And then McCready sat up on the table.
The rest was a confused jumble of events that Oakes could never separate into hallucination and reality. Naked and gorily jawless, McCready clamped one spade-like hand over the top of the gun-wielding doctor's head, his fingers digging into the man's eyes. The pistol went off, once, twice, again. Oakes stumbled backward, unharmed, as the doctor's flailing gun-hand threw shots all through the surgery. Oakes's last view inside the surgery was of McCready sliding off the table, yanking the screaming doctor's head back with a vicious snap. The other doctor whirled to go out the opposite way But he had run smack dab into a second table, on which another naked corpse lay And it too had stirred with the impact, an arm shooting up...
Then Oakes was gone, tripping over bunks and leaving behind the moaning wounded as he fled the chaos of the House of Screams. He risked one last look behind him as he ran stumbling through the graveyard. The Screaming House was in flames.
And like never before, it was living up to its name.
***
Oakes jolted out of sleep with a start. He was in Willa's shack, but he couldn't tell what time of day it was. Only a grey light filtered in through the windows, and he heard and smelled the rain that was falling.
Willa was sitting on her bed in the far corner, mending what Oakes soon realized was his corduroy jacket. She looked up after a moment.
"You been fightin' the war again, Sol. Must have some unfinished bus'ness there too."
He rubbed his eyes, swung out of bed. "Nah. It's finished alright. Leastways, for me it is." He meant it. He had gone west after that night. It took him a week or so to get his strength back, but at least he had left behind Wolf Creek and the Screaming House. Physically, anyway Something had been gnawing at Oakes ever since he had first awakened in Willa's shack. He finally felt up to asking.
"Why'd you cut me down, Willa? Why'd you... well, bring me back, if that's what you done?"
Willa laid his jacket aside and looked squarely at him, her brown eyes more serious than he had seen thus far. Again, he noticed the Colt Navy pistol lying on the bed beside her.
"I saw what they did to you, Solomon. And I couldn't help you, even though every drop of blood in me wanted to. I'm sorry for that, for not bein' able ta do anything to save you." Willa's voice had quivered as she spoke, and Oakes knew there was more to this. But Willa went on, and now he felt the heat in her words.
"But I did bring you back. And now that I know who you are, I know you're the man 1 need. Like I told you before, you have a powerful name, Solomon Oakes. And a man of power is what we need."
"Need for what, Willa?"
"For revenge, Sol. For revenge. For you. For me. And for my son. See Sol, I told you that you weren't the first man those stinkin' cowards back at the cantina had bushwhacked the way they did. They did my Roger the same way."
"Four years back, my boy Roger was in the army, same as you, I reckon. An' like you, he had his fill of killin' and bein' shot at, and nothin' bein' gained on either side for all the blood bein' spilled. So he walked away from it, same as you. Oh, you don't have to say anythin', I can see it. Nothin' ta be ashamed of. Wars is just ways politicians have of takin' folks' minds off of more important things. They don't give a cuss who gets their head shot off, long as it ain't them or any o' their kin."
"But Roger, he left the war and came down here to Texas. He was going to settle down, mark him out a little farm. Maybe raise some cattle. He always was kind of a loner, didn't ask for much, didn't need for much." Willa's voice had softened considerably in telling Oakes of her son, a far cry from the venom she had spat when she had spoken of revenge.
"This was his house, Solomon. He built it himself. It ain't much, but it was all he needed. He had saved a little money from the Army, and he set himself up here off where no one would bother him.
"But them boys at the cantina didn't like having that free nigra so close to their waterin' hole. They didn't say it as much, but Roger knew. He bought a few things there from them, trying to show them he meant no harm, or at least show 'em he wasn't afraid."
Willa looked hard at Oakes now. "He was wrong to think he could stand up to them. There's certain folks you can impress with yer grit, and certain folks don't give a hoot how much sand you have. Those lizards—"
"They dragged him off his horse one afternoon, way I hear it. Not far from the cantina, even though Roger had learned enough to try and steer clear of 'em. But—they took him anyway, Solomon. They took him and they sat him on his horse underneath that same tree and they laughed at him and spat on him."
