Suddenly, less than half a mile away, a dark shape of a horseman appeared from behind cover, riding toward her at a steady pace. The rider had the sun cunningly at his back and if it was his intent to mask his approach, it had worked as he had appeared closer than Billie expected. She now feared it might be too late to flee, but she had to try.
“Hell!” she cursed softly.
On he rode. There was no mistaking this rider’s intention—he was heading directly toward her. Billie hurried with the last harness strap, then moved to the rear of the wagon and threw the remaining supplies into the back.
She returned to the front and in her haste, stumbled over a discarded Henry rifle lying on the ground. Without thinking, she scooped it up and kept moving. Billie scrambled up and onto the driver’s bench, taking the chance to glance over her shoulder to see how far away the rider was. She was surprised—he wasn’t visible anywhere in the flat terrain.
Where has he gone?
Not waiting to solve this mystery, Billie flicked the reins and the wagon lurched forward. After only a few yards she reined the draft horse in hard—
The horseman now stood motionless on the road before her.
No! No!
Panicking, Billie snatched up the rifle and brought it to her shoulder. Her hands shook as she lined up the man in the gun’s iron sights. He was as good as dead.
But the rider and horse remained motionless and then, after a few intense seconds, he suddenly laughed—a deep, rolling sound that seemed to boom across the barren land. A new fear washed over Billie and she hesitated. When the man finished laughing, he spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, “I have not come for you, little one.” His voice seemed loud and ominous in the still air.
Slowly, Billie removed her finger from the trigger and lowered the gun, placing it onto the bench beside her.
Who are you?
The man was tall, thin and wore a long duster and a black hat pulled down low over his eyes. He sat astride a massive, pale ash-colored horse and for a moment Billie thought it was Clay, the strange man she had previously met in the wilderness.
The horseman raised his head and locked eyes with Billie.
No. It’s not Clay.
He had the same cold eyes as Clay and they were of similar size and physical build, but this was definitely not Clay. Billie felt an irrational fear when she looked into this man’s eyes and couldn’t meet his gaze for long. She had to look away.
The horseman tapped the brim of his hat with a black-gloved hand. “You’ve been busy today.”
“What?”
He indicated the bodies scattered along the road behind the wagon. “Busy.”
“The bandits? Well, I, they…”
He smiled and it caused her shiver.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It’s been my experience people get what they deserve.”
The rider hadn’t threatened her or made a move for a weapon, but Billie could feel a deep, primal fear building inside her and she wasn’t sure why. She swallowed, but her mouth was suddenly dry. Something bad was about to happen. Slowly, she moved a hand toward the Peacemaker at her waist.
“I wouldn’t, if I was you,” said the horseman. “No man can kill me. And before you get smart, no woman as well.”
He leaned back in his saddle and laughed, a cold and humorless sound which echoed off the land. This time it proved too much for her horse and it snorted and stamped its feet, causing Billie to move her hand from her weapon and grasp the reins. Fearing the horse would bolt, she pulled the reins in hard and eventually brought the animal under control.
“I apologize,” the rider said, still chuckling. He pointed to her with a gloved hand. “I see you met my brother.”
“What?”
“The one who gave you that coin.”
The silver coin in my pocket? How?
“Clay?” She didn’t want to say his name, but it spilled from her mouth.
“Clay? That’s a new one.”
“You are brothers?”
“Yes, of sorts.” Something amused him for he smiled again. “We work for the same…organization.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. But it’s safer that way.”
He turned his ashen horse southward and the massive beast moved swiftly to obey. “Don’t lose that coin, Billie. And please, don’t make my job too easy.” He tapped his horse with his booted heels and the large beast leapt forward, galloping swiftly past the wagon.
Billie moved to the edge of the bench seat, craning her neck to watch the horseman ride past. The horse ran at a great speed and within seconds, both the rider and horse were obscured by a dust cloud thrown up by their passage.
“What was all that about?” she muttered.
Billie turned her attention back to her horse. It shook its head and pawed at the ground. “It’s all right, girl,” she said and then glanced back over her shoulder.
The rider was gone. Only a dust cloud was left hanging in his wake.
Now that was strange.
She shook her head, trying to clear an odd feeling she had.
The sooner I’m in Tombstone, the better.
Flicking the reins, the horse started moving. More than ever, she now had an urgency to get out of this barren land and be amongst people again. The horse snorted and moved forward, her mind returning to the event that just happened. Something felt wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
Then it occurred to her.
How did he know my name?
Chapter 10
The small store was crammed full of merchandise—everything from tinned food to mining supplies to shirt buttons. The smell of spices, leather and kerosene filled Pat’s senses, making her smile. This store reminded her of happy times when she shopped with her parents. That now seemed like a different life.
“Morning, Miss,” said an old man, looking over his spectacles.
“Morning.”
The store owner stood behind the counter, a leather-bound ledger open before him on the bench top. He watched her move into his store, his pencil paused above the page. Pat gave him a quick smile and he seemed content she was just shopping and he returned to his bookkeeping, muttering to himself as he added up some numbers.
