Porter rode to Cane’s side. “Holy Jesus!” Porter cried. “What happened here, Cane? What would strip flesh from bone and stack it here for us to find?”
“Someone wants us trapped. And they done it too. With the caravan all bunched up like this, we won’t be able to go back with a speed greater than that of a snail crawling along the hard earth.” Cane clutched his rifle tightly. “But you won’t have to wonder for long, Porter. I reckon we’re gonna meet them soon enough.”
A leathery rustling reached Cane’s ears. Already, panic was settling in amongst the folk of the wagon train and the rustling made it worse. More screams echoed through Blood Pass. The men of the wagon train drew out their guns and stared at the crevices and canyons, waiting in terror. Cane simply clutched his rifle. This was why Porter had hired him. He wasn’t the kind to scare easy – not when there was killing to be done. Cane glanced up as the rustling continued, sounding like a tempest ripping through a leafy forest. Then he saw its cause, winging down in a swarm of black shapes.
“Bats!” Porter cried as the swarm rustled through the length of the wagon train. There were indeed numberless black bats, squeaking madly as they fluttered through the line of wagons. Horses reared up and snorted out their fear, while a few guns went off. Cane waved his hand when a bat flew near, hitting it and sending the squeaking bundle of fur flapping away. The bats came from the crevices, deep in Blood Pass. They soared up into the sky, flying up in a great shifting cloud. Cane looked up and watched them go. He stared at the ledge high above them and that’s when he saw something else.
Cane raised his rifle. There were the outlines of men, standing in a ragged line on the top of the canyon. “Hell,” Cane muttered, bringing his repeating rifle to his shoulder. He saw that they were hunched figures, with their heads peering out from between their shoulders. Their clothes were long tattered robes and coats, mixed with cast-off forage caps and broad-brimmed hats, stolen from their victims. None of them carried guns, though Cane did see curved sabers at some of their belts. But it was their skin that Cane focused on, which was white as milk — with the kind of paleness that belongs only to the dead.
Instantly, Cane knew what they were. He had heard the legends, whispered by immigrants or trumpeted in cheap dime novels. “Vampires.” Cane spoke the word in a hushed tone, making it a single breath. “Goddamn vampires.” He took aim at one of the vampires and squeezed the trigger. He saw the stooped man jerk back, but then stand up tall and raise a hand with long nails like great needles at the tips of his fingers.
The vampires leapt down, pouncing from their position at the cliff’s top and falling upon the caravan. They seemed to float down and landed with no more trouble than cats, before springing upon their victims. Cane spun his horse around and ran down the caravan, firing his rifle, working the lever and firing again as he watched the slaughter. More gunshots came from the wagons, as the men of the train struggled to defend their families. Some tried to escape, racing away on horses or attempting to turn their wagons. But the trail was narrow and packed with panicked people and animals. The vampires had all the time they needed to feast.
Cane watched the blood-hungry fiends as they hunted. The vampires danced through bullets, moving with terrible speed, and struck out with their claws or teeth to slash open throats or veins. Blood sprayed red, casting brilliant stains on the white snow and grainy gravel. Men and horses went down and the vampires would always stop their attacks and kneel down, licking up as much blood as they could before they sprang to their next victims. They were wild things, more beast than man, and growled and snarled gutturally as they battled.
One vampire, a lean creature with the pointed muzzle of a wolf, came hurtling for Cane’s horse. The vampire leapt into the air, his mouth opened to reveal long, thin fangs. Cane raised his gun and pounded a rifle shot through the shoulder of the vampire, sending up a spray of dark gore. But the vampire slid slow and slashed open the belly of Cane’s horse with one hand. The horse’s legs went stiff and it crashed down, hurling Cane from the saddle. The vampire came for him.
“Blood.” Cane heard the vampire say a single word, repeated continuously, like the shallow breath of a tired man. “Blood. Blood.” The vampire walked towards him, moving slowly, like he was relishing each moment before the kill. Quickly, Cane came to his feet, feeling pain radiate through his body from the fall. He looked at the dead horse and saw his bedroll, the cavalry saber still inside. Quickly, Cane grabbed the curved handle and slashed it out. He stabbed straight, driving the steel point into the vampire’s heart.
