He lined his eye up with the sight and watched as the last of the Reverend’s men hurried away.
He let in a breath, let out a breath, keeping his eye on the target, watching the man growing smaller and smaller.
In his mind Clay calculated the distance and the slight amount of wind and the final trajectory of the bullet, and at the last moment he raised the rifle just slightly and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle kicked in his hands.
The shot rang out in the silence.
For a long moment nothing happened—just the man riding off on the horse—and then suddenly the man jerked and went rigid and fell off to the side, his foot catching in the stirrup and dragging him along dead as the horse continued onward out of town.
Clay stood frozen for an instant, his entire body shaking. It wasn’t until that instant passed that he realized just how much pain he was in. Muscles he hadn’t used in quite some time screamed out their agony.
He tossed the rifle aside and hurried over to where Witashnah was slowly picking herself up off the ground.
“Are you all right?”
Her face was bruised, blood streaking her cheek.
“I am fine. How ... how did you do that?”
Clay shook his head. “It wasn’t all me. It was ... your grandfather.”
She just stared back at him.
“He was a warrior, wasn’t he? When he was younger. He killed many men in battle.”
Witashnah nodded slightly. “I have heard stories.”
Clay looked back at the three dead bodies in the street.
“Others might be coming.”
“That horse may return to town as well.”
Clay motioned at the mercantile.
“Then we best hurry.”
20.
The sun had gone past the midday mark by the time Clay and Witashnah returned to the cave. They were both exhausted. Clay was still hurting from the shootout, and the bruise on Witashnah’s face had darkened. But it was the weight of saving George and dealing with Those That Walk The Night that had Clay feeling overwhelmed.
They stored the cache of guns and ammunition taken from the Reverend’s men, as well as the eight sticks of dynamite Clay had found in the crate at Goodman’s Mercantile, just inside the chamber.
Akecheta was hunched near the fire, his head bowed in sleep.
Clay sat across from the old Indian and watched as Witashnah checked on her grandfather.
“Is he okay?”
She nodded.
Before they had left town, they had moved the bodies of the Reverend’s men to a back bedroom of the Red Queen Saloon. Then they unsaddled the horses and set them free. They hoped it would buy them some additional time. If the Reverend came looking, it would be a while before he stumbled across the bodies. Apparently, the ploy had worked. There had been no sign of the Reverend or any of his men on their long journey back to the cave.
“Hungry?” Witashnah asked. She extended him a strip of smoke-dried meat. “I found some under the counter at the saloon.”
It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to tide him over.
“Thank you.”
He tore a bite out of the dried meat and found his thoughts drifting back to what had happened in town. He had killed intentionally. It hadn’t been an accident like it was with Mayor Bolton’s son. This time it had been with clear intent.
The guilt and horror should have brought him to his knees, but Clay felt nothing. He had done what he had needed to do, because if he hadn’t it would have cost Witashnah her life, George his life, and in the end Clay his life as well.
But he hadn’t killed on his own.
He had been guided by Akecheta, who was part of him now.
“You said you heard stories of when your grandfather was a warrior.”
Witashnah nodded. “Many stories.”
“Tell me one.”
Her gaze dropped to the fire and fixed there.
“When he was young, before he took a wife and fathered his first child, my grandfather fought against soldiers who had come to the valley to raid his village.”
Witashnah’s voice sang just above a whisper, soft and hypnotizing.
“It was his first battle, and he told me he could feel fear deep in his bones.”
Clay felt his eyes grow heavy.
“But he knew in his heart it was not about him, but about his people.”
It had been a long day after a night of little sleep, and Clay felt it catching up with him. He leaned against the nearest rock, crossed his arms over his chest, and listened to her words until they carried him off into the dark wilderness of sleep.
* * *
When Clay opened his eyes again, Witashnah had moved to a more comfortable position against the wall of the cave and was sound asleep. Akecheta, on the other hand, was awake. He appeared completely absorbed by the fire, as if he were watching the world around him take shape inside the flickering flames.
Clay sat up and studied the old Indian. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. It was difficult to believe he was as frail and unseeing as he appeared to be. Maybe that was because Clay had briefly experienced what it was like to be Akecheta. Or maybe there was more to the old man than he let you see.
Clay moved around the fire. He bent close to Akecheta, stared into his cloudy eyes, and whispered, “What did you do to me?”
Akecheta turned and stared up at Clay without saying a word.
“What are you hiding?”
The dark spot in his mind still troubled Clay. What was it he couldn’t see? And why was it being blocked?
“What are you doing?” Witashnah asked from behind him.
Clay glanced over his shoulder and saw her sit up from the wall, her eyes not fully open as she struggled out of her sleep. She put a hand across a yawn to stifle it.
“Checking on your grandfather. He’s awake again.”
“Is he well?”
“He’s fine,” Clay said. “How soon do you think we should head out?”
