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

by Bernard Schaffer

  Whoever the woman was, she was used to getting her way. A looker, that much was certain, he conceded. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a way that left ringlets dangling over her cheeks like marionettes. Her pouty lips and wide, dark eyes certainly enough to keep her well plied in her chosen trade. She playfully touched the fabric of the scarf around her neck, stroking it in ways meant to distract the Sheriff into unconsciously imagining her stroking something else.

  She was close to Sheriff Otis Saringo's sweaty face and managed to not look disgusted. Not even when the thick flaps of skin under Saringo's chin jiggled as he shook his head no.

  The woman reached into her bag and produced something that caught Morrison's eye. It was silver and pointed, some kind of star, with the number six emblazoned on the center of it. She showed it to Saringo, who nodded and said, "I'll try."

  Morrison watched the fat lawman lumber in his direction and decided he was too sober to deal with the upcoming conversation after all. He swallowed the rest of his whiskey and pushed the glass toward the bartender for a refill.

  Saringo tipped his hat back on his bald head and said, "Well, you're off the hook, Morrison. The dealer and that girl vouched for you. I guess that makes you all kinds of lucky tonight."

  Morrison watched the bartender fill his glass and took it back, "I do not subscribe to luck, Sheriff Otis. Chaos is the natural order of things. Long strings of random events over which we have no control. Tell me, Sheriff. Do you believe in predestination or are you a fellow proponent of chaos theory?"

  "I'm a believer in the foot-up-your-ass theory if you don't quit wising off to me, blood-spitter. That girl thinks you took her money."

  "That is incorrect. How was I to know how the unfortunate Mr. Diehl obtained his stake?"

  Saringo's tongue was pink with white spots as he lobbed it around his wet lips like a bovine, thinking it all over. "As much as it pains me to side with a snake like you, I reckon you're right. Go on and get the hell out of here." Saringo pointed at the bartender and said, "No more for him tonight. He's cut off."

  Morrison swallowed what was in his glass at once and said, "I grow weary of the cretins in this establishment anyway. And none more so than myself." He started to cough then, lightly at first, but something clogged in his chest and he had to grab one of the linens from the bar and press it against his face. He bent forward and coughed until he gagged and spat a mouthful of blood into the cloth.

  The Sheriff grimaced in disgust and left him then. Morrison tried to signal the bartender for another round, but the coward shook his head no and said, "You're cut off, he said."

  The woman was leaving, trying to get out of the hall so that no one could see the tears of frustration spilling down her cheeks, leaving long streaks of thick black makeup dribbling onto her neck. Morrison pointed at the bartender and said, "We will discuss this little insult at a later time, of that you can be sure."

  He found her untying a large destrier from the hitching post in front of the hall, a pretty looking animal with soft brown fur and wide eyes. She looked up at him accusingly and said, "Come to gloat?"

  "Nope."

  "I hope you drink yourself to death with that money. I put a curse on it and I put a curse on you. If you had any idea what I went through to get it, or what it was for, you wouldn't be standing there looking so smug."

  Morrison looked up at the night sky. Light clouds covered the twin moons on the horizon, but directly above them was bright and clear. He looked at the various planets and stars, all twinkling with bright light and found himself wondering what it was that kept him from going to any of them. Maybe I'd like to die near an ocean, he thought. Swim with the sea turtles. No. I hate the water. But he knew the truth. There was a grave in a faraway place with a woman buried inside it. He wasn't positive about it, because he'd never seen it, but he was somewhat certain she'd been loved enough and respected enough for the people responsible to see to it properly. And if there was a grave with her in it, there was room for him beside it.

  And if I die somewhere else, I'll never be placed there, he thought. What a wretched thing I've become if that is my sole purpose for living.

  "Anyway, goodnight and go to hell," she said as she climbed into her saddle and prepared to leave.

  "Wait," he said.

  The woman stopped her destrier and said, "What?"

