by J. P. Sloan
“Sure she ain’t compelled him? They have a way about them, turns a man’s mind against hisself.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “He’s under a spell, all right. But it’s the kind of bastardy we all fall prey to, Mister Odell. And it ain’t Strigoi magic.”
“Well, you get to pressing that silver, and I’ll tend to Folger’s wife before I leave.”
Holcomb reaches for my arm. “You’re… you’re going to put her down?”
“Like I said. I ain’t used to leavin’ a strigger standing.”
“You sure about that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
His eyes pull into a tight squint as he whispers, “The man’s in love, Mister Odell.”
“She’s got him bewitched.”
“It’s a decision he should probably make, is all I’m saying. You make that decision for him, and maybe the two of you won’t end so well.”
I step away from Holcomb’s grasp. “I’ll have a talk with Folger, then. But not before that silver’s pressed. I need those bullets.”
Holcomb moves his gaze to the ground and nods.
“How long, you think?”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“That long?”
“Can’t do this with Richterman looking on. He catches wind of strange business in my shop, and you won’t be seeing me, or your silver, again.”
I give him a nod. “Early morning, then?”
“Let the sun rise before you come.”
“Understood.”
step out of Holcomb’s shop and survey the street. Folger hasn’t made much progress on his cart. The sun’s well overhead, and I shield my eyes. It occurs to me I lost my hat somewhere between Fort Caspar and Gold Vein, and my pants are ruined. The general store sidled up next to Folger’s pressroom seems as good a place as any to kill time, maybe find some new clothes.
As I take a stroll back up the lane, a broad, shiftless sumbitch gives me a look. He stands in the front doorway of a wide double-story with dark-draped windows. I give him a nod as I pass, keeping my hand over my empty holster. He eases onto the street with neither a tip of his hat nor gesture for his weapon. He just watches as he follows me on the opposite side of the lane. This is most definite a town of watchers.
When I pass Folger’s windows, I pause to take a peek inside. He’s huddled up over his desk, a pencil working furiously in his hand. For a press man, he has the peculiar hang of an artist about him. I leave him be and step on by to the general store. The door scrapes against the warped floorboards, worn from a combination of weather, boot heels, and shit carpentry. A grizzled old coot whose eyes are firmly captured by some manner of folding book haunts the counter along the back wall. A row of jugs, hand-sized burlap sacks, and some unmarked boxes of accoutrements line a single shelf over his head.
I draw a nostril full of some kind of meat stew, probably boiling in the back, and my stomach announces its recent lack of attention to the shopkeep. He lifts a finger to keep me held until he finishes his page.
I wander to one of three tables sidled along the near wall and take a seat. Presently, the shopkeep draws a rheumy breath and sets his book aside to favor me with a second of his goddamned attention.
But when his gaze lifts to my direction, his spine snaps straight, and his eyes bulge with horse-panic. He stands stiff and silent, staring a hole through my head.
I rise after a space, hoping a modicum of courtesy might be squeezed out of the old bag of skin and gray whiskers.
“Morning,” I say with as much aplomb as the sumbitch deserves.
He says nothing.
“No need to fret. I’m just passin’ through. However, I find myself short a hat and a pair of britches lacking an impossible space of holes. Reckon I’d trade for said? Plus maybe a bowl of whatever you’ve got on the fire?”
The shopkeep looks to the door leading to the back and gives me a curled brow. “What game are you playin’?”
This town is giving me the red-ass. “I need a hat. Britches. You sell that?”
The man takes a step back. “Sure enough.”
“You sell to strangers, or am I doomed to a sun-blind ride into Cheyenne?”
After a space of furious blinking, the man slips through the back door. Before I have a chance to take my seat again, the front door scrapes open as old shiftless from across the street steps into the store. For the first time that day, I feel a fight brewing around me. My hand falls again to what insists on remaining an empty holster. A ghost of a grin leaks into the corner of the man’s mouth. I’m not impressing him.
