The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  “Ne fesd az ördögöt a falra, mert megjelenik,” János said.

  “If you talk of the devil, he will appear,” Peter whispered to the Americans.

  András spat. “The devil is already here.”

  * * *

  Jonathan Blair, Professor Worthington, and Pastor Jones gathered in the back of the crowded Maroon Saloon. As the bodies shuffled out, clearing the room, the three men found space at an empty table.

  “He’s offering the men really good wages if they stay,” Jones said.

  “There is another motive working here besides financial gain for the mine,” the professor said. “I can feel it.”

  Blair nodded, though he didn’t understand Stone’s plan. Stone brought death

  “I didn’t realize rabies could cause a man to act like that,” Jones said.

  “Are you serious?” Worthington and Blair asked in unison.

  “What?”

  The important group followed the superintendent toward the private poker room in the back.

  “Well, well, well.” Superintendent Stone stopped and hovered over the table, eyeing Blair and his companions. He waited for his party to assemble around him. “Would you look at these three gentlemen, sitting cozy in the back of the room as if trying not to get too involved with our town’s situation.”

  Blair felt for his gun. To his surprise Worthington reached for his hand and pressed it against his hip, right above the pistol’s grip. Worthington gave him a tiny shake of his head. This wasn’t the time or place. Too many people to tell the truth. Blair reluctantly relaxed his arm. Worthington let go.

  “An interesting group to say the least, all with something uniquely in common. Can you guess?” Superintendent Stone checked his group for answers. “Have you ever seen such a motley group… of clergymen?” He held out his hands toward the table. “Not exactly your average board of pastors.”

  The men standing around the superintendent exchanged confused glances, as did Pastor Jones. Worthington tilted his head down. Pruitt scowled. The bastard picked at old wounds. The professor being a preacher at one time wasn’t a surprise.

  “What are you talking about?” the pastor asked.

  “Why, Pastor Jones, you didn’t know?” Stone wore an evil smile. “These two men you are fellowshipping with are men of the cloth, ordained ministers.”

  The entire group leaned in with curiosity, they looked back and forth at Blair, Worthington, and Pastor Jones. Pruitt raised his eyebrows and studied Blair’s face.

  Blair stared back. Does he remember? He didn’t figure it out when I was with the gang. Surely, he won’t remember now.

  Jones stood up. “That can’t be correct.”

  “Oh, come now, Pastor.” The superintendent stepped forward and put his arm around Jones. “You had to have known something. Then again, you don’t listen to God very well. Does he, Professor Worthington?” Stone’s eyes stalked Worthington’s thoughts.

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “That is what you do, Professor. Listen to God. Isn’t that why you were removed from three different churches? Instead of teaching people about the good book, you let your selfish desires lead you to teach about spirituality. Didn’t you just miss being tarred and feathered?”

  “Is this true?” Jones asked.

  “Facts don’t always present the truth.” The professor’s voice was quiet but strong. The old man had a past of his own. “But you don’t like truth, do you, Mr. Stone?”

  “There you go again, flashing your educational wit, twisting words to fit your needs. You think you are so much smarter than our poor, little, mining-town pastor.” Stone gave Jones a comfortable squeeze on the shoulder. “Don’t let the professor belittle you because you don’t believe his skewed view of your righteous faith. The good book talks of such false prophets.” Stone bowed and shook his head in false disappointment, an act worthy of the stage.

  “Doc Parker, you’ve been around the state. I know you’ve heard of the Johnson Gang. Even patched up a few of its victims.”

  “I sure have.” Doc’s voice slurred with the whiskey he drank. He carried an empty glass in his healthy hand. His left arm and a bottle rested in a clean sling.

  “Then I would like to introduce you, and the rest of these fine men, to a member of that dreaded gang of outlaws—Jonathan Blair, killer, murderer, and selfish destroyer of life and lest we forget, a Methodist minister. Mr. Blair, the leadership of Gothic.” The superintendent waved his hand toward the group. “And I am Daniel Stone.”

  Blair studied the superintendent’s demeanor. He sensed the familiar evil presence like a foul odor permeating a closed room. He did all he could to keep a calm appearance, even though this man unwound his nerves. “We’ve met.”

  “I don’t recall meeting such a vile man as yourself.”

  “We didn’t meet. But we met.” Blair maintained eye contact to see if there would be a change.

  Stone’s expression of joy disappeared as he held court with the town leadership. He stared back at Blair. His pupils enlarged until his eyes were completely black.

  “Few years back at a mission in Mexico.” Blair willed his hands to stay away from his pistols.

  “I have never been to Mexico.” Stone’s voice was stern and deep.

  “I didn’t say you had.”

  “Then how did we meet in Mexico, you foolish man?”

  “I guess it must be a spiritual thing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jones asked. “None of this makes sense.”

  “Shut up.” Blair kept his eyes on the superintendent.

  Stone shook his head. “Mr. Blair, I’ve had enough of you for one night. Your mind must be off its track. You’re talking all kinds of nonsense. It is a pity you are no longer wanted by the authorities for your despicable actions. What a deal you must have struck for your freedom. I can’t imagine an honorable judge signing off on any such thing. Lucky for you, I guess, or I would have my man take you into custody, to protect my peaceful town.”

