The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2003, Volume 14

by Stephen Jones

  Jackworth liked to talk, Stevenson realized. “Aye, but I’m also a lay preacher’s son.”

  “No offense meant, I’m sure.”

  “None taken, missus. I’m just surprised to hear a good Irish lass like yourself express such a sentiment.”

  “Who said I was Irish?”

  Stevenson felt slightly flustered. “Well, it’s just . . . your look and your hair and . . . Mrs Reilly and all that.”

  Mrs Reilly dragged her rear end across the rock, closer to Stevenson. “May I confess something to you?” Stevenson nodded. “My name isn’t really Mrs Reilly.”

  “Nae?”

  She shook her head. “There is no Mr Reilly.”

  “Is there not?”

  She shook her head. Suddenly, a picture took shape in Stevenson’s head. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. He said it out loud. “Then who’s the father of the bairn?”

  The woman’s eyes went wide, and the hand that had been rubbing her stomach froze.

  “I didn’t mean to shock ye,” Stevenson said, touching a hand lightly to the woman’s arm.

  “How did you know?” she whispered.

  “I didn’t for certain. Until this second. But the way ye touch your belly, and the way ye ride the horse and, well, ye’ve probably heard it said before, but as I look at ye there’s a kind of a glow about ye. I just put a series of observations together and invented the story that tied them up in a neat package. That’s what I do, after all. It’s true, then.”

  She nodded. “You won’t say . . .”

  “It’s none of their concern,” he said, patting her hand. “Nor mine. As an open-minded writer.”

  The woman looked relieved. “I’m traveling to find the father. Let him know the situation. I hope to become Mrs Reilly. Well, a missus at least, whatever the name.” She studied Stevenson carefully. “I bet you’re a good writer.”

  Before he could reply, or recover from his blush, their attention was distracted by a piercing scream from the old woman. She’d come to, and didn’t much like the feeling. As she continued to shriek, Grey had to rush over and try to settle the horses. Jackworth came running back from wherever he’d been, and made straight toward the Balfours. He stood directly over the old woman, breathing hard from his exertions, but seemingly excited by her agony. Mr Balfour was struggling with his wife, holding her from behind, trying to calm her down. Stevenson and Mrs Reilly both stood up, but before they could make a move to help, Jackworth hauled off and punched the old woman in the jaw with all his might. Her head rocked back and she tipped over, smacking the ground hard.

  She was out cold again.

  Mr Balfour studied his wife, then glanced up at the still-grinning Jackworth. The old man nodded his thanks and Jackworth winked at him.

  They loaded the women back on the horses and set off up the road.

  The trail leveled out, but the early-evening air took on a chill. Stevenson had left his coat in his traveling bag and had to make do with cinching tight his waistcoat. Jackworth was up in front with Grey – every so often the two men broke out in fits of ugly laughter – and Mrs Reilly seemed to be half-dozing in the saddle as they made slow progress. Stevenson had been lagging behind and increased his pace, as much to keep warm as anything else, and without really meaning to, found himself beside Mr Balfour. He thought about walking on past, but another burst of vile hilarity from Grey and Jackworth restrained him. He matched strides with Balfour, offering a glance back at the old man’s wife, still enjoying Jackworth’s ministrations on the back of the horse. They walked like that for some ways.

  “Has she stirred?” Stevenson asked, unable to endure any more of the uncomfortable silence.

  “No.”

  “With fortune, this gentleman at the way station will be able to help.”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Do you know anything about this place? The driver doesn’t seem to care for it.”

  “Nnnn.”

  Stevenson tried a different tack: “So where are ye and your wife headed?”

  “West.”

  Stevenson coughed. “Getting a tad cold now,” he said.

  “You say so.”

  Balfour walked a little quicker. Stevenson slowed his pace again, allowing Balfour and the horse bearing his wife to advance past him once more.

  Coughing, shaking his head, crossing his arms over his chilled body, Stevenson walked on alone.

  There was just enough light to make out the sign. It had been crudely burned into a strip of old wood that might once have been part of a door. It dangled on frayed hemp rope from the dead branches of a lightning-struck willow tree. Just the one word:

  HIDES

  “There she is,” Grey announced.

