Guns of Seneca 6 Box Set Collected Saga (Chambers 1-4)

by Bernard Schaffer

  He unfolded the mask and tied it around the back of his neck, then pulled it up over his mouth and nose. He tapped Elijah Harpe on the cheek and peeled one of his eyes open. "Anybody home, Elijah?"

  Elijah tried to speak but couldn't. He toppled over on his side and shot up on one shoulder to keep the torn flesh of his back off of the scalding sand. There was a rope tied around his waist, and its harsh fibers were thorns digging into his raw wounds. Jem had dragged him from the back of his destrier from Claire's homestead. His bandages had long-since ripped off and the stitches on his leg had torn open. His old wounds were leaking, and so were all the new ones.

  "You recognize where we are, Elijah? Back where we first met. I should have killed you right there. Time to correct that."

  Elijah squinted and looked around at the canyon where the ship had crashed. His shoulder gave out and he rolled over on his back, no longer able to feel the burning sand and rock on his open skin. He smiled at Jem. "None of us can hide from God."

  Jem fished in his shirt pocket for the torn photograph he found on the Sheriff's desk. "Good thing you left this behind," he said. "Otherwise, I'd probably still be looking for you." He dug into Elijah's pockets for the torn piece, and found it. Jem reached behind his back for the long kitchen knife and drew it out to show Elijah.

  The blade reflected light into Elijah's eyes, but he ignored it and stared straight at the sun's fiery surface. He forced his eyes to stay open until tears ran down his cheeks and everything around him became opaque. "I can see it," Elijah gasped. "I see the glory."

  "Well, just keep looking at it. Let me know if you get there."

  Jem stuck the tip of the blade into the soft flesh at the center of Elijah's throat and pushed until blood bubbled through. He sawed at the skin and tissue until his knife caught on bone. Elijah did not scream or even struggle. He laid there, grunting as Jem worked the blade back and forth, cutting until he was able to grab a handful of Elijah's hair and tear the head the rest of the way off.

  He lifted Elijah's head and stared into the wide, vacant eyes, watching as the muscles in the face continued to twitch and the mouth worked up and down with no sound coming out of it.

  Jem carried the head through the crash site, looking for a place to mount it. There was a length of metal sticking out of the hull, and Jem jammed Elijah's head onto its tip, twisting until it was firmly seated.

  He wiped his hands in the dirt and scrubbed them with sand, wiping away the clumps of blood from his fingers and flicking them into the dirt. He pulled off his mask and wiped off his hands, then balled up the black mask and threw it to the ground. A destrier snorted from the cliff above. Someone was watching him.

  The destrier's rider coughed into his fist and lifted up his hand to wave to Jem. Royce Halladay walked his mount down the cliff and into the canyon, eyeing the burnt equipment littered across the valley, then coming to the place where Jem had spiked Elijah's head. Halladay smoothed his mustache with the tip of his finger as he admired the sight and said, "Well, now I suppose that I should be angry with you, Jem Clayton. Had I known that you were interested in barbering, I would never have paid those thieves in Seneca 5 so much money. I fear the finer points of the art may have escaped you, however." Jem turned away from Halladay and headed back toward his destrier.

  "Forgive me if the situation did not call for levity, Jem. Let us not lose our heads over it, what do you say?"

  Jem pulled himself into the saddle and looked back, "Twenty years is a long time to be away, Doc. Why the sudden interest in returning to Seneca 6?"

  "I heard there might be trouble."

  Jem spurred his ride to close the distance between them. He leaned close to Halladay and said, "Let's just cut the shit, old man. I know what you are and you know what I am. If you followed me here to try and lure me into a trap, you're going to suffer for it. I swear on my father's soul that no reward money in the world is worth the misery I will impart on you for trying."

  Royce Halladay's eyes narrowed and he said, "Do you recall an incident when you were ten years old? Sam brought you to see me because you had spots all over your face and he was worried you were coming down with the clumps. Do you remember?"

  "I remember I bit you."

