“I did not join until a few towns back. It turns out that my prospects in San Francisco were not as bright as I had hoped.”
“That seems to be a common theme. Would you mind taking a look at the man on the ground?”
Someone has brought a lantern over, and now it is easy to see that the man, who appears to be white, was on the losing end of a very bad fight. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and his breath comes in rabbit-quick huffs. Blood soaks through his clothing, and there are slices all over his face and his body, as though someone went after him with a knife. But they are a curious sort of injury.
Who would slice at a person rather than stabbing them outright?
“I’ll know more once he wakes, but it looks as though he has been badly beaten. There are also several lacerations here that look like knife swipes.”
The sound of a gun cocking echoes across the otherwise still night, and I look up. There, just outside the circle of the lantern, is what appears to be a woman. It is the long single braid hanging over her shoulder that gives her away. The tiny, shaggy dog goes over to stand next to her, still barking at the man on the ground next to Dr. Nelson.
“Salty, hush,” she says.
It takes me a long moment to realize the woman only has one arm, her left sleeve is pinned up like I sometimes see with old war veterans who have had a grievous injury. The woman is terrifying, and there is something about her presence that seems familiar.
“Good evening,” she finally says after a long moment. “Sorry to inconvenience you folks, but could you possibly step away from that man? I aim to kill him, and I ain’t as sharp a shot as I once was.”
Her voice is raspy, as though she is not used to speaking aloud. But it is a voice I know, a voice that has echoed in my mind a hundred thousand times since that fateful day in Nicodemus, my constant companion in nights spent lying awake thinking of the only girl I have ever called a friend.
My heart pounds, loud enough to echo in my ears, and the world seems to tilt just a bit, even though I still stand. Time slows to a crawl, and a million thoughts race through my brain. I blink, and the apparition is still there, the figure resolving itself into an image from memory.
“Jane?”
The woman tilts her head to the side, and adrenaline shoots through me. She calls across the distance, “Katherine? What the hell are you doing in California?”
And that is when the man lurches up from the ground, gasping, eyes wide with fear.
There is only a single shot, the sharp report bouncing off the wagons and echoing in on itself. The man’s face explodes outward, and blood and brain splatters Doc Nelson. My mouth falls open at the sight of the man’s ruined face, and nausea roils in my stomach. I am no squeamish miss, but this is a bit much even for me.
The folks still standing around exclaim in horror, and more than a few run to the edge of the wagons, whether out of fear of Jane or because they are also ill at the sight of the corpse. I blink and try to avoid looking at it directly, as though avoiding the horror on the ground will cause it to disappear.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” Doc Nelson says, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the blood and gray matter from his face. He turns to me with wide-eyed horror. “You are acquainted with this woman?” It is clear from his tone that he is considering that perhaps I would not have made such a great wife after all.
Jane, for her part, is nonplussed. She does not even seem to notice the chaos she has wrought. She holsters her pistol and whistles back into the darkness. A skinny, brown-skinned boy with floppy hair and dark eyes dressed in the loose-fitting farm garb of the Californios runs forward.
“Tomás, grab Salty, would you? And run back and get that blanket we nicked. We’re going to need it to wrap the body.”
The little boy snatches up the dog and runs off, his eyes carefully avoiding the dead man on the ground. Jane moves over to the body and begins rifling through his pockets. My chest tightens with panic, and I take half a stumbling step back. Doc Nelson holds out a hand to steady me, and I shove him away harder than I intend.
“Jane, what on earth happened to you?” I demand.
Jane shrugs. “Nothing much. The Jane McKeene you knew died in Nicodemus, and good riddance.” Her voice is flat, emotionless, and I take a step toward her before she looks up at me with coldness in her eyes.
