Elwood looked down at the coffin exposed in its open grave. He kicked a clump of dirt on top of it and started down the hillside, not wanting to hear another word out of the fat preacher’s throat or answer thick questions from the old folks. Nobody would believe him, anyhow—as soon as that bullet had blown out Milo Atkins’ brains, Elwood had been made the last person alive who knew what truly had happened in Red Earth, and one man alone with a wild story was nothing but a lunatic to other folks, no matter how well he told that story.
Elwood walked back through town. Folks stared as he passed and he was glad he wore his gun hidden, though there wasn’t anything he could do about the swath of bandage on his face. And the cut was itching, too, itching so bad he had to restrain himself ten times a minute from ripping the bandage off and clawing at the wound with his fingernails. He’d gone to a sawbones on Cedar Street the day before, an old man who’d whistled when he’d seen the cut and started telling stories about the Civil War. He’d smiled while he’d sewed Elwood’s cheek together, tugging at the thread like he was mending a shirt.
The hotel appeared suddenly as if Elwood had dreamt himself there. He went past the entrance and went into the saloon next door, which was half-empty because it was ten in the morning on a Wednesday. He walked along the bar, which ran from wall to wall, and bellied up to the far end. He asked for a bottle of whiskey and a glass and paid in full.
“Looks like you’re bent on doing some damage.”
Elwood glanced sideways at the man who’d come in behind him. He pulled at the whiskey bottle’s cork till it popped out, sounding like champagne.
“Howdy, Sheriff.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead.”
Elwood poured the whiskey into his glass. Sheriff Taylor sat down on the stool beside him and set his elbows on the bar, letting out a long sigh.
“I have been to this place too many times, after too many funerals.”
“Whiskey?”
“Can’t,” Taylor said, glancing at the bartender. “I’m on duty.”
The bartender nodded and poured the sheriff a cup of coffee.
“Always helps to have coffee and food in a saloon. Helps keep folks from acting the fool.”
Elwood threw back the glass of whiskey and poured himself another.
“That what you think of me, Sheriff? That I’m acting the fool?”
Taylor blew on his coffee and pushed the steam around. He sipped gently at it, hissing softly from the corner of his mouth.
“At first I was inclined to that idea. Now, I’m starting to wonder.”
“Yeah? It only took Milo chewing on his revolver to start you round?”
Taylor licked his lips and took a longer sip.
“I was rounding before that, actually. Mr. Dennison’s people have been inquiring about a payroll stagecoach that was supposed to have returned to Rawlins on Monday. Say it’s two days late and their man’s never late.”
Elwood smirked and threw back his second glass.
“He’s late because he’s dead. They’re all dead.”
The sheriff nodded and turned toward Elwood on his stool. “I told them about you and Milo Atkins, also. What you’d said happened.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. They said Red Earth did have a lawman named Milo Atkins, but they never heard of anybody named Elwood Smith.”
Elwood refilled his glass, the itching in his wound starting to lessen.
“They’d heard of an Elwood Hayes, though. Said he was a small time crook who’d been buzzing around Colorado for the past couple of years.”
The room, not loud to begin with, had quieted. Elwood noticed the bartender had gone down to the opposite end of the bar, where he pretended to read the paper while he eavesdropped. A barking dog ran past the bar’s doorway.
“Never heard of any Hayes,” Elwood said, speaking as though he was tasting the name on his tongue. “Though I reckon any man named Elwood can’t be all bad.”
The sheriff laughed and raised his coffee cup.
“Here, here.”
Elwood lifted his whiskey glass and threw back his third, starting to feel the earth’s roll. The sheriff finished his coffee and slid off his stool, setting a couple of pennies on the counter.
“Anyhow. When I got the news from San Francisco, I sent two men out to Red Earth. They should be back in three or four days. If you and Atkins were speaking the truth about the camp, you’ll be vindicated soon enough.”
Elwood nodded, though he no longer cared one way or another about vindication. He just wanted to drink from his bottle of whiskey until it was late enough to eat dinner and go to bed.
Taylor set his hand on Elwood’s shoulder, making him wince.
“I’m sorry about your friend, Mr. Smith.”
“Thank you,” Elwood said, exhaling whiskey fumes. “Milo would appreciate that, coming from a fellow star.”
The sheriff laughed, though Elwood didn’t think what he’d said was that funny. He watched Taylor amble out of the bar and was glad to see him go. He still bore no fondness for the law.
As Elwood drank the rest of the morning away, he recalled things he did not particularly wish to recall. Mainly, he thought about those last crowded moments in the Runoff Saloon, picking them over to see if there’d been anything he could have done different to bring his gang out of it alive.
That heavy pounding on the Runoff’s front door.
The way that lit bottle had sailed past the Charred Man and burst into flame.
How the other men had opened fire, their aim wild and shots unmeasured while the Charred Man crossed the room, seeming like he was still walking but going too fast for that, too fast for any bullet to hit.
