Guns of Seneca 6 gos6-1

by Bernard Schaffer

  Marshal Jimmy McParlan dragged someone out of the rubble and stuck his fingers in their mouth to clear out the mud. McParlan couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. He pushed the person aside and dove back into the wreckage for more.

  Bart Masters ran through the smoke and started grabbing pieces of the wall at McParlan’s side. “Pull, pull!” McParlan shouted.

  Water jetted at the flames from the fire brigade wagon, filling the air with moist black smoke. McParlan looked over to see Royce Halladay staggering to his feet near the steps of the Proud Lady.

  Halladay clutched his head and coughed, spraying mouthfuls of blood across the ground in front of him. McParlan grabbed him around the waist and pulled him from the fumes and dust. He dragged Halladay over someone laid out at the bottom of the Proud Lady’s steps and realized it was Jem Clayton.

  McParlan set the doctor down in an alleyway away from the blast site and said, “Catch your breath.” He hurried back to Jem and lifted his head to check for injuries. He looked into Jem’s eyelids and saw that his eyes were rolled back in his head but he was breathing steadily. “You got your bell rung real good, I reckon, but you’ll be all right,” he said.

  Jem moaned and reached for McParlan. His words were garbled when he tried to say, “Another bomb.”

  “What?”

  Jem pushed up from the ground and got to his knees before collapsing again. He stretched his hand out to point at Charlie Boles smoking remains and the Marshal saw packets of grey plastic strapped around Boles’ waist.

  “Everybody get back!” McParlan shouted. He ran over to Boles’ body and cleared away the charred fragments of shirt covering his waist. The fire had consumed most of the clothing but left the explosives untouched. McParlan grabbed the sizzling wires and started ripping them out of the packets. The metal threads and melted plastic from the wires stung the Marshal’s fingers and made them blister but he kept at it until each one was cleared. “Masters! Bring me a bottle of clear liquor.”

  McParlan backed everyone away from Boles’ body and waited until Bart Masters returned with a bottle from the Proud Lady. McParlan grabbed the cork with his teeth and splashed liquor onto the plastic explosives around Boles’ waist. “Does alcohol neutralize them?” Masters asked.

  “No,” McParlan said. “But fire does.” The Marshal struck a match and dropped it onto Charlie Boles’ stomach. The match lit the pool of clear liquid and the packets started to crinkle and turn black.

  Someone called out McParlan’s name through the thick fog. Sheriff Walt Junger emerged from the smoke, wearing a smile wider than a canal. “There’s some men here who say they received your distress call.”

  McParlan’s look of relief turned to disgust when he watched a uniformed Customs Officer come up through the smoke to stand beside Junger. “These boys want you to go with them to discuss the situation,” Junger said.

  A second Officer drove Charlie Boles’ wagon up to them. There was a high-capacity rifle in his hand. Junger said, “Get in, Marshal. There’s a man who wants to speak with you. He says that after you come, his business here is through.”

  “I won’t give up my guns,” McParlan said. “We can shoot it out right here if you want.”

  “They don’t want your guns,” Junger said. “I already ensured you would be allowed to keep them.”

  “Wait a second, Marshal,” Bart Masters said. “I’m coming too.”

  “Like hell. Stay here and make sure this mess gets cleaned up.” McParlan looked at the Sheriff and said, “God knows there’s nobody else here worth a squirt of piss to get the job done. Hey, Bart?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Make sure that sister-in-law of yours is all right.”

  Anna Willow watched him going and shouted, “Marshal! Where are you going?”

  McParlan got into the carriage’s rear and stood in the doorway with his hand on the handle. He turned to look back at her and said, “Time to put a stop to this before anyone else gets hurt, Anna.” He said goodbye and swung the carriage door shut.

