Blood Riders (4 page)

Chapter Five

C
hee shuffled along until he cleared the gates of the prison and stopped while one of the guards bent down to undo the irons binding his legs. Pinkerton’s papers had made him a free man, something he didn’t understand yet, but the colonel had insisted on proper protocol for the release of the prisoner, and that meant leg irons until he left the Leavenworth grounds.

Chee felt a massive weight fall away when the last padlock was undone. The guard said nothing, merely gathered up the chains and returned inside the prison. Chee heard the giant doors shut and the steel bar snap into place, and for the first time in months felt as if he could take a deep breath. He looked down at the sergeant major’s stripes on his blue blouse and brushed away a piece of lint on his left arm. One more thing he didn’t understand. He’d gone into Leavenworth busted all the way down to private but he‘d only been a corporal when he was arrested and court-martialed in the first place. Now he was Sergeant Major Chee.
White people are strange
, he thought.

He walked up the main street of Leavenworth, not bothering to look at the shops or glance in the windows. No one paid any attention to him. He looked like a normal soldier on some errand, not a man who had been locked away in a hole for the last nineteen months. He picked up his pace, hoping to meet up with Major Hollister before Colonel Whitman, the army, or whoever was responsible for his freedom changed their mind and locked him up again.

Chee had been thrown in the box after the fight with McAfee. The temperature inside the all-steel four-foot-square box was well over one hundred degrees and it was just about big enough for Chee to sit in if he didn’t stretch out his legs. Chee wasn’t afraid of much, but he didn’t like cramped spaces. A few hours later Hollister had come with two guards to tell him that they were both being released. He thought it might be a cruel joke Hollister was playing on him. Maybe he was a rat bastard like the rest of the inmates. But it seemed to be true. It was like a miracle, and though he hadn’t understood much of what Hollister had said, he agreed right away.

Chee caught a glimpse of black-and-brown fur darting across the far end of an alley off Leavenworth’s main street and smiled to himself. It was Dog. He had waited in the countryside surrounding Leavenworth for him to be released. Dog had no doubt been living off the land, hunting the prairie and scrounging for food while Chee was incarcerated. But each night Chee had heard his familiar howl, a signal from Dog that he was still there, and while he might not have understood why Chee was locked up, he would wait there until he got out.

Dog was a variety of unknown breeds. He was big, with a crazy twist of brown-and-black fur. He looked more like a wolf than a dog, and as a result, his presence tended to make folks uncomfortable. He had learned to keep to the shadows, avoiding contact with most humans. He’d been shot at more than a few times, but never hit, and it was enough to make him dislike guns a great deal.

Chee darted down the alleyway, calling out quietly, “Dog! Dog!” and was nearly bowled over when the giant beast burst out from behind a stack of crates lined up near the back door of a general store. He jumped up, putting his paws on Chee’s shoulders, and licked his face enthusiastically.

“It’s good to see you too, boy,” Chee said, rubbing the animal’s chest. He cradled the mutt’s head in his hands and looked him over. There was a slight tear in his left ear that hadn’t been there when Chee had gone to prison, a scar from the hard living Dog had done the last year and a half.

When Chee had joined the army at age nineteen, he’d been stationed at Fort Sill in Oklahoma. While off duty he liked to ride across the surrounding countryside. On one of his rides in the late spring he had found Dog as a young pup, wandering alone, half starved and nearly dying of thirst. Chee gave him water and some jerky from his saddlebags and carried the pup back to Fort Sill with him.

Fort Sill was an open post on the frontier, and Chee was able to keep the pup in a small overturned crate behind his barracks. With regular food and water Dog grew quickly and in a few months weighed well over one hundred pounds. He took to roaming the countryside around the fort but was always outside Chee’s barracks in the morning. Chee’s sergeant overlooked the fact that soldiers weren’t allowed to keep pets, mainly because he was a little scared of both the solitary Chee and the dog.

One night three troopers returned to the barracks too drunk to know better, when one of them pulled his pistol and fired a couple of rounds at Dog. Neither shot hit him, but Chee heard the shots and came bursting out the back door of the barracks to investigate. He arrived in time to see the trooper point his pistol at Dog again, and with great speed and efficiency removed the pistol from the trooper’s hand. The man slumped to the ground, unconscious.

