Dawn in Damnation

by Clark Casey

  Chapter 12

  The Blue Men

  At first it was hard to put a finger on it, but something was missing in the Foggy Dew. The dank wood walls seemed less cheerful, and the banter over card games wasn’t as amusing. Folks just didn’t have the same pep as they used to. Even the ribbing of newbies was a joyless task. Then I realized what was missing. The sound of Buddy’s laughter used to fill up the whole saloon. Most folks were sad about being dead or worried about getting sent to hell. Not Buddy. He laughed at everything, especially his own jokes, and his giddiness was as infectious as smallpox. Everyone within earshot eventually got it, which made being dead sort of fun.

  “Why you suppose he can’t shake it?” I asked Sal.

  It had only been a week since Hardin shot Stumpy, but Sal was back to his practical way of looking at things. The loss of his beloved barback reinforced his belief in doing whatever he had to in order to survive. If anything, he was colder and more calculating in his figuring.

  “When Buddy came to town, he didn’t have nothin’ to lose,” Sal explained. “After he killed Jack Finney, he became the biggest toad in the puddle. Then he fell for Ms. Parker and she was kinda sweet on him as well. Don’t ya see? Even when he was alive, Buddy didn’t get much notoriety as an outlaw. Hell, he probably ain’t ever been with a woman he hadn’t paid for. But when he got here, he was somebody. I reckon them first few weeks in Damnation was as good as it’s ever been for Buddy. Now, Ms. Parker’s sweet on that dandy rapist, and Hardin’s the one everybody’s clamoring to hear stories about. Don’t you see? He lost the girl and his bragging rights.”

  “Think his saddle’s slipping on account of it?”

  “Maybe Buddy was only fast ’cause he thought everything was a joke. Slows you down when you get to worryin’ over stuff.”

  “How you suppose Hardin manages it?” I asked. “He’s as serious as an avalanche.”

  “Dunno,” Sal said plainly. “Takes a real rotten soul to keep up that sort of hatred. He probably never gets bored of killing, whether they deserve it or not.”

  Hardin ran the dice table most nights. When he didn’t feel like passing the dice, he just kept rolling. Mabel stood by his side, batting her eyes and petting his shoulder. Sal didn’t dare charge either of them for drinks. And Mabel hardly ever lost, so she was socking away a tidy sum.

  “What you suppose she’s gonna do with all that money?” Sal asked.

  “I wouldn’t have any idea,” I said. “Ain’t worth nothing once you get out the door.”

  Coins were becoming scarce, and it made folks tense. At least when Jack Finney was around, a man could gamble in peace and scrape by enough to eat and drink. Now, some fellas could hardly afford a beer with their breakfast. Sal feared a revolt and started pouring whiskey into everyone’s scrambled eggs to take the edge off.

  Late in the afternoon, Buddy skulked in and asked me if he could borrow a pen and ink, of all things. Then he sat in the corner and began scribbling furiously.

  “Now I’ve seen it all!” Sal declared. “The gunfighter who took out Jack Finney has traded in his pistol for a pen.”

  “What you suppose he’s writing?” Whiny Pete asked.

  “His will.” Sal shrugged.

  “He don’t own nothing though,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s after your job,” Red laughed.

  The barroom was already crowded, even though supper wasn’t for a couple hours yet. Some railroad workers had come in after a tunnel collapsed on them in Pennsylvania. They’d been trapped for three days before the air ran out. Their clothes were covered in a fine layer of crushed stone, and when they spoke the dust in their lungs escaped from their mouths in little puffs. It was easy to spot them on account of their faces were still blue from suffocation. But they were happy as hogs in shit to be wetting their whistles and stretching their legs.

  “Dang!” one of them pronounced. “If I’d a known I’d be able to get away from my wife and drink all day, I’d a died a lot sooner!” He’d gotten lucky at the poker table, won a few big hands and was sharing the wealth. They knocked back the bug juice at a furious pace.

