The Road to Hellfire

by Michael Panush

  “No.” Cane looked at Bennet and stared into the dime novelist’s pale eyes. Cane was an unashamed killer, but he tried to do some good, in his own way, when the opportunity arose. It was the only thing that kept him from being the monster he looked like. It seemed that Bennet was similar, in the way that he tried to do his best, however he could. “You can go in the morning. You got a bedroll?”

  “I am properly provisioned,” Bennet agreed.

  “Then take it out and get some shuteye. You look plenty fatigued.” Cane walked back to the dying fire. He kicked it with his boot, knocking over the firewood and sending up a shower of sparks. They rolled up into the dark sky in a stream of burning dots. “I’ll do the same.” He sat down on his own bedroll and turned away, waiting as Bennet struggled to withdraw and prepare his evening bed. Cane stared up at the stars and the moon.

  He waited until Bennet was snoozing peacefully and then he stood up. He packed up quickly, taking another look at the slumbering dime novelist. “This is a mercy,” he said, and swung onto his saddle. He turned up his collar against the chill of the plains and then gave his horse some spur, riding away from the little campsite and heading deeper into the night. Cane rode on for Sanctuary and his bounty, leaving Bennet behind.

  The journey there was not long and he arrived in the gray light of dawn. Sanctuary was a ghost town, gradually being reclaimed by the wild. The dirt streets and boardwalks were empty even of rubbish and the weathered buildings were like sockets of a skull, with shattered windows and peeling paint. Sanctuary consisted of only a single main street, with rough wooden structures on both sides. A morning wind rustled through the town, making the doors swings open on their hinges and squeal like wounded animals.

  Cane rode through the main street, his repeating rifle over his saddle horn. There was no sign of Jasper Stokes or his gang. With a tug on his reins, Cane slowed his horse to a gentle trot. He looked at the shattered windows and the empty buildings as his horse trotted along the main street.

  Then his horse was whinnying and rising up, its legs flailing in the air. Cane tried to grip the reins but he slid off and landed hard in the dirt. His rifle fell from his hands. After collapsing on the ground, Cane looked at the dust of the street. A black line lunged out and strike into the belly of his horse. He realized it was a snake, the dark scales gleaming in the first rays of the sun. Cane went for his revolver and fired, blasting a round through the snake and cutting it in half. But it was too late. His bay galloped madly down the street, before the strength seemed to leave its legs and it collapsed in a heaving heap.

  That was impossible. No snake’s venom could down a horse that fast. Cane turned around, still holding his revolver. He saw a strange green light emanating from one of the alleys, and then a bullet cracked into the dust at his feet. He still clutched his revolver.

  “Stokes?” Cane demanded. “Come on out here!”

  “My dear fellow.” The green glow grew stronger. “Jasper Stokes is the least of your worries.” Cane glanced down the alley and saw a man in a dark frock coat, traveling cloak and top hat walked evenly across the sands. Cane recognized the coal black hair, the neat moustache and hawkish nose. It was Lord Simon Sixham, a British aristocrat turned insane occultist. Lord Sixham had once led the Thanatolian Brotherhood, a death-worshipping London cult. Cane had trapped him in a burning building. He should have been dead — and yet there he stood.

  But now there was something inhuman about Lord Sixham. His eyes blazed with an inner green light and emerald flames leapt and curled around his arms and shoulders. The green fire seemed strange in the morning light, like it might be an illusion that would vanish after a blink. Lord Sixham carried a long ebony cane in one gloved hand, and the length of the wood seemed alive with the strange green fire.

  “Sixham,” Cane hissed. “Been a long time.”

  “It has, dead man,” Lord Sixham replied.

  “I thought you was dead,” Cane answered.

  “Death is a slave and I am the master.” A cold smile appeared on Lord Sixham’s face. “I’ve been quite keen to make your acquaintance again.” he extended his arms like a circus ring master introducing the next act. “And I am not alone in that regard.”

  As Lord Sixham approached, more doors in the ghost town slammed open. A dozen outlaws of the Stokes Gang stalked into the street. They were hard men, long used to the solitude and harshness of the world’s wild spaces. All of them wore animal skins gone brown with dust, with hatchets and Bowie knives in their belts. They wore their broad brimmed hats or animal skin caps low on their eyes, shielding them from the sun.

