Yea Though I Walk

by J. P. Sloan

  “Mister Magner?” I whisper. “Are you―”

  His chest heaves, and he coughs up a powerful gob of mud, spitting it aside.

  Then his eyes fall on me, and he goes stiff. It’s unnerving, like watching a wolf when it locks onto a deer.

  “Magner? It’s Denton Folger. The shaft… the mine’s opened up. I can get you out.”

  He blinks and steps away in a sudden flurry of panic.

  “What?” he blubbers.

  “The mine’s open. You’re saved.”

  He drops to his knees, his face drawing into a grotesque mask of grief and pleasure, and he releases a long, lusty moan.

  I manage to free my legs from the gravel and dust myself off. I swing the lantern over my head, turning a circle. So many bones. Bits and pieces. A tiny pile of skulls sits in the far end of this chamber, a pyramid of barely-flayed heads. Many still bear the scalps, some sloughing off against the skull above. All of the eye sockets are empty, save for some bits of tendon and gore slipping from within.

  My stomach lurches again. When I finish retching, I find Magner scrambling on hands and knees toward a dark heap just beside the skulls. He reaches with a claw of fingers and slaps the heap, pulling off a long, maggot-covered strip of flesh from what looks to be the thigh of a man.

  “Magner! What are―”

  He bites down on the rotting flesh, eyes wide.

  My head spins, and I fall backward, dropping the lantern. The oil spreads and catches along the floor, illuminating the death chamber even further.

  All the bodies!

  All the blood!

  My― I can’t―

  The last thing I hear is Magner mumbling between gulps, “I’m just so hungry.”

  I black out, and a hand falls on my shoulder.

  Richterman is smirking at me. The air is clean again. No more rubble. No more blood.

  I rub my neck and stand.

  “That was when you were… born?” I ask.

  “Denton was weak. Always was. That’s the thing you have to understand. I was born to make him strong. That’s why I liked you, Odell. Like me, you were strong.”

  “You’re not Strigoi, after all.”

  He chuckles. “No, dear boy. That was entirely your concoction. Quite a clever one, and if I’d have had more time, I would have exploited it.” He sighs. “I had such plans. And I was doing so well.”

  “Then… when was I―”

  “You were my doing, Odell. Not his. You were born from my weakness, as much as it pains me to admit. The posse against Magner? I didn’t send men into those hills. I led them. And it went poorly for me. I had no idea how strong they had become. Hubris, I imagine, is how Denton would describe it.”

  The darkness brightens again into the orange hues of sunset. Air crisp with the turning season flows from the hills, heavy with pine and humus. Ripper rumbles beneath me, moving at a good clip up toward the forest around the mine. I have two of Scarlow’s men with me, though he elected to stay behind in the safety of the town. No surprise, there.

  But this affair can’t wait. I have to strike now. That worthless creature in the hills has had too much time upon this Earth for my liking, and it is high time his light was extinguished.

  They smile as they ride. I know that smile. Bloodlust. I understand it, though I rarely partake of it. Those with the joy of the kill are the ones who step too quickly into the fight. It is for people like me, people with the long view, to use such men.

  We wind up the old main road to the mine, but I pull them away before we reach the mine itself. The Project is proceeding beyond my expectations, and I don’t need these fools with their blithering rage creating problems there. I call them forward, hooves stepping gingerly over root and stone, winding a path to the ridge. We need high ground and a decent vantage point before the sun sets.

  I spot a thin curl of white smoke lifting from the side of the neighboring ridge. They’ve started a fire. Could be defended… I’ll need to send one of these forward. I volunteer the fat one, Cooter. He’s been discourteous to one or two women in the town, and I’ve had calls for his accounting for it. Hell, I am the Justice after all. Suits me fine.

  We wait nearly an hour as Cooter reconnoiters the far ridge. The sun sets quickly, sending the temperatures colder. I hear movement in the brush behind us.