The vampire snarled and reeled back. Cane saw the pale skin become split with black, as each of the vampire’s veins flashed dark. The darkness spread, reaching over the vampire’s body like the flesh had suddenly mortified. The vampire collapsed in a mass of rotting ash, right before Cane’s feet. Cane let the vampire die, then turned and ran back to the head of the wagon train.
“Porter!” he raised his voice, charging ahead as he slashed his sword and cleaned it of ash. “Porter!” And then he came to a sudden stop. There was Cyrus Porter, right in front of him, and held in the arms of a vampire woman. She had the pale skin, but not the animalistic features of her male brethren. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulders, framing a pointed nose and strangely bright eyes. She wore a ragged pair of trousers and sweater under a pea coat, which sat heavily on her thin frame. Her eyes darted to Cane.
She lunged into Porter’s neck, slashing it open with her pointed fangs and letting the blood spray out. She held him as he wriggled silently and drank what she could before tossing his body down in the snow.
Then she raised her voice. “Take the rest alive!” she roared, her accent a curious mix of Italian and French. “We will ration their blood, or the thirst shall destroy us long before the next caravan comes!” She held back her head and Cane saw an aristocratic sneer of command on her beautiful face. “Take them to the caves! Your Contessa commands you!” Then she lowered her head and her eyes met Cane’s. “Oh. You are an interesting one.”
In answer, Cane went for his revolver. He fired twice, but the Contessa had already slipped back into the shadows, letting Porter’s body fall lifeless to the snowy earth. Cane’s shots only kicked up snow and dirt. The Contessa seemed to move like a hummingbird, flying up to stand on the top of one of the covered wagons and pointed down at Cane.
“Fredrich!” she ordered. “Take this one alive! He interests me.”
A low growl came from Cane’s side. He turned to see a hairless, muscled vampire, bare-chested and looking like a pale, enraged buffalo. Fredrich’s sunken eyes stared at Cane. “The Contessa wants you to live. I can see why. You are not human. You are something else. Will you come willingly?” His voice was a rumble with a thick Teutonic twang.
In answer, Cane drew out his second revolver and opened fire. He blasted a clump of flesh from Fredrich’s arm. The big vampire snarled as he charged, his lips curling back in a fanged grin. “So you will fight, then!” Fredrich roared. “This pleases me!” Cane swung his revolver down to fire, but Fredrich was already upon him. Fredrich smashed his shoulder into Cane’s chest, hurling him back.
Cane crashed through one of the covered wagons, ripping cloth and falling hard onto the wooden carriage, laden with supplies. Fredrich leapt after him, landing on the front of the wagon. Cane raised his revolver and fired again, pumping a slug into Fredrich’s chest. Gore sprayed onto the worn wood, but Fredrich was not stopped. The vampire drew closer and swung a heavy fist at Cane. Quickly, Cane rolled out of the way, letting Fredrich’s fist smash through the bottom of the wagon.
Then Cane was up, springing from the wagon and slamming his boots on the snowy road. Fredrich came at him again and Cane emptied the rest of his revolver, gouging black blood from the vampire’s chest and shoulders. He holstered his gun and raised his cavalry saber, hacking through the air and ramming the blade into the side of Fredrich’s skull.
The blade bit down and Fredrich spun back. A pai
ned hiss ripped its way from Fredrich’s throat and then he turned. He ran from Cane while he clutched the bloody side of his head. Cane saw blood dripping down Fredrich’s face and grinned to himself. He ran after the big vampire to finish the job.
But then he heard a child’s scream. He looked up and saw that Fredrich had reached the Coyles’ wagon. Fredrich had hurled Orestes Coyle down from the coachman’s seat. He now held up little Maxwell in the air by the scruff of his neck. The boy’s dress shoes kicked in the air as he dangled, closing his eyes and sobbing silently. Orestes lay in the ground, and then raised his hands, begging for his nephew’s life. Cane stopped walking. He looked at Maxwell and his chest felt empty.
