Dawn in Damnation

by Clark Casey

  “You don’t gotta take no more ribbing today,” Jeremiah told the boy as he tended to his lip. “Long as you outdraw somebody. And since Cyclops here is so keen on you, might as well be him. Winner gets free drinks and grub for the rest of the day.”

  The Comanchero glared at Jeremiah, but it was difficult for him to express himself properly with just the one eye. “In the land of the blind,” he said solemnly, “the one-eyed man is king.” Then he turned and headed outside.

  “Well, shit… Good thing we ain’t all blind!” Jeremiah laughed and shoved Jack toward the door.

  Mostly out of boredom, ten or fifteen men wandered out in front of the saloon. The sky was always an ashen yellow, no brighter than dusk. The clouds never lifted but streaks of orange and violet broke through in spots. It was pretty, only it never changed. I reckoned the living were so keen on sunsets because they didn’t last. Even the prettiest lady in the world would get tiresome if you were stuck staring at her for eternity—especially if there was no chance of giving her a poke.

  Most of the fellas didn’t consider the gunfight worth vacating a stool, particularly if you had a good one near the fire. Most newbies didn’t last their first week, and a skinny teenager like Jack didn’t inspire any wagering. As a matter of duty, I went out to document his getting sent to hell. They stood in the center of the road as we lined the rotted-out boardwalk. Sal handed Jack an old Colt and a single bullet. The weight of the gun nearly caused him to drop it.

  “Is that all I get?” Jack’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Just one bullet!”

  “Jeremiah don’t want you gettin’ no ideas. This way, if you take a shot at him, one of his men’ll get you for sure.”

  “But what if I miss?” It was a fair question. The scared hand of the newbie could easily empty a six-shooter before hitting his target.

  “Then I suppose the half-breed can take his sweet time returning fire,” Sal answered.

  They lined up back to back. Jack’s head didn’t reach the Comanchero’s shoulder blade. On Jeremiah’s mark, they each began marching in opposite directions. At the count of ten, they both turned. Jack’s slight frame made him more nimble. His hips swiveled squarely in place, slightly ahead of the bandito’s. He proved to have naturally quick hands, although they trembled with the weight of the giant Colt. His itty-bitty finger struggled to squeeze the rusty trigger. The bandito caught up with the steady arm of a practiced killer. The missing eye was a big disadvantage. He had to wait until he was fully turned around to take proper aim. Jack managed to get off a lucky shot, but it only winged the bandito’s right arm. As he gripped the wound, tar-black blood spilled between his fingers, and the gun slipped from his hand.

  They both looked at each other for a cold second. With no bullets left, Jack had two choices: stand there and wait to die or attack with everything he had. The little fella let out a blood-curdling shriek, then charged. The bandito debated for a split second whether he should pick up his gun with his left hand or pull the knife from his belt. Neither were necessary. He could have just knocked the kid down and stomped on him, but the moment of indecision cost him. Jack closed the distance between them and was on him like a saddle sore. Still hollering like a loon, he swung a wide haymaker with the rusty Colt clenched in his fist, braining the bandito above his ear. The edge of the cylinder ripped out a silver dollar-sized chunk of scalp. The Comanchero’s eye stilled after the blow. Tears were running down Jack’s cheeks. He was only seventeenand had never murdered anyone before—let alone a dead man.

  Those who hadn’t bothered to come outside and watch the fight would hear the retelling of it for months afterward. The skinny teenager kept smashing the bandit’s skull, fearing that if he let up for even a second, he’d be done for. First, the left ear shredded, then the flesh from neck to forehead scraped off. Hairy clumps of scalp clung to the gun barrel like leaves on a rake. Jack sobbed with one swing, then screamed with the next. Some of the noises didn’t even sound human, more like a coyote’s yelp. When he finally tired, there was no more casing left to hold the brains together. A dark porridge spilled onto the ground like chuck-wagon stew. Jack collapsed on the body and lay there twitching and panting in exhaustion. When they pulled him off, he was as bloody as the bandito. He went back in the saloon and sat in the corner, still shaking as he nursed a beer. Sal gave him a couple of pork chops, and he wolfed them down hungrily. Everyone left him in peace for the rest of the day.

