by Ben Reeder
“What for, Smitty?” Broward asked.
“Well, I heard he was the one what done for the parson, not to mention he killed some horses and he tried to have his way with Widow Miller.”
“You been listening to them Hamori boys too much,” Broward said. “Mrs. Miller was the one who vouched for him the first time, and I heard from the reverend himself in the moments before he died that Mr. Archer here risked his own life trying to defend him. And I saw the wounds he took myself, Smitty. Now, you either call me a liar or serve the man his damn beer.”
“I didn’t know, sheriff,” Smitty stammered, setting the beer down on the table. “I just heard...you know, people talk.”
“Them good-for-nuthin’ Polish sods talk, is what. Didn’t you tell me he made them look the fool the day he got here?”
Smitty smiled and looked back at the bar. “He did, at that. Laid the ticket right down on the bar over there. Well, then...if you’ll excuse me sheriff…” He turned and headed back for the bar.
“The man means well, but some days, he’s got the memory of a gnat. Tends to think the best of his regulars, too.”
“I take it the Hamori brothers are pretty regular,” Caleb said.
“Like a clock, morning , noon and night. You, on the other hand…” Boward pulled out the envelope he’d grabbed at the office. “Seems like it’s either feast or famine where you’re concerned. You’re here one night, and you have the whole damn town up in arms wantin’ to lynch you. You go away for a couple of weeks, and things get quiet again. Then I get two pieces of mail concernin’ you right before you show back up.”
“Mail? I don’t understand, Sheriff,” Caleb said, his heart suddenly pounding hard in his chest. Who would have known he was coming here? Even he hadn’t known that; he’d picked the spot where he’d jumped off the train at random.
“Well, I’m not the kind to go looking too hard at a man’s past so long as he don’t give me no problems. But the reverend, God rest him, was kind of a busybody. Seems like he sent a wire off to Denver asking after you the day after the attack on his stable. Got a telegram back a few days ago. Then yesterday, a letter shows up for you, care of the parson. Well, him being dearly departed and all, folk bring this sort of thing to me, thinking I know what to make of it. Me, I’m just a man with a head for law and order and a steady shootin’ hand. I’m hopin’ you can help me put some sense to all this.” He slid a crumpled yellow telegram across the table, and followed it with the envelope he’d taken from his desk. Caleb took the telegram and straightened it out.
REV FLINT: PLS EXTEND TO BR. ARCHER ALL COURTESIES AND HOSPITALITIES STOP PLS ACCEPT THE GRATITUDE OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH FOR YOUR GENEROSITY AND FRATERNITY STOP WILL SEND LETTER OF CREDIT TO COMPENSATE EXPENSE S s INCURRED STOP MAY BLESSINGS OF GOD BE WITH YOU STOP
OFFICE OF HIS EXCELLENCY, THE MOST REVEREND
JOSEPH PROJECTUS MACHEBEUF, BISHOP OF DENVER
Caleb frowned as he read the letter, especially that he was still referred to as “Brother” Archer. He turned the envelope over, noting the return address was marked like the telegram, specific to the office of the bishop. If the letter was already here, then it was possible someone from the Denver diocese was also in town. He fell silent when Smitty brought their food and two more bottles.
“Sheriff, do you know if anyone came in on the stagecoach since I got here. Anyone who stayed?” he asked as they tucked into the chili and beans. The chili left a pleasant heat on the tongue, and both men had a slight sheen of sweat on their brows after the second bite.
Broward shook his head. “No, the past two times the stagecoach has come through town, they only stopped to drop off the mail and pick up a passenger. You’re the only person who’s come to town in the past month. You mind telling me what this is all about, father?”
“I’m not exactly sure myself, not any more. But this makes it all the more urgent that I move on as soon as I can. And if anyone does come asking after me once I’m gone, don’t lie for me. You just tell them what you know.”
“I find that worrisome, son, and there ain’t much that does that.”
“I just don’t want you committing any sins on my behalf.”
