“Something’s been pushed up against it,” he grunted. “They must have been trying to barricade themselves in.”
“Might as well check the windows then,” Loco suggested. “There’s not a lot of glass left, anyway.”
They walked around the corner of the building and stopped at the first small window they came to. Though the pane had been broken out, the window itself was barely large enough for a man to climb through. Anyone entering in such a fashion would be totally defenseless while wiggling through, a condition which appealed to Murphy not in the least.
“Smell that?” Loco asked as he tried to peer into the building’s dark interior. “It smells like Northwood’s room, only ten times worse.” He backed away, fanning the air in front of his nose. “I doubt there’s anyone alive in there.”
Murphy nodded in agreement, but he leaned close and called out anyway, just to be sure. Only silence answered him.
“Let’s try the other bunkhouse,” he said. “If it’s the same, then we go check out the mine.”
They crossed over to the other building, which was the one still smoldering from an apparent fire. The door on this building swung open easily when Loco pushed on it, and the air that rushed out was more smoky than bloody. Warily, the two men stepped across the threshold and paused to let their eyes adjust to the darkness within.
There was only a single body in the bunkhouse. It hung on the far wall, where it had been haphazardly affixed using timber nails driven through the arms and legs at random points. There was some gore, but not nearly as much as had been in Northwood’s room. On the wall beside the body, two words had been hastily scrawled in the victim’s blood.
Cautiously, Murphy and Loco moved toward the body, each glancing at the spaces between the cots as they walked. Nothing leapt out at them from the dark recesses, however, and they soon stood before the macabre display, each man eyeing the tableau with equal measures of disgust and wonder.
“That’s Skillings,” Murphy whispered.
The foreman hung at an awkward angle, his arms and legs splayed out unnaturally. His eyes had been removed none too delicately, and the blood surrounding his gaping mouth suggested that his tongue had suffered the same fate. Other than that, Skillings simply looked surprised, as if he’d rounded a corner and found himself facing a grizzly bear, or maybe walked in on a surprise birthday party.
Murphy looked away from Skillings’ body and studied the words painted on the wall: itam nöösa.
“Can you read that?” he asked Loco. The Apache studied the words for several seconds before replying.
“The closest I can come is the Hopi language,” Loco said. “Which makes sense, because the Hopi are descendants of the ancient Puebloans. It may not be exact, but I think I get the gist of it.”
“Which is?” Murphy inquired.
“We feast,” Loco answered.
Chapter Eight
Bug-Eye Betty leaned against the piano and surveyed the slim pickings that the White Dog’s late afternoon clientele offered. There were only a few patrons currently in the saloon, and at least half of those were jobless drunks who couldn’t afford Betty if she were selling it for a nickel, which she damned sure wasn’t. Betty was a classy girl, unlike the other slewers who hung about the saloon in hopes of making enough coin to pay their rent for another week. It would cost a man at least a half dollar to lure Betty into his bed.
The previous night had been the slowest Betty had seen in a long time. Usually, on any given evening, at least half a dozen of the miners from the Vulture found their way into the White Dog to gamble and wash the mine dust from their throats with cheap whiskey. Last night, however, Betty hadn’t seen a single one of them. It wasn’t unheard of; sometimes they worked those boys double shifts. But it wasn’t exactly common, either.
In any event, their absence had cut into Betty’s profit margin considerably, which was making her all the more anxious to find a paying customer. Calvin, the saloon’s owner, could be called a lot of things, but a patient man wasn’t one of them. Come Friday, he would be expecting the weekly rent on Betty’s room, and failure to pay would result in her getting kicked out on her ear. Since cheap rooms were hard to come by in Vulture City, Betty wasn’t at all eager to see that happen.
On the plus side, most of the other girls were still in their rooms sleeping off last night’s drunk. Betty was a firm believer in the early bird getting the worm—no pun intended—so she was already at her customary station when Ford Earheart came stumbling through the swinging doors and came to a stop near the first set of tables, where he swayed unsteadily, looking either drunk or extremely ill.
Betty eyed Ford intently. The young man was certainly a much sought-after prize among the women of Vulture City. Not only was the kid easy on the eyes, but he was also rumored to have a wad of money stashed away. It was no secret that Ford was planning to move on to California soon—he told virtually anyone who would listen when he’d had a little too much who-hit-John. Betty had tried to lure Ford into her bed on several occasions, each time coming up on the short end of the stick.
If Ford was drunk, Betty wagered she could tease him up to her room without much trouble. If he was sick, however, he was probably best left alone. A few dollars weren’t worth dying over. She might be desperate, but she wasn’t stupid.
Still, what if he were about to kick the bucket? It would be a shame to see all that money he had stashed go to waste. Likely, the other miners would find it and keep it for themselves. But if Betty could find out where it was and get to it first, then she would be the one leaving for California on the next stage out. She couldn’t deny that the thought appealed to her.
Pushing herself off the piano, Betty strolled casually toward the unsteady man, who looked as if he might have trouble navigating to the bar, much less climbing the stairs for a round of pirooting. The other patrons were paying Ford no notice; it was a saloon after all, and he appeared to be just another drunk stumbling in off the street. He’d made no move since entering the building, other than to stand there swaying like a willow in a stiff breeze.
