Less Than Human

by Raisor, Gary

  Everyone saw that it was a serious bite.

  "We ain't got no doctor," straw hat said. He didn't seem too sad about it. "We got an undertaker, though. You might be able to trade him them two mules for a fancy send-off."

  "That's right neighborly of you," Earl said, grabbing the snake behind the head and dropping him back into the box, "but I think I might need those mules to pull my wagon when I set out for Crowder Flats tomorrow." With that he opened up a bottle of his elixir and drank it straight down.

  "You throw in a couple of bottles of that colored water and the undertaker just might put you up a stone." Straw hat was playing to the crowd as he waited for the fancy-talking old man to double over and start swelling up. "But you'd better not wait too long. That preacher I saw get bit couldn't even talk before long. Tell you what, you give me them mules and I'll see you get a Christian burial myself."

  "Friend, your concern touches me deeply, but I'm going to be fine. That colored water, as you call it, contains a secret ingredient taught to me by an Arapaho medicine man. No snake can hurt me."

  "I'm giving five-to-one odds this old fraud is dead before sundown," the florid rancher called out. There were quite a few takers. The mood of the crowd was becoming positively festive. This was the most excitement they'd had in years.

  They settled in to wait.

  Every so often, someone would remark that Earl didn't look too good and more money would exchange hands. The saloon keeper, an enterprising fellow, set up a canvas awning to keep the sun off and managed to sell quite a bit of beer while everyone waited for the old man to start puffing up.

  Once in a while, to show everyone he was feeling fine, Earl would get up and do a little dance for the children, even let out a whoop or two. The small boys loved it and some of the braver ones would shoot at him with their wooden guns from behind their fathers. The girls mostly hid behind their mother's skirts and cried.

  The big rancher was suspicious when Earl didn't swell up and die as the sun began to dip. He demanded to see the snake-bit hand, which Earl showed him. Sure enough there were two puncture wounds and one even had a little blood oozing out of it. He looked closely at Earl, and hatred filled his eyes. "Your little trick cost me money today, old man." His voice was soft. "I know you from somewhere, don't I? Maybe from a long time ago?" He tightened his grip on the injured hand, causing more blood to flow from the wound.

  "I doubt it. I don't get through here very often." The grip tightened some more and the pain was bad, but Earl didn't let it show on his face. He smiled. "Mostly I stick kind of close to Missouri. Ever been there? It's pretty country, good place to raise a family."

  Something flashed between them and the big rancher looked hard at him, as though weighing the chances of shooting him where he stood. "My name is Cates and I don't ever forget a face. Yours'll come back to me." He released the hand. "We'll talk again when it's not so crowded." Before Cates could say more, he was overrun by people eager to collect on their wagers.

  Within a few minutes, Earl had sold every bottle of elixir he owned. He was in such a good mood he promised the snake a toad.

  By the time night fell, Earl was miles away from Jessup and nursing his sore hand. All the venom might have been milked from that old rattler, but it still hurt like hell where the fangs had gone in. By morning he wouldn't be able to close the hand. Getting snake-bit was just part of doing business and he was philosophical about it. What worried him more was that he could barely hold on to the big old hogleg Colt he kept under the wagon seat. He was going to need to hold on to it, as soon as Cates figured out where they'd met before.

  And Cates would figure that out. Twenty-five years had passed since Earl had seen the massacre, yet it might have been yesterday as far as he was concerned. He had been running a herd of stolen Kiowa horses up Missouri way when he came across what was left of a dead family—a hunter turned farmer and his squaw wife.

  They had been butchered by renegades. White renegades from the look of the signs. The man had been tied to a tree and gutted; the woman had been raped and strangled. They had been dead for several days because the animals were fighting over what was left of them.

  Earl had seen death. He knew what was in that cabin was going to be bad. He couldn't have said what made him look in there. What he saw was worse than anything he could have imagined. There were two boys no older than eight or nine and a girl of about six, their heads bashed in with a rifle butt.