  The building was roughly oblong, but none of the angles were quite straight. Several crude windows had been carved out of the mismatched wooden walls, but there was no glass in the frames, only flimsy shutters to keep out the wet and the cold. One whole side of the structure was black and charred, though some makeshift effort to patch up the worst of the fire damage was in evidence. Bright light glinted out through holes in the door and gaps in the frame, suggesting that someone waited inside. Though who could regard such a wreck as home, Stevenson couldn’t imagine. His heart sank over the prospect of finding proper attention for the injured old woman from anyone residing here.

  “Hides,” Stevenson whispered. He shuddered.

  “They say it used to be a big trading post,” Grey explained. “Been here since Hector was a pup. The Yana and the Atsugewi’d come swap their pelts and beads and such for heap big firewater. Heh-heh. Don’t think I even seen a Atsugewi for going on ten years now. Kilt ’em all, I reckon. Or drank ’emselves to death, filthy red buggers.” And he spat. “Don’t know what keeps the place going these days. Not much, from the look of her.”

  Mrs Balfour began to stir again on the back of the horse. She wasn’t quite awake, but she was moaning slightly and her teeth chattered like cicadas at sunrise. Stevenson saw Jackworth ball his fingers into a preparatory fist, but Mrs Reilly slid down from her mount and stood between the blond man and the old woman.

  “We’d best get her inside,” she said to Mr Balfour. The old man glanced at Jackworth, as if considering the fist option, then nodded at Mrs Reilly. Jackworth looked briefly disappointed, but he was all smiles as he helped Grey carry the woman into the old trading post.

  Mrs Reilly opened the door for them as Grey and Jackworth hauled Mrs Balfour across the threshold. Mr Balfour scurried right behind. Mrs Reilly held the door for Stevenson, who entered last.

  The trading post consisted of a single large room, broken up only by a counter that ran the length of the far wall. The room was lit every which way by oil lamps and fat tallow candles that stank to high hell but provided an unexpectedly warm glow. All manner of furry hides had been draped across the walls and over the rough wooden floor. Stevenson didn’t know his American fauna too well, but he recognized bits of beaver, racoon, deer and an immense bearskin that covered the whole center of the room. A grizzly, possibly. The hides smelt musky and mildewed, but their softness and heat sucked the worst of the chill right out of his lungs.

  Sitting in a rocking chair by a roaring fire in the corner was a rotund ball of a man with a misshapen, bald head. He wore wire-rim spectacles and was reading from a tattered yellowed copy of one of Beadle’s Dime Novels. His dark brown eyes opened wide at the sight of the group who had intruded on his quiet evening.

  “Howdy,” Grey said. He hawked into a spittoon by the door. “Paul, ain’t it?”

  “Poole,” the round man said. He had a soft, almost girlish voice. He pulled a pocket watch from his vest, frowned. “You should have passed hours ago. Why are you here?”

  “Accident. Busted both axles, believe that? Been hoofing it for miles. Coach is a wreck and I had to put down two of the horses. I’m through, that’s for certain.”

  “My,” Poole replied.

  Everyone stood and sta
red at each other then, Jackworth and Grey still supporting Mrs Balfour between them. Her groaning had gotten louder.

  “This woman needs some attention,” Stevenson finally said. “She’s broken her leg in the accident.”

  “He’s from Ed-and-burg,” Jackworth pointed out helpfully.

  Poole continued to sit there.

  “Can ye help her?” Stevenson urged. “Or is there someone else?”

  “No one else. Just me now.” The fat man blinked. He put down his book, pointed at the opposite corner of the room. “Bring her this way.”

  Jackworth and Grey carried Mrs Balfour over to a bench and put her down – a bit roughly, Stevenson thought – then stepped away. Mr Balfour walked around behind the bench, hovering protectively over his wife. The old woman’s eyes fluttered open and she immediately began to shriek in pain. Poole waddled over and lifted the hem of her black dress without so much as a by-your-leave from her husband. Mr Balfour gasped, but offered no more demonstrative objection. Poole knelt down and ran his fingers up the woman’s leg, gently prodding at the exposed shank of bone. Mrs Balfour screamed.

  “Well,” Poole said.

