Harry would be worried; Harry would be furious; Harry would be jealous. Harry would come for her.
A rough hand pawed her shoulder and upper arm. She turned her head to regard her molester. A black-toothed reprobate who was covered in thick, bristly black hair and had a mask of caked-on dirt around his eyes, like a raccoon, was stroking her shoulder.
“You’re a right randy adventuress, ain’t ’che?” he muttered around his alcohol-thickened tongue. “Why don’cha come on back in the piss alley wif’ me and we’ll—”
Blacktooth never got to finish. A powerful hand grabbed his collarbone and squeezed. The drunk screamed as Holly heard the bone crunch. The hand belonged to a tall, stocky man with bright green eyes and hair and clothes the color of coal. He lifted the drunk by his broken bone and hurled him casually over his shoulder, across the room. He didn’t bother to take his eyes off of Holly to see where Blacktooth landed with a loud crash and many shouts and curses.
“Are you all right?” the man in black asked as he sat next to Holly. His arms and neck were the size of small trees. His chest was easily as broad as half a wooden barrel. There was not an ounce of fat on his frame or face, which had clean, sharp, handsome features. He wore his hair like a soldier, short on the sides and swept back from his brow. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No,” she said softly. The sheer size of this man, his presence, made her feel very small. There was something about him, about those eyes, green like sunlight falling through emerald glass, like cold green fire. “I’m, I’m fine. Thank you. Please, have a drink.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh, well—”
The click of a pistol being cocked interrupted her. A man stood behind her savior with a gun to his head. The gunman’s lip was bleeding.
“You wrecked my table and broke my bottle, you bastard,” he said.
“Yes, I did,” the big man in black said, and turned to face the gun. “Do you know me?”
The gunman furrowed his brow; awareness burned through the haze of the bad whiskey.
“You’re that deacon fellow, ain’t you? Come with that preacher that’s been staying up at the old Reid house.”
“I am. I don’t want any trouble. The reverend has drink that he gives to those who are in need. Go up to the house and your libation will be replaced.”
“Maybe I don’t want to walk all the way over yonder to get back what I rightfully had.”
The deacon leaned forward, until the gun’s barrel was crushed against his chest.
“You don’t want any trouble.” The deacon rose and suddenly the gun in the injured man’s hand seemed like a toy. “Do you … friend?”
“Uh, no. No sir. Bad luck to scrap with a servant of the Lord.”
“Yes, it is. Go in the peace of our Lord, my friend. The reverend will be expecting you. Our doors are always open to those in need. He may have a spot of supper for you as well.”
“I’m … I’m much obliged, sir. Please accept my apology.”
The man lowered the gun and slipped out the front door, his head lowered. The deacon sat down again and regarded Holly.
“You scared him,” she said as she tossed back another three fingers of whiskey. The deacon said nothing. The chaos of the saloon returned, but everyone gave Holly a wide berth now that she was under the watchful eye of the hulking man in black.
“Where is he?” the deacon finally said many drinks later.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“What makes you think I got one?”
“The ring. Other things. You’re smart, well educated. You speak well, even as inebriated as you are. Your clothes are expensive and you have obviously bathed often and recently. You’re no camp whore. You’re a woman of means and out here that usually means a husband of means as well.”
Holly stopped pouring another drink and turned to regard the deacon. He was a handsome man, powerfully built, with broad shoulders. She liked having the attention and the interest of a man like this. He was just the kind of man she’d want Harry to see her with when he came barging in here to drag her home. He was perfect. She leaned forward and let her small, pale hand rest on his immutable stone chest.
“He’s off with his Nancy-boy, most likely. Why do you ask?”
“He’s a sodomite?”
She ran her hand across his chest, reaching his upper arm. She stroked it—it was like caressing a telegraph pole and she felt a very real, visceral thrill race through her body. This man was like a god and he was interested in her, intent on her. His unwavering, almost cruel emerald stare was for her, and her alone. He wanted her.
“Oh yes. When he’s not busy being mayor.”
“Interesting.”
“I never thought I’d hear a man of the cloth call sodomy anything but a sin that sent you straight to Hell.”
“Reverend Ambrose has a slightly different view on sin. It’s one of the reasons I joined him.”
“Where you from … I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”
“Phillips. My name is Phillips.”
“Where are you from, Phillips?”
“Lots of places. I travel with the reverend.”
“You sound southern.”
He said nothing.
“Why did you ask about my husband?”
“Because I wanted to know if I was going to get shot when I take you out of here with me.”
“Pretty sure of yourself,” she said, and emptied her half-full glass. She began to fill it again. “Why would I go anywhere with you, sir?”
“He’s not coming,” he said. “If he gave a damn about you, he’d already be here, or he would never have let you come to some place like this in the first place.”
Holly stopped drinking. She lowered the glass and her eyes focused, hot and clear, on the splintery wood of the bar in front of her.