  Only the little girl wasn't quite dead. She should have been. She had been skinned alive and was crawling across the cabin floor on her stomach.

  Trying to get away from him. Thinking he was the one who had come back to hurt her some more. Trying to hide. Her own blood greasing her path.

  Crawling….

  Like a snake without a head.

  He wouldn't have thought such a little girl could hold so much blood.

  Knowing he was a fool for risking his life over something that was none of his damn business, he tracked the killers back to their camp. There were five of them and he fully intended to cut all their throats as they slept.

  After night fell, he sent two straight to hell with gaping toothless grins carved in their throats. The second one had taken a long time to die, bucking and thrashing so hard that Earl had feared the rest would be awakened. It was just plain bad luck that prevented him from finishing off the rest of them. One had drunk too much whiskey and had gotten up to relieve himself. Earl sliced the man's throat while he was making water, but somehow he slipped loose and got off a shot. That slug tore off part of Earl's lower lip. In the flash, he got a look at the renegade leader. It was only for an instant, just long enough to see a big man wearing a straw hat.

  And for the man to see him.

  The man in the straw hat called the other renegade by name, trying to direct his shots in the right direction. Several of their slugs came so close; Earl felt the air brush his ribs from their passing. Luckily for him they had camped near a stand of cottonwoods or he would have been killed right there.

  As it was, they tracked him for a week, causing him to ride his favorite horse to death. He managed to steal another from a ranch and was finally able to lose them on the other side of the Arkansas River.

  That had been a long time ago. Now he was driving his wagon across the Arizona flatlands in the dark, and it had been three days since he'd left Jessup, and it might be another three before he made Crowder Flats. He hadn't slept much in that time because he knew Cates would be coming after him. But then he never slept much anyhow.

  This country was deserted, not much grass and even less water. Only lizards and snakes lived here. There would be no one to interfere when the big rancher came after him. He took another pull from a bottle of his best pop-skull whiskey and waited for Cates to come.

  The only sound was the creaking of the wagon and the pop of the reins as he urged the mules on. The sound lulled him into a light doze. Still, he heard the man riding after him. That was all right. Earl was expecting him. He had been expecting him for twenty-five years.

  Earl's eyes sought and found the old hogleg lying on the wagon seat. He stared at the pistol and remembered the little girl crawling on her stomach. Night after night he had imagined what he would do to the man who had killed her when he found him.

  Now that the time had come, Earl just wanted it to be over.

  Cates wasn't a man to put off a fight or maybe he was just plain crazy. He came in at full gallop, leaning low over the roan he rode, letting the animal shield him. His shots weren't even directed at Earl. He meant to spook the mules, which he did, because they went to kicking and bucking until they kicked over their traces. They bolted and Earl had to jump from the wagon before it went over on its side. He fell heavily, twisting his leg, and the hogleg landed in the dirt.

  Before Earl could get to his feet, Cates saw him. The big man spurred the roan forward, meaning to run him over. Earl leveled the pistol—but Cates didn't seem to care. Beneath the straw hat
, his face was dead calm as he guided the horse toward the man on foot.

  Earl thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. He tried again with the same results. The pistol wouldn't fire. Something must have happened to it when it landed in the dirt. All those years of traveling from town to town, looking for Cates, only to let him escape. A feeling of sadness crept over Earl. He had let the little girl down. For a moment he saw her crawling across the floor, leaving a trail of blood.

  The roan would be on top of him in seconds. He looked straight ahead and at first he didn't see the small white shape dart from under the wagon and run in front of the horse. Cates was taken by surprise as his mount reared and pitched over sideways. The horse landed heavily, pinning the rider beneath him for a moment before rolling free. The roan climbed to his feet and stood there, trembling.

  Cates didn't move.

  The white shape came closer and Earl was surprised to see it was his surly, one-eared dog who wouldn't do any tricks. The dog had been scared by all the noise and had decided to make a run for cover. Earl was too numb to be surprised.

