Silver & Bone (American Alchemy - Wild West Book 1)

by Oliver Altair

  AMERICAN ALCHEMY: SILVER & BONE

  AMERICAN ALCHEMY - WILD WEST 1

  OLIVER ALTAIR

  I

  Sheriff Tiberius Tibbetts marched down Souls Well’s dusty Main Street, his Smith & Wesson pointed at his prisoner’s back. In front of him, the infamous Garrett “The Tanager” Drake dragged his blood-stained boots on the gravel. The shackles around his wrists jingled like a metal heartbeat.

  A cutting wind blew from the snowy peaks that beheld the town from the southeast. Tiberius adjusted his woolen bandana, covering his stubble. The skin on his square chin felt rough to the touch.

  Drake didn’t seem to mind the cold. He looked up to the clear sky, his pointy ears poking through his dirty, blonde hair. He turned his battered face to Tiberius and grinned with his yellowed teeth. Then he whistled an eerie, unfinished melody of four repeating notes.

  Ti, fa, la, mi. Ti, fa, la, mi.

  Tiberius poked Drake with the barrel of his gun. “Be quiet and keep walking.”

  Left and right, the cramped, wooden buildings cast their short shadows across the dusty road. Tiberius recognized at least a hundred people from different families, their gaze fixed on Drake as they watched the men pass by from the safety of their porches. They kept their distance. They did not speak. Their stiff faces betrayed their terror, yet no one took his eyes off the most nefarious criminal Souls Well had ever known.

  Drake had stricken Souls Valley like a plague. He spread thick, poisonous fear in every unlucky town he cared to visit. When The Tanager arrived to Souls Well, he caused more mayhem in a few days than Tiberius had seen in all of his years as the town’s sheriff.

  Trusting his wits more than mere brute force, Tiberius triumphed where previous marshals, soldiers, and bounty hunters did not. He tracked Drake to his hideout in the nearby mountains, gathered kindling, and set it ablaze at the mouth of his cave, smoking the gunslinger out like the rat he was. Drake had come out breathless and half blind, but Tiberius hadn’t been able to restrain him before the outlaw cut him from shoulder to sternum with his hunting knife.

  Tiberius rolled his shoulder. His scar itched. He tightened his grip around his gun when they walked past the Silver Moon. Madame Valentine and her girls stood outside the town’s only saloon. Drake’s gaze was frostbite, but the women held it with fiery pride, even though some of the younger girls couldn’t hold back their tears.

  Drake had left his mark on the saloon like a branding iron when he bedded a petite flower called Violet, then beat her senseless for his own sadistic enjoyment. Violet didn’t make it through the night. Even if the rest of the townsfolk chose to ignore whatever happened behind the saloon’s double doors, the girls of the Silver Moon would never forgive, nor forget.

  When Tiberius and Drake walked in front of Sullivan’s general store and post office, mothers pulled their children closer. Some crossed themselves.

  Next door, the town’s bachelors stood outside the small boarding house. Most of them were former miners who had survived the avalanche at Obadiah Whitlock’s silver mine. Some were missing an arm or a leg, or both. Broken, haunted with nightmares, and with nothing to do, they spent half their days drunk, wandering around town. So far they’d stayed out of trouble.

  But for how long?

  A shiny ball of spit arced through the air as they passed the barbershop. The ball of phlegm splattered on Drake’s boots. Drake paused. He cocked his head towards the crowd. Tiberius followed Drake’s gaze to a red-faced boy of no more than fourteen. He wore a white apron dusted with dark hair and held a broom in his right hand: Zachary Chalker, the barber’s apprentice. Drake had shot his father between the eyes over a game of cards.

  Drake greeted the boy with a venomous smile. The young apprentice turned white as he held his broom with both hands. Drake rocked on his feet Back and forth, back and forth. Then he resumed his eerie whistling.

  Ti, fa, la, mi.

  Tiberius looked Zachary in the eye. “Scram.”

  The boy dashed back inside the barbershop and closed the shades.

  Tiberius pressed his gun against Drake’s ribs. “Get a move on. This is already taking too long.”

