OCCULT Detectives Volume 1

by Joel Jenkins

  “Heh,” rejoined the other, tipping back his ten-gallon hat. “We might find Brannan in the alley out back, missing his scalp. Now get lost, we’re in the middle of a game and we’ll take Brannan home when we’re good and ready or better yet we’ll find a pretty little barmaid to take care of him until morning.”

  Seeing that he wasn’t going to persuade the two, and not having the patience for any further talk, Rockwell pulled his Colt Dragoon. “Just keep your seats and continue your game, hombres. Put both hands above the table where I can see them and no one will get themselves shot.”

  The fingers on Ten-Gallon’s gun hand twitched and in an instant Crow’s gun was out and pointed at the gunman’s chest. Ten-Gallon gasped when he saw how quick the Indian had made the draw.

  “Listen to the man and put your hands on the table, now,” said Crow. His voice was steady as though he were giving someone directions to Picnic Rock, but the Colt .45 in his grip lent menace to his words.

  Ten-Gallon and the gunman with a cleft chin carefully laid their hands face-down upon the table, for they were still intent on finishing their card game when they had the chance.

  The man with the cleft chin regarded the bearded intruder with a poison stare. “Wait, I know you! You’re Porter Rockwell!”

  “The name’s Brown,” growled Rockwell, but he knew his guise of anonymity had been pierced.

  The ruffian with the cleft chin gazed at him with great intensity. “No! You’re that Mormon devil, Porter Rockwell. You’re the one that kilt my father!”

  “I ain’t never killed anyone that didn’t need killing,” said Rockwell. “Whether I killed your father or not, I can’t say. Was he one of the mobocrats that was looting the Mormon settlements and raping the Mormon women? Cause, I sent a few of them along to hell.”

  “Ah, so you don’t deny that you are Porter Rockwell!”

  “And you don’t deny your father was among those mobocrats,” replied Rockwell.

  “He was part of a twelve man peace delegation sent across the Missouri River, and you sank the barge they were on and drowned my father and eight others!”

  While Rockwell kept the argument going Crow slipped forward to the chair where Sam Brannan was slumped in a barely conscious stupor. He could feel the malevolent presence of the kurdaitcha inside of him, for palpable emanations of evil beat upon him like waves upon a desolate shore. Since the kurdaitcha had taken upon her the limits of Brannan’s fleshy body, her perceptions were muted and fogged by the knockout drops as well, and so Crow was able to crouch down and hoist Brannan over his shoulders, though spasms of nausea rippled through him at the contact with the former Mormon’s possessed frame.

  “Take their guns,” said Crow.

  “You don’t know who you’re fooling with,” said Ten-Gallon. “We’re part of a secret society, and when one of us is struck down vengeance is poured out upon the one who dared lift a hand against us.”

  “You wouldn’t be speaking of the select group chosen by Sam Brannan and drawn from within Vigilance Committee?” asked Crow.

  Ten-Gallon and the vigilante with the cleft chin glanced at each other.

  “What do you know of it?” asked Ten-Gallon.

  “Not such a secret after all, is it?” chortled Rockwell.

  “Your leader is possessed by a devil,” said Crow.

  “She is no devil!” said Ten-Gallon. “She is the ancient power of the ages guiding us to ...” He abruptly shut his mouth when the vigilante with the cleft chin shot him a hard glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t.” With Brannan slung securely over Crow’s shoulders, Rockwell leaned forward to pluck the pistol from the holster of the man with the cleft chin. “It seems to me you’ve already made up your mind that I killed your father, but just so the record’s straight, that weren’t no peace delegation that your father was on. He and his murderous friends drove my people out of Illinois in the dead of winter by axe, sword, and bullet and then crossed the river after them demanding they sign legal documents ceding their abandoned properties. And when that barge sank on the way back it was God’s doing … not mine. I can’t take credit for what the hand of God done.”

  Rockwell’s hand was just about on the butt of the pistol when footsteps came stomping down the boards of the balcony with a shrill voice preceding it. “Where is that wench that told me there was a girl waiting for me in the street? There’s nobody there but a street harlot…” The returning gunman broke off when he saw Sam Brannan upon Crow’s shoulders, and Rockwell holding his other two friends at the point of his swept-back Dragoon pistol.

