by Gary Jonas
Jack’s eyes watered and his vision blurred, but not before he’d recognized the gun. His own Peacemaker. The blessed Colt.
Jack fell backwards onto the train platform. He still clutched the stake and his Remington, but they were useless. Any second, he would lose consciousness. Wolcott would cut off his head. Jack’s mission was over.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Wolcott asked, walking until he stood next to Jack. “Killed by your own gun?”
Jack lifted his head off the platform and blinked. He wanted to see the final shot when it came.
But Wolcott seemed in no hurry to finish him off. Instead, he beamed. When he spoke, his voice held excitement, like that of a little boy with news he couldn’t wait to share. “It was Sara Beth’s plan, you know. She’s the one who came to me late this morning. Said she wanted to make a deal. You, in exchange for her life. She would sell her land to me—for top dollar, of course—and I would allow her to leave unharmed. In exchange, she would deliver you to me on a platter. It took us several hours to work out the details. A very lovely and energetic girl, that. I understand why you were infatuated with her.”
Jack managed to move his mouth, but no words came out.
Wolcott noticed the movement. “So, you want to know, ‘Why?’ I’m glad you asked.”
He bent over Jack and spoke as if sharing a secret. “You really don’t understand women. The way to a woman’s heart passes through her bank account, not her boudoir. Granted, you captured her attention temporarily, but you forget, my young knave, that women rarely share their secrets. She’d seen your Indian friend dribble blood into your mouth. Afterwards, your wounds healed. It didn’t take a lot of brains to guess that you were like me. That’s why she took you to her bed. The famous Suicide Jack. A vampire. Surely you could protect her from me.”
Wolcott’s voice rose in a mocking tone and his eyebrows went up. “But after fully enjoying her charms, you left. Stranded on that desolate, dirty ranch, she understood that she could never count on you. You would always leave her. Better to have money. Something reliable. Now that’s a girl after my own heart. Or at least she was, until I ate her. The pity is that her plan probably would have worked if you hadn’t shown up so early. She would have escaped on the train while you distracted me. So you see, it really is your fault she’s dead.”
Jack strained to rise. He wanted to kill this vampire more than he had ever wanted to kill anything. He spasmed, his fingers clenching and unclenching. For a moment, it felt as if his anger would allow him to act, to take a final vengeance.
Wolcott squatted low and smiled as he brought his face close to Jack’s. “It hurts to die, doesn’t it?”
Except that it didn’t. The pain gradually lessened. Jack felt the bullets work their way out through his chest. He wasn’t dying. He was healing. It was impossible, but it was happening. Jack was growing stronger.
Jack coughed up a bit of blood and worked his mouth again.
Wolcott bent even lower, their noses almost touching. Jack stared into the other man’s eyes and whispered, “I don’t plan to die. Not today.”
The Englishman looked confused, then the light of understanding passed over his face. In that instant, Jack shoved the stake into Wolcott’s chest.
Blood spurted from the wound, covering Jack’s hand and running down his left wrist. Wolcott reared back, yelling, his mouth wide, his fangs extended. He teetered to his feet and stumbled backwards. He dropped the Peacemaker and tore at the stake with both hands.
He wasn’t dying. Jack had missed his heart.
Jack scrambled to his feet, his Remington in hand. He quickly put one bullet in Wolcott’s heart. Aiming carefully, he put his last bullet right between Wolcott’s eyes.
Wolcott screamed in pain, but the wounds were already healing. Jack tossed away the spent Remington and darted toward the Colt.
Snarling, Wolcott ripped the stake from his chest and rushed forward.
Neither Jack nor Wolcott had full control of their movements. Both stumbled, Jack reaching for his Peacemaker, Wolcott raising the bloody stake. Jack’s fingertips brushed the pistol grip just as Wolcott crashed into him. Wolcott’s weight drove Jack sideways and he slammed against the train platform. The Colt slipped from his fingers and skittered out of reach. Jack twisted, trying to free himself, but Wolcott flopped on top of him. The two men struggled, both fighting for control of the stake.
