Ice and Blood

by Oliver Altair

  Tiberius cocked his gun. Pointed.

  And shot.

  9

  Pleasant pulled the reins to avert the bullet. His mount made an abrupt turn, then halted. The horse reared up and sent him and Willoughby flying backwards onto a tall mound of snow.

  “Stay here,” Tiberius ordered Bennett.

  The horse trotted peacefully to the side of Main Street, unaware of his role in the averted tragedy. Tiberius approached the men dusting the snow off their clothes, gun in hand.

  Willoughby punched Pleasant on his forearm. “What the hell were you thinking? You almost ran over a kid.”

  “But I didn’t, did I?”

  “If you’d stuck to the plan, we’d—”

  Tiberius cocked his gun. “Nice stunt.”

  The men glanced at each other then together at him. Willoughby stepped forward. “Sheriff Tibbetts, I apologize. You were right. This man needs to stay behind bars. He’s a danger to us all.”

  Pleasant looked at his nails. “Cut it out, Will. Party’s over. Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”

  “Oh yeah. Now hands up where I can see them.”

  Willoughby pointed to his left arm. It fell limp by his side. “I’m afraid I cannot comply.”

  Tiberius poked Willoughby’s arm with the tip of his gun. “It’s just dislocated.”

  Pleasant raised his arm. “Sheriff, if I may.”

  “Go ahead. But no monkeyshines.”

  Pleasant grabbed Will’s wrist with his left hand, placing his right on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath. On three. One—”

  He pulled with all of his strength. Willoughby’s joints cracked. His shriek sent the birds on the rooftops flying away in fear.

  “You said ‘on three,’ you animal.” Willoughby complained rubbing his shoulder.

  Pleasant smirked and curtsied. “You’re welcome, milord.”

  Tiberius waved his gun. “Let’s take a walk.”

  He guided them down the street. He looked left and right for Bennett, but the kid had vanished. The crowd around the parked cart watched Pleasant and Will with quizzical expressions between admiration and fear.

  Tiberius turned to Silas Rowland. “Go fetch your boy. He’s run away into the streets.” Then to Oscar Landon, lowering his voice. “I left the Chief guarding Albers. Go give him a hand and take the body to Doc Tucker’s. And stop blabbing about wolves before the whole town goes into a panic.”

  He cleared his throat. He addressed the crowd in a commanding voice. “Move along. We can all agree no one’s skipping town today.”

  “Or any day,” Pleasant scoffed.

  Tiberius frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Pleasant bobbed his head to the south. “There’s nowhere to go as soon as you reach the gorge, unless you want to dig through the snow.” Then he turned his face to the north. “That way’s the same or worse.”

  “That’s balderdash,” Oscar said. “It didn’t snow enough last night to block both passes.”

  Pleasant shrugged. “Go see for yourself, friend. Why the hell you think I’m still here?”

  Will halted. He grabbed Pleasant’s arm. “Hold it. You would’ve abandoned me if the roads had been open?”

  “Well, you left me inside a locked room. What was I to think?”

  “I did it to keep up appearances.”

  “Sure you did. What a nice present to get the Sheriff’s attention while you rode into the sunset. I had to stay one step ahead. Even if that meant fleeing through a window.”

  “Nonsense! You’re unbelievable.”

  “Save the drama for the stage, Will.”

  Tiberius stepped between the men. “That’s enough babble.”

  They stopped their bickering. Will threw his companion an irate glance every few steps. Pleasant pretended not to notice. Ray Wilson watched them from the porch of the Silver Moon, his face equal parts livid and baffled.

  “Stop gaping, Wilson,” Tiberius shouted. “Go move your damned horse from the middle of the street. Then come meet me in my office.”

  The passersby who roamed Main Street that cold winter morning exchanged glances and whispers as the odd trio walked by. They greeted Tiberius with a silent bow of the head. Their eyes sparkled with excitement. Their thirst for gossip clouded their fear of trouble.

  Tiberius kept one eye on the keyhole and other on both his captives while he unlocked his door. He pushed them inside his office. Traces of Doc Tucker’s alcoholic breath still floated in the room, mixed with the smell of burned wood. The fire was out.