  The superintendent patted James Phillips aka, Pruitt, on the back. He grinned at Blair.

  “We’ve met before too, a couple of times,” Blair said. “JP, do you remember much of Mexico? Or were you not there either?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “I doubt it. Not too many people have those pretty, curly thumbs.” Blair gestured at Pruitt’s hands. “But if you want to discuss it further, let me know.”

  Pruitt glared at his former gang member. Hate dripped from him like a wet sponge. He rotated his hands against his hips to hide his thumbs. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Stone’s eyes returned to their natural brown color, and a cheerful grin lifted his narrow cheeks high. “Gentlemen, like I was saying, a motley group of preachers—one banished from the pulpit, one obviously mentally challenged and a killer at that, and one brow beaten by the others.

  “Pastor Jones, you don’t have to take this kind of abuse from two men who have lost their way. Come with us.” He extended his hand and ushered him to the back room, nearly pushing him. “Gentlemen, drinks are on me. Pastor, I’m sure we can get one of Miss Katy Lee’s beautiful ladies to fetch you a cup of hot tea.”

  The group entered the ornate poker room as Blair’s prey held the door open. When the last man stepped in, Pruitt winked at Blair before he shut the door. Two of Pruitt’s gunmen stood guard.

  Worthington took Blair by the shoulder. “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Mr. Tab sat alone at a table in the Maroon Saloon. Though the place was crowded, no one challenged him for the table or asked to share it. The men stayed away, and the prostitutes shunned him. His aura scattered them like roaches in the light.

  Mr. Tab had arrived in Gothic on the trail of Jonathan Blair. He’d followed him for the better part of a day. Now he sat a few feet away from his quest.

  Superintendent Daniel Stone and the o
thers shared their views of how their world would work with them in charge. Greed led their value system, a system that would always try to survive. He mourned as Theo Weinberg vented about the death of his brother and all but accused Daniel Stone.

  The being inside Daniel Stone had raged as he faced off against Blair. Mr. Tab controlled his desire to cut Stone open and rip the creature from his soul. That wasn’t his immediate task.

  At some point during the conversation with Stone, Professor Worthington focused on Mr. Tab. A brief encounter, but long enough for the stranger to understand Worthington’s motives and morals.

  He waited until Blair and the professor left the boardwalk in front of the saloon before he followed them into the night.

  * * *

  Frederick Worthington guided Jonathan Blair to the church once led by his long-time friend, Thomas Bolton. The frame structure was one of only a few buildings in town built well. Pastor Bolton spent every day on the site as the workers squared, sawed, and hammered. This hadn’t been his first mining town. He knew how quickly some buildings were nailed together. The leaning Maroon Saloon was only one example of shabby mining-town construction.

  Bolton hadn’t stood around barking orders and quoting scripture. He directed the construction, putting in more time than any of the paid or volunteer help. They laid a solid foundation into the ground. For the most part, the structure was as airtight as a one-room, wood-sided building could be. The six windows, three on each side, weren’t even drafty.

  The building was three times as long as it was wide, allowing for two columns of pine pews, with twelve rows in each. Worthington lit two lanterns hanging on the wall next to the doors. Blair waited on the front porch with his toes touching the threshold.

  “God won’t strike you down for entering,” the professor said.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve…”

  “I thought this would be the quietest location for us to talk.”

  Blair closed his eyes then raised, moved, and lowered his foot. He repeated the actions, which brought him into the plain sanctuary.

  The pews in the front half of the building had been stacked against the walls, making room for the temporary morgue. A layer of dirt covered the floor from all the foot traffic earlier in the day. The grave diggers didn’t take the time to wipe their feet as they came in and out to retrieve the coffins.

  Blair sat down in the last row of pews, next to the center aisle, close to the exit. Worthington shut the doors and took a spot across the aisle from the bounty hunter.

  “Thomas Bolton and I went to seminary together. We tolerated the teaching but were never able to ask the questions we longed to have answered. I guess we chose the incorrect denomination. Right idea, wrong place.” He chuckled. “Thomas was able to bear the situation in a finer manner than I. Admittedly, he was blessed with more patience. We graduated with excellent grades, though the administration wasn’t happy to provide me with, shall I say, positive recommendations. Thomas was loved by his flock. He was a true pastor, but also a fine teacher. The Bible was alive to him. I, on the other hand, am no pastor. Yes, I loved my people, but I never took to dealing with their personal issues. Because I was the one leading the church, people expected me to have all the five ministry skills. After a few churches, I finally decided to move to academics. I could touch more lives that way.”

  “What about the tar and feathers?”

  Worthington smiled. “There was a beautiful young lady at my last church. Her husband had died in a farming accident a few years before I came to town. I guess her father did not like my preaching, and liked my affection for his grieving daughter even less. I gave into my flesh because I desired hers. Her father found us together. She helped me flee town before they got the tar heated up.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Twenty-some years.”

  Blair leaned forward and rested his arms on the back of the pew in front of him. “What questions did you get shunned for asking?”

