Deadlands--Thunder Moon Rising

by Jeffrey Mariotte

  “Fine,” Tuck said. “Hold the horse steady and I’ll do it.”

  He pulled his knife—the same one he had finally killed the dark thing with—and sliced through the ropes holding the blanket fast to the horse’s back. When he cut the last one, the bundle started to slide. Tuck gave a gentle push, and it fell to the dirt with a liquid sound.

  There, Tuck pulled on the blanket, unrolling it from around the dead creature.

  Maier swore softly, in German, then started vomiting off the other side of his horse. Tuck was silent, stunned by what he saw.

  The thing was considerably smaller than it had been, with no more form than a lump of dough. Whatever had once looked human, or nearly so, was gone. It was black and greasy and had stained the inside of the blanket, but there was no indication of anything that might have ever resembled a man. This blob could not have worn clothes or fired a gun or convinced Daisie to take him upstairs so he could slaughter her in her bed.

  “We can’t take this to Carmichael,” Tuck said.

  “It’s terrible!” Maier said. “Let us leave it here, Bringloe. Please. I do not want to take another step with that thing.”

  “We can’t just leave it,” Tuck said. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way, but it seemed to him that as evil as the thing had been, to abandon it for some other traveler to happen across might be too dangerous. Such evil could likely reach out from beyond death, he thought, and infect someone else.

  “We must!” Maier argued.

  “No,” Tuck said, determination lending a commanding aspect to his voice. “We’ll burn it.”

  “Must we?”

  “Yes. Come on, Alf. Tie those horses up and let’s get busy.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the end, the thing burned as easily as lamp oil. Tuck had barely touched fire to the soiled blanket when it ignited in a huge whoosh that almost singed his eyebrows. Smoke coiled up from it, thick and black and stinking like the creature had. Tuck tried not to let it get into his clothes or his hair, afraid it would never wash away.

  When the blanket and its contents were nothing but ashes scattered on the ground, Tuck was ready to ride again.

  “We must never speak of this,” Maier insisted. “To anybody. They would think we had lost our minds.”

  “Can’t argue,” Tuck said. “The Tombstone Epitaph might be interested in this sort of thing, but any sane person would have to doubt our sanity.”

  “Yet we both saw it,” Maier said. “Smelled it. It was real, wasn’t it? Now it’s gone, I almost can’t convince myself.”

  “It was real,” Tuck said. “But it’s not anymore. It’s gone. You’re right, Alf. Not a word. To anyone.”

  They shook on it, then mounted up and continued the trek toward Carmichael. The horse that had carried the bundle only made it another couple of miles before it went lame, and Tuck had to shoot it. Once again, he had used a gun to put a merciful end to a living creature’s unspeakable agony.

  He dearly hoped he would never have to do that again.

  * * *

  The mayor of Carmichael was a gaunt, sepulchral man named Oliver J. Chaffee, who Tuck would have assumed was suited only to the trade of undertaker. He was astonished to learn that the man owned shares of three mines around Tombstone, a piece of Senora Soto’s, and a laundry in Carmichael that was run by a Chinese couple he employed. Most people assumed that because it was called Wu Fang’s, it belonged to someone named Wu Fang. But Chaffee, it turned out, had made up the name from whole cloth.

  He had an office in town hall, the most ornate building on Carmichael’s main street, which wasn’t saying much. He had decorated it with Chinese antiques, with lots of shiny black wood and finely detailed, lacquered surfaces. He, a rancher named Jasper Montclair, Alf Maier, and Wilson Harrell, the bank owner, comprised Carmichael’s town council. An hour after they got back to town, having dropped off Hank Turville’s body with the actual undertaker, Tuck was in that office with the town council members, and Maier was describing—leaving out certain crucial elements, like the nature of their foe and what had happened to it—how the marshal’s death had come about, and how he had passed the badge on to Tucker Bringloe.

  “He was adamant,” Maier was saying. “He wanted Captain Bringloe to be our new marshal.”

  “Unless I misremember the town charter,” Montclair said, “the outgoing marshal is not tasked with appointing his own replacement.”

