Bury Them Deep in War Smoke

by Michael D George

  ‘You ever bin to War Smoke before?’ he ventured.

  Ward’s eyes darted over to the conductor; he could hear his horse’s hoofs as it was led to the hastily constructed ramp.

  ‘Nope, I’ve never bin here before,’ he answered as the flame face of his tall chestnut stallion emerged into the torchlight.

  ‘You’ll like War Smoke,’ the conductor said, as he tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘It’s a wonderful place. Got everything a real man needs. Saloons, gambling halls and plenty of brothels.’

  Ward nodded as he exhaled smoke at the ground.

  ‘What about wine?’ he asked as the guard carefully led the chestnut down the ramp to the ground and handed its reins to the tall man in black.

  The conductor raised his eyebrows. ‘Wine?’

  ‘Yeah, wine,’ Ward nodded as he handed a silver dollar to the guard and stroked the neck of his nervous horse. ‘Has War Smoke got good wine?’

  Both the guard and the conductor glanced at one another in mutual confusion. They shrugged at the question as Ward checked his handsome horse.

  ‘Me and Charlie here tend to drink beer,’ he said. ‘Folks around here are much the same, though I reckon you could find wine in some of the fancier saloons.’

  Ward gripped his saddle horn and stepped in his stirrup, and mounted his high-shouldered horse. He gathered up his reins and looked down at both men as they struggled to push the large ramp back into the car, then touched his black brim.

  ‘Much obliged,’ he said before turning his mount. ‘I reckon it’s time I taught this town a few things.’

  The conductor smiled up at the mysterious horseman.

  ‘You’ll find it awful hard to teach these folks to appreciate wine, mister,’ he said. ‘They’re set in their ways. Beer and rye is all they know.’

  Jonas Ward held his horse in check. He swung around. His face was totally emotionless as he glared at them, and his icy stare matched his voice.

  ‘I’m not talking about wine, friend,’ he said, as he pulled back the long tails of his coat to reveal a holstered gun with an ivory grip. He stroked the six-shooter: ‘There’s some folks in War Smoke I’ve got to teach a few other things to first.’

  The two men swallowed hard. Neither spoke.

  Ward drove his spurs into the flanks of his stallion and rode off towards the centre of War Smoke. As dust rose up into the lantern-lit darkness, the railway employees looked at one another.

  ‘Who in tarnation is that critter, Jeb?’ the guard asked.

  The conductor rubbed his neck and loosened his starched collar. ‘I don’t know, and between you and me, I don’t wanna know.’

  ‘He be darn creepy,’ the guard muttered as he slid the car door and rested his knuckles on his hips. ‘That hombre got me shaking.’

  ‘Let’s join the other boys and down us some coffee, Charlie,’ the conductor suggested. ‘My throat feels like it just argued with a straight razor.’

  ‘I need me something far stronger than coffee,’ the other railwayman uttered, and pulled a slim hipflask from his pants pocket, unscrewed its stopper and took a swig. As its fiery contents burned a trail down into his innards he handed the flask to the conductor.

  ‘You’re right,’ the conductor said, raising the metal container to his lips.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The moonlit hill that loomed over the settlement had been dubbed Boot Hill, like countless others throughout the West. A hundred or more headstones and wooden markers covered the area set in a clearing beside a wood. The graves of some bodies had been marked with a simple wooden cross consisting of two snapped branches, as folks either did not know the name of the corpse or, more often, no longer cared. The wealthier of the bodies laid to rest had their names chiselled on stone, as though that gave them a guarantee of immortality. Yet when everything is weighed up, death is simply death, the final ride to a place that nobody knows.

  War Smoke was still busy below the hillside as Heck Longfellow looked down from his hiding place. By this time he had been nestled there for three hours, and he knew that apart from wild critters that had curiously passed by his hastily constructed lair, he was alone. At least, that was what he thought.

  There had not been a single sign that any other man was anywhere close to where he and his mule were secreted. He looked out through wrinkled eyes at the eerily lit hill, which stretched down to the very outskirts of War Smoke, and started to feel his stomach groaning. He was both hungry and thirsty, and he knew that this was the hardest fifty cents he would ever earn.