“Oh, I commit plenty of my own every day,” Broward laughed. “Throwing in a couple for you ain’t too far outta my way. But I also understand you wanting to move on. Before you did, though, I’d take it as a kindness if you’d stop by the parsonage and see to anything that needs taking care of. And...well, I said some words over Zeke’s grave, but...the man was my friend. He deserves a proper service, even if it is from a Catholic.”
Caleb nodded. “There was a favor he’d asked me to do for him before I left, anyway. I’ll see to it before I go. And sheriff, I wanted to thank you for all your help, too. If it wasn’t for you, I’d likely be dead right now.”
“Think nothing of it, son. Hell, thanks to your little bit of tracking, I might even be able to suss out where some missing horses and cattle got off to. Seems there might be a Polish connection there.”
“Glad to be of service, sir,” Caleb said. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Broward shook his head and laid a five dollar gold half-eagle on the table.
“Supper was on me. I got to get back to the office, but you finish your beer, and come see me before you leave town.”
Caleb nodded his assent and raised his beer to the sheriff as the other man got up and left. He nursed his beer as he perused the telegram and the envelope. Things weren’t what he’d expected with the church, and that was never a good thing. Finally, unable to glean any deeper understanding of the two missives, he tucked them into the pocket inside his coat and left.
Once outside, he looked up at the sky. The sun was edging toward the horizon, and the shadows were getting long. He figured he would make it to the parsonage well before dark. Movement to his left and right caught his attention, and he put his hand to his pistol.
“Well, well, well,” a heavily accented voice spoke from his right. “If it isn’t the horse-killer.”
“You fellas again,” Caleb said, eyeing the two Hamori boys. “Don’t you have some horse-thieving to be doing?” he asked.
“We were just about to do our civic duty,” the smaller brother said from his left. “And rid this town of a public menace.”
“Well, normally, I’d frown on men as young as you are shooting themselves, but I think I can make an exception in your case.”
“No, we were talking about you,” the one on the right said.
“He knows that, Gregor,” the left side brother said. “He’s just shootin’ his fool mouth off.” Caleb started to reply, but the world went white, then spun about for a moment before he fell once again into the void.
The sky was dark when Caleb opened his eyes again. He moaned and put his hand to the back of his head, wincing when he felt the knot at the base of his skull. A lantern provided a circle of yellow light, and Caleb could see that the largest of the three, Gregor, had his coat draped over one shoulder. The smallest one had a revolver out and trained on him.
“Bushwhacked,” he moaned.
“Boy, he’s quick on the draw, ain’t he?” the the third Hamori brother piped up.
“Get up,” the biggest of the three ordered. Caleb slowly got to his feet, and the smallest of the three handed him a shovel. “Now, dig.” Caleb looked down and found himself standing on a slight mound of freshly turned dirt. His eyes narrowed as he came to understand exactly where he stood.
“That’s mighty low,” he said as he shifted his grip on the shovel.
“Start digging. Either way, you’re going to get a little lower before the night is done.” The three brothers laughed at the smallest one’s joke, and Caleb thrust the shovel into the dirt. At the edge of the light, he saw movement, and a familiar Indian’s face appeared for a moment before fading back into the darkness. He prayed Joe was heading back to the sheriff’s office.
“I can understand wanting to kill me, but why dig
up the parson?” he asked. He tossed the first shovelful of dirt near the smallest one’s feet, trying to plan for the worst, in case Joe was just running away instead of going for help.
“We ain’t diggin’ the body up,” the middle-sized brother said. Caleb looked to him, noting that he was the one who had his gun belt slung over one shoulder. A second pile of dirt joined the first near the smallest one’s feet. “You’re just going deep enough to cover a second body.”
“No one’s going to go looking at a fresh grave for another body,” the smallest one said.
“There’s no need to do this,” Caleb said. “I was on my way out of town to begin with.”
“We might not need to, but we sure as Hell want to. You heading out of town just makes this easier to get away with. We figured out who you are, see.”
“You have?” Caleb asked, stifling a chuckle. There was no way these men had worked out his true past, but he was curious as to what conclusion they had come to.
“You’re one of them Riggers,” Gregor said, his large face lighting up with pride.