  “Won’t you do something?” Mrs Reilly asked.

  “This tourniquet has been fastened much too tightly,” Poole announced. Mrs Reilly issued a harrumph. Poole loosened the sash and kneaded the flesh of the woman’s upper thigh. Mr Balfour took a white-knuckle grip on the back of the bench, but held his tongue. His wife wailed in such agony that, had there been any glass in the windows, Stevenson felt sure that the sound would have shattered it. Blood oozed out of the open wound, but in lesser volume than before.

  “First things first,” Poole said. He got up and slowly walked behind the counter, not at all bothered by the old woman’s cries. A series of ill-balanced shelves and cubbyholes along the back wall held a plethora of mismatched jars and beakers, filled to varying levels with multicolored liquids. As the old woman continued to shriek – Stevenson wanted to cover his ears – Poole calmly went about pouring drops and drams out of different bottles into a chipped whiskey glass. He glanced up and down the counter for something, shrugged to himself, then stuck his finger in the glass to stir the potion. He sniffed his finger as he withdrew it and nodded in approval. He handed the glass to Mr Balfour.

  “Make her drink that,” he said.

  The old man tried to put the glass in his wife’s hand, but she was beyond reasoning. She flailed at him, nearly emptying the glass of its contents. Balfour didn’t seem to know what to do. Poole shook his head and sighed.

  “A bit of help, if you would.”

  Grey and Jackworth had retreated near the fire with a bottle of rye. The two men exchanged a glance and got up. Grey took the old woman’s arms, Jackworth, grinning, her feet. When she opened her mouth to let out a wail, Poole snatched the glass back from her husband and poured the contents down her gullet.

  Mrs Balfour choked on the stuff at first and spat some of it out, but enough of it must have gone down, because in less than a minute she was asleep again.

  “What was in that?” Stevenson asked.

  “Oh, just a little elixir I know,” Poole said. “She’ll be out till morning if we’re lucky. We could saw that leg right off, and she wouldn’t feel a thing.” He looked up then at Mr Balfour. “I’m not planning on sawing it off. At least not yet. But you shouldn’t have tied that knot so tight. I’ll try and fix her up, but I don’t know that it will take. Time, as is its wont, will be the final arbiter. And circumstance.”

  Mr Balfour nodded.

  Stevenson was impressed as he and Mrs Reilly assisted Poole with setting the leg. Poole decided that Grey and Jackworth were too indelicate for the task, and though the process had its difficult moments – Stevenson had to look away as Poole forced the exposed length of bone back inside Mrs Balfour’s torn flesh, then twisted and pulled at the leg until he felt the broken ends grind together and mesh – Poole worked quickly and with a minimum of spilled blood. They used two lengths of worm-eaten board for a splint, and secured it with strips of muskrat hide. Poole couldn’t decide what to do about the open wound, then opted for stitching it closed with some catgut and a needle made from bone that must have been meant for sewing hides. Stevenson again found it difficult to watch as Poole darned together the torn flaps of skin, but suspected that, all in all, Mrs Balfour could have had worse luck than to have alighted at Hides. Poole finished up by dousing the wound with rot-gut whiskey. As the amber liquid washed over the stitched opening, Mrs Balfour shuddered in her induced slumber. Poole laid a blanket on top of her, and gave another to her husband who settled in for the night on the floor beside her.

  By the time they were done with the old woman and had cleaned themselves up, Jackworth and Grey had finished off their bottle of hooch and had both passed out on the floor in front of the dying fire. “Leave them be,” Poole said, and hauled out a couple of louse-ridden horse blankets which he gently laid over the sleeping men. He searched around in a trunk until he found a length of calico. He hung it up across a corner of the room, making a private sleeping space for Mrs Reilly. He found a somewhat softer and cleaner blanket for her and piled some furs on the floor into a little mattress.

  “I’m not really equipped for ladies,” he said, “but you should be able to make do with that. I receive so few guests.”

  Mrs Reilly retreated gratefully behind the curtain, still rubbing her belly and saying her goodnights. Poole gathered another set of furs together and flung them on the floor beside his own bed. “That should do you,” he said.

  “That’ll be dandy,” Stevenson replied.

