The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  “None I’m willing to admit in public, Doc,” the miner said.

  “Do you believe in those vampire rumors?” the doctor asked.

  Everyone diverted their eyes as if to say, don’t ask me directly. The word vampire brought a laugh to Blair that he kept in his throat. He’d heard all kinds of strange tales on his journeys, but none were ever proven true.

  “Okay then, who was the last to see Steven?” Doc Parker asked.

  Blair kept his mouth shut. The fewer people he connected with in Gothic the easier his task would be. No one else admitted to knowing anything.

  Word had spread of the death. More people gathered around the shack. Blair stepped back from the group and waited until they brought the body out. He stayed to get a better look at Steven’s neck. Everyone else did too as they crowded around. Three men carried the body close enough for him to observe the mark. The bite was too small to be from a cougar. And there really was no blood. Not even a sign that it had been wiped away. No dried blood clung to the miner’s beard and unshaven neck. The contrast to the dead miner’s dirty skin stood out—black as ink but pale as fine parchment around the wound, like it had been licked clean. The men emptied out of the shack.

  As the line of people coming up the hill swelled, Blair left. He moved back to the stallion that waited impatiently. Shouts and curses came from the growing crowd. Four miners bullied Steven Weinberg’s corpse away from the men carrying him. They dragged it back inside the shed as the spectators yelled at them. One of them stood outside the door with a shotgun, pointing it at anyone who dared take a step toward him.

  The gunman, built thick from a lifetime of working in the mines, must have been in his early fifties. Lines of embedded coal enhanced the wrinkles in his face and hands. His eyes told Blair he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger—not a murderer, but a man who had a job to do.

  Mr. Shotgun shouted something to his friends in a language Blair did not recognize.

  It only took a few moments before the three men, holding axes and a large mallet, exited the shack.

  The two younger ones, in their twenties, could be brothers—same narrow facial features, brown hair and dark eyes. Though they had the same shoulders and frame, one was two inches shorter. And he appeared to be a couple years older. Neither of them resembled the two older fellows. The fourth man, who seemed to be in charge, matched the age of the gunman.

  Mr. Shotgun hollered in a thick accent, “We must stop it before they kill us all.”

  The four started down the hill. They took quick glances back at the crowd.

  Blair went straight into the dilapidated structure.

  “What the hell?”

  Steven’s body lay on the dirt floor with a large wooden stake driven through its chest cavity pinning the ribcage to the ground. The stake went through the heart. Steven’s head rested against a metal bed frame near the far wall. His head had been cleanly severed by the ax. Blair could make out the spine, muscles and throat in the exposed neck. No blood dripped from the fresh cut or the hole in his chest. Seeing the inner parts of a man always unnerved Blair. It wasn’t natural.

  “What is it?” a man asked from outside.

  Blair slid sideways through those clogging the door waiting to see what the men did to Steven Weinberg. The four butchers were easy to find. The people coming up the trail gave them plenty of room on their way down. Blair had seen people slaughtered before. He might even admit to doing some of the work himself, but never after they were dead.

  “His brother is going to be pissed,” Doc Parker said.

  * * *

  Blair passed several people on the trail, shunning their questions about Steven Weinberg and his death. Blair only momentarily held eye contact with them. He studied their faces, hunting for his prey. Behind a tree not too far from the path, a familiar woman hid—the prostitute he met on the trail last night. She shook the branches and chirped when the sharp needles stung her fingers. The people heading up the trail did not seem to notice. Their focal point was the Snowed-In Mine. A dead man and rumors of a vampire attack were of more interest.

  Vampires. Blair still couldn’t believe what he had heard.

  Blair slowly guided the stallion toward the woman. A small cabin with a blue door sat in the direction of her departure. That has to be Duane’s house.

  He waited until the crowd passed. “What are you doing?”

  “You again,” Susanne said.

  “Yeah.”

  Blair rode over to her. The stallion sniffed her. Blair smelled her perfume too. It was the first time he saw her eyes in the light—hazel, shaped like almonds. Her hair was darker than he expected. Her smile enticed him take a second look.

  He nodded at the cabin. “Somewhere you’re not supposed to be? His wife lingering about?”

  “It’s not like that.” She brushed some bark off her long, brown cotton dress—not the professional attire she wore when they first met.

  “Then why you hiding? Have you been up by Steven Weinberg’s cabin?”

  “No. What business is it of yours anyway?”

  Blair rolled his eyes. “I guess it really isn’t my business.” He gestured toward the cabin. “But that man has a family. I met his boy today. I’m guessing there’s only one cabin with a blue door around here.”

  “Maybe you should learn a bit more before you start accusing people.” Susanne stormed off. A trail led away from the house through a thin stand of mixed trees. The sparse branches let the sunlight give life to green ground cover; grass, kinnikinnick, and pussy toes.

  He followed her. “That is what you do, isn’t it?”

  The woman stopped and took a deep breath. “Like I said, it’s not any of your business. But just so you know, his dad is dead. He died in the mine explosion back in the spring. And no, he wasn’t a customer. It’s only the boy and his mom now.”