  “Questions about God’s will. About angels and demons. About the power of God, miracles, signs, and wonders.”

  “Spiritual stuff.”

  Worthington nodded. “I started researching different religions from Asia, the Middle East, Africa. They all talked about the power of their gods, of supernatural happenings. I knew our God was greater. But I could not come to an understanding of why the signs of the Bible were not happening in our time. The devil will pervert what is good to scare believers away or trick them into believing it is wrong. The supernatural frightens people.”

  “You want to change that, don’t you?”

  “The search for seeing, proving, God’s power led me into the darkness that is haunting this town. The devil, Satan, Lucifer, whatever you want to call him, lives and thrives on people’s fears. Most people do what they do out of fear, even their beneficial endeavors.

  “People take care of their teeth for fear they will fall out. Put someone in a place where a choice between life and death becomes real and instantaneous, see how they react.” Worthington paused. “Even if it means the selfish destruction of others, they’ll choose life because they fear to die.”

  That wasn’t a derogatory comment toward Blair, but that didn’t soften the sting of the words.

  “This is where satanic religions and practices come into play, enticing those who are scared of death or scared to live without a tangible security for the afterlife. People become entangled in the belief that they are their own god. Or there is no god. Or there is a more powerful, pertinent deity out there, somewhere. All of these lies lead to the devil. That is what we have here in Gothic. Fear has let the devil in.”

  “Fear of what?”

  “Fear of poverty. Fear of failure. Fear of succeeding. Fear of death. For each one it is something different, but it is fear,” Worthington said. “The Bible is more than history, Mr. Blair. There is power we have not tapped into since the church began. It is the power that will stop what is happening here.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Blair had no experience of God’s power.

  “I have seen this before.” The professor started pacing the aisle. “Well, not with my own eyes. Not until last night, when they dragged the chained Michael James into town. I have traveled the world seeking manifestations of the devil. I have been so close, so many times. Vampires are a frequent legend—the living dead preying on innocent lives is a demonic manifestation.

  “It is the pure blood that saved us. A perverted form is given to Satan. The greatest sacrifice is innocent blood, children. The more blood spilled for Satan, the greater his power and influence over a people, an area.”

  “Do you think Satan is in Colorado?”

  “No, but his influence is over this country—an uncontrollable, egocentric greed. From the blood released from millions of slaves, to the war—unknowingly we let Satan’s power thrive. If it continues, the country could end up like Rome. But here in Gothic, there is a demonic presence bonded to Superintendent Daniel Stone. That is why I know you have to be connected.”

  Worthington sat down in front of Blair, facing him. “You feel him. Don’t you? And he feels you. The sensation was obvious in the saloon tonight.”

  Uneasy, Blair walked toward the pulpit—on the wall behind it hung a large, wooden cross of aspen.

  “I was a zealous pastor—so wrong,” Blair said. “It was about religion, church. Not Christ. That’s why it was always so shallow for me. Then they came.” Blair continued to speak as he kept his back to Worthington.

  “I was out trying to drum up some finances for a larger building. When I got back home…” His voice cracked. “I got home to watch my children die. ‘He came for us, Daddy. You weren’t here’ were Christine’s last words.” Blair’s hand went to his eyes. “Johnny was already dead. Sarah, they cut her up bad. Her face. She bled to death before they finished raping her. At least that is what they told me before I took three bullets. One to the head. They left me for dead.”


  “Oh, Jonathan, I am so sorry.” Worthington took a step toward him.

  Blair held up his hand to stop him.

  “That religion of mine had no power to save them. No power to save two innocent children. I cursed God the day I woke up. How could a loving God let something like that happen? To me, a pastor? I had my doubts before, but that day I discovered a truth. I swore God did not exist. I figured if he didn’t exist, life didn’t matter. I started drinking and never stopped.”

  “Ended up in New Mexico, not sure how, and I met a man by the name of William Johnson. He took me under his guidance, and I let him turn me into a killer. I became part of the Johnson Gang. That’s how I know Jeremiah Pruitt, the superintendent’s gunman. I traveled with them for a few years. We ran from the law down into Mexico. I discovered another truth there. Pruitt was the one who killed my family.”

  “What?”

  “There was a mission in the town and Pruitt started harassing the priest. Bart and Cliff kept talking about if he was going to kill another priest and that would surely get him a good seat in hell. A few more details came out during the week—the first murdered pastor was me. He, Pruitt shot me—he had killed me, or at least he thought he did.” Blair paused. “There are days I know that he did.

  “I decided to leave the gang, and Pruitt tried to kill me again. He missed. I got a hit in. Actually, my horse gave me time to escape. I rode straight to Denver and turned myself in. I spent six months in jail before my hanging day. Then the railroad company struck a deal with my attorney and the judge. If I would hunt down the members of the Johnson Gang, I could gain my freedom. I found the three Johnson brothers and two other regulars in our group. They paid me, blood money, to find these people. I only have a few days left to capture Pruitt before my deal’s deadline. If I let him escape, I might as well return to Denver. Or Mexico.”

  “Did Pruitt kill the priest?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did the mission become ugly?”

  “That’s how I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That you are correct about what’s happening here. I’ve seen the devil.”