Ice and Blood

by Oliver Altair

  Ice and Blood

  American Alchemy Book 2

  Oliver Altair

  Striking Books

  1

  Sheriff Tiberius Tibbetts watched the dimming sunlight through the misted windows of the Silver Moon. The sky darkened sooner every passing day. But how to tell the difference between yesterday and today? The day after or before? His days remained rayless, as somber as the memories he longed to forget. Yet he still dreamed of magic and death, of miracles liquefied and bottled. Of alchemy.

  He’d experienced betrayal, and seduction, and love, without a heart ever beating too close to his own. He’d embraced loneliness like a wolf embraces the night. Sarah Anne. Mountain Iris. He lost them. He chose to lose them. No matter if he made his peace with the loss or not. They’d never return. No one who left Souls Well ever would. If they did, they’d find nothing but a tumulus of brown buildings drowning in snow.

  The snowflakes twirling in the wind heralded another blizzard, another endless night. Another victory for the harshest winter Souls Well had ever known. Winter, merciless, implacable, would bury any trace of life under a layer of ice, sweeping the town off the Colorado map. Straight into the coldest of oblivions.

  “Sheriff?” a voice called behind Tiberius’ back. He ignored it.

  Outside, young Bennett Rowland shoveled the snow off the front steps. He worked with obvious reluctance. The sound of the shovel transported Tiberius to the cemetery, to a past night of profanity, damp earth, and pale moonlight. He breathed out, fogging the windowpane. The street became but a blur.

  “Sheriff Tibbetts?” another voice insisted.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Tiberius turned back to the screeching of wooden legs dragged across the floorboards. He stood at the edge of a circle of chairs, all eyes on him. The gathered townsfolk jiggled on their seats.

  He scratched his stubble. “Well, what is it?”

  Henry Albers, the town’s carpenter, crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What do you reckon, Sheriff?”

  “’Bout what, Hank?” Tiberius walked around the assembly, knocking on some nearby tables as he passed by. He stopped in front of the blazing fireplace and rubbed his hands. Madame Valentine always kept a nice fire crackling in the Silver Moon.

  “At least he could pretend to listen,” Miss Susannah Chipman hissed, bobbing her birdlike face toward him.

  Tiberius placed both hands on the back of an empty chair. He lowered his head and sighed. “Do you want my opinion, ma’am? Here it is: you’ve been whining about the winter for an hour. Well, I’m afraid I’ve no control over the snowstorms, and neither do you. We can’t push the spring to come any faster. What we can do is cut the yapping short and discuss the town’s survival.”

  He eyed his neighbors. The jiggling stopped—they kept still and silent as marble busts. Miss Chipman tightened her black shawl. The frills of her mourning dress scrunched when she stirred on her seat. To her left, Father Marcus Darley, the town’s one and only spiritual counselor, encouraged him to keep talking with a sympathetic chin lift.

  “All the remaining families in the outskirts have sheltered somewhere in town, correct?” Tiberius asked.

  No sound came from the assembly.

  “Correct?” he insisted, raising his voice. The few shy nods he received in response gave him but little reassurance. “Would anyone double-check? If a family gets isolated after a blizzard, they’d be on their own ’til who knows when. We already lost half of our own in the fall…”

  Tiberius paused. The words anywhere but here echoed in his mind like a catchy song verse. He recalled the last day of autumn when so many people had hopped onto their wagons and disappeared into the distance like a flock of swallows. Chirping away: anywhere but here. He still questioned his decision to stay. A bitter ball of envy stuck in his throat, bleeding poison into his gut. The poison of three simple words: anywhere, anywhere but here.

  Tiberius cleared his throat, the gazes of his neighbors so sharp they almost itched. “How are we doing with supplies?”

  No answer. Henry elbowed the man to his right. Silas Rowland, the plump baker, jumped to his feet like a prairie dog that had scented danger. He fidgeted with his bowler hat, his round shadow swaying like an inkblot in rippling water. “We collected all the grain and livestock we have left in two of the empty storehouses south of Main. I could gather a team and take stock.”

