Dawn in Damnation

by Clark Casey

  “Got shot in a card game,” the boy answered.

  The cards were dealt again. Red took a look at his and slapped his knee with an all-fired glee he surely was not known for. “By golly, I finally got some dang cards!” he called out.

  Everyone within earshot reckoned he got bored with the shit cards he was dealt and decided to bluff. “I bet ten dollars,” he said while trying his hardest not to twitch or blink. His face looked ready to break apart at any moment. It was a tall bet to match if you didn’t already have a stake in the pot.

  “The sun even shines on a dog’s ass some days,” one farmer said and folded. The other quickly followed.

  “Not here it don’t,” Spiffy added. “Ain’t got no sun or dogs in Damnation!”

  “If you ain’t got chips on the table, quit your jawin’ now,” Red threatened.

  Lucky didn’t have to think on it long. He saw the bet and raised it three more.

  Red turned to him with a sourpuss. “Hey, boy, you catch that bullet for cheatin’?”

  “I ain’t never cheated in my life, sir,” Lucky answered in earnest. “Always been good in cards. Been beat up lotsa times on account of it. Usually, I throw down a few hands so the other players don’t get too angry. They hate gettin’ beat out right. This afternoon, I was playing stud in Tulsa, and a big ol’ cowboy kept riding me. If you’re a skinny kid like me and you’re any good at cards, there’s always a big ‘ole cowboy riding you. No escaping it. He said I was a pissant good for nothing. Said my momma was a trollop and anything he could to get my goat. I let him win a few hands, but he kept riding me. So finally, I swore I wasn’t gonna throw down no more hands to the bastard, even if he sent me to my grave. The very next hand I drew aces and eights.”

  “A dead man’s hand,” Spiffy remarked solemnly.

  “The cowboy went all in with a pair of queens,” Lucky continued. “When he saw my cards, he pulled his gun. Next thing I knew, I was walking up the road to this dusty old town and this was the first place I come to. I saw there was a card game going on, and sure enough a big ol’ cowboy’s riding me again. So reckoned I musta wound up in hell. Figured I might as well beat y’all straight out and see where they send me next. It couldn’t be much worse than this shitheel town.”

  “Enough of your jawin’!” Red broke in and threw three chips on the pile to see Lucky’s bet, then laid down a pair of aces. “What you got, kid?” he asked smugly.

  Lucky laid down three queens, looking as grim and resigned as an undertaker. Red was flabbergasted. He pulled his gun, pointed it at the kid, and cocked the hammer back. Lucky closed his eyes and braced for the blast. To his credit, he didn’t beg for his life like a Fre. Didn’t even say a peep.

  “Well, Lucky, I guess this just ain’t your day,” Red said after a thoughtful moment and uncocked the hammer. “I’m gonna let you live—at least what passes for living here.”

  Chapter 16

  The Miners Who Didn’t Mine

  “Get Buddy,” Sal whispered to Whiny Pete as soon as they came through the door. It was suppertime, and we hadn’t been expecting them so soon. Hoped it’d be at least another couple days before the big fella and the little guy with the mustache darkened the doorway again.

  “Buddy’s still laid up.”

  “Get ’em anyway. And tell that vampire what’s going on in case he cares to help. We’re gonna need him.”

  The two men began crowding the sodbusters in front of the bar. The average farm boy was bold in fighting but had little experience in handling a pistol. They might’ve used a rifle to scare coyotes away from a henhouse but drawing and aiming a sidearm was another matter. The big fella stepped on the foot of a feisty churn twister who was just minding his own business. “What’s the big idea?” he asked, looking cross.

  “Where’s the woman in white?” His eyes glowed red like hot branding irons. The farmer hadn’t been around long enough to know about the werewolves and thought himself brave.

  “I ain’t seen no woman, but I reckon if there was one she’d stay clear of the likes of you,” he replied. “You smell like a wet dog.”

  Those were the last words the man spoke. The big fella gripped his throat and pushed the balls of his thumbs into his breathing pipe. The farmer gasped and choke in his hands while everyone watched. As the body dropped to the floor, a hunk of his windpipe clung to his finger. He flicked it off, then turned to a cowboy and asked again, “Where’s the woman in white?”

