“Ready for what?”
Willow sighed, then turned around and took his daughter’s hand in his. His hands shook and his skin was purple and splotchy with liver spots. “Every man has a destiny, Anna, and not all of them are good ones. Jem Clayton’s destiny is inside that box. Swear to me you won’t ever open it. Please.”
“Fine, I swear it.” She tried to ask him more questions, but her father started coughing until he wheezed. He touched his lips and saw blood on his fingertips. Just a few days after that, Old Man Willow passed from the world.
She bent down to look at the box and tapped the key on the lid. She hardly ever looked at it, and the urge to open it rarely emerged. Anna believed that as long as she didn’t open the box, the boy who once told her he was going off to become the baddest man that ever lived would someday return.
* * *
The Sheriff of Seneca 6 moved through the town like a monarch visiting his subjects. He played the beneficent regent, handing out candy to children and small coins to destitute women. He dropped a coin into the palm of one old woman and she grabbed onto his sleeve, staining his expensive shirt with her grimy fingers. “Sheriff, why don’t you go after the real criminals in this town?”
“What criminals would that be, my dear?” he said, trying to pluck her hand from his arm.
“The damn money lenders,” she said. She pointed at the Savings and Loan storefront, “They don’t tell you about their fees and penalties till after you miss a payment.”
“I think it’s only fair they should expect to be paid what is their due in a timely fashion. Don’t you agree?”
“But their payments are due the last Thursday of the month, and the unions don’t pay out until that Friday. There’s no money left by then. And if you don’t pay, they put so much interest on top of the payment, you can’t never get out of it. Can’t you do something?”
He smiled at her and tipped his hat. “I will go and discuss the matter with the mayor straight away. Maybe he can help you. How does that sound?”
“Oh, thank you,” she said. The Sheriff hitched his belt up over the lower fold of his belly, hoping the belt would girdle some of the bulk. He walked across the road toward the mayor’s office, knocking on the sign that read “HONORABLE WILLIAM J. ELLIOT, TOWN MAYOR and JUDGE.”
No one answered the door. The Sheriff took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. He tried peeking through the office window but the blinds were drawn tight.
“Sheriff Junger?” a thin, worn out man said, looking up the steps.
Walt Junger turned and fixed his hat back to his head. “Yes?”
The man looked to see if anyone was watching him, then whispered, “You still giving out money for information related to specified activities?”
Junger took one step down the rail and fixed his hand on his gunbelt. “That depends on the information and the activity.”
“I know you and the mayor got a special interest in a few things around here. In particular, the ‘Proud Lady.’” The man cocked his head toward the well-maintained saloon down the street with thick swinging oak doors.
Junger considered the man for a moment and said, “Let’s just say I’m interested in every establishment around here, but there are some I’m willing to pay more for than others.”
“And the ‘Proud Lady,’ sir?”
“That’s one of them.”
“There’s a bartender named Phil Claren giving out free drinks to his buddies for extra tips, and then he shorts the register at night.”
“And how do you know this?” Junger asked.
“I went with someone who knows Phil and he said, ‘Watch this.’ My buddy put a tenner on the bar, and Claren put it into his pocket and we were drinking for an hour straight on that.”
Junger’s face darkened and he fished in his pocket. He thanked the man and handed him three bills, then reconsidered it and took one back. “This is for the drinks you stole. You’re lucky that’s all I’m taking and not some skin off your hide.”
Less than ten minutes later, Sheriff Junger sat down on the edge of a bed above the Proud Lady, tapping a sleeping Phillip Claren on the cheek. He curled his nose at the stench of stale alcohol in the room. “Wake up, Phil.”
“Sheriff?” Claren said, swiping his eyes. “The hell you doing here?”
Junger put his hat over his knee and tapped the brim with his finger. “Got a problem, Phil. Seems you’ve been mishandling your responsibilities downstairs. The register is short, and you’ve been passing out free liquor to those no-good bums you call friends.” Claren rubbed his nose on his sleeve and tried to sit up, but the Sheriff laid his hand on Claren’s chest and shook his head. “This ain’t a you-sit-up kind of conversation, Phil.”
