by James Palmer
“It calls, brothers,” said one of the men. He appeared to only have been dead about a week or so, like the sheriff, so Cairn assumed this was the Calico Pete. A dirty calico sash was tied around his belt, and he wore a shiny six-gun on his right hip. None of the Riders paid Cairn any mind.
“The cold lanes between the stars,” whispered another, its throat dry and cracking. One of its fingers fell off, and it continued digging, shoveling dirt over its lost appendage in its continued effort to get at the sphere in the ground.
Cairn was unsure what to do next. Clearly the sphere was the root of all this. He lowered the hammer on his gun and holstered it; it was probably useless, and the gunfire would be deafening in the small space. He reached into his boot and brought up the hell knife. He stepped up behind the sheriff and shoved the blade into the base of the man’s skull, twisting it slightly as he did so. He felt bone shift, soft tissue sever. The sheriff dropped his pick, went limp, and crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
The others noticed him then. They stared, cold dead eyes drilling through him, mouths opening and closing wordlessly. Cairn felt an intense cold coming from the sphere. Waves of pure hate, directed at him.
Not hate.
Cairn took a step slowly back as the dead men advanced on him. Fear. The thing in the ground was somehow alive. And it was afraid. Afraid of being trapped in the earth forever.
Calico Pete went for his gun, but Cairn had his out first. Calico Pete fell to the ground, his head a hollowed out cavity full of splintered bone and coagulated blood.
Cairn staggered backward, his ears ringing, the smell of gunpowder singing his nose. He had wondered if he could do it, could go back to the old ways, the man he had been before Maggie. He wondered if he would still be fast on the draw, and stare men down like he had nothing to lose. He could.
The other Riders continued their advance. There were three of them left now, but they were the oldest, the most spent. He shoved his knife into the neck of the closest one, severing his spine as he had done with the sheriff. Then he shot the last one in the face. It fell and started to crawl toward him. Cairn walked over to the corpse and stuck the knife into its neck, ending its pathetic existence.
Now the sphere hummed even louder. Cairn thought he could feel his teeth vibrating. He wondered if he could dig it out the rest of the way.
Yes.
See what the witch made of it.
Set me free.
Cairn leaned over it, saw his dark reflection in the thing’s hide. He reached out and touched its cold surface, so cold it burned. But he could not pull free.
“What are you?” said Cairn.
I will show you.
Cairn saw stars.
Not the familiar, faraway stars in the night sky, but bigger, much closer stars. He saw blue stars, and red stars. He saw dying stars and stars being born. He saw planets circling those stars, careening toward him only to bounce away at the last minute. And he was cold, so cold. He had never been that cold in his life. But it didn’t hurt him.
And in that instant he knew. He understood. And he finished the digging. Not because the thing compelled him to, but because he knew how hopeless it felt to be trapped in a place from which there was no escape.
And as he dug, the thing told him a story.
The stars burn bright and hot, but it is cold between the stars.
As Cairn finished, he understood why the thing had done what it had done. The original miners had gotten close, but the mine played out before they could finish their work, leaving the visitor trapped.
It was just a visitor, just passing through. Our little patch among the stars was bright and blue and warm, so it came down to rest a spell. It meant no harm. These newly dead men were the only ones it could reach.
Cairn nodded at the thing. “You’re free now. Go. Leave us be.”
Thank you.
The humming grew louder, more insistent. Cairn held his ears, backing away from it. The ground began to shake, and Josiah Cairn ran from the mine, hoping the whole world didn’t crash down on top of him. He emerged into cool darkness, stumbling, tripping over his own boots as the ground continued to shake. He landed on his rump and looked up just in time to see a glowing orb punch through the top of the hill. It stayed there a moment, as if pondering its prison, then lanced up into the sky and vanished. Cairn heard tons of earth shift, disrupted by the visitor’s departure. The mine caved in, filling with rocks and dust, burying the Riding Dead. At last they would have peace.
