Bury Them Deep in War Smoke

by Michael D George

  The man in black placed the cold glass against his throbbing temple and sighed. For as long as he had lived, he had not been able to rid his head of the constant pain in his skull. There had never been a waking moment when the pain ceased to torment him.

  He looked at the red liquid in the glass. It was the only thing that eased the constant pain he suffered, and yet for some strange reason he had never been able to drink enough to become intoxicated. It was as though there was something inside his skull which made the vast volumes of liquor he drank no stronger than a child’s soda water.

  Ward clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles into his temple. Then the smile returned to his face as he remembered why he was in War Smoke. He pulled the lace drape aside and glared down at the lawman’s wide back as Fallen continued towards the distant livery stable.

  ‘Soon you’ll find out who them graves are for, Fallen,’ Ward snarled. ‘Soon I’ll learn who else gotta die and be buried up in Boot Hill.’

  Ward rubbed his painful brow and lifted his glass as though mocking the lawman.

  ‘You don’t know it yet, Fallen, but you’re a dead man walking.’ He grunted. ‘You’re gonna pay for what you done.’

  As the tall lawman disappeared around the corner on his way to the fragrant livery stable, Ward slid the lace drape across and opened the sash window. The stranger in black pushed his boot out on to the balcony and followed it. As he straightened up, his icy glare darted around the quiet settlement as he unclipped his spurs and tossed them into the dimly lit hotel room.

  With the agility of a mountain cat, Ward crossed the balcony and stepped over its hip-high wooden surround. He gripped the top of the safety rail and leaned across the divide between the hotel and its neighbour. Within a mere heartbeat Ward was on the sloped porch overhang and moving through the moonlight towards the adjacent Red Dog saloon. He threw himself at the saloon’s panelled siding and then, using its downpipe, scrambled up until he was on the Red Dog rooftop.

  As the lean man in black reached its flat rooftop he crouched and studied everything below his high perch. Few men could have moved with such precision over the array of differing structures, but Ward found it easy. Back in the eastern cities he had mastered the art of ascending far taller structures than anything to be found in War Smoke.

  It was said that no precious item was safe from the mysterious man who was always clad in black. Although the law had never discovered his identity and probably never would have, Ward had suddenly left the lucrative eastern seaboard for the Wild West. The true reason was known only to the man in black. Yet as the constant pain in his skull increased in its severity, Jonas Ward appeared to be driven by only one motive: revenge.

  Ward was on a mission, which so far was known only to himself. He carefully moved behind the Red Dog façade and screwed up his eyes as he checked the unlit Havana. He spat out the chewed tobacco leaves and then placed the cigar butt back between his teeth.

  His hands searched for a match as he eyed the ground below him like an eagle looking for its next victim. For a few moments Ward could not find the man that his eyes were searching the moonlit ground for. Then Matt Fallen emerged from the shadows and paced across the wide street towards the towering stable.

  ‘There you are, Fallen,’ the man in black growled under his breath. ‘You’re not next on my list. I’m gonna drive you crazy before it’s your turn to die, Marshal. I’ll have you running around in circles trying to figure this out before I’m through.’

  Ward rubbed the palm of his hand against his brow in a vain attempt to stop the continuous pounding inside his head, and then sighed heavily. He glanced around him at the buildings adjoining the saloon. There was nothing to trouble him. He could get to the ground faster than most men could walk across the street.

  Although the man in black knew that he could have dropped to the ground from the hotel balcony far more easily than tackling the route he had chosen, Ward realized that few, if any men looked up to the tops of buildings when searching for those they hunted. The rooftops gave him cover.

  Ward’s slim fingers located a match in his vest pocket. As he held the match in his hand, he knew that his natural ability to scale and negotiate his way over practically any structure, no matter how large, had always given him an advantage over his foes.

  Ward scratched the match down the back of the saloon sign to light it, and shielding its flickering flame, touched the blackened tip of his cigar. He drew the acrid smoke deep into his lungs and savoured its flavour for a few moments before exhaling and blowing out the match. With smoke billowing from his mouth he looked around the façade and glared down at Fallen.

