The Devoured

by Curtis M. Lawson

  The hammer clicked into place.

  "Ain't no room in this world for Confederate ghosts."

  The old man, who was not quite as old as he seemed, crossed his legs around the younger man's right calf. With surprising quickness he hooked his boot behind the smith's knee and jerked it forward. The shop keep stumbled to his knees. At the same time the old man forced his screaming nerves into submission and rolled toward the right, hoping to un-align himself with the trajectory of any oncoming bullet.

  The .44 thundered and a slug found purchase within the rough wooden floor, about two inches from the old man's head. He didn't let that distract him any more than he had let the incredible pain in his shoulder distract him. With all the strength left in his shot-up, beaten, poisoned, and war-ravaged body, he kicked out and introduced the gunsmith's jaw to the hard leather of his boot. A sound like shattering porcelain escaped the smith's mouth. This sound was followed by a second, awful noise that was somewhere between a scream and a moan. The scar-faced man fell onto his side as blood poured from his mouth, carrying bits of shattered teeth like so much flotsam in its crimson current.

  The pistol had fallen from the smith's hand and lay between them. With a slow determination, the old man sat up and reached for the gun. Since his opponent was fighting for consciousness the old man saw no reason to race for the firearm. He did, however, keep his eyes trained on the smith as he wrapped his leathery hands around the pistol's grip.

  The blast of the .44 had left a ringing in the old man's ears and he did not hear the door open behind him. He was still sitting on his ass, unaware of anyone but the bleeding man in front of him, when he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against the back of his skull.

  "Drop the iron, old man, and stand up nice and slow."

  The old man took a moment to measure his options. With a slug in his arm, working on no sleep, and sitting flat on his ass, he could see no scenario in which fighting back could result in anything but the spraying of his gray.

  The old man placed his gun on the ground. He then rose to his feet, which took a bit of effort, and placed his hands on the back of his head.

  A well-built man with sandy blond hair and a mustache that was far too big for his face walked a wide arc around the old man, until they were face to face. The man, whose gun was trained on the old man, wore a copper sheriff's badge and a brown, wide-brimmed hat. There was something in the lawman's eyes, not the madness of a witch, but a touch of natural, human sadism. This was pretty common, the old man thought, in lawmen. There was also a keen intelligence behind those brown eyes. As a demonstration of that intelligence, the lawman didn't get too close to the old man. He kept the distance advantage that his iron gave him.

  "Now drop that big ole pig sticker and any other weapons you might got."

  "The man tried to cheat me. I was just taking what was mine."

  Talking his way out of this was probably a long shot, but the old man held no other cards at the moment. If he put up a fight then he’d surely die before his appointment in Winter's End.

  "Well now that you explained it," the lawman replied, still keeping the gun level on the old man's center mass, "I obviously believe the sword-wielding crazy who just kicked my good friend's teeth in."

  The old man unhitched the sword from his back and let it drop without another word. He didn't let his eyes leave those of the lawman for even as a second as he did so. He needed to remember this face. This man was going to cost him a day at least, and if the coming detour were too cost him his son's life ... well, he wanted to be sure he would remember who'd caused the loss of another war.

  The thought of the time that was escaping filled the old man with a deeper hate than he had experienced in all his hard life. In his mind’s eye he could see Kronos laughing at him, as bits of the titan’s children dripped down its chin. His heart and mind became a white hot furnace of rage, and in a man of smaller will, that anger would have grown into a wild fire. He kept it in check, but barely.

  "We ain't had a good thief-hanging in a spell," the lawman said with a grin.

  The old man said nothing, but hidden beneath his shirt the leech on his arm was growing larger by the second, sucking at the infected blood and the hatred within it.

  ***

  A full day had gone by since the old man had been arrested for attempted murder and armed robbery. He'd been told that there'd be a hanging within a few days, and that he of course would be the belle of the ball. He supposed that trials for outsiders were a rarity in railroad cities like Omaha.

