The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  The miners and drinkers at the bar bent their elbows and ordered more drinks as they listened.

  “He’s dead, ain’t he? So he counts.” Jerry lifted his only fingers for emphasis. “Four of ‘em died in the mines.”

  “Cave-ins?” Ernie wiped the tobacco juice off his lips.

  Jerry waved his hand to dismiss the question. “Not cave-ins. They were just dead. No blood. Some guy said it looked like something bit their necks.”

  “What kind of bites?” Ernie’s eyes were wide open and fixed on Jerry.

  “I don’t know. Bites.” Jerry held out two curled fingers and put them in front of his mouth. “Something with fangs. It started before the Jollytime blew up.”

  Macky poured whiskey for a miner at the end of the bar. “You gonna count them too?”

  “No. That’s a different count.”

  The barkeep passed the glass down the bar. “But what about the guy they found the day before it blew?”

  “Already counted him, five dead men, including the preacher,” Jerry said. “But I ain’t counting the men who got blew up. I know why they dead.”

  Blair lifted a forkful of potatoes, but stopped before it passed his lips.

  A commotion outside called everyone’s eyes to the windows and open door.

  Blair’s heart rate quickened. Trouble moved fast in boom towns.

  “What was that?” Ernie asked.

  Blair breathed, short and fast. But nothing seemed out of place.

  “Some crazy horse,” said the man standing guard. “It kicked at the other horses then broke the hitching post.”

  Had to be his horse. The beast wouldn’t run far. But why had it run? Blair fidgeted in his seat. Nothing there to worry about. No one there to kill.

  His hands slid to the grips of the revolvers strapped to his thighs. Unthreatening men drank whiskey, laughed and cussed. Fear crept in, urging him to run.

  Blair tried unsuccessfully to slow his breathing and relax his muscles. Sweat dripped from his body. “What is going on?” he whispered. “Get a hold of it.” An ominous sensation pounced on Blair’s nerves from the dark, hidden places of his memory.

  A man in a fine wool suit strolled into the room. The lanterns flickered.

  Nausea crept up Blair’s throat. His hands shook, causing the pistols to rattle in the holsters. He let go and folded his hands together under the table.

  Blair’s eyes fixed on the well-dressed man, as he went straight to the bar, shaking hands and greeting many of the miners. Friendly, yet he feared him.

  The fear felt familiar.

  “You’re a tyrant.”

  All conversations stopped.

  The wiry-framed miner sitting at the end of the bar slammed his glass down. The man sitting next to him held the drunk on his stool. “You’re a tyrant,” he repeated as he brushed the other miner’s arm out of the way and walked toward the new customer.

  “That’s right, Mr. Superintendent, you’re a tyrant,” he said. “You think you own everyone and everything in this valley?”

  “Mr. Weinberg,” the mine superintendent politely said. “I see you are still upset with me.”

  “Because of you I can’t sell my ore.”

  “Steven, that’s not true. This is a free country open to a free-market system.”

  Steven Weinberg shook his coal-stained finger at the superintendent. “You won’t let the rail carry my ore without charging me more than it’s worth.”

  “I don’t set the prices for the railroad.”

  “You don’t fool me, mister. You control it, so we can’t sell.”

  “Steven, my company has offered to buy your mining claims for a good price. If you feel the coal market is not the right place for you—”

  “You know as well as I do, my mine is worth twenty times what you offered. It’s all anthracite. Not that soft shit you’re mining in the Jollytime.”

  “I don’t know that. I have never been to your mine.”

  “Your surveyors have. I’ve found them up there sneaking around.” The miner held up two fingers and swayed in a drunken half circle.

  “Mr. Weinberg, it is not my fault if you cannot get your ore out of town. There are other means if you cannot afford the rail fees.”

  Steven Weinberg stepped toward the superintendent. “How many more souls are you going to ruin for your own profit?”

  Jerry whistled. The armed guard entered to answer the call. Jerry pointed with his only hand at Steven Weinberg. “Get him out.”

