by Gary Jonas
In his mind, he had a brief glimpse of bed sheets, none too clean, and against them a slender hand curling into a fist, turning white.
Jack pushed the old memory away. At least he knew the blood hadn’t come from a woman or child – they’d all packed up and high-tailed it to another mining camp below Light Touch – now nicknamed Lightning Touch – after a lightning strike had burned half the place down in the fall. The blood gracing his canteens previously flowed through hardened men with no family and no better option but to stay and dig in for the winter, men desperate enough to shed their own blood to win back the money they’d lost. Men who no doubt followed him to get their money back. If they weren’t careful, they might catch him.
Jack trudged on through the snow. The cold didn’t bother him any more than it would another corpse, but he discovered that it did other things. Without enough blood in him he slept right through a frozen night, then two. Jack turned his horse free after that. Roulette had been dangerously close to starvation while he stood tied up as Jack damn near hibernated. He’d told himself at the time that Roulette would be safer away from him, even though he could feel the faithful animal keeping pace somewhere amid the trees.
How long before Jack buried himself under the snow just before a weak winter dawn and woke not just a day or two, but months later to full spring sunshine? The thought should have bothered him more than it did. Then again, he’d only bought three canteens. Maybe I did the arithmetic in Lightning Touch without knowing it.
The moon set behind a peak. Jack stood on a slope overlooking a blue ocean of snow-filled meadow. He stayed in the black shadows of pine trees at the edge of the forest. Pine trees, pine box, all the same to me. Time for bed, Jack. The snow was too shallow beneath the pines to burrow into, but the snow-filled branches above afforded him extra protection from sunlight. This time of year, the sun might not even get high enough to be a problem, given that he was on a North-facing slope. Jack moved back among the trees and untied his bedroll – double-thick black canvas – and covered himself. If it wasn’t enough, well, so be it.
The next moon he saw told Jack that he’d been out for three, maybe four days. His hunger was unbearable. Jack wished that he’d kept that canteen, just so he could lick the last of the blood out of it. He scanned the trees for something, anything, to eat. A bird, a hibernating squirrel, something warm-blooded with a heart like a waterwheel. He didn’t dare hope for a deer. The mountains were hunted out for the winter by prospectors and trappers. Jack closed his eyes and let his phantom senses spread out, looking for the warm tingle of life.
Nothing. So this was it. Starve, fall asleep and wake to men from Lightning Touch wondering how to kill him. Maybe go back on his word then and take their lives, he was that hungry. Or keep walking until he couldn’t move, then die of exposure in the spring when the living rejoiced at surviving the long, dark-night season. Nobody dies, and the world is short one night Marshal. Jack took another step.
That’s when he heard the wolves.
Their howls threaded through the trees like lost ghosts, lonely and hungry and cold. Jack made his way to the edge of the forest and looked down into the valley. He didn’t see them, but he could feel the pack now, predators like him hiding in the trees lining the meadow. It didn’t take Jack long to find them. From a ridge, he watched a line of dark shapes emerge from the pine trees and cross the alpine meadow. He hoped they had scented out their own prey. The moon glinted off his teeth. With his malady came certain advantages. His eyes were as sharp as spyglasses. Jack peered closer, then stopped smiling. The wolves were scrawny and they followed no tracks. They were as hungry and at loose ends as he.
Well. That just meant he was going to have to fight for his food.
Jack dropped from the ridge and the powder-dry snow caught him soundlessly. He climbed out of the hole his body made and crawled across the snow. The wolves had stopped at the edge of a frozen pond. They pawed through the tall dry grass lining the ice, hoping to scare up a rabbit or water rat. Jack crawled closer. No rising steam of breath, no sound, no scent gave him away, but the wolves knew he was there all the same. The closest one gave a little whine and the others stopped in their tracks. Jack could see their eyes flash as they spoke silently to each other. A female padded over to the wolf closest to him and sniffed its muzzle. The other wolf licked her in return. Jack reckoned this smaller wolf might be one of her young. He wondered what they were doing in these mountains. Wolves were the nightmares of men, and they hunted them to near oblivion as the frontier pushed forward. Was this pack just wilier, or had they migrated back from somewhere else? Jack slowly drew his Colt .45. He could feel the carving on the handle, the Jack of Spades with his sword drawn behind his head. Suicide Jack. Sorry, mama wolf. Jack aimed for the smaller wolf and pulled the trigger.
