"I understand," said J.D. "Let's saddle up."
Chapter 6
The watcher leaves his post at the grave.
In the daylight, he can keep watch over it across the distance of open ground. He can quickly return at the first sign of...them.
He would prefer not to leave but he has no choice. Day and night he keeps his vigil. He is armed with a knife and a Winchester.
The rectangular cairn consists of two medium-sized boulders he has aligned, each topped with a few stones, to the side of the road. A well-traveled road that runs through Yonder before rising into the foothills where it ends at the mine.
He has come to recognize everyone who daily uses this road. They ignore him. Nothing but another fixture of their world. They have long ago stopped giving a damn about his people, if in fact they ever did. They would just as soon see him dead. He and they both understand this. But treaties have been signed that allow his knife and rifle for hunting purposes. He is a Good Indian.
He gains the ridge that overlooks the mine site
Anyone who gets in his way had best be prepared to die.
Knee-high wild grass grows along the rim of the ridge. The watcher lowers himself to the ground. He uses his elbows and knees to gain traction, belly-crawling. The sun warms his back. He crouches at the position from which he can see the grave behind him while he studies the mine sprawled out before him.
A few minutes earlier, a rider he did not recognize had passed on the road. The stranger had the look of another world about him. An unnatural whiteness, his skin the pure whiteness of fresh snow. He wore black from hat to boots. A six-gun rode low on each hip. A cold aura surrounded him. The rider barely acknowledged the watcher except for a disinterested sideways glance revealing eyes that were pink like drops of blood in the snow.
The watcher sat cross-legged and watched until the albino rounded a bend in the road and was no longer in sight. That's when he knew that he must leave the grave and climb the slope to this observation post. The arrival of the albino in black was significant. He must see for himself.
He is determined to do battle with the evil spirits that dwell in and rule from The Starlight Mine. He would destroy the mine and those things that worked for the Count. But how? The mine operated behind a fenced enclosure patrolled by two-man guard teams. Men armed with rifles. Was the albino an important visitor to the mine? What was the significance of his arrival?
The walking dead must be stopped!
A scattering of clouds pass over the sun and an early dusk seems to descend over the mine. Yet the mine site remains clearly revealed to him without his presence being detected by anyone down there.
Low buildings, unpainted bunkhouses and tool sheds, beyond the twelve-foot high woven-wire fence against a backdrop of mountains. To his left is a huge loading bin on high stilts, beneath which the ore wagons line up to receive their load. The bin is fed from a chute that runs down from the main entrance of the mine.
There is strangeness about the figures working down there as they move back and forth, feeding the chute, working the bin feed and the wagons as the ore rumbles into the wagons. They move in a shuffling, jerky manner without speaking. Expressions blank, empty-eyed. An exact cadence to each and every movement. They wear matching threadbare clothing. The males in gray work shirts and trousers. The women in shifts. They go about their tasks like sleepwalkers.
And they are in various states of physical decomposition...
Normal-appearing men, armed with rifles, watch over them.
There is no sign of the albino gunman.
The watcher lifts his eyes to the private road that forks off from the main road to cut along the opposite ridge where a towering structure rises high above the mine site. He sees the albino, riding toward the castle.
The gunman has come for a private visit with the Count!
Chapter 7
"I am Count Vlad. I bid you welcome."
"Pleased to meet ya."
Standing at the foot of the wide, grand staircase, he watched his host, and likely future employer, descend to meet him.
The Count was a tall man. Duded up as if he were on his way to the opera. The albino gunman in black got the impression that this was the Count's usual attire. The Count took his time making his entrance. Head held high. Chin up. An Old World aristocrat.
The albino gunman did not care for uppity rich folks. But he was the man for this job. He had traveled a considerable distance to get here after giving the Count's telegram due consideration.
The Count said, "You are Lucien Grubmire?"
"I am."
"And you wish to work for me."