  "Although it's against my better judgment, I'll give you the opportunity to regain your money so long as you agree to my conditions."

  The woman looked away from him and took a deep breath. "You really are as bad as the Sheriff said. You know what? Fine. Let's go."

  "Go? Go where?"

  "To your room? If you expect I'm gonna just go into some alleyway with you and hike up my skirt, you're as stupid as you are ugly. But you better not get any blood on me."

  Morrison chuckled and said, "As flattering as you make the whole prospect of an erotic dalliance with you, particularly in such an excessively vulgary manner, that is not what I had in mind." He came down the steps and held up his hand, "My terms are these. You must tell me everything."

  They found a quiet saloon not too far away and sat at a table in the corner. Morrison asked to sit down with his back to the wall so he could watch whoever was walking in. "I'll get us both a drink," she said.

  "I politely decline," Morrison said.

  "You don't look like the man who declines a free drink."

  "Flattery will get you nowhere."

  He folded his hands on the table and waited for her to go to the bar and come back. He realized he was shaking, and quickly put his hands back under the table to hide them. She came back and sat down with a mug of beer and a small glass of water. She slid the water toward him and said, "In case you get thirsty."

  "What is your name?" Morrison said.

  "Edwina, but everybody calls me Winnie."

  Morrison nodded and said, "So, Edwina. Tell me why a woman employed such as yourself happens to have on her person a badge from such a faraway place as Seneca 6?"

  "I thought it might convince that fat bastard Otis to hear what I was saying, but he didn't care. Nobody cares," she said. "That's how I got into this damn mess."

  Morrison tried to hide his frustration and getting the answers he wanted immediately. He took a deep breath and said, "Perhaps if you started at the beginning I could gain some perspective as to what you want the rest of us to care about?"

  Winnie took a long drink and wiped the foam from her mouth. "Five years ago my little brother was shot on the night our settlement got raided by savages. We'd only lived in Seneca 6 a little while. We moved there because we heard it was a quiet little place with real good people. And it was. It was good and decent, and Mama found a job and we had a house. Everything was exactly like she said it would be. Then the damn itjins showed up."

  Morrison nodded as she spoke but said nothing. He kept his hands busy by rolling a long cigarette and filling it with tobacco from a tin in his vest. There was a storm of a cough building up inside of him that felt like a thousand flies swarming around in his lungs. He suppressed a cough that burnt his throat and muttered, "I stopped smoking two years ago. Someone kindly suggested it might be better for my condition. I found that doing so allowed me to drink more, so it was a win-win. I still carry tobacco with me though, and at times I find myself absent-mindedly rolling a cigarette such as now. I suppose it helps me concentrate. Isn't that peculiar?"

  Winnie nodded and said, "I guess. Anyway, my Ma was hurt, and my brother was shot, and the only person we could find to help us was this deputy, Tom Masters. He tried to save us, and when he realized we needed more help than he could give, he tried to get us all to the hospital at Seneca 5."

  Katey, he thought as the girl spoke. He could see her as clearly as the day he found her stabbed to death in the back of the house. He pushed the thought away and said, "Go on."

  "Everything was going fine. Mr. Masters knew what to do, and right before we were safe, these no-good sons of
bitches showed up."

  "Who?" he said.

  "Johnny Starr and his men. One of them had a long gun and shot poor Mr. Masters in the back once they got far enough away. Cowards."

  He found himself inching into the dark sea of memory, seeing faces he'd refused to remember for years. Things he'd buried under rivers of alcohol and self-loathing. Katey. The thought of her snared him by the ankles and dragged him under. He felt his jaw quivering. "And what of Tom?" he managed to whisper. "Did he perish?"

  The girl was looking at him now, trying to understand why he was hunched over like her words had punched him in the stomach. "Yes, he did . Right after we arrived. Died right in his saddle on that destrier out front. Buttercup, he called her."

  "I see," he said. "And what exactly was your business arrangement with Charlie Diehl?"