  The bullet hole in his shoulder, right around the same place where the Indian had nailed him with the poison dart, ached something fierce. At least the slug had gone clear through, and the wound didn't feel infected. The sheriff had seen to it that a doctor came in and patched up the shoulder wound. Couldn't have him die before the gallows show.

  The doctor had made note of the leech, and the black veins upon which it sucked, but made no moves to cut it away. The parasitic creature looked sick to him, and he wanted nothing to do with whatever infection it was feasting on. A wise idea, the old man had thought.

  That was the day before, just a bit after he'd been tossed into his tiny cell in the Omaha jailhouse. The jailhouse was small for such bustling city, and the old man imagined they'd need to build something bigger within a few years, especially with the railroad running through. It only stood one story high and could contain maybe ten prisoners at most. The small size was an advantage to the old man.

  The walls of his cell were made from field stone and had iron bars set within them. The bars were so tightly spaced that a grown man could not even reach a hand through, never mind squeeze out. The same went for the caged front of the cell.

  The chances of escape were slim. He had no weapons but his fists and a bloated leech. Time would not allow him to try and dig his way out, and the limitations of his body stopped him from tearing the iron bars free.

  In this case, his size and presence would be a disadvantage. Lawmen didn't take chances with big bastards like him. They kept their distance and cocked their guns. As right they should.

  So was this how it would all end? Kicking and pissing over the gallows while a bunch of soft-bellied yanks hooted and hollered? Killed by man's law just a stone's throw away from his showdown with a god? Fading into the blackness of death, just miles and hours away from saving his son?

  It was in the midst of these thoughts that the old man heard the scraping of steel against stone coming from behind him. He shot his head around, looking toward the barred window, and couldn't believe what he was seeing. A small pistol was creeping between the bars and scraping against the stone.

  At first he thought it was moving of its own volition. A second later, it occurred to him that maybe it was some vigilante who wouldn't wait for the execution and planned to kill him in his cell.

  Then he recognized the gun. It was his own backup piece that he had slipped into Hank’s pack.

  The old man approached the window, and sure enough he saw the boy whom he'd traveled with for so many months now. Hank’s small hands were pushing the pistol through the bars.

  The old man smiled, and leaned against the window, pretending to stare out at freedom. He mouthed the words "thank you" to Hank. Hank didn't reply, but he pushed the gun all the way through the bars and into the old man's hand.

  Once the old man had the pistol secure in his hand, Hank vanished from view. Whether he was afraid of being caught aiding an escape, or he was simply too hurt at being ditched, the old man couldn't be sure. Either way, he was thankful.

  The pistol felt good in his hand. It wasn't Donner, but it was iron. Iron would give him the chance to see this whole mess finished. If he played his cards right, he could make it to Winter's End within a few days yet.

  The sheriff had taken the old man's coat. Neither his shirt nor his pants would do much for hiding the gun, so he continued to lean against the window. He kept his hands up by the bars, but out of sig
ht from the law. For some time he waited like this, trying to goad out a comment about the loss of his freedom. Eventually he heard footfalls, two pairs, and the jingle of keys.

  "Beautiful day out there, huh? You'll be heading for a real nice stroll in a bit. Don't you worry, none," the lawman commented.

  The old man responded with a question of his own. "Your pal there that I dealt out some free dentistry too, he like the way that dead rat above your lip tickled his balls?"

  "Oh ho ho," the sheriff laughed in a mix of anger and amusement. "No reason not to run your mouth? Think shit can't get any worse?"

  The old man continued to look out the window, but answered the man behind him. "Suppose it could. You could try to shove your little prick up my ass. Bet you'd love that, ya dandy."

  "Keep your muzzle on him, Bill. I'm gonna teach this old bastard some respect."

  The sound of iron against leather verified that the second figure had now pulled his gun, getting ready to cover his partner.

