by J. P. Sloan
I’ve put down at least two dozen Strigoi in my years riding with Gil. I got the knack for finding the heart buttoned down pretty good. Draw a line from chin to his right tit, and aim for the middle. Which is what I do. I hold the stake tight in my right hand, left hand cupped over the back for punching strength, and raise it to my nose.
I bring it down.
A weight slams up into my forearms as I swing them down, like I’d just hammered a hitching rail. The stake slips a little from my grip, but I snatch it with fingertips.
Ramon’s eyes are open, as is his mouth, which lunges up at my face.
I roll back away from him, tripping over my own feet and falling to a sit against the floor.
Ramon growls and twists off his cot, which snaps under his sudden exertion. A spate of drool flows from his mouth.
I hear a gun cock behind me, and I hold up my hand. “Not yet!”
Ramon crawls over to me, mouth hanging open, slamming hand over hand into the floor to reach me.
I cock back a leg and give him the heel of my boot directly in the bridge of his nose. A spray of blood mists across his brow and cheeks, and he howls in pain.
“Fuck,” he grunts.
I regain my feet and stand up over him. He swipes for my leg, but I’m ready for it. I bring my boot down again, this time against the flat of his hand. He squeals and pedals away from me.
“You behave yourself,” I say, circling to his side and kicking the wrecked cot out of the way.
“What’r you doin’?” he sputters.
“I’m trying to kill you, since you asked.”
“What’d I do to you?”
“You just tried to eat me, for one.”
“I’m hungry.”
I give Scarlow a quick look. His face is pinched tight. Too much of the man he knew is still alive for him to find any comfort in this.
“I know,” I answer. “It’s the curse what took you. When that thing bit you out in the hills, it gave you its curse.”
“So hungry.”
I tap his leg with the toe of my boot to capture his attention. “You’re dead, Ramon.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Yes, you are. You just don’t know it yet. This curse done killed you already.”
“I ain’t dead.”
I sigh. This is more conversation than I frankly need. “Don’t matter, anyhow.”
As I grip the stake for another strike, I hear Scarlow call out, “Ramon!”
He looks over to the bars.
Scarlow’s eyes are drawn and red-rimmed. “You just lie back, now. Let him do his work.”
“But―”
“It’s over, Ramon,” Scarlow mumbles.
Tears flow from Ramon’s eyes, and he shakes his head slowly. “I―I’m just so damned hungry, Eddie.”
He lies back, the tears rolling sideways off his face.
I approach, giving Scarlow one more look.
Scarlow nods, then turns away.
I crouch down and check Ramon. His lips quiver as he sobs.
“I ain’t done nothin’.”
“I know,” I whisper, before lining up my strike. “This ain’t personal.”
As I slam the wood down into his chest, it feels personal enough.
His arms spasm, and a heavy fist slams into the side of my head. I see stars and kick away from him, only to have a knee connect with my chin. I spin clear of the creature, shuffling until I hit the bars.
The jailhouse is filled with husky screeching and the sound of limbs slapping the ground. I rub my head and blink through the blurring scene in front of me.
My stomach turns, and I feel the room spin. Before I black out, I watch the flailing stop.
hen I come to, I find Scarlow hunkered down with his confiscated hooch bottle, watching the bars of the cell. I sit up and rub the side of my head. I’m outside the cell. He must have dragged me out.
“We set?” I groan.
Scarlow nods and takes a swig.
“Did it work?”
He nods again.
I try to stand, uneasy on my knees for a second, but I manage to keep myself upright. “Sure he’s dead?”
“I’m sure.”
“How can you tell?”
He waves one of his bottle fingers. “The flies.”
I step to the bars. Ramon’s body is where I left it, the stake still jutting up from his rib cage. A couple dozen flies circle the fetid air over the corpse, landing through the stink as they see fit.
