"I got you covered," Hank responded, gesturing to a pile of the old man's personal effects on the clay floor of the doctor's tent.
There was a relieved smile on the boy's face. While it felt nice to have someone look at him with affection for the first time in years, the smile also filled him with a guilty sadness. Despite what they'd been through in the mountains, the boy was hitching his cart to the wrong horse. The road he traveled was one of madness and sorrow. No path for a child.
For the next thirty minutes or so, the old man just lay there, waiting for the poison to lose its grip. The doctor had gone about some other work. Hank had moved his chair so that he was sitting right next to the old man, but made no further sound. Outside, the silence of trauma had settled over the town.
Finally, the old man felt in control of his body again, and most of the haze had burned from his mind. Still distrustful of the line of communication between his body and mind, he forced himself into a sitting position. From this position, he surveyed his body for damage.
A bandage was taped over his shoulder where the Cheyenne dart had struck him during the recent battle. To his relief there were no other serious abrasions or broken bones. On the back of his hand, where the burn from the cannibal's stove had left him with a black scar that spider-webbed out in all directions, the old man was shaken to see a leech attached. Instinctively he swung his hand back and forth, trying to fling the creature from his flesh.
"You're gonna want to keep her on a little bit longer," the doctor said, looking over his shoulder as he checked on another victim of the recent firefight.
The doctor finished whatever it was he was doing with his other patient and walked back toward the old man. He wiped blood from his hands with a stained rag, and set his eyes on the leech that suckled at the old man.
"The Injun's poison, while it could have killed you, is mostly outta yer system," he said, pointing toward the blackened scar tissue at that the leech suckled upon. "That right there is yer real problem."
A grim feeling came over the old man as he looked at the black stain on his skin. He had tried to ignore it up until now, chalking the discoloration up to the burn he'd received. The color and the spider-webbing was something he'd seen before, and he didn’t want to think about it. It was the same kind of wretched infection that had been eating away at so many of the witches he'd slain. A physical symptom of the dark magic coursing through their bodies.
"I've never seen anything quite like it. Some kind of infection, and signs of blood poisoning. That's bad enough, but the color ..."
The old man only grunted in response. His mind was too busy sizing up his sickness to offer any other words. This infection, black vein he called it, was typically slowed by the same dark powers that spawned it. The old man was no witch though, and knew not the secret ways to slow the sickness.
"I'm hoping that leeches will slow the progress, but ..."
"But what?" Hank, who had been so quiet that he'd been almost forgotten, chimed in. Fear and heartbreak were creeping into his voice.
The old man reached over and placed one hand on Hank's knee, trying his best to comfort the boy.
"How long?" the old man asked, working out the math in his mind of how long it might take to track Thurs down along the railroad.
"A few weeks, I reckon. Maybe two months with leeches and prayer each day."
The old man nodded and swung his feet off the cot.
"But there's gotta be something right?" Hank asked with desperation in his voice. "Some medicine or something?"
A solemn expression came across the doctor's face. "My condolences."
"How much for the leeches?" the old man asked as he pushed off of the cot and gathered his gear.
***
Hank followed the old man closely, unsure what to do or say. He supposed that he knew they were temporary companions, but the thought of the reaper coming for the old man so soon after both of his parents had died was too much for him.
His sullenness at word of the old man's impending death was shaken a bit by fear as they once again crossed under the shadow of the cross and into the chapel tent. Even in the light of day, the wooden "t" seemed to be a thing of evil. The priest was dead, murdered by Indians. It seemed wrong, and somehow dangerous, to enter God's house after his servant had been cut down. The old man showed no fear though, so Hank acted as bravely as he could.
Light poured into the tent, both through the flaps and penetrating through the canvas. A large, amorphous stain adorned the earthen floor of the chapel. To his relief, someone had taken the priest's corpse away. Brutal images of some Cheyenne warrior carving up the holy man came into his mind. He imagined the sharpened stone of a tomahawk cutting the scalp away from the man of God. His mind played out a scene of all-out butchery, where the Indian dressed the priest like a deer. The murderer in Hank's mind had the same clinical detachment that the mountain man had shown when butchering his father.