  "I put a bounty on Johnny Starr and his sniper, this mute they call Mr. Pine. A full ounce of severian for each one. You know how long it took me to save all that up? A long time. A lot of ugly, sweaty, disgusting men, but the whole entire while I kept thinking about what happened to the only good man I ever knew. How his little boy and wife back home must've felt when they got my letter. Charlie Diehl took a down payment from me to kill the ones who done it, and that was why I got so upset."

  He rubbed his finger around the rim of the glass several times, "What makes you think Charlie Diehl could even find this man?"

  "I did all the finding he needed."

  "And why didn't you just go do it yourself?"

  "I did. Or at least, I tried. Starr knows me now." She reached up and fumbled with the high-collar of her dress to peel it down and reveal a long jagged scar that wound around her neck. "Lucky for me, I survived. Unlucky for him."

  He leaned forward to examine the scar and frowned, "Whoever repaired that injury appears to have been both crippled and near-sighted. It is nothing less than a butchery."

  "At least my scars are on the outside, Doc," she said quietly.

  He didn't move.

  Winnie leaned close to him and said, "Now I ain't been completely honest with you, Mr. Whatever-the-hell-your-name-really-is, but then again, I don't think you been too honest either. While I was laid on my back over in Seneca 5, I heard all kinds of stories about all kinds of people. One of 'em was this mystery about what happened to Royce Halladay after his wife was murdered. Some say he chopped up a few itjins and a deputy sheriff in his own backyard then threw himself into Coramide Canyon. Some say he left Seneca to go find treatment for his disease. Some say he got a taste of blood that night of the raid and ain't stopped killing since. Whatever the real story is, Halladay vanished and was never heard from again."

  He didn't move.

  Winnie continued, "And then I heard these stories about a ghost living out here in Seneca Prime. A rude, drunken, belligerent, verbose scoundrel with no friends who spits up blood every time he coughs, but people are still too afraid to go after him on account of his speed and skill with his pistols and knives. A stone-cold killer, for certain, but never out of whim and never undeservedly. You know what I did when I heard them stories?"

  "I dare not ask."

  Winnie smiled wickedly at him and said, "I decided to see for myself. I gave a whole bunch of money to the most desperate imbecile I could find and watched him come and try to gamble it all away. I knew it was only a matter of time before that same ghost smelled blood in the water and talked him into playing a high-stakes game."

  He leaned back in his seat and lifted his glass of water as a toast to her before he drank it. "So if I am who you think I am, what on earth makes you think I would be of any help to you?"

  "Because I know Tom Masters was your friend, and that you are the only man alive who can kill them sons of bitches. I will pay you all the money I been saving up so long as you get revenge for him and my family. So which is it, sir? Are you JD Morrison or are you Doctor Royce Henry Halladay?"

  He picked the cigarette up and placed it between his lips, closing his eyes to savor the taste as he lit it and inhaled smoke up through his nostrils for the first time in years. "I will tell you this much, Edwina whom everyone calls Winnie. Ghosts are harmless apparitions. They can do little more than scare the dull-witted. And I am no ghost, my dear," he said. "I am the devil."

  6. The Silk Purse

  She drew the straight razor's blade along the leather strop, going back and forth until the steel edge was fiber thin. "Do you miss being a doctor?"

  Halladay tapped his fingers against the arm rests of the chair and sighed in thought. "Well, it is a subject I tend not to dwell upon. It seems as if my life then happened to some other man from some other place."

  Winnie nodded as she set the bowl of hot water and warm towel on the shelf beside him. She scooped a small amount of shaving cream into a bowl and picked up a small pair of scissors. "But you're a gambler now. All they do is cheat people out of their money."

  He tilted his head back as she lowered to him and began to snip his beard away. "I cannot agree with that assertion. I consider it my civic duty to liberate fools of their coin. It is a job I perform on behalf of society."

  "Oh really? How so?"

  "It is a documented fact that when fools are entrusted with money, it allows them to find others of their kind and procreate. The civilized world would soon be overrun by their species if I were not hard at work on a nightly basis."

