The Road to Hellfire

by Michael Panush

  He reached the office door. Gunshots echoed through Algonquin Hall, but Cane knew that most of the other cops or gangsters had fled – and with good reason. The ones who stayed behind were prey to the rats. The three men he and the rats wanted were alone. Cane slid his rifle over his shoulder. He kicked open the door to Claudius Varrick’s office.

  Claudius Varrick, Barnabas Talbot, and Lionel McCall were inside. Talbot had a shotgun and fired at Cane as he stepped inside. Cane felt the shot wing past him, burning his arm. He still managed to draw one of his revolvers and fired, planting his bullet straight through Talbot’s gut and knocking him back on the velvet carpet. Talbot looked up in disbelief. Cane kicked his shotgun away.

  “But…we hired you…” Talbot grunted.

  “And he’s betrayed us to the rotten rats!” McCall roared. He charged for Cane, pulling the carving knife from his belt. McCall was heavy and fast. He tackled Cane, striking like an enraged bull. Both men went down onto the carpet. Cane felt McCall’s knife slide into his shoulder. Cane was still recovering from his attack by the rats. He found himself wondering just how strong he was, even as McCall brought the knife to his throat.

  Cane grabbed McCall’s arm and held back the blade. It was drawing closer and closer to Cane’s chin. Behind him, he could hear the rats running down the hall. It would take them time to get there. Cane looked into McCall’s blazing eyes and gritted teeth. He swung his head forward, bashing it into McCall’s face. McCall cried as his nose broke.

  It bought Cane time. Cane grabbed McCall’s wrist and slammed it on the ground. He came to his feet and kicked the knife aside, then delivered a frenzied punch to McCall’s face. His knuckles burned. He left McCall on the carpet and then he saw the safe in the corner. He ran for it.

  Varrick slid in front of the safe. He blocked Cane’s path, a derringer in his hands. Varrick’s face was red. “Why?” Varrick asked. “Tell me why, you murdering freak! Did we not offer you enough? Did that Dago priest’s disembodied phantom offer you more?” He pointed behind Cane, as the rats hurried into the office. “Why do you help these vermin?”

  “They ain’t vermin!” Cane called. “They’re trying to survive in a cruel world.” He drew his revolver and fired. Varrick did the same, but Cane was faster. His bullet blasted in Varrick’s arm, spraying blood on the richly upholstered furniture. Varrick dropped the derringer and Cane grabbed his arm. “You can go and call folks whatever you like. But when they’re wronged, they deserve vengeance. And today, that’s what they’re gonna get.” He grabbed Varrick’s throat and hurled him into the swarm of the rats.

  As the rats devoured Talbot, McCall and Varrick, Cane reached the safe. He blasted open the lock and pulled open the metal door. It was packed with cash. Cane grabbed two handfuls of dollars and slid them into his pockets. That would be enough for the job.

  He grabbed the rest and held it in his hands, like a bundle of laundry. Then he turned and walked out. He stepped through the swarm of rats, still digging into the bodies of the men who ran Van Wessel Street. They were writhing, their screams muffled as the rats dug into them. Soon they’d be covered up and picked clean. Cane heard their screams echo behind him. The rats scattered out of his way, avoiding his boots. He walked down the hall and through the door, stepping onto the porch and looking out on the street.

  The residents of Van Wessel Street had come down from their buildings and were curiously watching what was going on. Cane looked them over. “I know your lives are hard,” he said. He looked down at the bundle of money in his hand. “But this might make them easier.” He hurled all the money into the air. The dollars fluttered like a storm of green rain, falling into the waiting hands of the poor.

  Cheers rang through Van Wessel Street. Men, women and children struggled to gather all the money, as the wind blew it further down the block. Cane walked down the street, moving easily through the crowd. He received pats on the shoulders and blessings in a dozen languages he didn’t understand.

  “Mr. Cane!” Cane recognized Rose’s voice. He looked up and saw her, a roll of bills clutched in her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Cane. I knew you were a good man. I knew that just by looking at your face, for beyond the scars, I saw a hero. And I must thank you for this act of heroism.”

