Horse was quiet - which was welcome at the early hour when the first fingers of light were painting the fading night sky with colourful streaks. Yet with dawn over and done with and the sun well on its steady climb to the noonday peak, Horse was still quiet. Jed didn’t like it. Usually their travels passed pleasantly with Horse discoursing about something or other, occasionally scolding his rider for not paying attention. But now with Horse silent, Jed found the trail to Crosspatch Hill a lonesome one.
The first stop, however, was the crash site, which was already a-crawling with marshals and their men. To them fell the gruesome task of gathering up the remains of the dead - what the buzzards hadn’t feasted on overnight. There would be no attempt to piece people together or even to identify the victims. A mass grave and a modest monument with a simple marker would be the best those poor folk would get.
Jed took off his hat and approached a large man with a tin star on his weskit. “Howdy. You in charge?”
The sheriff, whose face was almost entirely covered by ginger mutton-chop sideburns looked Jed up and down. “What’s it to you?” He looked about ready to spit at any second. “We don’t want folks poking their noses in. Give the dead some respect.”
“That’s only fitting,” said Jed. “I ain’t here to get under nobody’s feet. I just need some information and I’ll be on my way.”
“We all need information, boy,” the sheriff’s barrel chest swelled with impatience. “Like who’s responsible for this unholy mess.”
“That’s what I’m aiming to find out,” said Jed, adding ‘sir’ just to be politic. Sometimes a little word like that can grease more wheels than a fistful of dollars.
“Who are you, son?”
“Name’s Jed.”
The lawman’s bushy red eyebrows twitched upwards. The name was familiar.
“And I’m Carriage,” he touched the brim of his hat. “Orson Carriage.”
Jed took advantage of this softening of the man’s attitude to press on. “I need passenger lists, booking manifests and what-not. Hell, even a schedule would do.”
“And what good will that do you?”
“There’s a family I’m trying to trace. From Hellion’s Grove.”
“Shuttle don’t stop at Hellion’s Grove. Don’t go near it.”
“I know that, sir, but if I can retrace this family’s journey...”
“You think they’re behind all this,” Sheriff Carriage gestured at the wreckage and the carnage with a meaty hand. “What kind of nut-job kills himself and his family and a shuttle-full of innocent souls?”
“I ain’t blaming them,” Jed clarified. “But I think they’re involved.”
The sheriff scratched his chin - the only visible patch of skin on his jaw. “Weren’t nothing but bandits, son. Simple as. We’ll round up a few of the usual dregs and stretch their necks in the market place. That’ll calm things down for a while.”
Jed looked beyond the lawman’s shoulder. Two hired hands - or maybe they were volunteers, he couldn’t say - were carrying a body from the passenger car. Jed recognised the dress, blackened though it was by fire.
Wyatt’s ma.
“I know the last stop the shuttle made was Crosspatch Hill but if you cain’t help me with the rest of the route...”
“Cain’t help you, son,” and this time the sheriff did spit. “It’s bandits. That’s all it is.”
Jed put on his hat and tipped it. “Obliged to you, sheriff.”
He turned his back and returned to Horse who was idling some way off.
“No joy?” he said as Jed straddled the saddle.
“None whatsoever. Giddy up.”
“Please don’t say that.”
A moment later, Sheriff Carriage had cause to look at the sky as a streak of light whooshed overhead.
Chapter Four
Crosspatch Hill!
Horse didn’t need tethering; he was not the sort of critter to go wandering off and if anyone was foolhardy enough to try to steal him, they would end up with horseshoe-shaped brands on their cheeks (upper and lower). Jed left him by the hitching post outside the ticket office for the sake of appearances and instructed him to be as inconspicuous as possible.
“Leave me with these dullards!” Horse complained, albeit sotto voce. He glanced at the horses that flanked him. “No offence,” he grinned.
Crosspatch Hill was little more than a backwater town, a place where two roads intersected. The crossroads lay at a convenient distance between whichever of four cities you were travelling to or from and so a small community of ostlers, farriers, and other traders had sprung up. The shuttle too, when it had been established, set up a station here, attracting more travellers to the settlement.
Jed found the shuttle company’s ticket office packed with just about everyone who had heard of Crosspatch Hill, never mind those who lived there. Behind a grill, a clerk in a green visor was besieged by an angry mob. He was trying to answer each in turn, riffling through papers to find the requested name but, like a man trying to bail out a leaky boat with a colander, he knew drowning was not far off in his future. People jostled and shoved each other to get to the counter. Everyone was yelling and complaining - the whole place was a headache.
Jed adjusted his revolver to ‘sonic’ and fired it at the ceiling. A loud thunder crack got everyone’s attention. The unruly mob froze, expecting the building to cave in on their heads.
“Howdy,” said Jed, lowering his gun. “I know you folks are worried about your loved ones and all but let the man do his job. Let’s have a little order here and a mite of composure, and I’m sure you’ll all get your answers all the quicker.”
The crowd mulled it over; it sounded reasonable to them. A lone voice of dissent rose from the back. “Who in heck are you to boss us around?”
Jed spun on his boot heel and fired. The heckler’s hat flew off.