* * *
Two hours later, with the shadows long and the sun preparing for its descent below the skyline, they stood on the outskirts of the Reverend’s town.
All appeared quiet.
There were no signs of the Reverend, no signs of his men patrolling the streets.
It wouldn’t be long now.
“You understand what to do?” Clay asked.
Witashnah nodded and accepted the dynamite and a rifle from him. She wore one of the belts they took from the Reverend’s men earlier today, a revolver in the holster.
Clay kept a rifle for himself, along with a revolver, and watched Witashnah start off around the outer edges of the town, toward the other side, until she disappeared. Then he checked his weapons to make sure they were loaded and ready to go, and started down the main street.
To the west, the sun began to set.
As he walked, Clay’s blood pounded in his ears. It was the only sound he heard as the surroundings suddenly fell into an eerie silence.
A chill made its way down the back of his neck.
They were coming.
In the distance, out of the silence, came the first soft whisper of the cacti beginning to move.
The demons were stirring.
If he was going to save George, he would have to hurry.
Clay stepped up his pace. He passed by the bank and the assayer’s office, the boardinghouse and the jailhouse, until he was on the plank walkway, keeping to the gathering shadows.
Ahead, the post in the middle of the street came into view.
The vague outline of a figure flailed against the bindings.
Time was growing short.
Clay stepped out of the darkest shadows, into the gray murk, and stopped in his tracks.
It wasn’t George tied to the post.
It was Marilyn.
21.
She wore a long white dress that seemed to radiate a preternatural glow in the faint moonlight.
Her hands were behind her back, lashed to the post, and a piece of cloth was in her mouth.
Her eyes met Clay’s and for an instant he was reminded of just how much she looked like Ellie, how the very first time he saw her he actually thought it was his dead daughter somehow brought back to life.
The stirring off in the distance was growing stronger, the demons beginning their forward shuffle.
It took Clay only seconds to reach Marilyn—sprinting soundlessly across the dirt—and only another two seconds before he managed to loosen the cloth around her head and took it from her mouth.
“Who did this to you?” he said, and immediately felt foolish for asking the question.
It was obvious who had done this to her, just as it was obvious the work hadn’t been done by the man alone. But what had been done to this woman—girl, really, Clay thought, maybe a year or two older than Ellie—was more than just being tied to a post to be sacrificed. He hadn’t noticed it at first because of the tears sparkling in her eyes, but there were bruises on her face, dried blood around her nose.
“He found the knife,” Marilyn said, breathless. “He knew I helped you.”
Clay instantly tensed at her words. There was no accusatory tone to them—at least none that he could hear—but what had happened to her was clearly his fault. If he hadn’t left the knife behind, maybe she wouldn’t be tied to this post, clearly beaten by hands that never should have been given the right to touch such soft and delicate skin.
“Please,” she gasped, trying to wiggle free from her bindings, “we have to hurry before they come.”
Clay’s first thought was that she meant the demons. Then he noticed her eyes, how they jerked nervously back and forth, from one side of the street to the other.
He stepped back and looked around at the buildings lining the street.
All the windows were dark.
All was silent, except the growing distant shuffling.
Clay couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. Watching him, anticipating his next move. He turned his head toward the jailhouse, wondered if George was even in there. And if he was, who else currently joined him in the dark? And how many weapons did they have aimed at the door?
“Please hurry,” Marilyn said. “I have to save my child.”
Clay turned back to her. He withdrew Witashnah’s knife and began cutting the ropes.
“I know. Witashnah told me. She told me everything.”
“Where is she?”
“Close.” He stepped back and glanced once again toward the jailhouse. “Before we go, we need to save my friend. Do you know if he’s—”
He heard the gunshot—a single bang! echoing in the silence—but felt nothing. He stood for a moment, wondering where he had been shot, but knew that the bullet had missed him. He turned back toward Marilyn, started to speak ... but stopped.
She appeared to be choking.
This didn’t make sense to Clay at first until she opened her mouth and blood poured out and then a cloud drifted just right allowing the moon to shine even brighter and he saw the hole in her throat, the dark blood pouring down her body, soaking into her dress, turning the white to black.
She stumbled backward, one hand clawing at her throat, the other holding onto her belly. Clay tried to catch her before she fell but he wasn’t fast enough. She hit the ground hard and then just lay there, gurgling blood, her eyes shifting around again until they focused back into Clay’s, and for an instant it wasn’t Marilyn staring back at him, but Ellie.
“I’m sorry,” Clay whispered, grabbing his daughter’s hand on her belly and holding it tight. “I’m so sorry.”
She blinked and suddenly it wasn’t Ellie anymore, it was Marilyn, and there was nothing in her eyes, no life, and he stood back up, reaching for his gun, turning toward where the shot had come from when there was another echoing bang! and the bullet tore into his shoulder and sent him reeling back to the ground.
part four
WALK THE SKY
22.