  “Weren’t heroism,” Cane replied. He looked back at Algonquin Hall. The rats were scurrying out, moving in the disorganized clumps of normal creatures. Father Badalamenti’s ghost was gone. “And it weren’t nothing, really. After all, everyone has to do their part to stamp out pests.”

  The stagecoach bounced and rocked like a ship in a storm as it made its way through the narrow Arizona pass. Clayton Cane sat silently in one end of the carriage. There was one another passenger, a slim, young woman in a sleek dark dress. She was staring at Cane’s face. It seemed to repulse her but she could not look away. That was understandable.

  Clayton Cane was a bulky, harsh man, with broad shoulders and muscled limbs. He filled his half of the carriage like poured whiskey fills a glass. His clothes were rough and simple, a tattered duster covering his frame and a broad-brimmed hat shading his face. It was a mass of scars and stitch-marks, each patch of skin in a different shade. Cane’s eyes glared out from the expanse of scars. The two eyes were different colors, though they both had the same coldness. Two revolvers rested on Cane’s hips. It was clear that he was a man well-used to violence.

  The stage rattled and shook as it reached some incline, the horses straining under the coachman’s cracking whip. Outside, the road wound through rocky canyons and hills. The stones were the color of dried blood, coated in the same tan dust that coursed from behind the horse’s hooves and clung to Cane’s coat and the young woman’s dress. Cane slouched in his seat. He looked at the young woman, who had boarded at the last outpost and seemed to be working up the courage to speak. She had been mustering that courage for the better part of an hour before she finally spoke.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, with a slight bow of her head. Her face seemed pale against the dark turquoise fabric of her dress. Her neck seemed thin, protruding from a narrow collar marked by a gleaming white broach. Her dark hair was set in a neat bun above her head, with only a few strands out of place. Round spectacles rested on her eyes. “My name is Emma Finch, of Boston. May I ask your name, sir?”

  “Clayton Cane.” Cane curled back his lips. He stabbed a fingernail between two of his teeth and started working at some jerky stuck there. “Of no particular locale.”

  “Oh…” Emma tried to smile. “Well, it is good to have a companion on long journeys through a lonely countryside, such as the one where we presently find ourselves. I wonder if you might enlighten me as to your business in these mountains. I’ll happily relate mine – I am to be a schoolteacher in Prescott, and this route is the quickest, though I suppose it does have its dangers.” She smiled quickly. “But I doubt we’ll run into any trouble along our road. Do you think so, Mr. Cane?”

  “Nope.” Cane pulled his finger from his open mouth and examined his nail.

  “Oh.” Emma smiled a little, like she was trying to act relieved. “Well, I judge that you may be an expert on matters such as danger. The pistols on your belt, sir, seemed to have been well-used, judging by the worn handles and the familiar way your bear their weight. Perhaps I ought to feel especially safe that I am traveling in your company, Mr. Cane. Tell me, is your occupation that of the lawman?”

  “Nope.”

  Emma’s smile faded just a little. “Well, Mr. Cane, do you in fact possess the ability to answer in words of more than syllable? Or will your next answer be as similarly laconic as your last?”

  “I’m a bounty hunter.” Cane stated it calmly. “I earn my bread off of killing folks or dragging them to the hangman’s noose. That’s what I’m here for, if you’re wondering – I’m here to kill an outlaw and fetch his hide back to the sheriff in Flagstaff.” He rested his hands on his knees. “You got any more questions, miss?”

  “N-no.” The sch
oolteacher seemed a little taken aback by Cane’s words. “A bounty hunter,” she repeated. “Oh my.”

  “The fellow I’m looking for this time is a real troublesome mutt by the name of Silas Stokes,” Cane explained, staring out the window at the passing mountainside. “He’s gathered himself a gang of like-minded bastards and they hit a train near Virginia City just a few days ago. Marched all the passengers out and gunned them down, women and children too. A few of them lived and told who had done it. Now I figure Stokes will be making a run for the border. I’m here to stop him.”

  “Dear God.” Miss Finch covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “And I thought these areas were relatively settled. In Boston, I heard that the only source of discord would come from the occasional band of Apache who share these mountains.”

