Doc Holliday_The Sky Fire Chronicles

by Paul Summerhayes

  The gambler ignored the old lawman’s disapproving look and smiled briefly. His teeth were perfectly straight and his canines appeared normal. “Well, after all these years, we finally agree on something.”

  Roberts grunted, but remained silent. There was unseen tension between these two men.

  Bad history?

  “Doctor Holliday,” said Pat, trying to break the tension. “How long have you been a medical practitioner?”

  “Please, darling, my friends call me Doc. And that’s why I always insist Roberts call me Holliday.” He smirked as he took a sip of whisky. Roberts didn’t react. “As for being a medical practitioner, I’m not. I’m a dentist and a proud son of Georgia.”

  “You’re famous for cards and gun fighting, but I’ve never heard anyone refer to your profession before.”

  “That’s because my profession is playing games of chance now. A New York newspaper once called me the ‘Deadliest Dentist’ and also a menace to society.” Still seated, Doc drew one of his Schofield revolvers, spun it several times round his finger and re-holstered it. He was unbelievably fast and showed skill in handling the weapon. “Now, can you believe that? Me, a menace?”

  Yes, I can, thought Pat. Is he faster than Billie?

  If the saloon’s occupants noticed Doc’s gun display, they didn’t show it.

  “Enough about me. I want to hear the Miss Garrett story.”

  “Maybe another time,” said Roberts. “We need to talk business.”

  “That’s my queue to leave,” Kate said, standing. Doc and Roberts also stood. “Doc, I’ll see you later?”

  “Without a doubt, my beauty.” He scooped up her hand and kissed it lightly.

  She shouldn’t be alone. Those men could still be about.

  “I need some fresh air and to stretch my legs,” Pat said. “I can accompany you and leave these men to talk business.”

  “Thank you, Miss Garrett.” Doc nodded toward Pat. “My Kate is precious to me and I will feel more at ease knowing an officer of the law is with her.”

  Pat and Kate left the men, heading out of the saloon doors and into the street. Pat had an uneasy feeling of being watched as they stepped on the boardwalk. She scanned the darkness but the street was empty except for their two desert horses hitched nearby. The early night air still carried the warmth of the day. All was quiet.

  Pat rested a hand on the Peacemaker hanging from her hip.

  I don’t like this.

  “So you’re a lawman, Miss Garrett.” Kate’s Hungarian accent was strong.

  “Yes, a marshal.”

  “An unusual profession for a woman, even for this progressive country.”

  “I’ve been told I am an unusual woman.”

  Kate paused to look the tall marshal up and down. “I can believe that.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Our boarding house is just down the street.”

  Kate talked as they strolled along the dusty street, about what, Pat couldn’t rightly say as she wasn’t listening to the Hungarian woman. Consumed by a feeling of being watched, Pat scanned the shadows between the buildings.

  I don’t like this, she thought, dropping her hand to her holstered revolver.

  “—Marshal, I said we are here.”

  Without Pat realizing it, they had already covered the ground to the boarding house. It was almost the very spot where Holliday and Kate had been attacked earlier. A single yellow light spilled from a downstairs window out onto the small timber porch. The rest of the building was dark and silent as a grave.

  “I don’t like this,” said Pat. “It looks too quiet.”

  “I’ll be all right, Marshal.” Kate pulled a compact Derringer from a lace-trimmed purse. “Like yours, in my profession it also pays to be armed.”

  Kate walked up the few stairs to the front door, turned the handle and disappeared inside without a backward look.

  Pat glanced up and down the street before heading back toward the saloon. She hadn’t gone far when she noticed a dark shape vanish into the shadow of a nearby building. The person was shaped like an old man.

  We are being watched. Pat drew her revolver. By who?

  I’d better investigate.

  What does this old dog want? Holliday thought, eying the old marshal over the top of his whisky glass.

