by Tonia Brown
With a wince, Dodger stripped off his button-down, leaving the thin undershirt behind. His wrist wasn’t broken, which was good, but it was going to take some time to heal. A bad sprain was oftentimes worse than a clean break. He was fairly sure he might have dislocated and reset it all in the single recoil action of the massive weapon.
Dodger eyed the strange nine shooters hanging from the back of the wardrobe. A better set of guns he had never owned, and never would again. They didn’t belong to him, that much he knew, yet he found himself troubled at the prospect of relinquishing the pair of pistols. When he first found they were still dangling from his hips, he thought about stomping right back to the train and tossing them down in the dirt.
When he thought twice about it, that’s when he reckoned it was just what the professor was playing at. What the man had planned all along. Surely he saw Dodger absconding with the so-called priceless pair of revolvers, so he must have planned on luring Dodger back with the task of returning them. Luring Dodger back for another chance to sweet-talk him into taking the job.
Well, no sir. Not today.
If that crazy professor and his insane crew wanted the damned things, they could come and fetch them. There was only the one place to rent a room in town, above the saloon, and Dodger, or rather Arnold Carpenter, wasn’t a hard man to find. Still, they could take their time as far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t mind being left alone with the things for a little while longer. Just so he could check them out in private. Assess them all up close and personal-like.
He pulled the shades and made his bed with every intention of taking his well-deserved nap before his shift started at the bar that evening, but the guns had a different idea. Like a pair of silver sirens, they sang his name, begging to be fondled and admired in the shadows of his low-lit room. Drawing the empty one with his good hand, Dodger turned the pistol back and forth in the lamplight. The weapons were a marvel, a real feat of engineering. Whoever cast these beauties in steel was the very definition of a true artist.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Dodger jumped into action, whipping about to aim the empty gun in the direction from which the voice sounded. Seated on a wooden stool in the corner was man about Dodger’s age with his feet propped on the cot—dusty boots and all. His hat tilted low, hiding his face.
“How did you get in here?” Dodger asked.
“I’ve been here the whole time,” the man said.
“No. I didn’t see you when I came in. How did you get in here?”
“That’s a mighty interesting first question. You know, most folks would want to know who I was or what I wanted. But you’re concerned with securing your perimeter first. The Doc was right. You are good choice for the job.” The man pushed his hat up his forehead and flashed Dodger a gentle, honest smile. “Much better than some others who have worked it in the past.”
That answered one question; the man was with that crazy professor. A tall drink of water, all bulk and muscle, the fellow was so broad across the shoulders it would wear a tailor out just to take his measure. Long blond hair hung in tresses across his broad shoulders, and a matching beard and mustache combo tapered down onto his barrel-shaped chest. His arms were thick as tree trunks. His legs as wide as cannons. In short, he was one big hombre.
“As for how I got here,” the man continued, “I told you the truth. I’ve been here the whole while.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m afraid it is not in my capacity to lie, sir. Not anymore. Not that I ever lied a lot before all of this, but now… now I don’t really have a choice.”
“Does everyone working for that man speak in riddles?”
The stranger laughed, low and soft. “Sorry. You sort of pick up the habit after a bit.” He swung his legs about and stood, confirming his impressive height as he towered a full foot over Dodger. Maybe more. “And you can lower that gun, by the way. I’m fairly sure it isn’t loaded.”
“You so sure of that?” Dodger asked, cocking the pistol.
The blond giant shrugged. “It won’t do you any good either way, Mr. Carpenter. Or is it Dodger? I don’t think you clarified that one.”
Dodger never enjoyed someone else having the upper hand, especially when it came to identities. “Who are you?”
“Washington Jeremiah Boon, at your service.” The stranger gave a slight bow.
“Washington Boon?” Dodger searched his memory, his enemies, his allies. Though the name was familiar, it didn’t ring any personal bells. The only Boon he had heard of lately was … but this couldn’t be the same one. “I don’t know any Boon.”
“Oh, I dare say you’ve heard of me.” His eyes flicked to the wardrobe, to the pistol hanging there, to the holster, to the single name across the belt.
Dodger picked up the hint and didn’t like it one bit. “Then you are that Boon?”
“The one and same.”
“You can’t be.”
“And why not?”
“Because …” Dodger let the rest of his words drop into silence, unable to bring himself to say what was on his mind. Which was, Because your crew claims you’re dead.
After the big display they put on about the man being dead, here he was, alive the whole while. Dodger couldn’t imagine what was going on. What kind of sick and twisted joy did they get out of making Dodger feel guilty for taking the job of a beloved and belated crew member? Games and doubletalk and riddles. Working for the professor must’ve been tantamount to living in a funhouse, only not as much fun.
Dodger wasn’t in the mood for fun, or for taking on a man twice his size. He went to the wardrobe, shoved the weapon into the holster, and held the pair out to the man. “I suppose you came for these. That was awful fast. I didn’t even see you follow me.”
Boon stared at the weapons for a moment, then shook his head. “You mistake me, sir. I didn’t come for the guns. I came with them, so to speak.”
“Look, I don’t have time for riddles. Or games. Just take ‘em and get the hell out of here.”
