The Shotgun Arcana Page 13
Truth be told, despite the reason for his being here and the cold seeping into his bones, Highfather liked sitting here. The view from the western slope was beautiful. The sun was sinking on the horizon, a silent furnace of orange and red, drowning at the end of the world. The shadow lengthened on the mountains and stretched across the arid, cracked north from the base of Argent, through the rough scrublands and the lush belt of pasture and farm country that blessed Golgotha, making it an emerald jewel between the teeth of two deadly wastelands.
It was beautiful country, a beautiful world. And spending the day on the side of a mountain, admiring it, was a pleasant change from his usual days and nights of conflict, terror and stress. Everyone always looked to him for the answers, to save the day, to make the monsters go away. No one in Golgotha understood what it felt like to be just as scared, just as confused and just as desiring of having someone show up and make it all right, and there being no one there. Who saves the savior?
For the hundredth time today he considered resigning. Mutt and Jim were more than capable of handling the strange things that visited Golgotha almost daily. They had shown him that numerous times now.
He’d never come to Golgotha to be the law, to wear a star. If the good townsfolk of Golgotha knew the full story of their beloved sheriff, what he had been and done before he pinned on that silver star, Jon was pretty sure they would run him out of town on a rail.
He walked into town five years ago, after crossing the 40-Mile on foot, more dead than alive. Within forty-eight hours, he’d found himself the only thing that stood between the people of this town, strangers who’d welcomed him like family, and a creature of chaos and evil—a thing made of sawdust, straw and hatred, that called itself Bodach-ròcais. Five years he’d worn this star, experiencing things no one would ever believe. Maybe he was insane and this was all a delusion, a fantasy. Maybe it was still 1865 and he was back in Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital, locked away, talking to his dead brother Larson. No. He was sane, as sane as he was capable of being after all he had seen in the war and in Golgotha. Where could he go after all that? Back to the homestead, to his parents and their accusing eyes? Eyes that saw Larson whenever they looked at him.
He had planned a home, a real life, with Eden when they met here in Golgotha, but the town had devoured her, left her dead, worse than dead. Highfather could never go home. This place was all he had now. So, again, for the 101st time today, he talked himself out of resigning.
The sun was a razor cut of brilliant light on the edge of nightfall when he heard the wagon clatter along the northeastern part of Backtrail Road. The northeastern trail ran up Argent to the entrance of the mines and eventually wound around to the miners’ camp and hooked up with Prosperity Road. It was dusk and it looked like the deal was about to go down. With Malachi Bick firmly in control of Golgotha, and Ch’eng Huang and his Green Ribbon Tong undisputed lords of Johnny Town, there were several men competing to be crowned the criminal king of Argent Mountain. One of them would be meeting the train robber tonight, and if what Charley’s source had told him was true, Nikos Vellas would be with them.
The wagon was a buckboard, with a saddled horse reigned to the back of the wagon. A man Highfather didn’t recognize drove the horses from the wagon seat. He carried a pistol on each hip. There was something covered by canvas in the back of the wagon and there were two men crouched next to it; both had rifles. Highfather recognized them from the mining camp, pros named Clement and Dodd. They used to do dirty work for Wynn, the owner of the Mother Lode Saloon and the old lion of the mountain—the original criminal boss of the camp, undisputed until this past year.
At first, Highfather figured with two of his boys here, it was Wynn behind this, but then two more men on horseback, cradling shotguns, rode by flanking the wagon, and following behind them was Bruce “Half-Guts” Mitchell, and Highfather knew Mitchell was calling the dance.
Mitchell, so the story went, had been a quartermaster in the 4th Regiment out of West Virginia, a Confederate unit. He was nearly cut in half by a stray cannonball, losing half his insides in the process, but being too damn mean to die. Folks who had crossed Half-Guts claimed he lost his soul as well as his innards, making a deal with old Scratch himself as he lay dying on the battlefield. Soul or not, Mitchell had come out west after the war and set up shop in Golgotha a few months after the Argent Mine was reopened. He possessed an uncanny knack for getting people together with what they wanted with not a lot of questions or laws getting in the middle of it.
