Phantoms of Phoenix
Copyright 2016 by T. Mike McCurley
E-book version published by T. Mike McCurley
Cover Art by mdw_jason
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DEDICATIONS
Writing can be a hard task. It’s good to have people to turn to when you need information, a sounding board, or just that burst of confidence to get you over the hump.
Kae, D’Lynn, Scott, Chelsea, Norm, Sigrid, Hg, Lisa, Nick, Shane, Teresa, Zakiah, Cindy, Mc, Leah, CC, Jeannette, Jane and several others I probably missed: Y’all are all wonderful. You made it feel easier than it probably was.
To Pastor Mike Peercy of the Calvary Baptist Church: Thank you, my friend, for the insight and the angle. I still owe you that coffee.
Sign up for the T. Mike McCurley author mailing list HERE. In addition to being kept up to date on the happenings, you’ll also receive an exclusive Firedrake short story. Free stories are good!
Table of Contents
Dedications
The Story of Jericho Sims
Phantoms of Phoenix
Also available from T. Mike McCurley
About the Author
The Story of Jericho Sims
When Union troops killed Magdalene Sims, they took away the only thing Jericho Sims had ever loved, and they unleashed a terror on their ranks. Returning to a past he had abandoned for a wife and home, the former gunfighter tore his way through the bluecoats in a whirlwind of destruction.
In the late years of the Civil War, now operating as part of a guerrilla band working behind enemy lines, Jericho discovered there was more to the world than he had ever suspected. His unit was shattered and he was among the wounded sent to a field hospital maintained by a surgeon in the middle of a demonic ritual intended to grant unimaginable power to the doctor. His fellow soldiers were butchered as a part of that ritual, and when Jericho interrupted it, he was exposed to dark magic that has marked him for the forces of the supernatural.
In a constant wandering search for the Surgeon, whose face no one can remember, Jericho encounters the oddities that go unnoticed by others, and finds himself becoming embroiled in one dark conspiracy after another.
Phantoms of Phoenix
Waves of heat shimmered off the roadway, and Jericho kept his hat pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the overhead brilliance. His clothes felt like an oven around him, and he wanted nothing so much as a dip in a chilly mountain stream. Riding into Phoenix, however, he would have to settle for a bath and a beer.
"Almost there, Gideon," he murmured, patting the big Appaloosa on the side of the neck. A few small buildings had already come into view, and the number of small farms they had passed had increased over the past few hours of riding. He was tired from the saddle and he knew that Gideon could use a rubdown and something cool to drink. It was no different for him, but he could put himself behind the needs of his mount.
He did take pause at a tavern, letting Gideon jam his nose into the depths of a metal-banded trough filled with water. A crotchety looking pump stood beside the trough, and Jericho dismounted, feeling a familiar swaying feeling once his boots were on the ground. He worked the handle of the pump enough to send a cascade of fresh cool water into the trough. Gideon raised his head and nickered softly.
"Any time, pal," Jericho said. He dipped a hand into the water, which was surprisingly cold given the heat of the day, and rubbed it across his face. Dusty liquid trailed down his neck and into his shirt.
He flipped the reins over a hitching post and stepped into the tavern. No lanterns were lit, and shadows ruled the corners of the room. He tossed a coin to the man who stood polishing one of several dirty glasses and tipped up the beer his money purchased. It was thin and watery, but cool to drink, and he swallowed it greedily. Wiping foam from his lip, he asked the man where he could find a stable.
"Danner's Livery is about a quarter-mile that way," the man answered, his lip curling up. "He's a weaselly little shit, but he does good by horses."
"That's all I care about today," Jericho said. "Thanks for the information."
He strode from the tavern and remounted Gideon, riding him in the direction that he had been directed. He noticed as he got closer to the livery that surrounding buildings were in greater states of disrepair. Whether the occupants were simply too busy or didn't care enough to repair them was a question for another time.
The livery itself was a wide barn-like affair, with massive double doors that opened outward. They were currently held open by wooden slats, as were those of the other side, in an attempt to allow what breeze there was to enter and cool the interior. Inside he could see a young man with a wide shovel mucking out a stall. As he approached the doors, the man leaned the shovel against a wall and ambled toward the entry.
His face was dirty, as were his clothes, and he looked almost as if he had been rolling in the filthy stall floors rather than simply clearing them. As he got closer, Jericho could see that his left eye was swollen shut. The right, though, looked at the gunfighter with an unsettling ferocity.
"Help you, Mister?" the man asked. His voice was softer than Jericho had expected, and lowered Jericho's estimate of the man's age by a couple of years.
"Need to get him brushed and fed," Jericho said, dismounting with a creak of leather. A cloud of dust billowed from his feet when his boots struck the ground, though whether it was from the roadway or the hours of dust that had gathered on his boots was in question. He grabbed his saddlebags and pulled them free, throwing them over a shoulder. They were lighter than he liked them to be, both of money and supplies.
