by Gary Jonas
“You’re not getting my land.”
“I have no interest in your oil, Mrs. Mason. I’m not from around here and I certainly don’t plan to stay. As I told you earlier, my name’s Jack. Jack Talon. I’m a U.S. Marshal and Charlie Howard, the Ellis County sheriff asked me to—“
“You’re Suicide Jack, the gunfighter?”
“I’m a gambler, ma’am, not a gunfighter.”
The woman lowered the rifle. “Suicide Jack Talon? I’ve heard of you.”
For several moments her face went slack and her eyes stared off into the night. When she came back to herself, she straightened and spoke as if she were the first lady greeting party guests at the White House. “Please let me apologize, Mr. Talon, for my extremely rude behavior. As I’m sure you understand, this has been a trying day.”
“Call me Jack.”
The woman smiled. The simple action lit up her whole face and emphasized the beauty Jack had noticed earlier. “Jack. Of course. How nice of you. You can call me Sara Beth. I’m delighted to meet you. Won’t you come inside and get out of the cold? I don’t have much, but whatever I have is yours.”
The emphasis she placed on the last several words made her meaning clear. A warmth spread through Jack and he found himself walking toward her before he thought about what he was doing. He wanted to take her in his arms, to explore her body, to relish her warmth, her scent, her love. He would possess her and she would love him for it.
Behind him, a throat cleared. Jack stopped walking, but barely. What was wrong with him? Sara Beth was beautiful, but he’d been around plenty of beautiful women before. He forced himself to turn around.
Chief gave him his standard poker-face stare. Jack faced Mrs. Mason again, paused a moment to recall her first name, then said, “Sara Beth, this is my good friend, Chief—“
Chief snorted.
Jack continued. “I mean, this is—well he’s—I mean to say. . . . Ah, hell with it. His name is Dan Wolf and he helped save your life tonight.”
Chief snorted again.
“Did he?” Sara Beth forced a smile. After several seconds, she added, “You have my thanks, Mr. Wolf. May I also invite you inside?”
The tone of this invitation was colder and no offer was made to share what was hers. Anyone could tell that she wasn’t comfortable inviting an Indian, especially a mountain-sized Indian, into her small shack.
Jack glanced at Chief, who shook his head and lifted his bowie knife. “I have work to do.”
As Jack turned back toward Sara Beth, the delicious smell of blooming lilacs drifted to him on the night air. Beneath the sweet scent were more earthy hints of copper and the familiar smell of a woman waiting for more. Jack’s feet moved before his brain had decided, but he didn’t resist. This invitation promised to be much more pleasant than having a rifle pointed at his head.
“Very well,” Jack called over his shoulder. “I believe I’ll accept the lady’s gracious hospitality.”
He followed Sara Beth inside, then turned to grin at Chief before making sure to shut and bolt the door.
CHAPTER NINE
Jack emerged from the shack well before the sun rose. The moon had set and dawn had yet to pink the eastern sky, but the stars were bright and Jack found he could see easily. His night vision had improved with his death. He couldn’t see in total darkness—nothing could—but he saw more at night than most humans did. He found Roulette grazing near the front door and a familiar-looking old owl dozing in a tree around back. As Jack approached the base of the tree, the owl opened its great yellow eyes and stared down at him. Jack was sure he saw reproach in those eyes.
The owl fluttered to the ground and began to glow. A moment later, Chief straightened up.
That marked the second time Jack had watched Chief transform, but he found it just as interesting as the first. “Where do your clothes go when you change?”
“You think Mother Earth can transform me into a wolf or an owl but cannot handle a bit of cotton or buckskin?” He shook his head. “Yonega.”
Reproach stared out of Chief’s eyes again. Jack wasn’t sure if Chief was reacting to the clothes comment or to his spending the night with Sara Beth. He decided it was probably the latter.
“It was her idea,” Jack said. “And it’s been a long time.”
