The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  “The professor would love to talk to you.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Blair nodded.

  “As are you, Mr. Blair.”

  He hadn’t associated himself with any positive words in years. “Now I know you are part of the trouble here in Gothic. If you think that, you must be in league with this evil.”

  “Why is it that humans don’t believe what they know? You are like Pastor Jones.”

  “How so?”

  “Grace, Mr. Blair. You are under grace. Because you have chosen a selfish, destructive path, doesn’t change your purpose, your true identity. There is always time to find your way.”

  Blair slouched on the cot. “I lost mine too long ago.”

  “Not lost, Mr. Blair. Merely misplaced. That is why I am here.”

  “You need clothing. Blame Adam for that,” Mr. Tab said.

  Jonathan Blair found a shirt and a pair of pants the Weinbergs left behind in the shack, but they were too small and dirty. “I guess I can wear these until I get to the hotel.” He held up the work attire.

  “No. I don’t want you in town yet.”

  “Are you going to get my clothes? Or can you use your angel powers to make some?”

  “Sarcasm again.” Mr. Tab stood for the first time.

  Blair expected him to have been larger. “I will see to the garments you need and a meal. Don’t go outside. No one should see you or Pruitt may come finish what he started this morning.” Mr. Tab left the shack without making a sound.

  Blair cracked open the squeaky door. Mr. Tab was gone as if he had vanished.

  * * *

  “You’ve missed three times.” Superintendent Daniel Stone leaned back in his chair and rested his shiny boots on his large mahogany desk. He lit a cigar. His office décor was simple for someone of his ego. But it surpassed every other building in the mining town.

  “What are you talking about?” Pruitt asked.

  “Gentlemen, please excuse us.” With a snap of his fingers, Stone ordered Pruitt’s four gunmen out of his office. They shuffled out of the building and loitered on the boardwalk. “Some real bright guys you got there.”

  “They’re good shots, that’s all that matters.” Pruitt smiled at them through the window. Yeah they were a bit slow witted, but good in a fight. He had control.

  “You failed again to kill Jonathan Blair.”

  “Someone else took care of that.” The nameless man with the nickel-plated pistols stole his kill. One of those pistols now rested in the waistband of his pants next to his belly button. He rubbed the grip with his thumb and index finger, remembering the pleasure of watching Blair die.

  “He’s still alive.”

  “No way. That guy plugged him six times. He bled all over the street.”

  “Pruitt—”

  “My name is Phillips.” What does he know?

  Stone gave him the I-know-that’s-a-lie grin. “It can be Prune for all I care. You don’t understand what is happening here.”

  “Why don’t you explain it.” His anger bubbled up. Stone might be his boss, but he better watch his disrespect.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Pruitt jumped up and pointed his finger at Stone. “Watch how you speak to me.”

  Stone didn’t flinch. “You think you are the toughest man in town, don’t you?” He blew a smoke ring.

  It smelled like sulfur to Pruitt. He waved the smoke away from his face. He could tell Stone didn’t fear him like other men did.

  “Don’t underestimate me.” Stone’s tone went from indifferent to serious. “I brought you to Gothic specifically to kill Blair.”

  “No one knew where he was. How did you know he was going to show up?”

  “I told the railroad company you were here.”

  “You turned me in?” Pruitt’s internal volcano erupted.

  Stone held up a hand to pause the gunman’s reaction. “No. Used you as bait. To give you the chance to kill him.”

  “I ought to shoot you right now.” He squeezed the pistol’s handle.

  “But you’re forgetting what is walking these streets. Vampires.”

  “Vampires, my ass.” He was sure there were some more guys playing jokes, deadly jokes. They were the type of guys who planned a large scheme to create fear in the town for fun or as part of a heist. He was jealous of the fear they caused, even though the pranks were juvenile.

  “It will be your ass if you’re not careful. I can protect you.”

  “How?” Pruitt sat down. “Who are these guys?”

  Stone snickered. “The only thing you need to concentrate on is this. I can make you a rich and powerful man, Pruitt. That will be the only way for you to succeed in life, off someone else’s wealth. You will always be a horse, a beast for work. But for me to offer riches, women, and protection from the railroad, I need you to kill Blair.”

  “If, if he is still alive, I’ll kill him.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see if the fourth time works.”

  “He said something about me missing twice before. I missed in Mexico thanks to that horse of his. I never tried before.”

  “That was a pity. I thought for sure they would have hanged him for the children. But I misjudged the situation.”

  “What?”

  Stone waved off the question. “Think back, before he was part of your little gang with the Johnson brothers.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I have my ways.”

  Pruitt didn’t find Stone’s smirk funny.

  “Did you know he was a pastor?”

  Pruitt shook his head. “Not until you said something last night.”

  “How many preachers do you think you’ve killed?”

  “I only know of one.” Though he didn’t know much about most of men he had killed. He did discover a lot from several of the men he tortured. That brought a smile to his face. He lusted after that power.

  “How many do you know you killed?

  “One.” At least that’s all he could remember. What the hell did it matter away?

