Those Poor, Poor Bastards (Dead West Book 1)

by Tim Marquitz

  “Nina, your language—”

  “My language? Pa, you’re gonna chastise me for cussing during this shitstorm?”

  “You’re tired. I’m tired. But always have respect for the Lord. I thought I—”

  “Your Lord, not mine.”

  “Nina…”

  “No,” she put up her hand. She got behind the wheelbarrow and lifted. Pa wasn’t a big man, but he weren’t all that light either. Her shoulders and neck ached, but her anger gave her strength as she wheeled her father toward the other room. She was done talking for now, and so was he, it seemed.

  Their side was a large space with a double door—the very one they’d just fought outside of—and an assortment of chairs and old crates. There was a thin, sagging, wood-framed entrance to the fourth room along the east wall.

  Nina passed Red Thunder, who sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, cleaning a pistol. She held his gaze as he looked up, and she swore a hint of smile played across his lips.

  Then that goddamn George Daggett called from behind. “Oh no, Injun girl. We done brought that and everything inside it, too.” She turned and George stood in the archway. He pointed at the wheelbarrow. “You used it long enough. Get your old man out.”

  Nina glared at George for a long moment until Manning came walking up behind him, shouldering by and knocked the Daggett forward a step.

  “Hey!” George glared at him.

  Manning kept on walking. He leaned forward, helping Nina get her father up and out. Pa grimaced as they moved him to the far corner of the room, helped him sit in one of the chairs, and prop his foot up on a crate.

  As soon as Pa had sat, they turned to see Buck Patterson give the wheelbarrow a hard push past George and out of the room. “That’s fine,” he said, and spit a stream of tobacco juice on the ground at George’s boots. The Daggett danced back a step and shouted a few choice words.

  Buck gave a grin, or maybe it was a scowl. “You have your wheelbarrow. We got the well.”

  Chapter Seven

  Nina knelt down on the floor in the friendlier section of the building—their side—dousing her face with water, rubbing dirt and blood away. It was still cold, the water even colder, but she reveled in it. She took off her hat and ran her hand through her hacked up hair, splashing water into it, wishing she could wipe the whole night away as easily as the dirt.

  Buck had been right about the well. A side passage branched off their room, leading east down into another, smaller room, graced with a well that probably tapped into an underwater stream feeding Maples Creek. The roughrider had gone down the well passage and returned grinning ear-to-ear with a sloshing bucket of fresh water. She and Manning and Pa drunk their fill before dousing themselves, eager to get rid of the stench of blood and filth.

  Nina couldn't tell what the other gang was doing across the way—she’d mentally begun calling the Daggetts’ side ‘Over There’—but there were only four living souls in that group she cared about anyway. The rest could rot in Hell as far as she was concerned.

  The deaduns continued to pound away on the outside, mumbling feverishly, moaning and groaning into every crack they could find, driven by some mad hunger Nina could not fathom. Earlier an arm had pressed through a gap between the stone and wooden door frame. Red Thunder's tomahawk had made quick work of the limb.

  Another had pushed the stacked crates away from the window and gotten halfway through before Buck and Manning could knife the biter in the head and shove it back out. Even with every weak spot covered, predicting where the next intrusion of dead flesh would occur was the same as shooting craps. They were everywhere.

  Nina started to scoop out more water when the marshal yelled from the center room, a place Nina had deemed ‘No Man’s Land.’ “Little help in here!”

  “I'll go,” Nina told them and scurried to the big man's side.

  The room had two sets of double doors, braced by wood and stone and whatever else they could find. Oden leaned against the doors Nina's group had entered by, his powerful frame providing a formidable presence.

  It must have been a mass of deaduns pressing in. Nina threw herself against the overstrained barrier, but her weight seemed to make little difference. Wood creaked and Marshal Oden grunted, shoulder and face pressed against the door. The stench of his sweat poured out of the thick coat he wore, his breath hissing between his teeth as he dug in. Standing next to him, Nina realized just what a giant he was.

  Father Mathias lent his shoulder, squeezing between Nina and Oden. His boots slipped on the hard-packed ground, forcing him to do a strange sliding walk on the floor.

