The door stood open a few inches, with only a solid bar of blackness visible within.
Was Willa asleep? But why was the door ajar? Had the bushwhacking scum waited until he had left and then come after her? No, they didn't have time, nor even know she was here. Did Cale and his gang have other friends? Or...
Oakes crouched beside the door, his hands filled with both guns now. He called for Willa, half-expecting gunfire in reply. No answer. He took a breath, pushed the door open with his foot. It dragged hard on the dirt floor. The bottom hinge was off.
Oakes could barely make out the interior of the shack, but through the heavily-dust-flecked windows he could see enough to know there was no one waiting inside. He stepped through the doorway, clawing a cobweb out of his face as he went. He saw a lantern hanging beside one of the dirty windows. Still half-expecting to draw gunfire from some ambusher, he dug a match out of his vest-pocket and lit it.
The shack was deserted. Cobwebs hung at the corners, and everything was filmed with dust. Oakes stood in the forlorn shack and wondered if he had blundered into the wrong house in the dark. No, there was the fireplace with the little mirror above; the reflection it threw back at him looked even more terrible since the glass was dusty and cracked. There was the cot he had recuperated on. There was Willa's bed— and it wasn't empty.
The hackles on his neck rose, and the dull chill he had felt ever since awakening in the shack now sharpened into a keen edge that slid down the back of his neck and down his spine. But then he holstered his gun and stood bewildered in the lamplight. His head swam with thoughts of restless spirits and vengeance that was so desperately needed that it could be sought from beyond the grave.
In the end, Oakes carefully bundled up the dessicated bones he found on the bed and wrapped them in the tattered comforter there. He then buried them out behind the shack. But only after he had taken the time to pry out the brittle arrow that was deeply embedded in the hipbone.
THE DRIVE
By T.G. Shepherd
Three sunsets had passed and the drive was going well, despite the endless Arizona heat. A few of the cattle died every stop, of course, prey to exhaustion, to lack of food and water, to strange unknown causes that left them still and quiet by the side of the trail. The punishing sun would have killed more, but they were driving during the night, the bawling, stumbling herd a hundred strong tripping over its own lack of shadows.
Darcy rode with the easy sway of a man born in the saddle; indeed, he could not remember a time he hadn't been riding. It seemed forever now, driving herds to slaughter.
One of the pack tried to break away, to sway and swagger to a halt at the side of the Trail. Darcy kneed his gelding forward and a crop rose hissing into the air, smacked against rough hide. The bull bellowed and protested, shaking its head. The crop rose and fell again and drove the shaggy, unkempt creature back into the herd. Darcy slapped the leather of his boot for emphasis, then settled further into the numb expectation that ruled his life these long, cold nights and longer days. He tucked the whip back into its holder on the saddle, hand brushing the hilt of his Bowie knife.
The stupor took hold of him, lulled as he was by the sway of his horse, the tramp of the cattle, the grit taste of dust thick in the mouth. He longed for a drink but his canteen was dry. Thirsty, dirty and tired of life under the colorless moonlight, he fell into the waking sleep that took up so much of his life.
The Drive was over here, and night ruled no longer. He walked in cool green pastures, lay idling by still blue water and watched soft white lambs, like clouds come down from on high, gamboling over the hills. No more cattle, no more dust and death.
With a sigh and a start and that internal knowledge bred of too many drives, Darcy came to himself to see the eastern sky flush with false dawn. Up ahead Jimmy was waving excitedly, wide brimmed hat flailing in the growing light like the last spasms of some dying insect.
. Mason kicked up on his left, lit cigarette dangling from his thin lips. "I guess the new boy's found the restin' spot." His slow drawl nearly covered the dry sarcasm in the words. He and Darcy had been on more drives than they could count. They knew the trail like the backs of their leathery hands.
"He'll be discovering wood burns like as not, and before we can stop him." Darcy shaded his eyes, squinting into the growing brightness.
"Well, he's a powerful clever lad, that one. Could invent the wheel one of these days." Mason spat without dropping the cigarette, let his cold pale eyes sweep the herd. "Need to butcher one today"
Darcy nodded, standing in his stirrups to scan the backs of the cattle. "That one, there," he indicated. "Young, still got some meat on her."
