Hell's Highwaymen

by Phillip Granath

  Cort dismounted and carefully walked towards the lone figure, with one hand on the hilt of his saber.

  “Albert?” Cort called softly, “Al?”

  The man turned suddenly and faced the riders. His skin was dried and cracked; he was pale, almost gray. It was just a shade darker than the drained souls that Jerry and the riders had left behind them on the path. But the most disturbing thing was his eyes, they were wide and bloodshot, filled with desperation and a deep-seated fear.

  “Damn, he’s almost gone, isn’t he?” Jamie said.

  “We’ve been away too long Leftenent,” Oliver pointed out.

  “Padre, come on over here and bring our new friend,” Cort said, his eyes not leaving the ashen man.

  Jerry heard the priest exhale loudly and then stepped down from the horse. After a moment and not sure what else to do, Jerry stepped down as well.

  “Well, come on,” the priest said and walked towards Cort.

  “What’s going on? Why does he want me?” Jerry whispered to the priest’s back.

  “He wants you to sell Big Al some life insurance, in a way.”

  “What?” Jerry blurted.

  The priest followed closely by Jerry joined Cort and the withered man in the street. The holy man looked pointedly down at his feet, as if ashamed at even being there. The cavalry officer just stared at Jerry intently and then slowly asked.

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name?...I’m, I’m Jerry…Jerry Archer, from Milwaukee,” he replied.

  “Jerry, roll me a smoke.”

  Jerry found himself nodding quickly, and he raised his briefcase funbling with the locks. It failed to open on the first try and then again on the second. Jerry shot Cort a nervous grin and found the man staring back at him intently. Jerry had to lay the case down flat on the dusty ground before he finally got the locks to pop open. Jerry fumbled with the pack of smokes and then nearly dropped it. Finally, he held it up the pack for the cavalryman to take.

  “Just one,” Cort said.

  Jerry pulled out a single cigarette and offered it up to the towering cavalryman. Cort took it and raised it to his lips, then looked at its end with annoyance.

  “Hey greenhorn, you going to light it or what?”

  Jerry was nodding and fumbling, pulled out the small black lighter from the pack. He stood and held it out for Cort to take.

  “Light it I said,” Cort ordered, an edge to his voice.

  Jerry nodded, and then he stood, stepping closer to the cavalryman. The withered Al stood just a few feet to his right; the drained man’s eyes now locked on Jerry. The gaze unnerved him, but he did his best to ignore it. He tried to work the lighter several times before the flame finally caught. Cort leaned forward ever so slightly with the cigarette still in his mouth, and after a few puffs, it lit.

  Cort leaned back and took a long slow drag on the cigarette, and then a moment later he released it with a satisfied sigh. When he opened his eyes they locked on to Jerry’s.

  “Well don’t be rude, offer one to Al,” Cort said, nodding towards the shriveled man.

  The timid insurance adjuster nodded meekly in reply and then sliding another cigarette from the pack turned and held it out to the withered man. Hesitantly Jerry’s eyes slid up from the offered cigarette up to meet the piercing gaze. The moment their eyes met Al’s arms snaked out and grabbed Jerry by each the side of his head.

  The pain was immediate and intense; as if steel spikes had been shoved through each of Jerry’s temples and were connecting somewhere behind his eyes. He grabbed at the man’s hands, trying desperately to pull his head free, but the bartender held firmly onto his head. The longer he held on; the weaker Jerry felt as if his very life was flowing out of him. His knees buckled, and he found himself looking up into the man’s piercing eyes, but now the gaze was distant as if he was looking down a long dark corridor. Then the world twisted, and some part of Jerry knew he was lying in the street, but he was too far gone to care. The world went black, and the last thing Jerry could feel was a pull deep inside of him, urging him to rise and walk towards it.

  The Rose

  “That’s enough,” Cort said.

  The big man kept his hold on Jerry’s withering form.

  “I said that is enough Al!”