“If you know what’s best, you’ll take yourself and your friends back inside the safety of those wagons and leave me to my business.” She looks back down at the body. It is a dismissal, and a cruel one at that. I want to hug her, to tell her how much I missed her, how much she has occupied my thoughts since Nicodemus. But fear and confusion keep me rooted to the spot. Every line of Jane’s body is tense, and it is impossible to miss the dark spot on the blade of the knife that hangs from her belt.
She brutalized this man before his death.
My heart aches, and tears spring forth. I dash them away before anyone else can see. After a year of mourning my friend she has returned from the dead.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
But, dear readers, the stories of the Devil’s Bride are untrue. For I have discovered the truth about the woman, a girl really, who has been given such moniker. And the truth is she is an angel of justice, avenging those who have been wronged in equal measure to their trespass.
—Western Tales, Volume 23
—JANE—
Chapter 33
In Which I Find that Reunions Ain’t Always So Happy
I kneel next to Smith’s body and begin to check his pockets to give myself time to gather my wits. Katherine still stands over me, beautiful and horrified, like a fine lady from a novel. I could almost see her stalking across the moors, fleeing an unloving husband. The breeze blows her skirts back as though to emphasize the point, and I shake my head to chase away the vision.
When Smith ran I wasn’t quite sure where he was headed, since there are a dozen sloughs and marshes in this area. I’d already worked him over pretty well, so I didn’t think he’d get very far. But when he’d turned toward the wagons and firelight in the distance I knew I was in for a scene. Most folks are squeamish about killing, and there was no way I was going to let Richard Smith live.
I needed a body to turn in for David Johnson’s bounty, after all.
“Miss, I don’t know who you are, but you should step away from that body.” A Negro man with the fanciest set of mustaches looks down at me, a fancy snub-nosed revolver pointed right at me. He stands beside Katherine, as though he’s of a mind to keep her safe. I laugh.
“This another of your admirers?” I ask Katherine, and she just shakes her head mutely.
The man’s eyes widen as he looks from me to her. “You know this woman?”
“This woman is Jane McKeene, and Katherine and I went to school together. And I’d thank you to quit pointing that smoke wagon at me.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I need you to step away from the dead man.”
“Not a chance. Might I get the pleasure of your name, sir, if you’re going to start shouting out commands?”
“My name is Carolina Jones,” he says.
“Carolina? Is that a given name or an homage to your home state?”
“It’s neither, miss. Now please step away from the body.”
I keep rummaging through Smith’s pockets, of which there seem to be an awful lot. The man is fairly made of pockets. “I think not, Mr. Jackson. I’m a bounty hunter. This body is worth a hundred dollars, and anything that is on his person is now my property.”
“I don’t believe that’s true,” he says. “And it’s Jones, not Jackson.”
“Begging your pardon,” I say. “And just how many bounties have you collected, Mr. Jones, that you seem fit to have an opinion on such a matter?”
“None, Miss McKeene.”
“Then I should say that I am the expert amongst us.” Arguing with this man is a welcome diversion, which is the only reason I indulge him in the least
. He’s distracting me from the tortured expression on Katherine’s face. There is nothing I can do to erase that look, so the sooner I can wrap up the body and take it with me the sooner I can be quit of this place.
The past is the past, and until I finish killing Gideon Carr I need it to stay just the province of memory.
“Bounty works like this, Mr. Jones,” I say, as though he’s asked even though he ain’t. “Once someone puts a price on a fella’s head, he should know better than to run around with valuables in his pockets. And it seems like enterprising folks who go to the trouble of chasing down murderers and thieves should get a bit of gratuity for their effort. I mean, ain’t that just capitalism? Well, lookee here.” I pull out a folded wad of cash from Smith’s waistband, at least a hundred dollars from the look of it; I grin before tucking it into the pocket of my dress. “Not too shabby.”