Fred Bolton stepped back from the second story window of the saloon, stunned. What had just happened? Roy, who was crouched at the window with his Winchester supported by the sill, had just fired off an errant shot that had hit the Reverend’s wife.
The echo of the shot returned from somewhere faraway and replayed three or four times in Bolton’s mind. The marrow in his bones turned cold. He swallowed hard and looked toward the Reverend, who was standing over Roy.
“Excellent shot,” the Reverend whispered. He gave his right-hand man a pat on the shoulder. “Now the other one.”
“What’s going on?” Bolton asked. “I thought she was the bait.”
Roy pumped the lever, set the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, took aim again.
Bolton’s voice went hoarse. “What did you do?”
A second shot exploded. The room expanded with the sound of the blast.
Bolton stepped back a second time, fought a moment to catch his balance, and then leaned forward to glance over Roy’s shoulder at the street below.
Clay Miller lay sprawled on the ground, his hand still on his gun, which sat halfway out of its holster.
He was motionless.
The Reverend clapped his hands with delight.
“Easier than I feared it would be. Didn’t I tell you the Lord is looking after our good town and its people?”
“You killed your wife,” Bolton said matter-of-factly, his simple tone hiding his shock.
“She may have been my wife, but her heart and soul were lost to the Devil long ago. She deceived me and she betrayed the people of this town. The Lord gaveth and the Lord hath taken away.”
“Reverend?” Roy shifted in his crouch. “He’s getting up.”
“Shoot him in the leg. We will let the demons finish him off.”
Roy wiped the palm of his trigger hand on his pants, pumped the lever again, and lined up for a third shot.
Bolton moved in closer to watch. Clay Miller had killed his son, and Bolton was going to take great delight in seeing him first hobbled by the shot and then devoured by the demons.
Clay dragged his body up from the ground. He wobbled on his knees for a moment, struggling to find the strength and balance to get to his feet.
Roy’s index finger found the trigger, settled comfortably against it.
And then suddenly, across the street, the corner building exploded.
There was a bright flash, followed by a gust of hot air, shattered glass and wood debris.
The Winchester slipped out of Roy’s grip as he fell back into the Reverend, who stumbled back into Bolton.
Bolton caught the Reverend. “What the hell was that?”
All three men moved back to the window and watched in momentary silence as thousands of scraps of wood and wallpaper and shingles floated back to earth.
The display window of what used to be the mercantile was now little more than a jagged opening in the building.
On the walkway, the corner post was severed at the midpoint, the roof slumping forward and down. Inside the building several small fires had broken out, the flames flapping at the dark night like wings in the wind.
The Reverend tapped Roy on the shoulder and pointed to the middle of the street.
“He’s on his feet again.”
Roy fumbled in the shadows for the rifle, found it, and brought it once more to his shoulder. He targeted Clay’s left leg as the man finally stood tall and seemed to regain his balance.
His finger lightly touched the trigger.
Roy took a deep breath, paused, and fired.
Nothing happened.
“Shoot him!” the Reverend shouted.
“Gun’s jammed.”
Roy lowered the rifle from his shoulder, gave it a quick look-over, pumped the lever until a cartridge kicked out and dropped to the floor.
Bolton leaned into the window.
Down on the street, Clay pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to look up at
the second floor of the saloon.
“Shoot him!” the Reverend shouted again.
“He’s just a schoolteacher,” Bolton said. “He can’t hit us from down there.”
Roy pulled the Winchester up to the window again, resting the barrel on the sill to take aim.
The shot this time didn’t echo as loudly as before. Bolton thought maybe that was because his ears were still ringing from the explosion. He went to step forward to see through the window when Roy fell back into the Reverend, the rifle slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor.
“What—” the Reverend began.
Bolton gazed down at the street, where Clay slowly lowered the gun to his side, and then, panicked, he looked down at the Reverend’s right-hand man splayed across the floor.
In the middle of Roy’s forehead, almost perfectly placed, was the indent of a bullet hole.
23.
Witashnah witnessed everything.
She saw Marilyn tied to the post—her precious friend Marilyn!—and she saw Clay hurry over and untie her. She heard the first bullet that sent her friend to the ground, just as she heard the second bullet that sent Clay to the ground. She heard Those That Walk The Night off in the distance, their awful combined shuffling coming closer and closer, and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. With no hesitation, she took one of the sticks of dynamite, lit the fuse, threw it into the nearest building on the corner, and ran.
It exploded almost immediately, the blast much louder and heavier than she had anticipated.
She hadn’t gone far—maybe fifty yards—and the blast knocked her down. She hit the ground hard but managed to quickly climb back to her feet, turning and watching the shards of burning wood floating through the air like fireflies.
The building looked ready to collapse in on itself.
Another shot rang out—a faint and distant snap just over the ringing in her ears—and she hurried back past the building to the street, expecting Clay to be dead now too.
Walk the Sky Page 9