  Then Cane saw Jasper Stokes himself step out from the old saloon, a rifle leaning on his shoulder. Jasper Stokes was a burly, shaggy man in a buffalo robe. His thick beard and tangled hair were indistinguishable from the buffalo robe, so he seemed covered in hair. Stokes walked over to stand next to Lord Sixham, while his outlaws covered Cane. Even under a dozen guns, Cane didn’t drop his revolver.

  “You was right, your lordship,” Stokes drawled. “I’ll be taking that payment of yours.”

  “You see, Cane, Jasper Stokes was working for me.” Sixham withdrew a red velvet pouch from his pocket and tossed it into Stokes’ waiting hand. “He allowed news of his position to reach your ears, knowing that you would not be long in arriving. And now my predictions have been proved correct.”

  “I’ll stick around, your lordship.” Stokes smiled slow, revealing the few remaining teeth he had. “I’d like to watch you butcher Clayton Cane. He did kill my brother after all.”

  “He deserved it,” Cane snarled.

  “I don’t doubt that.” Stokes ran a hand through his tangled beard. “After all, he went gunning for you and wasn’t prepared. I am – so now I get to watch you die.”

  Lord Sixham drew closer to Cane. “And you will not be disappointed, Jasper.” He seemingly didn’t notice the revolver pointed towards his chest. “I want you to know why I have chosen you to die, Cane, so that you may go to your grave with a curse on your lips and hatred in your heart – for realizing what your demise will enable.”

  “If it shuts you up, I’ll die happy,” Cane muttered.

  Sixham raised his cane to the heavens. “I have been collecting souls, Cane, and trapping them within my own. I can feel them attempting to break free but my will is matchless. The souls heed my command and grant me puissance undreamed. Such is the ultimate power of death over life. As a man who is more dead than alive, you should know this well.” He swung his walking stick around, pointing its tip at Cane like a loaded gun. “And you death will add to my strength, infinitely more than any other.”

  “How’d you figure?” Cane asked.

  “I discovered your origins. You were not born, Cane, but made.” Lord Sixham nodded to himself as he retold the story. “It was a Confederate plantation owner who built you, during the waning years of the American Civil War. He stitched you together from six bodies – and six souls – of those who had died in the war, then used dark magic to give you life. The result is a strange patchwork being, a forlorn creature that lives in imitation of a man.” He pointed his staff down, letting the tip rest in the dirt. “But the six souls, and the magic that binds them together, will serve me far better than they serve you. I will become like a god and you will live on, within me.”

  Jasper Stokes slapped his knee. “He’s gonna cut you up and eat your soul, boy!” he laughed. “Don’t that just beat all?”

  It was a mad scheme, the kind of thing fitting for a lunatic’s dreams. But Cane knew that it very well may work and grant Lord Sixham the godhood he desired. He looked from the glowing staff of Sixham to the guns of Stokes’ band. He couldn’t fight them all.

  Then Cane heard a horse’s hooves, pounding down the open plains. He looked over Lord Sixham’s shoulder and then his scarred face squinted in surprise. It was Barnaby Bennet, riding like hell for Sanctuary. Bennet gripped his reins in shaking hands, his eyes wide with terror, like he was riding a c
annonball. As he approached the ghost town, Cane realized the dime novelist had lost control of his horse.

  “Watch out!” Bennet shrieked, as his horse careened towards Cane, the assembled road agents and Lord Sixham and then he swung low on his saddle and fell wailing to the ground, landing at Cane’s feet. His horse charged ahead, and the outlaws darted out of the way, some hurling themselves into the dirt to avoid the horse’s flashing hooves.

  That was the distraction Cane had been waiting for. He slammed his hand against the hammer of his revolver, fanning out the six shots as fast as he could. Lord Sixham and Stokes darted into an alley, and the other outlaws ran for cover – though two of them were not fast enough and rolled dead in the dust from the barrage. Stokes’ gang started to fire back and Cane cursed as he drew his second gun.