“What kind of conversation is it, Sheriff?”
Junger removed a small hammer from his pocket that he twirled by the handle. “Now, I realize it is kind of a common practice to skim a little from most of the bars in this town. Hell, the owners factor it into their liquor sales, and turn a blind eye, figuring that if it keeps you little maggots scurrying around trying to steal a coin here or there, you won’t ever get around to taking something important. But the owners of the Proud Lady are a little different, Phil. They take personal offense if so much as a thumbtack is stolen.”
“I had no idea you and the owners were so close, Sheriff. I promise on my mother that will never happen again. I will be like your personal guard in there. If anybody tries anything I’ll come straight to you.”
“That’s good, Phil. That’s real good.” Junger lifted the hammer up and inspected its quarter-sized steel head. “However, I’ve found that people often require what’s called a visual aid. So before I go, I need to ask you a question. Do you have a preferred hand?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, someday when you manage to scare yourself up a woman and she’s lying next to you in this bed, and you’re stroking her body from end to end, running it all across her curves and divides, what hand do you see yourself doing that with?”
“Both?” Claren squeaked.
Junger showed him the hammer and said, “Pick a hand, stupid.”
Claren moaned, “Please, I’m begging you, Sheriff. Don’t. I’ll never do it again, I swear!”
Junger shrugged and picked the hand for him.
8. Fathers
Jem Clayton awoke between both Alvarez sisters. One was nestled in the crook of his left arm and the other stretched out along his right. Their bodies pressed close to his, and legs wrapped around him like serpents trying to shuffle up a pole. Neither woman stirred as he untangled himself from them. Jem buttoned his shirt and slid on his pants, watching the sisters slide closer to intertwine themselves with one another. “I’m starting to wonder if you two are even related at all.”
His boots were next to the bed and his coat sat folded neatly on the dresser. In the sister’s hospitable arranging of his belongings, they’d doubtlessly checked for compartments containing hidden valuables. Jem Clayton turned the heel of both boots and found them still packed tight with severian. He smirked, knowing that if his hiding place could withstand the scrutiny of women as scandalous as the Alvarez sisters, no road agent had a prayer of finding it.
Jem strapped on his belt and tied both holsters to his thighs. He drew both Colt Defeaters and checked their battery levels, cartridges, and action. They were pristine. He withdrew and re-sheathed the knife hidden in the center of his back, and then the ones stored inside either boot. Finally, he removed the small Mantis two-shot revolver from his coat pocket and tucked it into his shirt, just behind the buttons.
One of the sisters looked at him from the bed. He put on his hat and unfolded several bills from his wallet, then laid them on the dresser underneath a makeup case. The woman reached toward him and brushed her fingers against his waist, “Why are you leaving so soon, Mr. Howard?”
“I ran into an old friend last night. That means it’s
time to move.”
Her fingers traveled lower. “Will you come back soon?”
“Eventually,” he said. She pouted and stuck out her lower lip before attempting to raise his interest enough to coerce him back into bed. He swept her hand away. “I left you girls a little something to remember me by while I’m gone.”
He left the room and wound down the stairs toward the saloon which was already full at such an early hour. The sun roared through the cracked shuttered windows and Jem found himself tilting the brim of his hat to keep his eyes shaded. His gut was sour from the drinks he’d downed the night before. Everything was cloudy.
A street vendor on the corner sold greasy eggs and meat on a roll. Jem ordered two and walked over to a lamp post with a hanging sign that read: CARRIAGE TRANSPORT. Underneath that sign was a smaller, hand-written one that said: DESTINATION TRADESVILLE. The wind rose and kicked dust across his sandwich. Jem crushed his hat onto his head to keep it from blowing away and tossed the rest of his food into an alley.
Jem could have easily afforded to travel by air. It was safer and faster, but it carried the scrutiny of Customs Officers, or even worse, the PNDA. Jem preferred travel of the less intrusive variety.
