The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  “Well, that’s not exactly true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sit down, and I’ll tell you what happened.” He reached for his clothes. “Do you mind turning around for a minute.”

  “I’ve seen more of what you got than you’ve seen.”

  “I’m still a little modest.” He waved his fingers in a circular motion. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Men. They are so scared someone is going to see how small they really are. They’re all talk.” She grabbed the chair, rotated it toward the other wall and plopped down.

  “Thanks.” Blair told her the story as he put on his clothes.

  “Angels, demons, and vampires. What have you been drinking?”

  “I’ve been sober for two years.”

  “You don’t have any bullet holes in you, but you claim you were shot. Maybe one of the invisible bullets hit your brain.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “Men.” Susanne jumped up and pushed the door hard, which nearly took it off its hinges. She slammed it shut.

  Blair tied down his holsters then followed her outside. He hopped along as he put on his cleaned boots. Off balance, he almost fell twice.

  Susanne stood on the path about twenty feet from the shack. She stared over the valley, one of the few places on the northern side where one could see the mountains to the south and north. “Why do men always push women away? It’s either blatant, like with another woman or violence. Or not so obvious, like being passive. But you. Oh you, you take another route, playing a fool. Talking about demons— that will make any sane woman run. You could at least have the decency to be honest with me instead of playing games. I know I’m a whore, but I have feelings.”

  “What am I missing?” Blair opened his hands like he was expecting to catch something.

  “She likes you,” a male voice said.

  “Huh?” Blair spun around to see the professor leaning against the shack.

  “I’d probably run away too if I didn’t know what you were talking about, Worthington said.

  “You believe him?” She put her fists on her hips. “Or are you part of this?”

  “Ma’am, I will say two things. First, he is telling the truth. Second, he is oblivious to your affection.”

  “Figures.” She shook her head.

  “I think we all need to go inside.” The professor held out his hand to the open door. “Please.”

  Susanne obliged his request. She walked past Blair and gave him a scowl like he hadn’t had since his grandmother caught him stealing eggs from the chicken coop.

  “Mr. Blair. Inside, please.”

  “But… How was I supposed to know?” Blair asked.

  “Inside.” Worthington checked the area for onlookers before closing the door. “We don’t want people to see a dead man walking around. They might get suspicious.”

  * * *

  Frederick Worthington handed Susanne Richmond a handkerchief for her tears. She sat in the lone chair in the shack.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Blair’s honesty offered no comfort. He knelt down beside her. He moved his hand to her knee, then backed it away, then moved it closer. He didn’t know if he should touch her or not. It had been a long time since he considered the feelings of a woman. “Susanne, I really didn’t know.”

  “I’m the fool.” She wiped away more tears. “I should have never let myself get to this point.”

  “If I led you on—”

  “You didn’t. I hoped for too much.”

  “Please excuse my interruption.” Worthington moved to the pile of bloody clothes. He picked up the shirt and examined it. “We have more important matters to deal with today. By no means do I consider your feelings unimportant, ma’am. But they can wait until tomorrow, if we are still alive.”

  “Still alive? What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I already told you,” Blair pleaded.

  Worthington handed Blair the soggy newspaper full of bread and beef. “Mr. Blair, tell me about Mr. Tab.”

  “Sorry,” he said to Susanne, knowing she probably didn’t want to hear this again, especially since she thought he made up a ploy to make her leave. In between huge, ill-mannered bites of his dinner, Blair told the complete story. The professor did not interrupt with questions; he let Blair tell the tale. “Then you two showed up here.”

  * * *

  Professor Worthington moved to the only window in the shack. Dirt covered the single pane. The glass did not sit in a frame but stayed in place by two wood braces nailed over a sloppy rectangular-cut hole in the pine siding. He let Blair’s details of Mr. Tab roll through his mind, connecting supposed reality to the supernatural.

  From the window, his interest moved to the piles of coal for which the Weinberg brothers labored. He contemplated the hours it took to dig those thousands of tons of coal. “All in vain.”