Pat wandered aimlessly around the store, occasionally picking up an object, looking at it and then returning it to the shelves. There was no one else in the store and the old man paid her no more attention. Gradually, she made her way over to the counter.
The store owner didn’t notice her presence. He was too busy with his numbers.
“Ahem.”
The old man paused, making eye contact with her over his spectacles. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m new to town and I was wondering if there is a high transient population here.”
“What?”
“Is the population transient?”
“Transient? What do you mean?”
“Do a lot people come and go? You know, just pass through town without staying long?”
“I guess. People stay as long as they must.”
“What I mean is…”
The old man looked at her blankly.
“Have you notice people vanishing from town?”
“Yes. And most of them owe me money!”
He’s not getting it.
“Those rotten thieves,” she said with a sigh. “What about people that don’t owe you money?”
“You mean like that dopey deputy?”
“Yes.”
“He just up and disappeared one night. And so did that asshole, Morrison, the stable owner.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t rightly know. Mrs. Muller mentioned that a lot of people in town have disappeared, but she’s not often right. She’s a little feeble in the head,” he said, tapping his temple.
A lot of people missing?
“When did she tell you this?”
“She was in here yesterday, complaining about her housekee
per as usual. This time, she said the woman didn’t turn up for work. And who could blame her? Mrs. Muller is not the most, umm, hospitable woman.”
Are these disappearances related? A housekeeper, the deputy and the stable owner…seems random.
“Thanks for your time.”
“Anytime, dear.”
Pat left the store owner, heading for the door.
Is anyone investigating these disappearances?
The sun was high in the sky, its rays baking the faded timber buildings and the parched earth. Heat shimmered off the street’s cracked surface as Pat stood on the boardwalk, the heat of the day soaking into her body. Apart from her, there was no one else visible. The town looked deserted.
Is there any life here?
Just then the old sheriff appeared further down the street, walking briskly toward his office. Under his arm was a large ginger cat.
I never figured the sheriff for a cat lover.
The sheriff opened the door to his office and disappeared inside. The door closed and Pat was alone on the street again.
She looked up and down the somber street. Nothing.
Why do I have the feeling that something is not right here?
Pat shrugged. She had no other ideas but to ask the sheriff some questions. She crossed the street and without knocking, opened the law office door and entered. Compared to outside, the sheriff’s office seemed gloomy, cool and strangely foreboding.
“Hello?” she said, her voice sounding distant. “Sheriff?”
There was a heavy pause and Pat felt reluctant to move further inside the room.
Strange, I saw him come in…
The front room was sparse, containing only two wooden chairs and a small table, on which lay a gun belt and holstered revolver and an empty coffee cup. The room’s only other adornments were half a dozen wanted posters lining the unpainted walls.
What’s that smell?
An odd scent like sour milk stung her nose and she held her breath.
What died?
Something flashed across the open doorway leading to the cells, drawing Pat’s attention. Someone was in the back room.
Maybe he didn’t hear me.
“Sheriff?” she said a little louder.
Her hand eased down onto her revolver and she stepped forward, placing her feet as quietly as she could.
I’m being silly—
Suddenly, a hulk of a man appeared before her. Surprised, Pat stumbled back, almost falling in her haste to get away. She had half-drawn her revolver when the old sheriff moved past the big man and stood in front of her.
“Marshal…?” said the sheriff, smiling weakly. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Garrett,” she mumbled, holstering her gun.
“That’s right.”
Pat looked past the sheriff to the larger man behind him. The man wasn’t as tall as Pat, but he was heavily built, more fat than muscles, giving him the appearance he had no neck. He looked like the photos of wrestlers she had once seen in a magazine. His dark hair was matted against his head and he sported a wild, unkempt beard. His clothes were dirty and his checked shirt was half-unbuttoned, exposing his curly chest hair.
“And who’s this?” asked Pat, indicating the wrestler.
“Oh, this is my deputy,” replied the sheriff. “Peter.”
“Your deputy? I thought he was missing.”
“Missing? Why would you say that?”
“I thought…it’s just something I heard,” said Pat. “Never mind. Nice to meet your acquaintance, Peter.” She extended her hand.
Peter didn’t take her offered hand or respond. In fact, he just stood there looking blankly at Pat, making her feel self-conscious.
“He doesn’t say much,” offered the sheriff.
“So I see.”
The sheriff walked over to the table. “What do you want, Marshal?”
Peter didn’t move. He stood in the doorway to the cells and continued staring at Pat with dull, brown eyes.
“I-I wanted to…what’s that smell?”
“What smell, Marshal?” The sheriff sat down in a wooden-backed chair behind the desk. “Do you smell anything, Peter?”
“It’s coming from back there. From the cells.”
“Is it?” The sheriff stood. “Let’s have a look then.”
Peter stepped aside as fast as a speeding snail and raised a thick arm, indicating she could move past him. Pat nodded her thanks to the big man, and then hesitantly walked toward the cells.