  "Correct!" Halladay said. "I tried placing a thermometer into your mouth and you bit me because you were an ungrateful, mean little bastard that didn't know when someone was trying to offer you assistance."

  "That was then. You ain't a doctor anymore and I ain't ten. You expect me to believe a vicious killer like you gives a damn about me or anyone else on this rock?"

  "I expect you to show me the proper respect due a man who is faster than you, a better shot than you, and only tolerating your continued existence out of respect to a dear, departed friend."

  Jem opened his mouth to speak but found nothing came out. Halladay smirked at him and pulled on his reins, turning away from Jem to head back up the trail.

  "You ain't that fast, old man," Jem said.

  "Fast enough for you, boy. Fast enough for you."

  15. The Air Smelled Like Snakes

  Harlan Wells was still twitching when the crowd piled on top of him. His frail limbs retracted and quivered even as the townsfolk stomped him, turning his face to jelly and his body into a bag of crunching bones. "String him up!" a miner announced.

  Jimmy McParlan cracked him across the back of the skull with his pistol and fired into the air. "Back up you sons-of-bitches! Anybody so much as takes another step and I'll start putting holes in all of you."

  Several men rushed him and tackled him around the waist, driving him to the ground. They peeled the gun out of his hand and one of the miners leveled it at McParlan's head and squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked uselessly and a computerized voice emitted from the barrel: Fingerprint identification failure. Initiating security precautions.

  The gun vibrated in the miner's hand and glowed red, turning hot enough to sizzle the flesh inside his palm. The miner dropped the gun and ran screaming through the crowd. Boot heels cracked McParlan across the ribs and a finger gouged his good eye. McParlan batted them away from his face and tried fighting back even as more of them jumped onto him and started swinging freely. He gave up fighting and instead used his remaining strength to cover his head and hope to hold on long enough for them to get tired. They didn't get tired. It only got worse.

  The Marshal woke up in the dark, groaning for the bastards to get off of him. Someone was grabbing him, holding him down and McParlan shouted, "You don't understand! Elijah Harpe has escaped!"

  "It's all right now, Marshal," Bart Masters said.

  "Where the hell am I?"

  "Dr. Willow's office. I dragged you in here to get you away from those maniacs out there."

  "I'm much obliged, now where the hell are my guns? I've got a fugitive to look for."

  "I honestly hope you weren't too attached to that prisoner, Marshal. Jem Clayton caught him at Claire and Frank's house and dragged him all the way out to Coramide Canyon."

  McParlan closed his eye and was struck by the image of Harlan Wells aiming a pistol at Adam, begging him to shoot. He thought about the strange voice coming out of Wells.

  "I am ashamed of what happened to you out there, sir," Masters said. "People disrespecting the law like that, it makes me sick."

  "I ain't been much impressed by the law I've seen in this town so far," McParlan said. "I'm not sure I can blame `em."

  "It wasn't always like that, Marshal. "My daddy was a deputy under Sheriff Clayton. Helped him fight off the Beothuk on the night of the invasion and escorted the wounded across the wasteland out to the hospital in Seneca 5. He never told anybody about his own injuries and they say he collapsed in his saddle the second the last person was picked up on a stretcher. With him and Sam both gone, it was easy pickings for Walt Junger and Billy Jack to swoop in and take over."

  "So what are we gonna do about it?" McParlan said.

  "Right now, you aren't in shape to do much
of anything," Masters said. "And I'm just a miner."

  Anna Willow knocked on the door, and let herself into the room. "Thanks for minding the Marshal for me," she said.

  Bart Masters tilted his hat at her and left as Anna moved into his chair. She handed a cold compress to McParlan and told him to press it against his face. "You looked better after they dragged you out of the wreckage of that spaceship," she said.

  McParlan waved his hand at her, "That wasn't my first angry mob. They all hit like women."

  Anna sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. "Thank you for saving my life today, Marshal."

  He ignored her and said, "How's Adam?"

  "He's fine," Anna said. "I sent him to stay with an older couple I know. He was just sitting by the window, rocking back and forth, like he was waiting for Harlan to come home. I thought a change of scenery would be good."