  “We ain't holdin' this, Father.” Nina felt around on the wood with her hand. She found a knothole with her finger and drew her Colt, stuck the barrel inside, and popped off three rounds.

  “Save your bullets.” The priest smiled and winked. “Lead is a worthless substitute for the power of the Lord.” He placed his hand against the wood and closed his eyes. The priest’s lips moved in a whisper.

  Nina strained to hear, drawn in by some mysterious power in his tone. She could not say she had faith in a Supreme Being even though the wáashat—the Prophet Dance—of her people during the time of Seven Drums had profoundly moved her as a girl. And she, too, had watched the men of the Goshute do the Sun Dance. Pa even sometimes got Bible-bit after they wintered among the white settlers in the Wind River Mountains or up north on the Feather River, but she'd never heard such devotion come from a white man's lips. Mathias’s voice raised, his tone brave yet humble: “While we are unworthy of you, my Lord, protect your faithful as we defend this bastion against those who would defile your name. Take mercy on us, and deliver us into your glory.”

  A shock ran through the wood, a sort of prickly buzz Nina felt in her hands and face. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Nina smiled despite herself, the buzz lightening her heart somehow, the burden of surviving this life, today, lifted from her shoulders.

  An intensity took hold of Mathias. “Take now the pain from your once loyal, loving flock, and guide their souls to your bosom.” His eyes went wide, his jaw clamping shut. Through clenched teeth, he cried out. “And destroy the demon infection that threatens the sanctity of your world! In the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior...amen!”

  The suffering moans from outside compressed, twisting into high wails, as if the deaduns were being squeezed of whatever demonic life burned within them. Another powerful shock ripped through the wood. Sharp cracks reached Nina's ears. A puff of ghastly smoke entered through the hole Nina had just shot through, the acrid-tinged smell of burnt hair and flesh stinging her nose.

  The pressure on the door abruptly ceased, and Marshal Oden turned his back to the barrier and sunk to the floor. Father Mathias rubbed his hand across his face, haggard, his skin sallow, yet he looked at Nina and his eyes still danced with amusement. She couldn't understand why. Nothing amusing about what had just happened, even though they'd won a few more minutes of life. Still, on a night consumed by evil, she was moved by his piety.

  “I'm not sure what you did, Father, but that’s some powerful stuff.”

  “It's the Lord's power, not mine,” Mathias said, wiping his sweaty brow, then he, too, collapsed down by Marshal Oden on the floor.

  Nina stepped away, inspired yet frightened. She wondered about her own faith. Did she even have any? She seemed to have lost touch with religion after the death of her mother. How about now, after witnessing this walking evil and Father Mathias's godly power?

  Manning brushed past her without a glance, intent on something. “What in the hells do you think you're doing?” he said, tension in his voice.

  Nina turned to see who’d drawn Manning’s anger. Woodie crouched nearby, two round clay things hanging from his neck, another in his hand. Strobridge was next to him and handed his foreman a torch and stepped back, while the Daggetts and Buells had emerged from their respective areas to look on.

  Woodie's wide-set eyes searched overhead, settling on t
he big gap square in the middle of the roof.

  “What are those things?” Manning asked, and Nina saw the clay orbs had fuses attached.

  “We're going to clear a few of these bastards out,” Strobridge said.

  “Clear them...you mean, that’s powder, ain’t it?”

  “Black powder’s the stabilizer,” Woodie said absently, still looking up. “Howden’s concoction. One part powder to two parts kieselguhr, add glycerine…”

  Manning looked at Nina a second, then at the pair of rail-men. “You sons of bitches are batshit crazy.”

  “Swedish Blastin’ Oil,” Woodie grinned and softly kissed the clay orb in his hand. “I like to call ‘em Bang Balls.” He grinned at Nina and made an odd snorting laugh that gave her chills.

  “Are we going to let these loons do this?” Manning looked to the Daggetts still lurking at the threshold of Over There.

  Mason shrugged, a Spencer in one hand, a whiskey bottle in the other. “Don't look at me. We’re just here for the show.”