  The lawman kept talking, affirming his masculinity and vowing to prove it with his fists. The words were just white noise to the old man. He just kept his gaze out the window, and counted the footfalls behind him.

  Once the sheriff had taken enough steps and his voice seemed close enough, the old man whipped around, catching his shorter adversary off guard. A downward elbow to the collarbone dropped the lawman. Almost simultaneously, he fired off two rounds at the deputy with his other hand. Before the subordinate lawman had time to register what had happened the slugs were already blowing out his back.

  The sheriff fell to the ground, cursing in pain. A gurgling issued forth from the deputy as he too hit the floor.

  In days past, the old man would have pistol-whipped the wounded sheriff and knocked him out. He would have shackled him and gagged him and allowed the man to live another day. Today was different.

  Watching the life flee from the deputy, and seeing the pain in the sheriff's face, the old man felt a fearsome hatred overwhelm his mind. It was a loathing so deep and absolute that it rivaled his hate for Thurs.

  This feeling was different though. His hatred for Thurs was a steam engine driving him forward. The emotion that consumed the old man now was a wild fire that threatened to overtake his entirety.

  Tears of pain reluctantly escaped the sheriff’s eyes, as he crawled backwards across the ground. His collarbone had fallen like London Bridge. The broken, pained creature infuriated the old man. Yes, he hated the lawman for the time he had cost him, but it was his weakness that now invoked the old man’s unholy rage. The way he crawled and cried like a wounded animal made the old, Confederate warrior thirst for his blood.

  On top of all that, the old man now saw that the sheriff was carrying Donner in his gun belt. Another thing he loved had been stolen from him, just like his son, his wife, and his nation.

  Without thought, at least as man conceives it, the old man cocked the hammer of his pistol and aimed the muzzle toward the pathetic, weak, thieving thing before him.

  The black veins in his arm pulsed, like the hearts of vile, independent creatures beneath his skin.

  ***

  A gunshot rang out from the jailhouse. If Hank had been a bit older he might have feared that the law had been quicker on the draw than the old man. This was not the case. The boy had superstitious confidence in the old man's ability. His own father had been a good, strong man. In the end he hadn't had what it took to save the day though.

  The old man, on the other hand, had made a life of killing monsters. He had left a trail of dead witches in his quest to put a bullet in the face of a god. Nothing of earth, nor heaven, nor hell could stop the grim, grizzled bastard.

  Confident that the old man was doing the shooting instead of being shot, Hank focused on trying to calm down the mottled horse that he had tied to a post across from the jailhouse. The gunshots had scared her, and she was panicked. Hank feared she might kick at him in her desire to break free, so he kept his distance while talking at her in a soothing voice.

  "Don't you worry about that banging, girl. That's just my friend coming."

  Another shot rang out from inside the jailhouse, and this time the horse stood up on her hind legs, tugging at the rope that tethered her.

  "Shush, girlie. No reason to get upset."

  People were starting to come out of nearby buildings, eyes toward the source of the resounding gunshots. The attentive crowd was making Hank nervous. It was his hope that he and the old man could sneak out of town without much notice.

  He understood why the old man tried to leave him behind. This was the endgame, the final showdown between the man in gray (the old man wasn't quite man in white kind of material), and the demon in black. The old man couldn't risk some kid, a Negro kid at that, getting in the way and messing things up. He had his own son to take care of. But now Hank was sure that he would take him along.

  Having masterminded a jailbreak, supplying the gun and the horse, Hank knew his worth would be proven to the old man. He'd see that Hank wasn't a kid he had to watch over, but a partner who could cover him as well.

  A few minutes passed, and the crowd outside of the jailhouse got bigger. A few men were resting hands on their guns, getting ready to mete out some vigilante justice if it turned out that the law was on the wrong end of those gunshots. Hank's heart began to race and sweat dripped from his brow. Hank was thankful that no one noticed the brown-skinned boy trying to calm the stolen horse.