How the Charred Man circled round the bar and closed in from the side, holding a straight razor high above his head like he was proud of it, like it was a kingly sword, and Clem Stubbs screaming from his first strike, a slash right across Stubb’s eyes. The other men so worked up they shot Stubbs instead of the demon, plugging the big man four or five times before they realized what they’d done and adjusted their aim.
And from there, nothing but men dying as the Charred Man set upon them like a whirlwind made flesh. The demon fought low to the ground, dropping the four unarmed prospectors by severing their hamstrings and slicing their throats while they writhed on the ground. The bartender, Caleb, ran at the demon with his empty scattergun raised like a club, getting in one good hard swing before the Charred Man stepped aside and cut at his ankles, sending him sprawling into a pile.
Hayes, his own revolver still in its holster, had just enough time to light a second bottle of moonshine while Roach Clayton and Owen stumbled backward, fumbling bullets while they tried to reload. The Charred Man running at them, then breaking to his right and coming for Hayes instead. He’d hurled the second bottle, aiming for the demon’s chest, but missed with that one, too, and felt a streak of fire raking across his face in consequence, followed by a rising as the Charred Man lifted Hayes into the air with one arm, squeezing his windpipe shut while he looked him over.
Hayes tried to cuss him out, but his words were nothing but choked sputtering, gargles of sound, and then he was already flying across the room. His last sight was the saloon going up in flames and the widowed ladies raising their heads above the bar like three pale, blinking ghosts, uncertain of the ugly sight before them.
And where was Ingrid? Why hadn’t she come to the stairs?
“You all right, sir?”
Elwood raised his head. The bartender had come over and was drying a beer mug with his apron.
“Want some water to go with that whiskey?”
Elwood frowned at the bottle at his elbow—he’d gone through a third of it already.
“What
time is it?”
“Just past noon.”
“Noon,” Elwood said, rubbing his face and sliding off his stool. “Well, might as well get some grub.” He headed for the saloon door and the bartender called after him, reminding him to take his bottle along. Elwood waved off the suggestion and pushed his way through the saloon’s swinging doors, the sun blinding him with its noonday glare as he stepped into the street. “Goddamn,” he shouted, addressing no one in particular.
He started walking along the storefronts, peering into each window, but after a few minutes Elwood made his way to a short order down the street, a place he hadn’t been to yet, where he bought himself a plate piled high with stringy, peppered chicken and watery potatoes. He ate with relish, elbows on the table, and drank cup after cup of coffee as he bolted the mess down. The food revived him. When he finished eating, he pushed his chair back and let out a loud belch of appreciation.
A portly, thick-necked man sitting at the table beside his looked up and whistled. He was wearing a shabby tweed coat with the elbows patched up, like a farmer wore when he was visiting town and thinking he looked pretty fancy. He smelled like manure and wet dog.
“My Lord,” the farmer said. “Haven’t seen food put away like that since I fed the hogs this morning.”
“I was hungry,” Elwood said, patting his stomach. “I buried my friend today and that can put a man to feeding.”
“Did he feed like that, too? That so, he must have choked to death.”
The farmer chortled at his own joke, his fat cheeks bunching up beneath his eyes. Elwood sprung forward, crossing the distance between their tables and tackling the farmer off his chair. They rolled around on the floor, the farmer screaming murder, and Elwood started working him over, increasing the jolt behind his punches the more the farmer hollered.
“You fat sack of cow shit,” Elwood shouted, his mind filled with an angry buzzing. “Lay still and take your goddamn beating.”
Something cracked in the farmer’s face, probably his nose, and Elwood felt himself pulled off by several strong hands. He thrashed wildly as they manhandled him, not finished, but he stilled as he felt a knife’s blade at his throat. The farmer sat up, clutching his face.
“Wash only joshing,” the farmer said, his words muddled through his hands. “Wash the hell wrong with you?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start with that,” Elwood said, raising his hands to show he was through and extracting himself from his handlers. “You just remember to watch your words, you old hog.”
Elwood pushed his way through the crowd of gawkers and left the restaurant. He went back to his hotel and climbed the stairs, his legs quivering and knuckles swelling. He went into his room, gathered his few belongings, and threw his saddle bags over his shoulder. Always, it turned like this. Always, always, always.
Elwood went back downstairs and exited the hotel. Clouds had blown in, making the sunlight tolerable. He went down to the livery stables and sold the four horses they’d brought from Red Earth to the livery’s owner, who gave him a fair enough price. From there he walked down to the train depot on Front Street and spoke with the stationmaster, who told him the afternoon train was due in twenty minutes, headed for Cheyenne. He bought a one-way ticket and sat down on one of the platform’s benches. He rubbed his swollen knuckles, enjoying the pain. He pictured the farmer’s surprised face and smiled, feeling the warmth of his morning’s whiskey returning.
As the train’s arrival time neared, more folks stepped onto the platform. They waited with their heads turned to the west, like turkeys hoping to be fed. Elwood wondered—
What was that smell?
Elwood sat forward on the bench, sniffing the air. He smelled something peculiar. Something like…
Char.
