by J. P. Sloan
“What’s this have to do with Magner?”
“He was one of the miners trapped below. By the time Denton…” Her gaze drops a bit. “By the time we cleared the rubble, Magner was the only survivor.”
“How’d that make him a monster?”
“He was underground for almost two weeks. He had… done things. To the other miners. To survive.”
I nod as a familiar whiff of evil steals into this story. “He ate the bodies.”
“It changed him. I cannot tell you what he is, Odell. He is a scourge. Something twisted and hungry. Always hungry.”
“Well, suppose I’ll just have to end his sorry ass, too. Tell me more about Richterman.”
She opens her mouth before closing it again, lifting the edge of her brow. “I think I finally understand why Denton brought you here.”
“Besides saving my life?”
She shakes her head slowly, a thin smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. “You are going to save his.”
“Don’t think it was as mercenary as that.”
She continues, gazing up at me, “Which means I may not tell you anything. I have probably said too much already.”
“Excuse me?”
“I cannot help you, Mister Odell.”
I fold my arms and give her a squint. “This ain’t about that business with the stakes the other morning?”
She chuckles. “I was never in danger.”
“You’re saying you won’t tell me anything I need to know?”
She nods.
“I can’t see as how that’s greatly helpful for anyone.”
“It is. For you. And Denton.”
“My patience with this particular drama is wearing powerful thin, ma’am.”
“As it should,” she responds, reaching for the table.
I step forward to offer a hand, but she waves me off. She makes it to the chair before dropping into it with a sigh.
“I swore to help your husband. I can’t do that if you’re holding back important information.”
“No,” she replies with a straightened posture, hands flat on her legs. “You swore to help my husband with Richterman. I shall hold you to that, Mister Odell. I absolutely shall hold you to your word.”
“Look. Those things in the hills―”
“Are no longer your concern.” She sucks in a deep breath as a fresh shudder rolls through her shoulders. “I do believe Denton needs you, Mister Odell. And I hate that he does. But I have come to realize that he will never beat Richterman alone. You must help him. Perhaps you are the only one who can. Who is to say? You must focus on Richterman if either of you will survive him. Anything I tell you will only hinder you.”
“How?”
“You must believe me. This is for you and Denton to discover on your own. I have tried helping him. I truly have, but it is beyond my ability. It has to be you alone. It is the only way.”
I walk a slow circle, trying not to swear in front of the lady. It ain’t easy. She’s withholding valuable information… information that could keep people alive. She asks me to believe her, but how far can I really trust a creature such as this? She has the appearance of humanity, with her romance for her husband and the trappings of civilized life.
But she is a Strigoi. And as a Godpistol, I would pledge to put their kind in the ground.
Hell. I ain’t a Godpistol yet, and I did give my word to Folger.
“I’ll help Denton,” I mutter. “I’ll help him with this sumbitch Richterman. And I’ll do it his way… no killing. That’s what I owned up to.” I stop in front of the woman, sitting straight and imperious in her chair. “But if you expect me to steer wide of those cannibals in the hills, then I’ll expect you to cover my back. I can’t focus on your husband’s paper war if I got Magner and the Parson on my ass.”
With considerable effort, she pulls herself to her feet and reaches out to touch my face. It isn’t an aggressive motion. More like a person testing paint. She lays fingers along my jawline and just stands there, dark eyes filling with tears, probably from the pain of her wounds.
The smell of jasmine falls heavy in the room again.
“Just stop worrying about me,” she whispers.
“I ain’t worried.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I’m not,” I mumble, looking down at my own hands, realizing I was, in fact, trembling.
She moves her hand to the front of my face and presses one finger against my lips. “I will not let them hurt you,” she whispers.
I try to say something.
Nothing comes out.
So I nod.
“One rule,” she adds, pointing to the bedroom door. “I do not want you in there. Not anymore. That room is for Denton only. Understood?”
I nod again.
Her gaze swivels slowly to the side wall, and her face steels up a little.
I hold my breath. There. A sound outside.
I can hear flesh tear as her teeth sharpen and the skin on her face draws tight over the monster face. She can’t hold it, however. With a moan she reaches for my arm and spits out some kind of vulgarity in her home language. Her face drifts back into something human, though her eyes are still dark and sharp.
I pull my pistol and take a cautious step toward the front door. Something is out there, all right. I can hear it moving through the grass.
My legs twitch as the door thumps softly. I damn near fire, but manage to keep my arm steady and my finger off the trigger.
Another brush on the door.
I ease the door open, muzzle of the pistol high and poised.
As a gleam from a single dark eye greets me, I lower my gun and hang my head.
“Ripper,” I mumble. “Did I leave you out there by your lonesome?”
Folger’s wife sucks in a slow breath, then releases a belly laugh so thunderous it makes me and the horse jump.
By morning she’s back in what she calls her chamber, Folger is resting in his bed, Ripper is tied up in the shelter eating hay, and I’m out in the prairie grass burying three bodies. I have a mission. Find some way to unseat a crooked Strigoi Justice from Gold Vein without staking the bastard or shooting him full of silver. All this with another Strigoi covering my back. Just as well. Of my original rounds, I have only one left.