“But I see you, really see you,” he went on. “I see a beautiful woman, I see her in pain, see her screaming, and I see no one listening. This is not how your life is supposed to be, is it? You’re right, it isn’t. He goes off and screws some piano player’s ass, while you, Holly, you feel yourself wear away each day like sandstone in the wind. Why me? Because I see a woman who is desirable and deserving of love and affection. I see you, all of you, and I want what I see. And best of all, it will hurt him so much—it will make him feel what you have felt, make him feel the flush of shame, the sting of self-doubt, the wash of self-loathing, of not being enough. It will make him feel your pain.”
She rose quickly, violently, and hurled her glass at the towers of bottles and jugs behind the bar. Shards exploded everywhere. The salon was silent again.
“What the Jesse do you think you’re doing, you crazy bitch!” the barkeep bellowed, coming up on her fast. Phillips interposed himself between her and Milk-Eye.
“We’re leaving,” he said. “Perhaps this will cover the costs of the damages and any other expenses we might have accrued.”
He tossed something on the bar. The barkeep’s one good eye widened. A shiny nugget of rough-hewn silver shimmered in the lantern light.
Holly grabbed her bottle and took Phillips’s arm as she strode toward the door.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.
It was cold outside. After the stifling heat and smoke of the Mother Lode, it felt good. She had no idea where the buggy was; she cared less. She took another long drag off the bottle, swallowed and then felt hot, scratchy bile claw its way up her throat. She gagged, burped and then laughed. She bumped into Phillips’s broad back, and fell down, still laughing.
“Did you see the look on his face when you dropped that silver down? I thought his eye was going to fall out!”
She took the calloused hand he offered, and he lifted her out of the rut-creased dirt road and she flopped forward into his arms.
“Gracious, you have big hands,” she muttered against his chest, still giggling. “Where on earth did you get that silver
?”
“Come on,” he said “I’ll show you.”
He lifted her onto the wagon as easily as he might lift a small child. It was an old buckboard, with jagged gaps in a few of the rotted boards that made up the bed. There were several sealed wooden crates and a few hoop barrels sitting in the back. There was also something large and awkward shaped under a thick wool army horse blanket.
Phillips climbed up onto the seat next to her and took the reins. The horses snorted and fidgeted, pawing and stomping the ground.
“Something is spooking the poor things,” she said as she looked for her bottle.
“Yes,” he said. Tugging on the reins, he urged the frightened horses to volition, and the wagon lurched forward into the dark.
The fires at the summit of Argent Mountain were guttering in the burly desert winds, throwing shadows and sparks across the mining camp. It was late and most of the crews were asleep. Two sentries with rifles and lanterns stood watch by the main road. They waved Phillips’s wagon to a stop.
“What’s your business here at this godforsaken hour?” the older one said around a wad of chaw.
The younger one opened the eye of his lantern to get a better look at the occupants of the wagon. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Phillips, sir,” the younger one said.
The older one eyed Holly but said nothing.
“Dropping off a few things,” Phillips said.
“On your way then,” the old man said, waving them through with his lantern.
“You one of the men who bought the mine from Malachi Bick?” Holly said.
“No.”
They moved past the empty pavilions and the row upon row of dark and silent workers’ tents.
“How did those guards know you?”
“I work for the reverend. He is an advisor to the men who acquired the mine. They couldn’t have done it without the reverend’s help.”
“Why are we here? Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
“I want to know,” she said. The chill of the ride and curtness of Phillips’s answers were pushing the vague warmth out of Holly’s body and mind. It was beginning to dawn on her that home, Harry and safety were a distant point of light far across the gulf and that she was alone with a strange man in a strange, barren place. The anger she felt at Harry allowing her to be here gave way to the realization of where that anger had led her. She felt the panic begin to churn in her like white water.
“I’d like to go home now please,” she said. She tried to hide the shiver in her voice. Phillips pulled the buckboard to a stop, turned and regarded her. His eyes burned green, even in the pale starlight. For the first time he smiled. He pulled her to him and crushed her mouth to his. There had been a very narrow window when Holly had wanted this, when his words in the bar had made her feel rage and desire and need, but that time had passed. This man frightened her, and as his mouth forced its way into her own she felt a cold, slaughterhouse draft pass through her. His tongue was powerful and insistent. It seemed too pointed and too long, too deep. She tasted oily blood and gagged as she struggled to push away from him. She broke the kiss and felt the gorge rise in her belly, but before she could heave the foulness out of her, Phillips slapped her across the face. She saw bright light and fell. There was a harsh impact and sharp, jagged pain in her back. Everything fell into dizzy, drunken shadow. The last thing she saw was his beatific smile.
She awoke in cool echoes and unyielding darkness. He was carrying her like a sack of flour—by the legs, over his shoulder.
The mine. They were deep in the silver mine. She knew by the strange way the sound of his footsteps bounded and faded down the timber-ribbed tunnels and finally flattened, dead, against the unconquered walls of the mountain. She had been here once with Harry when he first became mayor, when he still loved her. The tunnels were still alive then with the light of lamps and filled with the sound of men warring against the Earth to give up its treasure.
“Why … Why are you doing this?” she asked, still too confused to be afraid. Her lips felt swollen and numb. She tasted blood. The vile aftertaste of Phillips’s tongue still remained. Even the blood and the cheap whiskey could not remove it.