  Drake put his lips together.

  Tiberius grunted. “Stop whistling or I’ll shoot your damned mouth off your ugly face.”

  Tiberius could put Drake down like a rabid dog then and there, and no one would judge him for it. But that would set the wrong example. Violence had taken a big toll on Souls Well and Tiberius had to show the townsfolk how justice prevailed, even in desperate times. His message had to be loud and clear: in his town, crime never paid.

  The road was rougher closer to the edge of town. Gravel crunched under Tiberius’ boots as they left the stables and storehouses behind.

  Three young men Tiberius recognized by face but not by name crossed their path.

  “Beast! Sinner!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Burn in hell, Tanager Drake!”

  Tiberius shook his head. These damned fools need to shut the hell up.

  Tiberius knew much too well how easy it was to wind up “The Tanager”. The memory of their last dance still made his scars throb. Even in shackles and walking at gunpoint, even before Tiberius could tackle him or even pull the trigger, Drake would spring at those clowns like a hunting bobcat. Drake would make at least one of those boys wish he’d stayed in bed that morning, if not all three.

  But Garrett Drake scoffed and did nothing.

  The three young men let Drake and Tiberius through, disappointed with the fruitlessness of their bravado. Tiberius scowled at them and grumbled. They lowered their heads.

  Not a peep came from the crowd the rest of the way. Tiberius was grateful for the silence. For the past few days, all he could remember was noise.

  Close to the wooden archway that marked the edge of Souls Well, the gallows stood silhouetted against the morning sun like a leafless tree. Drake stumbled, for the first time since he’d left his cell.

  Doctor Everett Tucker waited by the steps of the gallows. Both the man and the hanging rope swayed with the wind.

  Goddamnit. He’s already drunk.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff.” Doc Tucker slurred.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Tiberius replied tersely.

  They mounted the creaky, wooden steps of the gallows. Drake took his place on the square platform. He leered at the crowd below as Tiberius placed the rope around his neck. Souls Well had never had an official executioner, so the ghastly task fell on the sheriff’s shoulders.

  Judges hardly ever made it out to Souls Well. Silver mine or not, a lot of people would always consider the town no more than a remote, inconvenient rest stop between Silverton and Lake City, and it was easier to think the small community would rather take care of its own petty quarrels.

  “We gather today to send Garrett Drake to our Lord’s judgment,” Doc Tucker shouted. “There’s no doubt he’s going straight to hell.”

  The crowd roared.

  Doc Tucker cleared his throat. “He’s been found guilty for the murder of John Wesley Chalker, Violet Burr, and Bertram Dog… hum… Dogg—“

  For God’s sake, Doc.

  Tiberius pushed Doc Tucker back and took over. “Bertram Dogget and Robert Lee Dudley. His crimes are punishable by death.”

  Tiberius nodded sympathetically to the people watching the execution from the front row. Old Mrs. Dudley nodded back. There were dark circles around her teary eyes. She looked pale and on the verge of exhaustion, but she kept her severe gaze on the gallows.

  Besides Mrs. Dudley, Peter and Bradley Dogget leaned on each other. They w
ere younger than their late brother, but both seemed to have aged ten years since tragedy had knocked on their door.

  Behind the Doggets, Tiberius spotted a gentleman he’d never seen before. The stranger was around thirty, sleek, and well dressed. He wore a red velvet jacket, a matching vest, and an extravagant top hat on his head. Short, auburn hair showed under his hat and a thin mustache of a more ashen color rested above his lips. His feline, amber eyes followed the execution with interest.

  Tiberius walked to the lever at the back of the wooden platform. “Any last words?”

  Drake grinned. He whistled again.

  Ti, fa, la, mi.

  Four long notes. Then silence.

  People held their breath.

  Ti, fa, la, mi.

  Drake whistled slowly, savoring every note. He closed his eyes.

  Ti, fa, la—Tiberius pulled the lever. “The Tanager” fell. His melody ended with the sound of his neck cracking.

  Tiberius glanced at the hanging corpse. It still seemed to radiate an aura of evil. Tiberius would let him hang for a couple of days to please the townsfolk, then bury him in an unmarked grave, deep into the woods. He didn’t want Drake close to his town, not even as a dead man.