  “Cooter, what took you so damned―”

  Something slams against the back of my head, sailing me off Ripper. The horse rears, gives whatever attacked me a good, solid kick, and tears off down the hill. Damned horse always was a coward.

  I hear a scream nearby. Scarlow’s other man, never bothered with his name, shrieks as some tall creature slowly tears his arm clear of his shoulder socket. He gurgles and flails with his free arm as blood gushes out. His face pales quickly, and he drops to the ground, bled out.

  And now it’s just me and this thing, which turns to me.

  I know that face. It’s the old Parson, Uriah. Thought he was dead. The monster that Magner’d become had stormed the town, wrecked our church, and taken the Parson when Denton had taken our body to Broad Creek to buy some stupid press plates. I’d come back with just enough time to find the ruins of the church and a panicked town.

  Uriah leans down and grins into my face. “I am so very pleased to see you again.”

  I say nothing. I’m prone, at a disadvantage, and I don’t know what this thing can do outside of tearing men’s arms off.

  “Well? Aren’t you happy to see me, child?”

  I maintain my silence, and I can tell it’s digging at Uriah.

  “Is that you, Richterman? Or have I knocked Folger loose?”

  That’s it. He wants me, not Folger. Best not to give him what he wants.

  But I can’t let Folger rise. Not now. He’s weak. Far too weak to negotiate our survival. I need something stronger. As strong as me. Something Uriah isn’t expecting.

  What I could really use is that vicious, God-servant vigilante I’d put into the ground last week.

  Yes.

  I could use a man like that right now…

  I reach out and grab Uriah.

  But it’s not Uriah.

  It’s Richterman, and we’re once more surrounded by our private darkness.

  “What vigilante, Richterman?”

  “I think you know.”

  “The real Linthicum Odell?”

  “Another mistake of mine, though I’ll allow Folger to garner at least half of the blame.”

  I stammer, “Th-the Parson wasn’t looking for Gil at all. He was looking for you, and you cooked me up to save your ass?”

  Denton’s voice spills over my shoulder. “He had no idea how right he was, Odell.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When I first found you, I knew on some level, some deep and mysterious level, that you were meant to save me. I thought against Richterman. It was more than that.” He chuckles. “It appears that Kate was the only one to see the truth. She believed you could help us. All three of us.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Linthicum Odell? He rode into the valley looking for Holcomb. Pretty much the pretext for your arrival as you remembered it, and just as astutely he pieced together the nature of Kate’s condition.”

  I ball fists. “He tried to put her down?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I was uninformed.”

  Richterman snickers. I turn to face him.

  “That’s criminal in its understatement.”

  “What happened?” I blurt. “What’d he do?”

  Richterman replies, “Where you failed, the real Linthicum Odell nearly succeeded.”

  “How?”

  Prairie grass brushes against my legs as I find myself walking to the shelter. It’s a good day. Still warm from Indian summer, though the seasons are in the change. Ripper looks up to me from his trough and gives me a nicker. He likes quiet days like this.

  We both do.

  Kate’s taking her rest down be
low. It’s been a long decade, but we’ve found a way to make this work. She’s worth it. Every second of it. And though the Cosmos seems content to saddle her magnificence with this debilitating condition, we refuse to let that contain us. There is a strange beauty to the night, I must admit.

  Though on a day like this, with bright blue skies overhead, I take my enjoyment of the daylight.

  I hear hooves in the distance and wind my way out from the shelter to catch a glimpse. I look south toward Gold Vein. That’s where all of my visitors approach, usually Scarlow or his men with some demand from Richterman. But I see no one to the south. I turn to find a rider approaching instead from the west. He’s alone, mounted on a thin, flea-bitten nag.

  I never know how to handle strangers. I refuse to be the contentious local with foundless suspicion of all outsiders. However, I’m smart enough to know that strangers aren’t aware of our valley’s peculiar balance of power, and a brigand may be stupid enough to seize on us without realizing how much Hell he would inherit from Richterman in doing so.

  The rider slows up and dismounts several yards away.