  “Mr. Cane!” Bennet cried, looking up from where he lay on the ground. “What in god’s name—”

  “Shut your mouth and run!” Cane grabbed Bennet’s arm and yanked him to the side, moving for one of the boardwalks. It was like hauling a sack of flour, one that kicked and yelped as bullets streamed through the air. Stokes’ gang was firing back, kicking up dust all around him. Cane returned fire. The nearest outlaw spun to the side, his brains leaking from the back of his head.

  Lord Sixham waved his cane feebly in the air. “Take him alive!” he roared. “He must be alive or the ritual will achieve nothing! Take Clayton Cane alive!”

  Cane wasn’t going to give him the chance. He spun his revolver around and risked another shot at Sixham. For a second, he saw a moment of panic flash across Sixham’s face, but then the green flames leapt to life. They wrapped around Sixham in an emerald coat and the bullet vanished in a puff of green fire, burned away into nothingness. Cane could hardly believe it. Lord Sixham’s dark magic was keeping him safe.

  By then, Bennet had regained his footing. He and Cane started running down the boardwalk, moving in the direction of Cane’s dead horse. Bennet clamped a hand on his bowler hat, ducking low as bullets cracked around him. “Cripes!” he bellowed. “They’re shooting at us and that British fellow is being consumed by ethereal green flames!”

  “Anything else you want to draw my attention to?” Cane reached down and grabbed his rifle from where it lay on the ground. He fired it wildly behind him, laying down covering fire, then pumped the lever and fired again. He spotted a collapsing cabin across the street and ran for it, Bennet waddling along with him.

  They reached the door. Cane swung his rifle to face the remaining outlaws and cracked away, giving Bennet time to hurry inside. Cane heard a bullet whine towards him and then gasped as it rammed into his upper arm. He slumped back against the doorway, gritting his teeth as blood pooled in his sleeve. He couldn’t hold the rifle, so he slung it over his shoulder and ducked inside the little cabin.

  It was a small wooden structure, which had maybe been a post office when Sanctuary was still a town. Now it had bare walls and a single, three-legged stool resting in a corner. Cane slumped down against the wall and risked a glance at his arm. His sleeve was scarlet. His fingers felt like icicles, jammed into his palm. He stared up at Bennet, who was ducking low in the corner.

  “Well,” Cane muttered. “Glad you followed me for your damn novel?”

  “The w-writer takes many risks.” Bennet ducked low, as a bullet carved through the wood above his head. Splinters tumbled to the ground. “And it appears that your career can be dangerous as well.” He grinned at himself and then noticed the blood around Cane’s arm. “Oh dear. Are you hurt badly, sir?”

  Cane looked down and shrugged. “Been shot up worse.” He slid out of his coat and looked at his sleeve. The wound was still bleeding freely, the blood now dripping to the dusty floor of the cabin. The bullet was still in there. It would have to come out. Cane glanced up at Bennet. “You got a blade on you?”

  “A penknife.” Bennet dug into his coat and pulled it free. Another shot blazed over his head, nearly knocking the bowler hat from his head. Bennet yelped and clutched his hat closely. He crawled nearer to Cane, holding out the little blade. He looked at Cane’s arm. “You can’t possibly want me to—”

  “Go on.” Cane used a good arm to slide a bullet between his teeth. He bit down. “Get it out.”

  Slowly, Bennet drew close enough to Cane. He looked up at Cane, his eyes brimming with uncertainty. Cane nodded once and then Bennet leaned in and stabbed in his penknife. Cane bit down as hard as he could, waves of pain washing over him as the penknife probed his flesh. The pain rose. Darkness flashed before Cane’s eyes, sudden as a bolt of lightning. And then something clinked on the floor of the cabin. It was the bullet.

  “Needle and thread,” Cane whispered. “In the pocket of my coat.”

  “What?” Bennet asked.

  “Sew it up, you fat buffalo!” Cane shouted. “And then I’ll bandage it and hope for the best.”

  “Oh. I don’t know if I…” Bennet shook his head. “You’re right, of course. There’s no time for delay.” He reached into the pocket of Cane’s coat. More bullets whistled past their cabin. Cane grabbed his rifle and fired it with his good hand. He fired blind, hurling lead in the direction of Stokes’ gang. The recoil made his body ache.