  * * *

  Lightning struck the side of the house so close that it woke Jem from a sound sleep. He opened his eyes to see the flash of white and blue in his room, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

  Jem got out of bed and went into Claire’s room. She was snoring gently and holding an old teddy bear that he had never seen before. The bear was missing an eye. Jem walked to his father’s room to tell him that there was a storm, but the bedroom door was locked. Jem raised his fist to knock, but lighting struck again, and Jem ducked and covered his ears.

  A gust of wind knocked the front door open, and rain pelted through the screen. A dark-skinned young man stood on the porch staring at Jem. His long dark hair clung to his face in the rain and war paint dripped down toward the bleeding bullet hole in the center of his chest. “Goyathlay?” Jem whispered. “It’s you.”

  The Beothuk turned his back to Jem and walked down the steps into the meadow. Jem followed him through the door, calling his name, telling him to wait while lightning arced across the mountains and illuminated the valley. A camp fire flickered in the meadow, surrounded by people who gathered close to the flames and tried to warm themselves.

  Goyathlay turned around in the darkness and held his hand out to Jem. Jem started to follow him but had to lift his arms to shield his face from the rain.

  Charlie Boles Junior stood by the fire, huddled next to his father. The boy’s teeth chattered from the cold and he pressed himself tightly to Charlie. The people surrounding the fire looked at Jem and moved aside, making room for him. Junior held out his hand for Jem to come sit.

  “Jem!” a man’s voice boomed from the porch that stopped Jem in his tracks. The voice made him turn around ever so slowly to see Sam Clayton waving at him, holding a torch. “Come back here, boy. Don’t you go with them.”

  Goyathlay waved for Jem to hurry, and Jem looked back at his father, “They want me to go with them. I belong with them.”

  “No you don’t,” Sam said. “You belong with me.”

  “If that were true, you would have never left. Not this place and not me.”

  Sam came down from the steps, holding his torch high in the air like a beacon. “I left here, Jem. But I never left you.”

  Jem awoke with a start, sitting up in his old bed at Claire and Frank’s house. Claire and Anna Willow were seated on stacks of boxes and bundles of clothing that had replaced all of the things he’d left behind in that room. “Easy, Jem,” Anna said. “Try not to move around too much.”

  He gasped and grabbed his side, feeling like someone had smacked him with a hammer. There was a sharp pain when he tried to breathe and he felt the bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. “How many are broken?”

  “Just a few,” Anna said. “But you’re going to be mighty sore for awhile.”

  “I remember smoke was coming out of that boy’s shirt, and I smelled something burning. Nothing after that. What happened? Was it a bomb?”

  Anna looked at Claire, and neither of them responded. “Why don’t you lie back down and get some rest, Jem?” Claire said.

  “There was a woman and her children standing next to him too. What happened to them?”

  Anna shook her head and said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Jem cursed and swung his legs from the bed onto the floor. He gritted his teeth and tried to breathe. “Where are my guns? I’m putting an end to this right now.”

  “It already ended, Jem.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Claire put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the bed. “Help finally showed up from that crazy Marshal’s useless agency. He went with them to sort it out. There hasn’t been any trouble since. Now lay your ass back down before you tear something.”

  “Really?” Jem let it sink in and sighed with relief. He held his side as he laid back down and said, “The signal must’ve worked. God damn, I can’t believe it. Did they get Litt
le Willy?”

  “I have no idea, but you are just gonna lay here and get some rest,” Anna said. “Claire will cook you something to eat. You’ve been asleep for over twenty-four hours.”

  “I wish I’d seen it when they showed up to get Little Willy. I bet he wasn’t so tough then. Those Agency boys have some serious firepower. They probably just launched a few rockets at him from space and came in to clean up whatever was left.”

  “It wasn’t anything to be impressed by, Jem,” Anna said, patting his hand. “Just two men in uniforms driving that rickety old wagon you came here in.”

  “Uniforms? What kind of uniforms?”

  “Their patches said Customs, I think. They wanted McParlan to go with them, and he went.”

  Jem struggled to get out of the bed, saying, “Where the hell did you put my guns, Claire?”