  The next morning, Jack skulked into the saloon at breakfast time with dried blood still on his cheeks and hands. He looked like an Indian in war paint. Since he’d proven himself the day before, he wasn’t expecting any trouble—at least not before he ate.

  “You only earned a pass for one day, kid,” Jeremiah announced. One of his men handed the boy the same rusty blood-stained Colt with a single bullet already in the chamber.

  “Any volunteers to draw against this hayseed? Winner gets free drinks and grub for the day.”

  A cowboy with some experience stepped forward. He wasn’t a trained gunfighter but had survived four or five draws since he’d arrived two months earlier. He didn’t have much of a knack for cards, so he supported himself with his pistol work. Found it easier to spot a fella with a mess of chips in front of him, wait till he drank too much, then pick a fight. The winner typically claimed the loser’s possessions.

  Jack and the cowboy headed out to the road, and this time half the saloon followed. The rest still didn’t consider the action good enough. The payout on the cowboy wasn’t very good because nobody thought the newbie’s luck could possibly last another day.

  They stood back to back and walked off ten paces. This time, Jack was a little smoother and more deliberate in his draw. Meanwhile, the cowboy jammed his hand into his holster and plucked up his gun, letting off two screaming shots in rapid succession. Both struck the ground in front of Jack. He flinched but maintained his composure. He had learned it was better to squeeze the trigger instead of jerking it. The cowboy had just leveled his barrel to send the third bullet into Jack’s chest when his own shirt reddened like a rose blossoming from his heart. He fell to the dust. Jack went back inside and ate some more pork chops.

  Each day, Jeremiah called for a new volunteer, and each day Jack faced him. Wasn’t any choice in the matter. With just a single bullet in the chamber, he couldn’t raise the barrel at the man who handed him the gun. There were always two men beside Jeremiah who would’ve gunned him down. His best hope was to keep firing away at whoever they put in front of him. The first few men weren’t very good, but it gave him a chance to learn. The best living gunfighters had upward of thirty kills under their belt, but those were spaced out by months and sometimes years. Jack had the advantage of drawing every single day, which allowed him to fix his flaws while they were still fresh in his mind. And since he had just the one bullet, he put every bit of his concentration into aiming it.

  At first Jeremiah was glad to be able to test folks out and separate the wheat from the chaff. He could see their weaknesses when they drew against the kid, and note if someone dipped their shoulder before they pulled. He figured he’d get the upper hand on whoever gunned the kid down. The thing was that nobody could, so all that information went to waste when they fell. Also, Jack learned something new every day. His hand got steadier and quicker. He didn’t even bother asking for breakfast. Just marched straight up and stuck out his hand for the gun and the bullet, then he waited outside to see who’d follow. It didn’t escape Jeremiah’s attention that he was making a bona fide gunslinger out of the boy, who’d likely be even harder to control.

  Everyone else found it a nice change of pace to start out the day with a gunfight. Gave folks something to look forward to, a reason to get out of bed. We all gathered beside the road each morning, even a few of the Indians who camped out in the dusty plains surrounding the town. People started to root for the little fella, and eventually the betting pool swu
ng to favor him against the hardened outlaws who were just in it for free grub and drinks. After a few weeks, Jack gained a lifetime’s worth of experience. Then the day came when there were no more volunteers to go up against him.

  “All right, boy, you ain’t gotta go against no one today,” Jeremiah announced. “Drink and eat as much as you like. Nobody’ll hassle you. But tomorrow, you go against me.”

  Everyone was itching to see the matchup. Jeremiah had been studying Jack for a month, but Jack had been practicing every day of that month. Wasn’t even the teensiest bit nervous anymore. His aim was dead on and his hand as steady as a post. But Jeremiah didn’t intend to get hoodwinked by another thief dressed as a priest. He had found one weakness that he could use to his advantage.