  Then he diverted his attention to the funeral parlour. Although he had never set eyes on the building before, it matched perfectly the description he had been given. Its lamp light could be seen behind its numerous drawn drapes. Shafts of light fringed the windows as the undertaker went about his business inside the building. The man in black muttered as he noticed movement behind the window drapes: ‘So you’re still awake, Sam. That’s damn considerate of you. I reckon its time that I paid you a little visit. After all, you’ve done what I paid you to do, and now it’s time for you to die.’

  Ward pulled the well chewed, expensive cigar from his lips and then gave a sickening smile at the funeral parlour. He extinguished the cigar by pressing its glowing end into the wooden boards beside his shoulder, and as he crushed the butt he gritted his teeth and wisps of scarlet drifted unseen into the moonlight.

  The burning red embers floated unnoticed into the night air like a swarm of fireflies on the wing – but they didn’t last very long in the cool temperature that slowly blanketed War Smoke. As the last of them faded into memory, the stranger in black had vanished into the blackness and was continuing towards his goal.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Moonlight danced across the shotgun resting on the marshal’s shoulder as he slowly walked up the slight rise to the livery stable. The tall figure of Matt Fallen sensed that something was wrong in War Smoke and yet he still could not work out what. The years of wearing a tin star had taught Fallen many things, and the biggest of those lessons was that you always trusted your guts.

  For a long time Matt Fallen had felt that War Smoke was like a volcano about to erupt. It had happened on many occasions during his time as a marshal, and he imagined that it would continue to do so for as long as the vast settlement continued to exist. All that men like Fallen could ever do was to ride the rampaging fortunes of fate and hope that they survived the tempestuous trouble when it eventually raised its head.

  Fallen eyed the area as he approached the livery stable and walked towards the distinctive mule tethered to the coral fencing. The lawman lowered the hefty scattergun off his shoulder and strode along the fragrant wooden structure. He paused beside the mule and patted the animal as his eyes searched the shadows which surrounded him. The relative calm was shattered within seconds as Heck came rushing out of the livery like a squirrel with its tail on fire.

  ‘Matthew,’ Heck repeatedly called out to the towering figure as he ran with his left hand holding up his oversized pants.

  Fallen shook his head. ‘Easy, Heck. You don’t wanna bust nothing. Calm down.’

  Heck stopped beside Fallen and rested a hand on the far taller man to steady himself as he caught his breath.

  ‘There you are, Matthew,’ he gasped. ‘I just found that real tall horse I was telling you about.’

  Fallen narrowed his eyes.

  ‘It’s in the livery?’ he asked in surprise.

  Heck nodded and caught his battered old hat in his hands before returning it to his head of wayward hair.

  ‘It sure is,’ he replied. ‘As big as life. I asked Jed who it belongs to but all he could say was that it belongs to a stranger.’

  Fallen raised his eyebrows. ‘We figured that already, Heck. The thing is, what’s the name of the stranger?’

  Heck looked bemused.

  ‘Jed didn�
�t get no name, Matthew,’ he explained. ‘All he could tell me was the fella that owns that nag was dressed all in black.’

  Marshal Fallen tilted his head as a chilling thought came to him. He leaned closer to Heck.

  ‘Like an undertaker?’ he asked.

  Heck’s eyes widened.

  ‘Yeah, like an undertaker.’ He nodded nervously. ‘I never thought about that, Matthew. Just like an undertaker dresses. Goddamn.’

  Fallen exhaled and rubbed his chin with his knuckles.

  ‘Is that gelded grey ready?’ he asked his deputy.

  Heck was still nodding. ‘Yep, I’ll go fetch it for you.’

  The marshal paced out into the middle of the rough track leading into the livery stable as Heck vanished into the building. Fallen glanced around the structures that flanked the tall livery, searching for a glimpse of the mysterious stranger he had just been informed about. But just as he had assumed, the man in black was long gone. The sound of the horse’s hoofs drew his attention to the wide open barn doors, and he turned as Heck appeared in the moonlight leading the saddle horse.