  Some said that the first drink after you died was the finest. You no longer had anything to fear, no responsibilities weighed you down, and you felt invincible. It was certainly grand to be liberated from all your earthly worries, but it didn’t last. Those same folks usually said that the following morning was as bad as you could ever possibly feel. The worst part was having nothing to look forward to. When you died, all hope vanished. So if you were too sick to enjoy a few laughs, then you were entirely sunk. One fella stayed in bed for a whole week. When he finally gained the strength to rise, he picked a fight with Jack Finney just to end his misery. Figured hell had to be better than the hangover.

  The blue-faced railroad men were still living high on the hog though. The largest of the three noticed Buddy scribbling away in the corner and decided to give him a ribbing. Men who weren’t lettered never liked to see anyone doing what they couldn’t. In similar situations, I always wished I could challenge bullies to a spelling bee instead of a draw. Fortunately, not many men cared to pick a fight with a crippled reporter for the only newspaper in the afterlife.

  “Hey, Longfeller, you writin’ love poetry?” he heckled.

  Buddy didn’t seem to hear him on account of how hard he was concentrating. He just kept scribbling away. When he finally got up to go to the latrine, the blue man was annoyed at being ignored and decided to block his path.

  “Hey, Longfeller, I asked you a question. I asked if you was writin’ love poetry over there?” He snickered as if it were the funniest thing ever said. Buddy tried to move past the man but couldn’t avoid brushing against his boot.

  “You done stepped on my beetle crusher, Longfeller!”

  The room grew silent, and those standing behind the railroad worker wasted no time in clearing out.

  “Ain’t you gonna ’pologize?” He stood so close bits of spit sprayed Buddy’s face. The odd thing was that Buddy’s arm didn’t move. It remained frozen at his side with trembling fingers. It was embarrassing to watch. After a long moment, he mumbled weakly, “Sorry,” then stepped by.

  “You’re yellower than mustard,” the blue man called after Buddy.

  Hardin had a good view of the action from the dice table. There usually wasn’t much that gave him cause to speak, but I heard him ask, “Who’s that sad sack?”

  “That’s Buddy Baker,” Mabel told him. “Shot up a posse in Texas.”

  “He thinks he’s some sort a hotshot gunslinger,” Red added.

  “Somebody oughta put his sorry ass out of his misery,” Hardin said and went to get a beer. The huddle of blue-faced men remained stationed in front of the bar like it was a train car and they were checking tickets. After backing down one man, they reckoned they had rule of the roost. Nobody moved an inch for Hardin to get by, but he wasn’t the type to go begging anyone’s pardon. He pushed straight through without a word and stuck up a finger to signal for a beer. The blue men must not have recognized Hardin from all the wanted posters and newspapers. And none of them had been dead long enough to know the pecking order.

  “Hey, boy!” called out the big fella who’d been ribbing Buddy. “You just spilt my drink.” Hardin looked from side to side in disbelief. It must have been quite a spell since anyone had spoken to him in that manner. “I’m talking to you!” he yelled. “Is every man in this town yellow?”

  The room quieted once again. All of the railroad men were heeled with shiny Colts they’d bought with their winnings. Hardin opened his vest to reveal the butts of his inverted pistols, ready for his famous cross-armed draw. He combed his soup strainer with two fingers and glared at them.

  “You got my attention now, blueberry boy.”

  Hardin wasn’t the type to bother talking a man down. He preferred to get busy making holes in
them. I reached for my pocket watch, fixing to get a gauge on just how fast he was. By the time I had fetched it from my pocket though, it was all over. Hardin raised a pistol in each hand. The guns seemed to float up in the air like helium balloons. He knocked the ear off the man on the right and obliterated one eye of the man on the left. Then he trained both barrels on the blowhard in the center.

  His two friends had fallen, but he still hadn’t managed to draw. His arm was frozen in place, gripping his shiny gun. The quivering of his fingers made the barrel clatter against his leg. All that fear of death he’d spent the day washing away was back again and even stronger, as a fear of hell. He unclenched his fingers from the handle, then slowly showed a sweaty palm in surrender. There was a hopeful look on his face—a half-smile, like he was fixing to laugh at the situation. He reckoned everything would be all right since he’d surrendered. It was a long moment for him. Probably felt longer than those three days in the collapsed tunnel, waiting for the air to run out. Everything was going to be all right though. Because if a man begs for mercy, he gets it. But not from Hardin.