  Roberts produced a thin cigar from his vest pocket and struck a match along the table top, lighting the cigar’s tip. After inhaling, the marshal blew out a puff of grey smoke. The smoke floating about the old man’s head and with his yellow eyes, Holliday mused he looked sinister and more than just a little demon-like.

  “Tombstone, you say,” said Holliday.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve a good friend heading there. Wyatt Earp. Have you heard of him?”

  “Wyatt’s a marshal now and working for the Agency.”

  “Really? Wyatt? He always was a do-gooder. It’s his only weakness. If you want my opinion, being good is overrated.”

  “You could join us. The Agency is looking for people with your…natural talents.”

  So he’s recruiting.

  “Working for Uncle Sam? Me?” Holliday downed his whisky in one gulp. “That, my friend, would kill me faster than this stuff.” He held up the empty glass. “No thanks.”

  “You would be well paid for your service.”

  “And give up all this? Besides, I prefer to spend a high percentage of my time drunk. I’m sure your superiors wouldn’t approve.”

  “You’d be surprise how tolerant the government is these days,” said Roberts and finished his drink. “You want another?”

  “If you’re paying, I’m drinking.”

  Roberts rose and walked to the bar. Holliday looked around the saloon for any familiar faces—people that may play poker.

  Looks like a slow night ahead, he thought as he didn’t recognize anyone.

  After a few minutes Roberts returned, placing a drink in front of him.

  “Thanks, Marshal,” said Holliday. “How about you and me play some cards?”

  Roberts reached into his vest pocket and threw a handful of dollar bills on the table. “Here, take it. It’s faster this way.”

  “But, Marshal, where’s the fun in that?”

  Cautiously, Pat edged around the corner of a building and entered a narrow alley between two buildings. An odd chill slid up her spine and she shivered, gripping her Peacemaker a little tighter.

  I don’t like this.

  The dark alley was empty and only a dozen yards long. There was nothing obscuring her vision to the street beyond, but she still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she had.

  Where did he go so fast?

  Nervously, Pat took a step forward, her gun held out in front. Scanning the darkness, she weaved the weapon back and forth as they had shown her in recruit training. ‘Point your gun where you point your eyes,’ the instructors had said.

  “Anyone there?” Her voice sounded weak in her own ears. “I’m armed,” she added.

  The alley remained silent.

  I’m being silly. There’s no one here.

  Suddenly, a dark shape split from the shadows, sprinting away from her and disappearing around the far end of the alley. Pat could have fired, but hesitated. She wasn’t about to shoot a person in the back that hadn’t committed any crime that she knew of.

  He’s quick.

  Pat moved to the corner and peered into the gloomy street beyond. There were no street lights, only a few lights shining from curtained windows of several nearby buildings. They did little to illuminate her surroundings.

  This could be a trap.

  Thud.

  The noise came from a tall building across the street. It was the stables and by the look of it, no one was home. The building was dark.

  A cat? she thought hopefully. Not with my luck. No doubt it will be another monstrosity, hungry for my blood.

  Pat crept across the street and listened at the closed stable doo
rs. Nothing. She tried the door, but it was locked with a heavy chain and padlock.

  Well, he didn’t go in here, she thought. I’m just wasting my time chasing shadows.

  Having a last look around, Pat holstered her revolver and walked back across the street to the alley.

  Pausing at the alley’s entrance, Pat glanced back at the stables. Something nagged at her and she continued to stare at the dark building. And then it came to her.

  The horses didn’t make a sound when I rattled the doors. No horses? It’s possible, but something doesn’t feel right.

  Pat walked back to the stable and shook the front doors. As before, the sound didn’t disturb any of the stable’s inhabitants. She looked about the street, but no faces had appeared at any windows. The sound didn’t attract the attention of any of the local inhabitants either. As quiet as she could, Pat moved down the side of the building and around to the back. She tried the rear door’s handle and it glided open silently.

  I was hoping it was locked…

  Drawing her gun, Pat poked her head inside and after a few moments, a muffled voice floated out of the darkness.