"Seventy-five cents for the night. Make it a dollar and I've got some alfalfa and oats for his meal."
Jericho chuckled and drew a thin wallet from inside his vest. He pulled out two dollars and held them up, waving them briefly before smiling and handing them over. "Treat him right and there's more in it for you tomorrow."
"Done," the man said. The money vanished into a pocket of his grimy pants.
Jericho took off his hat and rubbed a hand across his scalp. "Looking for a place called the Crow's Nest. You heard of it?"
The stable hand nodded and pointed out and down the road further along Jericho's path of travel. "Down that way some, then to your left a ways. I think it's near a bank?"
"That narrows it down."
"I don't get into that part of town too often."
"Thanks. I'll find it. Someplace around here I can get a bath and a bed?"
"Quite a few. You just want the rest, or you looking for nighttime company too?"
Jericho grinned as he shoved his hat back onto his head. "Aw thanks, but we just met. I'll settle for the hotel."
The eye of the stable hand narrowed and his tone became gruff. "I ain't one of those kind, and you'd better know it," he said. He squared his body to Jericho, his fists rising.
"Easy now," Jericho said. He raised his hands and smiled. "I was only joshing. Been a long piece of riding from San Diego and my jokes seem to be falling flat."
"Jokes like that'll leave you falling flat -- on the street."
"
Duly noted," Jericho said as the man lowered his hands.
"Try the Arms," the stable hand said, turning his back and returning to his job. "Two blocks down and turn right."
"The Arms? That's it?"
"You'll see it."
The tone was dismissive and the man busied himself tending to Gideon. Jericho shook his head and started walking. A block further and he was walking on a wooden sidewalk in front of numerous small businesses. He tipped his hat to a lady in a soft pink dress, walking along beneath the cover of a parasol, and she smiled briefly before catching a whiff of him. Her nose wrinkled at the scent and he nodded a silent apology. It had been many days on the road and he was in desperate need of cleaning. Hopefully, he would be in better shape soon. He made the right turn the stable hand had recommended and had to fight to suppress a laugh.
"Well, that explains it," Jericho said, looking up at the wooden sign that hung suspended from two rusty sections of chain. The word "ARMS" was visible in a rolling script, gold-painted letters against a red background. At one time, the sign had been a shield pattern of some kind, but the top half of it was gone. The chains had been nailed to the bottom section and left that way.
The Arms was a three story building of wood planks painted a dull red and covered in a film of dust. Both main entry doors were white, each with a three-by-three pattern of windows that allowed a view into the dimly-lit lobby.
Jericho turned the tarnished brass knob and pulled. The door was lighter than he expected and seemed to fly open in response to his tug. A tiny brass bell on a metal frame jingled, repeating the sound a moment later as he closed the door behind him. The lobby floor was patterned hardwood, its varnish clouded by countless footprints. A bench was against the wall to his right, padded with a white upholstery with narrow stripes of pink and blue. Ahead and to the left was a brandy room, the door to it home to an oval glass that made up almost the entirety of the door. It appeared to be empty, but Jericho thought it possible that someone might be in there concealed in the shadow.
There was a wide, low desk in front of an office. Currently it was unattended, but a shuffling from within the office soon revealed itself as a sallow-faced teen wearing a white suit shirt that was a size too large.
"Welcome to the Arms," he said. His voice was emotionless and he seemed bored.
"Need a room and a bath," Jericho said. He made a show of sniffing at himself. "One worse than the other, I reckon."
"Of course, sir," the youth said. His manner never changed. "Three dollars."
"That'll work," Jericho said, though his eyebrows twitched at the cost. Twice now his jokes had gone nowhere. Apparently Phoenix was not only more expensive than he was used to, they also had a different sense of humor.
The clerk placed a leather-bound journal on the desk, opening it to a beribboned page and spinning it so that it faced Jericho. He picked up a quill pen that was part of a massive turkey feather, dipped it into a jar of ink and wiped off the excess before handing it to Jericho. He pointed to an empty space on the page. Jericho scratched his signature into the space without being asked.
"The tub is being cleaned. It'll be about ten minutes until it's ready. There's a room behind the office where you bathe."
The clerk turned to a board on the wall and pulled down a key without looking. "Two-oh-five. That's on the second floor," he said.
"Explains why it's a two, right?" asked Jericho. He smiled to show that it was yet another joke.
"Yes it does," came the flat response. "Up the stairs. Third door to your left."
"Crow's Nest saloon around here somewhere?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir."
Jericho held up a quarter. "That help?"
"If I knew I would have said so," the youth replied. He displayed neither anger nor resentment at the implication that he could be bribed for information.
"Good to know," Jericho said, as much for a lack of any real conversational value as any other reason. He hitched up his saddlebags where they rode on his left shoulder and turned to the stairs.
Like the other fittings in the Arms, the staircase had once been a luxuriant thing, but time and lack of care had taken a toll. Thick red carpet had been matted and stained by dirty boots and the white-painted handrails had become a soft brown tone. Jericho stepped clear of them on the second floor, leaving them to continue winding above him into floor three.