  Big Al was kneeling over the unconscious and quickly withering soul, the big bartender still gripped the smaller man’s head with his meaty hands. The color and girth had started to return to Al the moment he had grabbed hold of the helpless Jerry, and conversely Jerry’s skin had begun to pale. Cort had seen enough, he kicked the big man squarely in the side of the head, breaking his grip and sending him sprawling to the ground. Big Al rolled over, for a moment his eyes still held that faraway look and they locked back onto the unconscious Jerry.

  “Al!” Cort shouted.

  The big bartender blinked several times and then looked up at the Cavalryman.

  “Cort? What, what are you doing here?” the big man asked obviously confused.

  “Well me and my boys come for a drink, looks like we arrived just in time to keep you from taking a real long walk,” Cort said with a grin.

  Big Al nodded from where he sat in the dust and then he looked down the street towards the direction of the pull. Then Al turned and looked down at Jerry’s pale and still form.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Him? No one really, just an endless supply of smokes. That’s why I couldn’t let you drain him completely.”

  Big Al nodded slowly looking back up at Cort, “Thank you kindly.”

  The bartender slowly made his way to his feet. He was well over 6 feet and closer to three hundred pounds than two. His head was bald, and his skin, which usually held a pinkish hue was a sickly pale color. He smiled at Cort just then revealing his broken and bloody front teeth. He then turned to face the rest of the group. Giving the cavalryman a close up look at the bloody hole at the back of his head, made by the same bullet that had ripped through his teeth and then exited his skull.

  “Howdy Jamie, Preacher,” Al said with a wave.

  “How about a drink Al?” Jamie called in reply.

  “Well come on in then. The Rose is open for business!”

  As a group, the highwaymen let out a shout and leaped from their horses. Big Al let out a deep belly laugh and strode towards the collapsed saloon. As the big man neared the ruined structure, it responded with a deep groan and then began to reform itself. The ceiling rose, and the wooden paneling pulled itself back into place. A large weathered section of paneling above the door shimmered, and as Big Al pushed through the double doors and into his piece of hell, Cort could just make out the outline of a faded rose on the sign.

  Sometime later Jerry realized he was sitting on a wooden barstool, though he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there or even where he was. He shook his head, the last thing he could remember were a pair of piercing, hungry eyes and then the feeling of being…drained. He looked down and found his hand gripped around a shot glass on the bar top. The small glass felt sticky in his hand and contained something that was light caramel but had a darker liquid floating on its surface, giving it a reddish tinge.

  “The drink will help, at least it helps me,” Father Callahan said.

  Jerry turned his head slowly, finding it heavy and sluggish. He found the young priest sitting in a chair at a round wooden table behind him, a pair of empty shot glasses sat on the table in front of him next to his Bible. Across from the priest, Cort sat, his boots propped up on the table. Jerry then noticed his briefcase was sitting on the table as well, it was open, and the smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. He reached a handout, about to object but the very look of his outstretched hand made the words catch in his throat.

  His skin was pale, no it was worse than pale, it was a sickly yellow. It somehow seemed thin as well, the red and purple veins on the back of his hand standing out plainly. He pulled his hand back in and closed the hand slowly a few times, and he swore he
could hear the ligaments pulling against one another. It reminded him of his father’s hands, towards the end, just before cancer and its cure had conspired to kill him.

  “Don’t worry son, we stopped him before he took too much,” the Priest said with a slight slur.

  “Isn’t that right Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “We’ll get you topped back off on the next raid greenhorn. That is as long as you don’t do anything stupid between now and then. Like piss me off,” Cort said in reply.

  The roar of laughter from across the room drew Jerry’s pained gaze. Jamie, Oliver and another man sat around a poker table covered with an array of playing cards. Shinji sat at the table as well, though he appeared to be more of an observer to the festivities than an active participant. The Mongolian watched the turn of every hand and listened to every bawdy exchange with the same distant look in his eyes.