  “You are correct,” Maier said. “But in this particular case, I believe Marshal Turville’s opinion should be considered.”

  “You’re the only one who heard it, Alfred,” Harrell put in. “Besides Mr. Bringloe, of course.” When he spoke Tuck’s name, he added an unmistakable note of acid. Tuck couldn’t blame the banker overly much; certainly, he had not worried about creating a good impression among the townsfolk. And how could he argue that he was no longer the drunkard they had known? He didn’t know that about his own self. For all he knew, the first time he’d walk into a saloon, he would forget everything the past several days had shown him, and drink his way back into the gutter. Seemed more likely than not, in fact.

  “Have you anything to gain, Mr. Maier, from the appointment of Mr. Bringloe to that position?” Chaffee asked. “Has he, for instance, made any promises to you? Offered you any special treatment or compensation?”

  “Of course not,” Maier said. Violet coloration splotched his cheeks, and his voice had risen by a few octaves. “What could he offer me? I am an honest businessman!”

  “A fact of which we are all well aware,” Chaffee said. He let his gaze rest on Tuck for long enough to be uncomfortable, then continued. “We have no reason to doubt your description of Captain Bringloe’s courage, or his skills. Given the fact that we’re in need of a marshal, and the captain appears to have the necessary qualifications, I suggest we honor Marshal Turville’s dying wish. Are there any objections?”

  Harrell looked like he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it back. Montclair sat in a high-backed chair like some kind of royalty, looking down his nose at the peasants surrounding him. Only Maier spoke.

  “Of course there are no objections. I tell you, Bringloe is the best man for the job.”

  “Shall we call it unanimous, then?” Chaffee asked.

  “Aye,” Montclair said, without emotion.

  “I suppose so,” Harrell agreed.

  “There you are, Captain,” Chaffee said. “The town of Carmichael would like to officially offer you the position of town marshal. The salary is one hundred dollars a month. The town also pays your deputy, currently Mr. Kanouse, so you needn’t worry about paying him from your salary. In some jurisdictions, marshals can supplement their income by taking a percentage of taxes collected and fines levied, and such like. Here, I’m afraid that Sheriff Behan already owns that particular business, so you’d have to negotiate any cut with him.”

  Behan was the county sheriff, so had more power than any town’s marshal. Tuck wasn’t going to be able to slice into his action. “In that case,” he said, “how about making it one-twenty-five?”

  “Alf, have you discussed salaries with the captain?” Chaffee asked.

  “Of course not,” Maier said. “That is private town business.”

  “Gentlemen? Any objection?”

  Harrell, Maier, and Montclair all kept quiet, so Chaffee nodded. “One hundred and twenty, Captain. And if there’s any equipment you feel you need that is not already in the marshal’s office, you buy it yourself. We’ll supply a horse, but feeding it is up to you.”

  “Deal,” Tuck said. He might have been able to hold out for a slightly better arrangement, but he’d been worried that if he pushed too hard, they would rescind the offer and give the job to Mo Kanouse, instead. The deputy had rousted him a few times, and had once beaten him badly with a club for the crime of being drunk in public. He’d heard about other beatings Kanouse had dished out, too. He considered the man cruel, lazy, and unprofessional. Once he’d gotten
to know Hank Turville, he was surprised that Kanouse had kept the job as long as he had. If the deputy was hired and paid by the council, though, that could explain a lot.

  They all shook on the agreement, and Mayor Chaffee made a big production out of pinning Turville’s badge on a shirt that Tuck wanted to take off and burn at the earliest opportunity. Tuck accepted the badge, though, and asked for a week’s pay in advance. Chaffee took it from a drawer in his desk and handed it over, and Tuck’s first thought was how many drinks it would buy. But he touched the badge and pocketed the money and tried to put that idea out of his mind. He had responsibilities, now. People depended on him. He had fouled that up before, but he didn’t want to repeat old mistakes.

  There were too many new ones, after all, just waiting to be made.