  McParlan nodded and said, "Good thinking. Plus, you got your hands full."

  "That woman that Harlan shot was a widow. She had two little girls. I guess someone will have to look after them now. That other man was shot in the hip. He'll live, but probably won't walk right ever again. But at least he'll live. Why in God's name did he do that? Why? It was like he was possessed by the devil."

  "In a way, I believe he was."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I'm still not completely sure. But trust me, that wasn't Harlan who shot them folks."

  Anna went to the next room and knocked gently before poking her head in. Frank Miller was sitting in his wheelchair next to the bed where his wife was laying. Frank's face was swollen and crusted with blood, and there was a massive burn mark collared around his throat that he refused to let Anna even look at until she finished tending to Claire.

  Frank pressed his fingers to his lips and said, "She finally fell asleep."

  Claire's head was bandaged like a turban. Her eyes were swollen shut and her lips looked like she was wearing a pair of wax ones from the candy store down the street.

  "She isn't dead," Frank said. "She isn't going to be dead."

  "I know, honey," Anna said.

  "You fixed her, right? You fixed her and she isn't going to die."

  "I fixed her," Anna said. "How about you let me look at your neck now that she's situated? If you get an infection, you won't be able to take care of her."

  Frank nodded silently. Anna had to peel the shirt collar away from the injured skin, making Frank wince as it came unstuck. She rubbed ointment gently into the wound and Frank settled. "Does that feel better?"

  "It stings pretty bad, to be honest."

  "That means it's working. Whatever you do, don't itch it. I want you to get some sleep now too, Frank."

  He ignored her and leaned forward, re-tucking the blanket around Claire's shoulders. Anna shut the door rather than argue with him and took a moment to appreciate the quiet. Bart Masters coughed lightly to let her know he was watching her from down the hall. "Why don't you go home and get some rest, Dr. Willow. I'll stay with the patients and send someone for you if there's a need."

  Anna thanked him and grabbed her coat. She stepped outside and saw a dim light from the Sheriff's Office. Walt Junger was sitting at his desk, hunched over, scribbling on a stack of documents. Anna had heard rumors that Junger was applying for warrants for McParlan's arrest, sending off letters to every government agency in the sector. She shook her head and was about to turn away when someone sitting on a porch swing outside of her office caught her eye. Anna squinted to make him out and said, "Jem? What in the world are you doing lurking around out here?"

  "I didn't have anywhere else to go. I figured I'd stay nearby if you needed me, but not disturb you."

  Anna held out her hand and said, "Come on. You're coming with me."

  There were no lights on in any of the businesses along Pioneer Way as they walked. Even the bars were closed. "So tell me the fate of Mr. Elijah Harpe," Anna said.

  Jem looked down and said, "A person like you wouldn't understand, Anna. Someone like you helps people. Someone like me does the opposite."

  "I wouldn't expect anything less from the baddest man in the world," Anna said.

  Jem grinned at her. "You've been waiting twenty years to fire that one back at me, haven't you?"

  "Maybe. Do you remember Zeke that used to work for my father?"

  Jem nodded.

  "Did you ever hear what happened to me?"

  "I heard enough."

  Anna's voice was quiet when she said, "When I was a little girl, I trusted everybody. People acted so nice to me after my mother died, I just assumed that's how they really were. Zeke told me I was special. He paid attention to me. Sometimes I wonder if I did something to make him think it was okay to do what he did."

  "You were just a kid, Anna. Of course you didn't," Jem said.

  "The worst thing about it was that the nice man who treated me so kindly told me he would kill me and my father if I told anyone. I believed him, Jem. I looked in his eyes and I saw evil. I never could tell your daddy what he did to me. Miss Katey had to do all the talking for me, and your daddy hauled Zeke off to the penitentiary."

  Jem looked off in the distance. "That's the story I heard too."

  "Except Zeke never was at the penitentiary."

  Jem did not speak.

  "I checked up on him a few years ago, just to see what became of him. The warden said there had never been a prisoner there by that name. So it leaves me with the question as to what became of the man that stole my innocence. Your daddy didn't seem the type to let a man like that go in the desert, now did he?"

