirty stammered.

  “For this man,” Hoodoo said, indicating the Rider. “Recompense, so he can go his own way.”

  Dirty muttered, but stood up, unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it on the desk.

  “Thanks,” said the Rider, shrugging past Dirty and taking his pistol belt. “But if you’ll let me copy that map, I’m going up to Elk Mountain.”

  “You really set on retrievin’ that pistol of yours?” Hoodoo said, watching the Rider buckle Dirty’s gun on.

  “Come now, Rider,” Doc said. “One gun’s just as good as another.”

  “Not when it’s mine,” said the Rider.

  “What line are you in, mister?”

  “I’m a bookseller.”

  Hoodoo smiled thinly

  “A bookseller,” he repeated.

  “That’s right,” said the Rider.

  “And what brang you to East Las Vegas? Besides the train.”

  “I had some correspondence I needed to pick up. For a deceased friend.”

  “Correspondence?”

  “Yes. We were…business partners. I wanted to check the post office to see if he had any letters.”

  “Well, they don’t normally release letters to anybody other’n the addressee.”

  “I know,” said the Rider. “But I thought the postmaster might make an exception.”

  “He might at that. But not for you.” Hoodoo leaned forward on his elbows. “But I’ll tell you what, it just so happens the postmaster’s a near and dear friend of mine. You’re headin’ up to Elk Mountain anyhow. I seen how fast you are with a whiskey glass, and how quick you are to strap on a gun. It might be that if you’re up for doin’ a little work for me, I could arrange for you to take a peak at this ex-business partner’s mailbox.”

  “I’m not an assassin,” the Rider said flatly.

  “Oh, I could care less what happens to them boys up there. Just need somebody who can keep from getting killed himself. And…who can bring back that two thousand dollars.”

  The Rider considered. He’d known men like Hoodoo Brown at various times in his life; opportunists, who somehow managed to set themselves up over stronger men than themselves, men who would shed blood at a word. He supposed the secret was that for all their railing about being individuals not
bound by the law of man, such men that acted on instinct rarely had any higher ambition. Such men needed a thinking villain like Hoodoo Brown, in the same way that a fighting cock needs a handler to feed and care for it, to polish its spurs and point it in the right direction.

  The Rider was no such man, but the offer was a sound one. He had intended to bribe the postmaster, but the trip to New Mexico Territory had shed him of much of his remaining cash.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sure Rider,” said Doc. “You’re just going to ride up into the mountains on your ass and ask those boys to give you your gun and two thousand dollars? That’s a sight I’d like to see. You know, I might be interested in takin’ a little day trip up to Elk Mountain myself. I hear the view is spectacular.”

  Hoodoo’s eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t suppose that two thousand dollars would have anything to do with your wanting to go up there would it, Doc?”

  “If you’re keen on protecting your interests, send Dirty to keep an eye on us,” Doc offered.

  “I don’t expect you need me to give you an excuse to dry gulch him, Doc. Everybody knows you hate him. But I might just send one of my marshals with you.”

  “Sure! Send two or three,” Doc said nonchalantly, reaching for the map on Hoodoo’s desk.

  Hoodoo’s hand slapped down on the back of his hand.

  The Rider tensed as the two men stared at each other across the desk. The unfamiliar gun felt heavy on his hip, the curve of the butt unwieldy under his fingers.

  “Be smart, Doc,” Hoodoo warned. “Be smart, and you’ll have a license to run a faro table in that saloon of yours again.”

  “I’m an educated man, Hoodoo,” Doc said. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Educated men ain’t always smart,” Hoodoo said.

  They held each other’s eyes for a minute, then Hoodoo released Doc’s hand and leaned back in his creaking chair.

  Doc pocketed the map and touched the brim of his hat.

  Hoodoo looked to the Rider and locked his fingers across his belly.

  “Remember our deal, stranger. It’s in your interest to keep your friend honest.”

  “I’ll remember,” the Rider promised.

  “My man will meet you at the stableyard in an hour,” Hoodoo called to them as they left the office.

  When they were out in the street, the Rider caught Doc’s sleeve.

  “It’s important I get my hands on that correspondence,” he said. “Almost as important as getting my gun back.”

  Doc only smiled and removed the Rider’s hand from his arm.

  * * * *

  They spent much of the hour at the stableyard arguing, and when the tall, dark haired marshal they had seen at Bill Goodlett’s saloon rode up on his black horse, they were still having the same argument, Doc saddling a grey mare as the Rider tightened the onager’s pack.

  “Is it that you’re scared to handle a horse in the mountains?” Doc was saying as the marshal stopped and stared over them, the sun blackening his features and lining him in gold. “Because it’s not that steep.”

  The Rider sighed as he brushed the neck of his onager and peered up at the man on the horse.

  “I’m not afraid, I’ve just taken a vow not to ride.”

  “But, what the hell kind of a vow is that? Abstinence from liquor or lewd women, that’s a vow I can understand the benefits of. But really, do you think God worries Himself over a horse’s back pain? If God didn’t want man to ride a horse, He wouldn’t have allowed the saddles to fit so well…”

  He stopped speaking and straightened when he saw the quiet man looking down on them, and shaded his eyes to penetrate the silhouette.

  “Well, well,” Doc said, ever amused. “Rider, let me introduce you to our chaperone, Mysterious Dave Mather.”

  The man’s fingers touched the neat brim of his hat, but he said nothing.

  Doc shrugged and whispered behind his hand to the Rider.