  The first bullet shattered his chin before he could speak. A piece of his gum dangled below his lip with a couple teeth still attached. The second bullet ripped through his neck. He dropped to the ground gasping and clutching at his useless windpipe. Hardin calmly reloaded each gun in turn, then replaced them in their holsters. This time when he stepped to the bar there was plenty of room cleared out and a fresh glass of suds waiting.

  “Ah shit!” Buddy called out from the corner. Hardin looked over as Buddy balled up the page he’d been scribbling on and tossed it over his shoulder in disgust.

  “I’d say that proves it,” Sal said. “We got a new top gun.”

  “Not sure,” I told him. “Have to see how things play out.”

  Chapter 13

  Malachi

  Each night after supper, Ms. Parker and her beau strolled around town like a couple of newlyweds. They took in the gloomy violet and yellow sky, then stopped to watch the mini dust twisters blowing across the flatlands, like they were gazing at the prettiest ocean sunset you ever saw. I followed them just like Buddy asked. Malachi saw Ms. Parker to her door every evening and never did nothing improper while I was watching. He might’ve been blabbering on about how he was a reformed person and how sorry he was about all the bad things he’d done—though no one knew for sure if he told her exactly what he’d done.

  As Ms. Parker’s belly grew larger, she appreciated the attention of a handsome man. Perhaps she reckoned it’d be good for the child to have a father figure around, even if he was a dead tenderfoot.

  “What’s the kid gonna do for schoolin’?” Spiffy asked.

  “I didn’t have no schoolin’,” Red said.

  “And look how you turned out,” Sal chortled.

  “What’s he need schoolin’ for anyway?” Red argued. “Ain’t like he needs a trade here. Just gotta learn how to play cards and drink.”

  “Kinda dreary for a kid to grow up in a place where everyone’s dead,” I said. “Imagine never gettin’ to play in the grass or see a blue sky. And if it’s a boy, how’s he gonna meet a nice girl? The women here are already dead—and usually killers to boot.”

  “If it’s a girl, the pickings for men ain’t all that swell neither,” Mabel added. “Except for you, honey, and you’re already spoken for.” She pinched Hardin’s cheek. He just nodded and collected his beer, then went back to the dice table.

  “My first time was with a saddle tramp in Toledo,” Red said, shoveling down a plateful of pork and beans. “She might as well have been dead. It weren’t so bad though.”

  “The vampire might have different plans for the kid,” Sal said grimly.

  “Like lunch,” Red added, and a few of the others nodded, seeing it as a reasonable suspicion.

  Ms. Parker and Malachi set out on their evening stroll with me at their heels, but at the edge of town, my stomach startled to rumble something fierce. Sal’s cooking wasn’t always agreeable to a dead man’s stomach. The pork shoulder tasted like machinery belting covered in prairie butter. While the lovebirds were gazing on the mini dust tornados, I got a case of the backdoor trots. They were already starting to meander back toward town, so I hot-footed it to the Foggy Dew where the closest water closet could be found.

  They were only out of my sight for a couple of minutes. Malachi must’ve been waiting for his chance though. As I was finishing up in the latrine, a scream came from outside the window. I bolted out the front door and heard another scream, so I turned into the alley, where the white-suited dandy had Ms. Parker pinned to the wall. He was lifting up the layers of her fluffy dress but had not yet reached her bloomers.

  “Malachi!” I hollered. “Unhand her now!” He looked up but didn’t stop. Seemed pleased even, like he preferred having an audience to his wickedness.

  If I had been heeled, my chances of getting to heaven would certainly have been precluded, but I was not. Malachi was quite a bit larger than me, so I gripped my cane and drew back. Ms. Parker’s screams excited him and he began unbuckling his pants. I smashed him across the back, but it didn’t knock him down, worked up as he was. He turned and shoved me. My bad leg buckled and I fell to the ground. He began working quicker after that. Got his belt unbuckled with one hand while gripping her throat with the other. She screamed out, but he smacked her across the mouth, bloodying her lip, and she quieted.

