The Shotgun Arcana Page 8

  The girl smiled. “Well, thank you, sir. You are very kind, Mr.…”

  “Haslam,” the driver said. “Robert Haslam, knight of the ribbons, at yer service, ma’am. Most folks call me Pony Bob.”

  “Well, thank you, Bob. I’m Emily. Emily Bright.” She extended her hand and he took it, shook it gingerly and then half-bowed.

  “You got family here, Miss Bright?” Bob asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” Emily said with a nervous smile. Pony Bob looked confused and she waved her remark off. “Yes,” she said. “I’m meeting my father here.”

  “Well, good for you,” Bob said, and absently scratched his crotch. Emily tried to ignore the act. “Lady like you shouldn’t be out in this godforsaken boneyard without a proper escort. Glad you have yer pappy to look out for you. Can’t be too careful in these parts. Golgotha’s got a bad reputation, there are some salty folk here about … and the town’s supposedly full’a haints and curses and spirits and such, too, if’n you believe in that sort of thing. I took this route six months back, I’ve seen things here that I can’t … rightly explain. Try not to dwell too much. Keep the Good Book handy, shootin’ iron too.”

  Emily pushed a stray hair out of her eyes. The heat was horrid for this late in the year. “What did you do before this, Mr. Haslam?”

  “I used to ride for the Pony Express back before Wells Fargo bought ’em,” Bob said. “Went to work for them after the war.”

  “You were a Pony Express rider,” Emily said. “How exciting! I’ve read of your exploits!”

  “Well, Miss, those dime novels are one part in apple pie order to six parts camp canard!” Bob said. “Truth out here is a sight more peculiar than what they can cook up in New York City.

  “Had a friend named Billy Tate. Young boy, rode the route at fourteen. Tough as they come, a real son of a gun, that little fella. Anyway, he got into a dustup, shot dead up by Ruby Valley. Dang snakes, the fucki—I’m sorry, miss. The Indians, the Paiute got him.”

  “How awful,” Emily said. “I’m so sorry, Bob.”

  “Thank you kindly,” he said. “Thing is, I’ve seen him, Miss Emily. Recent. I’ve seen him on the trail. Laughing and smiling, riding his dead horse. Raced the coach for a spell last month. His shirt all torn up from bullet holes, and arrows … You be careful hereabouts, pretty missy, y’hear? This place, it ain’t like other places.”

  “Yes,” Emily said softly. “Thank you, Bob. Be safe on the road, won’t you?”

  The old driver gave her his stained smile and laughed. “Thank you kindly, Miss Emily. Pony Express, it didn’t git me. The war didn’t take me, I’m dam—darn sure the trail isn’t goin’ to either. Good Lord bless you and keep you.”

  Pony Bob sidled off, scratching his behind as he went, and headed for the station. Emily stood at the edge of the porch and watched as the town rumbled by. Horses, carts, buggies, wagons full of goods and wagons full of miners. Chinese workers in their black, loose-fitting clothes, cowboys, businessmen puffing huge cigars, fine ladies hiding from the sun under parasols and extravagant fallen women swaggering more than most men. Indians on horseback, stone-faced, proud and aloof, moving along the knife’s edge between their world and this one. Somewhere dogs barked and she heard children laughing. A baby was crying.

  “You seem kind of lost, child,” a man’s voice said from the behind her. Emily turned. There was a black man sitting on a bench in front of O’Brian’s Meats, the small smoke and butcher shop next to the coach station. He looked old, maybe in his sixties, but it was hard to tell because his head was shaved. He wore a simple linen work shirt, suspenders, and canvas workpants. A walking stick carved of dark cherry wood rested against the bench. Even from where she stood, Emily could see the intricate carving and detail on the stick: tiny rows of figures marching in a line spiraling down the length of the cane, hundreds of them, reminding Emily of Egyptian-like hieroglyphics. The old man’s eyes were milky white with cataracts and his head was pointed in Emily’s general direction, but his gaze was unfocused. He stared into darkness.

  “Me?” Emily said, walking toward the old man. “Are you talking to me?”

