Night Marshal Books 1-3 Box Set: Night Marshal/High Plains Moon/This Dance, These Bones

by Gary Jonas

  “Lord in heaven, help me,” Ted said stepping back and putting his hands to his mouth.

  The skeletal monstrosity spoke. Its voice issued forth like a hiss from hell. “No, you’re going to help me.”

  The skeleton reached out, grabbed Ted and pulled his head back to reveal his neck. It sank its fangs into the flesh and drank.

  Ted stiffened then his body went limp.

  Flesh and veins and sinew continued to form around the skeleton until he looked like a man. He tossed Ted’s body aside and rose. Ted rolled over and groaned, still alive. The reborn man stretched and smiled.

  “I’m flesh and blood once more,” he said.

  Ted grabbed his throat. “Ohhh, my neck.”

  “You’ll live,” the man said.

  Ted’s head twitched, but he couldn’t turn to look at the man.

  “I can’t move!”

  “Give it time, my slave. Give it time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Christopher Smythe. Do you know a man named Lucas Wilkins?”

  “He’s the mayor.”

  “Good, he still lives.” Smythe smiled. “But not for long.”

  Ted writhed on the ground and held his throat watching the man laugh in the flickering lantern light. He glanced over at his dead brother and thought they never should have left Denver.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sonya helped Jack sit on the edge of the bed. Their room was at the end of the hall on the second floor of the saloon. Jack could hear notes from the piano player below them. He hummed along to “Camptown Races” as Sonya removed his right boot.

  “You’re killing yourself,” she said.

  “With the music?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The door’s right there, Love. Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

  She glared at him as she set his boots down. “You’re slowing down.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You’re coughing when challenged.”

  “A mere distraction.”

  “I saw the blood.”

  Jack shrugged. “A night’s rest and I’ll be good as new.”

  “It’s only afternoon, dear.”

  “So it is. A nap then. That should suffice.”

  He closed his eyes as his head hit the pillow, but he could feel Sonya’s eyes on him. He didn’t like feeling weak in front of her. She rarely complained, but Jack was no longer the strong man she’d married; he was dying and he didn’t want her to see him like this.

  “I don’t want you to die,” she whispered.

  Jack did not respond. He knew this day would come eventually. While the altitude was bad for his consumption, he wanted to come to Colorado partially to speed up his death. He knew Sonya would stay with him until the end, but she deserved better. He wanted her to find someone else before her looks faded and he was afraid that if he lived too long she might resent him for it. A silly fear, but one that nagged at him.

  As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were of happier and healthier times when he and Sonya actually enjoyed the relationship. He hoped to relive some of those times in his dreams. Focus on living life, not on watching the end approach.

  * * *

  Christopher Smythe leaned against the wall of the mine. Ted rubbed at the bite on his neck, but Smythe didn’t notice or care. It had taken thirty minutes for Ted to recover enough to move. He wanted to run, but when he tried, he found that he couldn’t. Smythe called him a slave and Ted realized it was true; talking back seemed okay, but he couldn’t act out against his new master.

  “Your first order of business—”

  Ted sighed. “I know, get rid of Frank’s body.”

  “What? I don’t care about your companion’s corpse.”

  “He was my brother.” Ted rubbed his nose and fought to keep his tears in check. He couldn’t believe his brother was dead. He tried not to think about it, but he wondered what would happen now. Without Frank, how was he supposed to get by? Would Smythe even let him live past sunset?

  Smythe rolled his eyes, and pointed at the two vampire skeletons still staked to the wall.

  “I want you to destroy those bones.”

  Ted picked up the sledge hammer and smashed the first skeleton.

  Smythe smiled.

  “How long until sundown?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Ted kept swinging the hammer, smashing the bones apart.

  “I need more strength. When you finish your task, I want you to bring me a woman to feed on.”

  Ted stopped and looked at the vampire.

  “No offense, but I ain’t been able to get a woman for my ownself. What makes you think I can get one for you?”

  Smythe laughed and shook his head, looking at the rocky ceiling.

  “Evidently, I kept the wrong man as a slave.”

  Ted smashed the other skeleton. He swung at the bones on the ground, caught one at a bad angle and it shot off against the wall, skittering to a stop at Smythe’s feet.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s quite all right. Come here.”

  Ted hesitantly approached. “Yes, sir?”

  Smythe smiled and placed his hands on Ted’s shoulders. “I believe you’ve served your purpose.”

  “You’re gonna kill me?”

  “An astute observation.”

  “But I can serve you.”

  Smythe considered it. Ted had not impressed him, but he had no one else and he did need someone who could go out during the daytime hours.

  “Very well,” Smythe said. “I shall allow you to continue breathing for now, but if you disappoint me further, I shall drain you dry. Go to the exit and wait. Return to me when the sun goes down. I don’t want to see or hear you again until then. Is that understood?”

  Ted nodded and practically ran toward the exit. He slowed enough to duck his head to avoid an outcropping then picked up speed again. Smythe stood in the flickering lantern-light and watched him go.

  Perhaps the dolt would work out after all.

