The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  “Let’s go.” His partner waved toward the engine. The signal received, a third hooded man came running from where he guarded the engineer. The masked killers mounted their horses and rode along the length of the train, back toward Gothic.

  Doc Parker lay on the floor of the car. Jarod’s blood soaked into his pants. He was alive; that was all he could think about. He closed his eyes and let his face rest in the dust. Doc had seen the wounds, but never seen the actual shooting. Not even in the war. “Oh, God.” When the footfalls of the horses disappeared, Doc slid to the door for a look.

  Sam shuffled his way back to the boxcar. His petite seventy-year-old bones were held together with tight, coal-shoveling muscles. When he came within a few feet of Jarod’s decapitated body lying on the rocky rail bed, he held his stomach as if he was going to puke.

  The engineer jerked as Doc’s bloody boot scratched along the floor. “I thought they killed you too.” Sam struggled to catch his breath. “Are you hurt?”

  Doc shook his head. He wasn’t hurt, but he would never be the same.

  “Come on, let’s get you out of there.” Sam leaned into the open door, the floor at chest height. He reached in to help Parker. But he waved him off. Doc swung his legs around and let them dangle as he sat on the edge.

  “You up for a walk?” Sam asked.

  Doc scowled at him.

  “They tore up the tracks on the East River bridge. Removed a large section of rail from the bridge. The weight of this old iron steam engine would have crushed the timber frame and sent us into the river. I had to stop. You can ride back with me, but you can make it faster if you walk. I got to check out the bridge, see how bad it’s damaged. Then I’ll have to back this baby up all the way to Gothic. If the gunmen come back, you might not make it home.”

  “What about Jarod?” Doc asked.

  Sam peered at the deputy’s boots. “We can put him back in here, if we hurry. But I ain’t getting his head.” He wiped his mouth. “Why did they kill him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even think they knew. They hesitated when I asked.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No, but at least one of them knew me.”

  “That’s kind of scary.”

  “If they wanted me dead, they had their chance. They were here to kill Jarod.”

  “But why cut off his head?”

  Parker’s eyes moved up and down as he fought to remember. But nothing came to the forefront of his brain. “It seems familiar, like a fuzzy memory.”

  “Sounds like a bad memory to me, but you’re right. It is familiar.”

  “We were going to the hospital in Gunni.”

  “Yeah, Jarod was hurt pretty bad.”

  “How?”

  Sam scratched his balding, liver-spotted scalp and scanned the distant hills. “I can’t recall.”

  “Me either. But I remember bandaging up his arm in my office.” Parker rubbed his head trying to think of the day’s events. “Why can’t I remember any details?”

  “You tell me. You’re the doctor. We both got a memory like Swiss cheese.”

  “I don’t know.” The idea he might be going crazy came and went. But something was wrong, he was sure of that.

  The doctor jumped off his perch. “Let’s pick him up. But you’ll have to help with the heavy end.”

  Sam swallowed hard. “Thought I could grab his legs.”

  “He’s too big for me, even without his...” Parker didn’t want to say the word. The image turned his stomach.

  The two men took hold of Jarod under his arms and dragged him near the door. With a heave they raised him enough to push him into the boxcar on his back. Their first attempt failed. Doc tilted his head under the body. The wooden stake caught on the door frame. They dropped the body. Parker put his foot on Jarod’s back and latched onto the stake. He twisted, yanked, and shook the wood picket until it came loose. They lifted the body again. Doc climbed in and heaved as Sam shoved the bottoms of Jarod’s boots.

  “Anything we can cover him with?” Doc wiped his bloody hands on his shirt.

  “Nothing.”

  Doc climbed down and searched for the head. Despite the tall grass, the blood trail was obvious to follow. He did his best to not look Jarod in the face. His choice for picking up the head was to place hands on both sides, behind the ears, keeping the face pointed away from him. Holding the head by its gray hair was too barbaric. Sam turned away from the stare of death. Doc placed the head between Jarod’s knees. Sam slid the door shut and locked it.