  Bennet withdrew the twine and needle, reached Cane’s arm and got to work. The dime novelist’s hands were shaking as he worked. Cane felt the needle go in. More pain shot through him as the wound was slowly tied shut. When it was done, Bennet stepped back. His hands were soaked with blood.

  “Pass me my jacket,” Cane muttered. Bennet did so, and Cane pulled out a roll of bandages. He slapped them on, wrapping them quickly over his wound and then pulling back his sleeve. He looked over at Bennet. The dime novelist was curled up in the corner now like a beaten dog, shivering madly. “Bennet,” Cane said and the writer glanced up. “I’m obliged to you.”

  “Well, thank god for that.” Bennet grinned weakly. “They’ve stopped shooting.”

  “Yeah.” Cane cracked open his rifle and began to shove in new rounds. He did the same with his pistol, not evening looking as his hands did their work by themselves. “They’re gathering up, reconvening with Lord Sixham and Stokes. They’ll get some scheme and then they’ll come again.”

  “And we’ll be slaughtered.” Bennet slumped over on the floor. “I made a mistake. My whole life has been a litany of such mistakes. But my greatest was coming out west to write. The heroic gunslinger is a myth. The few I have encountered are drunks or villains or – like you – coarse ruffians who have the manners of hogs at the trough!” He closed his eyes. “And what am I but some other pig, newly arrived at the farm and soon to be slaughtered for bacon.” He pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “And I don’t want to die in the company of a man like you, Mr. Cane, who has seen death everyday of his grim and unnatural life.”

  Cane considered responding, but thought better of it. He finished reloading his revolvers and slid them back into their holsters, then gripped his rifle and held it close. Instead of talking, he listened. He heard the wind rustling through the town of Sanctuary, and the doors opening and closing again on their squeaking hinges. He heard something else – the creak of aged board under heavy boots. Stokes’ gang was closing in.

  There was nothing at the door. They must be sneaking around, keeping just out of sight until their attack. He rested his finger on the trigger of his rifle. He’d be ready for them.

  Then Cane sniffed. He smelled the air, aware of a smell like the rotten egg scent of sulfur – but infinitely stronger. It seemed to worm its way into his nostrils, making his eyes water. He risked another glance out the window. Lord Sixham was there, wreathed in green flame. The staff was held high in Sixham’s gloved hands, like a conductor’s baton. The aristocratic occultist twirled it in the air.

  “Hell.” Cane raised his rifle and fired, but it was too late. The green fire raced down the tip of Sixham’s staff and then blasted in a blazing green line towards their hideout. The aged wood caught quickly and Cane
began to sweat as fire roared to life on the ceiling. The fire spread, creeping down the walls until the whole place was ablaze with fierce green light. “Come on!” Cane roared to Bennet. “Move your lard ass or it’ll get cooked!”

  They dashed for the door, Cane’s rifle raised in his hands. Just as he thought, one of Stokes’ outlaws was waiting for him outside. The burly, bearded road agent had a hatchet raised, ready to hack into Cane’s legs as he came out. Cane spun to the side, hearing the hum as the axe rushed through the air and nearly took off his leg. It thudded into the wall instead. Cane was too close to bother shooting, and simply swung his rifle around and crashed the butt into the road agent’s skull, making a deep crack resound through the ghost town like a stroke of thunder.

  The other outlaws started shooting and Cane raised his rifle and fired back. Lead streamed around him and he walked across the street, putting each of his shots exactly where it had to go. He blasted one of Stokes’ gang through the upper chest, and then killed another with a blast to the head. Their bodies tumbled backwards in the dust.

  Jasper Stokes was there with them, crouching behind a barrel. “Bring him down, you worthless owlhoots!” Stokes howled at his men. “Don’t you want to see that freak split open! Bring him down or I’ll tan your hides and make you sorry you was ever born!”

  Despite Stokes’ cries, Cane continued to hurry across the open street, the rifle blazing in his hands. Another outlaw choked and died, Cane’s shot grazing by his throat and spilling out his life in a red river. Cane figured he could lay down enough fire to drive them back, and then find some other defensible place to hold back Stokes, the rest of his gang, and Lord Sixham.