Mitchell was a stocky man, blond, with bright green eyes, hair parted to the side and a full beard. He wore an old Confederate gray bang-up and a saber still hung on his belt. A lever-action Winchester was in a saddle sheath and one of Mitchell’s hands rested on the stock.
The party came to a halt just off the intersection of the roads, about fifty yards from the shack. One of the men in the back of the wagon climbed down, lit a lantern and stood near the center of the group. Mitchell climbed down off his mount, a blood bay quarter horse, and proceeded to fire up a pipe.
Highfather slid down to his belly and rested his arms on the saddlebags. He claimed his rifle and took bead on Mitchell, using one of the saddlebags as rest for the rifle barrel. The wind was picking up as the light faded. A few flurries swirled about in the cold night air.
“Where the hell is he?” Mitchell’s man with the lantern grumbled, and began to pace. Mitchell, nonplussed, puffed his pipe and admired the last sliver of light on the distant mountains.
“Patience, Clement, is a virtue,” Mitchell said. “They will show. We’re holding the goods after all.”
“That foreign fella gives me the creeps,” Clement said, adjusting the lantern. “Don’t trust him.”
“Mr. Vellas may be a gypsy, but he is a very well-connected gypsy. He located the goods quickly and at a price that was very fortuitous to us to say the least, since I am charging the gentleman who needs them a damn sight more. This is America, Clement. We welcome all kinds to our bountiful shores. The more ante in the pot, the bigger the take for the winners.”
Clement spit a brown stream of tobacco juice in the dirt near his boot. “Still don’t trust the damn gypsy, sir. He’s always too damn happy.”
As if he had heard the gunman, a dark shape detached itself from the shadows of the dilapidated homestead and moved through the overgrown field of sacaton grass swaying in the wind. Mitchell’s men drew their guns and aimed at the figure, but once the man stepped into the light of the lantern, Mitchell gave them a sign to lower their weapons.
“Mr. Vellas,” Mitchell said. “We were just talking about you, sir. No horse?”
Nikos Vellas was stocky and olive-skinned, with black hair and eyes. He lumbered more than walked and each movement implied great bulk and power. He wore a simple collared work shirt, a black frock coat, and black canvas pants. He appeared to be unarmed.
“I do not like the horses and they do not like me,” Vellas said. His voice had a booming, hollow quality to its timbre. “I prefer the rail, yes?”
Nikos paused and looked up the hill in Highfather’s general direction. A chill ran through the sheriff’s spine and his grip on the rifle tightened. Nikos smiled.
“What?” Mitchell asked.
“Nothing,” Vellas said. “I see you located the horse and the cache, yes? Do you have my payment?”
“Right here,” Mitchell said, reaching into his coat. He withdrew a thick packet of papers bound by a thin leather cord.
“Here you go, sir,” Mitchell said.
“It is accurate and to the level of detail I requested?” Vellas asked.
“Yes, very,” Mitchell said. “Just as you requested. May I ask why you wanted so much information about the town’s geography, the people living here? Mr. Bick?”
“You may inquire,” Vellas said, slipping the papers into his pocket, “but I have no intention of explaining myself to you, Mr. Mitchell. Some things it is better not to know.”
Vellas smiled. “Clement here doesn’t care much for a man who smiles too often,” Mitchell said. “He figures it ain’t genuine and you’re hiding something behind it.”
“Oh, I do,” Vellas said. “Much to hide, yes? But I smile because I am happy and life is good, Mr. Mitchell. You should learn to cultivate a smile; life is too short to frown.”
“Too damn long to smile,” Mitchell replied, “in my estimation.”
There was the sound of approaching hoofbeats from the west and a lone rider appeared out of the darkness swallowing the road.
“Ah,” Mitchell said, “and here is Mr. Chapman now.”
The horse’s stride was uneven and the poor animal appeared exhausted. The rider looked tired but did not slump in the saddle. He brought the horse to a stop and dismounted. Chapman was gangly, with the look of a vulture about him—a narrow face with a large nose and short graying hair. He was wearing clothes better suited to the city than riding the trail and they were covered with dust. The gunbelt he wore looked out of place.