  ‘Hush up, belly,’ he whispered at his growling guts. He got to his feet cautiously, and crouched as his eyes stared out through the leafy brush behind the countless markers. He then turned and moved back to his mule, opened up its saddle-bags and scooped out some horse biscuits. He scattered them on the ground before the animal and watched as it began to consume them happily. ‘My, you sure make them look appetizing, Nellie gal.’

  Heck began to lick his lips as he watched the mule devouring its rations. As it continued to pluck the biscuits off the ground, Heck rubbed his noisy belly again. ‘They sure looks awful nice the way you tuck into them, gal.’

  Then the urge to try them overwhelmed him, and he poked his nose into the satchel, sniffed at the loose horse biscuits, and dipped his hand into them. He retrieved a few and popped them into his mouth, and bit down hard – they were surprisingly tough. It was hard to figure out exactly what the flavour of the biscuits was actually meant to be, but whatever it was, it was not to his taste. His expression changed as the taste spread like a wildfire around his mouth. Coughing, he spat the crushed remnants at the ground in disgust, and frantically kept spitting in a vain attempt to rid his mouth of the taste.

  ‘Holy moonshine,’ Heck moaned. ‘How can you eat them things, Nellie?’ He glowered at the mule as he wiped his tongue on the back of his sleeve, while it continued to munch on the remaining biscuits at its hoofs. ‘They taste like a hound dog’s hind leg,’ he muttered, and took a swig from his canteen. Yet even that could not wash the flavour from his tongue. ‘Them things are so bad they make Elmer’s coffee seem like a delicacy.’

  Heck looped the canteen back on to his saddle, then dropped back on to his knees and crawled through the undergrowth to his lookout place. He was about to grumble again when he spotted something moving towards the cemetery through the bright moonlight. He squinted: it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to it, then back to the eerie light it cast over the countless markers and headstones. Then it dawned on Heck what he was looking at.

  The rider did not resemble anyone Heck recognized, and he knew practically everyone in War Smoke. The hairs on the nape of his neck began to tingle as he lowered himself down on to his still grumbling belly and pushed the grass away from his face. He squinted through the parted weeds.

  The horseman entered the graveyard, then pulled back on his looped reins to stop his mount’s progress. Jonas Ward rose in his stirrups, then swung his long leg over the cantle of his saddle and dismounted in a well practised action. He kept his head low so that the shadows hid his features from anyone who might cast their eyes in his direction. When satisfied that he was alone in the graveyard he led the stallion to the boundary and securely tied its reins to the picket fence that encircled the clearing.

  He might have been alone in the graveyard – but every movement was observed by the hidden special deputy in the undergrowth. Ward strode from his mount to the freshly dug graves: his piercing eyes studied the deep holes and the mounds of soil piled up beside them.

  Heck strained to see, but it was impossible for him to identify the stranger clad entirely in black, particularly as the flat brim of Ward’s hat prevented the moonlight from illuminating his features.

  ‘Who the hickory is that fella?’ Heck said in a hushed whisper. ‘I don’t recognize that critter at all. He sure don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen before in town.’

  Then as if he had heard something, Ward ra
ised his head and looked around the graveyard. Heck pressed his face into the mud and from his hiding place, watched the stranger in black. Ward walked around the three graves like a military man inspecting his troops. Then he moved away from the freshly disturbed ground and strode to the corner of the graveyard, and stopped beside one of the wooden markers.

  Heck raised himself up a little and looked over a pile of weeds at the man in the long black trail coat. His mind desperately attempted to recognize him, but Ward had turned his back on the deputy. Heck wondered what he was doing. He had never seen anyone like Jonas Ward before, and the stranger frightened him.

  As though in silent prayer, Jonas Ward stared down at the crude inscription on the wooden board. It was written in black paint. Then he began to nod his head up and down as he made a silent vow – a promise that could only be heard by the spirit of the man buried beneath the wooden marker. After a few seemingly endless moments he turned and marched purposefully back to his horse.

  It was like watching some demonic creature, Heck thought as he stared at Ward. The long tails of the stranger’s black trail coat floated around his lean frame in a similar fashion to the robes of a priest.