  Quick as a drop of oil dancing on a hot skillet he went for his own revolver. He was faster than Rockwell and fired two bullets into his chest, so that the bearded Mormon staggered backward in the box, reeling around in a circle. Rockwell swung his own gun on the newcomer and returned as good as he got, even as he fell to the floor. The bullets punched through the gunman’s chest and he reeled backward, breaking through the baluster and plunging twenty feet to land amidst a card game. The table buckled beneath his weight, scattering coin and card across the tobacco-stained boards. Sarah Armstridge ceased her song and let out a piercing scream, even while her pianist partner dove behind his piano.

  Ten-Gallon reached for his pistol, but as he pulled it from his holster, Crow brought down his tomahawk and cut off the man’s hand at the wrist. The spasming hand still clutched the six-shooter as it twitched on the table, pulling the trigger once so that a bullet spat past Crow and cracked a high window in the Belle Union.

  The gunman with the cleft chin rolled from his seat and came up firing, but his shots were hasty and they splintered the planks around Rockwell and took off the leg of a chair, so that it toppled over on top of the Mormon. Rockwell ignored the weight of the chair and fired even as Crow wrenched his tomahawk from the face of the table and hurled it side-armed so that it imbedded in the chest of the gunman with the cleft chin.

  With two bullets and a tomahawk in his chest the Missourian gave up the ghost and slumped against the pillar of the private box, blood gushing down his vest and two black bullet holes still smoking where they struck. Black powder mingled with the tobacco smoke and Crow reeled awkwardly beneath Brannan’s weight as he found his footing after making the throw that had helped slay the Missouri gunman.

  Rockwell stood up with a groan and shook his duster. Two bullets clattered to the floor. This hadn’t been the first time that Crow had seen Rockwell take direct hits and scatter the spent lead from clothing as though they were droplets of rain from an oiled slicker. Rockwell, it seemed, never suffered more than the ill effects of bruised and battered flesh from the impact of the bullets.

  The long-haired Mormon grinned at Crow. “You’ve probably got the only gun that can touch me, unless of course someone sheared my locks.”

  “I wouldn’t speak that too loudly,” said Crow, “unless some Delilah overhear you and get an idea in her head to turn you over to those mobocrats that dislike you so much.”

  Rockwell made his way to the broken railing and peered down at the dead gunman lying amidst a flurry of cardsharps attempting to recover their wagers. Some of the patrons of the Belle Union saw him and scattered. Others forgot about their own well-being and stared in awe at the perpetrator of the killing which had happened in front of their very own eyes. Such things were all too common in frontier San Francisco, but the patrons of the Belle Union were not so jaded as to be inured to a gunfight which had taken place within their earshot and their own vision.

  “Let’s light out of here before the constables poke their noses into the affair,” said Rockwell, but Crow was already moving along the balcony and toward the descending stairs. With Brannan’s weight upon his shoulders he moved deliberately so as not to take a tumble down those steps, and it took Rockwell but a few moments to catch up, slip past him and clear the way of any gawkers who might impede their progress.

  Rockwell’s drawn gun disco
uraged anybody else from getting involved and, one block away, Crow heaved Brannan’s slack weight into the back of a waiting cart. They dared not leave a cart and horse unattended in even the better districts of San Francisco, for unwatched possessions disappeared faster than dew on a hot morning. The driver they had hired gave them a gap-toothed grin.

  “You gentlemen seem to have kicked up a row.”

  “More than we would have liked,” admitted Rockwell as he pulled himself up to the buckboard. “Now pony up, Sexton, before we’re all gone up the flume.”

  Glad to have divested himself of Brannan’s weight and his touch, which inspired a great depression upon his soul, Crow climbed into the back of the cart even as the driver snapped the reins and sent it barreling down the pot-holed road.