“You Mitchell?” he said. Half-Guts nodded and the two shook hands. Chapman gave the smiling Vellas an odd glance and then looked back to Mitchell. “You got the supplies, the horse?”
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “All that is required is for you to cross my palm with the agreed-upon coin, my good sir.”
Chapman walked to the horse and unslung his saddlebags. He opened one and removed a stack of money. He counted some of the stack off and handed it to Mitchell, who inspected it and nodded in approval. Mitchell nodded to one of his men, who led the fresh horse that had been tethered to the back of the wagon over to Chapman, who busied himself with putting the rest of the money away and transferring his bags to the new horse’s saddle.
“I want to congratulate you on the job your boys pulled up there in Verdi,” Mitchell said. “Real innovative, robbing a train. I think you fellas may be on to something there.”
One of the men on the back of the wagon removed the canvas cover and handed Chapman another saddlebag. Chapman busied himself loading it onto the fresh horse.
“There’s the food, water, compass and maps and all the rest you were asking for,” Mitchell said, watching Chapman struggle with the bags. “I have to ask, Mr. Chapman, sir, have you been in this business long … robbing, I mean? I know the fellas that pulled the job have been hitting the Wells Fargo lines for years, but I was just wondering…”
Chapman spun, looking nervous and agitated. “I am trying to get the hell out of here! Jesus, you are the most damn chatty criminal I’ve ever met! The law is everywhere and they are looking for me! No, no, I’m not a hardened criminal, I’m a Sunday school superintendent, for fuck’s sake! I planned it and it’s going to make me rich and I am done with it, you understand, damn it!”
Mitchel nodded serenely to one of his men on the horses. “Oh I do, sir. I do. Perfectly. Now toss that gun on over here.”
The two men on horseback leveled their guns at Chapman.
“What … what the fuck is this?” Chapman sputtered.
“Such language from a Sunday school teacher,” Mitchell said. “I figured you were new at this when you pulled that wad of shin plasters out of that saddlebag. In my estimation your take of the forty thousand dollars is in there, and I’m afraid I’m just too greedy a son of a bitch to let that money ride off, especially with such a criminal mastermind like yourself.
“It’s a shame really. So many genuine villains out west these days, real hard cases, and a shave-tail like you comes along with a fine idea like robbing trains. Irony. Throw down your saddlebags and that iron on your hip and you can ride on out of here on that expensive new horse you just bought.”
Chapman opened his mouth but no sound came out. His hand wavered near his pistol and Highfather knew what the fool was thinking. Highfather took a breath, stood and leveled the rifle on Mitchell’s chest. The moon was rising behind him and silhouetted him to the party below.
“Mitchell!” Highfather shouted. “It’s Jon Highfather. We got a bead on you dead-bang. I want all of you to lay down arms and be still and there will be no trouble.”
“He’s alone,” Vellas said, still smiling to Mitchell. “All alone.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Mitchell said to Vellas. Chapman was panicking, looking up at Highfather and then back to Half-Guts, his hands moving near his gun and then up to his chest again and again.
“Wouldn’t recommend you do that, Mr. Chapman,” Highfather called out. “Good way to end up dead.”
Clement looked at Half-Guts.
“He’s s’posed to be a dead man, Mr. Mitchell,” Clement said.
“So I hear,” Mitchell said. “Let’s find out. Light ’em up, boys!” he shouted to his men, and then dived for cover behind the wagon.
Highfather remembered his first battle. It was in the war, at First Manassas. Larson, his brother, had nearly pissed himself. Jon saw the plumes of gun smoke vomit out toward them and this great, soul-stealing fear had come over him, began to eat him. He looked at his little brother and heard the hiss, felt the heat of an angry round narrowly miss him. And the fear was gone, and the paralysis with it. He moved to cover Larson and advanced with his fellows, his gun cracking as he fired into the lines.