  * * *

  The wagon ride had been uneventful. The Customs Officers ignored McParlan’s questions as they rode through the wasteland. The incline grew steep, and the wagon stopped at the edge of a cliff overlooking the canyon below. “We have to go the rest of the way on foot,” they said.

  McParlan saw that the other paths leading down to the canyon had been blockaded, leaving only a narrow trail that wound down the edge of the cliff. He followed the officers down to where Little Willy Harpe was sitting on a square piece of scrap metal, watching them. “Hello, Marshal.”

  “Little Willy Harpe. Put your hands up, you are under arrest.”

  Harpe smiled at that and stood to his feet. He was shirtless and appeared to be rubbing some kind of long black tattoo that spread out from his armpit to cover his neck and chest. McParlan eyes narrowed when he saw the bulbous creature seated under Little Willy’s armpit and that the tattoo was actually the thing’s tentacles buried in his skin. “My God…is that what I think it is, you maniac?”

  “Do you like it?”

  McParlan grabbed for his Balrog and had the weapon aimed at Little Willy’s head faster than the Customs Officers had time to react. Little Willy spoke a single word before McParlan could pull the trigger and it was as if he were turned to stone. He struggled to fire, wrapping both hands around the gun and squeezing with all his might.

  Little Willy Harpe lowered his forehead against the barrel of the Marshal’s gun. “I once watched a man get fed into a threshing machine. He went in feet first, and it took awhile for the gears to grind up something vital enough that he died.” Little Willy looked up at McParlan and said, “Go ahead and imagine what that’s like.”

  McParlan shrieked and flopped around in the dirt. Harpe looked down at him and said, “Welcome to Golgotha.”

  * * *

  McParlan’s chin was low against his chest but he managed to summon the strength to lift it and spit at Little Willy’s face, but his mouth was too dry, and all that came out was a rasp of air.

  Little Willy signaled to Hank Raddiger to bring the beams. Hank struggled to drag the enormous metal X across the dirt toward them. Hank dropped the beams and bent over to try and catch his breath. He set a drill on the ground next to the X and placed four bolts beside it. “Here you go, Elijah,” he panted. “Just like you said.”

  “You need to get better underlings, Little Willy. This one’s too stupid to remember your name.”

  Harpe lifted McParlan’s head by a handful of hair and said, “You lack faith, my son. Use this time to reflect and repent your sins.” He walked over to the X and waved to the others, “Bring him.”

  Hank and the two Customs Officers hoisted McParlan into the air and carried him over to the X. They laid him down on top of it and spread his arms and legs along the tops of the crossed beams. McParlan started to struggle and Harpe said, “You will lie STILL.” The Marshal went limp, and Harpe said, “But you may talk. And you may scream.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, you piece of shit,” McParlan said. He watched Harpe bend over to pick up one of the thick bolts with a pointed steel tip.

  Harpe notched the bolt to his drill and gave it a spin, listening to the motor whir with satisfaction. Harpe bent over the first beam and pressed the tip of the bolt against McParlan’s right wrist. “You ready?”

  “Go to hell.”

  Harpe gave the trigger a light squeeze that sent chunks of McParlan’s skin flying in every direction.

  “Remember you can scream,” Harpe said.

  19. Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned

  Claire sat on her front porch, watching the sun hover over the mountains. She rocked back and forth and did not look at Jem as he came through the front door and stood by her. He dipped into his pocket for a pinch of sweet weed and tucked it into his lower lip, working it there until there was something to spit, but as he bent over the side of the porch Claire said, “Don’t you get any of that filth on my steps. And I don’t want it splashed all over my yard either.”

  Jem walked over to the other side of the porch and spat over the railing into the dirt. He wiped off his mouth and presented her with a sealed envelope that contained Old Man Willow’s letter. He’d put a second letter with it that told her a bag of pure severian was under the floorboards in his old bedroom. He told her to look in the same place he’d hidden all of his secret stuff as a boy.