  “Come on.” The guard grabbed the miner by the upper arm and escorted him outside.

  “My apologies, Mr. Stone,” Jerry said.

  “Accepted. A drink please.”

  Macky reached under the counter, instead of behind, for a bottle of fine scotch. Conversations sprung up as quickly as they had stopped. The saloon was back to normal—all except for Blair, who rocked back and forth in his chair. The entire interaction hit him as more of a dream than reality.

  Profit. Profit for their soul. Profit in exchange for his soul. Profit. For my soul.

  Blair bolted for the door.

  His horse was gone as he expected. Three men worked on fixing the broken tethering post. The cross beam was splintered in half and one of the posts was loose.

  “I saw it from the window.” The man in glasses stood behind him in the doorway. “The horse went wild and broke free.” He pointed down the road. “It ran that way.”

  Blair didn’t say anything.

  “It bucked as the mine superintendent walked by,” the stranger said. “You both acted strange. I guess you are familiar with him.”

  “Who? What?”

  “You know, the nicely dressed man who walked in?”

  Blair shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Do you react that way to all strangers?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your face turned white when he came in.”

  Blair took off his hat and wiped his face with his palm.

  Knowing he was off kilter, but not sure why, Blair ran across the street and into an alley. Instinctual self-preservation took control of his unsettled mind. He kept looking to see if he was being followed. Under a wooden staircase, he dropped to his knees and held his stomach. The pain in his head thumped with every heartbeat. Nausea struck quickly and with force. The steak exploded up from his stomach landing on top of a fresh pile of horse manure. The smell foul—he hurled again and again until his stomach and back ached from dry heaving.

  “Learn to hold your whiskey, you’re worthless,” a man said as he passed by the alley. Another man laughed.

  Blair reached for a pistol, but the men kept walking. He rolled onto his side trying to keep out of his own liquid filth.

  * * *

  The nuns and the children laugh at me. My drunken vision blurs their faces as they move about, making it appear as though the heads transform from one to another. In a blink, their eyes shift from solid black to normal pupils and irises. The candlelight gives an odd, orange glow to their skin. They heckle and taunt me to move. To shoot them. My stomach churns and sloshes before I puke on the adobe wall. Blood. I throw up blood. The nuns don’t help me. They sit in the pews and stare at me with blood-red eyes. The priest laughs and kicks me as he flashes an evil smile on the way out of the rustic church. The heavenly being’s eyes are black.

  * * *

  Nightmares weren’t uncommon for Blair, but this one felt real. It wasn’t that his stomach still ached from vomiting in the alley hours earlier. There was something else about the vision. He could smell the mission church, and it sickened him. Was I there? Was it real?

  Unable to go back to sleep, Blair sat on his bed in the dark. The emotions he experienced in the saloon—he’d experienced that kind of fear once before. But where? The mission? The thought that kept his heart rate up—the fine-dressed man brought that fear. But how?

  A line from a book kept repeating in his head, a roaring beast looking to destroy. In th
e morning, he knew where to find the runaway stallion. On the way into town last night, he’d seen a small ranch with three mares and about one-hundred burros. The stallion had shown a strong interest in the mares. He had his own interest intrigued last night too.

  The ranch’s split-rail corral could easily hold fifty horses, or a bunch of mules. A barn separated it from the burros which were separated into four different corrals. The ground wasn’t as muddy as Blair expected it to be with all hooves pounding the dirt. The horse pawed at the gravel and railings, snorting. The stallion ran the fence line trying to get to the mares.

  “That your horse, mister?” The question came from a young boy sitting on the top rung of the corral. His hat was too big, but Blair could still see his light-brown hair and blue eyes.

  “I’m afraid so,” Blair said. “He been causing trouble?”

  “Yes, sir. He sure has. Mr. Stanford told me to stay here and keep watch. He went to get some help. When he tried to rope him, he nearly kicked his head off.”