"And they hung him, Solomon. They hung my only son from that tree. Hung him until he was dead and then just left him there to rot. It was only later that somebody was passin' by and saw-saw-Well, they took him down and buried him. Or so they tell me."
Oakes closed his eyes, anger welling up within him, brimming past the sadness he felt for Willa.
"I'm sorry, Willa."
Willa had paused and was looking distractedly at the floor between her feet. When she looked up, her eyes were bright with moisture. And something else.
"I missed all'a this. I was livin' in N'Ahleans at the time. I'd been meanin' to come see my Roger, but I didn't get around to it until it was too late. As it was, when I did decide to come up here, I run across a bunch of Mescalero Apaches on the way. Least that's what I figure they were. They had a string of horses they'd stolen from some Mexican traders, and they didn't have no problem with the idea of takin' themselves a black woman for a slave.
"Well, I did have a problem with that. I had a Henry rifle with me, and I wasn't too bad a shot, as a few of them Injuns could tell you now, if they wasn't dead. Unfortunately, they weren't too bad a shots either. One'a them devils put an arrow in my leg, up by the hipbone. But by then I'd shot enough of 'em they decided I was more trouble than I was worth. So they killed my horse and left me out there thinkin' I'd die." Willa smiled broadly at that. She was damned proud of having singlehandedly fought off the Indians and lived to tell of it. Oakes was damned impressed too. The Apaches weren't known to run from a fight in which they had the upper hand. Maybe this bunch was smarter than most.
"Anyway, I yanked that arrow out, but I didn't do such a good job. Mind you, I don't think many a college-ed'icated doctor coulda done much of a better job, cuz it was in there good and deep. An' that's why I got this dead leg you been watchin' me drag around here the past few days. I walked the rest of the way up here, 'bout 25 miles or so, usin' that poor rifle fer a crutch. 'Fraid it wasn't much good for shootin' when I got here."
Oakes chuckled, but he was growing even more impressed with Willa's grit by the minute. He had known she was tough, but he had no idea she was this tough.
"But when I got here, Sol, you know what I found. My boy had been dead for some months, and it took me awhile to figure out what had happened to him."
Oakes thought a moment. "How'd you manage to keep out of sight of those bas-those skunks at the cantina?"
"They weren't expecting anybody to miss a dead nigra Army deserter. None'a them figured he had anything worth stealin', so they never come near this place. Surprised they didn't burn it to the ground. Them kind usually like burnin' anything that belongs to nigras."
Oakes said nothing. He sat back, brought a hand to his mangled neck. Felt the abraded flesh there. He thought of how terrified he was as he hung from that tree with the blackness closing over him like water over a drowning man's head. He shuddered. But when he looked up at her, his jaw was set and his eyes were cold.
"I'll need guns, Willa."
***
Oakes stopped beside the road when he reached the cantina. For the fourth time he drew out each of the guns Willa had given him and weighed them in his hands. Of the two, the Smith & Wesson Schofield seemed in better shape, so this he wore in the holster at his right. It was almost as heavy a weapon as his favored .45 Colt Army, but styled slightly differently. Still it was the newer and heavier of the tw
o, and the loads were more reliable.
The .36 Colt Navy he wore at his left hand. It wasn't as heavy as his Colt Army and it too felt uncomfortable to draw -almost featherlight in his grip. He checked the cylinders in the old Colt again, praying that the old cap and ball loads were still good. He had replaced the caps, but that still left the possibility that the powder would fail him.
They were Roger's guns, of course. Willa had found them in the shack when she came. They were the only things of value he had owned. They were old, outmoded, relatively worthless, but still deadly in the right hands. Willa had given them to Oakes, watched him practice pulling them, and finally had wished him luck when he left. She had also given him an old pair of Roger's boots, since the bushwhackers had taken his. Another one he owed them.
Satisfied that this was the best he had to work with, Oakes strode toward the cantina.