“We have our weapon,” I announce as I turn back to Scarlow. “Lots of damn aspens down the hill. We’ll need to clear-cut the whole copse, get as much hewn and sharpened as we can. Maybe put Cheevey to work.” I step toward Scarlow, who just stares forward. “You hearing me?”
“You ain’t right, Odell.”
“Looks like I cleared the aspen correct.”
“No,” he spits as he finally looks up to me. “You ain’t right in the head.”
“That a fact?”
“I killed people. I think we both know that.” He reaches up a hand, and I help him to his feet. He stands well enough. Seems he hadn’t tucked into the whiskey too hard. “But I shot them all from a distance. It weren’t ever straight murder.”
I sneer at Scarlow. “It’s always murder, no matter how far away you get. Don’t matter if it’s by gun, by stake, or by fundamental lack of giving a shit. You let people die, you kill them yourself.”
“That why’d you run out on the Army?”
“Don’t recall telling you about that.”
“You did. And you know, I used to understand that. War never set right in my gut, neither. Union come down, start burnin’ farms, linin’ men up in the street and shootin’ them in the head. Sure. Any right-minded Southern man would throw in. It was just easier for me to keep a distance, I suppose.”
I reach over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Your friend was talking and breathing, but he was gone.”
“I know. You did the right thing. It wasn’t something I figured I could do, neither.”
“You might have to.”
Scarlow shrugs. “I reckon that’s the truth.” He sucks in a breath and releases a fumy sigh. “And I reckon I don’t have the fortitude to watch somethin’ like that happen again.”
He gestures to the body in the jail before replacing the cork in his bottle and hurling it against the iron bars. Glass and whiskey spray into the air. I turn my face and wipe some of the liquor off my cheek with the back of my hand.
Scarlow sniffles, straightens his spine, and turns to face me. “All right. Let’s get to work, then.”
The sun is remarkably low in the sky by the time we step out onto the street. I must have been out for a good piece. I can hear Cheevey’s hammering not far away. Scarlow and I march around the jailhouse to find him hanging off the skeleton of rafters like some kind of monkey.
“Cheevey!” I call out. “Come on down. Need a word.”
He shimmies down the framing of his newest building. As he brings hisself up in front of us, he straightens his hair and clears his throat.
“Yessirs?”
“You got a mule or a horse or something?” I ask.
“Yessirs. Just back by the lumber drop.”
“Well, hitch it up to a cart and meet us down the hill by the aspens just short of the Sayles property.”
He nods and trots off.
I turn to Scarlow. “Got a mount close by?”
“Around the back of the assay office.”
“Get it saddled up. I’ll meet you by the church.”
“Where you going?”
“Going to see a man about an ax.”
We part ways in front of the assay office. I screw an eye up to the second-story windows. I swear I catch a length of dark lace curtain fluttering above. Richterman can watch all he likes. I still got sunlight on my side.
I step into the general store and find Toomey stacking sacks of flour.
“Toomey,” I say in wa
y of announcing my presence.
He turns and puts his hands on his hips. “Yup?”
“You got some axes in the back?”
He cocks his head and approaches. With a slow, odd motion he reaches around me and slips an ax from a barrel just behind me.
“Hmm,” I mumble. “Suppose that slipped my notice.”
“How many you need?”
I turn to find four handles sticking out of the barrel. “I’ll need them all.”
“Will this be on Mr. Folger’s credit, sir? Or Mr. Richterman’s.”
I give him a look and feel a blush in my cheek.
Right.
I suppose that first conversation with Toomey was a touch ridiculous from his point of view. Everything about my first day in this town was ridiculous.
I feel a snicker slip up my throat. It bowls into a laugh before I can say, “I guess, in light of things, that wouldn’t matter much. Would it?”
Toomey takes a step back.
I catch hold of my laugh and hold up my hands. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Dunno. Suppose I just never heard you laugh before.”
“I reckon it’s been a while.”
Toomey stands dumbly in front of me.