  Tiberius nodded. “You do that. Miss Chipman, would you help Mister Rowland take inventory? I need a list of supplies as detailed as possible. Rumor has it you’re good with numbers.”

  She held her head up with a radiant smile, forgetting any previous grievance toward the sheriff. “I’m delighted to aid our community in our time of need. My poor mother always treasured our beloved town.”

  Miss Chipman crossed herself melodramatically. Silas rolled his eyes and sat down with a grunt.

  “Speaking of numbers, rationing might be necessary,” Tiberius added.

  A wave of displeased grumbles rippled through the crowd.

  “Got a problem with that? You’d rather we all starve, what?” he asked with severity. Everyone shook their heads, lowering their gazes but keeping their frowns, like children who disliked sharing their toys. “Good. Anything else?”

  Henry Albers stood up again. He signaled Oscar Landon, a former miner, to join him.

  “Landon and I’ve been talkin’ about digging’ more tunnels where the snow’s blocked the alleyways.”

  Tiberius clenched his jaw, curving his mouth into a grimace.

  “We know you’re not fond of tunneling, Sheriff. After what happened at the silver mine and all.”

  “Damn right I’m not.”

  Oscar avoided looking him in the eye. His prominent Adam’s apple quivered when he gulped. “After the last blizzard, the snow piled up to six feet in some parts of town, including the narrow alleys ’round Main. Digging more passages would ease our movement. Either that or we give everybody climbing gear.”

  Tiberius read the silent agreement on his neighbors’ faces. Mountain tunnels or frozen pathways, the curse of the silver mine would always loom over them like an airborne disease.

  “All right then,” he said between his teeth. “But only dig where’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want the whole town looking like a goddamned ant nest.”

  The saloon’s double doors opened then slammed close. All the heads turned to the scrawny man rushing inside. He dusted the snow off his coat, muttering curses all the way to the bar. He leaped onto a stool and dropped his rucksack on the counter.

  The broad-shouldered bartender poured him a shot of whiskey before the man even asked. “Welcome back, Ray.”

  Ray gulped his drink then tapped the counter with the empty tumbler. “Keep ’em coming until I can feel my toes again.”

  Tiberius ended the assembly with a quick tip of the hat, his signature gesture when he’d run out of patience. He joined the newcomer at the bar.

  “What news do you bring me, Wilson?” he asked, clapping the man’s back.

  “The good or the bad first?”

  “Good.”

  Ray finished another shot. His cheeks reddened. “Road to Lake City’s still open.”

  “The bad?”

  “On the way here, the stage hardly fit through Sunset Canyon. The snow piles high left and right. One more bad blizzard and it’ll be blocked till spring.”

  “Do you reckon it’s better from here to Silverton?”

  Ray shrugged. “One can hope. Last thing I heard, the path through Gray Gorge’s still fine. But I daresay I’m already counting on the town’s hospitality just in case.” He peeked over his shoulder and smirked. “Howdy! You can come in. These fellers don’t bite.”

  A mismatched group of trave
lers stood by the Silver Moon’s door as if waiting to get their portrait taken. The first to cross the threshold was a lady of an age which, in the West, meant she’d already seen it all. Survived it all. She made her way to the hearth leaning on a cane. Her steps were elegant, poised. She shared a pleasant smile with anybody who caught her eye, declining any help to carry her small carpetbag.

  Jesse Valentine left the bar, crouching under the counter. He brought a chair by the fire.

  The lady tapped his strong forearm as she sat down. “You’re a dear.”

  She unwrapped her woolen shawl, placing it over her lap. The gleam of the flames softened the wrinkles on her high forehead and sharp cheekbones. She combed and tightened the gray braid running down her shoulder. “Could I ask you for something to warm my old bones? Some tea if you have any to spare.”

  “Right away,” Jesse replied with a slight bow.

  On his way back to the bar, he crossed paths with the next pair of travelers, a man and a woman. The lanky man seemed to disappear inside his long, black coat. Black coat, black shirt, black vest, and shoes. The only pieces of his attire that betrayed the blackness were a gray slouch hat that matched the color of his goatee and the white choker around his neck.