Near the front step he paused, drew the Schofield, and stepped alongside the battered door. Flattening his back against the building, he peered sideways through the nearest window. The window was almost opaque with dust and grime, but Oakes could see that the place was as nearly-deserted as he had last seen it. In fact, the men he was seeking were sitting at the same table at which he had last seen them. Of course, now there was no chair for him. And of course, the last time he had seen them sitting there was just before they decided to throw him a little necktie social.
Delp sat with his back to the door. The weasel-faced Snyder sat to his left, his back near the wall; he still had a sliver of wood stuck between his brown front teeth. Cale, as sour-faced as ever, sat to Snyder's left, his back also to the wall; he was dealing, and it didn't look like he was doing himself any favors by the privilege. Finally, sitting between Delp and Cale was the Kid, his chair turned so that he faced the bar. Oakes couldn't see the bar, which would be to his left when he entered. That fat sonofabitch of a bartender would undoubtedly be back there wiping glasses and swatting flies with the same rag. Oakes minded this latter only for a few seconds. Then he drew the old feather-light Navy with his left hand.
And, moving onto the step, he pushed the door wide open with one foot.
He didn't hesitate. The Colt Navy in his left hand barked even as he stepped inside. Delp, his back to the door, turned to see who had entered behind him. The bullet tore through his throat and spattered blood across the table between Snyder and Cale. Still seated, Delp slammed sideways into the table and bounced out of his chair onto the floor. Blood was spurting out of his gaping throat, and he could only manage to gasp and sputter and flutter his hands weakly. But Oakes's guns were already at work again.
He fired both guns simultaneously toward Snyder, who had half-risen and was going for his gun, gasping "Shit" as he did so. To Oakes' horror the Navy load didn't fire, but the bullet from the Schofield drove straight through Snyder's heart. He took his chair backward with him to the floor.
The Kid had also fallen over backward when Oakes entered. He stumbled to his feet in a screaming panic and scrambled for the back door, some thirty feet to Oakes' right.
Cale had drawn both guns-Oakes noted with some irritation that they were HIS guns-and was ducking beneath the table as Oakes' next pair of shots thudded across the scarred tabletop directly in a line with where Cale's head was; woodchips flew even as Cale's guns smoked in answer from beneath the table. One shot went wild, the other caught the bottom of the table, sent more woodchips flying, and went whining out the door between Oakes' feet.
"You sonofabitch! You sonofabitch! You're dead!" bellowed Cale as he took his shots from under the table.
Oakes dropped to his haunches and fired under the table once with each gun. Both shots took Cale in the chest, and he crashed back against the wall. His hands flopped to his sides, but he still limply clutched Oakes' guns.
The Kid had reached the back door and had stepped out onto the deck that led down to the stable. In his haste he had flung the door wide open, and through it Oakes now took one shot with the Schofield. The bullet hit exactly where he was aiming, tearing a big bloody hole through his right thigh and sending him clattering down the back steps. He screamed and thudded out of Oakes' sight.
The air inside the cantina was choked with the stench of gunsmoke and blood.
Oakes heard twin hammers snapped back behind him, and dropped to the floor just as a deafening explosion roared from behind the bar. Some of the buckshot tore into the front door of the cantina, still open behind Oakes. Oakes rolled onto his backside and let loose two more shots toward the bar. Having missed his shots, the bartender stood with a last look of dumbfounded horror on his face as Oakes' bullets struck him in both breasts. He crashed backward against the bottle-strewn shelf behind him, the shotgun swinging across the bar and sweeping it clean of glasses. He went down in a shower of broken glass and spilled alcohol.
Flat on his butt, almost out of bullets, Oakes surveyed the ruined cantina. To his left came the drip-drip of whiskey wasted on a posthumous toast to the dead bartender. Almost at his feet, the stilled Delp made one last rasping sound that seemed to come as much from the ragged hole in his throat as it did from his bloody lips. Behind Delp, Snyder lay motionless on the floor. Next to Snyder, back behind the table, Cale's feet scrabbled weakly at the floor, but neither his arms nor his legs were obeying his will.
