by JJ Zep
“He still alive?”
“Well if he ain’t, it’ll be your fault.”
“Wasn’t me that shot him.”
“No, but you’re the one holding onto the water, so pony up and give it here.”
A moment later, I felt the canteen being tilted and I could see a cowboy lying in the dirt. He was dark-haired and pale, and there was blood on his mouth and the front of his shirt. His eyes looked glazed, and he appeared not to be breathing.
“Zeke,” one of the men said. “Drink some of this.”
“It don’t look like he’s breathing, Turk.”
“Yeah? Well, you ain’t no doctor. So quit jawin’ and keep an eye on the brush, in case any of Chisholm’s boys are still out there.”
“But…”
“Just do it.”
I felt the canteen being tilted again. “Come on, Zeke,” I heard Turk say, “Get some of this down your neck. You ain’t gonna make it unless you drink some.”
Turk pushed the canteen to Zeke’s lips and I felt myself sliding towards the neck of the water bottle and I instinctively started swimming against the current. Don’t ask me why I felt the need to resist. I needed a host, of course, but I wasn’t sure if this man was dead yet, and I had no idea what would happen if I entered a living body. In the end though, I had little choice in the matter. The walls of the canteen were slick, and though I tried I couldn’t prevent myself being propelled forward. I was flushed through the opening, into the man’s mouth and down his throat.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong. On the other occasions that I’d entered a host I’d instantly had control of the body. Now, I found myself in pitch darkness, and with the strong sensation that I was being watched.
“Who the hell are you?” a voice suddenly boomed.
“I’m…I’m…”
“You some kind of a retard? I asked you a question, mister!”
“I’m Dexter Blackwell…err, Johnny Black, Soul Pursuit and Apprehension Agency.”
The voice was silent for a moment. “How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t, I…”
“Don’t lie to me boy, or I’ll shoot you down like the yeller dog you are.”
“I’m not lying,” I said, and then realized the implication of the man’s threat. “You do realize of course, that in order to shoot me, you’d have to shoot yourself.”
I expected the booming voice again but if the owner of that voice was still around, he wasn’t answering.
“Mister?” I said. “Sir? Are you still there?” But there was no reply.
“Turk,” I now heard one of the other men say. “Riders coming.”
“Chisholm men?”
“Looks like.”
“We better skedaddle then.”
“What about Zeke?”
“He’s done for. Let’s ride.”
I heard them mount up and ride away, and after a while I heard another set of hooves come to a halt close to where I lay. I opened my eye a crack and could see five riders kicking up a mini dust storm. I decided it might be best to play dead until I understood what their intentions were.
“Holy crap!” a voice said. “That’s the Hellfire Kid.”
“So it is,” another voice said. “Check to see if he’s still breathing. If he is, we’re gonna have ourselves a lynchin’.”
I heard someone running in my direction and after a while felt a hand placed on my chest, then on my neck. Finally, I felt my mouth being forced open and the man leaned close enough for me to smell sweat and bacon fat.
“He’s done for, Bill,” the man said. “Took a slug straight through the heart. Looks like ol’ Zeke Blake’s hell-raising days is over.”
“Told you I got one of them,” a different voice said.
“Okay,” the voice I took to be Bill said. “Sling him up on that pony. There’s a fifty-dollar reward on the Hellfire Kid down in Lincoln. Look’s like we earned ourselves a little bonus, boys.”
I felt hands on the front of my shirt and felt myself being pulled into a sitting position as another rider approached and came to a halt.
“What we got here, fellers?” the new arrival said.
“Zeke Blake, the Hellfire Kid, Mister Chisholm, shot dead like the mangy dog he is. We was figuring on riding him down to Lincoln and claiming that bounty.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Chisholm said. “We’re cattle men, not bounty hunters. Bury him.”
“Seems an awful waste, putting fifty dollars in the ground and all.“
“You want fifty dollars, Bill? How about I give you fifty dollars severance money?”