He slides past me toward another table, turning and settling into a chair, kicking his boots up on the wood with a cloud of dust. He’s not tall, nor short, nor fat, nor thin. He’s directly in the middle of the physique of a man I wouldn’t assume I could put down with my bare hands. So I collect myself and take a seat, making sure I’m facing him.
His eyes work me over before he coughs once and announces with a slow Southern drawl, “Gonna rain.”
“That a fact?”
He nods with a smirk. “Gettin’ the ache in my shoulder.”
“Stay dry, then.”
“That’s the plan.” He drops his chin. “Question bein’, what’s your plan? Where you gonna ride it out?”
“I don’t figure how that’s any of your business.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Can’t figure how it ain’t.”
I pull my legs under my knees. Best to keep ready to take my feet should he decide to get cute with me. I’ve dealt with this cut of thug before. The frontier is silly with them. Barely upright pieces of work, usually wanted for one damn thing or another, who find themselves in the employ of a crooked power broker. They sip from the cup of power with a boot on the neck of the honest man and a hand in the pocket, for cock or cash, of the one who keeps their neck out of a noose. I have to tread careful.
“I’m going to take a guess, here, and suggest you work for Richterman?”
He laughs. The sumbitch actually laughs. Once he catches his breath, he replies, “And I’m guessin’ you’re wrapped up with Denton Folger in some way.”
“Solid guess.”
“Well, that’s usually how it shakes out in this town.”
The shopkeep returns through the door with three hats in one hand and a pair of britches slung over his arm. He stands stiff yet again once he catches sight of my conversation partner.
“Well shit, Toomey,” old shiftless hollers, “that all for me?”
Toomey doesn’t so much as breathe.
I stand up and reach for the darkest of the hats and set it on my head. Damn. Too tight. The next darkest fits fine, though.
“This one,” I mutter as I take the britches.
Toomey nods quickly before scurrying for the back door.
I add, “The stew. Is there a bowl I could buy off you?”
He nods and retreats.
Shiftless snickers. “Got him confounded somethin’ powerful, mister.”
I turn to him. “Odell. Name’s Odell.”
He pulls his feet off the table and lifts a finger to his hat. “Scarlow.”
Settling my new hat comfortably on my head, I feel strength returning to my posture. Not so much as if I had my damned Remington, but enough for me to meet Scarlow’s eyes. I pull a chair from his table and take a seat across.
“You keeping an eye on the stranger, I reckon? Richterman send you hisself, or are you more or less a free hoss around this town?”
His smirk thins. “Ain’t no one a free hoss in this town, Odell. Maybe not anywhere this side of the Mississippi, but you’re really gonna have to let Richterman bore you with that particular speed of conversation.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be well west of here by the time I give a shit.”
“You really passin’ through, then? I won’t be hassled with you beyond today?”
“I figure not past sunset tomorrow.”
He pulls his chair back and stand
s. I follow suit, mostly to keep him from achieving an advantage of posture.
“We’ll see, I suppose.”
Toomey returns with two bowls of stew. He stands stiff again, eyeing the two of us staring each other down over the table.
Scarlow waves a finger at Toomey. “Put all his shit on Richterman’s credit, Toomey.”
I lift my head. “No. I’m clearing this now.” I reach into my pocket, and it’s not until that particular second that I realize my walking-around money has gone missing, just like Gil’s badge. Empty pocket. All the silver in that bag was now in Holcomb’s hands.
Well, damn.
Scarlow snickers as he sweeps past my elbow to snatch one of the bowls. “Like I said. Richterman’s credit. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Scarlow cradles his bowl and moves for the front door.
“Folger,” I say. “Put it on Folger’s credit.”
Toomey sighs just loud enough for me to hear.
Scarlow responds without hesitating, “Whatever. Y’all be good, now.”
Once Scarlow is clear of the shop, Toomey spins on his heel and grips my arm.
