by Gary Jonas
“College of New Jersey.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Educated. But no stranger to the world out here. If, for the moment, we set aside the flashes of yellow that sometimes appear in your eyes, you have plenty of skills left. You’re plenty comfortable with that bowie knife, for example. I’ll wager you’ve drawn blood with it more than once. You know how to fight. Either you had a good teacher, lots of experience, or both. My bet’s on both. As for the eyes, you’re not a vampire, but I did see eyes like yours earlier this evening. You don’t, by chance, go about on all fours, do you, Chief?”
Chief’s poker face confirmed nothing, but when the big man didn’t answer, Jack grinned and took another leisurely puff on his cigar. “I could go on. You’re older than me but move like a younger man, which means you stay physically active, but your body’s never been broken down by years of hard labor. You’re no farmer, no miner, no bricklayer. Since you don’t steal and you don’t break your back for your money, what do you do for a living? Selling penny cigars doesn’t pay that well.”
Chief added a few sticks to the fire but still didn’t speak.
“Then there’s the more personal information,” Jack said. “You haven’t seen your family in years, you like to work alone, and you’re in some serious need of a good woman.”
The merest hint of surprise touched Chief’s expression before the poker face settled back into place. “Usually I do not talk so much with spirit takers. I just kill them. Now I know why.”
Jack chuckled. “Well, well. And here I was afraid I might have missed the mark somewhere.”
“I am not like the false-wolves you killed earlier this evening. They are an abomination. Unnatural.”
“So you’re a wolf, but not like them?”
Chief slashed his hand through the air. “Nothing like them. My power comes from Mother Earth and Father Sky. I call to Mother Wolf and Mother Owl. They breathe on me and I borrow their shape for a time. But that power belongs to Wahya-ya-i and Wahuhi-ya-i, not to me. The false-wolves are a just another disease, like so many other diseases given to us by the Ani-yonega. They are like your disease, the one that creates more spirit takers.”
“So that’s why you kill spirit takers? Because we’re a disease?”
“Yes.”
“Forthright. I respect that.” Jack spit. The cigar suddenly tasted like ash and he tossed it into the fire. “I can’t blame you for feeling that way. When I was first turned, I planned to go out and greet the sunrise. But events had a mind of their own and I found that I had more important things to do. Someday I’ll probably greet that sunrise, but not today.”
“You saved the woman.” Again, it was not a question.
Chief’s comment about him killing the werewolves hadn’t registered until he mentioned the rancher’s wife. Chief must have been out at that homestead tonight. Jack tried not to let his surprise show. “She needed saving.”
Chief grunted. After a couple long draws on his cigar, he asked, “Why are you here? It was not for the woman and it was not for the spirit taker in the saloon.”
“Actually, it might have been for our saloon friend. The sheriff asked me to come.” Jack pulled the U.S. Marshal badge from his shirt pocket and tossed it to Chief.
The big man caught it in the flickering light as easily as he’d caught the penny earlier. After a careful look, he tossed it back and said, “It is a good talisman for a white man. You Ani-yonega respect words and metal and this has both.”
Jack slipped the badge into his pocket. “What do you know about the murders? Were they caused by our spirit taker friend?”
“He is not my friend.”
Jack waited, but Chief didn’t add anything more. Jack tried again. “The murders. Was the vampire I shot responsible?”
A dozen heartbeats passed before Chief finally answered. “Ukashana, you are like a boy tromping through the woods on his first hunt. You think you know what you are doing but you make so much noise you scare the game away.”
In a flash of motion, Jack pulled the Peacemaker from its holster, cocked it, and leveled it at Chief’s heart. “I’ve tried to be patient, Chief, but no man likes to be called a boy. It’s time you answered my—”
Chief vanished. When Jack had pulled his pistol, he’d expected some kind of attempt at defense. Instead the big man had remained motionless. Now he was simply gone. Jack froze, listening. Only his eyes moved as he scanned the barn. Then, in a flurry, he leaned forward, grabbed the coffee boiler with his left hand, and tossed it at the place Chief had been.
The big man reappeared, jumping to his feet and growling, brushing the hot water off his jeans as puffs of steam fogged around him.
Jack leveled the pistol at Chief again. “As I was saying....”
CHAPTER FIVE
“That’s some trick,” Jack said. “Let’s see. You can take the shape of a wolf and an owl—and you can also turn invisible.”
Chief examined his soggy cigar, then tossed it away. “I cannot turn invisible.” The words came out flat and low, sounding a bit like a growl. “If I concentrate, I can throw a blanket over the eyes of one person. They may look at me, but they will not see me.”
“Sounds like invisible to me.”
Chief refilled the coffee boiler with fresh water, then hung the boiler back over the fire. He retook his seat across from Jack and glared.
Jack ignored the glare. “As much as I enjoy your hospitality, Chief, I doubt I’ll be staying for coffee. I left a pretty barmaid holding my hat back at the saloon and I’d like to retrieve my belongings before she spends all the chips I won tonight. If you’ll be kind enough to answer a few questions, I’ll bid you a pleasant evening and be on my way.”
“Put the gun away and we will talk. Even babies need someone to teach them.”