  “The Padre isn’t wrong greenhorn. Upend your glass, that’s the best whiskey we have found this side of death,” Cort said.

  Jerry looked back to the glass in his hand, he raised it to his lips, took a sip and then immediately regretted it. The taste of Iron and old pennies flooded his mouth, followed by the burn of alcohol. He coughed and then choked, fighting to keep the vile liquid down. For just a moment he flashed back to his early days in college, where the need to fit in had outweighed his common sense, self-respect, and his gag reflex. Here he was again, a stranger trying to fit in, so just as Cort had urged he upended his glass and drained the rest of the shot in a single painful gulp. The riders let out a small cheer, the kind reserved for the accomplishments of small children and the mockery of adults. A moment later a wave of laughter followed as Jerry coughed and sputtered and fought to keep the burning liquid down.

  “That’s the spirit,” Cort said.

  Then the cavalryman tore apart another Lucky Strike and packed the tobacco into his bottom lip. Jerry could already feel the vile whiskey sitting like a lump in his gut; it felt like his stomach was holding onto it tightly as if still deciding whether or not to keep it or send it back. He looked back up, and his vision swam a bit, he took a breath and stood on unsteady legs.

  “Careful now son,” the Priest said.

  Jerry staggered forward taking a pair of wobbly steps and then grabbed hold of a chair back to steady himself. He looked down at the Priest and the Cavalryman and the half dozen empty shot glasses on the table between them.

  “What is this place?” Jerry choked out.

  “A little piece of heaven in a savage land,” the Priest mumbled drunkenly in reply.

  Jerry sat heavily into one of the chairs at the cavalryman’s table, right in front of his briefcase case. He paused for a moment and pawed through the loose papers briefly, not sure if he even cared about it or its contents. What was the point? He suddenly wondered, and with a sweep of his arm, he brushed the case off of the table with a flurry of papers. The conversation at the card table wavered, and the group turned to see what the source of the commotion was.

  “What’s the point of all of this?” Jerry asked.

  “If nothing ever changes here. If I can only keep what I brought in with me and I can’t even change that. Then what is the point of this place?”

  The room was quiet for a moment, and then Jamie chuckled and as he reshuffled the deck of cards he replied.

  “That’s kinda the point new guy. It’s torture by tedium, worse than watching crops grow or paint dry. It’s the same thing that made me leave the farm and my folks and never look back,” Jaime replied.

  “It’s better than the alternative,” Cort pointed out.

  “You mean the pull, don’t you?” Jerry asked, “What is it? Why do we all feel it?”

  “It’s the end, old chap,” Oliver said.

  “It’s justice,” said Jamie.

  “It’s the devil himself,” added Big Al, as he fingered the hole at the back of his head.

  “It’s the same thing all bad men fear, its truth, and the truth of it is that none of us knows what we’re being pulled towards because those that choose to walk towards it never come back. We just know that if you go too long without sucking the last of the life from some fresh soul, you find the urge too strong to ignore. And the further you go in that direction, the stronger the pull becomes,” the Priest said as he examined his empty glass.

  “That’s why we keep the Priest around, his witty banter,” Oliver remarked.

  The table broke into a round of laughter in reply, Jamie grinned and then dealt out the cards again. Jerry just shook his head. How long had he been here already? He wondered, and his eyes glanced towards the saloon’s double doors. Outside the sky was the same light red color it had been when they had arrived. Somehow, he just knew there would be no night here, no sunset, no sunrise. He had seen souls killed and others wounded only to have their wounds heal and for them to rise. He doubted sleep was much of a concern. Perhaps that meant hangovers were a thing of the past as well.

  A solitary shot of the vile whiskey sat on the table in front of him. He reached for it and then after looking at the odd reddish liquid a moment, he closed his eyes and upended the shot glass. But the taste of burning pennies and iron never came. He blinked and realized his hand was empty. He looked down at the table in confusion. It seemed every drink, and glass, full or empty had simply vanished. And nearly simultaneously a murmur ran through the saloon.