  “It’s easy to be mysterious when you don’t say anything.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to serve God by silence,” the Rider said.

  “Well, silence is better than not riding a damn horse, that’s for certain.”

  Doc hiked his boot up into the stirrup and swung himself up onto the mare. The effort induced another coughing fit in him that lasted until the Rider finished his tending to the onager and waited patiently.

  Doc dabbed at his red stained lips and smiled a faintly bloody smile at Mather.

  “Well our day trip is going to wind up an overnight excursion it seems, Mather. Rider here is of a peculiar Hebrew sect who favors leading asses over riding ponies.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Mather said and turned his horse around without another word.

  The Rider got a better look at him as he walked alongside. Mather was a tall man of spare, almost delicate frame, his dress as dark and austere as the Rider’s own. He had a long, sweeping mustache that combined with the shadow of his hat brim, seemed to hide all expression. He wore two Colts, and as he guided his horse, the Rider noticed the edges of a blue tattoo on the inside of his right forearm peek out of the edge of his sleeve and quickly retreat. He had a professional manner, and did not strike the Rider as a lowlife the way Dave Rudabaugh had.

  The three passed northwest out of town, Doc talking enough for both the Rider and Mather. From Doc, the Rider learned Hoodoo’s pet marshal was an easterner. Doc had met him through his partner Jordan Webb during the Royal Gorge War between the AT&SF and the Denver & Rio Grande Western companies over the narrow eponymous route to the mines at Leadville, and had shared a meal with him once in Pueblo.

  The country got higher and rockier, and Doc pointed out the silhouetted rise of Elk Mountain in the red distance before they picked a spot to bed down.

  The Rider knelt and put on his tefillin and said his evening prayers while Doc and Mather brewed coffee and stared at him. When he had finished, night had fallen, and the campfire was the only light in the dark mountains.

  “You have got some strange ways, Rider,” Doc remarked, when the Rider had settled down on his bedroll. “I’ve known a few Jews in my day, but never one like you.”

  “You mean broke?” the Rider asked with mock innocence, as he wound up the phylacteries. “I’m rich in experience.”

  Doc smirked in answer and shook his head.

  “You’re one of them Hasids, aren’t you?” Mather said over the rim of his tin mug, the steam curling over his dark eyes.

  The Rider looked at the marshal, surprised.

  “It speaks,” Doc mumbled into his own cup.

  “I spent some time in New York City, seen your kind about.”

  “Walking about,” Doc said dryly.

  “You’ve been to sea, as well,” the Rider observed.

  “How did you know that?” Mather said sharply.

  “I saw the tattoo on your forearm.”

  Mather glanced down and pushed back his right sleeve, displaying the intricate design of a cross made of rigging spars before a ship’s wheel draped with rope.

  “A Mariner’s Cross. It means you were a deck hand doesn’t it?”

  “Just for a year, with my brother. My daddy was a sailor, but I didn’t take to it. You don’t look much like a sailor to me.”

  “I’ve been across the sea,” said the Rider, taking a proffered coffee but waving away a piece of jerky Mather held out to him, “but no, I’m not a sailor.”

  “Don’t you know a bookseller when you see one, Mather?” Doc said.

  Mather closed his eyes at the sound of Doc’s voice, and opened them again only when he’d finished.

  “You go too long without hearin’ your own voice, Doc?”

  “Bad enough I have to travel at the pace of his jackass, but your idea of conversation appears to be no conversation at all.”

  “Conversation with you tends to be one-sided,” Mather said.

  “Be patient, Doc,” Rider said, fearful that the frayed
nerves of his two traveling companions might snap. “By the looks of it, we’ll be there by noon tomorrow if we leave early.”

  “We should’ve been there and back by now,” Doc said. “We hadn’t waited for Hoodoo’s pet marshal here we might’ve at least been there.”

  “The way Hoodoo told it, you requested me, Doc,” Mather said.

  “I told him to send a man to ease his worries,” said Doc. “I didn’t think it’d be you.”

  “What’s the matter?” Mather said. “Were you hoping for some fool who’d let you get close enough to stick a knife in his back?”

  “Rider and I gave Hoodoo our word about the money.”

  “I didn’t mention the money.”

  “I don’t care about any money,” the Rider piped up.

  Doc held up one black gloved hand to the Rider for quiet and kept his eyes on Mather, who had laid aside his tin cup.

  “Maybe it’d be best if we had this out right now, Doc,” Mather said, setting aside his coffee, “before we even get to the cabin.”

  “Fine by me,” Doc said, and stood up.

  Mather and the Rider both got to their feet just as a hoarse scream came crashing out of the dark.

  With the blank rock faces of the mountains, the sound bounced crazily about, like the irregular hysterics of a lunatic on the dirty walls of an asylum. It gave the illusion of several men screaming at once—but no, there was another voice intertwined with the first, like a couple of maniacs pinwheeling about arm in arm, competing in displays of lunacy. But the second scream wasn’t human. It couldn’t be. It was shrill and of a wildly varying pitch, streaking high like a bottle rocket and then shuddering impossibly low, only to rear up again as ragged breath allowed.

  “Jesus!” said Doc, drawing his gun.

  Moments earlier the action would have had the Rider and Mather both going for their own weapons, but now the three of them put their backs to the fire and angled their pistols outward into the impenetrable dark, gripping them hard to keep the muzzles from shaking as they drew the hammers back with their thumbs.

  The shrill, piping scream of the man and the weird howling accompanying it continued unabated, and increased in volume. Whatever was making the sounds was getting closer.