Fredrich looked up at Clayton Cane, blood running down half of his face. Cane’s sword had kissed his eye and split it down the middle. “I knew it,” Fredrich snarled. “Whatever you are, you are weak.” He nodded to Cane’s blade. “Drop your sword or I will rip through the boy’s life in an instant. Let your blade fall and show me how weak you are.”
“Please, Mr. Cane!” Orestes cried, as Maxwell squeaked in panic. “Do as he says! Please!”
The cavalry saber clattered to the ground. Cane watched as Fredrich absently hurled Maxwell down and ran towards Cane. Fredrich paused to grab a wagon tongue from one of the carriages, ripping the heavy piece of stout wood free like it was a twig taken from a bundle of stick. He charged for Cane, swinging down the makeshift club like a toy in a child’s hands. He struck down, bashing the wood against the side of Cane’s head.
The blow sent Cane to the ground. He felt the sudden coldness of the snow at his back and his eyes blinked shut.
When Cane woke up, his eyes creaked open and saw only darkness. He was looking at a dark sky with no stars at all. He wondered if he had opened his eyes, or if they were still closed and then saw a few spars of light stretch over him. He glanced around and saw a lantern, setting on the top of the Coyles’ gaudily painted wagon. Moonlight lay beyond, peeking through a gap in dark stone. Cane felt sharp gravel under his hands and realized that he and the other survivors had been herded into a cave.
His sword and revolvers lay next to him. Cane slid both six-guns into their holsters and tucked the sword into his belt. He wondered why the vampires had left him his weapons and then he knew – they weren’t afraid of him.
“Mr. Cane!” Maxwell’s bright voice sounded through the cave. The boy hurried to Cane’s side, a canteen in his shaking hands. He handed Cane the canteen and stood back as the bounty hunter knocked it back and let water run over his open mouth and lips. He handed it back to Maxwell, who stood back and watched as Cane came to his feet. “Sir?” Maxwell asked. “Are you all right?”
“Dandy.” Cane walked past Maxwell, back to the Coyle wagon. The other survivors were there, huddled together for warmth at the end of the cave. A few other wagons were with them. “They brought us here?” Cane demanded. “Them bloodsuckers?”
“Yes, sir,” Maxwell agreed. “After you fell, nobody really wanted to fight. So we let them bring us up a mountain trail and then over here. And they said we should go in the cave and wait. I think they’re going to eat us.” He clasped his hands. “But you’re awake now, and you’ll figure out a way to rescue us. Right, Mr. Cane?”
Cane didn’t respond. He walked over to the survivors and nodded to Orestes Coyle, who stood near the cave wall. A few horses were behind them, clustered together in the dark of the cave. There was a pile of firewood resting between them and Coyle had set a few sticks together. He was trying unsuccessfully to light a match. Maxwell walked over to his uncle and Orestes put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Even Orestes’ usual exuberance seemed to have vanished. The snake oil salesmen smiled down at his nephew. “I must thank you, Mr. Cane,” he said, and his voice shook. “With all of my heart. I know how hard it must have been, to throw victory away – especially for someone who requires the slaughter of his enemies in the way that the fish requires water and the bird—”
“That’s enough, Coyle.” Cane drew his revolvers and began to reload them. “You figure out anything about these fellows that bushwhacked us?”
Coyle brightened. “I believe I have.” He tucked his hands into the pocket of his waistcoat. “They are vampires, right from the nightmares and legends of the civilized world. They live off of human blood and their thirst is voracious and endless. This batch of vampires appears to be a conglomeration of bloodsuckers, from all around Europe. Germans, Italians, Frenchmen, and Spaniards – all seem to found their way to Blood Pass. Their queen, indomitable she-devil that she is, is simply called the Contessa, lending credence to my theory that they are all nobles of some kind, exiled from their native lands and reduced to the status of blood-hungry scavengers.”
A dark profile appeared in the mouth of the cave. Orestes fell silent and all the survivors of the ambush watched as the Contessa stepped alone in the cave. She wore a dark gown now, of silken weave. It was covered with dust and torn in countless places. A dark circlet with a gleaming ruby rested on her head. Her eyes turned to Cane.
“Come,” the Contessa said. “Walk with me in the moonlight.”