  Yet this was no priest, Heck reasoned. This was something he had never encountered before. Something far darker.

  Ward reached the chestnut stallion and pulled its reins free of the fence. He then reached up to the saddle horn, stepped into the closest stirrup, and in one fluid action was back in the saddle. He dragged the reins hard to his right and spurred the handsome animal down the hillside. The stallion carved a route through the moonlight as it made its way back down towards War Smoke.

  Heck Longfellow rose up from his hiding place and pushed his way back out of the bushes. He watched the horseman steer his mount back towards the glowing lights of the settlement, a cloud of wispy dust rising up into the moonlight in its wake. Totally bemused, Heck rubbed the mud off his rugged features and shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he had just witnessed. All he knew for sure was that he should tell Matt Fallen as quickly as possible.

  ‘Nellie,’ he called out, and ran back into the undergrowth after his trusty mule. He pulled the rope securing the mule to a tree and dragged it out of the shadows. ‘We gotta go tell Matt about this. Maybe he’ll be able to figure out who that hombre is.’

  Heck clambered on to the animal and shook the reins feverishly. Taking great care not to be observed by the horseman ahead of him, Heck steered the stubborn mule between the markers and gravestones and out of the cemetery. He pulled back on his reins and watched Ward as he rode towards the outskirts of War Smoke.

  Heck pulled the long reins hard to his left and tapped his boot leather against the flanks of the mule. He rode into the long grass and then whipped the animal’s tail. The mule responded instantly to the encouragement and started down the steep incline. Heck knew that even if the unknown rider were to look back, he would not have any idea that he was being trailed. The mule trotted onwards, with Heck somehow maintaining his balance on the crude saddle as they quickly descended the steep moonlit hillside.

  Heck stretched up and peered over the top of the high waving grass. He caught a brief glimpse of the horseman as Ward steered his stallion into War Smoke. Realizing he was now safe from prying eyes, the one-time gold prospector rode back up on to the less taxing grassy slope.

  ‘Come on, Nellie gal,’ Heck urged the mule as he polished his deputy star with his loose cuff. ‘We gotta go tell Matthew what we found out.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The chestnut stallion had slowed to a walk as it entered Front Street. It meandered along the relatively empty street as Ward studied the scattering of souls still wandering from one den of pleasure to the next. His cold, calculating eyes didn’t miss a trick as the handsome horse continued on past the various saloons and gambling halls. Nothing escaped the notice of the mysterious Jonas Ward as he turned up passed the corner café and headed towards the livery stable.

  A lone lantern hung just below the hay-loft door and above the tall barn doors. A glowing light flickered its red glory across the interior of the stable as Ward drew rein outside the large building. He dismounted, keeping hold of the long reins as a stout man emerged from the structure and looked at the stranger in black. His eyes went from Ward’s boots and did not stop until they reached the black Stetson.

  ‘Howdy, stranger,’ the large blacksmith said in a deep drawl. ‘I ain’t seen you before around these parts.’

  Ward smiled the way card sharps smile when they don’t want you to know how good a hand they’re holding before raising the stakes.

  ‘I just got to town about an hour back,’ Ward said as he followed the muscular man into the livery stable. A dozen horses were stalled around the back wall close to the warm forge.

  ‘You and your horse are looking mighty neat considering how far you must have ridden, stranger,’ the wily man noted, resting his hefty form on the edge of the forge. He warmed his hands over the red hot coals, then looked back at the menacing man in black. ‘That’s a real clever trick and no mistake.’

  Ward toyed with the reins and inhaled deeply.

  ‘I didn’t ride all the way here from the next town,’ he admitted before tilting his head and staring at the large man who watched him like a hawk. ‘But you’ve already figured that out. I came in on the train. My horse was in the baggage car.’

  ‘I figured as much, stranger,’ Jed Hansen nodded before rising again and moving towards Ward and his horse. He placed a hand on the neck of the tall animal and then stared at it. ‘You didn’t come straight here from the railyard though, did you?’

  Ward raised an eyebrow.

  ‘How can you tell that?’ he asked curiously.

