“Mr. Cane?” Cane was shaken out of his thoughts. He looked down at Maxwell Coyle. “Um, hello there.” The boy’s voice was nervous. “You were out in the snow, talking with the woman who leads the vampires, I guess?”
“Yeah.”
“What, exactly, w-where you talking about?” Maxwell tried to stifle a nervous stutter. He seemed very small, bundled up in his coat and scarves.
“It ain’t your concern.”
Maxwell nodded. “Oh. Okay.” He pointed back to the pile of firewood. “Well, could you help us make a fire, Mr. Cane? It’s very cold, you know, and my uncle tried, but he can’t quite figure it out. He has some matches, but he doesn’t want to waste them, as we don’t really know how long we’ll be here…” The boy trailed off. “Though, I think you’ll get us out pretty soon. You will, won’t you?”
The question hung in the air. Cane walked over to the bundle of firewood and knelt down. He grabbed one of the straight pieces of wood and held it up to the lantern light, then drew out his sword. He stared over his shoulder at Maxwell. It wasn’t fear of Cane that made the boy nervous. It was awe for a legend. Cane was a legend to a boy who had grown up with dime novels and still believed in myths. In a place as harsh as the West, it was good to have faith in something.
“Mr. Cane?” Maxwell walked over to Cane’s side. “Sir? What are you doing?”
The survivors of the wagon train watched as Cane slashed his sword along the length of the rectangular hunk of firewood. He carved off the edges and sharpened the wood into a slim, blonde and pointed stake. “Coyle,” Cane said. “Get out that liquid silver of yours.”
“Liquid silver – coming up! And I won’t even charge you, given that we are bosom friends.” Orestes scrambled to his wagon. “Do you wish to release the silver’s curative properties on your scarred visage, Mr. Cane? Or perhaps drink the stuff, to grant your intestines the fortitude and digestive powers of a steamship’s boiler?” He came back with an armful of silver vials and set them at Cane’s feet in a little pile “Or is there some third purpose to this gathering of my fine medicines?”Orestes glanced up at Cane and then he stepped back.
Cane looked down at Maxwell. “Boy, you and your father best stay back. Let me do my job.”
The boy stared at Cane in surprise, a slight smile appearing on his young face, but then Orestes grabbed Maxwell’s hand and led him away. Cane was glad of that. He didn’t want Maxwell to see what would happen next. Cane gathered up the vials of silver and tucked them into his pockets. He took the rest of the firewood, raised his sword and got to work.
The work didn’t take long, but Cane waited anyway. He let the hours pass and the Contessa didn’t press him on his decision, nor did the vampires enter the cave to feed. Cane knew that was the Contessa’s doing. She wanted to give him all the time he needed. She saw him as an equal, and that was something rare indeed. But there was Maxwell to think of, and the others. The Contessa wanted him to be a monster, while Maxwell saw him as a hero. Cane had made his decision. He finished preparing. He wrapped his duster over his shoulder, hiding his belt and chest from view, and walked outside.
The Contessa, Fredrich and the other vampires were waiting for him. They stood in a loose semi-circle around the entrance to the cave. Some of the vampires were perched on the piles of rocks, looking down like waiting vultures. All of the vampires seemed hungry, licking their lips and staring over Cane’s shoulder, into the cave. It must have taken the Contessa a great deal of effort to restrain them.
“Have you thought deeply, Cane?” The Contessa approached him. Her feet were light on the ground. She seemed to float over the snow and gravel. “Have you made your decision?”
“Yeah.” Cane reached a hand into his pocket. He came out with a vial of silver. “I believe I have.” Without hesitation, he hurled the vial into the Contessa’s face. She reeled back, screaming as the liquid silver rolled down her face, the drops resembling gleaming streams of tears in the moonlight. Steam rushed up from the wound and she covered her face with her hands and stumbled away.
With her hands still covering her face, the Contessa glanced up at him, as the other vampires bristled. Cane saw one of her eyes through her fingers. “Why?” she asked, a sudden snarl creeping into her voice. “I would have made you a king!”
“That ain’t what I want.” Cane drew out his cavalry saber as the vampires circled him. “What I want, I can never have – but maybe I can try.” He gripped the blade and reached into the folds of his coat. “And I aim to try with all the strength I got.”