“I assure you, this isn’t a game. This is a matter of life and death. The Sleipnir needs you, Mr. Dodger.”
“For the last time, my name is Carpenter. And why would they need me if they have you?”
“Because they don’t have me. Not in that capacity. Not anymore.”
Now that made a little more sense. The man must’ve screwed up his work in so foul a manner that his fellow crewmembers would rather think of him as dead than speak of him at all. Dodger opened the door and held the guns out in the doorway. “That’s a really sad story. And I am sorry you lost your job, or whatever happened to it, but I’m not interested in filling your sizable shoes.”
“Please, you have to listen to me.”
“I don’t have to do anything! Now take your guns and go, before I grow tired enough of this to use ‘em.”
“I’m not here for the weapons.”
“Well you’re gonna take ‘em.” Dodger stormed across the room and pushed the holster toward Boon, but the man refused to grab it. When Dodger let go, the belt slithered to the floor between them, taking the weapons with it.
Boon never laid an eye on them. He just stood staring at Dodger. “As I said, I am not here for the guns. I’m here for you.”
“Why does everything out of your mouth sound so goddamned cryptic?”
“Everything okay up here?” Decker asked.
Dodger whipped around to find the saloon owner standing in the open doorway. Once again, he had forgotten to lock his door, and Decker took it upon himself to enter without knocking.
“Yeah,” Dodger said. “Fine. Just dealing with an unwanted visitor.” He motioned to Boon behind him. “Thanks for keeping him out like I asked.”
“Visitor? I didn’t see anyone come up.” Decker leaned into the room and peered about.
A whisper arose in Dodger’s mind.
He can’t see or hear me.
It was the voice, Dodger’s inner voice.
Or at least he thought it was his inner voice. Now that he had a basis for comparison, his inner voice sounded an awful lot like Washington Boon. He turned in place, but the man had vanished.
“Apparently, neither can I,” Dodger said.
“Who you talking to?” Decker asked.
Dodger pointed to the spot where Boon used to be. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was here a moment ago. Where’d he go?”
“Who?”
“You couldn’t miss him.”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Tall man. Blond. Moustache?”
Decker shook his head with a look of bewilderment. “Nope. Sorry Arnie.”
“Then who was … where did he …” Dodger slumped onto the stool.
“You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t understand what is going on here. Am I crazy? Maybe there was something on that train. Did that man slip me some kind of drug?” Dodger nodded at his own idea. “Sure. He must have slipped me some kind of hallucinogen. I bet that whole shootout wasn’t even real. I’ll bet those guns aren’t real either.”
Decker shrugged as he glanced at the guns. “They look real enough to me.”
“I think I’m just tired.” Dodger rubbed his eyes and yawned. “That must be it. I’m just real tired. Sorry for causing a fuss, Dex. I’ll try to keep my daydreaming down to a dull roar.”
“No problem. You know we don’t get any real business ‘til sundown anyway.” Decker closed the door behind him, leaving Dodger alone once again with his overactive imagination.
Dodger locked the door to keep Decker from walking in on him again, then returned to his bed. There Dodger sat, hung his head and closed his eyes. “What is wrong with me?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”
When Dodger opened his eyes, two pairs of boots greeted him from the floor: his own and a second, much larger pair parked next to his. Which meant the blond man was seated on the bed. Dodger hadn’t even felt him sit down, much less come back into the room.
“I’ve lost it,” Dodger said. “That’s it. I’ve finally lost my mind.”
“No. Though it might feel like it, I promise you are as sharp as you ever were. Perhaps even more so.”
Dodger raised his eyes to the man. “What do you want with me?”
“We don’t want you, we need you.”
“We?”
“The Sleipnir. She needs a man of your peculiar talents. We need a man of your gifts.”
We. So he still considered himself a part of their crew. “You should know your crew speaks of you as if you’re dead.”
“That’s because I am.”
“You are what?”
Dead.
There was Dodger’s inner voice again. The one that sounded like Washington Boon. But it couldn’t have been Boon. The man’s lips never moved.
I know it is hard to believe, but I cannot lie. Not anymore. You know what they say. Dead men tell no tales.
There it came again. Dodger could hear the words, could hear the man’s voice, yet the man’s mouth never moved. “How are you doing that?”
I’m not sure, but I think we share a connection of sorts. Boon tipped his head to one side, as if considering the options. Maybe ‘tis a love for the guns? Or a clear sense of duty? He raised his eyebrows to Dodger. Like the way you wouldn’t shoot that man in the back, despite his obvious threat to you and your safety.
“You … it was you. You were the one talking me through the motions back at the cab. Weren’t you?”
I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds by helping you, but you seemed in need of a boost of spirits. Boon laughed aloud at this.
Dodger fell back onto the bed, covering his face with his arms. “It’s official. I’m going mad.”
“I promise you’re not,” Boon said as he stood.
“What good is a promise from a dead man?” Dodger lifted his arms and stared at the tall man. “Because that’s what you’re telling me. That you’re a ghost?”
Boon tipped his head to one side with a short nod of agreement and whispered, As good a term as any, I suppose.