  Maybe it’s the farrier…working late.

  With a quick look over her shoulder, Pat stepped inside, feeling her way along the wall. After a few yards she stopped. A dim light shone out from behind several stacked hay bales, which screened much her view of the stables.

  Someone’s home.

  Pat crept to the stacked bales, the smell of hay filling her senses.

  Fresh hay? This must be worth a small fortune.

  This town was situated in the borderlands—the dry, bleak land lying between the fertile north and the Endless Wasteland to the south. These borderlands were thought by much of the population to be cursed, but what did they know? They hadn’t been to southern lands or seen the things she had. The borderland was practically a Garden of Eden compared to the Endless Wasteland. That barren land was hell on Earth.

  This is northern hay.

  Removing her hat, Pat chanced a peek over the bales. A lamp hung at the far end of the stable revealing a covered wagon and four dark shapes moving about. They were men, dressed for the road and wearing revolvers at their hips. Two of the men lifted a large canvas sack from the ground, loading it into the back the wagon containing several others. As they dropped the sack on the timber boards, an arm fell out from the canvas and hung limply.

  Heavens.

  The sack contained a body. One of the men pushed the arm back into the canvas and then he and his companion picked up another body-shaped sack and threw it into wagon with the others.

  Are they grave robbers?

  “Hold still, fool,” said one of the men.

  Near the wagon, a stooped man held up a black stone the size of an egg and pressed it to a solidly-built man’s forehead. This man was Broken Nose, one of the men who had harassed Holliday and Kate a few hours earlier. The stooped man was—

  It can’t be.

  It was the hunchback. The demon mage Pat and Roberts had run into out in the wasteland.

  Why is he here?

  With the black Sky Rock pressed against Broken Nose’s forehead, the hunchback muttered something inaudible. After a few seconds, both the rock and his hand started glowing red. Even at that distance, the smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils. Clenching his jaw, Broken Nose groaned as the rock burned into his skin. A few seconds later, the red light faded and so did the black stone. It disappeared, leaving only a faint redness on the big man’s skin.

  “That will make you three morons more of a match for Holliday and those marshals,” said the hunchback. “Next time, kill them all. I won’t abide failure a second time.”

  “Yes, master,” replied Broken Nose before turning and assisting the others with the bodies.

  Pat raised her revolver, aiming at the hunchback’s head.

  I could shoot that vile creature…

  Like Roberts, Holliday and others scattered throughout the borderlands, Pat was gifted. To most, they were mutants and seen as little more than demons. Her gift was she never missed her intended target. A valuable skill when you lived by the gun. Each time she squeezed a trigger she felt a celestial force guide the bullet to her target—but not the last time she shot at this hunchback. Luck was on his side and one of his men got in the way, taking the bullet that would have put him permanently in the ground.

  There’s no one between you and me this time, demon.

  Pat’s Peacemaker made a click as she thumbed back its hammer. It sounded loud in the stillness of the moment and she swore. Without taking the proper amount of time to aim, Pat squeezed the trigger. The gun barked, sending a ball of iron rocketing toward the demon mage’s head. It flew true, but the hunchback raised a hand and red light flared about his body. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the colored light, throwing sparks high into the air.

  The hunchback pointed in her direction. “Kill that intruder!”

  Time to go.

  Pivoting, Pat headed for the door just as a hail of bullets smashed into the wall around her, showering her with wooden splitters. Someone yelled and things crashed behind her, but she didn’t slow—that would have meant her death.

  Throwing open the back door, she burst into the night air and rounding the side of the stables, she sprinted for the dark alley. Her arms pumped, propelling her forward as a fireball the size of a melon rocketed over her head and impacted into a building across the street, exploding like Chinese fireworks.

  That was close!

  By some miracle Pat wasn’t hit by bullets or magic and reached the alley still breathing. Not slowing, she disappeared into the alley and exited a moment later into the main street, heading for the saloon not too far away. At full speed she leapt up the saloon’s stairs and barged through the batwing doors.