  The bronc buster reached for his sidearm, but he fumbled the handle while trying to clear leather. Meanwhile, the smaller fella’s neck grew half a foot in a blink and a snout popped out of his face. Then a million little hairs pushed through his skin, forming a gray shaggy coat right before our eyes. By the time the cowboy had his gun raised, the little wolf was on all fours. He bit into his wrist causing the gun to drop. The big fella moved in closer and wrapped his fingers around the cowboy’s throat. Ms. Parker had been in the powder room, and she appeared at the doorway to investigate the commotion just then. Her scent stirred their hunger. The big fella bolted toward her, transforming into a brown shaggy wolf mid-gallop. His hindquarters kicked over a chair as he scrambled across the room, moving too fast for anyone to take aim. He sprang for poor defenseless Ms. Parker, and there wasn’t anyone nearby to save her.

  Then a shot rang out and the wolf turned over in the air, crashing into a table. Buddy stood at the doorway with a pistol smoldering in his grip. A bloodied bandage wrapped his gut, and he grimaced from the pain it caused him to stand. The smaller wolf snapped at Buddy’s wrist, and he dropped his gun. A nearby sodbuster swung a boot at the beast’s ribs. It yelped, then sprang on top of him, chewing his neck till it gushed blood like Old Faithful. Then it leapt on Buddy with its teeth bearing down on his throat. Buddy gripped its jaws, cutting his fingers on the razor-sharp teeth. The wound on his side split open in the struggle and was leaking a fair amount of blood.

  Sal leveled his shotgun but couldn’t get a clear shot. The only one with a good sightline and a steady arm was Hardin. His hand lingered beside his pistol, but he didn’t draw. Looked to be calculating something. Just one throttle could’ve severed Buddy’s head, leaving nothing between the wolf and Ms. Parker—or the rest of us. Nobody wanted to interfere, likely because they were scared of retribution from the rest of the pack. Hardin certainly had the grit, but he still hadn’t decided who was the worse enemy.

  Suddenly a burst of wind blew through the door, darkening the whole room with dust. The mangy wolf was lifted off Buddy and thrown to the floor. As the dust settled, Nigel stood above him. We had never seen him kill in anger before, only in amusement or annoyance. He bit into the beast’s neck and peeled back a strip of furry skin, revealing the muscles on his withers. Instinct must’ve kicked in, and he lost all control. Maybe some part of him still hoped warm blood flowed in the animal. Mabel covered her eyes, but Ms. Parker didn’t look away. The floorboards reddened, and chunks of wolf meat clung to the walls and ceiling. After tasting the cold blood, he spit it out in disgust.

  Nigel was tuckered out, and without warm blood to replenish him he could hardly stand. He collapsed in a chair. The larger wolf quietly got to its feet, despite the bullet in its side, and made a break for the door.

  “Get him before he alerts the pack!” Nigel yelled.

  Buddy scooped his gun up from the floor and fired from the hip but missed. Sal took aim with his scattergun, but by the time the bystanders had cleared, it was already out the door. A few cowboys scrambled out to the road, but their six shooters had no accuracy at a distance.

  “If he makes it back, we’re all done for,” Nigel said. I grabbed a Winchester from the umbrella stand and hobbled to the doorway. My pa had taught me how to shoot duck when I was a kid before I busted up my leg, and I was a fair shot.

  “Ain’t you tryin’ not to shoot no one?” Whiny Pete asked.

  �
��That won’t matter if them wolves get us,” I said and took aim. The wolf was just a few yards shy of turning the corner, where the buildings would provide cover. I had his hindquarters in my crosshairs. Just as I was about to squeeze the trigger, a flash of lighting brightened the sky. Then a jagged blue-white bolt ripped through the cloud cover to the center of the road. Of all the places it could have struck, it hit the exact spot where the wolf was. The beast keeled over and was cooked where he lay. Gray smoke rose from its singed fur. Two cowboys hustled out and carried the carcass back before it was spotted. The smell of burnt hair filled the room.

  “Thank you for saving us,” Ms. Parker said to Nigel.