He pulled out the stick of dynamite. He had tied more vials of silver to it with a line of twine, until the candy red of the dynamite was almost covered by the gray of the string. Cane hurled the dynamite into the crowd of the vampires and then drew his revolver. He raised the gun and fired, just as the vampires charged for him. His first shot missed, doing nothing more than kicking up some snow and dirt. Cane fired again and this time his bullet struck the dynamite and caused the explosives to roar to life.
The fireball spread and Cane ducked low. Smoke and rock hurtled through the air, along with sprays of liquid silver. The silver fell over the vampires, raising clouds of smoke wherever it struck their skin. Vampires tumbled to the ground, wailing and shrieking as they clawed at their skin. Cane let his coat fall open, revealing the wooden stakes thrust through his belt. He grabbed one and clutched his sword. The vampires shrieked around and tried to get away as he went to work.
In simple, brutal motions, Cane slammed down the point of his saber or his sharpened skewers, driving them into the hearts of the stunned vampires. He dispatched the vampires quickly, reducing them to puddles of ash and gore before they could move. Cane alternated between the stakes and his sword. The vampires tried to crawl out of the way, but Cane hurried after them, pinning them down with a heavy boot before he drove his stake home. Soon, his arms ached from the slaughter and the vampires were beginning to recover – and he still had more to kill.
The vampires began to stand, hissing as the last bits of silver burned away from their faces. They had seconds to rise before Cane was upon them. He stabbed with his saber and stakes, cutting down the vampires as they tried to stand. One vampire, a long-limbed creature with a few strands of dark hair on his pale head, lunged at Cane and tackled him, knocking him to the ground. The vampire’s fangs reached for Cane’s throat – before the bounty hunter gripped his stake and slammed it home. The vampire writhed and Cane rose up with ash and blood staining his coat.
“Cane!” Fredrich bellowed Cane’s name. Cane glanced up from stabbing home another stake and saw the big vampire was on his feet. Fredrich still had the bloody line across his eye, given to him by Cane’s sword. “I thought you’d be a fine foe – but you fight dirty!”
“I fight to win,” Cane replied, turning towards Fredrich and going for his revolver. He cleared holster before the muscular vampire could reach him and pumped out all remaining four slugs into Fredrich’s body. They might as well have been pebbles, for all the good they did. Fredrich still came on like a freight train, long claws ready to slice into Cane’s flesh.
The claws swung for Cane’s head, humming through the air. Cane ducked the blow then stabbed upwards with his blade, placing all the strength he had behind the stab. It slammed into Fredrich’s guts, driving up until the point had pierced through and protruded from his back. But it did not puncture Fredrich’s heart. The vampire merely stood back, breathing heavily and looked down at the sword stuck in his belly. His face split in a snarling grin.
Fredrich slashed at Cane again and this time his blow struck home. Cane felt the claws dig into his shoulder, raising a spurt of blood and stinging like viper bites. Cane stumbled back, lowering his head and staring at Fredrich. His hand dropped to his waist. He had one wooden skewer left. His fingers wrapped around the rough wood. It felt terribly light as he pulled it free and held it behind his back.
“You ugly little puppet!” Fredrich roared. Black blood pooled b
etween his lips and dripped down his chin. “I will crush you under my heel, as I would an insect!”
“Go on then,” Cane muttered. “Go on and try.”
With a primal roar, Fredrich charged. He pounded across the snow, both clawed hands outstretched to slash into Cane’s chest. But Cane was ready. When Fredrich drew close enough, Cane kicked out, driving his boot into the brawny vampire’s knee. He put all his weight behind the kick, and he pushed until he heard bone crack. Fredrich stumbled forward and then Cane lashed out with both hands. He grabbed the handle of his sword and pulled it out, sending up a shower of black gore. Fredrich’s roar of rage became one of pain. Then Cane took the stake and planted it into Fredrich’s heart.
Ash fell onto the snow as Fredrich sunk to nothing before Cane’s eyes. Cane rested the point of his blade on the gravelly ground. He leaned on it for support, trying to catch his breath. Piles of ash were all around him – but a handful of other vampires had survived his attack. Cane doubled his grip on his sword and then felt his skin prickle with sudden warmth. A smile crossed his scarred face. He didn’t have to be strong for much longer.