  “I’ll be back in town in less than two hours, depending on the bridge damage. Can you make plans to get the body as soon as I get there?” Sam held out his hand. “Sorry about what happened.”

  Doc shook Sam’s hand. “Me too. I’ll meet you at the station.”

  “Follow the tracks until you hit the aspen groove then go left. There’s a shallow spot to cross the creek just beyond that. Getting a little clean wouldn’t hurt. Keep an eye out in case those boys come back to finish what they started.”

  Doc waved at Sam, but kept his eyes on the railroad ties as he alternated toes.

  Sam shouted, “That would be one sight to see, you walking into town covered in blood.”

  * * *

  Doc Parker’s brown wool trousers turned black as Jarod’s blood dried. The cool breeze from the west kept him from sweating as he hiked the valley’s flourishing floor. He kept replaying the situation in his head. But it always came down to “why.” He couldn’t remember how Jarod was injured in the first place. He knew they were heading to the Gunnison hospital.

  Am I in shock? Why can’t I remember?

  Who knew Jarod was on the train? Most of the town did. Why did they want to kill him? He wasn’t a rough lawman—just a deputy who came to town every few weeks. No major fights or troubling arrests. He wasn’t a gambler, so no bad blood over a card game.

  The killers rode toward Gothic, so it wasn’t a Gunnison thing. But why? Why here and now? It had taken a lot of trouble to tamper with the bridge.

  Then to decapitate the guy. That must have been personal. Was he sleeping with some guy’s wife? And the stake in the back. What was that all about? A message about being a traitor? He wasn’t in the military, not in the war.

  “Why not me?” Parker asked a black Abert’s squirrel that chattered at him from a branch.

  He reached the aspen grove and took a minute to rest. The morning sun was at his back, but at this altitude the intensity heated his skin. He found a thick tree to sit against in the shade of the green canopy. Doc kept the questions going. There had to be a logical explanation for the missing pieces of his memory.

  A sound from the grove startled him. Doc pressed his body against the bottom of the tree trunk to hide his presence. He strained to see two figures lurking through the trees.

  “You better get that som’bitch ‘fore he gets away.”

  “Shut up. I’ll shoot ‘em.”

  They’ve come back. Doc didn’t hear the horses, but they must have spotted him. He peeked again. They had a shotgun. What about Sam? He didn’t remember hearing any shots, but that didn’t comfort him given his memory loss.

  They’d find him if he stayed. Why didn’t they shoot him before? The edge of the creek channel was only yards away. The water ran a few feet below that. If he could sneak away that would be the best place to hide. He said a quick prayer and moved to his belly. Crawling in the tall grass was slow, but he kept pushing his body along.

  “You see him?”

  “Yeah, there he is.”

  Doc jumped up and sprinted toward the channel. Two blasts from the shotgun startled him enough his body jerked in anticipation of the pellets piercing his skin. He ran faster and dove into the creek, hitting the rocky bottom. His hands, elbows and knees took the brunt of the smooth rocks. Pain shot through his left arm as his radius cracked. He rolled in the water and clutched his broken arm to his chest with his right hand. Doc scooted on his but
t, pushing with his legs, knees bleeding. He reached the bank and crawled under a bush hoping to hide

  Another shotgun round went off.

  “I got him. I got him.”

  Pain rippled through Doc’s body from landing in the shallow creek, but couldn’t tell if any of the throbbing was from lead. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t shot.

  “Jeb, that’s a huge rabbit.”

  “Yeah, it’ll be perfect.”

  “Rabbit?” Doc whispered.

  “Here, Dave, put it with the other two.”

  Doc crawled up the bank enough to see two bone-thin men, Jeb and Dave Montgomery. The brothers, in their mid-twenties, stuffed a large hare into a burlap sack.

  “We got enough?” Jeb poked at the hares with his index finger.

  “I think so. Let’s get to work.” Dave tossed the sack over his shoulder.

  The brothers followed a trail along the creek that led toward the mines.