  “Sounds about right.” Blair leaned on the rail.

  “My name’s Duane Collins. What’s yours?”

  “Blair.”

  The boy stretched out his thin arm to shake Blair’s hand. He obliged. Despite the manners, Blair sensed sadness in the boy’s eyes. “You’re awfully polite for someone of your age.”

  “My mom taught me. If I’m not, she’ll take a switch out after me.” Duane waved his hand whipping the air.

  “My mom was like that too.”

  “Did it do you any good?”

  “Kind of.” Blair tried not to think of his mother. The disappointment she would be feeling about him would probably kill her now if she hadn’t died so many years ago. “Your mom’s doing the right thing. How old are you?”

  “I’ll be twelve next month,” Duane said. “We live just outside of town, the cabin with the blue door. Mr. Stanford pays me to do chores around here. Mostly feeding and watering the horses and burros. And cleaning out the stalls. I don’t care much for that. It smells bad.”

  “I know that smell.” Blair whistled and the stallion trotted over to them. It sniffed at the boy. “He okay?” The horse grunted. Blair snatched the reins before it could move away. “Stay close. You left me last night.”

  “It run off on you?”

  “He sure did.” Blair patted the horse’s neck.

  “What’s its name?”

  “I don’t know. I never gave him one, and he never offered to tell me.” But that was only part of it. Keeping it nameless helped him remember one of his wife’s prophetic dreams. She’d told him of a trustworthy, beaten-up horse without a name. It would be a true companion. Her other dreams of Blair weren’t so pleasant.

  The boy’s cheerfulness stalled. He lifted the hat brim for a better look. “What happened to his ear?”

  “We were some place we shouldn’t have been.”

  Inquisitiveness filled Duane’s eyes. He waited for the question.

  “Did bad men do it?”

  “They weren’t so bad. Just protecting what was theirs.” Quick to change the topic of his past sins, Blair took a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Duane. “Thanks for watching him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blair.”

  He jumped on before the horse had time to react. He tugged on the reins and circled him back toward town.

  “Hey.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Have you heard about bad guys here in town? The kind that shoot other men?”

  “No, sir. Why do you want to know?”

  “Just want to stay clear of them.” Blair tipped his hat. “You should too.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy waved.

  * * *

  Safely hidden on the alley side of a small dentist office, Frederick Worthington watched the man exit the mercantile with a tiny package. His clothes were travel worn, and he needed a shave. A week’s worth of stubble darkened his strong chin and jaw line. He probably needed a haircut as well, but only a bit of his light-brown hair showed below his hat. His dark eyes had captured his attention last night.

  As people came and went in the saloon, he had the intensity of a mountain lion stalking a deer. Worthington’s gut told him the man knew something about the killings. Then the way he reacted to the superintendent last night in the saloon, that gave Worthington the impression the mysterious man had a deeper connection.

  He must ask the man some questions. But Worthington was hesitant, not wanting to rush in and make him nervous. He didn’t travel halfway across the country to fail in his task because of his impatience. He owed it to his longtime friend, now dead and buried in this town of greed.

  The man walked toward him. Worthington flattened himself against the wall, an obvious ploy. The stranger stopped at the alley past the first building. “Why are you following me?” he said as he took a nibble off a bar of chocolate.

  He must have appeared ridiculous. “Please excuse my poor manners.” Worthington slowly stepped from the alley keeping his hands visible. Embarrassed by his actions and inability to hide quickly, Worthington licked his lips as his mouth went dry. “Not exactly a suitable hiding place or a way to make a proper introduction. My apologies.”

  “What paper do you work for?” the man asked.

  “A newspaper? No. No. I am not employed by a periodical.” Though the question was an intelligent presumption. He had been making numerous inquiries of the townsfolk since his arrival.

  “The government?”

  Worthington chuckled and shook his head. Another fine speculation.

  “Then what are you doing in Gothic?”