“No offence meant, Mr. Chisholm sir. Just thinking out loud.”
“You confine your thinkin’ to cattle matters, like I pay you for. You boys give Mr. Blake a decent Christian burial. Albert you say a few words on it, then you all round up the strays and head on back to the bunkhouse. I’ll have Rufus cook us up some bear sign tonight.”
“Yeeha,” the cowboys shouted as one.
three
I’d never been buried before and I can’t exactly say that I’d recommend it. Let’s just say that you get dirt in cracks and crevices where you’d rather not have it, your ears get all clogged, and it plays hell with your sinuses. Not to mention it gives you an awful thirst.
Fortunately, the cowpokes were in a hurry, and the grave they dug for me was shallow. Once I heard the sounds of them riding off, I quickly burrowed my way out. The weather had turned while I’d been underground. Up above I could see dark, angry clouds and I heard the rumble of thunder, while forked lightning arced across the sky.
I needed to get moving and, as I wasn’t quite sure which direction to head in, I followed the path that Turk and the other cowboy had taken earlier. Soon that path linked up with a dirt track that cut across the plain and I picked that up as the first heavy raindrops began to fall. Before long the rain was bucketing down and I was getting drenched. Not that I minded, at least it washed the dirt from my body and the grit from my mouth and ears.
By the time the storm lifted, it was dark and I could make out lights in the distance and I angled towards them. A mile or so further down the road it became clear that the lights were from a town and I reached it within the hour. A sign on the outskirts identified it as ‘Devil’s Gulch, New Mexico Territory’.
I'd seen western towns in movies before and even in darkness I could see that Devil’s Gulch was typical. There were a couple of dirt roads set at right angles to each other, with a wooden boardwalk and wood-frame buildings to either side.
I walked past a corral, a livery and blacksmithing establishment, and a bathhouse, all in darkness. There were a number of buildings that looked like residences and then a barbershop and a storefront with a sign that identified it as Bob Bailey’s Funeral Parlor and Fine Carpentry.
At the junction of the town's two streets, adjacent from each other, stood The Kilkenny Saloon and Hotel, Murphy’s General Store, Arbuckle’s Restaurant, and the sheriff’s office and jailhouse.
There was a light on in the jailhouse, and I could see some customers through the plate glass window of Arbuckle’s. Most of the activity, though, centered on the saloon, which was brightly lit and had a long hitching rail out front with a number of horses tied up to it. From the inside of the building itself, I could hear shouts and whoops and the tinkle of piano music.
I headed for the saloon, climbed the steps and walked towards the batwing doors, then pushed through into the smoky barroom. The saloon was doing good business tonight, with cowboys lining every inch of the long, paneled bar. Behind the counter, two bartenders were having a hard time keeping their thirsty patrons supplied with whiskey and beer, while the rest of the room was jam-packed with men playing cards at various tables and shooting dice at the rear of the room. A number of saloon girls in garish, low-cut dresses worked the crowd while a few of them stood at the railing on the first floor overlooking the patrons. In the corner a piano player belted out a rag.
The room was buzzing with snatches of conversation and laughter, augmented by curses and cheers from the gamblers at the back of the room. Someone was trying to accompany the piano player in an off key voice and somebody else was telling him the ‘shut the hell up’.
I stood in the doorway and took all of this in and then I stepped towards the bar, which was when one of the bartenders looked up and saw me. The man eyes suddenly widened quite comically and he tried to mouth something and then dropped the bottle of whiskey he was holding. The barroom fell silent and I felt every eye in the place turn towards me. I’m not sure how long we stood like that, it was probably no more than a few seconds but it felt like at least a full minute.
“It’s the Hellfire Kid,” I heard an awe-struck voice say, and then one of the saloon girls screamed.
four
“Stand aside!” someone barked and pushed through the crowd. The man was tall and wiry with steel-gray hair and a face that looked like it may have been carved by from a piece of old hickory. He looked me up and down as though trying to decide if he approved of my presence. Then his face cracked into a smile.