  The old man smiled. “Yes, I am. How are you today, young lady? Welcome to our fair town. Please come sit with me. I’ll scoot over a bit and give you room. Your trunk will be safe right where Mr. Haslam set it.”

  Emily sat, grateful for a place to rest for a moment. All around her was chaos and bright movement. Here, next to this blind stranger, it was cool and relatively quiet. The smell of smoke-cured beef made her realize how long it had been since she’d eaten.

  “I expect they will feed you over at the Falls,” the old man said. “I know it’s hard to put down food on the trail and harder to keep it down.” Emily looked at the old man, tilting her head.

  “How did you know I was hungry?” she asked. “And what is the Falls?”

  “Educated guess,” the old man said with a broad smile. “And I mean the Paradise Falls Saloon. That’s where you’ll find who you’re looking for?”

  Emily turned toward the old man, leaning to him. He smelled like warm leather and sweet pipe smoke. “Did Caleb send you to meet me? How could you know all this?”

  She noticed he had a small piece of wood in his hands and a narrow jackknife. The knife danced along the surface of the wood quickly as he carved, shavings drifting down to the ground.

  “I am a friend of Caleb’s,” the old man said, “but I’m sorry to say he didn’t send me. I wish he had.”

  “So he has passed,” Emily said. “He’s gone?”

  “’Bout a year ago. There was some trouble in town, some folks tried to kill his father. Caleb saved him. Cost him though.”

  “I see,” Emily said. She felt sick and tumbling inside. She wanted to cry, to break down and weep like a child, but this land, this town, did not seem forgiving to weakness. She would grieve her loss in private, as soon as she could be alone. The old man stopped whittling long enough to pat her hand, gently.

  “I’m sorry, dear. Terrible sorry to be the one to tell you too.”

  “I suspected when his letters stopped,” she said. “I just hoped I was wrong.”

  They sat quietly for a moment. The old man went back to his sightless whittling. Emily rubbed her face and sighed.

  “We all have to leave this world,” the old man said. “Got no choice in that, but a person get to choose how and why he’s going to go out. If he does it for love, that’s about as good a way to go as you can hope for, I’d surmise. He was a fine man and a good … friend.”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “He was. I’m sorry, I’m Emily.”

  “Miles,” the old man said. “Miles Press. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Emily.”

  “Why did you say that about the Paradise Falls?” Emily asked. “Who do you think I’m looking for?”

  “Everyone who comes to this town,” Miles said, “they are either looking for, or they’re hiding from .”

  “That’s a clever answer,” she said, “but it doesn’t really address…”

  “I’ve lived in this town since before it was called Golgotha,” Miles said. “Might say I have a queer relationship with the place. Town took my eyes; bit of bad blood long ’fore you were even born, m’dear. But it gave me insight for my loss. I know you are here to find someone. Find someone Caleb told you about. I know you will find him at the Paradise Falls. And I know you play a part in the game.”

  “What game?” Emily said. “I’m not playing at any game, Miles.”

  “Aren’t you?” Miles said, smiling. He stopped whittling and held up the small piece of wood. It was now a tiny figurine and it resembled Emily almost perfectly. Down to the smallest detail.

  “How did you…,” Emily stammered. “Are you really blind? How could you?”

  “We each have our talents, Emily, don’t we now? Like your paintings?”

  Emily stood. “How do you know? Did Caleb tell you? I … I don’t understand.”

&nbs
p; “Sit, child,” Miles said. She did. “I watch the folks come to this town, day in, day out, year in, year out. I take their measure, see what part they play in the game.”

  “I swear I don’t understand what you mean,” Emily said. “Please, what game?”

  Miles pointed to the ground in front of the bench. “Tell me, girl, what do you see there?”

  “Dirt, sand,” she said.

  “Why are we sitting here, instead of out there?”

  “It’s cooler, the shade, the shadow.”

  “The shadow,” Miles said. “Yes, see there the terminator between the light and the shadow. That is this place, that’s Golgotha. It drags people here from the light and from the shadow. Each has a part to play. I’ve known this town for a very long time. My father taught me the truth about this place, rest his good soul. And I have been playing a very long game with this town, a very long game. And now,” he said, holding up the small wooden Emily, “you’re in the game. Either on the side of light or on the side of shadow.”