  “Guess I expected as much. Marshal, you going to let them do this?”

  “Probably not the best of ideas,” Marshal Oden shrugged from the ground; the man still hadn’t gotten up. “But I ain't got no others.”

  Woodie's gap-toothed grin widened. He snickered and peered up at the gap in the ceiling, then went about measuring a couple different angles. Nina wondered how accurate could he be, with those offset eyes seemingly gazing in two slightly different directions.

  Everyone stood back as he touched flame to wick, then tossed the bomb up and out of sight. Nina backed away from the door, finding safety near the base of the opposite wall, where the roof seemed strongest. Last thing she wanted was to be caught in another bloody downpour of deadun parts.

  A muffled thud throttled the air. Dust lifted from the ground and shook loose from the rafters, meeting somewhere in the middle where it choked everyone. A small piece of ceiling fell as Nina covered her mouth with her shirt.

  Rachel Buell wailed from the next room as pieces of flesh struck the roof, caught the edges of gaps, or splattered inside the shelter.

  “Woohoo!” Woodie spun in a circle.

  “That's how you do it, goddamn it!” Strobridge patted his foreman on the back and clapped.

  Manning shook his head. “Another one like that and this place will collapse on top of us. Keep your man reined in.”

  Strobridge grinned, tipping his hat.

  In any case, the pounding and groaning had eerily stopped. Nina put her eye to the knothole, saw nothing, but she wondered what was out there, and how many more would try to get in this night. What evil force was behind it all?

  Father Mathias drew a cross on the door with a piece of coal. He placed his hand against the barrier and bowed his head. “God our Father, we thank you for the shelter and comfort of this fort, bless this portal with your strength, O Lord. Help us all through this trying time so to live that we may bring help to others, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen.”

  ~

  They had to cut Pa's boot to get it off; now his sausage-swollen foot rested on the rolled up carcass of his footwear. He looked a sorry mess in his tattered shirt, his thick salt-pepper hair and beard just about turned into a right nuthatch’s nest.

  He groused about it being a mistake letting the rail-boss and his lackey into their group, saying the explosion liked to made him mess his britches.

  Nina told him from the way he smelled, wouldn’t make much difference. She tried to make him comfortable where he sat against one of the chamber walls. He checked its solidness over and over while Nina applied a wet cloth to his forehead and adjusted the small pile of wood and stone supporting his lower back.

  Manning had come in and fussed with her pa’s foot, gently moving it into a more comfortable position. “Have to keep it elevated, Lincoln. Helps with the swelling.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Nina peered at him.

  “Doing what?”

  Her jaw tightened despite herself. “Being so damn nice to us?”

  Manning fixed her with his hard, cobalt eyes. Before he looked away, they softened ever so slightly. “We're in this together. Plain and simple.”

  “You could have left us behind a half-dozen times. Just an old man and a half-breed.” Nina couldn't explain her contempt or the undeniable urge she had to clutch James Manning's jaw and kiss him hard on the lips.

  Pa reached out and touched her, a pained grin on his face. “Let's not question Mister Manning's intentions. I, for one, am grateful for what you’ve done, and I call you a friend. We don’t have many.”

  Nina's face flushed, and she busied herself with fixing a rolled-up cloth behind Pa's neck. “I apologize, Mister Manning. Didn't mean 'nuthin' by it.”

  “Not necessary. We're all under duress right now, strangers thrown together like…like…”

  “…like spiders and scorpions,” Pa said.

  Manning laughed. “Exactly. And call me James. Now, we got some assholes to deal with, and some…deaduns, but we're going to make it.”

  “Any ideas on what we're really dealing with here?” Pa sounded tired, his voice gruff. It was still uncomfortable cold, and getting colder, too. After settling down a bit, Nina’s entire body felt like it had been wrung out. Her neck ached and every muscle in her body felt raw. She couldn’t imagine how Pa must feel. It might seem like he’d had an easy trip down to the fort, but hanging on for dear life inside a wheelbarrow weren’t no small feat.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I thought it might be the madness, the rabies…”

  Nina sat back against the wall next to Pa and looked around. Buck was there, going from window to door to window, spitting tobacco juice and pulling on slabs of wood that had been hammered together from nails scavenged from rafter wood, testing their defenses. Red Thunder stabbed away at the hard earth with his shovel, making two holes for a Dakota fire.