  Fallen walked over to his deputy and took the long reins; he grabbed the saddle horn, poked his left boot into the stirrup and mounted the animal. Still deep in thought, he gathered up his reins as he watched Heck clamber up on to the mule and quickly turn the animal.

  ‘Did Jed happen to mention where that hombre went after leaving his tall-shouldered stallion here, Heck?’ he asked the dishevelled deputy.

  ‘Jed told him about the Diamond Pin, Matthew,’ Heck replied as he adjusted his gun belt. ‘I reckon he must be there. Why?’

  Fallen tapped the sides of the grey and allowed the horse to walk to the side of the mule.

  ‘The Diamond Pin, huh?’ Fallen nodded. ‘We’ll go check to see if he’s there later, Heck.’

  Heck shrugged. ‘This is gonna be a long night.’

  ‘They always are, Heck,’ Fallen spurred his horse into a trot, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. ‘You’ll find that out if you pass your deputy exams.’

  Heck Longfellow jerked his reins and slapped the mule’s tail. The mule responded to its master’s encouragement and trotted until it had drawn level with the grey. Heck held on to his hat and looked up into Fallen’s emotionless face.

  ‘What does them deputy exams entail exactly, Matthew?’ he asked as the animals headed out of War Smoke and on towards Boot Hill.

  ‘Nothing too difficult, Heck,’ Fallen grinned and stood up in his stirrups. ‘If you don’t get killed before sun-up, I reckon you’ll pass.’ Heck squinted at the moonlit hill of grave stones and markers they were approaching as he pondered on the marshal’s words.

  ‘What if I gets myself just wounded?’ he shouted at the broad back of the sturdy marshal. ‘Would I pass then?’

  Fallen did not bother to respond.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The wall clock inside the marshal’s office chimed loudly to mark the passing of another hour. Elmer lifted his head off the ink blotter and turned to stare at the clock. By the time his eyes had managed to focus, the deafening noise had stopped. The deputy rested the palms of his hands on the desk and forced himself upright on Fallen’s chair. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and squinted hard at the clock.

  ‘Two o’clock,’ he mumbled to himself, and wondered why his mouth tasted like nothing he could recall either eating or drinking. ‘What happened to midnight?’

  Elmer gingerly got to his feet and exhaled. His head was filled with a painful reminder of the countless drinks he had happily consumed vainly chasing the Longhorn saloon’s latest employee.

  The deputy walked to the window and looked out over its lower blind. The street was quiet, but at least two of its saloons and gambling houses spilled their glowing light out on to the moonlit sand. Elmer rubbed his head and blinked hard as his attention was drawn to the rifle rack beside the wall clock.

  ‘Now that’s odd,’ he drawled as he moved across the office and touched the rack with his fingertips. ‘By my figuring, there happens to be two scatterguns missing.’

  He checked the chain which was usually threaded through the hand and trigger guards of the individual weapons. Its padlock was unlocked and resting on the rack.

  ‘Marshal Fallen must have taken the scatterguns,’ he told himself as he moved around the desk and picked up the tin cup he had emptied of its contents earlier, and moved toward the flat-topped stove where the coffee pot rested. He grabbed a cloth and then filled the cup with the remnants of the pot before pondering. ‘But why would he take two scatterguns?’

  The bemused deputy rested his lean hip on the edge of the desk as he blew the steam off his beverage. His mind was still trying to work out how he had ended up in the office when the last thing he could remember was being in the Longhorn.

  He sipped the black brew. Luckily for Elmer he was still too hung over to be able to taste what he was swallowing. Then he remembered vaguely talking to Heck Longfellow. He finished the strong coffee and rested the cup on a pile of Wanted posters, and rubbed his aching features with his hands. He forced his weary body to the door and opened it, and the cool night air hit him hard. He staggered to the water trough and rested a hand on the pump, staring at his reflection in the coffin of water.

  ‘I sure hope I don’t look as bad as that fella,’ he quipped before splashing the cold water over his face and neck. He sat on the edge of the trough as droplets of water dripped from his soaked face. His mind was still filled with fog, which was only just beginning to clear.