  “What?” Blair asked.

  “Nothing. The Hungarians killing Theo is unexpected, but no real surprise. He must have done something to provoke them.”

  “He had a hot temper,” Susanne said. “I heard he threatened them because of what they did to Steven.”

  “That would be sufficient,” Worthington said. “They destroyed a bridge to kill Deputy Jarod. Theo was easy.”

  “Some good partners you got for us.” Blair grinned.

  “My motives were correct, though probably a rash decision. They are uncontrollable and determined. I hope we don’t come to any misunderstandings.”

  “It could get messy,” Blair said.

  “How messy?” Susanne asked.

  Worthington put his hand on Susanne’s shoulder. “That’s more of a question for Mr. Blair.”

  “You don’t need to answer,” she said.

  “We need to be vigilant when dealing with the Hungarians,” Worthington said.

  “Especially Varga,” Blair added.

  “I had the same feeling,” Worthington said. “We need to gain their trust, and then maybe they will realize the truth. We’ll need their help tonight. Now, how about Mr. Tab, will we see him again?”

  “I don’t know.” Blair raised his empty hands and shook his head. “But I’m sure he’ll be around.”

  * * *

  Duane rode the stallion farther west of Gothic than he had ever been. He got several strange frowns and derogatory comments about the scarred horse, but he didn’t mind. He was free, at least for the day. The afternoon sun began falling toward the horizon signaling the internal dinner bell in his stomach. He already ate the two blueberry muffins he found in the basket on their front porch.

  He gave the reins a light tug and the stallion shifted directions. The flat path they followed sparked a desire in Duane’s mind. He tapped the horse with his heels until the stallion galloped through the valley. Faster and faster and faster it ran. Duane let loose a joyous holler. His hat flew off and hung by its chin string. His heart raced. This was the fastest he had ever ridden a horse. A quarter mile passed quickly and his mortality chimed in. He got a little scared. He was no longer in control.

  “Whoa. Whoa.” He pulled back on the reins. The stallion responded and slowed, until it stopped. Duane swung down.

  “That was great! Oh, man.”

  The stallion breathed deep and fast as the boy danced around.

  “I’m gonna name you Skedaddle.” Duane patted the horse’s neck. “The way you run, oh man. Skedaddle. I can’t wait to tell Mom, come on.” He climbed back into the saddle and headed toward Gothic.

  The pair rode through lush meadows and across a couple of feeder creeks that ran into the headwaters of the narrow East River. The sun fell behind the mountains, casting a shadow over the valley. It continued to sink, giving way to the stars in the eastern sky.

  Workers gathered outside a mine entrance to the Jollytime on the northern side of the valley. As the tunnels moved deeper and farther west, secondary entry holes facilitated getting men and tools in and coal out.

  One o
f the men pointed at Duane then ushered the group down the hill toward the trail. Duane assumed they finished their shift and were heading to town.

  Skedaddle stopped hard, lurching Duane forward. He wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck to keep from falling off.

  He reset himself. “Come on.” Duane tapped with his heels.

  Nose in the air, the stallion hesitated before taking a step. Duane tapped harder. Skedaddle advanced, but off the trail to the right, the opposite side of the mine. Duane tugged on the reins to bring the horse back to the path.

  “What are you doing? You behaved good all day, now this.” He pulled back on the reins for the stallion to stop. It did, but wouldn’t stand still.

  “Something wrong?” Duane slid down out of the saddle. He placed his hands on the horse’s leg to check for an injury, but it kept shifting. “Hold still.” If he hurt Skedaddle, Mr. Blair would whip his hide.

  Duane held onto the reins and moved in a circle following the horse’s tail. The stallion reared up, jerking the reins out of his hand.

  “Whoa.”

  Skedaddle trotted into a grove of aspens. Duane jogged after. As he came near, the horse trotted off again. The boy was about to cuss, but an adult had followed them into the white trees.