“Then why should I listen to you?” Dodger asked. “You aren’t even real.”
“I assure you,” Boon said aloud. “I’m every bit as real as those guns. In fact, I believe they’re the reason I am here. With you. Rather than back on the Sleipnir.”
“So the guns are possessed? Not me?”
“Yes, in a way it is the guns.”
“Then thank heaven for small favors.”
“Of course, I am not able to speak with the others as freely as I can converse with you.” Boon rubbed his beard in thought. “Save for Ched, of course. But that comes as no surprise. The veil between worlds is very thin for a man in his undesirable position.”
Dodger wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean, but it seemed silly to question a figment of his imagination. He snorted as he sat up. “All right. If you’re a ghost, then prove it. Do something ghostly.”
“Ghostly?”
“Sure. Make something float, or walk through walls, or whatever it is you spirits are supposed to do.”
Boon whispered, I don’t do parlor tricks, sir.
“No, no,” Dodger said as he waved away the whispering. “I’ve heard that already. Something more than that. Convince me.”
“Something more?” Boon took a single step forward, to close the gap between them, then motioned to himself with both hands. “Strike me.”
“What?”
“You heard right the first time. Hit me.”
“I’m not going to hit you.”
“Hit me. Punch me. Lay me out flat. Go on. I dare you.”
“Is this your parlor trick? Taunting someone into a fight?”
“No. Anyone can do that. But few can do this.” Boon took a swing at Dodger, and of course, Dodger blocked.
After ignoring his training for so long, Dodger was surprised how it all came back to him. It was as natural as breathing. Duck. Roll off the bed. Leap to your feet. Ready yourself for another blow. Only, he didn’t receive the first blow. Not really. It took a moment for Dodger to grasp what had just happened, the fact that Boon hadn’t laid a finger on him. Instead, the man’s fist had gone through Dodger. Body and soul.
“How did you do that?” Dodger asked.
Boon shrugged. “Substantial, insubstantial, there’s very little difference when one has the freedom to really think about it. And of course, not having a corporeal form helps out a great deal.”
Dodger reached his hand out to Boon, but only succeeded in waving through the man. A light crackling emanated from all the places where he and the spirit touched, sending an almost pleasant buzz up Dodger’s arms. It was like running his fingers through electrified molasses. “This isn’t possible.”
“Sure it is. You’re a smart man. Put it together.”
“You’re really dead?”
Boon nodded.
“As in dead dead?”
Boon nodded again.
“As in not alive?”
Boon shook his head. “I haven’t seen your side of alive for quite a few moons.”
Dodger collapsed onto the bed again and watched the spirit relax into the chair across the room. “How can you sit down if you’re …?”
“In the dead way? I’m not sure. I can’t rightly explain it, but I think it’s the memory of getting off my feet that lets me treat a chair like a chair.” The ghost took on a wistful look. “I only wish other memories were as cooperative. Some things I did sure were sweeter than sitting on my rump.”
“I appreciate your lament for living deeds, but what does this have to do with me.”
“Come again?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“As I have already explained, the Sleipnir needs your protection. The Doc—God love him—he’s a
good man but, well, he attracts all manner of trouble.”
Still wide eyed with wonder, Dodger whispered, “I think I’ve seen what kind of trouble he attracts.”
“Oh, I think you will find it goes far beyond just ghosts and mongrels, my friend. Things you can’t begin to dream of are drawn to that man like a moth to a flame. The Doc breaks his fast in the morning with a heaping helping of weird and sups in the evening on a buffet of the bizarre. No one knows why. Not even the Doc. Some say he is cursed, but of course he doesn’t believe in such things. And I tried, I tried my best to keep them from harm’s way, but in the end, I failed. I failed them all.” Boon shifted his gaze to the floor as he added, in a very soft voice, “I still can’t believe I failed her.”
There came upon the man a look of utter despair, a mask of absolute and complete regret. Dodger recognized himself in that look, his own reservations and sleepless nights. Whatever had come to pass for the man, be he living or dead, continued to ply his restless soul with pain and anguish.
“I understand your position,” Dodger said. “Really I do. The Sleipnir is a fine line, and I’m sure you did your best to care for her. But what do you expect from me?”
Boon turned that pained look upon Dodger. “Take the job. Defend them all from whatever curse plagues the doctor. Protect her where I failed.”
“I can’t protect a line like that.” Dodger turned away, unable to bear the man’s glare. “I’m just an out-of-work farmhand.”
“No. I know better. I’ve seen you wield a weapon. That gleam in your eye when you weighed my guns in your palms. That grin when you set her hammers. I felt that wash of regret when your first shot failed, then remorse when your second one struck home. What you did today, how you handled yourself out there, that wasn’t the work of a farmhand. It was the skill of a warrior.”
Dodger shrugged away Boon’s truth. “I got lucky.”
“That wasn’t luck, it was expertise. We both know it to be true.”
The room filled with an uncomfortable silence as the pair of men fell quiet. Boon was right, but his praise didn’t make Dodger feel superior. It only served to point out the single fact from which Dodger had been running this whole time: you can leave the work, but the work never leaves you. And the work, in this case, was shedding the blood of his fellow man.