by Gary Jonas
Jack felt a cough coming on, but he forced it back. He knew he needed his focus. The man’s stomach, visible through the torn shirt, was a white patch of scar tissue. If he’d really just been shot, his stomach would be a mess, but the scars looked old.
“May I have this dance?” Jack said, meeting and holding the man’s eyes. The man had hypnotic eyes, but Jack’s focus kept them in check.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Oh, yes.”
The saloon doors slammed open and two men burst through carrying rifles. Both wore badges. Snow stood on their hats and shoulders.
“Be careful, Sheriff Gant,” the bartender said.
“We heard the shot,” the sheriff said. “What’s going on?”
Jack gave them a smile and nodded to Smythe. “This gentleman was just leaving.”
“He killed Thomas,” the bartender said. “Sliced his throat right open.”
The other lawman, wearing a marshal’s badge, looked at the body, then at Smythe, the bartender and finally Jack. “What did you see?”
“Nothing,” Jack said. “The shotgun blast brought me down.”
“You can go back to bed, sir. We’ll take it from here.” The marshal stepped forward and took the shotgun from Smythe, who put up no resistance.
Jack nodded at the marshal, then looked at Smythe. “Before I retire for the evening, may I inquire as to your name?”
“Christopher Smythe,” the man said. “I’m afraid I don’t know or care who you are.”
Jack grinned. “Just a man who breathes death.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Marshal Brady and Sheriff Gant led Smythe out of the saloon. Ted followed them, but kept his distance. Six inches of snow now blanketed the streets and the moonlight glistened and sparkled on the white crystals. The street was empty as most people were already in bed or at least tucked away in the warmth of their homes.
“You said your name was Smythe,” Gant said.
“Yes.”
“You look a mite familiar.”
“I used to live here.”
“Several years ago, right? I think I remember you.”
“I can’t say the same.”
“That’s all right. We’ll put you in jail for the night and wake the judge in the morning,” the sheriff said. “You can tell him all about why you killed the youngster.”
“While I’m sure your accommodations would be lovely, I believe I’ll find my own resting place for the evening.”
“Well ain’t you the funny one,” the sheriff said, pushing him forward.
“Do you see me smiling? I have a prior engagement.”
“Your engagement is likely to be with the hangman.”
Smythe stopped.
The sheriff sighed. “Do we have to do this the hard way?”
“Look at the beautiful snow,” Smythe said. “Do you really think it would look better stained with your blood?”
The sheriff pulled his gun.
The marshal shook his head. “Let’s not get jumpy, Gant.”
“He needs to get moving. It’s cold out here and I’ve half a mind to put a bullet in his head right here and now.”
Smythe bowed his head and pressed his forehead against the barrel of Gant’s gun. “As you wish. I’ll give you the first shot.”
“Are you out of your mind?” The marshal tried to pull Smythe away from Gant.
Smythe backhanded the marshal and sent the man staggering backward into a snow drift.
Gant glared at Smythe. “You shouldn’t ought to have done that.”
“Who taught you English?” Smythe said. “One more chance, Sheriff.” Smythe placed his hands on the barrel of the gun and pulled it to his forehead. “Squeeze the trigger.”
“You got it,” Gant said.
He squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot echoed through the town. Smythe stood up straight for a moment, staggered back a step, then fell backward to the ground.
The sheriff holstered his weapon. “You asked for it.”
Smythe sat up. “I did at that.”
“What the hell?”
The hole in his head sealed itself, leaving only a smattering of blood in its wake.
“My turn.”
Smythe rose to his feet, and in a flash he grabbed the sheriff, pulled his head to the side and sank his fangs into the man’s jugular.
The sheriff struggled, flailing his arms.
Smythe held tight and the men staggered to the side, blood spilling and staining the snow with darkness.
The marshal pushed himself to his feet, but Ted blocked his path. “You’d best not interfere or he’ll kill you, too.”
The marshal pulled his gun and shoved Ted aside.
“I tried to warn you,” Ted said with a shrug, and moved to stand near the saloon.
“Let him go!” the marshal said.
Smythe looked over at the marshal. His mouth dripped blood. “As you wish.” He let the sheriff drop to the street.
Smythe started toward the marshal. The marshal aimed his gun. “Stop right there!”
But the vampire kept coming.
Marshal Brady pulled the trigger, and Smythe barely flinched as the bullet struck him in the chest. The marshal fanned the hammer, firing five more times as fast as he could. Then he turned and ran, crashing through the doors into the saloon.
Smythe stopped at the edge of the street, brushed snow from his pants and smiled at Ted. “Shall we pay a visit to the mayor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You run on ahead and make sure to wake him. Tell him Christopher Smythe would like a word.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jack couldn’t get back to sleep, so he sat at the bar drinking whiskey while the bartender mopped up blood. The corpse had been dragged off to the side. The bartender kept making the sign of the cross and mumbling about how Thomas didn’t deserve to die and how it was going to be bad for business.