“Zeke Blake, you tough old son of a gun! I knew it couldn’t be true. Barkeep, a whiskey for my friend here! Oh, what the hell, whiskey for everyone, let’s celebrate!” A cheer went up from the crowd at the prospect of a free drink.
“Let’s you and me have us a little parley,” the man said. He led me towards the back of the room, through a door and into a well-appointed office. Just before he stepped through the door himself, the man turned back towards the bar and shouted out, “Turk! Shoot! Get your sorry hides in here!”
He turned back towards me and pointed me to a chair, as two cowboys burst into the room. I recognized them immediately as the two who had been with me at the river earlier.
“You wanted to see us, Mr. Murphy?” one of them said.
“No,” Murphy said simply.
“But you called…”
“I wanted you to see a ghost.”
One of the men looked towards me and swallowed hard, ”Howdy Zeke,” he said. “I…”
“You what?” Murphy said.
“I thought you was dead.”
“What about you, Turk?” Murphy sneered turning towards the other man. “I expect this kind of thing from the half-wit, but what do you have to say? Is Zeke Blake dead or alive?”
“Alive, boss,” Turk mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I said he’s alive, boss.”
“And yet, not six hours ago, you told me the Hellfire Kid was dead. Shot through the heart by some of Chisholm’s men, you said.”
“He has been shot,” Shoot said. “Look his shirt is still all bloodied.”
“So it is,” Murphy said, “Zeke, take off your shirt.”
I stood and removed my shirt while the three of them looked on. The blood had congealed and the fabric was stuck to the wound and when I pulled it away a thin trickle began to flow.
“Holy mother of god,” I heard Murphy say while the other two turned an ashen shade under their tanned faces. Shoot looked like he was trying to say sometime that his mouth was refusing to form. Turk’s eyes widened so much they looked like they were in danger of popping out.
“Shoot,” Murphy said. “Run and fetch Doc Moses.”
“Doc will be sleeping now,” Shoot said.
“I don’t care if he’s dreaming about Ma Moses’ deep dish apple pie! Wake him the hell up!”
five
“Darndest thing I ever seen,” Doc Moses said. “Every which way you look at it, this cowboy should be eatin’ a dirt sandwich up on Boot Hill.”
“He gonna to make it, doc?” Murphy said.
“Truth be told, I couldn’t tell you. Ain’t seen anythin’ this peculiar in all my doctoring days. He’s either the luckiest sum bitch west of the Pecos, or he’s already dead and just too ornery to know it. You sure that don’t hurt none feller?”
“Not at all doc,” I said.
“Darndest thing I ever seen,” the doctor said again.
“Any special provisions we need to make, doc? For his recovery and all?”
“My advice is to let him rest up a couple of days. I’ll call in on him from time to time, but most of all he needs time to mend, so no drinkin’ and whorin’, you hear? You might also want to have your funereal clothes cleaned and pressed, just in case.”
After the doctor left, Murphy told Turk and Shoot to take me up to my ‘regular’ room. I didn’t actually need their help, but I let them support me up the stairs anyway, mainly because I didn’t know which room was mine.
“I’m real sorry we left you back there, Zeke,” Turk said. “We thought you was a goner for sure.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “To tell you the truth I thought I was a goner myself.”
“Mighty Christian of you to see it that way,” Turk said.
After he and Shoot had gone, I took my boots off and lay down on the bed. It had been an eventful day, but at least I had a host, I had a place to stay, and by all accounts, I had a job, although I wasn’t sure exactly what the Hellfire Kid did for Murphy.
The one thing that still nagged at me, though, was the run-in I’d had with the real Zeke Blake when I’d first entered the body. However, I hadn’t heard from him since, so it was safe to assume that what I’d encountered was his last spark of life. Zeke Blake was probably winging his way to Elysium or Hades right now. Judging from his attitude and general demeanor, probably the latter.