“You can tell yourself that if you want, but you could have been a full molly and just come from the bed of another and you still would have pursued her last night.”
“What are you talking about?”
Chief grunted. “Werewolf blood. I told you there would be consequences. I just hope you did not follow her around the house sniffing her behind.”
Jack flinched. Disturbing snippets of memory flashed through his mind. The strongest involved how good Sara Beth had smelled. He shivered and shook himself. “Never mind that now. I need to get inside before the sun rises and I don’t fancy trying to explain to Sara Beth why I can’t go chop a bit of wood so she can make me biscuits or something.”
“You were the one who chose to—“
“I know,” Jack interrupted. “But we have bigger fish to fry. Speaking of which, I don’t see any bodies.”
“I drug them into the trees by the creek. Downstream, of course.”
“You didn’t bury them?”
“I chopped off their heads and threw them in the water. The bodies are still on the bank. Buzzards and catfish need to eat as well as worms. But be my guest. Go bury the bodies. Drag the creek for the heads I tossed in. I’m sure the Sun will be happy when she peeks over the trees and sees you there.”
Jack studied the big man. “Sorry, Chief. I should have helped with the bodies.”
“I slept in a tree.”
“Well, ya. I’m sure that’s not the first time you slept somewhere you shouldn’t.”
“The same could be said for both of us.”
Jack laughed. He was learning to appreciate Chief’s sense of humor. After shaking his head at the big man, Jack whistled softly. Roulette trotted around the house and up to his side. Jack climbed into the saddle and said, “I owe you one, Chief.”
Chief grunted. “One?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll get square with you eventually. But in the meantime, I don’t fancy being drug out of bed at midday by a couple Hays City deputy marshals. Any chance I can hang out in that old barn of yours?”
“It is not mine. Do as you like, as long as you do not snore. Owls and wolves like to sleep during the day as much as spirit takers do.”
Jack winked, pulled Roulette’s reins to turn him, and headed back to Hays City at a steady gallop.
***
When Jack neared the edge of town, he pulled Roulette into the trees by the creek. The first glow of sunrise was already eating away at the night. He didn’t have much time. “Stay out of sight, ol’ boy. They’re looking for us.”
He left Roulette in the trees, hoping the horse understood. He wished he could have taken him to the stable and set him up with a stall and a full belly of hay, but he wasn’t sure how long Wolcott’s reach extended. Did he have just a few deputies under his control or would all of Hays City be on alert? While Jack could go unnoticed easily, a horse was much easier to spot. Even people who didn’t have any connection to Wolcott would be curious if they discovered a horse in an abandoned barn. Besides, he had no grain and no fresh hay. Roulette would be better off on his own.
Jack walked briskly to town and snuck into the barn. He wasn’t surprised to see Chief already there in owl-form, sleeping in the rafters. The great bird opened one eye as Jack came in but quickly closed it again. Jack wished he could turn into an owl or a bat or something and fly up to join him. Instead Jack climbed into the hay loft and scraped together enough moldy remnants of hay to make a comfortable but musty-smelling bed. As hiding places went, this one was awful, but he doubted Wolcott’s men would make a building by building search.
He felt somewhat safe because he’d shot Wolcott with his blessed Peacemaker. Granted, h
e’d missed his heart, but when the wound to his shoulder didn’t heal immediately, Wolcott would have hightailed it back to his sawbones to get the slug removed. A fancy man like Wolcott would have never come to the ranch on foot, but Jack hadn’t seen or heard a horse. Wolcott had probably tethered it at a reasonable distance from the sod shack—who knew what a rampaging pack of hungry werewolves might kill?—but even after he reached his mount, it would have taken him time to get back to town, find his doctor, and get the necessary work done. Wolcott also seemed the type to sit and wait for news rather than riding out again unprotected. One werewolf escaped, but it would have stayed in wolf form until the moon set. Then a naked man who had been scratching fleas and licking himself only a few minutes before would have to find clothes and a way back to town, if he went back at all. Jack wasn’t sure what kind of hold Wolcott had on the werewolves, but he doubted any of them would have been eager to report that five of their original six were dead while their target remained alive.