  “The Chiricahua Apache call this place home,” Cane explained. “They’re some tough customers, I reckon. As for what you read about the land being settled, well, that may be true. But it’s settled by men who don’t shy from violence. When you take a fellow like that and throw in a little bit of rattlesnake meanness, you get someone like Silas Stokes. They’re the ones you’ve got to watch out for.”

  “Thank you for the advice then.” Emma bowed her head. Her pale cheeks grew pink. “And I apologize, sir, if my earlier comments roused your ire. I should not have insulted you – or your manner of speech.”

  Cane smiled at Emma’s nervousness. “It’s all right, Miss Finch,” he said. “I’ve had worse insults.”

  The schoolteacher glanced up. Once again, her eyes settled on Cane’s face. “There is another matter that has sprung to my mind,” she asked. “If you find the question rude, please tell me and I’ll drop it immediately, but – how exactly did you come by those strange scars?”

  Before Cane could answer, a gunshot ran through the still mountain air. Cane felt the wagon speed to the side, as more gunshots cracked sounded. A glance outside revealed the source. A dozen horsemen, all wearing rough dusty coats, had ridden down and surrounded the carriage. They wore bandannas over their faces and opened fire without even asking the coach to stop. Cane knew that these road agents weren’t intending to take the stagecoach’s driver or passengers alive.

  Revolvers and rifles blazed in their hands and more bullets cut through the air. The noise was terrifying in its suddenness, like thunder on a clear day. Cane heard the bullets whine and blast against the rocks. One punched through the wall of the stagecoach, and a ray of light crept in through the newly made hole, casting a beam the size of a nickel on Emma Finch’s terrified face.

  Then the carriage careened to the side. The world spun around Cane as the door slammed open. Emma Finch slipped out, a strangled scream leaving her mouth as she was hurled outside. Then the coach struck down. Cane crashed against the wall of the carriage. Blunt pain roared through his body. Dust rose above the carriage in a thick, choking column.

  The stage coach stopped before Cane knew it. He heard two more gunshots crack out and then the screams of a dying man, followed by a third. That had to be the shotgun messenger and driver, killed before they could offer any resistance. Cane didn’t know what happened to poor Emma Finch. He heard a harsh voice, with a fierce Western twang. “That’ll teach them! That’ll learn then not to mess with Silas Stokes – and they can educate the devil himself when they meet him in Hell!”

  Cane reached down and grabbed his revolvers, drawing each pistol from its holster. It was Stokes. He’d miscalculated and the outlaw robber had reached Arizona before him. But why would Stokes stay here instead of making for Mexico? That didn’t make sense. It didn’t matter right then. Cane stood up, swinging his revolvers around and already reaching for the triggers.

  All around him, he saw the men of Stokes’ gang, with their rifles raised. They weren’t expecting anyone in the stage coach to still draw breath. That meant Cane had surprise – and a fighting chance. His revolvers cracked away, firing at the horsemen. One of the road agents dropped, the top of his head blown open and its contents scattered in the dust. The man next to him got off a shot, which splintered the broken door of the stage coach near Cane’s side. Cane fired back, putting a bullet between the road agent’s thick moustache and nose. Cane spun about, leveling both revolvers at the other men of Stokes’ gang.

  “Don’t you pull them triggers, Cane!” Stokes’ voice was vicious and impassioned. “Or I’ll pull mine!” He had stepped down from his horse and stood behind Emma Finch. Stokes had hauled up the shaking, terrified schoolteacher, and placed his revolver’s muzzle against her head.

  Silas Stokes was a thin, rangy man, like a dog that had rarely been fed. Tangled blond hair hung down from his pinched face, falling over his shoulders. He wore a broadcloth suit and a lacy crimson necktie, a broad-brimmed hat with the edges rolled up topping his head and a long knife dangling from his belt. He had one of his hands around Emma’s slim shoulder, the other jabbing his revolver into her chin. She shook and her eyes were wide and wet, but she didn’t scream. When Cane saw them, he froze.

  “Toss them irons in the sand!” Stokes snarled. “You throw them down or I stain her dress red!”