It could have ended there. Chee was a corporal, the three troopers were privates. But the other two men took exception to Chee’s intervention and attacked him. The drunks were hardly a challenge for Chee, given that his father was half-Chinese and his grandfather had taught him
Shaolin
kung fu. But one of the men pulled a bowie knife from his boot, and when Chee threw the man across his hip without removing the blade from his attacker’s hand first, the man fell on it and bled out before they could get him to the post’s surgeon.

The remaining two men testified against Chee, saying he went crazy and attacked all three of them. Even though Chee had an exemplary record, he was a mixed-race loner and was found guilty of manslaughter and sent to Leavenworth. Chee remembered riding in the prison wagon all the way to Kansas, watching Dog follow along, mostly keeping out of sight.

And here he was, nineteen months later. “Come on Dog,” Chee said. “We got somewhere to be.” He took the alley east and stayed off the main street. As a “mixed mutt” himself, Chee knew enough about people to realize even his army uniform wouldn’t give him a free pass if some bully decided to make trouble. Chee could handle himself, but he didn’t want to be late meeting the major.

Not when there were so many questions he needed to ask.

Chapter Six

Torson City Mining Camp, Colorado

T
he deserted mining camp (Shaniah found it humorous that the humans had called it a city) lay less than half a mile below her. She sat astride Demeter in a stand of quaking aspen trees lining the small canyon rim above the “city.” It was nothing more than a few buildings, hastily constructed: a general store, a saloon, three sheds filled with mining equipment, and a few low-slung structures that looked to be barracks or bunkhouses in which the miners slept.

The sun had just set and the western sky had taken on a rust tone, which probably meant rain was coming. Archaics like Shaniah were not comfortable with water. In almost any form it made them weak. When her race was cursed, back in the ancient days, they were technically rendered soulless and therefore burned by the touch of consecrated holy water. Over the centuries her people had learned to tolerate unconsecrated water, but Malachi and his band, now partaking of human blood, would be severely burned by water and even killed by enough holy water.

The Council of Elders had made arrangements with a Russian shipping company to carry her to America, and the voyage had been difficult. They were paid in advance in gold and asked no questions, even though their passenger spent most of her nights in her cabin violently, deathly ill. The prolonged smell of salt water—the very proximity of it—had weakened her and nearly driven her mad. But she had survived. Upon her arrival in Philadelphia she was already several weeks behind Malachi and the others, who had commandeered a ship from the main port of Romania.

Shaniah shuddered to think of what had happened to the crew of the ship as Malachi and his then small band fed on them one by one, leaving only enough crew alive to pilot the ship to the American shore. Shaniah guessed Malachi would have forced the captain to sail the ship up a river until finding a spot to go ashore unnoticed. After landing, he likely killed everyone remaining and burned the ship.

It was only conjecture, but it is how she would have done it if she had gone mad like Malachi, defying centuries of Archaic laws and feeding on humans again.

Weakened and sick from her journey, she left Philadelphia as soon as possible and moved to the countryside. She found an abandoned farmhouse and rested there for several weeks. She stayed hidden, and hunted deer, feral pigs, and even a few wild dogs, until she regained her strength. Demeter had traveled with her aboard the Russian vessel and had survived the trip in fine shape.

She and Malachi had lived for centuries, and every one of her people agreed: one or the other would one day lead the Archaics. There would come a day when Shaniah, like the rest of the Old Ones, would live long enough to become an Eternal. But the process took centuries. Shaniah had become an Archaic during the Middle Ages, but in the human world she passed for a woman in her twenties.

And when the previous leader of her people, Genevieve, had been killed—in an accident, many thought, that Malachi had arranged—the Council of Elders made it clear the choice was between Shaniah and Malachi. There were weeks of private deliberation, dissecting the strengths and weaknesses of each candidate. It was generally agreed among her tribe that where Malachi was aggressive, headstrong and vain, Shaniah was thoughtful and deliberate. He embraced his animal nature. Shaniah knew the survival of her people depended on remaining hidden, separate from humans. It was her steadiness and courage that drew her people to her. Many centuries ago, Archaics had fought against humans and while they possessed greater strength and other attributes that humans did not have, the war between them had been disastrous.