  Jack was only given the one bullet each day, so he couldn’t risk aiming at his opponent’s head, where a couple of inches in either direction might miss it entirely. And he couldn’t fire off a quick shot at a fella’s legs, since a wounded man might still overpower him. He always shot at the center of the chest, where the target was the widest.

  That afternoon, I overheard Jeremiah telling the blacksmith to mold him a sheet of tin. The next morning at breakfast time, Jeremiah was sitting at the bar with his back to the door. He was all by himself, carelessly gobbling down a plateful of beans. A glint of metal shined from under his collar. He’d gotten up early so he could have the blacksmith fit it in place while everyone was still asleep. If it succeeded in stopping Jack’s first bullet, he’d have all the time in the world to aim, and since he knew right where the bullet was going, he had extra metal layered in the center. Probably wouldn’t stop a buffalo gun, but it’d do for a rusty old Colt. It was a pretty good plan... till Jack came through the door an hour earlier than usual.

  The boy was through playing by another man’s rules—that much was clear. He grabbed the sheriff’s hair from behind and yanked his head back, exposing his neck to the ceiling.

  “Ain’t gonna be any sheriffs parsing out the bullets no more!” Jack said as he pulled out the Comanchero’s knife. He must’ve pocketed it the first day he’d arrived, when he killed the half-breed and collapsed on top of him. We thought he was just twitching with fear but he was really fleecing that knife from the body. Ever since then, the boy had been biding his time, trying to stay alive till he got close enough and no one was by Jeremiah’s side. Jack ran the blade across the sheriff’s throat before he could say a damn thing.

  By the time Jeremiah’s men arrived, Jack had already helped himself to his pretty pearl-handled pistols. He smiled at them tauntingly. They wouldn’t have pulled on him if he only had two bullets, let alone twelve. The next week, Jack shot one of the men for fun. The week after, he shot the other. He had learned from Jeremiah not to trust anyone, but also not to grow soft. He made a point of going up against someone at least once a week to keep sharp—and he wasn’t too fickle about who. Unlike Jeremiah, he had no problem with shooting untested newbies. Felt it kept him on his toes. And the bullying he’d endured didn’t make him sympathize with the misfortunes of others. He turned into the meanest son of a bitch in town, so nobody ever mentioned sheriffs around him again.

  * * * *

  “I still say you need someone to uphold the rules around here,” argued the newbie with the nickel-sized bullet hole in his temple.

  “Oh, and what rules would you suggest?” I asked.

  “Well, no shootin’ each other for one. You fellas are playing for keeps here. Ain’t like before when we wasn’t sure what happened after you died. This is it!”

  “So, what if someone accuses you of cheatin’, like the fella you said put that bullet in your head?”

  “Could wrestle,” he suggested.

  “And if a fella ain’t much for wrestlin’?”

  “Well then, he shouldn’t call nobody a cheater. And if somebody calls him a cheater, he could just go to the sheriff.”

  “Sounds like you got it all worked out,” I said. “Lemme ask you another question—how’s a fella get a bullet in the side of his head from an argument at a card table? Weren’t you lookin’ at the man when he called you a cheater? Or did he somehow sneak up beside ya?”

  “No. I mean yes.” He fidgeted nervously. “I guess I kinda turned away when he shot me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It happened real fast.”

  “Thought you said the last thing you remembered was that you drew and reckoned he done the same. You telling me you drew your pistol and looked away before you even pulled the trigger?”

  “I dunno! What ya want from me, mister?”

  “Why’d ya do it?” I pressed him.

  “Do what? I tole ya, mister. He ’cused me a cheatin’. Then he shot me ’fore I could shoot him.”

  “Did he do it real close, or was he sitting across the table?”

  “He was across the table,” he blubbered. “We was sitting as far apart as them two fellas over there.”

  “Interesting.” I nodded.

  “How’s that?”

  “’Cause that bullet hole’s got a ring around it like a hot barrel was pressed to your head. You know what I think? I think you pulled the trigger yourself and you’re ashamed of it, so you cooked up a story about an argument over cards. And I’m damn sick of pissants like you coming in here and making stuff up. What I wanna know now is why you done it?”