  His fangs were still sticking out on account of his hunger hadn’t been satisfied. “Go away!” he ordered.

  “But there’s nothing to worry about now that the werewolves are dead.”

  “It is not them that I worry for. Flee from me before I finish what they intended to do.”

  Ms. Parker bolted out of the saloon in tears.

  “Hey!” Buddy said as he got to his feet. “Why you scaring the lady?” He was unsteady from loss of blood and needed the wall for support. He pulled his gun out and began twirling it around his finger playfully.

  “This is none of your business, gunslinger.”

  “Well, I just made it my business that ladies don’t go running from here in tears after they been attacked by wolves―and maybe insulted by a vampire.”

  Nigel looked at him icily, then shook his head. Buddy kept spinning his pistol around his finger as the blood from his wound darkened his shirt. Then his eyes rolled backward and his knees buckled. The gun slipped off his fingertip and landed on the ground, firing a shot into the base of the bar.

  “Ah hell, we’ll call it even,” Buddy said.

  “Get those damn wolves hauled off to the pigpen before the rest of the pack sees ’em,” Sal ordered. “And get a damn mop to wipe the guts from the ceiling.”

  “You think the pack knew they were coming here?” I asked.

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Chapter 17

  The Homesteaders

  Time passed in poker hands. The average man could play ten or so an hour, or about a hundred a day. Added up to upward of seven hundred a week. Went by fast if you were winning, slow as molasses if you were losing. The only value a man had in Damnation was how many chips were in front of him or how fast he could draw. Large stacks bullied small stacks into folding, and small stacks waited till large stacks got bored and bet on losing hands. Likewise, the stout picked on the measly, and the quick guns shot the slow.

  The town was growing on account of more homesteaders getting killed while traveling west. Every day more Germans, Irish, English, and Czechs wandered out of the dust. They’d crossed the ocean with hungry children for the hope of free land. Packed everything they owned in rickety wagons to stake a plot in the frontier. Then their crops failed, or their livestock got sick, or someone pushed them off their land. They ran out on their families and tried to rob stagecoaches. They got into knife fights at whorehouses or got scalped by Indians. Some just fell off their horses, drunk in the night, and woke up in Damnation with a bump on the head and an emptiness in the gut that wasn’t ever going to be filled again. By the time they got to the tables, they had nothing left to lose. They raised like they had aces in the hole and turned over broken straights and missed flushes. When they couldn’t get no more to drink on credit, they fought over pennies and blew each other to bits.

  Gunfights were more commonplace, but the newer fellas were usually lousy shots. They just kept winging each other till they slumped over and bled out. If nobody spared a bullet to put them out of their misery, they moaned all the way to the pigpen. While their legs were being gobbled up, they’d still be griping about how their cards were shit or their gun had jammed.

  Not everyone had the temperament to last in Damnation. Needed a degree of detachment a lot of folks couldn’t summon. You could spot them a mile off. They had more expectation than resignation in their eyes and just couldn’t let things be. Started eyeing others’ possessions or positions of respect. The old-timers knew better than to tangle with those just passing through. And if they tangled with us, Buddy’d usually set them straight. Since Ms. Parker was sweet on him again, he was back to his old jolly self. He’d come in with guns blazing and send a couple to hell at once.

  But when Buddy wasn’t around, it was a free-for-all. Hardin didn’t care much one way or the other. Mabel and the dice games were all he needed. Nobody messed with him, and he didn’t mess with nobody, unless they rolled a number he couldn’t match. Could tell he was weighing things over whenever a ruckus started though, calculating who was the fastest and who he’d have to go against eventually.

  “Why you suppose Hardin ain’t gone against Buddy?” Whiny Pete asked. “Think he’s yellow?”

  “Hardin ain’t scared of no man,” Red declared.

  “Might not be a man he’s scared of.” Sal winked.

  “Interesting perspective,” I said. “You think Hardin’s scared of Nigel, maybe hoping Buddy’ll go against him first?”

  “They both seem sweet on Ms. Parker,” Whiny Pete put in. “They might fall out over her.”

  “Ah, Nigel won’t even be in the same room with her,” I said. “Reckon, he ain’t gonna come courting her.”