  Poole went around damping out the candles and lamps until the only light came from the embers of the fire in the corner. Stevenson removed his boots and waistcoat, unfastened the top buttons of his trousers and chemise and lay down.

  The sound of snoring soon filled Hides.

  The rain woke Stevenson up. The rain and the coughing.

  The storm that had threatened to break all during their long hike had finally arrived, and with a fury. Water sloshed into the corners of the room, from the spots where the walls and roof were poorly joined, and through gaps in the wall and windows and door. The sudden concentration of humidity and moisture in the air sat heavily in Stevenson’s lungs and provoked a diabolical coughing fit.

  At first, Stevenson could barely stop hacking long enough to take a breath. He crawled off his pallet of furs toward the door, made it to the spittoon to hawk up a wad of dark mucus. He was able to take several deep breaths after that, until a fresh spell of coughing possessed him. Not wanting to wake the others, he dragged himself out the door and into the wet night. His stockinged feet plunged ankle-deep into the mud, but a slight overhang in the roof kept the worst of the rain off of his head.

  The coughing, however, simply wouldn’t stop.

  Stevenson sank back to his knees as the pain exploded through his chest. This was as bad as it had ever felt. His lungs were on fire and something wet and thick got caught in his throat; he couldn’t draw sufficient breath to expel it. He opened his mouth as wide as it would go, began clawing at the air with his muddy hands as if he could physically wrench some of it into his lungs.

  He was choking to death.

  As veins of darkness seeped in at the edges of his vision, Stevenson saw, in his mind’s eye, Fanny’s sweet face. As he made one last effort to draw a saving breath, his only regret was that he’d never kiss that face again, feel her lips on his.

  Something struck him hard across the back, knocking him face first into the mud. A hand grabbed at the hair on the back of his neck, yanked him up sharply, then another blow to the back. And another.

  With the fourth hammer strike, a fist-sized chunk of phlegm exploded from his throat and past his lips, disappearing into the black swamp around him. With a gasp like rattling bones, he drew in a wet lungful of air, and nothing had ever tasted so sweet. He exhaled, coughed – took another slap on the back – but didn’t need i
t. Just like that he was breathing normally, though tears continued to stream from his eyes.

  “Better?”

  Stevenson turned around in the slick mud and saw Poole, mud-spattered as well, staring down at him. Poole put out a hand, helped Stevenson back to his feet.

  “I thank ye, sir.”

  “I heard the ruckus. You was looking a little peaked there, friend.”

  “I believe, Mr Poole,” Stevenson said, through another small cough, “that ye just saved my life.”

  Poole shrugged, but smiled. He looked embarrassed. “Just a little pat on the back’s all it was. Could have gone either way. How long you suffered the consumption?”

  “Always. It’s afflicted me in one way or the other since I was a boy.”

  The rain had slowed, but Stevenson stepped out into it, allowing the cool drops to wash the sweat and blood from his face. He breathed deep, found he wasn’t coughing at all.

  “That’s rough,” Poole said. “But you beat the odds still being alive this long. I’m impressed by that. We live with long odds and brief lives. Tried anything for the consumption?”

  “Medicines are largely useless. I travel. I find some climes more amenable than others, at least for a time. I hadn’t expected this one to be so . . . ungracious.”

  “This can be rough country.”

  Stevenson stepped back under the protection of the overhang, stared out into the night with Poole who’d lit up a cheroot. “So I’ve been told. Though I thought only in winter.”

  “Heard about that, huh? Well, I guess everyone knows about the Donners by now.”

  “I hadn’t until Mr Jackworth in there told me the tale during our journey here. Quite gruesome.”

  “You have no idea, friend.”

  Stevenson raised an eyebrow. “Ye weren’t . . .”

  “Seen and done a lot,” Poole said, not meeting Stevenson’s gaze. “It’s rough country and it’s a rougher life. You can’t really understand if you ain’t a part of it. Some see things out here and call them cruelties, but everything is relative. Ever seen how a cat plays with a rat? What a fox’ll do to a chicken or a bear to a sheep? Eaten alive is nature’s rule and it’s just our civilized – so-called – selves who’ve got nancy-prance ideas about such things. Ideas that we deserve better than eaten alive. Better than nature.”