  “Which one am I?” she asked, fascinated by the tiny figure. It seemed so real, as if it would suddenly open tiny violet eyes. “Light or shadow?”

  “Can’t say,” Miles said. “Would be cheating. Must of us zig and zag a bit. The world tends to shake you back and forth as you go.”

  “And everyone in town is playing your game?” Emily said.

  “Yes,” Miles said. “I have a model of the town at home. That is the game board. I have my pieces and the town has hers. She’s a very good player. Very sneaky.”

  “And what if I don’t wish to play this game?” Emily asked.

  “Then you would never have come here,” Miles said. He turned his head as if he were tracking something. “Ah, here comes your shining knight now. Oh, Deputy Jim!”

  Emily looked up. A handsome young man with hay-colored hair and a silver star on his vest walked by. He stopped and looked at Miles, and then saw Emily. He smiled and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “Hi, Mr. Press,” Jim said, then nodded to Emily. “Ma’am. Can I help you folks?”

  “Yes, Jim, Miss Emily here is just arrived in Golgotha and she is looking for accommodations. I believe they will have a place for her over at the new hotel, the Imperial. Could you please carry her trunk over for her and she’ll be along presently. She’s to meet someone first.”

  “Oh of course, yes, ma’am. Happy to oblige,” Jim said, and hefted the humpback trunk. “It will be waiting for you right there, Miss Emily.”

  “Thank you, Deputy,” Emily said, smiling.

  “Just call me Jim,” he said. “Everyone does. Welcome to town, Miss Emily. Holler if you have any trouble.”

  The deputy struggled down the street with the large trunk. Emily stood and straightened her skirt. “I suppose I should be on my way too,” she said. “I suppose Jim helping me and me departing now are all part of your game with Golgotha?”

  Miles laughed. “No, no. Nothing so fatalistic, my dear. If you know how everything turns out, that’s a rigged game. The town may be a ruthless player, but she tends to be a fair one. If she takes something from you, she tends to give you something back. Remember that, it may help you down the road to remember that. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emily.”

  He pointed across Main Street to an opulent-looking three-story building, painted gray with black trim, that stood at about ten o’clock from where they were. There were balconies on the second floor, overlooking Main Street, and smaller balconies on the third floor, guarded by sinister gargoyles and brooding angels on parapets.

  “And that is the Paradise Falls and you’ll find what you’re looking for there. I sculpted most of those gargoyles and angels a long time ago. I can still see them, see through them. Good luck, child. We’ll talk again soon.”

  “Thank you, Miles,” Emily said, patting the old man’s shoulder gently. He smiled at her.

  Emily stepped down from the shade of the porch to the heat, grit and light of Main Street. She attempted to navigate the mud, straw, dust and manure that constituted the street. She dodged horses and wagons as well as she could. Several riders paused and doffed their hats to her as she crossed.

  From his bench, Miles ran his callused thumb over the surface of the carving of Emily Bright. He looked out with sightless eyes toward the bustle of Golgotha’s busiest street, the constant ebb and flow of humanity that ran past him.

  “Your move,” he said to the dry desert air.

  Emily stepped through the cherry wood and stained-glass doors of the Paradise Falls. The saloon was beautiful, easily as nice as many of the establishments in San Francisco. There was a wide stage with a lowered red velvet curtain. A piano sat off to the right side of the stage, currently unattended. A man with a long, sad face, who looked for all the world like a Basset hound, tended the polished mahogany bar with brass railings and foot trails that stretched in a massive “L” along the right-hand side of the saloon. Numerous round tables for drinking filled most of the center of the room. The left side of the saloon was taken up with a freestanding carpeted staircase that led up to a landing, partly overlooking the saloon floor, and then another staircase that led to the open second floor. Finally, there were gaming tables scattered around the base of the staircase and into the shadows on the left side of the saloon, including faro tables and an ash and walnut J. E. Came billiards table, lined in red felt with ornate wood carving on the legs and sides. There were about two dozen patrons, all men; most of them looked to be miners and cowboys. A few “ladies of the line” were drinking with the men and attempting to conduct some business. A man in a dirty collarless linen shirt suddenly obstructed her view of everything.