  * * *

  After sundown, Christopher Smythe exited the mine with Ted by his side. The horses Ted and Frank had used were still tied off. Smythe approached the horses and they both tried to skitter away. They snorted and squealed, their eyes widened and Smythe stepped back.

  “Calm down,” he said, aiming for a soothing voice.

  “I’ve never seen them like this,” Ted said. He approached the horses and they calmed and nickered, but as soon as Smythe stepped toward them, they snorted again. “Boys, it’s all right. He ain’t gonna hurt you.” Ted looked at Smythe. “You ain’t gonna hurt them, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Ted turned back to the horses and stroked them. “See, boys. It’s fine.”

  Ted mounted his horse and held Frank’s horse steady. Smythe approached and whispered in the horse’s ear. Again, the horse snorted, but reluctantly allowed Smythe to mount.

  “Where are we going?” Ted asked.

  “Do you happen to know Mary Wilkins?”

  “The mayor’s wife?”

  “Yes. I would like to speak with her.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “I assure you, she will be happy to see me.”

  Ted shook his head. “She ain’t happy to see anybody, sir. She’s dead.”

  Smythe closed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  “She’s buried up at Dumont cemetery.”

  Smythe tightened his grip on the reins and closed his eyes. When he found his voice, he said, “Take me there.”

  They rode away from the mine. Snow blew across the rocky path and where Ted shivered, Smythe didn’t even notice. The coldness that settled into his soul was far worse than the weather he could no longer feel.

  After a time, they arrived at the Dumont cemetery. They dismounted and Ted tied the horses to a post. He dug in his saddlebags and gave them some oats.

  Smythe strolled into the cemetery with
Ted by his side. He held his hands out, palms down over the graves as he walked down the rows. He came to a fresh grave and knelt by the wooden cross and brushed snow from it to reveal the name MARY WILKINS.

  “Mary, my love.”

  He lowered his head. Ran his fingers over her name. Smoke hissed from his flesh as he touched the cross, but he didn’t notice.

  He stood and held his arms out. Snow swirled around him in the moonlight.

  The snow intensified and the wind howled.

  Smythe dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He loved this woman and she’d been taken from him. “The grave is so fresh. You said she just passed.” He looked up at Ted. “Did you know her?”

  “Nope. Met her husband, the mayor of Silver Plume today, though.”

  “I must see him.”

  “I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Go find out.”

  “I guess I can ask someone tomorrow.”

  Smythe rose and shook his head. “Why did I allow you to live?”

  “Ain’t no place open right now except maybe the saloon.”

  “Then we ask at the saloon.”

  Ted shrugged, accepting that he wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon. He wished Frank was there. His brother was so much better at dealing with people. Thinking of his brother brought up the image of him dying. Ted had frozen, unable to help. He felt ashamed and he missed Frank. “I could use a drink.”

  “As can I.”

  “Can we stop in Georgetown? It’s closer.”

  Smythe looked at the sky for a moment, resisted the temptation to kill the fool, then lowered his gaze to meet Ted’s. “Lucas lives in Silver Plume, so we’ll go there.”

  “I’m hungry. It wouldn’t take long to get some food in Georgetown.”

  Smythe intensified his gaze.

  Ted took a step backward, tripped over a gravestone and sat down hard in the snow. “Sorry, boss.” He shoved a few mouthfuls of snow into his mouth. “I’ll make do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Christopher Smythe entered the saloon, people turned to look, but then went back about their business.

  Ted entered behind him. “We can ask the bartender.”

  A man sat at the piano playing a tune. There were only two empty tables; the place was filled with miners enjoying the night. Tomorrow, they’d have another long day in the mines, but tonight was for fun and drinking. A few men sat at a back table playing poker and two men leaned against the bar drinking whiskey. The bartender stood behind the bar with a rag slung over one shoulder as he spoke with a young man at the end of the counter.

  Ted bellied up to the bar, but the bartender didn’t look over from his conversation.

  Smythe stood behind Ted, but didn’t speak.

  Ted cleared his throat trying to get the bartender’s attention.

  The man didn’t notice so Ted moved closer.

  “You sure it was Suicide Jack?” the young man asked.

  “Sure as I’m standing here,” the bartender said.

  “Excuse me,” Ted said.

  The bartender glared at him. “You’re interrupting.”

  “I need a whiskey and some information.”

  “You gonna pay your tab?”

  Ted shuffled his feet. “I’m a little short, but I’m good for it.”

  “That’s what I thought. Until you pay me what you owe me, you can piss off.”

  The bartender turned back to the young man. “He was skinny and sick and, oh, you should see the woman he has with him. My heart nearly stopped just to look at her.”

  “He didn’t shoot Roy?”

  “Just made him piss his pants.”

  “Wish I’d been there to see that!”

  Ted shrugged and returned to Smythe. “Um, maybe when they’re done talking I can … uh … get that information for you.”

  “Waiting is not my strong suit,” Smythe said. “Step aside. I’ll handle this myself.”

  Ted ran a hand over his head and moved out of the way. He shot furtive glances this way and that to see if anyone was watching. It was business as usual in the saloon.

  Smythe stepped up to the bar beside the young man and looked at the bartender. “You were rude to my companion.”