“You should have died,” Wolcott shouted. “I shot you with your special toy. Why didn’t you die?”
“Maybe you did it wrong,” Jack said. “Next time try saying three Hail Marys and sing ‘God Bless the Queen’ before you pull the trigger.”
In truth, Jack didn’t know why the Peacemaker hadn’t worked. It lay out of reach to his right, but even if he managed to get the gun, would it work any better for him than it had for Wolcott? Maybe it’d lost its power.
Wolcott tugged at the stake, twisting its tip toward Jack’s chest.
Jack wriggled and squirmed, trying to free himself, but Wolcott kept his weight centered, and used that weight to drive the stake down at Jack’s heart.
Jack’s arms shook as the stake inched closer to his chest. In seconds his muscles would fail, the stake would drop, and Wolcott would win. Jack glanced at the Peacemaker. His squirming had placed it within reach, but he needed all of his strength to keep the stake from his heart. If he reached for the gun, he’d die before he ever touched it.
Jack needed more power, but he just didn’t have it. Apparently drunk-man blood didn’t provide the same energy as betraying-rancher-wife blood. At least drunk-man blood tasted better than werewolf blood. Suddenly Jack understood what he needed to do and his fangs extended at the thought.
Above him, Wolcott smiled, his own fangs protruding past his lips, his eyes sparkling with a hint of madness. “Yes, that’s it! At last you reveal the animal you should have been, the killer that lives in all of us. Humans are nothing but bags of blood. Why would you care about what happened to one of them? Don’t you realize you’re better than them?”
The stake dropped another inch closer to Jack’s heart.
“I’m not better than them,” Jack said. “I’m just better than you.”
As soon as the confusion entered Wolcott’s eyes, Jack slammed his head forward with all the force he could muster. The top of his skull smashed into the bridge of Wolcott’s nose. Wolcott wrenched his head back, exposing his throat, just as Jack had hoped he would. Stretching his neck, Jack forced his head up as far as he could, opened his mouth wide, and sunk his fangs into Wolcott’s exposed flesh.
Jack had never tasted vampire blood. It was sweet and fiery, like good brandy. He gulped greedily as it rushed into his mouth, bringing with it the strength and healing power he needed. Jack had just enough time to imagine drinking Wolcott dry before Wolcott reared back, wrenching violently, and broke free of Jack’s grip.
Wolcott’s mouth opened in a primal, cat-like hiss, his own fangs bared. He plunged toward Jack, the stake in his hands aimed at Jack’s heart, his open mouth and bared fangs seeking Jack’s throat.
Jack twisted. Wolcott’s fangs missed his throat and the stake plunged deep into his left shoulder, the blow so forceful the stake punched through to the boards beneath. Fiery pain seared Jack’s shoulder, but his right hand closed around the Colt’s handle. Wolcott yanked the stake free, tearing flesh, but before he could plunge it down again, Jack touched the Peacemaker’s barrel to Wolcott’s chest and fired.
Wolcott dropped the stake and clutched at his heart. With wide eyes, he looked at the Colt. “But—but—it didn’t work. H—h—h—how?”
The light slipped from his eyes and he tumbled backwards, his body slumping across Jack’s legs.
With a mighty heave, Jack pushed the body off his legs and wriggled free. He leaned forward and looked into Wolcott’s eyes, which were open and glazed. The man looked dead. It was hard to believe that cutting the bullet free would bring him back. Jack stood and retrieved the bloody
stake from where Wolcott had dropped it. His arm burned as it healed.
Propping the stake against the ticket office step, Jack stomped on it hard and it snapped in half. Jack took the pointed half back to Wolcott’s body. Wielding his Peacemaker like a hammer, he pounded the stake into Wolcott’s chest with the pistol grip, using the bullet wound as a starter hole. The vampire was now truly dead, but if his doctor friend removed the stake and the bullet, Wolcott would come back to life. Jack thought of his sire, Smythe, and how he had repeatedly plunged a stake into Sonya’s heart and then pulled it free again. Sonya had come back to life each time. He couldn’t chance Wolcott coming back.