I was thinking about this when there was a light tap at the door and a woman entered the room. She was petite and blond with her pretty face spoiled by too much makeup.
“Oh, Zeke,” she said rushing over to the bed. “I was so afraid. They told me you were dead.” She embraced me and then pulled quickly away. “I’m not hurting you am I?”
“Not at all, it’s just a scratch.”
“That’s not what I heard,” she said crossly. “Doc Moses says you’re lucky to be alive.”
“So much for doctor patient confidentiality,” I said.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”
“Oh, Zeke,” she said. “When are we going to get out of this hell hole, when are you going to take me to San Francisco, like you promised?”
“I promised to take you to San Francisco?” I said.
“Of course you did! Now, don’t you even think of trying to back out of our deal mister Zeke Blake, not unless you want me to tell Patrick about us.”
“Patrick?”
“Oh, you really can be dim when you want to be, Zeke. Did that bullet knock some of the gumption out of you? Paddy Murphy of course, my husband.”
six
Despite the revelation that I was more than likely having an affair with my employer’s wife, I slept well that night and woke with the sun already streaming through the lace curtains in my bedroom. I rose and washed up then went through the closet for something to wear. The Hellfire Kid had been partial to black clothing, and everything in his wardrobe, except a few red bandanas, was of that color.
I dressed and strapped on a pair of six-shooters that were hanging in a holster over the bedstead, and then looked at myself in the mirror. Zeke Blake was a good-looking man, with dark hair and a handsome face, blemished only by a nasty looking scar close to one temple. And I had to admit that I looked pretty good, kind of like your archetypical western bad guy, all in black with twin tied-down Walker Colt revolvers. I tried a quick draw at my reflection and fumbled, sending the pistol clattering to the floor. I re-holstered after that. The last thing I needed was to blow my toes off.
I left the room and headed downstairs to the saloon where a few early morning customers were having a liquid breakfast. Paddy Murphy was there too, looking through the window across at a buckboard that stood in front of his general store.
“Zeke,” he said, without looking at me. “The very man I was hoping to see. We got us some business. Come on
.” He headed out of the saloon and crossed the dusty street, mounted the boardwalk on the opposite side and entered the store.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya,” Murphy said as he walked through the door. The store was cluttered with all manner of goods and smelled vaguely of kerosene and leather and coffee. There were only two customers inside, currently tallying up their purchases with the clerk. One was a burly, sandy-haired man who turned at the sound of Murphy’s voice. The man looked at Murphy and then at me, and a look of astonishment crossed his face.
“Henry Chisholm,” Murphy said and then turned towards Chisholm’s companion, a pretty, dark haired girl of about twenty. “Cecelia,” he said.
“Mr. Murphy,” Cecelia said, making it sound more like a curse than a greeting. Now that I got a better look at her I realized that she was more than pretty, she was beautiful.
Murphy turned his attention towards the clerk. “What’s the tally on Mr. Chisholm’s purchases today?” he asked.
“One moment sir,” the clerk said and did a quick count, his lips moving as he did. “That’s eighteen dollars and fifteen cents, Mr. Murphy.”
“Put it on my account, Cyrus,” Chisholm said.
“Don’t do that, Cyrus,” Murphy said. “Mr. Chisholm will be paying cash for his purchases today.”
Chisholm looked at Murphy with an expression that was part anger and part deep-seated hatred, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of notes, which he placed on the counter. All the while his eyes never left Murphy.
The clerk retrieved the notes, counted them out and then pushed a few plus some coins back towards Chisholm.
“What does Mr. Chisholm owe on his account?” Murphy said.
The clerk retrieved a ledger from below the counter, flipped it open and ran a finger along a column and finally said. “Thirty-two dollars and forty eight cents, Mr. Murphy.”
“Mr. Chisholm will settle that too, before he leaves.”
“I’m a bit short right now, Cyrus,” Chisholm said to the clerk. “I’ll settle up next…”