"That's why I'm here. Nice place ya got, Count."
In truth the place gave Grubmire the willies.
A great hall. Stone floor. High vaulted ceiling that reached to infinity. Shadowy niches in the walls. Gloomy, with echoes and a sense of remoteness.
The Count finally reached the bottom step. His eyes shone with a commanding glint.
"If you take this position, in fact even if you do not, you will keep in mind the fact that I am not your equal." The Count spoke with a mild accent that said English was not his mother tongue. "I am your superior in breeding and education. The Vlad family line dates back to the Middle Ages. You shall address me with the respect that is my due, not with a commoner's air of familiarity. Do you have any questions about what I have just said?"
Grubmire told himself that this pale guy in the fancy duds was dripping money. Hell, he owned a silver mine! Grubmire was tired of being on the run. He could use a comfortable place to light. The Starlight Mine looked as good a place as any. He would not ruffle the Count's feathers if he wanted to play Mr. Bigshot.
"No questions. Your telegram offered me the job of security foreman."
The Count appraised him openly. A long up-and-down stare.
"You are a dangerous man, Mr. Grubmire. I have connections. I checked up on you before I sent that telegram."
"Yeah, I was wondering about that. It ain't easy staying on the lam when you're a six-foot-plus albino who favors black and don't mind killing people what get on my nerves. But I had me a nice berth. Bouncer in a whorehouse up in Leadville. Twenty bucks a month, a roof over my head and found. And found meant women and plenty of 'em. When your telegram caught me there, I wondered how you tracked me down."
A fleeting smile from the count.
"This is America. I have connections. Colonel Hitchcock at the fort makes it a point to get reports from the houses of ill repute because often deserters from his detachment are apprehended in such places. You have a reputation, Mr. Grubmire."
"Yeah, reckon I do."
"The man in Fort Sumner. Is it true that you carved out his heart there on the bar room floor and actually ate the heart?"
"Folks exaggerate. I took a bite or two. Had to let the folks know to leave me be. People see me and sometimes they stare. I don't like that. Makes me kind of crazy. Fort Sumner is a tough place. That fucker, excuse my French, was staring at me and then he started laughing at me like I was a freak. Well. I shut him up and yeah, I guess they were right when they said I ate his heart. After that, folks left me alone."
The Count considered this.
"You have a rough exterior, Mr. Grubmire, but I admire you style. Your directness is intrinsically American."
"Yeah, I guess. I mean, thank you, sir."
"Tell me, have you experience in commanding others?"
"Folks generally do what I tell 'em to. Men and women."
"Very good. Let me show you around."
"Uh, does that mean I've got the job?"
"I will show you the mine."
There followed a brief tour.
Grubmire had worked mining towns often enough to know the basic layout. The Starlight Mine was an efficient operation.
The only unusual thing he noted was the strange, unworldly movement of the blank-faced, shuffling workers. He caught a whiff of them when they passed. A foul
stench, something like rotting meat. It was downright spooky, and what bothered Grubmire the most was the undercurrent of latent violence that seemed to throb just beneath the surface of their awkward but orderly productivity.
"Uh, Count, sir. Ya mind if I ask a question?"
"You are concerned about the workers?"
"Well, they do seem a mite peaked and are acting kind of strange..."
"Nothing about their physical condition need concern you," said the Count. "Your job is to make sure that they cause no trouble." He eyed the workers. "They obey me, and they don't mind the long hours."
"Yes, sir."
The Count nodded to a pair of guards who stood near where workers shuffled in their herky-jerky fashion. The guards kept a close eye on the workers while they conversed idly with each other. They noticed the Count and they stared at Grubmire's height and black clothes and white, white skin.
Grubmire said, "Tell them not to look. I don't like it when people stare at me. Makes me kind of crazy."
The Count said, "You heard him, gentlemen. May I introduce your new foreman. Gentlemen, I present Lucien Grubmire."