Hank scanned the room, his young imagination creating a narrative around the blood splatter and general disarray. The priest had caught the tomahawk in the gut, judging by the shit mixed in with the blood. The trail of blood, curving back and forth like a drunk snake, showed where the priest had stumbled in a vain attempt to escape. The rusty blob on the clay floor marked the point of failure, where Padre's body called it quits.
Nothing else seemed disturbed though. A foot locker stowed near the cot was locked and undisturbed. The gold and silver candlesticks hadn’t been looted. Even a stash of booze that had fallen out from the overturned altar had been left where it had fallen. The lack of opportunism was a sure sign that the Cheyenne raiders had come to Tanner's Grove for the express purpose of silencing the priest.
"What are we doing here?" Hank finally asked after surveying the grim scene for a moment.
"Hunting," the old man responded as he pulled his secondary revolver from his belt.
The old man cocked his gun and aimed it at the lock on the foot locker. Hank covered his ears, wondering if it was such a good idea to be firing a gun in here so shortly after the Cheyenne raid.
An explosion escaped the old man's pistol and the lock shattered. Wasting no time, the old man bent down and opened the foot locker. He began rifling through the priest's personal effects, looking for some tell-tale sign of where he might have crossed paths with Thurs.
Hank watched the entrance of the tent nervously. The gunshot would surely cause someone to come investigate what was going on. The boy could only imagine what it would look like. They'd be hanged as thieves, stealing from the church itself. And what better people could they find for hanging than a Confederate soldier and Negro orphan. Not only were both widely hated, but what a funny story it would make for the lynch mob to tell down the road.
“I shit you not, a god damn nigger-boy, and some Dixie land hold over were thieving together. Quite a funny sight, swinging side by side,” That's what they'd say alright.
Before Hank's anxiety could mount any further, the old man shot upright, holding several train tickets and a journal in his hand. In the other hand was a fistful of greenbacks.
"Got what I need," the old man said in his ever-calm tone.
"Taking from the dead? A dead priest at that? This don't feel right," Hank's protest was fueled more by fear of divine retribution than sincere guilt.
"Nothing's felt right for a long time, kid," the old man said matter-of-factly, as he made his way out of the tent.
The boy couldn't help but agree.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emerald was a dirty weed of a town, growing into an ugly city. In no way, shape, or form did it live up to its name. Shit-Brown or Sepia would have been more fitting names for this home of water-starved crabgrass, cracked dirt roads, and dull, neutral-colored buildings. In fact, the only thing that might warrant giving the dreary town of Emerald such a name was a mile or two outside of the town proper—The Emerald Flower.
The Emerald Flower was a three-story structure with a heavy
French influence in the architecture. The windows were large, open arches with crudely carved cherry trim set against a green, painted facade. Each window led to iron-railed balconies on the second and third floors. Women, some beautiful and many others not so beautiful, smoked and leaned against the iron railings dressed in next to nothing.
In the context of Paris or New York, the building itself and the women within would have surely seemed cheap and run down. Here, in the middle of California, a mile away from the trading-post-turned-town of Emerald, The Flower stood out like an oasis of beauty and class.
Emmett dismounted his horse. He'd paid good money to rent a proper horse more suited for his size and weight than his old mule. He tied its reins to the post set up by a trough outside the bordello. He patted the animal absentmindedly as he took in the overwhelming visuals before him. A full day of riding, well into the night, had left him tired while approaching Emerald. Now in the nocturnal glow of the Flower, Emmett felt all fatigue vanish.
Emmett was no virgin. He was a strong, good looking young man, and as such had worked his way beneath the dress of a few girls back home. But they had been girls. What Emmett saw before him was the exposed, curvy flesh of full-grown women. They were like angels with broken wings, he thought. Their bodies soft, and white, and so beautifully proportioned. Their lacquered nails and red lips made them seem more than human. But their eyes, Emmett could see even from ten yards away, were empty and dark.
