“But, Susie, I ain’t had no fun—”
The woman’s face contorted into a snarl and she was about to speak when Cletus raised his hands in submission.
“Shit, Susie. I was jist sayin’.” Cletus pointed to the wagon. “Jist two minutes?”
Susie rested her lever-action rifle on her hip, giving Cletus a look that suggested she wasn’t happy with this conversation.
Cletus cursed under his breath and started snatching up the items from the ground like a spoiled child. When he had his arms full, he stormed off to four horses tethered nearby, still muttering to himself about the injustice of the world.
“What about this kid?” asked the African. “He’s seen us.”
Mexican man drew a long hunting knife and moved toward Billie.
“Leave him,” the woman said. “He ain’t going to cause us trouble. Are you, boy?”
Billie locked eyes with Susie and nodded.
“Good. Boys, get the rest of their supplies and let’s get out of here.”
Susie moved to the horses and mounted one, resting her rifle’s stock on her thick thigh. She watched Billie curiously as the other three bandits quickly went about gathering their spoils. The loot was then tied onto their newly acquired horse.
Cletus stooped to pick up the last box, when Billie had an idea.
“Cletus,” whispered Billie, smiling as seductively as she could. “I’m a woman and I want you.” She had never tried to seduce anyone before and no doubt it would have looked laughable with her face and clothes all covered with dirt, but it was worth a try.
“Whut?” Cletus stared dumbly at Billie. Then, a slow grin appeared on his face, exposing brown-colored teeth as Billie’s words sunk in.
Come on. Closer.
Billie brushed her straight brown hair off her face and fluttered her eyelashes as she had seen the working ladies do. Cletus grinned dumbly back at her.
“Cletus!” yelled Susie. “What are you going?”
“Ya mine,” Cletus said, grabbing Billie by the shoulders and lifting her to her feet. He was repulsive, smelling like he’d never washed before and his breath stank of alcohol.
Billie wanted to pull away from the bandit, but instead, she held her breath and without breaking eye contact, leaned in. Reaching for his revolver, she was relieved when her fingers brushed against metal. Then suddenly, she pushed him away with all her strength, yanking the old gun out of his pocket.
“Hey!”
Without hesitation, Billie squeezed the trigger and the gun roared. Cletus screamed, collapsing to the ground with a whimper. His hands gripped his stomach, but he couldn’t stop the crimson blood seeping through his fingers. The bald man stared at his bloody hands and then to her—his eyes went wide with fear.
The smell of gun powder filled Billie’s senses and time seemed to slow. She palmed back the revolver’s hammer, aiming at Susie who hadn’t moved on her horse. The bandit leader’s mouth was frozen open as if she was still yelling. In fact, all the bandits now stood statue-like, frozen in time. The woman’s features changed into a venomous scowl as she lifted her rifle off her leg at a crawling pace. Slowly, the rifle barrel swung down toward Billie.
No you don’t!
Billie fired. The sound of the shot seemed to hang in the air for several long seconds as the bullet slowly flew toward the bandit leader. Billie had thumbed back the revolver’s hammer again just as the bullet smashed into the bandit’s chest, lifting her out of the saddle and flipping her off the back of the horse.
No lightning!
Slowly, the Mexican moved toward Billie, thrusting his knife at her face. She nimbly stepped out of the blade’s path and angling the revolver upward, she fired into the side of the man’s neck. A moment later, the top of his skull exploded, spraying a fountain of blood and brain matter out of his sombrero and into the air.
Suddenly, the African loomed over her, aiming his shotgun.
BOOOM!
Either by luck or instincts, Billie managed to dive to the ground as steel pellets whizzed over her head. Rolling onto her back, she fired without aiming—the bullet smashed into the man’s shin, shattering flesh and bone. White hot pain shot through the African’s body and he screamed, firing his remaining barrel harmlessly into the air.