That’s when a delicate hand grasped his arm and spun him to the side. He saw the Contessa, just as she grabbed his wrist and squeezed. Cane’s sword sunk into the snow, before he realized it. The Contessa rested her hand on his throat. She stared at Cane. Her eyes were sad.
“I offered you everything,” she said. “And it wasn’t good enough.” The Contessa’s lips curled back, revealing her fangs. “So now, I shall take everything from you. I’m sorry, Mr. Cane – but you are a fool.”
“I ain’t.” Cane struggled to speak. The Contessa’s grip was iron, with steel behind her thin fingers. “You’ve been alive too long. You’ve gone from riches to rags. And now you forgot what time it is – and when the sun rises.”
Just as he spoke, the first rays of dawn reached Blood Pass. The sun came up red and fierce in the distance, rising higher and higher and shining down on the hills. Instantly, the Contessa’s grip slackened. The other vampires sank to their knees. Some of them began to whine, while others crawled frantically for the last remaining bits of shade. Steam began to rise from their mouths and nostrils, and Cane could smell burning flesh. He stared at the Contessa’s face. The silver had done its work. She was as scarred as he was.
“Perhaps part of me knew,” the Contessa said. “Perhaps part of me wanted this.”
“And what does the rest of you want?” Cane asked.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“You ain’t gotta be.” Cane offered her his hand. The Contessa took it, as smoke began to seep out of her mouth, nose and eyes. Her grip was light now. Cane hauled her up. He wrapped his arms around her slim shoulders and pulled her close. She was terribly light. The smell of burning flesh was intense now, but Cane ignored it. He held the Contessa close until she was gone and her empty, ash-stained clothes sank through his arms and hit the ground.
Behind him, Cane heard footsteps. He turned around and saw Orestes Coyle, leading the rest of the survivors and their horses from the cave. “Brilliantly done, Mr. Cane!” Coyle cried, clapping his hats. “Such a feat of marital prowess and fighting tactics would have shamed Horatius at his gate!” Coyle handed the reins of a stout Palomino to Cane and then saw the look on his face and fell silent.
Maxwell noticed it too. The boy looked from Cane’s face to the ragged dress lying on the ground. “You didn’t want to hurt them, sir, but you did, to protect the innocent. And that’s what makes you a hero, Mr. Cane.”
Cane grabbed his fallen saber and slid it into his belt. He hoisted himself up into the saddle of the horse. “I don’t know what that makes me, boy,” he said. “But it certainly ain’t no hero.” He gave the horse a taste of his spurs and rode hard away from the survivors of the vampire ambush, down a rocky slope and back to the main trail. He didn’t look back at Blood Pass.
Clayton Cane heard the horse and rider approaching his sparse campsite long before they arrived. For his keen ears, the horse might as well have been an elephant blundering through a packed forest instead the open Dakota plains. Cane sat before a flickering fire burning low under the dark night sky. The plains rolled off in gray expanses in all directions, lost now under a curtain of shadow. Cane’s horse, a stooped Bay, sat behind him, trying its best to munch the few blades of grass peeking up from the gray earth. Cane stared into the distance, his hand drifting to the revolvers on his waist.
The flickering fire illuminated Cane against the night’s darkness. He was a powerfully built man, with broad shoulders and limbs thickened with muscle. He wore only a long duster and broad brimmed hat, despite the night’s chill. The fire shone on his face, revealing a mass of crossing scars over his weathered skin, with eyes of two different colors. His fingers wrapped around the handle of his revolver and then he drew it, clearing holster and taking aim with the speed of one who knows that slowness brings death. He covered the incoming horse.
“Who’s there?” Cane asked, thumbing back the hammer. “Come on out with them hands raised or you’ll catch a belly-full of lead.” He remained seated before his little fire and watched as the rider dismounted and stepped closer, with hands held high.
“I mean you no trouble!” The fellow stepped into the circle of light cast by the fire. He was a young, portly man, wearing a tan checkered suit, and bowler hat. “My name is Barnaby Bennet and I have merely come seeking your company, Mr. Cane, for purposes as far removed from violence as possible.” He had swollen cheeks and a long, thin nose below a pair of round spectacles, a lacy string tie askew under his thick chin. He reminded Cane of an armadillo, right down to his big ears.