  Doc let out a deep breath of relief. He was safe, but hurt. He had to tell himself he wasn’t an idiot for running away, even though he broke his arm. He made a logical decision. But it hurt like hell.

  He carefully crawled back into the creek and sat down in the current. He shivered. Cold water was the best for washing out blood, Jarod’s blood. He cleaned himself with his trousers on, rubbing sand and gravel on his pants’ legs, staying away from the torn-up skin on his knees. Doc cringed as he took off his jacket and shirt. The soaked fabric clung to his swollen arm. He splashed the clothes in and out of the water until the drips were clear of blood. Then he fashioned a sling for his left arm out of the wet shirt.

  Blood. I’ve never seen so much blood. Not since that corporal was shot near his heart. He’d lived long enough to pump out most of the blood in his body. A fraction of an inch higher and the bullet would have hit the heart directly. But instead it went through a thin, oak branch and hit a rib that shattered. The sharp bits of bone tore tiny holes in the heart’s walls, causing it to leak without destroying it.

  “His heart.”

  The stake went through Jarod’s heart. They searched for the right place on his back. Why his heart?

  Doc Parker stalled in the creek. He checked back toward where the train had stopped, but could not see above the creek bank and grass. The engine whistle blew in the distance.

  Vampires? Doc’s eyes opened wide. “Vampires.”

  The Hungarian brothers. Tim Travis. The others. It all came back to him.

  “Oh, hell.”

  How could I forget that? How did Sam forget?

  Parker held his left arm tight against his chest and struggled out of the creek bed. He slipped once. Gravelly dirt stuck to his wet pants. The new mud covered what was left of the blood stains. Parker scurried up and broke into a run. He could see the outlying buildings of Gothic.

  * * *

  Pastor Jones held a thin piece of pine lumber in place as Frederick Worthington drove a nail through the plank with three swings of a hammer.

  “One more.” The professor picked a nail from his lips, set it in place and hammered away. With that nail they finished the bottom of their third coffin. They carried the pine box over to the five occupied caskets sitting in the middle of the church.

  Worthington stood up straight to stretch his back. “You’re one of those individuals who want to experience God before they will allow themselves to put all their faith into what is in the great book of human history. For many, that is all it is, history—people and events that have no direct bearing on their lives today. Yes, you’ve read the book. But where’s your true faith—in God or in what you can understand with logic?”

  “I have faith that what happened in the Bible is real.” Jones laid several planks next to each other on the saw horses.

  “Sure you do.” The professor grabbed a small handful of nails. “You went to class to learn it.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Worthington pointed the hammer at Jones. “You probably think God’s will trumps man’s will too.”

  “I didn’t expect sarcasm from a professor.”

  The professor snickered. “Well, I expect pastors to have a real faith in God and not religion and bad theology. But I guess we can both deal with the disappointments in our lives.”

  The pastor slammed the planks for the top of the coffin together, knocking one off the saw horses. He grumbled through his teeth as he picked up the stray lumber. Jones squeezed the piece of pine until his finger tips and knuckles went white.

  Worthington would need the pastor in the next few days, but he also needed the pastor to examine his beliefs. Picking at him seemed the best way to pry apart his ideology. Worthington stuck more nails in his lips as he held in a smile, trying not to show his satisfaction over Jones’ frustration.

  * * *

  Doc Parker, breathing fast and deep, reached the center of town but didn’t know where to go. The jail sat empty, no deputies were in Gothic, no law to help them. The Hungarians or the hooded men from the train were probably the ones who cut the telegraph lines, so there was no way to call for help.

  “What do I do? Who do I tell?” Main Street appeared like every other day with people running about doing chores, shopping, and dining.

  Pastor Jones. Doc ran to the church. Several men lingered outside including the mayor. A former Confederate soldier, Mayor Orry Burdett was a Mississippi man, a southern gentleman. The title of mayor was more honorary than formal. The biggest event of his tenure was hosting President Grant a few years back when he toured some “real mining” towns. Responsibility fell to Orry Burdett to make sure Grant did not get assassinated on his watch. The Southerner didn’t want people thinking he was still bitter about the war. Burdett outlawed guns during Grant’s stay. But to keep the folks from getting angry, he bought all the whiskey—with town funds, of course.