  Whenever my leg went out, it took a while to get it going again. Had to rub it down like an old stubborn mule. There wasn’t any way I’d be able to stop Malachi from his evil deeds. Worse still, I’d be forced to watch from the ground. Then I turned to see a something that really got my blood going. Buddy was charging down the alley toward Malachi. For a chubby fella, he could move fast as all get-out when he wanted to. He gripped the fiend by his collar and threw him into a rotted out hitching post. Malachi knocked his head and fell to the ground in a daze. Buddy didn’t draw his gun though. Just stood there waiting till Malachi got back to his feet, gritting his teeth in anticipation. Malachi slowly roused. Once he was upright, Buddy backhanded him across the cheek, sending him to the dust once more.

  “Growing up an orphan might excuse some things,” he told him. “But it don’t give you cause for rapin’ ladies.”

  Malachi stood once more. A savage look came over his eyes, like his hunger for violence had been awoken. Buddy looked pretty savage too, sweating and panting like a wild boar. It was reassuring to see him worked up about something again, even if he wasn’t laughing.

  The boys in the saloon had heard the ruckus and came out into the alleyway to investigate. Even Hardin had left the dice table to see what all the commotion was. He stood in the back with a keen eye. You’d have thought he was readying to draw a picture of the event.

  “You heeled?” Buddy asked Malachi.

  “No.”

  “Get him a gun,” he told Sal.

  “I don’t think that would be a wise course of action,” said a voice behind me. Nigel stood at the foot of the alley, keeping his distance from Ms. Parker.

  “I don’t need any of your namby-pamby,” Buddy replied. “This here’s man’s law, not vampires’. I can’t shoot a man who ain’t heeled. People’ll say I’m no better’n a back shooter.”

  “Don’t be daft!” Nigel scowled. “You don’t arm your pigs before you slaughter them. Why’s he any different?”

  “’Cause men are men and pigs ain’t got no fingers to shoot with. ’Sides, I ain’t plannin’ to eat the sumabitch. Now get that man heeled, Sal, so I can send his ass to hell!”

  Sal took off his own holster and handed it to Malachi. While Malachi strapped it to his waist, Sal explained the rules. “Both men will stand back to back, then walk ten paces as I count aloud—”

  “Hell I will!” Malachi shouted, and raised his pistol.

  Buddy was tending
to Ms. Parker, so Malachi managed to get off a shot. The bullet struck the side of his gut. He groaned in agony and doubled over. Malachi smiled and took aim on Buddy’s head.

  “You back-shootin’ bastard!” Buddy hollered and drew. His arm moved so quick, it looked like the gun just appeared in front of him. He fired four shots in a flash before Malachi could squeeze the trigger. The soft-horn’s bright blue eyes broke apart like any other mudsill’s peepers. He remained upright as the empty sockets filled with red. One ear clung to his neck by a flap of skin. Buddy stepped forward, holding the wound on his side, and shot twice more shattering Malachi’s white teeth. “Take that, you sumabitch!”

  Malachi dropped to his knees, then fell forward for a mouthful of dust. He was little more than swine feed now. His white suit was caked in blood. Buddy didn’t dally about reloading. Not that there was any fear of retribution from the crowd. To the contrary, they broke into applause, topped off by some hooting and hollering that made the Indians seem quiet by comparison.

  “Ain’t never seen a gunfighter get a standing ovation before,” Old Moe remarked.

  Even those who weren’t fans of Buddy stood clapping like they heard a mayor’s speech.

  “Well, he earned it, gosh dang it!” Red admitted.

  Buddy moved closer and aimed at the corpse on the ground. Six more shots echoed down the alleyway. The smooth skin on Malachi’s cheeks mottled up and split with splinters of bone. Groans of disgust came from the crowd. A few of the newer men aired the paunch at the sight of it. Hardin was watching carefully, like he’d been counting the seconds it took for Buddy’s pistol to leave its holster.

  “What the hell’d you do that for?” Sal asked Buddy.

  “The next place he ends up, ain’t no ladies gonna be tricked by his good looks,” he said with a chuckle. The sound of his laughter made the shadow of Hardin shrink some by comparison.

  Ms. Parker rushed over and hugged him. Buddy winced as she squeezed his side, but didn’t stop her.