Jack fought against a tinge of guilt. A few hours ago, in the intimate dark of night, he’d promised Sara Beth to protect her and her land, but instead he’d fled from the sun and from Sara Beth’s judging eyes. He told himself that she would be fine during daylight. Wolcott would use today to regroup. Come tonight, he’d be after Jack and after Sara Beth, but for now there was time for sleep and Jack planned to use it.
CHAPTER TEN
Jack slept like the dead.
In his first moment of awareness, he opened his eyes to see Chief’s huge head hovering over him. Chief shoved a steaming cup at Jack’s face. Jack scooted away from the sudden thrust, blinked several times, focused on the cup, and finally took it. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Chief just grunted and climbed down the ladder from the loft.
Jack noticed the coppery scent before his first taste confirmed what he’d smelled. It tasted good and reminded him of something he’d eaten as a child, possibly when he’d been sick. “Why, Chief, how thoughtful. What kind is it?”
“Coffee. Hot.”
“The blood, Chief. What kind of blood did you put into the coffee?”
Chief said something Jack couldn’t make out. Jack scooted to the edge of the loft and peered down at the huge warrior. Chief squatted by a small fire, stirring coals as he added another piece of wood. A steaming pot hung above the flames. In the light of day, Chief looked older, the silver streaks in his black hair more pronounced, the lines in his face deeper and more noticeable.
Jack tried again. “What kind of blood, Chief?”
Chief paused to look up at him. “A stray chicken wandered too close to the barn. Now he is providing both my breakfast and yours.”
Jack tasted the coffee again. Yes, it reminded him of chicken soup. He found that strange. He looked back at Chief. “Chicken blood?”
“You said you did not feed on people, but spirit takers must drink blood every few days or they grow weak. They must drink blood more often if they have been injured, and you have been injured. Shut up and drink your chicken.”
Jack did. Then he climbed down from the loft and joined Chief beside the fire.
Chief pulled the boiled chicken from the pot and set it on a tin plate to cool. The aroma of cooked chicken washed over Jack. When he was alive, the smell would have made his mouth water. Now he could identify the odor, perhaps better than before, but it did nothing for his appetite. Beyond the smells of roasting bird and coffee, Jack detected chicken blood. After sniffing the air like an old hound dog, he located the source in the bucket next to Chief. That did make his mouth water. Without a word, he held out his cup to Chief, who half-filled it with blood, then added coffee, and handed it back.
As Chief started in on the chicken, Jack lifted the cup to his lips. This time, it tasted more like blood and less like coffee. While good, it did little to satisfy his empty stomach. Jack always had this problem with animal blood. If he drank enough, it would eventually sate him, but at first, all animal blood did was make him crave human blood. He looked at Chief and licked his lips, then shook himself and sat cross-legged near the fire. Concentrating on the bloody coffee, he forced himself to ignore his cravings.
Chief had been eating, but he’d also been keeping a careful watch on Jack. “You control yourself well—for a spirit taker.”
“That’s quite the compliment, Chief. You must be in a good mood this morning.”
Chief humphed. “While you were sleeping, I was thinking. Do you want to kill this spirit taker?”
“Of course,” Jack said, setting aside his empty cup. “If I don’t, he’ll kill Sara Beth for sure.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Isn’t that reason enough? I have no problems killing when killing’s what needs to be done, but I’m more interested in protecting folks who can’t protect themselves. My days of living for me ended when I quit being alive. Granted, I’ll still take my pleasures where I can find them, but I’m killing Wolcott less because he’s a vampire and more because he needs killed.”
Chief took a huge bite of chicken. The chicken wasn’t cooked all the way through and bloody juice ran down Chief’s chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
“It will not be easy to kill the spirit taker. His false-wolves will protect him and he will be on guard even more than before.”