The massive African collapsed, dropping like a felled tree. Before he hit the ground, Billie had fired again. The bullet impacted his chest and a moment later, exploded out his back.
Billie stopped and gazed around at the carnage she had caused—four people died in what must have been only a second or two of real time.
All dead…
Time sped up, swamping her sensors and causing her to swoon. Lightheaded, she dropped back down into the dust, gazing up at the spinning sky. Billie closed her eyes and gradually, her head cleared and she felt like she could get up without falling over.
I must go.
An urgency to leave this place of death forced her to stand and she stood on unsteady feet. Billie took a step forward, but a strong hand gripped her ankle, stopping her in her tracks. It was Cletus, fresh blood trickling from his lips and running down his stubbled chin. He wasn’t dead yet—there was still life in him.
“How?” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“Like this.” Billie cocked her revolver, aiming at Cletus’s head.
Time slowed.
The last thing Cletus saw was Billie’s emotionless eyes clouding over and turning completely black, then there was an intense blue flash and he knew no more.
Billie felt nothing as she glanced down at the smoldering flesh that once supported Cletus’s head.
“Finally, the lightning came.”
Chapter 8
The breeze whipped up fine yellow dust, causing Holliday irritation. He started coughing and covered his mouth with his ever-present white handkerchief, trying to muffle his sudden spasms. Pat moved to assist, but the west’s Deadliest Dentist raised a hand. After several heavy coughs, which sounded like his lungs were trying to vacate his body, Holliday managed to bring his outburst under control.
Roberts showed no sign he noticed Holliday’s discomfort. The old marshal glanced up and down the main street. It was midmorning and there was almost no one about. “This shit hole could be searched quicker if we split up.”
I don’t think that’s a good idea, thought Pat.
“I agree,” replied Holliday.
“I’m not so—” Pat started.
“Good,” Roberts said, interrupting. “Any preference?”
“I’ve always liked Austin City in the summer,” said Holliday, swinging his cane. “But I hear it’s overrun with demons now.”
“And here?” Roberts ignored the gambler’s attempt at humor.
“The saloon.”
“Hmm…I’ll search the stable again and see what I can find in the daylight. Garrett, you check out the general store. We’ll meet back here at midday.”
“What exactly are we looking for, Marshal?” asked Pat.
“Any information on Kate, or the hunchback, or anything else that looks suspicious.”
“Just remember,” said Holliday. “This hunchback is mine.”
“He’s all yours,” Pat said.
Roberts remained silent. He had his own score to settle with that twisted demon.
The three companions went their separate ways. Doc Holliday strolled casually toward the saloon, where he had spent the previous night gambling. He pushed open the batwing doors and entered, relieved to be out of the day’s building heat.
They said dry heat would be good for my lungs, thought Holliday. Imbeciles.
Holliday removed his hat and gave it a light dusting before moving to the bar. He placed his cane sword and hat on the polished bar top. The barwoman finished serving a patron and looked his way.
“Ya back to rob every last dime in this town?” she grumbled.
“No, ma’am, just here to partake in some of that amber nectar you’ve called whisky.”
“One bit.”
“Of course, my good woman,” he said, sliding a coin across the bar top.
Expensive ‘gut rot.’
“That’s a mighty fine drop. Another, please. No. I’ll buy the rest of that bottle.”
“You’re different today. You weren’t so civil last night.”
“I don’t recall last night.” Holliday removed his tobacco pouch and papers from his coat pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. His fingers shook uncontrollably, but eventually he completed his task with only a little spillage of tobacco. He placed the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it with a match he ran along the bar top. He inhaled deeply, resulting in a coughing fit which shook his entire body. The gambler quickly poured another drink, spilling some of it on the timber bar before he gulped the amber liquid down.
“Smoking don’t agree with you, mister,” said the barwoman. “It’ll be the death of ya.”
“Life doesn’t agree with me, but thank you for your concern.” Holliday sucked on the cigarette, inhaling its fragrant smoke. “I’ll be in the ground long before this kills me.”