  “Barkeep! What kinda fucked up establishment are you running here!” Jamie shouted.

  “Here, here!” Oliver added.

  “It’s alright, just give me a moment gentleman. As you all know, drinks are always on the house here at The Rose!” Big Al said.

  “What? What’s going on?” Jerry asked.

  “It’s like your case, the world just kinda resets itself again, have a look,” the Priest said with a nod.

  Jerry turned and watched as the big man made his way back to the bar. A wooden serving tray that he hadn’t noticed a moment before sat down at the far end. The tray held two dozen poured shots of whiskey, all of them coated with a sticky layer of dark blood. A small derringer lay on the bar top nearby. Big Al scooped up the derringer and dropped it in the pocket of his apron with a well-practiced motion. Al saw Jerry watching, and he gave him a quick wink before he bent down and began to carefully wipe the blood from the outside of the poured glasses. Jerry’s stomach immediately knotted and began to roll; he was forced to fight down the urge to vomit. The bloody hole in Al’s head, the drinks covered in his blood and bits of his brain’s, all part of the man’s hell.

  “I said it was the best whiskey we have found,” Cort said flatly and then after a moment added, “of course, this is Hell.”

  Jerry eventually learned to stomach the sickly-sweet liquor and attempted to drown himself in it. Time wore on with no need to sleep, eat or even piss. The men entertained themselves over cards, telling each other a combination of much-repeated half-truths and flat-out lies. The conversations and revelries only interrupted by the occasional disappearance of the alcohol from their glasses and their bloodstreams, followed by the reappearance of the shots on the bar top.

  The insurance adjuster had never been much of a drinker, but he learned the highwaymen’s secret soon enough when the alcohol appeared the men would drink several shots in rapid succession. Then they drank to maintain, knowing that soon enough the alcohol would disappear from their glasses and their blood and return to the bar top. Then they would simply repeat the process. It was during one of these interruptions as Big Al worked behind the bar that Shinji stood and approached the table.

  “Guij baina,” the warrior demanded extending a hand towards Cort.

  “Ah shit, not this again.”

  “Guij baina, Ta nadad tuslahgui yu,” Shinji insisted.

  “Come on Lieutenant, just give it to him. You’ll get it back soon enough, that I guarantee,” Jamie said with a laugh.

  In response, Cort rolled his shoulders and popped his neck loudly, something Jerry noted he
often did when he felt irritated. Then he reached down and pulled the heavy revolver from his holster. He cocked the big pistol and handed it over to the Mongolian butt first. Shinji accepted the gun and gave the cavalryman a large grin in return. He then turned to nod his thanks to the Priest, managing to point the big gun at everyone seated at the table in the process. It earned the warrior a few muttered curses as Cort, Jerry and the priest all tried to lean out of the line of fire in turn.

  “Damn it Shinji!” Cort muttered.

  The still grinning warrior returned to the card table carrying the borrowed gun and retook his chair.

  “What’s that all about?” Jerry asked.

  “Why don’t you go and see,” Cort offered with a grin.

  Jerry was immediately suspicious, but his alcohol-fueled curiosity got the best of him, and he took place next to the bar where he could see the card game. Jamie was dividing the cards into four even piles directly in front of each of the seated riders. His hands moved with the quick, practiced motions you only see from professional card sharks or perhaps hired killers. One of the burning Lucky Strikes was held between his grinning lips as he doled out the cards.

  “You sons of bitches knows the rules, high card takes the round,” Jamie said.

  With the last of the cards dealt, Jamie casually drew one of his Scofields and layed it down on the table in front of him. Across from the young gunfighter, Oliver just smiled in reply. He locked the hammer back on his smooth bore flintlock and laid it down on the table as well.

  “What’s the pot this time?” Oliver asked.

  “Let’s call it, what? Three?” Jamie offered.

  “Ok I’m in, but Jamie, you better be using your left this time. I’m going to be watching,” Al said.