  “Boy, is it cold in here,” Will remarked.

  Tiberius waved his gun to the cell. “In there.”

  They complied. The cell door screeched as Tiberius pulled it shut. His key seemed reluctant to turn inside the rusty lock.

  “You should use some grease,” Pleasant advised.

  “And you should shut your mouth.”

  Tiberius twisted the key back and forth. He mumbled a curse. The grating sound of metal on metal made his teeth grind. Rusty dust rained from the keyhole until the key finally turned.

  He stood in front of his prisoners, arms crossed. He noticed slight changes on both their faces. Willoughby had lost his horseshoe mustache. Pleasant was one sideburn short. “You lost your whiskers.”

  Will touched his upper lip. He gulped.

  “Who are you people?”

  Pleasant and Willoughby exchanged a quick glance but said nothing.

  Tiberius raised an eyebrow. “Cat’s got your tongue? Fine. I couldn’t care less about who you two clowns really are. I should send you both to the gallows.”

  Willoughby gasped theatrically. “The gallows. We did nothing to deserve such a thing.”

  “You impersonated a deputy marshal for starters. How do I know you didn’t torch Ray Wilson’s stage and kill the carpenter?”

  Willoughby threw his hands in the air. “That’s absurd. We’re stuck here. We needed to get to Silverton fast.”

  “Why is that?”

  Pleasant stretched and leaned lazily against the bars of the cell. “All right, you win. This is what’s what—”

  Willoughby elbowed him hard on the ribs.

  His friend brushed him off. “We’re not getting to Silverton, Will. Didn’t you hear me before? There’s no way out of this hellhole of a town. I say let’s come clean and at least avoid the end of a rope.”

  Tiberius nodded. “I’m all ears.”

  Pleasant sat down on the moldy cot. “Will and I met while working with the Golden Riders.”

  “The Golden what?”

  “A Wild West show. Sadly, there’s not much money to be made as wandering entertainers. We craved better prospects, both as businessmen and trained thespians. We found the perfect way to perform and profit.”

  Tiberius rubbed his brow. All of Pleasant’s words hammered his head like a roar of nonsensical noise, no matter how smooth the man’s enunciation sounded. “Why would you go around impersonating a deputy and a wanted criminal?”

  “It used to be an anonymous bounty hunter and a wanted criminal. I always found the deputy part a little far-fetched. But my partner here insisted on taking a challenge.” Pleasant chewed the word partner.

  Willoughby kicked the cot. “I hope you’re not implying this is my fault.”

  “I’m just saying you should’ve stuck to the bounty hunter character.”

  “No one doubted my deputy act back in Lake City. Maybe you didn’t play your part right.”

  “Oh, please. Pleasant Bisby fits me like a glove.”

  Tiberius clanked the bars of the cell with his gun. “Jesus, do you ever stop?”

  They both stopped mid-word then looked away from each other.

  “I think I get the charade. You find a man in the wanted list with a juicy reward attached to his face.” Tiberius pointed to Pleasant. “You pretend to be the criminal, and you—” then to Willoughby “—his captor. You deliver him to the local authorities and claim the reward. Then you s
omehow break him out of jail, get rid of the disguises, and move along with your pockets fuller. How am I doing?”

  Pleasant smiled. “You make it sound so simple, Sheriff.”

  Tiberius tapped his temple and chuckled. “You two might be the biggest fools I’ve ever met. How many times have you pulled off your little act?”

  “This would’ve been the fourth,” Willoughby replied with pride.

  “Then you already got lucky three too many times. I’m shocked someone hasn’t shot you on the spot yet.” He paced around his office, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is that why you butchered the carpenter? Because he found out about your swindle?”

  Will stood tall. “We’re entertainers, not murderers.”

  Tiberius rolled his eyes. “I’ve had enough of you two.” He walked all the way to the door of the cell. They backed away, looking as helpless as two little boys who stole from the cookie jar. “Killers or not, you’re still thieves. And a pair of goddamned idiots. I swear I don’t know what’s worse. You better make yourselves at home, because until I find out what happened to Henry Albers, the hanging tree is still on the table. Understood?”