Two men approached the staging area. The older one extended his hand to Jem and said, “Hello, friend. Name’s Harlan Wells. This is my son, Adam.” Harlan was bent slightly at the shoulders and his glasses were thicker than the bottom of a shot glass.
Adam wore the expression of a bemused child. His hair was cut short and uneven and he rocked back and forth at the waist. He stared at the carriages passing in the street with a wide grin and clapped his hands excitedly. A destrier flew past them so fast it made their jackets ripple, and Adam shouted.
“Fast, ain’t they?” Harlan said, patting his son on the back. “Just make sure you don’t lean too close to the street. Danger. Understand?”
Adam nodded, staring down at his hands while flicking his fingers back and forth.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wells,” Jem said. “I’m Thomas Howard.” He saw Harlan looking down at the guns on his belt and said, “Aw, they’re just for show, really. I heard some bad things about travelling in these parts. Doubt I’d hit the rear end of a barn if I tried.”
“I’m just glad to see somebody brought along a little protection. I heard there’s bandits crawling all over the place out there.”
“That’s hogwash. Ain’t no bandits,” a man said as he came up behind them. He was scrawny with a long, curling mustache that twitched when he spoke. “It’s the damn sky flyers trying to scare everyone from affordable transportation. It’s perfectly safe out there. I’m Charlie Boles and you all will be ridin’ with me today. You ready?” They said that they were, and Boles cocked his thumb over his shoulder at the carriage waiting down the street.
The group moved toward the coach and Boles said, “Even if we do run into trouble, I’ve made modifications to my rig to keep your possessions protected. There’s a hideaway lock box in the back for valuables. Anybody carrying anything they want to secure just in case there’s trouble?”
“I thought you said there weren’t any bandits,” Harlan said.
“Can’t hurt to be too careful.”
Harlan put his bag into the box. Jem held up his hands, “I travel light.”
“Weapons too,” Boles said. “It’s standard procedure.”
“None that I ever heard of,” Jem said.
“Suit yourself,” Boles said. “There’s other coaches for hire.”
Jem saw a young, nervous boy sitting in the forward carry, holding the destrier’s reins. The kid had a scattergun at his side that looked bigger than he did. Boles saw Jem looking and said, “That’s just my boy, Charlie Junior. He rides shotgun with me just in case there’s any trouble. That’s why you don’t need those hand cannons, Mr. Howard. We can take care of any problems that arise, but I don’t want one of my passengers shooting us in the butt by accident.”
Harlan held the door open for Adam and told him to get on. Jem said, “Hang on a minute, Mr. Wells. We’ll catch the next one together.”
“Can’t, Tom. We already paid upfront for this ride, and can’t afford to lose the deposit. Take it or leave it, we’re throwing our lot in with this fellow.”
Charlie Boles helped Adam up the step and waved his hand at Harlan. “And now for you, sir? Your chariot.” Boles looked at Jem and said, “Either ditch them Defeaters in the back or find another ride.”
Jem unhooked his gun belt and handed it over to Boles. “You be real, real careful with these now.”
Boles took the belt and steadied both dangling guns in his hand before he opened the box and laid them gently inside. “Some serious firepower you got there, Mr. Howard. You ever had a chance to use ‘em?”
“Only on what deserved it,” Jem said. He hoisted himself into the carriage and Charlie Boles turned the lock that sealed them inside.
Adam stared out the window and panted like a dog, his face near enough to the glass to fog it up with his breath. Harlan rubbed the back of Adam’s head, reassuring him that everything was all right. “He gets nervous in confined spaces. We don’t travel much.” Harlan looked Jem over and said, “But that doesn’t explain why you look so nervous, Tom.”
Jem’s eyes were locked on the narrow port window that looked up at Charlie Boles’s boots. Junior tapped his feet ceaselessly on the loose boards. Jem shook his head, “What makes you think I’m nervous?”
“Nothing, I guess. I’m just making conversation. Pay me no mind.”