“Well, Mr. Bennet, if you don’t want to get yourself shot, what are you doing sneaking up on me?” Cane didn’t see any irons on Bennet, and there was no rifle on the saddle of his horse. He slid his own revolver back into his holster. “And why the hell are you even wishing for my company?”
Bennet reached towards his coat and then paused, his eyes drifting again to Cane’s revolvers. “The answer – and not some derringer or other small firearm —is forthcoming. If I may?” He reached into his coat and then withdrew a small, dog-eared and tattered paperback volume. He leaned over the fire and handed Cane the book.
Cane looked at the luridly painted cover. “Billy the Kid against the Invaders from Mars, Or: a Scientific Romance of the High Plains?” he asked. The cover showed a shirtless gunslinger, standing against a horde of slimy green octopi, a revolver in each hand and a damsel ducking behind him. He stared up at Bennet. “And you wrote this dime novel?” he asked, his voice a dry rasp.
“Penned it myself,” Bennet agreed, squatting next to the fire. He extended his hand and gently took the book back. “My first published work, Mr. Cane, and one that I am deeply proud of. I write under a penname, of course, shared by several other gentlemen of varying skill, and I am always on the look-out for new sources of inspiration. Tales of the West, my good man, are what the American public craves and I wish to fulfill those desires.” He pointed at Cane over the low campfire, an indulgent smile on his face. “And I wish for you, Mr. Cane, to be the subject of my next masterpiece.”
For a few seconds, Cane stared at Bennet. He scratched his chin and his eyes drifting down to the fire. “You want to write a story about me?” he asked. “Why?”
“Your legend, sir, is one which resounds across the prairies like the ringing of a great bell.” Bennet’s face split in a broad grin. “Why, every saloon from here to the Rio Grande fairly brims with the tale of the mammoth scar-faced bounty hunter. They even gave you a name – El Mosaico – doubtlessly for your, um, unique facial features.” A yellow pencil and pad seemingly appeared in Bennet’s hands. “And who better to be the scribe of your journeys than I? Let us begin with the tale of how you gained your intriguing visage.”
“I ain’t telling you that.” Cane came to his feet and looked down at Bennet.
Bennet didn’t miss a beat.
“Then let’s try another story. What is your present purpose?”
“I’m on the trail of Jasper Stokes, who runs a team of road agents too damn ornery to try their hand at banks or trains. I killed his younger brother, Silas, down New Mexico way a while back, and I reckon he wants revenge. There’s bounty on his head too, as he’s a road agent, and I aim to finish him before he can finish me. He’s holed up in the abandoned town of Sanctuary, just a few miles over the next rise.”
“Splendid!” Bennet clasped his hands. “A ghost town! What more picturesque location for an outlaw’s hideaway? I will accompany you and chronicle your adventures.”
“You ain’t doing anything of the sort.” Cane pointed at Bennet. “Hunting down Jasper Stokes would be hard enough without lugging some fat turtle with a notepad around. If you got plans of getting off this prairie with your guts intact, then you leave me the hell alone. I won’t tell you twice.” He spat into the dirt, raising a little cloud of dust. “Dime novels. Hell.”
“I assure you, I have only the noblest intentions of spreading the tale of your heroism and—”
Cane walked across the fire. He towered over Barnaby Bennet. “Your intentions ain’t worth what drips out of a mule’s backside. I don’t give them a damn about them. Now get on your horse and ride, afore I take that dime novel of yours and cram it down your fat throat.”
“Oh…” Bennet lowered his eyes. He gulped. “Well, Mr. Cane, I must admit, I did not expect such a reception.” He removed his spectacles suddenly and began to fastidiously polish them on his coat.
“Then what did you expect?”
Barnaby Bennet lowered his eyes. “I am a weak man. I have no illusions on that subject. This world is one ruled by the strong and I have no hope in it. But I can write, Mr. Cane. I can tell the stories of those who are strong and true and brave and inspire others, young and old alike, with tales of their heroism. In that way, perhaps, I can do some good. It is the only possible action for one of my weak and womanly ilk.” He returned his spectacles to his nose. “And it is the object of my hopes and dreams.” He turned back to his horse. “Would you like me to leave immediately?”
The Road to Hellfire Page 9