  The blacksmith stroked the horse’s nose. ‘I don’t know much but I know horses. This fella has started a sweat. Not a bad one like an animal that’s ridden ten or so miles. He has only just started to warm up. You must have taken a ride around War Smoke before you came here. Am I right?’

  Ward nodded.

  ‘Dead right,’ he acknowledged. ‘We did have a little ride around the town to loosen him up. He was standing in that train car for a couple of hours and got stiff. Like most stallions he gets ornery unless you tire him.’

  Hansen looked at the horse: ‘He’s a fine animal. You don’t see many like him in these parts. Folks don’t tend to look after their animals too good around here. You obviously value this tall critter.’

  Ward nodded again.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘I value horseflesh. This horse can outrun most other nags. That’s pretty handy in my line of work.’

  Jed Hansen stared at the man beside him. Although the elegant figure seemed to pose no threat, like so many of the men who drifted in and out of War Smoke, there was something about Ward which was not as it first appeared. The blacksmith sensed that Ward was dangerous. He took hold of the horse’s bridle and then cast his eyes at the lean stranger.

  ‘What is your line of work, stranger?’ Hansen grinned.

  The crimson light of the forge spilled across the vast interior of the fragrant livery stable and danced across the figure clad entirely in black. Ward tilted his head back and stared hauntingly at the blacksmith.

  ‘I’m a drummer, friend,’ he lied, turning on his heels and releasing his saddle-bags from their restraints. ‘I sell things to local stores.’

  Hansen gave a knowing nod of his head.

  ‘I’ve met a lot of drummers over the years, and none of the critters looked like you,’ he remarked.

  Ward slung the bags over his shoulder as a smile etched his face. He fished out a few coins from his coat pocket and handed them to the blacksmith. He then touched the brim of his black Stetson.

  ‘That oughta cover the cost of you looking after my horse for a couple of days,’ he mumbled before pushing the tails of his long trail coat over his holstered gun grip. The nickel-plated weapon was almost as impressive as the chestnut stallion.

&n
bsp; ‘You only gonna stay in town for two days?’ Hansen asked as he expertly unsaddled the animal and placed the saddle over a stall wall.

  ‘I reckon so,’ Ward pulled out a silver cigar case and opened its lid as he watched the large man turn the stallion into one of the numerous stables. The man in black took out a cigar and placed it between his teeth, then closed the highly polished case and returned it to his pocket. ‘Two days should be enough.’

  ‘Enough for what?’ the blacksmith grinned.

  ‘Enough for me to complete my business, friend,’ Ward struck a match with his thumbnail and raised the flickering flame to the cigar. He inhaled the strong smoke and then blew the flame out with a line of grey smoke. ‘Are there any good hotels in this town?’

  The blacksmith nodded as he dropped a pile of hay at the hoofs of the stallion. He marched through the eerie light to the barn doors and pointed towards the middle of War Smoke.

  ‘You’ll find a couple of hotels down yonder on Front Street, stranger,’ he said as Ward strode to his side with the cigar gripped firmly between his teeth. His cold, calculating stare surveyed the moonlit structures with interest. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and blew a line of smoke into the crisp air.

  ‘Do any of them have a supply of good wine?’ he asked the sweating blacksmith, before turning to look at him. Hansen raised his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘You mean that stuff Frenchies drink?’ he asked.

  Ward nodded. ‘The very same, friend. I have a weakness for good wine. I don’t care too much for what passes for whiskey or beer in these parts. I like fine wine.’

  ‘I reckon the Diamond Pin Hotel is your best bet to find fancy liquor,’ the blacksmith shrugged. ‘I’m only guessing though. I ain’t ever seen anyone drinking the stuff.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, friend,’ Ward touched the brim of his hat again and started to walk back towards the heart of War Smoke. ‘I’ll go find out for myself.’

  Jed Hansen rubbed the sweat off his face with the palm of his large hand, and shook his head a few times. He did not take his eyes off Ward as the man in black moved through the moonlight towards his goal. The blacksmith exhaled loudly and walked back inside the livery stable, pausing for a few moments as he watched the handsome stallion eating the hay. Then he turned and looked back out into the moonlit street as Ward walked out of view around a corner. The burly liveryman sat down next to his warm forge.