  “No,” Pa said. “I’ve seen the madness take dogs and wolves before. It ain’t that.”

  Marshal Oden walked by, tipping his hat to them as he entered the passage to the well. The fact this building had been built over a natural spring was a dern miracle.

  “The priest knows what it is,” Nina said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Pa.

  “I mean, he's gotta know something about what's happening here. For one, he doesn't seem all that surprised to see these deaduns. And...” she paused, thinking of how to say it.

  “What?” Manning leaned closer, biting into a piece of jerky handed out by Buck earlier. Turned out Red Thunder, Buck, and Father Mathias had brought a decent stock of road supplies, like they'd been traveling together a long time. Nina suspected they might even have a few horses nearby.

  “And,” she said, “he's workin' some kinda magic.”

  Pa’s brow furrowed. “Magic?”

  “Yeah.” Nina told them about the two times Father Mathias had killed or turned back the deaduns with no more than a touch or a prayer. While she couldn't be positive about the second incident, as she'd not actually seen what happened to the deaduns on the other side of the door, she could certainly attest to the priest's touch. “I think Mister Strobridge knows, too.”

  Manning nodded. “They did have an interesting conversation earlier. Seems Strobridge chiseled Mathias some time ago, or at least the priest believes so. They were previously acquainted, no doubt, and parted poorly, it seems.”

  Pa raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Well, I wouldn't have believed in dead folk walking around before today, so a magic-workin' Black Robe sure ain't out of the question.” Pa looked back and forth between Nina and Manning. “And to be clear, we agree these are dead folk walkin’?”

  Nina nodded.

  “Yup,” Manning said. “Question is, what do we do about it?”

  “Mathias seems amicable enough. He's a man of the Lord. I'm sure if we just asked him…”

  “Or,” Manning said, �
��Nina here might privately converse with Red Thunder, bein's they have a shared heritage an' all.”

  Nina smirked. “The rest of y’all are white. Why don't you converse?”

  Manning gave Nina a wink. “Problem with that, darlin', is that lying comes too easy to white folks. We speak to Mathias, he’s liable to talk us in circles, man of God or not.”

  Nina snorted. “Worth a shot, I reckon. I'll be back.” She got up and ambled to where Red Thunder had just about completed his fire holes. The tribesman was stripped down to just a vest, his sinewy arms were sheened by sweat as he cleared out loose dirt with his shovel.

  “Need some help with that?”

  The Indian shook his head without even looking up. His nearness frightened Nina, even though they shared something in common. He exuded power. He was a lean, wild man who could kill in a split second. She didn't need a demonstration to know that much.

  Nina squatted, thinking about her mother's people, her people. What would her mother say to a tribesman? The simpler the better, she thought. Perhaps a plea to join against a common enemy? And who would that enemy be? Living or dead? They didn't have much time in either case.

  “I apologize for being so direct, my brother. I’ve been around white men a long time. Are you Kuyuidökadö?”

  “Nimíipuu.”

  “Nez Percé,” Nina nodded. “I am Ninataku of the Goshute.”

  Red Thunder looked up, his gaze lingering a moment. “Shoshone,” he said in a slow, gruff voice, naming her people. “But wasichu, also.”

  “My Pa…well,” Nina stammered. “He’s a white man, yes, but a friend to the People.” She stuck out her chin. “My ma was named Eluwassee, and she was true Goshute. We lived with them when we could, and we were all welcome, Pa included.” Nina’s spirit sunk. “My mother was killed by wasichu. Soldiers came in the night…”

  “Do you hate them? The toquashes?” His voice was low and soft as he spoke the Shoshone word for white soldiers.

  Tears threatened to well in Nina’s eyes, half because she’d not expected the question, half because of remembering that damn night. “The ones that killed my ma, yes. But I don’t hate all white men. Pa showed me many are kind. Like your priest, I guess.”