Jack considered. He’d probably seen all the tricks Chief had to offer. After several seconds, he holstered the Peacemaker but remained on his knees, the gun within easy reach. “Are the recent murders around here the work of that unfriendly fellow I shot earlier?”
“Of course they are.” Again the words were like a growl. “Spirit takers feed. People die. That is the way of things. But the spirit taker you shot is different.”
“How?”
“He believes in the law.”
“You mean law like Deputy Chihuahua?”
“Yes. But more. Judges. Politicians. He has many wealthy and influential friends who depend on him for part of their money. It gives him power in your world.”
“The world of vampires?”
“No, the world of Ani-yonega. The White world.”
Jack patted the badge in his pocket. “It pays to have a little power now and then.”
“Yes. Pay. Exactly.”
Jack waited. Chief’s gaze settled on his soggy cigar but he said nothing more.
“I don’t mean to be obtuse,” Jack said, “but what are you talking about?”
Chief shook himself and blinked at Jack, the motion very similar to an old owl disturbed at midday. “He buys land. Cheap. Those with the land have a choice: Sell or die.”
“What’s a vampire want with land, especially around here? There’s not exactly a line at the Land Office. Besides, he doesn’t strike me as the farmer or rancher type.”
“Oil. The land he buys always has at least one oil seep or is next to land he already owns with an oil seep.”
Jack wrinkled his nose. “Oil? Why would anybody want that smelly, dirty stuff? Back when I was a kid, during the war, us and a lot of other folks were forced to use kerosene lamps. I know kerosene’s made from oil, and I hear you can get some types of grease and such from the filthy stuff, but whale oil’s better for everything. After the war, people started hunting whales again. Crude oil became worthless as soon as the ships docked. Last I knew oil was down to less than a dollar a barrel. Why would anyone, especially a vampire, be interested in oil?”
“He understands something many of you do not. Ani-yonega breed lik
e mice. More people means more machines. More lamps. More grease. More of everything. I think he plans to drill the wells, then sit on them until the price of oil goes up.”
Jack whistled. “That could take decades.”
Chief laughed. Not a belly laugh like earlier when he had a knife at Jack’s throat, but a mirthless laugh. “Spirit takers do not age. He is old enough to understand what that means. He will not die unless someone kills him and he does not plan to let that happen.”
Jack had never thought about it that way. When he’d been alive, he’d always known the consumption would kill him if a bullet didn’t get him first. Now he assumed something else would finish him in the not so distant future. But what about Wolcott? Those clothes? That accent? How long had he been around?”
Chief leaned forward with a canvas bag in his hand. After reaching into the bag, he dumped a handful of coffee into the boiler, then closed the bag and leaned back again.
“Why here?” Jack asked. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“Land sells for a few dollars an acre. Using his strong-arm tactics, Wolcott’s buying it cheaper than that. Besides having plenty of oil seeps nearby, he chose Hays City because Fort Hays can protect his interests and because Hays City is small enough that he will soon control everything. That is why your friend, the sheriff, is gone. He received a telegram from the district office instructing him to assist with a prisoner transport from Kansas City to Denver. Through Wolcott’s many official connections, he learned the famous Suicide Jack was on his way here. I suspect he arranged for that telegram. Most likely he planned to kill you when you arrived and dispose of the body before your friend discovered the deception and returned.”
Jack fingered his revolver in its holster. “That’s a good way to get shot.”
“Yes, which is why he faced you himself. Even though he drew on you first, you shot him. A few days of pretend convalescence and no judge would convict someone with that much gold.”
“Quite the mistake, then.” Jack smiled, remembering the surprise on Wolcott’s face. He didn’t typically take pleasure in killing, but it sounded as if Wolcott deserved it more than most.
“Yes,” Chief said. “That is one reason I wanted to talk to you. Bullets, even silver bullets, will not kill a vampire. So why did it hurt Wolcott when you shot him?”
Jack drew the Peacemaker, careful not to point it in Chief’s direction. Weighing it in his hands, he said, “A friend of mine blessed this gun. He told me it would come in useful against anything evil. Wolcott apparently qualifies.”
Chief swore. Jack didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear.
At once the big man was on his feet, kicking dust from the barn floor over the fire. “You don’t even have silver bullets in that gun, do you?”
“No, but what does it matter? This gun’s put down quite a few beasties tonight without all the high-priced ammunition. Heart and head. Nothing can live through that.”
“Ukashana! Of course they lived. All of them. I must get back there before he does. He’ll know by now that your bullets weren’t silver. I’ve been wasting my time with you when the real danger’s still there.”
“Hold on, Chief. Relax. Those mad puppies were dead enough when I left. Hell, they turned back into humans. Naked humans, I might add. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you—whoa!”
Chief went still, his eyes wide, his face fixed in angry concentration. He quivered and his hands balled into fists. Jack thought the Indian had become so angry that he couldn’t speak or move, but then the big man’s form blurred. Jack blinked and shook his head, but when he looked again, a glow surrounded Chief and his body appeared to melt. Adding to the impression, heat emanated from Chief in waves and the glow brightened until it consumed him in blue flames. After a second, the flames subsided, but they remained burned onto Jack’s eyes. That made it hard to believe his senses when a huge owl fluttered up from where Chief had been standing. The owl beat its wings madly, circling the fire as it climbed. After emitting a long, bone-chilling screech, it flapped across the barn and vanished into the night.