“Not working today, hon?” Betty purred as she sashayed across the floor.
Ford turned to look at her, and Betty saw that the young man did indeed look rough. His skin was unusually pale, and his eyes appeared to be sunken in their sockets. If Ford was simply drunk, he’d obviously been at it for days on end. No, Ford’s condition went far beyond just being roostered. Betty had seen short-time lungers who’d looked healthier than the man standing before her. She only hoped that whatever he had wasn’t contagious.
Ford stared at Betty but said nothing. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes, and his breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps. It was a shame, really, because he’d always been so vibrant and full of life. Nonetheless, the lure of easy money drew Betty closer, her face wrenched in feigned concern.
“Aw, honey. You look all sewn up. You coming down with something?”
Ford continued to stare at her, again deigning not to answer. Something that might have been tobacco juice or blood began to seep from one corner of his mouth, but he quickly sucked it back inside. He looked as if he might fall over at any second.
“Why don’t we go up to my room?” Betty asked, her words dripping with fake worry. “You ought to lie down for a little bit. Maybe it’ll make you feel better, huh?”
She thought he nodded, but it could have simply been his head bobbing around on his wobbly neck. In any event, he offered no resistance as she took his hand and began to lead him toward the stairs. His hand felt clammy in hers, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t been so quick to grab it. She would have to remember to wash her hands good later, the first chance she got.
“Mind the stairs,” Betty said as they reached the bottom step. “Maybe you better take hold of the railing, just to be safe.”
Ford just looked at her, a blank expression on his face. She took his hand and gently placed it on the railing. Ford regarded it as if
it were some marvelous new invention he’d never before encountered.
Miraculously, he made it up the stairs without falling and breaking his neck. Betty led the sick man down the hall, stopping at the door to her room. Ford hadn’t uttered a word since entering the saloon, and that was beginning to worry her. What if his illness had robbed him of his voice? She might never find out where his money was stashed. Before opening the door, she turned and regarded Ford.
“Do you want to come inside, Ford?” she asked coyly.
It took him a minute, but the young man finally nodded his head.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Ford considered this for a moment, then mouthed a dry, garbled word which might have been water.
“You’re thirsty?” Betty asked, pleased to have finally gotten an audible response. “Well, of course you are, hon. You just come on inside and I’ll pour you a tall glass of water. Doesn’t that sound good?”
Ford gave no indication regarding whether it sounded good or not, but he obediently followed as Betty opened the door and walked inside. The room had already become stuffy with the afternoon heat, and Betty crossed the room and opened her window, allowing a slight breeze to flow inside. Returning her attention to Ford, she smiled and motioned toward the bed.
“Why don’t you lie down for a little while?” she asked. “Go ahead and take a load off while I pour that glass of water.”
Ford was compliant enough to sit down upon the bed, though he didn’t lie back. Instead, he stared blankly at the open window. A housefly buzzed around his head a few times before alighting on his right cheek. He made no move to shoo it away.
Betty filled a glass of water from a ceramic pitcher and handed it to Ford, who reluctantly accepted it but didn’t drink. He simply sat on the bed and slowly alternated his eyes between Betty and the window. There were beads of sweat rolling down the sides of his face. It was warm inside the room, but Ford looked as if he were sitting inside a furnace.
Betty started to sit down on the bed beside Ford, then thought better of it and pulled out the stool from the vanity. She eased herself down and forced a smile. The actual paying prospects would begin filtering into the saloon soon, so she didn’t have all the time in the world to waste on Ford. But if there was the slightest chance she might find out where his stake was stashed…
“I don’t think this place is good for you, Ford,” she said, leaning in close and speaking in a hushed, serious tone. “It’s making you sick. Maybe it’s the heat, or all that dust in the mine. Maybe you need to pull up and head on out to California while you still have some life left in you.”
Ford muttered some gibberish which might have included the word California, and then resumed staring out the window. From somewhere in the distance came a gunshot. Betty flinched at the sound, but Ford paid it no heed.
“This town’s going rotten,” Betty said, turning her attention back to Ford. “The mine, too. Hell, everybody knows it’s only a matter of time till it plays out, and that’ll be the end of this flea-bitten town. I bet you got enough money stashed back to get to California, at least. You need to get that money and hightail it while you still can.”
Ford looked at her, ostensibly considering her words.
“Of course, if you’re not up to it, I could go out and get your money for you,” Betty offered sweetly. “You’re in pretty bad shape. It wouldn’t take me long at all to ride out to the mine and fetch it for you. I could be back here in an hour, maybe two at the most. You could stay here and get some rest, then head out on the morning stage.”
Ford studied her and nodded, though it might have been his head bobbling again.
“Does that sound good?” Betty asked. “All you have to do is tell me where it is. And maybe write out a note, in case someone thinks I’m just out to steal it.” She affected a feigned laugh and then affixed Ford with a serious look. “You do know how to write, don’t you?”