  He took two steps toward the bar. His companion held him in place with a loud harrumph. She directed him to a table as far as possible from the glistening bottles of liquor. She looked around without relaxing her neck, hands tightly clasped above her waist. The tail of her dark gown trailed after her like a stream of molasses.

  Ray Wilson jerked his head to the pair. “Those two crows have been getting on my nerves the whole trip.”

  Tiberius chuckled. “That bad?”

  “Preacher’s all right but smokes like a chimney and talks like a goddamned parrot. The other one… a spider in a petticoat.” Ray shivered. He signaled Jesse for a refill, pointing at his glass.

  Loud strides crossed the Silver Moon from the door to the bar. Tiberius met the twinkling gaze of the approaching gentleman. His face, rosy. His bangs, blond. His horseshoe mustache brushed and waxed.

  The stranger extended his hand, arm stiff as a broomstick. “Sheriff Tibbetts, I suppose.”

  Tiberius tapped the brim of his hat. “The one and only.”

  2

  The man shook Tiberius’ hand with an overexcited grasp. “Deputy Marshal Willoughby Westshore, from Ridge City.”

  Tiberius sipped his drink, eyeing Willoughby from top to bottom. “How old are you, son?”

  The deputy pressed his powder blue vest and readjusted his white hat. “Twenty-five.”

  That sounded like five years too many, but Tiberius let it slide. “Deputy marshal, huh? They sure upped their game in Ridge City.”

  Ray Wilson shrugged. “Looked like the same ol’ hellhole last time I passed.”

  Willoughby tapped the tin star on his chest. “Therefore, the need for extra lawmen.”

  A jingle brought Tiberius’ attention to a second stranger. He stood still and silent behind Willoughby like his taller, bonier shadow. Both men’s eyes shared the same spark of youth, though his shone brown, not blue. He was clean-shaven. Smallpox scars aged his face, giving it a maturity that opposed the deputy’s juvenile countenance. He wore a dark suit, crimson vest, and cravat. No hat, and hair slicked back. Hands secured by handcuffs. A chain from his wrists to Willoughby’s grip, like a dog’s leash.

  He bowed his head. “Good day.”

  Tiberius stood up, fists clenched. “What the hell’s this about?”

  Willoughby pulled the chain, and his prisoner jerked forward. “Meet Mister Pleasant Bisby, infamous gambler and sharpshooter. I’m bringing him to justice in Silverton.”

  “And you’re parading an outlaw all around my town like a trophy,” Tiberius scoffed, “Please forgive me if I hold the applause. Three words of warning.”

  He raised a finger. “Make sure your man behaves.” Then a second and a third. “Enjoy your rest stop in peace. And be the first to board the stagecoach when it’s ready to depart. Let’s hope things don’t get out of hand, kid. For your own sake and mine.”

  The young deputy blushed. “I only wanted to pay my respects.” He tipped his hat and scuttled from the sheriff’s gaze, dragging his prisoner with him.

  “Good day,” the gambler repeated before Willoughby pushed him away.

  Both captor and captive could’ve escaped from the pages of a dime magazine, from those romanticized tales of the West people took to heart more than reality itself. Tiberius always kept both feet on the ground. Fantasy was an indulgence he could never afford. Even if, as of late, his line between truth or tale, possible and impossible, bent and blurred.

  He drummed his fingers on the counter. “What’s the deal with those two?”

  “I guess that primrose deputy got lucky. He caught Bisby by surprise, go figure. Bisby’s a sneaky son-of-a-gun. The arrest will get Westshore a promotion. Or get him killed,” Ray replied with disinterest.

  The preacher’s companion marched toward the bar, avoiding even brushing against any of the men in her way.

  “How long must we wait?” she asked Ray Wilson with a frown.

  “As much as the horses need,” he answered curtly. He tapped his rucksack. “And I have yet to deliver the town’s mail.”

  “Shouldn’t you get to it then?”

  Ray glowered at the woman but grabbed his sack and moved to the center of the room. “All right folks, gather round!”

  She turned to Tiberius. “Are you the sheriff?”