  Looked like his face was going to shatter from holding it all in. Finally, he broke down. “I had the sadness, sir. I always had it—long as I can remember. My pa had it before me and, from what I heard, his pa before him. Couldn’t be helped. It made me do lots a bad things, and it weren’t never gonna go away. So I done myself in.”

  “All right then.” I scribbled down a note. “Sal, get this fella a drink on me.”

  “Thanks, mister. I appreciate it,” he smiled. “And just ’cause I done myself in don’t mean I’m wrong in what I’m sayin’. Matter of fact, killin’ myself made me realize things.”

  “Oh?”

  “Like how special stuff is. Even breathin’ this dusty air and sittin’ here in this dark saloon talkin’ with you. It’s all special! If y’all only knew what was good for ya, you’d stop shootin’ each other this very day. Just think,” his voice lifted, “if what you were sayin’ earlier’s true, then a year from today the whole darn town could march straight up to heaven together!”

  Some sodbusters at a nearby table burst into laughter.

  “Shit, boy, when’s the last time you seen a fella do what’s best for him?” I asked. “You think if you pluck a man from his life and stick him in a one-horse town with a hundred other rotten bastards he’s gonna act better?”

  “That’s why you need somebody to keep ’em in line, like a sheriff!”

  “Keep it down!” Sal scolded. “You say that word again, and I’ll send ya to hell myself.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” I asked the kid, “who you reckon might be capable of stopping these bored and hateful men from shootin’ each another?”

  It was a subject I’d given a fair amount of thought to. The last time I had preached pacifism, some old-timer tried to gut me, and I had to shoot him—much to everyone’s amusement. That’s when I took to practicing it instead of preaching it. Everyone could go on blasting one another over nothing. Hopefully, I’d slip between the cracks right into heaven. Sure, every so often a newbie’d come at me for asking the wrong questions, but I’d gotten a knack for avoiding them. Hadn’t even heeled myself in a month.

  The kid was still giving the question serious consideration. He peered down the bar to where the vampire was drinking by himself. “How ’bout that fella?” he suggested. “Looks like he could uphold rules well enough. He’s gotta be quicker than Jack or any other man.”

  “I expect he is,” I agreed. “And he probably could whip this town into shape real quick, if he was inclined
to. And if anyone was compelled to ask him.”

  “Well, dang! That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” The kid sprang to his feet and walked straight over before I could stop him. Wanted to show he was more than a cowardly suicide. Strutted up with the gumption of a mayor on Election Day. Didn’t even seem to notice the yellow glow in the vampire’s eyes growing brighter as he approached. He stuck out his hand real friendly-like and said, “Howdy, pardner. My name’s Fre…!”

  Didn’t even get out his full name. The vampire snatched the outstretched hand like an apple from a tree and pressed the boy’s wrist to his lips. Yellow fangs sprang from his gums and pierced the soft sunburnt flesh. He clamped down on the bone without swallowing the blood that was pouring out. With one yank of his neck, the hand tore clean off. The kid screamed like one of them lady opera singers, so high and loud I thought the chandelier’d shatter. The vampire tossed the hand to the ground with the fingers still twitching like a daddy longlegs. Then he spat out some blood in disgust. The kid gripped his stump in shock. Then for some reason, he started scooping up the veins and muck dangling out. Tried to put them back inside like he was stuffing a sausage. Suppose he thought it could be mended somehow. All the while he kept screaming.

  “Aw, come on, Sal,” Fat Wally complained from the poker table. “Hobble that measly cowpoke’s lip. Some of us are trying to play cards here. Can’t concentrate with all his yellin’. Shit, I think Red’s finally got himself something better than a pair of bullshit,” he said, and the others laughed.

  Sal moseyed to the end of the bar in no particular hurry. Wasn’t the type to break a sweat if he didn’t have to. He wiped his hands off on his apron, then grabbed the scattergun from the umbrella stand. He came around the other side of the bar and pressed the barrel against the kid’s chest to avoid any buckshot spray. He pulled the trigger, and the boy was thrown five paces backward onto the floor with a wet thud.