Mason grunted. "Cut ~er when we get'm penned." He clicked to his horse and angled to the right of the herd.
Darcy loosened his crop in his fist and took a few practice swings. "Get up there, you lazy bastards. Get moving-you know the way by now."
***
When the cattle had been penned-deep in the back of a huge cave the hands had long ago prepared for the purpose— Darcy cut the young female out of the herd and drove her closer to the entrance of the cave.
The cattle were so tired he didn't even need to be riding his horse; his chosen victim gave only a tiny mumble of protest before he forced her up and away from the others. The unchosen cattle looked at him with mute exhausted eyes, resting on the hard rock floor or leaning against each other for warmth and comfort.
The one he'd chosen staggered before him with a kind of weary desperation, as though it sensed its impending doom.
Darcy forced it forward with little flicks of the crop. Idly, he wondered when this had stopped bothering him. Here he was, driving this creature to its untimely and unpleasant death, and he felt no more than a vague regret that he couldn't take another one as well. It would be nice to feel full fed for once— there were a lot of hands on this drive.
The others were waiting beyond the rough-built fence penning in the cattle. Some of the hands reached out to drive the female farther into the circle, towards where Mason stood, knife glittering.
The steel caught one eye-hurting ray of light as Mason twined a grubby fist in her hair, jerking her head up to expose her throat. Her hands scrabbled uselessly, soft helpless movements like the kicks of a new-born lamb.
The gash the knife made gaped like a second mouth, red and soft, above the collar of her cheap homespun dress. Darcy dropped back, so tired that even the scent of the fresh blood suddenly spouting from the girl's neck and the sound it made as it collected in the old, brown-crusted tin bucket didn't disturb him.
Loosening his canteen, Darcy unscrewed the cap and tipped it; a little clotted matter dripped out. He wiped it away and dipped iijto the newly-filled bucket.
One of the other hands-Jose-raised his red-stained face as Darcy bent. Liquid dripped from the Mexican's dagger chin. "You have a good eye for the senoritas." He grinned uncouthly and stood to one side.
Stooping, Darcy refilled his canteen with virgin's blood.
***
They were five days from the end of the drive when the wild cattle showed up.
Darcy was riding point that night, Jimmy tagging along; the newer hand's nasal, grating voice chasing the veteran through the darkness without letup. But for that, it was a pleasant night—pitch black and moonless, so Darcy's eyes didn't hurt for once and the two figures stood out against the gray rock like burning trees.
Their campfire was barely started, the tiny flames licking at uncharred wood. The man, tall and lanky, stood staring out into the night, his back to Darcy. His companion sat on the ground, legs folded and back straight.
The man was just a man, just more cattle, but the other...that one blurred against the background, and he could clearly see the fawn color of fabric and the whiteness of skin. That was wrong, bad, dangerous-his eyes, like any of the "other hands, needed no light to see clear in the darkness but the price was to live in a world almost devoid of color. Only black and white;
light and shadow; shades of gray.
And red, of course.
These two were trouble. He knew the signs by now. He backed off, let Jimmy take the lead. The boy would have to learn about those ones eventually. Thank Perdition they weren't exactly common. The last one they'd had coughed out his life four-no, six—drives ago, barely three days from the ranch. A troublemaker, but scrawny. No one had even bothered to drain his corpse.
The sitting figure was a girl. Darcy could distinguish the curve of her chest, the sweet hearted-shaped face, creamy white skin. Metal gleamed at her throat.
Darcy dismounted, motioned at Jimmy to do the same. Approaching on foot they were as silent as the moonlight itself. About twenty yards away, the man's twitching hands flickered. A Winchester was suddenly against his shoulder, pointed directly at Darcy's head. Despite himself, the hand was impressed by the other's speed and skill; the rifle had been cocked and leveled in the blink of an eye.
"I wouldn't come any closer, if I were you." His voice was calm, cool as water, very sincere. He exuded a sense of almost cheerful menace-like a man who could tell jokes while beating someone to a pulp.