  The two actors gulped at the same time. “Yes, Sheriff.”

  Tiberius opened the door to his office. He needed air. His gut twisted just as much as it had right after Maxwell and Iris’ arrival in the fall. Not because he felt threatened by the men inside his cell, but because they represented something he’d grown to detest: a masquerade.

  Ray Wilson halted his horse in front of his porch. “All right, Tiberius. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Tiberius jerked his head backwards. “Ask the deputy.”

  10

  Tiberius walked the path to Gray Gorge in the silence of the winter afternoon. The sun was high, and the sky clear. The light of the snowy fields blinded him if he kept his sight on their glare for too long. A white hare came out of the pointy branches of a juniper shrub. It stared at him for a second, twitching its little nose, then scurried into a hole in the ground. Tiberius passed between two tall firs. Plump birds preened their gray and white feathers in the higher branches. Their bitonal chirps sounded like a human whistle, the second note lower than the first.

  He looked into the distance, ready to face the ominous sight of the rocky gorge. But an endless block of ice and snow had taken its place. The coffee-colored mane of Ray Wilson’s horse stood out against the massive, towering whiteness. Ray leaned against a barren tree, waiting.

  He stared lazily at Tiberius when he got closer. “Took you long enough. You walk all the way here?”

  “I enjoy walking. Helps me think. Did you check the road to Lake City?”

  Ray flipped his cigarette away with two fingers. “Bisby told the truth. The road becomes impassable before reaching Sunset Canyon, about two miles north.”

  Tiberius approached the entrance to the pass that crossed the Gray Gorge. He shielded his eyes and looked up. The blockage rose above him like the wall of a medieval fortress. Ice crystals glimmered on its small surface as if covered in pixie dust.

  Ray peeked over his shoulder. “Mother Nature always amazes me.”

  Tiberius placed his palm on the icy wall. “This looks man-made.”

  “No one can build anything this size overnight. This is just an unfortunate marriage between a landslide and the last snowfall.”

  “Both here and up north? That’s a lot of misfortune for one night.”

  “Souls Well has never been famous for its luck.”

  “That I can’t deny.” Tiberius squinted. He pointed to a nearby ledge on the right side of the gray cliff. “There’s someone up there.”

  Ray followed his finger. “Heck, I think you’re right.” He cupped his mouth. “Ahoy! Do you need some help, friend?”

  The unknown climber was perched on a ridge around twenty feet above their heads. He showed no response to Ray’s call.

  “Either the fellow’s deaf or a frozen corpse. I’d bet for the latter.”

  Tiberius reached for two rocks protruding from the face of the cliff. He tested their sturdiness with a slight pull upward. “Only one way to find out.”

  He stuck his feet into two rough holes, one of them only deep enough to hold less than half of his boot, and climbed. The stinging coldness of the bare rock cut through his gloves, but he held on tight as he ascended. The soles of his boots slipped on the frosty dents. A sharp sill of rock ripped through his pants, scraping his right knee. He winced. He cursed. But he kept climbing until he reached the stone ledge. There was no man, dead or alive, to welcome him, but another humanoid ice sculpture, just like the one that had appeared in the middle of the town square the day before.

  The statue stood under the shade of a flat rock growing from the cliff like a canopy. It was a precise portrayal of a naked, young male. Its hairline showed a string of strange carvings. Its translucent, almond eyes seemed to beam with sadness. Its lips were thin, its chin, round. Tiberius followed the blue reflections inside its body. A thin rivulet of a watered-down red meandered within its crystalline chest. Its arms were down and to the side. Its legs stiff and close together. The sculpture would’ve been a carbon copy of the one in the square’s gazebo, but unlike its twin, this one hadn’t faced Henry Albers rage. No cracks tainted its disquieting beauty. It was intact.

  Tiberius sat on the ridge, legs hanging over the edge. The chilling air burned inside his lungs as he caught his breath. He scouted the pale blue horizon until it melted into the sea of snow below. The treetops of the firs broke the colorless landscape, but their green seemed sickly, as if the trees softened their colors to better match the winter’s palette. Farther to the northeast, deeper into the frozen desert, the thin lines of smoke from chimneys floated over Souls Well. The wooden buildings in the distance gave a hint of life in that white wasteland, but not enough to shake off the same eerie loneliness one would get from watching a string of empty dollhouses.