The woman shrugged and went back to cleaning glasses with a less than clean cloth.
“Have you notice any of your regulars missing?”
“Nah,” said the woman, stopping her work and eying Holliday suspiciously. “People move on all the time. Why you asking?”
“Just my professional curiosity.”
The woman accepted his reply and proceeded to stack the clean glasses under the bar.
Holliday puffed away on his cigarette and turned to study the saloon’s patrons. There were only two, which was not that unusual as it was still morning. One was an old half-breed woman with a thick coating of makeup applied as an attempt to hide her age—it wasn’t working for her. Beneath the makeup, creases lined the woman’s tanned face around the eyes and mouth. Kate had mentioned her. She was a long-time local, a working girl.
She must hear things. Although, she doesn’t look like she’d have a roaring trade. But I shouldn’t judge. As for the other…
The other patron sat in the far corner of the saloon near the card table. He was a barrel-chested guy who stretched back in his chair with his dirty boots crossed on the table top. An equally dusty hat was pulled low over his face, making it impossible to see his eyes. Holliday had the uncomfortable feeling he was being watched from beneath that hat. The stranger carried iron in the shape of a .44 Remington revolver, lashed firmly against his thigh.
He has the look of trouble. And he wasn’t in here last night. A drifter maybe?
Holliday turned back to his bottle and refilled his glass. Discreetly, he glanced up into the dirty mirror hanging behind the bar. The mirror’s reflection revealed the drifter was more than a little interested in him as he frequently raised his head, watching Holliday’s every movement from beneath his hat’s brim. The drifter slid his revolver in and out of his holster a few times, testing his drawing action. He was cautious, which meant he was dangerous. Many want-to-be gunmen were killed when their guns got caught on their holsters or clothing on a quick draw, proving this man was no stranger to gun play.
That’s all I need. I don’t have time for this.
Here, along the borderlands, Doc Holliday had a reputation of being a cunning gambler and skilled shootist—the reason he got the Deadliest Dentist title. Holliday was rumored to be fast on the draw and a cold-blooded killer with his two ivory-handled Schofield revolvers. Many wanted to put this reputation to the test. You could make a fortune as the man that killed the famous Doc Holliday. No doubt there were people faster on the draw, but Holliday had proven himself to be a hard man to kill. He was still breathing where many who faced him weren’t.
A chair screeched on the floor board, causing Holliday to glance into the mirror. The drifter had finished his beer and was now standing. Squaring his shoulders as he watched Holliday’s back, he placed his empty glass on the table. He lifted his hat from his eyes and walked as graceful as a stalking cat, weaving amongst empty tables toward the bar—he carried himself confidently. As the drifter neared Holliday, he dropped a gloved hand lightly onto his gun.
I better get this over with quickly.
Holliday spun on the barstool and stood, smiling as warmly as he could as the newcomer closed in. “Howdy, friend, can I buy you a drink?”
“The only drinking I’ll be doing is at your wake.”
The barwoman cursed and ducked down behind the bar.
Smiling, the drifter drew his gun, but Holliday was faster. Before the Remington had left the man’s holster, Holliday had drawn both of his ivory revolvers, aiming them at the drifter’s head.
“No one has to die.” Holliday’s voice was low and deadly, his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses.
The drifter looked stunned, amazed at the frail man’s speed. At that moment, he realized the Doc Holliday stories were true. After a tense silence, the drifter grinned and moved his hand away from his holstered gun.
That’s better—
Something smashed into Holliday’s head and he found himself lying face down on the dirty floor boards. It felt like he had been run over by a horse, no, a herd.
What?
Through the fogginess in his brain, Holliday heard voices.
“…there’s no killing in my place. Take it outside.” It was a woman’s voice—the saloon owner’s.
“Yes, ma’am. You heard her, boys, drag this scum outside.”