Then there’s the new bullets Holcomb pressed for the Gil. I can’t dip into those bullets. Those aren’t meant for me.
Unless absolutely necessary.
Another shovelful of hard soil and stone onto Hitchens’s reeking remains, and I wipe my forehead. I wonder if Gil had a moment like this back when he first took up a gun against the demons? Surely he’d met a Strigoi like this woman, something that challenged his peculiar picture of what a blood-sucker is and what it does. And yet he carries on, taking aim, putting them to dirt. As long as he’s been hunting these dark creatures, he’s decided they’re still worth killing.
I’ll have to keep that in mind, because it’s a little too damn easy to trust a creature like Katherina.
ipper pulls our cart over as many damn rocks as he can find on our way into Gold Vein. I’m reasonably certain he isn’t doing it on purpose, but I can’t be totally sure with a warhorse. I’d caught him putting distance between me and hisself before, particularly on my way west out of Tennessee. He usually waited till I was taking a bath in a stream or whatever puddle I could scare up on the high prairie. He and I got along just fine, most of the time. We were both cowards. I think we both know we don’t have much self-esteem to throw around our necks, so we tuck it in and get the job done.
Another rock.
Folger grimaces next to me. His side is healed up fine, at this point. Katherina got to making him a poultice eventually, and it did its trick. Still, we both took a good couple weeks to mend up before sticking our noses back in Gold Vein. His grimace is as much a complaint from being stiff as anything.
Between him and me working out meals in the daytime, tending to Ripper, and keepi
ng an eye on the mine hills, we’ve done about as well as two basic strangers can do in a closed space. He sleeps in his room at night, and in accord with my arrangement with his wife, I haven’t set foot back in that room. I catch my sleep on a cot near the corner farthest from the door, where the least amount of plains wind pokes its way through the clapboards.
Katherina’s been in and out, though I don’t see her much. I’ve found myself in Folger’s swing of day-and-night, and it’s easy to see how the two of them manage to miss each other. It hasn’t taken long for me to plumb out her mysterious requirement that I steer clear of his bedroom. What little time they get together? Well, I’m very sure they think those pine board walls break more sound than they actually do.
The smell of those damned flowers gets nigh to unbearable, at times.
Folger nods over at the new construction on the outside of town. “Looks like Cheevey’s kept himself an industrious pace.”
I squint past three new houses, exterior boards and shingles up and everything. Last I’d seen them, that lone carpenter only had them in skeletons. He must have some kind of system down; he gets three frames working at a time and nails them out like a bastard.
“He’s cannier than he looks,” I grumble, trying to maintain more conversation than we’ve had in the last few days.
“Oh, he’s quite the craftsman. He renders some quality for what he’s given.”
“Well, he works fast.”
“You don’t approve?”
I grunt. “Can’t say I could build a straight house myself.”
“Well, Richterman must be happy with him, nonetheless.” He lifts a hand, and Cheevey responds from a distance. “He’s a simple man. And by that, I mean simple.” He touches his temple with a finger.
I nod. “Figured. Suppose Richterman prefers that in his lackeys.”
“You’d think that.” Folger snorts. “But then there’s Scarlow.”
“Yup. Not looking forward to putting eyes on that specimen again.”
Folger clears his throat and nods toward the center of town. “Regrettably, it seems you’ll have to muster through.”
Scarlow and two of his men slide between buildings. He stands in the middle of his alley, hands on his hips. Folger elects to steer the cart in a collision course with Scarlow, who doesn’t budge until the very last second. Folger stares forward, not giving him a moment’s attention. No matter, as Scarlow levels his glare directly onto me. Just me, as if Denton weren’t even there. We pass between Scarlow and his men without incident. I turn in my seat and give Scarlow a grin and a tip of my hat. His eyes steel up, some queer kind of anger and confusion slicing the air between us.
Ripper pulls us around onto the main lane near Holcomb’s shack, and I lift up on the reins.
“Hold up.”
Folger leans in and stares at the open door to Holcomb’s smithy. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, maybe. Just want to check on Holcomb.” I hand Folger the reins and swing my legs over to the ground. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Folger drops to the ground on the other side of the cart and trots around to my side. “I’m not leaving you alone in this town, Lin. Not with Scarlow on the prowl. I’m coming with you.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
We slip into the darkness inside the smithy and wait for our eyes to catch up with the shadows.
“Holcomb?” I call out.
No answer.
I pace a long circle. Horseshoes still hang where they ought. His furnace is cold, though. And on his work table, I find three stacks of shoes and nails with hand-scratched notes beside each. Names.
Folger inspects the names and shakes his head. “These are customers. He must have left them here.”
I push through the door behind his furnace to find a coal shed and a ladder that slips up through some rafters overhead.
“That where he sleeps?” I ask.
Folger steps into the shed behind me. “That would seem to be the case. I can’t say for certain. I haven’t had much call for Mister Holcomb’s services.”