  In his letter was a set of careful instructions on how Claire could find and hire a bounty hunter that could be trusted to dispatch two well-known politicians like Walt Junger and Billy Jack Elliot. He warned her not to reveal their identities until the bounty hunter agreed to the price and told her to keep half of the money until the deal was finished. Or, she could just let Royce Halladay read Old Man Willow’s letter and he would probably take care of it for free.

  “What is this?” Claire said.

  “Some interesting reading in the event I don’t come back. If I do come back here and it’s already opened, I’m gonna be madder than hell at you.”

  “That stopped being a concern of mine years ago, Jem.” Claire’s blonde hair blew gently in the breeze and she looked up at him with eyes that were bluer than glaciers, but colder. “After all of this time waiting to hear if you were living or dead, you really think I give a rat’s ass if you’re mad at me?”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t have a reason to.”

  “Then what happens when you do come back? You go running off into the same territory where daddy got killed. Then you almost get blown up by some goddamn maniac and his kid. And now you’re running off to try and get yourself killed one more time. I don’t love you anymore, Jem! I ran out of it when all you left me with was worry and anger.”

  “I understand,” he said. He put his hand against the railing and looked out at the meadow. “You know, I had a dream about you last night. About the house, just like when we were little kids. He was in it too…if you know who I mean. You were just a little girl.” He took a deep breath and looked down, trying to keep his voice steady, “Ever since the time I was too young to know better, death has been coming to this very door to snatch up the people I love most, Claire. First, it was the illness that took Ma. Then that native boy who I shot. Then that bastard Elijah Harpe came here and almost killed you and Frank. You want to know why I ran off when I did? Why I keep doing it? You’ll laugh at this, trust me, it’s a riot, but maybe if I keep running, death will follow me away. Maybe it won’t come here looking for me anymore.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Claire said. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and said, “You always were stupid.”

  Jem smiled and nodded, “Yeah, now that I said it out loud, I guess it does sound kind of silly.”

  “Why are you going out there? Why does it have to be you?” Claire said. “Hasn’t this family given enough already?”

  “Jimmy McParlan’s a good man, Claire. A lawman. The kind I ain’t seen in a long, long time. Reminds me of someone.”

  Claire stood up out of her chair and wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He kissed her on top of the head and said, “I’ll be back
soon. You’ll see.”

  * * *

  There was a pretty woman hanging laundry on a line between two trees in her front yard along Pioneer Way. She smiled at Jem when he rode past and he tipped his hat to her and said, “Hello, ma’am.”

  He had to navigate around a crowd of miners on Pioneer Way. They carried their lunch pails and laughed loudly as they chattered back and forth, talking about their lives and work. Farther ahead, Jem passed a second group heading in the opposite direction, going home after a long shift. Their faces and clothing were black with soot.

  One of those men was going home to that pretty woman, Jem thought. She would draw him a bath and he would scrub while she made dinner. There would be children racing in and out of the wash room, excited to see him. He might have just busted his ass doing thankless work for twelve hours a day in the pits of hell, but at the end of it, he came home to his family, Jem thought, and I am jealous.

  Workers were still shoveling out the blast site surrounding the Proud Lady. The bar itself was quiet, with some of the patrons leaning on the porch rails to chat with the workers. A few of the men said hello to Jem. He stopped at Anna Willow’s office, but no lights were on, and he decided to keep going.

  The front door to the Sheriff’s Office was shut. There had been no trace of Walt Junger or Billy Jack Elliot since the day the Marshal left. There was a thin man standing near the security gate, smoking a hand-rolled cigar. Doctor Royce Halladay looked up at Jem from under his hat and said, “Well, well. I was beginning to think that you had a change of heart.”

  “What are you doing here, Doc?”

  “I assumed that we were going to mount a rescue effort.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A gypsy woman read it for me in tea leaves and chicken innards.”

  Bart Masters led two destriers around the security gate while lugging a handheld mining device over his shoulder. “Don’t listen to him, Jem. Anna told me when I went to pick this contraption up from Adam Wells.”