Grubmire said, "We keep these workers from acting up, right?"
"That is correct."
Grubmire spoke to the men.
"You look at me when you're speaking to me, otherwise you pay attention to what you're doing. I know I'm a sight. I was born this way, Christ knows why. But I learned a long time ago how to fit in. I just tell folks not to stare at me."
The men took care to avert their eyes from him. They returned to keeping their eyes and their rifles trained on the workers.
The Count said, "Very good, Grubmire. The men respond. Yes, I do believe you have the job. The pay is one hundred dollars a month."
"That's mighty generous. I'll take it."
"You will also have your own accommodations. You will not billet with the men."
"Better and better," said Grubmire. "Uh, just one question I'm sort of curious about."
"You may ask it."
"The fella I'm replacing. What happened to him?"
"That is a reasonable query. I advised you not to concern yourself with the condition of the workers. That does not mean you should not be wary of them."
"They sure are an unusual looking bunch. Must be prisoners on loan from the penitentiary at Yuma, eh? They sure got a scruffy look about ‘em."
"You are never to engage them in conversation. You are never to have contact with them whatsoever. You are to oversee the watching over of them, nothing more."
"They cause trouble, huh?"
"Your unfortunate predecessor found that out despite my warnings to the contrary, as I am warning you now. With the workers, do you detect a latent danger beneath their mindless movement?"
"Uh, reckon I don't know what latent means, Count."
Count Vlad waved a dismissive hand.
"Forget it. The important thing is that you heed my instructions. These workers you see everywhere about us...there is a reason why they're under the control of men with weapons. There is within them a blood lust. A blind impulse to destroy. To devour. To breed."
"They look high on dope. Opium or something along them lines."
"No, Mr. Grubmire. They are under a far more potent influence. But about my previous foreman. It happened in a flash, or so I am told. I was not there to witness it. But he turned his back for a moment after striking one of them for getting out of line at feeding time. They were on him in no time at all with a blind fury."
"They?
"The workers, my dear Grubmire. The workers. I was summoned, of course. I saw the aftermath. It was...ghastly. We will speak no more of it. Consider yourself hired. You will begin work now."
"Yes, sir."
The Count executed an almost military about face. He strode away in the direction of his castle.
Grubmire started to consider what he should do next. In eyeing those around him, he caught one of the sentries staring at him, muttering some snide remark to one of his partners.
The sentry realized that the new foreman was observing him. He quickly returned his attention to watching over the line of workers that he and other men watched over.
Grubmire stalked over to the sentries. Two of them fell away, anticipating what was about to happen. The man who had been staring was of medium build. Grubmire towered over him. Without effort, he picked the startled sentry up off his feet, using both hands to hoist him high in the air.
The workers across the mine site had ceased in their labors. An insane babbling murmur began rippling through their ranks. Their wide eyes lifted to the man held aloft.
The rifle dropped from the sentry's grip. He tried vainly to struggle to free himself. "Let me down, goddammit. Let me down!" Then he realized Grubmire was walking with him toward the line of workers. The man started screaming. "What are you doing? No! Don't let them have me! Please. Nooooo!!!!"
The workers—the things—started licking their decayed chops. Their fingers made clawing motions. Their murmuring intensified by the second.
Grubmire shouted loud enough for his co-workers to hear: "Nobody stares at me. How many times do I have to say it? Let this poor fuck be an example to all of you shit heads."
He arched his back, summoning the final burst of strength necessary to heave the pleading man into the mass of restless, moaning workers.
The Count's voice snapped the air like a cracking whip.
"Stop. Stop, I say."
The command, spoken in a conversational voice yet coming from the Count, managed to bring Grubmire to his senses. He flung the man aside contemptuously, but not in the direction of the workers who were gathering into a mob.
The Count snapped at his men, "Fire above their heads."
The riflemen did so. The man who had been released scampered away to safety. Rifle fire over their heads induced the workers to disperse, throwing back malevolent glances as they returned to their tasks.