“So not only do we get whatever money you’re carrying, but I know a fellow over in Albuquerque who will pay five hundred dollars in gold for that coat of yours,” the smallest one said.
“And you’re going to split that three ways?” Caleb said, a plan starting to form. “That’s what, a couple hundred each?”
“A hundred fifty,” the middle sized one said.
Caleb laughed. “If you say so.”
“Stefan says so,” Gregor said, nodding toward the smallest brother.
“A hundred fifty three times isn’t five hundred. Were you just going to pocket the other hundred without telling them, Stefan?”
“Is so!” Stefan said. “That’s what Jaco- my man in Albuquerque said!”
“And I suppose he was going to divide it all out for you ahead of time, too,” Caleb said, cursing Stefan’s honesty and moving to play another angle.
“Yeah, and so what if he was? Ain’t no business of yours, anyway.”
“You’ll be too dead to worry about it, either way.”
“Well, if you three are bound and determined to get yourselves cheated and killed, you’re more than welcome to, far as I’m concerned.”
“What are you talking about?” the middle brother demanded.
“He ain’t talking about nothing, Victor,” Stefan said.
“Sure I ain’t,” Caleb said, moving a little closer to Stefan under the pretext of digging. “But did you ever ask yourself why you don’t see no one wearing them coats but Riggers? And why would your man be offering so much money for just a coat?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Stefan said. “Five hundred is five hundred.”
“Sure, you’re right. Five hundred dollars is five hundred dollars, Caleb agreed. “If that’s what you want to settle for.”
“Wait, what did you mean about getting killed for that coat? Why don’t you see no one but Riggers wearing them?” Victor asked, his words coming fast and his tone high with worry.
“It’s easier to show you. But...if I do...it’s a burden you’ll have to live with the rest of your life.” Caleb looked to each brother, trying to look as serious as possible, and also trying to see f i f anyone was coming. Movement on the ridge to the west caught his eye, and a strange hum settled in the back of his head.
“You’re just trying to pull the wool over our eyes,” Stefan said. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t eh? Gregor, you have a knife, right? Cut the hem of the coat open.” And just try to keep a straight face, Caleb completed the sentence in his head. Gregor pulled a knife from his belt and cut a slit in the hem, then did a double take when he saw the interior lining.
“Gold!” he gasped, his eyes wide as he looked at the coat in his hands with newfound awe.
“What are you going on about?” Stefan said.
“It’s got gold in it,” Gregor said. He turned and lifted the edge of the cut to reveal the mesh of gold wire that ran along the inside of the coat. “That must be why it’s so dang heavy.”
“That coat is worth more than three thousand dollars,” Caleb said. “Any Rigger who sees someone who isn’t one of us with that coat...will kill to retrieve it.”
“Then we’ll just have to take the gold out of the coat,” Stefan said. He turned toward Caleb and thumbed the hammer back on his pistol. “And if what you say is true, I guess we’d better kill you right now, and do the rest of the digging ourselves.”
Before Stefan could lift his gun to aim it, Caleb was moving. The shovel came up, and the load of dirt and rocks hit Stefan in the face. He pulled the trigger, but the shot went wide. Caleb spun the shovel and hit Gregor in the side with it, then turned, crouched and thrust the butt end of the shovel’s handle into Victor’s stomach. As the two larger brothers gasped for breath, Caleb turned to face Stefan, who was shaking the dirt from his face. With one eye open, he brought the pistol up to point it straight at Caleb. He smiled as he sighted down the barrel, expecting his target to freeze up while he pulled the trigger. But Caleb had been more than just a priest. Grasping the shovel’s handle, he stepped forward and extended his left leg at the same time as he brought his arms forward.
There was a wet sound and a crunch, and Stefan looked down to see the metal blade of the shovel stuck halfway into his belly. The pistol fell from his limp hand as his brothers watched in shock. But if Caleb thought the fight was done, he was sorely mistaken. Gregor gave a roar of pure rage and started toward his brother’s attacker, while Victor dropped Caleb’s gun belt to reach for his own pistol. Again, Caleb drew from training that had little to do with the Bible and grabbed Gregor’s arms as he rushed him. He let the bigger man’s momentum bear him down, then stuck his a foot out and caught the bigger man in the stomach with it his foot . From the ground, he pushed up, throwing Gregor at his surprised brother. The two went down in a tangle of limbs, and Caleb was on his feet and scrambling for his gun belt. He came to his feet in time to see another figure rise behind the two brothers.