Wordlessly, Cane went to her. He brushed past the survivors, ignoring Orestes and Maxwell as he walked over the floor of the cave and came to the entrance. He looked down at the Contessa. She turned and headed outside and he followed her.
They were standing on the top of one of Blood Pass’s cliffs. Rocky trails curved down from the corners of the mesa, leading back down to the main road. But Cane could see that escape was impossible. Perhaps a dozen vampires were there. They paced in the snow, squatted on the piles of rock like great birds preparing to take flight, or played with clothes, supplies and gewgaws stolen from the massacred wagon train. The Contessa stared at her subjects and slowly shook her head.
“Once they were princes and kings,” she explained. “Now they pick through the bones of travelers and scavenge what they can.” She arched her fingers. “Such is the cruelty of fate towards our kind.” Then the Contessa turned to Cane. “But you have seen fate’s cruelty as well. Your face tells that story. Have you a name?”
“Have you?” Cane asked.
The Contessa paused. “Once, I did,” she admitted. “Now, I am simply the Contessa.”Her voice was mournful and full of longing.
“Mine’s Clayton Cane,” Cane told her.
“You are not human, Mr. Cane, are you?”
“No…” Cane’s voice softened as he spoke.
“Then what are you?”
Cane tramped slowly through the snow, not looking at the Contessa. “A dead man,” he said. “Born in the War Between the States. One of the rich plantation owners did it. He supported the Confederacy and it took his three sons from him. He went mad and he knew that the South didn’t have the manpower to win – all they had was corpses. So he took pieces of bodies, from Yank and Reb, and stitched them together. Used Voodoo spells gleaned from his slaves, dark Germanic magic and mad science to give the creation life.” Cane glanced up at the Contessa. His eyes flashed in the moonlight. “You’re looking at the result.”
He waited for the Contessa to turn away in disgust or revulsion, or perhaps become entranced by the patchwork gunslinger, like he was some unknown scientific specimen to be catalogued and studied. But she did neither. Instead, the Contessa’s hand reached out and rested on Cane’s cheek. Her fingers were cool and light. She brushed them down across his face, moving over the scars and stitch-marks.
“Your creator did poor work,” the Contessa said. “But it cannot hide the beauty beyond your features.” She stepped closer to him. “The world hates you, Cane – as surely as it hates me and my people. You’re a freak to them and that’s what you’ll always be. But the vampires care nothing for the ways of men. Stay with us and learn that there is hope and love and goodness in this bleak world of ours after all.”
“What would I do?” Cane asked.
“Transport our coffins down the mountain. Gua
rd us in daylight. Share the spoils of our conquest.”Her arm went around Cane’s waist. She pulled herself close. “But mostly, you would keep me company. There are many horrors of undeath. Loneliness is chief amongst them. I am queen here, but I would have an equal. I see the pain in your eyes and I know that you could be that equal.” Her voice lost its aristocratic tone. Cane realized she was pleading. “Please,” the Contessa said. “Stay with us.”
She fell silent after her proposition, waiting for Cane’s response. Her body was still close to him, so Cane stepped back. His boots crunched in the moonlit snow. “Can I leave?” Cane asked. “If I want to?”
“Take your freedom,” the Contessa agreed. “It is my gift to you.”
“And the others?”
The Contessa shrugged. “They will be devoured before dawn. They are only human. We are something greater. Now what do you say?”
In answer, Cane turned away from her. He tramped back to the cave, bowing his head as a cold wind whipped through the mountain peaks. Cane was thinking, wondering what exactly he would do and what trail he would ride. He could stay with the vampires, becoming a daytime watchman. He could just leave and head down into the wilderness, then make his way to a next job. But both of those would leave the survivors of the caravan to die.
Cane walked back into the cave. He saw that Orestes Coyle had given up on making the fire. Now he and the other survivors simply sat in the corners of the cave or huddled together, trying to keep as much warmth as they could. They were tired and despondent, a pathetic breed. And yet, these settlers were the kind that would settle the West, leaving Cane and the vampires to fade away like dew before the rising sun and be remembered only in legend. Unless the Contessa and her vampires had their victory, that is.
The Road to Hellfire Page 8