  Doc Tucker took the hanging man’s pulse. “Bastard’s dead, alright.”

  He clapped Tiberius’ back. “You did good.”

  Doc Tucker stumbled down the steps and walked through the thinning crowd, heading straight for the Silver Moon.

  Tiberius descended the rickety stairs of the gallows, the creaking rope swinging behind him. Up in the sky, the crows already circled the grim scene.

  Mrs. Beatrice Hickok, the widow of the silver mine’s foreman, John Hickok, approached him sheepishly.

  “Good day, Sheriff,” she said as she adjusted her brown woolen shawl over her shoulders. “I’m sorry to bother you right after the hanging, but if you had a minute…”

  Tiberius tapped the brim of his hat. “If you don’t mind walking with me. How can I help you, Mrs. Hickok?”

  They walked together down the street, back to the lively center of Souls Well. Mrs. Hickok’s milk bottles clinked inside her wicker basket.

  She fidgeted with the fringe of her shawl. “There was a man lurking around my house last night. He came all the way to the front window. I saw his eyes peeking through the drapes. I screamed, and he ran away into the forest. Maybe ’twas nothing, but—”

  Her thin lips trembled. “First the avalanche takes John away from me. Then Garrett Drake appears in our town. I’ve been so afraid these days, I hardly leave my house. Sometimes I don’t even recognize Souls Well.”

  Tiberius’ jaw stiffened. “Town’s just going through a rough patch.”

  “I hope so. I can’t help but be a little shaken. Would you mind taking a quick look around the house, Sheriff? I’d feel much better if you did. Thomas says…” She shivered. “He hasn’t been the same since John died.”

  “I’ll be there tonight, after the miners’ vigil.”

  Mrs. Hickok squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Sheriff. God bless you.”

  She entered the general store, while Tiberius tried to navigate through the thick, nervous crowd that blocked the street and his way to the Silver Moon, like a bunch of ants around their anthill. Tiberius peered over the bobbing heads.

  A large wooden wagon was parked in the middle of the road. It was painted a deep red, and stylish, golden letters decorated its side: Mountain Miracles.

  The word miracle always filled Tiberius with concern.

  The beautiful stallion attached to the front of the traveling cart had a coat so black, it shone blue. A young woman sat on the driver’s seat, her long hair as dark as the horse’s mane. Before Tiberius could take a better look, the woman jumped from her seat, patted the horse’s side, and moved inside the wagon.

  The strange man in the red velvet suit Tiberius had spotted from the gallows came out of the cart as she went in. He paced in front of it, leaning on an ivory cane he obviously didn’t need, nodding to the curious faces around him with a perfect smile. His groomed mustache gave his otherwise soft features a certain virility.

  The man cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “Good people of Souls Well! Thank you all for welcoming a stranger into your lives and, more so, for sharing your time with him. Maxwell Donahue is the name. It’s time we got more acquainted.”

  Tiberius grunted and scratched his stubbly chin.

  Trouble.

  II

  “Let me tell you before I go on any further,” the salesman continued. “I always speak from the heart and the heart alone. Yessir! That’s what my mama taught me, the power of honesty. God rest her soul.”

  Maxwell Donahue placed his top hat over his heart. He took a long, dramatic pause, then put his hat back on and pointed to the crowd with his cane, waving it with hypnotic elegance.

  “Make no mistake, my good people. I’m not here to sell.” Maxwell’s voice was silvery and alluring, like a lullaby.

  Tiberius scoffed. Here we go.

  Souls Well had suffered its fair share of tragedy the past year. Tiberius expected charlatans like he expected leeches in a swamp. He couldn’t stop quacks from coming, but he’d do his best to send them on their merry way as soon as possible. Snake oil salesmen preyed on the ignorant and the weak, sold empty promises, and vanished before anyone could complain. Tiberius always welcomed them with the threat of a moldy cell. Maxwell Donahue would be no exception.