  Quickly, Earl limped over and picked up the big man's pistol, stuck it in his belt. Almost as an afterthought he put a hand on Cates' chest, feeling around for a heartbeat. He found one. Earl pulled out the pistol and pointed it at the rancher's head, but after twenty-five years, he had to have some answers. He went to the wagon and returned with some rope.

  Grunting with the effort, he dragged Cates over to the wagon and tied him to the wheel. The rancher groaned once and Earl clubbed him in the mouth with the heavy pistol. Teeth and blood spilled onto the ground. The big rancher slumped. Earl had to use every ounce of his willpower not to raise the pistol a second time. He went over and made a small fire and put on some coffee.

  After an hour or so, Cates came to. At first he looked confused, and then as he recognized Earl, his face darkened with anger. He strained against the ropes until he realized his efforts were useless. He smiled, showing ragged stumps where his teeth used to be. "Mister, I got over forty men riding for me. You're going to be one sorry son of a bitch if you don't cut me loose right now."

  "Why did you skin the little girl?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "We're, going to talk a little bit, Cates, and then I'm going to kill you. Whether it's quick or slow pretty much depends on if you tell me the truth."

  "You might as well go on ahead and kill me right now." Cates spat a mouthful of blood into Earl's face. "Cause I ain't talking to no goddamned killer."

  "I spent half my life looking for you, Cates. So listen up, you're going to talk to me." Earl picked up the skinning knife, reached over, and calmly sliced off Cates' left ear. He tossed it onto the bound man's stomach. "Maybe you can hear me a little better now."

  Cates looked with disbelief at his severed ear lying on his stomach. A big greasy tear slid down his cheek and landed on his stomach, mixing with the blood already there. "She turned me down," Cates said. "She was just a goddamned Indian squaw, who did she think she was, turning me down? I hit her but I didn't kill her."

  "You're a liar." Earl sliced off Cates' remaining ear. "I caught up with the other renegade just outside Abilene last year. The last one besides you. We didn't get to talk all that much, on account of he shot himself. Trouble was, his aim hadn't improved any since the last time we met. He did live long enough to tell me you didn't have nothing to do with the squaw. He said you didn't much like women at all. At least not grown ones."

  "He's a liar. It wasn't me."

  "Here's what I think happened. Just nod your head if I get close to the truth."

  Cates tried to pull away, thrashing against his bonds like a madman.

  "You raped her, didn't you, Cates, even though she was just a little girl. Only you had to get around a problem first. She was an Indian and her skin was red and that made you sick to your stomach, but you found a way to handle that, didn't you?" Earl raised the heavy pistol and brought it down on Cates' leg. Bone splintered. "Her skin was the problem"—the pistol raised again, fell again—"so you skinned her."

  Earl severed the ropes and Cates slumped to the ground. Somehow the big rancher had managed to hold on to consciousness as Earl righted the wagon and hitched up the mules. Cates watched while his roan was tied on behind the wagon. "You're not going to leave me here, are you?" he called out to the departing wagon. "It's three days' ride to the next town. I can't walk… my legs are broken. You promised you'd kill me quick if I told the truth."

  Earl looked back once and saw that Cates was trying his best to keep up with the mules. But it was hard going for a man who had two broken legs, who had to crawl on his stomach across the sand.

  After a while it came to Earl what Cates looked like.

  He looked like a snake.

  When Earl made camp three hours later, he fell into an exhausted sleep. His dreams were peaceful for the first time in more years than he could remember.

  The dog's yelp woke him.

  Earl rolled out of his blankets with a gun under his nose, and when he looked into the man's pale face, he was met with a smile. There wasn't much friendliness in it. "Cates wasn't lying," the stranger said. "He never touched the little girl. It was three army deserters that did the killing. One of them told me everything before I…." The smile widened just a bit.

  "Who are you?" Earl asked.

  The stranger's smile practically split his face. "Steven Adler, I'm your new partner." He moved closer.