I grip the ladder and climb my way up, shouldering open a warped square of trap door. Holcomb’s loft is as expected. A cot, a steamer trunk, and not a lot else. I clear the landing and take a quick survey of the space.
When Folger manages his way up the ladder, he pauses and gives me a prairie dog stare. “He’s not here?”
“Looks like he lit out,” I answer, lifting open the steamer trunk, which I find empty. “Can’t say I blame him.” I drop the lid with a thud.
Folger gets to his feet and puts his hands on his hips. “Shame. I’d hate to think Richterman ran off another. Probably has a replacement he can thumb under already in mind.”
“Don’t think Scarlow and his boys got to him?”
“Well, none of his belongings are here. Assuming he had belongings to being with. Which suggests he had at least a few moments to pack up.”
I nod. “Suppose that’s true.”
Something catches a beam of sunlight on the far wall, reflecting it back into the room. I step over for a closer look.
A small badge of brass. One horizontal line, one vertical, both held inside a circle. The Solar Cross. The badge of the Godpistols.
The badge is nailed loosely to the wall boards, and I manage to pry it off without too much fuss.
“What’s that?” Folger asks, suddenly noticing what I’m doing.
“It’s Holcomb’s.” I hold it up for Folger. “You ever see anything like this?”
He takes the badge and gives it a good once-over before shaking his head. “Can’t say I have. Doesn’t look like any kind of law enforcement badge I’ve ever seen.”
“It ain’t. It’s the sign of the Godpistols.”
“Your little group?”
I give him a sneer.
“Sorry. I meant… wait. Holcomb was one of you?”
“Yup.”
He gives the badge a more thorough inspection. “I apologize, Lin. A part of me rather assumed your entire fantasy about monster-killing vigilantes was some snake venom–induced hallucination.”
“So, I got your attention?”
“You do, indeed.” He hands back the badge. “If there is, in fact, a group of gunmen killing innocent people on the supposition that they’re monsters, I’d find that quite worthy of attention.”
I pocket the badge. “Still don’t believe me, yet?”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“I gather.”
We wind our way back down the ladder and out onto the street. Holcomb done left this miserable town behind. Sumbitch had the decency, at least, to hang up his Godpistol marker before abandoning these people to two kinds of demon. Part of me figures he’d earned a pass on this particular war. The other part of me figures I’d just as soon put a bullet in Holcomb next time I set eyes on him.
Dear God, my hypocrisy is staggering.
I edge the cart up to the front of Folger’s shop and unhitch Ripper to tie him to the post on the front of the building where the sun keeps him a mite warmer against the chilling mountain air. Folger works open the heavy iron lock on his door and slips in before I even get the damn horse unhitched. By the time I rejoin him, he’s already got a few stacks of papers laid out on his table.
“Very well, my friend. We begin.” He waves his hand over the table like a magician conjuring some sense into the room. “These are the four landowners I know Richterman has muscled out of town. There are others, but he moved quick early in his scheme. Regrettably, I was too slow to catch wind of his machinations.”
I lean over and give each of his newspapers a quick look. Nothing much to remember, just names and the same story he’d laid out when I met him.
“These folk are gone, now.”
“Gone gone?” I ask with a gun-finger to my head.
Denton gives me one portentous lift of his brow. “There has been… violence. I can prove Scarlow’s boys were at their property shortl
y before they disappeared. What I can’t prove is whether Richterman holds the deeds now. And the only way to find that out is to check the public records kept in the Justice’s office.”
“Richterman’s office.”
“Precisely. So, barring outright libel, I can’t publish these papers. I do, however, have him dead-to-rights on the Hitchenses.”
“You have your hands on their deed?” I ask.
“No, but I won’t need it. What’s done is enough. I have eyewitnesses now.” He points a slow finger at me.
I shrug. “Fine, but is that going to cut it? That’s one case, and we know they’re alive.”
He smiles and strides over to the opposite wall to pull a fresh stack of papers from a desk. “We have to get in front of him now. Two steps in front. That’s the only way.”
“How so?”
Folger chooses one page from his stack and hands it to me. “Old Man Sayles. He owns a stretch of property just northwest of Gold Vein. It’s not large, but it’s close. Too close. And Cheevey’s moving in his direction with those new houses.”
“Scarlow paid this Sayles fellow a visit yet?”
“Undoubtedly. It’s possible Scarlow and Richterman think you’ve moved on. They won’t know I have reinforcements, so to speak. And so, while I start setting the plates for the Hitchens affair, I want you to go talk to Sayles. Get him chatting. Needle out the details of exactly what Richterman has done and when he’s done it. That’s important. Timelines are vital.”
I hold up my hands. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I’m not good with people like that.”
“That may be, but you have zero experience setting plates. So, it’s either this or you’re not going to be much help.”
I take a look at the printed page in my hand, stalling by reading the letters slow. “Listen, Denton. Why don’t you talk to this fellow? You’re a nice guy. You’re going to get a hell of a lot more out of him.”
Folger drops his chin a little, and I know he’s got something else going on with this Sayles person.