Jack holstered the Peacemaker. He glanced at the Remington, but it had failed him for the last time. He would pick up a different backup gun when he got the chance.
He examined Wolcott’s chest. The wound was jagged, but no wood was visible. If a doctor bothered to cut Wolcott open, the truth would be easy to find, but a casual examination wouldn’t reveal much. People rarely tried to figure out how someone had died if they could tell how at first glance.
Jack rubbed his shoulder. The pain had ebbed to a dull, deep ache. Even so, his wounds had taken their toll. Fighting the discomfort, Jack grabbed Wolcott by his fancy English boots and dragged the body to the edge of the platform and pushed it off. After hopping down, Jack maneuvered the body across the tracks, Wolcott’s neck resting on a rail. He retrieved Wolcott’s black top coat and draped it over the vampire. The body lay in the deep shadow. With the glare of the lanterns all around, the train’s engineer would never notice the patch of blackness across the tracks.
Soft footsteps echoed on the wooden platform. Jack tensed, his hand drifting toward the Peacemaker. He didn’t want to cause any more death tonight, but he couldn’t risk anyone disturbing the body and giving Wolcott another chance to live.
Slowly Jack straightened and turned, ready to fire. Immediately he relaxed.
On the platform, big as a mountain and breathing hard, his arm in a sling, stood Chief.
CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN
Jack grinned up at the big Indian. “You’re a hard man to kill, Chief.”
“I am not a man,” Chief said soberly. “I am your worst nightmare.”
Chief broke in a wide grin and Jack laughed out loud. The laughter hurt deep in his chest and burned in his arm, but he enjoyed it all the same.
Reaching out his good hand, Chief helped Jack up to the platform. Then he looked past Jack and down at the tracks. “My knife would be easier and less messy.”
“Ya, but that could never be dismissed as an accident. Remember, Lord Bucky down there has some powerful friends. I want anyone who at this to know how he died without cutting into him.”
“Had some powerful friends. I doubt any will miss him.”
“Probably not,” Jack said, “but I want to give them an easy way out. Vampire staked and beheaded is a harder headline to live with than inebriated English gentleman dies in tragic train accident.”
In the distance, the whistle of the now thirty-minute-late ten o’clock train sounded.
Chief pulled two cigars from a pocket. He handed one to Jack and kept the other for himself.
After striking a match on a train station pillar, Chief lit Jack’s cigar and then his own. He and Jack started walking in the general direction of the barn.
“You made good time from the ranch, Chief. When I left you there, I thought—well—you made better time than I thought you would.”
“Wolves run quickly, even on three legs. Also, Mother Earth helped as much as she could.” Chief used his cigar to point back over his shoulder. “Judging by the number of bodies, I was still a bit late . . . for them.”
Chief and Jack shared a smile.
Jack took a few more steps, then stopped. “Wolcott shot me in the heart with the Colt.”
Chief turned, studying him, silently looking for something. For what, Jack didn’t know.
“I should have died, but the Colt didn’t work. Later, when I shot Wolcott, it worked fine.”
Chief grunted.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said. “The guy who gave me the gun said it would hurt anything evil, but it didn’t hurt me. Why?”
“You have just provided your own answer,” Chief said.
Jack shook his head as he looked at Chief. “I’ve killed plenty of people, both when I was alive and after. How can I not be evil?”
Chief puffed his cigar, then cast his eyes toward the stars. “Who is to say what is good and evil? It is not a question for us to answer. We must listen to the wind, watch the stars, and feel the grass beneath our feet. When we care about the world around us, we know which path is the right path. You, my friend, know the right path and do your best to walk it.”
Jack stayed silent for several seconds, then said, “Chief, you are so full of shit.”
Chief grinned. “Maybe, but that is not what is important. Your gun was blessed in the name of the Ani-yonega Holy Father. When it comes to the gun, he decides who is evil and who is good. He decided you are not evil, at least not today.”