  * * *

  Tuck was filthy, caked in mud and grime from the roots of his hair to the spaces between his toes. He literally couldn’t remember the last bath he’d had. Years, he thought.

  There was a bathhouse in town, so he stopped in there and got a bath and a shave and haircut. While he was in there, he sent a boy to Greavey’s general store for a new set of clothing. Later he would visit the town’s sole haberdasher for more, but a vest, a cheap shirt, trousers, and underclothes would do for the moment. He also summoned the town’s doctor, who complained bitterly about the condition of Tuck’s arm wound while he cleaned and dressed it. By the time Tuck came out, he felt about fifteen pounds lighter and several dollars poorer.

  Newly presentable and smelling of bay rum rather than sweat and horse, he asked the bathhouse proprietor where Hank Turville’s widow could be found. The man described a house on the north side of town, with a large veranda and a scrub oak in front. Tuck found the place, which looked cozy and comfortable. He should have found it sooner, he knew. He had spent a few hours on other tasks, but with every minute that went by, the chances increased that someone else had already told her about her husband’s fate.

  He wouldn’t have minded that, but it was rightly his job to do. That had been true as an army officer, and it was true as a town marshal, as well. It was, he reflected, likely the worst part of either profession.

  He steeled himself, strode up to the house, and knocked on the door.

  It took a couple of minutes for anyone to answer, and when a woman finally opened the door, Tuck knew at once that she wasn’t Turville’s wife. Mother-in-law, maybe. She was about as tall as a ten-year-old boy. She had steel-gray hair and her face was deeply creased, with veins showing through flesh that looked paper-thin. She wore black, but then, she had the air of a woman who always wore black regardless of the occasion. Still, her presence, and the practiced frown she had locked in place, told him that Mrs. Turville had already heard.

  That made no never-mind, though. He still had his task to perform. “Ma’am,” he said. “Is Mrs. Turville available?”

  The old woman fixed her gaze on his star. “You’re the replacement.”

  “That’s right, ma’am. I’m Marshal Bringloe. Tucker Bringloe.”

  “She’s in the parlor, Mr. Bringloe. She’s in a state.”

  “I’m sure she is, ma’am. I won’t keep her long.”

  She stepped back from the doorway, giving him space to enter. He was suddenly more conscious than he had been in days of the fact that he didn’t own a hat. If he had, he’d have pulled it off, and could fiddle with it while he spoke to the widow. Now that the thought had crossed his mind, he didn’t know what he would do with his hands. “This way,” she said.

  She led him through the entryway and into a parlor stuffed with heavy furniture and thick draperies. The air was close, cloying, as if the funeral were already underway. On the wall above a fireplace was a framed photograph of a deceased infant in his casket; locks of hair were encased under glass with the image. Turville had never mentioned losing a son, but that’s who Tuck guessed the child in the memento mori had to be.

  Two women sat in separate chairs. One was at least as old as the woman who had answered the door. The other could only be Turville’s wife. She was in her thirties, Tuck speculated, a pretty brunette with dark eyes and a sad mouth. Her eyes were red and her nose raw, and she clutched a damp handkerchief like she was drowning and it was her lifeline.

  “Mrs. Turville,” he said, “I’m Tucker Bringloe. I was with your husband. When he … when he was killed. I want you to know how sorry I am. But I also want to tell you how brave he was. Not that it matters much now, maybe, but right up to the end, he was as strong and filled with courage and heart as any man I ever met. He earned my admiration and respect and appreciation.”

  She tried on a smile, but it didn’t take. “Thank you, sir,” she said. Her voice caught on the last word, and her eyes glimmered as tears filled them.

  “I couldn’t ever explain to you how much he meant to me, ma’am. I didn’t know him long, but it’s safe to say that he changed my life. Saved it. I expect I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”

  “Thank you,” she said again. “I understand you brought him back home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Me and Alf Maier.”

  “That was very kind,” she said. With every word, she fought back tears, but Tuck could see she would lose that battle soon. “He loved it here. I would hate it if he hadn’t been able to come back.”