Jack glanced toward the entrance when he heard a series of gunshots outside, but they stopped so he remained in his seat.
When Marshal Brady crashed through the doors, Jack glanced up from his whiskey glass. The bartender shook his fist.
“I just mopped the damn floor and you’re tracking snow and mud all over the damn place!”
Brady ignored him, looking back toward the doors while he fumbled with bullets, trying to reload his pistol. Bullets clattered to the floor and rolled around.
The miners and card players watched for a moment, then went back to their business. The people of Silver Plume didn’t like to get involved in the affairs of others.
“Something wrong, Marshal?” Jack asked.
“I shot him and he just kept coming!” He stooped to pick bullets up off the floor, but his fingers wouldn’t work properly and he only succeeded in moving them around. “He just kept coming!”
“People do that sometimes,” Jack said.
“But I shot him six times in the chest!”
Jack shrugged. “You probably hit him once and missed with the other shots. They sounded fast to me. Hard to be accurate if you’re fanning the hammer.” Jack took a drink.
“I’m a damn good shot. I hit him. I know I did.”
“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t.”
“Where is he?” Brady asked, looking behind him nervously. “He should have come through the door by now. He was coming right at me.”
“So you said.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Didn’t say that,” Jack said and finished his drink. “Want me to check on him for you? See if he’s lying dead in the street?”
“I… I should probably do that myself. He killed the sheriff. I’m the only law here now. I’m a Deputy US Marshal, goddamn it.”
“So you are.”
“And you’re barefoot.”
Jack wriggled his toes. “I suppose I am.”
“Can’t have you going out there without your boots on.”
“My
feet might get cold. You go check it out, Marshal.”
The marshal finally managed to load his pistol and his breathing calmed a bit as he pushed himself to his feet. He crept toward the door, gun ready.
“What if he’s ready for me?”
“What if he is?”
“What if he kills me?”
“I’ll tell you what, Marshal. If you step outside and the man kills you, I give you my solemn oath that I’ll kill him for you.”
Brady took a deep breath and pushed through the doors. He stepped outside and looked around. The sheriff lay dead in the snow toward the center of the road. Two sets of footprints led off to the north. Brady stepped back into the saloon.
“He’s gone.”
“Guess you scared him off,” Jack said.
The marshal took a deep breath. His hands were still shaking, but he calmed down a bit now that the danger was past. “I wish that were the case, sir.”
Brady approached the bar. He snapped his fingers at the bartender and pointed to the countertop. “Whiskey.”
The bartender sighed and moved behind the bar. He slid a glass across the counter then set a bottle of whiskey beside it. “Help yourself.”
The marshal reached for the bottle, but his hands shook.
Jack nodded at him. “You must be cold. Allow me.” Jack poured him a glass, then refilled his own. “You planning to go after him?”
“Can’t.”
“Thought you said he killed the sheriff.”
“He did.”
“Lots of snow on the ground,” Jack said. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to follow him.”
“Tracks are there all right, but I just can’t do it. I’ve never seen someone take six shots in the chest and keep coming.”
“Evidently we run in different circles,” Jack said. “I’ve seen a man shot twice in the head keep fighting and shooting.”
“You were a lawman once,” Brady said. It was not a question.
“Long time ago,” Jack said. “US Marshal like yourself. I did my four years.”
“I can’t go after him alone. I should deputize you and have you come with me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Duty? Honor?”
“Those are just words people throw around to justify dying.”
“I don’t want to die,” Brady said. “That man’s not natural.”
Jack nodded. “I dare say he has proven himself to be a damn site unnatural.”
“Going after him is suicide.”
Jack raised his glass. “To duty and honor,” he said, “the twin patrons of suicidal men.”
Brady shook his head. “Forget duty and honor.” He backhanded his whiskey glass off the bar, pulled his badge off and slammed it on the counter. “I’m getting the hell out of here before the snow cuts off the pass and I end up trapped here with that demon until spring.”
“You think he’d let you live until spring?” Jack said.
“That’s a damn good point, sir. Up here, only murder I know of was a miner who killed his friend for sleeping with his wife. I can’t face something like Smythe. I just can’t.” Brady grabbed the bottle from the counter. “I may need this later.”
“Indeed.”
The former marshal strode across the floor and pushed through the doors. As soon as he was in the street, he gave one last look at the sheriff’s lifeless body, then turned south and started running.
Inside the saloon, the bartender grumbled.
“I didn’t catch that,” Jack said. “What did you say?”
“The son of a bitch ain’t just yellow, he’s a damn thief!”
Jack slapped some money on the counter beside the abandoned badge. “His bottle is on me.”
When Jack pulled his hand back, his fingers closed around the badge. He held it up, grinned, then tucked it in his pocket.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ted didn’t want to knock on the mayor’s door. He’d already bothered the poor man enough having interrupted the funeral. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t say no to Smythe if he wanted to survive the night, so he trudged through the snow, sighed and rapped hard enough to hurt his knuckles. Damn cold made everything hurt.