  “Is Pastor Jones here?”

  “Doc, you all right?” the mayor asked with his Southern drawl.

  “Is the pastor here?” His voice was tense.

  “He’s inside with that Yankee who asks all them questions.” Mayor Burdett pointed at the Doc’s broken arm. “What happened to ya?”

  “They stopped the train at the bridge and killed Deputy Jarod.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know, Orry. They wore hoods. They cut off his head and staked his heart.”

  “The Hungarian brothers?”

  “No, they spoke English.”

  “Their group is gettin’ biggah. Where’s Jarod’s body?”

  “Sam’s bringing the train back here. He’s in the boxcar.”

  “Why’d they kill him?”

  “I guess they thought Tim Travis passed on the vampire blood to him.” Parker’s breathing slowed. He wiped the sweat from his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Burial detail,” Mayor Burdett said.

  “Better get another coffin. Jarod is going to need one.”

  “But how many more are we going to need?”

  Doc Parker stared the mayor in the eye. “I don’t know.” He knocked on the door of the church before opening it.

  The mayor kicked at the dirt. “This is gettin’ worse than pants full o’ chiggers.”

  * * *

  “Doc, how did you hurt your arm?” Jones asked.

  “More importantly, what are you doing in Gothic?” Worthington said. Doc should have been at the Gunnison hospital with the deputy instead of here covered in mud with his arm in a makeshift sling.

  Jones took in a long, deep breath; his eyes burned with contempt.

  Why was the pastor so blind to what was happening in town.

  “They killed Deputy Jarod,” the doctor said. He told the entire story of the hooded men. “I cannot understand why I couldn’t remember what has been happening here. Why they cut off his head. I must have been in shock.”

  “That’s okay, Doc. We all have bad days,” Jones said.

  In disbelief, Worthington shook his he
ad at the pastor. “But Doc, you said the engineer didn’t seem to remember either. Two men forgetting the horrible events of this town seems extremely odd to me.”

  “If I could have seen their faces—I know the killers didn’t know why they killed him. I asked them and they froze, like they were unsure if they should do it.” The doctor ran his dirty fingers along the top of one of the occupied coffins.

  “They might remember now if they are back in town. I wish I had the opportunity to speak with them about the situation. First-hand knowledge is so important to my research.”

  “Are you going to take them to lunch?” Jones asked.

  Worthington lightly chuckled at the mockery. He has no clue. “I’ll have to talk to… did you say his name was Sam?”

  The doctor nodded. He closed his eyes and bowed his head over the casket.

  “I have an idea about this memory loss, something I have heard before.”

  “What?” Jones asked.

  Worthington set down his hammer. “You’d think I was crazier than you already do if I told you. So I’ll keep this to myself until I have more information. Besides, I wouldn’t want to fill that skeptical brain of yours with anything too spiritual. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me.”

  The professor brushed the sawdust from his shirt and pants and put on his coat. “Doctor Parker, you might want to put some clean clothes on before the few respectable women of this town start complaining.”

  * * *

  Sam blew the steam whistle several times as the train slowly approached Gothic. He had been back and forth between Gothic and Gunnison so many times, he claimed to have counted each railroad tie. But this was only the second time he drove the train backward. The first time he did it the tracks were blocked by ten feet of snow. He had to wait several days until another engine with a steel plow-like wedge came from Gunni to clear the way. Though the wedge moved the snow off the tracks, it created a snowy canyon that lasted until early summer.

  The engineer stopped the train within two yards of where it began this morning, a fine accomplishment given the circumstance. Pastor Jones and four miners waited with a coffin. Sam climbed down from the steam engine and ran to the boxcar. He unlocked the door and slid it open as four men waited with the pine box on their shoulders.