Cairn stood, brushed himself off, retrieved his horse and rode back into town.
*
“All around us is energy, Mr. Cairn,” said Tabitha Hemlock. “Power. It comes out of the earth, flows through every tree, every animal. Every one of us. Do you understand?”
“No.”
She laughed, a dry cackle that put Cairn in mind of tumbleweeds rattling up the empty street of a ghost town. “You will. In time.”
She walked a few paces into the empty morning street. “The Injuns speak of lines of power connecting the world. Ley lines, we call ‘em. Your friend the albino is following one of these lines through the earth. If you follow it too, you will find him.”
“How do I find this ley line?”
Tabitha watched as one of the Cadre passed by, a long brass rod over his shoulder. A small brass lightning bolt, the symbol of their caste, glinted brightly on his right breast. Cairn had watched as a wagonload of the strange engineers arrived this morning with their queer equipment and inscrutable machines.
“I reckon they’re a day late and a dollar short,” said the witch. “as usual. But you mind them, Mr. Cairn. They’re bound for trouble. Mark my words.”
“What do they want?”
“Power,” said Tabitha. “Same as your friend Shade. Sure, they’re makin’ nice and givin’ everybody ‘lectricity and lights in the dark and wonderful machines that do folks’ work fer ‘em, but all they’re after is power.”
“Do they know about the ley lines?”
Tabitha Hemlock laughed. “Heh. I reckon they know about a lot of things and don’t let on. They’re here about that thing up at the mine, I’ll wager.”
She turned to Cairn. “There’s things buried in the earth that men like your Shade and the Cadre can sniff out like bloodhounds. Things that should stay buried.”
Cairn stared at a group of Cadre as they unloaded a wagon of strange devices.
“Now,” said the witch. “get ye provisions and horse, and meet me over there, on the edge of town, in half an hour.” A crooked finger pointed west.
Cairn did as instructed and met the old witch at the appointed time.
“This is the ley line,” said without preamble. “Ye can’t see it, but in time I wager ye’ll feel it. The way your albino can feel it. You’ll be just like him.”
“I’ll never be like him,” said Cairn flatly.
“You’ll also need this.”
She reached into a pocket of her ratty dress and pulled out a black rock tied to a piece of twine.
“I don’t need no heathen fetishes, witch.”
Tabitha Hemlock cackled. “It’s a lodestone. Here, watch.”
She held the other end of the twine and let the lodestone fall toward the ground. It hung there a moment, then shot out, dangling from the end of the string at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.
“See? The ley line isn’t always this strong, but in places it is. I knew an old Injun once who said this was a powerful place to his people. He spoke of queer magics and strange lights in the sky at night.”
Cairn thought of the visitor he had freed, and a chill spider crawled up his spine.
“Keep that, and you’ll never lose the way,” said the old woman. “Keep that and you’ll find your Shade.”
Cairn thanked the old woman and left Oblivion behind him. He dangled the lodestone out beside him, an obedient dog trotting beside his horse, and wondered where this strange road would lead. As lo
ng as it led to Shade, it didn’t much matter. He would pay for what he and his men had done. They would pay for taking Maggie away from him. And somewhere West of Oblivion, Cairn would settle the score.
Besides, he had a promise to keep, and Josiah Cairn was a man of his word.
The Mummy Train
Josiah Cairn watched the young magician work his magic on a pair of young ladies.
“Legerdemain is one of the most ancient of arts,” he proclaimed, twirling a silver dollar between his fingers with a flourish. It went into the palm of his left hand and vanished; he showed his empty palm to the ladies for effect, and they both gasped. Then, carefully, he reached behind the ear of the woman nearest him and pulled out the coin. They both giggled excitedly and gave muted claps with their lace-gloved hands.
Cairn was bored out of his mind. He had decided fifty miles back that he didn’t like trains, didn’t like the cloying sameness of the cars, and the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the rails made him lightheaded and sleepy, when he needed to be alert and fixed on the task before him.