After taking a long drag on his cigar, Jack said, “Wolcott killed Sara Beth.”
“Yes, I found her in the alley by the train station.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “What? I’ve got to see her.”
He started back to the station, but Chief grabbed his arm and stopped him cold.
“No,” Chief said, “you don’t.”
Jack thought about telling Chief to shove it. But the big man was right. Jack had seen enough death and dying. He tried to think of Sara Beth, captivating in the candlelight of her sod shack after they had made love, but all he saw in his mind was Sara Beth, her smile faltering as she looked at Wolcott before handing him the deed to her ranch. She sensed, even then, that he would kill her. Maybe she thought that Jack would kill him first. Either way, she chose her own path. Jack would leave her where she had fallen at the end of it.
Slow hoofbeats sounded behind him. Jack turned toward the noise, and Roulette ambled up out of the darkness.
Chief looked at the horse. “Leaving already?”
Jack hadn’t been consciously thinking about it, but Roulette always knew his thoughts before he did. “Yes. I don’t think I can stay in this town even for the night.”
Chief raised an eyebrow. “What about your friend, the sheriff?”
“If I stayed here, he’d have to arrest me. There are rules, laws, procedures. I killed three deputies tonight. Even if the sheriff wanted to let me go, he’d have to detain me long enough for a trial—and they tend to hold trials during the light of day.”
Chief grunted again.
“I’ll send him a telegram when I get back to Denver and explain what happened.” Jack nodded. “He’ll understand and he’ll try to keep my name off the wires.”
“Why Denver?”
“I was in the middle of a lucky streak when I got the telegram that brought me here. Maybe I can recapture that until something more important comes along.”
Chief handed Jack a couple cigars. “For the ride to Denver. Mix your prayers with the smoke and the wind will hear them.”
“I don’t do much praying, Chief.”
“We all pray, in our own way.”
Jack hesitated, then took the cigars. “Thanks.”
After mounting Roulette, he looked down at Chief. “What about you? Are you staying here?”
Chief glanced around before shaking his head. “No. The false-wolves and the bad spirit taker are dead. My mission here is done.”
“Where will you go?”
“Where the winds tell me to go.”
“Winds?”
“You know. Hot air. The kind that sometimes blows from the east.”
Chief grinned.
Jack would miss this giant of a man. He extended his hand.
Chief swallowed it in his own. “Stay on the right path, my friend.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jack said.
He pulled on Roulette’s reins and spun the horse toward the west. He rode out of town, his eyes fixed on the dark line of the western horizon.
NIGHT MARSHAL #3: THIS DANCE, THESE BONES
by Rebecca Hodgkins
Dedicated to Joe Lansdale, his ownself – a sweet and generous man whose stories might lead you to believe otherwise.
Thanks for the advice, Joe.
(i) Dire
The blood had gone to sludge in Jack’s canteens, then frozen solid. He tore the last canteen apart and chewed at the red-brown hunk inside it. Jack had taken to calling the mess ‘blood jerky.’ Like so many things he’d done since Silver Plume, he tried to keep a human face on this predicament as well. That was harder to do, the hungrier he got.
He’d gone through dry spells before. The Forty Mile Desert where his best meal was a scrawny, half-dead mule. Stretches of prairie where the Indians melted into the tall grass, kept on the move by his shadow in the moonlight. But never a dry spell in the dead of winter, and never for this long. The small relief from the blood jerky wasn’t worth the enterprise. Jack chewed up the last of it and threw the broken canteen on the ground like a pistachio shell. Ice crystals lining the inside sparkled in the moonlight. The warmth of a living man would have kept the blood from freezing. But Jack was no living man.
Frozen or not, Jack, there wasn’t near enough to get you through these mountains and you knew it, Jack thought. He remembered the deal back in Light Touch, the poker game, the money he won in addition to the three canteens full of blood – and watered-down as it turned out. That made him mad, until he realized the less human blood, the less someone had to suffer. Jack couldn’t be sure the blood came from a willing participant. Well, he’d never make a deal like that again.