  “Hello,” I shout, hoping to nudge some indication of his intentions.

  He leads his nag forward, tipping his hat to me. “Morning,” he grunts with a scratchy, deep voice. “Which is the way to Gold Vein?”

  I nod slowly. “You’re nearly there. Just another hour south.”

  He sighs. As he turns to mount his nag, I notice it steps with a bit of a limp.

  “Easy, girl. Just a little farther.”

  The animal takes a faltering step.

  “How long have you been traveling?” I ask, giving him a bit of a start.

  “Week or so. Rode out of Cheyenne.”

  “Well,” I offer with an extended hand. “Your horse looks a touch road wearied. If your business isn’t pressing, I’d be happy to refresh her for you. Give her, and yourself, a bit of a rest?”

  He takes a long measure of me, and he reaches down and shakes my hand. “Obliged, mister.”

  “Denton Folger, and it is my pleasure.”

  “Linthicum Odell.”

  We settle affairs with his horse, and I invite him inside. He removes his hat and drops it unceremoniously onto the table.

  “I think my wife may have some stew left, if you’re hungry.”

  He shakes his head with a grunt, takes a seat, then swings his legs up onto the table. I wince as dust spreads across the tabletop. Kate won’t like that.

  “Where’s your wife now?” he asks as he pulls out a flask.

  “Asleep.”

  “Pretty late in the morning.”

  “She’s ill.”

  He shrugs and takes a belt from his flask. It’s shiny and well-maintained, likely his most valued possession. A symbol is engraved on the outside. A fair bit of pewter working, to be certain.

  I take my breakfast as Odell sits in his chair, drinking and watching me.

  “What takes you into Gold Vein?” I ask to break the tension.

  “My business is my own.”

  “Fair enough.”

  His gaze moves around my living space. He’s taking a bit too much interest for my comfort, and I slowly regret inviting him to take his pause here.

  “You know Holcomb?” he finally blurts.

  “I do. Farrier in town. Quiet man.”

  “That’d figure.”

  “How so?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  We sit for another long, awkward silence, after which I get up to straighten up a bit, hoping the man will take the hint and leave.

  Instead, he squares up in his chair and pockets his flask. “Ain’t got consumption or nothing?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your wife. Consumption hit here?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Typhus?”

  “Nothing like that.” He continues staring at me, so I fill the space. “She has a skin condition.”

  He nods with a grunt. “Leprosy?”

  “More of an allergy.”

  “Pity.” He looks around. “I’ll speak quiet-like.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. She can’t hear us. Sleeps like the dead.”

  “That a fact?” he asks with a lift of the brow. “Rode with a man named Gil McQuarrie. Man snored like a buffalo. Never seen a man sleep so sound.”

  I smile. “Must have a clear conscience.”

  “Man does, that’s a fact.”

  “Well, sound or not, she sleeps in the cellar. We could blast for gold up here, she’d sleep through it.”

  He shakes his head. “Curious man to keep his wife in the cellar.”

  “Well, not strictly my wife. As much as any man and woman might find consort without the needless benefaction of religion.”

  “Curious way of talking about you.”

  I wave him off. “Sorry. I’ve endeavored to align my speech with the local color, but I find it oddly difficult.”

  “So you ain’t married?”

  “Not by the law, such as it is out here. And certainly not by the Church.”

  “You ain’t believers?”

  I shake my head. “I believe in what I can control. And that’s this.” I tap the side of my head.

  Before long, the stranger stands up and thanks me with a series of grunts before taking his leave. He saddles up his nag and moves south, and I assume, out of my life.

  I assume wrong. He’s not out of my life.

  It’s sunset, now. Kate will be awake soon. I take a pass around the homestead to inspect the siding, which has been sagging as of late, when something lands hard against my shoulder. I shout as my knees drive into the grass. I look up to find Odell snarling down at me, an Army pistol backward in his hand. He brings the stock down on my head.

  And Richterman awakens.