Jimmy laughed nasally and advanced, but Darcy stood his ground. Something was different about this man, too. That such a man, with such a girl, would be waiting here of all places...the urge just to turn tail, to leave them alone in the darkness seized him with fierce hunger.
Then the girl opened her eyes. Her gentle glow grew brighter. And Darcy fell...
...forward into pools of green water, warm and peaceful, calm oozing into his pores like sunlight pouring through the cracks in a rotting brick wall. He soaked it up with his soul, let the sense of contentment cover his rotting skin with a layer of silken serenity, sweet as fresh water, gentle as a warm summer wind, visions playing in his mind, from his waking dreams, from times that seemed past and gone: a woman's face, voices massed in song, colored light streaming through the windows into his mind filling the cracks and crannies of blackness with radiance-
She looked away, up at the tall man. "Gently, Jamison." Her voice was oddly accented, falling off the 1 into an r "Yeah," chortled Jimmy. "Yeah, you jus' hold on there, boy. We'll get to you soon enough." He stalked forward, hands clawing out to snatch at the girl. The humans both jerked back in surprise as they saw his face clearly for the first time.
Darcy could sense it now, what was drawing the younger hand forward: purity. Not the enforced pureness of a virgin but something that ran deeper, soul-deep. Unstained and sweet, like the flame of a pure beeswax candle; ambrosia, to their kind. Irresistible.
Darcy held his tongue. The boy would have to learn. Jimmy touched the girl's shoulder. She flared suddenly, would have blinded Darcy if he hadn't looked away. In the light, Jimmy screeched. When he looked back, the other hand was hopping away from the girl, cradling his smoking hand against his chest.
Darcy sighed, stepped forward and plucked the rifle out of the tall human's hands. The man jerked forward, until the rifle barrel touched his chest. Darcy shook his head. "The Gatling, too, Agent." He gestured at the man's coat, used the rifle barrel to twitch it aside. The unmistakable shape of a Gatling pistol holster bulged at his hip. Darcy plucked it free, shoving it into his duster pocket.
That got a reaction: dark eyes narrowed, grin twisting his dusky face into something more wry, more dangerous. "Ex-Agent."
Jimmy interrupted, whining.
"What'n Hell was that? Why didn't ya warn me? How'd the liddle bitch do tha? If'n you don' kill her, I'm goin' ta. Right now." He flexed his claws, letting them grow inches in a heart beat. Slashing the air, he stalked towards her again.
Darcy put the rifle up against Jimmy's spine and pulled the trigger. Jimmy spun around with the impact, bone and dry flesh fountaining. Thick, black liquid sprayed from the huge wound, some splattering the girl's still form. She twitched away, but did not rise.
Deliberately, Darcy cocked the rifle again and shattered Jimmy's right knee; a third time and almost severed his left arm. Then he hauled the mangled hand over to a rock and propped him up against it.
Jimmy stared at him with wide eyes, shock and confusion in every line of his body. Their kind couldn't feel pain but massive physical damage gets through the hardest of heads. His mouth opened and shut like a saloon door but the only sound he could make was a faint whisper. Most of his lungs were dripping from nearby rocks.
Darcy squatted companionably next to him. "Jimmy, next shelter's about three hours walk east of here. Sunrise's about six hours away. If you can heal up in time, I'll see you there. Thanks for the horse."
The girl had risen quietly while he was speaking. Now she knelt just as he was getting to his feet. She reached out and made a complex motion in the air over Jimmy's head, then touched the metal at her throat. "May your next life be happier than this one. Go with the Golden One."
Jamison helped her up. Darcy twitched aside his coat, checking for more weapons, and liberated a Bowie knife from the back of the human's belt. He caught a swift, irritated glance but the man seemed more concerned for the gentle grief that poured from the girl. She was tiny, head not even clearing his shoulder. Her long dark braid thumped against the man's boots.
"Too soft-hearted. He was trying to kill you." Jamison's tone was almost scolding.
Darcy studied them, felt their bond like heat on his face. That irrational desire-just to turn and ride away, let them go-surfaced, scratching at the back of his eyes. He slapped it down. Lingering after, doubt scampered through his thoughts like a rabid mouse. What in Damnation are these people doing here?