CHAPTER SIX
When Chief claimed he could turn into an owl, Jack believed him—he’d seen too much strangeness over the past few months to doubt its possibility—but seeing it happen was an experience that had to be lived through to appreciate.
Jack took a few seconds to gather himself. For someone so close-lipped, Chief had revealed a surprising amount of information. Wolcott, the werewolves, the homesteader and his pretty wife. Silver bullets, mystical Indians, and the panic that had shaken Chief’s poker face. The connections fell into place and Jack suddenly understood his mistake.
He ran down the alley and back into the street where he found Roulette waiting for him. “Smart horse,” Jack said, taking a second to pat the big animal’s neck before he mounted and spurred Roulette into a gallop toward the homestead. He could almost feel Roulette’s irritation as they covered the same ground for the second time tonight. It’s necessary old boy, he thought, and beneath him, Roulette relaxed into a gait that he could maintain for miles.
Jack hoped he wasn’t too late.
***
Jack reined Roulette to a stop about a quarter mile away from where he’d heard the rifle shots that had distracted him earlier tonight. He dismounted and instinctively reached for his Henry rifle before he remembered he’d left it and his saddlebags with the barman back at the saloon. His extra pistol, the Remington Model 1875 that wasn’t blessed, was also in the saddlebags. That extra pistol would have come in handy.
He patted Roulette’s neck and tied the ends of the reins together before looping them behind the saddle horn. “See you around, buddy,” Jack whispered, knowing Roulette would return when he needed him.
Jack circled the hill to the left, hunched but loping as fast and as quietly as he could. His goal was the gully he’d seen earlier that evening. It would allow him to get close to the shack without being seen.
The moon had not yet set and the dry winter grass caught the light and turned night into day. It was easy to see why Comanche liked to attack on nights such as this. It gave them the element of surprise that a night attack provided but barely affected their ability to ride and shoot. Jack made his way around the hill and crouched near the start of the gully. He wished the night were a bit darker. His black duster hid him well enough, but his pale face would reflect the moonlight and be visible to sharp eyes at a half mile or more. He should have stopped at the saloon to get his hat, but there’d been no time. Instead he would stay low and when he popped his head up to scout the terrain ahead, he’d shadow the whites of his eyes with his hand.
Crouching, Jack ran along the gully. Fortunately it hadn’t rained or snowed for so long that the bottom of the gully was dry. Even at a crouch, he made good time, forced to slow only when he encountered random collections of tumbleweeds. Soon the sides of the gully grew higher and he could run upright. Only when he heard voices did he slow to a jog. The soft sides of the gully would trap most of the sounds he made, but he still made every effort to run lightly.
When the voices grew loud enough that Jack knew he must be close to the shack, he stopped and found a tumbleweed. After climbing the side of the gully, he used the tumbleweed like a showgirl’s fan and poked his head up until he could see the shack and the area around it.
“About time you got here,” a voice whispered beside him.
It startled Jack so much he almost slid down the gully. On his right, looking as if he’d been there forever, stood Chief, leaning against the side of the gully, his eyes just above the gully’s rim.
“How the hell—” Jack whispered, but stopped when Chief put a finger to his lips and nodded his head toward the shack.
Jack raised his head and squinted through the tumbleweed. He made out six werewolves crouched in a half-circle, facing the shack. A lone man stood at their center, perhaps thirty yards from the gully, his long English-style top coat and cane unmistakable.
As Jack had guessed after Chief’s sudden departure, Wolcott and the werewolves had survived.
Wolcott faced the shack. The homesteader’s pretty wife stood in the doorway, a rifle in her hands. The lantern behind her cast her body in silhouette, highlighting several shapely curves.
“This needn’t be unpleasant, Mrs. Mason,” Wolcott said in his British accent, his voice carrying across the night like a stage actor’s. “I want your land, not your life, at least not now. At another time, the story might be different, but tonight is your lucky night. Sign the deed over to me and you will live.”
The woman spoke. “If you were willing to kill me, you would have already done so.”
“Admittedly, when I asked my colleagues to pay you a visit earlier”— he swept his arm in an arc to indicate the circle of werewolves— “that was precisely my intent. However, circumstances have changed. I now find it prudent to leave the rustic trappings of the nearby village and seek the more comfortable surroundings of civilization. I plan to be aboard tomorrow’s eastbound train. Normally I’d kill you and wait to buy the property at auction or be awarded the deed after a tedious exercise in probate, but given my plans, that simply isn’t possible. As such, I’d like to conclude our business anon.”
The woman lifted the gun. “Go to hell!”
“Undoubtedly I will. But tonight I will have your signature on the deed or I will have your life. While I have eaten recently, my friends have not.”
He raised his silver-tipped cane and the werewolves began growling. Drool dripped from their open mouths and they snapped their jaws. As they pawed at the ground, some quivered from restrained excitement.