I clear my throat and gather the axes over my shoulder. “Put it on Richterman’s bill, that sumbitch.”
Scarlow and I meet again by the burned-out church, and barely avoid Cheevey as he barrels down the road past us at alarming speed. He don’t do nothing halfway, it seems.
The three of us gather near the aspen copse, and I take a good survey of the trunks.
“All right. Clear any branch an inch or wider. Keep your stakes no shorter than a foot long.”
“What about the trunks?” Scarlow asks.
“Take them down. We can make two-handers, keep the bastards at more than arm’s length.”
Scarlow turns a half circle and taps his chin.
“What you got cooking in your skull?” I ask.
“Shame we can’t fashion some firin’ bolts out of these things.”
I nod. “That’d suit me fine, but we don’t have the time or the manpower.”
“Well, can’t help with time, but…”
“Hmm?”
Scarlow raises a hand. I turn to find he’s signaled a clutch of riders coming down the hill. His men surround us, eyeballing the axes on my shoulder.
He takes an ax and tosses it to the closest rider. “Boys? We got some lumber to jack. Best get it done quick. Small branches to a foot length. Trunks all the way down, and strip the bark.” He taps my shoulder. “You come with me.”
I hand out the available axes and give Cheevey a good handshake before we move back into town. Scarlow guides me to the center of the main street, dismounts, and steps to the pressroom.
He asks, “Wouldn’t happen to have a key, would you?”
“What do you want in there?”
Scarlow gives me a mischievous smirk. “I have a notion.”
“You want to share this notion, or am I just going to stand here with my cock in my―”
“No key, then?”
I shrug, then reach for the door, which as it turns out is unlocked anyhow. “You ain’t giving me good feelings, Scarlow.”
He shoulders past me into the pressroom and pulls up in front of the contraption occupying most of the room.
Scarlow bows down and peeks under the press, then climbs up to prod at a couple of the levers.
“Big ass gear and a crank will help. Gonna need some rope, though.”
I rub the back of my neck, standing by the door like a statue. “Care to enlighten me?”
“In my youth, I worked a loggin’ camp on the Red River just south of Shreveport. It was a miserable concern, to be sure. Always shortin’ us on equipment and stock. Only had two mules, and the boss man used one of those for sloggin’ in and out of the camp.”
“I’ll need you to get to the point sometime soon.”
“He couldn’t be bothered to pay the coin for a steam crane. Instead, he threw Negroes at it. Well, this one Negro got a scheme in motion to build a dogger out of spare lumber, chain, and a rope spring.”
I fold my arms, waiting for Scarlow’s thought to land.
He continues, “It was a peach, too. Slid them onto a trough with the dog hook, and the twist of the rope threw them on down into the river. One day, some poor bastard lost his head, stepped in front of the sluice. Trunk buried itself four inches into his chest.”
“I reckon I see where you’re going with this. Think you can hammer that together?”
He nods to the press. “The frame and steel hardware will make it easier. Give me enough time, and I might have somethin’ that could throw your aspen trunks into a cannibal from a rooftop, or back of a cart if you want to stay mobile. Time, and rope.”
“Well, Toomey’s probably got some rope you can liberate.”
“Good notion. Folger’ll shit, though.”
I lean against the doorframe, rolling a nod to Scarlow. “What say we let Richterman worry about that?”
“All right, then.” Scarlow turns and gives me a measured eye. “How long’s it been since you slept?”
“Hmm?”
“Sleep? That thing you do when your body’s done being useful?”
I think on it. “Does getting the taste kicked out of my mouth by a Wendigo count as sleep?”
“It don’t.”
“Then I’m pretty sure I’m in arrears.”
He approaches and grabs my shoulder, turning me to the door. “I have business here, Odell. You have business getting your head square. When are you thinkin’ about dealing Richterman into this hand?”
“I suppose he’ll crawl out of his little office when he’s ready.”