  “You lost, miss?” the man’s booming voice said. He had a touch of an Irish accent. She looked up from the chest to the face attached it. A pale man with freckles, a mop of red hair and a small bowler hat on his head. He had piercing blue eyes and a practiced scowl. “Don’t seem like your kind of place.”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Bick,” Emily said, trying not to sound nervous. “It’s very urgent.”

  The man with the bowler deepened his scowl. His eyes flicked up to an office door on the second floor. Emily could barely make out the milky, frosted glass pane of the door past the man’s bulk. “I’m afraid Mr. Bick is indisposed right now, miss. You care to leave him a message I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “I don’t think you understand, this is very important,” Emily said. “He’ll want to see me. I traveled all the way from…”

  “Lots of people travel to see Mr. Bick,” the redhead said. “Lots of people think whatever they need to see him about is very important. But you’re just going to have to wait like the rest of them, darlin’.” He placed a large hand on her shoulder, gently, and began to turn her back toward the saloon doors. “Now come along, this is no place for you.”

  The upstairs office door opened and Emily heard two men talking as they exited the office. She caught a glimpse of them as they approached the staircase.

  “You need to address this now, Harry, before Rony turns it into a campaign issue for you,” one of them said.

  One was very handsome and well dressed; a brocade waistcoat of blue and black caught her eye. He was long of limb with a fine mane of rust-colored hair, a handlebar mustache and muttonchops. The other man was also dressed in finery—a dark maroon shirt with a vest and pants of black. His hair fell in curls to his shoulder in a half-shingle. He sported a black mustache and goatee. Emily’s eyes widened as she realized who the man was from Caleb’s many accounts. The bouncer’s insistent hand tightened on her shoulder and he began to wrestle her to the door.

  “Mr. Bick!” Emily shouted. “Mr. Bick!”

  “All right, lass,” the bouncer said, impatience in his voice. “Enough of that.”

  He was forcing her through the saloon doors. Emily grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand off her shoulder effortlessly. The larger man was stunned by how easily the girl broke his grip. Emily shoved
him, her palm to his chest, and he flew backward toward the bar, his derby flying off his head. Emily sprinted to the stairs and ran up them to meet the two men descending as the bouncer scrambled to catch her, but she was too fast for him.

  “Mr. Bick,” Emily said as the men paused in their descent. “My name is Emily. Emily Rose Bright. My mother was Clance Bright of San Francisco and you, Mr. Bick, you are my father.”

  The Emperor

  Harry Pratt, mayor of Golgotha, was running in a forest the color of blood. Blood, in fact, dripped from the branches and the wide, thick leaves. It spattered down out of the sky, a thick, hesitant rain. The floor of the forest was slick with it and it splashed his boots as he ran from the thing that pursued him. He could hear its grunting, its panting breath behind him.

  He ran past trees where people he knew, people he cared for in the town, were nailed and flayed, still screaming, begging him to save them, to kill them. His wife, Sarah; his friend and mentor, Antrim Slaughter; scores of townsfolk were all looking at him with pleading eyes, accusing eyes. He veered to the right as he ran from the shambling thing. Sheriff Jon Highfather hung suspended from a tree upside down, one leg straight, the other cocked at the knee.

  “You can’t outrun it, Harry,” Jon said, blood burbling from his mouth. “Turn and fight.”

  Harry couldn’t find his sword, the gold and silver mythical Sword of Laban—the first and greatest blade ever forged, the archetypal blade from which all other swords of legend descended.

  “Here it is, Harry, my love,” his dead wife, Holly, said to him. She was standing there in white, smiling, beautiful, alive and looking the way he remembered her, not how she had been at the end—hollow and filled with darkness, when he had been too late to save her. She wore a translucent white veil and held the sword with both hands, arms extended. The blood began to stain and soak into her white gown in slow, fat drops. She still smiled at him through her darkening veil. “Take it, it’s yours.”

  He grabbed the weightless, flawless blade by the hilt and turned to face the lumbering, howling thing. The pain was exquisite, fire searing his palm as he dropped the blade into the deep puddle of blood at his feet, his hand smoking.