  "I see," she said. She put the scissors down and began to massage the warm, wet towel onto his face. Once his skin was damp, she lathered him with the thick white cream and picked up the razor. Halladay watched her extend the long blade and bring it toward his throat.

  "When I was a young man, I was motivated to help others. To heal. I took a solemn oath to defend the good people of my settlement from ravages of disease." Something gurgled in his chest and he tried to stifle a cough, but it leapt out of his mouth and Winnie had to yank the razor away so he didn't injure himself on it. Halladay leaned forward and hacked into the damp towel.

  "Did you stop because you got sick?" she said.

  He sat back and groaned, wiping his lips to make sure there was no blood on them. "Of course not. A patient of mine fell ill and I was forced to watch her deteriorate. She had made me promise to not let her linger on, because she knew her husband and children would suffer for it. She wanted a quick and dignified death so that her family could get on with the healing process that much sooner. She was a strong woman," he whispered. "Actually, you remind me of her in many ways."

  "So is that what you did? Gave her peace, I mean," Winnie said.

  "No." He was silent for a little while after that, listening to the sound of Winnie's razor on his skin. He only winced slightly when she nicked him. "As much as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to do it. Instead, I allowed my only friend to be tormented for months. It changed him. Sometimes I wonder if Sam would still be alive if I had been less of a coward."

  Winnie tried to offer him words of solace, but he waved his hand at her and told her not to bother. "I met Sheriff Clayton once," she said, trying a different tact. "He was standin' on that porch in front of his office, lookin' out over the square. He saw me lookin' up at him and smiled at me with those big blue eyes. 'How you doin', little lady? I got a young man at home who you're gonna give all kinds of fits to in about four years or so.' He tipped his hat at my mother right before we walked off. That was only a few days before the raid, though."

  Halladay watched her clean all the hair off his left cheek in the mirror and said, "You were misinformed, by the way. Tom Masters was never my friend. We tolerated one another for Sam's sake. I always found him to be simple, and he always found me to be arrogant and mean. The last time we spoke, we had an argument. He owed me for five stitches I'd put in his head, and we argued about the price."

  She smoothed down his mustache and chin hair with her fingers and said, "So why are you doing this then? Just for the money?"

  Halladay leaned forward and admired her handiwork in the mir
ror. He was disappointed in how gaunt and pale he looked, but it was a respectable enough facsimile of the face he'd not seen in several years. "Why am I doing it? Vivere commune est, sed non commune mereri," he said.

  Winnie's face twisted in confusion, "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means that you should have spent more time in school," he said. He slid down from the chair and leaned toward the mirror to adjust his black silk cravat. He picked up his black hat with the wide brim and smoothed it flat across his brow. "Now tell me again about our first friend."

  "Frisby Clement," she said. "He's been working for Starr the longest. If anybody knows where to find the others, it's him."

  "What an unfortunate first name," Halladay mused. "And I assume you know the present whereabouts of Mr. Clement?"

  "I do," Winnie said, "he owns a brothel in town called The Silk Purse." She looked at him sideways, "When's the last time you were there?"

  "I never have."

  "Yeah, right," she said. "Well, without your big ol' face scarf, nobody would recognize you anyhow. The reason I think Frisby is the one we should go talk to is he and Starr ain't on the friendliest terms. Starr gave him the start up cash for the Purse, and he thinks that gives him the right to give Frisby what for."

  Halladay scratched his chin thoughtfully as he turned away from the mirror to take in Winnie's physique, "I believe I have an idea, however, you are going to need some new clothes. Those old rags simply will not do."

  Frisby looked at the crowded parlor and scowled. Sure, they were packed, but it was a bunch of rag-tag farmhands carrying on with the women instead of renting them. Everywhere he looked he saw money vanishing into thin air. He walked over to the piano player and slapped him across the back of the neck, "Play something less lively. You're makin' people sit around."