He asks with an age-dusted voice, “What do you call yourself, again?”
“Odell. Linthicum Odell.”
“Mister Odell, you need to listen to me, and you listen good. You get gone from here. You get, and you stay gotten.”
I squint at the old man. “I ain’t afraid of Richterman, friend.”
“I don’t suppose you would be. But the rest of us? You’re going to make things worse. So much worse.”
I ease his hand off my arm and give him a pat on his shoulder. “That’s not what I do. I make things better. And trust me, old timer… there’s things circling this town that make your Richterman no more frightening than a sack of hammered shit.”
The man’s face goes pale. He whispers, “You don’t know what he is.”
I take a step back. “How’s that?”
Toomey turns and dives back through the back door. Another door screeches against wood toward the back of the building, and I figure I’m now alone in this miserable store.
I don’t know what Richterman is? Not who… what?
Alone, I take my time with the meat stew, then step back onto the street to steal a glance at the two-story across the street. Dark curtains on every window.
I wonder how often the regular folk of Gold Vein catch sight of Richterman in the daylight?
Folger’s managed to clear the wagon in my absence, and as I sidle up to Ripper to give him a few strokes, he stumbles out of his press shop with a grin.
“Ah. There you are,” he mumbles. “Have you completed your business with Holcomb?”
“Nearly.”
“Nearly?”
“Takes a day to press my… Well, I’ll be back through town in the morning. After which I’ll be on to Cheyenne.”
“In which case, you’d be best served to take advantage of our hospitality for one more night.” He smiles and climbs up into the wagon.
My gut twinges. I will likely become an unfortunate memory for Folger, but certainly not brief. If all goes well, I will have been the man who killed his blood-sucking wife. And, if my instincts hold plumb, I’ll be the man who killed Richterman, too. I wouldn’t begin to assume he would ever forgive me for the former.
But the latter? Well, a man in my profession can’t afford to get sentimental over his work. If there’s an absolute truth to righteousness, then there’s nothing more a bastard like myself could aspire to in order to save his own soul. If a man can’t find a place in his heart to believe in God, then by God, he could believe in his own work.
he clouds present themselves low and heavy over the cannibals’ hills by the time we reach Folger’s homestead. Looks like shiftless old Scarlow had his weather correct if nothing else. We set Ripper into his shelter with some fresh hay and some questionable water, and enter the tiny house.
I retire to change into the new pants. They’re a fine fit for my awkward frame. Toomey’s eyes seem capable of sizing a man’s legs easy enough. Hat, pants, and an empty holster. I’ll have to rectify that last bit shortly.
I find Folger lingering over the cold iron kettle inside the kitchen. He glances at the floor.
“When Kate rises, I’m sure she’ll be quick with dinner.”
I settle into one of the table chairs and say, “I’m in no hurry. I landed a bowl of stew at the general store. By the by, it seems I’ve put myself into your debt by virtue of old Toomey and your line of credit.”
Folger lifts a brow.
“I apologize for that. Had a certain Mister Scarlow buzzarding me something fierce.”
Folger’s face sours. “He’s a sly one.”
“Had a choice to settle up affairs on Richterman’s name or yours. I chose the man I trusted, though it puts you out. When I find my way back to Gil in Cheyenne, I can have the money sent back with interest.”
“No need to worry about that,” he grumbles with a lift of his hand. “It’s worth the spare dollar to think of someone saying no to Scarlow.” Folger’s eyes harden a touch. “He’s always hovering around me in town. He and his so-called deputies. I’m sure he thinks he’s making an impression on me, but it’s not the impression he’s intent upon.”
I push back onto the chair legs and fold my fingers over my lap. “What’s his story, anyway? I figured he’s Richterman’s man.”
“You would be correct. He was a farm hand from Louisiana before he wandered west. Word is he got caught stealing from his employer’s home. Silverware, pewter plates, some such. He kept a step ahead of justice and fell in with some bandits who benefited from his command of complete sentences. Still, though, they were dog-eared and starving by the time Richterman found them.”