“Follow me, stay low,” he shouted back to his brother, and Lawson nodded and did as he was told. And they lived, and Jon Highfather learned the secret to surviving a fight: have something in you stronger than fear.
The two men on horseback, Clement, and the gunman in the back of the wagon all opened fire on the shadow before the moon. The shadow dropped and tumbled down the hill, covered by the night and the tall grasses, the bullets a swarm of hornets whining all about. The shadow came up in a crouch, rifle in hand, shotgun slung in a back sheath. The rifle bellowed as Highfather fired. The man up in the wagon grunted and staggered backward, but stayed on his feet and returned fire. Highfather cocked the lever on the rifle and fired again. The lantern exploded and darkness swallowed the hillside. There were the flares of fire from the gun barrels and some burning oil splashed on the side of the wagon, but not enough yet to give much light.
Highfather skirted to the right, keeping low and moving through the grasses toward the old shack. He cocked the Winchester, chambering a fresh round. Mitchell’s boys were still firing, chopping up the grass where he had been a few seconds ago. Mitchell was a wily old grayback and he’d get them under control in a second, start directing their fire and then Highfather would be in trouble. He was too far away for the shotgun to be much more than an annoyance right now. He had to get closer, but closer was not an easy thing at the moment.
He heard shouting and wild galloping in the direction of the western road down the mountain. Mitchell was cussing. That would be the great train robber, Chapman, rabbiting. The distraction gave Highfather a few seconds and he took them.
He bolted for the shack, firing with the rifle again as he cleared the cover of the grass onto the open dirt crossroads. He had committed the rough locations of the shooters to his mind’s eye and now he aimed from memory and calculated anticipation of movement. A hot branding iron scraped his left arm and it felt like a steam locomotive at full speed clipped him. Highfather staggered, almost fell but stayed on his feet. He flipped the Winchester, cocking the rifle’s lever with his one good hand—the one holding it. The gun rocked back into his hand, the lever snapping back into place. It was a tricky maneuver, and Highfather had spent a lot of time practicing it. The practice paid off. The rifle barked again, Highfather using the flash from the shooters’ barrels as a target. He dived through the doorless entrance of the old abandoned shack a second ahead of a dozen bullets and fell on the cabin floor, made up of cold dirt, the rotting remains of wooden planks and molded canvas.
There was a whirr near his ear. Highfather looked up slowly into the shovel-headed face of a hissing rattler a few feet away from him. The snake was resting on part of a rotted board, scared, and coiled to strike.
The Six of Cups
“Quite an entrance,” Bick said to Emily, as he closed the door to his office. “You certainly display the theatrics of someone who is my daughter. Please, have a seat, my dear.”
Emily sat on the tufted red leather love seat that was near the office door. “Thank you,” she said. “I came a long way to meet you, to look you in the eyes, and I’m afraid I simply did not care to wait. My apologies.”
Bick laughed as he walked to the liquor cart to the left of his desk. He poured himself a tumbler of cognac from an ornate rectangular cut-glass bottle. He proffered the bottle to Emily and she declined with a shake of her head.
“No need for apologies,” he said. “I understand completely. And, again, a character trait well in keeping with my child.”
“I am your child,” Emily said to Bick’s back. The saloonkeeper didn’t turn.
“Yes, Bick said. “You are.”
“Mother died giving birth to me,” Emily said. “Her family was not terribly kind to a bastard. With all the wealth they had at their disposal, they could have hired someone to care for me and I’d never have been spoke of again. However, they deemed it more efficacious to simply drop me on the steps of ‘the old brown house’ of the Sisters of Charity. I was less than a year old.”
“You speak very well, given your upbringing,” Bick said.
“Thank you,” Emily said. “I worked very hard to do so. Books were the only family I had, growing up.”
“There are worse families, I can assure you,” Bick said as he sat on the love seat, beside Emily. “What was it like, the orphanage?”
“I always felt different,” Emily said. “Alone. I endured the place. When I was old enough I was released, I worked whatever jobs a girl of my position could find and I discovered I had a talent for painting, like my mother. I struggled but I survived. One day Caleb came to me with money and his story … and yours.”