Oakes got to his feet, moved around the table, the Schofield trained toward where Cale sat, his back against the wall. His vest was marked with two great red stains, a couple of inches apart, over the heart. He looked up as Oakes came around. His eyes rolled back, his mouth opened involuntarily as he struggled to speak.
"Hell musta spit you back out, mister" he managed.
Oakes' dark eyes narrowed. He looked down at the man who had hung him, then stolen his boots, his horse, and his guns.
"You'll haveta remember ta ask 'em about it when ya get there." Oakes finished him off with the last .36 round.
He retrieved his revolvers from Cale, who'd be needing them for no more bushwhackings. Snyder had his boots, and Oakes winced at the possibility the sonofabitch might have the toerot or something. He took them back anyway. He found his watch in Delp's vest-pocket, but the crystal had broken when he collided with the table. Oakes swore, and kicked Delp in the side, but kept it anyway. He took what money the men had, then went out the back door toward the stable.
The Kid lay at the foot of the wooden steps, moaning. Blood slicked the grassy ground around his leg, which he was clutching with both hands even though one of his arms was apparently broken from his little trip down the steps. He gasped and whined as Oakes strode over and past him toward the stable.
"Jesus, mister, please don't kill me!" But Oakes had disappeared into the stable.
The tall, dusty man reappeared several minutes later, leading two horses—his own and a pale pony. Only his mare was saddled. The Kid had to contort himself on the ground to look back to see Oakes approaching. As he did so he thought he saw a wisp of smoke from inside the stable catch the wind and vanish into the air.
Oakes tied the horses to the railing of the staircase, tromped upstairs and went into the cantina. The Kid heard glass breaking, then Oakes' steps returning. Smoke followed him out the doorway.
"What.?" the Kid started to ask. He shut up when he saw the look emerging from behind Oakes' black mane and the dirt streaking his black-bearded face. It was a smile, but good God...
"Let's you and me go for a ride, son."
Then he kicked the Kid in the side of the head just as hard as he could.
***
When the Kid awoke, he found he could hardly move. His hands were tied behind him, his neck was stiff, and his head was held uncomfortably upright.
By a rope.
His eyes cleared instantly, and he recognized where he was.
And he remembered why.
Evening had come, sending long shadows through the sparse woods. Beneath him the horse snorted and twitched just a bit as the Kid jerked his head right and left to look for Oa
kes. He was behind him and to his left, smoking a cigarette, his hat pushed back on his head.
"I wouldn't be jerkin' around any too much if I were you, kid. That pony's been standin' there all relaxed fer quite awhile, and you're liable to spook him." Oakes walked around so the Kid could see him without craning his neck. He was still smiling.
"Then again, eventually that churnhead's gonna get hungry and wander off anyway Needless to say, you won't be makin' that trip with him."
The Kid finally found his voice; it was faster and higher-pitched than he remembered. "Mister, I never meant no harm.
Them other guys made me go along with 'em! They made me help 'em! I—"
Oakes's scowl cut him off. "That right? They made you pull on my legs to finish me off? That your regular job is it?" He looked the trembling Kid square in the eye.
The Kid quailed. Panic surged in him now. There was no sympathy in this man-this man who had come back from the grave—for Christ's sake he had heard the man's neck snapping!
"You pull the legs on that colored soldier awhile back too?
Huh?"
The Kid stared through eyes burning with terrified tears. He was going to die. The Devil had sent this man back to get him for all he and the others had done.
The Kid's blood turned as cold as the look on Oakes's shadow-haunted face. Oakes took the dwindled cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground beneath the pony. Then he turned and took the reins of his own horse and led her off into the trees.
The Kid watched him disappear. And waited in the dusk.
***
Night had fallen by the time Oakes neared Willa's shack. Cold stars glared down from the clear night sky. His revenge done, Oakes felt cold and alone, like the last man alive in this lonely corner of Texas.
He drew the mare up back down the path from the shack, tethered her to a post oak and squinted into the dark ahead. No lights blazed in the shack. Oakes drew one of his Colts and slipped toward the shack in a half-crouch.
A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 11