Human beings, the Archaics had learned, were not without their own strengths. Men could be devious and clever, and used technology to their advantage. Their civilization had grown and progressed, while the Archaics’ remained stagnant. Soon they were vastly outnumbered and finally retreated deep into the mountains of Eastern Europe, where few humans traveled, and it became their law to avoid contact with humanity at all costs.

There were many in the tribe who disagreed with the decision, and from time to time there had been Archaics who reigned terror on the people nearby. But for the past few centuries her people had lived in peace, hidden high in the mountain passes.

Though many suspected Malachi of culpable actions in the death of Genevieve, there was no proof.

When the Council finished their deliberations, they announced Shaniah as the newest leader of the Archaics. Her word was now the law. Technically, she answered to the Council and could be removed if it was deemed necessary, but that had never happened in the recorded history of her race. For all intents and purposes, her decisions were final.

When she was chosen, Malachi, who long believed he would rule one day, slowly descended into madness. He was convinced he deserved the office and fomented rebellion. His anger at what he considered a betrayal overwhelmed him. He spoke out, building dissent among the people. When Shaniah ordered him arrested and brought before a tribunal, he escaped with a few followers, left their mountain stronghold, and terrorized the towns and villages below. She and her personally chosen soldiers had not been able to catch him before he captured a ship and escaped. And it was up to her alone to bring him back. He must face Archaic justice. Or he must die.

The sky to the west had gone dark, and a half moon rose above the mountains to the southwest. Shaniah waited, using all of her senses to be sure the camp below was deserted. When she was certain, she spurred Demeter to a slow, careful descent down the canyon.

She rode along the edge of the camp, staying to the far right of a stream. The sound of the rushing water made her feel slightly nauseous and she circled away, reining Demeter around behind the buildings. Time, wind, and rain had removed any sign of the massacre. No doubt Malachi had dragged the bodies off, and there was no blood visible on the ground. Malachi had killed here though—she could smell him.

She dismounted outside the general store and tied Demeter to a hitching post. Inside, the store was full of goods. It was strange no one had come here to steal the food, guns, and ammunition still lining the shelves. But she supposed the stories of what had happened here kept the looters away.

The general store held no clues, and she moved on to the saloon next door. She found the signs of a struggle and bloodstains lining the floor. Most of the killing had happened here. She knelt and examined the scene, but it was harder to single out Malachi’s scent because there were too many smells mixed together. It was there though. Perhaps if she concentrated, she might be able to lock onto it and follow him to his lair.

He had eluded her repeatedly over the last four years. Being able to travel only at night, her unease in crossing rivers and streams had made her job more difficult. Malachi was feeding on human blood, giving him the ability to more easily tolerate the things that made an Archaic weaker, like rivers and streams. And Malachi was cunning. He knew she would be coming. He did not make it easy, leading her on, doubling back, and sending her down any number of false trails.

Two years earlier, he had staged a massacre of a band of Blackfoot Indians in Montana. But he had left the bodies and his band had refrained from drinking the blood. The massacre had made big news in the territory. The humans made inquiries and decided renegades had killed the Indians. When Shaniah was finally able to examine the site of the killings, she discovered that Malachi had staged the elaborate scene to taunt her. His smell was everywhere, but he was long gone and it was months before she picked up his trail again.

She stood and headed for the doorway, and upon leaving the saloon found three men, all of them dressed in filthy buckskins, standing next to Demeter. The sound of the rushing water in the stream had covered their approach and they had entered the camp downwind, her sense of smell failing to warn her. One of them held her horse by the reins. He was tall, missing his two front teeth and had a long beard, twisted and gnarled below his chin. It was stained and dirty and Shaniah did not want to think about what might have landed in it. The other two men were shorter, and just as ugly and disgusting as the first. One of them, his face lined with scars, wore cavalry pants and a ridiculous-looking top hat. He held a large rifle, which she thought might have been a Sharps carbine, and the other one, his hair greasy and matted to his head, held a lantern, which cast a flickering shadow on the wooden walls of the surrounding buildings. The man holding Demeter’s reins had two Colt pistols with handles out, belted around his waist.