Like broken angels, he thought again. Perfect, seductive, divinely crafted bodies, devoid of spirit and cut off from the eternal. There was one in this building who, word had it, knew well the voice of the gods. Emmett came to The Emerald Flower to find her and her alone. Despite that intent, his young loins were now being called by these dead-eyed sirens. His mind, so set on the goal of opening the way to those places beyond, was being hijacked by the carnal instincts of his animal body.
Of course there would be a test, he thought. What man of great power, what sorcerer or spiritualist, has attained his potential without pushing back his baser self? He had already killed two men, stood at Hell's throne, and looked the beast called Nibelung in the eye. Surely he could resist the charms of a few whores.
Emmett approached the short staircase that led to the porch of the Flower. To the left of the door a heavy woman with heavy bosoms sat on a large, ugly man's lap as the two shared a bottle of wine. The ugly bastard's eyes were glued to her tits, but Emmett could not help but notice that her eyes, accompanied by a predatory smile, followed Emmett to the brothel's door. Equally uncomfortable and excited by this, Emmett awkwardly tipped his hat at the woman before entering the whorehouse.
The inside of The Emerald Flower was as impressive in its grandeur to Emmett as its exterior had been. The brothel was crowded on this night. Beauty was in abundance, both in flesh and atmosphere. The light was dim but comfortable. Oil lamps cast a soothing yellow glow across the large open foyer. Women with long flowing curls of hair and ample cleavage, pressed high up by corsets, laughed while sitting upon couches upholstered with soft, richly colored fabric. Wooden trim, carved with flowers and fleur de lis patterns, adorned every door and window. Carpeted staircases with iron rails ascended to upper floors where sounds of passion echoed forth.
Emmett stood in the doorway, dumbstruck and overwhelmed. The chemicals in his teenage body overtook his mind, filling him with the instinct to bed each and every woman in the room.
A hand reached out and gently squeezed Emmett's arm. He turned with a start, not because the sensation was unpleasant, but because he had been so absorbed by the carnal sights before him and subconsciously taken by the smell of sex that he had not noticed the woman who'd come to stand next to him.
"Pardon, sir. I didn't mean to startle you." The woman's voice was sultry and gravelly.
Emmett tipped his hat to the petite brunette woman before him, still uncomfortable. She was naked, save for a pair of stockings, and her simple proximity brought blood rushing to his manhood. He was a murderer twice over, and had seen dark things that no man was meant to, but he was still a sixteen-year-old boy surrounded by women of the night. As such, his nervousness was in equal measure to his excitement.
"Howdy, ma’am," Emmett stammered.
The whore smiled and squeezed his bicep a bit more firmly. "Ma’am, huh? Well ain't you just polite."
Unsure how to respond, Emmett simply moved forward with what he had been meaning to say.
"I'm looking for a woman."
The small brunette giggled and cast him a seductive glance "Well, I reckon you came to the right place." She then pushed her body close against his and whispered into his ear. "And look how quickly luck has shined upon you."
Instinct kicked in. Emmett gripped the woman by her slender, naked waist as she pressed against him. The smell of her hair intoxicated him and the gentle touch of her breathy words on his ear sent euphoria through his body. A voice called out in his mind, that deep, guttural, mental growl that continued to haunt him. It was a more dull roar this time, muted by the prospect of carnal union, but it was persistent. The voice reminded him that he come to Emerald to surpass the simplicity of the flesh and to tap into the infinite.
With great force of will, Emmett gently pushed the brunette whore away.
"I'm looking for a specific woman. A lady by the name of Fiona."
The undaunted worker before him smiled and ran a red lacquered nail down Emmett's bare forearm.
"Oh you don't need Fiona. I can make you feel the same things for half the coin."
"I'm, uhh, I mean I came here for her other skills."
"You're too young and handsome to need Fiona's mumbo jumbo. Fortune telling's for fools and needy old men. What you need is some real magic."
"I'm sure you're quite skilled at your trade, Ma’am, and you are mighty fetching, but I came a long way to meet Miss Fiona."