  Maxwell paced and stroked his pointy chin. “I met a man in Lake City. A good, honest, God fearing man, he was. He told me about the tragedies Souls Well has endured with tears in his eyes. I’m not ashamed to say I wept with him.”

  Miss Susannah Chipman, spinster and notorious gossip, clasped her hands over her bosom and sighed. She nodded after every single word coming from the salesman’s mouth. Tiberius caught a glimpse of her zealous gesture and rolled his eyes.

  Maxwell raised his cane to the sky. “Only God Almighty knows why so many innocent lives were lost in that damnable mine. Only Him up in Heaven can explain why he put the good people of this town through such a test as Garret Drake.”

  “Amen!” Peter Dogget shouted.

  “He’s never showed such enthusiasm during any of my sermons,” a soft-spoken voice whispered.

  Tiberius found Father Darley standing by his side.

  Father Marcus Darley was the only spiritual counselor in Souls Well and, although ordained Catholic, he attended all the religious needs of the community equally, no matter their faith. So far, no complaints—human or divine.

  The old priest arched a white eyebrow and half smiled. “Who’s this Barber’s Clerk?”

  “No one the town needs.” Tiberius’ glowering face was carved in stone.

  Maxwell scanned the sea of silent faces. He took a long breath and swayed like a cat in a vest.

  “How much I admire the strength of your spirits!” he yelled. “Souls Well not only survived, but overcame adversity in a most heroic way. I offer you my humble, deepest respect.”

  Maxwell bowed with a flourish.

  “He’s good. He should’ve been a preacher,” Father Darley said.

  Tiberius frowned. “Too good.”

  “Hope’s drying up in Souls Well, Tiberius. I’ve been here since the first families settled, and I’ve never seen so much darkness as these past months. People come to me thinking this town is cursed, chastised by God for their sins.” Father Darley sighed. “It’s getting hard to convince them otherwise.”

  A change in Maxwell’s speech won Tiberius’ attention back.

  “Yes, you, young man!” Maxwell was pointing his cane at someone among the crowd. “What’s your name?”

  “Me, sir?” a meek voice answered. “Clinton Eadds.”

  “Mister Eadds, would join me for a moment?”

  Clinton looked around, confused. When he met Tiberius’ eyes, the sheriff shook his head and muttered a silent “no.” But everyone els
e encouraged him to go, tapping his back and gently pushing him forward, so Clinton adjusted the straps of his leather bag and limped towards the traveling cart.

  The sixteen-year-old was the youngest of the former miners and one of the few survivors of the avalanche. Doc Tucker had saved his life, but Clinton’s legs had been too crushed to heal properly. Now, Clinton could only walk with the aid of a pair of pine crutches the town’s carpenter had made for him.

  Clinton had no family left in Souls Well, but because of his kindness and sweet temper, the town had always taken care of him, one way or another. After the accident, Souls Well named him the town’s first official postman. Truth was Souls Well didn’t receive a lot of post, and Clinton’s deliveries weren’t always the fastest, but everyone liked and trusted the kid. Most of the time, Clinton helped his neighbors exchange notes and packages between themselves, more an errand boy than a postman, but he never complained. He enjoyed feeling useful again.

  The crowd opened to let Clinton through. The letters and packages inside his rucksack crackled as it bounced on his lower back. When Clinton reached the salesman’s wagon, his bony figure and modest corduroy overalls looked pitiful standing in Maxwell’s commanding shadow.

  The salesman offered Clinton his hand. “Maxwell Donahue.”

  Clinton shook it awkwardly.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your injuries. Were you at the silver mine on that tragic day?” Maxwell deepened his tone.

  “I was, sir. I barely made it out alive.”

  Clinton looked down at his broken legs. Maxwell placed a hand on his shoulder and made the boy face the crowd.

  “Never be ashamed, Clinton Eadds, but proud. Not many men have stared at Death herself and escaped her icy touch. You, my friend, were chosen by the angels. You are indeed a hero!”

  The audience cheered, and Tiberius’s blood boiled.

  Maxwell twisted his wrist gracefully and a small glass vial appeared in his hand.

  He offered it to Clinton. “A present. To honor your bravery.”