  Emma released a whimper. Cane could not bear to hear the sound. He tossed both his pistols in the sand, then gripped the edge of the overturned stagecoach and hauled himself up. His boots thudded down in the dirt and he glared out at the outlaw band. He seemed to dare them to take his guns.

  Two of them did. The outlaws swung down from their horses, darted over and scooped up Cane’s revolvers, then hurried back. Cane raised his hands high. He stared back at Silas Stokes. “You got no reason to harm her,” Cane said. He kept his tone even. “Let her go, Stokes. It’ll go easier for you when the law dogs are baying for your blood.”

  Stokes pushed Emma in front of him, giving her a hard shove that knocked her in the dust. He returned his pistol to its holster with a practiced spin. “I don’t think that’s so, Cane,” Stokes said. “Seems to me that if the law dogs come barking round my tree, it’ll pay to have a hostage or two up there with me. And this pretty little girl seems a perfect candidate.” He leaned down, smiling at Emma. “You got yourself a name, sunshine?”

  “E-Emma Finch…” she managed. “I am to teach the children of Prescott and—”

  “Well, maybe you’ll make it to Prescott, Miss Finch.” Stokes walked past her. He headed towards Cane. “And maybe you won’t.” Two of his band swung down from their horses and ran to Emma. They hauled her up and held her arms. Stokes stopped in front of Cane. He looked him over. “Well,” he said. “El Mosaico, his own self. I feel like I should be honored.”

  “You’ll be dead,” Cane replied. “If you cause her harm.”

  “And here I was thinking I was the one had you bushwhacked, bounty hunter.” Stokes slammed his fist into Cane’s chest. The blow drove into Cane’s gut. He gasped as he sank down, like he had taken a hit from an artillery piece. While he was still gasping, Stokes kicked him hard and knocked the legs out from under him. Cane hit the ground. He tasted earth on his tongue.

  He looked up at Stokes and gritted his teeth. “You cause more trouble, you won’t never make it down to Mexico,” he said.

  “I’m still going down to Mexico,” Stokes explained. “But I’m making a little stop on the way.” He leaned down, the grin still plastered to his face. It cut across the stubble on his mouth like a yellowed river. “See, I figure there’s no point in going down to Mexico poor, if I can go there rich. And I know just the way to do it. You ever heard tell of the San Tomas Mine?” He reached into his coat and withdrew a tattered map. “Well, this will take me right to it.”

  “San Tomas Mine is cursed.” Cane hissed his words from between closed lips. “Spanish started it, in the years after the conquest. They kept it hidden, so they didn’t have to give the king his share. Enslaved all the natives and worked them near to death – then killed them when they was done, so nobody would talk. The priest there found out about their evil and cursed the Spaniards. Said thei
r ghosts would wander these canyons, trapped just like all the Indian slaves they had trapped in their mines.”

  “I know the legend.” Stokes slammed his boot down into Cane’s chest. “Now get up. We’ll go see if there’s any truth to it.” He turned away and walked back to his horse, leaving Cane retching on the ground. “Best keep up, Cane!” Stokes cried. “You don’t, we’ll kill you. And the same with the little lady.” He walked back to his horse, leaving Cane on the ground.

  Cane heard soft feet racing across the dust as he stopped his retching and looked up. It was Emma. She offered her hand, but Cane shook his head. He pressed his hands against the dust and stood, gritting his teeth until he was on his feet. He looked down at Emma. She hadn’t stopped shivering.

  “Stick with me, ma’am,” he said. He wasn’t sure why he was telling that to Emma Finch. It couldn’t have been much of a comfort. “Stick with me and we’ll make it.”

  “Of course, Mr. Cane,” Emma agreed. She folded her hands and then looked down at her torn and dusty dress. “Oh,” she said absently. “Heavens. I must look quite a sight.”

  “You look fine,” Cane replied. He saw that Stokes’ band was leaving, their horses moving at a trot. “Stay with me now.” They started walking along with the outlaws, moving between their horses. It was difficult going over the rocks, but Cane forced himself to match the pace of the trotting horses. Emma held up her dress and managed. They left the ruined stage coach and proceeded deeper into the rocky red canyons – towards the lost San Tomas Mine.