  "If Cates didn't kill the little girl, then why did he come after me tonight?" Earl tried to back away and found he couldn't.

  "You hunted down and killed a lot of innocent men, Earl. They were Cates' friends. That's the reason he came after you. You've spent half your life looking for the men who killed that little girl. I admire your persistence and I like the way you use a knife." The young stranger was laughing now. "I can use a man like you, so I've decided we're going to be together for a long time. A long, long time," the stranger repeated, as though he had just said something funny.

  Earl felt a sharp sting on his neck and for an instant he thought the old diamondback had gotten loose and had bitten him. He knew he was a dead man because he hadn't milked that snake in three days, but it wasn't the snake that had bitten him. It was the blond stranger.

  The last thing Earl Jacobs saw before he began his new life were the teeth covered with red, the teeth that were too long and caught the moonlight.

  He wished many times since that night that the snake had bitten him instead.

  Reaching for his boot, Earl pulled out his knife. The light reflected off the blade and caught him in the eyes. They filled with sadness.

  "Jesus Christ," Steven said, looking at Earl in disgust. He took the knife from Earl's shaky hand and prepared to cut Leon Wilson's throat. "You're not supposed to get sentimental over your dinner."

  "I'm not getting sentimental," Earl answered. "It's just that Leon Wilson is a good man and I like him, okay? You're not going to kill him. We have a deal, remember." Earl stepped in front of Steven. "No more killing unless we absolutely have to.''

  Steven put the knife to Leon's throat.

  "You do him and I'm walking," Earl said calmly.

  "You're forgetting who's the boss here, aren't you?"

  "No, I ain't forgetting, but you kill him and I'm taking a walk in the daylight."

  "You're bluffing."

  "Try me. This ain't much of a life, no way."

  Steven relented, pulled the knife back. "No reason to kill him. I scared him enough to get what I came for. That fake hand in the jar made him spill his guts."

  "Yeah, it worked real good. He almost spilled mine, too."

  "Sorry. He was quick for a big guy." Steven straightened Earl's jacket, slapped him on the shoulder. He smiled at Earl, searching the older man's eyes. "You're not going to take a walk on me, are you?"

  "Not unless you break our deal."

  "All right, we'
ll drag him over to the steps, and when he wakes up in the morning, he'll think he fell. But right now, hurry up and get yourself a little taste. We've got to shag our asses over to Crowder Flats."

  The knife went to work.

  Chapter 6

  John Warrick eased the phone back onto its cradle and lay back on his bed. Louise's words wouldn't quite sink in. An under aged male prostitute in Vegas, stabbed and left to die, all his blood found spattered on a wall. What kind of man could do something like that?

  Why?

  Kicks?

  The cue stick lying on a chair across the room caught his gaze. The red feathered serpent curled around the handle seemed angry and peered at him with baleful eyes.

  Accusing him.

  The stick belonged to whoever had killed Joey Estevez. The boy had been killed for fun. And for something else. His blood?

  John didn't want to think about that. He looked away from the chair, his eyes straying to the ceiling, but that was no good either. The afternoon sun was spilling through the window and it had given the water stains a reddish tint.

  That room in Vegas had been covered in blood.

  The walls were closing in on him again and his head began to throb. What the hell was he going to do? John didn't know the killer's name; he barely even knew what the guy looked like.

  Okay, say he went to cops and accused the guy. It was his word against the stranger's. John knew his word didn't carry any weight, not since he'd pulled that job in Tucson. He'd been a kid at the time, but cops had long memories. Suppose they asked him a few pointed questions about how come he knew so much about the murder.

  What would he say that he knew the guy did it because he, John Warrick, was some kind of half-assed psychic? That he had just happened to pick up some weird vibrations from a stolen pool cue? If the cops didn't stick him in a padded room, they might arrest him for the kid's death.

  John was in over his head and he knew he was in over his head. It was time to pack it in.