A moment later, the door opened and the mayor, clad in long johns, adjusted his spectacles and stared hard at Ted.
“Who are you?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“You look familiar. Wait, you were at Mary’s funeral this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir. It was a fine service.”
“Which you and your friend interrupted. Have you no shame?”
“Guess not, ‘cause here I am bugging you again.” Ted didn’t bother to tell the mayor Frank was his brother. He didn’t want to think about his brother right now.
“What do you want?”
“It ain’t what I want that counts, sir. It’s him.” Ted nodded toward the shadows.
Smythe stepped onto the porch. “Hello, Lucas.”
“Shit. How did you come back?”
“Incompetent miners,” Smythe said.
Ted suspected he’d just been insulted, but he stepped back and just hoped the men would ignore him.
“Are the others back, too?”
Smythe shook his head. “I saw to it that they won’t be joining us. I’m in control now.”
“If you came for Mary, you’re too late. She’s dead.”
“I saw the grave. What happened?”
“She died in childbirth.”
“And the baby?”
Mayor Wilkins shook his head.
“In memory of our friendship, I will give you one day to grieve for Mary and your baby.”
“Josephine.”
“One day,” Smythe said again. “Tomorrow evening, I shall return and I shall kill you.”
“You can’t come inside,” Mayor Wilkins said. “All I have to do is stay inside and you can’t get me.”
Smythe laughed. Ted thought it was the most horrible laugh he’d ever heard. It gave him chills.
“I don’t have to come inside, Lucas. If you won’t come out to face me, I’ll simply burn your house down. You’ll die regardless.”
“I killed you and your masters once. I can kill you again.”
Smythe shook his head. “It seems you’re rewriting history in your head again. No matter. Enjoy your final day of life, for tomorrow night you will die.”
Smythe turned and walked away into the snow. Mayor Wilkins watched him go.
Ted shrugged. “Sorry, Mayor,” he said.
Ted tried to catch up to Smythe, but it was nearly impossible to run through the accumulated snow. Smythe waited for him at the edge of the property.
“Did you just apologize to Lucas?” Smythe asked.
“Well, yeah. He’s had a rough day.”
Smythe rolled his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jack awoke with a coughing fit. He rolled out of bed, but doubled over and felt like he was hacking his lungs out. Normally the sweats came only at night, but he felt them coming on now and felt weaker than he had in months.
Sonya entered the room with a plate of food.
“Back into bed with you,” she said. She set the food on the nightstand and helped Jack lie down. “You went out last night.” She pulled the blanket up over his chest.
“Trouble downstairs,” Jack said as his coughing subsided.
“Of course,” she said. “There’s always trouble.”
She rose, grabbed a towel and soaked it in the basin of water on the table. After wringing it out, she placed it on Jack’s forehead.
“You always go looking for trouble,” she said.
“Nonsense. Trouble always knows where I am and it just shows up to taunt me.”
She gave him a sad smile. “And you always rise to the occasion.”
“It’s a charming character flaw.” Jack’s eyes glazed over and his skin seemed more pale.
“You get some sleep, Jack. Trouble will still be han
ging around when you feel better.”
“This is true.”
He knew he was lucky she hadn’t chosen someone else yet. She loved him in her own way or she wouldn’t be here with him now. He was comforted by the fact that after he died, she’d have no trouble finding someone else. If not for Sonya, Jack knew he’d have died ages ago. He loved her and wanted to stay with her, but it wasn’t fair to her for him to keep hanging on. He knew she’d be better off if he were gone. Of course, if he kept getting into trouble, she wouldn’t have long to wait. He pondered that for a short time then drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Around noon, Mayor Wilkins entered the saloon and approached the bartender. “Where’s the sheriff?” he asked. “He isn’t at his office.”
The bartender placed his palms on the bar and leaned forward. “Where have you been all morning, Mayor?”
“I had things to attend to at home. Where is the sheriff?”
“Dead.”
“What?” he said, surprised. “What happened?”
The bartender launched into an exaggerated version of the previous night’s events. The mayor listened, and read between the lines.
“…And then the marshal stole a bottle of whiskey, pulled up his skirts and ran out of town like a scared little girl.”
“The gentleman who stood up to the stranger. Where might I find him?”
“Suicide Jack? Dying of consumption upstairs.”
“I must speak with him.”
“Room 207. Tell his wife that if he dies up there, she’d better make sure she pays his tab.”
The mayor nodded and raced up the stairs.
He hesitated at room 207, took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then knocked.
A female voice called, “Who’s there?”
“The mayor, ma’am. I have business to discuss with your husband.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid this business can’t wait until tomorrow.”
A moment later, the door opened a few inches and a lovely woman gazed out. Her skin was flawless and her hair was nicely styled. She wore a fancy dress and held herself like an aristocrat. “You’re really the mayor?”