  “So?”

  “I cannot abide such behavior.”

  “You gonna pay his bill?”

  “No.”

  “Then go someplace else.”

  Smythe gave him a grin. “I believe I’ll have a drink here.”

  “If you got money, great. If not, you ain’t welcome here.”

  Smythe’s grin grew into a smile exposing his long incisors. “I’ll serve myself.”

  He reached over and grabbed the young man’s half-empty whiskey glass.

  “Hey! That’s mine,” the young man said.

  “Not anymore.” Smythe sniffed the glass, shook his head. “This is shit.” With a flick of his wrist he sent the whiskey flying from the glass. It splattered against the wall.

  “There’s no call for—”

  “Shut up,” Smythe said and the bartender swallowed his words.

  The young man’s eyebrows rose as Smythe held up his hand. His fingers curled as if toward a fist, but he kept his pinkie extended, the long dirty fingernail curved and sharp.

  “My preferred drink comes from the jugular.”

  With a swift move, his extended fingernail sliced through the young man’s throat. Blood spurted from the gaping wound and Smythe held the whiskey glass up to the opening to catch the flowing crimson fluid while yanking the man’s head back to open the wound for better flow.

  He held the young man up, but with a hypnotic gaze, prevented him from grabbing for the wound. When the glass was three quarters full, he released the young man and let him drop to the floor coughing and gurgling. Blood seeped onto the floor as the man twitched.

  Smythe raised his glass. “To lives, be they freely given or taken,” he said.

  The bartender stared wide-eyed as Smythe gulped the blood down in one swallow.

  Smythe slammed the glass down on the bar, bottom up. The glass tipped over and rolled off the bar and left a circle of blood on the countertop.

  The young man twitched once more, then lay still.

  “You’re insane,” the bartender said, reaching beneath the bar.

  “I’m still thirsty,” Smythe said. “Shall I refill my glass from your throat or will you freely volunteer some information so that I may leave your establishment?”

  “Oh, you’ll leave my place, but you ain’t leavin’ it alive.” He held up a shotgun. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

  The blast shoved Smythe back a step, but he did not fall. He looked down at his clothing. It hung in tatters where the buckshot had blown it apart. “This was my only shirt, you imbecile.”

  He reached out, grabbed the shotgun and yanked it away. The bartender staggered back.

  “Now I’ll have my information and I’ll also have your shirt. Where does Lucas Wilkins live?”

  * * *

  The unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast roused Jack from his sleep. Remnants of a dream clung to his mind and the gunshot at first made him think he was back in the war, fighting with his compatriots at the bloody battle of Shiloh. The things he’d seen and done there as a teenager had changed the course of his life. He shook off the memories and disentangled himself from Sonya, who mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Go back to sleep, Love,” Jack whispered.

  He pulled on his trousers, grabbed his gun and padded out of the room barefoot. He could hear voices in the bar below. He descended the stairs, pistol held at hip level.

  From his vantage point on the stairs, he took in the situation in the saloon below. A man stood at the bar with his back to Jack. He held a shotgun in one hand, barrel pointed at the ground. A corpse lay on the bloody floor, throat sliced open. A man danced from foot to foot with one hand on the door as if he wanted to leave, but something forced him to sta
y. The bartender was clumsily unbuttoning his shirt. The piano player hid behind the Decker Brothers piano. Everyone else sat still, watching the scene unfold.

  “L-Lucas lives on the edge of town.” The bartender pointed a shaking finger toward the north. “What do you want with him?”

  “That is not your concern,” the man said.

  Jack cleared his throat. “You boys disturbed my sleep.”

  The men all turned toward Jack. The bartender shook his head in warning, eyes wide. The man at the door blinked a few times and fidgeted even more. Jack’s attention remained on the man with the shotgun. The man slowly turned and looked Jack up and down. He did not raise the shotgun. The front of his shirt hung in tatters.

  “I apologize for the noise,” the man said. “Our good bartender here was a bit trigger happy.”

  Jack nodded. “And him?” Jack angled his head toward the dead man on the floor.

  “He was … handy. Are you the law in this town?”

  “I’m not affiliated with law enforcement at the moment,” Jack said. “As I said, you boys disturbed my sleep.”

  “For which I apologize,” the man said, clearly bored with the conversation now.

  “You speak the words, but your tone and demeanor suggest otherwise.”

  The man smiled. “I would advise you to go back upstairs. This is not your business.”

  “I beg to differ. Once the shotgun went off, it became my business. You woke me up.”

  “The bartender is the one who awakened you.”

  “The shotgun is in your hand.”

  “I took it away from him.”

  “Am I to understand that he shot you at point blank range and yet here you stand?”

  “He made a terrible mistake in that he did not realize you can’t kill a dead man.”

  Jack didn’t know what to make of that, but he didn’t hesitate. “In his defense, most dead men don’t walk and talk.”

  “There is that.”

  Jack smiled in turn, just as cold as the other man’s had been. “You need to leave this fine establishment.”

  “In good time.”

  “Now.”

  The man shook his head. “I can smell Death on your breath even from here.” He moved toward the stairs where Jack stood. “It smells delicious.”