  Blair dismounted to lose the high-and-mighty demeanor. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “That is what I do. But not today.” She took a step and paused. “Is it true Steven’s dead? Like the others?”

  “He’s dead.” His eyes darted back up the hill. “I guess like the others. No throat and no blood.”

  “I got to get out of this town,” Susanne mumbled and doubled her previous pace.

  “Do you know anything about it?” he asked.

  “Just that someone or something is killing off the miners.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What about the preacher?”

  “Everyone thinks that was a robbery.”

  “Do you think that?”

  Susanne cocked her head. “Nothing strange there. A man with money is dead, and now someone else has it. You look like a man who understands that sort of thing.”

  Blair knew about that all too well.

  “The law looking for you?” she asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  She gave him a smug glare. “Served your time, did you?”

  “Not exactly.” Blair played with the reins. “And you can stop with the snide comments. I’ve heard them all.”

  “A little soft, huh?” Susanne said.

  “Just annoyed.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Blair chuckled and placed his hand on the horse’s saddle. “Do you want a ride back to town?”

  “No, thanks. People might think you’re courting me if you keep that up.” She waved him on. “It would be bad for business.”

  * * *

  Blair spent the next few hours getting to know the area. He rode around Gothic, strategically checking every store, alley, and street. The boom town was small enough for Blair to easily memorize the layout. It had plenty of businesses vying for the miners’ wages. The smell of fresh bread led him to a bakery where he purchased cornbread. Separated by an abundance of saloons, other businesses offering goods and services included a meat market, jeweler, doctor, dentist, two lawyers, a bank, and a drug store. On both ends of the main street, blacksmiths hammered away at horse s
hoes and mining tools. Three sawmills buzzed on the outside of town producing lumber for the growing community.

  Surrounding the businesses, homes had been poorly built in a matter of days. Time was money in a mining town only if that time was spent digging. The small yards served as personal garbage dumps, as the city wasn’t evolved enough to handle everyone’s trash. The high-altitude sun helped the trash cook, leaving an awful and delicious smell to attract bears. The settlement had completed a water works pump system to fight fires, a tragic end to many wood-built towns. To Blair’s surprise, he rode by two teams of miners playing a game of baseball.

  He worked his way to the Maroon Saloon to talk to Miss Katy Lee about Pruitt. The wood structure was fairly new, but sloppy construction put a slight lean to the walls; enough so that those who weren’t drunk might have thought they were. The saloon was busy, but not crowded for a late afternoon. Drinkers, gamblers, and working girls kept the bartender juggling glasses and bottles.

  Blair enjoyed the lack of a bad smell. Most saloons washed the floors with dirty water. The Maroon Saloon did not have the odor of stale liquor and puke. The aroma of fresh flowers filled the building.

  Blair went to the bar and asked for Miss Katy Lee. The squirrelly little bartender sized him up and scoffed.

  “Problem?” Blair asked.

  “You’re not her type,” he said.

  “Let her make that call.”

  “See here, mister, she only converses with the high rollers,” he said as he rinsed out three shot glasses and put them back on the shelf. “Not common folk.”

  “You can be polite and fetch her for me, or we can have a talk about how common folk deal with disappointment.”

  The bartender tilted his head back and squinted. Blair leaned over the bar.

  “Go get her, or I’ll take you outside and drag your naked body from here to Crested Butte.” He sat back down. “I don’t like disappointment.”

  The bartender frowned. “What’s your name?”

  “Jonathan Blair.” The bounty hunter shooed him away with a wave of his hand. The man set down the bottle he held and went over to a woman in a short dress. A whisper in her ear sent her upstairs. She came right back down, nodded at the bartender then greeted two new customers.

  A few moments later, a tall woman dressed semi-formally made her way down. Her conservative green dress was cut long, not anything like the dresses of her workers. Blonde hair curled along her neck and over her shoulders. A façade of elegance and grace came with her. She was striking.

  The bartender, who had moved to the far end of the bar away, pointed at Blair. The woman stood next to him. “You asked to see me, Mr. Blair?” Her voice had a hint of a Southern drawl.

  Her beauty overwhelmed Blair. He forgot his words momentarily. “Are you Miss Katy Lee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can we go somewhere private?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t visit with strangers. My momma taught me better than that.”

  “She teach you how to work a dance hall too?”

  Miss Katy Lee’s cheeks glowed red. “I’ll see you are escorted out.”

  She whistled and two thugs came over.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stepped back. “See that this man leaves and doesn’t come back.”

  “Touch me, and it will turn this beautiful day into a bad one.” Blair straightened his spine and faced the man.

  The guards, strong from working the mines, waited on direction from Miss Katy Lee.

  “Mister, you can walk out, or they can help you out,” she said.

  “I need five minutes of your time. I can pay well.”

  “Just needs a quicky,” the taller thug said to the other. They both laughed.

  Blair scowled.

  “No thanks.” She pointed at the door.

  “Listen, lady, I’m not here for your body.”

  “You surely need to take a class in manners. That’s twice you’ve offended me.”

  “Time to go.” The short thug grabbed Blair’s arm.

  The bounty hunter glanced down at the hand holding him. “This doesn’t have to happen this way.”