The sound ricocheted off the mountains, scattering the pack. Jack’s aim was true, and the wolf dropped howling to the snow, his front shoulder shattered. Jack flew forward, eager for blood. He sank his teeth into the wounded wolf’s throat. Warm fur melted the frost from Jack’s face and hands as he drank. The blood tasted strong but rank, like brackish water. The wolf’s blood wasn’t as good as human, didn’t flood him with the same hot relief from the hunger. If anything it just whetted his appetite for the real thing. Like cheap whiskey, it made him feel clouded and dull, but it would keep him going.
Then sharp teeth tore at his own throat. The female was back for revenge. She ripped open his jugular and wolf blood poured down the front of Jack’s duster. The wolf hesitated at the taste of her own young’s blood long enough for Jack to grab her by the shoulders and plant his feet against her torso. He gripped and pushed until he heard her spine crack.
Jack watched the light go out of her eyes and felt a moment’s remorse before feeding on the wolf, mother’s blood mingling with her young’s inside him. His jugular closed as his skin knitted itself back together, leaving no trace of a wound. After her heart stopped beating, Jack lifted the wolf’s body so the rest of the blood would drain to her throat. While he finished with her, the first wolf died with a rattle Jack had become accustomed to over the years. Jack hesitated before picking up the body and feeding. He could feel the rest of the pack watching him from the safety of distant trees. They wouldn’t attack him tonight. None had the strength of the mother, now dead in the snow. He bowed his head with something like shame and finished drinking from their brother.
“Evening, friend.”
Jack’s head shot up. A man in a long black coat stood in the snow, the wolf’s body between them. As Jack looked up, he realized the man was not wearing a coat, but a cassock. The white of a priest’s collar shone at his throat. His face was shaded from the moon by a wide-brimmed hat. He carried something in his hand; Jack assumed it was a Bible, then realized it was a canteen – one of his own, discarded miles back. Something sloshed inside it.
“I’ve been looking for you, son. And praise the Lord, here you are!” The Preacher offered Jack his canteen. “Thought you might be parched,” he said, as if Jack had just walked into his house on a warm day, “so I brought you something.”
“I don’t drink water.”
“I know.” The Preacher’s smile was like a row of tombstones.
The Preacher looked down at the wolf. “Looks like you’ve helped yourself. That’s real good. Our Lord helps those who help themselves.”
“Save your breath, Preacher. I’m not a believer.”
“Well, the good news is, our Lord certainly believes in you. And I am his messenger. Now, take and drink of his bounty.”
Jack reached for the canteen. It felt warm and heavy in his hands. He unscrewed the top and peered in. He dipped a finger into the liquid and it emerged red. Without thinking, Jack sucked the blood off his finger. It was human and delicious but there was a tang to it, something that he didn’t recognize. Jack looked back up at the Preacher.
“Word to the wise, son. A few drops of fermented sweet clover will keep your pa
rticular drink nice and fresh. Though,” he touched the brim of his hat as if saluting, “if you play your cards right, that may be something you won’t have to worry about for much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marshal Jack Talon, I am here to bring you salvation.”
“I’m not interested in your delusions, but I am interested in how you know my name.”
“Well, a Marshal like you, word gets around. Clearly, you are not just any old Marshal; it’s plain to see here by your dietary habits. Which makes you just the man I need.”
“And what is it that you need from me?”
“I need you to bring me a whore.”
“Check the bordello back in Sweetwater. You said so yourself, I’m a Marshal, not a pimp.”
“I’m looking for a particular whore, Marshal, and you will find her for me.”