  Brannan mumbled something just loud enough for Crow to hear over the rumble of the wheels and the clip of the horse’s hooves. “You won’t get away with this. The devil inside of me, she knows. She knows you, Demon Hunter, Priesthood Bearer, Slayer of Dark Souls. She knows you, Flapping Crow, Last of Your Tribe, and Doomed Man, and she has hungered for your destruction. She will make you beg and scream for mercy before she roasts your soul in the pits of hell.” Then the chloral hydrate seized Brannan and sank him deep into the dark abysses of unconsciousness.

  Rockwell shifted on the buckboard. “What did he say?”

  Crow gritted his teeth. “He’s rambling, Porter…just rambling.”

  “Any sign of the kurdaitcha?”

  “Nothing yet,” said Crow. “Hopefully she’s buried inside the sea of brew that Brannan’s imbibed. Once linked to a human a kurdaitcha cannot easily escape, and once released from a body she must find habitation in another quickly or be banished back to those dark nether realms from which she came.”

  “What was the vigilante with the ten gallon hat saying about the kurdaitcha being the ancient power of the ages? What was that all about?”

  Crow shrugged. “Demons and devils have been around since God created our world and some for eons longer. That they would use that pedigree to gain followers is no surprise. If I’ve learned one thing, people will blindly follow anyone or anything if they think that they might have something to gain from it. A power that can freeze the marrow of your enemies and make the earth shake is a strong lure to some folks.”

  “And the kurdaitcha has that to offer,” concluded Rockwell.

  “As well as utter destruction when her servants have outlived their usefulness,” said Crow.

  Sexton guided the cart through a sharp turn. “What’s this kurdaitcha thing that you two are babbling about?”

  “Pull over here and let yourself out,” said Rockwell. “What we’re doing is dangerous, and you’ve already done the job we asked of you. There’s no point in you taking any further risk.”

  Sexton grinned. “I’m not getting off this cart until you’ve paid me the five dollars you promised me.”

  Rockwell counted out five silver dollars. “I’ve got your money here, Sexton.”

  Sexton continued on for another block and then reined in his horse so that the cart came to a squealing halt. His hand dipped beneath his poncho and when it came out it held a pitted Colt Navy .36 caliber pistol. “Gentlemen, it is with great regret that I must inform you that I have received a more lucrative offer. It seems that a group of Missourians have put up a pot of five hundred dollars as a bounty on one Porter Rockwell’s head, and as much as I like you, Brown, or Porter, or whatever you call yourself, money must trump friendship. I’ve got soiled doves to keep in finery and furs.”

  “How long have we been friends, Sexton?” asked Rockwell.

  “About a year,” answered the gap-toothed driver. “But don’t make this any harder than it has to be. It ain’t nothing personal, and besides I’ve been friends with a man named Brown. This Porter Rockwell fellow don’t mean nothing to me, and so it’s easy to sell out a man I don’t know.”

  Rockwell glanced into the darkness. “Listen, Sexton, it’s very important that we get Brannan somewhere secluded. You drive us on out of here and Crow will pay you that five hundred dollars in diamonds and you won’t have to split it with anyone.”

  “What makes you think I have partners in this?” asked Sexton. “You don’t think I’ve got enough sense between my ears to hatch a plan like this all by myself?”

  “No offense, Sexton, but no,” replied Rockwell. “And when I asked you to pull over you kept going and pulled into this deserted intersection. My guess is that you’ve got an accomplice or two hidden away in the shadows.”

  “Or five,” said Sexton. “I always said you were a smarter man than people gave you credit for.”

  “Thanks,” replied Rockwell to the dubious compliment. “Now, do we have a deal or is this going down the hard way?”

  “As much as I like the sound of a handful of diamonds, I don’t really believe your Indian friend can get his hands on that much sparkly stone or else he’d be living in a mansion full of fountains and fine pieces of calico. I’m going to have to go with the bird in the hand … rather than the bird in the bush. And Brown, or should I say Porter Rockwell, you’re the bird in hand.”

  Crow reacted so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow his hand. He drew his eagle-butted Peacemaker and fired in one motion. The bullet burst Sexton’s heart and he lurched up and over the front of the cart, falling stone dead between the rear hooves of the horse and the front wheels of the cart. The horse let out a shrill cry and jerked to one side, so that the entire cart shifted and the axles groaned, complaining at the sideways pressure.