  “How is it going up there?” Ray shouted from below.

  “Hunky-dory,” Tiberius grumbled.

  He climbed back down, took one last look up, and left the face of the cliff behind. He walked past Ray Wilson in thoughtful silence.

  “So?” Ray asked, rushing behind him. “Who was it?”

  “No one. It was a man sculpted in ice.”

  “Another?”

  “You saw the one in town too?”

  Ray shook his head. “There’s one on the road to Sunset Canyon.”

  “Three ice statues. First showed up in the town square. Henry got killed not too far away that very night. Now two more, marking where our only roads are no more. I think the sculptor might be leaving us a message.”

  “A warning?”

  “Or a threat.”

  Ray Wilson hopped onto his horse. “Need a ride back to town?”

  Tiberius tipped his hat. “I’d rather walk.”

  “Walking helps you think.”

  “That’s right.”

  Ray urged on his horse and rode away. Tiberius turned to Gray Gorge. The massive ice blockage shone like a wall of glass. Winter would keep anyone from getting in.

  Or out.

  11

  The time arrived to put Henry Albers to rest. Tiberius found an empty coffin in the carpenter’s workshop, concealed under a tarp. When Doc Tucker helped him place the corpse inside, they realized the body fitted as if Henry had made the box to measure. He’d even engraved his initials on the side, above a passage that Father Darley recognized as Mark 4:22.

  For everything that is hidden will eventually be brought into the open, and every secret will be brought to light.

  Tiberius covered the dead man with a white sheet. Doc Tucker had sewn together the carpenter’s lacerated chest, masking the carnage and covering his insides. But the skin sagged into the chest of the cadaver like a deflated balloon. The frostbite was severe from the waist down. The legs showed no claw marks or signs of gnawing. Tiberius rejected an animal attack, no matter how much he’d rather
believe in the doctor’s theory of choice. No beast that roamed the Rockies would break a man’s ribcage, steal his heart, and leave the rest of the body untouched. No beast anywhere, for that matter.

  They could have taken Henry to the graveyard in the easternmost outskirts of town, but the frequent blizzards made the path too hard to navigate. Besides, every winter the ground froze so solid, digging the shallowest of holes became a titanic effort that required not only shovels, but sledgehammers and picks. They agreed to clear the toolshed behind the carpenter’s workshop and leave his body there, at least until the soil thawed in the spring.

  Father Darley cleared the shed and placed some votive candles on the floor. The Chief decorated the walls with branches of juniper and sage that masked the staleness in the air. Tiberius nailed the coffin’s lid. They gave it a few minutes before starting the memorial. Henry Albers had always kept to himself. He had no family in town and only a handful of friends. None of them showed. Flimsy friendships are put to the test when they involve standing in the evening cold.

  They shared a few words about Henry, kind but impersonal. Truth was, the attendees only knew him as the sulky man who fixed the loose planks of their porches. They placed a wooden cross outside the toolshed, locked the door, and that, fair to the memory of the deceased or not, was that.

  After the funeral, the group walked together to the Silver Moon. All of them but Doc Tucker. He walked away without saying goodbye or anything at all. Tiberius let him go. He was too tired to care. At the moment, his only needs were a crackling fire, a warm meal, and a strong drink. He had no will to socialize, but his neighbors bombarded him with questions as soon as he crossed the threshold of the saloon. The concerns about the blocked roads and the macabre death of the carpenter were alarming by themselves. Together, they brought to life one of humanity’s shared nightmares: being hunted with nowhere to run.

  Tiberius replied with precision. He gave the locals enough information to put their minds at ease, aware just one word out of place could increase the general distress. Fear spread fast and rooted fervently. Some families saw Silas Rowland’s forceful plans to skip town under a different light. Silas had been reckless and selfish, but maybe also right. Maybe they all ought to leave even if they had to fight their way across the mountains. Tiberius had but one answer: “There are easier ways to kill oneself.”