“Aw, what’s the matter, Preacher? Did she burn you? Give you an itch you didn’t want after you scratched the one you did?”
“I wouldn’t touch her kind of filth. I have a much higher purpose for her. So you will find her for me, and you will do what it is that you do best.”
“Challenge her to a game of faro?”
The Preacher smiled. “Suicide Jack. That is quite the appropriate moniker for you, isn’t it? Gambler, gunslinger, Marshal with a reputation for fighting in the dark. I know you’ve been thinking about it. Suicide’s a sin, Jack, especially when our Lord has work for you. And our Lord does reward his servants, Jack.” The Preacher bent down and leaned over the wolf, his face inches away from Jack’s.
“He gave you this affliction, you know. And he’s the only one who can take it away, through me. You find me that whore, you turn her into what you are, and then you give her over to me. That’s all I’m asking of you, Marshal. Just do your duty and in return you get your life back.”
“So it’s my life in return for an innocent woman’s? No deal, Preacher, not even if I believed in your made-up god and his magical powers.”
“Now do you think I would be asking you to turn over an innocent woman to me? I know you, Marshal Jack Talon, and I know you well. I see into your heart.” The Preacher breathed the word like a curse. “I am not asking for a maiden of virtuous repute, but a filthy whore, a thief, a kidnapper, a cold-blooded killer of innocents. You would be ridding the world of vermin like this.” He kicked the wolf’s body. “Her name’s Nancy Dancehall. Good time gal.”
“Show me her poster.”
The Preacher smiled wider and sucked at his teeth. “Well now you’ve got me there. There is no poster. Or better, I could show you half a dozen posters, but none with her face or even her name, just her crimes. Like these here wolves, she is clever at remaining unseen.”
“Then how do you know this phantom whore is behind all these crimes?”
“Because I can see into her heart too, Marshal. I can see that you are the one who needs to bring her to me. It is our Lord’s plan that you are here in this place at this time. The whore is close by in these mountains with the victims she’s taken all the way from San Francisco. I can tell you that as long as they are with her, their lives are in grave peril.”
“Why don’t I just rescue these victims and bring this good time gal to the authorities? What does a preacher need with her?”
“I need her because she is just one of many and I aim to uncover the rest, through her. And I need your particular method of persuasion to get her to oblige.”
“Even if I did turn her, I couldn’t force her to do anything you want. She wouldn’t be able to kill me, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“You let me worry about that, Marshal.”
“Still no deal.” Jack thrust the canteen back at the Preacher. “And you can keep this. I don’t know where you got it, and I don’t want to.”
“Well, shucks, it’s from the same watering hole you visited! I figured you liked the taste. Charming place, Lightning Touch. Good men there, men thirsty for the righteousness I bring. Men willing to do anything to help me in my cause. I hope you think about that, Marshal. Think about that, and what I have offered you as reward. No more nights full of hunger, Jack. Imagine it. Sunlight, warmth, breath in your body, a beating heart. Maybe even a woman to love you again. No more killing, no more of this.” He grabbed the ruff of the mother and pulled her head up, then dropped it. “Or anything even more innocent.”
white sheets, a slender hand, a terrified gasp
Jack shook his head. “The carrot and the stick. You’ve got it all covered, don’t you, Preacher?”
“You’re a gambling man. You know I’m just hedging my bets.” The Preacher stood up. “I will be praying for your soul, Marshal Jack Talon. Yes, I will be praying hard for you to make the right decision.” He tipped his hat, dropped the canteen into the snow and ambled off towards the woods, whistling. The wind picked up, and swirling eddies of snow seemed to dance to his tune. Oh my darling, Clementine.
Jack felt the wolves in the woods melt away ahead of the Preacher.
(ii) Good Time Gal
Jack picked up the canteen, dropped it, then cursed at himself as he picked it up again and stowed it in his gear. He told himself he wouldn’t drink it, but that he couldn’t leave it behind to give himself away. First lie of the night, and the night is still young. He didn’t want to ever cross paths with this Nancy, for good times or bad. Just because he knew about her and the danger her captives were in didn’t mean he was obliged to play hero. This had trap written all over it. There were things in Jack’s life he’d had no control over, events that pushed him to commit terrible deeds. This would not be one of them.