  “If he runs, don’t try to stop him. He can get mean,” Duane said.

  The man didn’t respond.

  Skedaddle snorted and pawed at the ground.

  Duane froze. Skedaddle’s ears were pinned back. “Oh, boy.” He remembered Blair’s instructions of the stallion’s personality. If he ever acts weird, scared, or just plain ornery to other people, keep clear of those folks.

  “Don’t move.” Duane wanted to stay calm and kept his voice low. “I’m going to climb on. Don’t move.” He took a few steps toward the scarred beast. “Please don’t move.” His command became a prayer. “Please don’t.” His pitch went up several octaves. “Please. Please.” Tears dripped down his face. He could hear the man moving in the grass. He didn’t dare look back.

  Duane reached the stallion’s nose and put his hand out. “You know me. Please don’t move.” He touched the horse’s neck and slid his hand to the saddle in hopes of grabbing the horn and jumping on.

  Skedaddle reared again, knocking Duane down.

  “No!” Panic overtook Duane’s mind. The men behind him were the killers Blair talked about. Now it was his time to die.

  The horse didn’t run off, but kicked at the hulking figure coming for Duane. Skedaddle landed a couple of hooves, hammering the man to the ground. Duane didn’t waste time and jumped as high as he could onto the horse. Landing on his belly, Duane scrambled into the saddle and held onto the horse’s mane. Skedaddle bucked and pushed itself into a gallop. Falling off wasn’t an option, and he gripped with all his might.

  The man’s face passed within inches of his own. Terror caught his breath, stealing away the scream building in his lungs. The stories of vampires were true, not lies to scare kids. Black eyes. Distorted cheeks. Protruding teeth. The creature shrieked.

  Skedaddle maneuvered through the trees, toward the trail ahead of the threatening group.

  “Faster, Skedaddle. Faster.” The attackers charged the horse. He had never seen people run so fast. He kicked his heels into the stallion’s side. “Faster.”

  His hat flew off, but the chin string held. The hat, flopping in the wind, blocked the view behind him. The string dug into his neck. Duane twisted in the saddle from the pressure, causing him to let go of the mane. A vampire ran alongside the stallion, yanking on the hat. Duane scratched at his neck to let the chin string loose. He leaned back and tugged. The string rubbed over his chin and lips, then ripped at the underside of his nose before flying free. Duane regained his balance. Blood flowed from his face. Skedaddle dug in, found solid ground, and left the vampires behind.

  Duane held tight. The stallion tired and slowed, but kept a good pace. He didn’t stop or even yell at the other miners on the trail. He rode straight for his blue door.

  Skedaddle didn’t come to a full stop before Duane leaped off and scurried onto the porch. “Mom. Mom.” The door was unlocked. “Mom.”

  “Hey, honey,” his mom said. “What are you in such a hurry …what happened to you?” She knelt down to check his bloody face.

  “Mom, we have to get out of here. Now.”

  She dragged him over to a wash basin and soaked a wash rag. “Honey, what’s wrong?” She wiped his face.

  He put his hand up to stop her. “The vampires, they’re real.”

  She leaned back and dropped her hands. “Duane Simon Collins, what have I told you about lying?”

  “Mom, I’m not lying. I promise.”

  “Am I going to have to go get a switch?”

  “Mom, I was on Mr. Blair’s horse and a group of men came out of the mine, came after me.” Duane arms moved with every word. “One of them yanked my hat off my head. That’s why I’m bleeding.”

  “Calm down.” She tended to his bloody face. Duane flinched. She wiped and dipped, until the basin water was the color of diluted wine. Duane had scratches on his neck from his own fingers. His bottom lip was cut and the left nostril lobe was slightly torn.

  “None of the scratches need serious medical care, though a scar might form under your nose.” She kissed his cheek.

  His adrenaline had run its course and now his face stung with every touch. He could feel his pulse through his nose as it swelled.

  Mary grabbed Duane by the shoulders. “Now, start from the beginning.”