  “That I am.”

  She offered her hand. “Miss Georgina Sheppard.”

  He shook it. It felt like cold pumice. “How do you do.”

  “I’m Reverend Conn’s assistant.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Miss Sheppard made an awkward pause even more so, clearing her throat, adjusting and re-adjusting the fringes of her shawl.

  Tiberius scratched his chin. “Can I help you with something?”

  She glanced around, lips tight and curved down. “Would there be any other establishment in town to get a refreshment? This place is hardly appropriate for a man of God.”

  The preacher remained at his table, whispering something to Fanny Mae, one of the saloon’s feistier flowers. Fanny giggled and slapped the side of his face with her feathered fan.

  Tiberius smirked. Miss Sheppard wiggled inside her dress as if it were full of bees.

  “Town’s half empty, ma’am,” he explained. “This is the best we can offer.”

  She darted back to her table without one more word and shooed Fanny and her red feathers away from the reverend with a gelid glance.

  “Albers!” Ray shouted, waving a letter within a circle of people.

  No answer.

  “Henry Albers!”

  Henry made his way to him, puzzled.

  “Are you hard of hearing, Hank?” Ray guffawed.

  “I never get no mail.”

  “Well, you do now.” He handed him his letter and picked up another pair from the sack. “Rowland! Darley!”

  The baker and the priest stepped forward.

  Father Darley smiled. “At least we still get word from our loved ones.”

  “Enjoy ’em while they last. Can’t make any delivery promises in this weather.”

  Ray rummaged deep into his rucksack, drawing one more letter and a package. He read the tag on the package first. “This one’s for Madame Valentine. But I can hand it to her later.” He tittered, placing the package under his armpit. He looked at the envelope in his hand. “O’Leary!”

  Silence.

  “Owen O’Leary!”

  Silence.

  “Out with his beasts, no doubt.” Ray took a last look inside his bag. “That’s it. No more mail today, fellers.”

  He walked back to the bar, perching himself on the same stool.

  “Nothing for me, Ray?” Tiberius asked.

  “Afraid not. You expecting something?”

  Tiberius ta
pped the edge of his glass. He craved a word that would never come, one he had no right to desire. Iris left. He stayed. He refused to join her world while she traveled deeper into it. Sometimes he thought he could feel traces of her glittering potion running through his veins. Cooling his blood. Breaking his heart. Giving him life.

  Henry Albers dashed by the bar like a gust of wind, trampling over tables and chairs. His face was as white as the letter crushed in his fist. He crossed the saloon’s double doors, slamming them so hard, their glass panes resonated like chimes.

  Ray pointed at the trembling doors. “Breaks one’s heart. We never see bad news coming, do we? Wish I didn’t have to deliver ’em.”

  Silas Rowland approached the counter, fidgeting with his envelope. “Say, Wilson. You have space in that donkey cart of yours for one more?”

  “Sure do, if he shares my seat and travels light. Where are you going?”

  Silas shook his head. “Not me. I want to send the kid to his grandparents for a while. He’s been nothing but trouble lately. A change of scenery might do him good.”

  “How old’s your chap again?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Ray waved his hand. “No wonder he’s a bit of a troublemaker. Who ain’t at that age?”

  “I need no parenting advice, Wilson. Can you take the kid or nay?”

  “Yah, yah. Hold your sour for the dough. Tell him to be ready in a couple of hours.”

  Silas bowed his head to the two men and left.

  “Your town’s losing folk by the minute, Sheriff,” Ray said without mockery.

  Tiberius gulped the last drops of his drink. “Safe travels, Wilson.”

  He exited the Silver Moon. The crisp winter air filled his lungs as he leaned over the railing of the porch. He stared at the silent streets covered in white. Souls Well. A withering town honoring its name. A well of souls. The winter had made his bitter memories bitterer. His past a torment. His future a pointless sacrifice. Did the townsfolk really need him? Did they ever? The roads were still open. He could be far away before the worst of the winter struck. He could find Iris, as his heart told him he would, someday, somewhere. He could vanish like the snowflakes in the wind.