  ‘What in tarnation was Heck doing with Marshal Fallen?’ he muttered – then remembered the tin star pinned to Heck’s chest. He snapped his fingers. ‘I remember! The marshal hired Heck as a special deputy. Holy buttermilk, I might be getting replaced by a man who uses rope to hold up his pants.’

  Elmer stood up and tapped his lips with his fingers, his mind in a whirl. A bead of sweat trailed down the side of his face and dripped on to his shirt as he wondered if Marshal Fallen was about to fire him. He thought about the two missing shotguns, and then slowly started to make sense of the missing hours. He rested a hand on the porch upright and steadied his lurching frame for a few moments.

  ‘Heck and the marshal must have gone someplace,’ he reasoned as he stepped back up on to the boardwalk and entered the office again. ‘They must have figured it might be dangerous and that’s why they up and took the scatterguns. Marshal Fallen must have bin plumb disappointed in me not being able to go with him. I’d best pull my socks up if’n I wanna keep my job.’

  Without hesitating, Elmer moved to the rack and pulled down a Winchester, and checked its magazine. The weapon was fully loaded and primed for action. He pulled the handguard back up, and started for the door. As the lean, long-legged youngster stepped back out into the night air he narrowed his eyes. He closed the office door and moved back towards the moonlight.

  ‘I’ll show Heck what a real deputy does to earn his wages, by thunder,’ Elmer muttered, stepping down on to the sand and walking down the centre of the wide empty street. ‘Heck ain’t gonna get my job without a tussle. I ain’t always drunk.’

  With no notion of where he was going or why he was going there, Elmer decided he should pace the streets of War Smoke, just as he and Fallen had been doing for years. With the repeating rifle firmly gripped in his hands, the young deputy slowly started to retrace the route he and his superior always took when checking the hundreds of buildings in the sprawling settlement.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bathed in moonlight and covered in mist, Boot Hill resembled something from the depths of their worst nightmares – but the riders continued on up the grassy slope towards it regardless. The large moon cast its brilliant illumination over the countless stones and wooden markers that practically covered the expanse of hillside set aside as War Smoke’s graveyard. Matt Fallen eased back on his reins as his saddle horse neared the white picket fencing that surrounded the cemetery. Suddenly it shied, and the m
arshal had to tap his spurs into its flanks to keep it moving forwards.

  The grey gelding snorted its disapproval and slowed to a walk before the lawman stopped it. Fallen stared at the unholy sight before him with cold, calculating eyes. He knew that he was responsible for at least a third of the bodies buried here. A haunting mist hung over the many markers and headstones as night progressed on its course towards its inevitable journey to sunrise.

  Heck pulled back on his crude reins and stopped his mule beside the lawman. The older man rubbed his face and rested his wrists on his saddle horn.

  ‘Ain’t a pretty sight, is it?’ Heck chirped as he clambered off the back of the mule and tied its reins to the fence posts.

  ‘Nope, it ain’t pretty, Heck,’ Fallen agreed as he swung his leg over the saddle cantle and lowered his huge frame to the ground. The tall figure of the marshal held his long reins firmly, his eyes narrowed. Heck rubbed his whiskers and swallowed hard. After Fallen had secured his reins to the fence, both men walked through the gap in it – a gap just wide enough to allow access for Sam Foster’s glass-sided hearse.

  ‘I still don’t quite understand what we’re doing here, Matthew,’ Heck ventured as he nervously walked beside the lofty lawman. ‘That varmint in black ain’t here no longer. His nag is in Jed’s livery and he’s more than likely holed up in a nice warm bed in the Diamond Pin.’

  Fallen stopped walking.

  ‘I know that,’ he sighed as he surveyed the numerous markers facing them. ‘I ain’t looking for him, I’m looking for what he was looking at, Heck.’

  Totally bemused, Heck held on to his gunbelt and squared up to the far taller man. ‘Say that again, ’coz I didn’t savvy one word of it.’

  Fallen’s honed senses could hear the wildlife in the mass of trees beyond the boundary of the cemetery. Then he stared at the cold mist lingering a few feet above the cold ground. He turned to his pal.

  ‘Where are the freshly dug graves, Heck?’ he asked. ‘I can’t see them.’