The carriage started moving and shifting from side to side. Adam laughed and bounced up and down in his seat. Harlan put his hand on his son’s shoulder, “Like I said, he’s worked up about this. If you need to catch some sleep I’ll do my best to keep him quiet.”
“No. That won’t be necessary.” Jem looked through the opposite window as the town rolled past.
Several hours later, the destriers were still moving at full gallop. The beasts were in good condition and the signs of civilization disappeared. The wasteland extended into long stretches of red shale with dust that blew in rolling waves. Adam’s head was in Harlan’s lap, but he was awake, occupying himself by sticking his fingers into his mouth, then taking them out to stare at the strands of drool. The old man’s head was cocked back and he snored so loud that he drowned out the noise of the wheels spinning under the carriage.
Charlie Boles Junior’s feet tapped away in the forward perch, building to a frantic pace that stopped just as the destriers began to slow. The carriage rolled to a stop. Jem took in a deep breath and held it.
There was talk between the men above that ended when Charlie shouted, “Stop arguing with me and get your candy ass down there like we talked about!”
The lock on the carriage door spun and Junior opened it, pointing a double-barreled Winchester inside the carriage. The boy’s hands shook and he stuttered when he said, “Get your hands up, all of you!”
Jem got down from his seat and squatted in front of Junior, putting his chest against the barrel. “Do me a favor, son? Take your finger off that trigger. Professionals keep it on the side of the frame unless they need to shoot.”
“Shut up! Wake up the old man and the mushbrain and get out of the carriage.”
Jem smiled wide. “Ain’t no need for that. These two don’t have a dime on them. I, on the other hand, have got something you and your Dad will desperately want. Leave these two out of it and I’ll make sure the two of you are more than compensated.”
Junior looked from the passenger door to where Charlie Boles was sitting. “Hey, Pa?”
“They out of the carriage yet?” Boles shouted.
“Go on, tell him,” Jem whispered. “He won’t be mad once he sees how much severian I’m holding.”
“Pa? I need you to come here.”
“Goddammit, Junior. So help me God, if they ain’t out of there yet, there is gonna be hell to pay.” Charlie Boles came around the side and cursed
when he saw Jem still sitting in the doorway. He cracked Junior across the back of the head so hard that tears showed up in the boy’s eyes. Boles snatched the shotgun away and pushed Junior out of the way. “I apologize for the lack of precision to all this, Mr. Howard. He’s new and just getting started. I’m sure you understand.”
“More than you know,” Jem said.
“Now, kindly exit the carriage and stand over there behind it while I remove the other two.”
“I was just telling Charlie Junior that there’s really no need-”
Boles cocked the gun’s hammer and wrapped his finger around the trigger. “I can take your money whether you are alive to know it or not, Mr. Howard. I’d prefer you walk away from this, but I assure you, I will put a hole in your body if you do not extricate.”
Jem got down from the door and moved in the direction he was told. Boles poked his head into the carriage and cursed. He handed the shotgun over to Junior. “You keep that scatter gun on him and if he moves, shoot him,” Boles said. He pointed a bent finger at Junior, “If he moves and you do not shoot him, I am going to grievously injure you.”
Junior turned back to Jem. The boy had a nervous tic that made his eyes squish together and his nose twitch. Jem said, “Don’t worry, Junior. I like you, so I’ll stand still.”
Boles climbed into the carriage, followed by Adam’s horrified scream. Harlan Wells shouted in protest and Boles backed down from the doorway, drawing a pistol from his waist. “Get out here right now. Move it, old man. I swear to God, I will either shoot you both or drag that retard out by his ears and when they rip off I’ll make ‘em into a necklace.”
Harlan’s head poked out of the carriage, “This is an outrage!”
“Just get out here, Mr. Wells. Adam will be calm if you’re calm,” Jem said. “Do what they tell you and everything will be fine.”
Harlan came down, complaining that his back had stiffened up on the ride and not to rush him. He waved his hand at Adam and said, “Come on out, son. It’s okay. I want to show you something.”
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