I go to pull off Smith’s boots when Carolina Jones’s tiny pistol cocks back with a click. “Miss McKeene, as one of the stewards of this wagon train I’m going to ask you once more to leave off—”
The man’s tone grates, so I draw my merrymaker and point it at him. “Mr. Jackson—excuse me, Jones—I do not care if you are the mayor of Sacramento. This is my bounty—what’s on the body, and the body itself—and I will dispose of it how I see fit. Now clear on out before I have to make a bolder statement than that. I’d hate to have to ruin those lovely mustaches.”
“Well, you’re about as reckless as ever,” comes a low voice.
I turn to find none other than Sue, standing a little off to the side.
“Sue,” I say, my voice low.
I am certain I want nothing to do with this happy reunion. Katherine was enough on her own, but now Sue . . . I am not quite in control of myself, and my breath comes quicker than I’d like. I drop my arm back to my side, burying the tip of my pistol in the dirt. A wave of longing and sadness buries me, months of suppressed emotions, and I damn near burst into tears. I spent so long thinking everyone was dead, that I was the last Miss Preston’s girl left in this whole miserable hellscape. It was easier that way. Because then I didn’t have to lie awake at night wondering if they were safe, or if they’d turned shambler. “Why must you vex me as well? I already have Katherine over here looking at me like I murdered her puppy.”
“Seems to me like you would if there were money in it,” Jones says, disgust lacing his voice.
I give him a hard look. “You have no idea who I am, sir.”
“You running bounties, now?” Sue says in her same easy manner, as though there ain’t a year and change and most of a continent standing between the last time we saw each other.
I gather myself, stand and holster my pistol, ignoring Mr. Jones, who stares at me like a wild cat has managed to talk. “It’s a great way to survive as long as you don’t mind killing.”
Sue tilts her head at me.
“Jane, this man has been tortured,” Katherine says, finally speaking.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Things happen.”
Tomás comes running back, Salty on his heels. Katherine takes a step forward, looks at the boy and the dog, and steps back to where she was, moving a little bit behind Sue. I ain’t sure why, but that bit of indecision breaks my heart just a little. I ain’t so changed from who I once was. I just have a purpose beyond survival, now.
I should probably thank Gideon Carr before I plug him. He gave my life meaning I didn’t know I needed.
I take the blanket from Tomás and begin to wrap up Smith’s body. “I don’t suppose any of you have a horse and wagon I could borrow to get this body to the closest town?” I’m not of a mind to head back toward San Jose, but I will if necessary. Now that I have the kid tagging along with me I can’t exactly sleep in the back room of a brothel or any ditch that seems safe enough. It’s boardinghouses and legitimate hotels from here on out. And those cost money.
For a moment, I miss Callie desperately. She could explain to Sue and Katherine how I ended up here, the weeks of sickness, learning to adapt without my left arm, teaching myself to re-center my weight in a fight and wield a falchion. I’d spent months honing myself into a weapon in order to make the trip overland, and the journey itself had only sharpened my edge. At Miss Preston’s I’d been a pistol. Now I was an artillery cannon.
But Callie ain’t here.
Someone clears their throat. It’s the man who’d been examining Smith when he came to. I’d forgotten the man was even there. “Miss McKeene, we haven’t been properly introduced, but I am Dr. Cornelius Nelson. If I might be so bold: if we were to help you transport this body to the nearest sheriff, would you perhaps consider riding with us to Sacramento? I believe I have some oil cloth that might help preserve the body from pests. And with murderers like this man about, and the occasional shambler a constant threat, we could use a woman of your skills on these treacherous roads.”
“Ain’t no one said the man was a murderer,” Jones says.
“And who else in this wild country have bounties upon their head?” the doctor asks. “He was most likely a ne’er-do-well in any case.”
“If this man even had a bounty on his head,” Jones says, giving me a hard look.
Either way, I do need to get this body to a sheriff, and I was heading to Sacramento in any case.
If this ain’t Providence pointing me right at Gideon Carr, then I don’t know what else it could be.