Oh boy, this doesn’t feel right.
By luck, she glanced over her shoulder to see the sheriff closing in behind her fast. Quick thinking saved her from being trapped in the back room as she leapt out of the old man’s way.
“Get her, you imbecile!”
Peter stomped forward with his tree trunk-like arms extended toward Pat. She dodged him, crashing into the wall, but avoided his grasping hands more by luck than skill. Now they had her cornered! Pat sprung off the wall, but not quick enough to elude the two meaty hands that grasped her shoulders. She cried out in pain as thick fingers dug into her flesh.
Ugh!
Somehow, she freed her Peacemaker and jammed it into Peter’s ample guts and pulled the trigger. The revolver jerked in her hand, the sound muffled slightly by the man’s body.
That should slow him down.
Peter’s grip tightened and excruciating pain shot through her shoulders and neck, causing her legs to weaken. Determined not to go down without a fight, Pat clenched her jaw and fumbled with the revolver, somehow managing to re-cock it.
Angling the barrel upward, she squeezed off another round. This time the man-mountain groaned and released some of the pressure on her shoulders.
This was her chance. Pat raised her hands and whipping the revolver down on Peter’s wrist with all her strength, broke his grip. Ducking under his arms, she made a dash for the front door, but she wasn’t fast enough. A glancing blow from his fist smashed into her back, driving her off her feet and sending her sailing through the air. She crashed with a groan and slid to a stop against the wall—her revolver slipping from her grip and skidding across the floor beyond her reach.
Pat tried to stand, but her head spun wildly and she staggered dizzily against the wall.
“Get her!” screamed the old sheriff.
The man-mountain lunged at Pat and she just sidestepped him, stumbled and collided with the table.
The gun.
Bleary-eyed, Pat scooped up the revolver from the table and pulled it from its holster. She spun around as Peter lunged at her. Ducking just in time, she avoided the big man’s arms as he tried to crush her in a bear hug. Unable to stop his forward momentum, Peter crashed into the table, sending it flying. Faster than she thought possible, the big man spun to face her, the same dim expression on his face.
Pat had always been a good shot with a gun, some say it was uncanny—a gift. Throwing herself backward, Pat pointed the revolver and squeezed the trigger. Before she landed on her back the gun barked, spitting lead and smoke.
Peter’s expression didn’t change as his head jerked back and a bloody hole opened in his forehead. The bullet smashed through flesh and bone, penetrating deep into his brain and blowing gore out the back of his skull. He hesitated for a second, confused with what had happened. Then slowly, he rocked backward and fell to the floor boards like a chopped redwood. His flesh shook for a second and then he lay still, his eyes staring up at the ceiling.
“No!” The sheriff looked from his dead companion to Pat. His face contorted into a snarl as he reached for his revolver. But before his iron left his holster, the room filled with the roar of gunfire and the old sheriff’s brains sprayed crimson across the wall. He crumpled silently to the floor.
Pat stood, staring in disbelief at the two motionless bodies, grey smoke wisping up from her gun barrel. The room smelled more of gun powder now than sour milk, but she didn’t notice.
“I’ve killed two lawmen
.” Why would they attack me?
Pat stood over the dead deputy—the man’s expression was as blank in death as in life. Without holstering her gun, she knelt down to examine the body. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but it was what Roberts would do. He always looked for tracks or marks, which he called clues. How did the deputy endure two gut shots without slowing? It had taken a head shot to finally kill him.
“What’s that?”
A pool of blood was forming around Peter’s head, wetting his hair and the edge of his shirt collar. There was a slight black sheen to his blood, like a small amount of oil had mixed in with it.
This can’t be a good sign.
Pat saw demon blood in the wasteland and most of it was black.
He’s a demon? Or turning into a demon?
And the quickest way to kill a demon is with iron, the Agency taught. Flipping open the cylinder revealed it was loaded with lead bullets not iron.
They can’t have been full demons…possessed maybe?
Pat stood and moved past the dead into the next room. Two small cells occupied this space and contained nothing except uncomfortable looking mattresses—
And one discarded, half-eaten ginger cat.
I’ll be. The sheriff was a cat lover after all.
Pat stood outside the sheriff’s office and swatted away an annoying insect. It was noon and there was no sign of her companions in front of the boarding house or anywhere else.
Now what?
A commotion further down the street drew her attention. A group of men gathered and were kicking something lying on the ground—
Hey, that’s a person!
Pat drew her Peacemaker and stepped out into the street. She fired a warning shot over the men’s heads, which got their attention. They froze, their laughter dying as they turned to measure up the person interrupting their sport.
“I think he’s had enough,” she said as calmly as she could.
“Mind your own business, bitch,” replied one, a brutish man whose crooked nose marked him as a brawler.
“That’s no way to talk a US marshal.” Her revolver moved from man to man. She wanted them to get the right idea that she meant business.
Doc Holliday_The Sky Fire Chronicles Page 7