The last drop of alcohol fled from Elwood Hayes’ blood, flushed by a sudden and joint-locking certainty that every person on the platform was about to die. He sat back against the bench slowly, trying not to call attention to himself, and scanned the crowd as they waited for the train.
He picked out two families, holding no luggage, and figured they were waiting for somebody to arrive. He counted eight women and ten men, standing either in pairs or alone, with luggage piled at their feet. Everyone wore some kind of hat, the women in hats and gloves. Turned west slightly, he could make out each face in profile, but even as Elwood studied the men, he realized he had no solid idea of what the Charred Man looked like. The first time he’d seen him, he’d still been half-covered in char, and the second time he’d been more worried about aiming his throw. Now, pressed to it, he could only recall a man’s pallid, smooth face, glistening like it was wet.
Shiny, Father Lynch had said.
Shiny like a new penny.
Elwood sighed and reach slowly behind him, unbuttoning his gun from its holster and preparing the way for a clear draw. The burnt char smell had faded and been replaced by perfume, too much perfume. Elwood scowled at the old woman sitting beside him and rose to his feet, moving as natural as he could as he watched the men standing in the crowd, trying to keep an eye on each one at the same time.
He was tall.
He remembered that. The Charred Man fought low to the ground, but he was—
“Sir?”
Elwood sniffed the air. He’d caught the burnt scent again. He was here, in the crowd. He was near.
“Sir?”
An old woman’s voice, rising shrill. Elwood turned, hoping she was talking to somebody else. She wasn’t.
“Sir, you forgot your luggage,” the old woman he’d been sitting beside called out, waving at him and pointing at his saddle bags with her foot. Elwood felt the crowd eyeing him curiously and kept his back turned so nobody could see his face.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a low voice, gritting his teeth. “I was only getting up to peer down the tracks a moment.”
“Oh,” the old woman said, deflated. “I thought—”
“I appreciate your concern, though. It was mighty kind of you to call me back like that. Mighty kind.”
The old woman brightened, twisting her gloved hands in her lap.
“No bother. No bother at all, sir.”
Elwood smiled through clenched teeth and counted to five, letting the crowd lose interest and return to their westward gazing before he pivoted round again, hands clasped behind his back. He expected to find the Charred Man already upon him, straight razor lifted, but nobody was at his back—the crowd was milling about ten feet away as the train, now a smoking speck on the horizon, blew its horn to alert Rawlins of its arrival.
Elwood drew his pistol and stepped up to the rear of the grouped men, nostrils flaring like a hound’s. He noticed one of the taller men, a gentleman in a fine suit and black bowler hat, had lost interest in the approaching train and was studying one of the women on the platform. His arms were thin, like stovepipes, and hung limply at his sides, as if separate from the rest of his body and waiting to be told what to do next. Elwood closed in on the man, careful to keep at his blind. He thumbed back the gun’s hammer, a small noise lost in the train’s second whistle. The smell of char grew stronger as he neared the man, so pungent he wondered how the others on the platform could tolerate it. He raised his pistol and aimed it just under the brim of the man’s bowler, his eyes watering.
He’d made mistakes. He could be killed.
“Red Earth,” Hayes whispered. The man’s shoulders flinched and Elwood shot him in the back of the skull, his gun a dry pop as the train rolled into the station, brakes screaming as steel pressed steel. The man wavered on his feet a moment, absorbing the shock, before his knees buckled and he pitched forward onto the platform.
Elwood thumbed a second round into his gun’s chamber and rolled the man over with his foot. The bullet hadn’t passed through—the man’s pale, gliste
ning face was still intact, his dark eyes open and showing their surprise. The man opened his mouth, tried to say something, and shut it again. Elwood fired two more shots into the fallen man’s chest and delivered a hard kick to his side.
“You know what that’s for, you bastard.”
The Charred Man flopped about on the platform and red-black ooze dribbled from the corners of his mouth. The train blew its whistle a third time. The other passengers had collected their luggage and were boarding as if they hadn’t noticed the shooting at all. For a short, dreamy moment Elwood considered grabbing his saddlebags and joining them, going to Cheyenne as if nothing had happened and moving on from there, living like a king on the Dennison money.
Instead, Elwood holstered his gun and dragged the demon across the platform, aiming for the little wooden shack the stationmaster sold his tickets from. He couldn’t tell if the char smell had lessened from the train smoke, but he knew this needed to be a certain thing. He knocked on the stationmaster’s door and the gaunt young man came out straight off, trembling hands raised. He shouted something but Elwood couldn’t make it out. He waved the boy off, allowing him to tuck tail and run, and dragged the demon into the shack—the Charred Man’s tall frame filled the small building so greatly Elwood had to raise him by the shoulders and prop him up until he resembled a man reading in bed.
An oil lamp and matches sat on a shelf beside the shack’s window. Hayes unscrewed the lamp, dumped its contents both onto the demon and the walls surrounding, and stepped back out through the doorway.
And the Hills Opened Up Page 23