“Deal,” I say with a pointed look to Carolina Jones. It would take time and money to transport Smith’s body on my own, and both come at a premium these days. And traveling with a wagon train will be much safer than walking overland by myself, especially as I have Tomás to consider. He might be tough, but no child is prepared for what this life can bring.
“We’d best talk to Juliet and Louisa before making any additions to the security detail,” Jones says, and I know he and I ain’t about to be friends anytime soon. He’s put his peashooter away, but even in the low light of the single lantern we’ve been jawing by I can tell he’s got a mighty big dislike for me.
Good. I ain’t fond of pushy men, either.
“I do not think there will be a problem,” Katherine says, her voice low. “We are shorthanded as it is, and things will only get more dangerous as we get closer to Sacramento and head up into the mountains.”
“Mountains?” I say. I want to know what Katherine is thinking, but her horror has finally melted away and her expression is worthy of a seasoned gambler. “I thought you were headed to Sacramento?”
“We are,” Sue says. “But after that we’re going to a town for Negroes, place called Haven.”
The town name freezes me, and I have to take a deep breath to steady myself. Haven, the town where my momma and Auntie Aggie are supposed to be. For a moment I consider what that reunion might look like, and the happy thought dies a violent, fiery death. If reuniting with Sue and Katherine is any indication, seeing my mother again would be a heartbreak.
“Well, then, when the sun comes up I’ll talk with your Louisa and Juliet about joining up with y’all. Doc, you’ll see to this?” I ask, gesturing at Smith, who seems to be finished leaking out into the dirt.
He nods. “Most assuredly.”
“Don’t go dissecting the man like I know you butchers are wont to do. I won’t risk getting shorted on my bounty because you want to take an up-close look at his spleen. He’s already lost enough of his brains, after all.” It’s a terrible joke, but the horrified expressions are worth it.
I tip my hat at the rest of the gathered assemblage. “Sorry to have disturbed your rest. I hope to more properly make acquaintances in the morning. Katherine, Sue, good to see you looking well. Tomás,” I say, turning and jerking my head back toward the dark.
“Jane, wait,” I hear Katherine call, but I ignore her. I have had more than enough feelings for a single day. I stride away decisively, out of the light of the wagon train and back into the comfort of the shadows, Tomás and Salty at my side.
While there are a number of rough locales in the West, civilization is also firmly entrenched thanks to the early efforts of the Spanish. Truly, California is a wonder of contradictions, but the near lack of the undead makes every hardship worthwhile.
—Russell Carpenter, Westward into the Sunset, 1871
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 34
Notes on a Bounty Hunter
By the time the sun peeks over the horizon, I am more than ready to be on the way to Sacramento.
After Jane retired to wherever she was planning on spending the night, Sue went back to sleep, and I spent the rest of my patrol walking around in a haze. If there had been any real danger, I would have been in quite a pickle. No matter how I tried to pull my attention to keeping watch my brain eventually skittered back to the question at hand:
How was Jane McKeene still alive?
I watched Jane get bit, saw her arm bleed and the chunk of flesh the undead woman took in her attack. I bandaged Jane’s arm myself, tying the rag tightly so she would not lose too much blood. There is no mystery as to why Jane lost an arm, but how could she have survived being bitten?
Unless, of course, Gideon Carr’s vaccine worked.
That is the thing that niggles as I walk yet another circuit around the Conestogas, watching as the wagon train begins to start its day, people waking and stoking their fires to make breakfast. Watching all those dark faces go about their business reminds me of the promise of Nicodemus, of the possibility of the success of a Negro settlement. Sorrow washes over me.
If Jane could survive the bite, if Gideon Carr’s vaccine truly did work, perhaps Nicodemus might have been saved.
Perhaps we should have stayed and fought instead of running.
I shake my head. No, the town would have still fallen. But the possibility that there could be a working vaccine, though, that given time we could all have a better chance of surviving the restless dead, that is a heady thought, nearly as exciting as knowing that my friend lives once more.
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