Jack kicked snow over the wolves’ corpses. He didn’t want to look at them anymore. Vermin or not, they were beautiful, and he couldn’t shake the image of the mother licking her young’s muzzle. He wondered if the bodies would lure a coyote or fox, or if the rest of the pack would return and actually feed on them. Jack thought about staying in the area in the hopes of catching another meal. It was the wolf blood talking, he knew. Animal blood always clouded his reasoning, and this blood made him feel feral and a little reckless. Hunger made you do terrible things, he’d learned. Jack shook his head to clear it and decided he didn’t want to see how hungry wolves could get.
Sooner I’m out of these mountains, the sooner I’m away from a trap. Jack lifted his gear onto his back. The canteen sloshed. And now I’ve got provisions. That was the wolves’ blood talking again. He knew that if he drank out of that canteen he was as good as the Preacher’s cat’s paw. Jack decided he would go the opposite way from the route the Preacher took. Crazy old man, anyway. What makes me think he’d have the power to heal me? Jack looked for the man’s tracks, the better to determine his own.
The snow around the wolves was untouched.
The only sign of life, or in Jack’s case, unlife, was the track from crawling on his belly toward the wolves, then the desperate lunges he’d made over the snow once his prey was down. Only one set of tracks.
Was it possible he’d imagined it all, that the wolves’ blood was playing tricks on him? The only proof he had was in his pack. But it was his canteen, after all. Maybe he’d ignored it these few days out of a sense of guilt. Jack pulled the canteen back out of his pack. It was warm, the blood inside liquid and tempting, so tempting. He could drink it down and be out of here, back to civilization, no wolf blood, no crazy conversations in the moonlight. He could always go back to Lightning Strike. No innocents there. He could drink and drink and drink....
Jack lifted the canteen to his lips. It was sweet on the tip of his tongue, sweet with a little tang keeping it fresh and warm. The blood was already shed after all, to waste it would be a sin, a terrible sin.
No!
These weren’t his thoughts. Couldn’t be. Jack put the canteen away without drinking and started off toward the trees where he could sense Roulette’s presence. He’d get by, even if it meant following the wolves all the way through the mountains, feeding on
them until he got to a safer place.
Safer for him maybe, but not for anyone else.
***
The next night found Jack tracking the wolves through the trees. He’d left Roulette behind to graze; the horse had no love of wolves, or of watching his master hunt for that matter. The tracks were fresh enough that he didn’t think he’d have to go too far. The wolves had had some success with their own hunt; little bits of fur and bone littered the path. Jack was glad they had moved on from their fallen packmates. He suspected they were all the female’s litter, nearly full-grown. Now they’d left their mother behind. Six sets of tracks wove between the trees, six nights’ worth of meals. Seven, Jack. Don’t forget your special treat.
The previous night seemed like a fever dream, something a man would have in the desert at high noon. He concentrated on tracking the wolves. They weren’t far; he could hear their howls and other sounds, now high-pitched, now lower. Staccato sounds, like....
That’s not a wolf, Jack. That’s the very sound you don’t want to hear.
A woman’s voice, weeping.
The wolves had led him right to them, of course. Prey was prey.
Crying resolved into words. “You can’t keep me here. Not now. I wanna go home. Just let, let me go home.” Another woman’s voice answered, “You know I can’t do that.”
Jack crept closer. He looked between the trees and saw three figures outlined in the moonlight. The weeping one was sitting down on a fallen tree, hunched over herself. The second looked smaller than the other two, though it was hard to tell. She sat on the ground next to the weeping woman, with her legs drawn up under her chin. The third stood over them, holding a rifle in her hands. She was wearing dungarees instead of a skirt like the other two.
A silver dollar says you’re my good time gal. Well, now that I know where you are, I know where I’m not going to go.