  “Maybe he wants to eat her baby, or maybe he wants to court her. I don’t know,” Sal huffed. “Either way, Buddy ain’t gonna like it. So if I was Hardin, I’d wait till one sent the other to hell. Then take out whoever’s left. Less work that way.”

  “Buddy’d be pretty tough for anyone to beat now that he’s got his jolly back,” I argued. “Maybe even Nigel.”

  Nigel sat up on his balcony most days smoking his pipe. When there wasn’t a gunfight to watch, he stared at the sky. He could go a whole day without moving—just recalling the past, I suppose. When you had a few centuries of wear on your boots, sorting through faces and names could take a while. Eventually, he had to wonder on the meaning of the lightning. Couldn’t be a coincidence that it struck the exact spot the werewolf was crossing. Half the fellas reckoned God smote the wolf to protect us. The other half reckoned he was punishing the beast for other stuff. If Nigel had a different take on it, he wasn’t sharing it.

  “Vampire prolly reckons the devil done it,” Red speculated, “since that’s who made him. Like how we think God done it since he made us.”

  “What makes you think the devil made him?” I asked.

  “’Cause he’s evil. The devil makes all evil stuff.”

  “How about Malachi? Did the devil make him?”

  Red thought on it a moment. “Nah, the devil prolly got in him after he was born, but vampires ain’t natural.”

  “According to your reckoning, if the devil made the vampire, he made the werewolves, too,” I said.

  “Of course! Wolves as big as lions ain’t natural neither.”

  “If the devil was behind that lightning, why would he strike one of his creations in order to protect another?” I asked.

  “Dunno!” Red answered. “Why would God make one man rich and handsome and another man poor and ugly?”

  Just then, two of the homesteaders started brawling over cards. A table got flipped over, and the ruckus interrupted the conversation. The newbies who couldn’t afford guns often boxed or scratched each other’s eyes out. When the fighting spilled out into the street, Nigel was like a bean-eater watching cockfights. Probably would’ve wagered on them if there was another vampire around. He might’ve had a soft spot for Ms. Parker, but he still had a cruel streak. Must’ve got a taste for violence with all the wars he lived through. Never interfered in any of our quarrels though, like the game was better appreciated without his meddling—unless Ms. Parker was in any danger.

  One time, a sodbuster drew on a cowboy whi
le she happened to be passing behind him. Nigel had swooped down like a vulture and took his whole arm off before he could shoot. Some folks still insisted Nigel was waiting for her baby to be born so he could eat it. Nobody mentioned it to her though. Most evenings, after she retired, he popped into the Foggy Dew for a glass of gin, but he usually didn’t offer much to the conversation.

  There was one other subject on everyone’s mind. As Ms. Parker’s belly grew, everyone got real curious about what would come out. Nothing had ever been born in Damnation before. Everyone came from out of the dust cloud. Some expected the devil might pop out. Christian folks thought it might be the second coming of Jesus.

  “Ain’t no way Jesus’d show up in this shithole,” Sal argued. “He ain’t even been back to earth in all this time, and they got sunshine and whorehouses.”

  “Could be a martian,” Spiffy speculated. “They mighta put one of their soldiers in Ms. Parker’s belly so they could attack us. Like one of them Greek toe-jam horses.”

  “You mean a Trojan horse?” I asked.

  “Whatever ya call it.” Spiffy shrugged.

  “Enough of your outer space nonsense!” Sal hollered.

  “Well, if the devil comes out of Ms. Parker, we can all just head to hell and have the run of the place,” Red said. “Though I don’t look forward to running into Jack Finney again. He sure was an asshole.”

  “Been a while since them werewolves got sent to hell,” Spiffy said. “Think they really didn’t tell the others they were coming here?”

  “If they had, the baby would make for a small meal divvied up among a pack,” Red said. “I know I’d keep it quiet if I was sitting on the last pork chop.”

  “Good point,” Spiffy agreed.

  “The pack will eventually figure out those two wolves are missing,” Nigel said from the end of the bar. “Werewolves keep track of their own, even if they don’t share everything, and they will come looking for them.”