  “Our way is fun,” the taller thug said.

  They jerked Blair out of his seat and tossed him on the floor.

  “You pull those pistols, I’ll put a hole in you big as the moon,” the bartender said as he aimed a rifle at Blair’s chest.

  The two thugs stepped toward him. The short one held a wooden club. This wasn’t how Blair had planned this visit.

  “Miss Katy Lee, I really do need to speak with you.” Blair raised himself onto his hands and knees.

  “Not today, mister.” She moved out of the way.

  The thugs smiled. The short one tapped his left palm with the club. The tall one rubbed his hands together making a fist with one, then the other.

  Blair stood, using his momentum and weight, and swung at the same time. The force behind his fist dropped the short thug to the ground. He lay there bleeding and unconscious. The tall one knocked Blair off balance with a blow that skimmed the back of his head. Righted, he went belly to belly and hit for hit against the larger foe. His agility easily gave him the advantage. He slid side to side, rolled, and picked up the club.

  The big man threw and missed a left and right as Blair jerked back. The man wearied. Blair darted and ducked another lazy punch, but met it with the club. The man’s hand cracked like dry kindling. It took a moment for him to feel the pain. A scream came immediately after it registered. Blair struck him twice in the mouth, knuckles to lips. The big man fell hard.

  Blair sat down at the closest table to catch his breath. He spit a little blood on the floor and wiped his face. “Can he put that away?” he asked Miss Katy Lee. She nodded to the bartender who still held the rifle.

  “So, can I have a few minutes?”

  * * *

  The late afternoon sun slowly crept out of the Maroon Saloon. Miss Katy Lee studied Blair as he rubbed his jaw. “I guess you earned five minutes,” Miss Katy Lee said. “Come with me.”

  Her hips swayed as she led him to the private poker room in the back. The room held finer furniture and fixtures than most saloons. Crystal glasses sat in perfect lines on a mahogany buffet. Fresh, light-purple flowers rested in a vase on the table. She sat down in one of the hand carved chairs covered with silk fabric. Miss Katy Lee fiddled with poker chips that were stacked neatly on the table. A diamond ring shined on her right hand. The madam raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

  Blair paused. This was the second woman in as many days he was alone with. Her perfume, though not the same, enticed him. She gave off a show of strength, but that came with the profession. Was she still tender, or had life hardened her heart?

  “I’m trying to find someone. I heard you might be able to help me.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “I can pay.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “Well, maybe you are a concerned citizen looking out for the well-being of your fellow townsmen,” Blair said.

  “I think their well-being is taken care of just fine here.”

  Blair kept his frustration controlled, taking a deep breath before speaking. He didn’t know if it was her attitude or her figure that left him with uneasy feeling.

  “Lady, I’m looking for a killer. I was told he is in town. I don’t want any trouble. I need some help confirming he is here.”

  “You’re obviously not a lawman. You held your own out there, so you might be a bounty hunter. Or maybe a sad family member seeking revenge.”

  “I’ll just say I’m getting paid for this.”

  She sat back and crossed her arms. “What’s his name?”

  “Jeremiah Pruitt.”

  Her eyes rotated up as though she was thinking. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Blair gave a small shrug. “He could be using a different name. He knows people are after him. He likes his girls young and he likes i
t rough. If you know what I mean.”

  She squeezed her lips together and nodded.

  “Pruitt is about my size, a few years older. Black hair.” He put his thumbnails together. “And his thumbs are curled up like quarter moons.”

  Miss Katy Lee’s eyes widened. She touched the left side of her neck with her fingertips. Perfect, desirable skin appeared under her hair. “Does he have a scar?”

  “That’s him.”

  “No need to pay. That bastard beat one of my girls unconscious for making fun of his thumbs.”

  “He’s killed a man for that.”

  “Jeremiah Pruitt.” She couldn’t keep her hands still. They went from her face to the poker chips. She folded her fingers together to stop the motion. “Sorry.”

  Blair lifted his hand to hold hers, but stopped and scratched his chin. “Pruitt makes a lot of people nervous.”

  “He’s going by the name James Phillips. He works at the Jollytime Mine as one of the checkweighmen. Been cheatin’ men since he started. He gets a kickback from the mine boss for tipping the scales in the mine’s favor.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “He comes in here a lot. I don’t like him. He scares my girls,” Miss Katy Lee said. “Sorry about the boys out front.”

  Sincerity in the apology. He liked her voice more than her words. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

  “I’ll keep your hunt between us as long as you keep it out of my place.”

  “Deal.”

  They stood up and shook hands. Her skin was soft. His must have scraped like tree bark on her palm. Blair’s embarrassment gave way to the desire linked to her touch.

  “Be careful. He always has a couple of gunmen with him.”

  “They any good?”

  “By that, I take it you mean can they shoot?”

  Blair grinned.

  “I don’t really know. They seem to be more muscle than anything, doing whatever Phillips says. If you’re hunting him, I assume you know what kind of man he is.”

  “More than most.”

  “There’s other deadly things happening here.”

  “Thanks, I’ve heard.” He moved to the door, then hesitated. “What can you tell me about a woman named Susanne? She’s in your line of work.”