Jack’s face tightened and he couldn’t keep the impatience from his voice. “Mr. Wolcott and I have met twice and he’s survived both times. He won’t survive the third.”
“That is big talk.”
Jack stood and paced in front of the fire. “It’s more than talk. You heard Wolcott. He’s planning to leave on tonight’s train. Before he does that, I’m betting he’ll take a trip out to Sara Beth’s and force her to sign that deed right before he drinks her dry. I’m not going to let him do that.”
“You plan to take on another pack of werewolves? I recommend you avoid drinking their blood this time. Otherwise Sara Beth will come to expect an animal in her bed every night.”
Jack stopped pacing and glanced at Chief. He wasn’t sure whether the big man was joking about that particular aspect of werewolf blood, but it didn’t matter as much as Chief’s first comment.
“Another pack? I thought you cut off the werewolves’ heads and threw them in the river. Are you telling me Wolcott has more? What does he do? Breed the damned things?”
Chief nodded. “In a sense, yes. Two months ago, Wolcott posted bulletins all over Salina, Kansas, offering jobs in the oil field. Anyone who wanted work, was willing to travel, and had no family ties was told to show up at a farmstead outside of town.”
“At night?”
“The sun sets early in January. There is nothing suspicious about a meeting at 7:00.”
Jack studied Chief. The man kept more secrets than a village priest. “How do you know all this?”
“I found a man at the Osawatomie asylum who was there that night.”
“You trust a lunatic?”
Chief grinned. “He is saner than you are.”
Jack rolled his eyes and sighed.
“The point is,” Chief added, “that Wolcott probably started with one werewolf and a group of hired men. Given that, he could make as many werewolves as he needed. Rumor says that everyone who went to the barn that night—and did not get locked up in Osawatomie—got a job. Some rich guy from back east put them all on a train heading west. Simple.”
“So he has an army?”
“No. I estimate he has an even dozen or maybe thirteen counting the original werewolf. He has to pay them the other 27 days of the month or they would leave.”
“I thought he could control them.”
“Yes, as werewolves. I think it has something to do with the silver wolf head on his cane. It must be enchanted. European gypsy magic probably. But when they are in human form, he simply pays them and pays them well. Wolcott has several drilling crews in the county. I believe the men on those crews are werewolves.”
“Clever b
astard, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Fortunately for you, he is also arrogant. Otherwise you would be dead.”
Jack clasped the big man’s shoulder. “Don’t say that, Chief. Keeping me alive is what you’re here for.”
Chief grunted.
Jack stared into the fire and did some quick arithmetic in his head. “So we killed five last night. If you’re right, that leaves seven or eight that I need to kill tonight.” He shrugged. “Piece of cake.”
“You need a plan.”
“I can do that. Plan. Good.” Jack thought for a few moments, and then plopped down beside the fire. “I just haven’t come up with one yet.”
“You must kill the spirit taker and all of his false-wolves at the same time.”
“Really? That’s all.” Jack snorted. “I’d be interested to know what you suggest. What are we supposed to do? Blow them up?”
Chief tilted his head to one side. “Yes.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You’re kidding, right?”
All Jack got from Chief was his poker stare and a single word: “No.”
“Well, I don’t have a bundle of dynamite in my saddlebags. Do you?”
“No, I do not have—”
“Besides,” Jack continued, “while I’m not overly fond of going toe-to-toe with these things, it’s not like a bunch of werewolves and a vampire are going to hold still while I light several sticks of dynamite and casually shove them up their—”
“Enough!”
Jack fell silent, but couldn’t resist a sly smile. “So, the big man has a temper after all. I was beginning to think you’d really taken that cigar store Indian stuff to heart.”
Chief glared. “Listen more. Talk less.”
Jack put down his empty cup and crossed his arms. “By all means, Chief. Enlighten me.”
After a few more seconds of glaring, Chief looked away. Instead of speaking, he shifted uneasily. If it had been anyone else, Jack would have thought he was nervous.