He looked out the window. Endless brown prairie rolled past, broken only by the occasional markings of small settlements in the distance, as well as more than a few grey stone buildings fitted with tall towers giving off sparks, electric generation stations planted there by the Cadre. Cairn hadn’t realized the Cadre’s influence had reached this far West. In time, they wouldn’t need to cheat and steal to get whatever they wanted.
They’re going to rob the train.
That’s what the golem Pinkerton man told Cairn before it died. And Shade is going to help them.
The Cadre and Shade, working together. Cairn didn’t like it. Oil and water don’t mix; neither do electricity and magic.
Behind him, the magician did some kind of card trick, daring the two ladies to find the red queen. They were unsuccessful. He checked that his guns still hung from both hips.
Cairn couldn’t figure out what Shade and the Cadre were after. The train wasn’t carrying a great deal of money; Cairn checked. There were some wealthy passengers on board, judging by their attire, but nothing that someone like Shade would concern himself with. The only unusual cargo was a cache of artifacts being transported from back East to a new museum out in California.
“Yes, sir,” the grinning porter had told Cairn, “These come all the way from Egypt, Africa.”
The porter was an older man whom Cairn judged to be in his early sixties, with a potbelly and thinning white hair atop his pale scalp. He was more than happy to discuss the contents of the wooden crates and dusty boxes in one of the train’s several cars, and seemed inordinately proud of the items, as if he had dug each piece from the Egyptian sand himself. He waved a shipping manifest at Cairn as he talked, and kept consulting a gold pocket watch that looked like it had cost more than Cairn’s first horse.
Cairn thanked him for the information and returned to his seat in one of the forward cars. Cairn had never been east of the Mississippi, and didn’t know anything about Egypt, but he knew Shade. The albino lusted after magic, the older the better. And what magic could be older than Egyptian magic?
But how did the Cadre fit into this? Only time would tell. All Cairn knew was that he would have to be ready. He wasn’t going to let Shade slip away from him this time. On this train, Cairn would have his revenge for the murder of his wife, and the Devil would have Shade’s black soul.
Cairn reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of twine with the lodestone tied to the end of it. He let it dangle in front of him. It rocked with the motion of the train, but he could see the little magnet pull toward the left. So they were still following the path of the ley line in the earth that Shade had been following since they first crossed paths. Cairn thought he could feel it too, a slight tug on his senses, compelling him to move in that direction. Shade’s magic would be strong here, even aboard this moving train of iron. The Cadre could also tap into the ley lines that zigzagged beneath the ground with their be-damned gizmos. They would be something to reckon with, as well.
The train began to slow. Cairn waved at a porter as he passed.
“Are we stopping?” Cairn asked him.
The porter shook his head. “No, just slowing. This part of the country don’t like iron. Some kind of Injun hoodoo left over from the French and Indian War. We can still cross, we’ll just have to do it kinda slow-like.”
After giving this explanation, the porter vanished. Cairn leaned back in his seat. This is where it would happen. This is where Shade and the Cadre would board the train.
“You can almost feel it in the air, can’t you?”
Cairn turned. It was the magician, and he was speaking to Cairn.
“What?”
The magic,” he said. “I’ve heard there are places where you can smell it. It hangs thick in the air like the stench of a decaying animal. But don’t worry. This train will make it to its destination without incident. I’ve made the journey several times.”
This got the women interested in him again, and the magician went back to flirting with them and telling them about his many travels. Cairn wondered how all that Indian magic would like the ancient Egyptian artifacts crossing into its territory. He leaned over to open the window and look out at the rear of the train. Four men on horseback had just ridden up to the train and hopped off their mounts onto the moving train.
They’re here.
Calmly, Cairn stood and moved toward the rear of the train.
As he reached the back of the passenger car, he heard careful footsteps behind him. Cairn jerked his head around.
The magician stood there, looking at him. He wore a dark suit that matched his bowler, and a pair of pince-nez spectacles sat atop his aquiline nose.