Ford returned Betty’s gaze and slowly leaned in closer. Thinking that the young man was ready to impart the location of his hidden stash, Betty leaned closer as well, her blue eyes wide and attentive. Ford’s dry lips cracked into a crooked grin, and Betty realized it was the first time he’d displayed any emotion since walking into the saloon. The grin made him look more than a little crazy; she almost backed away, then she steeled her nerves and forced herself to remain still. This was the moment she’d been waiting for. She couldn’t back out now.
Ford’s parched lips parted slightly, as if he were preparing to speak. For the first time, Betty caught a whiff of the young man’s breath. She retreated involuntarily as the noxious smell threatened to send her stomach churning into convulsions of nausea. In that instant, Betty became acutely aware of one fact: Ford wasn’t drunk, nor was he simply sick. He was dying, and from the smell of it, he’d already stepped one foot over death’s threshold. No one with the smallest chance of living until sunset could have produced such an awful odor.
As bad as Ford’s breath was, what happened next was worse by tenfold. As Ford’s grin slowly widened, Betty saw movement behind the man’s teeth. At first, she thought maybe it was his tongue darting back and forth in an erratic, jerking fashion, but then she caught a flash of something small and black. No, not just a single something, but several small objects which resembled dried beans or perhaps tiny pebbles.
“Jesus,” Betty gasped, beginning to back away. But then Ford’s hands reached out and took hold of her arms, impeding her retreat. She tried to scramble free, only to find herself being drawn closer to the sick man. Ford’s eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth opened wide, allowing a small army of black, scurrying insects to escape and take flight across his pallid cheeks. One of them dropped onto Betty’s bare arm and began to scuttle up toward her shoulder.
Betty opened her own mouth then, but the piercing scream she emitted was cut off almost immediately.
Through the open window came the ominous peal of thunder rumbling in the distance.
***
Calvin stopped cleaning the bar and glanced at the staircase as he heard the muffled cry coming from upstairs. Frowning, he shook his head in disgust. If he’d told the girls once to keep the racket down while they were working, he’d told them a hundred times. It was a lack of respect, pure and simple. The White Dog might never be a respectable establishment in the eyes of the public, but Calvin would be damned if it was going to be considered nothing more than a whorehouse that served drinks.
As he resumed polishing the bar top, Calvin decided he would have another talk with the girls.
From somewhere upstairs came a loud thump.
Calvin shook his head. He’d have that talk soon.
Real soon.
Chapter Nine
The opening of the mine shaft gaped at them like the hungry maw of a starving wolf. Behind them, in the distance, the muted sound of thunder signaled an approaching storm. Already, the first probing tentacles of the advancing storm clouds sought to cover the waning sun, causing the shadows on the ground to flicker and dance in an odd, irregular pattern.
“Might as well get this over with,” Murphy muttered. “That storm will set in before dusk, and I’d just as soon be clear of this place by then.”
“Not losing your nerve on me, are you?” Loco asked as he stared into the blackness of the opening.
“Nope. But it’ll be harder to hear something sneaking up on you with a thunderstorm raging, even inside the shaft. Sound travels funny underground.”
Unable to argue the fact, Loco nodded and started cautiously toward the entrance. Since the Apache was familiar with the mine’s layout, Murphy offered no objection as his partner took the lead, but simply fell into step behind Loco, holding the Exterminator at the ready.
“If we walk into a shitstorm, be ready to move,” Murphy whispered. “I’m not much on hesitating when there’s shooting that needs to be done.”
“Just make sure your aim’s good. I won’t be in the way,” Loco promised.
“The smell in here’s worse than in the bunkhouses,” Murphy remarked with disgust.
“Yeah, but it’s different,” Loco said. “Less blood, more sulfur. Maybe there aren’t as many bodies in here.”
“It’s not the dead bodies I’m worried about,” Murphy stated earnestly. “It’s the ones that might take a notion to rip a man’s arm off and start eating it.” He glanced around attentively as Loco unsheathed his knife and began to slowly move forward. On the walls of the shaft, their shadows followed them in a jittery, haphazard manner as they made their way deeper into the mine.
They came to an intersection, and Loco paused only briefly before veering down a passage to the left.
“This is the shaft,” Loco said. “It was boarded up before, but someone or something has opened it up again.” Broken pieces of timber lay scattered along the shaft’s floor.
Here, the floor began to slope gently downward, leading them deeper underground with each tentative step. The air around them seemed to thin as they progressed; even the flame in the lantern shrunk slightly, indicating a diminishing level of oxygen in the tunnel. The repugnant smell, however, only seemed to intensify, signaling that they were creeping closer to the source of the foul odor.
“How far down does this go?” Murphy whispered.
“Not much farther,” came Loco’s hushed reply. “In another hundred feet or so, we’ll reach the spot where Ford broke through into the larger chamber. And keep on your toes. The passage is about to narrow considerably.”
“Wonderful,” Murphy grunted. He glanced over his shoulder, but the shaft beyond was too dark to make anything out. Had something been following a half dozen feet behind him, he would have been totally unaware.
Drovers and Demons: A Weird Tale of the Old West (Murphy and Loco Book 1) Page 7