"Fine, go waste your money. Third floor, second door on the left."
Emmett nodded his thanks to the brunette woman with the slim body and soft flesh. As he turned away and headed toward the iron railed staircase, the animal in him fought against his ethereal aspirations, urging him to take the woman at hand and forget his fool's quest. Emmett was deeply touched by the cold breath of those that lay outside, though, and even the promise of the most intense magic of the natural world—the magic of flesh within flesh and physical union—would not thaw the growing winter within his soul.
***
Emmett knocked at the door to Miss Fiona’s room. The sound of his soft rapping was lost behind the beating of his own heart, so busy pumping testosterone and adrenaline through his body, and blood to his nether regions.
After a full minute, no response had come. Emmett knocked again, louder this time.
A few seconds later the door opened, revealing a sliver of the room inside. In the space between the door and the frame a chain was drawn tight, connecting one to the other. Beyond that chain was a woman, older than Emmett had expected, perhaps his mother's age. She was nonetheless beautiful. Her hair was blond to the point of whiteness, and her skin was as fair as the freshly fallen snow that Emmett had only known in his nightmares. Her features were symmetrical and pleasing, elevated by a wide, crimson smile that revealed a full set of straight, ivory teeth. The generous curves of her nude form were as pleasing to Emmett's eyes as her upturned nose and high cheekbones.
"I'm quite sorry young man, but I've already found a companion for the night," she purred like a mountain cat.
She licked her teeth, bit her lip and smiled as she closed the door. Emmett’s reflexes were quick though, and he was able to slip his boot between the door and the jamb.
This evoked a sudden look of anger from the woman named Miss Fiona.
"You're frightfully close to being removed from this here house!"
The voice that was not his own bellowed within his mind, "Show her Nibelung's gold."
And so Emmett obeyed the voice and produced a shining disk of gold, inscribe
d with ancient runes that he could not read. He held it up, directly in Miss Fiona's line of sight.
"That change your mind?" Emmett asked.
Fiona's expression was incredulous and angry. "You think you're the only man in here with money to spend?"
"I'd ask you to take a closer look, Ma’am," Emmett's tone was calm and respectful, but also firm.
Fiona gave the young man a questioning glance, than placed her attention on the Nibelung coin. At first she seemed not to recognize it, but seconds later something clicked. Her expression showed dawning recognition as she studied the arcane symbols emblazoned in the gold.
"Come on. I'm paying by the hour here," a gruff voice yelled from somewhere within the room. Fiona ignored the complaint and reached to touch the coin. Emmett nodded his consent and allowed her to take it from his hand. She then studied it, a childlike amazement in her eyes.
"Come on, whore! My cock ain't gonna suck itself!" complained the gruff voice again, this time with more anger.
Without a word, Fiona slammed the door shut. Before Emmett could attain a proper level of anger, he heard the jingle of the chain lock. A moment later the door opened wide, revealing the fully naked form of Miss Fiona, as well as the naked teamster in her lavish den.
Emmett entered with a sense of caution. Fiona turned from him, still studying the coin and walked deeper into her room.
"Get out," she said to the naked, gruff man who lay in her bed complaining. Her tone was absolute.
The man, fueled by anger and frustration sat up in the bed. "What? I paid you good money for that cooze and I intend to have my way."
"Remove him, please," the witch craned her neck and spoke the words back over her shoulder, in Emmett's direction.
Emmett did not respond verbally, but he did approach the bed, noting that he was stronger, younger, and larger than the angry man before him.
"Last chance to walk out on your own," Emmett spoke the words matter-of-factly, with an eerie detachment.
The older man, naked and intimidated by the large young man before him grabbed his clothes and got out of the bed. He grumbled as he did so, but made sure to give Emmett a wide berth. Once he was on his feet, the man made his way straight for the door, clothes in his arms. He dared not take the time to get dressed while still in the giant teenager's presence. Once the man was on the other side of the threshold, Fiona made a subtle gesture with the fingers of her left hand. The door slammed shut, seemingly of its own accord.
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