“Any more questions?”
Everyone - the heckler included - shook their heads and avoided eye contact. They parted, clearing a path so that Jed could approach the counter.
The clerk, a nervous man whose name badge revealed he was called Orville, was grateful for the stranger’s intervention and stammered out his willingness to be of assistance in any way he could.
“Shuttle schedules,” said Jed. “Also any passenger listings, records of any bookings - hell, anything you got.”
The clerk demurred. “I don’t know that I can divulge information of that nature.”
Jed’s nostrils flared. “I don’t want to eat the danged papers; I just want to take a squint at them.”
Orville pulled a face. “I could let you have one of these, I guess.” He pushed a folded slip under the grill. The paper was covered with small print. Jed barely glanced at it.
“I ain’t here to catch the next shuttle. I want to know who was on the last one.”
The clerk was sweating. “That’s privileged information.”
Jed’s hand went to his holster. “Then I’d be honoured.”
“No can do, sir.” Orville craned to look over the gunslinger’s shoulder, “Who’s next, please?”
For some reason, folk were reluctant to step up to the counter. Jed drew his revolver - slowly - and scratched the side of his nose with the barrel.
“Can you tell me if there was a family on board at least? A couple and a boy about nine or ten years old?”
He stared into Orville’s eyes. After a moment, the clerk looked away. He consulted a ledger.
“I’d need a name.”
Dang it; Jed didn’t know it. He’d never thought to ask. Slipshod practice, he scolded himself - and he’d thought Horse was slipping.
“Boy’s name is Wyatt. He’s about yea high, hair the colour of straw, I guess.”
The clerk shook his h
ead. “We don’t list the names of the young’uns. And there are several couples with kids listed.”
“Fine; give me their names.”
“I cain’t do that, sir. Company policy.”
Jed leaned forwards, pressing his face against the grill. Up close, the clerk could see the stranger’s eyes were of slightly different colours. “Them folks is dead. All of ’em. Dead. They ain’t going to mind a little invasion of privacy, so why should you? And you can tell your company that until this sorry business is sorted out, there ain’t going to be no more shuttles.”
Orville whimpered. A fleck of Jed’s spittle had landed on his nose but he dared not wipe it off.
With a grunt of frustration, Jed turned away. The people flinched and cowered as he passed. He stopped at the door and addressed the room. “I’m sorry for your losses, I truly am. Good luck getting any peace of mind from yonder galoot.”
He left. Before the door closed behind him, the clamour for the clerk’s attention started up again.
Horse could tell from Jed’s expression that the visit had been a fruitless one and he knew better than to ask. The gunslinger stood, hands on his hips, looking up and down the street.
“Some folks...” he muttered.
Horse nodded.
“Excuse me, sir?” A voice came from behind. It was a woman’s voice, cracked from years of use. Jed wheeled around. A skinny woman well on her way towards old age took a step towards him. Her black clothes and broad-brimmed bonnet gave her the look of a starving crow.
“Ma’m?” Jed tipped his hat.
The woman’s dark eyes twinkled. “I couldn’t help overhearing in there,” she jerked a talon of a thumb towards the ticket office door. “Boy by the name of Wyatt, you said.”
“I did. You know him?”
“Well, I never laid eyes on the child myself, what with them living all the way out to Hellion’s Grove. My late sister’s grandson - Tell me, sir: are they truly dead? My sister’s daughter and her Mike?”
Jed nodded.
The old woman’s hand darted, seizing the gunslinger’s arm. Her black eyes searched his impassive face. “The boy too? Tell me the boy died along with all the rest of them poor folks and I can sleep peaceful in my bed for the first time since he was borned.”
Jed extricated himself from her claw and tipped his hat again. “I’m sorry, ma’m.”
He swung his leg over the saddle and pressed his heels into Horse’s flanks. Horse clip-clopped away.
“Just keep moving,” Jed urged through clenched teeth. “I don’t care where.”
When they were down the road apiece, Horse chuckled. “Quick on the draw, that old bird. You ought to deputise her.”
Jed repressed a shudder. He was sure the old crow’s eyes were boring into his back.
“I need a drink,” he said.
***
At the crossroads in the centre of town, two saloons vied for custom. One was brash and noisy with music playing and men a-whooping and a-hollering as the resident troupe of showgirls performed their act. The noise got louder as a galoot, drunk as a skunk, was tossed into the street via a closed window. Horse picked his way through the broken glass and nodded to the more salubrious establishment opposite.
“I reckon so,” said Jed.
This place, the Lonesome Goat, was all but empty. Good, thought Jed; means the barkeep’ll have time to talk.
He ordered two fingers of red eye and hitched his behind onto a stool at the bar.
After the exchange of pleasantries and establishing that Jed was not from those parts, the bartender, a great keg of a man, asked Jed if he knew what the hullaballoo over at the ticket office was all about. The man had heard nothing about the shuttle crash and Jed didn’t feel predisposed to tell him. He had come to ask questions not answer them.
“How long you been in business?” was his first one. He beckoned for a refill. As the barman poured, he calculated.