  This ridiculous whelp has the gall to strike me?

  I sit up, now inside the house. Katherina will be furious. My presence here violates our agreement, such as it is. But I have no time to deal with our arbitrary boundaries. This fool has chosen the wrong man to waylay, and if he thinks he can rob us without reprisal…

  Where is the bastard? I’m alone on the floor. No one else here.

  I hear boots outside sliding through the grass. There he is! I pull myself upright, wincing through the pounding in my head, and snatch Katherina’s herb-cutting knife.

  I slide outside. The wind keeps the grass hushing back and forth, covering my approach. I find this Odell savage hunched over the cellar doors. He’s going for Katherina. Curious thing.

  He spots me just as I land the first strike. He raises his arm to defend, glancing the blade into his shoulder. It slices deep, but I free it quick enough to dodge his fist.

  He blusters some profanity, but I can’t be bothered with his words.

  I throw my knee up into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, and I swing the back of my fist against the side of his head.

  He slumps to the side.

  I give his shoulder a shove with my boot, rolling him onto his back. A bright metal badge shines from inside his outside coat. I reach down and snatch it. Some kind of cross.

  “You some manner of law man, you filthy little shit?”

  He coughs.

  I pocket his cross badge. “Setting upon innocents? Not particularly Christian of you.”

  His cheeks bellow under labored breaths. “You ain’t neither.”

  “This is true, but I’m not the one wearing a cross on my chest. What are you?”

  “G… Godpistol.”

  “Oh, that sorry clutch of monster-killers Holcomb used to ride for?”

  “Is he―”

  “He’s alive and well. Primarily because he doesn’t give me grief. He’s a good dog, sits when told to sit, keeps his muzzle shut. Now,” I add as I kneel down with my knee settled under his chin, but light enough for him to speak. “What’s your business with Holcomb?”

  He grimaces and sputters, before finally tapping his pocket
. “Silver,” he wheezes.

  I reach into his grimy pocket and produce a pouch… coins by its jingle.

  “What’s Holcomb need silver for?”

  “Bullets,” Odell whispers. “Blessed silver. St. Casilda of Toledo.”

  “You Godpistols robbing churches, now?”

  “Kills striggers.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  He sneers.

  I give the pouch another jingle, then stuff it into my pocket. With a sigh, I grip the herb knife tight in my right hand. “Holcomb may be a quelled dog, but you are a wild cur. I’m afraid I’ll have to put you down.”

  He paws at the cellar doors. “Strigger…”

  “That’s not a very polite word.” I crouch down over him. “Show some goddamn respect!”

  And I plunge the knife into his chest.

  I kill Linthicum Odell.

  Richterman kneels down and considers the object in my hand. No longer a knife… but the flask. This belonged to Odell… the real Odell, not the phantom that had shepherded me through the past few weeks.

  “You’re going to struggle with this, I’m certain,” Richterman grumbles.

  I stand and consider the solar cross on Odell’s flask.

  I whisper, “Is he gone? Odell, I mean.”

  “Ain’t rid of me yet,” Odell’s growl rolls over my shoulder.

  Richterman sneers. “These Godpistols are one-minded, Folger. They seek to purify the land, even if that means cleansing some misguided souls in the process. They understand the virtue of savagery, and such virtues will not serve this valley.”

  Odell snaps, “You’re the damn savage, Richterman!”

  “There are four graves outside the house. Lin, you knew something was wrong with those graves. You couldn’t see that fourth grave, because it was your own.”

  Odell’s face sours. “That weren’t me in that grave, Denton.”

  I turn to Richterman. “Our war has to end, Lars.”

  “War?” he gasps. “I’ve never been at war with you.”

  “Is that why you threatened to erase me from our head? Replace me with Odell?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Sterile bribery.”

  “And those articles you left for me in my pressroom? Convincing me you’ve been arrested and hanged?”

  A grin leeches into his mouth.

  “Right,” I say. “I know you, Lars. You lie without ceasing.”