“He’ll crawl out of somethin’. You get some rest, Odell. I’m workin’ off some whiskey fumes and could use the quiet.”
I nod and pull the door open.
Scarlow reaches for my arm and holds me backs for a second. “Odell?”
I consider the man that second. Something is brewing behind those eyes.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He releases my arm.
I push the door closed. “No, you got something to say. So say it.”
He turns a slow circle and stops by Folger’s workbench, leaning against straight arms. “Stupid to talk out loud like this, but I’m feelin’ tired. I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said. About life outside this valley.”
“It’s a thought, ain’t it?”
“What’ll you do when this is over?”
I pull Folger’s stool and take a seat, crossing my arms. “I suppose there ain’t much likelihood in surviving this, to be honest.”
“Granted, but you got to assume the best sometimes. Where you headin’ to?”
“Cheyenne,” I answer without thinking.
“Right. Your Godpistols.”
“What about you? You know I’m not letting Richterman continue his miserable days after we take care of the cannibals.”
He shakes his head, still leaning against the bench. “I figured as much. One way or another. I don’t know. I suppose we’re both captured by this moment.” He pulls himself off the bench and turns to me with as earnest a face as I’ve seen on the man. “But if I weren’t, if I had a chance to start over, I suppose I’d move to the coast. Up northwest, where the summers don’t get so hot. Winters don’t get so cold. Just find a hole in one of the cities up yonder and get right with myself.” He nods to me. “I figure a man could get his head clear in a place like that.”
“Maybe so. Sounds like a plan worth pursuing, if I was you.”
“And if you was you?”
I lean back. “I told you. Cheyenne.”
“Why?”
“I think you know.”
“Right. Those fuckin’ Godpistols.”
I pull myself out of the chair and take a step toward Scarlow. “You got something to say about the Godpistols, you go ahe
ad and say it.”
“Just seems to me you’re holdin’ out for a payday that ain’t never gonna come. What if there’s no future with those people? What if you had nothin’ connectin’ you? What if you could just throw it all down and decide where you, Linthicum Odell, wanted to live?”
I turn away. “Horseshit. I have obligations.”
“What obligations? You’re puttin’ your life into the hands of the Devil, here. I’d say you’re paid up by the end of this.”
“That ain’t the point.”
“Then what is the point, Odell?”
I reach for the door. “I think that sleep is a good idea right now.”
Scarlow nods and turns away. I nearly step completely outside before adding, “You don’t want to ride with me, Scarlow. I’m not a virtuous man.”
His laughter booms off the close walls of the pressroom. “Fuck, Odell. I’m as virtuous as a sore on a whore’s tit.”
“Charming.”
“Listen,” he says between breaths. “If you ever find a way to pull yourself clean of Folger and Richterman, and you’re able to leave all this behind you, I reckon I’d be privileged to ride with you.”
I hold in the doorway, searching for some point in his statement. I never thought twice about friendship. Not once. Not since the war. Not even before that.
Absolutely not with Scarlow.
But he, by his blushing, awkward posture, definitely has.
I give him a nod and leave as quickly as I can without appearing completely bastardly.
The sun is touching the western hills. Won’t be long before Richterman will have free rein of the town. If I want any rest at all, I’ll have to capture it now. I situate Ripper at Holcomb’s smithy and climb up the ladder to his living space. It’s still vacant and hollow. Eerie. I don’t feel terribly comfortable here, but the exhaustion creeps into my shoulders and back. I lie down on his pad and think about Katherina.
Sleep takes me good and quick.
There are no dreams. Just an empty space.
And then I awaken.
Nothing wakes me up by its own right. Just the knowledge that Richterman is here. His presence fills the entire building. I pull myself out of bed and rub my face. I can feel him. He’s inside my head, jabbing at me, nudging me to join him downstairs. It’s annoying as shit.
I take a second and consider making him wait, but his needling increases. He knows I’m awake, and there’s nowhere to hide. Might as well deal with him.