  “I already told you.” Tears began. “You have to believe me.”

  The echoes of gunfire traveled down the valley.

  They rushed to the wooden porch—too far and too dark to see.

  “They must have got to the main entrance.”

  “They?” she asked.

  “The vampires. The miners must be shooting at them.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom, we have to get out of here,” he yelled in a cracking voice. “They’re coming. The vampires are coming.”

  The gunfire continued.

  “We’ll go into town and find help. For all I know they could be shooting at Indians.”

  Duane led her by the hand before she could shut and lock the door. She protested.

  “Mom,” he pleaded.

  Duane climbed onto Skedaddle.

  The gunfire was closer.

  She put her foot in the stirrup and found a place behind Duane. He gave the go ahead and the stallion moved out.

  * * *

  Duane and Mary rode into town. He told anyone that would listen, “The vampires are coming. They are coming from the mine.”

  Mary hushed him, but he would have none of it. Miners ran from saloon to saloon spreading the word. Duane was sure the only reason people believed him was because of the constant gunfire coming from the direction of the coal mines.

  When Duane told enough people, he tapped his heels. Skedaddle trotted through town.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have to take Skedaddle back to the stable, in case Mr. Blair needs him.”

  “All right, but let’s hurry.”

  Duane guided the stallion to the stable. The last people there left in a hurry. The main gate was open. A fairly nice saddle was discarded on its side in the dirt.

  “There is usually someone here in the evening to take in boarders.” Duane halted the horse. The other horses paced back and forth, grunting and pawing at the dirt in their stalls. “They’re spooked.”

  “I’m beginning to feel that way too,” his mom said.

  Duane put Skedaddle in the stall. He left the saddle on the horse and readjusted the stirrups for Blair. After checking the water bucket, he poured some oats in the other. He also tossed in some alfalfa hay.

  His mom peered down the streets. “Everyone is waiting on that end of town.”

  “They are going to wish they went and hid. I’m ready.” Duane shut the
gate. “Where should we go?”

  “The only place I can think of is the church,” his mother said.

  “Sounds good to me.” Vampires aren’t supposed to like churches.

  * * *

  Duane and his mom ran to the only church in Gothic. The doors were open, with Pastor Jones watching the town from the porch.

  “Hey Pastor Jones, can we come in?” Duane asked from halfway across the street.

  “Duane. Mrs. Collins. What’s going on?”

  His mom took a breath like she was going to say something, but hesitated. Duane spoke right up. “The vampires are coming. Can we hide in the church?”

  The pastor did a double take.

  “Can we come in?” Mary asked. “Then I’ll explain.”

  Pastor Jones led them inside. Duane immediately checked each window, peered out then shut it. They slid easier than the windows in his cabin. He thumbed each latch even though the vampires could probably break the glass. But if they couldn’t enter a church, it would be hard for them to grab someone.

  “Mrs. Collins, what’s happening out there?” The pastor’s voice seemed a little uneasy to Duane.

  “Pastor, I don’t know for sure. But this is what Duane told me.” She explained everything Duane had relayed to her until now.

  “I’m pretty sure I know where he heard these tall tales,” the pastor said then turned his back to Duane and whispered something to his mom.

  Duane searched the sanctuary. He jerked his eyes to the windows at every close footstep from outside. The vampires had been within arm’s reach earlier and he didn’t want to feel that again. He peeked under every pew, knowing there had to be a cross in here. Vampires hated crosses as much as they hated churches. He hoped.

  “What are you looking for, Duane?” Pastor Jones asked.

  “Got any spare crosses lying about?”

  “No. No, I don’t,” Jones said. “Come on over here and sit with me for a moment.”

  Duane obliged and knelt in the pew facing the pastor and his mother who sat in the next pew. This was the first time he’d seen Jones with beard stubble.

  Jones lifted Duane’s chin to get a better look at the marks on his face. “That attack has put you in a fretful mode. I’m worried about you.”