  Finally the double doors to the jailhouse swung open. The old man stood in the entryway, a pistol in each hand, with his sword and pack slung across his back. His artillery coat billowed like the gray wings of some terrible angel. The image was frightening to the folks of Omaha. To Hank it was awe inspiring.

  The boy's former master had read Paradise Lost to his slaves on more than one occasion. To Hank the old man looked like a modern-day version of Milton’s rebel angel, ready to war against the tyrant of heaven. Thinking of the wooden Christ-thing that counseled his father's killer, Hank too was ready for war.

  The dramatic revelry of the old man's entrance vanished as one of the men in the crowd tried to draw iron. Without any sign of hesitation, the old man put a .44 slug through the man's face. Less than a second later the old man's smaller pistol found its mark on some poor bastard whose hand was hovering to close to his piece.

  There was a distant look in the old man's eyes as he committed these men to dust. He wasn't looking at them, but through them. It was eerie, even to Hank. The boy chalked it up to him being so close to his goal.

  The crowd scattered in the wake of the two deaths. The old man stood in the middle of the dirt road in downtown Omaha, looking like someone who'd woken up in the wrong place and wrong time. His eyes scanned the now empty street, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Finally his gaze came to rest on Hank.

  "Come on!" Hank screamed. "We need to hit the road!"

  The old man tilted his head to one side, giving Hank a peculiar stare. After a few seconds recollection seemed to kick in, and the old man lowered and shook his head.

  "You all right?" Hank asked, more annoyed than genuinely concerned. Of course the old man was all right.

  "Yeah. Just a little out of sorts."

  The old man didn't run, but he walked swiftly over toward Hank, who was untying the gray mare.

  "You steal this horse?"

  "I sure as hell didn't buy it."

  The old man stroked the animal's neck and whispered an assurance that everything was just fine. To Hank's surprise, the horse began to calm down.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "Learned a thing or two about calming horses in the war."

  The old man placed his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. He looked down at Hank, who was beaming with pride at having facilitated the escape.

  "Anybody see you steal the horse?"

  "I think they might have."

  "You know they hang horse thieves, right?"


  "Then I reckon its better I come with you. At least that way I can die a hero, right?"

  The old man rubbed his eyes, seeming to deliberate Hank's sentiment in his mind. After a few seconds he reached down for the boy’s hand and lifted him onto the horse's back.

  "When you see what's in Winter's End, you might just pray for a chance to dance on the gallows."

  Without another word, the old man dug his heels into the horse's side. They sped out of Omaha before any more trouble could show its face.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emmett had not noticed the door open, or the click of Patrick Silver's boot heels on the floor of his home. It was only when the sheriff had called out his mother's name that he became aware that the bastard lawman had come inside.

  "Kylie?" he'd called out.

  Emmett wailed his sorrow for a moment longer. His back was to the door and he was kneeling on the floor beneath where his mother hung from a noose that she'd tied to one of the rafters. Her feet still kicked and she choked against the crushing rope around her neck, despite the fact that she'd been there for hours. It hurt him to see her in such pain, rough braids of rope cutting into the skin of her neck and crushing her trachea, but she needed to learn this lesson hard. He had literally gone through hell to save her from death. Such a gift could not so easily be relinquished, and it was disrespect of the highest regard to try and cast it aside. Death would give her a wide berth, and it would take more than a rope and the kick of a chair to convince it otherwise.

  He was angry with her. Angry that she would want to hurt him. Angry that she would belittle all of his sacrifices. Angry that she did not appreciate the man he had become.

  Most of all he was hurt. Emmett loved his mother more than anything and it broke his heart that she would try to leave him alone in this heartless world.

  His feelings toward Silver, however, were not at all mixed.

  "You did this!" Emmett's voice was not completely his own. A gravelly, creaking undertone had infected it. If he'd been more in his right mind, he might have recognized it as that other voice in his head.