“Twenty five years; must be.” He realised he was overfilling the glass. Jed signalled it didn’t matter and slid another banknote across the counter.
And not likely to be in business for much longer - Jed cast a glance at all the empty chairs and tables.
“You must know all the local characters and what-not. There cain’t be nothing in town passes your notice.”
The barman bristled with pride, buying Jed’s flattery. “I reckon you might be right, stranger.”
“The name’s Jed.”
The barman betrayed no flicker of recognition. In a way, Jed found it refreshing. His name or reputation seemed to precede him wherever he went. Perhaps he had stumbled into the only place on Vultures’ Moon where no one had heard of him.
“Pleased to meet you, Jed. I’m Wilbur. The next one’s on me.”
Jed drank and listened as Wilbur rattled off two or three anecdotes about bar brawls that had taken place - and hoo-ee! You should have seen it, Jed. The place was jumping! See that hole in the wall? That’s where One-Thumbed Hanratty stuffed Black Bartholomew’s noggin clear through the plasterboard. Landsakes! What a lunch hour that was!
Jed tuned out for the most part. Wilbur was glad to have an audience and the chance to get his old stories out of mothballs. Eventually, as the barman was uncorking the second - or was it the third? -bottle, Jed felt the time was right to steer the conversation where he wanted it to go.
“Say, Wilbur, you ever hear of a sheriff, a big fellow with red hair and mutton chops, goes by the name of Carriage?”
Wilbur thought about it. “Cain’t say I know him. A sheriff, you say?”
“Name of Carriage.”
“No. Nope. Lawmen tend to have more truck with that cathouse acrost the street these days.”
Jed could believe that. He tried a different tack.
“I had an encounter on my way here. Skinny woman about so tall, dressed in black.”
“Beak on her like an old buzzard?” Wilbur knew who Jed meant right away. “Ellen Peabody, her name is. Tried to get me closed down at one point on the grounds of moral turpentine or something. What did that old bat want with you? Warn you against the evils of drink, did she?”
“Not exactly.” Jed held out his glass for another refill. “She was telling me about some distant relations of hers. Wanted to know if I had news of them.”
Wilbur’s forehead creased. “I ain’t knowed old Ellen Peabody to be concerned about no one - save in an abstract, moralising sense. Although...” he waggled a finger as a memory came back to him, “I remember she came in here one night - I’m talking years back - and I thought she was going to go off on one of her hellfire and damnation kicks but instead she orders a whisky - a double - knocks it back, coughs a little, and orders another. Well, drink’ll loosen a tongue and if y’ain’t used to it, it don’t take much before the blabbing gets going.
“She was muttering about some demon child - a devil boy, she called him that. Come to bring ruination to the family. Crazy old coot!”
“She didn’t mention any names, did she?”
Wilbur shook his head as he thought about it. “I know she had a sister but she died, I seem to recall. Years back.”
“Before or after Miss Peabody came in here with that wild talk about the devil boy?”
The barman looked apologetic. “I cain’t rightly recall.”
“But do you know where this sister lived? Not here in Crosspatch Hill?”
“Hmm,” Wilbur stroked his cheeks to stimulate thought. “Something - somewhere up the trail from here, I think. Stage used to go there, afore the shuttle came along and then there was no use for the stage...er... Palmerston! That’s it: Palmerston. Due north of here.”
Jed stood. He placed a couple of extra bills on the bar and tipped his hat.
“Good talking with you, Jed!” th
e barman called after the gunslinger. “Come back soon, you hear? Tell your friends.”
But the gunslinger was gone without looking back.
Chapter Five
Palmerston!
Jed brought Horse up-to-speed as they left Crosspatch Hill. Horse was amused to hear of the old Peabody woman’s crazy story of the demon child.
“You don’t reckon there’s anything to it, do you, Jed?”
Jed spat.
“You don’t? You don’t think the devil boy she was referring to was our little friend Wyatt, do you?”
Jed remained silent.
“Because if it is...” Horse shuddered with delight, “you’ve gone and left him slap bang in the middle of Tarnation among folk who are supposed to be our friends.”
Jed turned his heels so that the wheels of his spurs dug into Horse - only lightly but enough to be felt. “I think I liked you better before you could talk.”
“Ouch,” said Horse.
They rose to the cloudless sky and completed the rest of the journey to Palmerston in an irritable silence.
***
“Looks quiet,” said Jed as they flew over the outskirts of the little town.
“Sounds quiet,” said Horse, pointedly.
“Don’t start,” said Jed.
Horse’s hooves touched down at the top of Main Street - not that there were many streets to choose from. Palmerston had one broad thoroughfare from which a couple of narrower streets branched off on either side.
There was no sign of life save for the buzzing of flies and, in the distance, the cry of buzzards.
Jed and Horse made slow progress past the boarded-up store fronts and abandoned saloon. The height of the weeds poking up through the verandas and porches indicated the place had been deserted for a long time.
“Ghost town,” said Horse.
“Yup,” said Jed.
Jed’s hat flew off his head and hit the dirt.
“Whoa!” he said, and jumped from the saddle to retrieve it. Then he cried out in pain.
Under the Vultures Moon Page 2