  Jem shook his head, "No. I don't suppose."

  She put her hand in his. "So, you're wrong. Someone like me would understand."

  She led him to the front steps of her house and he stood there while she unlocked the front door. "Well, don't just stand there. Come on."

  Jem followed her through the dark house toward the washroom where she turned on the taps above a large washtub. The pipes whistled and hot water sputtered into the tub. Anna started to unbutton his shirt, and Jem stopped her. "I'm a little old to be given a bath by anyone, let alone you."

  She continued to unbutton his shirt. "I am a doctor, Jem Clayton. I want to make sure you weren't injured today. Anyway, it's not like it's anything I haven't seen when you were a kid."

  He pulled her closer to him so that they were pressed against one another. "You might be surprised."

  Anna's cheeks turned crimson and Jem smiled before stepping back from her and yanked off his boots. They were caked in mud and he set them down next to the door. "I'm just playing with you, Anna. Besides, you're a little too old for me."

  "I'm only four years older than you!"

  "Yeah, but that's in woman-years. A woman thirty-six years old is like a man at fifty. At least, by my math." She rolled her eyes but did not look away as Jem started to unbutton his pants.

  They laid down together after his bath and started on opposite sides of the bed. "It's cold in here," Anna said.

  "You want me to go put on the furnace?"

  "No."

  Jem wrapped his arm around her and pressed himself against her back. "Is that better?" When she did not respond he lifted his head to look at her and saw she was already asleep.

  The next morning he woke up alone. There was a pitcher of coffee on the table next to the bed with an empty cup in a saucer. Beside the pitcher was a locked wooden box with an old key laying on top of a note that read: Whatever is in this box belongs to you. I have kept it all these years waiting for you to come home.

  Jem folded up the letter and regarded the box. He studied the rusted metal lock as he twirled the heavy iron key in his fingers before fitting it into the opening and turning.

  The box lid creaked open and the first thing Jem saw were several pieces of paper folded together. He removed each page and placed them on the bed to smooth them out. There was the same shaky handwriting on each page. He read the first one.
<
br />   Dear Jem:

  I do not know how this letter will find you. Perhaps you will be an old man like me when you finally read it. All the men written of within it may have long since passed on and you will be left with nothing except maybe a few answers.

  However, it is my hope that you are not so old, and that those men have not quite so easily escaped from their past deeds.

  I entrusted this box to my beloved daughter Anna, who has always taken a fancy to your family. It is my sincerest hope that she is healthy and happy as you read this, and while I entreat you not to tell her anything else that you read here, please tell her that.

  It has been ten years since I last laid eyes on you. You rode out one day searching for something that I suspect was taken from you when you were just a boy. Whatever it is you went looking for, I don't believe you will have found it. Not out there, anyway. It's here.

  I am going to tell you the truth about your father and his passing.

  I pray to God Almighty that you are man enough to stand it, and I hope more than anything else that you are strong enough to forgive me. I am already dead, as you read my words. I've heard death's footfalls creep toward me for weeks now and he will be here soon. I am looking forward to it, actually. By the time you have lived to my age, and seen what I have seen, you will not fear death. You'll fear life. You'll look forward to taking a nice long rest, and to the end of having to lose the things that you love.

  Only four people know the truth about what happened that day in the wasteland. One of them died finding out. I suspect I'll be gone soon, so count me out as well. Of the two that remain, it is my dying wish that they have a chance to witness your reaction to all I am about to say.

  It had been a week since Sam Clayton had left us for Beothuk Country with that wagon full of dead bodies. He went on a damned fool's errand to try and make peace with those savages by showing them a more noble way of existence. Nobody, including myself, thought this was a good idea.

  Sam was a popular man, and there were rumblings of forming a search party that didn't amount to much beyond tavern talk. It took me by surprise when I came to find out that Walt Junger and Billy Jack Elliot had taken it upon themselves to ride out into the desert to look for him. I saw Walt loading up a destrier in front of the Sheriff's Office and asked him when he was headed out. "First light," he said.