  “That is the precise question I fancied to ask you.” Worthington said. “Let me begin again, properly. My name is Frederick Worthington.” He lifted his bowler hat.

  “Blair.” He didn’t offer his hand.

  Worthington said, “I am here in Gothic working on a research project.”

  “Research? What kind?”

  Worthington waited for a few people to pass by. “That is a discussion for a more private location.”

  “Then why do you want to talk to me?”

  “Last night, you felt it.” Worthington spoke too bluntly. He wished he could take back that rash remark, but he could tell by the man’s eyes the comment moved through his mind.

  Blair’s cheeks flushed red. “Felt what?”

  “I do not mean to embarrass you, sir. You know more than you are aware you do.” Worthington checked for listeners again. “You told me you did not know that man last night, the mine superintendent. Are you sure?”

  Blair’s head shake was hesitant.

  “That is what I presumed. Please, can we speak somewhere in private?” Worthington hoped he intrigued the man enough for him to accept his invitation.

  Before he could answer, a man on a horse rushed by, nearly running over two miners in the middle of the dirt street. The rider pulled up to the Colorado Mine and Exploration Company office and jumped off. Not bothering to tether the horse, he ran inside.

  Seconds later the rider came out and sprinted across the street to a doctor’s office—Dr. Scott Parker, MD, according to the sign. Worthington huffed at the redundancy. The horseman and Dr. Parker exited, climbed on the horse and headed back out of town. Two other men from the CM&E office traipsed after them.

  Worthington stopped one. “What’s going on?”

  “They found another victim. Same thing—throat ripped open and no blood.”

  “Where?”

  “The Snowed-In Mine. It was one of those Weinberg brothers.”

  “Which one?”

  “The dead one.” The man shrugged and kept walking.

  “Mr. Worthington,” the man with chocolate candy said. “We’ll talk later.” He ran through an alley.

  Worthington took one step after him, his open hand clenched into a fist. He grunted in disappointment. He had been too forward.

  The man appeared again on an ugly horse and galloped after the other ri
ders toward the mine. Blair showed his interest when he glanced back in his saddle.

  “What’s your connection?” Worthington whispered to himself.

  Chapter Three

  Bring Out the Dead

  The Snowed-In claim rested a half mile from the entrance to the Jollytime. It started as a silver mine, but they struck a vein of anthracite coal, the hard, valuable kind. The two-man operation produced about six tons on a good day. They dumped the rich coal outside with no way to take it to market. Steven and Theodore Weinberg continued to work the claim hoping to find a way to transport the coal to Gunnison.

  Jonathan Blair couldn’t stop his curiosity from dragging him to the scene of the most recent monster attack as the locals called it. As much as he needed to find Pruitt, he wanted to see if the victim was the same Weinberg who was kicked out of the Buck Snort last night for starting the argument with the superintendent.

  He reached the mine shortly after the other men on the horse did. He dismounted and followed the doctor. A miner’s coal-dust covered body lay halfway out of his shack. About a dozen men stood outside in a half circle around his lifeless legs. Holes the size of silver dollars adorned the bottoms of his work-worn boots. Dirty newspapers stuffed inside had kept his feet from touching the ground. The doctor pushed through the group and entered the shabby structure.

  “He’s dead all right,” Doc Parker said as soon as he walked in.

  Blair peered over the doctor’s shoulder. Steven Weinberg’s corpse lay on the dirt floor. No coincidence. The superintendent, whether familiar or not, had something to do with this.

  “Where’s Theo?” the doctor asked as he continued to examine the body.

  “Doc, Theo’s probably still in Gunnison,” a miner said. “He left two days ago, not supposed to be back ‘til tomorrow.”

  “I’ll let the sheriff know he’s in town when I send him the telegram about this,” the doctor said. “His deputies are going to get tired of coming to investigate these murders.”

  “Murder?” another miner said. “Look at his neck.”

  Dr. Parker stood up and leaned on the door frame. “You got any other explanation?”