“How’d that play out?”
Folger shrugs. “Scarlow and his boys mustn’t have drawn Richterman’s ire enough to invite his wrath. What’s more, he’s effectively deputized the lot of them. When another family gets run off their deed, it’s usually Scarlow’s boys that put them to their heels.”
“I see. ‘Bout what I figured, but I wasn’t sure if he was the type to talk hisself into a fight or out of one.”
“Certainly the former. If your business takes you back into Gold Vein tomorrow, I recommend keeping clear of Scarlow. And Richterman.”
I settle the chair legs back down and lean onto the table, looking Folger directly in the eyes. “It got a mite tense in that store for a minute or five. Found myself flat-footed without my pistol. I know I’m overstaying my welcome by a night, but I really must insist―”
Folger slides out of his chair and moves for the stove. He plucks a lid cover off the top and slips out a bundle wrapped in burlap. As he lays it on the table before me, the sack gives the wood a good thump of iron. I move slow and deliberate-like, keeping my fingers wide so Folger doesn’t take alarm. Inside the burlap, I find my pistol.
“Obliged,” I mutter, checking the chambers. I still have my four original silver bullets left in the Remington. “I take it guns put you off your feed?”
He glances over to my pistol, then rubs his face. “They serve their purpose, I suppose.”
“That they do. I reckon we all have our purposes.” I slip the pistol back into its holster and cross my arms. “Richterman’s got the town well tight in his fist, I can see that. Tell me about him.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Where’s he from? What’s he look like?”
Folger squints up at the ceiling. “He’s a tall man, old, thin-figured. Can’t say I’m certain where he hails from, but he does speak with a particular accent. I would guess he’s Prussian by descent.”
“Ever seen him in the daylight?”
He holds a stare for an uncomfortable moment. “How’s that?”
“Daylight.”
“If this is some artless barb regarding my wife, Mister Odell―”
“Nothing like that, I swear to it.”
&nb
sp; Folger frowns. “Then you’re making no sense.”
“And you’re not answering the question.”
“You’re asking if Richterman shares my wife’s affliction?”
“No, I’m just asking if you recall seeing him out and about in the daytime hours.”
“Well, he would have to have been. It stands to reason he’d have conducted his business during the day.”
“His windows are covered in black curtains. Ever notice that?”
Folger squints, his eyes moving side-to-side. “He oversaw the mine reclamation and subsequent condemnation. He would have to be present at the mine itself.”
“And you saw him there?”
Folger doesn’t answer.
“It’s a simple question. Have you ever seen him, personally, in the sunlight?”
After a long pause, he answers, “I can’t recall a specific moment at this instance. But that means nothing. My head is aching. I’m exhausted. It’s been quite the couple days, here.”
Folger pushes away from the table to stand. I follow suit.
“Mister Odell, I must retire. Long years living on the frontier, and I still haven’t mustered the stamina for it.” He grins. “Katherina will be awake soon enough. If you have any needs, I’m confident she will see to them.”
I offer a hand, and he shakes it vigorously.
“I may be gone by sunrise,” I advise. “And if that’s the case, I want to thank you now for all you done. By helping me, you’ve rendered aid to a greater cause. One that maybe you’re not suited to hear on, but you have done a good thing.”
He looks down to the floor with a thin smile. “It’s the least a human being can do for another.” He looks up to the panes of glass darkening with the set of evening. “I’ve often said that we help ourselves when we help others. I suppose that sounds somewhat mercenary, but lacking any faith in a higher mind to keep account of such things, I’ll grant myself a moment of congratulation.”
I shake his words out of my ears and grip his hand one more time before he moves for the outside door.
He pauses in the doorway, pulling his coat up over his neck to fend off a cold, rain-driven breeze from the hills. “At the very least, it’s been enjoyable having someone besides Kate to talk to. Safe travels, Lin.”