  Rockwell leaned over and grabbed the reins, snapping them hard and bellowing a harsh cry. The horse responded and leaped forward, the cart nearly catapulting Crow out the back as it careened over Sexton’s dead body. Even as they attempted an escape, a volley of rifle fire echoed and gun blazes painted the siding of the nearby buildings. Sexton had not lied when he claimed he had accomplices in his attempt to collect the bounty on Rockwell’s head. A couple of bullets splintered the walls of the cart, but most were targeting the horse so that Rockwell could not effect their escape.

  The horse screamed and reared as four separate bullets struck it. It went down thrashing, snapping one of the tether poles. In the pains of death the horse kicked off the front wheel and upset the buckboard and sent Crow and Rockwell tumbling to the street. The unconscious body of Sam Brannan flopped in the mud at Crow’s booted feet, and recovering their balance Crow and Rockwell poured a barrage of lead into the dark recesses of the alley, where the position of the bounty hunters was revealed by the muzzle flash of their own gunfire, which lit up the squalid alleys and the drifting clouds of gun smoke which hazed the air. There were two gunmen on Crow and Rockwell’s exposed side, but Indian and Mormon were protected somewhat from the gunfire of the three bounty hunters on the opposite side of the street by the tilted buckboard, which absorbed some of the bullets being thrown at them.

  As splinters, cast up by the bullets of that trio of gunmen at their back, fogged the air around them, Crow and Rockwell targeted a rifleman crouched in the alley. They had the advantage of carrying six-shooters, where the rifleman had to load a new cartridge between each shot. Rockwell’s dragon-shaped Colt Dragoon and Crow’s eagle-carved Peacemaker ended the life of one of the riflemen with a half dozen bullets.

  Rockwell carried a second Dragoon at his belt beneath his duster and he drew it and began firing at a rifleman hidden upon the rooftop, striking the parapet inches below the concealed bounty hunter, and driving him back into the umbra clustered around the chimneys. Crow pushed the empty cartridges out of his sacred pistol—blessed by the hand of a prophet one night the dead came to life in the salty wastes—and reloaded, even while bullets continued to pound the underside of the upset buckboard. Up to this point it had done a nice job of protecting them, but some of the bullets were finding their way through at the seams between the planks.

  In all reality, even though Rockwell had temporarily caused t
he retreat of the gunman on the roof, they were still pinned in place. If they concentrated their fire upon the three riflemen at their back, the bounty hunter on the roof would surely creep back and fire upon them while they were turned.

  “I’ll fire upon the gunmen behind us,” said Crow. “You kill the man on the roof when he pops his head back up.”

  This, of course, was easier planned than accomplished, but both Crow and Rockwell were gunmen of renowned skill and reputation. Rockwell kept the barrel of his Dragoon pistol up and trained toward the rooftop while Crow crawled around the edge of the cart and methodically fired into the dark spaces between the buildings which were briefly marked by muzzle flash. As soon as a flare of gunfire appeared he shifted his aim and snapped off two shots. He was rewarded by the sight of a bounty hunter staggering out of the shadows and falling flat on his face.

  A bullet took off the spoke of the wagon wheel over Crow’s head, and started it spinning. The Indian ducked back into cover even as a second rifleman sent a bullet singing past, so close that it notched the brim of Crow’s hat. Now Crow noticed that Brannan was lying face down in the mud, he reached out and rolled Brannan over and noticed that no breath rose from his chest. He had suffocated in the mud, unable to lift himself out of the mire.

  “Uh oh,” muttered Crow.

  “Uh oh, what?” demanded Rockwell. “What could be more ‘uh oh’ than getting caught in the crossfire of an ambush?”

  “Brannan’s not breathing.”

  “Not breathing? But doesn’t that mean that the kurdaitcha is released to go into someone else’s bo ...”

  Rockwell broke off as a sinister force departed Brannan’s body, buffeting them with waves of despair and sickness. The sensations were so strong that Crow and Rockwell were forced back against the underside of the buckboard, gasping and flailing as the dark winds of destruction attempted to enter them but, finding the vessels of their bodies inhospitable because of the holy seed of priesthood within, the kurdaitcha passed over them in search of a more easily inhabited body.