This was trouble.

“Well, lookee here,” the tall man said, his tongue pushing through the space of his missing teeth, giving a lisping quality to his words.

Shaniah was dressed completely in black; a long leather duster, riding boots, and woolen pants. She had bound up her shoulder-length blond hair, hiding it beneath her black Stetson, but up this close it was easily apparent that she was a woman. And she carried no weapon except a dagger hidden in her boot.

Shaniah studied the men and for several seconds said nothing. It was quiet as the looters waited to see if she might try to run.

“That happens to be my horse,” she said. During her years in America she had practiced her English and her words came out only slightly accented. One of the men standing behind Demeter laughed and shifted his rifle, holding it at port arms.

“Is that so?” The tall man lisped. “Me and Beaver and Jonesy here was just riding along and we seen this fine stallion and thought he might have gotten lost. Where you from, honey?” he asked, as the two men chuckled behind him.

She didn’t see their horses anywhere, but they could have left them outside the camp. They were most likely scavengers, here to raid the town of whatever supplies remained.

She ignored his question. “Yes. The horse belongs to me, and I’ll be taking him now,” she said, stepping forward slowly. She needed to be at just the right distance.

“Well, we’ll see about that. You got some proof on you? Somethin’ shows you didn’t steal him? Awful big horse for a little bitty thing like you. Seems kinda strange, woman like you up here all alone on a fine animal like this.”

“He belongs to me, and I would be most grateful if you handed him over. Before this situation worsens.”

The scavengers behind the toothless man broke into uproarious laughter.

Toothless Man reached out and grabbed Shaniah by the wrist.

“Maybe we’ll just have us a little party fore’n we decide who the damn horse belongs to.”

Shaniah whistled loud and shrilly through her teeth and Demeter instantly kicked out with his back legs. The man holding the lantern screamed as the hooves connected with his midsection. The kick broke the lantern and the coal oil splattered on his clothes and caught fire. He dropped his rifle and batted at the flames consuming him.

Shaniah moved with speed and precision, catching the toothless man completely by surprise. She twisted her arm and broke the man’s grip, and turning sideways, drove her elbow into his throat. The man gasped as his larynx was crushed and he clutched at his neck, unable to breathe.

The third man looked at his burning friend, then at Shaniah, and raised his rifle to shoot, but she shielded herself with the toothless man, who was now drawing his last breath. She lifted her leg, pulling the dagger from her boot, and in one fluid motion threw it, watching as it landed squarely in her remaining tormenter’s chest.

She released her grip on the toothless man and he slumped to the ground. He couldn’t breathe, but with one hand he tried to draw a pistol. Shaniah stepped on his hand and held her boot solidly there until he breathed no more. With him dead, she turned her attention to the last man, who had rolled about in the dust and finally extinguished the flames. He had dropped his weapon when Demeter kicked him and as she started toward him, he cried out trying to crawl away on his hands and knees. For a moment she thought of letting him go. But he would have raped and killed her or watched while one of his companions had. Besides, she couldn’t let anyone know she was here. If he lived and talked, word would spread. She was close. He was close. She knew it. Malachi would reveal himself soon. She could not allow anything to interfere with her hunt.

As he desperately scrambled away, she walked up behind him. With a powerful twist she snapped his neck and he died instantly. And for a moment she felt rage, knowing his death had been too merciful.

She looked around. All three men lay dead in the street. It had only taken a matter of seconds. She walked to the second dead man and removed the dagger from his chest. As she did, she smelled the blood and her heart momentarily raced. She brought the dagger close to her face and inhaled the coppery scent. Archaic law forbade drinking the blood of dead humans as well, but she found it an interesting test of her willpower.

After a moment she cleaned the dagger on the shirt of the dead man and restored it to her boot. She carried the bodies to a nearby shed and placed them inside. She caught Demeter’s reins, mounted, and rode out of the camp, leaving the bodies behind.

And for a brief instant, the scent of the blood still caressing her memory, she had a better understanding of Malachi and the depth of his desires.