  “Think again.” Stone smiled. “You really haven’t been that good of a killer.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t kill that preacher years ago. You did a fine job with his family, but not him. Now you missed again.”

  Pruitt thought about the preacher he killed. He and two others were riding through and found a woman and raped her. She fought back. He had to kill her and the kids. They stayed and ate everything they could find. Then the preacher came home. They didn’t waste any time and shot him. An old man tried to help, but he was too late.

  “That was Blair? It can’t be. I shot him in the head.”

  “Stranger things have happened. You say you witnessed his execution today. Yet he lives.”

  “He make some kind of deal with the devil?”

  Stone let out a deep rolling laugh. “Someone is watching out for him.”

  “Not after today.”

  * * *

  Jeremiah Pruitt met his men on the boardwalk. “We have work to do. I want you to find the man who shot Jonathan Blair. When you find him, bring him to me. Find out where he took the body and go get it. I want to see Blair’s bloody corpse.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Phillips,” Ricky said. “Where do we start?”

  “Check the hotel and every saloon and whorehouse. Check every room and closet. Go to the stables to see if he has a horse.”

  “Mr. Phillips, what if, what if he’s not in any of those places?” Ricky asked.

  “Then keep searching.” He could hear Stone laughing on the other side of the windowpane, stoking his anger. “Ask around, people know what he looks like. Now, get going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pruitt faced the window.

  Stone’s muffled voice vibrated through the glass. “Bright boys you got there.”

  He wasn’t sure what kept him from shooting Stone in the head. If he couldn’t figure it out by
tomorrow, he’d pull the trigger anyway.

  * * *

  Duane finished shoveling the manure out of Mr. Stanford’s stables. He climbed up and over the corral rails as fast as he could and headed across town to the other stables. Today he planned to take Blair’s nameless horse for a ride. He heard of the shooting, but none of the tellers knew the names of those involved. Duane took Blair’s advice and stayed away from such things.

  Duane spent several hours each day with the stallion, brushing out its mane and giving it rubdowns. It hadn’t been pampered like this in a long time. The horse obviously took a liking to the boy because it wouldn’t let anyone else come near, not even with feed. Duane had ridden the stallion in the large corral a few times. But now the time had come to go for a real ride.

  Duane’s excitement shined in a huge smile, all day. He kept it even when the manure cart tipped over and he had to re-shovel it.

  He spread the saddle blanket smooth, double checking for anything between the fabric and the stallion’s hair. The heavy saddle challenged his strength, but he endured and placed it perfectly on the first try. The horse took the bridle with little hesitation. Duane’s chest puffed a bit with pride in his manly accomplishments.

  He led the stallion out of the stall, through the barn, and out the large door to the street. He hid his face, his smile, his joy, from the men working. He didn’t want to seem like a little kid, though he wouldn’t have been any happier on Christmas morning.

  Duane and the stallion headed west toward Elkton, past the Weinbergs’ shack, past the Jollytime Mine, past Gothic Mountain. He stopped while Old Lady Jack washed a couple cats, but the stallion was eager to run. He let the horse go. For an ugly beast the horse had a smooth gait even at full gallop. This was the best day he had since his father died.

  * * *

  Susanne Richmond laid on her bed in her tiny room in a shabby brothel on the edge of Gothic. The news of Jonathan’s death sent her to tears. She liked him, maybe even loved him. He showed her respect like no other man did.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted her remorse.

  “Go away,” she said.

  The person knocked again. “I said go away.”

  The person used a fist on the door. “Are you deaf or stupid?”

  “Neither,” a man’s voice said. “A conversation is in order.”

  Susanne opened the door. She wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks. She sniffed at her runny nose. “What do you want?”

  “I already told you.” He stood stoically, but had no menace in his expression.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mr. Tab. I need your assistance to help a friend of yours.”

  “Who?” She had no compassion to help anyone today.

  “Jonathan Blair.”

  Did he not know? He was too late, or an idiot. “There’s nothing anyone can do for him now.”

  “He lives.”

  Idiot. He scratched at her wound. “Why are you so cruel?”

  “I need you to go to his hotel room and gather his garments and take the articles to Steven Weinberg’s shack. He waits there.”

  “How do I know this isn’t some bad joke?”

  “I do not lie.”

  She didn’t know why, but she believed him. “Why is he at Steven’s?”

  “The shack is the safest place at the moment. Don’t tell anyone he lives or what you are doing. Here is the key to his room. Go quickly, we have little time before nightfall.” Mr. Tab walked down the hall to the stairs and was gone.

  Susanne shut the door. She primped as fast as she could before leaving the saloon.

  * * *

  Frederick Worthington sat with the doors to the church set latched wide open with small chains and clasps connecting them to the outside walls. A slight breeze moved through the sanctuary, in the windows, and out the doors. He heard the footfalls. A pale man rested in the threshold as if to feel the air move over his face. The professor returned his eyes to this palms.

  “This place should be full of walking dead, if you know what I mean.” the man said.