“Hello, friend,” he said. “Just getting up for a stretch.”
Cairn didn’t want to alarm everyone on board, and he certainly didn’t want to alert any railroad bulls who might be riding. They would just get in his way, and he wanted a clear path between him and Shade. He turned and kept walking, just another passenger going for a stroll.
The magician followed Cairn all the way to the car carrying the Egyptian artifacts. He turned again, eyeing the younger man warily. This was no simple stroll through a train. The magician was following him.
“You’re a gunslinger, aren’t you?”
Cairn’s grey eyes narrowed to slits. He had been challenged by other young men such as this, but it had been years. Was the man even wearing a gun? Cairn looked. No sidearm was present.
“Who wants to know?”
“Erasmus Thorpe, Sir. Magician, occultist, and thaumaturge, at your service.” He gave a slight bow.
“You are, aren’t you? I’ve traveled around the West a great deal, and I know the type. I’m not judging, mind. I’ve always admired the hale and hearty folk who populate the wild vastness of this great land of ours.”
“I was,” Cairn admitted. “Long time ago.”
Keegan nodded, as if he fully understood Cairn’s entire life story just from those few words. “There’s something wrong back there, isn’t there?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Cairn, sliding the door open. “Go back to your seat, do another coin trick.”
“I have some valuable items back there,” said Thorpe. “I would like to check on them if I may.”
“Too dangerous,” said Cairn, as his tall, gaunt form disappeared into the next car.
The shorter, younger man followed.
When they reached the shipping car, Cairn saw that the elderly porter he had spoken with earlier was dead, lying in a bloody heap in the corner. Cairn wondered why he didn’t hear any gunshots, then got a closer look at the wounds. There were deep slashes making blood-filled canyons all over his chest and stomach. His expensive gold pocket watch was gone.
“Queen of Sheba!” said the magician, pulling a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to his nose and mouth. “Who would do such a thing?”
Cairn put his finger to his lips and whispered. “A man named Shade,” he said, “and the Cadre.”
“Cadre?” said Thorpe, his voice low. His eyes grew wide. “I must check my cargo!”
“Fine,” said Cairn, pulling his right sidearm. “But I won’t be responsible for what happens to you. I’m here for Shade. Stay out of the line of fire.”
“Well, you certainly are a man of principle,” said Thorpe. From somewhere on his person he drew a thick, heavy-looking walking stick. “Lead the way,” he whispered.
Cairn moved forward slowly, eyes adjusting to the gloom, his nerves taut as the barbed wire some of the Cadre peddled.
Boxes of every shape and size were stacked neatly all around them, some of them stamped with the names of several countries. The magician Thorpe moved among them carefully, looking for his particular piece of cargo. Cairn hoped the clack of the train along the tracks would mask their presence from Shade and the Cadre until it was too late for them. At the far end of the car, they saw a soft glow and heard hushed whispers. Cairn pulled his left pistol and led with both guns, his long arms straight ahead of him as he stepped from around a large crate.
Shade stood in the center of a cluster of men, backlit by an eerie light coming from behind him. A man stood holding something long in his hand, the tip glowing brightly. The albino appeared to be reading a bloody shipping manifest.
Cairn stepped into the light just enough to make his presence known; he made sure to remain limned in shadow.
“Train ride’s over, Shade.”
The albino looked at him, his eyes still covered by his dark glasses, his shoulder-length white hair glowing in the Cadre’s weird light gizmo. “Josiah Cairn. I never expected to see you here. This is really growing tiresome.”
“Good thing it’s over now,” said Cairn. He fired, but something hit his hand, and the bullet flew wild, lodging in the top of the car with a rain of dust.
The report was loud inside the car, and everyone clutched their ears. Cairn stepped back from his attacker, the Chinaman Chow, and fired at the light source, which disappeared in a brief flash and shower of sparks. A strange smell filled the car, and they were in darkness once more.