  “Seemed like the right thing to do, Mrs. Turville.” He wanted to get out before her tears infected him. “I’m powerful sorry, ma’am, about the way things worked out. Hank was a good man and I wish I could have known him longer.”

  She tried to respond, but then the tears sprang from her, bringing on sobs. She turned away, seemingly trying to wedge herself into the chair. The little gray-haired woman shot Tuck a look of distaste. “I believe you’ve done enough here, mister. Go on, now. Wreck somebody else’s day.”

  “That wasn’t my intent, ma’am,” Tuck said.

  “Intent or not, it’s what you done. Go on, now. Get.”

  She made a shooing motion at Tuck. He decided getting out before the other old lady came out of her chair was a good idea. She had a mean look to her, like she might bite before she spoke a single word.

  He didn’t have a hat, so he inclined his head once toward the widow and hurried for the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuck’s next stop was Senora Soto’s. Walking toward it, his stomach clenched. He felt like he could already smell the liquor, already feel it splash against the back of his throat and slide down like liquid fire. He almost turned back, worried about the temptation waiting inside.

  Instead, he made himself go in. He could hardly be the town marshal if he couldn’t enter a saloon. His knees turned wobbly and his hand was shaking by the time he reached the batwing doors, but he shoved them aside and walked in.

  The saloon was quieter during the day, with no piano player banging at the keyboard and no card games in progress. A few people sat at scattered tables eating lunch, and Senora Soto held court in her usual corner, cards and pistol on the table in front of her. She had a glass of beer, which she had barely touched, and she was reading a book.

  She looked up when Tuck came through the doors, and gave him a professional, welcoming smile. He could tell by the curious look in her eyes that she didn’t recognize him at first. When she did, her mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t—”

  “I know, ma’am,” he said. “It’s me, Tuck Bringloe.”

  “You’re wearing a star.”

  “That’s right. Marshal Turville didn’t make it. The hombre that killed Daisie got him, and most of the rest of the posse.”

  “I’d heard about that. News travels fast around here, Mr. Bringloe. Especially if it’s bad.”

  “I reckon it does. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that we got him. Alf Maier and me. We couldn’t bring him in alive, but we killed him, and I thought you’d want to hear.”

  She had been holding her finger inside her book, but now she inserted a ribbon between the pa
ges and set it on the table. “It doesn’t bring Daisie back, does it?”

  “No, ma’am. Can’t do that. Hard for me to know the difference between justice and vengeance, sometimes. Mostly, I just wanted you to know he won’t be killing anybody else.”

  “That’s something, anyway. Thank you, Mr. Bringloe. I appreciate you stopping by.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.” He started back toward the door, but was stopped by a voice from the stairs.

  “Is that really you, Mr. Bringloe?”

  Several of Senora Soto’s girls had gathered near the top of the staircase. Missy Haynes was in the front of the pack, and she was the one who had spoken. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It surely is.”

  “Well, you look a powerful sight different than you did before,” Missy said. “Doesn’t he, ladies?”

  “He looks positively delicious,” another woman said.

  “I had a bath and a shave. Got some new clothes.”

  “But still no hat,” Missy said.

  Tuck smiled. “No, ma’am. I think I’m owed one.”

  “Well, we’ll have to take you out and get you one, Mr. Bringloe.”

  “You’re not going to keep him all to yourself, are you, Missy?” another girl asked. She was dusky skinned, with thick black hair and sleepy eyes.

  “I figure that’s up to him.”

  “Congratulations on your new job, Mr. Bringloe,” Missy added. “I hope we’ll still see you in here from time to time.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he said. “If you ladies will excuse me, I got to figure out where my office is.”

  “Thanks for gettin’ the bastard that killed Daisie,” the dark-haired one said. “I hope it hurt when he died.”

  “He didn’t go easy, I can say that for certain.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Tuck faced Senora Soto, touched his forehead. “Ma’am,” he said. Then he left the saloon quickly. The smell of the liquor was getting to him, washing away his resolve. Staying a minute longer would mean he would never leave.