Holliday felt his chest lifting up as his attackers dragged him limply across the floor and then down stairs. Moments later, he was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, dirt filling his mouth and mingling with what tasted like blood. He coughed weakly, stirring up small puffs of dust.
He had been in plenty of tight situations before—the life of a professional gambler was full of hazards. Sometimes, bad card players thought they had been cheated and wanted their money back. They’d try something stupid, like pull a gun, or knife, or wait outside the gambling establishment with a friend or two and try and jump him. Holliday prided himself on being able to get out of those situations without spilling too much blood, and regardless of his reputation as a gunman, he hadn’t killed as many people as the papers reported. His rep alone was enough to deter most, except the most foolhardy.
“Kill him,” ordered a rough voice, followed by a metallic click.
Maybe this time, his luck had finally run out.
Chapter 9
Fearing the worst for her mother, Billie scrambled into the back of the wagon. She checked Catherine’s arms and face, looking for any signs she was hurt. Thankfully, it appeared that Cletus didn’t move or touch her, she looked the same.
Mom...thank heavens.
Billie sighed, sinking down beside Catherine. It felt like a great weight had lifted off her shoulders. She stared at her mother for a long time, wondering how they were still alive when the two Agents had been killed. Was it luck? After some time, the desire to be far from this place overcame her and she forced herself to climb out of the wagon.
The bandits’ horses had run off during the brief shootout and only their draft horse remained as it had been tied securely. She searched the loot, tied onto the horse’s back, looking for her Peacemaker. Without too much trouble Billie found the revolver, turning it over in her hands. Its metallic surfaces were smooth and strangely beautiful to her. This was the gun she took from Karl Stein’s dead body all that time ago—no, it wasn’t that long ago. Only a few weeks had passed since her life changed so dramatically. Her previous life and childhood felt like a lifetime ago.
“I won’t be needing this.” Billie tossed Cletus’s old revolver away and pushed the Peacemaker into her holster. It felt natural, hanging from her hip.
The hors
e suddenly stiffened and raised its head, rotating its ears to catch the smallest sound. It heard or smelled something and shuffled nervously, appearing eager to get going. Whatever it detected, was something it feared.
Coyotes?
Billie scanned the barren landscape, but there was no sign of another living thing.
“What is it, girl?”
Billie ran her hand over the horse’s broad neck, trying to soothe it.
“It’s all right. There’s nothing there.” I hope.
As quick as she could, Billie removed the supplies from the draft horse, putting them in the wagon. She returned to the horse and untied it.
“I’m sorry. You’re going to have to work again.”
The animal was skittish and reluctant to move. After several tugs on its bridle, the animal obeyed and followed.
Billie glanced at the dead bandits as she moved past. Their sightless eyes stared out as flies crawled over their faces and their cooling bodies. The fat insects gorged themselves on blood which spilled over flesh or seeped into the cracked, dry earth. The draft horse hesitated to pass, but with a little coaxing it moved to the front of the wagon and Billie started hitching it up.
Somewhere in the distance a horse whinnied and the draft horse shuffled nervously. Whatever predator was out there, it sounded like it was hunting the bandits’ horses.
I better get out of here before they realize there are easier pickings here.
As Billie tightened the horse’s back strap, something caught her attention. Silhouetted by the sun, a dark shape moved along the top of a nearby ridge. At that distance she couldn’t tell what it was, but it stopped, standing motionless for some time before it moved down the slope and vanished from her view.
“Not coyotes,” she muttered, working quicker. The horse flicked its head and Billie patted its neck. “Don’t worry, girl.”
Squinting into the sun, Billie scanned the rough ground between the wagon and the hill. Nothing moved. Not a bird or animal could be seen and even the air seemed eerily still. The only detectable sound was the faint buzzing of the flies, feasting on the dead nearby. With trepidation, Billie waited—hoping whatever she saw on the ridge wouldn’t be coming her way.
Doc Holliday_The Sky Fire Chronicles Page 6