  “He’s here!”

  Roberts was on his feet with a drawn revolver before the batwing doors swung closed. The room fell into heavy silence. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see what happened next. Ignoring the saloon’s occupants, Pat threw herself against the wall with her revolver still clenched in her hand. After a moment catching her breath, Pat peered over the saloon doors and into the street.

  Holliday appeared beside her, still wearing his tinted glasses. He followed her gaze out into the night. “What did you see out there, Miss Garrett?” he asked calmly.

  “I—”

  “The hunchback?” Roberts interrupted, pushing open one of the doors. The old man looked up and down the street.

  Pat nodded. “He’s here.”

  “Hunchback?” asked Holliday, studying Pat’s flushed face.

  “He’s a demon.” Drawing his Navy Colt revolver, Roberts stepped outside. “A demon rat that won’t die.”

  “Luckily, the Deadliest Dentist is here.”

  Holliday moved to stand beside Roberts. Pat followed.

  “I saw him at the stables. In the next street,” Pat said. “And he’s with the three men that jumped you.”

  “Really? I have a feeling I won’t like this hunchback.” The pale gambler tapped his walking stick on the timber boards. “I guess you better introduce me.”

  Pat led Roberts and Holliday down the street and through the alley. The gambler seemed relaxed and didn’t walk with the aid of his walking stick, instead he carried it. He also didn’t draw either of his ivory-handled revolvers. His indifference to their immediate danger had Pat worried.

  Why is he so calm?

  The street was deadly quiet and apart from a few lights in nearby windows, this part of town appeared to be abandoned. They crossed the dark street to the stable’s front doors and Doc Holliday grabbed the padlock. It was still locked. He pushed against the doors and they groaned under the pressure. He was strong, much stronger than he looked. Holliday placed both hands against the doors and pushed. A moment later the doors burst inward with a loud snap. What was left of the ruined doors swung open on squeaky hinges.

  “Let’s rouse
these vermin from their nest.” Without hesitation, Holliday strolled into the stable’s dark interior.

  Pat met Roberts’ eyes. He nodded and followed the gambler inside.

  Oh, great. Now I’m teamed up with two men who won’t let me in on their plans.

  Chapter 4

  From a rooftop vantage point, a silent shadow watched three people enter the dark stables. The demon regarded the mortals without emotion. They weren’t important, they were little more than bugs to it—to be squashed at a whim, or killed for its master’s pleasure.

  A long tongue snaked out of the demon’s mouth, licking its lips and salivating at the idea of biting into human flesh and warm juices running over his powerful jaw. It was hungry. Although the demon had recently feasted, it could always eat more.

  For now, the demon would watch and wait.

  Humming a tune and twirling his walking stick, Holliday strolled down the center of the dark stables. There was no lamp now and stable’s interior was black and impenetrable.

  The darkness had a heaviness that weighed down on Pat. She held her breath with anticipation.

  Without a word, Roberts moved forward and to the left, his gun at the ready. Pat followed his lead and took up position on the right, ducking down behind a wooden box not far from the back door. It was too dark for her to see much, but she was certain the wagon was gone.

  Where are they?

  “…We’ll give him a hearty welcome then,” sang Holliday softly. “Hurrah. Hurrah.” Pat could just make out the gambler in the gloom as he spun around to face them, stretching out his arms dramatically like a circus ringmaster. “It appears our rats have deserted the sinking ship,” he announced, his voice sounding loud in the darkness. “Maybe, they’ve heard of my prowess and wisely fled.”

  “He was here,” Pat said quickly. “I saw him.”

  “Relax, Garrett,” said Roberts. “We believe you. Let’s have a look around.”

  Roberts found an oil lamp hanging on a post and lit it. Together, Pat and the old marshal searched the stables, but there were no signs of the wagon, the hunchback or his goons. Doc Holliday didn’t seem interested in helping and wandered the drafty building aimlessly, prodding things with his walking stick.