The Count said, "Mr. Grubmire, you disappoint me. You exhibit a complete lack of discipline and an inability to follow orders. You were instructed to stay away from the workers and within minutes you are stirring them up. I regret to say that is unacceptable."
Grubmire cursed inwardly. It was true. He was the toughest man here. But when people stared at him...
He swallowed hard.
He said, "It won't happen again."
"I know," said the Count.
A small revolver seemed to appear magically in his hand. Grubmire opened his mouth to say something. The Count sent a bullet through that open mouth.
Count Vlad looked at the two nearest riflemen.
"Take him away. Put him with the others. The fool."
Chapter 8
J.D. said, "Looks like trouble up ahead."
Late afternoon. They were about five miles out of Yonder.
The remote desert around them was arid, flat with a carpet of low scrub brush that stretched as far as the mountain ranges in the hazy distance. The Dragoon Mountains to the northeast had a rosette hue as the sun began its gradual descent into a cloudless western sky.
A grouping of horsemen, wearing cavalry blue, encircled an overturned stagecoach in the middle of the trail a quarter of a mile ahead.
Kate said, "They'll only slow us down. Let's cut off and ride around them."
"Too late. They've seen us."
A pair of troopers raced up the trail to meet them.
"This here is a restricted area," said one of them. A corporal.
The second soldier, a private, added, "You're coming with us."
Kate raised her chin.
"And what if we don't? We haven't committed any crime. Why should we go with you?"
J.D. knew that look. Kate did not like being told what to do. By anyone, anytime.
He said, "Uh, sweetheart, this is where we look at the bright side. If we were in deep shit, these gentlemen would have already disarmed us."
"Or tried to."
"Right. But
as it is, they're letting us keep our weapons." He looked at the soldiers. "Uh, isn't that right, gentlemen?"
"This is a restricted area," said the corporal.
"You're coming with us," said the private.
J.D. said, "There, you see?"
Kate had nothing to say. Her pugnacious chin remained lifted during the ride to where the squad of cavalry men had established a close perimeter around the overturned stage. A row of five bodies lay covered with military blankets. The blankets were tattooed with blood stains. The air buzzed with flies. Buzzards circled overhead.
The officer in charge, Lieutenant Jase Pearson, was square-jawed and trim, nearing thirty, mounted atop a handsome white horse. He should have been wearing a stamp across his forehead that said West Point.
"Names, please."
"J.D. Blaze. This is my wife, Kate. What the hell's going on here, Lieutenant?"
"I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind, sir. Where are you folks heading? What's the nature of your business?"
Kate's face lit up with the wide, pretty smile that always got J.D. to do whatever she wanted him to do, only this time the smile was directed at Pearson.
"Why, Lieutenant, do you mean to tell me that you don't recognize our names? Surely you've heard of J.D. and Kate Blaze, the married gunfighters."
The young officer actually blushed.
"Tell you the truth, ma'am, I'm new. Only been stationed out here a couple of weeks. You say you're gunfighters?"
"And damn good ones. Welcome to Arizona Territory. Honestly, Lieutenant, the way you wear that uniform and sit in that saddle, you make a strikingly handsome figure. Wouldn't you say, J.D.?"
J.D. studied clouds on the horizon.
"Yeah, he looks great."
Kate gushed on. "Handsome is the word. There must be a terribly lonely Mrs. Pearson or a dear girlfriend pining away for you back home."
The lieutenant's blush deepened.
"Afraid not, ma'am. I'm one of those fellows who have never quite been lucky in love. At least, not yet. There's no one waiting for me back home except for my dear mother in Virginia."
"You dear mother in Virginia." Kate's voice took on the subtlest hint of a Southern accent. "Why I declare. Handsome and a bachelor. Truly, Lieutenant, you make my heart flutter and I'm just an old married woman."
Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels Page 52