The hallway was longer than it looked from the outside, which left Jericho thinking that perhaps the rooms were larger than he dared hope. Down the center was a carpet that, like the stairs, had once been a deep red but was now a mottled brown. Oil lamps dotted the walls at regular intervals, although none were lit. Judging from the dust on the chimneys of some, it had been some time since more than a few were. A glance showed him that there appeared to be four rooms beyond his own.
"At least I'll have a bed," he mused aloud as he came to the door of his room. It was a faded blue in color, and must have once provided a hearty contrast to the carpeting. He slipped the key into the lock and flipped the mechanism open.
Jericho expected a pall of dust and the stink of disuse, but the room was actually pleasant. Despite the conditions of the hall, it appeared that the room had seen recent occupation. A window on the opposite wall allowed sunlight to stream in between the two pinned-back curtains, chasing away the gloom that might otherwise have plagued the chamber. A faint smell of lavender was evident on the air.
The room was indeed larger than he had expected, and the heavy bed that occupied the rightmost wall allowed for people to approach it from either side. A nightstand took up space beside it on one side and on the other was a small table. A patterned quilt covered the mattress, and the headboard was a piece of oak that had been carved at the top into whorls and a central shield-shaped sculpture engraved with a large acorn. There was a closet with an open door, and a wide chest of drawers that took up space below an oval wall-mounted mirror.
"This will do," he said. He shrugged out from under the saddlebags and dropped them onto the foot of the bed, walking past it to look out the window. He had an excellent view onto the streets of Phoenix, and he craned his head to see if he could make out any signs down the streets. He was able to see several, but nothing advertising the Crow's Nest.
He peeled off his duster and tossed it atop the saddlebags, placing his palms at the base of his spine and flexing until loud cracking sounds echoed in the room. Looser now, he picked up the duster and bags, carrying them with him to the closet. He set the bags on the floor just inside the little room, hanging the duster from the hook inside the door before closing it.
He pulled one of his ragged cigarros from inside his vest and fired it with a flickering match. The smoke seemed to hang in the air in a thick cloud when he exhaled, and he went to the window. A tug opened the portal and a hot breeze entered the room, stirring the smoke into grey eddies.
He stood looking out the window for a few minutes, relaxing after the day's events and enjoying his smoke. Deciding enough time had passed for the dullard downstairs to have finished cleaning the tub, he tucked the cigarro into the corner of his mouth and turned to leave.
His hand dropped to the butt of his Colt as he looked at his duster, swinging from the open closet door as if it had just been placed there.
"Getting jumpy," he said to himself. He headed back to the closet and closed the door, pulling at the handle to assure himself that this time he had indeed closed it completely.
He walked away and slipped out of the room, heading for the office and the bath that awaited him in the adjoining room. Locking his room behind him, he stuck the key down into the outside pocket of his vest.
The other youth that was there to help with the bath was little better than the clerk. Where the clerk was black of hair, this one was blond. It was no matter. He didn’t speak. He poured a massive pot of steaming water into a battered tin tub already half full of cool, and stuck a hand into the mix to test its warmth. Nodding his head, he gave a Je
richo a quick once-over and then left the room.
Looking around, Jericho pulled a small stool over to a position near the tub. His boots came off first, and then the ragged woolen socks. He added more socks to the mental list of things he needed when he found a general store. His gun belt came off with a creak of oiled leather and he coiled it up before stacking it on the stool.
He had just removed his pants and stood back up when he saw her reflected in the mirror. Her eyes, staring at his half-naked form, were narrowed, and her lips pursed as though she had eaten a lemon. A severe bun was perched upon her head and she wore a blouse with a collar that fastened high on her neck.
"Whoa!" he said, grabbing his hat off his head and snapping it into position to cover himself. He spun to see her, already beginning to babble an apology, but there was no one in the room. He turned back to the mirror and the woman was gone. He looked around the room twice more before dropping the hat and peeling off his shirt. He shook his head and chuckled at his own imagination, stepping a foot into the warm water. A minute later and he was soaking in the tub, using a rag to scrub at his skin. Clouds of dust bloomed in the water and began to settle.
"Too long on the trail. Starting to see things," he muttered to himself, rubbing behind his ears with the rag.
He finished and toweled mostly dry before dressing once more. This time, he was gratified to not imagine disagreeable women watching him. He passed by the office on his way back to the room, tossing two bits at the twin idiots, who were currently engrossed in a game of checkers. The blond caught the coins in midair, looking at them in his hand.
"For your troubles. I was dirty."
He left them behind, taking the stairs in a gentle walk, and stepping once more into the long hallway. He opened the door to his room with a click of the key.
This time, the Colt cleared leather with a whisper as he gazed upon the open closet door. His duster lay in a heap on the floor.
Phantoms of Phoenix: A Jericho Sims Tale (The Adventures of Jericho Sims Book 3) Page 1