  “I do,” Worthington said from a pew, which had been placed back in rows after the coffins were removed. He came here to be alone, but the interaction with another felt right. Mourning wasn’t a solo endeavor, but a reason to connect, to be loved.

  “Then why is it not?”

  “People don’t understand they no longer have the right to be offended if they truly worship here.”

  “How easily are you offended?”

  “Not as easily as most.”

  “Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Tab.” He came into the church and extended his hand. Worthington followed suit, “Nice to meet…” He froze looking Mr. Tab in the eyes.

  “You recognize me.”

  Worthington glanced at the door, then the windows. Could he make it out before the man shot him.

  “You don’t have to run, Mr. Worthington. I am not here to harm you.”

  The professor moved backward toward the outer aisle, keeping his eyes on Mr. Tab. From under his coat Worthington released a dagger of Chinese craftsmanship. “You killed Jonathan. Now you’ve come to eliminate me.”

  “Mr. Worthington, please sit down. I performed no such deed.” With perfect posture Mr. Tab sat down in a pew.

  “I saw you.” The professor held the knife at arm’s length.

  “I assure you he lives. Which is why I am here.”

  “Why should I—”

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  “My heart?”

  Mr. Tab nodded.

  Worthington’s eyes moved down to check within.

  “Yes, check your spirit, Mr. Worthington. It drew you to Mr. Blair. Are you willing to let your spirit take you further?”

  The professor relaxed and dropped his arms, lowering the blade. “Mr. Tab, what are you?”

  “Your inquisitive mind works well.” Mr. Tab smiled. “That answer is within you. Jonathan Blair rests at the Snowed-In Mine. A daughter of God takes him clothing as we speak. You need to go there, now. Take food for Mr. Blair.” The angel moved to the door. “Your understanding of the situation here in Gothic is ample.” He cocked his head. “That weapon in your hand...”

  Worthington held the curved knife up and admired its engineering. He smiled. “I have learned many things on my travels.”

  “Two more dead men were found moments ago. And more miners are missing. Those skills will be a necessity before this night is over. Tell me what you are feeling today, in your spirit.”

  Worthington didn’t have to think about it. “Heaviness like I’ve never experienced before. It is like an oppression that desires lethargy of me, to prevent me from engaging in what is about to occur.”

  Mr. Tab stepped off the porch and lifted his head to the sky. “The spiritual realm is in a battle which will soon manifest in the physical.”

  The angel stared back inside the church at Worthington. “Are you willing to end your quest?”

  Worthington pondered the question. He furrowed his brow. “For the proof of supernatural power?”

  Mr. Tab nodded.

  “Why do you ask this?”

  “You speak of your faith, yet continue to search for its tangible existence. Even the dark power.”

  Embarrassed, Worthington dropped his head.

  “A choice awaits you.”

  Professor Worthington replaced his dagger and dashed outside to ask Mr. Tab more questions. But the street in front of the church was empty. His visitation had only lasted a few moments. Surprised by how quickly the man disappeared, Worthington glanced up to the sky to check for wings. The professor didn’t procrastinate and ran back to his hotel room. He rummaged through his travel chest.

  Worthington placed his books and ledger in the case and removed a rolled-up cloth. He unwrapped the red material to reveal a liuyedau, a Chinese sword. The narrow willow-leaf saber had a slight curve throughout its thirty-three-inch lengt
h, with the steepness of the curve coming near the tip. He spent six months in China studying the country’s rituals and beliefs.

  During that time, he worked with a sword builder. His fencing skills were different than the Chinese style of fighting, but he was a natural. He’d be a strange sight running through a Colorado mining town carrying a sword. He strapped the blade over his shoulder and put his wool overcoat on to conceal the weapon.

  He double-checked himself and went for the door. He held on to the knob but didn’t move. This might be his last day on earth if things went bad. I’m ready. But who will carry on my research? Who will know what happened? He went for the travel chest and dug out his ledger. I must make entries as long as I can. He stuffed the ledger in the small of his back with his snug waistband to keep it in place.

  He ran across the street to the Buck Snort and ordered three steaks, one for himself and two for Blair. Jerry, the one-armed owner, wrapped Blair’s steaks in bread and an old newspaper.

  Worthington hurried through town toward the mine, eating his steak on the go. Anxiety squeezed his spirit as the realities of the day’s events gathered in his mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ride Fast

  The knock at the door did not surprise Jonathan Blair. The loud footsteps had approached the shack then paused at the door. He kept quiet.

  The metal latch moved up and the crooked door opened slowly.

  “Don’t move,” Blair said firmly.

  “Jonathan?” Susanne Richmond said.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know who you were.” Blair lowered the hammer of his pistol.

  Susanne giggled.

  “What?” He cocked his head like a dog.

  “You standing there holding a blanket wrapped around your waist and your other hand holding a gun. It’s a funny sight.”

  Blair looked down at himself all the way to his toes, which he wiggled.

  “I brought your clothes.” She closed the door. “Mr. Tab told me to fetch them for you.” Susanne took a step toward him. She reached up to stroke his shoulder. She stopped before she touched his skin. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I heard you got shot, and now you’re standing here without any wounds.”