The girl looked up at him, her eyes shining bright green. One tear worked its way down her cheek.
"Get moving. You're cattle now." Desires meant nothing; doubt was pointless; the drive was all.
Jamison looked at the rifle, frustration wild on his face. His hands twitched up, fists clenched. Darcy gestured at Jimmy. "Want to end up like that, human?" he grunted. The tall man showed his teeth for a second, then relaxed. He and the girl started walking.
He kicked out their fire and followed them, leading both the horses. Mason joined him as they neared the herd.
Long silence. Then: "Heard gunshots." Pause. "Where's Jimmy?"
"Invented the rifle bullet. I helped him test it. Worked real well."
Mason grunted, switched his cigarette from right to left and back again. "Good riddance." He nodded at the pair walking calmly before them. "That's a little odd, huh?"
Darcy looked up at him, shrugged. "Odd? Odd doesn't matter—they're cattle now. Besides, if they got word we let one like that—" a hand raised to his chest indicated the girl by height "—go before they drained her themselves..." They both shuddered. Mason's cigarette fell spinning to the ground as he spat, thick and black. Darcy's thoughts twisted away again, settling back into the patterns of the drive.
Ahead, the new cattle merged quietly into the herd and vanished.
***
When they holed up that morning Darcy had to face down Brin over the new arrivals. She called them dangerous and wanted them dead. Darcy had to show his fangs to back her down but she gave up eventually. Mason backed him and that was enough. They were the oldest, the strongest, the fastest. They knew best.
It should have elated him, watching her will break under his gaze but Darcy just felt tired. He stalked away, looking for a quiet spot deeper in the darkness of the cave. The others respected him, feared him a little-even Mason- but they didn't really like or accept him. He'd never cared to be accepted, really: on the long ranch nights between drives, when the others gathered to gamble, carouse, kill and torture Darcy seldom joined them.
Instead, he would persistently find himself walking into the star-splattered darkness, moving far and fast into cold empty. He would find a hill, or a high rock, or just the bank of a shallow stream and lie staring up at the points of light; listening to the thousands of sounds in the darkness; listening to the wind blowing through the holes in his soul.
Once, last drive, he'd come back early and cut a young female out of the herd, threw her onto his horse and ridden away. He returned alone and bore the crude teasing in silence. None of the others ever guessed that he'd taken the girl as far away from the ranch as he could manage, left her pointed in the right direction for the nearest town and sped away.
It meant nothing, of course: one saved over...how many drives? Why could he never remember?
Why did he even care?
He fetched up against the cattle pen with its four foot fence and quite suddenly saw the girl-China Sue, he'd heard her called by the cattle-standing quietly before him, green eyes calm, body still. Jamison hovered in the background, a tall smear against the rock.
Darcy's lips skinned back from his fangs again. "Get away from the fence, cattle." Her head tilted to the side like a bird or a squirrel but she didn't move.
"I said-"
"If you truly wish me to leave, sir, I will. But I think that perhaps you wish me to stay." She flared again, colors standing bright and clear: golden-brown hair tipped in solid black, green eyes, bow-shaped mouth. A white girl, despite her name.
Darcy opened his mouth to snarl a denial...and found himself wiping his hand over his face instead. Abruptly lying to this gentle-voiced girl seemed a ridiculous effort. She was nothing but cattle; what did it matter that he spoke with her?
"I want it to end, cattle." He sounded infinitely weary, even to his own ears.
China Sue nodded, politely. "What do you wish ended, honored sir? This journey?"
He laughed; harsh ragged sound dragged from his gut. "My life." The words sprang from the part of him that listened to the wind in the dead of night.
"Suicide offends against the Lord and the Golden One. Life is their great gift to us." She vibrated the very air with her sincerity.
Darcy laughed again, his throat aching with the unaccustomed strain. "Offends the Lord? My existence offends him, little lady. Or maybe you haven't noticed what I am?"
She nodded again, her light drawing in to lie poised and ready just under her skin. "I know what you are. Soon you will know again yourself."
A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 12