With a scream, the skinwalker announced itself, throwing its head back and bellowing into the night. Gregor and Victor backed up, then drew their pistols and started firing at it. As bullets tore at the tawny fur of the mountain lion’s skin, the skinwalker’s reaction was, to Caleb at least, completely predictable. It crouched, then lunged forward with its arms outthrust. Blood sprayed around the gore streaked claws that emerged from the two Hamori brothers’ backs.
The skinwalker tossed the two bodies aside with a wet, slurping sound, and Caleb brought his pistol up. A strange sort of focus came over him, and he felt the rush of energy flow down his arms, and watched the pistol glow a faint blue. The moment of hesitation and focus, however, cost him his shot. The skinwalker’s hand flashed forward and knocked the revolver away. Caleb barely avoided the other clawed hand that swept at his face. He drew the Bowie knife point down with his right hand, then brought his arm up so that the point faced his foe. From the darkness, something that was not a c C oyote lunged, nipping at the skinwalker’s heels before bounding out of reach with a gleeful sounding bark.
With his opponent distracted, Caleb leaped forward and slashed with the knife, leaving a blue trail in the blade’s wake. The skinwalker took a swipe at him, but he ducked under the thing’s claws and brought the blade up. The glowing blade cut only air, but left another glowing streak behind it. With every slash, the skinwalker gave ground, staying out of the weapon’s reach. With every attack, Caleb came closer and closer to rending the creature’s flesh, and his attacks became bolder. Finally, he tossed the blade in the air and caught it by the handle with blade pointed up in his fist. Not Coyote harried the monster as well, taking nips at its unprotected flanks and rear, enraging it with minor wounds.
Still it avoided any serious hurt , until a third combatant entered the fray. Chanting and weaving in a dance that also managed to avoid the skinwalker’s initial attack, Toh Yah came forward,
a pine branch in one hand and a small pouch in the other. The pine branch was long and moved faster than Caleb’s knife, and it left a stinging welt on the skinwalker’s hide, a stripe now bare where the stick had hit it . Emboldened, Caleb lunged forward as well, and left a glowing cut across the thing’s arm.
With a scream of rage, the skinwalker backhanded Caleb and sent him tumbling back. He had a fraction of a second to see the glowing line in the air before he struck it and disappeared in a flash.
To anyone else, the actinic white landscape Caleb found himself in would have been utterly alien and disorienting. But Caleb had been a Rigger, still was a Rigger. What had been glowing blue lines in the real world were black scrapes across the landscape. The singer and Not Coyote had different forms here, the old man transformed into a taller, darker version of himself, his gnarled hands straight and firm, his hair uniform in color instead of streaked with gray. The pine branch had become a war club, and Not Coyote was a tall, young Navajo warrior who danced around his foe. The biggest change, though, was in the skinwalker. Instead of a monster, Caleb found himself facing a young Navajo man, not much more than a boy, with a toothy, mangy being on his back. The spirit looked directly at Caleb and hissed, but the man he sat on didn’t seem aware of his presence. Was the young man possessed? Perhaps he could be saved. Caleb ran toward them, and the spirit tried to move the young man, but without being un aware of the true threat, he was t o o slow, and Caleb leaped at them. He grabbed the creature by the throat, then put his feet against the boy’s shoulders and pulled. With a yell of effort, he pulled the thing free, falling through one of the glowing “cuts” his knife had evidently made in reality. There was a cracking sound as the thing came free, and they fell back into the world.
The glowing Bowie rose up once, plunged down, then plunged down again, and the creature, a writhing mass of thorny vines, began to burn in Caleb’s grasp. Embers flew into the darkness as it dissipated. Where once a monstrous thing loomed now crouched the young man with the skin of a mountain lion over his shoulders.