“Be quiet,” he said. “He’ll explain everything. We’re almost there.”
“Help me!” she screamed, and struggled against him, pounding his back with her hands, trying to wiggle free. He swung her off his shoulder and she felt the mine floor smash into her back. She gasped and struggled to rise. She couldn’t breathe. He had her by the throat and lifted her effortlessly, above his head. There was no air and she struggled to keep from falling into a complete frenzy, but the fear was running through her like mad horses. She kicked him in the chest and ribs to no apparent effect.
“I don’t want you dead. He doesn’t want you dead. It would be easy if I wanted it, easy as killing an ant. Now be still and be quiet or I will rip out your tongue. He said I could do that if you gave me trouble.”
He returned her to the floor and eased his grip. Air, sweet air, came back into her aching lungs and she drank it in greedy gulps.
“My husband, the mayor, will make you pay for this,” she said.
“Is this the same husband you were going to rut with me to hurt?” Phillips said as he let her go. He pointed with the lantern toward a yawning passage. “Move.”
“Bastard!” she spit.
He said nothing, simply pushed her forward.
They reached a crude barricade in the middle of the shaft. A wooden sign declared that the tunnels ahead had not been fully shorn up and could collapse. Another sign said that there was blasting underway. Phillips grabbed her arm and pulled her around the barrier. They continued deeper into the dangerous tunnel.
Holly felt her ears pop as the slope continued ever downward. They had been walking so long time had stretched like taffy. The tunnels creaked and groaned with the weight of the world. Occasionally, dust and small bits of rock would rain down as the Earth breathed. It was getting hotter too; the darkness itself seemed to waver and ripple. Sweat tricked down her neck and back. She absently wondered if the mad deacon was walking her into Hell.
Phillips had paused twice—not for rest. He seemed to never tire, but the lantern did need tending. She was exhausted, sick and thirsty from the alcohol. The fear had time to congeal in her and had become a terrible weariness. She just wanted to rest, to lie down. She told herself she didn’t care where they were going or what he was going to do to her. Occasionally she would envision Harry with a torch in his hand, leading a group of the town’s men deep into the tunnels, in pursuit. But she did not believe it. No one was coming for her. No one knew she was here and no one would save her. No one.
The tunnel narrowed until Phillips’s head and chest were scraping the roof and walls, dislodging dust and small rocks with every step. His hand was an iron vice gripping her wrist as she trailed behind him. They came to an opening in the tunnel wall, surrounded by piles of rubble and dirt. The air smelled of gun smoke. Wooden crates marked with warnings to handle with care, coils of fuse, wire and box-like detonators were piled near the tunnel wall.
“In here,” Phillips said as he pushed her toward the hole. She climbed over the debris. On the other side of the hole there was nothing but yawning darkness, eternal night. The floor was smooth, flat—like it had been sanded, polished. There were tiny scratches in its surface.
“What is this?” she whispered. Her voice echoed in the vast black.
“You have passed outside of reason,” he said. “Older powers govern here.”
She focused on the rock face of the floor, illuminated in Phillips’s lantern. Her eyes had adjusted as best they could to the feeble light. The gray surface gave way to silvery black; occasionally light would reflect back at her like a shower of stars. Silver, the floor was almost pure silver. The scratches became alien markings and symbols on the silver face. They made her feel sick, strange, uncomfortable in her skin, as if her brain were plotting agains
t her behind her face. They seemed to slither and squirm like worms in a hot skillet. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore them, but many of the images burned their way into her eyes through the lids. Other sang to her in voices that had no throats.
“Move,” Phillips said with a shove. She staggered forward across the Argent floor. Eventually she saw an island of light in the darkness. Its appearance excited her, spurred her on, even as it filled her with dread. These were her last thoughts, last moments, last breaths. She couldn’t muster the strength to weep.
A lantern on the floor was the source of the light. A man stood behind it, his features swallowed up in the shadows. He was neither as tall nor as powerful in build as Phillips, but he stood very straight. Holly could see he had a mane of hair and whiskers the color of ash. He wore a simple flat-brimmed hat and a knee-length coat—both black.
“Very good, Phillips,” the old man said. The voice was as smooth as broken leather, cloying as honey. “You’ve served me well, as always, my loyal friend.”
Phillips shoved her forward and she fell upon the black, glittering floor. The old man knelt and cupped her face. She could see his face now; he was probably in his sixties. His eyes were kind and blue.
“Hello, Holly,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time. I’m the Reverend Ambrose Ashton Smith. You can call me Ambrose. Welcome.”
He helped her to her feet.
“I found her right where you said I would,” Phillips said to the old man. “A whore, a fallen woman among the wrenched and the wicked. Lost and seeking guidance.”
“Good. Holly, have you ever heard of the Book of Judas? No? Did you realize that much of the original Bible included chapters of Gnostic wisdom?” Ambrose said. “They were purged from the King James Version, many of them lost and destroyed. Lost wisdom destroyed out of fear and narrow-mindedness. They were misunderstood, reviled, much like your own Mormon texts, as not fitting with the clockwork view of the universe as presented by the lying god’s groveling servants.”
The Six-Gun Tarot Page 18